Oh, my word. The poo!

You know, it wasn’t too long ago, I was saying that several times a day, as I manoeuvred yet another nasty diaper from a child’s tender pink behind…. But, alas, those days are past (unless something interesting happens over these next few months, of course…. Ack! What am I saying?) Ahem- those days are past- and I welcome them given this most recent alternative.

No, this poo is of another species. Cow, to be exact. And it is covering my yard. Filipes requested of kindly neighbor farmer friend to bring us over a load of cow poop. Now, hubby and I, not being of the farming ilk, should have clarified the term load.

Well, anyhoo… now we have so much shit in our yard we’ll be digging out all week. Spreading it everywhere…. After attempting to roto-till the manure in with the original soil of our garden it didn’t take long to see that Filipes was merely roto-tilling poop in with… more poop.

So now we move poop.

Upon reflection: should have just picked up a half dozen bags (for about $1.99 each!!). Rather, it cost us $40 bucks in beer and more days than I care to count, calf deep in shit!

Not to mention the next five years spent trying to pluck my shit covered gardens of chick weed/pig weed/alfalfa/whatever-else-weed flourishes in bovine solid waste.

Next time I’m nagging, “When are ya gonna get Billy to bring over a load of manure?”, somebody just shoot me.

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June has come to the valley like a friggin’ dream! The weather is outstanding and any beefs I had with Dear Mother… well, March/April/May were a total bitch… but after these past several days, I’m willing to consider a truce.

The garden is getting done. We moved the last of the new load of soil yesterday. And, as a final step before planting our livelihood, we get a load of manure from neighbor farmer friend. The stuff makes the worst in weeds… weeds to scare young children and the elderly… runners like ropes extending to bloody well strangle the core of the earth… the stuff of nightmares. But the shit comes free. Kids and elderly will just have to suck it up and squeeze eyes shut as they yank.

After last weekends trip to The Island and Seattle and the pukiness that accompanied, it seems to have resurfaced with Zip. Mid-movie last night, complaining of feeling like he had to puke, Zip did just that. Little trooper had the uncharacteristic presence of mind of newly minted six year old and ran to the loo. Over and over. And it wasn’t until the last- and most dramatic- spew that he began to complain and cry a little.

Went to bed with big bowl… empty this morning. Thank God/Jehovah/Oprah/Rob Zombie….

I cannot handle the vomit. No way. It. Makes Me… Vomit. I could handle the baby puke. The spit up. White, clotted, sour smelling, sure. But not bile, chunky, of chicken bits and regurgitated Caesar salad. This is job of mi Filipes. He does puke well. He handles that of the bodily with cool aplomb.

So, mummy is very happy this morning not to be faced with bowl of bile, chicken bits and Caesar salad… revisited.

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Oh my…. Honestly, if it had been my choice I’d have kept my freshly run fanny right here on my cushy, cozy sofa. Watching Oprah and the lovely, inspiring Tina Turner and the caricature of her former self, the entirely manufactured, Cher.

In fact, I even called to make sure that, in fact, it was still going on, given the butt load of rain we endured, wrapped tightly most of the afternoon in down blanket on comfy, cozy sofa, peeking pathetically out the window welcomed today. Hoping secretly, the lazy, self-involved, wanting to stay very solidly put concerned, conscientious mother that I am, in fact, that it wasn’t. You know, catching cold and all…
“Oh, it’s not raining now. And, like, there’s no wind. So, we’re on.” She said in her perky, oh so very eager, aging valley girl sort of way.

“Hmmm-mmm. Grrrreee-aaat….”

So we arrived. Zip, was of course, excited. It wasn’t raining, after all.

For the first. five. fucking. minutes.

The kids didn’t care. The coaches: Oh so active. Oh so eager. Oh so friggin’ enthusiastic. And dressed for rain, of course. Parents: not so much. After all… there was no rain.
With the rest of the miserable lot… I sat. I saw. I got soaked. And cold. I looked up. Fresh snow in the mountains.

Oh how I miss the warm, Virginia spring rains. These bitter cold, sleet-slash-rains of Canadian Rockies spring time.

Truly. Suck.

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We wake up to snow again this morning. None of us get up before eight.

This weather is truly getting into my head. Which is interesting… because even in the depths of winter, knowing in the pre-dawn black, that outdoors the mercury remained in the thermomemetrical nether regions, I still enjoyed my very early mornings and really didn`t give a flying *%/&. It`s winter after all, what the hell else could I possibly expect…

The power of expectations… therefore, this mid-April, reminiscent of early March, bullshit weather is effecting my state of mind. The cold drear of the outdoors has numbed those soft folds of my brain resposible for productivity, initiative and motivation. I will say nothing of patience- without a doubt the first segment of my brain obliterated.
Additionally, I`ve always said I need buffer time on one end of my day. A block of time where I can enjoy my coffee, surfing the internet, getting a little work done… and Be. Alone.
Currently, we are all waking at the same time, with the early mornings so unseasonably cold, dreary and inevitably laden with some form of fucking frozen precipitation. We are all going to bed at the same time as the days get longer and the grey daylight persists well after supper.

I am lost in a seasonal limbo.

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With yet another post fixated on our absolutely miserable, cold, snowy, horrible spring- but more like late winter- weather.
Please. No. More. Snow.

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OK. Who do I have to screw pay off to get this bitch off our backs?!

Mother Nature is pushing her luck this morning, boy. Temps below freezing and a friggin’ inch of fresh, white, albeit beautiful, snow….

It’s the middle of April!!! Now, as with my last post railiing against her antics, my patience is at an end. It’s not like we’re dealing with some petulant child to whom we can threaten a good and proper beating time out, or can bribe with Ritalin infused candies. No, this old bird has been around the block. She’s got an axe to grind and our pitiful, late in the game negotiations: recycling, hybrids, ethanol, organic, sustainability, bamboo, Kyoto, The Barenaked Ladies… you name it; are just not gonna cut it anymore.

Somebody find this bitter, manic, old bag some Prozac so we can move on to the next season…

Triathlon… less than two months and counting.

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Talk about a post-walk buzz kill!

Understand, he writes the cheques, incrementally, every couple of weeks. He. Writes. The. Cheques.

Yet, somehow… he thinks this will fly:

“From what I see here,” points to laptop, “For the last couple of months, I’ve written you a total of $4 grand a month.”

“Yes…”

“I thought I was only writing a total of $3 grand…” looking at me for explanation.

“But, you write the cheques…”

He looks at me incredulously, as if to say, ‘yes, but you are the one asking for money and so, therefore despite the fact that I, indeed, must right out amounts- twice, once in number form and again in cursive- you are the one truly accountable and therefore the one held in complete contempt of our household financial responsibility, without doubt engaging in flagrant over-spending. Driving me into complete and utter despair at your total fiscal incompetence, and our family into financial ruin.’

Apparently I’ve been pulling a fast one. Perhaps skimming the household finances.  We are able to live on $4 grand a month, for Chrissakes!
Oh, to spend just a few hours in his head.

Aaaaaaaaargh!

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In keeping with my rant against Mother Nature I woke up this morning, looked out the window, squeezed my eyes shut real tight, raised my fist to the heavens and went, “%&*#$%^@#&%@#$%&!!!!!”

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaargh!”

I promised The Beast last night that we would get out for a run this morning and I didn’t care if it was snowing.  She looked at me with a dreamy gaze of complete worship as though to say, “Oh, thank you, my dear mummy.  I can’t wait and I know, this time, you’ll come through for me.  Because I just love you so much and despite your previous many disappointments I can see the commitment in your eyes and I just love you so much and am sure that this time.  This time.  This time.  You will be true to your word and we will go out for a run.  Cuz you know I love our runs soooooo much.  Almost as much as I love you, dear mummy.”

Of course, when I made this promise to my perfect, adorable, lovely doggie, I knew She wouldn’t actually bring snow and that my word was a pretty easy one to keep.

Well, while She did not deliver snow to this here Western Slope, she did bring cold, rain and wind.

Triathlon is two months and counting. Doggie staring at me with expectation from doggie bed.  I can see it in her eyes.  The eternal forgiveness.  Like she knows I’m gonna pee on her hopes and dreams yet again.  But she adores me anyway.
Ugh!  This is one helluva grudge.

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Yeah… well. Only his ass… of my comfy, cozy sofa, maybe.

Yes. It’s the weekend of The Masters.

It’s also the weekend of some real spring-time weather. Fucking finally! I’ll try to keep my resentment in check as apparently yesterday, our neighbors over the mountains were hit hard with a late season snow storm! Ha! I guess that’s what you get when your streets run free with money and your freaking SUV is encrusted with gold!

Anywho. I digress. Where was I?

Oh, yes. The Masters. And our very first, fair weathered opportunity to get things done in the yard.

Hmmmmm…… please say it’s only me that views these two things as completely, totally, fully and without any shred of doubt, mutually exclusive?!?!

I thought not. Shit!

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For the past half hour I find myself in heated debate with middle child over whether or not I am nice. Why I, late-thirty-something-mother-who-knows-better, am engaging, only days-away-from-being-six-year-old hysterical child, very recently deprived of X-Box priveleges for miserable behaviour, is in an argument over my nice-ness, could certainly be a valid question.

Well… because I am feeling lousy. Brief session photographing perhaps less than wonderful images of local middle aged couple. Listening to incessant background noise of exasperated and frustrated boisterous WAH husband yelling into speaker phone to anxious and demanding co-workers trying to meet deadline all morning. Anticipating drive of several hours to Calgary to spend seemingly endless hours all weekend in stuffy, chlorine infused pool environment. And I’m feeling lousy. So, I’m getting a little perverse satisfaction out of ongoing misery derived from meaningless, mutually antagonistic, absolutely no point to be had, and unnecessary, overly emotional exchange with youngest boy child.

Essentially… you want to fuck with me this morning? Game on!

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