Seven Quick Takes: GeoScoop

1.
Channelling my inner busy bee this morning so I can publish these takes before a certain someone whose name rhymes with "Meejah" scoops me.

GeoGuessr.  Have you seen this thing?  Sweet Baby Jesus in a golden fleeced diaper, this thing is THE BOMB!  And even if people don't actually use the phrase "THE BOMB" anymore, GeoGuessr is so cool that any faded slang you apply to it is instantly re-cooled up.

The gist of the game is this:  you're plopped into the middle of a random GoogleEarth image.  By looking around, moving up and down the road, you need to find clues that you can then Google for information on where exactly on the planet you are.  Once you know, you stick a pin on the map, and get points for how close to the actual location you guessed.

I hold the high score for being PRECISELY on the PRECISE spot on the planet the Google dude was, but I was so excited, I messed up the screen shot.  So you'll just have to be satisfied with the screen shot of another good one:

2.
This article from my hometown newspaper.  You may have heard that Detroit was broke and some government appointed advisor guy got called in to see what he could do with the steaming wreckage, but this just makes my stomach hurt.

I don't really think it'll fly, because as the article points out, there are dozens of practical problems with selling off a museum's art collection, but it's the abstract problems that hurt me the most.

I grew up with the museum.  I have fond memories of going with my friend Dana, of occasionally getting Ken to agree to go with me, of being crazy excited when the King Tut stuff came through.  In a city like Detroit, which is often shown in shorthand in images like this:

it is so important to remember that it also offers masterworks from Matisse, Van Gogh, Chagal and the famous murals of Rivera.

It is, on a smaller scale, the same response I have when people say, "If the Church really cared about poor people, they'd sell all their artwork."  Detroit, like the Vatican, holds this art in trust for the world, and it isn't theirs to sell.

3.

When we still lived in Mississippi, and itty bitty Joaquin decided that he would wear nothing on his feet besides cowboy boots, Ken took him into a proper country boot store one day and bought him a pair while Lotus, Gabriel and I waited in the car.

They came out, little toddler Joaquin actually frolicking with delight at the boots on his feet.  His joy was so palpable that it somewhat dulled the horror when Ken told me he'd spent $40 on the boots.
OH MY GOSH FORTY DOLLARS ON A PAIR OF BOOTS FOR A THREE YEAR OLD?

He tried to calm me by pointing out the fact that boots of that quality would truly be able to be passed down to any further children we had, which, since at the time we only had Gabriel coming through the ranks, wasn't a huge selling point.

But, with the perspective of time, I see he's right.  That $40 investment was, in fact, passed down to Gabriel, who outgrew them in good enough shape to be passed down to The Jude.

Only thing is, the left boot got lost.  And there was wailing and gnashing of teeth.

Then yesterday, Gabriel came tearing up the stairs, holding something above his head triumphantly, and  yelling jubilantly, "I FOUND IT!  I FOUND IT!"  and sure enough, it was the left boot!  And The Jude hadn't missed his chance to wear the Donaldson boots.

4.

We're going on vacation this weekend with the Martins, which I may have mentioned once or a thousand, and I still haven't started packing.  I have to line up a neighbor kid to walk the dog, feed and put up the chickens, and bring in the mail.  I have to clean my stank house which, thanks to the four days of rainforest conditions we've been experiencing, is now uber humid and smells like a combination of sour milk and the Farmington River.  I need to download audio books and charge up Ken's laptop and print actual paper maps since Ken broke our GPS and a hundred other things.

But most importantly, we have to go get Joaquin a new party shirt.

The party shirt is a big deal to the Donaldson males.  It's their uniform for fun.  When they see their daddy put on his Tommy Bahama (thank you, Ebay) and head to the deck, they know there's no more chores, no more schoolwork, and they run to put on their party shirts and have some fun.

The middle boys just got new party shirts (thank you, Ebay) and can't wait to wear them on vacation.  In fact, it's hard to tell what they're more excited about- seeing the Martins, going to an amusement park, or wearing their party shirts.

5.
Speaking of chickens (I really was.  Go back up four paragraphs, and you'll see I mentioned them briefly), a woman Ken works with raises chickens, and so she said she'd bring in some fertilized eggs for us to put under our broody hen to see if she can hatch them.

Ken came in to work on Tuesday to find a plastic shopping bag wrapped around an egg carton, containing eight potentially fertilized eggs.  Hands down, the strangest thing he's ever found on his desk.  He came home, dropped them off, and went back to an egg-free workspace while I slipped the eggs under Starfighter.  The hen then made several very contented sounds and settled right down to the business of incubating.

So, sometime around June 9th or 10th, we'll see.  There will either be adorable baby chicks that my kids will always fondly remember, or there will be rotted eggs in the henhouse which my kids will ALSO remember, but less fondly.

6.
I woke up this morning and found this magnificent use of GIFs on my Facebook wall, courtesy Lisa.  But then, when I tried to stick it on here, I couldn't do it, which resulted in me trying to google the original GIF, which led me into a 20 minute rabbit hole, watching Ninth Doctor GIFS.

All that time, and rhymes-with-Meejah is probably finishing her takes, and telling the internets about GeoGussr before I could!  Was I going to let that happen?

Ummm...NO

7.

So off to Jen's, where she has great news about a publisher for her book!  And a horrifying story about bugs.

Theme Thursday: Bodies

I honestly thought about taking a picture of my stomach for this assignment- one of those stark shots in gritty black and white, where all my stretch marks were in high contrast resolution.  Then wax philosophical about body image and societal pressures and whatnot.

Then, I snapped out of it, realized this blog ain't no dang Dove commercial, and took a picture of a subject I like looking at:

My beloved.  With his tattoo on full display.  I love that tattoo.  

He got it the day after we finished our marathon, at some tattoo parlor in Kissimmee, Florida.  The guy who did it was this huge Mexican man, who looked at Ken, then over at me, then back at Ken again, and said, "Her name?  Are you sure?"

Then, right before he started with my name, he paused, and said to Ken, "You know, tattoos are like curses.  You get your wife's named tattooed on your body, you're going to get divorced.  It happens all the time."

Ken assured him again that he did, in fact, want my name on the tattoo, and the man reluctantly agreed, but I think he made the twinkle thingie after the "i" deliberately ambiguous, in case the curse came true, we did get a divorce, and Ken shacked up with a "Carl" or a "Carly" or a "Caus" or something that could be easily inked into the space where my name had been.

Anyway, flying in the face of Mexican tattoo artist predictions, we're still married, have had four kids since then, and now, even if he wanted to divorce me, he'd end up paying so much in child support and alimony that he may as well tough it out until the bitter end.

Your turn- link up your pictures in the theme of "bodies".

 

Five Favorites: The Tick Edition

1.
Instagram

actual picture I took right before shit got real

Last night, I took a picture of my crazy dog and posted it on Instagram.  An old student of mine commented and said, "More pictures of your dog!"  Since there's few things I love more than attention, I obliged, calling Three Legged Levi into my lap and petting his neck while I took another picture.


2.
Facebook Therapy
While petting Levi, I felt a big lump on his neck.  "Hmm," I thought to myself, "I wonder what this is?"  I brushed the fur back from the spot AND FOUND A GIANT TICK, EMBEDDED IN LEVI'S NECK AND ENGORGED ON HIS BLOOD!!!
I screamed, leapt off the bed, started hopping up and down on one leg and gibbering for Ken to remove the tick right now, RIGHT NOW I MEAN IT!

While Ken then tried to chase Levi through the house to hold him down and de-tick him, I hyperventilated, contemplated passing out, and ultimately took refuge in Facebook, where my panicked status update:

generated quite a bit of comments.  Which was all well and good (well, MOSTLY well and good, barring the people who suggested that smashing the blood-filled ticks would be fun- you know who you are), and helped calm me down slightly during this very traumatic period of my life.

3.
Ken
My hero.  Straight up, don't even care what a wuss I am, hero.  If he's not cutting the heads off mortally wounded chickens or killing spiders dangling from the ceiling or singlehandedly taking care of all the laundry, he's removing embedded, engorged ticks from our dog.  After chasing the fool thing through the house, trying to grab him.
Removed the tick.  Like a boss.  While I was upstairs the whole time, Facebooking in a panic-induced fury.

4.
Ken
He removed a tick.  He gets two spots in my favorites list.

5.
Peacefully Falling Asleep
In the aftermath of The Great Tick Horror, I felt like I had invisible bugs crawling all over my body.  I KNEW it was just my nerves, but that didn't stop it.  I was jumpy and twitchy and couldn't fall asleep.  Perversely, I tried calming myself by mentally compiling a list of insects that didn't scare me.

-cicadas
-butterflies/moths
-ants (not giant rainforest ants)
-bumblebees (ONLY bumblebees)
-dragonflies (at a distance)
-houseflies (NOT maggots)

as I made the list, willing myself to settle down, ALL OF THE SUDDEN A TICK CRAWLED IN MY EAR!!!!
I screamed at the top of my lungs, and from behind me, I could hear Ken giggling like a demonic little girl.  He had stuck his finger in my ear to try and freak me out, and so I responded by delivering a ruthless drubbing.  Which he totally thought was an acceptable price to pay because I really did scream like a banshee.

Then, six hours later, I'd managed to fall asleep where I had dreams about giant ticks with dog faces.
The End.
Join Hallie for less parasitic Favorites.

Be Annoying! For Jesus.

Allow me to convey my feelings of awkward with
this picture of a doll head I found lying on the
ground yesterday.
Oh!  I should save this for tomorrow's Theme Thursday!

I'd like to thank everyone who left me an encouraging comment after yesterday's woe-is-me post.  And I'd like to apologize to everyone who left me an encouraging comment after yesterday's woe-is-me-post, because it wasn't my intention to go trolling for a big group e-hug (one of the only kinds of hugs I like!), and now I'm embarrassed by my annoyingness.

Which is a clunky segue to this week's post at Aleteia, where I talk about being annoying for Jesus, which is not only papally-encouraged, but also good for us.

So, if you come back for tomorrow's Theme Thursday (topic: bodies), I not only promise to NOT subject you to any more woe-is-me posts, but I'll also direct you to Gizoogle, which, if you haven't already done it, you must immediately plug your name into the search bar (warning: graphic language.  No, really, language).


Later on today, I may be emotionally recovered enough to tell the harrowing story of a battle to the death with a deadly parasite Ken and I engaged in last night.  But not yet.  It's still too fresh, and I feel like I have invisible bugs crawling all over me every time I think about it.

If You're Trying to Avoid Complainers, Move Right Along

Once in a while, I find myself struggling with the fear that I'm unable to appropriately mother my children.

Every single mothering decision is suspect: I don't homeschool to offer a superior education- I homeschool because I'm too lazy to run the sort of organized household conventional school requires.  I don't encourage lots of unstructured imaginative play to foster creativity- I do it because I don't like playing make-believe very much, so I use a fake parenting philosophy to avoid it.  The kids eat too much crappy food, watch too much crappy TV, and on and on and on.

I know there will be well meaning comments about "pray more" and "trust God to fill in the gaps" and "you're not a bad mother, we all have moments of self-doubt".  But what if I do, and He doesn't, and I really am, but no one knows because I paint a pleasant picture for observers?

Then there's the school of thought that we can't take the blame for our children's failures any more than we can take credit for their successes.  I'm no Biblical scholar, but I really feel like Jesus has weighed in on this issue, and said the opposite.

Which brings me to the whole issue of Biblical guidance for mothering.  The most obvious choice, Our Lady, is a difficult role model for me because 1) the whole Immaculate Conception thing meant that her soul, not wounded by Original Sin, wasn't prone to laziness and selfishness like mine and 2) her child was Jesus.

Certainly I can ask her to pray for me and my children, but I can't parse out achievable goals from her example of Mother.  Not yet.  Maybe never.

Psychedelic Chesterton

I know the goal of parenting is to raise up children who will serve God and enter His kingdom when they die.  But holy crap, y'all.  Most days- all days!- I know my own salvation that I'm supposed to be working out is hanging by a thread, then I'm supposed to add building a solid foundation for my children's, too?

I really hate complaining on my blog.  It's never productive, and it makes me feel worse once I hit "publish", so I'm not sure if this is an actual complaint.  I love my kids.  I love them so, so much.  I love being able to stay home with them, and living out Chesterton's observation about anything worth doing is worth doing badly (at least I've got something covered).  I just wish that one day, after all the praying and lamentations and total surrender to God, I could go to bed and not have to beat myself up over the crap job mothering I did that day.

Well, let me take that back.  I wish there were one non-vacation day where I could go to bed not full of loathing for my mothering skills.  Vacations are easy.  I can be the loving, playful, relaxed mom who delights in every single thing her children do if I'm sitting on a beach or around a campfire.  It's real world Cari who is the suck.

And there's probably some wonderful spiritual lessons here about trust in God and spiritual purification and stop your whining Cari, you have to be a grown up and learn to be a mom in the real world, not some happy vacationland, life on earth will be full of struggles, why should yours be exempt? (see?  I can criticize myself from all angles and do it better than anyone else)

I can't shake the thought that to get to that spot where I feel like I'm properly doing this mothering thing I'd have to put away all my writing and blogging and running and Internetting and anything that takes attention away from my kids so I read to them and play make-believe with them and make sure I've done everything I possibly can to build a strong spiritual foundation for them.  Which of course is stupid, since I know my crappy mothering is briefly raised to moderate mothering when I have creative outlets beyond the kids.

It'll just get worse.  As I've been told before by moms with older kids, my troubles now are nothing compared to what's coming down the line (which, p.s. Moms of older kids, this isn't spectacularly helpful, it's just soul crushing).

Blah.  That's all I've got.  I'm a crappy mom, but I'm a crappy mom who gets to be decent mom this weekend, since we're going on vacation with the Martins!  Who will probably make sure they keep their kids faaaar away from me, so I don't ruin them with my aura of crappy mothering.

Seven Quick Takes Where I Ask You A Bunch of Questions

1.
I went for my long run today, which was probably stupid, since I've been battling that stupid hip pain again, but I don't care.  An hour out of the house, running through woods, with no one but my Zombies, Run to keep me company?  Yes please, elderly hip be damned.

There I was, running through miles and miles of forest trails, where I never ever see anyone else, when what do I see 200 yards ahead of me?

Someone else.

Well, two someone elses, actually, with their dogs.  Which we not on leashes.

Now, I don't know about you, but when I see an unleashed dog during a run, I stop running and drop it to a walk.  There's no way I'm going to risk triggering a strange dog's chase instinct.  And, for those of you who run, dropping to a walk when you're in a nice running zone messes up everything.  It messes with your head, it messes with your body, and it really ticks you off.  Plus, it means that you can start smelling your own stink.

Anyway, I drop to a run, and expect the women will see that I've done so, call their dogs, and leash them.  Because they're carrying leashes. But oh no.  They just keep walking toward me, which means the dogs get closer.  And they're big dogs.

Now I stop in the middle of trail and make a sort of warning noise in my throat.  Like "ahhhhhhh", and still the women don't call their dogs.  "They're friendly!" they chirp at me.

They're friendly?  So what?  How do they know I am?  How do they know I'm not deathly afraid of dogs and deliberately choose to run on that trail because I've never ever seen anyone else on it?  They don't know, and they don't care.

All of the sudden, one of the dogs, a big black dog about the size of a German Shepherd, comes running at me from the woods.  It jumps on me, getting me soaking wet and muddy, and that's when I lose my shit.

I raise my hands in the air and scream at the top of my lungs, "OH MY GOD!"  the women now stop and try calling their dogs who do not, no shocker, listen.  They run to the dogs and try and hold them by their collars at which point I whirl on them like a lunatic and scream at top volume, "YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO HAVE YOUR DOGS ON LEASHES!"

Then I stomp off down the trail, my chi disturbed, my heart rate way above target range, and seething that a nice run in the woods turned so ugly, so fast.

The point of this take is this:  dog owners- leash your dang dogs.  I don't care how well trained and friendly you think they are.
And I like dogs.  I shudder to think what my reaction would have been if they'd been walking with some animal I'm scared of.  Like fisher cats.

2.
This week's article for Aleteia generated two completely ridiculous comments about my ability to parent my kids.  Yeah, yeah, I get it- it's the Internet, and that's what I get for putting myself out there.  Pull on your big girl panties, Cari and shut up.
But it got me wondering: what's the dumbest piece of unsolicited advice you've ever gotten?

3.

6/8ths of the Clan preparing for an invigorating soccer match.

When I signed Lotus up for soccer, I asked the coach repeatedly when the games were.  Repeatedly he told me "Saturday".  Great, says I, since I'm not thrilled with kids having activities scheduled for Sundays.
Then I find out that there are two games scheduled for Sunday during the season, and I lost my shit (this seems to be this week's theme).  I went on a big rant in the van with everyone listening about how Sundays should not be spent running around fulfilling obligations other than Mass.  Sunday should be a family day, blah blah blah.
It was all very convincing and heartfelt.

Then I went to register for my town's 10K race in June, and I discovered it was on what day?
Yeah.  Sunday.
So I sheepishly told Ken I wouldn't be running the race, and when he asked me why not, I told him because it was on a Sunday.
And he laughed and laughed at me.

When he was done laughing at his wife who is the Queen of Putting Her Foot In Her Mouth, he told me to register anyway, since there was no difference between me running six miles in a race and me running six miles just because, which I have no problem doing on Sundays.

But I don't know.  Part of me thinks it's stubbornness on my part- I made such a big deal about it, now I can't reverse my stance without looking like an ass, part of me thinks that I really shouldn't be running races on Sunday.

What do you guys think?  What's your Sunday guidelines?

4.
Those of you keeping score at home, that's two questions I've posed.  I'm going to label this week's takes "I Ask You A Bunch of Questions".

5.
I always run out of steam by the 4th take.  Did you notice?  And it's by the 5th take that I'm always like, "WHY DON'T I KEEP A LIST OF THINGS ALL WEEK THAT CAN BE TAKES?"

6.

Actual broody hen.  Name: Starfighter.  Not happy about having a
camera stuck in her face.

One of our chickens has gone broody.  It's the saddest/funniest thing, to go collect eggs each day and watch her puff up all scary-like when you go to take her clutch.  But it got me thinking- one of the local farmers is selling fertilized eggs for cheap.  What would happen if I gave her fertilized eggs to set on?  Would she brood them?  Would they hatch?  If we could get six new chicks for six dollars, that would be awesome.

(QUESTION ALERT)- have any of you all done this?  Have you given foreign eggs to a broody hen to set?  Did it work or am I setting myself up for very gross failure?

7.
That's four legit takes, three questions asked, one broody hen, and zero interesting content posted today.  Woo-hoo!

Jen will have much better and more.

Theme Thursday: Animals

Three Legged Levi.  You guys, this is the perfect dog.  While the rescue group we got him from claimed he was "kid friendly", I suspect that they meant something different from what you and I would mean when we used that phrase.

It's not that he's mean or aggressive towards the kids- not at all!  He just doesn't like them, so he spends his day either in his bed in my room, or in his bed next to me at the computer.  The kids come close, he hops away.

However, 10 minutes after the kids are in bed, Three Legged Levi comes tearing up the stairs, looking for me to feed him, play fetch with him, and pet him.  15 minutes later, he's tuckered out and ready to go back to sleep.

See?  Perfect dog.

He's so good  that I'm starting to think about working on Ken to get another, since Levi loves other dogs.  I'm hoping for a basset hound this time- mostly because they look like I feel (and come on!  check out Abigail.  How could you not love her?)

Your turn!