A decent wife would have felt badly.

And I did.

Somewhat.

But, obviously not enough to hold back my laughter.

Meteorology Man and I have been talking plans for the fancy kennel and preparing for its construction.  Before we can get started, we need to move the hay to another building.  We talked through the options and details.

Every.

Last.

Detail.

We agreed on a plan and had every element covered.

Since we are down to only two horses, they no longer need the whole loafing shed.  The plan was to divide that space with a fence and gate.  MM got started putting in the fence posts right after his afternoon jog.

He came in all cut up, dirty and sweaty after the job was complete.  My man works hard to make things happen for his queen and her neurotic canine.

We both headed back outside so I could check out his work and measure the gate space, but when we got to the loafing shed, there was no fence. I looked at MM and asked where’s the fence?

He looked at me like I was crazy, a daily occurrence these days, and then tells me it’s in the loafing shed.

But this is the loafing shed.

He points to my pavilion and claims that is the loafing shed.

He put up the fencing in the wrong building.

He says it’s totally my fault because I wasn’t out there bossing him.

Folks, you heard it here first.

My man just admitted he needs me to tell him what to do.

A nag’s Boss Lady’s dream come true.

So, tell me about one of your miscommunications.

For my more fragile flowers out there, this may not be the post for you.

It’s graphic.

Scientific.

There are even sound effects.

A bit more intimate than some of you may be comfortable getting.

Some things should just remain behind closed doors,
but I am exposing a piece of myself
in hopes that someone else out there who is suffering will now have hope.

Or at least make someone laugh.

I mean those sound effects.
They totally bring out my twelve year old boy.

Here of late, it’s been like birthin’ buffalo.

I told you, not for the fragile.

TURN BACK NOW

I’ve always struggled because of the genes I inherited, but even during times of remission, things can get a little strenuous.

While reading my health blogs, I stumbled across this in all its bathroom glory.

I think my Crohn’s might have cried.

Considering I have tried to unsuccessfully assimilate this position with stacks of Charmin packages before I even heard of the benefits of squatting, I think I am onto something good.

I give you the Squatty Potty.

They even have it available in tao bamboo wood tone.

I wonder if I can get a rush order on this thing?

Yes, I am seriously ordering one.

Shut up.

And I am even throwing in a bottle or two of this.

This is not the end of this

and crohns disease,
you will not have the last laugh.

For one day,
one day greater than this day
He will embrace me

and I will laugh
louder

for all things cruel
will be left behind

no pain
no blame
no shame

only euphoria satisfying soul

and I will laugh.

I know. I am about as useless to Xanga as teats on a boar hog.

If it’s not one thing, it’s another.

If it’s not shivering under my electric blanket upon my bed of death,
it’s packing up my whole house in boxes for the freaking fun of it.

While I take a break from unpacking and smooging with Cactus Jack, let’s break this ugly cycle of updates, woe is me and glory hallelujah I got my ranch back posts.  You up for some questions?  It‘s been quite a spell since I got nosy with you. 

1. When is the last time you drove with your car windows down?

2. How do feel about ditching your shoes and getting back to our barefooted roots and EARTHING?

3. I tried to go to our local Walmart (next town down the highway 12 miles) and couldn’t even get in the parking lot because of all the police cars.  Has your local Walmart ever had a bomb threat?

4. What’s your favorite Girl Scout cookie?

5. Insect repellant: friend or foe?

BONUS QUESTION: What if you were my granddaughter and your 3rd birthday was back in early January and you had yet to receive a birthday gift from your Grammy Tamy? 

Would you,

a. Call her cell phone, that she never answers because it’s always dead and buried in the bottom of her purse, and tell her she’s a sorry excuse for a grandmother.

b. Say nothing, because you expect she will do something really big to make up for her lapse in mental capacity.

c. Lower your expectations, because you know it’s all downhill from here. Like a three-legged mule. On fire.

Like I said, teats on a boar hog.

Okay, you mangy varmints, I need to get back to wrestling these moving boxes.
I miss you!

and follow the dusty road home to Watering Hole Ranch.

A place where red earth meets the sky
and horizons speak dreams,

where a beautiful red dun mare
and a handsome paint gelding await my return,
mostly for handfuls of alfalfa treats,

where frogs sing the praises of refreshed ponds,

and water dances down the buried rocks in the Oklahoma earth.

A place where a wild woman’s soul will reunite with her heart.

 

Cherry coke hair with vanilla highlights restored.  check

Bushy brows waxed into submission.  check

Junk put into new red purse.  check

Schedule move back into Watering Hole Ranch.  check

We turned down the buyers request for a thirty day extension.

We offered the buyers a ten day extension. 

They insisted on a fifteen day extension.

I told Meteorology Man to make the call.

WE ARE MOVING BACK INTO WATERING HOLE RANCH!!!

*happiness overflowing*

It’s so awesome when God covers the stupid decisions I make. 

Thank you, you beautiful mangy varmints, for taking this ride with me.

Yes, I already know I am ridiculous.

And how incredibly lucky I am to have a husband who loves endures my ridiculous.

Now let there be taco pizza.

hahahahahahaha!

ha!

ha!

ha!

ha!

ha!

ha!

Just sharing my belly laugh with you.

Where do I start?

I know, let’s start with the fact that I just lost two weeks worth of my Nexium on the hotel bathroom floor.

How you might ask.

I really don’t know.

It’s all a purple blur.

I was taking my pill when all of a sudden the cap to the bottle stuck to my fingers and flew across the countertop. My reflexes went into high gear and the hand that was holding the bottle full of pills tried to grab the lid, sending purple pills flying everywhere. Including the toilet.  I’m pretty sure the five second rule does not apply here.

I mean honestly, I was channeling The Stooges.  All three, by myself.

Earlier this morning I accidentally sent an email intended for my husband, to Billy at the boarding kennel.

Your cell phone is up here in the hotel room.

Harmless enough, I guess.  Unless the poor guy has a wife who reads his email.

Yesterday was the scheduled closing for Watering Hole Ranch. 

It did not take place.

Let me let you in on a little secret. (not so secret, really)

I’ve totally regretted selling WHR and have been sitting with my fingers crossed that the deal would somehow fall through.

We noticed that things on the buyer’s side seemed to be moving at a snail’s pace, when the appraisal wasn’t scheduled until the day before we were moving out. 

The appraisal came back good.

But, the underwriter wasn’t happy with the comparables the appraiser had provided.

Now, the buyers want to order up a new appraisal and start all over with a new bank.

Excuse me?

Another four to six weeks here at the hotel, I could handle. 
But, NOT for my neurotic canine at the boarding kennel.

Our contract ended yesterday.
We are free to walk without personal financial consequence.

We don’t want to throw a wrench in the deal that will affect so many other people by not extending the contract, but we also do not want to throw six weeks more of hotel and kennel bills, aside from the inconvenience.

Another funny.

Now that we have sold the guest house, we will be at the same mortgage amount as the Mexican Farmhouse.  So, moving for the sake of downsizing the mortgage kind of lost its logic.

I’m a bit torn, but know The Way will reveal itself.  I know what my heart desires, but I also do not want to get in the way of something that is to be.  I am at peace, despite not knowing the future. 

So come on you mangy varmints, laugh with me.

It’s good medicine, they say.

 

Sorry I’ve been quiet here of late.  My words are few, my mind in another place.  Struggling with an ugly stage of nausea.  I try to get lost in episodes of I Love Lucy and sleep.  In between all the laughing and sending promiscuous messages to random people on my email list.

Sitting here watching the snow fall outside the hotel window.  The Cracker Barrel sign lighting the way for I40 travelers. And tempting Wild Women to venture out for an order of biscuits and gravy and a bit of bacon.  I’m shivering while sitting in a warm comfy room, not likely I will play Yukon Cornelius today.  The biscuits will have to wait.

The movers we hired were an outstanding crew.  It’s rare to see folks happy doing such back-breaking work for others.  Each one of the crew members made a point to introduce themselves to us, made eye contact, smile and were not afraid to ask questions.  Ask questions about our family.  ha!  They were a little taken back that we had nine children. Taken back in a good way.  They made my last day at the ranch a pleasurable one.

We were going to hire a cleaning service to clean the house for the next owners, assuming I would not have the energy.  Instead, I decided to hire my daughter, but that would have been a lot of travel miles between her house and the ranch.  So, with all the snow coming in today and my healthy energy levels, we went ahead and cleaned it up ourselves after the movers left. 

Yosemite Sami had left a few surprises under my bed.  So, that was nice.  

Despite the surprises, we were in the hotel room and eating a burrito by 6pm.  Full of beans and relief to have it all behind us, we just kicked back the rest of the evening.

This morning, Meteorology Man is downstairs working in the lobby, while I watch American Restoration on the History channel. 

I might venture down and do a load of laundry later.

Seriously, what do folks do who don’t have nine neurotic canine to chase around the house?
 
What’s your plan today?

As we let go of watering Hole Ranch, I thought we might take a look back and watch the video Macy created when the dream came to pass. 

It’s our last night on the ranch and I am having to spend it without my little canine lovies. We dropped them off at the boarding kennel today.   Their happy faces all dropped when I placed each of them into the cages and shut the door.  But momma, their eyes say to me.  break. my. heart.

I soaked my red mare’s horse feathers with tears this afternoon.  I don’t have any words.

Everything is ready for the movers tomorrow, so I am heading to bed early.

Spending the rest of the evening curled up under my electric blanket with Lucy.

She makes me laugh.

update: The house was so quite last night.  Didn’t sleep but two hours.  My eyes are puffy. 

The sunrise was even more spectacular than usual.  I instantly remembered the first sunrise here at the ranch. It was bittersweet, because we had lost Annie Oakley, she had wandered off.  A neighbor brought her back later in the day, assuming she belonged to us.  I remember that happiness.

I read your sweet words to me this morning.  Thank you, my beauties.  Got out of bed and packed the rest of MM’s scattered belongings.  There might have been some grumbling. The last of the laundry is in the dryer.  Everything we are taking to the hotel is packed in the truck.  We are now just waiting for the movers to arrive. ( 10:30am, the movers have arrived and I’ve made the rounds with them. He’s got a good crew, shouldn’t take very long at all.)

I can hear the birds singing. They feel spring in their song.  I am taking their lead and moving forward.  I will wail no more, but resonate the freshness of new roads.

I am laughing.

For the record, one Wild Woman scheduled all of her dog grooming/boarding appointments according to the closing date the He Whose Name Shall Not Be Mentioned gave her.  Since we have just discovered we are not closing on the 21st, but rather the 25th, the senseless act of abusing poor pound puppies in the less than comfy cages fall onto one Meteorology Man, who shall of course, remain nameless.  Come March 9th, there’s going to be some chihuahua fury unleashed.

Of course, if no one tells them of this ghastly mistake, they will never know.
Of course, my silence doesn’t come cheap.

But how do you know which kids to adopt?

It was a genuine question, I suppose.  But, the answer seemed too obvious to me.  Still, I answered.

A mother recognizes the faces of her children.

The memory comes flooding back to me as I open a gift Meteorology Man gave me yesterday evening. Not the usual Valentine offerings of candy and flowers, or even jewelry.  This one brings tears to my soul. 

More than twelve years ago, I found myself browsing the internet, looking through photo after photo of children for adoption. I kept coming back to three sweet faces, a sister and two younger brothers.  We already had six children and the thought of adding more children only made me weak in the knees.  I wasn’t some perfect super mom and I knew there was no way I could be a good enough mom to nine children.  I mean, what would people think? They already thought we were crazy for having six. Yet, I bookmarked their photo and talked with those faces every morning.

About a month later, I was shopping at the local thrift store and noticed a current issue of McCall’s magazine. It had an adoption article listed on the cover, so I tossed it in the cart.  A couple days later, I opened the magazine to page 43 and my heart dropped clear to my stomach.  I covered my mouth and started to cry.

 
A mother does recognize the face of her children. 
The same three I had bookmarked, sat starring back at me from the pages of the magazine. Half a million kids in foster care, not likely it was just a fluke.

And the rest is history.

We lost this magazine, with the rest of our sentimentals, in the tornado almost three years ago. Meteorology Man found a copy on-line and ordered it for me.

Valentine’s can keep its chocolate, teddys and diamonds,
my man knows how to pour true passion into this ragged old heart of mine.

Okay, and I have to admit, the chocolate covered strawberries were a nice touch. I like me a bit of fancy.

Thank you, Hunky,
for going beyond the norm.