Digging A Hole

Today the goddess speaks about herself:

What I am not doing today is digging a hole.  OK, not literally anyway. My son is digging a hole.

The sick goat didn't make it, and all I can see of my son is his bare back bending up and down, back and forth as he digs. He is digging within sight of the other goats. The dead goat's pal is letting us know how upset she is about her friend. I don't know if it will help her to see the burial, or if it will be more upsetting. I hate to think of her being more upset. 

I took some Trauma Life essential oil out to the goat pen. Brent's assistant is doing farm work today so I had him rub the oil on Hillary's ears. It had an immediate effect on him, let's hope it helps the goat settle down. Duncan and Josh will be building fence near the goats all day. Hopefully, they will be a reassuring presence for Hillary. It's crazy how humans become attached to their animals so quickly. We've only had these particular goats for a week now. I feel bitterly sorry for Hillary's loss. As for the goat that didn't make it, I am actually glad that she is out of pain.  As for me, I am creating my own hole.

I'm not sure if it is a hole so much as a rut. But, it  could be one of those ginormous Oregon Trail covered wagon ruts. Some of those are pretty damn high. I'm supposed to rest. I am so tired of resting, but every time I do anything remotely physical my body lets me know, in no uncertain terms, that it wants to spend the rest of the day recovering; sometimes several days recovering.  I don't feel like  I can start anything today until I dye my hair anyway. I don't feel comfortable dying my hair when the men-folk are working outside, and may come in at any moment. We need an outhouse and human watering trough out there.  Maybe if I wasn't such a messy hair dyer, I wouldn't have to get fully naked to dye my hair, and I wouldn't care who might walk in on me. 

A good farm girl would wind her hair up in a knot, stick a hat on her head, and dig herself out of her own hole. It could be time to go white.  People have begun to accuse my "no longer, dark haired," husband of cradle robbing.  I don't find it flattering.  However, the women in my family traditionally dye 'til they die. It is hard to break a family tradition.  I need to just suck it up and do something. It's not like I don't know how to climb a rope. I could get out of my pity hole if I really wanted. 

Well, the sun is only going to get higher in the sky, and my hole isn't going to get any smaller. I am going to try it the farm girl way for now. I'll probably let you know how that went.
May peace and a long, strong rope be yours from, The Goddess of Everything.

                                                                              

                                                       

Rough Start

Today the goddess speaks about herself:

     " Your muscle relaxants and Tylenol are on the counter, and your coffee is out on the table. It's already 92 degrees out."  My husbands words briefly disturbed the emptiness I'd been trying to achieve in the shower. The warm water was somewhat alleviating as it massaged my sore everything. How can every muscle be so sore  after sleeping? Aren't we supposed to wake up refreshed from a night of sleep? Not me. I'd been restless, and unsuccessful at trying to fall asleep, so I'd gotten up to check my email. Somewhere between the bed and the chair, in my bedroom, I'd lost my mouth appliance. I've been clenching my jaw 24/7 since I was three years old. A night without my mouth thingy, no matter how I try to send messages to my brain to allow my jaw to relax, always, always results in a morning filled with pain. 

     I had thought to take a muscle relaxer before my second attempt at sleep. Why didn't that happen again?  Oh, right -- Duncan's girlfriend. I'd met Duncan on the stairs with his guitar. He let me go ahead of him, and I ran into the cat on my way down. When I picked him up in order to put him outside, Duncan had said, "Here Mom, let me do that".  Everyone has been offering to carry things for me lately so I didn't look into his intent. "No," I said, "I'll do it." I had to go out to the car anyway because that's were my pills were. That's when I ran into Sara, in the dark. She gets off work at 11:00. She and Duncan had been headed out to the porch swing to spend some time together. (Duncan's girlfriend last summer had the same schedule. She also had the same name. Weird). I guess I got sidetracked. I was in my ratty tie dye shorty, holding the cat, which I did relinquish to Duncan. After a quick hello and I just got off work, and I was just putting the cat out, I lost my original purpose for going downstairs. It wasn't until I was flat on my back, in bed, that I remembered the muscle relaxers. "Damn!" I thought I could will myself to keep my face relaxed. It's never worked before, but by then I was tired. I must have fallen asleep pretty quickly after that. The last thing I remember is the soothing sound of Duncan's guitar, and Brent taking my hand and rubbing the inside of my wrist.

Waking up was hell. Everything hurt, not just my jaw. Maybe the backs of my knees didn't hurt. It was pretty late too, and it was already hot in the bedroom, even with the drapes closed and the fan going. Brent put his lips to my forehead , and told me that I felt  warm, and that my cheeks were bright red. Great. I get to be sick and sore.  

Turning off the water, I had flung the shower curtain open a little too roughly, startling myself. The first thing my eyes settled on was the bale of straw on the ground, outside the bathroom window.  Inert. The next thing I saw was my reflection in the mirror across from me. Without my glasses I couldn't see the white stripe running down the part in my hair. If everyone could just be a little near sighted today I could not care that I had forgotten that I was going to dye my roots. It  was too late, I don't think I am going to care because I feel awful. I'm not going anywhere today. Not when I hurt this much, and feel like throwing up, and crawling under the bed until I feel human again.  

May peace and restful sleep be yours from, The Goddess of Everything.

 

Pink Pajamas In The Goat Pen

Today the goddess speaks about herself:

After a night of fun and friends. I was cozily recovering in my bed. So what it was after ten in the morning. I deserve a little "Me Time" after sharing of my goddess self at the monthly Alberta Street happening.  As I said, I was cozily ensconced in  my bed.  I was watching Weeds, deeply involved in the new season's plot when the dogs started barking like my mom was at the  door. (They go crazy over her). I heard the door open, and a not mom voice calling out hello. It was Olquita. Usually the dogs don't bark for her that much. I was happy for the warning. Without it my daring friend would have scouted me out until she found me in my bed. I remembered she had said she would drop off some movies, and that I shouldn't get out of my jammies. So, of course, I did not get out of my jammies. I was wearing my soft pink pajama bottoms fresh from the wash too. 

 When I got downstairs I was not expecting to do anything other than flop down on the couch for a good gab.  However, the first thing out of little miss farmers mouth was, "Where's your sick goat"? (Like I keep goats in the kitchen or something) I had no clue what she was talking about. What sick goat? 

Well, apparently one of our new goats was walking funny, and Brent had been on the phone with farmer Olguita and farmer Olguita's husband getting advice. While I had been curled up in my sanctuary all morning, there had been trips to the feed store, urgent phoning, shots given, and the vet put on stand-by. I don't quite get how all of this went on right outside my bedroom window without me being the tiniest bit aware, but it did.

Of course, we had to go immediately out to the goat pen to see the sick goat. I slipped on my muck boots, but did not change out of my soft as a rose petal pink pj's. When will I ever learn?

Sure enough, one of the new mamma's was lying down, and not looking too swell. We tried to get a good look at her through the fence, but Olquita was worried that the goat wanted to go potty but couldn't get up by herself. I climbed into the pen and tried to help her up. Pants not torn climbing over the fence -- good.

Goatee poo did not get up easily, but eventually she was peeing and popping pellets out in relief, all thanks to my pleading, and O's encouragement. When she was on her feet we could see that her udder was pretty big.. Brent was supposed to have milked her to relieve her, but had not. Olquita said we should do this in case she had mastitis, causing her illness. Guess who didn't want to be milked? It hurt and goats do not stand still for any kind of pain. That's when Olqa got into the pen with us. I held Hannah and Olga expressed milk. No mastitis. Filthy pants -- Damn! Why oh why can't I learn to put on work pants before even thinking about looking at livestock. I don't know if they are ruined, but I certainly wasn't about to climb back into bed  with 'goat pants' on. Not only did my pj's get dirty, but while I was up close and personal, I noticed bugs all over the goats. LICE!  EEK!  Although lice is an every day job hazard for me, I am on summer break for crying out loud. But no, I get to deal with giving goats baths every other week now. Lucky for us goats don't share their lice with people, or Brent would be burning all of our clothes and making us shave our heads. He isn't as comfortable with lousiness as I am.

The bad news is Hannah the goat is sick. The vet came out and gave Brent a bunch of medicine to give her every day. She has listeria and pneumonia. The vet has never seen a goat at such an early stage of the sickness before so he has not idea what her chances are. He complemented us on being so attentive to our goats. (We all know who didn't deserve that compliment). When it comes to goats and chickens, Brent is Mr. Attentive. And, unlike the  vet, I know my guy. He has cured an incurable goat before. I think Hannah's odds are excellent.

The vet did give me an idea. Whenever I am feeling neglected, I can dress up like a goat!

May peace and a strong detergent be yours from,  The Goddess of Everything.

Niggling Guilt

Today the goddess speaks about herself:

There's been a tiny, little sprout of a hint of a possible guilty feeling after my last blog. I'm just going to come right out and blurt the truth that I fudged on earlier,  MY BATHROOMS ARE NOT SHINY AND SWEET SMELLING!  

Phew, it's out!.  I never would have come clean (so to speak) had I not been caught in my little white lie; caught on the very day I told it.

Although I really hate to say that it is lying. I am a reader who writes; it is creative license, an embellishment as it were.

You see, Olguita came over yesterday for a visit, and to poke me with her needles. But, wait. Before I go on let me set up a little back story.

I am the only female in a house of men -- tall, lanky, good looking men, uniquely superior in nearly every way. As a goddess, I feel that I have trained them well in the ways of women:  listen, never offer un-solicited solutions to problems, open doors, carry heavy bags, push the cart, bring coffee without being asked, and shake an excellent martini. Bathroom etiquette was, of course, extensively covered. You know, wipe out the sink after shaving, no snotting in the shower, light a match AND put the toilet seat down.  

Now, my big, handsome men have always complied with most of my wishes, but I guess everyone must have their little rebellion. My men have chosen the toilet seat as theirs. Before lasik surgery this was hazardous for me, especially when I tottered to the the potty in the wee hours. More often than not I fell into the toilet. This did not make for a happy goddess. "Pick your battles", my mother said. I could never do this. In the early days, I went to battle over everything. These future men, and not completely raised husband (God and I know, Carole, you tried) were under my wing. I couldn't let them go out into the world and embarrass me, I mean themselves. Plus, there is the matter of me being a warrior goddess. However, my mother was correct. Had I learned a little earlier to allow some minor treachery, say for instance in the no dirty dishes in your room rule, something that was more of a minor inconvenience to me personally -- perhaps, now I would be enjoying a properly placed seat at all times.  

At this point it is also fair, and important to the story to mention the hairiness, and tallness of the men in my house. Both my husband and I have very hairy fathers; mine was something of a gorilla. The boys have no chance of not being heavy shedders of body hair. They are also very tall. The farther away one is from the actual toilet bowl, the harder it is to not miss hitting the rim (and, from time to time the floor).  These factors add up to an un-shiny toilet rim. Now, I would think this would be embarrassing for anyone to just walk away from, allowing the next person to come along and see. Evidently when your eyes are closer to the ceiling than not, it is also hard to see the toilet. Walk away they do.

This brings us up to Olguita's impromptu, needle poking visit. We had retired to the goddess sanctuary (my bedroom), a place few are allowed to enter (usually because the goddess's lover does not have proper hamper-usage skills [ God and I know, Carole, you tried]). It has taken twenty plus years, and almost as many birthday wishes, but now he's got it!!! Except for the perpetually unmade bed, and that never bothers me, my room is now a place I do not mind inviting very close, right-brain oriented friends with a propensity for buying a lot of clothes, shoes and art. So, there we were comfortably chatting while my chi was getting a jump start. We quite enjoyed ourselves. All too soon it was time for Olguita to go to work (where people pay her to poke them). It was at this time she required a trip, to the adjoining room, to dispose of the detritus of needle-poking (not the needles, of course, those she took with her to put in her little red sharps bucket -- she's a safety girl).  I was not minding this as I believed my own white lie about the shiny, sweet smellingness of my bathrooms. I was still not minding just after Olguita had hugged me good-bye, and driven off in Red Bull, her little, red and white Mini-Cooper. 

All seemed so right with my world. I was experiencing my usual after acupuncture euphoria as I climbed the stairs to gaze at myself in the big mirrors of the upstairs bathroom. My euphoria was short lived because as soon as I encountered the toilet my temper bubbled up, "Shit!" (nasty word, and not literal in this case). The toilet seat was up, and the rim was displayed in all of its spotty, hairy yuckiness! 

Liar, liar, pants on fire. So, instead of doctoring my previous blog, to be more accurate, I decided to write this one. I hope I can be forgiven.

May peace and short, hairless children be yours from, The Goddess of Everything.

Feed Me, Seymour!

Today the goddess speaks about herself:

I am hungry. Someone needs to feed me pretty darn soon. I am not used to fending for myself. My beloved comes home, makes dinner, and serves it to me. This is the way of the world. There is one acceptable alternative;  beloved brings take-away food home for me to eat, puts it on a plate, and presents it to me. If I am not fed, I will live on frozen juice bars and cheesy poofs. EVERYONE knows this about me. If you didn't, now you do.

You may think I am a big baby, but I put nutritious, made to order, meals on the table for every meal, for 21 years. It is my turn to be waited on.  Oh sure, sometimes we cook together. I can still manage to steam some vegetables or cook up some rice; I'd just rather not.

Are the dishes done? Yes. Is the laundry clean, folded, and delivered to the appropriate bedrooms? Yes. Have the dogs been groomed and fed? Yes. Is the house tidy, and the bathrooms shiny and sweet smelling? Yes. I am a pretty face; I am a pretty face who takes pride in making a nice home for my family. I'm simply not a goddess who cares to cook anymore. The big, handsome, strapping man took on that chore last year. He tells me that cooking relaxes him. HA! The children were both living away from home last year. As of yesterday they are all back. It is all too overwhelming now I presume. Sigh. I know, get over myself. The dude has been working all day. The kids can cook. I'm not going to starve. I am just a bit cranky.

May peace and dinner be yours from, The Goddess of Everything.

Recovering From Unrealistic Optimism

Today the goddess speaks about herself: 

My horoscope says that I am going to spend the end of my day recovering from 'unrealistic optimism'.  What is that? How can optimism be unrealistic? It's optimism. Dream big; believe in the unbelievable.  Plus, I don't need to recover from one more thing right now.

Big news:  I am now allowed to drive. I thought  I would be more excited, but I find that I actually like to be chauffeured everywhere.  I am kind of surprised to find that I'm not chaffing under a lack of independence.  Of course, my lack of enthusiasm could stem from my attachment to my heart pillow.  After my surgery, the hospital provided me with a red heart-shaped pillow to press against my chest for protection. I use it for getting in and out of bed, coughing, and when I ride in the car.  I ride around with that pillow pressed firmly against my chest more for comfort now than protection from pain.  If I'm in the driver's seat, I won't be able to hug my pillow. I'm not ready to let go just yet.  It will happen. Oooh, is that a bit of optimism kicking up it's little head?

I eventually gave up my bunny pillow. I'm not sure just when I was able to get through a day or night without it. My sister gave me a big comfy bunny shaped pillow while I was in the hospital. I clutched that pillow for weeks -- day and night. I hauled it up and down the  stairs every morning, and every night.  It was pretty comical to see me walking around, like a toddler with her blankie, binky, and favorite stuffed animal, hauling my two pillows everywhere I went.  

I love my bunny pillow too. Now that I have that off my chest it is time to go back to my original topic. 

What am I optimistic about anyway? I don't think I am at all. My horoscope is w - r- o- n- g.

It could be optimistic of me to sit on the toilet. I am taking plug-u-up drugs right now. It could be optimistic of me to get up in the morning. The weather is so bad it feels like we should all be in hibernation. It could also be optimistic of me to make one more attempt at watching, The View. It seems like that show should be good, but it never is.  The View. There it is; my unrealistic optimism recovery moment.   Ahhh . . .      I am glad that is settled in my mind. Now I can rest to try another day.

May peace and optimism of any kind be yours from:  The Goddess of Everything.

Unspeakable!

Today the goddess speaks about herself:

Ack!!  I have jock itch!

It's unspeakable, and yet I have spoken it -- publicly at that.

Our family has been under a tremendous amount of stress lately. Due to family matters that are private (yes, some things are private around here) my husband and I have been out of our minds with worry.  So, the rash developing on my inner leg was not given much attention until it really started to hurt. I didn't know what it was. The moments I even gave it any thought, I speculated that it was some reaction to the adhesive from all of the bandages, and electrical plugs that were attached to me lately. 

It wasn't until I was scrabbling through my underwear drawer, looking for the softest, most non-chafing undies that I came clean to my husband.  "It's jock itch".  He just said it so matter of factly.   "Jock itch!" I screamed.   "How can I have jock itch?"  "I'm a girl."

Evidently girls can get it. How could I have raised two boys, and not know a thing about jock itch? It baffles the mind, it truly does. 

My husband rifled through HIS drawer, and tossed me a tube of anti-fungal cream. Apparently, every guy keeps that stuff handy. He told me it clears up really fast once you start treating it.

Well, I guess that explains why I never noticed if he had jock itch or not.  GROSS!

There are just some things I do not want to know about. For instance, I don't want to know that the frozen juice bars I've been eating three or four of everyday are twenty carbs each. I don't want to know how jello is made, or what chemicals are in my hair dye. AND, I most certainly DO NOT want to know anything about jock itch.

May peace and a blind eye be yours from:  The Goddess of Everything.