"I Vant My Bord"

 So, my husband is an animal person, and always has been. His family had dogs when he was little, and he helped take care of a lamb rejected by its mother. He's owned both cats and dogs. This led him to decide to become a veterinarian once he reached college, but as he explained, he hit organic chemistry and  zoology in the same semester and Had Enough. I don't blame him. Even though I enjoyed chemistry in high school, college chemistry and biology are orders of magnitude more difficult and the classwork, studying, and stress reflects that.

 Even though my husband embarked on a different path, he kept his love of animals, and exotic animals in particular. He owned a boa constrictor named "Cuddles" in college, and the love of the odd and different remained. While I also love animals, I tend to a nasty practical and realistic streak that lets me know my limits in no uncertain terms. I do love animals. I also know they eat and make messes. Some of them make rather large messes.

 My husband's exotic animal love and my practical streak have crashed head on in many cases; I have denied him the comforts and screaming hilarity of ferrets for years (they smell, they steal small shinies, socks, and keys, and they nip and climb unsuspecting people's legs, usually the nylon-stockinged legs of older ladies who really don't appreciate that sort of thing. Plus they cannot be consistently potty-trained, a huge NO in my house.). Reptiles smell, and their food sources aren't very cooperative, leading to stress and anxiety as one hunts for various rodents or bugs that have escaped into the house (note that it does not bother me to feed rodents to snakes...I don't find them cute and I'd rather they played outside where they belong). We had a couple of cats for a few years until we had kids and the babies got covered in hair simply learning to crawl (not to mention a catbox-discovery incident that my brain now refuses to let me replay in its entirety for fear of total psychotic break). We tried dogs, hoping to find a perfect fit for our kids so they could grow and play together, but I admit to a certain selfishness over my back yard and my desire to be able to run barefoot and free without the worry of stepping in a toilet by accident.

 In all fairness, the rescue greyhound we owned for a very short year was one of the best animals we ever had. Laid back, mellow, never barked or jumped on people, and just loved snuggling. He had a weakness for squirrels and would run away from you without a backward look if you dropped his leash, but overall a very good temperament. And he satisfied my husband's exotic animal craving. People always stopped him on walks or at the dog park to ask him about George. Despite my husband's normal reserved nature, he loves that sort of thing, the attention a different-looking animal brings.

 So now the focus is on exotic birds. My husband's always been fascinated by them, and the fact one of our friends is a raptor rehabilitator fueled the hunger. He's realistic enough to know we can't be raptor rehabilitators ourselves; that requires strong commitment, constant care, and space we've never had. But what about smaller exotic birds?

 Parrots. Specifically Macaws and African Greys, the ones who speak the best. When the persistent requests turned from ferrets to parrots, I knew this was the new obsession. And as before, I insisted on research, documentation, and knowing our limits before committing.  Parrots sure are cute, especially when they repeat your words back to you in your own voice. They can also scream at eardrum-bursting decibels when they want attention. Cockatoos are the worst.

 Parrots create huge messes. They poop every twenty minutes, and the bigger the bird, the bigger it is. They also have to try to eat fruit, nuts, and mash with a large hooked beak not ideal for the purpose. So they fling food across their cage, and across the room. They flap their wings for exercise, and preen out dust, dirt, and pests from their feathers, all of which gets dispersed into the air of the room where they are when they flap.

 If I sound less than enthused, I am. I am now allergic to most animals after living with cats so many years sensitized me (I still love cats, but I just can't be near them for long, alas). Parrots are bad for the allergy prone as well. And the cleanup, ah yes. I am the cleaner in our family. When we had a dog I washed his beds weekly, vacuumed, cleaned his cold weather coat. I did not have to scoop waste, but only because husband knew I loathed it. But still, I resented the yard being taken from me by that.

 Since I am still currently unemployed, care for the bird will mostly fall to me. And having done my research, I know the cleaning and feeding will mostly fall to me. When it isn't me who wants the bird in the first place, is it unfair or selfish to be resentful of basically being forced to care for one? Husband has volunteered at a rescue bird shelter, but they will likely want to foster us a bird as soon as possible, because they have so many and no space. It worries me we have no training and will likely be given little before we are dumped in, to sink or swim. This was done to us with a high-needs greyhound and we could not handle it. Or as my husband would say, I could not handle it. He was fine with puddles of pee on the carpet and floors soaking into the subflooring, the double poop in the yard, the double hair and mess. I was not. I am by no means a neat-freak, but I am sensitive to smells, and I like to be able to lie on my own carpets if I so choose without worrying I'm lying in animal waste. My husband is self-admittedly blind when it comes to dirt, and thinks I was overreacting. Some folks adore their animals no matter how many and what kinds of accidents they have. I adored my cats, and they were not innocent. But somehow, somewhere, I lost all my tolerance, and I just can't stand it anymore.

 Birds also require steady interaction and companionship, like most pets. It will be me. When I don't want it right now. I think it is unfair of me to commit to caring for an animal I don't want and will come to resent. No animal should have to deal with that, it's unfair to the animal. When the animal is loved and wanted, it blooms into a lovely, awesome, irreplaceable companion. I have had the privilege of being companion to a couple of cats where it ended up like that, and my memories are full of joy. But my uncertainty over a bird is causing a hesitation. I know my limits. I know I would resent the constant cleaning needed. Interaction would probably be hilarious. But would the joy outweigh the resentment?

This is what I am weighing on my internal scale. Benefits versus detriments. Clear lungs versus constant wheezing and sneezing. Clean walls and floors versus bird poop cemented on there for eternity. A bright eye and a wisecrack versus a silent house. Husband is trying to get some training to appease this anxiety, that it will all fall to me, and I am grateful for that.

Darn, those cockatiels in the pet shop are cute, with their little crests and bright eyes....

Oh Mickey Rourke, you bird-loving super villain, you.

Are We There Yet?

Eighteen more days! Eighteen more days (not including the weekends) 'til we have our new house and this current craziness ends....

...as Inigo Montoya said in The Princess Bride, "There is too much. Let me sum up."

So, since the craziness of August, what with our Colorado house sale having fallen through FOUR TIMES (mostly due to government assbaggery, big surprise), we finally managed to sign the papers and get that house sold to someone who really loved and wanted it. I am truly excited and happy for them, and relieved they loved the house enough to stick with it, despite the government continually trying to screw over one of its own soldiers. Alright, last poke at the government, I promise. It's not that I'm afraid of retribution, it's that I bore myself groaning and moaning about bureaucracy that really isn't going to change because I decided to whine publically about it. There are certain safeguards everyone needs when buying a house to make sure all parties are satisfied, and the government has more than most. They are SUPER CAREFUL. OMG CROSS THAT T OR YOU DON'T GET NO HOUSE!!!

But the house is finally sold, and now we get to buy a new one. We have already offered on one and been accepted; a lovely little home, older and smaller than our airy wood-and-stone sprawler in Colorado, but it's been remodeled and has no huge issues to deal with, just regular maintenance. Oh how I love those words, "regular maintenance". It could be because I tend to try to be efficient and economical, and truly take to heart the idea of keeping something in shape rather than letting it fall into disrepair and then trying to fix it. (If only I treated my own body the same way. But I digress.) Or it could just be that I love the idea of even having a home to maintain and call my own.

I will be so glad to move, for the second time this year, hopefully into a place we'll have for ten years or more. We're currently crammed into a two bedroom apartment 50 miles away from where we'll ultimately end up. The school year has started, so in addition to a work commute for husband, we have a school commute for the two kids. The schools are barely 5 minutes from the house we're buying, an awesome thing. But right now they're fifty miles from the place we sleep, and it sucks getting up at 5:30AM (which is really 5AM because my damn brain is like that...."OH 5AM, BETTER WAKE UP SO YOU'LL HEAR THE ALARM!" Bastard.), rousting the kids awake, eating, dressing, and getting on the road in the dark.

While my husband is at work and my kids are in school, I have the car and the town to myself. Now, for a week and a half this has been entertaining. I have explored the town (We have a Five Guys and an IKEA, woohoo! Not to mention a giant Hobby Lobby, but I try not to think about that too much because I can hear my wallet crying), found things I needed to find like the Post Office, the Library, and various supermarkets, and am learning cross streets and shortcuts, important for one such as me who has the general direction sense of a boulder. A boulder stuck in the ground that doesn't move much.

After a week and a half, with eighteen days to go, my enthusiasm is waning. especially with a daily wake-up call of 5:30AM. I spend most of my time in the car, or walking to and from it. Even when I can buy something without guilt, there's only so much time one can spend wandering around Hobby Lobby. Hanging in Five Guys does nothing for maintenance of my body, which as I said I tend to be lax on anyways. The Library parking lot is a great spot though. Trees to park under, mostly quiet, a cafe to duck into for snacks, and books. Their chairs are hard after a while. And I get weirded out at having to share a table with other laptop tappers. I don't know, it's A Thing, I'm working on getting over it. The car seems more private, even if I park as close as I can to the entrance, so I mostly hang out there.

I've also found a place to sneak a little wi-fi from, in another parking lot elsewhere, but I'm not revealing that one. It's my Secret Spot. Close to conveniences too. I could grab a quick nap in my car without too much trouble I think, but the idea of being observed unknowing while I slept....maybe not.

I listen to the radio sometimes, play games til the battery runs down on my laptop (I know I know, plug in at the Library....OTHER TAPPERS WATCHING ME), and knit. I almost have a sock done after starting it a week and a half ago, which is unheard of for me. Normally one sock takes a couple months. Boo yah, I've got my faster knitting secret. Be unemployed and stuck in your car = pair of socks in three weeks!

Time begins to drag now. I can taste my new house. The manner of decorations, the space for baking, the lovely hardwood floors. MY OWN BED AND BATHROOMS (Really, the Library bathroom is spotless, but industrial). I could take a nap in my house...almost anywhere. And no other tappers watching me.

Only eighteen school days. Eighteen droning driving days. Eighteen to bare feet, paint, canvas, and real food.

The Road goes ever on and on...

What a road it's been, this year.

I apologize to you, if any of you were following this blog previously. Things started to happen, not necessarily things I wanted to share, I was not right with the world and it was not right with me.

Over the past year I found another job, a job I loved again, and again it was taken from me. Laid off, through no fault of my own, along with more than fifteen other people in my department, and more in others. And the industry seems to be doing the same thing, over and over, in several companies. I am at this point highly wary of jobs involving my industry, and looking for other things to do.

Other things to do:

Soapmaking-  We went to the Ypsilanti Heritage Festival over the weekend, as an excuse to drive by our old MI house, and, through the whole arts and crafts setup, there was not one indie soapmaker. I see a niche.

Hand-painted canvas floor-coverings - We've offered on a house here that has hardwood floors. I don't want wool rugs, although those would be nice. They're very expensive and the kids would ruin theirs. Hand-painted canvas is durable and can be beautiful. I just have to learn the technique. And get the space to do it in. An apartment is not conducive.

Painting - I might be crazy, but I keep looking at this gorgeous August summer sky and wanting to paint it. How did I not see that Michigan clouds can be as beautiful as Colorado clouds?

Beading - I hoarded tons of beads when I worked at Michael's Crafts. I even started a necklace of mother of pearl and red coral, that got amazingly heavy, and that I never finished. Time to finish it, and make it a little lighter, damn.

Writing - Well, I've already started that, just now, with the blog, hah. If I have vivid, intense dreams, I try to remember and write them down so I can expand on them later. I have a few story ideas floating around, one I really like and am trying to decide how to approach. What I'm seeing from other writers is: just do it. Even if the writing's crap, do it, you can fix it later. Maybe I'll run my own little NaNoWriMo here in September. NaNoWriMoSept, just get it going.

I used to write, a lot, in high school and college. I think I mentioned that before. Long-hand, in notebooks, in pen. Kind of like George McFly, in Back to the Future. Like George, I didn't want anyone to see it until it was done. Of course, the stories were never done, because I thought they weren't good enough for anyone to read. Shy George McFly and me, living in a mysterious world few others chose to understand in high school.

But shoot, if Twilight and Fifty Shades of Grey can get published, maybe I can too. I'm not knocking those authors; it takes a lot of hard work to write a book, any book, and then get it published. But what those authors showed me is that there is a lot of leeway out there for what people like. If I can find a niche, like the soapmaking, maybe I can be happy with what I'm doing, make a little bit of a living, and not get laid off by some nameless faceless corporation looking to put profits over people.

At the moment my craftiness consists of knitting and crocheting. I love to make little flower-shaped washcloths in crochet lately. They go fast, help me learn the basic crochet stitches, and they are useful. Not to mention they help use up the hoard of yarn I've mysteriously accumulated.

I'm also working on a second sock of a pair, Grumperina's Jaywalker socks, in Madelinetosh Sock. I love the zigzag pattern and the first sock at least fits close and stays up.

I got yarn sent to me for my birthday to feed my addiction, some lovely colors and materials I might not have picked for myself but love all the same. Scarf? Cowl? More socks? The possibilities are limited only by my imagination.

And that's basically why I've started writing again. I have to do something, or my brain gets restless and circles on itself and starts saying, "Make, Do, Be....Something, Anything, or why exist at all?" I can't explain it, this need to create, to make something from other things, with my hands and mind. I just want to get on the road, and go, and see where it leads me.

The Road goes ever on and on

Down from the door where it began.

Now far ahead the Road has gone,

And I must follow, if I can,

Pursuing it with eager feet,

Until it joins some larger way

Where many paths and errands meet.

And whither then? I cannot say.

--Bilbo Baggins, "The Fellowship of the Ring"

Of All Things, Why These?

I could live without potato chips. I have. They're bad for you anyways, all that oil and salt. I could also live without French fries. Those would be a real test, especially if they're fried in really good fat, like beef fat. But I could do it. I enjoy vegetable sides as much or more than fries.

I could live without raisins, or prunes, or wine. I could live without oranges or orange juice. I'm not particularly a citrus fanatic. I can, and have, completely ignored coffee, although I enjoy the smell. I do not need large doses of caffeine to get me going, nor do I want to be addicted to it.

So with all those things I would be fine with were my body to reject them, of course it instead picks things I love eating.

Milk, ice cream, whipped cream. I can no longer consume these items without severe pain, but I do it anyways. Milk with my cookies, ice cream when I find a to-die-for flavor, whipped cream when I damn well want it. Let's face it; the soy, rice and coconut substitutes are okay in a pinch, but they just don't approach the richness of real milk for me. I never curse myself or my choice for my pain. I curse my stomach and intestines.

Vinegar, tomato sauce, acidic foods. These cause as much pain as the dairy, sometimes more if I consume a large amount (salad with spaghetti in marinara anyone?). Malt vinegar on fish and chips was pure heaven. I loved vinegar so much I could almost drink it straight. Not anymore. And no tomato sauce? Please, I was raised on barrels of homemade tomato sauce in my half-Sicilian home. How dare you, Intestines! I swear I'm going to rip you out and replace you.

Spicy food. Salsa, red and green chili,  hot and sour soup, spicy szechuan anything. I love it all, the hotter the better. Damn the torpedoes, I'll still eat it. But now I have to take a stomach acid reducer beforehand just to survive.

Every year something gets crossed off the list. Not something I couldn't care about anyways, it's always something I love. When I complain I'm told "ït's part of getting old". No it isn't, it's part of your body just plain betraying you after years of faithful service. Even though I never drank much caffeine to start with I now cannot have more than half a 12 ounce Coke or Pepsi without problems. But it wasn't something I loved, so it isn't hard to let go of that.

And yes, I know and sympathize with those a lot more unfortunate than I, who have chronic diseases that don't allow them to enjoy foods they loved too. But I don't have a disease (that I or my doctor know of), I didn't start this way.

Is it too much to ask to be able to enjoy a small cone with your kids at the local Dairy Queen? I want my food back, dammit.

Sugar Scrubbed

So of course I couldn't mention it without then having to make it. At 10:30 last night I was whipping up some Brown Sugar Scrub Soap, which used a goat's milk base, some real brown sugar, and some cocoa butter. I also own Brown Sugar fragrance oil, which I generously added to the mix.

I love real cocoa butter because it comes in these creamy-colored chunks that smell like chocolate, and it melts on your skin on contact. Just really luxurious. Of course the low melting point makes it difficult to work with when it is hot out like last night. I had a deal of a time getting it cut and off my fingers into the melting cup.

I like real shea butter too, and it also melts on contact, but it doesn't have that lovely aroma. Still, if you're going to superfat melt and pour soap, you can't go wrong with either of them. You just can't add too much or your soap turns into an oily mess.

You can see flecks of the brown sugar and that's just fine....it's supposed to be scrubby and silky. And it smells warm and caramel-like and sugary, almost good enough to eat. In fact it's a touch too sweet and next time I may tone it down with something. But for now I'm going to test run it tonight in the shower and see if I can get my husband to complain that I smell like "spilled ice cream" (he doesn't like sweet food-scented candles and protests when I buy them that they smell like spilled ice cream, way too sweet).

Hey, I'll take "spilled ice cream" smell over "sweated all day in the hot sun driving my car with the broken A/C" smell any day. Must be a girl thing.

Bursting Bubbles

Yes, I am still writing for my blog. Heat and a general unsettled-ness over the past few weeks left me unwilling to put my then-thoughts down....it really would not have been good reading material. Self-recrimination, unhappiness, and occasionally despair might make for a decent movie if you throw in some CGI, car chases and an arc with Important Life Lessons, but in everyday life it's just grindingly boring.

I credit my eight year old for pulling me out of my inertia, at least temporarily, and reigniting the urge to create in me. It has made me dig out old books and supplies, surf the internet looking for classes, and consider how best to handle hazardous materials in the presence of children and animals. Just seeing the excitement on his face was worth it. Soapmaking, I forgot how much I like it.

From my (embarrassingly large) store of scents, he chose coconut, to match his commercial shampoo. He then considered the supplies before him and chose the shea butter base. Then he was allowed to observe as I cut the base into pieces, melted them in the microwave, added the scent (I added a few drops of Butter Vanilla with the Coconut for some nice sweetness and depth), and poured it into the molds. I had enough for my elder son to have some, since he wandered into the kitchen last minute and begged for some soap too.

When the soaps popped out of the molds a couple of hours later, his whole face lit up. "Can I take a bath NOW, Mom?"

Yes, yes you may. Have at it, and enjoy. He had so much fun he lathered himself three times. Afterwards he came bouncing down the stairs and asked me if he smelled of coconut. Of course he did, which delighted him.

Yesterday he asked me for Strawberry scented soap, since strawberries are his favorite fruit.

This time he selected the Goat's Milk base for some creamy luxuriant lather. This kid is all about luxury. So of course I added powdered goat's milk in bubble-inducing glycerin, a few drops of red colorant, and a dash of exciting sparkle powder (you can just barely see it in the pic) to wrap it all up. The strawberry scent I kept single-note, for juiciness.

Another hit, another bath. Three latherings. I've never heard of a kid who loves bathing so much. The bathroom smells like coconuts and strawberries.

I'm wondering what will happen when I make my brown sugar scrub soap again.

I Did This

I grew this.

In my garden. And there is another on the way. I am also nursing along a single bell pepper, which is looking good but growing slowly. The tomatoes have been given up for dead; after the plant repeatedly struggled to grow any larger from the day I purchased it, it finally decided this whole corner-of-the-garden-bed thing was not working out and gave up the ghost. I generously watered and fertilized it, and there was no indication of insects or disease, so I can only conclude that the soil in my garden bed is death on tomatoes and plow in some peat moss for next year.

Tonight I did the shopping and cooking for dinner, and conquered fish. Spicy cornmeal breaded cod with a tortellini and broccoli salad in balsamic vinaigrette. The 500 degree oven was tough to endure in 90 degree weather, but since the fish only had to bake for 12 minutes, I toughed it out. It was worth it. Even my super picky eldest son gobbled down two pieces, although the salad was a pass after the shock of the vinegar. Odd that he can eat a whole bag of salt and vinegar chips and make his mouth numb, but the sweeter taste of balsamic made his face pucker up like a prune.

It's a small thing, but I love cooking and making good food, and growing food in my garden. I have done this. I have fed my family. I can.

This helps ease the upset of still not having a job after four months looking, pursuing, and interviewing. I can do anything I need to with skill and confidence.

And if I'm still in my house next spring, I WILL be growing tomatoes.