me vs. waffles

I woke up this morning happy.  I saw the sun dancing through the leaves (despite the fact that it is fall and they are turning to yellows, oranges, reds, and browns); the chill outside of the blankets was not totally intolerable.  I was thinking about the blessings of the lovely people who are braided into the tapestry of my life and I decided that nothing could stop me.  Nothing could kill my happiness, not even my nemesis.  The unspeakable would not thwart me today.  I stood strong and spoke my intention firmly, you shall not succeed, you will not beat me.

I was going to make another attempt at waffles.

No, this may not sound like anything to you, but that is because you are normal.  The way that I make waffles is nothing short of being considered some sort of minor life event near worthy of marking it down in an online diary (ahem, like this).  As you can imagine, I am certainly not going to open some box of waffle mix and throw that onto some poison non-stick Teflon plug-in waffle maker.  That would be way too easy.

When I make waffles, it has to be a well-thought out, conscious decision.  The challenge that I am about to take on could quite possibly flip my switch from happy to irate in under an hour.  It is with this in mind that I summon sisu, pull up my big girl panties, throw on my Wonderwoman tank top, and get after it.

I want to eat as real as possible - it just tastes better, and you get a lot more nutrition.  This may seem slightly more complicated, but that's not where the challenge lies.  Grabbing eggs from the chicken coop and using a grain mill to make my favorite blend of flour brings a level of satisfaction that I don't consider a bother at all.  Instead, the challenge comes from the tools that I have decided to use, and the resulting mess that is nothing short of legendary.

Let me introduce you to the very impossible cast iron, stove top waffle maker.  It's small, maybe 8" in diameter.  The very useless and poorly thought out handle is about 4" long, which is just the right size for you to burn your hand even with an oven mitt on.  I bought it online, which is great for a better price, but is a bummer because it was not seasoned.  (The rest of my cast iron collection was purchased at antique stores - that is the way to go.)  This is where things get complicated.  Impossibly hot cast iron short handled waffle makers over fire combined with unseasoned insides and sticky batter makes for an interesting form of frustration.

It is with this in mind that you must use a bit of science (yay, science!) to have at least one successful waffle out of your gallon of batter.  The first waffle on this waffle maker is a bust; quite frankly I don't even pretend to hope anymore, although it has been so long since I have made waffles (due to this frustration) that a dim hope dared to spring up inside - fear not, it was quashed the moment I opened the waffle maker to check its progress.

The science is simply this: use a crap ton of coconut oil all over the inside of the waffle maker (even though the recipe has ONE FREAKING CUP of butter and you would think that perhaps just by that fact, it may not utterly fail - but you would be mistaken) - so much coconut oil that every person in the house comes up to you individually and asks you if you are also making popcorn (no). 

My family knows the history of these waffle challenges and they used to have quite a pile of negative responses when the waffles weren't working. 

Kid 1: Mom, are these burnt?  I don't want any burnt stuff on my waffle.
Kid 2: This one is kind of falling apart, Mom.
Husband: Maybe you should just get a waffle maker like your mom.

Hey, I have an idea!  Maybe you all should just shut up.

But now because I have shut down all waffle making for at least a year (no soup for you!), upon the announcement of "I am making waffles today", I received nothing short of accolades and positive reinforcement.

Kid 1: Wow, Mom, that sounds great!  I am so hungry!
Kid 2:  I bet these will taste great, even if they are falling apart!
Husband: You're making waffles?  (pause - was it in fear?  I'm not sure.) Oh, I was hoping you would!

I pulled out my mom's recipe that requires separation of eggs and the folding in of stiff-peaked just-layed-this-morning egg whites (because go big or go home, right?), milled a perfect blend of oat, spelt, and winter wheat flour, melted a cup of butter in the cast iron pan, and crossed my fingers.

First waffle:  Seriously.  What even the heck is this.  No really, what is this?  Gooey mess conformed to every freaking crack on both sides of this burning hot cast iron mess.  Separate the two sides, scrub down over the sink with a brush.  Start over.  I had a feeling you would be a fail, but this is of epic proportion.

Waffle #2: Add coconut oil to the top and bottom of the waffle maker, watch the oil ooze out onto the stove when you flip it over.  Add batter.  Set timer.  Holy crapola, man.  No.  It's bad, but not as bad.  Re-scrape.  Kid #2 enters and remarks, oh, that's okay, Mom!  I know it looks crumbly, but I'll eat it.  I bet it tastes really good.  God bless you, child.  Take this from my sight and never speak of it again.

Waffle #3:  Add even more coconut oil to the top and bottom of the waffle maker.  Scrape the waffly bits from the cracks and crevices.  Cross fingers. Pour batter, set timer, flip.  Burn hand only slightly.  Watch as the melted coconut oil mingles with the rebellious crumbles of what was supposed to be a waffle around the gas flame on the stove.  Pray that you do not burn down the kitchen.  Waffle 3 is a better success than the first two, and I am gaining hope.

Waffle #4: Add so much coconut oil that you think that just by standing here in front of this, you're absorbing it into your skin.  Imagine showering with a Brillo pad.  Watch the stream of melted coconut oil pour all over the stove when you flip the waffle and burn your hand (yes, even with the oven mitt).  Watch how the oven mitt seems to catch fire while you're wearing it, if only for a second.  Muse to yourself that cooking is an adventure.  Have the first successful looking waffle peel from the sides of the ridiculous waffle maker, start thanking Jesus aloud for this unexpected mercy.

Waffle #5: Look into the Costco-sized vat of coconut oil and be impressed with just how much you've used, and then use a lot more.  Pour batter, set timer, watch as the simmering crumbles of ex-waffle dance in the puddles of coconut oil beneath the waffle maker, surrounding the gas flame.  Make a mental note of where the fire extinguisher is.  Begin thinking through the step-by-step plan of how on earth this is ever going to be cleaned up.  Waffle #5 peels off without a challenge and children are coming up to cheer me on.  You did it, Mom!  Look at that!  I'm too happy about it to be bothered with what must be (on some level) patronizing comments. 

Waffle #6-10: Use even more coconut oil because this is the only thing making these stupid things not glue themselves to the side of the pan, give up on the thought of ever not having the kitchen looking like some weird tropical hurricane sped through here on its way directly from a waffle factory.  Amuse yourself with the steady cheers of the peanut gallery who are singing the praises of your waffle-making skills like you just simultaneously painted the Mona Lisa and won the Olympics and the lottery.  Decide that maybe this isn't so bad...

Until you finish and start cleaning it up.  Good thing I have Norwex.

 It was a heck of a fight, and it was a close one, but I'm sure I won this one (like a good kick set).

Peace, love, and pass the butter,
Ms. Daisy

Ms. Daisy's 100 Little Things to Be Happy About

Hey lovies.  Yes, I know, it's been a while.  I have been working on getting a business started while doing school, creating a website for the business, running the usual household things and the chickens, teaching, and keeping the plates spinning, so I haven't had a lot left over to pour out in this direction.

Alas!  I am here for the moment and I wanted to give this to you.

Life is funny, isn't it?  Sometimes it's just so darn funny, it's not even funny.  In those times, you might just need to remember the good things that are out there - things that don't deplete your wallet (that much, anyway), and things that just make you smile because of what they are.  With that in mind, I wrote up a list of things that make me happy.  I've seen other people do similar things, but I am pretty sure I'm the only one whose list includes the entry "butter in general" (see #55).  I wouldn't want to deprive you of such illustrious things, and so I am here to share.

(p.s. I met up with a friend I haven't seen in a decade or more and she brought me a present!  What was it?  Why, a 3 pack of Kerrygold grass fed butter, of course!  Thank you, dear!)

Without further ado, may I present to you - Ms. Daisy's 100 Little Things to Be Happy About

1. A hot bath right before bed.
   
2. Seeing your kid swinging happily on the swing when they don’t know you’re watching.
3. The one cup of hot black tea you have at breakfast.
4. Laying with eyes closed in the sunshine.
5. Having a conversation and a cup of tea with someone who makes you happy.
6. Being in the middle of an amazing book.
7. Speaking to someone in another language.
8. Hitting the bullseye on the first try.
9. When your favorite flavor of Kevita is available and on sale.
10. Oboro incense.
11. Smelling something that flashes you back to a moment in your life and it’s so real, you can see and feel it.
12. When you must do the laundry and the basement is cold, but you can wrap a large hot towel around yourself and stick your head into the dryer and take a pretend nap on the warm clothes.
13. Finally sitting down after being on your feet all day.
14. What your kitchen/fridge/house/bathroom/vehicle looks like when it is perfectly clean.
15. Cracking an egg into a butter-filled cast iron pan that is so fresh, it’s still warm.
16. Jumping into the pool (or a lake) and watching the bubbles rise up around you.
17. Staring at the sky in the middle of the summer at sunset floating on your back in the middle of a lake.
18. Showering outside.
19. Finishing a triathlon.
20. The lateness of sunset in the summer.
    
21. Walking barefoot in the grass when it’s warm.
22. Hopping fences.
23. Cartwheels.
24. Getting paid to do what you thrive on.
25. The feeling right when the plane lifts off of the ground.
26. Sleeping until you wake up on your own.
27. New York City.
28. Having a passionate intellectual argument.
29. Laughing until you can’t breathe.
30. Falling asleep with the window open.
31. Being able to fix something for someone.
32. Saunas.
33. The feeling of an amazing foot massage.
34. Falling asleep when you are exhausted.
35. Getting a package in the mail.
36. Writing with a black Bic gel ink pen in bold 1.0.
37. Writing (or reading) a poem that expresses exactly where you are at that moment.
38. When herbs first sprout in tiny pots on your windowsill.
39. Digging your toes in the sand at the beach and not having anything requiring your immediate attention.
40. Getting a hug when you really needed one.
41. Lying in bed and realizing you got everything done you needed to that day.
42. Driving really fast (safely, of course).
43. Going for a run that exhausts your body, clears your mind, and alleviates your soul.
44. Painting your nails your favorite color.
45. Being alone in your own space.
46. Having a happy dream that when you wake up, it seems like it might really have happened.
47. Getting a text that makes you burst into laughter.
48. Re-reading a text that makes you sigh happily.
49. Watching your itty bitties sleep.
50. Seeing the sunrise from the woods.
51. The memory of epic youthful shenanigans.
52. Mission Peninsula.
53. Being genuinely happy for someone else’s good news.
54. Homemade bread with grass-fed butter.
55. Butter in general.
56. Being the person that someone wants to tell their new news to.
57. Your favorite classical/jazz music piece.
58. Finding the perfect gift for someone.
59. When it’s been raining all day and then the sun peeks out brilliantly and overpoweringly.
60. Getting to see ancient art in person (and wondering how many eyes and generations across the whole world have taken in that same painting/sculpture).
61. Really great foodie-grade (dark, obviously) chocolate.
62. The mountains.
63. The first day that it feels like summer of the year.
64. Seeing a hummingbird.
65. Bohemian Rhapsody by Queen.
66. The scent of your lovies.
67. Looking at your friend and knowing exactly what they’re thinking at that moment.
68. PR-ing a race.
69. The silence, the movement, and the freedom of swimming underwater.
70. New running shoes, a new endurance suit.
71. A good hair day.
72. Teaching someone something and getting to watch the light bulb turn on in their head.
73. Delicious, wonderful, amazing, hippie scented patchouli lotion.
74. Your favorite undies.
75. Finding someone who understands you.
76. An exceptionally beautiful face.
77. The vibrant green-ness of the grass in spring.
78. Campfires, fireplaces.
79. A hot washcloth covering your whole face.
80. Knowing that life usually works out just fine.
81. Learning.
82. Daisies and tulips.
83. Running past apple blossom trees in full bloom.
84. Seeing good friends again from a lifetime ago.
85. Summer + live music + outside + your favorite drink
86. Orion in the night/early morning sky.
87. Buffalo meat.
88. Listening to somebody’s story.
89. Flying down a hill on your bike.
90. Getting a massage when you are so sore that you involuntarily cry-laugh-drool-gasp in reaction to muscle pressure.  Stop!  No, go.  Stop! Go! Ow! More!
91. Getting in a(n outside) hot tub after skiing (or swimming/running/biking) especially while it is snowing.
92. The first red, ripe, garden tomato of the season.
93. Icelandic full-fat yogurt.
    
94. Getting into a bed of just-washed sheets and a super fluffy down comforter.
95. Falling asleep to your hair being played with.
96. Night swimming.
97. Listening to your little one laugh ridiculously at something ridiculous.
98. The way Londoners speak.
99. Kitchen dancing. 
100. The thought that you can change the world for the better a little bit every day.

Yes, it may be unique to me, but perhaps some things resonate with you also.  If they don't, well then, get yourself your own piece of paper and start making your own list.  In fact, I'd love to hear it.  Wanna share?  Comment below.  I read every single comment.

Peace, love, and focus on the happy,
Ms. Daisy

Was my spleen exploding? Or did I just eat too many seeds...

I'm sure that title is something you've likely pondered time and time again in your life, but if it isn't, let me just allow you in for the experience that I'm sure you have always wondered about, but seemed just a little out of touch.

A week or two ago I went on a nut and seed eating rampage.  I think I created more ways to get chia seeds into my body than should even be imagined, and then for good measure, I added in flax, hemp and who even knows what else.  Mmmm, taste the power of seeds.  Oh, I tasted them all right.  I put those suckers in peanut butter (because who doesn't want to do that!) with raw honey, in my kombucha, in shakes, heck, I probably just ate them like candy with the frenzied pace I was on.

Question: How long until I die?

Then, all of a sudden, I started experiencing some strange stabbing pains.  They would come infrequently at first (did I connect this with ridiculous volumes of seed eating?  No.  I just kept it up like a boss.), and then more frequently, with or without movement.  The pain was stabbing and took my breath away, under the rib cage, left side, left of heart.  I did what people usually do (or maybe it's just me), and looked up detailed anatomy diagrams to try to pinpoint what on earth in there was festering and exploding, and then, follow the natural thought progression, try to guess how many minutes left I had of life.

I was quite sure it was my spleen.  This is concerning because those little spleeny things in there seem important and my paternal grandmother died of acute pancreatitis at a very early age, and I am fairly certain that those two organs are bros, thus (logically) I was also likely on my way out.  Write up the will.  Tess gets the white and silver daisy tea cup from Lacko Slott.

Lacko Slott, sorry Swedes, I have no double dots for you.

 Bloody genetics!  

What's worse is that everyone is going to make fun of me for dying!  Right?  No, I know this doesn't make sense to you, but it really does.  Here's Ms. Daisy, all healthy, swimming every minute she can, doing organic triathlons, promoting organic tampons, drinking organic kombucha, eating all her organic bananas and rubbing organic chia seeds into her organic natural peanut butter with hemp and flax, and she dies before she's the ripe old age of 40.  See?  What good is eating that organic crap anyway, look how it worked out for the busted spleen lady!  I'm just going to sit here and suck down a bunch of Coke Zero and McDonald's and live until I'm at least twice her pathetic dead age.  Then they'll taunt my dead soul with, "YOU DIDN'T EVEN WIN AT MAKING IT TO 100."  

This will not be tolerated.  I will haunt you.

And then they'll do my makeup all horrible in my casket so I'll have to come back as a ghost and shut it so you can't look.  Do not even try.  I will spill your stupid Coke Zero so fast your head will spin.

Meanwhile, back on a different level of reality, I got to thinking that perhaps it had something to do with my ridiculously excessive consumption of every kind of nut and seed I could find in the house and maybe I should try just backing that bus up for a minute.  Huh, that's a novel idea.  I had to figure something out as people were starting to threaten me with the idea of actually going to the doctor (no).

The following day after my epiphany, I would say the frequency of my spleen explosions cut in half.  It decreased steadily after that and by the weekend, I forgot I even had a spleen.

Sigh of relief!  Who wants to think about those organs anyway!  Not me!  Back to the organic triathlons!

The moral of the story?  I am pretty sure there isn't one.  Wait, yes there is: Don't drink Coke Zero.

Peace, love, and bananas,
Ms. Daisy

The best ideas for a facial ever. Not.

If there is a chance for me to do something weird, I'm probably going to do it, unless it involves drastic danger or non-organic foods (let's get real here).  Last night I came upon such a chance and jumped in both feet.  Since this is my life, things did not go exactly as anticipated.

(Case in point:  One time, I bludgeoned my toe INSIDE A SPINNING VACUUM HEAD.  How?  Oh, you know.  I was trying to get that sucker into the other room up on to the carpet, lifted it, and gave it a shove with my foot - and at that second, the 90 degree angle of the vacuum head dropped and that whirling tornado of decapitating death coincided with the swing of my foot and in went the toes.  The yells of torture resonated throughout the house.  The family approached slowly.  "What...did...you...do?"  They seem to have been anticipating a fountain of blood spewing out of my severed toes based on the instantaneous drop to the floor, fetal position, and howling that accompanied this drastic scene.  I'm good.  It's all good.  Just back up.  Or bring me some ice wine.  Whatever.)
 
Well, last night I was on pinterest, the land of great ideas that you should try (or just pin and never actually do).  I probably have subscribed to natural or homemade beauty and this pin popped up advertising the creation of those Biore rip-your-skin-off strips.  You know those, right?  I used to use them quite a bit, but now I read their ingredients.  They have some horrible thing in there - either a paraben or a polysorbate, so I dumped them when I read that and haven't used one of those for a long time.  They are kind of fun, however, which made me slightly sad to see them go.

Well, I had to see how you could possibly make a Biore strip.  That just seemed so strange!  Her recipe and instructions were simple enough, and I had the ingredients on hand, so I figured I'd try it.  Your skin will be glowing, they said.  You'll love it, they said.  Just try it, they said.

here is a girl looking radiant
and happy after using her
homemade biore strip

Simply mix a couple tablespoons of milk with a couple tablespoons of gelatin and warm it up, then put it on your face.  Ohhhkaaay.  Her instructions included using a microwave (psh, no, don't have one of those), so I just heated it up on a pot.  It smelled so gross.  Warm milk, ew.  But she promised nice smooth skin, so the torture of stench seemed worth it at the time.

When the blobby mixture was nice and warm, I took it over to the bathroom to minimize my mess that I knew would ensue.  I used a tiny itty bitty spoon to pour the concoction on my face and the back of the spoon to smear it on.  This was kind of weird to say the least.  I had drippy milky gelatin pouring down my cheeks and I was patting my face with a spoon.  Oh well!  Not to be deterred by stench or spoons on my face, I persisted in such weirdness.

All I had to do after was just simply to wait for it to dry a bit, then start peeling.  

So, it's not really drying.  Did I put too much on?  Or does this have too much milk and not enough gelatin?  It's collecting at my chin in a river of grossness.  I have a beard of milk jello.  This is going to be great, I can already tell.  Stay hopeful, it's not over yet.

After several minutes, I supposed some parts of it were dry.  I started peeling the jello beard and it was like I was in elementary school again and had poured Elmers on my hands.  Sort of fun, but not really feeling like it's cleaning pores or anything, it's just a strange science experiment at this point.

And then.

I got to the parts up higher on my face that had a much thinner layer of milk jello (so sick).  These parts were my very sensitive cheeks.  This, of course, dried to a crisp.  It was glued onto my face with vigor.  If I didn't know better, I would have supposed it had fused into my face and become part of it.  I found a corner to start pulling, and the stabbing pain of the pinchy, rippy, torture made my eyes involuntarily water a fountain of tears.  This is great.  My face is turning red from what feels like violently using a dry razor on my cheek.  Or a wolverine slashing my skin off.  Or boiling my face in hot peppers.  Something along those lines.

Now I may not have mentioned it, but just prior to doing this experiment, I saw another great idea on pinterest about using turmeric and rose water on your face to improve complexion and so much more...so I did that right before the skin removal party.  Have you cooked with turmeric?  Touch it ever?  Are your fingers still orange?  Good, because my face was.

So let's see here.  If you follow these good instructions for a special facial treatment, you can end up with:

- an orange face
- ripped off skin
- milk smell/beard
- red skin where you ripped it off

I mean, really - what do you have to lose!

I hope to do it again really soon.

Peace, love, and if you rub turmeric on your face in just the right pattern, you can kind of make an orange beard (and who wouldn't want that),
Ms. Daisy

On Being Invisible

A lot of my readers always ask me the age old question, "Dearest Ms. Daisy, have you figured out the secret of being invisible?"  Well, kind readers, you're in luck, because I'm here today to tell you that I just figured it out.

In order for this to work, you're going to need to have two things going on.  First, you need to be female.  Second, you need to have (or borrow) some children.  You may think this bizarre, but let me explain it by anecdotal evidence in at least three different scenarios.

Scenario 1: The bike store

Not invisible:  Walk into the independently owned bike store being female and having no children present, and you will receive quick attention and help.  Several people will offer to show you around to different bikes, can I help you, what are you looking for, would you like to go on a ride with me later because I can teach you how to bike faster (not kidding).  When you do make a purchase, you get random discounts (20% off?!  For me?!  Thanks!).  

Invisible:  Walk into the bike store with children.  Tell your children not to touch anything or run around.  Wait five minutes for help.  Sweat profusely because you are sure any minute your little darlings might tip over a $3,000 bike and break it.  You might get a discount if you come back alone when you pick up your freshly tuned-up bike.  Good luck.

Scenario 2:  The grocery store

He wasn't this old. He was 40ish. Just in case you wondered.

Not invisible:  Walk into the grocery store being female and having no children present, the greeter tells you, "I know you've told me before (um, not really), but what is your name again?  I promise to remember it this time."  You tell them your name, then they go get you a cart and ask if you need help finding anything.  You do your shopping then attempt to exit the store quickly, avoiding eye contact with said greeter, but as you walk through the exit, the greeter yells out while waving bye to you, "Have a nice day, and remember to drive safely, (your name)!"  (Uh, thanks.  You too?)

Invisible:  Walk into the grocery store with children.  Tell your children not to touch anything or each other.  Walk much faster than they can so that they don't have time to stop and fight with each other in the aisles.  Wish you could stand there and read the labels longer.  Use the U-scan, exit the store, unnoticed.

Scenario 3:  The gas station

Not invisible:  Pull up to the pump, no children in vehicle.  Get out, swipe card.  Be interrupted.
Man on other side of pump:  Hey, how are you doing, do you want some free gas?  I have $6 left over, you can have it, just here, put it in your tank.
Me: (On phone: Hey, honey, I'll call you back.) What?  Really?  What do you mean?  How is it free?  Can't you use it?
Man: Well, I mean, I'd have to walk all the way (ten steps?) into the gas station and get my $6 and I'd rather just give it to you.
Me:  Umm, really?  Are you sure?
Man:  Yes, here!  So...
Me:  Awesome!  You're so nice!
Man:  (Clears throat.)  I, uh, helped that lady over there, you know.  She needed a few bucks to get home and I gave it to her, yeah, I mean, I do that kind of thing now and again.
Me:  Oh!  Wow.  That's very nice of you.  (Getting free gas.)  Thanks for the gas!
Man:  (Big inhale, chest sticking out.)  Yeah, no problem, you have a nice day!
Me:  Thanks!  You too!
Call honey back: Dude, I just got $6 in free gas by some random guy.
Hubby:  WHAT ARE YOU WEARING RIGHT NOW?!
Me: (oh emm gee, just my saran wrap dress, why does it matter?) Black leggings and a striped shirt.
Hubby:  Oh.  Okay.
Me:  You think my face isn't cute enough to get free gas or what?
Hubby:  Not what I meant.
(Me:  I could really make him dig himself into a hole here and that might be fun, but I am too excited about getting free gas to pursue this at the moment.)

Invisible:  Pull up to gas station with children in car.  Pump gas.  Drive away.   Oh, wait, what?  You were at the gas station?  Huh, didn't see you.

There you have it.  Basically, if you want to fly under the radar, you grab some grubby little tykes and have them follow you around wherever you go and you can instantly disappear.  It's like the cloak of invisibility you never knew really existed.

If you are male, you will probably never be invisible, and if you bring your children with you, every woman in a ten mile radius will look at you with kindness and awe, because you must be a really good Dad, and that will make women stare at you and smile.  It's better than walking around with a puppy.

Another riddle solved.

Peace, love, and random discounts,
Ms. Daisy

The blunderous wonders of a 3 day weekend

Happy Memorial Day, everyone.  Thank you is not quite enough for those who have served, for those who have died, and for the families of both.  The words are paltry, but if we had others to use, I would use them to show the gratefulness of the sacrifices that you all have given.  

In celebration of this holiday, we usually take a trip up north.  It is still too cold to waterski (although I think in past years I may have eeked out a trip), and if I had to guess, I'd say the water was about 40 degrees.  Maybe 50.  Either way, it's the kind of cold that makes you suck in involuntarily and hurts - and if your head dares to dip below, you get the top of head frozen headache.  If you haven't ever been in that kind of water, you really should do it, not because it's fun or anything, rather mostly just to prove you are not a pansy.  

This weekend was no exception.  We did have to find a way to pack baby chicks in a couple bins to take them with us on our excursions (really not super recommended, but what can you do) as well as pack the dog (all in the same truck bed).  A stop on the way over to the feed store for some pine shaving bedding and we could almost convince my parents that chickens don't smell like horrible, filthy livestock.  (They still do.  Please, I love you, chicks, but please can you get out of my house yet?)  

I thought that I would go for a trail run the evening that we arrived - I love the path that takes me up (and I do mean vertically) through the woods, over to some sand hills, and then juts back in past a cedar swamp.  It is nice to have a different path and scenery (even if "running" up a sand hill has the same pace as walking up a sand hill).  I took the diseased dog with me, partly because she loves running and partly because every time I mention I am going to go on this trail, my mother tells me that it is entirely probable that I am going to be eaten by a bear and I figure bears would maybe rather eat a dog than me, so let's give them some menu options.  

I thought that I would go a bit longer on this run (after sitting in the car for 3-4 hours, I had plenty of stored energy), so I ran past the house after the trail run and down to the end of the road (1.1 more miles away).  I was totally down with this and tearing up the pace, but the dog was not really on board with me.  Soon, it seemed that I was dragging her behind me.  Yes.  I was dragging a dog.  This is much more unpleasant than I want it to be, what remedy is there?  I could just loop her leash over a post or tree or something and let her rest while I go to the end of the road (she would still be in sight).  Yeah, that sounds like a good idea.  There's hardly any people up here anyway.  

That looks like a good place!  I hooked her to a post on one of the last and vacant driveways and told her to sit and stay.  I ran off, gloriously faster (no 50 pound dead weight yanking my arm backwards), and turned around at the end.  I could see the small shape of the black dog sitting and waiting for me.  I got about 100 yards further and the dog started to bark the bark of alarm.  What?  What is the problem?  Why would she be barking like that...and she is turned sideways aiming at the house?  Oh great.  I couldn't run fast enough.  (As a side note, sprinting and yelling at a dog simultaneously is a great way to burn a lot of calories, but a quick way to get out of breath.)  Come on, teleporter, make me get up there.  Why hasn't someone invented a teleporter yet? (Seriously, someone needs to get on that.)  

A woman was approaching the dog, walking down her driveway, somewhat meekly as my dog was in full going-to-kill-you bark mode.  She turned short and began her evening walk.  I sprinted my guts off and debated - do I run past her and say, "Oh hi, this is my dog, I thought nobody lived here, and my dog was really tired, so I just wanted her to rest while I was running to the end..."  Explaining always sounds worse, so I just unhooked the dog and sprinted past her waving and smiling instead.  She can imagine whatever she wants, I guess.  On the way home, I learned a new way to breathe while running - it was to put my tongue on the bottom of my top teeth so I could avoid swallowing gallons of bugs (I learned this too late as I probably ate an entire protein bar's worth of bugs on that run).  

Finally, we made it home.  Now I can just take a shower and chillax, maybe read my new book about Elizabeth I.  Perfect - minus the bug sandwiches and the dog fiasco.  Except, wait.  Where are my clean underwear?  No seriously.  I unpacked my entire bag.  I have plenty of socks, 4 pairs of shoes, a plug for my ipod, I even brought Sovereign Silver and P73 Orega-Resp just in case of weird emergency.  And no underwear.  You have got to be joking me.  Awesome.  I guess my undies get a shower, too.  

Sunday was filled with a coma-like nap, the kind that you know you should be getting up because you probably slept so long it's dinner now, but when you try to open your eyes, you feel drugged and dizzy, but you are so determined to get up that you throw your legs over the side of the bed/couch and start walking...over to another place that you can lay down and go back to sleep for a while.  This is unfortunately periodically interrupted by your spouse who keeps sarcastically and dramatically asking you if you are okay, and if something is wrong with you, and purposely loud enough so that your mother hears, who will really actually think you are sick and start bombing you with questions about your health when all you want to do is alternate between punching your husband with his sarcastically amused expression (at the success of getting your mother involved) and actually going back to your sleep coma.  Monday has to be better.  

Except at 4:30 a.m. you wake up to the worst pain in your elbow ever experienced by humans on earth and conclude that you are dying of a black widow or brown recluse spider bite.  The elbow looks like a swollen freakshow and bending or not bending it makes you wish you knew how to do self-amputation.  But wait!  There is danger!  Perhaps that spider is still in the bedding.  I must wake my husband and save his life.  "Honey, I think I just got bit by a venomous spider.  It might still be here!"  

Hubby grumbles, "What?  What do you want me to do?"  

"We need to get up and check!"  

Hubby, "What?!  Didn't you do this like a few months ago and there was no spider?"  

Me, "Seriously!  Are you even talking about that!?  No, I don't recall that.  Just get up, I'm turning on the light."  On goes the light.  He appears half awake.  I am full-blown awake and on a mission to eradicate death spiders, ripping covers and pillows off, onto the floor, but then worrying that the spider already escaped to the floor and is now under the bedding and will likely bite me again.  I sit up in bed.  My hair falls onto my arm, and I do a freak out dance.  "Please can you look up spider bites on your phone?"  

"Right now?  Let me see your elbow.  It doesn't look like a spider bite."  

"Well what the heck else do you think I would wake up suddenly from in the middle of the night in excrutiating pain from?!  It has to be!"  I plod downstairs to get an ice pack for my pathetic pain.  

Hubby, "Google says you could have MRSA.  That is so gross, and I'm laying in bed with you."  

WHAT?!  "First of all, no, I do not have MRSA.  And secondly, what did you just say?  I am probably dying of a brown recluse bite and you're accusing me of having MRSA!"  Finally, after an hour or so, I fall back to sleep (hubby had no problem with that and was at snore level 3 within minutes), cuddling with an ice pack and dreaming of spiders and snake bites.  As morning dawns, I look at it, hoping it is better, but it is worse.  I want to go home and get activated charcoal.  Why don't my parents have weird things in their medicine cabinet?  My mom and dad bring me epsom salt, and my mom suggests that a wasp stung me.  Mom, a wasp?  It was 4:00 in the morning.  Well, it could be, she says.  Dad looks at it, he thinks he sees something.  I soak my arm in epsom salt in the sink and decide I am probably going to die so I should either pack up and rush home (3-4 hour drive) or go the opposite way, into town, to the urgent care/emergency room.  But which one?  I call the emergency room.  They tell me that they can't give me medical advice over the phone.  Thank you.  Awesome.  

I resign myself to my death and tell hubby we probably should go into town to the ER (especially after hearing that my friend's daughter went into shock and delerium from her brown reculse bite).  Upon hearing this, the littles cry out, "Are you going to die, Mom!?"  Well, I hope not, I say, trying to be brave.  I will probably survive, I lie to child #1.  This is very concerning to them because I would only subject myself to traditional allopathic medicine under dire life and limb circumstances and here I am suggesting we go.  As we drive to town, I suggest to my husband that this is our anniversary date.  He laughs.  I wonder if I can get flowers out of this.   

After answering the question, "Do you work?" to the urgent care receptionist with "Well, not really.  Unless you want to buy some Norwex.  I have some here in my purse.  Would you like to see a demo?" I am satisfied that I could entertain myself sufficiently here.  She tells me that there will be an hour wait and I ask her if she would like to take a bribe of some Norwex and bump me up a few people.  For some reason, she just laughs.  Oh well, I tried.  

We finally get in to the room where we are going to see the PA or whatever he is and he walks in with stylish dark rimmed glasses and says he is from California and that I probably do not have a spider bite.  I am scowling inside with disdain.  Not have a spider bite!  Like I believe you!  And then he tells me that people come in everyday saying they have spider bites.  What EVER.  He suggests antibiotics and NSAIDs.  I filter that through my head as "Sovereign Silver and turmeric".  He comes down with the diagnosis (not a spider bite, I'm so sure) - bursitis of the elbow.  What am I, like 65?  Bursitis?  He says I should wear a sling and I make a face with wild eyebrows.  "You're totally not going to wear a sling, are you?"  Well, no.  I will tie myself up with an ace bandage when I get back, though.  

Sigh.  Memorable vacations.  

Peace, love, and I can't wait until 4th of July, 
Ms. Daisy