Oh, Right... My Dating Hiatus...

Well, my dating hiatus began on December 21st. I am now roaring into month four with only a little bump in the road.

It was a small one.

And I was more enamored with that bump's tractors and cows than I was enamored with him, but hey, sometimes green tractors and big cows can get the best of a girl.

I simply can't be blamed for the affinity I have for tractors and riding on them in the moonlight with the person who owns them. You would have climbed right up as well. You know you would. Because the tractor was green and the cows needed to be fed and what girl can resist the words "Well, looks like we need to take a little tractor ride."

Luckily, this individual and I never went on a "date". So I'm still good with my dating hiatus. Had anything involved dinner and movies and hand holding and that sort of thing, I would be sunk.

All I did was milk some cows in the company of an individual who happened to own cows.

No dating.

Which is good, because if I had gone on any dates in the past four months, my beloved Joomy would be disappointed in me.

Month One: A Success

I am six days away from making the first month of my six month dating hiatus.

An odd day to post about it, for sure, but hey, its Friday and I don't have a date.

The dating hiatus was orininally mentioned to me sometime at the end of November. I did not commit to it because, at that time, an individual was talking to me.

I knew he wanted to go on a date with me and, as such, I could not commit to a dating hiatus. What if he wanted to take me somewhere that they served delightful food? How can I turn down free food? (I'm a sucker for free food.)

So, I prepared for my date and my mother and my best friend thought that going on this date was a bad idea. (So did I, but anyhow).

Preparations for the date included showering, combing my wet hair, wearing one of my brother's old Guinness T-shirts, brushing my teeth, and applying deodorant. I was twenty minutes late and I didn't smile when I got to his house.

I left his house (In the suburbs. *Shudder*) after about an hour.

The whole way home I thought to myself: Dating Hiatus. I need a dating hiatus.

That was the twenty first of December.

It is now mid way through January and I feel delightfully free. I've been playing guitar, riding horses, reading mindless novels and NOT worrying about who to call when or if someone is going to call.

Who would have thought I would ever feel so free?

I Don't Even Want To Post It...

But I'm going to. Thankfully, my Dearest Joomy has gone to Nigeria. Elsewise I would be worried that she would march right here to CowTown and slap me silly.

Last September, I wrote a number of posts about the MooseHunter.

I don't normally post that much information about the people I date but I think the number of posts I put up about him speaks volumes.

Last October, I continued to write about him.

In November, I resigned myself to the fact that it would never work out.

And then in December, this happened.

There was another Are You Kidding Me?!?! moment back in April, which I didn't write about because I figured that, by that time, it was so ridiculous I couldn't bear to mention it lest there be judgement from my trusty readers (Hi, Jooms!). Blah, Blah, Blah, and suddenly it is hunting season again and I get an inbox message from him regarding a certain bull moose he removed from the bush up North.

My drive to and from work is made up of my passing his equipment on the road as he harvests corn and suddenly I'm wrapped up again in this whole situation. My heart is aflutter, and every time he flashes his headlights at me on the highway I feel like I'm going to pass out.

We may or may not have another date coming up tomorrow night and my mind is racing. I don't know how to extricate myself from the situation should it be drawn out and painful. I don't know how to react should the situation result in what I want it to result in.

And Then There Was Goat Cheese

Only, no, it was not goat cheese.

I went to dinner tonight at a steak house and didn't order steak. I'm sure I'm going to hear about this from one of my regular readers who doesn't comment (Hi, Dad!) because who in their right mind would go to a steak house and order chicken? And not only was it chicken, it was mediterranean chicken with goat cheese and rose sauce, served with rice pilaf.

So I ordered this chicken and my dining companion (who owns a saddle decked out with 24 karat gold. I'm not making this up. GOLD. PLATED. SADDLE. Hi, Dad!) ordered steak, rare. And my ridiculous chicken creation appeared and I was kind of excited because I have become a fan of goat cheese lately.

And I dug into my glorious creation of chicken to find a taste that I was not familiar with. But that I have tasted before.

It was CREAM CHEESE and oh my Word, if there is anything I detest in this world it is cream cheese. I hate it when there is cream cheese in the fridge, or even cream cheese in my house. If cream cheese touches me, I have a strong emotional reaction and I have to wash whatever part of me that the cream cheese has touched.

And here I was, dining with a dining companion and thinking, I can not be That Girl, the one who flips out and carries on and acts all neurotic all the time. (I try to keep that side of me under wraps. Occasionally.)

So I had to overcome this reaction I was having to the cream cheese and eat it anyways and I THINK I DAMAGED A SMALL PORTION OF MY SOUL.

But I ate it and I survived.

And that's the news I am updating my blog with, that I ate cream cheese and didn't break out in hives.

I know, my life is just too exciting for most people to keep up with.

Biting The Bullet

I continue to worry about my size. I know that I am not a large person, but the size of me weighs on my mind. (No pun intended. Really.)

Last year I dated a person through the winter and this person joyed in taking me to breakfast, where I joyed in eating an awful lot of Eggs Benedict. Oh My Word, how I love Eggs Benedict. I also enjoy beer, and Cheetos, and potato chips (Barbeque) and coffee with lots and lots of cream and sugar. I've recently acquired an addiction to Booster Juice, Pita Pit, and Starbucks. But I only love Starbucks for their frappuccinos. Potatoes with gravy (And quite frankly, anything in the world doused in a healthy serving of gravy) makes my heart smile.

I dieted this spring and managed to knock of the poundage I had gained but I've come to a realization:

I have no desire to quit eating large quantities of foods that are very, very bad for me.

As I've previously mentioned, I've been walking. To the chagrin of all my neighbors, I've been walking.

It is now cold here in the depths of Ontario and I did walk today, in three quarter length pants, a long sleeved shirt, gloves, and a coat. It was a splendid walk with my trusty deer hound and I'm glad I got up the energy to go as I missed walking yesterday.

But I know that it will only get colder as days go by and I don't know how long I can continue to get excercise outdoors under these conditions.

And so I'm contemplating a gym membership.

Such a city thing to do, I know.

I need to keep moving and I've given away all my fat pants (Which is quite the selling point in pants, let me tell you.) and I simply can't go back to my old larger size.

I'm working at getting a discount at a gym from my cousin who works at one. Then I have to factor in the time and gas money to get there every day, and then once I get there I have to work at not stopping at Starbucks to get a Venti Caramel Frappuccino on my way back every day.

I've not made up my mind completely, but it is whirling around and I think it might be the only option to prevent the largeness that occurred early in 2009.

I think I may be on my way to being a city person living in the country. Next thing you know, I'll be driving a Mazda and eating tofu on a regular basis.

So I Fixed My Hair and Shined My Boots...

I think the end result was good although I have to say that I am a little bit upset that my hair, no matter what product I use or how high a temperature I set the flat iron on, just won't become that movie-star straight hair that I so desire.



I bought a new coat for the occasion, a new coat that set me behind financially but that really did its job well. It not only kept me warm, but it flattered my figure that much more because it is not a big, bulky, plaid flannel piece of attire. Odd that I would acquire such a jacket, I know, but here we are.

The date itself... (Oh, yes... this post is about the date. Did I forget to mention that?)

Well, I woke up in the morning and my family asked me how the date went and I threw my arms in the air and said "I have no idea!" and then I promptly sat down and comsumed far too many calories worth of breakfast foods.

I just find this whole thing quite confusing. You'd think that having a solid ten years of dating experience on me, by now I would know something about dating. Like, I should know how to deal with the who-pays-when awkwardness, or what topics of conversation are appropriate or how to dress or whether or not it went well once it is over.

The fact of the matter is that I haven't a clue. There were moments of conversation that flowed and moments of silent awwardness. There were moments when I was having a really, really fun time and other moments when I was like, What now?

We may go on another date, and I suppose that we may not. I fear this boy is a bit of a rules boy, as last time we went out he waited three days to call and I think that this time he is either not calling or waiting three days. (This is one thing I feel strongly about. The boy has to be the one to call. I've no idea why, but that is just how I feel)

And so, I suppose I have to say that I looked nice, if nothing else, and I had a nice jacket and a generally good time.

And other than that I still have no idea what this is or where it may go, if anywhere.

So sorry to dissapoint.

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.

When All Else Fails: Have A Baby!

My grandmother has been tremendously ill these last couple weeks. I have been very worried for her, as we all have. She has pneumonia and congestive heart failure. Only forty-eight hours ago, the doctors were talking about putting her on a ventilator.

It seems that the medications and care she's recieved in the Intensive Care Unit have done her well, and today when I arrived at her hospital room she was sitting up in bed looking like her old self again.(A skinny, frailer version of her old self, but her old self nonetheless). I must admit that I gasped when I saw her and said "Grandma, you're back to being you!" To this she responded that she didn't have time for a funeral, and that she had too much left to do before she went. Truer words have never been spoken.

My grandmother and I were just talking about nothing, shooting the shit, so to speak, when I mentioned the pets in my life. I was simply stating that, once my current dog leaves me, I won't be looking for another as dogs are quite the hassle. Grandma then said: "You should get something smaller, that you could hold here." And she motioned to her shoulder.

So I said: "Oh, Grandma. I've tried having cats. They hate me and go insane before trying to eat me while I sleep."

And Grandma said: "Oh, for God's sake. I wasn't talking about a damn cat. I was talking about a baby."

I must say that I was stopped completely in my tracks. Here I was, talking about my dog with a woman I love dearly, when she dropped this complete bomb on me.

I NEED TO HAVE A BABY??!?!?!!???

A Baby?

My grandmother was full of her old self today. She was precocious and vivacious, just the way I've always known her, and for this I am very, very glad. I'm not entirely sure that I'm going to run out and have a baby in the fit of glee I'm feeling this moment, but I have to say that almost anything is worth having my Grandma back to the way she was only a couple weeks ago.

The Number One Thing...

I ran into a family friend the other day. We had just finished lunch with my Grandmother, and he was sitting at a booth near the exit.

My mother and I stopped to say Hello, and I got the odd, creepy feeling that he was checking me out. My right hand was in my pocket, and my left hand was holding the strap of my purse over my shoulder.

He was looking from my right hand to my left, and I was feeling very, very unnerved by the situation. I mean, the guy is the same age as my mother.

As it turns out, he was NOT checking me out. He was examining my hands for rings. He gave my left hand a final nod and stated: "Still not married yet, eh?"

WELL. For your information, NO. I am not MARRIED.

Nor have I even been on a date over the last six months.

I am the unmarried, dateless, boobless wonder, and I live with my parents, working a job that is sure to lead me nowhere and a student debt load I have no hope of paying off.

THANK YOU VERY MUCH FOR POINTING THAT OUT.

Ahhhh, life as a single person. How I love thee.

Bad at Being a Woman, Part 3,862....

As most of you know, last November I chopped off fourteen inches of hair in a desperate attempt to A) make myself presentable B) No longer be held captive by hair that is long enough to entangle itself in EVERYTHING UNDER THE SUN and C) Attract my future soulmate, so that we can fall in love and live happily ever after.

Two of those items never happened (B and C, for those of you left wondering) and for a short period of time, my hair was quite presentable.

It was a process that started very early in the morning, this making myself presentable. I would wash and condition, then towel dry. Then I would work myself into a sticky sweat blow drying and poufing and teasing and curling under. Then I would apply a serum to kill the frizzies and straighten, and let me tell you, my hair has never been so shiny or coiffed or stylish.

After about a month, I realized that this making myself presentable task was A) Cutting into my sleeping time and B) Frequently causing me to be late for appointments. I also noticed that I HAD NOT YET ATTRACTED MY SOULMATE, and as a result, around February or March, I gave up on the coiffing and straightening and seruming.

Since then, I have simply been letting my hair air dry after a quick spritz with my Infusium, and things have worked out relatively well since then (Although, I must make note here, that the ending of the coiffing did not result in the finding of my soul mate, either.)

But now the time has come, that my hair is simply unruly and unmanageable and just plain not attractive. It gets stuck in my eyes, it lays on my cheeks, it frizzes at the top, and quite frankly, I'm sick of having hair at all. Further, it often blows in the path of my lighter when I'm lighting up one of my trusty ciggies, and nothing pisses me off more than SETTING MYSELF ON FIRE every time I smoke outside.

Enter the ever-popular life-saver for people like me: The hair elastic. Unfortunately, my hair is still too short to create an actual pony-tail, but fear not. I don't really care that my hair is sticking out behind my head in an unsightly clump that is too short to be cute: it is tied up and out of my face.

If this look happens to entice my future soulmate, I'll be sure to let you know, because it will be nothing short of a miracle.

That Friend...

The winter that just passed was a little bit rough for me, and I was just going over some of the events with a friend.

There was a night where I was in an individual's apartment, and I knew that night that the relationship with that individual had come to a close. Only I was an hour from home and without my car, and so I was stranded in this location with nothing but a cell phone.

And sometimes I wonder about fate: if fate exists and if so, what for. Because for some reason that night, my cell phone rang when I most needed it to ring, and it was Mal. She talked to me for hours, for so long that the battery on her portable phone died. And when the battery died, she hung up, charged it for ten minutes, and called back. We went on like this for about three hours, with the battery dying and her calling back as soon as it had enough charge to hold a few minutes' worth of conversation.

I was stranded and crying and unable to sleep, in very close proximity to someone I had just broken up with. And his name was added to a very long list of names of people who I have unsuccessfully dated; people who are not suited to dating anyone but somehow end up dating me.

And I feel -- quite often -- that I have really lost the game in the dating scene, that I have gone through so many traumatic breakups and upsetting relationships that there is simply no point in going further, no point in hoping for something better.

These bouts of troublesome dating are an ongoing theme in my life, one I want to work on improving greatly before I end up married to some schmoe who can't walk and chew gum at the same time. (Although, if that were the smallest worry of someone I dated, I would probably be a happy girl.)

But then I realized that there is another theme here, that there is a theme of people stepping in and helping me pick up the pieces, and I think, Hey. Maybe I'm not so poorly off altogether.

Maybe I'm not so poorly off at all.

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.

What's That? Total lack of Interest, You Say?

I've been neglecting my blog terribly over the last week. I think I've gone longer than I've ever gone before without posting some sort of update.

Well, here it is: I've fallen into a hideous funk since my appointment last Wednesday. I don't know how I made it through my best friend's wedding. I do recall plastering a smile on my face and walking tall; I recall lots of talking myself through every moment that made me want to stab myself in the face with a John Deere dinner fork so that I could complete my mission as Maid of Honor.

Bear in mind that the bride and groom did nothing to deserve a member of their wedding party in such a mood. The wedding itself went off without a hitch. Unfortunately, I've been generally feeling as though I've been run over by a tractor (A John Deere one, of course) that has a massive plough attached to it. It is as though my body is in little bits and pieces spread out around the land, all of them in their own separate piles of misery and achiness.

I feel like I have a constant case of whiplash in my neck; my head is aching and it hurts to move, ride in a car, walk down an aisle on high heels, or do anything else that requires motion on my part.

I feel terrible because I feel like crawling into a hole for the next fifteen years and coming out when the swelling in my neck goes down. I feel bad for feeling this way over my best friend's wedding weekend. I feel guilty because we were supposed to have a fire party and guitar playing on the night of the rehearsal dinner and I was so out of it that I left before nine. I feel bad that the day before the wedding I didn't go to help prepare until after three because until then I was wrapped up on the couch and physically could not get up. I feel bad that I had the most painful hairdo I've ever had in my life and I actually did complain about my headache a number of times on the wedding day.

In all, I feel like a giant pile of ass. I feel like I was a jerk over the weekend; I feel like my head hurts and my neck aches.

I could quite happily curl up into a ball on my couch and watch Grey's Anatomy for the next five days without moving once.

I also have not a morsel of doubt in my being with regards to whether or not I will take part in this activity.

All Dolled Up

My best friend's stag was this weekend, and my brother showed up and nearly passed out when he saw us both in dresses. Typically he sees us lazing about the house eating chips in years-old jogging pants. Actually, I don't really think he's ever seen us any other way than with tied up hair that needs a wash and clothes that have ketchup and beer drizzled down the front of them. So, I decided to share a pic of me and my best girl with the Internet, because clearly I need to prove to people that I CAN PUT ON SOMETHING OTHER THAN JOGGING PANTS AND A PLAID JACKET.

I just regularly choose not to.

And being single IS TOO FUN, DAMMIT

And then there was rage...

I'm enraged right now, for reasons that I'm not sure my mother would be happy about me posting on the internet.

My mother has cancer, and this is no secret from anyone. I've been very open and honest with everyone I know regarding her condition: It sucks. She has cancer. But we found it early and we are currently undergoing radiation in hopes of deterring a recurrence.

My rage is not directed at cancer, exactly. Of course, if this had never happened, I'd never have to deal with this type of rage to begin with. But she does and life is the way it is. I learned young that you can't change circumstance, although you can say no to that last shot of tequila which can change curcumstance altogether.

My mother's doctors have been a bunch of assholes. I'm tyically very patient with people who are providing life-saving therapies for the people I love the most, but in this case, I just need to vent.

The surgeon was a complete and total fuckwit. If I knew what kind of car he drove and what a distributor cap looked like, his would be completely fucked up right now. We are done with him, thankfully, and once we were done with him I was glad to move on to the next set.

The oncologist, however, has not been any better. I have not met the woman in person, and from the stories I hear about her I am fairly glad. I'm pretty sure that if I did meet her, I would turn into a shrieking mass of hysteria, hair and run-on sentences abound in her office. I'd also surely mess up my 'breathe' and 'breath' while screaming to her about how I'm running out of breath. Or breathe. Whichever.

The problem is that I have all this rage in regards to the treatment these people have given my mother, and no one to direct it to. I don't know who to call and yell into the phone at, until I'm out of breath (breathe?) and my face turns blue; until my chest infection turns me into a dry heaving mass of confusion who no one can understand.

I only wish I were the type of person to write letters and make phone calls and yell into phones in my spare time. The problem is that my years in customer service have made me terrified to direct my rage at the innocent person behind the counter.

And so, instead of doing anything productive with the anger that lies inside me, I sit and I smoke and I drink beer and I wait for this period in my life to be over.

And my inability to provide comfort and stand up for the person I love the most only enrages me more.

Officially a Farm Girl...

I became a woman of the Country today, learning how to drive my first ever tractor. I did so in the presence of two incredibly yummy-looking pool boys (Francois and Xavier, I've named them) who were a little stunned to see a girl decked out in cut-offs, well-worn Docs, and a ball cap needing instruction from three different people on how to start the tractor. (My parents were the first two, and the six-year-old Precious Boy was hollering "Drive the tractor, Auntie! Drive!" Helpful, Lovey. Thank you.)

The real reason I never learned to drive before was due to the fact that tractor work is the honorable work. It's the prima-donna position in farming, and as such, the youngest is often stuck performing the tasks that I did. You know, the shoveling of the shit, the feeding of the calves, and that one time I was awarded the prestigious position of having a cow vomit in my mouth. Yes. Good times.

Fortunately, I am no longer the youngest who resides on or near The Ranch. Oh yes. The very Precious Boy pictured here in the John Deere (And I must ask, why is HE in the good tractor?) will now be my rival for tractor duties.

Fortunately, at this point, he can't yet reach the pedals.

Considering his father was around six feet at twelve, I figure I have a good six years left of tractor driving.

And a grand six years they shall be.

[Ford Tractors, John Deere Tractors, Farm Work, Farm Girls, Hot chicks on tractors]

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]

CityBound....

This weekend I'm going away to an actual Big City and I'm kind of terrified. Not only that, but I have to go out in this big city and you all know what that means: I have to find something to wear. At this point my only option, really, is to go shopping and try to find something that A) Won't bankrupt me and B) that I have enough money on my debit to purchase because my credit card has expired.

My main problem, of course, is finding some sort of acceptable footwear. I own one pair of black leather shoes that rip my feet to ribbons each and every time I wear them, and I'm tired of my feet looking as though they've been on the set of a horror movie every time they come in from a night out. My other option is my hooker boots, which I love. Oh, hooker boots, how I could sing your praises from now till all eternity. The problem is that I bought them back in 2003 and I'm ever so certain that they are so far away from being fashionable any longer that I may be ridiculed and refused entrance into any clubs I may try to get into while in the Big City. Occasionally I've snuck into less classy joints in Docs, but I don't think this will cut it in a real city.

Tentatively, I've staved off the anxiety over getting on the right train and ending up at the right station, for now. I've now channeled it into other, more pertinent issues like what the Hell I'm supposed to wear and should I pack my whole makeup bag? Or just the pieces I use regularly?

This trip is going to be the death of me, I'm sure.

Toonses