Squeezable

Stay tuned for a post about this year's branding weekend. In the meantime, here's a picture of a cuddly bull* that I made friends with**.

It was his turn to head down the chute. On account of his disposition,
we let him do it on his own time.

* That is an oxymoron.
** That is a lie.

The stamp of approval

It's that time of year again in Northwest Montana . . . rainy and gray . . . must be Memorial Day.* That also means that it's branding weekend!**

I'm heading over tomorrow for a long weekend with family and friends and I'm definitely looking forward to it. To wet your appetite**** for what I'll surely write about next week, I've included a few pictures from the last three years along with links to the posts that they came from. Enjoy!


2009 Part 1

2009 Part 2

2010

2011



* Could also be the 4th of July, Labor Day, March-May, or most days in June if we're having an 'off' summer.


** If you're a calf reading this blog, that exclamation point could mean something entirely different.***


*** If you're a calf reading this blog, please leave a comment. I'd love to know how you manage a keyboard with your hooves. I'm guessing really gigantic keys.


**** I don't like the phrase so I'm not sure why I used it. To be honest, it sort of grosses me out.

Open spaces, friends, family, and dogs.

Welcome!

Craig and his trusty steed Nacho. Unfortunately Nacho had too many
nachos this year (in the form of round bales) and is a little portly.
We're not sure if he'll be in any shape (other than round) to join us this year.

Even if it's not rainy and gray, it's always best to have your Muck boots.
I tried to forgo them one year and it was no good. No good at all.

Get everything rounded up.

Lindsey looking entirely too happy giving shots.
We'd prefer that everyone was serious all of the time.

The ducks lined up and ready for the annual duck race down the creek.
I have a hunch that #8 didn't do very good this particular year.

These 4 were planning a mutiny I'm sure.

Taking advantage of a little downtime, Kelly and Nada peered
over the edge of a very tall butte all the while watching out for rattlesnakes.

Taking advantage of that very same downtime, the guys rolled
rocks over the edge of a very tall butte. I'm not sure they were
watching out for rattlesnakes.

The cow with the perm that looked remarkably similar to my hair in 1987.
I wish I had had a pick to fluff it up a bit more for her.

Jeremy manning a chute.

My all-time favorite pair. If I could have genetically modified that calf
to stay small I would have kept it as a pet. Well probably not but it
was a nice thought. Maybe it wasn't even that.

My mother-in-law who keeps the entire weekend running
AND makes breakfast every day. I don't know how she does it.

Potatoes are a vegetable too

A visual representation of one of our simplest differences. 

I can't believe he likes asparagus!*

* You may have already guessed this but the asparagus is actually on my plate. Though I repeatedly offered Craig some, he repeatedly turned me down.

Growth

Things are growing rapidly around here. Alright, it's not so much 'things' that are growing rapidly, rather it's me. Well, me AND the baby if we're going to be completely uncensored. And since this blog is all about honesty we might as well add in the fact that my feet, ankles, shins, everything-from-the-knees-down is the fastest growing area of my body. Why, hello there edema.

I have given up altogether on shoes unless they are flip flops or my trusty Birkenstocks, which I ALMOST got rid of earlier this year in one of my anti-hoarding, clean-out-and-throw-everything-away moments. Though I will confess that at times I feel like a duck wearing them, I am thanking my lucky stars that I threw them back into the closet that day. They are saving my bacon right now!

Beyond my feet, ankles, shins, everything-from-the-knees-down, the baby is also experiencing some major growth. I won't call it alarming just yet but either I'm going to give birth to a sumo wrestler or it's possible that we're going to be meeting this one sooner than we planned. Today I had a 31 week appointment which included an ultrasound. The baby looks great, but it looks big. Like 3 weeks ahead of me big. It's currently measuring at 34+ weeks and is already a solid 5 lbs. 5 lbs and I've got 9 weeks to go.  It's possible that this child will be driving me home from the hospital.

Here he (or she) is in one of the cuter pictures from today. 

Beyond what I think is an adorable button nose and the most beautiful bow tie lips ever, I am drawn to that right cheek. You know, the one that looks like it's smashed up against a window? I think it's apparent that this baby is running out of room. I'd better finish up the nursery and go buy diapers.

Inhaler

Last year, after struggling through a horrible allergy season with plenty of wheezing and itching, I drug myself to the allergist and was deemed allergic to grass, air, the sun, cumulonimbus clouds, cotton candy, and the color orange. Alright, so not all of that list is true however there were the normal allergies (grass, pollen, ragweed, etc.) as well as the diagnosis of exercise-induced asthma. For the latter I was given an inhaler to be used before I went running or exerted myself on a walk to Dairy Queen. What a difference it made! Though it didn't get me any closer to having Kenyan-like speed, it no longer felt like I was running with an elephant strapped to my chest (talk about chafing!). Who knew that running and breathing at the same time could work so well! Crazy.

Since finding out about this pregnancy, though I had been running sporadically beforehand, I stopped for some reason. I guess I couldn't find the time since I was spending what felt like the majority of my day eating, or planning to eat, or cleaning up after I'd eaten. Let me just say that I miss it and look forward to getting back to it no matter how slow, no matter the distance. Me and the babe slogging through logging miles with the jogging stroller.

Anyway, because I haven't been running I haven't needed my inhaler. That is until this past Sunday. What was I doing you ask that exerted me to the point of wishing that I knew where I last left the darn thing because boy howdy was I out of breath?

Giving myself a pedicure.

That's right, reaching my feet from a sitting position has now reached the difficulty level of running. This is not good.

Here's how it went down . . .

Sunday I spent a lot of the day on my feet* and by 7:00 that evening my dogs were barking, my ankles had joined the witness protection plan and were completely unrecognizable, and the swelling had reached my toes. I decided a little foot pampering was in order so I hobbled to the bathroom, started the water, and dug around under the sink for whatever half-bottles of foot soak/lotion/scrub/cankles-be-gone elixir I could find.

Sitting on the edge of the tub I let my feet sink below the suds and relax. That was the easy part. Fifteen minutes later when I decided that I'd like to get them out of the water is when the strenuous exercise began. It started when I had to swing myself the opposite direction on the edge of the bathtub and contort my body to dry my feet. I was sure that falling into the 6-inch water below me was in my very near future.

With a successful pivot-on-the-tub behind me, I proceeded to hoist one foot and then the other to put lotion on. Again, bookies were taking bets on whether or not I was going to end up in the tub with my feet above me calling out to Craig to come save me from my best turtle-on-its-back-in-a-really-shallow-pond impression.

My breathing with each new position was becoming slightly more labored.

For my next act I thought that it couldn't hurt to take off the dark maroon nail polish that I had been sporting for about two weeks too long and perhaps, if I got really gutsy, to work on my cuticles. Toes can be hard enough to reach as it is—especially if your little toe is practically sideways with the world's smallest nail**—add in a belly and a baby jammed up into your lungs and what you've got is a scenario where someone has the strong possibility of becoming lightheaded.

I grabbed the nail polish remover and a few cotton balls to get started. Since one of my cats was sitting on the edge of the tub with me,*** and the other was staring at me blankly**** from the toilet, I decided that setting the bottle of remover down in either of these locations was just asking for a mess to clean up. Instead I reached down to set it on the floor and promptly spilled it. There I was, already out of breath and now there were toxic fumes to contend with. I briefly said 'screw it' and then thought that perhaps that wasn't the best course of action. For all I knew it was going to eat the linoleum before my very eyes. I grabbed some toilet paper and cleaned it up, all the while holding my breath (on account of the fumes) and perching precariously on the edge of the tub, then threw the wad of acetone-soaked paper in the trash. I fully intended to continue the task of removing my chipped nail polish when my mind started questioning my disposal choice. Did nail polish remover have a habit of spontaneously combusting? Would it catch fire in the trash can? Should I be in a more ventilated workspace? Did I just see a unicorn?

The questions kept coming so I reached into the trash can, pulled out the TP, threw it in the toilet and flushed. In an instant I started questioning this choice. Would the nail polish remover blow up in the tank? Was it bad for the septic system? What if someone lit a match, would there be burns on the bums? It was too late though. The paper was gone, my nails needed done, I was definitely out of breath now, and no there were no unicorns.

With my nails completely free of their crummy polish, even the crazy little ones, and my breathing more akin to having just done a speed workout, I decided that I could soldier on and do my cuticles. I'd come this far, why give up now?

They were nowhere near as dramatic as removing the nail polish, and they didn't take nearly as long. In fact, I might have sped through them and neglected the last toe on each foot to do a thorough job. However, compared to what they looked like going into the tub they emerged from the whole ordeal quite a bit different. Quite a bit better.

I also emerged quite a bit different from the whole ordeal, namely that I was out of breath and seriously wondering where my inhaler was. I'm considering carrying it with me at all times just in case I decide to attempt something else as harrowing as what I've just described. Something like a manicure!



* Because it's a lot easier than spending it on my hands.


** Not that mine are like that or anything. I've just SEEN people with toes like that. Weirdos.


*** She should be counting her lucky stars that one of my gigantic feet didn't hit her going by while I was pivoting on the edge of the tub and knock her into the water.


**** Because that's what cats do.

A la carte

There are a variety of things happening in life these days so I figured I'd get all sorts of long-winded and tell you about ALL of them. I plan on being hoarse by the end of this. 

Sergeant Marmalade:

If you've been reading this blog for any amount of time you're probably aware that I have two indoor cats. Two cats that I consciously write little about for fear that I'll be given a complimentary membership into some sort of cat-of-the-something-or-other club. I don't want to be a member. I have a fear of commitment.

You may also know, by reading this blog, that Craig and I have a barn and therefore a standard barn cat. (It was a freebie with the barn.) Anyway, Miss Kitty* has been living in the barn for as long as I've known Craig. That was fine by us as all barns also come with their own set of mice. It's a package deal. 

About a year after Miss Kitty moved in, Ninja joined her. I'd show you a picture of Ninja but he lived up to his name and was very elusive. He also wore little two-toed ninja boots.** You'll notice that I used the past tense 'was' in that sentence. Ninja has since disappeared. I just tell myself that there was some sort of ninja convention he had to sneak away to. No doubt he wore his little two-toed boots.

In the meantime we were recently joined by this guy. I've named him Sergeant Marmalade. Sergeant because he looks like he's been in battle a time or two and Marmalade because he smells like oranges  is orange. He's pretty cute but I think he bullies Miss Kitty right out of the food bowl. If he's not careful she's going to bend his other ear for him and then he'll really be in trouble.  

Night Classes :

I tend to be a person who likes to be prepared (just ask Craig how early in the day I start asking him what he wants for dinner.)*** As such, though I haven't totally immersed myself in every pregnancy book or website available,**** I did decide that I wanted to take the 6-week Childbirth Education classes that are offered by the hospital where Baby M. will be born. Craig hasn't been able to join me yet because of work responsibilities so I go by myself, sit on my mat, and have panic attacks about labor and delivery in the privacy of my head. I hope I get extra credit for those. 

Ebony and ivory :

The house that we live in would be considered 'cozy' if you were a realtor trying to sell it. It would also be considered small if you were trying to make room for a baby and had a large, 100+ year old piece of oak furniture sitting in the cat room what will become the nursery.

The last large item to be moved in order to make way for a crib and other baby paraphernalia was my piano. Even on a good, non-pregnant day, I'm no help when it comes to moving what is essentially a tree with keys so Craig called in the reinforcements. Jeremy.

Things got off to a raucous start with Jeremy and Craig getting one last song in before the big move . . .

and then the doors came off their hinges, the ramp was backed up to the porch, and the dolly was placed. 

Craig strapped***** it on the trailer (though I think he secretly wanted to plow it over with the piece of heavy equipment that was at the ready in our backyard),

and away it went. 

Goodbye piano, we'll see you soon and when we do, Craig and Jeremy will welcome you home with a duet I'm sure.

My favorite season :

It's springtime in Montana and that means longer days and more opportunities to sit on the porch watching nighttime arrive. I have no complaints, and nothing sarcastic to say about that. I love spring.

Come to think of it, I also love my bed. It's late, and my voice is hoarse from all of this talking so I think I'll go there now and dream about a cat playing a piano. As long as it's not giving birth I think we'll all be fine.



* Amazingly creative


** I don't even have to tell you that's not true.


*** Let's just say it might be one of the first questions I ask him everyday.


**** Because my grandchildren would be grown by the time I finished reading everything.


***** I am very thankful that my husband knows how to strap everything from a piano to an excavator on a trailer. I didn't worry one bit that my piano wouldn't make it to its final destination. 6*


6* Alright, I worried for like a nanosecond.

25 hours

On Saturday I took a short road trip east to say hello to the land that lies between the mountains . . .

Looking west on Crown Creek Rd.

 and the flat prairies of the far eastern side of the state. 

Looking east on Crown Creek Rd.

In central Montana it's not quite flat, but it's not quite forested either.

Leaving our house early Saturday morning and turning around to head back on Sunday at 12:30 makes for a short 25 +/- hour stay but it's well worth it. The drive is usually uneventful that is until some yahoo from Oregon driving a minivan decides he'd like to pass you, and the two cars in front of you, with oncoming traffic just barely far enough away. I'm not sure why he didn't just wait for a curve to make it really interesting. 

Of course I didn't just drive 4 hours to give the land a big hug. It was all for this guy . . .

We're strongly considering entering the Gator into this year's Fair Parade* so Craig was practicing his combo 'wave and drive with one hand' skill. Safety first. I'll be in the back wearing a formal gown and throwing out handfuls of cheap candy. Now if I could only find a maroon, floor-length dress to wear . . .**

Along with planning our summer parade agenda***, we mostly relaxed. There were a few chores to be done, dinner with friends to be had, and a birthday to celebrate, but there might have been a couple of short naps taken, a few chapters of a book read, and a little time spent sitting in the sun with my mother-in-law on Sunday morning. Not a shabby way to spend a weekend.

As I left Sunday afternoon, I slowly**** drove the dirt road back to the highway taking in the sights and sounds of the land around me. Off in the distance was a butte that I would eventually pass right by. I stared at it for a moment thinking that there was something about it that looked kind of familiar.

I let it roll around in my head a bit and then the resemblance hit me . . .

I think Pauly D's hairstyle can rightfully be called a butte. I guess we're not that far from Jersey Shore after all.*****



* That is a lie.


** For those of you who've read this blog for at least the last two months, you know which dress I'm talking about. For those who are clueless, start reading the archives. I may or may not have a maroon bridesmaid dress in my trunk. 


*** My summer agenda goes a little like this . . . gradually swell until my due date, have a baby, freak out.


**** I say slowly because I was driving Craig's pickup. Sometimes I think I'm still in my zippy little sedan and not a full-size Ford. The last thing I want to do is call my husband from the ditch of a gravel road.


***** Disclaimer : Except for that one Saturday afternoon spent in a hotel in San Francisco the day before I ran a marathon, I have never watched more than one entire episode of that show. I swear.