Chiggers ... I hate 'em!

I'm a hypochondriac by nature. You name it, I've had it (or at least thought I had it) ... appendicitis, cancer of the neck, tongue, nose, stomach, intestines, and hip, carpal tunnel syndrome, irritable bowel syndrome, allopecia, brain tumor, deep vein thrombosis ... .

If I believed in labeling behavioral patterns (which I don't), I would probably also classify myself as having a touch of obsessive-compulsive disorder. One summer, a long long time ago, a friend of mine ended up covered in poison ivy--inside and out. I spent the rest of the summer compulsively washing my hands and obsessing about the fact that I was going to break out in poison ivy at any time (I never did). Finally, my mom smacked some sense into me (pick up your jaw--she didn't really smack me ... she made me memorize 1 Peter 5:7. I think there was finally an, "Oh, knock it off!" too), and I stopped.

This brings me to the topic of this blog: chiggers. My OCD tendencies kick into overdrive during chigger season. Summer is prime time for chiggers. Chiggers are insidious little mites that live in our yard. They are invisible to the naked eye, and yet their effects on human skin are monstrous. Once on the skin, they settle in nooks and crannies to feed -- ankles, behind the knees, etc. A chigger bite can itch for weeks.

Of all God's creatures, I like chiggers the least (what was their function in God's original "very good" world??). Chiggers aren't like ticks, which you can actually see to remove. If a chigger has made its way to cranny on your body, you won't know it until you began to feel the "chigger itch" hours later. Of course, this causes me to obsess about having chiggers crawling all over me. Even after showering, I just know the chiggers are still there. And since you can't see them, who knows where they're hiding? At the very least, they're not known to carry disease, so I haven't been obsessing about contracting Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever or malaria or the hanta virus from them.

I've lain awake many nights thinking about chiggers crawling on me, and plotting their demise. I want to enjoy walking in my yard without fearing an attack of the chiggers. So, this past week, I spread some sulfur, which chiggers allegedly loathe, chanting, "Die, chiggers, die!" Now we not only have chiggers, we also have the smell of rotten eggs swirling around.

So, who wants to be the first to sign up for a bbq and croquet party at our place?

Dan and the Deer

I'm surrounded by Dans -- from coworkers to a brother-in-law, Dans are everywhere. Some Dans like peas. Other Dans remind me of deer.

Deer are lazy. They have 25+ acres of good McKeever land on which to roam and snack til their heart's content. And yet, they choose the 1 acre of land that harbors fruit trees, roses, and other assundry flowers on which to do their feeding. Why? Because it's easier (and perhaps a bit tastier) to munch on the stuff growing in our lawn than to meander into the back 40 to look for lunch. However, I'm pleased to report that my latest attempt at discouraging their laziness (DeerOut) seems to be encouraging them to go elsewhere to seek food.

Dan (not the aforementioned pea aficionado but another Dan with whom I am acquainted) is also lazy ... by his own admission. When asked why he was wearing contacts instead of his usual glasses the other day, he replied, "Because I have a softball game this evening, and I'm too lazy to put my contacts in before the game after work. ... usually I'm too lazy to put my contacts in in the morning, which is why I always wear glasses." Hence his statement, "My life revolves around how lazy I am."

Of course, this is from the Dan who has also given us such classic quotes as, "Hey -- isn't today Cinco de Mayo?" A logical question when the day on which the question is asked is, indeed, May 5. The day was May first. Not sure if DeerOut would work on this Dan or not. ...

Peas, Peas -- the magical fruit

I know, I know. Beans, not peas, are the much talked-about magical fruit. But for some reason that little ditty gets stuck in my head, and this blog is about peas, not beans.

I've begun harvesting peas. Last year, the peas from my garden didn't turn out so well. According to Dan, a self-professed lover of fresh garden peas and pea expert, I left them on the vine too long. This year, I vowed to do better. So, I brought two freshly-picked pea pods to Dan. After pronouncing them picked too early, he proceeded to enjoy his fresh garden peas.

And apparently, peas do have magical powers, as they seemed to impart energy to Dan, who was a wee bit tuckered out after having been awakened at 5 am by a young daughter with an earache. When last I saw him, he was dancing down the hallways singing, "Peas, peas, the magical fruit ...."

Happy Birthday Frost

Yesterday was a milestone for my friend Frost.

She turned 40. But you'd never know it--she's handling her age progression fairly well. I admire her ability to age gracefully.

She threw a huge bash (okay, it was a small gathering of her close friends and family) to celebrate her trip over the hill. And her get-together showed no signs of being the party of an aged one--bunions and loss of mobility were mentioned in conversation only once or twice.

The cake I made for her soiree is pictured here. Seth helped by strategically placing the butterscotch morsels (symbolizing the rocky path ahead for Frost, according to Seth) on the hill. However, as I look again at the picture, I see a green and white sombrero, rather than an over-the-hill cake. Frost doesn't wear sombreros.

Frost is not only a good friend, she's also a relative, in an odd sort of way (besides the obvious daughters-of-Eve relation). It amuses me to watch the confused expression flicker across the face of the person to whom we've just explained said relationship. It also amuses me to think up ways to describe how we're related (I think I might need to get out more). For example, Frost is:

• my husband's sister's husband's sister
• my sister-in-law's sister-in-law
• my brother-in-law's sister
• the sister of my husband's sister's husband
• my husband's sister's sister-in-law
• the aunt of my neice and nephews

I am :

• her brother's wife's brother's wife
• her brother's sister-in-law
• her sister-in-law's sister-in-law
• the wife of her brother's wife's brother
• the aunt of her neice and nephews

Of course, my favorite moniker for Frost is "matchmaker." Happy birthday, Frosty!

"There are those who make lists, and those who don't"

Seth has been reading The Complete Husband. The author recommends that the complete husband keep a journal on his wife--her interests, likes, dislikes--so that the husband can better understand and converse intelligently with his wife. Last night, the question was on goals (not that Seth has been keeping a journal -- "that starts in the next chapter" he continues to claim).

"I'm supposed to ask you what goals you have."

"Goals ... as in longterm goals? Um ... well ... hmm ... I don't think I really have any goals. ... What does it say about wives who don't have any goals?"

"It says they are kind of pathetic."

In general, I find actually writing down one's goals to be a fruitless task, unlike Stephanie who enjoys making lists until the cows come home. She once gave me a Winnie-the-Pooh notepad emblazoned with the phrase, "There are those who make lists, and those who don't."

I prefer, instead, to keep whatever goals I have in my head, as this spares me from developing a stomach ulcer whilst continually staring at a long list of actions that haven't been--and probably never will be--accomplished. The goals I enjoy writing down are the ones I need to pick up at the grocery store, since I know I'll be able cross off said goals once I've deposited them in the shopping cart. And the items that remain uncrossed at the end of the shopping trip? I didn't really need them anyway.

So, unless raising alpacas, farming Christmas trees, and growing ginseng count as goals (which, for whatever reason, don't seem to in Seth's mind), I'm afraid the goal section of his non-existent wife-journal will need to remain goal free.

Black raspberries

While Seth watched the world's strongest man competition, I went out to check on my black raspberry bushes.

A few days ago, I thought their fate might be the same as that of my strawberries--eaten by mice (or perhaps birds). The raspberries on the lower branches seemed to have been nibbled (mice? birds? raccoons? the neighbor?). However, I put soap shavings around the base of the bushes, and the nibbling seems to have ground to a halt. (Despite Seth's skeptical "mice eat soap" comment.)

Harvesting the meager yield (today's harvest is pictured below) and pricking my fingers on the thorns prompts me to ratiocinate about an area that I've never thought to ratiocinate about before -- commercial black raspberry farms. How does one decide one wants to become a commercial black raspberry grower? Do the berry pickers wear gloves? Do all of their berries ripen at the same time? Do they have problems with mice/birds/neighbors eating their berries? How many berry bushes do they need to pick from in order to have a pint of berries? How do they get their berries to grow so large? Do they pick black raspberries all day long, all week long? Do they eat the berries they're supposed to be picking? How many bushes do they have on their farm? What do they do when it's not berry season--make black raspberry currant? Do they get tired of black raspberries? Do they ever wish they grew red raspberries instead of black? Or maybe just blueberries, since blueberries have no thorns. Or maybe they're tired of the berry business altogether, and they're thinking of growing oranges. Or maybe they're tired of the fruit business in general, and they're planning on converting their black raspberry patch into an alpaca farm.

Ahh, black raspberry farmers. Who knew they led such fascinating lives?

Ode to the cliche

In discussing with my sister what we should do for our parents anniversary tomorrow (note to the parents: stop reading now), I used the phrase desperate times call for desperate measures, a valid a propos phrase considering the situation. She made a disparaging comment about my fondness for the overused cliche.
Au contraire, mon cher. I beg to differ. Just because what's good for the goose is good for the gander does not mean that the pot can't call the kettle black. Sometimes desperate times do indeed call for desperate measures (such as when one realizes one's parents' anniversary is the next day and one has not sent a card or bought a present (not that this would surprise said parents since this is par for the course, status quo)).

On the other hand, receiving a card and present from me early usually knocks their socks off. So, I suppose we oughtta just kick up our heels, keep things on the up and up, buckle down and git 'r done by burning the midnight oil, rather than trying to dig ourselves out of a hole by the skin of our teeth. Only time will tell if said parents actually receive anniversary wishes from their children.

To add insult to injury, Father's Day is just around the corner, and we have not yet bought a card or present for the papa.

With all due respect to the reader, I urge you to do as I say, not to do as I do. Although it may seem as if we're out of the frying pan and into the fire, it's really six of one, half a dozen of the other. When it comes down to it, a rose by any other name is still a rose, and an anniversary by another name is still an anniversary which one must observe.

Happy anniversary Parents!

Top 10 Things I've Learned From Chip

My BIL Mark (aka Chip) is new to the email/internet community, and is enjoying his foray into the world of cyberspace. One day, when Chipper was feeling less than chipper, I put together a Top 10 list for him, reproduced here for your reading pleasure.

Top 10 Things I have Learned from Chip
1. A penny saved is a penny earned.
2. It's not how much you make, it's how much you save!
3. Love means not having to take your wife flowers on Valentines Day.
4. Everyone is entitled to their own cyber net space.
5. It's best for men to refrain from wearing a unitard (or leotard) in public.
6. A McKeever Family Circus may just be the next best thing since sliced bread.
7. Spell Check? What's that?
8. When brain infection strikes, get a transplant.
9. John Denver is the answer to every question.
10. Give those who need a kick in the pants a kick.

The perils of blogging ...

The thing about blogging is that you actually have to do it ... blog, that is. Like I told Stephanie when she started blogging and hadn't blogged for a while, "If you're gonna blog, you need to blog." And like we both keep telling Sam, "Why do you have a blog if you never write anything in it?" So, in lieu of an entry from me today, I shall post something from my SIL, Ruth:

The Kirby vacuum salesman came to the door with an offer to clean one room of my house for free. I happened to be in the middle of vacuuming when he showed up. He made some disparaging remarks about my duct-taped vacuum hose...nothing I haven't said about it myself...then got his associate to start cleaning where I had already cleaned. He kept pulling out these little demonstration filters to show me how much dirt he was lifting from my chairs, couch and floor. Trevor [Ruth's son] talked to him nonstop and asked if he could use it to get the dust mites out of his mattress...so he did. Disgusting! After he vacuumed, he used the same machine to give us a dry foam chemical shampooing. Made the house smell like shaving cream. Really looked nice when he was finished. Wish we could afford such a machine. Costs nearly $1800. Not in our budget. Although it was nice to have the living room cleaned for free, I wonder if I was better off not knowing how dirty the place actually is. I just have to remind myself, it's the same substance I'm made out of and maybe I won't feel so bad.

Note to self: Vacuum the house tonight.

What is wrong with these people?

Seriously, what is wrong with these people who try out for So You Think You Can Dance who canNOT dance? (Never mind asking what is wrong with those people who actually watch So You Think You Can Dance.) And what is wrong with the people who tell these people that they can, in fact, dance?

I'm blessed to have a husband who keeps me grounded.

"I think I"ll try out for So You Think You Can Dance."

"You can't dance."

"Yes I can."

"No you can't. You stink at dancing."

"Might as well give it a try."

"You're too old."

If only those deluded dancers had such a person in their lives to keep them in touch with reality.

Note to the American public: If you think you can dance, you probably can't dance.

Top 10 Things Bethany Wants to Know

1) Who controls the remote control? Depends on who gets to it first. And also who can trick the other into letting it out of his/her grasp.

2) Who spends more time in the bathroom—getting ready that is? Um, me.

3) Who does most of the driving when driving together? Seth, definitely. His tendency toward carsickness prevents him from being a good passenger.

4) Who spends more time on the computer? Seth

5) Who spends more time on the phone? That's a toss up ... neither of us are real phone aficionados.

6) Who is more frugal? Money -- easy come, easy go is our attitude.

7) Who exercises more? We both get a workout carrying five gallon buckets from the creek to water the garden. (Okay, so Seth does most of the carrying. I just dump the water on the plants when it arrives at said garden in said buckets carried by said Seth.)

8) Who does most of the cooking? Seth, hands down. Well, at least he's better at it. And I'm not offended when he turns his nose up at his own cooking.

9) Who does most of the grocery shopping? Moi

10) Who is more of a perfectionist? I'm gonna need to go with Seth on this one. "Git 'r done" is my motto. "I like to take my time and do it right" is his.

BVIs

My sister set sail around the British Virgin Islands last week on a yacht with her friend, Mauri, and Mauri's father, owner of said yacht.

She had a great time on her vacation, but was a bit surprised that the beaches were so rocky (unlike the Floridian beaches to which she is accustomed), and was astounded at the exorbitant prices ($12 for lunch meat).

It's unfortunate that Kenda doesn't snorkel or scuba dive, and also that she gets motion sick on moving objects, such as yachts. Much to her delight, however, the motion-sickness-prevention patch that she used did, indeed, prevent motion sickness from overwhelming her. (Note to the company who produces the patch: She's willing to do a commercial touting the merits of said motion-sickness-prevention patch should you need a new spokesperson.)

Also note to the wealthy Americans who frequent the BVIs: Paying $8 for half a gallon of milk is not a bargain. You are being ripped off.

Fear of ...

It has come to my attention that I was, in fact, struck with fear the first time I met (or was supposed to meet) Seth at the hayride in October 2001. However, let me clarify that this was fear of being set up with someone I had never before met, not fear of the name Seth. I would have had the same reaction had his name been Brian, or Keith, or Tim. Being set up wasn't high on my list of things to do at the time. In retrospect, however, I'm eternally grateful to Frost for insisting that I meet her brother's wife's brother. :o)

If I were an ultimate fighter ...

Seth likes to watch Ultimate Fighting Championships (note to reader: this is not a blog on the morality of two men beating each other to a bloody pulp in an octagon while being cheered on by the masses ... Rome, anyone?). His boss tapes UFC fights off of pay-per-view and gives them to Seth to watch (part of the employee incentive program?).

He was watching one of the recent UFCs the other night and I was marveling at the inventive names the men had (while trying not to watch the pummeling): Chuck "The Iceman," Andrew "The Assassin," Jake "The Italian Stallion." I asked Seth what he thought his name would be if he were an ultimate fighter. I suggested Seth "The Irish," or Seth "The Sailor" (maybe not so much). He said, "Seth." "That's it ... just Seth?" Apparently he believes his name is enough to inspire fear in the hearts of his opponents.

Note to Seth: When your dad said, "We shall call him Seth," I don't think your mom cried tears of fear. And when I was first introduced to you, "This is Seth," I didn't start screaming in fear. Nor do the people at your place of employment quake in fear when you are paged, "Seth, pick up line 1."

Oh well, it's his fantasy, I suppose!

I .. will .. not .. blog

So, I've done it. I've sold my soul to the internet devil. I've started a blog. Something I've sworn I'd never do because so many blogs constitute a pooling of ignorance. Well, what the hey -- why not add my own ignorance to the cesspool that already abounds? And, as my friend Stephanie has said, blogs are an interesting way to keep people who care updated on your life. Although, I'm a bit scared of people like Sam who make friends with blog people they've never even met, and then get upset when they don't return his calls. I might go ahead and file for a restraining order against Sam, just to cut things off at the pass.