Tiling Saga--Part 1

As I previously posted, my dad came over to help us with tiling the girls' bathroom.  He suggested we lay the tile on the diagonal.  I said OK--as long as he was going to help because that was way above my pay grade and perhaps more importantly, my tiling book did not cover that particular lay out.  He and Doug tiled the floor in one day as I wrangled to keep the 3 kids out of their way.  My dad was on his hands and knees placing the tile and Doug was the one making the cuts with the tile saw.  About mid day, Annsley puts her hands on her hips and thoroughly disgusted with her daddy says, "Why won't you help Grandpa? He's doing all the work!!!!)  I guess in her mind if you weren't actually in the bathroom, you weren't working!

The day of Andrei's birthday party was actually quite warm.  After everyone left, Doug looks at me and says, "Hey, you want to get started with the tile?  It's warm and the tile saw won't freeze."  (If you don't already know, a tile saw uses water to cool the blade.)

I should have said no.  I was sick.  I had enough snot running out of my nose all morning I could have swum in it by the end of the day.  Doug loved the diagonal tiles and wanted to continue the theme in our bathroom and kitchen--you know, to make it look cohesive...  (I obviously have a husband who has watched too many episodes of HGTV with his wife...)

We needed my dad here--if for no other reason to act as foreman.  My dad is like this McGyver turned farmer person.  He can make a CB radio out of 2 Q-tips, a dime, and a pencil.  (I don't know if that is even a remote possibility, but really, he can do just about anything....)  He is also a perfectionist.  If it's not done correctly, he'll redo it.  Seriously.  No matter what it is and how long it took him to do it in the first place.

But no, he's not here and I have an over exuberant husband about to embark on a diagonal tiling job with a sick wife. Now, my husband can do a lot of stuff.  He's a rather handy guy to have around, and he's not afraid to attempt to do something new (which is good when you have a wife who likes to watch HGTV and DIY channels.) Doug is quite accomplished with a welder; he can wire light fixtures, new light switches (although he will not turn off the breaker.  "Real electricians don't do that.  Besides, how could I tell which wire is hot?" he says to me. OK, well don't call me to come get you when the electricity pulsing through that hot little wire tosses your big body off the ladder.  His step dad was a carpenter by trade, so he knows a lot about sanding, staining, hinges and glue.  Doug loves glue by the way.  Everything is better--and stronger--with glue.  No. Matter. What. It. Is...Oh the stories I could tell about that product and 22 years of marriage! He can change spark plugs in your car; he can dig big holes; he can drive big, earth moving machinery; he can do the plumbing; he doesn't mind climbing on the roof and hanging Christmas lights.  But let's remember, Doug is KING at demolition.  He loves tearing stuff up. Loves it. 

Loves it.

 Anyway, finesse is not his strong suit. He knows that and I know that, and he knows that I know that.  His number one desire in life is to be fast and finish first--looks are secondary in the moment.  It's speed.  Speed is king.  He shoots first and then decides to aim.  I'm the opposite, so we usually can make a pretty good team. He's like all those men you hear about.  It's not about getting to Dallas safely and having a good time.  It's about beating your last time you drove it.  Yes, he's the guy tapping his finger on the steering wheel as you and your two girls are waiting 10 deep to use the bathroom at the highway Stop and Rob. (And tell me again why you can't just use the empty Gatorade bottle in the back? he always asks!!!)

Case in point: when my parents were remodeling their kitchen, Doug gleefully takes his new pawn shop find--a sawzall--  over to their house to see if he can help with the demolition. This is a reciprocating saw that does what it names says--saws all. He is assigned to ripping out one of the walls--a specialty of his.   According to the ones who lived there, my step mom and sister were in the middle of emptying the cabinets when this saw blade from the other side of the wall appears above their heads.  It's all they can do to throw pots and pans, cereal, and Spaghetti-Os into plastic containers to keep ahead of the saw that is trying to eat them. Doug sawed the 2x4s, insulation, cabinets, sheet rock, electric wires, boxes of Uncle Ben's Rice--anything that was in his way.  But the job was done.  And hours ahead of schedule he would later add....

So, with this mentality, a box of Kleenex stuffed up my nose, and hours of DVDs to entertain 3 children under the age of 8, we embark on the great tile quest of 2013. 

 Part 2 to be continued...

"M"s the word...

Welcome to a frank, honest post.  (Well, actually all of my posts are honest, but this one is all about me.)

I'm getting old.

I'm 43 1/2 (almost), I've found more than 10 gray hairs to pluck out in the last 6 months, and I'm in the middle of peri-menopause hell. There, I said it.  That's so freeing.  Maybe there's a group.  An 800 hotline.  If not for us ladies, then at least one for our bewildered husbands. 

It's OK, Honey.  I'm bewildered at the whole thing as well.  The last thing my gynocologist said to me was, "Well, let me know when you can't stand those ungodly hot flashes or night sweats any more." 

And what else can I look forward too???

I didn't know there was such a thing as peri-menopause.  I just thought you woke up one morning and were menopausal.  Apparently, there is a transition period from the time you show symptoms until you fall off the reproductive cliff.  And, I have since learned that the "powers that be" have dubbed the time before you reach the time of peri-menopause as well.  That's called pre-menopause.  Duh. 

I just keep thinking about one of my favorite movies, Father of the Bride II, and that whole discussion of menopause and Diane Keaton sifting through the books on the nightstand...The Silent Passage, The Change.  Gag!  It just seems so old. Steve Martin gets it.  He gets me.  Menopause.  It's an old word. 

I actually cried the night when my doctor's office called with my blood work results after I had gone three months without any sign of menstruation in sight.  "Your blood work is elevated," her nurse told me over the phone.  "What does that mean?"  I've had blood work done about every 6 months as my cycles were so out of wack, but I had never gone over 90 days without one before.  "Well, it means you're entering menopause," Teneesa said. 

"Aren't I a little young?  A lot young?"  I asked.  "Well, average age is between 43-50. You might be in the low end of the range but not unusual," she says.  I got off the phone, went to bed that night without saying anything to Doug, and cried about 5:00 in the morning. 

Doug, being the compassionate man I fell in love with years ago hugged me and said, "Oh, it'll be OK." I think he was just glad to know that there might be a reason for the introduction to my fangs and the fact that the house needed to be no hotter than 60 degrees at night for the last several months.  "It's like the end of an era," I sobbed. 

He laughed.

We've had several interesting conversations over the last few months.  I arrive at the dinner table on night and Annsley says as I sit down, "Mom, Daddy says your hormes aren't right."

"Hormes?"

"That's what Daddy says.  That's why you get so mad so much these days.  It'll be OK.  We just have to stay out of your way."

Really. So he and the children have been discussion my estrogen levels. Lovely.

And then just two days ago, my oldest tells me after a particularly brutal afternoon, "Mom, you know your brain isn't working right. You need to leave my room NOW." I'm still debating on whether that is disrepectful of her however true it may be...

And then today driving home from church...I comment to Doug that I'm going to have to get to the eye doctor.  I find myself looking under my glasses half the time to read.  I know that can't be a good sign  in the aging process.

Doug says, "Hey, why don't you look into laser surgery?  That would be good.  I think you would look great."

I raise my eyebrow at him.  He continues. "It would be a gift. (And he starts laughing) You need to gift yourself during your time of transition.  You know, your season...Hey--it'll be my Christmas present to you."

My season? So that's what it's called...

My mother keeps asking me if I've gotten the progesterone cream ordered.  Yes, Mother, I have it, but I haven't used it yet.  She tells me I should.  It would be better for everyone she says.

So, it seems that I've been a hot topic around these parts. I haven't taken any drugs yet--haven't broken the seal on the progesterone cream as recommended by Dr. John Lee and his book What Your Doctor May Not Tell You About Menopause book.  I have taken some Menopause Support vitamins though.  I really think they help with the insomnia and night sweats.  Obviously Doug thinks they help with my Jekyll and Hyde mood swings.  I woke up one morning after I had a horrid evening to find both bottles of Menopause Support on top of the coffee pot.

He had already left for work that day, but I had to laugh at his attempt at subtleness. 

What a tricky, web infested path he must forge.  I hate thinking my children will look back on these days as "remember Mom during her crazy phase." My saving grace is I've heard that men go through it too.  I'm waiting not so patiently. 

Sanford and "Wife"

That's what I feel like.  We've been cleaning out (or up) the place for the last two weeks.  There's nothing better than spending your afternoons in an attic with outside temps over 100.  My pores are clean and I paid no one. After this last move 3 years ago, I refused then to NEVER move stuff that we don't use.  Two years ago I got rid of box after box of 20 year old wedding gifts that had never seen the outside of the box it was packed in 20 years ago.  Every time I would go through the attic or move, I'd think, "Now I just know I will have a use for these 6 crystal pitchers." 

Nada.

So, two years ago we got rid of lots of stuff in our garage sale.  But this summer it was different.  Now it was Doug's turn to let go and let loose.  He's had a bit tighter grip on his stuff of 15+ years that he doesn't even know he has.  (Sad to say, but I've "helped" him purge at various times over the years.)  But this time, he finally ditched a box of college textbooks.  We collectively agreed that the 3 1/2" floppies and the notes on DOS were out of date, the old professors had probably died, and  it doesn't look like you're planning to attend medical school any time soon, so really, why are we hanging onto this stuff?  And yes, those I Can Learn Spanish in Easy 14 Lessons on VHS that we've been carting from house to house for the last 18 years must go.  And, let us not forget the 5 boxes of infomercial materials that my husband bought when he stayed up a little too late one night.  They have never been opened.  I personally cleaned out no less than 20 boxes of old stuff hanging around in the attic.  I even have plans of sending our hard copies of pictures in bulky albums to a place here in town to scan them and put them on CD. 

Let me must say it was liberating.  Let me repeat. LIBERATING! Thanks to our intense clean out efforts, we'll only require 2 giant U-Haul trucks next time we move instead of 5. 

 Doug and I have both decided to not let our stuff define us any more.  Fear of lack has kept us in bondage for years.  We are children of the Most High God.  We lack for NOTHING.  It's high time we start acting like it.  We took pictures of stuff and then just let it go. (Let me clarify...pictures of "sentimental" stuff.  I did not take a picture of Herman Cassidy's Becoming a Millionaire by Buying Dilapitated Homes infomercial package.)

And then we had the junk piles.  When you have acrerage, you are entitled to junk piles.  I'm not sure that is a good thing because that then turns into the "good" junk pile and the "real" junk pile.  To define the difference, the "good" junk pile is stuff that could be used for future projects.  (Which, by the way, never get used for said future projects...) The "real" junk pile has seen its day. For instance, rather than pay Sears $30 to haul off our old dishwasher, we just tossed it into the "real" junk pile. Two days ago we decided to haul off all things junk.  ALL THINGS. 

The scrap metal went to scrap metal recycling place here in town.  Yes, we recycled.  Amazing for those of you who know us.  This morning the girls and Doug took a field trip to the dump.  I'm not sure who was more excited--the children or their father. I've never been.  I don't really have an inkling to go either.  I understand it smells.  The dishwasher proudly sat at the front of the trailer.  Coupled with all the old stuff overflowing the trailer, all I could do was think about how we had almost become a real live Sanford and Son.  Never Again.  Never Ever.

(Now, what Sanford and Son have to do with "stuff" is beyond me.  It's just that whenever I hear that song, I think of junk piled everywhere.  I don't know...)

Pig

I remembered yesterday why there are no school field trips to the pig farm.

My husband raised hogs when we were dating.  It had been my first time to be around them--and I mean around them. My nose started to hitch hike off my face.  Nostril hairs were thumbing for a ride.  I promise.  I had never smelled anything that horrible in all my life--a smell that makes you want to smack your momma smell. Skunks have NOTHING over pig poop.  Dung.  Whatever it's called.  So, I knew I had to be in true love when he took me for a ride to meet his prized pig breeder.  Oh joy.  It was in the middle of the summer.  About 100 degrees.  No wind.  He drove Mabel (the name for his pickup) into the middle of his breeder's hog farm, parked it, and turned off the engine. 

"Do you want to come in to his office?"  Doug asked pointing to a sad looking 1950s style trailer with rusty tin on the outside. 

"I don't think I can suck in enough air to breathe in order to walk that far," I gulped. 

"You think it stinks?" he asked.  I couldn't tell if he was serious or just making fun of me.  "OK, well, if you get hot, start Mabel."

He leaves, and I soon learn a very important lesson about my future husband (although this experience put that manifestation in serious jeopardy).  If there is another living human close to the vicinity, gab will over take Doug and we will be there a long, long time.  Live animals will also take his attention to new heights as well.  I'm new to this phenomena.

I sit in the pick up.  It is sweltering.  The smell is insane. It seeps in through the glass.  I am in absolute shock that Mabel's paint isn't peeling. Beads of sweat are starting to pour down my head.  I can feel sweat down my back.  I have to get some air.  I start up Mabel and turn on the air conditioner.  I am met with a blast of pig poop a la perfume.  The air conditioner is cooling me off but it's blowing nasty pig particles through my hair.  The horrendous smell is now magnified.  I turn off the engine.  I smell pig in my hair now.   15 minutes goes by.  Surely my new love knows I'm still sitting out here.  Surely he will come and rescue me.  Time ticks away.  No Doug.

I am miserable.  I am sweating.  I am breathing very shallow.  I can't take a deep oxygenated breath. I can't physically will my body to do it.  I have to get some air.  I roll down the window about  2 inches.  I then roll down the driver's window about two inches.  I'm hoping that it will create a draft above my head.  It doesn't.  Of all days in the Texas Panhandle, there is no wind today.  The pig stench is permeates my skin.  Every so often I pull the collar of my shirt above my nose and take in a huge amount of air.  I'd keep my nose covered, but it is too hot.  As the afternoon melted into evening, I sought relief in the setting sun....Just kidding, but my 30 minutes in the truck might as well have been 4 hours. 

Doug FINALLY shows back up.  "I couldn't find Leroy." 

What???? What in the world have you been doing all this time????? Can you not fathom how miserable I've been?? My love tank was on empty.  He's been walking around looking at sows and boars and what not.   I've been gasping for my last breath. 

He notices my severe state of distress.  "You didn't turn on the air conditioner?"  He takes me home.  I need a shower.  Pig smell is much like cigarette smell.  It is in your ears, your shoes, your hair, plastered to your skin.  I burned my jeans that evening. 

So yesterday, my husband takes Annsley and Kennedi to a nearby pig farm to see the baby pigs.  God is amazing as He wipes from our memory really really horrific things.  I had totally forgotten in nearly 20 years about the polluted odor.  It came rushing back to me about 7:30PM last night.  It was in Annsley's hair, Kennedi's shirt.  I told Annsley and Kennedi to leave their shoes on the porch.  Clothes went immediately into the washer.  I personally washed both girls from head to toe myself.  Doug was just laughing.  He actually questioned my sincerity of having him take a shower before he read the girls a good night story!  And his dress pants spent the night on the porch rail in an attempt to water down the smell before putting them in my car for a trip to the cleaners. 

Now I like bacon like any other Southern girl.  I'll fry up the entire package and eat it all by my lonesome.  I put bacon grease in my green beans.  Anything is better with bacon on it or in it I say. But I like my pig already butchered.  I like my pig on the pages of a children's book.  That's where it stops.  I honestly do not know how hired hand/owners of farrowing barns survive without an oxygen tank.  I've been in one and only one in my lifetime.  Doug was so excited to show me all the baby pigs.  He tried to explain to me how clean it was.  I walked in and turned around and walked right out.

If you're running low on ideas to do, I I double dare any of you to load up the family and head to a pig farm/farrowing house. My advice: ask for a tour but don't wear flip flops.  Take a plastic garbage bag to toss your clothes in for the ride home.  Tie the bag to your back bumper.  Maybe the clothing will air out a bit before you get home.  Load up on body wash BEFORE you take your field trip. Have your olfactory nerves/system removed before attending. Or, be like me and support your local pig farmers from a distance--literally.