Flea in the Flue is better than a Few with the Flu

I have finally crawled out of the deep, long tunnel that is the flu. The flumeisters seemed to have shaken, not stirred, a perfect cocktail for lucky me--I had the whole shaboom served to me in courses. I picture the flu guys lounging somewhere, maybe on some soft easy chairs in my large intestine, having this pleasant planning meeting. "Let's start her with some chills, followed by a whole course of sweats, topped off, of course, by vomiting! What a wonderful time this will be! And then let's give her a real killer of a headache and more body aches, and then see how she's doing after all that." Thankfully my body kicked 'em out before they could go much further with their dastardly plans.

And no, smarty-pants I did not get a flu shot this year. This is what I figured: why get the antibodies with a thirty-second spray up my nose when I could get the very same antibodies by fighting for my life for two days? Why take the easy way out when the hard way only makes you weaker?

Two interesting things that resulted, I believe, from dehydration: one, I was prostrate on the couch with my hands around a pillow, when the pillow began feeling absolutely huge, and my hands started feeling smaller and smaller, like bird claws. The second trippy thing happened last night, when I'd actually been trying to hydrate for a good day, to slow results--I got up and started to putter around (Martin had by this time, succumbed to the party-planners and hit the pillows)--as I accomplished a few normal household tasks, I realized that all the colors I saw, on the counters, for example, seemed to be saturated, incredibly bright and vibrant. This sensation was far preferable than the bird-claw sensation.

I seem to be on the up-swing for sure, and I'm hoping that Martin endures a less serious, less interesting version of the flu, and that Elspeth, who I can't remember if she had the inoculation or not (Merry's was the first down and the first well and Bea's had the flu shot)--skips the yuckiness altogether.

So that's where I've been, lovies. Don't come over any time soon.

WINNER: ADD-A-CAPTION GAME 1

With a huge howdy-thanks to everyone who participated in this week's Add-A-Caption Game, and a special shout-out to the kid-contributors, I'm delighted to present the winners of this week's contest.

THE WINNER IS. . .ANONYMOUS
Your problem here, ma'am, is that this isn't a laundry chute--it's a handyman chute. They're just going to keep sliding out onto your floor until you turn off this valve ...

AND YOUR AWARD IS. . .A VIRTUAL, LIFE-CHANGING CYCLING TRIP THROUGH AUSTRALIA'S WILDERNESS!

We are not responsible for any harm that you or your bicycle may incur, virtual or otherwise. Please do not try to enchant crocs with your flashy rims.

WINNER: ADD-A-CAPTION GAME 2

**DRUMROLL PLEASE**

THE WINNER IS (yet another) ANONYMOUS!
back guy/gal: "so, do these stirrups make me look fat?"
front dude (muttering to himself): "no right answer, no right answer..."

AND YOUR PRIZE IS:
A VIRTUAL LIFETIME SUPPLY OF GIANT VEGETABLES!!!!

man in regalia not included

Wow, folks! Thanks for the wonderful response to our "Add-a-Caption" game! I'll leave it up for comments through the end of Monday just in case some of you didn't get a chance to dig up a caption. As Monday closes, Wazoo will VOTE.

PS. Martin just found Merry climbing into our bed (it's 11 pm) and asked her why she was getting in when we weren't even there yet and she answered, "A man named Triangle." The poetry of the sleep-walker.

Sunday Add-A-Caption GAME: 1

Oh, dear!

Add your caption in the comments section below!
For brief, tiresome explanation, refer to the "Guidelines" below!

Sunday Add-A-Caption GAME 2

Go on, now. Add your caption for big praise from Wazoo.
Once again, "Guidelines" are in the post below.

Sunday Add A Caption GAME: Guidelines

A little explanation may be needed for you all to participate in today's Sunday Add-A-Caption Game.

Martin took the photos of my parent's old Fisher Price doll house this past Christmas for the precise purpose of opening this wonderful game for all of you. Now, I know most of you who visit (about 35 visits a day to Wazoo Farm) never comment--and I love your visits regardless, you strong-but-silent types--but hey, this is your big chance to get a little vocal.

Here are the guidelines:
1. Take a good look at the picture
2. Offer your best caption for each in the comments section below. If you're shy about comments, you who have my e-mail address can shoot me off an e-mail. Remember, commenting anonymously is always an option! Martin and I, the king and queen of Wazoo, will award the winner with public recognition on this site (remember again, you can sign your name any way you choose.)

Thanks a million, lovies!

Maple Syrup

Coomb's Family Farms maple syrup,
Elspeth embarking on new project with five toilet paper rolls,
Merry closed in downstairs bathroom assembling another beauty parlor,
Martin standing by the waffle iron, listening to NPR's Scott Simon giggling over Seattle football team,
Bea pedaling her pink tricycle into the kitchen cabinets,
table littered with sticky plates, half-drunk milk, an sludgy Bodum. . .
everyone in pyjamas.
Ah, Saturday morning. We sing of your glorious slothy slippered goodness.

Happy weekend.

Stop for a minute

My Dear,
If you have a chance, you should watch President Obama’s speech from last night. It’s elegiac and restorative, addressing the Tuscan shootings. I found it—particularly toward the end—very moving (needed a tissue or two). The crowd interruptions are annoying, but they don’t detract much. About thirty minutes long, though you can skip the first minute or two.
http://voices.washingtonpost.com/44/2011/01/watch-president-obamas-full-sp.htmlLove you—
Martin

I took his advice--and completely saturated a tissue and a papertowel with grief I didn't even know I had. It was good to stop, stop the rushing about, and take the time to be a person who is a part of this country, a mother, child, spouse, and person who hopes to help make this world one that is whole and good.

Our Piano Tuner is a Prophet

Martin is cooking bacon and the smell is making me feel like disgracing myself. Truth is, I don't even really like eating bacon all that much--I have a piece once in a blue moon, especially if it's our friend, Mike's, thick-cut, peppered bacon from one of his happy pigs--but the smell! It makes me want to bite into everything, hoping for satisfaction.

The snow is piled a good foot outside in our window box. Today the kids were off school due to the snow, so we all lolled around in bed, happy and satisfied until Martin realized he must pay the piper. So we all rolled out, he rushed through breakfast, and went out to shovel the front walk. Two minutes and he's back in, yelling, "The piano tuner is here!"

Wha?
I was in my big red robe, had just poured milk into my cereal bowl and mixed cream into my coffee. Ah. I have no pride left, not even a little. Stripped the piano of its philodendron, music, lamps, and throw, welcomed the fellow at the door with a big grin that showed the world I love being all mussed up in a robe and opening the door to company.

And tune the piano he did, and showed the girls a DVD of his impressive show dog, and prayed for my uncle, and took my hand a gave me a word from God. The piano tuner, who three years ago on his first visit, seemed taciturn and silent, turns out to be this sometimes very talkative man who is also a prophet. He gave Martin a word from God last year at our annual tune-up but not me. So I was kind of happy he was giving me one this time, and curious--would he make some fabulous prophecy about fame and fortune?

Instead he said, "God says you're doing a really good job with the kids. Keep on doing that good work, and take a break when you need it."

Well! Not a bad word, all in all, kind of nice and encouraging, actually, since he'd been in our house all morning and listened to me interact with our three girls, plus two more, and one boy. I'd only raised my voice once when Elspeth went tromping through the house with snowy boots. Was that the break God was referring to through the piano tuner? That is, I should have taken one right then?

And the news for the evening is, we have run out of diapers. We are absolutely bereft of diapers until some good Samaritan stops by and drops off a little pack of Huggies. Bea's been peeing, in her clothes and in the potty, and thankfully, mostly in the latter.

The piano tuner forgot his galoshes, huge rubber affairs that sat in our hallway like two slouching men until he picked them up just before dinner. "You tried the piano yet?" he asked Martin.

Nope, not yet. My man is cooking us a pot of chili. Time for mama to have a little, God-ordained break. Yes, siree. It was prophesied, after all.

Snow

Oh, my. Perhaps an inch to two inches of snow in a few hours. The flakes are heavy and soft and I feel like licking our porch railing--the ice crystals would dissolve on my tongue instantly. I expect there will be at least a delay for school tomorrow morning. It's the witching hour, the minutes of transition toward dark when my whole spirit feels heavier and heavier, when I turn on a lamp and its light seems meager and insignificant.

After darkness falls completely, my head will clear and I'll be able to better map out our evening. It's Girls Night again, the first one in a month, and though the girls are perfectly happy and well behaved, part of me still waits for someone to blow in the door, someone with fresh perspective and who is old enough to legally split a beer. I think, bound and tied by my own personality which longs for company almost all the time, that to live alone would be terribly hard. I crave the solitude occasionally but then when I have too much of it (which is only once in a blue moon, mind you), I begin to feel listless and without direction.

Last night, Martin and Merry took a warm loaf of pumpkin bread through the snow to the neighbor's house. According to Martin afterward, the house was incredibly warm and thick with cigarette smoke from all the relatives assembled, who sat at a table and "kept to themselves" while the woman, recently widowed, talked to Martin and Merry for twenty minutes straight. She said she'd always been most afraid of being alone, and now God has made her alone. Her love, with her for twenty years, talked so much, she said--at the sink, while he washed dishes, everywhere--and it used to drive her crazy, but now the silence is what she hates most.

Apparently the children found him at the kitchen table, bloodied and still, and called 911 (their mother works nights and was still at work), and then they clung to him until the police and healthcare professionals arrived.

The little girl met us on the sledding hill, her lips bright with lipstick. "Did you hear?" she said in a level voice. "My dad died yesterday." Her eyes were flat; her voice repeated the news to every newcomer. "Did you hear?"

"I'm so sorry," I said, and put my arm around her shoulders. And I am sorry, deeply sorry that family should be left without a husband and daddy.

Snow still falls. Elspeth is climbing on my lap, begging for Lightning McQueen music. The oven has preheated. Merry just finished her puzzle. And the darkness is falling, but it doesn't seem darker. Instead the snow spreads across the sky, piling on dark branches of trees, falling silently and steadily, a quiet and magnificent beauty.

Five-minute message

My dear friend, whom I know as well as my own hand, is in love with a man I have never seen.

My two-year old in blue mittens bangs at the front door: "I wanna come in! Mommy! I wanna come in!"

I am baking holiday pumpkin bread for a little girl who found her daddy dead when she walked into the kitchen two mornings ago. She is Merry's age, and her daddy was about Martin's age.

My five-year old mooned her sister and now is out in the snow making ice pies.

I am bent over the kitchen counter, typing, listening to the hum of my computer, the roar of a truck outside, the cries of my two-year old. I smell cinnamon and nutmeg and cloves. My hands are cold, my body warm.

Life is an odd thing, all in all, full of wonders and happinesses and tradgedy, all in the same minute. It's a cliche but it strikes me as new.

A little cold, a little optimism

I'm sitting at the computer here, half undressed but still wearing my winter coat. Don't even try to figure that out. We're home from church and shopping (bought four bottles of wine, 41 boxes of Annie's mac n cheese, two gallons of milk--set for the week!)--and though I turned up the heat on our return, it takes a while for the house to feel anywhere close to 65 degrees.

It is an exquisite Sunday afternoon. snow, snow, everywhere, marked with footprints and shadows, the fence in reflection, slats ticking up the garden path. The happy squeal of a child flying down our sledding hill. Hopefully said child has missed the various dangers at the bottom of the hill: cold fire pit, frozen creek, picnic table.

Though we watched a fascinating BBC series on the Crusades this morning that left me both laughing at the stupid men who trekked all the way to Jerusalem without proper suitcases, and also full of the awful weight of their sheer barbarism in the name of God--though it is down in my stomach like a ball of lead--I am still filled with gentle optimism. Winter makes me so grateful for sunshine (see my column in the paper for this week), so happy for subtle colors--the wheat-browns of the tall grass in our garden, the snow on the shed roof that catches a bright white light, Merry's ridiculously pink coat travelling by my window. And of course the birds, six black wings flashing up from the ground into a sky so pale it might not be blue, but is.

this and that and the puget sound

Feathery snowflakes fall outside, illuminated by the street light. Tonight we ate our first King Cake, a traditional New Orleans treat--tender brioche dough braided and topped with icing in three colors. I chomped into the hidden baby and quickly passed the piece to Beatrix, who was delighted to find piece of plastic in her mouth. I am now to bake the next King Cake.

At our lovely friends house, we drank wine and ate cheese and sauteed potatoes and freshly baked bread, laughed plenty, washed and dried dishes, and watched their oldest son, home from college, break dance. He said when he was doing field studies in the middle of Podunkity, West Virginia, he lived many hours in a tiny room and felt the need to exercise, so he decided to take up break dancing. (This, I imagine, is not a thought that would have occured to me). Bea was especially impressed, and she and Elspeth went rolling over the floor in imitation.

Now, finally, the Puget Sound from the ferry railing:


And congratulations to Martin, who just got two poems accepted at Prairie Schooner.

And tea, and more soft snow, and happiness to be home with heat roaring.