I am still here, sort of …

Sort of – if you are a chronic illness warrior you understand, if not let me explain. Ever have those days when things just feel off? Magnify that. Compound it with flu-like symptoms and brain fog. Now you might be starting to know what it feels like to realize that the last dose of your personal Psoriatic Disease drug, Remicade wasn’t quite doing the trick this time. Or maybe I didn’t rest enough, or maybe it was Mother Nature decided to have all four seasons in one weekend in South Carolina. Maybe I gained two pounds and the meds were off, OR maybe my immune system had gotten stronger and smarter and out-foxed the Remicade…no one really knows…

I spent the last three days pissed off and frustrated. And it was denial. Pure denial that there is a damn thing wrong with me…because I had enjoyed feeling normal for a short period of time, I FORGOT.  I forgot that sometimes Psoriatic Disease makes my jaw hurt – to the point that just being hungry is better than trying to eat.  I forgot that constant discomfort for me registers at about a pain scale of 7 for other people. I forgot that the teeny tiny bones in my ears can hurt and muting the Timages (5)V and shushing an overactive child are pointless. Especially then the rooster crows or the horses whinny.  I’ve tried to write lately, but lost my way due to brain fog.

So what is Psoriactic Disease? How is different from Skin Psoriasis? How is it different from Psoriatic Arthritis? and how the hell does anyone keep it straight?

Most everyone has heard about Skin Psoriasis especially now that Stelara has a model marketing their product. There is Plaque Psoriasis, Pustular Psoriasis, Guttate, Inverse, Erythrodermic.  Feel free to pursue the links. As you can see it comes in a nice variety pack.  Every one is different, unfortunately the entire variety pack can often be seen on one individual. It’s not pretty. It is painful as well as annoying, remember your SKIN is the largest organ in your body. The skin affliction for me was most difficult during the years of puberty to my early twenties and then again after pregnancy. I have had the pleasure of experiencing all types.


I just lost my brain due to brain fog and pain, i will return once I can function. 3/31/17

Hi, back again – according to WordPress, I started this three days ago. Lets hope I can complete this today. SO, we’ve mentioned the skin issues, then there is Psoriatic Arthritis that affects joints and tendons – and that comes in a nice variety pack as well. Asymmetric, Symmetric, Spondylitis, Distal Interphalangeal Predominant and Mutilans. And…yes, I have Symmetric, Spondylitis, Distal Interphalangeal Predominant…which means I can’t have Asymmetric,  because I like to balance my issues – why suffer on only one side when I can suffer equally on both??

Mutilans so far I do not have indicators of, BUT looking at the pictures…makes me think that I might want to invest in Dragon Speaking Naturally if it can handle my Southern Drawl….of course that Distal Interphalangeal Predominant (read, every single knuckle in my hand blows up to 3x its size an alternately throbs, creaks and shoots with pain and sorta feels like there is a thread from my fingertip to my hand thrumming with pain that loosens and tightens each finger) is also encouraging me in that direction. I can also guarantee that all chocolate held in that hand will melt before I even take one bite. Inflammation is fun…

And then…what is Psoriatic Disease? It’s not just the skin involvement, it’s not just the joint and tendon arthritis ( its not Old Age pains/Osteoarthiritis this stuff calcifies the Achilles tendon, yes  –  it changes tendon material to crumbly bone-like stuff…) it involves body organs too. Psoriatic Disease is a compilation of all the above symptoms and factors INCLUDING inflammation of organs as well as the gut.  Pancreatitis?Diabetes?Inflammation of the Pancreas. IBD? Inflammation of the gut. Hypertension? inflammation of heart muscles. Snow images (2)Blindness, eye sensitivity? Eye inflammation….You name it – if it can be inflammed in any way…well then there is a possibility it will be. Oh yes, Do you remember in my last post that little mention of Hyperemesis Gravidarum? Turns out that this thing called Psoriatic Disease can also cause issues with pregnancy…

I found this meme that reminded me of what my doctor said when he first diagnosed me, “You’re interesting.”, these are not always the things one wants to hear…

Please continue to follow this blog – it is a diary of  survival of a chronic illness in modern day rural South Carolina.

And so that the mystery memes have credit –  the interesting butterfly floated in on a google search  and so did the brain fog one, no copyright, etc. did I find – but I am not sure if they are orphan works either.


Miss Me? Sorry, been busy learning how to be a #ChronicIllnessWarrior

I could start this post with traditional Aries infallibility in the face of absenteeism on my blog, or just suck it up. It’s been a while. A long while. And I am too tired and too old too suck it up anymore. The Fairy Princess has grown into the Chicken Princess, its been four years at least. The Cute Husband has a new haircut, its pretty much just razored off. He says he can’t see the grey that way. The Cute Husband, The Great Hunter has bagged a few deer over the last season for us and for friends.

And me? Its been a time of discoveries and Universal Guidance.

Like how I found out I was a #ChronicIllnessWarrior. Vaguely I remember times when I was in my early twenties and would crawl out of bed, across the floor, down the hallway to turn on hot bath water and pull myself over the side and into the tub. I had forgotten. I still monitored my  plaque psoriasis that would occasionally flare and seemed to be left over from puberty. Back then I had used every”tar-based-burn-a-hole-in-your-skin ointment” and “fix your skin” diet while I survived puberty. So I forgot those guinea pig days of testing what might fix my skin, I had outgrown my psoriasis.

I spent an hour getting farm stuff done – like putting up hay for the winter.A few days later I was at my doctors for what I suspected may be an odd farm injury. It was always entertaining to visit the nurses would ask if had any fresh eggs.I am a regular with my medical team.

I am also a clumsy hobby farmer. Generally I get caught on fencing, hit my head on low doorways, get a nice series of hip bruises mucking out stalls, scratches cuts requiring stitches, etc. I enjoy trading farm stories with my doctor.

“You mean seventy bales an hour? Regular bales of hay?”

“Mmm, yeah. Horse-quality.” Me, sitting on the examining table with my Ariat boots, wishing I had really done more than knock off the muddy manure mixture. I was trying not to be late. I poked my left index finger. I still felt nothing. It had been the first finger I had been hooking under the baling twine when I grabbed a bale of hay.

“The ones that weigh about seventy-five pounds each?”

Why is he asking me that? It was a standard bale of hay.

“Like I did before I went to college? Throwing big bales of hay into the barn?”

“Mhhmmm.” I wiggled the finger. It moved.That had to be a good sign, but I sorta hoped I could feel it again. It could come in handy.

He suggested I had probably overdone it, but I already had Type II Diabetes so I wanted to be sure it wasn’t going to turn putrid and fall off.He assured me it wouldn’t. I was debating whether it was a good thing that the Chicken Princess had already seen World War Z. Would she run or pick up my finger?

And with that I hopped down and headed out. Only to be completely mystified three weeks later sitting in the same examining room. I had gotten another load of hay to put up for winter. It was only twenty bales, even at a slacker pace it shouldn’t have taken longer than thirty minutes. But it did. It took and hour. And that was about four days earlier. My hands were swollen and red around the joints. I was fairly certain I was being a big wuss and old age was setting in. I held my hands out and told him it was four days and twenty bales ago, was I just getting old?

He stared.

“No. This isn’t old age.”

Staring by doctors is never good.It means they have a project. They are going to look for answers.That meant I would be the project. Then I remembered being the guinea pig.

Most people think doctors become doctors to cure everyone, paint rainbows and have smiley t-shirts. I think doctors become doctors to get the tools to investigate and discover things. They are detectives and their patients lie. I had learned honesty is not the method to apply in health care matters.FB_20160917_10_42_20_Saved_PictureEspecially when I was an uninsured college student.I had been very lucky in not having any mystery ailments with this doctor. I believed he considered me relatively non-crazy.I liked that.

“This ever happen before?”

Me, “Nope.” Technically it wasn’t a lie. I just never told him that this happened to other joints. For no good reason at all. Like changing shoe styles led to hairline fractures in my feet. Or joints swollen twice their normal size. Or being exhausted.(Besides the fact I am an older mother with a “very energetic” child, I’ve been told.)
He kept staring at my hands. I hoped that I would not have to lie to my favorite doctor.


“Um, wait. Some doctor said I had psoriatic arthritis, but I thought he was a quack. I was 19 and couldn’t afford treatment anyway.” I made sure I rolled my eyes.FB_20160929_04_37_33_Saved_Picture


He sent me to the lab. The scary place with needles. A lot of needles.  Over the years I had managed to accept that I may need a shot – a tetanus shot, a flu shot. I even managed to give my horses shots when they needed medicines,(I puked and passed out afterward. #whathappensinbarnstaysinthebarn)…but that whole “taking blood out of me kind of needle”, not so much. I appreciated the comfort of the padded lab chair. As long as I refused to look to my right, I didn’t see all five tubes waiting to be filled.

A week later we had a diagnosis. Psoriatic Disease . I didn’t know what that was.I would soon experience pain that made my labor pains while birthing the stuck Chicken Princess feel like a massage. 4.2lbs and 17 inches of baby wedged frank breach in the birth canal is no day at the spa.An emergency C-section ensued, the Chicken Princess had decided she was breaking out.The Cute Husband was happy we survived Hyperemesis Gravidarum . What was this Psoriatic Disease and what was going to happen to me?

Winter Plantings

It’s still January.  A cold, full month.  A long month to include all the beginnings of this year.

So I planted in between publishing a book, raising a family and keeping up with the Hobby Farm.  I planted Snow peas and thoughts and hopes.  A lot of them.  Being an Aries is difficult, and yes – if you are an Aries capable of being your own minion, it is doubly difficult. So this January instead of  resolutions, I planted the hope that I will not be quite as capable.   Instead of being my own minion, I will strive to have a few minions this year.  At least a few.

I reminded the children and dear husband that the cushy life they had over the holidays is gone…they can handle those daily chores of dishes, laundry and wiping down the counters.    Maybe even muck a few stalls and collect some eggs. It’s a start.

I began learning that others are around to call or ask for help. There have been things I would NEVER allow a friend to handle alone (because I am an Aries, that’s WHY.), that I routinely smile and brush off help with. Sort-of like tackling holidays with pneumonia and not really thinking its a big deal. (Thank you to all my wonderful friends who did offer to help – I just didn’t realize I actually NEEDED the help!)

I planted the thought that, if you are lucky enough to live at my hobby farm, do not bully the hands that feed you.
Note to critters:..I know a guy…now. And you might fit in the freezer after you visit him. (Thank you friend)
The bad behavior of our roosters is now diminishing,the beaver seems to have left his nice little lodge that was backing up the creeks, and the hens are laying lots of eggs. None of this would be possible without ‘minions’. The hobby farm knows of my vegetarian/vegan past, they just want to see how far along I’ve been converted.

And I planted Snow peas, an entire garden box full of them. I even went to the on-line almanac to check and see when I should plant them. I love them, but I always seem to get them in too late. This year, organized and looking for minion help – I went directly to the Farmers Almanac. Snow Peas: Plant January 18-20. I was so happy! Until of course, I went back to the Farmers Almanac to see what else to plant in my winter garden. Perfect planting time for spinach…direct sow, in California? Wait, California? I am in South Carolina. When do we direct sow Snow Peas in South Carolina? February. February?! I have an entire garden box sown with and entire packet of SNOW PEAS in SOUTH CAROLINA. IN JANUARY.

I mentioned hope, didn’t I? I planted that bad little rascal too. It seems to be growing quite well. Lets hope the next eleven months I am a little more specific in my minion search – Oh, and don’t mind the kitchen counter, the kids forgot. Oh yeah – my book is available.

Fox, chickens and the Great Hunter Husband

I knew she was out there.  Somewhere.  I knew not to let the chickens out.

It was Thursday.  The chickens in the pasture coop were restless.  Their egg-shells were not as hard as they had been.  They paced. They quarreled.  They had not free-ranged since the end of May.  I gave in.  I looked around and opened the door.

I herded them from the pasture to the yard.  It took Blondie a few minutes to figure out how to hop over the bottom rung of the gate.  They were out.  They were happy and free.

Blondie Rooster kept track of his ladies; Little Star the Golden Comet, Redneck the scruffy Rhode Island Red, Shirley the bossy Rhode Island Red, and Red, Redder, and Reddest the other Rhode Island Reds. (I did mention that Cute Dear Husband and my step-daughter were far more practical than I about naming chickens, right?) Until of course, Shirley decided she was going wandering in the woods.  This meant both Blondie Rooster and I wandered around crowing and clucking and calling Shirley to come back.  Eventually the lure of some stale loaf bread won her over. Back in the coop they all went, following Shirley as their new leader.  This was about three hours of fine free range time.

Friday.  Repeat Free Range Hours.  Result: Happy Chickens.  No problem.  We can do this, happy chickens, no one pacing, plucking, everyone comes home.

Saturday.  Repeat Free Range Hours.  Except…What. Is. That?  Quick, behind the coop?! Short, black nosed, reddish brown fur… it is “She” of the “Maude got Ate” fox.  And why are all those Whitey feathers on the ground? And oh no, the fox could actually hop into the garden and eat Eye-Shadow, Princess, Scarlett, Mona and Matilda…and THE DUCKS!

I have sworn off guns once my vegetarianism kicked in.  I just had to let some of the redneckedness go. Except that I had given up being a vegetarian due to stress and a Big Mac.  I know, please don’t flame me.  Extenuating circumstances.  Except that once “Maude got Ate” happened, I started to practice a little with the .22.  Sort of freaked the kids out.  A lot.

I’m still a damn good shot.  I still have my very first targets I shot with a Ruger .357, sorry – I digress.  I made the can jump. That is always a cool deal.  Kids are mollified when you have a talent you hide for a long time.  They don’t pick on me much lately.

I knew I couldn’t shoot the fox…yet.  I also had no idea where the .22 was.  However – I did know where the Cute Dear husband was.  And he knew how to hunt.  So I sought out the Great Hunter Husband.  He was happily reading fairy tales in bed with the Fairy Princess.  This was going to be painful.

Me:  “Pssst.  Need you outside.”

Him: “…and the Prince put the glass slipper on Cinderella’s foot.”

Me:  “Seriously.  I found Whitey feathers.”

Him: “Gotta go honey.  Mommy will finish the story. No one is going outside.”

Just like that, I get Great Hunter Husband.  I read Cinderella.  I read the Princess and the Pea.  I read the Three Little Pigs.  We don’t have any pigs. We will not have any pigs no matter what the Fairy Princess says.  They come under the same category as pet T-Rexes. “Not on My Hobby Farm”.

I begin drawing a new chicken hutch for Eye-Shadow and his flock.  It shouldn’t take Dear Husband long to do that.  Great Hunter Husband appears.

Him: “Whitey is fine.  She is in the poplar tree next to the willow.  What are you drawing?”

Me:  “A coop for Eye-Shadows flock.”

Him: “Let’s eat Eye-Shadow and put the hens in with Blondie Rooster.”

Fairy Princess: “NOOOoooo!  You are an EVIL Daddy.  You CAN’T eat Eye-Shadow.  Only BAD chickens go to Chick-Fil-A!”

He actually looked at me for support on this.  No way, uh-uh…he can battle the Fairy Princess alone on that.

He lost.

We (meaning Dear Cute Husband) caught Eye-Shadows flock and stuffed them into the pasture coop where we have Blondie Roosters flock.

We (meaning overprotective Mama) thought they would fight.  We thought wrong.  We have been raised by Gamecocks when it comes to chickens. We are often wrong about such docile domestic breeds as Americaunas, Barred Rocks, Golden Comets and Rhode Island Reds.

Whitey, our last gamehen, had fought her mother almost to the death because she disagreed with her judgment one day; or maybe it was retribution for Mama Duck knocking off Whitey’s twin. Either way we have learned to be very cautious regarding flock changes.

The Great Hunter Husband is happy.  He doesn’t have to build anything.  The roosters have stopped waking the neighborhood up at 5:45.  They now just cackle to each other in the same coop.  The Fairy Princess is happy; she can play with all the chickens at once.

It is only me, the Overprotective Mama that is still concerned.  I know she’s out there.  I know she is snooping around.  I know she is waiting for Whitey to fly out of the barn one morning into her jaws, or maybe she is trying to figure out how to get into the coop.

I think I need to set up another line of soda pop cans and make them dance with a .22  I know this isn’t over.

Of Ducks and Frogs

Morning.  If nothing else, I am resilient. So – I am back writing.  O.K., it took a little bit to get back to the keyboard; unlimited supply of cool whip, remodeling the bathroom wall and extreme general house-cleaning. (Who am I kidding?! extreme house cleaning for me is actually mopping and finding cobwebs…)


The Ranch has been at it again.

Easter has finally completed his feather growth.  Yes, I said HIS.  This has been a very difficult discovery for the Fairy Princess.  First Blondie changed gender, now Easter.  Dear Husband says we should change Easters name to Donald.  I don’t know, maybe “Donald Easter”?? 


I spent about thirty minutes explaining to the Fairy Princess that the curly feather on the end of Easter’s tail meant that he was a boy.  It’s just like Blue’s curly feather.  She wasn’t buying it.  She said it was a curly girly feather and Easter should have babies.  I explained that Easter could have babies, but he wasn’t going to be laying any eggs.  Only hens laid eggs.

Then I explained that ducks had to have a girl and a boy to make babies, but not eggs.

That seemed just fine with her as she grabbed Easter and Happy Feet and crammed them into the smaller poultry hutch Easter had been sharing with the chickens. (I’ll get to the chickens in another post.) She said we were to leave them alone – she wanted ducklings.

I am sure her Pre-K teacher will have LOTS of questions. Of course, its not like I could tell her babies came by stork or were found under cabbage leaves.  I wouldn’t have a single cabbage leaf left untouched in the garden if that were the case.  Dear Husband is not sure that the public school system is going to appreciate her Farm Education.

After the Great Big Discovery about Donald Easter I thought things would calm down, since Happy Feet and Donald Easter were to be in seclusion.  Not really. Next came the biggest rainstorm we’ve had in nearly a decade at the Ranch. I was notified of Intruders.

Ducks have a variety of quacks, grunts, honks and even squeaks and purrs. I was coming back from the barn when I heard a new strange vocalization from the ducks.  I shined the flashlight around, didn’t see anything.  Did a duck count – everyone was accounted for.  Nothing else to do but to get Dear Husband to “GO LOOK”.

I had to make Dear Husband take me seriously. He figured that they were grumpy because I was bugging them after dark.  I tried to explain I bugged them after I heard the strange new duck language.  Finally I said…“FOX”…that got him up. (Next post is Chickens and Foxes and Great Hunter Dear Husbands…I promise.) 

It wasn’t a fox.  It was a FROG, not just any frog either.  It was a frog the size of my boot.  I have average length feet, but I call them special width FAT.  That is one BIG frog.  Sorry, no pictures of it – it was dark.  Apparently the frog got washed out of the swamp and into the duck coop where it made itself happy in the nesting box. 


Thus the displeasure of all the ducks, but one.  Donald Easter liked the Frog better than the other ducks. Donald Easter was quite happy that Blue and the girls were not about to snuggle up in the X-tra big nesting box beside his box.  The overgrown frog had actually stretched out in the box.  Dear Husband frightened the Frog and it jumped clear of the Duck coop.  Problem solved.  Dear Husband saved the evening.  Alls well.  Except now Donald Easter has to put up with Blue and the girls picking on him.

“The Incident” and the Epi-Pen (or Cute Husband Terrifies Wife)

Yeah. It was a Friday night E.R. visit with a Monday morning follow-up with the family doctor.

I was encouraged to see the husband happily putting a new hitch on the old Craftsman lawn-mower so that our teen could happily do a few chores around here without all that teenage grumbling, stomping, and shoulder throwing and eye-rolling. I did see him yank a few long branches out of the compost/brush bin. Knowing this was not smart, instead of going out to harass him about it – I just kept doing those wifely farm chores inside. Y’know – unload the dishwasher, load it, do a little laundry, play fairies with the 4 y.o. seriously, no one wants a nagging farm-wife around.

The front door bangs open and I hear my dear husband, rather muffled, say “B’s!” I look at the alphabet letters on the fridge, then to my daughter and suddenly realize he is not asking for the magnetic letters on the fridge. “BEES!” he says again and his shirt flies off, and little black and yellow hornets invade the living room.

(thank you wikipedia)

This is totally NOT COOL. Now he is heading to the bathroom and stripping as he goes.

I tell our daughter to go to her room and shut the door. The Fairy Princess is NOT impressed and as usual, questions my integrity. Now is truly not the time for authority questioning. I screech, “Go to your room now!” frantically searching for one of the Epi-Pens I keep in the medicine cabinet. I hear cries and the door slamming. Great, I’ve terrified my child.

I blow past the flying, buzzing mean little hornets; I count five by the time I get to the bathroom. I hand my husband the Epi-pen. He has hornets crawling out of his pants and up his socks. I try to get the clothes off and take them with me. My Dear Husband is allergic to bees, hornets, wasps and the like. In the process of delivering the Epi-pen dose, he stops halfway to bat away another hornet, and manages to break the needle on the Epi-pen. I run out of the bathroom trying not to step on dying hornets with my bare feet. The Fairy Princess intercepts me to tell me I am “not being very nice by yelling!”

I sidestep the Fairy Princess; tell her loudly to “Get back in her room NOW! OR you will get stung by hornets!” But not really. Somewhere in my brain it has registered that they are dying because they have already stung my Dear Husband. I fumble around for the second Epi-pen and wonder if I can fix the needle on the first one. I grab the second one and the box of Benadryl, already bracing for the fight with my Dear Husband about taking it.

There is nothing more annoying to a Cute Sagittarius Fix-it Man than Benadryl. Unless of course, it is that mans wife who is an Aries. We didn’t get the memo about Fire-Signs marrying until well after the fact.  I had my first three nasty comments intended to provoke him into using the Benadryl.  I turned the Fairy Princess back to her room and said “Now!”

I obediently handed over the second Epi-Pen as he used a few choice words about me getting out of the bathroom immediately.  Apparently I was the cause of his inability to properly administer his first Epi-pen because my superpowers were lacking in corralling the hornets.  I snatched his clothes and began smacking the dying hornets with my ballet flats. I tossed the clothes and the sneakers out the front door into the yard.

I went back to the bathroom to check on Dear Husband and mount my attack about the use of Benadryl.  I opened the door; he was jittery so I knew he had finally administered the Epi-pen.  I took a deep breath and tore off two Benadryl capsules.

Me:  “You need to take this. Now.”

Dear Husband: “O.K.”

Me: “No, really – you have been stung more than once and the doctor said to give you Benadryl – What?”

Dear Husband: “Give me the damn sh*t. NOW.”

Me: “Um, O.K.”

Want to know how to confuse a Fire Sign? Agree with them.

I give him the Benadryl and go back to the kitchen where the Fairy Princess resides, one hand on her hip, swinging her wand with the other hand. “You two need to calm DOWN!”

At that particular moment I saw a blur of red PJ pants and a bright orange T-shirt run out the front door.  As the door slammed I heard, “Take me to the Hospital!”

I grabbed shoes, pocket book, and Fairy Princess and stuffed us all in the Suburban.  Dear Husband was waiting by the open driveway gate.  I slowed down for him to hop in and never stopped to shut the gate.

The closest hospital is about 20 minutes away in normal driving time.  My dashboard clock read 8:28 pm.  It was 12 minutes fast.   I knew if the Epi-pen wasn’t working I had 15 minutes to get him to a doctor.  I had 1/8 of a tank of gas. I found the scrap of paper where I wrote down the time of his Epi-pen -8:15.  O.K. – 14 minutes.  We arrived at the Hospital at 8:38 (dashboard time) which was really 8:26.

My Dear Husband thinks if he lies to me in stressful situations it makes it better.

Such as; Don’t speed -we’ll be ok, No, it’s not REALLY tingling too bad in my throat, Really? You think my hands are swelling? I don’t.

It’s a good thing he married a fire-sign like me who is bossy and doesn’t listen to him.

The hospital gave him more oral Benadryl while they put in an IV port and began an IV of saline, Benadryl and Pepcid.  Yes – I am that nosey wife who asks questions while holding an equally nosey loud child in the hospital.  My Dear Husband gives me the look that equals “Sorry I didn’t finish the bathroom shelves yet.” from the comfy chair he’s in.

That was when I realized I might just be a widow and that was NOT acceptable.  He had shelves to build, decks to put in, cars to finish restoring.  I shot him a look that plainly said “Die on me before we are done with all our projects and I WILL KILL YOU!” Even the triage nurse grimaced.  Which was good, because if anything happened to Dear Husband, the triage nurse was gonna get my wrath too.  Like I said, Fire Signs.

The Fairy Princess was highly upset when Dear Husband kicked us out of the room for the IV to be put in.  She wanted to learn how to do it and make Daddy silly sleepy.  So we went back in.  Why not? It’s not like we REALLY listen to him anyway.

A few hours later I was tucking a very loopy Dear Husband in bed – O.K., actually the couch since I couldn’t get him any further than that.  I sat up all night making sure he was still breathing and the hives hadn’t come back or the swelling.  Then I kept him doped up on Benadryl for the rest of the weekend.  He wasn’t complaining too much – so I thought it best to take advantage of the moment.  And I could keep him under surveillance far easier.

Monday I took him to the family doctor.  He was cleared for work on Tuesday.  The Fairy Princess made sure that she “read” all the medical journals.  Her favorite is the one about how the bladder works.  It’s colorful and has cartoon drawings.  Our family doctor told me to get some sleep that I no longer needed to watch Dear Husband breathe.  He told me that a few times.  Maybe I looked tired, but Dear Husband was alive and Fairy Princess had even more reason to grow up and be a doctor.

Before bed Monday night Dear Husband reminded me that I didn’t have to watch him breathe.  Smart-ass Fire Sign.

The Magpies are Here!

Yeah, ok. So Cuzin’ J thinks I have time to do a blog, write a cookbook, finish my childrens stories and then work on some non-fiction. I told Cuzin’ J I had a 3 y.o. and a blog was too much extra work. But here I am.
Sunday we got Magpie Ducks. 3 hens with no names, and one drake named Blue. Now in my abscence we’ve had 2 Holidays (yes Halloween is a Holiday in my world), and 4 companions that have passed. (one dog,two horses, and the goldfish) Its been difficult so forgive my absence. On top of that, our Ming-Ming had her migration instinct kick-in and she flew off. Thus the insane drive to acquire non-flying ducks.
Adorable is the word my tough, fix-it-myself husband uses in regards to them. They are HUGE. They are not sure of this whole “hug’em & love’em” practice used by our 3 y.o. We are coming up with names for the hens – Oreo and Maggie are the top 2 names, but we need to be able to identify them.

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