It's been an eventful 4...or 5...or however many days it's been. Saturday we hacked off Mia's hair. Hacked it clean off, 5 inches of luxurious curls--gone. I don't know what we were thinking. I only wanted Caleb to trim the bottom--just like maybe 1/2 an inch. But I didn't specify, and he scissored away and now my precious little angel baby is bouncing around with a sassy chin-length bob. She still has the curls, so that makes me sleep a little better at night.

 

Caleb ganked a tree from a field off the highway in the dark of the night and planted it our backyard. It's a redbud, and it's humongous, and I'm sure it looks much nicer by our house than it did on the side of the road.

 

We went to Atwoods and looked for more trees. We ended up leaving without one but instead brought home some of those cute little plastic animals Mia loves so much. They're made by Schleick (spelling?) and boy, are they anatomically correct. Mia picked out a "baby pig" and a "mama pig" (And I'll tell you right now it's more like a daddy pig--WOW.)

 

My father-in-law is driving in tonight to visit and drop off a few things--I've mentioned it before, I'm sure, because I am excited. A brand-new-hand-me-down couch (brown in color so as to disguise dirt and dog slober), a sweet swingset/playhouse for the kids (the kind that makes me wish with all my heart that I was Mia's age again), and an antique liqour cabinet that my mom has been trying to keep at her house--I had to remind the woman that it was MINE, specifically picked out by ME. It belonged to my great grandmother, who gave away that and most of her furniture when she sold her house--I called dibs on the liqour cabinet simply because it needed to be filled with liquor, and we're probably the only members of the family who would do just that.

 

Well, I'm going to get ready for my company. I went so far as to wash the sheets and scrub the bathroom. I might even cook dinner.

I'm seeing a pattern here connecting my facial breakouts with the glorious sunshine of Oklahoma. I spend a little time outside and BAM! A complexion that would make a hormonal teenage boy run screaming.

 

What is up with that? It happened last year right around this time; only then, I blamed it on a chemical imbalance and an undying love of Coca-cola. Well, I still have a coke problem...but that's beside the point.

 

I am a little worried; last spring, a blotchy red face was the first sign of some kind of freak hormone-thing. I then began going through a horrendous stage of what my doctor diagnosed as "depression and anxiety". I'd rather burn my arms off then to suffer that emotional turmoil again.

 

Really. My arms. With a blow-torch. I'd forget my precious pink bike and learn how to ride a unicycle. I'd be such a badass.

 

I was put on miracle drugs, and almost immediately I felt better--so good in fact, that 2 months later, I did a very bad thing and took my own self off of any and all prescribed medications, hoping to keep control of my moodswings and temper-tantrums with diet and exercise. And so far, so good--but I'm not totally opposed to going back on the crazy pills if it becomes absolutely neccessary. Especially when I take into consideration my passion for beer and coke coupled with my growing dislike for healthy food and sweating.

 

Anyhow, when all this went down, I was fortunate to have love and support coming from my family and friends, and even people I'd never met courtesy of MSN Spaces. And I was shocked--SHOCKED--and appalled, at just how many people had gone through the very same thing--and how many were actually willing to share their experiences with me. It was encouraging, to say the least...but yet, maybe even, a little scary. Can all these people really be suffering from depression and anxiety? Or, are we all just worked up (and drugged up) over nothing? Is it some sort of plague in the 21st century? Did our grandparents go through the same thing and just shrug it off as a bad case of the blues...only to soldier bravely on until some sort of sanity returned to them? Should we be handling our emotional problems the same way? Do we turn to drugs too quickly?

 

My thoughts: Yes and no. I think many people look to drugs as their ultimate cure-all. Maybe I can put this in a way that people will understand. Think of an obese person that has a life-saving gastric bypass surgery. Yes, it needed to be done BUT the problem does not just go away afterward. It's about taking care of yourself, and making lifestyle changes can affect a person mentally and emotionally just as much as it can physically.

 

Case in point: a girl I know, no names, recently saw a doctor--once--about her difficulty breathing. She walked out of the place with a nice fat prescription for Xanex (sp?) and an optional 8 paid visits to a psychiatrist. Before, during, and even after this ordeal, the girl still fails to recognize what might have played a HUGE part in her bought with anxiety and depression: She's a full-time student. She works 2 jobs. She parties 4 or 5 times a week until the wee hours of the morning and she drinks like a fish--and I'm only assuming that when she eats, if she remembers to eat, her choice of food isn't the healthiest our green earth has to offer. How was medication automatically the answer to her problem?

 

My ideas on this subject are obviously not based on professional knowledge or solid, known facts...they're just thoughts that occur to me. There are certain things people have to do in order to keep their minds and bodies healthy, and if medicine is a part of the routine, then that's great. Whatever works. But I have trouble believing that it's the ONLY thing a person needs--that you have to take an active part when it comes to your health, both physically and emotionally. And I would LOVE to hear some other opinions.

They call me Farmer Brown. Or was it Farmer Ted? Where did I get Ted? Anyway, we're growing crops now. Real live plants. In the ground.

 

I can't take credit for this--yet. Caleb did most of the dirty work while I sipped wine out of a crystal glass on the backporch. But I'm going to stake my claim in those vegetables after a summer of remembering to water them every once in a while. That's a big thing for me.

 

Besides, Caleb bought me a swing last year and it had been a while since I sat on it. I didn't want to be rude and let him think I wasn't still enjoying his thoughtful gift, so I parked my ass on that thing and let him know just how much I appreciated it.

 

"Hey babe! When will our strawberries grow? I think they'd be great with this wine!" and "Hey babe! Look! I discovered a new treat--frozen berries in my wine! How great is that? Babe?"

 

The garden is attracting woodland creatures, I think. Last night Smokey and Darcy cornered a combination rat-mole. It looked like a rat, but with the digging claws and short little tail of a mole. It bit my husband, who had picked it up trying to protect it from our vicious attack dogs. He then threw the mole-rat fifty feet through the air.

 

It was a good weekend.

 

Still haven't found the perfect Welcome mat. That search has sort of fallen flat in favor of the search for a terrific carpet cleaner--although I have to admit, that project's going to fast fall by the wayside if I don't hurry up and buy one. My motivation to keep my house clean is steadily declining. It struck me the other day that it will be several weeks before my family actually makes it up here and there will be hundreds more opportunities to clean before the big day comes. I obviously knew it all along, but the thought of their visit just got me so excited.

 

Now,  2 days since I last vacuumed and 4 days since I did any laundry, several weeks feels like a lifetime when you're waiting for company. I've lost my mojo.

 

I've been doing a little of the Yoga from the Yoga Booty Ballet series, thinking it will energize me and relax me, if it's possible to do both at the same time. Mia apparently watches very carefully; earlier today I heard her saying "Down Dog" to Shadow in the living room--I looked over to see her not scolding the dog, but instead trying to teach her some Yoga moves--my kid is an absolute nut, I swear. And I've got to be more careful of what I say and do around her--it's amazing how well she can yoga. And it's downright scary how well she can booty.

 

  I'm uber-excited today. Mia allowed me to sleep for a reasonable amount of time last night and I am PUMPED!

 

  Today I am going to continue my search for the perfect Welcome mat. We only have a couple weeks until the visitations start: first, from my father-in-law, who is bringing us brand-new-hand-me-down couches and a kick-ass swingset for me, er, the girls. This man is so cool. He just took a motorcycle course so that Mia can go around calling her grandpa a Wild Hog. Seriously, though? I admire him for doing that. I hope that when I'm 60, I'll still have the guts to get out and try new things, too.

  At the end of this month, or the beginning of next, my aunts and my dad's mom (Oma, as we like to call her) are going to swing up for a day. I saw them at my sister Jenny's wedding last October, but before that, it had been a while. I am really looking foward to it and have made it my life's mission to make my house smell somewhat like a normal person's house--you know, the kind of people who DON'T have 3 humongous, hairy slobbery dirty dogs running around inside all the time. Truth is, my house is pretty clean. It's never immaculate and sparkling, but it's sanitary and comfortable. And by comfortable, I mean not too terribly disgusting. But the smell. The smell. I've gotten used to it, but I know it's there. And to non-dog people, it might be overwhelming. So I'm working on that. Any suggestions?

 

  My mother and my sister Jenny and possibly my dad are visiting at the end of April/beginning of May. This is the trip that I could just pee my pants with anticipation over. I've dreamed up a bajillion activities for us. I've written the grocery list already, and I've made mental notes on what wines to pick up...I want to put fresh flowers by their beds. I want to make them pancakes every morning. I picked up some extra-cool bath stuff for my mom to use in our sweet tub--and I want her to use only our best bath towels. Every time I drive through our town, I think, "So this is what they'll be seeing on their drive in. Man I hope they clean that up. Will that road construction be done by May? Another CVS? That doesn't say small town!"

 

I know it's overkill. I'll probably only wind up with one vase of fresh flowers in the dining room, and one pancake breakfast during their entire stay. Okay, maybe two. ( I really love pancakes.)

 

I've written before about my parents; since I've brought up the subject of my sister, Jenny, I'll write about her real quick. (Don't worry Katie--your day will come.)

 

Jenny is 2 years younger than me. We fought a lot when we were little kids (I can show you the scars) but we played together a lot, too. My dad was in the military so we moved around--whenever we got to a new place, all we'd have was each other. Jenny and I would gang up on our little sister, Katie. To this day I still feel bad about it. That said, I still remember the hand signals and secret gestures we'd give each other to annoy her.

Out of the 3 of us, Jenny has always been the calm one--the one who uses her brain in a crisis. She never seemed to get upset, and when she did, she'd cry where people wouldn't see her. I've always thought of Jenny as being really strong.

She's pretty. And when she laughs, you can't help but laugh with her. Which usually makes her laugh harder, and the laugh-session almost always ends with Jenny on the floor in tears. I love it when she gets going. It's one of the things I miss the most.

I think with most sets of sisters, being friends with each other is something that very slowly evolves. My mom always told me, over and over, to be nice to my sisters--one day we wouldn't fight so much, we'd be best friends. And I can remember the very moment it first occured to me that Jenny and I had arrived there.

 

It was the day after my ex-husband asked for a divorce (lovely way to start out a story, isn't it?). I was working at Dillards at the time and I couldn't bear to sit in the breakroom, so I sat in my car and cried for my entire lunch hour. It was POURING down rain--a perfect day for the mood I was in. I hadn't seen much of Jenny since I moved back home, because we were both so busy with school and work. All of a sudden, as I'm sitting there bawling, snot everywhere, someone BANGS on my car window. Jenny.

  "LET ME IN!" She yells. I hesitate, then unlock the door.

  "I thought you might be here," she says, in a happy-but-sympathetic voice (if that's possible) and she hands me a candy bar. A 3-Musketeers--an okay candy-bar, but then I realized she remembered how I used to LOVE them when we were little, and that she must've figured out when I took my lunch break before tracking down my car in the mall parking lot.

  "Thanks," I said. We didn't talk much...at all...but she did ask if I was okay and gave me a big hug before she left for work. And I honestly felt better afterwards. Much better.

 

  Jenny and I are now head-to-head in a race to get knocked up--the first one to the finish gets dibs on Mom coming to visit. We talk on the phone, we chit-chat about things like cool vacations and kids, rowdy dogs and troublesome lawns. We laugh at the goofy things our husbands do. And of course, we clown on our little sister--but afterwards, we say, "That goofball Katie. I miss her. I need to call her." I miss my sisters so much. And I count both of them as 2 of my best friends.

 

 

Yeah, that's right. Raking thatch. I said it.

 

And that's what I'll be doing today, on a gorgeous day, when I could be riding my bike like I was Pee-wee Herman...I'll be outside in the slushy, thatchy backyard with a rake that gives me boo-boos on my poor hands. Raking thatch.

 

But before I take my biscuit out there I can at least update my blog, even though there's nothing much to report on after last week's fine display of parental censorship. I called the teacher, who, as I suspected, was not aware of what the book was about. I didn't get mad or complain, but she apologized out the yin-yang and promised to remove the books and send them on over to the Jr. High.

 

Been cleaning. Sweeping 10 times a day. Vacuuming 5--with no effect on the amount of dog hair we've got imbedded in the carpet and stuck in every corner. Pulled out my own hair in a fit of rage and vacuumed that instead.

 

I attacked my side of the closet for the first time in...well, since we've lived in our house. I can walk back there now instead of having to lean 5 feet over a ton of junk to get to my hanging clothes. It's nice.

 

I finally filled out a volunteer application to The Children's Center in Oklahoma City. Now if I can just make it down there again to drop it off, I'll be well on my way to reading books to children with very special needs. Or maybe folding laundry or planting plants. I'm hoping to do this about twice a month, most likely on Saturdays and Sundays since Caleb's babysitting availability can be pretty unpredictable. Wish me luck.

 

Mia and I had a somewhat disturbing conversation on the way home today from Hobby Lobby (I was trying to find some sort of "Welcome" sign since we'll be having an outpouring of company in the next 2 months).

 

MIA: "Mom...excuse me? Mom? Excuse me...but could I have my pacifier please?"

ME:   "Mia! You don't need a pacifier, remember? We gave it away."

MIA: "But...wwwwhhhyyy?"

ME:   "Because the pacifier fairy needed it so she could give it to a little baby somewhere. And now that baby's happy."

MIA: "But...the baby is dead now. And I need that pacifier."

ME:   "The baby is dead now? Did you just say the baby is dead?"

MIA: "Yes. The baby is dead. It got hit by a train and it fell off a bridge and a bear ate it."

 

No more Fox and The Hound for that child.

 

You see, not too long ago, Mia was paid a merry visit from the Pacifier Fairy, who took her pacifier to give to a baby somewhere and left her presents in its place. To this day, Mia is not happy with that dirty fairy. And she has not forgotten about her pacifier. I can't help but wonder if everytime she sees a baby, she wishes him ill will. So much for trying to make getting rid of the pacifier a pleasant experience--I straight up took Cheyenne's right out of her mouth when she was Mia's age and told her I was throwing it in the garbage...I'm already brainstorming what I'll do to the next kid...

Dilema. I'm debating this time on whether or not to allow Cheyenne to read a book about a 13 year old that gets raped at a high school party.

Pretty heavy stuff for a 10 year old? I thought so. I'm leaning towards no. Actually, I've decided no.

 

It's not that it's a bad book--it's wonderful. I stayed up until 1:00 a.m. reading the whole entire thing. I want her to read it. She needs to read it. Just not now.

 

She got the book yesterday at school--as a reward, their reading teacher lets certain students pick out a book she gets from Scholastic--Cheyenne and several other girls picked this one, Speak, by Laurie Halse Anderson. She was just getting through the first chapter when I barged in her room like I always do. The cover looked cool so I asked to read the back--I do that with just about everything new she reads. Intrigued, I opened the book and flipped through a few pages...and just happened to go right to the big scene.

 

Whoa.

 

Book confiscated.

 

What to do, what to do? I called her friend's (another Speak reader) mom and gave her a heads up.

 

"Are you serious? Rape? For 5th graders?" She says. So I'm feeling a little better now that I'm not the only over-protective parent.

 

I promised Cheyenne I would take her to get a new book. She offered to just trade that one in for a new one--but I want her to keep it. It's a book that I'd love for her to read--it's very powerful. I cried and cried after I read it. I hate that such terrible things go on in this world...and I know I can't shield Cheyenne from them forever.

The end offered a little comfort--the girl learns to speak up, to stand up for herself...and there you have the moral of the story.

 

I'm a little disturbed about the description on the back cover: "The tough, tender, and darkly funny story of a teenage outcast." I think it's a little misleading. It's tough, for sure. Tender, at times. Funny, parts of it. But ultimately it is a story of a girl gone through a terrible trauma and who is suffering a tremendous pain. I think that's pretty important to point out when you're marketing this book towards 10 year olds.

 

I'm not knocking the book. I enjoyed the book. I recommend the book--to someone about 3 years older than my daughter.

Dear Lord Baby Jesus, 8 lbs, 6 oz, laying in a manger...Thank you so much for this most glorious weather.

Seriously, it is lovely outside. The kind of weather that you'd have in heaven, if you went.

We've biked a few times in the last week--It's a lot harder up those hills than I remember it being.

 

Cheyenne had her first softball practice last night--they did nothing except get their pictures taken and play with one of the girls' brand new hot-dog puppy. While they goofed off out in the field, us parents decided on practice times 3 days a week--it seems like more but when you consider that we'll be playing right here in town this year instead double headers an hour's drive away every week, it's not too bad. Cheyenne's looking foward to it and has actually played catch with me once or twice in addition to batting practice with her friend up the street.

 

The mousehouse is finished. It's not much different than what it was 2 months ago, just glued down and clear-coated one more time. The mice have been living in it without furniture; life will continue for them with those same furniture-less conditions. For now.

Until Mia replaces them with Joe Montana and a glass Dumbo figurine.

We made the mistake several weeks ago of watching World Trade Center with her "napping" on the couch in the same room.

Ever since then, all her animals, mice especially, have lived in a state of constant peril.

 

Father Mouse: "AAAAAGGG!!! I CAN'T GET IT OFF! IT'S TOO HEAVY! I'M STUCK!!!!! AAAGGG!"

Mother Mouse: "I see a light! Hang on!"

Brother Mouse: "It burns! It burns!"

Sister Mouse: (In tears) "Where is my husband? Is he hurt?"

Mia: "Silly mouse, you don't have a husband."

Mother Mouse: "He's my husband. You're just the sister."

Father Mouse: "I'M STUCK! THIS THING IS TOO HEAVY! GET IT OFF! AAAAAAAAAGGGGGGG!"

 

Mia plays like this everyday. She has tons of little plastic animals--jungle animals, arctic animals, woodland animals...and a horse. Each day they go about their business on the carpet of our living room floor, from mousehouse to barnyard, the tree of life to the igloo. When Mia wants someone to drown, we spread out a big blue blanket for the ocean. It amazes me, the intricate little story lines she creates, the conversations these animals have with each other. I could listen to her play forever. She gets so involved.

 

Well, that's her waking up. Maybe I'd better do the mice a favor and hide them so they could live the day out in peace.

 

---

 

An update on the fishy situation: After one unanswered e-mail and a few minutes of internet research, I've come to my own conclusion that no one at the Norman SuperWalmart knows anything, because those fish weren't markered on. I found an article on actual TATOOED FISH, and the ones I saw Friday matched the pictures exactly. So, the good news; no lame college kid working night shift at Walmart commited this heinous act--but here's the bad news. The buyers at Walmart obviously have no problem with cruelty towards fish.

Another thought: I distinctly remember Manager Brandi telling me over the phone that she had cleaned off the fish and set them in a new tank--markings completely gone and fish swimming around just as happy as you please. Do the tatooed fish actually come clean with a simple scrub? If she scrubbed them at all? Something for me to ponder for the next few days...I have a few e-mails left in me before I'm done with this.

   It happened Friday and I'm still ticked off about it.

   Mia and I were at Walmart, checking out the fish, her favorite section, when we came upon 2 Walmart employees just a-laughin about something over by a tank in the middle. So we had to look, and low and behold, there was a tank full of mostly white goldfish, about 20 of them, and each one was speckled with beautiful bright colors!

   "Oh isn't that cool?!" said one of the ladies.

   "They must've done it last night," said the other.

   "What in the world makes them that way?" I asked. "Is it some type of food they eat?"

   "Oh, no, honey--that's marker! Isn't it hilarious?"

 

   Marker? I thought. I looked closer. One fish was decorated with a rainbow. Another had a smiley face. Several had hearts and stars.

 

   Marker? I stood there, my stomach just churning. You mean, someone actually took these fish out of the water, dried them to some degree so the ink wouldn't come right off, and proceeded to draw on them, while they couldn't breathe, with 3 colors or more?

 

   "No...I guess it's not very funny," I said as I walked off in a daze. I mean geez, why would someone do that to a poor fish? Was I the only person that thought it was a might bit cruel? Were they bored on the graveyard shift? Do you realize the amount of time it must've taken...and that someone was getting paid to torture fish...and that all they other employees thought it was cute...hilarious, even? These fish had no one. They were on their own in a store full of jerky fish-haters.

 

   I know I was blowing it a little out of proportion, but just a little...and the more I thought about it, the worse my stomach felt...and my face was flushed red and I was mad. I threw my first official bitch-fit of 2007.

 

   Poor Brandy. She was the manager I asked to speak to, the one who got an earful as I ranted and raved (in a nice way, with a smile on my face and a calm, pleasant voice. It was hard.) how no one would think twice about spray painting on puppies or kittens; why was it okay to suffocate and tatoo a fish? And what about the chemicals in the marker? Could that not hurt them even if the actual process didn't?

   Brandy assured me she would find out about this "weird" situation and have it taken care of immediately. And then she walked away.

   Fine, I thought. I'll just call and talk to another manager when I get home, just to make sure.

   No such luck. Brandy was obviously the Walmart public relations guru of the day.

 

   "Don't worry, ma'm. We took care of it. We washed the fish off and cleaned out their tank and they're fine. The marker didn't hurt them." I think she thought I would be comforted.

 

   "Well...as long as they're okay. But did you find out who drew on them?" I asked, thinking that's what I'd want to find out if I were the one in charge.

 

   "Oh. No one knows. We called all the people who were working last night and they didn't see anything."

 

   The call ended shortly after it began, minus the 15 minutes spent listening to instrumental Bette Midler while I was on hold. Do they want me to be in a pissy mood? You'd think.

 

   A friend of mine (yes, I called everyone I knew to get some sort of fish-sympathy) pointed out to me that in the time it took for me to get home and get on the phone, those fish most certainly were not "cleaned off" and put into a sparkling clean tank. At 28 cents a pop, they were most likely flushed, if anything, in order to avoid more complaints.

 

   Anyway, I'm livid, LIVID, about this situation. This conspiracy. This cover-up. Now, I hate fish just as much as the next person. I don't have a fish tank, I don't want a fish tank, and a goldfish would last less than 24 hours around my house. But YOU DON'T DRAW ON FISH. My two year old knows that.

 

    YOU DON'T DRAW ON FISH. And you don't pay someone to draw on fish. Toni is now on her way to the Walmart website. I'm going to write a letter. And if you're ever in the Norman, Oklahoma SuperWalmart, go check out the goldfish in the back of the store. You never know when the notorious fish-painter will strike. Because I'm sure they're still working there.