Baciami Ancora

Love this song!

Sung by Lorenzo Jovanotti

My Kind of Shopping

My family has a Thanksgiving tradition--the day after our big feast we go shopping. No Black Friday sales here. I, and fortunately the rest of my family, am not too fond of getting up ridiculously early to fight other crazy people in order to get the store sales I can get from the comfort of my own computer chair. No, this type of shopping does not involve sales or fighting traffic. Instead we drive out into the middle of nowhere, take a bumpy ride on top of some hay bales and make our selection in the fields.

We picked out our 2010 Christmas tree.

This has been our fifth year getting a real tree. Despite the trouble (read: lots of pine needles on the floor) and potential fire hazards, we keep going back for more. We name our tree every year and unfortunately I can't recite every past name, though the Hershey Kiss one was quite memorable.

This year we've named ours Larry Bob.

Very apropos or just random? Let me add my niece and nephew named him. I named our tree Angelina one year, which seems more seasonal to me, but then what do I know? I'm just a boring grown up.

We made our selection quickly. Even though the sky was a perfectly clear, painfully bright blue, it was fairly chilly. I was bundled in a sweatshirt, fashionably scruffy scarf, jacket, windbreaker, thick gloves and stocking cap. I also made my sister wear earmuffs, despite her protests (I put them on her when her hands were occupied with the nephew). When you have big ears like me, you become highly conscious of the cold breeze whipping around your head.

After our quick hayride back to the store in the Steeler wagon, they shook out our tree to loosen any pine needles or stray animals. What they neglected to loosen were two birds nests we found while stringing up the lights. I pulled them out, praying there were no dead bodies in them. It occurred to me only later that maybe having the nests in there would have added to the authenticity of our real tree.

We finished trimming the tree late that night (Our trimming did not involve scissors of any sort. I'm not certain I understand that word in relation to Larry Bob). With the tree ablaze, we followed another tradition: turn off all the lights and watch our handiwork blinking in the darkness with Christmas carols playing in the background.

Back at the Ranch

I am cow number 2!!

I had this revelation a few days ago and it has stuck with me. I realize how random it sounds and it probably makes no sense if you haven't read my blog  "What I learned from a cow". As a refresher, Cow #2 is the one that runs over anyone and everything, including her friend Bessie who is blocking her way, to get what she wants.

That analogy has really been nettling me because I'm not beating people down to get to my freedom (at least I don't think so). I've not run any of my friends over in my haste to get out of a situation...right? And then it hit me: the question isn't "have I run over people to get to my freedom?" It's "what I have I given up or trampled on in my impatience to get to what I want?" Maybe what I want is a certain place, my vision of where I think I should be right now.

Personally, I think my biggest problem is my impatience to feel the euphoria of love, of being wanted. I get a glimpse of the possibility of a relationship and there I go, Cow #2, antsy with the fear of being left behind. I step all over God and my convictions just to get the brief rapture of instant gratification.

By the time they got Cow #2 out of the chute, Bessie was laying on the ground, looking significantly flatter than before. I was terrified she'd been crushed enough to have broken something. The worst part was, Cow #2 hadn't escaped her fate - They still had to round her up and put her back through the chute anyway. All her crazed tearing  had been for nothing.

I'm tired of being Cow #2. I've caught a flash of me in her and it isn't pretty.

The Night Sky

For those of you who didn't know, Sunday's full moon was blue.

The most widely accepted version of a blue moon is two full moons in one month. But the earlier concept of it was different:

"When four blue moons occur in a season, the third one is considered a blue moon. Because most seasons only bring three full moons, this rarity is celebrated. The fourth full moon of autumn will occur on December 21." (taken from http://www.myfoxboston.com/ If you want the full article, click on the link at the end of my blog.)

The moon has been stunningly gorgeous the last few night. Sunday night was, of course, a full moon. The night before and tonight have been just as beautiful. I love when the moon is so bright you can see everything else by it. I've often wondered if it's possible to drive by moonlight on nights like this, when just beyond my yellow-tinged headlights, the so-white-it's-blue moonlight blankets the passing scenery. Excuse me my whimsy, but moonlight has a touch of magic to me. The fact that this last full moon was a blue moon, making it even more rare, tickles my fancy.

Gorgeous, clear nights like this remind me of nights in New Mexico. We used to go out to White Sands and watch the stars, especially in August. August is the prime time to see shooting stars there, though I don't know why. It is an amazing thing to watch. The nights were cool sitting under the clear midnight bowl, so we would take a light jacket and a blanket and watch the night show like we were there to see fireworks.

Good memories.

http://www.myfoxboston.com/dpps/news/why-novembers-full-moon-is-a-blue-moon-dpgoh-20101122-fc_10732037

Morning giggle

I was listening to Huey Lewis and the News this morning and it made me smile, which is an impressive feat, as I don't show much emotion most mornings (think zombie). The song was "The Heart of Rock and Roll." Of course I knew they said the heart of rock and roll is still beating and from what Huey's seen he believes 'em. For the longest time I though he was saying the old folks might be barely breathing but the heart of rock and roll was still beating. Now doesn't that strike you as cold? Did he not care about the old folks? And what did they have to do with rock and roll?

I had no idea I had the wrong lyrics until recently, when a friend of mine corrected me and we had a good laugh at my expense (he wasn't sure of the lyrics either but he was fairly certain Huey wasn't singing about dying people). That's okay. For years, I thought Elvis was singing about his suspicious thighs.

Funny interlude

In the interest of taking time to smell the roses and breathe, I've compiled a list of funny quotes that make me laugh. Enjoy!

A child of five would understand this. Send someone to fetch a child of five.
Groucho Marx

A lot of people are afraid of heights. Not me, I'm afraid of widths.
Steven Wright

Alimony is like buying hay for a dead horse.
Groucho Marx
(That one was a little cynical but I found it funny. And I love Groucho.)

Cross country skiing is great if you live in a small country.
Steven Wright

Curiosity killed the cat, but for a while I was a suspect.
Steven Wright

Drawing on my fine command of the English language, I said nothing.
Robert Benchley

Electricity is really just organized lightning.
George Carlin

Human beings are the only creatures on earth that allow their children to come back home.
Bill Cosby

I bought some batteries, but they weren't included.
Steven Wright

I don't need you to remind me of my age. I have a bladder to do that for me.
Stephen Fry

I have a new philosophy. I'm only going to dread one day at a time.
Charles M. Schulz

 (The above quotes were taken from brainyquote.com)



Happy de-stressing!

Let Me Let Go

Dear God,

I've either been afflicted with an outpouring of irrational hormones or I am stressed.

I cry at the drop of a hat, I get crazily angry over ridiculous things, I can't seem to get enough sleep, my shoulder muscles are so tense it often hurts to turn my head and my digestive tract has gone on strike--an angry, violent strike of protest. All I have to do is think about my future (which is coming in three weeks, no make that two and a half now) and my intestines clench up. I write down what I need to do and I want to quit because I feel overwhelmed. I go over what I'm not doing and I find myself making room amongst the mess of shoes on my closet floor to curl up and hide.

When did I become so stressed, God? When did life cease to be an adventure and become a mess to straighten out? Want to hear something horrible? I heard the other day that laughter is a great way to destress. I thought back and realized I can't remember the last time I had a good belly laugh. Not just laughing, but the kind of side-aching, tears-flowing laugh that makes your stomach muscles sore.The kind that makes you hold your sides; the kind where your face hurts from holding that huge grin. You wipe away the tears of mirth and say, "Oh, I needed that." And then you break into fresh gales all over again.

When did I become so serious?

Was it around the time that I decided You were taking too long and I would take over? Or was it when I looked into the future and became scared spitless at the vast unknown? Whatever it was, I started to make my own plans. After all, Your plan was taking too long. So my Plan A didn't work out. Huh. Well, Plan B is looking kinda shaky, too, not to mention it's not the Plan A I had my heart set on.

Okay, fine. You're turn. Since I can't seem to plan right, I'm going to let You take over. But I don't see a plan in sight!! My insides are clenching as we speak, God! Has anyone ever told You that You move too slow?!

*Deep breath* Yes, God, that was me just trying to take over again. And yes, that was tiny little me telling the Creator of the sun, the planets and the stars that His timing is too slow. Oh, and you made the moon too? Right. Forgot about that one.

Obviously I need to let go of my perfect dream world, where it all works out according to my version of perfect. Because my version of perfect obviously isn't Your version of perfect. And I think You would know perfect much better than me, right?

I need to practice this letting go thing, God. Alright, pep talk time. Repeat this: God is big, I am small. He knows better than me. God is big, I am small, He knows better than me. I am big, God is small, I know better than He. No, wait...Ugh!!!!!

I'm gonna go hide in my closet now, God.

Future Runner?

I picked up two workout CDs yesterday from Sam's. They're from the TV show The Biggest Loser with almost two hours of hard core exercise music, called "mega-mixed", whatever that means. I put the Cardio CD on and I couldn't help doing a Tae Bo move or two, just to test the rhythm out. It was pretty darn nifty! That's how I get into the exercise mood: put on good music. My adrenaline starts rushing, hips moving and I can't sit still.

Doesn't that sound like I'm a fitness freak?

Yeah. Not so much.

I buy these CDs in hopes that I'll download the songs to my phone and get motivated to run on a regular basis.

Yeah.

I'll let you know when that happens.

In the meantime, I'll keep my fantasy of being potentially faboulously fit because of my new CDs. This is my happy little dream world.

Pt 2: What I Learned From the Back of a Cow

Real life.

That's what I have been stepping in all morning. That's what I am about to stick my hand into right now.

The vet, a stooped-shouldered, gray-haired, bespectacled man who looks as though he's lived through four and a half decades of cow palpating and castrating, orders me to put on a glove. When it comes to doing things that make me nervous or scared, I'm not much of a pushover; I have no qualms about saying "no" if I feel uncomfortable. But when Doc tells me to put on the shoulder-length glove, I find I can't disappoint him. He says everyone should palpate a cow, or feel an unborn calf, at least once.

How does one feel an unborn calf, you ask?

With a shoulder-length glove on.

Palpating the female cow means the vet puts his or her hand into the anal cavity of the bovine, reach into the uterus and check for a fetus, or in the case of the cow I am about to palpate, a seven-month bred unborn calf.

After squirting liquid dish soap on my glove (worn on my left hand, even though I'm right-handed, per Doc), I eye up the back end of my patient. She is quiet and docile. Doc has already palpated her and learned she is not only sweet-tempered, but my last chance to do this, since she's the last cow in line. I stand directly behind her and mentally prepare myself. My conversation earlier with Doc goes through my mind:

"What happens if, when your hand is inside, she decides to poop?" Cows are not known for holding their bowels. In fact, I had gotten a picture earlier of a calf who got too close to his mother's hind end. I've seen cows go anywhere, any time, no matter who or what was under them.

With a completely straight face, Doc answered me. "You gotta be quick."

So said the man who is now covered from the waist down with bovine excrement. And he still has to drive home.

I take hold and move her tail to the side with my right hand and press into the anal hole with the other. I know I'm making a face because the others are laughing at me. Especially because my left hand isn't going anywhere.

"You gotta push harder." I think Doc might be laughing at me, too, but it's hard to tell. So maybe I'm a bit tenative in my reach. I have no desire to be kicked by a cranky cow who has every right to be, considering what I'm attempting. The cow backs away from me and I grit my teeth. Remind me again why everyone has to try this? I want to ask this out loud but I'm afraid to be lippy with a man who puts his hand in cows for a living.

I decide I am not going to wimp out. So I widen my stance and push harder. Little by little, I push in and I realize, with a jolt of reality, that I'm halfway up my forearm in a cow's rectal cavity. My left arm is now the warmest part of my body, which, in a gross sort of way, is nice, considering I had been clutching a cup of coffee and shivering to keep warm two minutes ago.

It doesn't get much more real than this, does it? This isn't a pre-packaged filet mignon or a T-bone steak hot off the grill. This is life unprotected, living outside my little suburbia box.

Her muscles are contracting around my wrist. I am completely focused on the odd sensations.

"Do you feel it? Are you in there? The hoof is right there." Doc is shooting rapid-fire questions at me. How do I know if I'm "there"? Pressing my hand down I feel bone. All I can picture is a restaraunt commercial with rotating ribs over the barbie.

I press my arm in further and I feel a lump. I make a shocked face and I see a flash. Great. They are now taking pictures of me with my arm elbow deep in the back end of a side of beef.

"Do you feel it now? Try to grab the hoof." Doc is talking to me through the side of the chute. I nod my head, pray I'm not grabbing a lung or a bladder and reach for the lump. It's round and immediately pulls back. The cow pulls back, too, and I take my hand out. I laugh in sheer delight--I just touched an unborn calf! 

Everybody should try it.

What I learned from a cow

It's the beginning of November, a chilly, overcast day in eastern Ohio to update a herd of cattle on their shots. I'm at Faith Ranch to take pictures of the updating, as well as...well, let's call it working the cattle, which is a polite, ranchy way of referring to the de-bulling of the male calves, as well as palpating the female cow or checking for pregnancy.

After rounding up the cattle, they seperate the calves from the mothers and lead them to a different pen. The pathetic mooing is loud but it works out because I get some great close ups of the calves. Through my lense, I observe how slobbery noses are really cute when there's a fence between me and said leaking nostrils.

Next they work the cows (all females) by sending them one at a time through a series of metal fences into a chute. The closed metal fencing is just wide enough to accomodate one bovine at a time, so a single file line has to walk through. Since a cow's main goal is to get away from the scary humans, they are eager for any hint of freedom. The cow in the front of the line (heretofore referred to as Bessie) sees a clearing in the metal fencing up ahead - an open door! Bessie goes charging through the doors, only to learn it is just wide enough for her head. And when she pulls back, she discovers she can't get her head back out. Her only chance for release is to wait until the handler opens the chute. In the meantime, the cow behind her has been blocked by a swinging metal gate so that the only cow in the chute is Bessie. The same swinging door that has closed off the way for the other cows has created an open doorway that allows the vet access to work the cattle.

I'm shivering. My heavy fleece liner isn't doing much for my cold hands. I hadn't brought gloves because I thought they might interfere with pressing tiny buttons on my Nikon. Now I wish I'd cared a little less about the pictures and more about the cold. I step up to the chute to catch the eyes of the vet in my picture, when the cow, whose head was currently stuck in the chute doors, starts throwing her weight around in protest. I watch through my viewfinder and learn something very profound:

Cows are stupid.

So maybe this is a gimme. No writer has ever written sonnets to the amazingly intelligent cow.

The thing to remember about cows is their mindeset; because they're prey, their instinct is to shy away from the hunter or whatever scares them, which can be anything from a dog to a plastic bag waving in the wind. Cows are easy to manipulate because of their fear (that is a lesson in and of itself. Read that last sentence again and tell me what fear makes you easy to be manipulated).

They are about to release the angry mama cow from the chute when they wave me to the side out of harms way. When the vet opens the doors, the cow breaks out of the chute with head down, hooves diffing deep. This bovine is determined to get out at all costs.

I watch the little kick she gives in her exit dance and I think we should all thank God for this fear cows have because she is gigantic. All cattle have a one-track mind: when they want to get away, they will run through, over and under anything that gets in their way. Anything to get away. Thank goodness they don't know their own strength otherwise cows might could rule the world. I am amazed that the narrow chute is holding up. Rusted through as it is, it very nearly doesn't. Speaking as one who stands to get hurt if the chute gives out, I'm taking this as a miracle straight from God.

Later, it is down to the last few cows and I've set aside my camera. More drama is unfolding. The rancher is trying to get three cows to obey and walk toward the metal fencing. The cows are having second thoughts. I've never seen a cow fold herself in half, but Bessie does. On her way through, she sees the chute and decides she doesn't like it. Instead of going forward, she turns her nose to the back of her hide and squeezes herself to the side. She has managed to get herself stuck, bent in half.

Cows in a panic are dangerous. I've read about, sung about (I love you, Chris Ledoux!) and watched stampedes. But there is nothing that comes close to the exhilerating, heart-pound fear of being up close and personal to a herd of stampeding animals. Even if the stampede is not in full all-out-run mode, it is an awesome sight. Hooves hitting the ground with loud thwacks while their heaving bodies strain to get away. I know it's full out panic when I can see the white of their eyes rolling in their heads. Now picture only two or three cattle, all full grown, in a tight maze of metal fencing. Bessie gets a sniff of freedom through the metal doors. She gets excited, rams her head through the opening, expecting to bust through to the other side. The second and third cows get excited and think they'll reach the promised land soon, too. Remember when I mentioned that swinging metal door, closing off the other cows? If the metal door operator misses his cue, cows number two and maybe even three can seriously hurt Bessie in their panic. They don't care that Bessie is stuck. They are so focused on release, they will climb over and/or under her to get out, a complete mindless disregard of who they hurt.

I watch this scenario play out as Bessie, after unfolding her bent self and managing to get free, has fallen for the chute trick. She rams her head through the doors and now can't go anywhere. Cows number two and three have decided that freedom lies through Bessie. Number two is on top of Bessie, sharp hooves digging to sniff through the doors, while cow number three has lifted Bessie and number two off the ground in an effort to go under. There is a cow pileup and I feel terrible for Bessie, who has now become a beef sandwich between two alarmed idiots.

I have an introspective moment while clutching the steaming coffee cup, my numb hands holding tight to the fleeting warmth of the styrofoam: how often am I cow number two? How often do I hurt someone in my rush for freedom, my panicked need to get away? I wonder if we sometimes resemble cattle to God.

I have no time for deeper thoughts because the stooped, wizened, commanding vet has just summoned me. I hand off the coffee to its rightful owner (I had just been borrowing the heat). Climbing over the metal fencing, I head toward the box of gloves with trepidation...

To be continued in Part 2: What I learned from the back end of a cow

P-Potatoes

"What are these called?"

"Tomatoes." He answered me dutifully, like the good three-year old he was.

"What color are they?"

"Red."

"Good job!" I love asking him his colors. I realize it's silly but I think of the world in terms of colors and smells. Therefore, I believe naming colors to be important. Alright, and maybe I just like to hear how smart he is.

I walked over to the garbage can to throw something out and he stretched on his tip-toes to reach a small green tomato on the counter, the last of the homegrown tomatoes my mother collected from our garden before the first frost in hopes it would ripen indoors.

"What this? It not red." He held it out to me to examine for myself. After I went into far too much detail about the tomato growth patterns, he lost interest and I put the green tomato back.

Grandma called to him from the other room. "Honey, do you want a potato with your meal?"

We were prepping dinner and grandma liked to cover all her bases. When he shook his head I told her I wanted one. His little body held still for a second to consider his options. With a tiny finger on his lips, he answered gramndma again.

"I want tomato!" He chased into the dinning room where she was taking the cooked potatoes from the microwave.

"Honey, these are potatoes."

"Tomatoes," he insisted.

"Puh," grandma pronounced clearly at him. "It starts with a 'p'. Puh-tato."

"Tomato." He was very firm in what he knew, apparently.

To show him the difference, I grabbed the green tomato off the counter and showed him. "You want a tomato? Like this one?" I teased him by pretending to walk toward his dinner plate.

"No! No, I don' want. I want tomato."

"But this is a tomato." I made another pretend pass at his plate with the offending green fruit, his face a cross between giggles and horror.

"No!"

"You must want the tomato not potato. I'll just out this on your pl-"

Giggles lost the battle and he yelled in horror. "No! I don' want the tomato. No! Don' want!" This was not a happy child and this was not an inside voice. This was the beginnings of a genuine fit, which made grandpa not happy, with a time out ensuing.

For my three-year-old nephew, not me.

I was the adult in the relationship, right? I felt a flashback to when I was younger and got my brothers unfairly in trouble.

Lesson learned: I may have grown up but the mischievious little sister in me still shows up from time to time. Gotta work on that.