The Choices We Make Don't Always Seem Very Smart.

If we were smart, we would not be living in the country.

We'd have stayed closer to Jethro's work.  We'd have kept the house we had.  If we were smart, we'd be city people.  At the very least, bedroom community subdivision people, like we were for 13 years.  We would never dream of building a recording studio in a barn if we were smart.

If I was smart, I would have gotten an actual job.  If I was smart, I'd have worked my way into earning a paycheque that could support our family.

If we were smart, we wouldn't have horses.  They are big creatures that eat hundreds and hundreds of dollars worth of hay, and need vet care and hoof trims.  They need acres of land to graze on and large buildings to house them in bad weather.  Owning horses is not a financially wise thing to do.  It's kind of dumb, really, from a money standpoint.

If I was smart, I would realize that teaching riding lessons with those horses is not likely to support the kind of property needed to keep the horses on, and I would have not chosen that path.  A smart way to handle that would have been to pay someone else for the privilege of riding their horse, and let that person pay for the vet and the land and the feed and tack.  

If I was really smart I'd just content myself with a few pretty pictures of horses on my walls, and sigh with envy when other people tell me about their horses, and I'd convince myself that horses are for the lucky few who are very rich and very lucky, but not for me.  

If I had any brains at all, I would understand that writing fiction is a terrible way to make a living, and that the odds of even getting to the place that I could think about earning anything from it is so far fetched that there's really no point even trying, and I'd just write a short story here and there and hide the printout under my bed or let it sit in silence in my computer.  Or if I was really smart, I'd just realize that I should stop.  Find another way to get the words and pictures and voices out of my head.  Crush them down.

Stop wanting that feeling of squeezing a story out of my brain.  Stop needing to search for the perfect word.

Stop craving the warmth of a horse's velvety smooth neck, stop thinking about the satisfaction of working in partnership with such a free spirited and sensitive and intelligent animal, stop needing to soak in their beauty with my eyes.  

If I was smart, I could look out the window of the house I live in and calmly remark on the neighbour's flowerbeds.  Be okay with how close the other houses are.  Be okay with not being able to see a stretch of horizon with no houses on it.

But I'm not smart.  We're not smart.

I mean, if he was smart, he might not stay in a business making a product (recorded music) that most people don't feel the need to pay for (and how does an industry stay functional if it can't profit from what it makes?)  If he was smart he'd be a plumber or an electrician or a truck driver.

We're not smart because we've chosen to keep going, despite the ridiculous odds stacked against us.  We've chosen to fight our way through and stick with it because he's one of the best and he loves it and it's what he does.  

I'm doing what I'm good at.  I'm good at teaching people how to ride horses.  I love it.  I'm getting better at it.  But.  We're not smart, because owning a horse in this century isn't smart, it's considered a luxury, even if it keeps a person sane and happy and peaceful.  

Writing isn't just not smart, it's kinda silly and frivolous.  Who needs it, right?  Will anybody be willing to pay for words a year from now?  

I'm not smart.

I keep writing.  I keep booking riding lessons, and feeling like a million bucks when they hand over their $35.  

He keeps pushing the record button, tuning flat notes, asking for one more take, glowing from the inside out when he coaxes a brilliant performance out of a musician, when he's satisfied with a mix.  

Is it SMART to protect creativity?  Is it SMART to be honest to yourself?

If SMART means being safe and secure, doing the thing with the least risk,  then no, we're not smart.  

We're flaky dreamers who try to magic everything into being okay.

But if SMART means doing what we're good at, doing what we love and what we feel we're meant to do,  maybe we're smarter than we realize. Maybe we can choose to get other people who are good at bookkeeping to do that for us, so we can get paid to do our thing.  If we're smart we'll realize that living in the city can be just as expensive as living in the country but in different ways.  And know that smart people figure out how to manage what they earn and what they spend and what they keep.

If we're smart we'll work at getting smarter and getting help with the stuff we're not good at, and making the best of this.

This is the deal people: We're doing what we do.  We've made some dumb choices, a few good ones, and a few that didn't feel like choices at all.  We have managed to hold onto each other, our family, and a few shreds of sanity.  

These are our choices, whether or not they're right for anybody else.... regardless of what's considered the smart thing to do.  This is what we've chosen.  

  

DIY DETOX DAY 29: Things I Learned While Suffering the Cold Quit

As of Day 29 here, I'm almost, almost normal.  Well considering this is me, "normal."  I can stand having the curtain open during the day, I can speak without my head exploding, and I don't get the shocks every time I move.  Just sometimes.  And the shocks are only in my hands and face now.  I can walk without feeling like I'm about to fall over.  This morning I woke up at 6 am and haven't gone back to sleep.  I'd like to.  Boy would I ever like to have a sleep.  But I'm awake.  It's kind of good to be awake.  Yesterday I went out to the barn TWICE and today I took the dog for a walk about a quarter of the way around the yard.  (It's about an acre of yard.)  Hey I even cleaned the toilet today.  Progress.

I'd like to forget how horrible days 11 to 13 were.  I'd like to never ever think about the physical agony and mental torture.  I don't want to know how awful I was to live with for awhile there.

I just want to get my strength back, get my horses back in shape too, and man, I seriously have a whole novel to write, I'm not kidding.

I don't think I ever will forget how awful it was.  I had my doctor's supervision, I prepared myself, I knew it would be bad.  But, and this is the whole reason why I did it this way, I won't be weaning off for six months of mid-grade misery.  I will have a summer.

So... while I was spending a week or a month or however the hell long it was up here in my dark quiet bedroom, I had to occupy my brain.  I couldn't read or listen to music or even look at a TV or computer screen.  It was just me and the pain and my brain.  Wow.  What a combination.

I have a few things I'd like to share.

1) SASQUATCH IS REAL!

 It's true, I saw him in a dream I was having.  I was walking down a dirt road through the bush, not anywhere familiar, just a regular dirt road with trees on each side.  I looked down at the hoofprints on the side of the road and wished I was riding instead of walking.  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a big brown furry thing heading into the trees, so I did what anybody would do. I followed!  I had my iGadget out and I was ready to take a picture as proof because that's also what anybody would do.  As I was fumbling with it I looked up and I was face-to-face with Bigfoot!  And no, it wasn't my husband.  He was doing the deer-in-the-headlights look and I said, "Dude, I need a picture of you," and he said, "I don't wanna have my picture taken!" and I was all "But nobody believes you're real" and he was all, "I don't wanna be real!  You're not real either!  Or something!"  Frustrated, I told him he would just have to go on being imaginary, after which I drove somebody else's giant pickup truck into a snowbank, parked it at a house which my sister-in-law does not live in real life, then got lost, and stopped at a garage where they were doing free hoof trims while you wait.  So yes, Sasquatch is real.  You heard it here.

2) WRITING SONGS IN YOUR DREAMS IS REALLY UNPRODUCTIVE

Man, I had these words that just broke my heart and mended it back together.  They fit together beautifully.  I even had a melody to go with it and that's something I've never been able to do.  That's why I am not a songwriter.  I was going over those words, singing them to myself to try to remember them, and thinking, "I am not going to remember how this went when I wake up, and that's a damn shame cuz when I'm awake I'll be thinking about how I'll never know if these songs are actually really good."

3) IF YOU LIE ON YOUR SIDE FOR A LONG TIME YOUR EAR GOES NUMB

Unpleasant.  Especially when the other side has already been numbed.

4) WHEN THE DRUG LEAVES YOUR BODY IT TAKES A WHOLE LOT OF EMOTIONAL CRAP WITH IT.

It's like the mood-stabilizer did the stabilizing it needed to, by suppressing a few things, and when the drug goes, it all comes flooding out.  It's good for the rest of the family to go see a movie when this is happening.

5) BOB DYLAN'S AUTOBIOGRAPHY IS AWESOME.

I was reading it when I started off on this little vision quest.  I finished up about Day 8 or 9 or thirty-seven or whatever.  Just as it was getting too painful to read.  Bob.  Bob loves music.  Bob thinks too much.  Bob speaks in poetry. Bob's memory for detail is stunning, microscopic, and vivid.

6) BOB DYLAN IS THE REASON I DISCOVERED... wait for it...

FINNISH TROLL METAL!!!!

Flow chart of discovery:

Reading CHRONICLES: VOLUME ONE

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V

Look up a few details on Wikipedia, on account of Bob having extraordinary details for some things but not so clear about other things, like chronology, which was fine but I was curious.

V

V

Follow link to learn about Woody Guthrie, Bob's hero.  (Who, by the way, was stricken with Huntington's Disease, a horrible incurable evil horrible condition.  His second wife started what is now the Huntington Society, to help families and victims.)

V

V

Woody Guthrie is like, the godfather of folk music.  

V

V

What exactly is "folk music?"

V

V

Well there are all kinds of folk music.  There's even, gasp! a sub-genre called folk metal!

V

V

You think I see a link for FOLK METAL and I'm not gonna follow it?  

V

V

(and yeah, this took all day, accounting for eyeball rest breaks)

V

Wow!  Wow wow wow!  A link for TROLL METAL!

Well this is just too good to be true. Turns out there's this band called... ohmygosh this is brilliant... FINNTROLL, and it turns out this is a THING, and it's been going on without me knowing anything about it, which isn't shocking since I pretty much live under a rock, but still!  

So they're Finnish, but the lyrics are in Swedish, because the vocalist was from the minority of Swedish people in Finland?  In my slightly altered state this was just the best, funniest, heaviest, headbangin'est, craziest most rockin' and rollicking thing EVER.

Not only is this possibly my new favourite song, but it also proves that there are, in fact, a few less-than angelically gorgeous people in Scandinavia.  

Now I've got to share this around, because just as I was going into the worst part of the Cold Quit, this cheered me up like you wouldn't believe.  Sometimes I'd lie there with my jaw clenched and think, TROLLHAMMEREN!  Actually the one night when I was trying to explain this to Jethro and the kids I started laughing so maniacally I was in tears, like sob-laughing, and it sent sharp shooting pains all through my upper body but I couldn't quit.  They were borderline alarmed.  But come on.  Seriously.  They're Finnish, but the words are in Swedish, so now any future vocalist has to learn to growl in Swedish, and I still can't understand a friggin word of it!  It's BRILLIANT!  It is seriously brilliant!

Warning: if you are offended or grossed out in any way by dirt, cellars, rowdy consuming of fermented beverages, dreadlocks, windmill-headbanging, scowling, growling, or large angry looking hairy dudes dressed like Friar Tuck, do not watch this video.  But DO LISTEN because this is awesome.  

And that's how Bob Dylan made the whole experience just slightly bearable.  Thanks, Bob.

Last but not least...

8) BAD TIMES LIKE THIS CAN LEAVE A PERSON OPEN TO SOME TRULY WONDERFUL BRAIN EXPANSION.

...because what else was I going to do?  

I'm going to go do some more recovering now.  Catch ya.

IT'S STILL SUMMER, Y'KNOW!

I'll not hear any of that nonsense about how it's almost over and it's not worth getting that rassafrackin' pool filled.  Summer has another month left and dammit I am gonna be in that damn pool before the snow flies if it's the last thing I do!  Got that?!  The third attempt will be successful!  It will!  So what if it took over 4 weeks to find the ONE LEVEL SPOT ON THIS WHOLE PROPERTY.  It's level now I'll have you know!  I've been in it, the water's up to my knees, and if the water pump in the cellar doesn't burn out, and if the breaker panel doesn't start smoking from the pump working overtime, so help me I'm filling that pool tomorrow, filter and chlorine and all, and I am going to spend THE NEXT THREE WEEKS IN THAT POOL.

Rural water pressure is lame.  And also turns things orange.

I dreamed last night that we drained it and set it up in the corral.  The horses took a dump in it, so we had to drain it again and clean it.

Make it stop.

On a happier note, skimming leaves and bugs and stuff is pleasantly hypnotic.  Good thing, eh?

I'm a bad swimmer, actually, but an awesome pool skimmer...

In keeping with avoiding heavy subjects: So I was talkin' to Bruce Springsteen at the gas station the other night...

...which made perfect sense, since we both had pickup trucks with big tanks to fill. I had my ratty ol' GMC and he had a nice shiny bright red Dodge.  I suspect he might have used it to pull the horse trailer to his daughter's horse shows.  But I digress.

I was really enjoying our pleasant convo, but I had to admit to him that I honestly couldn't call myself a huge fan.  It was all, "I mean, I like what you do and all, and I think you're handsome and well dressed, for sure, and most of all I believe you're a great lyrical storyteller!  It's just that I don't actually own any of your records..."

He shot me one of those sly grins, which made me blush.  Hot damn the man is charming.

It may have come up in conversation that I happen to know this really great recording engineer. Okay, it very strongly came up in conversation.  I did the ol' pluggin' of the biznass.

So we fueled up our trucks and away we went after a few nice little hug-pats and take-care-nows.

What. There's time to develop a friendship while filling a pickup truck with gas.  Trust me.

So far this dream is much more realistic than my usual subconscious disasters.

Well anyways.  I drove around to the exit, realized I just blew a huge opportunity and Bruce Freakin' Springsteen is right now at this minute walking into the restaurant beside the gas station (it's one of those big highway rest stops) and darnit, I am going to go in there and talk to my new friend Bruce.  Have I not read any of his lyrics?  I need to talk to him, maybe some of that poet dust will rub off on me.

Huh huh huh, that'd be alright eh? Huh huh huh.

I see my new friend in a corner booth, talking with a producer/songwriter Jethro knows.  I sidle up all confident and smiley, wait for them to notice me, and then we do the "Hey!  It's you again!" routine.  Then I start feeling like maybe I shouldn't have interrupted these guys, cuz they seemed to be talking about Something Important.

Right around this point a bunch of teenage boys wearing neon pink sneakers, jeans hanging off their butts,  hoodies, and that stupid feathered forward hairdo came strutting by.  "Oh wow," I groaned, "a pack of Biebers."

Chuckling ensued.

Then this is where I realized there was some crazy stuff going on over the sound system.  I knew that brand of crazy!  I ran for the DJ booth.  Every franchise truck stop greasy spoon has a DJ booth, am I right!?

I flung open the door, but instead of seeing my expected suspect, a portly dude was reading a sports report. This left me both embarrassed and perplexed:  first of all, oops, and second, why do all sports reporters often sport a paunch???  Third, why was this booth made of unpainted plywood?  Cheap.

I apologized and yanked open the other door.

"BUCKY!"  I roared.  "You know you are not allowed to drive until you're sixteen!  Now get your Dad on the phone and tell him Bruce Freakin' Springsteen is here and he should get here right away!"

Well when I got back to Bruce, my daughter was telling funny stories to the Biebers, which disturbed me, and poor Bruce was ready to leave.  Not without a big hug.

Because it's just not a typical dream of mine until a Rock Star gets hugged.

Face it: At some point you will have to get dressed. Y'know, in like, actual clothes.

Ever have that dream where you get to school/ work/ church/ the bank/ Motley Crue concert and suddenly realize you're still wearing your jammies?

I used to walk my kids to school in my jammies.  I'd put a snowsuit on over top, drop them off at the front, trudge back home and then fall back into bed.  Then it wasn't snowsuit weather anymore and I felt compelled to put on clothes. I wonder why I bothered.  Would the othermothers' opinion of me changed?

You know what?  I've even gone out to the barn in the morning with my jammies on under my coveralls.  That's pretty bad.  I'd get back into bed and fall into a very disturbed sleep, the thought of microscopic particles of barn dirt clinging to the collar of my flannel PJ shirt and crawling all over my pillow.

Bed can be irresistible.  But I'm not good at sleeping.  I seem to need to be in there for eight hours just to get five or six hours sleep.

Pretty much every morning for the last two months I've wanted to either stay in bed or get back in.

One of the interesting changes brought on by my new farm life is the morning routine.  I get up and change into my clothes right away.  I know I have to get in the truck and drive the kids across the highway to the bus stop. I guess I could stay in my jammies.  But then I'd be right back to lying in bed wondering if there's anything worse than dog hair stuck to my flannel pants from the truck seat.

Reluctantly I drag myself into the world of the living and get on with it. By the time I've let the horses out and given them hay, then taken the Pug for his morning scamper around the yard, I'm pretty much awake.  There's really no point in going to all the bother of getting back into the flannel PJs and snoozing in my room.  So, I deal with it.

Something strange and wonderful can happen.  I can wake up.  I mean, really wake up.

Today I spent the morning with the dog and a 5 gallon pail, picking up bits of litter the snow had been hiding for a few months.  I dug up a few more useless items lurking in the yard; broken weed whackers, a bent desk chair banished from the garage for being tilted, a couple of rad shrouds that will never again shroud a rad.  I threw 'em all in the truck box along with the garage and barn garbage.  After lunch, I headed off to the dump.  Buh-bye useless crap.

I felt so invigorated and lightened up that I stopped by the car wash on the way home.  I spent a couple of toonies on a vacuum, then a few more on a good scrub.

After school the kids and I did some cleanup in the barnyard.

I cooked supper.  Okay I heated up some stuff - let's say it counts.

I washed every dish.

The barn clothes were swishing around in the machine in the cellar.

I folded the clean stuff.

I saved a plate for my mom when she got home from work.

At chore time I picked out the horses' hooves and gave them each a nice forehead scratch before tucking them into the open shed for the night.

When I got back into my red flannel jammies with the dog bones and paw prints, I had my hot chocolate, a kid at each side and a Pug at my feet.

Delicious.  Satisfactory.  Earned.

I'd like every day to start and end this way.

Hey, did you guys watch the Oscars on Sunday night?

I DIDN'T.

I know, I'm as shocked as you are.

I'd tell you I've been really busy lately but that's so cliche.  Everybody's busy.  You know the deal.


However, because somebody invented a magical communication medium known as The Internet, I can find all kinds of pictures of people I couldn't watch on TV.  Then we can all talk about who looked awesome, who looked awful, and how funny it is that one dress can top both lists!  Also we'll maybe discuss the last four awards of the night, which I did see before I dropped off into a restless sleep filled with well-dressed nightmares about people wrapped in grey polyester with oxygen masks on their faces.

Anyways.

THERE WILL BE A HICK CHIC OSCAR REPORT.

I'm working on it.  I'll let you know when it's up.  Promise.


NEWS FLASH!


I did it, it's up, you can read it on my evil twin blog, and I'm exhausted.  I think I'll go have a nap.  

Why doesn't my brain work this well when I'm awake????

So I was dreaming about driving my dad's van.  I don't know why the van, because I have my truck.  It's legal to drive and everything.  I mean, it wasn't for a month because I couldn't afford to renew my plates, so I parked it, and now I think it's sounding kind of loud, and Bucky said he noticed the muffler hanging kind of low... since that truck EATS exhaust systems... mm, mufflers, yum... but I have a trip permit on it now so I can drive it for the next week or so... in real life.

But in dream world, I was in the ol' Safari Van.  It was exactly the same except it had been changed over to standard shift, and the shifter was a big long steel rod with a T handle at the end, which was up near my ear, like Rat Fink.  I had to reach way up to shift it.

So in other words, the usual.

I was pulling the stock trailer into town, to the fairgrounds, for a horse show.  I was thinking I'd just be there to help out, not compete.  Not ready to compete this year.  Again, like usual.

When I got there, I opened the trailer

and saw

nothing

because the horse trailer had no floor.

JUST LIKE IN REAL LIFE!

In the dream I was thinking things like, "Heck, I really gotta put a floor in this thing," and "Did I put horses in this trailer, or did I just drag it here for practice?" and "If I put horses in this trailer, did they fall out somewhere on the highway?"

Looks like I'll have to put "buy lumber for trailer floor" on the long term project list.

Gaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhh

Yeah I'm still here.

Working on the barn - pictures soon.  Maybe.

Not writing.  Want to, would like to, but any spare hour is often spent sitting on a couch watching something on TV that does not stimulate my brain in any way - and I like it.

My mom's taking a few weeks off work.  Did you know you have a little internal filtering organ called a gallbladder?  Well she doesn't anymore.  And soon she'll be much happier about it.  Until then, I take over all grocery shopping duties as well as all dish washing, cooking, and bathroom cleaning.  I continue with my laundry jobs.  She continues to instruct the universe from a position of relaxation, and continues to be amazing.

My dog is now full time foot warmer for Grandma.

I'm glad I'm here for her.

My ol' Man is 67 years old and might be close to admitting that he ain't 45 anymore.  Nobody believes him though. Will keep you posted.

Tribble wrote her Grade 10 english exam today.  Good thing she can read.  She doesn't have to go to school again until Friday, when she performs her Dance exam.  I fully intend to work her like a rented mule, hahahaha!  Good thing she likes the barn.

Bucky has to be at school at 7 am tomorrow for a field trip.  I will be getting up around 5:30 am, leaving the house with him at 6:30, returning home at 7, kicking the horses out of the barn with a half bale of hay, taking the Pug for a quick run in the melting snow, then going back to bed.  (Where Tribble will most likely be, taking up as much room as a 102 lb person can.)

Jethro got the floors in that house of ours sanded.  Looks gorgeous.  I think we should do that again soon in a house we intend to live in for many years.

There's a big grey and white tomcat hanging around the barn.  Larry and Moe kind of avoid him.  I figure if he's gonna hang around and eat our generic feed mill cat-kibble, he better tame up.  I can get almost 2 feet away from him, but he still looks at me like I'm a cat eating monster.  Maybe I should stop picking up Larry and telling him he's deliciously cute.

Lucy In The Sky With Ladybugs is still insane, stalks shadows, pounces on my feet in bed, thinks she's weightless and eats like a dog.  I suspect she might be a shapeshifter but she's so damn fast I can't catch her at it.  Hmmm.

Phoenix and the Little Lady both in need of hoof trimming.  I have neglected them.  I feel awful every time I look at their hooves, especially his.  I shouldn't even be posting this on the internet.  His hooves are all long and cracking and I must be a bad horse owner.  I had to choose between parasite control and hoof trimming.  Then I had to buy feed.  Then shavings to bed their stalls.  Then... my own children needed new pants.

I hate being broke.

I am working on getting work.

People I know are dealing with problems worse than mine.

That doesn't make me feel better.

I have a dream of wearing really expensive high quality overalls out to the barn.

I like having a radio out there.

I'll need a new corn broom soon.  This one's wearing down from sweeping all those miserable cobwebs. Will it ever end?

I miss Jethro.

My imaginary people talk to me while I'm working.  I hope they don't stop.  I'm listening.

I am behind on EVERYTHING.

I just remembered that my coveralls are still in the washing machine and I think I'd like them to be dry before I put them on to go back out to the barn.

I still have a huge amount of re-arranging to do before the last of our belongings will fit into this house.  I have nightmares about brown webs and cardboard boxes and garbage bags.

So, yeah, I'm just gonna mosey on down to the cellar and do some laundry.

I hope it doesn't take me a week.  Stay tuned.

A slightly embarrassing story about me, a self portrait, and a cardboard box.

As some of you know, a long time ago in a place a little farther away than here, I aspired to be an artist.

And having these arty goals, I developed a strange habit of doing a self-portrait every couple years.  Sometimes more often.  It was sometimes hard to get someone else to sit still for me.  If I had a mirror or two, I could draw myself, and I was a great model.  My face is quite asymmetrical, so I could look different at any angle.  I could have the up-smirk or the down-frown.  It was a great exercise in identity as well, which was a favourite subject of mine from age 12 until... well, I'll let you know when I figure it out.

In high school, my grade 12 art assignment was to create a pastel portrait of myself based on a photograph.  A few girls with some decency and brains chose a cute baby portrait and gave the finished piece to their mothers.  I know, so sweet.  But me, for unknown reasons, chose a school photo from Grade 11, with my awesome layered shaggy hair and my big toothy grin, you know the one, with more teeth showing on one side and the collar of the shirt hanging crooked.  I'm not kidding, my hair was awesome.  I didn't consider myself any great beauty, I didn't have a knockout figure, and I wasn't particularly brilliant at anything obvious, but holy smokes I had great hair.  I didn't colour it or perm it or curling iron it or anything.  It was just naturally awesome.  Maybe that's why I chose that picture.

When it was done, the pastel portrait looked pretty good.  Except for the eyeballs that looked straight at the viewer rather than at the photographer like in the photo, it was decently well done.  It even resembled me.  I handed it over to my boyfriend, who went into his dad's woodshop and made a nice frame for it.  He actually liked it and hung it on his wall.

As newlyweds, we lived in a big crappy apartment on the only bad street in a ritzy town, above a Scottish pub, a Portuguese hair shop, and a cockroach infested Chinese take-away.  The place smelled funny.  (Not funny-haha, funny-bad.)  A few of my high school masterpieces came with us, including my huge crazy abstract painting, which I still cherish and always hang in a prominent spot, and the pastel self-portrait.  A few more joined them as I worked my way through my one year of art college.  Then we moved.

The job offer was in Memphis Tennessee.  Since we were facing a possible 6 months to a year of paperwork to get through immigration, we packed up all our belongings, every single thing, including wedding gifts we hadn't even used yet.  We were young and penniless when we got married, which made us easy to buy for, I guess.  Most of the boxes got stored in a big and mostly unused room at his Mum's house, while a few boxes came with us to the farm.  We lived for six months there, with our cat, in the room I'd slept in when I was a teenager.  Cozy.

Then we stayed at his Mum's house in town a few more months before moving to a great apartment up the hill in the woods, where I ran into all kinds of life changing adventures which you might have to wait to read about.  (I have to go out to the barn and thaw a water pipe, I ain't got all day to write here!)

Years went by. Eventually we moved into the cute bungalow in the subdivision and I got busy chasing my toddlers and unpacking long-forgotten boxes.  And being me, filled that little house to overflowing over the course of 12 years.  Now I've spent this year getting rid of, giving away, and saying goodbye to all kinds of things while I pack up the things I want to keep.

For the second time in my adult life, I am moving in with my parents.  This time I'm bringing two children, a dog, a cat, soon a husband (same one!) and every last one of my pared-down possessions.

Squeezing two houses into one is not easy.  It takes a lot of tough decision making, especially for two women like my Mom and I, who both like our THINGS.  There's been a lot of purging.

In order to find storage room for some of my valued things, I need to clear out the old apartment/ summer kitchen on the back of the house.  The last tenant moved out years ago, and since then it's been used to hold the freezer, recycling boxes and lawn furniture over winter.  But you know what happens when you've got a big empty room, right?  It's gonna get filled up with stuff.  Now it's my job to clear out that stuff.

Yesterday I pulled a large box off the stack.  My own handwriting commanded that this box be stored at my mother's place.  It appeared to be full of brown packing paper.  On closer inspection something appeared to be wrapped in it... I pulled some of the paper away.

I saw the handmade wooden frame and the strands of awesome hair in the picture.

I set the box down.

I didn't have time to dig into this.  I had to pick up the kids from the bus stop.

I felt kind of disoriented though.  This box had been there since... when did we leave our crappy apartment?  1992?  1992?

It's been out there for seventeen years????

I was just thinking or dreaming about that picture.  I dream so much I often can't tell if a memory is real or dreamed.  Never once did I realize that I haven't seen that thing in ages.  I didn't wonder where I stashed it all these years.

It's been on my mind now since yesterday afternoon.  I feel like a total slob for leaving it there for longer than my kids have been alive.  I wonder what the heck else I've hidden away.  I wonder if I'll ever find that skull collection I hid in the barn when I was a kid.  (Relax, they were rodent skulls.  I was a weird kid but I wasn't dangerous or anything.)

Today I must tackle that old apartment/ summer kitchen, because there are a few more things to come to the farm, and time's running out.  I need room.  I'm going out there with a jackknife to cut up cardboard boxes.  I have no idea what I'll find.

I do know this: it is embarrassing to publicly admit that I packed up my precious valuable meaningful stuff and then forgot about it for almost twenty years.  What does this say about me?  That I'm forgetful and have a bit of a packrat problem.  I'd be ashamed but I've made it a point to abolish shame.  I will go face my face, haha.  Speaking of my face though...

The portrait is kind of haunting me now.  I mean, think about it.  I drew it when I was about eighteen.  I hid it away when I was twenty-one.  I think I've aged since then -- I can see it, but apparently nobody else does.  I've gotten used to being carded at the beer store.  I try to be flattered by it.  Just yesterday I got asked if my daughter and I were sisters, and I laughed it off.

But... but... what if I get out there today, take the paper off that framed picture and... find a hideous account of nearly 39 years of cold winters, working outside in the summer, bouts of depression, the stress of living with a workaholic man and not enough income to keep everything fed and paid for?  Every day I go over my face looking for whiskers to pluck -- what if they're all grown in thick and black in the picture?  What if I don't really take after my mother and her father, who didn't sprout grey hair until their 50s?  What if in real life I have straggly witchy hair but it only showed up in the picture?  What if my forehead is creased with visual evidence of all the worrying I do?  What if I have much more than just my cherished laugh lines?

What if there's a murdered heart beating under the wooden floorboards???

Oh wait- that's a whole other story.  Never mind.

Am I Dorian Gray????

(Apparently a movie came out/ is about to be released and I missed out on it.  That's what I get for living under a rock surrounded by cardboard boxes!)

So do feast your eyes on this lovely fella with his fresh new portrait.  I may not look so pretty by the time I turn 39, in like, a week or so.  Wish me luck.

What the? What? What day is it? Where am I?

People, it's technically not even Friday anymore and I should be sleeping right now, but I've got a head full of paint fumes.  You should see Jethro - he's the one who did the nasty oil paint in the kitchen.  Me, I was downstairs with the tunes and the latex paint.  However, I was halfway around the room on the second coat when I realized that I was painting the damn room BEIGE.  Yeah it may say "Toasted Cashew" on the lid, but darnit, it's BEIGE.  Gah.  Oh what the heck, it was 13 bucks for a gallon.  We figured we couldn't go wrong.

Actually it looks pretty decent.

I mean, before it was BEIGE it was ivory.  Booooring.  The kids didn't care; that room was so covered in dents and scratches it was obviously a playroom.  You know what?  The more you type BEIGE the weirder it looks.

So I've been back and forth between two houses and regularly wake up in the dark totally unsure where I am.  This morning the radio went off at the crack of confused o'clock, playing the new Muse single, during which I had this amazingly detailed dream that I was hanging around in a highrise apartment building waiting for Jethro and decided to venture out into the city, which was entirely lit by neon and made up of buildings painted in bright colours to match the neon, and I was walking around the block singing, They will stop degrading us!  We will be victorious!  I was lurking around like a spy... wondering why I wasn't singing a Radiohead song instead, You know... I'm a creep, I don't belong here.

What was I talking about?

Paint.

I'm too good at it, I mean it.  I did that whole room, two coats, with cheap paint, and it looks awesome.  But if I did this for a living I'd get fired because I'm too picky.  Just get it done.  Nope, gotta get all precious about it.

No not that kind of painting.  Hold still so I can squint at you.

But I think a nice picture would go well right about now.  No reason.  Just for fits and giggles.  What?

Every muscle in my body aches.  Tomorrow I have to paint the trim and then go outside (YES!) and trim some bushes and stuff.

Is it Friday?  It feels like Sunderday.

Alright I'm down to 4% battery, which means I'll have to tell you about ponies next week.  Ponies?  yeah, not unicorns.  The paint fumes are wearing off.  OOooooh the colours....

Spotted ponies?  Goodnight.  See ya.  Bye Johnny.

There's just no figuring out what people are going to like, is there?

What?

Later, gator.

Okay, so here's the deal

The kids and I are pretty much shacked up at the farm now, and they start school tomorrow.  

Poor ol' Jethro is still at the house, going to work, until our house is sold.

Of course, we'll have to actually put a For Sale sign on it to sell it.  

After that, we temporarily live here until we can find a farm of our own.  

I have mixed feelings about the whole thing, which I'm telling myself is perfectly normal.  Hey, I'm being normal!!!  Wow.  I mean, I love being in the country.  But I miss my little house and my friends.  I really miss seeing my man regularly.

The good thing is, I like my folks, and that's handy when I'm living with them temporarily.  

More good things:

Lucy the Feral Housecat in the Sky with Diamonds absolutely LOVES this big old farmhouse with all its hidden nooks and dark corners.  

Dobby the Former Town Dog is really digging this whole country life thing.  We don't go for walks on a leash anymore.  We go for RUNS in the long grass.  

Bucky hangs with my Ol' Man, driving around in the old truck, scrapping things, welding things, fixing things.  I think they might go to McYuk's or Timmy Snortons every now and then too.

I opened Tribble's bedroom window our first night here, and across the yard, our Little Mare made a snorting noise over by the fence.  This is what we get to listen to at night.  Of course, there are also giant trucks swishing down the highway at all hours, but between jake-brakes we can hear snuffly horse noises.

Barn cats.  

When Jethro is here, he's far enough away from the studio that he can forget about work for a few hours. (I hope.)

We ride every day.  Our horses keep getting better and better.

The kids drive the 4 wheeler and the winter van.

It's not long distance to call my bestest friend. 

Tribble can get violin lessons from her Grandpar.  

Bucky can fix things in his Papa's shop.  

I'm feeling like the weight is lifting off my chest every time I look out the window.  

I'm still facing a heap of troubles, like usual.  Will that ever change?  Does anybody have a trouble-free life?  I highly doubt it.  I am determined to find a way to get my husband, kids, and horses on the same property and at this point I almost don't care what property that is.  

Almost.

The kids are handling this better than expected.  They're already comfortable here, since they've spent a lifetime of weekends and holidays here.  Me?  I'm handling.  

Stay tuned.  There will be more to this new adventurous phase of my life...

Preparing to take another flying leap. (That's how we do things around here.)

Some of you may have noticed that it's been pretty sparse here lately in terms of content. We all love our critter pictures, for sure, but I realize I haven't posted much actual writing lately, not enough thought provoking material or even zingingly funny stuff.

Although I can usually give you some of this.

He never lets me down.

Anyways, like I was saying.

It's always harder to keep up the good work during summer, when the kids are free of their educational shackles, and our days seem to fill up with... something... I'm not sure exactly what it is that keeps us so darn busy....

Well actually, this summer I do know what's been keeping us busy.

We've been planning some huge changes.

Specifically one big change.

Requiring lots of little changes.

It's something we haven't had to do in twelve years.

I have a lot of mixed feelings about it. Like, some days, I am not sure exactly how I feel about the whole thing.

It's something we want to do and have always wanted and will be really quite awesome but also several degrees of heartbreaking, so yeah. It's been a bit of a brain strain.

But I believe despite some of the less-than-perfect aspects of this big change, it is for the best. It's something we've been working towards for a long time, and even though it's not going the way we expected it to, it'll be alright in the long run.

Before too long I'll be getting very excited about the project.

It's just that I'm kind of afraid to type it in case something goes nuts and nothing happens, or happens differently. Because, people, if there's one thing I can count on in my life, it's that things regularly get strange.

So please bear with me, okay? Things will improve here in Hick Chic world. For now I'll squeeze in a few posts between whatever it is that's keeping me so darn busy; stay tuned long enough and I'll crank out the good stuff again.

Thanks!

Okay... I'm listening...

And even though I'm not sure what kind of an answer I'll get, I'm still willing to listen.

I'm fully aware that I might not even like the answer. I am really hoping I'll hear what I want to hear.
I don't know anything... I have no answers. That's why I'm listening.

I really wasn't goin' 4 wheelin in my backyard. I mean duh, I live in town.

"The Chevy got stuck and the Ford got stuck got the Chev unstuck when the Dodge showed up but the Dodge got stuck in the tractor rut which eventually pulled out the Ford.  (With some difficulty.)"  CORB LUND AND THE HURTIN' ALBERTANS

On the weekend we pulled the truck into the backyard to use it as a GMC workbench.  It was a nice sunny weekend, and the yard, which is usually a swamp at for all of March and most of April, was dry enough to be solid.

We stupidly left it in the yard on Sunday night.  

It rained Monday.  It rained all day.  It rained in harsh horizontal sheets.  

When I finally got off my butt and tried to move the truck out of the backyard so I could, you know, drive it somewhere, this is what happened.

My daughter Tribble took pictures from the warm dry safety of the dining room.  I don't blame her; it was raining so hard you can see the drops on the glass.  But still the word "wimp" did go through my mind a few times as I struggled in the wet slippery clay.  

I'd been saving this box of kitty litter in case some little cat desperately needed a home.  I had my doubts that this would work... it'll usually do the trick in snow, but folks, mud ain't snow.  

You might wanna remember that.  MUD AIN'T SNOW.

Also, you can try chunks of plywood or any other scrap lumber that happens to by lying around your place.  We all have scrap lumber, right?  You can also try a shipping blanket and a door mat.  You can try.  I'm just sayin.

It probably won't work.  Like I said, you can try.  It'll make ya feel useful, maybe.

My good neighbour-friend Zedlie, who is always up for a challenge (and who my Dad says should have been born out in the sticks instead of in Scarborough) came by to give me a hand.  Hot damn, we were planning on horsin' that thing outta there with raw girl power.

We had the old rock n push going on pretty good.  I warned her that us hardworking women, we better not accidentally birth any babies while we're out here doing the men's work and all.  

And then we gave up.  It was just getting in deeper and it was getting colder.  I spat out a few DAMMITS and we left it right there, wedged in between the shed and the deck - which by the way, got pretty much finished the day before.  Yeah.  Yay.

And I do know that my backyard looks suspiciously like a trailer park- not that there's anything wrong with that!

I told Zedlie that if I'm gonna do something, I'm gonna do it big.  I'm not even getting outta bed unless I'm gonna spectacularly mess something up.  And you know what else?  I can laugh about it.  Yup, I'm Canadian darnitall and I was raised to understand two things: hard physical work and self-deprecating humour.  I can fail magnificently at getting my own farm-girl-wannabe pickup truck unstuck - and then laugh at myself.  hahahaha.  See me laughing????

Okay I wasn't laughing there, I was making a goofy face at my daughter through the window.

But I had to laugh, because the alternative is crying, and I've got Side-effexor to prevent stuff.

So the continuing story involves Jethro.  

I'd told him on the phone before bedtime that I had it stuck up to about two inches away from the wheel rim.  He didn't think that was too bad.  He'd suggested earlier that a call another neighbour, Clarence the roofer, to pull the truck out.  Clarence's truck, a Ford F250 crew cab dually (insert manly snorting noises here) is bigger than my truck.  How in the heck is that gonna fit in there with my sad machine wedged in there?  Hmm?  

I think I was having dreams last night about a whale stuck in shallow water near the beach, like just shallow enough that the big beast couldn't turn around and swim away.  There might have been a chain involved.  I remember yelling at somebody, "How the heck are you gonna pull that whale back into the ocean?  It has no armpits!!"

I woke up just enough when he came home to hear him say, "Don't you worry yer pretty little head about it, I'll git yer truck outta there."  Or maybe he didn't say it exactly like that.  I might have moved on from whales to cowboys by then.  

I felt really crappy this morning, so I went to lie down and let my stomach settle.  (Thanks, Side-effexor!) I fell asleep.  Soon I was dreaming that next door, a dump truck was spinning its wheels and digging itself into the mud.  Dream-me stood in my window and thought, "What the heck is going on with this neighbourhood and stuck trucks?!"

Then I noticed that the dump truck was so deep, it'd dug itself in up to the doors.  The entire dump box was under the ground.  And it was still sinking!  The driver kept hitting the pedal and the truck kept spinning itself deeper.  Then I started to panic.  "He's gonna have to smash the windshield to get out!  Somebody get him outta there!"

So there's Dream-me, in the middle of the road, having an all-out hyperventilating panic attack while that engine kept on revving and the wheels kept on spinning.  And I knew it was a dream.  I had to wake myself up but I couldn't because I was in the middle of a panic attack.

I gotta wake up!

I can't wake up!  I can't breathe!  How can I wake up when I can't breathe????

Finally I was back in real time... but the wheels were still spinning.  I could hear mud hitting the deck and the back wall of the house.  I looked out the window.  

Yep, Jethro was giving it a go.  

He had the truck rocking real good.  Except that in this case, "real good" had to be followed with "and stuck."

He came in a few minutes later, with his big sleazy grin.  "Well.  Got it in up to the floorboards!"

I groaned.

Then we called the tow truck.

The CAA guy had a bald head, a couple of rings in his face, and several tattoos that snaked up his neck.  He looked at us like we were a couple of morons.  (Dingdingding, you win a prize!)

I finally got him laughing when I opened the truck's door to get the trailer hitch and said, "Hey, it's like a lowrider now!"

It took about 20 minutes or an hour or something to get it out.  Tow Truck Guy wisely kept his truck on the paved driveway. He hooked the winch chain around the trailer hitch.  Jethro put my truck in reverse and gave it some juice.  They had to keep stopping to dig some dirt away from the wheels.  

After we had a few warm friendly laughs with Two Truck Guy, who had softened considerably by then, we headed over to the car wash to hose the clay off.  I don't wanna talk about it.  The truck is clean, the wheels did not pop off from being winched up and sideways, and everything I've eaten so far today has stayed down, so I'm just leaving everything as it is for the rest of the day.  

So what have we learned?

1) Move the truck off the grass before it rains.  

2) Mud ain't snow.  

3) Mud sucks.  Literally.

4) It's weird that a pill meant to protect the stomach and prevent nausea can make you feel like you might puke.

5) There is a difference, when discussing stuck trucks, between Girl-stuck and Man-stuck.

6) Men can't resist making a mess in the mud.  It's like a magnet.  

7) Tow truck drivers get to deal with all kinds of morons.

8) If you insist on goin' mudding, go somewhere with more room than a 120ft lot.

9) and use a 4x4, not a straight rear wheel drive.

10) I need a tractor.  Seriously.  It's not just a fun toy, it's a necessity.  

And now I leave you with possibly the best video ever made.  I highly recommend you watch it, because it will explain so much about my life.  Plus the song's hilarious.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pDY6bWT5oTM

I am so sure my Dad's old flatdeck Chev is in that video.

For as long as I can remember...

I would have been in Grade 4.  It was a nice day, and my Daddy was working on a car while I babbled away about whatever story I was writing in my head.  It was about a horse.  What else would I be writing about?

My teacher had asked me if I could write about something other than ponies.  He seemed to think I could branch out a little.  What he didn't realize is that I had challenged myself to write a pony or a horse into every single English class assignment.  I was really doing great with my goal.  I told him I planned to write about horses.  All the time.  It's what I do.  I don't remember if he had an answer for that.

On the last day of summer, I'd been out in the pasture field with my two little pony mares.  I patted their necks and ran my fingers through their thick black manes.  I explained to them that I had to go to school, and wouldn't be able to spend the whole day with them.  But I could still come out and see them after school.  It wouldn't be so bad.  

Writing about them all day eased the pain of parting, just a little bit.  It made me feel like I was still with them, while I sat there in the white classroom.

So I told my Daddy every little detail of this epic story I was planning on writing.  The horse in it was probably wild, since I'd been reading lots of wild  horse epics at that time.  He listened patiently, although now I wouldn't be surprised if he'd only heard half of what I said.  Eventually my babbling slowed (maybe I had to hand him a tool or something) and I asked, "Daddy, do you think anybody would read a book written by a nine year old?"

I don't think he even looked up when he answered.  "Maybe by a thirty nine year old." 

Looking back now, as a thirty eight year old, I'm kind of thinking his answer was everything at once: crushing, motivating, realistic, and disappointing.  At the time, I was silently defiant.  I made up my mind that somebody, somewhere, don't care when, is going to read my book!!!  And I am not going to wait until and thirty nine!!!

But on the way here, like a lot of girls, I got sidetracked.  I fell into that sucking hole of self esteem that so many teenage girls fall into.  I didn't believe in myself.  I still wanted to write... I secretly wrote my poems and kept journals, invented stories, but only held onto that goal as something far away.  Other people achieved the title of "writer," not me.  Not sad lil me.

It never left.

After the schooling and wedding and birth, the kid with the braids in her hair and pony dirt on her hands was still there.  She never grew up.  When the baby slept, I started typing a long story about a pregnant woman and her toddler and her husband and a whole field full of other people's horses.  Years later, after another baby, an unrecognized mental breakdown, a move to a house of our own, more stories bubbled up.  I finished a few of them.  

So I'm 38 now, and next year it'll be thirty years that I got my first dose of writer's reality, from a man who likely doesn't even remember that conversation.  He's outside right now, teaching my son how to demolish a wall or hitch up a trailer or something.  He also told me a couple of summers ago that I don't need to write trash, that anything full of cussing isn't worth writing because "people who talk like that are illiterate, they don't read!"  

I might have a long way to go yet before an actual book exists with my name on it.  I hope not too much longer.  I hope it's the one I'm sending out into the world now.  I think it's pretty good...

...even though it has no horses in it.

Although it does have some dogs.  And Axl Rose, sort of.

I doubt my folks will like it, but that's okay.  They don't have to.  Someday I'll write something they'll read, that they can be proud of.

Besides, I'm still that scrawny 9 year old with the hair in two braids and the pony-dirty hands.  That epic horse story is in there somewhere.

The Quiet Day

It had been a very short night.  

My sleep was full of dreams.  At least these ones were somewhat funny. I dreamed that I got a new job, at some kind of ice cream shop, running a cash register which worked without money.  I love dream physics.  My new boss called me away from my task to make me stir a goopy ice cream concoction.  I had to stir it with the lid from a tupperware container.  Really substandard.  I turned to her and announced that I was not hired to do that, and I wouldn't be doing jobs that I wasn't being paid to do.  This is when I realized that the part of "boss" was being played in my dream by the woman who, in real life, was my supervisor at my last "real" job a few years back.  She was the one who gasped in horror when I told her I wasn't being paid enough to load the dishwasher when I was supposed to be on cash.  Like, dishwasher or cash.  Not both.  Uniform or scrubs, what's it gonna be?  There's only one of me.  I developed a real minimum wage attitude problem.  So in my dream I just let her have it, only because it was a dream. I was incredibly witty and clever about the whole thing.  

Darn I wish I could remember what I said.  In my dream, I got into my car, which was a bright yellow VW NewBeetle, and escaped from the wet grey pavement strip mall world.  The clutch was so hard to push in that I had to take a deep breath before I shoved my left foot down on it.  Also the gear shift was like a crazy Rat Fink shifter; I had to reach up over my head to get it.  Man, it was exhausting. I was so tired by the time I got to my dream-home (which may have been a trailer, I mean there's no logic to dream-physics) to see dream-Jethro.  I told him I quit my job. He said, "Right on!  Was it a good quit?"

"It was an awesome quit!"  I sank down into my dream-couch and told him, word for word, about the triumphant quit.  And now I can't remember my victory speech.  

All that backtalk and sass took a lot out of me.  To make matters even worse, it all morphed into that recurring dream that the horses opened the gate and were wandering around in the barn yard and down the laneway.  I had to walk down all of those dream-horses and chase them back into the corral, and then get a chain and clasp to close the gate, but the chain kept unwinding and the clasp kept unclasping, so I had to do it over and over.  I woke up feeling like I'd been working all night.  

Truth is, I put in a long day at the studio the day before.  By the time we got to bed it was Stupid o' Clock.  This morning I got up, made sure everybody else was up, fed the critters, ate my breakfast at the dining room table with my giant light box shining several thousand megawatts of simulated sunshine into my eyes (I'll tell you about that too, later) after which I slunk back into bed.  It was around 9 am. I flaked out on everybody.  I checked out.  My neighbour came to the door looking for her walking buddy, meaning me, and ended up taking just my dog instead.  I know, my neighbours are awesome.  

I woke up around 11 but it took me another... hour?  to actually get out of bed.  It was like magnets were holding me there, but in reality it was just the critters.  They breathe sleep on me.  Some day I will get my son, the 12 yr old scientist, to prove that cats and dogs actually do have a special chemical in their exhalations that lulls humans to sleep.

And they were soooo warm.  Nigel, the ancient little-old-man-cat, can still generate a good amount of body heat, despite his shrinking body.  He was curled up at my shoulder, almost under my chin.  I used to be so grossed out by the thought of having a cat on my pillow.  That's what growing up on a farm will do to you.  Never let the outdoor dirt end up in your bed!!!  But none of those barn cats ever lived to be nineteen years old.  I only personally know of one cat who made it to that age, and he was also a black cat.  They are lucky; don't ever let anyone tell you otherwise.  Nigel's sleep inducing powers have increased over the years.  He's perfected it and loves to show off his superior sleep skills.  

Just for making it to age 19 he's allowed to sleep on my pillow.  He's allowed to do pretty much anything he wants now.  I don't know how much time I've got with him anymore, so he can sleep on my forehead if he wants to.  

The pug somehow ended up on my bed, even though he can't jump high enough to get there on his own.  Oh he is good at sleeping...  and he is warm... he curled up behind my knees and got busy with the snoring.  

How could I resist?

There are a lot of things I SHOULD be doing.  I feel guilty almost daily for not having a "real job."  I have to be reminded regularly by my husband that we talked about this.  Working at real job means less time for the training needed to pass my riding tests and get my Instructor's certificate.  It also means less time with the kids.  They still need one parent who does not put in 15 hour work days.  Jethro repeats what he said years ago when I quit: "If you keep working there, you're never going to get that book finished, and I really want you to be able to finish it."

I know.  My husband is awesome.

I feel guilty for not earning a much-needed income.  We talk it out and it keeps coming back to doing what we're doing: live cheap, do without luxuries, and buy everything used, or pick it up off the side of the road when someone else is done with it.  

But I still feel guilty for going back to bed while he's out there working for a living.  You know, I might feel guilty because it's raining today.  Maybe that's just my problem.  

Tomorrow, it'll all be different.  

It'll be big round hay bale, barn chores, housecleaning, and an afternoon with the piano tuner.  Then it's bank, library, dinner, piano lessons.  Somewhere in there I need to write.  Then Friday, it's back to the studio, where I'll be filling the truck box with another load for the dump. I can guarantee it'll be a long day at the studio.  There's no such thing as a short day.

I really relished that quiet morning nap with my doggencat.   

stream of consciousness (plus facial interpretations by Mr Depp)

I don't know what happened this week. 

The weather has been unusual for a Canadian November: Sunshine!  Humidity!  Warmth!  

My stomache has been back in the state of queasiness that's dogged me since I went on the Side-effex-or earlier this year: Don't! Eat! You! Might! Barf!

I have not barfed.  But my chaps are loose again.  I'd like to say that's a good thing but it's never good to lose weight because you could not eat.

In the last week, my special email inbox has been mysteriously quiet.  Literary Agents! Preoccupied!  Publishing company disasters!  Elections!  Honestly it's not because they don't like my query letter!!!!

All night I have vivid detailed dreams.  I wake up in the dark with my flannel jammies soaked with sweat, drops running down my neck, shivering as I pull the blankets back over my shoulders and sink back down into a world of dark rooms with pictures of people I never wanted to see again, while the red horse I miss so much stands outside, ears pointed in my direction, and long lost loved ones speak to me as though we just saw each other yesterday.  The moonlight is in the wrong place.  It shouldn't be coming in the north windows.  He offers me something to eat and I cry softly because I can't, and I can't cry either, only in dreams, and his chest is warm and big and solid.  No matter how I stretch my arms I can't reach around his back.  I'll never hold him tight enough.  I want to stop walking down wet sidewalks and sit under the trees, the branches thinning out until only one yellow dry leaf dangles, swaying in a breeze I can't feel.  I don't know why I can't see the plowed field in real life.  It should be there.

I wake up with a struggle and the sharp pains still shoot under my skin, up through my neck and across my scalp into my eyes.  My lips are in shock.  I have to eat, I have to take that big red capsule.  Move slowly!  Blink softly!  

Despite my muddy brain and gurgling guts, I've been somewhat functional.  I got to that riding lesson and rode the big old horse with his giant bouncing trot.  I had to sit out a few times to let the nausea pass.  But I got through it.  I slowly raked a few clouds of leaves into the flower gardens, I swept floors, I hung the rag rugs up to dry after washing them.  I cooked a meal during a break in the queasiness.  I have managed to hold things together just enough to keep it from all falling apart, and today I'm not going anywhere.  I'm home, on the couch, with a dog on my feet and a cat balanced between my arm and the computer. I am blinking slowly!  Typing slowly!  

This will pass because it has to.  

It's been  a weird week.

Like, even for me.  Weirder than my usual form of weird.

I'm confused but what else is new?

This week's visual representation of my state of mind will be brought to you by my favourite actor, not not Daffy Duck, the other one.  Although come to think of it, I believe Brad made an appearance again last night, wearing that funny little tweed cap, while I was sitting on a hammock, invisible, in an explosives warehouse, watching him fill a burlap sack with fireworks.  Brad you sneaky thief.  He had about 14 kids with him.  I may or may not have been one of them.  

Take it away, Johnny.  

seeya monday.

Query -athon-fest-arama!

This month, coincidentally my blogiversary month, I took up a challenge with my Four Corners writing group.  GET 100 QUERIES SENT BY THE END OF OCTOBER.  I figured I could do it, since I already had a few sent.  

I'm up to 89, and this afternoon I plan to send out the snail mails.  Since September they've all been email.  I've been kinda broke, folks, and email queries are a pure joy to send compared to the trek uphill both ways on a dirt road to the post office.  I'll get to my goal, easily.

There've been a few discoveries along the way.  This isn't the first book I've queried to publishers or agents, but I'm still learning things, still having those forehead slapping moments.  

Like, check before you hit the send button, to make sure you haven't already sent it.

Make sure you haven't already sent one to an agent at the same agency.

Spell the name correctly.

I've been querying this particular piece of work since last August.  In a year, I'd only sent 15 query letters.  I was being way too cautious and way too picky.  I'm developing the opinion that sometimes it's good to stretch the limits a little bit, especially with a book like mine that doesn't fit neatly into a genre.  It's a little too nasty for the teen audience, but does that mean it'll satisfy adult readers?  I personally do think so.  But it's hard to convince an agent of that with a short letter and five pages.

So now you're wondering, out of those 89 letters, what kind of results I've good.

Well, not stellar.  Not particularly encouraging.  So far only four have asked to see more, and three of those have turned it down.  The one who has it is in Toronto.  If I wasn't so chicken of driving in the city, especially in my rumbly truck, I'd be tempted to just go there, find the office, and blink my eyelashes and ask innocently if she's read it yet.  I hear they don't like to be hassled though.  So that gets me off the hook.  

Out of 89, there are 34 rejections.  There are 6 more who have not responded within their usual time frame, which I'm counting as an assumed rejection.  Although who knows, they could write back a year from now - by which time I hope to be looking at cover art! - and tell me they'd like to see it.  I've heard this happens...

So one person has 100 pages.  

I have no idea what will happen next, but I do know that I have a God- and- Grandpa- given GIFT of stubbornness.  

I also know that I wrote a pretty damn good book.  It's disturbing and challenging, sometimes funny, suspenseful, offensive, heartwarming, sad.  Yep, it's all that.  I know it, cuz I wrote it.

I've got 11 more to reach my goal, a list of about 20 agents I like, a pile of envelopes and determination.  I'm crushing down the pain every time I get another rejection, because I have to.  And if none of these hundred agents bite, I'll find more of them, I'll find somebody who is brave enough to take it on, I'll find a way.  

Because this is QUERY- THON-FEST- STUBBORN- ARAMA!!