Bad Weather and Smelly Bathrooms

When you live in a town that was actually HIT by a tornado before, you never really look at them the same again. When the sirens go off you tend to actually go to the basement like you’re supposed to. Unless you’re me. Don’t get me wrong, I meant to go to the basement, I planned to go to the basement, I wanted to go to the basement. Instead, based on my lousy timing, I was driving through the downtown area at the precise moment the tornado was predicted to be there. I must’ve looked like a complete maniac, driving while watching the skies for tornadoes, but since everyone else on the road was doing the same thing, I guess it didn’t matter.

The kids were all on “lock down” at the school, which makes me cry just thinking about it, and I was frantically trying to get to them. Except I couldn’t. “Lock down” actually does mean just that. No one gets in, no one gets out. So I had to scrap that idea and instead head for home to be with the animals.

I was obsessively calling the kids and texting them, trying to be sure that they were ok. I expected tears, confusion, fear, something. Instead I got “I’m hungry. What’s for dinner?” Seriously? I also got a description of how bad it smelled where they were (boys bathroom) and how dark it was.

So what’s a Mom to do? Order pizza. Happy ending for all.

Call 911!!!

Ah Spring. It's finally arrived in all of it's glory. The weekend was beautiful and it was so wonderful to be outside again and not trudging through 3 feet of snow.

The kids and I decided to take advantage of the warm spring day on Saturday and do some yard clean-up. We raked, picked up sticks, cleared out weeds and did some burning. Around lunch time, Zoe and I headed in to get some food. I told Max that he could burn the hillside area but that he needed to have the hose near him and he needed to stay ahead of the fire.

Twenty minutes later, Max came running up to the front door - covered in black soot from head to toe - and screamed through the screen door "CALL 911!!!"

I jumped up and went running outside, following Max. As I rounded the corner near the garage I saw the flames taking off across the dry and brittle field. I also fell flat on my ass when I hit a patch of mud. So I hit the mud, fell and swore. Loudly. I scrambled up and ran to the front edge of the fire to assess the situation.

Max was beyond help. He kept screaming that we needed to call 911 and I kept screaming back "You have to PAY $3000 when you set fire to something and the fire department has to come put it out. I am NOT paying $3000 for this"

I grabbed a shovel and positioned myself in front of the fire. I was throwing dirt on it and stomping it out wherever I could but it was not slowing down. I was yelling at the kids to get water but apparently I wasn't concise enough in my instructions. Max was running around trying to fill up a garbage can with water from a broken and leaking hose. A few minutes later, I looked up to see Zoe tip-toeing across the lawn with a soup bowl full of water in her hands. Walking very slowly so as not to spill it. She walked up to a patch of burning grass and tipped the bowl. Missed it completely.

This is when my swearing began in earnest. My lungs were burning, my face was on fire and I was losing the battle. I screamed at the kids to get as many hoses as they could find and hook them all together. I kept worrying that one of the neighbors would call it in so I was trying to look casual about it all while completely panicking on the inside.

Finally, I saw the kids getting the hoses hooked together and it looked like we'd have just enough to reach the front edge of the fire. Max was dragging the hose to the front and I was racing back to help him. I was trying to untangle a knot in it when he gave it a really hard tug. With my hand right in the middle of it. The pain was instant as was the swearing. Max looked back and started to come back to me but I waved him off and instructed him to fight the fire. Meanwhile I grabbed my hand, watching it swell and bruise and started cursing a blue streak. Truth be told, I might have sunk to the ground in a very dramatic fashion as well....

Once it was all under control, Max approached me. We were both covered in soot and reeked of smoke. His eyes were still pretty wide but he had calmed down a bit. I said to him, "Max, this is one of the worst ones yet." Implying that, of all the crazy crap he's done, this one is now topping the list. "I know Mom, I know" he said, lowering his head and looking ashamed. "This WAS really bad". I told him that, as punishment, he was going to stay out there and soak down the entire area. He was also going to clean up all the tools and hoses and put the yard back in order. He smartly replied with a "Yes Maam" while I went inside to shower.

When all was said and done, we were able to save the day. And the field. My finger still hurts though.

RIP Rosie

It is with great sadness that I report that I have to report that Rosie didn't make it. Despite dressing changes, a warm place to rest, special food and lots of love, I was unable to save her. It never gets easier, as any pet owner knows. The moment when the light left her eyes was incredibly sad and yet so very peaceful. She won't hurt anymore and she won't suffer anymore either. She was a good, sweet kitty and I was very sad to see her go. Still, this is the responsibility of having pets - making the hard choices for the good of the animal. Sometimes it sucks to be an adult.

Farm Medicine - Not exactly sterile...

I went out to feed the animals yesterday and encountered my barn cat, Rosie, looking different. I couldn't quite figure out what was different about her until I got a little closer (because it was dark and I wasn't wearing my glasses). When I approached her, she meowed her greeting like she always does and then turned to walk into the barn to be fed. Good God. Her tail was STRIPPED. Like someone took a hold of it and just peeled all the skin back. I was horrified, disgusted, sick and a little woozy. I don't really do well with this kind of stuff so I leaned on the fence for strength for just a minute.  

I'm OK when it comes to kids (and other humans) - Zoe's friend got her arm ripped open a few summers ago in our pool and I totally handled that appropriately. Mostly because I could explain to her what was happening, I could apply pressure to the wound and I could call her mother to take her to the hospital where professionals could properly care for her. Not so with a cat.

Let me preface this by saying that Rosie is mostly "feral". She's never been a super friendly cat but she and I have an understanding. I feed her and she doesn't bite me. That's pretty much the extent of it. However, her relationship with the rest of the world is a bit...strained. Mostly, she doesn't like people to touch her, pet her, look at her or be near her.

This situation was clearly going to call for some sort of intervention. I knew it wouldn't be pretty and I knew I couldn't do it alone. Still, what's a responsible pet owner to do? I couldn't just walk away. My niece, Emma, was over at my house and I roped her into helping me with the cat. Emma is a pretty "farmy" girl, whether she wants to admit it or not so I figured she'd be the best one to help. We gathered our supplies on the screen porch (warm water, lots of towels, gauze, surgical tape and a tub of Vaseline) and we went to find Rosie.

Once I had the cat gathered up in a towel, we got her into the screen porch and gave her some nice, soft cat food (mostly to distract her and gain her trust). As she was eating the food we both took a good look at the tail. Just looking at it made me gag a little and it felt like my skin hurt. It really was awful. Still, there was a job to be done and Emma and I were the only ones to do it.

I gathered Rosie as tightly as I could in the towel so that Emma could examine the tail. We soaked the tail in a warm cloth and Emma began to clean it. As anyone who has dealt with cats knows, the scene fell apart from there. Lots of struggling, screaming and wrestling ensued and that was mostly just me and Emma. Then the cat peed on me. Ugh. We tried to be as gentle as we could but we knew we had to get the job done so we persisted. In the end, we got the tail cleaned of debris (mostly), covered it in Vaseline and got it wrapped in gauze. The "not so farmer like" part that came next was me using one of my old tablecloths to make a bed for her and placing her next to a space heater. I'm not a robot, you know. 

Rosie is now resting somewhat comfortably in the screen porch being fed soft food and lots of water. I check her every few hours which consists of me entering the porch, her looking at me with disdain and running away, and me trying to reassure her that I'm only trying to help. I talk to her softly and tell her "You'll feel better soon" and "I'm sorry I had to do that to you but it's really for the best". She looks at me as if I'm a liar. 

I may never fully regain her trust but I'm alright with that. I'm hoping that she'll have a full recovery but I'm still worried. There will be constant monitoring for the next few weeks as well as dressing changes. NOT looking forward to that. And, sometime soon, I'm going to need a new jar of Vaseline as my current one has bits of cat tail in it. Still, sacrificing a full jar of it is a small price to pay if she gets better. 

I suppose that most people would have taken her to the vet but, for a variety of reasons, that's not a great idea just yet. First, I'm afraid that she would tear apart the vet's office and injure a bunch of people in the process. Second, I'm broke and can't afford any overnight stays or extensive surgeries. I'm hoping that I get at least partial credit in the way of karma for trying to do what I could to help her. I'll keep you posted.

ps - did you notice the other kitty looking out the window? I think she's mocking the tail wrap. Cats can be so unsupportive....

You did WHAT with the vacuum?

For the last few days I’ve been smelling gasoline whenever I walked by the front hall closet. Every day I passed it, I would stop and sniff, open the door, sniff some more, close the door and take another sniff but I was still unable to figure out where it was coming from. Max and I had gotten gas for the lawnmower and for his dirt bike a few days ago so I assumed he had spilled some on a sweatshirt and hung it in the closet.

Still, I thought the smell would dissipate over time. But it didn’t. It still smelled really strong a few days later so I decided to tear the closet apart to try and figure out where the smell was coming from. I buried my face into each and every coat and sweater in the closet and still could not find the source of the smell. I was like a woman possessed. I even sniffed my way through the mitten and hat baskets in my attempt to solve the mystery. Finally, I gave up.

Later, I went back to the closet and pulled out my canister vacuum to start cleaning the kitchen floor. When I turned it on, I immediately figured out where the gas was coming from. The minute I turned the vacuum on the smell of gas was OVERWHELMING. I quickly turned it off (before I blew up the whole house) and called to my son.

Me: “Max?”
Max: “Yeah Mom?”

Me: “Honey, could you please come here a minute?”
Max: “Sure Mom. What’s up?” he asked as he, way too casually, entered the area.

Mind you, my eyes are watering because of the fumes at this point. I’m frantically opening windows and swooshing a dish towel around trying to “shoo” the smell out the windows. I’ve asked Zoe to cover her mouth with a wet rag and try to save the pets. After her second pass through the area, hot on the trail of our, now wide-eyed dog and cat, I turn to see Max leaning against a nearby wall.

Me: “Uh honey. I know this might sound like a silly question but you didn’t, by chance, happen to use my canister vacuum to syphon gas lately, did you?”
Max: “I don’t think so.”

At this point I have now opened up the vacuum and pulled the vacuum bag out of it. I stick my nose into it and I’m overcome with the smell of gas. Reeling backwards, I turn to him and say, “Ok sweetie. I’m going to give you one last chance at that question. Just. One. Last. Chance. You might consider telling me the truth, especially in light of the overwhelming evidence before us now.”

He took a minute to consider my advice. While he weighed his options, I absent-mindedly began to try to disassemble the vacuum hose attachments. It consisted of three straight tubes stuck together with a floor attachment on the end. I tried to pull the tubes apart and they WOULDN’T BUDGE. They were melted together. I gave up and turned to my son and said, “Well?”

“Mom, I thought about using the shop vac but I knew you’d be mad about that. I had planned to turn it off before the gas got into the vacuum but I couldn’t see it until it was too late.”

I had no idea what to say. Really. It had not occurred to me to say “Sweetie, remember not to syphon gas with the vacuum today!” as I left the house. As if I was reminding him to brush his teeth and feed the cat. Should it have occurred to me? Based on prior incidents, well, maybe.

I couldn’t possibly remember to call out daily warnings to him and think that I would cover them all. He is a constant surprise to me, this kid, and I never seem quite able to anticipate what will come next with him.

Here is a small list of things I never thought I’d say:
“Get that chicken out of the house”, “The dog doesn’t want to wear those pants”, “You can’t ride the llama”, “The lawnmower is NOT for racing”, “No, you may not use the chainsaw as a weapon”, the list goes on, and on...

Full Moon

While I won't get too specific about what I do for a living (because I kind of really need to keep my job), suffice it to say that I work in the world of Health Care. It's an intersting job, it pays well and, most days, I really enjoy it. However, as the moon begins to get full, things get a little tricky. Strike that. People get monkey shit crazy. You would not even believe the phone calls that I have fielded the last few days and I only wish that I could give you the true details of them but I can't. Because it's a breach of confidentiality. But REALLY? These people are nuts!

Complaints about soup being too cold (since when is a hospital a hotel?), complaints about a visitor wearing a hat the "wrong way" (WHAT?), complaints about being "lonely" and wanting more "attention", complaints about being mistreated after SCREAMING profanities at the staff members. You wouldn't believe what doctors and nurses have to put up with these days and that's in the clinics. Don't even get me started on the Emergency Room Staff. Those people are SAINTS. I wouldn't last a minute down there. Not one minute.

So today, my co-workers and I, will have our eyes on the clock. Counting the minutes until the phones shut off at 4:00 pm. Hoping that the week-end will be sufficient time for the moon to stop being so damn full.

Llamas Don't Have it Easy Either

The kids are FINALLY back to school. The first week had some bumpy spots (Zoe is NOT a morning person) but, for the most part, we persevered. The paperwork pile is already over my head and I'm scrambling to check the kids' planners every night to be sure that I don't miss anything. At least not just yet. By December I'll feel that I have "proven myself" enough to the teachers to back it down a little. Still, it's a challenge to stay on top of it all right out of the starting gate.

I love teachers, I truly do. They are amazing, wonderful people who teach, love and instruct our children with patience and understanding. And they don't get paid nearly enough. So I really can't fault them for their (sometimes) passive-aggressive attempts to trip me up. (This could be a skewed perspective on my part perhaps?)

Yesterday, Zoe's planner listed "bring a sock to school tomorrow". Really? It didn't explain what the sock was for, what type of sock it should be or what would happen if you DIDN'T bring the sock. What if I hadn't checked the planner? Zoe would most likely be the only "sockless" kid in the class and it would ruin the rest of her year - girls are dramatic like that.

But I DID check the planner and I DID send the sock because I'm not going down that easy. Boo-ya.

The other day I was sitting out on my screen porch after a long day at work, just relaxing. I looked out at the goat pen and saw the following scene. Manny the llama, was quietly laying down in a nice patch of sand with just a hint of sunlight warming his back. He looked so peacful, calm and relaxed. His eyes were partially closed as if he were just having a nice little rest. Until.

Cheerio and Cammy (two of our goats) were nearby and were messing around. They were chasing and head-butting each other as they often do for fun. The fun got a little too raucous and FAR to close to Manny. Manny's ears went back and he raised his nose into the air as if to spit. Finally, Cheerio hit Cammy and sent her sprawling right into Manny and that's when the spitting began in earnest. I swear that I could hear him thinking "Can I just have ONE MINUTE of rest please?" "Why do I constantly have to deal with the two of you messing around?" "Don't I do enough for you that I deserve a little peace?"

It's a damn shame that goats don't go back to school too. Poor llama. I hear ya brother!