Walnuts: The squatters of the tree world

Since the arrival of Little C, it's polite to say that various things have fallen to the wayside.  Namely, weeding. 

Now, don't get me wrong, I love weeding as much as the next girl.  I love claring out a bed and having all my plants clear of invaders and interlopers.  Once things get out of hand, though, it is a daunting task that makes one want to bushog the entire flower bed and mulch the shit out of it and start over. 

I've been doing some side work that has taken up my naptime, and now that that project is finished, I have found I have oodles of time to devote to the flower beds.  If you've never had the honor of trying to pull a walnut sapling out of the ground then you're missing out.  It's as if these 2 foot tall wee little trees have a taproot that goes all the way to China.  It's a task that requires gloves, a pitchfork, a shovel, copious amounts of swearing and a massage from your husband when he gets home.  Imagine me in a full sweat, hair going every which way hacking at a poor walnut tree who, for all it is worth, is handing on to Mother Earth for all it is worth.  I stab it with a pitchfork like a fairy-tale peasant stabbing a warewolf.  I get a good chunk of root and I lean into the pitchfork trying to break the root free. 

*SNAP*  Not only do I break the pitchfork at the base of the fork, I break it at the handle, too.  Who does that?  Me, apparently.  I ceded defeat on this particular tree and went inside to spend the rest of the precious naptime figureing out a way to explain the pitchfork now in 3 pieces to Papa B. 

Why I'm glad we had a girl first

So Papa B and I were talking the other night about silly things he does to entertain Little C. She has a little toy that sings the ABC song and when she presses it, he will dance merrily while singing along. He hugs her, kisses her, and does wonderfully daddy things for her. He is a wonderful dad, and for that I am very lucky and thankful.

I asked him would he be so silly had Little C been a boy. He said, probably not. Papa B grew up with his dad and brother and needless to say, it was a manly, stoic, no-affection childhood.

To see him dote on his little girl and love on her and show her open affection and tell her he loves her is a wonder. I'm glad she arrived first, so he knows now how to love a child, and not just a girl child. Boys deserve the same love and affection from both parents. Boys need to hear that they are loved. Boys need hugs. Boys need kisses and cuddles. I'm glad Little C has paved the way for any more children, regardless of sex.

It's not like there aren't any MAPS on the internet.

Beer run farm is starting to look a little like a used car lot. We have 5 cars on our property at this very moment. We caved at the end of 2011 and bought a minivan. Therefore, we had a surplus of at least one car - my Toyota Highlander. Damn I loved that car.

We also have a manly Dodge Ram 2500, and a Lexus GS400. Both sweet rides in their own right.

We decided to sell the Highlander and the Lexus to put toward the payments on the new van. My mode of choice is Criagslist. Free, easy to use, and reaches a large audience.

Large and stupid audience, I've been quick to find out.

In the ad, it is CLEARLY marked what city the vehicle is located. Now, the internet houses many things. One of which is a site that allows you to look things up. It's called Google (or Yahoo or Bing - name your engine). People email me all interested in the cars, asking questions about the condition, the mileage, cloth vs. leather interior, etc. Then, when we get down to making a time to come see the car, they ask, "Where is [blank]?"

Dude, seriously? I have several problems with this question. Namely, you're on the internet where there are millions upon millions of pieces of information available to you. One of which being a map that will clearly indicate where this car is located. The second being - do you really not know the geography of your own state?

So, I start sentences with so a lot.

So, we belong to a group that meets for playdates every Thursday. We rotate, but aren't on a very strict schedule about it. Ususally we just see who wants to host at that week's meeting. Yesterday was my day and, as usual, I spent Wednesday cleaning the house so that these other mommies don't think I'm a total slob. I liken it to cleaning before the maid comes. Which, I've only read about seeing as we do not have a maid. We just have me.

So, our master bedroom is on the main level and is easily accessible to guests. So I usually clean it when I'm in my cleaning fit. I got the bug up my rear to clean the french doors leading to our deck off the bedroom. It's cold outside, so of course I want to clean the exterior of the doors too. I do my job all nice, including squeegeing the doors so there's no streaks. I grab my cleaning tools, open the door, and quickly shut it behind me.

And then I notice my one year old making a peculiar face. And then a split second later, just about the same time she starts screaming in pain, I notice that I have shut her wee little finger in the door. So, I open the door and try to console my screaming toddler while her poor finger gets all swollen and red. Fortunately for her (and me!) the door's bite was not as bad as the bark, and after about 15 minutes of screaming of various intensities, she felt good enough to snuggle with me while I apologized profusely into her wispy blond hair.

I guess that will teach me to try to impress the other mommies with my clean house, won't it?

Why I wish I had Man Hands

We are fortunate enough to have friends who hunt quite a bit. Also, we have a few friends who contract with a few places to take deer on a nusiance permit. In any given year, we can have 8 or more deer given to us.

Initally, I wouldn't touch deer. Nope. No way. No, thank you. I had it once and that was enough for me. Well, the one time I had it, it was horribly prepared and by someone who didn't know how. He thought he did. But Papa B slowly won me over and now we eat venison almost exclusively. Chicken is our luxury food (when I can catch some in the "clearance rack" of the grocery store).

We have various methods of handling the meat. We keep the loins and the roasts intact, and the other suitable meat becomes ground venison and the rest becomes dog food.

What I absolutely hate about this whole griding of the meat process is cleaning. I hate cleaning the grinder. There's something so vile about the meat and the fat we add to the venison being washed in hot soapy water. It's like the meat bits cook in the hot water while I wash the grinder. Of course, since I have the lovely dainty hands in the relationship, this glorious task falls to me.

Which is why I wish for Man Hands sometimes. Then Papa B will clean up his own dang grinder.