I’m not a huge whiner.  I said whiner, not winer.  That’s a whole different issue.  I am a person who, usually, sees the glass as half full.  Again, not the wine glass, that’s a different issue.

I get sad in the winter, though.  I am NOT a Christmas lover.  I loathe it.  I hate the mess, the drama, the sugary foods, tacky sweaters and the color red in general.  It just makes me grouchy.  The gloomy weather, though, makes me downright sad.

I’ve always been this way.  My mother, the True Southern Lady, recognized this and used to take me out of school to ride through the country on a sunny day so I could absorb a sliver of vitamin D.  Today, I take more than 35,000 units of D and still can’t stay on top of the blahs.  A week like this last one leaves me clinging to the Goose as he leaves for work, begging him to stay in bed and watch sappy movies. It forces me to rest my head on my children and expect them to tell me I am the center of their world.  It prompts me and my dog, Matilda, to gaze balefully at each other and sigh.  She gets it.

I know that exercise is a great remedy for what ails me so, considering the rain today, I dragged myself to the gym and listened to inappropriate music designed to further damage my aged ears.  I felt better.  Much better!  Then I came home.

Home should be a clean and serene place.  An oasis.  Today I came home to two bored dogs and a pig loose in the house.  Babette has rounded a corner to become a friendly and sweet pig.  She’s a jumping pig and launches herself onto my white sofa several times a day.  I have an entire stack of snout cleaning towels in my laundry room.  She had rooted up most of the yard, removed all my pansies and decorative cabbages and turned over two garden statues. Still, I love that little swine.

The thing about pigs is, they are hungry, and they are smart.  They oink about it about once every three seconds, rhythmically, loudly and with a passion.  They hear the most covert opening of a Kit Kat bar in the kitchen, no matter how hard one hides.  In all the years my dogs have lived with me they have never entertained the notion that they could find food in the house and feed themselves. Today, Babette learned to open the cabinets and serve herself.  She then helped out her friends, the dogs, and together, they devoured some Apple Jacks, several Kit Kat bars, chips, drink mix, pet treats (which I am thinking were pork flavored and I shudder at the cannibalistic implications), some oatmeal pies, unpopped popcorn and some straws. She even gnawed through the prune container.  That’s dedication.  She was straining the elastic on her pink harness when I arrived home, fat and swollen, but is even now trying other cabinets to see what treasures they hold.  The dogs have named her their messiah and are in awe of her ingenuity.

So, I no longer have time to be sad and gloomy. This house looks like a set for a scary movie.  The Goose says I love any emergency in which something must be cleaned or repaired.  He once dropped a can of latex paint in the kitchen and just stood there and said “Go to it!  You know you love it.” and it’s true. I just need a mission, no matter how lame.  We all do.  So I’ll get to it now, turn on all the lights, turn up some of the kids loud music with lyrics that make me blush and clean up for when my family comes back in from the world and tracks mud right back across the floor. Days like today cause me to want to sniff my coconut oil furniture polish and dream of summer.  Image

My Divine Swine


Soooo, I’m just a normal wife and mom.  Today, I had the car cleaned and went and bought a new purse.  I also returned library books and went by the bank and the cleaners.  I am undistinguishable from lots of other women doing the same things to get their families back on track on a Monday.  Of course, I’m doing all this with a pig in the car. 


Remember a while back when I shared our mantra of “there’s no lovin’ like pig lovin”?  This may be true but we have plenty of others that take precedence such as “I need new shoes”, “where are we going for dinner” and “who wants wine?”.  The Goose looks forward to a time when he can retire, travel and golf without the restrains of a farm.  I, myself,  am a little tired of cleaning and feeding creatures.  I don’t know what I’m looking forward to but I know it’s not cleaning up poo!


That said, I now have a tiny stunning little pig named Babette, currently wearing a little turtleneck sweater and a pink rhinestone harness sitting in the seat of my fabulous new grown up car.  Uh huh, I said grown up.  


Let me digress and discuss how this happened.  I realize that faced with the evidence of a hog in my house that my tippling may, indeed, be more of a problem than I’d previously thought.  You know those low carb diets?  All last week I ate low carb.  By Friday, I was not only so much smaller that my jeans once again fit, but I was angry enough to commit a gory dissection of anyone crossing me.  It just makes a girl angry to pass up a chip!  


So, after being good all week I made a low carb cocktail.  Then, I made just one more little one…Then, my family went to the fair. 


Those who know me know my hatred of all animal cruelty.  I hate circuses, I hate animals for sale at the fair, giveaway goldfish, I even hate the men who drive the Tyson chicken trucks that drive the little chickens to their doom.  The fair is NOT the place to offer animals for sale because some stupid person who cannot take care of an animal might just be overcome with the loveliness of livestock and take something home.  Again, those without sin, cast the first stone.


So, I apparently rode the Himalaya twice, said two wildly inappropriate things and gave the man working the Tyson tent a dressing down that he won’t soon forget.  Filthy rotten killer. I also said Cricket could get a pig.  


In my rational mind, I am sure I would have told her no. I have no idea what the breakdown was with the Goose, but she must have beaten him down as well. He’s middle aged, it’s not hard to do. 


We are now cooing over this baby like she’s our own little black bristled, snouted, illegitimate grandchild, swaddling her and passing her back and forth lest she become fatigued walking from room to room.  My friends have come to behold her lovely countenance and to snuggle her divine little jelly bean shaped body. There is a lot of sickening baby talk and coochie-cooing.  When I was placing an order for a client on the phone the other day, I scooped up Babette, who produced a demon possessed pig squeal, and I just brushed it aside with a “oh, I’m babysitting” comment.  If the person on the other end had concerns about my baby’s respiratory condition or soul she didn’t say.  


This morning, my housekeeper, who continues to amuse me with her limited English sayings, said “Miz, there is little pork in room”.  I can only imagine the things she tells her family about us.  


We wanted to make her wear preemie diapers but she is already house trained!  She is so tiny that Chihuahua clothes won’t fit.  Her teensy hooves?  Painted and glittered.  She oinks every little step she takes just like a child’s toy.  She chases the dogs when they chase a ball, her front feet moving together and her back feet together so that when both are extended, she looks like she’s flying.  I will not stoop to a “when pigs fly” joke here.  I have some pride.  Yesterday I got her a bed, a halloween costume and a special little bowl with roses and bows, but I’m not bragging.  


Not being a huge human baby person, I fail to see how I could be a better grandmother to any baby than I am to Babette. I feel I am doing a great job hiding my resentment every time Cricket and her BF, Tutu, walk in the door and demand her, believing themselves to be her actual parents.  I just hope my children appreciate me and remember it when I file for joint custody when Cricket tries to move out with her.  Nobody takes MY baby!