May 2002 Archives

Ugh. I've got snake spray all over my hands and arms. For those of you who have experienced being sprayed by a snake, I don't have to tell you that the smell lasts and lasts and freaking lasts.

I'd just gotten out of the shower when my little Frankie came running to tell me that he and 2 neighbor boys had discovered what had so efficiently eaten 27 new-hatched baby chicks in the last week (grrr). I was rather disbelieving. Even when son exclaimed that it was a snake.

"Oh yeah?" I said in a friendly, but matronizing way, wringing out my wet hair. "How d'ya know?"

"Hurry Mama! It's gonna get away!" he said.

That got me moving. Real' fast. A couple years ago here, I managed to get myself bitten by a cottonmouth. I used to be, like, Reptile Girl back in California, catching and keeping for pets various non-venomous snakes and lizards. (Those nearest and dearest to my heart were Alligator Lizards and Gopher Snakes.) So when the cats were messing with a big, thick-bodied snake 2 years ago, I still thought I was, like, Snake Woman, and tried to pick it up. I tried and kept trying, even though the thing was awfully aggressive. I was also trying to do this one-handed, as I was consulting with my brother on the phone at the time. He was online trying to do a snake identi-kit on the creature. By the time I was bleeding and bitten a few times, he enlightened me to the fact that it was a cottonmouth. Hmmm. My bad. Really unforgivably dumb on my part. (But I forgive me. For that at least.) I really do know better than to mess with snakes I don't recognize, especially while on the phone.

To add to my list of grudges against Francis, he made me drive myself to the ER (after I let the snake, which I eventually managed to pick up, go safely into the woods), because he didn't want to be stuck waiting at the hospital with 3 kids. Fortunately, the snake had used most of its venom while striking at the cats, so when it bit me, it was, in effect, shooting blanks. Still, this incident put the respect and even fear of snake bites into me.

So, when Frankie said there was a snake in the barn, I sprinted out there, defying light-speed.

The other boys were yelling that it's in there, it's getting away, it's full of chickens and eggs. The chickens were clattering in a chicken frenzy, flapping up to the dim rafters. Feeling as though I really should have an Aussie accent, I entered the shadowy depths of the old barn.

You know, at least as far as snakes are concerned, size really does matter.

This thing was freaking huge! At least 6 feet long! I don't think snakes even get this big in California. Fucking Texas.

But hey, I've had 3 kids, the last one on the floor beside my bed. No matter how big, no silly phallic symbol is gonna intimidate me. So I grabbed it.

It was trying to flee the scene, it's bulging (my chickens!), sides rippling and winding as it attempted to leave. I hope I go down as a neighborhood legend instead of this just being seen as further evidence of suspicious non-Christian behavior. I carefully maneuvered it into an ex-Leggo bucket, then gently told hold of it behind its head. It wrapped itself all up my arm, smearing me with foul snake stink from its anal cavity in the process. You know, I would really rather my arm and shoulder had been skunked rather than this. It's a seriously yucky stench.

Long story short: it's currently in my shower. It is so big, it gets out of even those big trash cans. It rose up and is coiled around the showerhead and long hose thingy. I keep checking, because I figure she's bound to just escape over the top of the shower door, but so far she's just kind of hanging out. Digesting her chicken dinners, no doubt.

You're probably all stereotypically grossed out. Or hopefully not. I mean, I'm not keeping her. I don't have the heart anymore to keep creatures requiring a diet of other living creatures. I'm going to work at the dog sanctuary tomorrow, so I figure I'll drop her off in the countyside along the way. Far from my chickens. Crap, this thing could eat small cats! (Hmmm...)

And by the way, as near as I can figure, she's an Eastern Rat Snake. Relatively harmless. Unless you're a chicken. I took some pictures and as soon as I figure out the networking system between computers, I'll post them here. Or wait. I bet I can just do it from the other pc...hmmm.

***

I was going to write more. About how it's my birthday tomorrow (pleeze: don't say it), and I got, coincidentally, some dumb-ass email from someone who found my profile at Literotica, a site I used to publish at but visit no more. It was, like, a form email, propositioning me because I was a "mature woman." Christ. A "mature woman?" Happy fucking birthday.

Not that I mind getting old. Wait. That's a bald-faced lie. Of course I mind! I hate it like hell! I want to be young and desirable for-fucking-ever!

You know, I was cleaning my closet the other day, finally more or less convinced that I'll never be a size 4 again (heh!), and I could not believe how small these clothes were! Geez, I used to be, like, emaciated! But of course I couldn't go grocery shopping without being propositioned. I came to believe that people couldn't like me unless they wanted to fuck me. Even now, I'm puzzled when people are kind to me, thinking, Why? It's not like anyone wants to sleep with me now that I'm a big old farm mom.

***

I'm in a bummer of a mood. What I really want is to put the world on Pause and take to my bed. Like they did in Victorian England. I want chocolate. I want nice-smelling candles. I want Susana Baca's music. I want a good book. I want to cry for my dog. I want to cry for my failed marriage. I want to cry because I am so terrified about losing my farm, about money. I want the chores to go away, the house to miraculously clean itself. I want to go to sleep.

***

Shit. I'm depressed. Great. I better go try to shake this off. Starting with making sure that snake is still in my shower.

CLIX AND I'LL FED EX YOU THE SNAKE

Seasons don't fear the reaper, nor do the wind, the sun, or the rain.

I thought of something I like about Texas. It took me days to come up with, and so far it is the only, lonely item on my pro-Texas list. I like the way Texans think that most repairs can be adequately made using only duct tape and baling wire. And I'm talking about car and truck repairs here. I was, regrettably, at Wal-Mart the other day and found myself morbidly fascinated by the creative use of duct tape and bale wire on assorted vehicles.

Do you all also realize that Wal-Mart is, like, the social gathering locale of choice around these here parts? I mean, Yee-haw! Party in the Wal-Mart parking lot! It frightens me.

***

Today is the last day of school around here. I'm always happy to have the kids out of school. I'm determined that this will be a good summer. My gardens are doing great, the pool is more or less functional, we got puppies and kitties every-freaking-where, the chickens are laying eggs like crazy, and the sheep are growing and hopefully mostly pregnant.

***

I been having bad dreams lately. I think I'm dealing with a lot of fear. My mother said the other day that she doesn't think I'm going to be able to financially manage to keep this farm. In September, I'm supposed to let Francis know if I will sell and move to the house his father will give us in Everett. If I refuse, all financial help will cease. My "free ride" will screech to an abrupt halt. (Free ride, my ass!!!)

I know that Francis will never pay child-support or alimony or anything. This town is wicked poor and I could only make minimum wage. I still don't have enough sheep to subsist on lamb profits. TANF, which, as near as I can figure, is welfare, will only give me and the kids $240.00 a month.

Oh man. I just had an epiphany. I had a nightmare the other night. In it, Fran came back to the farm to live with us. I was, like, stuttering, breathless, unable to tell him I didn't want him there. He opened his wallet and showed me a bunch of money. There were bills that showed the amount of 240. Like, a two hundred and forty dollar bill. In this dream, I was, like, relieved at the sight of the cash, and also terrified. I wanted to take the money, and was reaching out for it, but scared to touch it. Then Fran was saying that Maribel, my little Manchester terrier, was terribly lonely with Spooky dead. He said that he was thinking we should get another dog.

You have to understand, in our marriage, I was always rescuing dogs and Fran was always grumpy about it. There was a direct correlation between his crack binges and my dog adoptions. I would feel so powerless, angry, sad, scared, desperate, that I would rescue a dog to comfort myself. I couldn't save my husband, but I could damn well bring home a dog running out of time at the kill shelter. Of course, with the frequency of his crack use, we were over-run with dogs. (How significant is it, that when I got Fran out of here, I also got rid of most of the dogs? Though, poor things, they were innocent.)

Anyway, so in this dream, I was stunned that Fran should be suggesting I get another dog. He had a dog crate, and he said that there was a Chihuahua in it that I would like. But I was, like, not thrilled. I was looking at the dog, saying, "But it doesn't look like a Chihuahua." And he was assuring me that it was. And I was protesting that it was a boy and would pee on the walls. (Like my poor, beloved Spooky did, though I forgave him every golden drop.) And Fran said that, no, the dog was female and wouldn't pee on stuff. But I was reluctant to open the crate, accept the dog. And in my dream, I felt weighed down by fear, grief, panic. I didn't want Fran there. I didn't want the alleged Chihuahua. I was desperate to take the money, but didn't want to touch his wallet. I started to cry and was unable to talk in this dream.

And I woke up near tears, feeling as though I had forgotten to breath for a while. I woke up scared.

I guess the dream is pretty transparent. Even my dreams are relatively easy to figure out.

I gotta go. I have to get my act together. Shower, feed the critters. Clean house. Laundry. Worry about money.

xoxoxo, and by the way, thank you for all the comments I've been getting. I'm amazed and appreciative.

CLIX OR SEND NEMATODES!

Meow meow meow meow, meow meow meow meow, meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow.

Am I the only one who has spent half her life with the Meow Mix commercial jingle stuck in her brain? Seriously.

I think it has got to be a vast improvement in my life, when the worst stress in the day involves cats. Even if it is many, many, many cats. Cats with issues. Cats with attitudes. Cats that are intrinsically evil.

Have I mentioned that I'd like some good-hearted (and insane), person to come here and adopt all my kitties? Bring a U-Haul. One of the bigger ones.

I am not a brave enough woman to take a kitty head count. I do not want to know how many cats call this farm home. I just know they're gonna eat me when I die.

So, Hermione, the really big, really horrible calico cat managed to establish herself as queen of the housecats. She did this by running off her meeker rivals. She's a terribly cruel, vicious creature. (Isn't there an s somewhere in vicious? Viscious? Vicscious? Fuck.)

Hermione also managed to get pregnant. An interesting feat, because she doesn't leave the house and all the inside males are neutered. It's entirely possible that she ordered Internet cat sperm from some online site for dykey female cats desiring kittens. I wouldn't put it past her. Not that I'm saying she's, like, a lesbian cat. She hates other female cats and has dedicated herself to annihilating them all.

But she soon grew huge with kittens. Along with 4 or 5 other cats here. (The first sign of poverty is a yard full of cats. Spaying = $$$) Hermione is sycophantically sweet to me and it drives me crazy. I really don't like her. She's a big pain-in-the-ass cat. And now she was propagating.

Also propagating was a little light-boned tabby and white cat named Clover. She was born here almost 2 years ago to a wonderful ex-Shelter cat named Dahlia. (Am I boring you utterly? Am I, against my will, becoming one of those kooky women that talk and talk and talk about their goddamned cats all the freaking time?) Well, LSS (long story short, fyi, heh), I have a complicated loyalty and attachment to fragile little Clover. It annoyed me intensely to see this newcomer calico attack Clover all the time, drive Clover out of the house. Story even shorter (I'm boring myself), Hermione kittened yesterday. Terrible mother. Really awful. Sierra, my daughter, had to midwife the kittens, clearing the membrane from their faces. One still died. Hermione had to be confined to stay with them. Last night Clover miscarried or had her kittens stillborn, or else something just went wrong. Hermione had chased her out into the garage. When I finally found her and dead kittens, I brought her in. She cried piteously, leaking blood and gunk on my shirt. She kept staring at me like she needed something from me. So I gave her 2 of Hermione's neglected, hungry, cold kittens. Wiping them in the blood on my tank top, I offered them to Clover.

It was one of those moments. One of those times when you feel that you've done something good. When you feel that frisson pass through you and your spirit is stirred.

I can't recall ever seeing a happier cat. She was nearly overwhelmed with joy. She curled around them, nuzzling and licking the scrawny little newborns, offering them her warm belly and her tiny pink teats. The babies latched on and nursed, and Clover purred and kneaded her own paws in the air, moving her own lips as though she were recalling herself as a nursing kitten. She looked up at me with her big round eyes and I swear she was telling me how grateful she was, how happy I'd helped her to be.

Well, that was my deep, meaningful moment of kitty communication last night. Today was mostly spent keeping Hermione from trying to hunt Clover down. Hermione is so sadly neglecting her remaining kittens, that I am trying to decide if Clover should adopt all of them. But that doesn't seem fair to Hermione.

See how silly? I've traded the constant fear, pain and panic of living with a crack addict, for this feline turmoil. Instead of walking around at night with knives, guarding against a husband bringing dealers over to steal my stuff, I now lie awake pondering what would be "fair" for all the cats involved in this farce of epic kitty proportions.

Now, all you Sesame Street afficionadas, sing along with me, here we go: Felines, nothing more than felines! Trying to forget my, felines of love! Felines! Oh wo wo, felines! Oh wo wo, felines! My felines of love.

CLIX TO RECEIVE YOUR FREE CAT!

CLIX IF YOU UTTERLY DESPISE ALL THINGS THAT MEOW.

You know, I just don't get it. Why are Texans so all fired up with pride for this place? This Lone Star Republic? It's not like it's an even remotely attractive state. Politically, it's frightening. And it's not a state that really values children. Animals are meat, money or target practice. But do you realize how many freaking songs there are about Texas? I mean, songs filled with astounding love and pride. Am I missing something here?

I'm only asking, because this may very well be the place where I spend the rest of my days.

I like to dig in. Settle down. Root. I'm a territorial kind of woman. I like a home totally inundated with my own scent, my own decorating, my own stuff. I want every step of my feet to reverberate with mine, mine, mine.

I've planted a hell of a lot of trees here. My crape myrtles are up to the roof, just bursting into their froth of white and melon-colored blossoms. I planted a wormwood bush that has, against all botanical law, grown to over six feet high and spread in an amazing, proprietary fashion. It then somehow propagated itself widely around the yard so that it has many smaller wormwoods making their presence known. I'm so proud of my Artemisia absinthian. I like to think that it's thriving so nicely for me because I've got that Artemis thing going on.

***

It's the end of the day now. For some obscure reason, I took me and the kids to Mormon church today. (When you all are finished shuddering, I'll continue.) Actually, I guess it's really not some arbitrary, obscure reasoning that drove me to do this. I had this notion that it would be a good thing for the kids to have nice friends, nice activities, in their lives. I have fond memories of the Church providing that in my own life way back when I was young in California.

I have absolutely zero testimony that this Church is true or right. But I do have a whole lot of nostalgia, and a longing for my kids to have good-hearted friends.

My 7-year old, Trinity worries me. She acts as though she is 15, instead of a little girl of 7. She wants to be "popular." She wants to constantly be hanging out at friends' houses, friends I think are a bad influence. She wants to wear make-up and scrimpy clothes. She is constantly showing me how "skinny" she is, like it's the most desirable thing in the world. She has boys who are "in love" with her.

Are you all having the same Jerry Springer flashback that I am?

Trinity used to be my little animal-loving nature girl. She wanted to be an "animal rescuer" when she grew up. We used to watch Animal Planet together all the time. (We loved The Crocodile Hunter.)

Then something changed. I blame it all on Barbie.

Before I could catch my breath, she was saying she hated all our animals, claiming she couldn't remember any of their names or tell them apart, asking me why we couldn't just put them all in cages, sell them (ha!), and just have one tiny poodle. Just twist the knife, Trinity.

So I took the kids to Church. Bad idea. Apparently I am not keeping my temple holy, as I have a third piercing in my ear. The kids were taught that Jesus Christ is not happy when we get tattoos, when girls get pierced more than once and only at the bottom of their ear lobe, and when boys get their ears pierced at all. Sierra says that they told her it's all in the bible. Yep, the Book of No Tattoos. I believe it's mentioned also in The Book of Mormon under the Yer Goin Ta Outer Darkness Fer That Earring section.

Saddle up! War, famine and pestilence! Mama got a third earring!

So. Waste of a good afternoon. And if I were not so tired, I would go on and on and on about all the other things that seriously bug me and bring out my female ire about the Church.

Why, oh why, isn't there a nice Neo Pagan center with cool youth activities around here?

And what am I going to do about my little aspiring cheerleader, t? ("Let her get some Barbies," sez her Dad. "What's the possible harm?" I gotcher possible harm right here!)

***

I miss my dog every minute. Every second. I feel that I've lost something vital to my spirit.

Things die around here every day. It's a farm. We lost one of Hermione's infant kittens just this afternoon. Mostly, death just means a toss into the compost barrels. But my love for my little brown dog was something different. After my children, I loved the dog more than anything in my life. I feel as though I have an open, aching wound that I have no idea how to heal.

CLIX ME, AMEN!

Maribel, my toy-sized Manchester terrier, led me and the kids to Spooky's remains. The coyotes ate my boy. There was only a bloody ribcage, peeled back skin and fur, and his four little legs.

I haven't felt this kind of grief for a long, long time. I don't know what to do with it. That dog was my heart, and now he's gone. I never, ever loved a dog as I loved him. He was my good boy, my fierce defender, my most loyal friend, my comfort and my joy. I wanted him to be with me forever.

I'm not doing well. Usually I'm so capable, so competent. Usually I can move on from pain. But this has me stopped. This feels like too much. And I guess I'm angry. Weren't things hard enough? Did I have to lose my beloved dog, too? What's next? The kids? Oh god.

And I know that he's in a good place. I believe in a paradise and I know animals go there to find rest, peace, and happiness. To perhaps linger before choosing to be reborn, face this world again. So I know that this grief is a selfish thing. I miss him. I want him with me. I don't know how I can face these days and nights without him.

Oh Goddess, but I can almost feel his slight, warm body curled next to me. I can almost feel his smooth short coat, his velvet-soft ears. I know the mild, doggy scent of his little form.

I keep running into his loss. Like it's a wall I crash into time and time again. A barrier blocking the path of my every thought. I put my plate down for him to finish my food, and he's not there. Making my bed, I find his tiny dark hairs, like little eyelashes, and I am bludgeoned with the knowledge that he will never be here again. His small prints are in the dried mud outside, and he will never leave tracks again. His thin, quick legs had so little meat that the coyotes didn't even bother with them. My little guy snored at night, husky little pug snores. He would commando-crawl across my carpet. He could stand on his hind legs and walk backwards. He was the alpha of my dogs, and they all respected and obeyed him. Against all odds, he managed to father 8 pups on Sicily my psycho Chow. And don't say it. Because it is not a big solace, having his children. No other dog will ever be him.

***

Is this stupid? Mourning so hard for a 12-pound pug mix? When everything else is teetering on the brink of wreckage here? When the threat of sell and move to Boston or be cut off from all funding and help, is hanging so heavily over my head? Why does this feel as though it is the straw that is breaking me? The one storm I can't quite weather? God, I'm reduced to clichés.

CLIX

My little dog Spooky, the dog I love more than any dog I've ever known, was probably killed by coyotes last evening. I don't know how to bear this. That dog was my constant companion. That dog was my heart.

I can't believe he's gone. I keep thinking I'll hear his little paws scrabbling at the door to come in.

This is too much, losing Spooky. This is just too much. I can't take it anymore. I give up.

Oh god, I loved that dog so much. I never loved a dog as much as I loved him. I can't handle this. Oh god why did he have to die?

I quit. I quit. I've lost my heart. I just want to go to sleep. Is this what I deserve, for getting rid of all the other dogs? For having Freya killed? The only dog I really loved is dead.

Oh Spooky oh god I can't do this

I want you to squeeze me, an, call me honey

You know what I hate about Texas? I mean, you wanna know one of the things I hate about Texas? (And I may have mentioned this before.) BUGS.

Now, being a nice Wiccan/Pagan girl from San Francisco, I generally do not hate any thing of nature. I see the spark of divinity in even the lowliest, most minuscule, aesthetically unpleasing (by conventional, not necessarily my own, standards), of creatures. Or at least I did until I moved to Texas.

Although I am sure that all things fill a niche in the grand Circle of Life, I've come to the conclusion that we have just too many freaking niches. Anything that bites me must go. And I'm at the point where I would not hesitate to wreck ecological havoc to rid myself of chiggers. Nature abhors a vacuum, yadda yadda...How 'bout more--oh I dunno--shiny red ladybugs with those cute little spots, and less chiggers.

How am I supposed to be having any halfway erotic, sensual fantasy, when I am one big itch? Chigger bites have wrecked my inner thighs. (Yeah, I'm just so freaking tasty.) And you know that chigger bites last a way long time. You know, I don't even think we had chiggers in California.

I've been giving this a lot of thought. You know how they are always doing all that gene splicing, genetic engineering, mixing DNA stuff? I mean, it's really very Sci Fi. Well, I've got an idea. And just remember: You heard it here first.

Why can't they create, like, lipo-sucking chiggers? You know? You sit in the grass, perhaps reading Shakespeare or some kind of uplifting literature, the chiggers come get you, and you get up an hour later with slimmer thighs. I mean, who wouldn't mind a little itching for that? I mean, Bite Me!

Is that brilliant or what? I don't have this IQ of 154 for nuthin.

***

Just came back from WalMart. Besides groceries, I seem to have bought toe rings. It's possible that I may be turning into some kind of a gypsy. First the ear piercing, now rings on my toes. I already had a bunch of jingling sterling bangle bracelets and an anklet. (Note to self: This is not the correct direction in accessories, should one be attempting to fit into Texas society.)

It's a pretty day outside. I think I'll go outside and get attacked by hoards of Texas insects again. (Actually, interestingly enough, chiggers are not insects at all, but arachnids. Hmmm... that kind of makes it worse.) And yes, yes, yes, YES. I do have bug spray, thank you. But it makes me feel all sticky and even though it's supposed to be odorless, I find the smell offensive. And I know what you're thinking. And, yes, you're right. What's worse, been ravaged by bugs, or a little stickiness and smell? Point accepted.

Later...xoxo

Oh, on a side note: Anyone know a good site to get one of them there tan-through swim suits? And does anyone know if they work? And... is it weird that I would want one...?

CLIX OR SEND NEMATODES!

and I've had too much caffeine an I been thinking bout myself

I keep thinking about sex. Is that weird? Aren't I, like, beyond all that stuff? I read Kerrie O'Keefe's latest story on Satin Slippers before bed last night and then dreamt about sex all night. Thanks a whole lot, Kerrie.

I guess I could write another erotic story. Instead of imagining myself, uh, researching one. Geez! I'm a mother, fer gawdz sake! I got three little kids! I shouldn't ought to be thinking about this kinda stuff!

I'll have to continue this blog entry later. I have to take a shower, tidy up the house a bit, give the chickens fresh water. Damn, Cruz sent his crew out to mow and weed whack the entire non-pasture property. They were here for about 4 hours and did a great job. He did it at no cost, which makes me feel kind of bad. Cruz is coming out today, bringing someone to buy one of the butcher sheep. He said he will also start with the fencing, take care of anything that needs done.

Later...

CLIX OR SEND FOOD!

I'm drooping on the sofa in my room, trying to get ahold of the Texas Department of Health and Human services regarding my food stamps. My estampillas para comida. I'm supposed to spend the day at the office waiting interminably for my recertification appointment, but both Frankie and I don't feel well today, so I'm trying to arrange to do it by telephone.

I've probably, like, psyched myself into illness out of sheer dread of going down to the TX DHHS. My last experience there took months off my life. But I'm scared that they will not recertify me for food stamps. The kids and I get about $400.00 per month, which for some reason has not gone as far as it should. I think this has to mean No Ice Cream and More Rice for the kids. Too bad I'm not usually a very inspired cook.

Goddess. My dream is to be self-sufficient. Not have to be begging anyone for money. Not have to worry constantly about money. I feel like such an ogre, telling my children that they can no way, no how, share snacks with their friends who come over to play. That their friends cannot even have juice or (soy) milk to drink, but only tap water. I can't spare the stuff the food stamps buys. And wasting food has become a cardinal sin here in this household. Last night Sierra burst into sobs of terror when she dropped a whole dish of food and the dogs got it. She was so afraid that I'd get mad and yell. I can't stand it when the kids are afraid of me, of my anger.

Okay, I talked to someone at the TX DHHS. At some point today someone will call me and do a phone interview. This may be tricky; I'm supposed to do a brief pet-sitting job at about noon. (Six dollars to drive over to Pottsboro and let some schnauzers out for a potty break.) I guess Frankie is going to miss his Speech class today, too. The boy is barely understandable. And on a side note, they are now evaluating my 7 year-old daughter Trinity for dyslexia.

Okay, okay. Frankie is still asleep, poor little speech-challenged guy; maybe I'll lie down again for a bit, too.

CLIX OR SEND FOOD!

I'm tired. And all scratched and bug-bitten. Sears can't get out to fix my mower until next Monday, and the grass is butt-high. My butt. And I'm pretty tall. So I went out determined to do something drastic about this. Too bad I forgot my bug spray. Gloves may have helped as well. And why do I still think I should be constantly dressed to tan?

But, Slayer of the Grass that I am, I cut a pretty broad swath through it. Cruz came by last Friday and showed me the broken part on the mower and said that my grass was way too high even if my mower was working fine. He said he'd send his crew out to mow everything for free to help me out.

Perhaps it's pride, or simply a stubborn desire to prove that I don't need anyone, but I kind of want to handle it myself. I like to imagine Cruz arriving, staring in awe at the downed grass and asking me how I did it. In this fantasy I hold up my calloused, sun-browned hands in silent answer. Warrior Princess of the Weeds. Yep, that is I.

Cruz told me the fairly tragic story of his current new marriage falling apart. Apparently this is either his second or third marriage, but his first one to a woman from Mexico. His other wife or wives were White and when that failed, he thought the answer was in finding someone of his "own kind." (Whatever that really means. Or doesn't.) I wish I could have offered him some words of wisdom, or comfort, but what can anyone really say?

Does there come an age or a time when the best thing to do is just give up? Decide that there is no such thing as True Love or a Lasting Relationship?

I can't ever imagine myself married or living with someone again. And the thought of dating sends a shudder through me. Never again. Yet there are times when I miss just lying down with someone. Not sex. Just the comfort, peace, and pleasure of laying my head upon another's shoulder.

Eh, but it's never that simple, that pure.

Now I'm all bummed. How funny.

Well, Buffy is on tonight. Actually, it's on real' soon. Mary's son spent the day here and the family room has become a fort. This needs to be cleaned up. Preferably by the kids. I told them that if I walk out there to find it still a mess, my head will explode. That may not be incentive enough, judging from the looks they gave me. How in the world did I become a mom? In my head, I still think of myself in, like, my early 20's.

Whoops. I hear kid chaos. Gotta go...

YOU REALLY WANT TO COMPULSIVELY CLIX ME

The crops need blood to grow.

I'm feeling unsettled. I'm thinking I can't be talking to Fran on the telephone any more. Strangely enough, his hatefulness still hurts me. Some foolish, innocent, childish part deep inside me is astonished that the father of my children is acting like an enemy. I am nearly incredulous that the children and I are throw-aways.

Well duh. How stupid that I could ever imagine otherwise. And how many other mothers throughout all time have stood where I stand, felt what I feel?

How ridiculous that I should expect justice from a crackhead. He said that our marriage hasn't been a real marriage for a long time. I guess he means because I wouldn't sleep with someone smoking crack. That I slept with a knife under my mattress because he had dealers come over in the night so he could trade them our things for crack. That I would get up several times each night to see if he was smoking crack, or not here, or just sleeping on the couch. That he was mean and morose and consumed with depression and drug cravings. That the kids were just things that got in the way of his addiction. That he usually acted as though he hated me, blamed me, for something I had no clue of.

God, oh god. I fucked up. I fucked up so badly. I spent the end of my youth with someone who could never love me. I had children by a father who could never love them, who wanted them killed in my womb. I sleep-walked through the last 11 years, thinking some miracle would happen to save all this, wake me from this nightmare.

I'm so tired. I'm so scared. They want me out of this house. They'll do whatever it takes to try to break me. I'm so terrified of losing everything. This is my home, my children's home. If I don't sell and go to Boston my "free ride" will end. I've got foodstamps and I can qualify for a maximum of $240.00 in aid each month, and the kids just got Medicaid. Come next fall, I can get a job while the kids are in school, and I can also sell my lambs weekly, once I build up my flock. This should be enough, shouldn't it? No. But it'll have to be. I never want to be sleeping with knives again.

Okay, okay, so I need to buck up. Stop sniveling in fear. I'm smart, I'm strong; I can handle this. I know I am doing the right thing. For the children. For myself. When I had a premonition of this all coming to pass last year, the premonition hinted of a very positive outcome. Something so good that it would surprise me. I'm all for good surprises.

***

My gardens are in heavy thrive mode. I've been doing some good work out there, and it's showing well. I'm thinking this will be a good year for my gardens.

Yesterday, under a storm-swollen sky, I planted many, many pinto beans. I have so many pounds of seed, that I moved to plant them in the pasture, in the hill of old composted manure from my long-gone equines. I sat down with a hand spade and began to turn the rich, damp soil. I found the ground to be heavily infested with grubs. You know, the larva of June bugs? They are kind of gross looking, as well as being very destructive. I called the chickens over and had an enjoyable and very interesting time watching them eat the hundreds and hundreds and hundreds (!), of various-sized grubs I uncovered.

Perhaps it wouldn't be as fun for you as it was to me. I mean, I was basically sitting in old horseshit, digging in old horseshit, feeding yucky larva to a bunch of chickens. No wonder Fran hates me. But I swear, although they are certainly no rocket scientists, chickens are very interesting. They have, like, a whole secret society. A secret language. Nothing is random. They are birds with structure. They have friends as well as enemies within their structured society. They are creatures of emotion and not simply instinct. And they sure love grubs. I'd turn over a new patch, they'd watch me intently, and then move in, in their mysteriously organized way, to feast on the buggy bounty. Amazing.

Hmm. I've fed the kids dinner. The house is acceptable, the laundry is caught up. I guess I should go check on the sheep one last time. I feel kind of lonely. Which is silly. I've been lonely for years and years. There're worse things than lonely. One of them is having a husband decomposing in his chair in the family room, endlessly playing online casino, the tv on 24/7, his aura a sucking vacuum, a black hole of anger and despair. I was so much more lonely then. Lonely and armed!

Buenos noches xoxo

YOU REALLY WANT TO COMPULSIVELY CLIX ME

Wild, wild horses couldn't drag me away. Wild, wild horses, we'll ride them some day.

I got an ear pierced at Wal-Mart the other day. Just one ear. For no apparent reason. Kind of an impulse piercing. Then I -painfully! - put earrings through my old, original ear piercings. I haven't worn earrings since I began having babies. (Earrings and babies don't mix well.) My kids are keeping a suspicious eye on me. I think they're afraid I'll go really wild and get a tattoo. Children are so conservative.

Lightening flickers outside my dark windows. Strangely, all my kids are sleeping. My ear hurts, reminding me of my interesting new impulsiveness. Wild woman that I apparently am, I amazed myself by installing Windows ME and -hopefully - fixing what ailed my pc. I also managed to hook up one of the kids' computers out in the Family Room and get it flying right. I also moved the printer into my room and got that all connected. To add to these miracles, I also put new pedals on Frankie's bike, new tubes in Trin's bike tires, fixed and oiled the rusty chain on Sierra's second-hand bike, and then went and nearly completed painting both the girls' rooms. Seaflower for Sierra. Violet for Trinity. So: Yay me! I rule. I'm totally awesome. Circe's the way coolest.

A-hem.

***

I'm making a will this week. I'm just a wee bit...nervous.

More lightening.

***

Thunder outside. Fran is being decidedly unpleasant on the telephone. Hostile. Threatening. Apparently it's very annoying to have me so unresponsive to his MO of manipulation. Don't you just fucking hate crack addicts?

I'm thinking they want me out of this house, off the farm, this property out of my name. It's a trick, a trap, inviting me and the kids to move to Boston. I'm not that kind of fool anymore. I can't afford stupidity--I have children.

Ah, Goddess, here comes the rain now. Deluge. Pounding. Thunder booming, lightening quick, stark illumination. My little dog Spooky is concerned. This is a threat he is not sure how to defend me against. Love this dog.

Damn, I had to Save this real' quick; the power is flickering.

I'm wondering about men. Perhaps this is as nonconstructive as wondering about the weather. But still. Is Fran right in alleging that men really have no interest or investment in pregnancy, babies, children? How is it that men can walk away from their children? How can they have hearts that can bear this?

It's probably wrong to generically say men when what I mean is Francis. I mean, just in case he's wrong. I guess it's because he's primarily a drug addict and this cancels out any capacity to love, to care? And I must be missing something about the entire pathology of addiction, because I've never understood why children and love are not motivation enough for an addict to do whatever it takes to get and stay clean.

Right after Frankie was born, when Fran's addiction was in over-drive again, in a fit of hysteria, I told him that if he goes on another crack binge I will drive myself with all three kids over a cliff. Behind my hysteria, I did not mean this, and not only because there are no cliffs in Texas. But I probably sounded pretty convincing. You're correct in guessing that he disappeared to a crackhouse the very next day.

I don't want to live like this ever again. I don't think he will ever stop doing crack. I don't think he wants to. It is the monster he has let crack turn him into, that threatens me on the phone. Sell the place and come to Boston or else. I think I loath him utterly.

***

2/3 of my children have stumbled sleepily to my big bed. I expect the third will trail in here soon. The thunder frightens them. I can hear Sicily's pups whimper in the closet; it frightens them, too. Even my heart just jumped at a terribly loud, close, huge clap of thunder.

You should see the four little kittens. Wicked cute. They're zooming all around the house, playing with each other, jumping off the sofas. One of the great things about this world are little kitties. Spooky, on the other hand, is not too impressed by them. They get on his nerves. He sees nothing endearing in their antics. He wishes they would dissipate into tiny kitty molecules.

I'm tired. I think I'll go to bed while there's still room there. I've programmed my RealOne Player thingie to play Tibetan Sound Bowls tonight, and that, with the storm outside, should be very, very nice to sleep to.

YOU REALLY WANT TO COMPULSIVELY CLIX ME

This is your voice of reason, this is your voice of calm, saying, Don't look back, just move on.

I'm trying to center myself again. The pressure from Fran has unsettled me. I've been screaming at the kids and compulsively fretting about messes in the house. Last September's nightmare with CPS will impact me forever. The CPS worker came in here, invaded my home, on allegations that I was a witch and that this endangered my children's' lives. He contended that the pictures of the kids as infants naked or in diapers were child pornography and that I must be sexually abusing the kids by displaying newborn nude pictures in my bedroom. The picture of the girls at ages one and two in their diapers, holding hands, "showed their breasts." He accused me of being a Satanist, said the kids were in danger of being sacrificed. Removed my kids for the weekend.

When these charges began to look just a trifle unconstitutional and false, he backed up his removal of the kids by saying my house was "filthy" and the kids would not be returned until it was spotless.

This played into my unfortunate obsessive/compulsive thing about cleanliness. Now, months since the horror of the CPS thing is past, I panic when I see normal clutter and messes in the house. I get all frenzied and crazy, thinking the CPS will come back and take the kids. My heart still jumps when the doorbell rings. Logically, I know this will not happen. Cannot happen. But logic has nothing to do with it when I start screaming at the kids to Clean Up! Clean Up!

I've got to stop this. I scared them the other day. Goddess forgive me.

I heard the CPS worker who accused me of witchcraft had some bad luck. I heard he's no longer working with CPS.

I've got to get in the shower. My son has speech class this morning. Hopefully I'll find my calm today.

YOU REALLY NEED TO COMPULSIVELY CLIX ME

Oh god.

Francis called yesterday. His father owns racehorses in Boston and they'd just been at the track. Fran's father had told him that he will give us a house he owns in Everet if me and the kids will move out there.

Fran went on and on about how wonderful this would be for me and the kids. How many times, he asked, have I moaned about getting out of Texas? About not wanting to rear my children in this ignorant, intolerant, red-neck Bible Belt bug-infested swamp? Boston has culture. Boston is tolerant of diversity. Boston has good food. There's an ocean (though not the right one). There are mountains (not the Sierra Nevadas, not Mt. Tam or Mt. Diablo). Oh, et cetera, et cetera.

And I wouldn't have to struggle with Texas for Food Stamps. Or worry about someone calling CPS again to try to take my kids before I sacrifice them to Satan (I hate Texas CPS with all my soul). No more humid squalor. No more chigger bites tormenting the inside of my thigh. My kids would have a father and his extended family. They would have their Sicilian heritage, their grandfather's connections.

Listening, I felt as though a trap was closing around me. I couldn't breath; I had to lie down on my bed, the phone in my white-knuckled hand.

***

It's later. 1:22 p.m. I'm all discombobulated. Or however you spell it. There are too many kids running around the farm. And I don't necessarily mean my own. And they bring dogs with them. I lost 5 chickens and 2 goddamn turkeys this weekend. I am fucking livid. And the kids climb my fruit trees and break branches.

***

God. It's nearly 6 p.m. Monday. My computer is apparently in league with Fran, self-destructing in a pathetic attempt to show me that I can't live without him. (Besides knowing all about crack cocaine, the man knows computers.) I say Goddammit! Who do I have to freaking sleep with to get my computer running right?!

Bad mood. Fucking Sicily the Chow killed my adorable goslings. As soon as those pups are weaned, she's gotta go. (And what am I gonna do with 8 mini Sicilys?) My mower is still broke, I got grass up to my butt. The pool could credibly be harboring crocodiles. It's such a thick gluttonous green that frogs are actually sitting on the surface. The pool guys are still "waitin on a part." And I've got two partial diary entries here that I have no idea when I'll finish due to my vicious computer. And I need to do some editing work on some online friends' stories. and I had to put out $186.00 today to get my air conditioner units fixed. And Fran is now emailing me real estate listings in Vermont. Fuck him.

So I'm going to publish this as is. Right now. And hope for a computer miracle.

YOU REALLY NEED TO COMPULSIVELY CLIX ME

I know, I know. I said I'd never do it again. I said I was finished with geese forever. I had turned my back on all things foi and gras. Won't get goosed again.

So... are you all ready to hear the official party line as to why there are currently two adorable little goslings residing in a cage under a warming light in my family room, watching Bob the Builder with my little son? Okay. Well, everyone knows - right? - that geese will, like, protect their farmyard? And I have some rare Heritage turkeys (Rio Grande and Lilac), that I want to protect. Hence, I'm raising the goslings with them. And any way, how homicidal can just two goosies get? My error in years past was surely in having a whole freaking gaggle. (The mob mentality of geese in a group is a thing of horror.)

And, okay, I confess: They are wicked cute. Have you all ever had goslings? They are so personable, so social. Unlike other farm birds. So I know it's just a matter of instinct, but I prefer to think that it's love and not imprinting that makes them follow me around, long to be with me non-stop. Yesterday my daughter and I were doing some weeding, and the goslings accompanied us. It was so relentlessly cute, watching them weed with us. You know, of course, that geese are also kept for their weeding ability. They are expert at getting in there and pulling and devouring weeds while leaving the crops alone. Oh man, oldest daughter and I were cracking up, watching the fluffy little beeping geese at work. Spooky, my pug, was resentful and jealous and fantasizing goose destruction.

***

I know that I need to be a bit less sentimental about my gardens. I tend to overly empathize with my crops. My cilantro is turning into coriander because I could not bear to cut it back when it was so determined to bloom and go to seed. I mean, who am I to curtail its fertility? (Yeah, I'm sure I'll change my tune when it's fresh salsa season and I have no freaking cilantro!) And I guess I really should have pruned the rose bushes last Fall. But I kept asking myself: Should I really interfere with nature? Shouldn't roses ramble freely? Now I have no blooms yet. Lots of free-rangeing thorns, though. Ain't nature grand?

It's a good year for the chickens. I've never had no many clutches of chicks. Fluffy tiny baby chickens everywhere. Of course egg production is way down. But geez... the hens look so sad when I empty the nests they long to turn into peeping little prodigies. How can I deny their maternal instincts?

Is it apparent that I'm really just a misplaced granola girl from the Bay Area? Too soft-hearted to ruthlessly farm. Ah well, what's a few less omelets compared to the pleasure of hanging out with the kids at dusk, making a game at guessing which rooster fathered which chick? And maybe I'll find a good recipe for all these damn coriander seeds?

Shower now. xxx

YOU REALLY NEED TO COMPULSIVELY CLIX ME