Livin’ Life On The Lamb

M I L K

Milk. That’s the word of the day. Gila Man has said it about 600 times in the past 2 days because I forgot to buy it and then WE forgot to buy it and we had to tell Mr. B that we were out of milk.

M I L K

Except that Gila Man doesn’t say “milk”. He says “melk”. Like “melt” but with a “k” on the end. It’s ok that he ldrinks out of the carton, that he puts the dishes in the sink without rinsing them, that he wears his clothes for DAYS on end before he feels that those clothes have earned a spot in the dirty clothes hamper. Actually, these things bug me too, though I can deal with them. I do deal with them. But the “melk” thing, man, that’s just going TOO far!

Just thought I’d vent a little. Thanks.

Or something like that. That what Templeton the Rat sang on the first Charlotte’s Web. Since Gila Man has Sunday and Monday off, we were trying to plan a fun (and cheap) family activity that we could do. Now the zoo is always a given, you never have to ask us twice to head up to the big city and visit the zoo. But I happened to go online and find out the dates of our (semi) local fair. Monday was family day - $2.00 parking, $2.00 admission, and Mr. B was FREE! WE LOVE THE FAIR! The sights, the smells, the shows, the rides, and of course, the food!

Something about going to the fair makes me happy. Silly, I know. But I remember going to the fair as a kid and participating in what seemed like EVERY event in the livestock barn. Growing up, we had a small farm since I was born. Um, not that me being born meant that my parents suddenly had a farm…but one of my earliest memories is looking out the sliding glass door in the back of our little home and seeing (what seemed to me) thousands of little fluffy chicks. My dad went to go buy a few and ended up filling his hatchback Honda Civic with flats and flats of chicks.

When I grew older, nothing changed; I remember all the work we had to put in to get all of our animals ready for the show. You could always tell which kids waited until a week before the fair to put a collar on their animals. There was walking and brushing and trimming and putting on the coats so they don’t get sick because we just chopped off all their hair and making sure that everyone was ready to go.

Then we would pack up the travel trailer with everything a family of five could live on for 3 or 4 days, pack up the horse trailer with all the critters (mostly goats, we did chickens, rabbits, pigs, and sheep at the local fairs), and head to the BIG CITY! Once we were there, we would, of course, have to unpack everything and everyone and get the critters ready to show.

I remember going into the pens where the goats were kept and just hanging out because it was incredible to see the looks on the city folk’s and the little kids faces when they saw a goat for the first time. It was soooo cool to actually have someone ask ME a question about the animals and be able to answer them and be right!

I remember that the nights in the travel trailer were unbearably freezing and the days incredibly hot.

I remember that the food we packed was never quite as scrumptious as that greasy, nasty, overpriced food at the fair was.

I remember helping to milk the goats after the show and squirting the warm, creamy milk directly into my mouth (much to the shock or delight of the city folk).

I also remember snacking on the goat grain in between meals. Really. The corn was yummy!

I remember running off as soon as my brother and I could so we could check out the runway and covet the dorky stuffed animals hanging everywhere.

I rememeber the amazing feeling of pride as we drove home from the fair - dirty, smelly, tired and just plain wore out - but with a stack of ribbons to rival just about anybody…most of them blue!

So, I get a little nostalgic when I go back to the fair that I spent so much time at as a child. There’s also something really, really, cool about bringing my child there to build memories as well. Not the same kind, certainly the more carefree-I-don’t-care-what-time-the-goats-have-to-be-ringside-for-the-yearling-class, but he sure did want to put those baby goats in the stroller to take them home “so they won’t be lonely”, he said. I guess we are all still building memories, though they might be a little different…here’s an example…Gila Man wants this to be this year’s family photo…what do you think?

Yep, after this, we have had a SLEW of “ies”. We’ve been sickies, sillies, saddies, maddies, laughies, and loads of others that are just a little to silly to say. But today’s was the cake topper.

We were getting out of the car and Noah knew that he had to go inside and take off his “nice” shoes off and get his “play” shoes on if he wanted to go out and play in the backyard. When he came back out in the garage, Helaman and I were still in the car talking about the plans we have for the house and Noah climbed into Helaman’s lap to see what we were doing. We figured we should get started, so we climbed out of the car, and Noah thought he should get out on my side “Because he was closer” to my side of the car. Sheesh.

As he scooted over my seat, his elbow accidently hit the steering wheel and honked the horn.
“LOOK, Momma! I’m honking the horn! It works even if the car is off! Look! I’m honking the horn A LOT! I’m a horn honker! I’m a HORNIE! WE can be hornies, Momma! Let’s be hornies! Come honk the horn!”

“I have an idea,” said Helaman.
“You go be a hornie in your bedroom, and Momma and Daddy will be hornies in our room!”

It didn’t work. There aren’t any horns in Noah’s room…gonna have to do something about that…

Well, I’m FINALLY back from doing all that it is that I do around here. I, uh, can’t go into detail or anything, because I haven’t got the time. Because I’m so busy doing what I’m doing, ya know. Ahem…anyway, I’m back and I know that all my adoring fans have missed our friendly little visits. :0)

Our little family has been crazy busy with weddings, family, and doctor’s appointments lately, so I’m sorry about the delay. Helaman is finally home, though, and it’s nice to have him around to help with all the things that I really don’t want to do - like take out the trash and pick up dog poop. But it’s also nice to sleep next to him again and talk to him again, and laugh with him again, and argue with him again, and eat with him again. All those important things. Speaking of talking with each other, we DID have to have a little talk about something quite serious….

Fluff is gone. I know, I know. It’s hard to believe that the mangy sweet little cotton-pickin-biting-bird dear is gone. Squeak was the first to go - he thought he was all smart and could get out of his cage whenever he wanted, whether the cats were around or not. And I guess they were around last week.

Then we went outside yesterday and found that the lid of Fluff’s cage had been taken off and that he was gone. The tell-tale blue feathers in the front yard were the only explanation we needed to know that Fluff was no longer a part of this world. Now were are parakeetless people, pondering the meaning of life (and how we are going to tell Noah).

I told Noah first, telling him that Fluff went to go see Squeak up in Heaven and live with Heavenly Father from now on. Noah said that he would miss Fluff and that he was sad that Fluff wasn’t around anymore, but he also knew Heavenly Father would take good care of his birdies. It was really sweet. But the next day, unknown to me, Daddy told him what REALLY happened to little Fluff. When I went outside that morning, there were Noah, Daddy, and Bobby, the cat sitting on the front porch, playing with some tools.
“Momma,” Noah said, “is Heaven in Bobby’s tummy?”
“No, sweetheart! That’s silly! Why would Heaven be in Bobby’s tummy?” I replied.
“Cuz you said Fluff went to Heaven, and Daddy said that Fluff is in Bobby’s tummy. I didn’t know that Bobby could get WAAAY up to Heaven!”

Good grief! We’ve got to get our defences together - against our 3-year-old!

After spending the ENTIRE day outside on Monday preparing the front yard for the holes that needed to be dug for the trees we just bought and getting sunburned pretty badly, I started using sunscreen on my face so I wouldn’t have to go through any pain again. Then Tuesday, I was having a rough night and was lonely and waiting for my hubby to get home when I found a package of oreo cookies. Now, I didn’t eat the whole thing, I just ate half, because when I was done with the package (and the two cups of 2% milk - not fat free!), there was half of the tops of the oreo sitting next to me on the floor. Ahem…needless to say, my face ain’t lookin all that great.

Then comes the call. From my good friend Jeanette. I have a few questions about her upcoming wedding. She answers them. Then she asks one of her own: “Will you be in the wedding?”
“YOUR wedding?” I ask, incredulously.
“Well of course MY wedding, silly!”
“Um, well, sure. I mean if you’re sure you WANT me in your wedding, I would LOVE to be in your wedding!”
“Do you have a black dress?” she asks.
“Sure.” I reply (it’s my ugly frumpy FUNERAL dress, but I’m not gonna tell her that)
“That is so great!! See you the day after tomorrow!” She says excitedly and hangs up.

So now I have to go find a decent black dress to wear to the wedding. This sounds like fun to me, if I can get away without Noah and Helaman and actually SHOP, ya know?

So I set the boys up with dinner and head to Ross. Because, hello? We don’t just have the money to run out and buy random new dresses from wherever new black dresses are sold! Sheesh. Upon entering Ross, I immediately find the rack with the dresses on it. LOTS of dresses. LOTS of black dresses. Not very many MODEST black dresses.

Some of you might say, “Who cares? You’re just going to a wedding, just wear the sleeveless/lowcut/highcut/see through/hoochie momma dress!”, right? But I have a VERY, VERY firm belief that I should wear what I would want my daughter to wear (should I ever, ever get pregnant and by some miracle have a little girl). That I don’t need to show off my body in order to feel good about myself. So I have to keep searching, and searching, and searching. And I am not having any luck finding a decent black dress for the wedding. I start to get so desperate that I start to pray. Really! I’m praying to my Heavenly Father that if we need to be modest and not walk around half naked then he needs to (pretty, pretty, please) throw me a bone here!

Naturally, when I am sure all hope is lost and I will have to wear Ugly Betty’s Frump Girl Outfit to the wedding, I find it. A black dress. With sleeves. Down to my knees. But a little low cut. All I have to do is head to the junior’s section to find a black tankie to go underneath it and, voila! A cute, modest dress to wear to a semi-formal event that I won’t feel embarassed about when I see the pictures afterward. Worth the time? Oh, of course. I mean, wouldn’t I (someday) want my daughter to understand the pricipals that I believe in and put in a little effort to what she chooses to wear? Of course!

Now about my son going pee in other people’s backyards…..

Note to self: it’s YOUR blog, you may vent, not vent, write or not write. Hence the reason it’s YOURS dork. Go back to your blog.

Alright! I get it. I finally got offa my duff and got my booty back in the gym. Considering my first adventure when beginnning a workout, I thought I should take this one a little slower. I dropped Noah off in the babysitting room and headed for the treadmill. Now all the treadmills face the same direction - out the window and towards the pool - so we don’t really see each other. But you still have to walk past the other treadmills to get to the one you want, and while doing so, I couldn’t help but notice the outfits that some of these women were wearing! Now, some of these ladies looked great, but some, seriously, needed some help. In the end, though, everyone is sweaty and yucky with stringy hair and nasty smelling feet, so what does it matter what they’re wearing, right?

Except that what they wear doesn’t really bother me - it’s what they SMELL like. And I’m not talking about stinky smells, either. Some women go to the gym looking like they just rolled out of bed; messy hair, goobers in their eyes, scratchy voice. Some women run a comb through their hair, grab a small bite to eat, and brush their teeth before showing up to work out. And then some women arrive at the gym looking like they just left the beauty parlor; hair neatly done in a super-cute do, faces covered in flawless makeup, and they smell like they just had a pow-wow in the Dillards perfume isle. It’s this latter group that I’m going to whine about, because, people? It is NOT ok to walk past my treadmill while I am running jogging on the treadmill and I’m already out of shape and feeling like a 90-year-old asthmatic with emhysema flaunting your $6,000 an ounce NASTY smelling perfume! I nearly tripped over my own two feet because my vision went blurry because you didn’t want the treadmill on the end, you wanted the one RIGHT NEXT TO MINE! There are 12 treads in the room. Why did you choose this one?

Then she started walking. Then walking fast. Then jogging. Then running. Then running FAST. So stinky-chested woman chose to choke me out of my spot and probably chose that spot because I made her look good. With me in my second-hand Nike pants and her in her Tommy EVERYTHING, stinkin up the place and running fast on the treadmill. Sheesh, there should be rules about things like this. Really! But not rules about me being out of shape, more like rules about being in too good of shape. Does that sound like a possibility? Ok, maybe next time I’ll just walk around the track.

 Although it’s always been really easy to pick on Michael because he was born on April Fool’s Day, this year, we seem to be really busy with school, work, kids, and life, so there isn’t much for me to pick on when it comes to him. I mean, what am I gonna say?

“Hey, mega-dork! Ya know, only complete LOSERS graduate from the U of A!”

Or;

“Way to go! It’s not like you’ve been busy with your jobs or keeping tenants in your two rental houses or anything. I mean, c’mon! Get a life!”

Nope, neither of those are really pick-on-worthy, and since he is too old to fall for the “you are so totally adopted” story, I guess we’ll just have to make do with a cute picture of when he was a sweet little boy, and a picture of what the smart-aleck looks like today. I’m proud of ya, little bro! Happy Birthday!!!