I just came up with an idea for a new reality show. Tell me what you think.
You take a 40-something, pregnant, suburbanite mom and put her somewhere in rural America where she has to face off without aid of husband or pesticides against fire ants, hornets, bees, and other unidentifiable (but usually winged) creatures, most of which prefer to attack at bedtime. Once a week, change things up a bit by adding in mice that don't get killed by traps because they only get caught by the foot and see if she has the guts to take it out back and beat it to death with a broom handle. If she lasts for X number of days, she wins a pre-determined amount of cash.
It's kind of like "Fear Factor" meets "Green Acres". What do you think?
Yeah, you're right. No one in there right mind would do it.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Friday, April 24, 2009
Wendy Vs. The Hornet
One of the first things hubby had to do when we moved in was to get rid of the hornets that had nested in the eaves above the front porch. Not exactly an easy trick, considering that the overhang stretches the length of the house but the second floor balcony doesn't. Nonetheless, my hands-on man got the job done in good fashion.
Or so I thought.
Last night the kids and I were hanging out in my room getting ready to wind down and call it a night when my teenager suddenly scrambled backwards on my bed in fright.
"What's the matter?"
"I just saw the biggest bug I've ever seen in my life!"
"Where?"
"Right there."
"Where??"
"Right there!"
I scanned the area she indicated but still didn't see anything, when my pre-teen suddenly leapt backwards, too.
"Oh my gosh, that IS the biggest bug I've ever seen in my life!"
"Where?"
"Right there!"
And finally I spotted it. Perched pretty as you please on top of a plastic bag that was sticking out of an unpacked box was THE biggest hornet I've ever seen in MY life. I kid you not, it was easily four or five inches long and as big around as my index finger. EWWWW!!!!!!
Now, I've seen the damage a hornet can do. I witnessed my sister fall victim to hornet stings when we were kids and it's not something I ever want any of my children to experience. If they hadn't been in the room, I probably would've lost it, but since they were I knew I had to stay cool for their sakes. Calmly, I directed one big girl to take the babies out of the room and the other to scoot downstairs quick and grab me a plastic bag.
And then, it was gut-check time.
See, I knew that if I went after it with my shoe, I was going to have a very painful night. It just wouldn't have worked. So, the only thing I could think to do was to try bagging it, taking it outside and beating the living daylights out of it.
Warily, I edged my way towards the hideous creature. Sure, I was about seventy-five times bigger than it, but 1) I was scared and it wasn't, 2) I understood the concept of how much pain it could give me and it didn't, and 3) it could fly and I can't. I knew I had one shot to get it, but what would be the best approach? If I come from behind, the overhead light is casting my shadow over it...would it be able to tell something was approaching? If I come from the front or the side, I'm in its line of vision...would it zoom upwards at the first flinch from me? Do hornets even have much line of vision?
And that's when I realized...I was overthinking it. Was I going to stand there paralyzed for the next twenty minutes because I was afraid that a stupid hornet would spring backwards like a kung fu master sensing danger from behind the moment I went to make a move for it? I don't think so.
So, I stepped in and bagged it. I took it downstairs, went out on the front porch and beat the living daylights out of it. Then I peeked in the bag to make sure it was dead. Then I beat it some more.
Before we moved here, I used to worry that I don't have what it takes to be a farmer's wife. Patient as he is, my dear husband would listen as I confided my fears of failing, only to reassure me that it would all be a learning process and he had no doubts that I could handle it. This morning when I told him about my showdown with the mutant, and thoroughly impressed him with the fact that I bagged a live hornet, he smiled and said, "Sweetheart, you're gonna do just fine."
I'm starting to think so, too.
Or so I thought.
Last night the kids and I were hanging out in my room getting ready to wind down and call it a night when my teenager suddenly scrambled backwards on my bed in fright.
"What's the matter?"
"I just saw the biggest bug I've ever seen in my life!"
"Where?"
"Right there."
"Where??"
"Right there!"
I scanned the area she indicated but still didn't see anything, when my pre-teen suddenly leapt backwards, too.
"Oh my gosh, that IS the biggest bug I've ever seen in my life!"
"Where?"
"Right there!"
And finally I spotted it. Perched pretty as you please on top of a plastic bag that was sticking out of an unpacked box was THE biggest hornet I've ever seen in MY life. I kid you not, it was easily four or five inches long and as big around as my index finger. EWWWW!!!!!!
Now, I've seen the damage a hornet can do. I witnessed my sister fall victim to hornet stings when we were kids and it's not something I ever want any of my children to experience. If they hadn't been in the room, I probably would've lost it, but since they were I knew I had to stay cool for their sakes. Calmly, I directed one big girl to take the babies out of the room and the other to scoot downstairs quick and grab me a plastic bag.
And then, it was gut-check time.
See, I knew that if I went after it with my shoe, I was going to have a very painful night. It just wouldn't have worked. So, the only thing I could think to do was to try bagging it, taking it outside and beating the living daylights out of it.
Warily, I edged my way towards the hideous creature. Sure, I was about seventy-five times bigger than it, but 1) I was scared and it wasn't, 2) I understood the concept of how much pain it could give me and it didn't, and 3) it could fly and I can't. I knew I had one shot to get it, but what would be the best approach? If I come from behind, the overhead light is casting my shadow over it...would it be able to tell something was approaching? If I come from the front or the side, I'm in its line of vision...would it zoom upwards at the first flinch from me? Do hornets even have much line of vision?
And that's when I realized...I was overthinking it. Was I going to stand there paralyzed for the next twenty minutes because I was afraid that a stupid hornet would spring backwards like a kung fu master sensing danger from behind the moment I went to make a move for it? I don't think so.
So, I stepped in and bagged it. I took it downstairs, went out on the front porch and beat the living daylights out of it. Then I peeked in the bag to make sure it was dead. Then I beat it some more.
Before we moved here, I used to worry that I don't have what it takes to be a farmer's wife. Patient as he is, my dear husband would listen as I confided my fears of failing, only to reassure me that it would all be a learning process and he had no doubts that I could handle it. This morning when I told him about my showdown with the mutant, and thoroughly impressed him with the fact that I bagged a live hornet, he smiled and said, "Sweetheart, you're gonna do just fine."
I'm starting to think so, too.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Home At Last!
After four or five postponements from the lawyer, we finally closed on our home! This past week has been a whirlwind of moving, unpacking and getting settled in. On top of that, it took us four days to get internet up and running, but here we are at last.
Hubby managed to take just a few days off to get us through this, but we're very pleased with how much we've accomplished in such short time. Most of the rooms are at least 50% done (if not more), we've started a half-acre garden, killed about a dozen fire ant hills (ewww!) and moved the clothesline poles to a more suitable location (sorry, but letting my undergarments flap in the breeze less than ten feet from the road was NOT acceptable!)
One of the (many) things that fills my heart with joy right now is how easily we've all taken to our new home. Even my little guy has slept every night in his own bed, in his own room, instead of crawling in between Mommy and Daddy around 2am. I'm so proud of him!
I swear, I'm floating on cloud nine right now. After spending so many years in a small house with no yard on a busy street, it's just so blissful to have space, a big yard, and a street that sees about fifteen or less cars a day. Heavenly, I tell you. Simply heavenly.
It's just so good to be home at last!
Hubby managed to take just a few days off to get us through this, but we're very pleased with how much we've accomplished in such short time. Most of the rooms are at least 50% done (if not more), we've started a half-acre garden, killed about a dozen fire ant hills (ewww!) and moved the clothesline poles to a more suitable location (sorry, but letting my undergarments flap in the breeze less than ten feet from the road was NOT acceptable!)
One of the (many) things that fills my heart with joy right now is how easily we've all taken to our new home. Even my little guy has slept every night in his own bed, in his own room, instead of crawling in between Mommy and Daddy around 2am. I'm so proud of him!
I swear, I'm floating on cloud nine right now. After spending so many years in a small house with no yard on a busy street, it's just so blissful to have space, a big yard, and a street that sees about fifteen or less cars a day. Heavenly, I tell you. Simply heavenly.
It's just so good to be home at last!
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Okay, I'm Forty....Now What?
Yesterday was my birthday, and as I opened my eyes to the dawn of a new decade in my life, all I could think was, "Okay, I'm forty...Now what?"
I'll be honest, I hadn't been looking forward to this age. Really, does anyone get excited about turning forty? No one I've ever known. It's not like turning sixteen and finally being allowed to date. Or reaching "adulthood" at eighteen...or twenty-one...or even thirty for that matter. At least with thirty it wasn't so much a sense of putting youth behind as it was of getting into the real meat of being a responsible, and hopefully respected, adult.
With thirty, there's a sense that people will stop saying, "Oh, you're just a young pup..." and start treating you with the belief that you know what you're doing because you're in your thirties now. It's like, the thirty-something years are supposed to be a training ground of sorts. You've got ten years to put the last of your childishness away for good, and figure out all those super-serious adult things that will eventually carry you into old age.
Maybe that's why I spent the last year dreading the idea of turning forty. Not because of the changes it would bring...wrinkles in place of fine lines, sag in place of lift, gray in place of whatever color God (or a bottle of Clairol Natural Instincts) blessed you with. I've certainly never considered myself any kind of beauty, so the physical aspects of growing old never bothered me. (Although, in all honesty, I have to admit...I do like to brag occasionally that I still don't have a single gray hair. Hah!)
No, it's all the mental expectations of my advanced age that fill me with fear. While other parents are giving their teen-aged children glimpses of "the real world" by way of driving lessons, talks about insurance, saying no to drugs and the like, I'm too busy having fun with my kids in their world. I feel like the most important words of wisdom I can pass along to my fourteen-year old daughter right now are, "Never, ever, under any circumstances, give yourself a home permanent."
So, there I was yesterday morning, laying in bed, pondering what being forty is supposed to mean, when my big girls came in to treat me with breakfast they'd made themselves. As we sat together, getting toast crumbs on the bedspread, my fourteen-year old said, "You don't look forty." I replied, "I don't feel forty." And my eleven-year old said, "You don't act forty."
And that's when the obviousness of it all hit me. Being forty doesn't mean anything. It's not about getting old or being a more mature adult. I'm forty years old. Whoop-de-doo. I'm also a pregnant, homeschooler getting ready to move into her first home that won't belong to someone else (and will consequently be the last time I move...ever) where we will plant our own garden and orchard, raise our own chickens and pigs, and laugh with the kids until I nearly cry at utterly random things. (Cinnamon buns!)
Okay, I'm forty. So what? It's just another meaningless number.
And right now, it's my turn on Guitar Hero. Rock on!
I'll be honest, I hadn't been looking forward to this age. Really, does anyone get excited about turning forty? No one I've ever known. It's not like turning sixteen and finally being allowed to date. Or reaching "adulthood" at eighteen...or twenty-one...or even thirty for that matter. At least with thirty it wasn't so much a sense of putting youth behind as it was of getting into the real meat of being a responsible, and hopefully respected, adult.
With thirty, there's a sense that people will stop saying, "Oh, you're just a young pup..." and start treating you with the belief that you know what you're doing because you're in your thirties now. It's like, the thirty-something years are supposed to be a training ground of sorts. You've got ten years to put the last of your childishness away for good, and figure out all those super-serious adult things that will eventually carry you into old age.
Maybe that's why I spent the last year dreading the idea of turning forty. Not because of the changes it would bring...wrinkles in place of fine lines, sag in place of lift, gray in place of whatever color God (or a bottle of Clairol Natural Instincts) blessed you with. I've certainly never considered myself any kind of beauty, so the physical aspects of growing old never bothered me. (Although, in all honesty, I have to admit...I do like to brag occasionally that I still don't have a single gray hair. Hah!)
No, it's all the mental expectations of my advanced age that fill me with fear. While other parents are giving their teen-aged children glimpses of "the real world" by way of driving lessons, talks about insurance, saying no to drugs and the like, I'm too busy having fun with my kids in their world. I feel like the most important words of wisdom I can pass along to my fourteen-year old daughter right now are, "Never, ever, under any circumstances, give yourself a home permanent."
So, there I was yesterday morning, laying in bed, pondering what being forty is supposed to mean, when my big girls came in to treat me with breakfast they'd made themselves. As we sat together, getting toast crumbs on the bedspread, my fourteen-year old said, "You don't look forty." I replied, "I don't feel forty." And my eleven-year old said, "You don't act forty."
And that's when the obviousness of it all hit me. Being forty doesn't mean anything. It's not about getting old or being a more mature adult. I'm forty years old. Whoop-de-doo. I'm also a pregnant, homeschooler getting ready to move into her first home that won't belong to someone else (and will consequently be the last time I move...ever) where we will plant our own garden and orchard, raise our own chickens and pigs, and laugh with the kids until I nearly cry at utterly random things. (Cinnamon buns!)
Okay, I'm forty. So what? It's just another meaningless number.
And right now, it's my turn on Guitar Hero. Rock on!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
