Powerful Mean Streak

I just came to the realization that I truly love my PMS week. I'm sorry beyond words that I missed out on years of PMS by being on the pill for the vast majority of my adult life to date. Figuring one week per calendar month since I turned 18, that's approximately 192 solid weeks of lost butt-kicking, name-taking opportunities. 192 unopened cans of whoop-ass. At least 192 people who pissed me off and did not have to answer for it. I regret it extremely.

I think I'm fairly fortunate overall in the period department, but I really hit the gold mine with my PMS. I don't break out and I don't bloat, I just get mean. Not threat-to-the-general-populace mean, just the very best sort of "you don't really think I'm going to let you get away with that, do you?" kind of mean. Note to any frenemies out there - avoid me the week of the full moon. If you don't, you will lose. The other three weeks a month I might let your shit slide on by, depending on how busy I am with other aspects of my life, but this particular week, not just no, but Hell No, you are not going to get away with that, whatever "that" may be.

So the way I see it, the pill is just another patriarchal ploy, designed to eliminate not women's fertile times, but rather women's PMS times. And we all fell for it. Boy did we get taken, again. Every time someone says "I must be premenstrual" as though it's a bad thing, men win. Every time a woman chemically neuters herself, a misogynist gets his wings.

I Might be a Redneck

Since April I've been living in a 29ft camper, parked behind my ginormous but completely gutted house. With five (yep, count 'em, 5, fem, cinco, cinq) dogs. But they're all little fluffy yappy things, so all together they don't even add up to one, say, german shepherd. Two of them are puppies and I have the half-eaten slippers to prove it. They're on my feet still, but could now accurately be described as "open-toe". I used to get a new pair every year from my ex's parents for xmas. LL Beaners, no less. Super-comfy. Anyhoo.

If you can rotate the tires on your house you might be a redneck. And while it's been fun to describe myself as trailer trash, and a great experiment in minimalist living, enough is enough already. Here's the visual:











Note that these pictures were taken when I looked at it, well before I moved in. Setting it up at the house involved things, such as cinder blocks and that cheap green wire dog fencing, that make it tres white trash. It's pretty awesome really. As an extra-special touch, I sometimes hang rugs to air on the cheap green wire dog fencing. My neighbors must hate me, because the view from their stately, columned front porch is my campsite extraodinaire. The only thing missing is a firepit, and if I had the time I probably would have one.

There will be no after pictures, so don't ask unless you're interested in buying it. Didn't think so.


























So what's a girl to do with not enough money and too much house and winter looming? Why, you make the mudroom into a studio apartment, of course! Pics and details to come soon, and I move in 10 days from now, but who's counting?

Dead Blog Walking

I'll post a real update this weekend, I swear. Lots and lots of updates. Do check back for all the latest on the house project, horses, etc.

Systematic Torture

I joined a gym near my office over a year ago. I've gone there to work out precisely three times. You don't want to know what that works out to in $ spent per visit. I've been keeping the membership current so that I have a place to shower when I move to the new house this spring, knowing I will not have the luxury of indoor plumbing for some time. But I'm well and truly tired of being a fat ass. So I decided to spend still more money to hire a personal trainer at said gym. I like her basically, but not at 6 o'fucking clock in the morning. I don't like anybody at 6AM, especially myself. I like me even less at 4AM, when sheer willpower is almost not enough to get me out of my cozy warm bed and out the door to pay for the privilege of being systematically tortured. Military school was easier than this. I want to be 17 again, and effortlessly svelte.

Reasons to quit; not getting up at o'dark thirty, procrastination is immediate gratification, really not a masochist, save the money, avoid seeing myself in gym's full-length wall-to-wall mirrors, to say nothing of the locker room.

Reasons to keep going; justification to buy new (smaller) summer clothes, of all the things I've lost I miss my waist the most, make it easier for my aged gelding to tote me around, get strong enough to start my blind mare under saddle without flopping to the ground the first time she scoots or spins, need muscles to build my new fencing, no longer walk miles in the course of a workday so must increase caloric output elsewhere, stop avoiding cameras, I miss my cheekbones and jawline, etc.

So I went. So I shall go again. And because she'll never read this: Patty, personal trainer extraordinaire; you're mean.

What Price Progress?

Baby steps at the homestead these days. I don't know what to throw money at first.

Do I buy a camper or try to make the mudroom live-able? Mudroom is cheaper, camper can accommodate additional people thereby increasing the pool of available labor.

Do I build a barn or buy portable stall panels to put up in the garage for now? Garage option is cheaper, and likely best, so long as I am not living in the adjacent mudroom. Barn would add resale value in the event I decide to throw in the towel, or the bank says we cannot borrow sufficient money to do this.

Do I rent a tractor or hire someone to run a machine to make corral space? Hiring a tractor is cheaper and I would have the machine for longer, but to hire a pro is likely more cost-efficient and would result in a neater job.

Do I splurge on RAMM Fencing? I think it would be the safest for Tag, but I don't expect these first corrals to be permanent. This is definitely what I want in the future, however.

Re-commissioning the well is the one item not in dispute, I need it to live there and to burn the brush I hope to get cleared next week. Well guy is coming out to evaluate on Wednesday, hopefully he can get the work done shortly thereafter.

Construction bids are coming in fast and furious, and all over the map. Eeney, meeney, miney, moe... Methinks a call to the building inspector is in order, to level the playing field somewhat.

Took a walk out to the back forty and found the old well that is marked on the plans. Shallow, hand dug, stone-lined and pretty. I think I will put a bench nearby and call it a reflecting pool.

Right now, in the Underground Lair...

I have a fairly big sofa. I also have three small dogs. Somehow, three pomeranians (collectively known as the muppets), with a combined weight of no more than 35 pounds, have me neatly confined to one corner of it. And I soon as I get up they try to take that too. I am typing with my left wing clipped by the arm of the sofa, and my right elbow resting on the back of Willow. Her muppet name is Miss Piggy. Wylie, muppet name Gonzo, is making himself as large as his fluff can on the other end. Midgie, muppet name Animal (or sometimes Beaker, but usually Animal), is actually behind me, sprawled across the back of the couch while resting his cute little chin on my shoulder. I think he's spying on my web-surfing habits. He'll be pissed if he sees me on Petfinder looking at Poms that are waiting to be adopted. He likes being the baby and has no desire for a new sibling.

Speaking of babies, Pepper is growing up quite nicely!

Sucks to have to sell her. Maybe I won't. I paid the stupid tax and bought a Mega-Millions ticket tonight. You can't lose if you don't play! If I don't lose I'll be sure to post it here first. Ha.

That's right, I'm talking to you

To the guy in the black ford ranger with the cap over the bed on Rt 27 in Stoughton at 7:30 this morning: Fuck.You. You pathetic Scott Brown wannabe. Keep on rollin' that glorified el camino. Next time you honk at me and flip me off for stopping while the light is still yellow you will find your high beams firmly embedded in my trunk. I roll company wheels pal, I don't give a fuck who hits me. In fact, I could really use the money and should have braked harder. My neck hurts just thinking about it.

FYI - This is a truck.












and you'd best hope I'm not driving it the next time I see you. 'Cause I'll put all 365 horses riding 660 lb-ft of torque directly into this matchbox.


It'll make a most gratifying splat.