It just gets weirder and weirder . . .

I've been thinking about stuff. Important stuff.

Actually, the important stuff that's been on my mind has to do with conversations. They are old conversations I've kept tucked in the back of my mind. I bring them out every now and then, to examine them, mull them over and wonder, yet again,

"Is anyone else as weird as me?"

These conversations have all been with my kids. At the time, they've all sounded reasonable. The words come out, they make perfect sense and it only takes a split second before the rational part of my mind thinks something like, "Huh?"

Believe me, as time has distanced me from these conversations, they've only gotten stranger.

Let me elaborate.

Scenario #1

I am in the laundry room and the kids are playing nearby in the playroom. I'm pulling clean clothes out of the dryer and folding them. My most favorite job in the whole world, people! I love to - no, LIVE to fold clothes. It makes my heart sing! It gives meaning to my life! And if you believe that you need to start at the beginning of this blog and read everything I've posted since. You'll have a better appreciation for the sarcasm. Anyway, back to the scene.

I've emptied the dryer and begun loading it with wet clothes from the washer. I notice something in the bottom of the washer. It's small and plastic - a Lego minifigure. I pull it out, examine it and yell, in the general direction of the playroom,

"Daniel, Mace Windu just went through the washer!"

Now, I knew exactly what I was talking about. Mace Windu is a Star Wars Jedi knight and Daniel loves him. Mace had gotten lost and lo and behold, there he was in the washer. It was a rescue! But seriously, folks, the words were hanging there in the air and anyone within hearing distance, not in the know, would have thought, "Well, that sounded weird."

I can only agree.

Daniel with his buddy, Mace Windu, on the right.

Scenario #2

Several months ago I was in the kitchen slaving away I mean making lunch and Katie was playing upstairs. Suddenly, she yelled down to me,

"Mom, the baby you had when you were a little girl has a hole in its bottom and its guts are falling out."

Whaaa - wha - what?

The baby I had when I was a little girl? Huh? Ohhhhhh, riiiiiiight. Yes, the words are hanging there, flashing neon in the air of my house, and they make perfect sense to me. Let's translate, shall we?

The BABY DOLL I had when I was YOUNGER has a SEAM near it's bottom that is COMING APART and the little pieces of STUFFING are coming out.

There - feel better? Most people would be calling Child Protective Services.

Katie-girl

Scenario #3

I am eight months pregnant with Katie and we are trying to potty train 3 1/2 year-old Matthew. He's good with the potty part, just not the poo part. He is sitting on the potty and I am sitting on the side of the tub, talking to him. He needs to go poo and wants me to put his pull up back on so he can go in IT instead of the potty. I'm trying to talk him into going in the potty, like a big boy. I'm desperate to have him succeed at this and am trying to think of anything I can to get him to go. I just want ONE KID to be freaking potty trained before the third one comes. Please? Is that too much to ask? Here's how the conversation went, to the best of my recollection;

"Buddy, I know you need to go poo. Can you please do it in the potty? The potty is the place for poo, not in your pants. Potties are the perfect place for poo! See, the poo likes the potty! The poo WANTS to go in the potty! The potty and the poo are friends!"

And that's when I had an out-of-body experience. I saw myself from above, sitting on the side of the bathtub, my ginormous, pregnant belly making it difficult to breathe, while I assigned human characteristics to poo. I clearly remember thinking, "Whose life is this? This cannot be me. What happened to the cool, skinny person who could carry on a decent conversation?" And while this is happening in my head, the words, "the potty and poo are friends" are echoing in the bathroom.

Gah.

If anyone, ANY OTHER ADULT had been within hearing distance they would have arranged for aerial spraying of Prozac over my house. Immediately.

Matthew, age 3

Lord help me. Because there will be more. More weird conversations.

Hopefully the Prozac will have kicked in by then.

Statistics

Studies show there is a high degree of satisfaction among people who raise their own food, consume it and preserve it. These studies also reveal a high degree of smugness and bragging in this population, as well. It has been learned that there is an increase in shoulder injuries, sustained when these people attempt to pat their own backs.

Allow me to elaborate.

Green beans: 7 gallons fresh = 14 quarts, canned.

Pears: 60 pounds, fresh = 7 quarts pear sauce and 20 cups dried. Another interesting statistic reveals that eating too many of your freshly dried pears can make you an unpleasant person to be around. I've done the personal research.

Apples: 90 pounds fresh = 2 pies, one tart and 28 quarts of applesauce.

Here is another interesting statistic; among people who have done the aforementioned canning and preserving, one hundred percent swear they never want to see another pear or apple for the remainder of their lives. It's true. I've seen the studies and, as a trained statistician, can tell you these studies are above reproach.

Of the hundred percent, all were suffering from knee pain (from the hours spent on their feet, peeling, slicing, roasting, peeling, slicing, peeling, Peeling, PEELING, PEELING - arrrggghhh! - make the voices stop!). Hence the need for . . . .

. . . . yes. One of the most important items in the home canner's arsenal of tools.

Now, there is another item which also helps and may, just MAY, make it possible to erase the horror of bucket upon bucket of apple/pear peelings going into the compost and the gleefully multiplying hordes of fruit flies that have infested the house . . . .

Oh yes. This is a Pinktini. The name, alone, should make you happy!

I may be able to choke down some applesauce now.

Really. I'm serious.

Before I begin, I should tell you - these pictures have nothing to do with this post. They're here because I think they're pretty and soothing. You're gonna need that.

Continue on.

I used to be a nice person.

Really. I've had Godly people tell me, "Karenpie, you have the gift of mercy. That is, without question, your spiritual gift."

It's true - they really said it. But I haven't heard it in a long time. Now, I think my spiritual gifts run more along the lines of sarcasm and manipulation. If those were spiritual gifts, that is.

Anyway . . .

I'm just not nice anymore. I think it started with menopause. The emotional stuff kinda gets to me. I can be quite crabby. I don't want to give people the benefit of the doubt. I don't want to hear the other side of the story. Instead, I want to jump the gun. I want to take matters into my own hands.

The things that light me up are injustice and bullying. And before you get worried - there are no bullies in my life or my kids' lives. Seriously, if there were? BRING IT ON. I will eat you for lunch.

See? Do you see what I mean? I'm a little bloodthirsty.

I just don't like it when someone I care about gets a raw deal.

Like my friends' aunt, whose husband left her after 20 years of marriage. Like my friend at church whose husband has been cheating on her for a number of years. Like another friend whose husband beats her. Like my sweetie, who has a business relationship with a slimy-cheater-morally-bankrupt person and the company lost money because of him. I HATE it when the slimy cheaters get away with it.

Here's what I'm sick of hearing - "Let's take the high road."

Hey, I know, lets take the high road so we can get in good sniper position. Let's take the high road so we can drop rocks on the slimy cheater's head. That TOTALLY works for me.

Here's another one: "We don't want to lower ourselves to their level."

Well, why the heck not? I say let's go to the slimy cheater's house and clean the toilet with his toothbrush (especially the floor around the base of the toilet - the part that's always gross and sticky but maybe that's just my boys' bathroom so I should just bring the slimy cheater's toothbrush here and clean my boys' toilet and then return it to his house but I digress).

And finally, "You should turn the other cheek."

Huh?

Ummm - nope. Not gonna happen. I prefer to nurture my righteous indignation and plot revenge. That works better for me.

Don't get me wrong, I can be a supportive friend. Of course I can. If you need me, I'll come over with chocolate (because I'm shallow and I think peanut M&M's can cure any emotional problem) and I'll rub your back while you cry.

BUT, as soon as we're over that nonsense, I'll put on camo and night-vision goggles (and maybe I'll bring a pan of brownies too because I STILL think there's a place for chocolate in every situation) and do some serious damage to whoever messed with my friend.

If we're lucky, I'll have a hot flash. There will be no hope for the slimy cheater if that happens.

Oh my, it's been awhile. . .

. . . but you see I was in Maui - wait, that was in June. OK, I was on a cruise to Alaska. Oh, right, July. OK, you got me. I have no excuse except I'M GOING OUT OF MY MIND.

"Yes, Karenpie," you say, "that's interesting but it's not news. What, exactly, have you been doing to lose your mind? We want to know because you are our role model. We want to BE YOU. Please share the intimate details of your life so we may live vicariously through you."

Well, since you've asked . . .

1. We finished Portland to Coast a couple of weekends ago - 144th place out of 401 - woo hoo!

2. School started and -

3. I celebrated my birthday. I'm still accepting presents.

However, this is the real time sponge . . .

Welcome to my garden. It's trying to take over my life. It's not even a huge garden, like some of you have.

I can't handle the garden . . .

Here is the pear tree, where the hummingbirds nested. It's in competition with my garden to see which one can make me cry first. You can see a few pears on the tree. However, most of them have been picked and are either dried, canned or still in the remaining, 8 grocery bags on my dining room table, ripening.

I have no idea what I'll do with them when they get ripe. Maybe make more pear sauce? I have eight quarts of pear sauce (think applesauce, only grainier) sitting on my counter right now. I was so happy to make it! Then my kids told me they didn't like it.

Kill me. Just kill me now.

Here are the beans in my garden.

Here is one of six, gallon ziplock bags full of beans that have been picked over the last week. They need to be snapped and canned - sometime in the next couple of days.

Here, you see the zucchini plant in the garden . . .

. . . and here are seven of the 13 zucchini that have been breeding in my hydrator drawer in the fridge. I've been making baked zucchini, zucchini pie, chocolate zucchini cake and grating/freezing zucchini. Sometime in the next couple of days I'm going to go crazy and make 400 loaves of bread to freeze.

I predict that someday zucchini will become self-aware. It will become a sentient life form and take over the world. Enjoy the zucchini bread while you can, folks.

Here are approximately 35 pounds of apples, given to me by friends. Now, this I'm excited about. I LOVE to make applesauce! Homemade applesauce rocks. Right now, the apples are in my garage, making the garage smell good. Of course, if you can smell the apples, it means you need to process them quickly. Like in the next couple of days.

Mrs. Greenjeans, on the job.