Nothing Is Easy

Nothing is easy anymore.

Two weeks ago on a Saturday night I logged on to Amazon.com to buy diapers and a sink stopper.

On the following Tuesday I came home and met the following on our back door step: an outfit for our niece in South Dakota, a copy of Grace,Not Perfection, wool boot socks, pine-scented wax cubes and 36 bars of Kirk’sCastile Soap. Thank you, protector of marriages, for placing Cody in Argentina on this particular day.

Last Thursday I set my alarm for 4:30 AM - 30 minutes earlier than normal -  so I could get to work at 7:00 and use the central printer before the rest of the crowd showed up.

I rolled into the office at 8:07 with half-dry hair, no mascara, slacks with no top button, my work belt (as in: the farm) rather than my work belt (as in: career), spit up on my blanket scarf that I still don’t know how to tie and no cell phone. It was 20 minutes away in the diaper bag. You know, in case Caroline wanted to Snapchat someone throughout the day. 

Last night after work I pulled Caroline out of her carseat to find  - - - a mess - - -  completely filling one leg of her sleeper. I stripped her down to nothing but a diaper rash, bathed her, only to remember that her bottles were soaking in the sink which her - - - mess water - - - was draining into. I threw the sleeper down into the basement where the wild things live, boiled bottles, and attempted a supper for Mr. Sankey. An hour later and two bites in I realized that the chicken wasn’t cooked all the way through, the rice was hard as a rock and I forgot to pre-treat aforementioned sleeper. I did two loads of laundry last night and baked the baked chicken dish - - - twice. 

This working-mother-ranch-hand may be a ticked overwhelmed this holiday season? What day of the month is Christmas this year? Still on the 25th? I want to make sure I at least have something for dear Shadow.

The Deer Wrangler

Bear with me, it is an interesting story. One of which I forgot until I was in Argentina in November.

We were dining before a tango show and one of the gals at my table decided to begin the dinner/drink conversation with this question: "We've spent seven months together in class and traveled to Argentina as a group; what is one thing other participants don't know about you?"

For as boggled as my classmates appeared to be by the challenge, they sure offered up some incredible stories: 
1. As a young gal, one woman found a bear drinking fresh milk out of the can that her cows had just filled, so she got a gun and shot the bear...which proceeded to run around the Minnesota countryside with a metal milk can stuck on it's head. 
2. One guy was a hired man on a ranch in Texas where a triple-murder took place. He had to testify, then went on to help arrest the killer....who happened to be another ranch hand at that time. 
3. Me? I only tackled a deer. 

I was thirteen years old when a stray deer decided to jump into Momma and Dad's herd. And let me tell you: Cattle don't take too kindly to rigid, awkward visitors. 
In fact, when this particular deer jumped the fence and joined the BSG crew, it chased our animals and scared the cattle greatly - causing them to find any way out: Over or through fence. 

And, you remember how I react when the cattle get out, right?

Since I was small, cattle getting out has sent me into complete shock. Crying, puking, shaking - no matter if I'm 13 or 30 - my reaction is the same: Bad. 

Darn that random deer, shaking up my world that day. And the thing about deer: they never really slow down. 
The deer ran. 
Across pastures. 
Over fences. 
Along borders. 
Until finally, Dad and brother Luke corralled it onto the feedlot floor. 

It was a scrappy thing, ramming and jamming into the red gate at the south end of the feedlot floor. The deer really wanted out of the situation (as did I), but seemed to have lost all sense (as did I). It repeatedly ran full force into red metal gates that were going nowhere. What an idiot. 

Luke and Dad were lined up one behind one another, preparing (kind of) for the deer's next move. 
Momma and I stood at the end of the feedlot floor, as spectators next to the barn. I wasn't the best spectator; my head was yakking between my knees. 

Below, a true-to-life sketch of the layout just before things...got running. 
The deer (brown stick deer) is by the red gate between the south silos. 
Luke is the first green X. 
Dad, the second. 
Momma and I are to the left, by the barn. 

Back to me with my head between my knees: Suddenly, the deer calmed down a bit, as if scheming. Breathing. Preparing. 

And he turned around. 

The deer charged full steam ahead, northbound, head down, towards Luke and Dad. The hooves scrapped across the concrete bottom. Scampering. Scuffing. Speeding. 

Luke leaped towards the deer - missed him. 

Seconds later Dad did the same - and the deer flew by him, too. 

At this point in the day, I was frustrated, scared, freaked out, sick, confused, and mostly just flat out MAD. 
This deer was the reason that our cows were out all over the farm. 
I decided to take matters into my own hands. 

I stepped out in front of the the raging reindeer, grabbed the SOB by it's belly and took it down, rolling the animal on top of me. He was such an angry little elf carrier. It's legs flailed aimlessly (actually, he was trying to kill) and it's razor sharp hooves whipped around like knives. 

 I held the Edward Scissor Hands Jerk as close to me as I could while Luke yelled out, "Hold on to him, Jeany! I'm going to go get a halter!"
Yeah, thanks Luke. Least you could do. Literally: The. Least. You. Could. Do. 

I managed to hold the deer as tightly as I could onto my chest until Luke and Dad took him off my hands. They tied him up and - because he had an identification tag - called the DNR. When the officer arrived he gave me some long speech about how I should have never tackled the deer, how people die from getting cut by their hooves, what a risky decision it was, blah blah blah. I must have given the guy a really bad look looking during his dissertation because Momma squeezed my arm really hard.  

Much to my dismay, I was then known as "The Deer Wrangler" in places far and near. I just wanted to be a prom queen. 

Seventeen years later (wow), it is strange how I remember it all so vividly. I remember punching the deer once before they loaded him onto the trailer. Hateful? Maybe. But hell hath no fury like a thirteen year-old-gal who despises anything which causes the cattle to get out. 

Weeks ago, while I was in Argentina Cody left a gate unchained overnight and woke to a woman pounding on the front door, letting him know that there was a cow grazing in the front yard. 

"Yeah," he said - in his calm, cool, collected, Cody tone. "It was one of those mornings when it was a good thing you were countries away."

I nervously laughed as I sat in my Rosario hotel room, envisioning the entire event. He was totally right: No one wants to see a gal flat tackle her husband because he was the reason that the cows roamed boundlessly. 

But then again, 

maybe that comes in year three?

A Root Beer Thanksgiving

Last week I flushed toilet paper down a commode that didn't accept toilet paper, flooded a foreign bathroom and decided to retell the story on the world wide web. 

Just when I thought I couldn't get any more mindless, this week I decided to go to Meijer.

On a Monday evening. 

On the Monday evening before Thanksgiving. 

I'm a glutton for punishment.

The wind blew ferociously at 5:10 PM as I pulled into the mega Meijer parking lot, which was 90% full. People flooded like dizzy flies to the bright lights of the storefront. 

I didn't have a long list, still I had divided it into sections and aisles using my best recollection.
Simple things like Irish steel cut oats, lacy swiss and marjoram leaf.
Seemed easy enough. 
Except nothing - including the Irish steel cut oats, lacy swiss and marjoram leaf - were where I expected them to be. 

Which lead to this:

Anticipated, organized route:                                                Actual, horrible route:

                      

The red circles indicate visible tension, verbalized swear words or me trying to imitate the look of disapproval Dear 'Ol Dad used countless times between years 1988 and 1998. Yep, I used that. 
Seemed to work in by the specialty cheeses, not so much in the cereal aisle. People who eat Kellogg's SMORZ are so rigid.

I walked down the potato chip aisle four times and didn't have a single bag of potato chips on my list. In aisle six I almost apologized to a gal for crushing her five bags of powered donuts between her two cases of root beer, but then I realized she had five bags of powered donuts and two cases of root beer in her cart. No tap of my cart could have ruined the diabetic sugar high she was about to experience. 

I made it to the refrigeration section (for the first time that night) and couldn't get to the butter because two gals who had gone to nurse's training together in 1977 were reuniting for the first time since then. 
"Move it to Facebook, ladies!" I said (in my head) as I nudged my way between them to get a box of butter. I gave it two seconds of consideration then grabbed a second box in case snow comes before Thursday. Never know. 

Napkins. 
Croutons. 
Powdered sugar. 
All afterthoughts which returned me to the battlefield. 

It's been years - sincerely - since I used anything but self-checkout at Meijer. By the time I reach that point in my shopping, I try to interact with as few folks as possible. I gauge the line length, the characters in it, and the items in their cart. I work hard to get behind blue collar men who have nothing but milk, antacids and beer in their cart, but sometimes luck just isn't in my favor. 
This was one of those nights. 

The first gal in front of me purchased her groceries using two different payment methods: EBT and cash. There was a stark nutritional difference between the items she bought with cash, and the ones she bought with EBT. 
Fact: A head of lettuce costs a fraction of the price of a bag of powered donuts. Or a case root beer. Just sayin'.
She had two young girls with her, maybe four and six years old. They defined hyper and defied rules. To pacify the two, the gal gave them each a plastic bag. Wanna guess where the bags instantly went? Yes - right over their heads. 
It made me sad. 
I was strangely relieved when the gal gave them each a quarter to ride Sandy. 

Sandy has been abused. 
Especially during the holidays. 

Finally. 
My chance at the register. 
Except the machine wouldn't take my MPerks number. I tried it again. 
Again. 
Again. 
Annnnd one more time before tapping the HELP button. 
By the time help-girl-Mandy made it to my aisle, the register shut down. 
"I'm sorry, our registers keep restarting due to usage tonight. You'll have to move to another line."
I had one hundred thoughts running though my head; none of which I'd say aloud in front of the Original Jean. 

I moved to the next line and waited behind a woman who chose not to scan her food, but rather "search" for it in the register. It became a word game. 
A Wheel of Food Fortune, of sorts. 
Exept, she spelled as well as I due: Tiribly. 
Beats. 
Karots.

Cale.

She ate like a champ but she spelled like an orangutan. 
She also collected every coupon Meijer had issued in the last six months. Couldn't blame the woman, though I totally did after fifteen more minutes in line. 

My MPerks were rejected at that particular register, too. The machine couldn't handle a "7".
After several tries, Mandy returned and entered a magical code that stopped the beeping and lowered my blood pressure. 
The only reason why I didn't absolutely lose my head at that point was 

1. 

**holidays

and 

2. One of work's very best customers was ironically using the self-checkout line right next to me. What luck. He and his wife greeted me, 

no doubt wondering why I looked so strung out and stressed. 

They - on the other hand - looked relieved and refreshed: HARVEST 2014 IS OVER. 

I smiled and tugged at my hair, trying to wisp it out of my face. 

They asked how Argentina was; I'm fairly certain that 

they thought I had just stepped off of the 10-hour flight. 

Nope, just grocery shopping in my own personal hell. 

By the time I made it to the exit doors - AKA FREEDOM - I had only forgotten one thing: the insulated casserole dish carrier I was fixin' to unintentionally shoplift because I left it on the bottom rack of my cart. I picked it up and handed it to the greeter and let her know I didn't have time cycle through hell again. 
Something about my tone caused her to not ask any questions and smile extra wide. 
It was annoying. 

I got onto the interstate and headed home and Cody called shortly after. 

"Weird as this sounds, someone just posted about a black cow on Facebook. The kind with ice-cream and root beer. Any chance you picked up root beer at the grocery tonight?"

¿Sabías que?

I haven't much time to write, as my schedule this week is at the mercy of someone else. 

However, did you know that 

you're not supposed to flush toilet paper 

in Argentina? 

Nope, you're supposed to dispose of it in a little trash can just beside the commode. 
If - however - you do flush the toilet paper, did you know that it will be rejected immediately and the entire commode will overflow?
Continuously. 
Out of the stall. 
Across the bathroom tile. 
Into the hotel lobby. 
And you may be forced to run out of the bathroom like a dumb North American with the bottoms of your khakis soaking wet. 
Did you know that?

I didn't either. 
I do now. 

Argentina

I didn't take this photo. Credit goes to The Lost Man Project.

All In A Day's Work

A couple weeks ago I wrote about the dread of going to the doctor's office to dress in a paper placemat  and lay the ground work for an upcoming international trip. My patient Doc gave me a list of things I'll need before the trip so my skin doesn't fall off upon return 

She'll need a Photo-Tony-Romo-Benghazi-Stripizoid in the next month. Oral. 

Follow that up with an ingestible Benzoid-Astro-Instagram-Drug-Czar-Typhoid-Anti-Hysti-Shine-Mine-Yours-Ours. 

Taken twice daily following her arrival in Argentina. 
Don't take that with milk - She'll regret it. 

Now, when she gets back...that's a whole other deal. 

Let's look into a Herbo-Phobo-Robo-Cop-Azoid, every other day, also skipping days that contain a "T" in the spelling. 
We'll wrap things up with an Ammo-Camo-Glammo-Trifecta-Othro-Moto-Oxtail. Hold the tail.
Yeah, that's it. 

and he sent me on my way. 

Turns out, that was the easy part. 

I made a few phone calls to see where I could find all of the immunizations required by our travel partners, and was surprised at the number of calls I had to make. The choice became 1. drive to Cincinnati to a clinic with tinted windows that also requires you to sit in your car and wait for your scheduled time should you arrive early (this place exists) or 2. Drive counties away but on two different days. I decided on option two; maybe I could get some harvest photos en route.

I called and made an appointment and arrived two minutes early. The office smelled like  a combination of old wood, burnt rubber and rubbing alcohol...there are worse things, I guess? I gave the gal my insurance card and in return she handed me seven pages of paperwork to complete. Listen, I'm all for questionnaires, but I prefer they give me some kind of valuable insight, like what my native American would have meant if I was born in 1891. Nonetheless, I went back to the waiting room to record my health history.

I could not pronounce some of the ailments listed on the form; and for that I consider myself lucky. 

No I haven't been in Africa in the last two years (only in my sleep).
Yes I experience over eating; daily. 
Can I commit to returning to the United States without manure residue on my footwear? "No promises" I scribbled. 

A young dad and two children came into the office as I was knocking out sheet number four - that sheet was my signature in three places so the IRS knew I was there....or something like that. The young dad had the patience of a saint and translation skills you only acquire through years of schooling; or parenthood. 
"Ugh romp fooey marb...geet fleep mappy troob" said the little girl. 
"No, we can't have McDonald's until we're done here..." he responded. 
I was impressed. 

I took my paperwork back and was greeted with a smile and "Our database shows you have no health insurance. And as you'll see on the sign (written on a post it note, hanging on the side of her computer) we don't take credit card; cash or check only."
Oh boy, this is going to be fun. 

After five minutes of me reading aloud the numbers off of my insurance card and the gal confusing zeros and "Os", she asked me to call the number on my card and ask them to fax her my proof of insurance. "Don't tell them where you are; they don't like government employees. Just tell 'em you need the proof," she said. 

What ev.
I returned to my seat and dialed the number, reaching "Raghuma Bob" who had a hard time understanding my request. He asked to speak with the lady behind the desk. I knew this wouldn't be good, firstly by her comment regarding government employees and secondly because two more families had entered the office. She was at capacity. Raghuma Bob gave me three different numbers for her to use to verify my proof of insurance in her system. I thanked him, hung up and found my place back in line. The office had gotten very busy. I looked past the lady at the front desk to the coworker behind her. Amidst the chaos, she was sorting band-aids by color and placing them in plastic bins in rainbow order. All in a day's work. 

I gave the gal my new proof of insurance numbers and she had no luck again. "I need you to call Bob back and simply ask what you insurance activation date is. That's all I need." 

Are you kidding me?! I thought to myself as I went back to the waiting room yet again. Why I am making all of these calls? Why am I not in the system? Why are there now seven children in the waiting room?  I called the 1-800-NUMBER again and got Kim this time. We communicated well, but the waiting room had become so loud that she was having a hard time hearing me. She, too, couldn't find me in the system. I told Kim that I just talked to Raghuma Bob five minutes ago and he found me. I stepped outside of the doctor's office in an effort to quiet the background noise. Turns out she was looking for Lindsay Sanki. I'm slowly learning that this new last name is a tricky one. I had a phonebook salesman call a year ago and ask for Lizzy Skanky. I can assure you he's never called our office again. 

Anyway, I received my insurance activation date and got back in line to visit ol' girl. She tried very hard to smile as I reached her desk but I think she was just about over me; as I was her. I gave her my activation date and BAM! She found me right away.....but then her hand went over her mouth. 

"Are you Lindsay Bowman?"
"I was. That's my maiden name."
"THIS WHOLE TIME I've been searching for you using your maiden name and those identification numbers! No wonder nothing has worked!" she revealed, laughing. 
I...was not.

"Do you mind needles?" she asked, wiping my arm with rubbing alcohol.
"Nope, I usually don't even notice the pain," I said. The needles are the least of my concerns at this point, I thought to myself. 

Within five minutes I had taken four shots in the arm and was out the door. 

With rainbow-order band-aids, of course. 

Paper Placemat Gown

Two months after my thirtieth birthday I was reminded why I only travel outside of North America every thirty years. 

It isn't a fear of flying

or the thought of becoming homesick 

or even the staggering guilt from being away from the farm and out of the office for eight days. 

It's the paper placemat gown.

I visited our general practitioner a few weeks ago for my scheduled wellness visit. The nurse didn't laugh when I took off my coat, shoes, watch, FitBit and cardigan before stepping on the scales. She did, however, check her watch - which I've never before noticed her doing without putting a velcro sleeve on my arm? She must have been on a schedule that day or something. 

The gal directed me into a little white room with lights bright enough guide Ronnie Milsap. She proceeded to ask me approximately 82 questions in a matter of three minutes. 

Nurse: Back or neck aches?

Me: ....Yes. 

Nurse: Tell me about those.

Me: Well, I mean, they usually only occur when I've spent more than two hours with my brother, then comes this strange pain in my neck...

Later, I tried for some time to remember if it was gastritis or glaucoma that our family had a history of, but before I could call Momma for the answer the nurse decided to skip that question. 

Ten minutes later, Ms. Can't-Quit-Looking-At-Her-Watch closed her clipboard and left the room, though not before instructing me to put on the dreadful paper placemat gown...open in the front. 

Or was it open in the back?

Oh no. 

Before I could ask for clarification, the nurse was out the door.

I stood there in the bright room, alone and freezing. I threw a stack of National Geographic magazines over the register blowing cold air. If I have to take off my clothes and dress myself in nothing but a paper placemat, there was no room for a draft. 

I looked at the the shoddy pile of tissue paper sitting on the examination table. This moment - this simple decision of direction - could completely change any familiarity and comfort I've acquired with our practitioner.

Open in the front or open in the back?

Either way, ol' boy is going to see more than either of us would like. 

"Deep breath......................................now out. And deep breath again," Doc asked of me. 

By the time I did what he wanted, he was on to the next ask. 

Dude, is this a doctor's appointment or lung strengthening for deep sea diving?, I thought to myself. 

"Looks good. 

Sounds good. 

You get that from your father's side. 

No change there. 
Ideal blood pressure.

Great...great...good...great..."

According to Doc's vocal play-by-play, the check-up was going exactly as we both planned.

Until I spiced things up by surprising him with a list of questions regarding travel to Argentina and a laundry list of vaccinations and medicines I'll need for the voyage. 

Doc is my favorite kind of man: Smart and Patient. 

He asked a few questions, then the nurse got out her pen and highlighter. 

He spoke so quickly and in a language I don't know. Here is my recollection:

She'll need a Photo-Tony-Romo-Benghazi-Stripizoid in the next month. Oral. 

Follow that up with an ingestible Benzoid-Astro-Instagram-Drug-Czar-Typhoid-Anti-Hysti-Shine-Mine-Yours-Ours. 

Taken twice daily following her arrival in Argentina. 
Don't take that with milk - She'll regret it. 

Now, when she gets back...that's a whole other deal. 

Let's look into a Herbo-Phobo-Robo-Cop-Azoid, every other day, also skipping days that contain a "T" in the spelling. 
We'll wrap things up with an Ammo-Camo-Glammo-Trifecta-Othro-Moto-Oxtail. Hold the tail.
Yeah, that's it. 

I looked at the nurse.

Geezo preezo I hope she is getting all of this. I lost him at Tony Romo, I thought to myself. 

Then Doc woke me from my daze.

Doc: Have you been you Africa?

Me: Yes. 

Doc: When?

Me: Two weeks ago, I went there to study the stripes on a zebra. Granted, it was a dream/nightmare  but I did wake up and remember to use the filtered water out of the Brita pitcher to make Cody's coffee. 

Doc shook his head the same way Cody did when I used the Rural King advertisement for kindling last February. 

He then gave me a plethora of great traveling advice, a few medical advisories and even asked about our cattle. There is something peaceful about a physician who closes the visit by asking about our herd, and by also talking about his hay situation moving into winter. Doc gets us.  

He shook my hand and offered one more nugget of advice: Remember: Don't drink the water. (Dually noted)

As I write this, I realize that my appointment with Doc was the easy one as I prepare to cross timezones. 

Next: Vaccinations at an Undisclosed Health Department.

To be continued...

Assuming I follow protocol for the 

Photo-Tony-Romo-Benghazi-Stripizoid.