Category: Mekeeping

Three Months Down The List

I will not say Happy Spring yet. I will not say Happy Spring yet. I will not say Happy Spring yet. Every time I have wished someone “Happy Spring!” this year, Winter has said “oh, yeah, let’s see about that!”, and here we are, with tulip trees and forsythia starting to bloom while there are still piles of frozen debris left over from Snowcrete Fest 2026. So, not wishing that yet.

There’s also the general counter-happiness initiative going on in the world today, doing its miserymaking mayhem thing, but I don’t think my hoping for someone’s happiness even gets on its radar let alone makes its “Must Point and Laugh and Prove Her Wrong” list. I hope, anyway.

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Holiday Post-Game

Last night, I wrote a blog post about hoodies, specifically about how I secretly wanted one for Christmas, because I almost need one (my existing ones are still holding up under the dog’s regime, but they won’t outlast it). I kept the secret to myself because I didn’t want to get one I didn’t like, or worse, one I loved but with a print that encourages my tendency to pre-game public interactions.

The post then spiraled into politics … and that, Y’all’s Honors, is why I decided not to share it, even after spending an hour and change this morning trying to tuck in everything behind a mask of extended metaphors while making fun of myself by cracking the old joke about the functional use of metaphors.1

See, I’m not sure that I’m completely over the hell-fluvidmonia-just-imagine-how-bad-this-could-have-been-if-you-weren’t-vaccinated the entire household picked up during our Christmas trip2, despite our best attempts to avoid it.

We missed a step: failing to recognize that our relatives are now inclined to understate how sick they and their friends have been in order to get us to come visit right at Christmastime instead of postponing it until after the New Year. You would think that everyone would have learned something from at least the Norovirus Family Fun Fest of 2014-2015, but I’m going to cut this digression off before I spiral again.

Thankfully, I had the opportunity to rewrite this blog post before it was yeeted into the world. Fever, fatigue, and concern all increase the chance I’ll look at something I’ve written and published and realize that a penguin had been one hundred percent at the wheel of my meatsack at the time.

Happy New Year, everyone! I hope it will eventually be a better (and healthier) one, and so do the penguins. Likely. Unless they’re lying. The bastards can and do. Totally.

  1. “What’s a Metaphor?”
    “Sheep!” ↩︎
  2. My husband and I started going downhill during our visit, and fought with symptoms for a solid week. Our son seemed like he’d escaped everything until two days ago, when he crawled into bed and started refusing to come out except to lurch to and from his bathroom. I’ve been keeping up a steady supply of orange Gatorade and Goldfish Colors crackers, which is all he’s been able (and willing) to eat. Y’all, he’s turned down plain glazed doughnuts. He’s never turned those down in his entire life, even during that stretch of years when he wanted nothing else but fruit and chicken nuggets except on alternate Thursdays during a Full Moon when nothing would suit him but homemade macaroni and cheese.
    You betcha, I’m concerned. ↩︎

Contingent upon Avoidance

So it’s December now. Today’s my personal New Year’s Eve. Tomorrow’s also the twelve-month anniversary of my finally acknowledging that the 2025 family math wasn’t going to work with both my husband and me having weekdaily 120 minute commutes (on good days).1 Fortunately, he’s still right about our being okay.

For now.

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Underlining the Ephemeral

Last week, my husband realized that I’d started blogging again. I thought I’d warned him last fall, but it’s just as likely that I warned his imago, or at least that’s what he’d claim if I suggested that he might have just forgotten, say … like for some completely random example, one of his work shirts stuffed into the couch cushions. It’s also just as likely that his imago would say that. It’s a thirty-year-old response model, and honestly, it’s freaking fantastic … even if my saying that in front of people might…

What?

Er, sorry. Never mind. Hi!

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Wondering How We’ll Get Down The Stairs

Clowns behind us, jokers in front of us … Happy Solstice!

Next week will mark six months since I stepped off the hamster wheel. I still receive calls from recruiters, but not as frequently as I did when I started this adventure.1 The credible ones2 are beginning to check in to see if my situation has changed. It hasn’t, nope. Maybe by January, when I’ll also be out from under the shadow of my non-compete, but we’ll see. My son is in a holding pattern, waiting for his third and final site evaluation with his employment training provider.

I’m getting an uptick in ‘you should start a business and employ him’ type advice, as if I seriously need to buy an abandoned stable and turn it into an ice cream and monster milkshake place with vintage arcade games and pinball.

Yes, there is an abandoned stable with an intact, great old barn just down the road from where I live, on heavily traveled road frontage, with plenty of land to support parking and auxiliary buildings. Additionally, farmette-sized housing developments are being built all around it. It’s also conveniently located near sports fields and our local schools. It’s not listed for sale, which suggests a couple of things: the parcel is too small to interest housing developers (it could support only one house in the area zoning plan), or the owners don’t want the great old barn torn down, as it likely would be. They might be amenable to a purchase deal to preserve the barn as part of a business operation…

…or so I would advise someone else looking for a business opportunity in this area. That is, if I were back in the business of doing business development. I’m not, and won’t be, unless I have to be.

I’m also not a YouTuber or Instagrammer and have zero desire to start a channel to share the journey of restoring an old stable and turning it into a business and potential community hub. I won’t be, unless I have to be.

I also don’t think building a business around my son will help him out in the long run — but, we’ll see.

On a less uncertain note, I have motivated myself to start the refresher training I need for my expiring professional certifications. The credible recruiters have given me solid advice to expand on those, based on my preference to remain a generalist, so I might pursue those once I finish the refreshers.

Or I’ll snap and look at data (or education) master’s degrees, or take the LSAT just to see how I do.

We’ll see.

The writing’s still going well, though.

  1. While I’ve been keeping an eye out, I haven’t marked myself as being available for work on any site. The folks I know who have are getting inundated with scam pitches, which show no signs of letting up for them. ↩︎
  2. I define “credible” as corporate-direct, or as coming from a legitimate staffing provider. Not a cat and a couple of AI agents in a closet, or people who don’t know how to read a map (or a resume) crammed into a warehouse call center. ↩︎

Looking Through The Back Glass

I was thinking about Mema last week more than I noticed until yesterday. Sometimes I do that with thoughts: I look them over, nod, and toss them onto the library cart for re-shelving. Better than ninety-five percent of the time, that works like it’s supposed to, despite my mental library’s being staffed by penguins.

That less than five percent, though, y’all? When the system breaks down, it can result in ideas I can’t shake for days, or worse, not until I translate the root disturbance into bad poetry to trap its troublesome ass so it no longer vexes me.

Yesterday’s system failure was not so dramatic. Or maybe I’m understating the drama, because it really doesn’t compare to the current drama going on with our septic system, but … that’s another pile of crap. Literally.

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Recursed?

I haven’t found someone to do the hand-weeding yet. I’m not sure if it’s genuinely too late in the season to schedule such things, or if I’m scaring people off by explaining why I’m not doing it myself.

It’s not that I’m embarrassed about it and want reassurance.

Okay, I’m probably lying. Neither my husband nor I are comfortable hiring people to do things for us, even when reality puts up a billboard questioning our sanity. He grew up actively avoiding yardwork, whereas I was prohibited from using anything that could be considered “dangerous.” The quotes are intentional because ‘dangerous’ was being scoped by people who were religiously opposed to babyproofing.1 For example, it was my job to remove dead vermin from sprung mousetraps, but I wasn’t allowed to set the traps. I was also tasked with cleaning wire tangles and removing pulped frog skeletons from the lawn mower that I wasn’t permitted to operate.

To be fair, the one and only time I used a riding lawnmower, I did take out a fence, and I’ve had some ah, weird bicycle accidents.

I haven’t ridden a bike, except for a stationary one in a gym, since one sunny morning in 1994. I was running late for work on the Mizzou Campus, cutting across the brick plaza beside Ellis Library, when my bike suddenly stopped moving. I went flying into one of the trees that used to be in the concrete planters there. I’m fuzzy on how I got from being sprawled upside down against the tree to collecting my bike and walking it to work, but I do remember locking it in the rack outside Townshend Hall and Leaving It There to Die Or Be Impounded To A Good Home.

Oh, sure, it wasn’t the bike’s fault, just like it wasn’t to blame for me a) crashing into the trunk of a parked car after being surprised by a dog lunging for my back tire, b) cracking my wrist by grabbing one of the iron fences on the edge of the Stephens College campus while I was speeding downhill and realized I couldn’t stop before hitting the intersection with Broadway, or c) snapping my helmet in two when I miscalculated a turn while riding down one of the ramps at Brady Commons.

That said, though, our relationship was clearly cursed, so it had to end.

I’ve gotten a lot of recommendations to try Ivy Block or IvyX, so I’m going to give that a whirl before giving up on outdoor gardening entirely.

What’s one more layer of protection that I didn’t seem to need when I was a kid?

  1. Instead of moving the laundry detergent out from under the bathroom sink the first time I drank Downy as a toddler, or the second time, or possibly the third time, my mother and grandmother chose to keep the stuff there so I could eventually learn my lesson by trying to wash my hair with Woolite. I got it into my eyes, wasn’t happy about that, and started avoiding everything under the sink, including the apparently tasty tasty Downy. As a side bonus, I wasn’t blinded, and I survived to teach my sister that she needed to Not Do What I Did WITHOUT THINKING SHE JUST HAD TO LEARN FROM EXPERIENCE.

    Why yes, I’m Gen X. How did you guess? ↩︎

A Lack of Chickens

(Shout out to Mele Gaddini for unblocking me from writing this blog post by sharing her struggles with imaginary chickens. Rather, the struggles with a lack of them!)

As I’ve been saying for a while, the local wildlife probably wishes we’d commit to the farmette part of our farmette-with-Internet and buy some chickens already. I’ve begun to suspect that the local flora’s listening to their discussions. Since the vegetation isn’t more scared of me than I am of it1, it’s been doling out encouragement in its usual nefarious mysterious plant-y way.

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