Bettie Bookish

Who do I have to feng shui?

I've decided to practice a version of the art of intentional placement in our home after seeing the amazing results it brought for others.

This isn't the first time I've thought about it or studied the basics. Somehow, it has always seemed like a lot more fun to clear clutter as part of a spiritual practice than to clear clutter just because I'm a grown-up and shouldn't act like such a flippin' slob all the time.

The problem - aside from the fact that I am a huge flippn' slob - has always been that once I get past the basics of keeping your house clean, repairing or discarding anything broken and mapping your house on a bagua, it just becomes too complicated for my feeble little chemobrain to integrate. Honestly, if I can't manage to pull it together enough to put all my trash into the garbage can every single time, how am I supposed to remember everyone's 5 ghost direction or figure out which family member's numbers should determine the placement of our front door?

And holy crap, I think I have a bathroom right in the center of my prosperity bagua. Help.

I get overwhelmed. Is there a cure for overwhelmed? What if I put a bag of marbles in my Helpful People bagua? What if I take the bag of marbles and hit myself over the head so I can get a good night's sleep?

Seriously, anyone out there with advice? Advice other than, "Clean your house, woman."

SNOW DAY

It's beautiful.

And here, Internet Strangers, is an example of very very bad feng shui.

I'm going to go clean my house now.

Because you've been worried

Our feathered friends now have a proper chicken house. It's bonafide!

And we're going to try our construction skills on widening the door so that someone taller than Sarah Connor can get through it.

And because we live in the sticks we like to rock the cowboy hats. Yee-hah.

And in case you weren't aware, foreworks are loud.

Very loud.

Buttercup endured 1.5 fireworks before wailing that she wanted to go home. Since we were sitting on a docked boat on the lake, going home wasn't an option. But sitting in the wayback of our mommyvan was an option - and a glorious option at that.

Safe inside the insulated confines of the 2004 Honda Odyssey LX, Buttercup's auditory senses were spared just enough assault that she was able to actually enjoy the fireworks.

"It looks like Cinderella,"* she breathed.

"Do you like the fireworks in here?" I asked her.

"Yes! I like the beautiful colors."

*Despite our "No Disney Princesses" rule, Buttercup was allowed to rent and view Cinderella - the animated version. I'm as guilty as my husband, who rented it for her, because when I needed to get some work done on the computer, it was just too temptingly convenient to turn on that DVD.

And when we had to return it? Hysterical sobbing.

This is so unlike me.

A river runs thoo it

Motherfucking Nature.

You're looking at a parking lot. That white thing is the top of one of those shade tents that people bring to the beach for picnics.

That tree belongs on the bank of the creek - by which I mean the raging river.

This photo was taken after the water receded. The day before, the trailer was submerged.

I have other photos, but without the context of non-flood landscape, they all just look like lush little waterfalls and serene lakes. They do not look like front lawns and cornfields, which is what they are.

We had about two inches of water in the basement. We were lucky.

Weather played a central role in our decision to move to New York. We had been through one big hurricane that caused damage in every room of our house. Then we went through another. Then we went through the most insane hurricane season on record.

On the other hand, neither JC nor I had ever lived in a place where frozen water falls from the sky. We had lots of questions, such as: "Do you live in constant fear that the weather will kill you?"

The answer was no, so we called the mortgage company.

And now, lifelong residents tell us they'e never seen anything like this.

Get your motor running

Do yourselves a favor and hop over to American Family and read about why we are led to believe that minivans are not cool, despite the fact that they are so OBVIOUSLY the most utterly fucking amazing vehicles on the road.

Pictured above is my minivan, with a message on the windshield that I love New York. I do.

I also love my minivan, and I don't care who knows it.

And the more I think about AmFam's theory that the minivan's second-class status springs from its primary function to accommodate the needs of women and children, the angrier I get. Meanwhile, what are the cool rides? Collateral Damage-Mobiles and Penile Facsimiles.

No thank you.

The minivan is a marvel of function and comfort. Mine has dedicated slots for 10 beverages. That's three more than the number of passengers it can carry. This is a vehicle with me and my predeliction for simultaneously nursing both a cup of coffee and a bottle of water in mind.

All that and I can see over the steering wheel and drive as fast as I wanna.

I got my first and only speeding ticket driving my mommyvan along the rolling hills of central New York.

My biggest fear about next winter is that I will have to give up my van because it doesn't have 4WD and may not be able to make it up my steep driveway. If that's the case, I'm cleaning it up, and upgrading to a model that can handle my drive.

I want that bumper sticker that says Fight the Man - Drive A Minivan.

I want an airbrushed T-shirt with my van on it.

I want to put spinners on every cup holder.

We didn't have these in Florida

And now I understand why people love them so much. Until it rains. When it rains, they are like drunken debutantes with their heavy heads asleep on the grass.

BOK, Motherscratcher

The chickens (as seen above on April 30) have moved from their little corner of the garage, where they and their odor were quickly outgrowing their confines, and into a space in the corner of the big garden.

We considered for about two seconds the notion of building a chicken coop ourselves, but we quickly dismissed that idea when we realized it would entail nothing short of building a chicken coop ourselves.

As luck would have it, though, we Know A Guy who has an extra little shed at his place, and he'll be happy to give it to us if we come help move it.

It's so nice to Know A Guy.

I just have to pause here and point out that we are not summa cum magna at the whole homesteading thing.

Sure, JC put some 80 tomato plants into the ground over ther weekend. And yes, he has planted potatoes, brocolli and onions. And I have planted herbs with which to season our harvest. But that presupposes that there will ever be a harvest to begin with.

Meanwhile, we've got 14 other acres as high as an elephant's eye that need to be brush-hogged. And me? I don't believe I would be able to pick out a brush hog in a police lineup unless it was wearing a snout and a T-shirt that said, "Brush Hogs Do It As High As An Elephant's Eye." And even then I might second-guess myself.

All I'm saying is that, if our first few months here are any indication of our farming skills, then if the shit ever goes seriously down, we'd better Know A Guy.

Such as the guy who has the shed, the offer of which we were lucky to receive.

Unluckily for the chickens, however, we have not yet been able to clear the calendar time to go get the shed. And yet we had to move them out of the garage.

We thought about putting them into the existing garden shed, but two considerations stopped us.

1. It is close enough to the back porch, swingset and planned barbecue seating area that their Essense de Poulet might interfere with playtime and parties.

2. One day when JC went in there to scope it out as a possible chicken coop, an attack mouse leapt onto him then scurried away.

So the existing shed belongs to the existing mice, and we have no desire to feed them our eggs.

We thought about building a lean-to - surely we could do that much. Or maybe they would be OK with a really sturdy box turned on its side to offer shelter.

If only we had something that was light and portable, yet weather resistent and - maybe most importantly - either disposable or bleachable once we got the shed and no longer needed this temporary chicken housing.

If only...

You know what's better

than abusing food and alcohol? Abusing your credit.

Here, then, is my first photo with my brand new camera, which I love. I really, really love. It's beautiful. It has briefly erased all that is wrong with, not only my own life, but with the whole world. Until tomorrow.

And challenge to Mimi Smartypants:

I'll see your Baby Goes to Lilith Fair and raise you a Baby Goes to Burning Man.

Tea for the tillerpeople

First he used the tiller.

Then I used it.

Then B posed for a portrait by the lilac.

We can pretend

that I haven't gone almost two months without writing anything in this space.

More importantly, we can pretend that someone has been checking it every few hours wondering when that next post will appear.

Sorry, dude.

Update: We're in New York. It's breathtaking. I miss my Florida friends. It's snowing here. I promised myself I would find time to write every day. I haven't. We sold some cars. We bought a Jeep. Buttercup has been shoveling snow. Xerxes has what may be a date.

I'm in love with the view out of all my windows.

We have room - come visit.

What else is new

I'm tired of this blog sitting here all the time making me feel like a bad person for not updating more often.

I have so many other - better - reasons for feeling like a bad person, that I hardly need this one.

I also have so much to do, and so little inspiration that this is about all I can manage to get out right now. So in lieu of actual content, I'll give you photos of my beautiful children:

Mmmmm, gravy!