Not that girl.

Oh man why can't I just be that girl.  She is so inspired and poetic, I could have been her once upon a time ago when I had more than half a brain.  So recently a friend turned me onto this blog and I love it!  How can you not?  So for half a day with my less than half a brain I attempted to think and to "feel" poetic like I did before I had all these kids and this crazy life.  It didn't last long, by afternoon I was spent.  I did however post her manifesto of joy on my fridge and I am currently praying that osmosis will take over...I am not holding out too much hope,  it hasn't with my dusty elliptical sitting in the corner of my room cleverly disguised as a towel rack.  my butt is still big.  Darn it.

So here is my day on our much smaller farm, which actually isn't a farm at all yet because the only thing we have that is farmy is chickens and they have done nothing but poop on my carpet and die.

Here is my picture, and ya know what.... I am okay with that.


She stands outside in her pepto bismol cottom pink pajamas, evening is being called by night and begins her graceful decent behind the purple crest.... much like the 111 purple and pink mountains on her legs.  (Mosquito bites dotted with calamine lotion.)  She waves her hands in the air and shifts her weight from one leg to the other, growing impatient with the kids and the dog.  She only owns two pairs of shoes practical and impractical.  The practical ones carry her lifts that ease the tension in her aching not so joyful bones.  The impractical a thrift store find, black platform sandals that she manages to match with anything that is not a pair of cotton shorts.  But tonight as the golden sun kisses the moon, brushing her delicate cheek in passing she has no time to put on the impractical because the dog has run away so the black platform sandals, crusted in mud would suffice anyway pajamas don't really have a category.  down the road Mr Wiggles runs his little figure growing smaller...smaller...baby on her hip,  diaper on backwards, (bigger sister put in on, not a bad job for a seven year old)  there is not time to care.  Is there ever??  Kids come screaming and running, barefoot thorns attacking their feet while mosquitos dive bomb their panicked faces.  Pleading "please get Mr. Wiggles!"  She refuses and stomps back to the house, Mr. Wiggles can figure it out, coyotes are coming out.    Mr. Wiggles reluctantly follows after all.  Everyone is safe.  She is careful not to step on the pile of some vomit from something... As her daughter informed her could be the baby could be the dog.  Down Down Down (insert melodramatic voice) the stairs she goes.  Ah yes, she pauses at the hallway with heavy sigh she eyeballs her plans her stepping around little mounds of poo, chicken poo on her floor.  Round two of the poo.  This time she knows what to do. unfortunately.