Jerome the Gnome

You know when you get something stuck in your head and you just can't let it go? Most of the time - for me, at least - it's a lyric. I'll think it over and over again in my head trying with all my power to not verbalize it because then the problem gets worse. Just ask Tyler. The story of what he calls our 'first date' (which it was not, by the way) is most unfortunately tied to one such incident - but that's a story for another time. . . maybe.

For the past, let's say, four or five years I've been trying to not give in to my inner child on this one particular issue. I had a stroke of genius, even if it was immature. Whether or not I actually caved or simply changed my mind is all gray area. Let's just say if the nagging 'brilliant idea' I've been putting off were a song, I've sung it out loud now and I'm threatening to do it again, and again, and again.

This is an area we ride at the ranch called the 'Enchanted Forrest'. Oooh, Ahhh. Enchanting, no? The majority of the property is covered in aspens, but when you enter 'The Enchanted Forrest' it's like you're riding into a Fairy Tale. A kind of dark one. Snow White, Hansel and Gretel, you know. It feels ancient, captivatingly beautiful, and a little spooky all at the same time. The smell of this area is what men's cologne that's touted as 'woodsy' should smell like. Intoxicating. I always picture creatures slipping behind a tree, scurrying into a hole, or taking flight as we go through. So it's no wonder I wanted to put a creature of some kind there. Right? I'm right, right?


Meet Jerome. It took me years to find the perfect Gnome for this assignment. (Thank you, Target, as always.) I'm not kidding. I searched the world, or at least the world wide web, and I finally found Jerome right here - at the mother ship. Who knew. He's perfect.

So now the Enchanted Forrest has a real live Gnome that calls it home. (Don't make me come out there and fight you. He's real, alright.)

He's just small enough that you won't notice him unless he's pretty much pointed out to you. Did I already say 'perfect'?

What? There's a what? Under where? See what I mean. Genius.

And now all I can think about is planting more Gnomes. Scratch the itch, what do you get?

Did I Mention I Love My Job?

How Could I Not?

It's Full of this:

friends

(human and equine)

and this:

my other babies

and this:

astounding beauty

and this:

Three Excuses

I haven't been avoiding you on purpose. I have a few very good reasons for my absence:

1. Computer had a nasty virus - required a few days of me fake-swearing at it, and then a few days at the computer hospital. It's breathing on its own now. Everything should be fine.

2. Holy busy weekend. Can we drag the fourth of July out ANY longer? I mean, really. Enough already.

3. Put in so many overtime hours over the last few weeks I've literally been told to stop working so much . . . unless circumstances (like this last weekend) require my presence. How to effectively do my job without being at work is a bit of a mystery to me - BUT a little more time at home might be nice.

Only in Walmart

Every time I head out to do my grocery shopping I bemoan the fact that Walmart is SO much closer to me than Target. On the upside, Walmart is a mecca for people-watching. I heard this little gem last week - thought I would share.

Coming around the end of an aisle, I caught the very end of this educational conversation.

Mom to cartfull of runny-nosed children - "Because Mommies and Daddies get their
magic from Santa Claus, and Santa Claus gets his magic
from . . . (wait for it, people, this is the zinger) Jesus."

That's right. Apparently Jesus is magic. You heard me - or the crazy, misguided woman in the fishing aisle - just in case you were wondering who to ask next time you need a bit of magic. Wow. There you are, Sugar. Mommy will never lead you astray.
And I felt bad for referencing "The Santa Claus" for all my children's questions on the Santa subject. Now I feel just fine. I feel angelic. What were they doing talking about Santa in June anyway?

'Mileage'

Soo, the first night we were in California I asked Tyler what 'the plan' was for the following day - which is somewhat of a nightly ritual for us. I was referring particularly to the wedding we were there for - I thought there was a rehearsal dinner, or things to help with, etc. The conversation went something like this:

Tyler- I thought we'd head over to Santa Cruz in the morning - do the boardwalk thing and hit the beach.
Me- K. Sounds good.
Tyler- We probably need to head back fairly early though, so we have time to get ready. (Red flag! Red flag! My husband is planning out time for me to get ready? Something is not right.)
Me- Get ready for what? Rehearsal dinner?
Tyler - No, we have other plans.
Me- So, there's no dinner?
Tyler- I think there is a dinner, but we're doing something else.
(awkward pause)
Me- Um, isn't that kind of rude? I mean we're here for the wedding.
Tyler- Well, the boys are going to the dinner, we're just doing something else.
Me- So there is a dinner. What are we doing, and that seems even worse - your family is babysitting the boys during the dinner while we do something else. . .
Tyler- You know what we're doing, and they offered.
Me- Mm, don't know what we're doing.
Tyler- Yes you do (huge smirk covering his face).
Me- Nnno I don't.
Tyler- Yes, you do. What is there to do here?
Me- Ahhh, I don't know. This is your town. There are a million things to do in San Francisco. Why are you being so weird?
Tyler- Because you know.
Me- Ohmygosh, I. don't. know. what. you're. talking. about.

I won't put you through the next ten minutes of "yes you do"s and "no I don't"s - then you would be as frustrated as I was. Bottom line is that for months Tyler had been planning (plotting) with his family to surprise me and take me to Wicked. He had everything worked out and I literally had no idea. I love surprises! I love Wicked! First Tyler brought me a bunch of New York Times Crossword Puzzles for trip (which ties with flowers, btw. I love them so.), then this? The whole trip was like a honeymoon all over again - only driving in a Suburban with four restless boys and my mother-in-law, so not quite the same after all. But still very, very good.

The gorgeous Orpheum Theatre

A not-so-gorgeous shot of us after the show!

(From the day we came home Tyler has been dumbfounded that I haven't just blurted out "We went to Wicked" to everyone I see. 'Did you tell ____?, Did you tell ____?" He keeps saying, "I thought I'd get more mileage out of this". I'm thinking this counts. Thank you, Baby! Here's your mileage!)

(And a huge 'thanks' to Tyler's family for making our night out possible! You are all so great!)

Quick Note

Ugh. Just remembered I'm out of chicken food, and I so don't want to schlep all the way to the feed store tonight. Wonder if chickens eat Kashi. Pretty sure they do now. Fancy chickens.

I am my to-do list. It's sad, I know, but I'm pretty sure that's what I've been reduced to.

Get up - check (it's a freebie and I'm taking it!)
Get the kids off to school - check
Feed Horses - check
Feed Chickens - check
Feed Baby every four hours - check, check, check, check . . .
Strip Beds - check
Laundry - Made noble attempt
Make Beds - Waiting on finalization of above line item
Exercise Horses - check
Exercise Self - thinking about it, hard
Water Potted Flowers / Plants - delegate
Weed Left Front - um, half-check
Grocery Store - put off 'till tomorrow
Baseball Practice and Games (5, 5:15, & 6:45) - Can't wait
Dinner - check (will have to be portable enough to be eaten in shifts during above line-items)
Convince Boys they already had Dinner when they ask at home - check, I think
Feed Horses again - check
Put Chickens 'to bed' - check
Bathe dog - check
Bathe Boys - check
Read with Boys - check
Read to Boys - check
Put Boys to Bed - check
Do Dishes - check
Vacuum Main Floor - check
Collapse in a heap and crawl into own bed - any minute now. . .

The past month and half has been crazy busy. All normal activity aside we've had all the extra excitement (and work) that comes with the birth, care, and training of a baby horse; a trip to Montana for one of our niece's wedding; and a trip to California for another niece's wedding. It's been a fantastic spring so far. (We'll pretend it didn't snow today - grrr.)


I know I've pretty much inundated you all with pictures of the the little filly already, so now I think I'll throw a bunch of wedding and mini-vacation shots at you!


First, Alicia 's wedding in Montana - she asked me to photograph the day for her. Soooo, six-hundred some pictures later, I'm still editing. These are a few of my favorites so far. (The subject matter was too beautiful to skimp)

Alicia's beautiful girls

The stunning bride

Bride and Groom

The New Happy Family

Couple in search of a threshold

Shooting (and then editing) these pictures made me want two things: 1. To be a redhead, and 2. To have this exact pair of gorgeous red pumps!

Next, on to California for Emily's wedding! I wasn't the photographer for this wedding, so I don't have very many shots of their day, but I did take their engagements.

The orange background shots were my favorite - so vibrant.

And on their wedding day. . . what a beautiful couple! I wish I would have taken more pictures of them on the temple grounds. Somehow between chasing after the boys and not wanting to butt-in on the real photographer I didn't. At least they were in good hands!

Speaking of chasing my boys around . . . aren't they handsome? I know I'm a bit partial, but still.

I think Sy is glowing a little bit. Must be his halo.

Is it a little bit evil that I love this shot?

I'll have to post the rest of the trip later. This post feels suspiciously like a run-on sentence.

The Wordsmith Project

My dear friend, let's call her Raymie the Great, (to protect the innocent you see.) has inspired me in many ways over the years. Back in the college days she decided she wanted to improve her vocabulary, a noble pursuit. She did the word-a-day thing. I don't remember the specific method she used to pick her daily word - probably a blind stab at an opened dictionary page or something of the sort. I do remember a few of her choices because she would use her daily word as many times as she possibly could that day to ensure she remembered it, to the point that the words became absurd by the end of the day. BUT she did broaden her vocabulary as well as the vocabulary of everyone else around her. (She generally has that impact on people no matter what she's doing, thus the self-imposed title, 'the great', still sticks.)

One word I remember particularly well because of her slight misunderstanding of the word. She had a date that she wasn't exactly excited to go on. Lon-the-home-teacher ( names still changed, mind you) arrived to pick her up for the night. She came down the stairs and said, and I quote, "Alright, let's get this ordeal on the road". Our mouths dropped, we looked at each other, and Raymie looked at all of us looking at each other. Awkward, there's a good word for that moment. She explained later that she had called 'Lon' before the date and asked him what she should wear to 'the ordeal'. So, really the moment at the front door wasn't as awkward as we thought it was - it was an inside joke by then. As much as Raymie might have felt going on the date was an ordeal, I'm sure she would have never said as much to Lon if she would have really understood the entire meaning of 'ordeal'. If, for example, she had looked up the word in a thesaurus she might have read, 'test, trial, experience' as synonyms. A full definition would, of course, include the information that the test, trial, or experience are extremely trying or severe. Poor Raymie, poor Lon. Although, they were certainly never meant to be a couple and Lon got that message faster than he may have otherwise.

My point in telling you this story (and thanks to 'Raymie' for letting me share it), is that I have a new little project all about words, language, spelling, etc. It's been in the works for awhile but now - after passing a blinking construction sign with two misspelled words, I'm finally ready to get the ball officially rolling.

Click the Wordsmith Project Tab at the top of the page if you want. Or don't. I'm not here to boss you around. If you do go, let me know what you think.

What Joy Looks Like

DISCLAIMER - if you are going to press play, know that I know these are not the greatest videos. It seems my editing software is too outdated to take them and I'm too frustrated to try any other methods to make it work. (Getting this far literally took me two days - embarrassing, I know. I'm not proud. Okay, maybe I am, but that's not the point.)

ANYWAY, that said, try to ignore my commentary, little girlie giggles, and gale force winds blowing straight into the microphone. This little filly is so adorable I can hardly take it. I could watch her run around all day. . . which will become obvious very soon.

Izzy is quite sure she's found a new best friend.

She may be right.

Oh, My Darlin'

I so love having such a great photographer for a friend! Leah came over to meet the new addition and took some beautiful pictures of her. The baby (I'm calling her Clementine for the time being) is all kinds of frisky today - very cute. She was literally running circles around Sunday (her proud Mother). Every second or third lap she would skid out and fall over, then pop right back up. I even saw a couple of little bucks.

She reminds me of a ballerina on point in this picture. Look at those legs!

What incredible changes one day makes. Isn't she gorgeous?

P.S. Check out some of Leah's work here.

It's a GIRL!!!

Wow, have I ever been waiting a long time to say those words! And, no, I didn't sneak another pregnancy in under your noses. One of the ranch mares was pregnant. She's a gorgeous horse anyway but pregnancy suited her well.

We've been watching her like a hawk over the last week as all of the signs of foaling started. There wasn't a whole lot of sleeping going on - at least on my part. I didn't want to miss the birth. My vigilance paid off. She finally had a beautiful little buckskin filly last night. And she had her early enough (10:30-ish) that the boys got to watch the whole thing! Grey (of course) was ecstatic to see exactly how a horse is born and immediately followed his comment on the subject with "Now, I just need to know how a human is born . . . exactly". Tough luck kid. Still not ready to give 'the talk' to a first-grader. I think the horse birth probably answered a few questions on its own though.

Almost All Out

Scooting Away from Mama

Finally up - after much encouragement and a couple of face-plants

Figuring out the whole milk thing

I can't believe we were lucky enough to see the birth. It was incredible. As the baby was working on getting up for the first time she let out her first whinny and ALL of the other horses answered her in unison. It was so sweet. They had been trying to get a look at the excitement the whole time - craning their necks around the corner of the barn and over fences. Now both Sunday (the Mama) and her baby are doing well. Maybe we can get a little spring-like weather again so the little one can venture out of the barn without Sunday herding her back in - and the paddock and pasture can dry out enough that we can go out without big muck boots!

How much Are YOU Worth?

  So, I was doling out allowance money for the first time today. - sidebar: feeling somewhat guilty and somewhat lucky that my little slaves haven't been paid before now, but the natives are restless. They are just short of picketing in front of the house, or worse yet, the bathroom. What's a girl to do? I don't want to lose their services to some house up the street. Also, we just had a budgeting lesson with them and I could see their eyes start to glaze over as I was talking. I knew at that point they were hearing "blah, blah, blah, money, blah, blah, blah". As soon as I uttered the word 'allowance' their little faces lit up. There was a period with an uncontrollable amount of jumping , chattering and girlish giggles. I had them at hello - or 'your money', as it were.

  Hmm, where was I? Oh yes, the boys first allowance. Soooo, Grey took his fist full of cold hard cash and fiendishly cried, "All this and the money from Riley for being her friend! I'm rich!" (insert sinister laughter here). Um, 'rrreeeecccchhh' (that's the sound of the needle screeching across the record as the whole room - or just me, in this case - turns to look at Grey). "Sorry, what?" I say. "Oh, yeah, Riley gave me ten cents to be her friend," he answers, like it's completely normal for other children to pay him for his friendship.

Me - "You're charging kids to be friends with you?"
Mr. Innocent -  "She wanted to give me money, Mom." (Yeah, 'duh, Mom')
Me - "You were already her friend anyway, weren't you?"
M. I. - "Yeah."
Me - " Did you tell her she had to pay you to be your friend?"
M.I. - "Not really."
Me - "Not really?  What does that mean?"
M. I. - "Just not really."

 I still don't get it. How exactly did that conversation go? "I'll let you swing next to me for fifty cents. You don't have fifty? How much do you have? Ten? Okay , ten'll buy you a walk back in from recess - but no talking." Does she think she got her money's worth? Does he feel cheap? One way or another I told him he has to give the sweet little girl (who is as cute as they come, by the way - Grey should be paying her!) her money back. I mean, kudos for getting a little money for nothing, but it feels a bit like he's pimping himself out. Either that, or he's a natural-born entrepreneur.

Sweet nothings

So, I have this cycle with my hair; (not that I am at all unique in this - I'm just saying . . .) I spend a year or two growing it out so it's nice and long. I buy a gazillion clips, headbands, and elastics. I obsess about color and just how long I want to get it. About the time it hits an inch or two below my shoulders I start to get really bugged by it and I rarely wear it down for more than an hour or two before I lash it back off my face. Somewhere in the cycle I (traditionally) get pregnant, so my hair gets thicker and grows even faster. Then I have a baby and the hair is not only more annoying because it's in my way, but what isn't falling out (such a lovely hormonal side-effect) is being yanked out as the baby climbs his way to my face 'Rapunzel-Rapunzel-let-down-your-hair-style. I start sneaking out the scissors and making ill-advised chops at my hair when Tyler isn't looking. Let's face it, if I hated my hair before I started the self-mutilation, there may not be a strong enough word to describe how I feel about it afterwards. So, I finally go in to have it cut. Last time around Grey was about three. He was so distraught about my short hair that he kept asking when I was going to get it 'cut long' again. When I say "kept asking", I mean he asked that for over a year! Keeping that reaction in mind I was fully prepared for my boys to express their distaste for a short cut again (even though it's not as short as the last time I chopped it). Sweet Nick looked at me, cocked his head, furrowed his brow, and then didn't say a word until hours later. After much thought (apparently) he came and told me in a very matter-of-fact tone that he likes my hair more than Macaroni and Cheese, the good kind - not from the box. And you should see that boy eat Macaroni and Cheese. He really likes my hair. (And so do I, by the way. Good riddance to the long stuff.)

All dressed up . . .

Midweek my beautiful friend and sister in law, Holly, and I went to pamper our piggies and bask in the aromatherapy-land of the spa. A perfect girlie treat. We sat and chatted while our tired winter feet (and calves) were rubbed, slathered with sweet-smelling oils, massaged again, and de-calloused (is that a word?). Yes, there was painting involved as well.

Side note: Before heading off to the spa I applied a quick fresh coat of
paint on my toes - of course. Tyler caught me red-toed before my socks went on.

Tyler- You're going for pedicures, aren't you?

Me- Mmm-hmm.

Tyler - So, why'd you just repaint your toenails?

Me- Because we're going for pedicures - duh. Like I'm going to plop my
unpainted toes on the side of the foot bath while my pedicurist secretly
mocks my horrid, bare nails.

Tyler- Seriously? What's the point of going then?

Me - If I were going for a facial I'd still put makeup on.

Tyler- Different.

Me- Mmm, not so much.

Tyler- So much. So, so, so much.

Anyway - once our toes were all beautiful and glossy Holly slid out of her pedicure flimsy-flops and into a cute little pair of regular flip-flops. Me? Oh, yeah, I wore boots - because that's what I do. All winter long I change from one boot to another - muck boots, snow boots, tall boots, short boots, riding boots, furry boots. . . red boots, blue boots, old boots, new boots. You get the point. Not wanting to ruin my lovely toe-do I wore the flimsies out to the car. THEN I wore them into the feed-store. Why, you ask. I don't know. Because it's small store, because I had to stop on the way home, because I couldn't risk smudged paint! And I almost got away with it too. Alas, I found myself bare-footed with the tops of my flops around my ankles on my way to the cash register. I re-positioned the flimsies beneath my feet, tried to hold on to the straps with my toes, and shuffled my way up to pay. (Shuffling didn't work in the parking lot, btw.) I am the poster-child for absurdity.

BUT - my pedicure survived in tact . . . and my toes, I know. I told you they were more like fingers. I spent a good part of my childhood sweating in my Nikes because I was scared to unleash these babies on the world. Don't be sad. I'm over it now.

.

I just wish I could figure out what to do with all my bright pink-ness in this ever-so-lovely spring snowstorm we're having today. Yoga?

Family Pictures

It's been a long time since we've had pictures taken as a family - way too long actually. My friend and very talented photographer, Leah, graciously offered to do just that. She worked wonders on our motley little bunch. We're so happy with the results (even if one of us would have rather shed a little more baby weight before being in front of a camera - Bah! Baby pictures couldn't wait that long).

Nick's expression kills me in this one!

And the 'center of attention' award goes to . . .

Now we all know what Sy will look like when he's ninety.

Ah, Happy Family.

Can't you just hear the little 'coo' and giggle here? Another Daddy's boy.

Mother and Child

Thanks Leah - you're amazing!

Silence of the Chickens

A couple of weeks ago a friend of mine asked if we ever had cannibalism problems with our chickens. My darling chickens? Certainly not. I told her I had heard that chickens will go after another chicken if it's wounded, but I'd never seen our chickens do that. I should have knocked on her wood kitchen table - send a little anti-cannibalism ju-ju at my little feathered friends.

In the winter I normally just check on the chickens and gather their eggs during the nighttime feeding (of the horses). The morning after the cannibalism conversation, however, there were alarming noises coming from the hen house. Happy chickens sound like a roomful of women gabbing. (In fact, there is a large group of women that jog together past my house every day, and they sound like very happy chickens.) My chickens weren't happy. I would love to do an impression for you - I'm sure it would be terribly amusing. They sounded like a cross between someone learning to play the violin, demons scratching their way out of Hell, and, well, chickens. It was horrible.

I opened the door to see our brilliant White Leghorn rooster, Foghorn, doing a strangely slow strut around the coop. The bottom ridge of his comb was bleeding profusely and the blood had pooled up on the back of his neck and then run all down his back. All but one of the hens were following close behind him pecking at the blood if they got within range. The matriarch hen was perched up high in front of the laying boxes. I say perched but really she was bent forward with her head down as if she were a raptor ready to descend upon it's prey. She was making the loudest of the ungodly squawking shrieks I had heard from outside. I think I interrupted her attack when I came in. I tried to wash the blood off Foghorn which just made the chickens cackle all the more - they started drinking the bloody water as it ran down his feathers. The red heat lamp made the whole scene even creepier. It was like watching a chicken-horror flick. Needless to say I removed Foghorn from the coop. I put him safely at the top of the hay in the barn, even brought him little dishes of grain and water - which, as it turns out was more ridiculous than it seemed because he immediately flew down and booked it back over to the coop and paced outside while the hens continued to wail inside. "They want to eat you", I said. He didn't care. Chickens are stupid. (What a revelation, huh.)

Why do I continue to keep them, you ask.

This is why:

Beautiful fresh organic eggs. Aren't they pretty? The yolks are a deep, rich yellow - store bought eggs pale in comparison (literally). AND the custard these eggs make is nothing short of heavenly.

This time of year there is another reason to have chickens too.

A super fuzzy, adorable reason. Nothing heralds the coming of Spring like the cheep-cheep-cheeping of baby chicks.

Obsessed

I am completely smitten.

Seriously. I can't get enough of this little guy. I could snuggle with him all day long, staring into his gorgeous eyes, smelling his yummy baby breath, listening to his content baby noises. That was the only good part of my sick day - I spent the day cuddled up with Sy. I look at him and think, "don't change, don't get bigger, don't grow up!"

Then he does this.

And this.

And it's okay if he gets a little bigger.

Then Izzy does this.

She likes baby smells too. Can't blame her.

Woops. Too far, Izzy, back off. Noooo lick-ey!

(She can't hold her licker.)