Twice a Day for Ten Days

I'm writing this column wearing latex gloves covered in hand sanitizer because I'm a first-time mom and nervous as a cat on a hot tin roof.    

Twice a Day for Ten Days:

I'd love to tell you those were doctors' orders for something far more exciting, but no. 

In our house if it ends in "cillin" or has both an "x" and a "y" in the name, is liquid and isn't part of the alphabet song, you can bet we've been prescribed it in the last three weeks. 

Symptoms:
(Two) Double ear infections. 
5 teeth. 
Respiratory virus. 
Eyes matted so badly that we ran Caroline's tiny hands along the cows so that she knew she was home without seeing proof. 
Life in general. 

BUT WE ARE OF RESILIENT STOCK!!

When I was 13 my Dad broke his arm after a suspense lever came loose on a loading chute. He went about his business for two days with his arm resting on a 2 x 4 board and took two aspirin. When his hand began to turn green he decided to get it checked out. I just wasn't raised in a home that over-medicates. 

So drugs in this house are like the gluten in a Seattle condo: they don't belong and we aren't sure how to use them.

I keep telling myself that by the time Caroline is school age, she'll get the award for 12 years of perfect attendance because she has been exposed to every germ on both sides of the Mississippi. More times than once. 
Indiana to Kansas. 
Kansas to Indiana. 
Indiana to Kansas.  
Does perfect attendance merit scholarships? 
Asking for a friend. 

During our last Pediatric center visit (Caroline thinks this is our vacation home) Caroline waved good-bye to everyone in the joint as though she knew she'd see them next week. Our daughter may be both intuitive and super social, and I link that to genetics. She is double bred. 

Our health insurance is getting a full run for its money because on Monday I had a dentist appointment over my lunch hour. 

Between the initial cleaning and the consultation with the dentist I fell asleep in the chair. 
Like....really asleep. 
As in chin to chest, drool, asleep. 
I woke to the young dentist (re)(re)reintroducing herself and trying to shake my limp hand. 
All while I was still trying to figure out where I was and how I got there. 

I wiped the drool from my chin and explained that I had fallen asleep. She laughed awkwardly and explained that - for the first time in 13 years - I have cavity that needs filled. 
Why does everyone want my money?

Last night - in an effort to clean out the deep freezer - I thawed steaks that had been stored too long. I was embarrassed, in fact, that cuts such as those as fallen to the back of the freezer and weren't grilled during the greatest opportunity. I thawed and seasoned them anyway. 

While praying over our supper Cody held my hand and Caroline's and closed with "And we pray that the grey meat Lindsay prepared doesn't hurt any of us."

Amen, buddy. 

A-M-E-N. 

But I have peace of mind knowing that anything that he and I consumed last night can be addressed with something taken "twice a day for ten days."

Two serious questions:

1. Does this count? 
2. Does our health insurance cover it?

A Warm, Glowing Fiasco

We never say the words, but every so often Momma and I ask for opportunities to be miserable. 

We’re alike in that there is no place we’d rather be than home. On any given Friday night we’re happiest at home with a box of Triscuits, sharp cheddar cheese and a 2-hour Dateline Special. With the deadbolt locked…and taking turns checking it during every commercial break. But sometimes we do leave home and venture into what one might call situations.

We once sat in line for four hours during  Tire Drop Off Day. You want a good glimpse of the people in your tiny part of the world? Go ahead and tell the public they can dispose of all tires for free during one Saturday only. Then sit in a parked truck for four hours and watch. That’s a blog for another week. We survived, but it was the only time I seriously thought my Momma might consider leaving Dad. He had sent us to town that day in the farm truck with a bed full of dry rot tires, some stale airplane peanuts in the console and two cookbooks. Like I said, a story for another time. 

Momma and I are on the right. 

She called me Sunday morning:

“Can I call you back when I get in the car? I’m trying to get out the door to church,” I asked in haste.

“Well I’m walking into church now (her way of revealing that my time is no more valuable than hers). Do you want to go to Warm Glow after church?” Momma asked.

I knew what I wanted to do, but I also knew the timing couldn’t be any worse: this was Christmas open house weekend at possibly the largest public attraction in our area: Warm Glow.

 

I grew up just minutes from Warm Glow, a candle shop once the size of a two-car garage that has more recently expanded into 80,000 square feet of candles, signage, home décor, beer, wine, hand crafted soaps and other wild things that I’m certain your brain could never even dream up. It’s every most women’s dreamland and every man’s nightmarish hell. 

Check out the amazing products at  Lonely Windmill Farm 

In my life B. C. (before Cody) I invested a small fortune into Warm Glow turning my first house into a beautiful little home. Now A.C. (you get it) those scented candle rings and sparkly burlap lampshades hide in mouse-proof (I do the best I can) Rubbermaid tubs while I now prefer to decorate with anything that can be rinsed off with a garden hose. Guys are gross.

Anyhow…

Knowing that this weekend was the biggest shopping weekend for Warm Glow (like, thousands flock to this place), I accepted the challenge and told Momma I’d meet her at BSG after church and we’d carpool the 4.7 miles to Warm Glow for an afternoon of shopping for things that will be in Rubbermaid in 25 days.

I drove over I-70 and our grand idea of self-inflicted pain really struck; the parking lot was packed, the lawn was covered by vehicles and cars were winding down the long driveway, parking by the road.

“Well this was stupid,” Momma said. I kept driving. Misery loves company and I was about to rub elbows with 1,500 of my very best friends. Once inside she told me we didn’t need a cart since we’d be here only 20 minutes. I knew better and grabbed a cart then threw my purse and coat inside. Might as well get comfy. I should have worn yogas.

We were on a (suicide) mission to find only a few, very specific things:

Momma: 1 Red, 1 White and 1 Green candle for a centerpiece.

Me: Two candles for upcoming gift exchanges.

BOOM GOES THE DYNAMITE

I got my steps in, though my Fitbit was resting peacefully on my nightstand. We actually walked the entire width of the store three times looking for a damn peppermint candle – the white in Momma’s festive trio. We couldn't do Evening Mocha or Coconut Cream or Creamy Vanilla Bean. Nope. Nothing smells like Christmas like a Merry Mint candle burning next to a Northern Pine burning next to a Cranberry Stardust. At one point I didn't know if we were going by color or the fact that Momma made her list on an empty stomach.

However, during our voyage for the perfect Merry Mint, we visited with:

1 old nursing colleague

2 high school classmates

 1 FFA friend

3 people we tried to avoid for the sake of time

8 Facebook friends, one of which I asked how wedding planning was going only to learn there would be none. Jean’s Boots Lesson #1,271: If you can’t recall many Facebook posts about said wedding planning, best to not even mention it.

And 378 children looking for

Santa, Mrs. Claus and….Elsa.

Momma got more excited about Elsa being at Warm Glow than a 60-something should. It’s the Grammie in her, I guess. She asked me to wait in line to see Elsa so I could get my picture with her to send to my niece Marlee (6).

I found a few holes in this proposal:

I’m 30-something and have frankly never seen Frozen.

I forgot my Frozen costume.

I’m 30-something.

I couldn’t see the end of the line.

I’m 30-something.

If I did stand in line looking like Buddy the Elf compared to everyone else, who in the heck was going to take the picture? 

Momma got an iPhone just over a month ago and has Facetimed me something like 68 times since. There was no way I was going to teach her how to use the camera today. 

I came up with a better solution and asked Elsa to pose for a solo photo in between toddler hugs. The only thing that could have made this more awkward for this amazing sport of a gal would be if I were a 57-year-old male.

We then found the bird display and stocked up on birds for Momma’s old bird tree, which sits at the top of the landing and terrifies every grandchild old enough to focus their eyes (Georgia is just so very young, give it time). I’m including pictures for my friend Cheyanne.

 

When the day was said and done, in our cart we had 14 candles, 6 candle plates, 4 creepy birds, 3 bags of candle chips, 1 Christmas present I can’t discuss and a box of wine. Yes, on a Sunday. There was a winery on display in the corner of the Watering Can (Warm Glow’s garden center) and Momma somehow found them while looking through the Fairy Gardens. 

Who am I kidding? We were as lost as last year’s Easter egg and that card table with a wine display seemed like a mirage. But it was real! Twelve bottles, real.

If you’ve never been to Warm Glow, it’s a must-see attraction while traveling I-70 between Indiana and Ohio. The concept of the perfect candle began in a couple’s basement just down the road from BSG and has grown into this really incredible shop tucked away in rows of Indiana corn. At the same exit is a Dairy Queen, so you can spend your kids’ inheritance on hearth candles then blow your last $15 cash on Blizzards just across the way. That’s assuming you didn’t eat Warm Glow ice-cream while shopping.

The afternoon turned out well and Momma and I left feeling as tired and broke as we did after Tire Drop Off Day. Our legs and pocketbooks hurt, but we reconfirmed something that day:

We just weren't cut out for 

some social events unless they involve 

cheese and  Keith Morrison. 

Black Mistress

In the beginning - even before we wed - I picked up on his subtle signs.

Anxiousness when she was around. 
Mentioning her in random conversations. I used to hear him reference her and think, "How does she have anything to do with this conversation?"
Not being able to keep his eyes off her when they were in the same room. 

I brushed it off, thinking - the further we got into our relationship - she would just go away. 
I'll admit: I was one of those gals who thought getting married would change things. 

But things haven't changed since August 10, 2013. In fact, I wonder if they've not gotten worse. 
Every so often she still comes back to visit. 
She is incredibly enlightening. 
Always attractive and so put together - even after traveling hundreds of miles. 
She has a social life we - Cody and I - can only dream of. Is there any event she's not invited to?
She meets every expectation. And Oh So Well. 

But I've come to terms with it: the Angus Journal is the full package. 
And every month I have to compete with her for Cody's attention. 

1. He anxiously awaits their next encounter. 
Did you get the mail?
Anything good in today's mail?
Did you get the mail today?
Have you gotten the mail?
No, cray cray. I have not and will not get the mail on days that I anticipate that 390 page mistress with a gorgeous face waiting for me across the road. 
Angus Journal arrival days are like tiny Christmas mornings at our place. For he, not I. 
Just substitute wrapping paper with plastic shrink wrap and we're smack dab in the morning of December 25th. 

2. It consumes his attention. 
When the Angus Journal arrives, nothing else in the house matters. I could be on fire, tap dancing in the kitchen with a band of donkeys and I'm certain Cody would not hear me. 

Or, us. 

3. It opens up a whole new exciting, dangerous world to him.
The Angus Journal is kinda like some hot chick a college kid meets on a study abroad trip.
A world past beautiful Economy, Indiana or Council Grove, Kansas. 
Bold opinions. 
Industry insight.
Gorgeous photos. 
Intriguing stories. 
Outstanding pedigrees. 
Excitement and blaze and lust. 
Advertisements with photos and EPD's of cattle he suddenly must have. 

Silence is powerful. 

Ya'll see the backtracking in that message?

Guess who bought another cow with a "tiny" bid? 

Us. 

Actually, he (we) made an awesome investment. 

4. He adores her, despite her faults. 
Some months she is 150 pages, other months she is 390 pages.
He doesn't care. He still gives her the same attention and adoration. 
It's exhausting. And disgusting. 

5. She makes his passion come alive. 
I know no one else more dedicated to the success and longevity of the Angus breed than Cody. 
He studies it. 
Breathes it.
Adores it.
Lives it. 
Loses track of time because of it.
Surrounds himself with it: We have Angus luggage tags, wine glasses, blankets and trashcans, for goodness sake. 
When CS sits down to sort through the Angus Journal, I know that his heart and mind are exactly where they should be: progress and passion. Our future. 

And that's exactly why I try to avoid catching fire and tap dancing with donkeys in the kitchen while he's with his mistress. 

I continue to dust around those darn (my mother-in-law reads this blog) Angus Journals and have never once used them for kindling. Though I've been tempted terribly, bless their glossy covers. 
That beautiful, smart, attention-getter is now a part of our home and our marriage. 

However, if she starts showing up with big hair wearing square toes, 

 knowing how to make a mean Mexi meal, 

we're gonna have a come to Jesus.

Wait. Did you really think this post was going to be about Scandal?