Separation Anxiety

Well, it's official.

Ivy is "one of the family."

She has an anxiety disorder.

Let me explain.

The day after Christmas we decided it would be fun to go see the movie Marley and Me, about a family and its incorrigible, irrepressible, entirely loveable dog.

We've been careful about introducing the kennel as a "happy" place to Ivy. Her nighttime kennel is upstairs in Melissa's bedroom, so she's never spent the night alone. When I needed to walk on the treadmill or take a shower, I would put Ivy in her downstairs kennel. She would whine and complain for a while, but eventually she'd settle down. She's never had an accident in her kennel, not even overnight.

We thought we'd be safe leaving her at home for 3-4 hours in her kennel while enjoying our movie.

Little did we know.

We were pushing the 4-hour mark and I was feeling nervous about getting home to Ivy (and because the chicken coop still needed to be closed up for the night). We hurried home, all of us eager to greet our little princess.

At worst, I thought she might have peed in her kennel.

At best, I figured she'd be hyper from the time spent confined.

Michael entered the house first, prepared to whisk her out of the kennel and outside for pottying. As we trooped in after him, we heard cries of "Oh, no!" and "She's gone!"

And she was.

Sarah finally found her upstairs, happy and no doubt relieved to see us again.

It took us several minutes to piece together what had happened.

Apparently, Ivy became so distraught at being left home alone that she managed to break out of an 8" x 12" panel in the front of her kennel. How a nearly 40 pound puppy managed to squeeze herself out of such a tiny opening, we'll never know.

Once free, she only became more anxious, and set off on a path of nervous destruction throughout the house, chewing my two new folk art hand-painted Santa Clauses, destroying boxes and leaving sticks and splinters scattered throughout the downstairs. She then must have heard Wally upstairs (we usually sequester him in one of the bedrooms so he doesn't eat anything we've neglected to put away). Unable to get in with Wally, she tore through Melissa's room, destroying two new American Girl doll boxes, but leaving the contents remarkably unscathed. She played with skeins of yarn and tore the roof off a new Playmobil cabin before traveling to Sarah's room to pee on a shirt on the floor and dump a tray of beads.

Sometime amidst her travels she found the time to poop on my bedroom rug, pee in the hallway three separate times and pee outside her kennel downstairs.

All things considered, the damage could have been much worse.

The kids picked up, Michael vacuumed and shampooed the rugs, and I cradled the little miscreant. She must have been so frightened and just didn't know what to do. We've since received some great advice to help with the separation anxiety, though we haven't yet had a chance to put it into practice.

A dear deranged courageous friend of ours agreed to watch Ivy and Wally while we travel to visit my mom this week. She'll have Ivy, Wally, her own dog, two cats, two chinchillas and a myriad other animals of her own to take care of while we're gone for 4 days. Oh, and she'll also be checking in on our 4 cats and 10 chickens.

She says she isn't afraid.

She thinks it will be fun.

I just hope she's right...

Holiday Frugality?

Well, kind of.

I definitely spent less money this holiday season than I have in the past and only brought the charge card out a time or two. Those splurges should be paid off in-full within two months - definitely better than I've done in years gone by.

Everyone was happy with their gifts and the kids didn't even notice my spending cut back. We gave used books whenever possible, bought some used electronics, and generally gave much more thought to our purchases than we have in the past.

Last year, in the interest of being less wasteful, we started wrapping our gifts in newspapers. At the time, my youngest and I decided it would be fun to come up with a different "theme" each year for the ribbons. Last December found us in the ribbon aisle at Michael's tossing polka dotted ribbons of every size and color into our cart with, I'm embarrased to say, wanton abandon. I cringe right now to think of how much money I spent on ribbons alone last year!

Determined to adhere to our new-found tradition, and after spending several hours agonizing over the possibilities in two different craft/fabric stores, we decided to use twine and buttons to decorate our packages. We already had lots of buttons at home, so spent only about $15 on twine and another package or two of buttons.

While stringing buttons onto the twine or gluing them onto the packages in festive, holiday-themed arrangements was time-consuming, it also was a lot of fun. The packages ended up being unique works of art, with a quirky, old-fashioned air about them. Just what I like!

And for the first time in more than 23 years, we've started putting money away in advance for next year's holidays and birthdays.

Gee, looks like maybe I'm finally growing up...

Medical Idiocy

http://thecornerstonegroup.files.wordpress.com

I'm a believer in modern medicine.

I immunize my children, tend to follow recommendations of the AMA and other medical organizations, and try to keep myself educated on the latest medical advances and how they apply to myself and my family.

My experiences with medical professionals, unlike many of my friends', basically have been beneficial and satisfactory.

But in the last two weeks two separate occasions of medical idiocy have certainly raised my ire.

First, my oldest son, 20, will be traveling to South Africa for the spring semester, studying at a university in Peitermaritzburg. He needs a physical before traveling, which also seemed a good time to have some, what I thought would be routine, blood work.

You see, Stephen has taken SSRI's for depression and ocd since he was 10 years old. About 6 years ago, an atypical antipsychotic was added to the mix. Thankfully, he has conquered the worst of his mental illness.
But the long term effects of taking SSRIs on the liver and other body systems, especially of someone who starts taking them at such a young age, are relatively unstudied at this point. To me, this points to the need for a liver profile every few years to make sure his liver function is normal.

The atypical antipsychotic, Abilify, has known side effects - ones that are even mentioned in it's TV ads, that require monitoring. Among these are weight gain, which Stephen has had, and the possibility of increased blood sugar. Call me stupid, but haven't we been hearing the past few years about the link between elevated blood sugar and excess weight leading to diabetes? It seemed only prudent for Stephen's blood sugar to be checked to make sure he hasn't incurred any of these side effects.

I guess I was wrong.

When Stephen went to his doctor's appointment, he requested that these two tests - the liver profile and blood sugar evaluation - be ordered. The family practice doctor insisted on calling the D.O. who prescribes his mental health medications to see if he had "ordered" these tests. The /ding-a-ling/ "doctor" - a psychopharmacologist no less, refused to order the tests.

The family practioner wouldn't order them either.

I thought we were supposed to be proactive and take charge of our own medical care. I can't get over that I - with no medical training and a B.A. in journalism - seem to know more about monitoring my son's health than two - count 'em - two different doctors.

We are in a bit of a tight place in this situation, being that my son is an adult and his medical care is no longer technically our purvue.

So, what is the message the medical establishment - or perhaps it's the insurance industry - is sending me? Is there no point in seeking out medical knowledge? Am I merely supposed to meekly fade into the sunset and leave my health - and that of my family - in the hands of these "professionals" who seem to know less about the possible side effects of my son's medications than I do?

The only solution we've come up with is for my husband to take time off work next week and accompany my son to the doctor's office.

What an unnecessary waste of time and money for all involved.

My second run-in with medical stupidity was this morning with the receptionist/nurse at my children's pediatrician. Michael was on the phone scheduling booster shots - as I said, I am a firm believer in the miracles that are immunizations.

Last fall I took Melissa, my 11-year-old, in for her chicken pox booster only to discover, much to my chagrin, that she was running a fever. She couldn't have the shot that day since she was ill. An article in today's newspaper about the upsurge in Whooping Cough cases throughout the natoin reminded me that she still needed the chicken pox booster and might need the Whooping Cough booster as well.

Whew. So, DH called to schedule the appointment only to encounter the ditz who mans the phones. She couldn't find whether Melissa still needed the Whooping Cough booster. Frustrating, but I can understand her not wanting to search while on the phone.

But then she said it.

The unforgiveable.

"There is no chicken pox booster."

For the uninformed, such as my DH, that might have been enough to keep a parent from properly - fully - immunizing their child.

I insisted that of course there is, it's recommended, and she in fact had been scheduled at their clinic to have it in September.

The ditz put us on hold - I'm sure she checked with another of the nurses or perhaps a doctor - coming back on the line to say, "Well, there's not a required booster, it's just recommended."

DUH.

It's recommended because tests have shown that the initial immunization wears off over time, potentially leaving an adult vulnerable to chicken pox, which can be extrememly dangerous.

And as for "required" immunizations, as I explained to DH, there aren't any "required" immunizations except by the public school system.

Dark Days Eat Local Challenge - Week 6

We ate like kings after our visit to the Des Moines Indoor Winter Farmer's Market the Saturday before Christmas. Many of our favorite summer farmer's market vendors were there, selling everthing from apples, mushrooms, cheese, flours and other grains, to locally grown hand-spun yarn and wine, all produced locally.

I think I was most excited to find the fresh spinach from Bluegate Farm. It was all I could do to restrain myself to purchasing only two bags. We bought apples, Honeycrisp and Jonagold, to replenish our supply of local fresh fruit. The pecans on the salad I'm considering local, as we bought them from a roadside stand in Missouri on our way back home from visiting my mom last October. I lightly toasted the pecans and sprinkled them over the tops of the salads.
Finally, my favorite local goat cheese producers, Northern Prairie Chevre, supplied the feta. Though I purchased the tomatoes at a grocery store, they too are locally grown at Graddy's, a hydroponic tomato producer in Caroll, Iowa.

The main course was locally-made tortellini sold at the market, served with my homemade all-local-ingredient rosemary pasta sauce. I topped the pasta with more of the local feta.

The garlic bread was made with a loaf from our local, favorite bakery.

And finally, I made two pies for dessert. Above is a somewhat blurry photo of a sour cherry pie, made with cherries from a local orchard.

The pumpkin pie was made with butternut squash grown in our own yard. Both pie crusts were made with locally-grown flour. Next year I plan to purchase lard for crust-making from one of the hog producers in my CSA.

We felt truly blessed to have so many wonderfully fresh local ingredients available for what turned out to be a great meal!

Dark Days Eat Local Challenge - Week 5

Mmm.
Simple can be sooo yummy!
With the busy-ness of the season, a new puppy, frigid temperatures and icy roads, our local meals have been on the quick and easy side these past couple of weeks.

Above you see grilled bison dogs from Dreesman Buffalo Ranch in Tama, Iowa. We aren't big meat eaters, though I've slowly added more locally and responsibly produced meats to our diet over the past couple of years.

We broiled the dogs in the oven and they tasted great - not at all greasy, but perhaps a little tougher than the average dog. I thought they were delicious and so did my family.

The dogs were served in buns locally made at South Union Bakery. I had a heaping helping of non-local sauerkraut on my bison dog. I have plans to make a batch of my own kraut this coming season.

The crowning touch of the whole meal, however, was the roasted root vegetables.

Oh my goodness, I could eat these every day!

All the veggies - beets, potatoes and sweet potatoes - were from our CSA Small Potatoes Farm.

You know, it's pretty amazing how easy it is to find local sources for food. Since I first started trying to eat as locally as possible about 2 years ago, we've gone from sourcing maybe 10 percent of our diet locally to as much as 85-90 percent.

It takes effort, a willingness to eat somewhat seasonally, and a big freezer, but eating locally is certainly possible and highly rewarding.

Loose Ends

Back in September we bought a bushel of onions from a local farmer at the Des Moines Downtown Farmer's Market. I fully intended on chopping and freezing most of the onions, but along about the end of the month I ran out of steam.
I pretty much came to a complete food storage standstill.
Fortunately, the onions kept quite well in our basement until last month when some of them started to go bad.
And believe me, when onions go bad, you want to duck and run.
Pew!

Enter my wonderful darling husband who spent hours chopping and freezing over Thanksgiving weekend. Some people I know have commented on how much I get done. There are times when I'm quite efficient and manage to can/freeze/create quite successfully.

But I would be lying if I didn't acknowledge that Michael does a fair share of the work. He's the one who processed all the corn we froze this year. He helped me make the pickles, can the tomatoes and peaches, and peeled and froze his share of apples for pies.

Basically, when I drop the ball, more often than not Michael catches it.

Sometimes I feel as if I'm not pulling my weight around the house, though I do much more than I was able even just a year ago. But Michael always - and I mean always - assures me that we are a partnership.

We've always treated our marriage and home life that way. I stayed home and cared for the kids, he went out and earned our income. But we always shared housework, cleanup duty and yardwork. He was always willing to pitch in with the kids at the end of a long day at work, just as I (though not always graciously) understood his need to work overtime or go on long working trips to Hawaii in February.

I am so thankful to have found this caring, giving and gorgeously handsome man. Our marriage is a partnership, a friendship, and a love affair.

It doesn't get much better than that.

Brrrr!

It's been crazy cold here the past two days.
I should know, since I've been spending a good share of the early daylight hours outdoors.
With this pretty little princess:

She's definitely feeling better since the antibiotics for her UTI kicked in, which is a relief.
In a way.
I'm no longer running outside with her every 5 minutes, but she's feeling better.
Feeling better + puppy = crazy, frenetic energy = longer playtimes outdoors.
Did I mention that the temperature at 1 p.m. today was 6 degrees?

So, lately I've found myself bundling up and trudging outdoors with Ivy and Wally. Their relationship is slowly developing, but there is one problem.
Wally is a grouchy old man.

He will only consent to actively play with Ivy for 1/2 hour in the morning and that's it.Oh, and he won't play before he's had his breakfast, so that puts play time at approximately 7 a.m.Guess where I am then?Yup.From 7 a.m. to 7:30 a.m. each morning you'll find me in my yard trying not to freeze to death while the dogs romp and play in the snow.

After he gives me that single half hour, Wally is done for the day.
If I take him out to play with Ivy again, he will go potty then stand on the steps staring at the door to be let back in.
Believe me, I know how he feels.

Ivy, on the other hand, loves be outside in the cold and the snow. She's happy to plop right down in the frigid wasteland of my backyard and take a little rest. Unfortunately, indoors she's not ready to rest for the day until about 1 p.m., which gives me a good 6 hours of crazy each and every day.

You'd think I would have been better prepared for this, since the two other dogs we've owned were both puppies in the winter time.

I hate to admit it, but I think I'm too old for this.

But experience tells me that this too shall pass.

And she's really sweet when she's asleep.

Dark Days Eat Local Challenge - Week 4

This week was even more of a challenge than usual, due to our new puppy, Ivy.

Actually, not just because of the puppy alone, but because of the puppy's urinary tract infection.

Isn't this a nice way to start a post about food?

Anyway, we've spent a good share of the week dashing outside into the cold - or with yesterday's warm-up, into the mud - with sick a dog who's having a hard time, shall we say, controlling her urge to "go."

Thus, I present to you our local meal of the week. A little repast fondly called "Desperation Stew and Tragedy Bread."

The stew was thrown together in record time betwixt pee-stops. Thank goodness my refrigerator and freezer are well-stocked with local veggies and meat. I tossed a grass-fed beef roast from my CSA into the crock pot along with turnips, potatoes and the last of the white carrots , all from my veggie CSA. I added a quart of home-canned tomatoes from our garden and a little salt and pepper, turned the crock to high, and had an easy, delicious meal ready for dinner about 5 hours later.

If only the rest of the day had been so easy!

The "tragedy bread" has a different etiology, but it certainly fit the theme of the meal. I discovered the bread recipe in the latest issue of "Mother Earth News." This fabulous recipe has you mixing up the bread dough ahead of time and keeping it the freezer a la sourdough. Each time you want to make a loaf, you just pull off a hunk of dough, shape, let it rise, and bake. A definite side benefit this time of year is the 40 minutes the oven is on at 450 degrees!

So, you ask, what's the "tragedy?"

Let's just say I won the stupidity award the first time I made the bread. In order to have a crispy crust, a pan is preheated on a lower rack in the oven. When the bread is placed in the oven to bake, a cup of water is quickly poured into said pan to create steam which creates the crispy crust.

I'd like to say I was under undue stress when I placed the pyrex pan on the bottom of the oven. Perhaps I could claim a migraine caused me to pour the cold tap water into the hot pyrex pan, but alas, it wouldn't be true.

No sooner had the first drop of cold water hit the burning hot glass pan than there was an explosion in my oven to rival an IED. The entire pan burst, sending chunks of glass throughout the oven and onto the kitchen floor.

Fortunately, I have a double oven and was able to quickly stick the loaf of unbaked bread into the remaining oven and, despite its need to preheat, the bread suffered no obvious ill effects.

So, after using the shop-vac to clean the glass from the bottom oven, the floor, and nearly every kitchen nook and cranny, we had delicious bread! Unfortunately, it did take a little longer than the recipe indicated.

The authors forgot to take into account baker's stupidity.

Finally that night we had baked apples made with fruit from a local orchard. The raisins, spices and brown sugar obviously weren't local, but the butter and cream in the recipe were.

All in all, a great local meal.

It just had a "tail" to tell...

Treasured

alpinefarms.com

Early in my marriage I discovered that Michael and I have very different ways of showing our love for each other.

You might call it different "love languages."

And I must admit, it took me awhile to learn to appreciate Michael's dialect.

You see, I love presents.

Getting them, giving them.

There's just something about the idyllic gift that makes me all tingly inside.

Give me a gift and I know you love me. Surprise me with something you've put a lot of thought into, that takes into consideration my likes and dislikes, something, oh, I don't know... perfect, and it will show me how much you care.

I know, it sounds shallow, but it's how I viewed expressions of love, especially back in the 1980s..

There was my first Mother's Day in 1988.

I had my precious Stephen.

I didn't, however, have a card or a gift from my darling husband.
Nothing.

Zilch.

Nada.

I felt a little abandoned and explained to Michael how important holiday acknowledgement is to me.

But despite his Ph.D., Michael has had a steep learning curve in the gift department.

There was the Christmas that he bought me a new rolling pin.

And threw away my favorite rolling pin to boot.

Did I mention that it was my grandmother's rolling pin?

An heirloom.

Now, I'm not against kitchen appliances for gifts. I'd love to get some Le Creuset cookware or a pasta attachment for my Kitchenaid Mixer. But a rolling pin?

So I tried dropping hints.

About 10 years ago, when my children were 10, 8, 5 and 1, I told Michael I would love to have an apron decorated with the kids' hand prints, drawings, etc.

I also mentioned it 9 years ago.

And 8.

Umm, 7, 6, 5...

Finally, two years ago, when my children were 18, 16, 13 and 9, I got the apron.

Complete with hand prints.

Do you have any idea how large a 6' 5" teenage boy's hands are?

So I learned, through lots of trial and too much error, that if I wanted something specific, I not only had to write it down for my darling, but I pretty much had to buy it, wrap it, and deliver it myself.

I used to get somewhat upset when the kids were little and he forgot to have them make me something for my birthday or have them write me cards for Mother's Day.

I'm ashamed to admit that I thought, at times, that if he really loved me, he'd remember the little hints I'd throw him throughout the year or come up with something on his own that was a spectacularly ideal representation of his love for me.

But you see, what I didn't take into consideration is that Michael doesn't just wait for special occasions to show me how much he loves me.

He demonstrates his love for me daily in myriad little ways.

When the kids were little, for example, he always gave them their baths, sang them goofy songs and brushed their teeth.

He almost always does the dishes, he vacuums, folds laundry, and makes a mean homemade pizza.

He's gone along with cats, dogs, guinea pigs, rabbits, gerbils, hissing cockroaches, mice and rats.

Chickens? Check.

St. Bernard puppy? Check.

He stayed with me through my mental illness; never judging and always supportive.
He cared for me - and did most of the housework - all the years I had undiagnosed hypothyroidism.
He's always willing to massage my neck and back at night and lets me warm my icy cold feet on his legs.

Michael not only loves me, he treasures me.

And I've learned that being treasured daily is far superior to the transience of a single gift.

My love gives of himself to me every single day.

I'll take that kind of gift-giving over a new sweater or a diamond watch any day.

I love you, honey.

Please excuse me...

I've been a little busy lately.

Meet Ivy Rose, 12 weeks old tomorrow.
Ivy is a rough coated St. Bernard from Peoria, Illinois.
She is sweet as sweet can be and quite calm for a puppy.
We're in the midst of house-training, and have had only 3 accidents since we brought her home Saturday night.

Ivy has already attended her first session of puppy preschool and is learning "sit," "lie down," and "come."
Michael and I have decided it's a good thing we had our last baby 11 years ago, when we were young and much more resilient (apparently). We both are a little slack-jawed and weary, unaccustomed as we are to the demands of a 3-month-old.

And so today, while you're nestled snug in your houses with your hot cocoa and fleece blankets, think of me: sitting on the cold floor with a drooling beast on my lap or frantically pulling on my boots for the umpteenth time as I hurry outside for an emergency potty stop.

I promise not to hold your good judgment and common sense against you, but you'll have to forgive me the drool (mine and the dog's) and extra dog hair...

Intersections

The best memories of my childhood are the summers spent on my grandma's farm in southeastern Iowa.

Most of those, unfortunately, don't include my grandma, who much preferred the company of my older sister to mine.

No, my memories center on the time I spent with my Uncle Clarence and my cousin Bill, who is only 18 months older than I.

I spent nearly every waking moment of every day following Uncle Clarence around the farm, riding on the tractor with him while he mowed weeds, riding on the hay wagon during baling, and picking raspberries (you begin to see my experience was more that of a "tourist" than any actual help to my uncle).

My cousin Bill, me, Uncle Clarence

We went fishing and swimming in my uncle's ponds and rock hunting for geodes and fossils. My cousin and I spent hours doing "surgery" on horse weeds with our pocket knives, building "toad halls" in the gravel pile, dueling with sticks and having pillow wars in my grandma's living room (the latter two activities were always stopped way before we were done having fun.)
I learned a lot from my uncle, who really was more like a grandfather to me. He was an authentic curmudgeon, sharing his views on politics, religion and, unfortunately, my aunt, more freely with me than any adult ever had before.

It was during these summers that I first heard about the "wackos" in Fairfield, Iowa. Apparently, one of my cousin's had attended Parson's College in Fairfield, but now, some crazy people had taken over the college. I never really understood who these people were, but I certainly knew they were weird and not to be trusted.

Fast forward 10 years and I'm at Iowa State University, falling in love with my future husband. He's from a poultry/dairy farm in north central Minnesota, working on his master's degree in agronomy. (What the heck was that? I had to look it up...)

Michael and me, circa 1983
Could my glasses have been any larger?

Michael is 9 years older than I am, so definitely had more life experiences under his belt when we met in 1983. He told me of his "crappy" jobs - hauling carcasses in a meat locker, working on a roofing crew, and more, all of which led him back to college and then on to his master's. Sometime after high school, he'd studied transcendental meditation, even learning to teach, and still meditated twice daily. Meditation was an important component of his daily life. I benefited from the massage classes he had taken at the same time, so I didn't think much about it.

I'm not sure when it began to dawn on me.

It might have been while working at the campus daily newspaper as managing editor. I received and sorted all kinds of press releases in that job, deciding which merited follow-up as possible stories and which ones were just wacky.

Almost weekly I received press releases from Maharishi International University, about meditating for world peace and showcasing their meditators who could "fly." Definitely weird stuff destined for the trash can.

But then one day I made the connection.

Maharishi International University.

In Fairfield, Iowa.

These were the flakes my uncle had talked about when I was a kid!
And where was it my betrothed had learned TM?

Umm, at Maharishi International University.

In Fairfield, Iowa.

Wow.

While I had been out haying and playing with the farm cats, my future husband had been just 30-some miles away studying with the crazies!

It all worked out in the end. I found the whole thing hilarious in a kind of weird way and my uncle liked Michael from the moment he met him.

I guess it just goes to show how small the world really is.

Frankly, I still think my uncle was right about most of what goes on at Maharishi International.

A little barmy with a side of wacko.

But they sure grow great organic veggies...

Dark Days Eat Local - Week 3

This week's local meal was a simple hamburger and fries.
The beef is from a small, local producer and has a flavor that's out of this world.
Michael and I always used to use a package of Lipton Onion Soup mix to flavor our hamburgers, but we've discovered that adding onion and garlic powder, salt and pepper, makes the burgers even more flavorful than the mix.
We sliced up our local onions and homemade dill pickles to top the burgers. The buns were from a local bakery.


We used our CSA potatoes to make oven fries: just a drizzle of olive oil, salt and pepper and 20 or so minutes in a 425 degrees and they're done. There's just no comparison with prefrozen, prepackaged fries. Plus, have you ever read the ingredients? Ugh!

Dessert was leftover pie.
I forgot to take pictures, but the apples and butter in the apple pie were local, as was the flour for the crust. The pumpkin pie featured our own home-grown squash.
A simple meal, but oh, so satisfying!

Remember to Floss!

The other day Sarah dropped her toothbrush.
Yep, that's it right there, after the fall.
She dropped it in the bathroom.

Lest you think too badly of me and my housekeeping, the brush did fall back behind the bathroom vanity. You see, when we moved into this 1904 house, we did a lot of remodeling.


Phew. Excuse me. I just had a flashback to the contractor from hell.


Anyway, we - I guess I should say I - wanted to make the remodeled bathroom look as period-appropriate as possible. This involved purchasing a clawfoot bathtub, really cool circular free-standing shower, and a vanity that really is a separate piece of furniture.
All this explanation is to let you know that there is a partial gap between the vanity and the wall that is nearly impossible to clean. In fact, I didn't even realize it was there needing to be cleaned until the toothbrush-dropping incident.

From my experience, it seems old houses have many more such nooks and crannies to clean than newer, modern houses. Just yesterday I vacuumed the ledges above the doorways in my upstairs hall. Not a pretty sight.

The grooves and edges of the wainscoting in the bathroom and the intricate notches of the woodwork throughout the house are also fur and dust collectors.

Then there's the window ledges, the stained glass windows and the radiators.

All dust/dirt collectors.

For Christmas I'm buying myself this book Knitting With Dog Hair: Better A Sweater From A Dog You Know and Love Than From A Sheep You'll Never Meet. My plan is to learn to adapt the spinning techniques I learn from the book to turn my dust bunnies and fur tumbleweeds into yarn.

At least then I can watch the accumulating crud with the satisfaction of a shepherd.

No, Mom, I don't need to vacuum.

I'm just growing my flock...

Snow Dog

Wally went out with Melissa to play in the snow.

He ran around a little.

But it was cold.

Really, really cold.

And that snow stuff?

Did you know it's wet and sticks to your fur?

Let me in!

Ahh, now this is more like it!

Frowsy

In our efforts to cut costs, we've been working on actually using items we've purchased.
I know that sounds strange, but we tend to accumulate products we fully intend to use, then fail to assemble, install or otherwise put them into use.

Recently, I've been searching out these products and either returning them to the store of purchase or actually using them. Last week I asked Michael (for the umpteenth time) to either put together a laundry organizer for the basement we bought nearly a year ago or return it (probably for merchandise credit).
He finally put it together and told me to go take a look in the morning.

This is what I found:


Yep, you're seeing exactly what greeted me first thing that day.
A lovely laundry organizer.
And a mountain of laundry lying next to it on the floor.


I failed to take into consideration my family's tendency toward entropy.
That, and how hard it is to form new habits.

Despite owning more than 8 laundry baskets of various shapes and sizes, the dirty clothes have always been dumped in a heap in front of the washing machine.
And you know what? I'm finding that it's a real pain to pull the dirty laundry out of that organizer.

And. apparently, so is everyone else.