Tag Archives: country

The Sunrise, the Sunset, and the Long Space In Between

It started here, and I’ve been walking in the subdivision across the street every morning at sunrise ever since.

Then this happened, and it caused me to climb out of bed one day and make pizza with my kids and I’ve been slowly transitioning back into mealtime ever since. Then I bought bento boxes for my kids’ lunches because I also decided to remove gluten from their diets so bye bye hassle free poison industrial complex lunch!

Now now my kids and I pack their lunches every day except when we forget and my husband ends up having to do it at the last minute in the morning, which he loves.

A body in motion stays in motion. So it is with a body, the same is true with my mind. My therapist asked me for notes so what we can make an action plan for when this happens again,so that we might shorten the lifespan of the next horror show of inactivity. It wasn’t until after I left that I made the connection between arthritis and the last several weeks of cozy bed time, but I don’t want to talk about that now.

Right now, I have a list. Everybody likes lists.

Sometimes, I feel like two people. There’s an urban Summer, who loves delivery breakfast, sidewalks, structured runs, multi-plex, manic panic, kitten heels, customer service management and power suits. Then there’s the me that lives here, now. Petulant, anti-grocery store me that wants to get her food from somewhere, anywhere but that place with those tubular lights and that cold white tile. The me that craves, all year long, the season that isn’t here. Cold in the summer, just want to shed my damn coat already in the winter. The me that tries so hard every year to turn this sand dune into something that will give us edible crops but this year is ready to give up and let the animals eat it and trade their milk to the locals who do a better job.

Today I wandered around this house full of other people’s cast offs and wondered where I fit into the world we live in, the life we’ve created, and my family’s world. Their life largely functions fine without me, by necessity of my illnesses, but the hole left when I’m absent is undeniable.

My hope is to create a different set of values for my family, and below is a partial list of the reasons why.

Because we care what’s in that biscuit, my kids should be able to pronounce all the ingredients.
Because it matters what happened to that animal before it died and ended up on our plate.
Because I was curious and I forgot, for so many years, the scent of a properly canned jar of pickles
Because after enough days in a row, kids stop asking for the remote and begin complaining when you call them inside.
Because video games and streaming movies are only for rainy days when there are no cookies to bake or fun books to read and even then, uno is a pretty fun game.
Because as far as I know, there’s never been a paper on whether severe mental illness can be treated with extreme homesteading but perhaps it’s time for one
Because who can be sad when GOATS.
And also GOATS
And also someone has to milk the GOATS.

Related Posts:

Then There Was That Time I Almost Shot My Daughter’s Boyfriend With An Assault Rifle

Not many happy stories begin with the line “There I was in my maternity nightgown, aiming an assault rifle (an AK-47, if you must know) at the sliding glass door. I pulled back the curtain with the barrel, which might possibly be the dumbest fucking thing I’ve ever done, and there was a guy in a hooded sweatshirt looking back at me….”

This is no exception, although the silver lining in this dark cloud of parenting hell is that the hooded figure who was almost killed by the protective pregnant woman was NOT a serial rapist or a home invader or a murderer. As far as we know, he was unarmed, or else I’D be dead, since I’d (luckily for the kid) forgotten to turn off the safety.

Let me back up. So late tonight I was checking into TeenHer’s cell phone usage, and when I realized a) she’s used 900 minutes this month and b) she’s been on her phone after curfew (for the 4th time) I decided to come downstairs and talk to M about the situation, and confiscate her phone. He was talking, or the TV was on-I heard voices down there even though it was late. When I flipped on the stair lights, M came over, phone in his hand, flipped them off and whisper-screamed, “someone’s on the porch. I’m on the phone with 911”. By the way, great response time 911, I’m glad I have my own weapon. After I got the few details (the person slunk across our yard, walked down the length of the porch, may or may not still be on the porch beside my 12-year-old daughter’s sliding glass door) I did the only sensible thing for a pregnant woman living in the country (wearing a nursing/maternity nightie, no less) can do: I ran upstairs and assembled the rifle. (yes it was in a locked case, yes the parts are kept in different spots in the room, no the ammo is not kept in the same place as the weapon, no our decision to own firearms is not up for discussion)

Upstairs, TeenHer is shaking on my bed, terrified. I’ve pulled her out of bed and she’s watching me assemble the rifle I’m not sure she knew that we owned.. I tell her this is her only chance to admit if one of her friends might be on our porch or in our yard, because someone may be about to get shot. “No! What’s going on! I’m scared!” We go on like that for a few minutes until I’m convinced. Stupid.

“I’ve got the rifle” I whisper-screamed (WE ARE WHISPER-SCREAMING ABOUT GUNS) as I crept down the stairs in the dark.

“Go stand at TeenHer’s door” M called to me, still on the phone. Where the fuck are the police? I hear nothing, see no sirens. I thought he meant her sliding glass door, which leads out onto the PORCH; he really meant her INTERIOR bedroom door. Details. I creep into the bedroom, rifle at my side, and ease the curtain back, and there stands that little fucker, his ghostly hooded face staring right back at me down the barrel of my rifle. I shouted. He ran. I ran to the living room, handed the rifle to M (I’m pregnant! Recoil!) I told him to fire off a shot down the porch and took the phone to talk to dispatch.

“Do you have a weapon?” asks the dispatch. “Fuck yes I have a weapon.” M doesn’t fire the shot; the scumbag is gone. So level-headed. Know your target. Know your surroundings. I’m still on with dispatch when she says “They got him” and I’m sure she’s talking to someone else, about something else. “What?”

“He was in a golf cart. Hold on. Does your daughter have a boyfriend? He says he was visiting his girlfriend.”

“No, that’s not him. She’s only 12. She doesn’t have a boyfriend. They’ve got the wrong person.”

“Well he says he was visiting his girlfriend. Is her name _____?”

“BRING HIM HERE”

Upstairs TeenHer maintains her position. Has no idea who might have been on the porch. The cop in the yard radios his partner for the name of the kid.

It’s her boyfriend.

After the lecture (please let me say I think it was mercifully short) I tell her she’s staying home from school tomorrow and she has the balls to argue with me. “That makes no sense!”

If the sight of your pregnant mother pointing a rifle at your boyfriend through a glass door doesn’t scare you into contrition, then I have to say I don’t know what the fuck we can ever do to keep this kid in line.

Ed. Note: As it turns out, not all that much. Now he’s the father of my grandchild, and the night she was born we drank dirty martinis and you know how it goes. Bygones. 

Related Posts:

That Time We Were Home Invaded By Homeless Teenagers

Not that I didn’t party in plenty of semi-completed houses when I was a teenager… But WHAT THE FUCK! I sent M over to measure some windows for me tonight. He pulled up into the pitch-black driveway of the new house to find the sliding glass door partly open. Upon inspection, he discovered a teenage couple cowering in MY BABY’S BEDROOM, the FUCKERS. They professed that Everyone’s Good Friend Carl (you might remember him as the kid who serendipitously acquired my best friend’s cell phone after it was stolen from her car, and then used it to call MY BROTHER.) has suggested that they crash at our house, because homeless teenagers got no place to stay. And our house is empty, right? What’s the harm? What’s the big? It’s not like we were home invaded or anything. Never mind the rooms filled with tools and virgin painted walls and un-flooded floors and etc etc etc. Dude. if I can’t sleep in my new house? NO ONE CAN.

Oh god, oh god, oh god. We’re leaving this house, which is not-yet even MORTGAGED, unoccupied for two weeks at the end of this month while we take a trip out of town. PANIC ATTACK, ENGAGE.

The incident ended with minimal drama because I was not there. My husband graciously allowed them to use his phone to make some calls. They got a ride and god help them, they’d better be sleeping someplace else tonight. It’s a helluva climb up to the second floor windows, and haha! We locked them.

Tomorrow: alarm system phone calls! Flood lights! Frantic searching for a house sitter! Wait. Isn’t this the reason we left L.A.?

Related Posts:

We Moved Here to Escape Things Like Fire and Crime and Cops

No, I did not think to grab my camera. I am stupid.

There I was, wallowing in self-pity and taking a few seconds to grieve, when something whispered at the hairs on my neck and caused me to turn my head ever so slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse of flashing blue lights. Hmmm. I craned my neck to investigate, not yet willing to go through the chore of setting the laptop on the ottoman and rousing myself from my comfy spot on the couch. Unable to get a good look, and admittedly nosey, hoping to see someone getting arrested or something, I ambled to the front door and opened it.

HOLY SHIT! Orange. A huge orange plume of flame, across the street. Where across the street, you ask? Let me show you:

Yeah. Back in the olden days, when my uncle the Preacher owned the land we will be building our house on, he kept a retreat of sorts way in his backyard. More of a shack, a shanty, than anything else, it was nonetheless a favorite hangout of young kids and teens looking for someplace to be naughty and look at dirty magazines. Oh, and my uncle wrote sermons there too, I think, because when we came across this deathtrap unbelievably still standing last spring, we found inside about two hundred religious paperbacks and no girly magazines.

The shack was slated for demolition.

When my field of vision was consumed with that fiery glow, I naturally assumed my cousin M’s house was on fire (since they have electricity and all that combustible moonshine over there), and took off at a sprint across the street. There was a cop walking about a hundred yards in front of me, and as I bolted up the driveway wheezing and coughing, he informed me sternly that I wasn’t going to help anyone by making myself sick trying to get there in a hurry. Thanks, Officer Friendly for reminding me that I’m in no shape to even run across the street. Do you have a spare inhaler?

There was very little drama after I caught my breath. M’s house was not in fire, and no one knows how this happened. The fire investigator asked me (since I’m the Property Owner, and everything. My first official duty as Property Owner was preserving my father’s sleep tonight.) if I’d done anything recently to piss anyone off.

“You mean, anyone besides the whole Internet?” I replied? Besides psycho ex-boyfriends and freaks from California who threatened email bombs and the FBI? I don’t think so, but this is a small town, so you never really know.

And then I ran into my old friend and workout buddy V. His wife was my best friend at one time. I’m still not sure how someone can be your best friend and then not your friend at all anymore, but that’s the way it went down. I have the Mexico video to prove that we loved each other once. They have a new baby, which is totally weird because it doesn’t seem like it could possibly be that long since I talked to her online-14 months, at least? Anyway. The people you run into in the middle of the night when things are on fire. And all the while I’m standing there making conversation with someone I haven’t seen in 6 years, and in the back of my mind all I can think of is at the very end of the DownTime CD the guys were goofing around and someone goes “Now THAT’s a Fire!” except he says it true southern stye: FAAAAAR. Now that’s a faaar.

This sounds like a dream, doesn’t it? I’m serious, it happened. V is a cop, that’s why he was there. I’m not sure what the Green Giant was doing making out with Little Bo Peep in the shed, but maybe the fire investigator will shed some light on that.

Related Posts: