Redneck conversion complete

Any vestiges of my Yuppie upbringing have officially disappeared. I've been asked to turn in my Nordstrom's card, avert my eyes when a beemer drives by, and stay up-county where I belong. We are, in a word, redneck-a-fied.

Ignore the fact that Martin considers clean cargo pants evening attire.

Or that I took the kid to a party without any shoes.

Or that I've got a baseball cap permanently attached to my head.

That a weekend jaunt to the dump and Tractor Supply constitutes a road trip.

That entertainment is watching the kids play naked in a pothole after a rainstorm.

That I wear spurs when I shop for groceries.

Or that we're a two pickup family.

That people identify our house simply as "the one with the sheep."


Shove aside all those facts. The brief exchange I had with my barefoot 3-year-old sums it up.

We were at a friend's house when Cayden waved his hand down around his knees. With wonder he asked:

"Mom, what is this air blowing out of the wall?"

me: "That would be air conditioning."


Okay, so our house isn't jacked up on wheels. But we're gittin a little close to double wide livin, y'all.

young Redneckius Americanus photographed in their natural habitat

Nirvana on wheels

Every so often Martin announces, "If we could get another vehicle, I'd get a pickup truck."

He says it as if we don't have one.

When in fact, we own TWO: Big Rig and Chitty.

So here's the scene this afternoon at the farm. Martin's vehicle dream team.
Wake up Martin! The two on the right are just here for Mouse House renovations. Don't get attached.

These are a few of my favorite hates....

About a month ago, I posted Martin's Hate List...for no other reason than it's random and he's held onto it for 15 years (if you missed it, see the list.)

Not to be outdone, I hatched a list of my own. The unofficial rules of this exercise: it can't be personal, like "I hate Martha" and it can't be obvious... "I hate slow drivers," or "I hate running out of milk when I'm eating cereal."

It has to be something uniquely "you," which --shesh -- brings me to #9 on my own list.

Most of things that I've itemized lead Martin to state the obvious: "You have issues."

Of course I have issues. I'm weird. That's part of my charm.

But I also remind him that he's warped me into the person that I've become: someone who writes a hate list!

Today seemed a good day for it. I'm half-way through a medium bag of M&M's (that 12.60 ounces, folks) and it's raining hard outside, which probably means it's raining inside as well.

That sucks. I hate it when it rains in the house.

Just kidding. That isn't really not on my list. I was just warming up.

Okay, here goes. My list. Feel free to sound off or comment with your own hates...assuming the censor function on this blog isn't up to its old tricks.

My Hate List (in no particular order)

-humidity
-rice pudding
-dancing
-people who rarely phone, but when they do, start by saying "hey, it's me..."
-purposeful old-style misspelling, as in "the Olde Towne Shoppe."
-ice tea in plastic bottles
-being tired
-new housing developments
-writers who describe anything as "unique"
-being approached by someone I know while I'm working out at the gym
-the term "lover" as in, "we're lovers."
-car washes
-jiffy lube
-parents who refer to themselves in the 3rd person when talking to their kids
-people who bend back the covers on paperback books
-cold feet (literally)
-monkeys, baboons and other primates
-mud
-taking the last sip out of a glass, even my own
-people who use a close-up picture of their kid as their facebook photo

and finally, a late but loathsome entry:

-the lint condom on the washing machine!

Technical difficulties

A few of the loyal 6 out there who read my blog instead of working, have complained that they have been unable to post comments. Am I censoring posters, they ask?

No, of course not! I just don't want to hear from you!

I consulted the great lint-condom retriever/lawn boy/technical lackey who shrugged and said, "I dunno." But after nagging and badgering him, he worked his clickety-clack magic, click this, unclick that, reload a widget here and there and shazamm!

I don't know if it'll work now, but give it a whirl (and email me if problems prevail). I promise not to censor you.

Unless you say something disparaging about my dog. The kids are fair game, me, Martin... but Maisie's perfect so don't go there.

Oops I did it again

I lost the lint condom down the drain pipe behind the washing machine.

I loathe the lint condom. The product's real name is "Washing Machine Lint Trap" but it'll always be the lint condom to me. The directions read something like, "slide the open end of the lint trap over the discharge hose and, gently holding it between thumb and forefinger, unroll the wire mesh down the length of the hose..."

I understand it's purpose: to catch lint and debris from the wash that would otherwise clog the plumbing. But I don't know why we have this stupid thing. I'm not blaming it totally on farm life and our septic tank, but lemmie put it this way: we never needed one when we lived in spitting distance of a 7-11.

Then again, what do I know? I hadn't the foggiest clue that some kitchen sinks don't have garbage disposals until I yanked that metal thingey out of ours and stuffed a fist full of corn husks down the drain. But that's another story.

You are supposed to remove the lint condom before it reaches full capacity, but there is no warning when time's up. Only the sound that you are too late. Usually I'm dozing on the couch, dreaming of a babbling brook or water cascading down a rock face... when I snap awake and bolt down the stairs. I slap a hand over the washing machine button, which stops the gushing waterfall, but it's too late. A stream flows along the slanted floor of our settled house. Rivulets of water whisk dust bunnies and dead bugs across the cellar until they pool out of sight beneath cabinets and shelves. I curse, dump towels on the floor to stem the stream, and stomp back upstairs.

Back in the olden days, our condom sheathed a laundry hose which dumped unceremoniously into a rickety sink. But when we gussied-up the cellar, the contractor concealed the laundry pipe within the wall. At the time, this seemed like an aesthetically-pleasing stroke of genius. But we didn't account for condom slippage.

The first incident was alcohol induced. Martin and I were kid-free and drinking & watching movies one evening, when I decided to start a load of laundry (yea we live it up). Discarding the used lint condom, I held the new one suspended over the drain pipe, when -- zoom! -- down the drain in the wall it went.

Fortunately Martin was also buzzed and not too mad about spending that evening fishing down a 2-inch pipe with a wire hanger. By some miracle, he hooked the lint trap and pulled it out.

This time, I don't know what happened. I just heard that all too-familiar sound of a river running through it. I slammed the machine off and extracted the end of the hose to discover, not a lint-filled condom, but no condom at all.

I don't know how or why it fell off, but this time Martin cursed. A lot. He threatened to cut through the wall, sever the pipe, summon a plumber... when in his last ditch effort, he blindly snagged the thing, again thanks to a bent wire hanger.


In the future we need to rig a fail-safe method to prevent the condoms from disappearing into the wall. Meanwhile, I've decided to channel a redneck version of Mommie Dearest, one who embraces the utilitarian wire hangers in her closet, and declares: NO MORE PLASTIC HANGERS!

The Day After the Hunt Races

We came. We watched. We drank. We're hung over.

Kidding, in my particular case. Imbibing was not in the cards thanks to our 2 little spore spreaders. Once again they ID-ed some nauseated child at daycare, rubbed their hands all over him, and quickly ran home to me to complete their virus-transfer. Well, Saturday at 1 am, Mission Accomplished, kids. Fortunately, the take-down was temporary and I recovered enough for Sunday's Races. But I could only drink and eat vicariously through others.

Still, I wouldn't have missed it. Perched on that gently rolling steeplechase course, watching horses streak across the field and hanging out with friends and family.


Thankfully unlike the Preakness, BYOB is still alive and well at the Races. And for those not plagued by swine flu, there was plenty of food & drink to go around. A couple of our friends have a theme to their tailgate and this year's was no different.


...well, wild-west outlaws with a twist...

everyone got into the cowboy spirit...

And while races were being won in the home stretch...

...other contests were underway behind the scenes....

As always, it was a raucous, exhausting, deliciously fun day.


PS: Thanks to my assistant for all the candids...

Never trust a plant

Our neighbor Ernesto was cruising along the drive in typical dust-raising speed when he spotted me and hit the breaks, spitting gravel. I couldn't hear what he was saying, but he pointed to our wood pile.

My wood pile. I take some perverse pride in it since I salvaged, hauled and stacked the logs myself.

It is a lovely wood pile, I thought as I walked toward him...stacked by yours truly....maybe he wants some of it...

"Do you need some wood?" I asked. There's not a lot, but I'm feeling generous....

"No!" He looked kind of horrified, like I'd just offered him nuclear waste.

"No, I just wanted to tell you that the wood's covered in poison ivy. If you burn it, the poison ivy will get in your lungs. You'll end up in the hospital."

I peered at the tendrils of gnarled vines wrapped around the logs. How did he know it was poison ivy? How could he be so sure?

Let me back up a few decades here.

Long ago me 'n Poison Ivy struck an agreement. It would leave me alone and I wouldn't brag about my ivy-resistant powers. And for much of life, I've cavorted in poison ivy. I played hide and seek in its leafy patches and bedded down in it at sleep-away camp. Wove garland crowns out of poison ivy and danced in the moonlight....

There was always a trade off of course. From birth, mosquitoes have devoured me to the bone. Still, that old adage "leaves of 3, let it be" was meaningless. Poison ivy was my friend.

Til I turned the ripe old age of 30, and nature and age bestowed some memorable gifts: my first wrinkles around my eyes, my first gray hairs... and poison ivy re-neged on our deal.

"That's poison ivy!" Martin practically crowed as I manically scratched the bubbly red patch on my arm.

"Impossible! I must've been attacked by a mosquito colony. I don't get poison ivy."

"Well, you do now."

And wouldn't you know it, my powers failed right when we moved to the farm. Where poison ivy grows thick and plentiful by the bushel. Around here you could harvest it, string it together, and it would encircle the earth twice.

But without those Calamine lessons of childhood, I am powerless at identifying the plant. Much to Martin's dismay. "How can you not know poison ivy?" he asks incredulously. You'd think I'd just announced that my hobbies are flag burning and painting swastikas.

"I dunno. Everything's leafy and green around here! I don't understand how you see it so easily!"

Martin tests me constantly. "What that? What's that?" I lob out random plant names.

"Honeysuckle? pachysandra? boxelder?"

"No! Leaves of three...how many times do I tell you this?" He gets pissed about this. "Comeon, you've got kids now!"

Like that denotes some kind of responsibility.

But just about the time that Martin's going blow his stack, I feign sudden understanding. Not because I recognize the plant, but because Martin has a tell: "what's that?" When I hear that, I know that that's "it."

"Oh, that's poison ivy," I say knowingly. He looks momentarily relieved. When he's gone, I go back to plunging through leaves of three, four and five to pick berries. I hope my secret powers return soon.

And truthfully, no one's perfect. Even the great Poison Ivy Hunter stumbles. Last year while I was at a softball game, Martin called frantically because Hadley the Barbarian had eaten poison ivy.

Fortunately, babies are not susceptible or don't develop a reaction until they're older. And for now, I'm gambling that the kids will be like me -- immune. They don't have a choice. I can't identify the damn stuff anyway.

my former BFF, now frenemy

Today's mindless diversion

Apparently my tech support is feeling his flower power. New day, new blog design.

Thanks, I think.

No words of wisdom today, just a little mind rotting video of a movie, thankfully not coming to a theater near you. Check out the behind-the-scenes clip too.

Project Mouse House

If the couple who previously owned our farm suddenly reappeared, they'd find the house they left 8 years ago. Aside from finishing the cellar, we haven't painted a wall, replaced a drape, a window shade, a square of wallpaper. The little wooden frog they forgot, suspended over the kitchen window, is still airborne -- dust covered but ever-present. The only changes in their absence: spidery cracks in the plaster and peeling wall paper.

So you'd think that after 8 years we'd spruce up the place and give it some personal touches.

Nope. We're renovating the Mouse House.

In its former life, the Mouse House was a milk parlor -- a concrete block and tin-roofed structure adjoining the main barn, used for cooling and storing milk (I think. Any dairy farmers out there, correct me if I'm wrong). By all estimates the barn, milk parlor and silo were built around 1920.

By the '70s with its dairy days behind it, the barn was converted for horses and the parlor stripped of milking equipment and turned into an apartment. By the time we came around, it was a boys' club, outfitted with a poker table, a few taxidermy-challenged animals, a basket full of shotgun shells and a rusted fridge stocked with ketchup and a case of Bud.

Though the previous owners only used it for poker, it did have its share of full-time residents. Birds nested in the oven and exhaust fan, and rodents bedded down in the walls and rafters. We immediately called it the Mouse House.

In those rookie months of ownership, we were blissfully clueless about the many farm repairs and what they'd cost. We gutted the Mouse House with great gusto and hatched grandiose plans for an apartment with a bedroom addition and a deck.

Then reality set in.

The Mouse House was long-listed behind more pressing projects like installing a new fence, patching the roof on the house, replacing the rotten bilco doors and pie-in-the-sky dreams of central air conditioning. But this spring, the Mouse House project was paroled with Martin's determination that the building must become his new home office. (I think he's in search of a new "man cave" ever since I commandeered his office in the cellar. )

The Mouse House is shoe-box tiny so we're figuring out how to squeeze in a galley kitchen, outfit the bathroom, enlarge the windows and build an affordable deck.

Fortunately, we're visionaries -- or moderately naive. Personally, I see the renovation as a boost in property value. And after years of flipping through real estate flyers and wandering through open houses, I think this lovely dwelling boasts some amenities that would thrill any homeowner, including:

insulation...look how warm we'll be in the winter

Greenery. Some turn up their noses at poison ivy, but I think house plants breathe life into a room.

Wall decor. Just the other day, I was pondering: what IS the best way to clean an udder?

Look, our first house guest...

What I'm saying here is critters, be warned. You are on notice of eviction. And we'll have to find a new home for our toxic chemicals, axes, and other hazmats and bludgeoning tools.

It's difficult to imagine this place rodent-free and sans poison ivy. But who knows, if it winds up as nice as Martin claims it'll be, I just might have to move in there....

The man, the vision

How Green It Is

Hard to believe that just a few short months ago, I was bitchin and moanin about the dead grass, the mud, the brownness of it all....(see field of bleak). And now we've gone from this:

to this!

It seems to happen overnight. Now, let the mowing begin!

Road Kill Envy

Thou shall not covet thy neighbor's dead animals. Isn't that one of the 10 commandments? If so, I've violated that tenet twice.

I don't remember exactly when I first spied the stuffed foxes poised in Liz and John's living room but I think it was after their house was renovated. (It's a 19th century Victorian clapboard, perfectly appointed in hunt-country decor... which is flat-out irritating!).

Anyway, there were these two cute foxes, one sitting and the other caught in mid-stride. They looked like museum pieces.

"Oh yea, they're road kill," Liz explained. Her husband John witnessed one freshly struck by a car and he scooped up the carcass in a trash bag, and tied it to the roof. "The other one I just found by the road," she said. "So I stuck him in the fridge and we took him to the taxadermy place in town."

It sounded so easy. Recyleable road kill becomes lovely conversation piece. I immediately wanted one for our bar/carriage house.

"Just don't try to pick one up in the summer," Liz warned. "My friend found a good one and put it in the back of her SUV. When she got home she noticed that the carpet in the trunk was moving... because thousands of ticks had jumped ship from the fox. It took her ages and tons of vacuuming to get rid of them."

Yikes, good advice, I thought as I reserved my carcass hunt for winter months. Most of the dead foxes on the road were pretty mangled. But one day I whizzed past one when Martin happened to be a mile behind in the truck. I grabbed my cell phone.

"Hey, there's a good-looking dead fox on the road just at the bend. Can you grab it for me?"

martin: "What? You want me to pick up a dead animal? I'm dressed for a meeting... I don't even have any gloves."

me: "Come on, just do it. For the good of the bar!"

I stayed on the phone until he found the fox, then he left the phone on the bumper while he scooped it up. Even from a distance I heard the yelling. "Jesus Christ!!"

"What? What's wrong?" I shouted, waiting for him to pick up. What if the fox was still alive and it jumped up and bit him? There's no way. It was dead as a door nail...

Then I hear Martin, panting a bit. "I picked it up and turned it over. It's full of maggots," he said. "I'm going to meeting and now I've got maggots on me."

"That sucks," I said. (damn, that thing looked good on the outside...) "Oh well, just leave it then. Thanks!"

Since then I've seen a few other candidates. But Martin has not been keen on retrieval.

In the meantime, the Boy and I have been searching for some nice deer remains ever since we eyed up "Fred," the little skull and antlers that sits in front the neighbor's barn. Liz (a different Liz), found the skull years ago while trail riding. I'm not so attached to it but Cayden was instantly intrigued.

"fred"

About a week ago, I rode past deer bones, picked clean, and scattered across a hayfield. I brought the Boy back later, but seeing ribs, a spine, and a furry leg with a hoof still attached was a little too real for him. Instead, we christened these dinosaur bones -- likely a deerasaurus or a deerodactyl.

I retrieved the skull, which was picked beetle-clean. For now it sits amongst our weedy whiskey barrels and greets visitors to the barn.

beware all ye who enter....

This could be you

....partying it up and -- if you're lucky -- embarrassing yourself among friends, at this year's Potomac Hunt Races!

Less than 2 weeks away, this steeplechase meet is held Sunday, May 17th in good-old Seneca, Maryland. Pack up a tailgate, load up your friends and fam, and head on out to the country. Proceeds from the event help support the pediatric program @ Shady Grove Hospital.

Never been? Not sure what to bring, what to wear? Check out the Potomac Hunt Race site for more info.