On Removing Several Layers of Skin From My Face, Foals, and Puppies

Years ago, I wrote this post, in which you'll find an incredibly revolting tale of woe regarding a growth on a dog's head, and also an apt description of my acne medication.

I've decided, again, to attempt to make my skin look clear and wonderful, and as a result I've gone back to using my old acne medication. It still smells as strong, it still dries my skin as much. It currently hurts to laugh, smile, cry, wipe away tears, yawn, and chew on food. So, hey, perhaps it interferes with day to day living a little bit, but really, a small price to pay for clear skin, right?

There are some exciting goings-on here at The Ranch that don't have to do with my acne. For one, we are only TWO MONTHS away from meeting Tia's baby. In fact, it's more like six weeks away. Tia has become quite rotund and on a daily basis you can see her little baby flopping around in her belly. Sometimes at night I go down to the barn and lean my head on her belly to feel the little kicks. Nothing like getting kicked in the head by a fetal horse to make your heart smile.

Before Tia's baby gets born, however, we have another new arrival on her way eleven days from now. Dixie is going to be quite upset about this new arrival, this little bundle of liver-colored German Shorthaired Pointer puppiness. She is flying in from Winnipeg on the fifth of December. SuperNan and I are currently chomping at the bit, so to speak, to go shopping at Petsmart for cute pink little puppy things. My father is busy rolling his eyes at all the delighted squealing we have been doing over this adorable mass of wiggles. Dixie doesn't know what's about to hit her and for this I feel bad: my poor, grumpy old beagle is about to get licked and hassled by this puppy and there is no way to mentally prepare her for that.

In the meantime, I suppose I should be doing something productive with my day like doing schoolwork or excercising on my stationary bike.

I Should Have Worn Eye Makeup...

I find eye makeup to be very tricky. I have to say that of any finer qualities I have, my eyes are fairly spectacular. They are rather striking and a very intense blue. I've often had people ask me if my eyes are real and one time I actually had a complete stranger come up to me and ask me if he could take a picture of my eyes.

This makes eye makeup tricky as sometimes a little liner and some shadow can make my eyes pop that much more, and sometimes they look hugely out of proportion to the rest of my face and I just end up looking crazed.

*Preamble can be considered done at this point in the entry.*

I had a date the other night and while I was first wary of the date, once on it I had a wonderful time.

I often times put a lot of thought into what I wear on a date and who the person is before I dress for the date. A friend and I were out and she thought that the date warranted a new top. Upon review of who I was going out with, I decided a plain T-shirt, jeans with a belt and cowboy boots would be my best option. My friend was mortified and asked me what I was doing with my makeup and I thought that a light layer of mascara and some minimal blush (Along with the perfunctory eight pounds of cover up to hide my insidious acne, but that's another post) would be fine. My friend rolled her eyes and the flaring of her nostrils spoke volumes to me, but I stuck with my decisions.

And then my date showed up in his boots with his belt buckle on and he towered over me -- that's just how tall he is, dear God YES, I went on a date with someone taller than me, how proud would my mother be? -- and his ball cap was cocked back on his head and I figured that the minimal makeup was exactly the right choice.

The conversation flowed and we got some coffee and went for a drive in his spectacular car and talked about his pickup truck and hunting and fishing and his first moose. We talked about farming and driving stick and Dixie, my miraculous deer hound. We discussed horses and school and his time at an agricultural school and my time at school in the city. We talked about beer and the troubles I'm facing with my currently malfunctioning shotgun and pros and cons of a shotgun versus a rifle. We talked and talked until we found it was two o'clock in the morning.

We parted ways and I told him when I was free to meet next, and when he went on his way I said "Call me...." and went inside.

And there hasn't since been a call.

And I've become that crazed person who's checking her phone every thirty five seconds, analyzing every single minute from the evening and thinking I've done something horribly wrong. Did I have food in my teeth? Was there an enormous zit on my forehead I wasn't aware of? Were the boots too much? Should I have just stuck with Docs and not bothered with the cowboy boots?

Alternatively, I'm thinking who the Hell talks with someone like old friends until two o'clock in the morning and then doesn't call? Seriously? SERIOUSLY?

I'm being a psycho, I know. I'm fully aware of my craziness.

I'm just going to blame it on the decisions surrounding the eye makeup and move on.

And Then All The Farmers Laughed

I've created a bit of a stir in CowTown over the summer. I know, I live in a small town and that when people do things, other people talk. I just didn't think that this one little thing I've been doing would create this sort of... talk.

I've been walking.

I've been walking the gravel roads of CowTown all summer long in an attempt to rein in the size of my ever expanding bottom. My bottom remains the same size and my riding boots still do not comfortably fit, but the talk of the crazy girl who just keeps walking remains.

At first the farmers(no cute and single ones, don't worry, I checked) would stop in their pickup trucks and chat with me. I've been chatted with by people in 4 X 4 trucks, by people on four wheelers, by people in tractors, even. One farmer (Cute, but not single) stopped and asked me if I was ok. Like, you look to be going at quite the pace, are you alright? Are you freakin' out about something?

Nope, nope, not going anywhere. Just trying to get some excercise.

*Blink* This led to a thirty minute conversation on Communism and the direction that Obama wants to take the U.S in. (I tried to follow. I really did. But I haven't watched the news or studied a political platform since... Well, now, I don't know. At least he was interesting, but he did cut into my walking time.)

Another farmer (Distantly related to me) stopped at the beginning of the summer and asked if I needed a ride.

No, just trying to get some excercise.

*Blink*

Another farmer (old enough to be my father, distantly related to me) stopped and asked where I was going.

Just up the road and back.

And then he said, What, you're excercising?

And I thought, YES! Someone who would finally understand my plight!

And then he laughed at me and said "Well why in hell don't you get yourself over to my place and put these twenty five hundred bales of hay in my mow. You'd kill two birds with one stone!"

He drove away when I asked how much he'd pay.

Sigh.

Yet another farmer in yet another truck stopped and offered me some candy he had sitting on his front seat.

Thanks for the support, neighbors.

We were at a dinner for all the local farmers, (Not surprisingly, none of them single and cute) at a table full of farmers and the talk of my walking came up. Along with guffaws of laughter. GUFFAWS. These people were GUFFAWING at me.

They then pointed out that perhaps my time in the city had worn off on me.

Ouch.

At any rate, I'm thinking of investing in a home gym of sorts, only my gym would have to be stored in the barn because of our lack of space in the house.

And then I could excercise to my heart's content and not have to face GUFFAWS of laughter at the next farmer's dinner.

I am a woman full of hope, if nothing else.

Oh, Dropping the Ball, How I Love Thee...

I dropped the ball at work tonight, and as a result I had an assload of paperwork to do before my shift ended.

Usually when I drop the ball, when things happen that could have been prevented, I come home and cry into my pillows before breaking out in a nasty case of hives that takes four days and a case of beer to get rid of.

But not THIS TIME!

This time, I'm taking it as a sign that I am learning. It wasn't a huge error, just an error I shouldn't have made, and now I know that, hey, next time, I can't do that!

My, it is amazing how a person grows in time.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Because I mentioned hives just now, I feel it is time to talk about my skin a little bit. A week or two ago, my mother was examining my face in rather close proximity to my person. I can't stand it when people get near my person, in case I have to breathe out of the same air that they are breathing into. And so, I inquired as to why she was peering at my face, and she said "Your skin. Your skin looks lovely!"

And I said "Yes, I thought it had cleared up quite a bit."

And she said "A bit!? No, Dear, it looks WONDERFUL!"

And yes, my skin has been looking much better as of late.

You see, I recently broke up with a boy, and when I do ridiculous things like date boys, my skin breaks out. Sometimes a hive or two will pop up, but mostly I break out in hideous acne that makes me look like a hormone-ravaged twelve year old.

And now I'm broken up, and I know that everything is well and good in my life. I watched the final disc of ER's Season Eight, and I was right. It cured me of my break-up.

I was talking to someone of the male species online the other day and my mother happened by the computer, inquiring as to who I was chatting with. When I told her it was a Boy, she told me that she didn't think she could take it.

And I was all like, "But MOM! This one might make me break out in SHINGLES and I haven't had those yet! Imagine the possibilities!!"

And then she had no words to say, and exited the computer room and sat down in front of the television, and I could hear her wondering in her head: What will get me through my daughter's next break-up now that ER is over?!

More About the Hair... And Dixie...

I styled my hair ALL BY MY SELF this morning, a feat I am quite proud of. I think it would have turned out better if I had some shine spray, and if I had used the straightener instead of the curling iron, but you have to work at these things over time. I can't simply go from a girl who ties her hair up on top of her head to someone who knows what she's doing with a blow dryer IN ONE SINGLE DAY. OK? Are we clear? I am not a master of the hair-fixing appliances. NOW STOP LAUGHING AT ME.

Dixie is home and well from the vet's office. When I came home tonight, she was laying in her kennel, all pathetic and beagle-like, looking up at me as if to say "Please. Please make that visiting Basset Hound puppy GO AWAY because it keeps smelling me and if I could muster the strength to growl, I would, BUT MY ABDOMEN WAS JUST SLICED OPEN and I'm not quite a hundred percent yet."

I'm glad that my dog and I have this kind of mind reading relationship. Its called non-verbal communication and I've spent the last FIVE YEARS learning about it in accredited post-secondary institutions. So don't fuck with me on the non-verbal stuff, OK?

I don't yet have a pic of her wearing her ridiculous lampshade, or the bag of gravel that was removed from her bladder. I'm not sure how well those pics will turn out, because I don't really want to take them out of their baggie. Like, I'm all for checking out cool and interesting things, but the rocks the size of my thumb that came from inside my dog's urine storage unit?

Yeah, not so hot on digging through those.

Regardless, the stones are very fascinating to look at because they are, quite literally, stones. The gravel-y bits, you could place about thirty bazillion of them under your child's swing set. No joke.

Hopefully I'll have pics of the terrifying nastiness to put up tomorrow.

Until then, I need to end my time as an upright and conscious person because I'm frickin' tired.

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow...

Dixie managed to make it through her surgery successfully, and she gets to come home some time tomorrow. I'm scared for her to come home because our house is a very busy one, and she tends to get pretty excited and run around quite a bit. Having just had abdominal surgery, I'm sure it can't be too good for her to take flying leaps off the couch and try to jump up and kiss my nose every chance she gets. Clearly, we should sedate her. And everything around her. Sedation for everyone!

While my precious Little Muppy was under the knife, my afternoon class was cancelled. So, I did the only rational thing I could think to do. I went to a fancy-schmancy hair place in The Big City and had all my hair chopped off. Fourteen inches after it was braided, to be exact.



Here it is, a picture of my hair. As soon as the final snip was done, a woman in the salon burst into applause and everyone gave me encouraging smiles. The girl handed me the braid of hair, and I wanted to throw up because it was just so gross. It felt like some kind of dead rodent in my hands, and I was repulsed that A) it was seconds earlier HANGING OFF MY BODY and B) that someone would touch someone else's old, nasty, yucky, dead-rodent-feeling hair to make wigs out of. Brave souls, those wigmakers are.



Here, you'll see a pic of it from the back. LOOK HOW SHORT IT IS! I've been growing my hair for the past three years. I'm not sure why I started growing it: At first I wanted to see how long I could get it to go in three years. Then I was going to cut it, but it was my best friends' wedding. Then my mom got cancer, and I decided to donate it. It was a bit of a process, this hair growing thing, but I managed to see it through.



Here is the glorious side view. I took a head on one, but I'm not wearing makeup and no one needs to see THAT on the Internet. It is very, very short in the back (I'm talking, an inch and a half long) and goes to a few more inches than that in the front, on an angle, with longer angled bangs on the front.

I have to say that I absolutely LOVE this hair cut. I know that a lot of women are traumatized after losing their hair, they miss it and they feel awkward and they want it back. I say, the only way to cure that? TO GROW IT FOR THREE FRICKIN YEARS. By the time you've saved up enough money in your bank account to finally get it all cut off, you'll feel delightful. I feel about fifteen pounds lighter (Even though it kind of accentuates my giant head, and my face now looks sort of fat. Sigh. The Berry Queen suggested that my face does not look fat, just cheeky like a cute little chipmunk storing away peanuts for the winter time. Sigh.)

When I came home, I displayed the dead rodent feeling hair for my father to see, while Kami the Bird Dog leapt around the kitchen howling and trying to eat it. After I did that, I went out to get the horses, and Tia jumped and ran to my father. Following that, Copernicus stood on top of the fridge and howled for about ten minutes straight. I'm not sure what to make of the animals' reactions to my hair. I'm hoping they were jumping and howling their pleasure... but one can never be sure.

Now all I have to do is learn how to blow dry, straighten, and apply the perfect amount of product each morning.

Here's hoping.

In praise of the lumberjack jacket...

Last year I turned 22 on my birthday, and it was probably the best birthday of my life for a variety of reasons. The Berry Queen bought me my very own plaid lumberjack jacket, and I realize now that to describe a lumberjack jacket as plaid is redundant in and of itself because do they come in any other color?

I love my lumberjack jacket with a love that is fierce and strong, because it is warm and cozy, it is comfortable, it is plaid, it is soft. It acts as many things: a blanket, a comforter, a jacket, a shawl, and sometimes even a boyfriend. When I wear the lumberjack jacket I know that I can be single for the rest of my life because its like being wrapped up in something safe and warm and comfy and really, who needs a smelly man who's likely to leave razors on the bathroom counter when you already have a lumberjack jacket on hand? Not me, that's for sure.

Mal wore the lumberjack jacket out for a cigarette this weekend, and I think it was the first time in her life that she ever experienced the lumberjack jacket-y goodness. We were driving to a wedding on Sunday and she turned to me as we were lost for the seventh time in a random parking lot. There was an air of seriousness about her, a sincerity on her face when she looked at me and said:

"I'm sorry for judging you for wearing the plaid jacket."

"What?"

"No, really. I'm sorry for judging you. I wore it out for a smoke this morning and it was seriously so comfy. I get it now. I get why you love the jacket so very much."

I have to say that there is really not a conversation that I value as much as that one, and I know that it is a friendship based on strength and trust when she admitted that something so hideous and unbecoming can be so loved at the very same time.

I've decided to punish her for her months of ridicule come this October. I think she needs her very own lumberjack jacket, so that she can wallow in the flannel goodness even when I am not around. And then every time someone comes over and finds a plaid jacket jammed into the recesses of her closet, she'll have to flounder for an excuse as to why she owns such an abonimation. But then, while she's floundering, perhaps she'll realize that she doesn't need an excuse, and she can weep and proclaim her undying love for plaid jackets and hold it in her arms and she can know without a doubt that this is what true love is really all about.

When clothes get complicated...

I have never been a very good shopper. I grew up on a farm and as a result, my wardrobe is fairly standard: Jeans, T-shirts, sweaters, boots (Docs or work boots), plaid jacket. I've had many issues in my life complicate my ability to shop for attractive, fashionable clothing; namely, that I'm broke or that I have no idea what actually constitutes fashionable or attractive when it comes to clothing.

Other issues relating to my inability to purchase clothes are the result of my odd body type -- By the time I can wedge a pair of jeans up over my thighs, they gape at the waist -- and my enormous bone structure. I really think that I should have chosen a career with the NFL because of my enormous-beyond-what-should-be- physically-possible ribcage. Bras are all but impossible to find because of my near non-existent chest and huge circumference; and pants that are long enough to touch the ground and cover my ass appropriately? Laughable.

SuperNan has never had any of these issues with clothes. She is average height at around five foot six, has a normal bone structure, and her figure is proportionate to the rest of her. Sometimes I roll my eyes at her and growl "Damn you, lucky bi-atch!" under my breath. YES, I talk that way to my mother under my breath and she still lets me live here for free. I don't really get it either, but I'm not going to question such a wonderful thing.

Breast cancer has put a bit of a damper in my mother's wardrobe requirements. We have been shopping for months now in preparation for her treatments to begin. We have been searching high and low for breathable clothing that is non-irritating to the skin, loose enough to be comfortable, yet tight enough to be supportive, and of course, fashionable enough that she can show herself in public.

The Berry Queen taught me the three rules of shopping years ago. These are not rules so much as they are questions, and they are: 1) Does it fit? 2) Is it attractive? and 3) Can you afford it? Before you make any purchase, you must answer each of these questions with a yes, or else you must put the item back on the shelf and never devote another millisecond of your life to thinking about it. NOT EVEN ONE.

This whole cancer thang has kind of thrown a wrench into those plans because now there are about eight questions to ask for each article she tries on.

Shopping for clothes today and the last few times we've tried now tends to take up a bit more time than it typically used to. However, I have to say that all this clothes-picking, looking at each and every loose-fitting cotton summer top in the store... its been fun. We've laughed over the ridiculous things (You know, when you decide to go out on a limb, and when you get there, you realize it was safer near the trunk of the tree? Yeah.), marvelled at some of the things that my older-than-me mother can actually pull off and still look dignified in, AND we haven't given up altogether and called in a tailor to create clothes for her in close proximity to our television.

This whole cancer thing will be coming to an end in mid-June. I'm thankful that my fmaily has the positive attitude we have about it, that we've been able to laugh together and come together over dealing with this icky, icky thing. At the same time? I won't be sad to see it done with.

[Breast Cancer, Clothes for Breast Cancer, Shopping, summer clothes]

SO many exciting things...

I'm excited for a lot right now. Like today, I had all these grand plans for starting to terrorize my dad's barn. He sees my reconstruction of the barn as the albatrosse that is around his neck. He's mostly right, but I blame him and nobody but him because he just can't stand by and watch a person do their thing.

Oh, no. "You're gonna want a 2x8 there, and a 4x4 there, Sweetheart. GOOD GOD DON'T TOUCH THAT SLEDGE HAMMER! Here, hold my cigarette. I'll get it. NO! DON'T TOUCH THAT SAW! It's plugged in and could start spinning!!" So, after my safety lesson ensues.... but long before the first hammer has been swung, one of us will have lost an eye. Or gotten exhausted at the thought of swinging a hammer, so we'll need to pause there and take a quick break. Which always turns into a twenty minute escapade in playing with gleeful little kittens.

I also managed to figure out, with much help from the lovely SuperNan, how to back up my photos onto discs, so I have all the photos from this year on a disc which is quite handy! Now my mom has access to that picture where I'm posed beside the random drunk girl with the barf bucket. I really don't know who she was. And I really was sober enough to take the picture, so hey! That's Good news, Mom!

In other news, we farm ladies are heading into the Big City tomorrow in search of the perfect fat pants. Shopping trips usually start off just so well when you start the day forced to do so based on what your body does when you cram in into ill fitting jeans.

But hey, they highlight of the excursion will be that we'll get to eat at Tim Horton's many, many times per day. It'll be grand!

Happy Good Friday, Everyone!

Amanda

Things are looking up....

Last week I had the pleasure of visiting with Dr. Chuck for a while, and he prescribed me some acne cream for the ever-present acne I've acquired since becoming an adult. The cream is working wonders on my skin, peeling off one layer after another in a haze of burn-y goodness. I'm pretty sure that this particular cream could get a person very, very high if a person were to shut the bathroom door and inhale its fumes for longer than eighteen seconds.

The down side of this cream is that my face is so dry and hurt-y that flossing, smiling wide, yawning, and doing any number of other things that require facial contortion is now rather painful. I'm quite terrified that some day I'm going to sneeze too soon after an application of this cream and my entire facial dermis is going to drop right off of my skull and leave me looking like something out of a horror movie.

The other day in search of a cure for this excessive dryness, I went into the pharmacy to see what they have. This is where I find that I'm not too good at being a woman: it's bad enough that I can barely navigate the feimine paper section, but the lotion section overwhelmed me to the point of needing Clonapin. Chased down by tequila. And five cigarettes.

Unfortunately, I didn't have any of those three items with me, so with a friend from class I started reading all the information about lotion.

Good God.

There is a cream out there for every possible part of your face and sometimes I wonder how any woman manages to get up in time to apply each one in its proper location, in its proper order, at the proper time of day. Did you know that there are certain lotions to apply in the morning, and different ones to apply in the evening. I was a little confused by the difference between evening cream and overnight cream, and it led me to wonder: are you supposed to put one lotion on after dinner and a different one before bed?

How do people learn these things? Is there, like, som fundamental class in high school that I missed out on? Because I truly felt as though I needed a degree in something other than Sociology to try and understand what is what.

At any rate, I gave up on reading the different boxes and bottles and decided to go with a Neutrogena lotion that claims to be light, oil free, and perfect for sensitive skin. I don't even know if my skin is sensitive or not, but at this point, considering that I smooth a layer of noxious-smelling chemicals over it each night, it needs all the TLC it can get.

If nothing else, despite the fact that I think I may fail womanhood altogether and if I have a daughter who needs to learn these things she will be shit out of luck, I feel much better about my appearance. When Dr. Chuck asked me about it, I told him that acne isn't something that I dewll on or that particularly bothers me. I guess it must have bothered me more than I thought because lately I've been looking in the mirror and thinking, 'nice!' Not only that, but I'm more able to be in public without thinking that people are staring in horror at a monstrosity of a pimple that is threatening to swallow up the whole world with its greatness.

Looking good, feeling good...

Things are looking up.

Toonses