This Sounds like life to me dirty girl

"Knowing is not enough; we must apply. Willing is not enough; we must do." Goethe

 

In the new year I have been such a whirlwind of activity my friends are starting to stop just to "check on me." My Hon., and kids, are confused by my distracted, non-domestic (non-helpful) state. Also, with every untamed moment, I devour the words of wise and famous people who walked the line to their dream, before me, because it inspires me to fight another round.

I am vibrating like a chainsaw on idle, even while I sleep. It is exactly what this half raised WildNevadan girl-woman needed to get herself out of the fence to dance again.

I have found that when my spirits are down, it takes a calculated effort to bring myself back into balance. When I have a big or important goal in mind, I am the ponder the possibilities before I take any giant leaps of faith kind of girl.  Because from experience I know that the fall hurts like hell. Falling-- falling from grace, falling on your face, or falling short of success leads me to a place where I get less out of my life.

"Imagination is everything. It is the preview of life's cocming attractions." Albert Einstein.

Less out of life, is not good enough for me.

 

And because ideas go no where without action I decided to do. And, because I cannot get THERE, without  action, I had to get up out of that fence and dance. So, I'm here to let you know what I have been up to in such a whirl wind of activity... you know the back story.

There once was a Wild Wednesday, in which I remember I was trying to escape the dirty clothes pile that is like the song that never ends. It was, in fact the post to that brought forth Wild Wednesday. These Three Jeans and Old Biker Babes is "copied" from my old blog site and was much to do about getting out of the rut that is work and life with a little fun. My yucky work was always the laundry... 

 

Once upon a time there was a Wild Nevadan woman who hated her laundry. She would often fantasize about inventing contraptions that recycle clothing, or do all of the things in between washing and drying and folding and especially putting it away. Often she would dream she was at work at the local pharmacy, but instead of sorting pills in the glass box, she sorted laundry. She often writes on her blog about how she is haunted by the mound and believes it has babies while she is asleep at night.

A few months ago, the dream that I thought a nightmare, became an idea. I began to "do the math" on a laundry service. Crazy? Yes. Crazy-wild!

There was a lot of fantasizing in the beginning, like maybe this business could fund a freaking trip to the desert! The glass box is getting me nowhere! Or, maybe if I do enough laundry I can hire an employee and then bring my laundry to be done for free.

What a strange woman I am when I am without my desert wandering! I thought and thought on alternatives, but alas, somehow, this idea keeps with me, through summer and into fall. I was just at a total loss on what to call it.

I talked often with a good friend of mine, and one day he says, "Blondie's Laundry."

And I realized sometime later that night that I had been looking at the wrong page of my map book. The road I had thought I traveled to this point is but a memory. It was yesterday.  

If you haven't met Blondie before, you can meet her now. She was my Grammie. What a great lady. I have talked about her in this blog as many times as I have complained about my laundry. She never minded washing a few loads of laundry for me. She would turn my dirty rotten rags into fresh and tidy piles. It made me feel so good. So special. And part of a real, solid, I will do just about anything for family kind of place. And the world was less scary when I left her house because I was "presentable" again. She was a dirty girl's savior if ever there was one!

After U-hauling her washer and dryer out of her now empty house, and her washer and dryer became mine, I would often think about the times we sat on her bed and folded my sad looking lot of clothes, and she would politely bring up the rips and tears. She would mention that I was acting a little too rough for my gender.  

 

Being who I am I would argue with her. I was young. I was feisty. I would tell her, with huge pride in my heart, "Gram. I wasn't meant for sitting still. I was meant to work hard with my body. When I am done working I want to play just as hard. The best days are the ones when my clothes get gross. I guess I just like to get dirty. Maybe I am a boy."

 

She would say, "I know."

 

She never really minded that I like dirt under my feet, and finding beauty in what is weird. When I was young she probably thought it would pass. When I was in my 20s, and I burned pavement and dirt roads, sagebrush, and tires like they were Marlboro's, she probably worried a lot for me. But, she always supported my Wild Nevadan ways and was the first and most regular customer for my cards and pictures. I have learned from her that there is nothing parallel to having a relationship with somebody who recognizes who you are and finds good in those qualities, even if they do not align with their own beliefs or ideals.

 It is exactly the kind of business grandmothers should be in.  It is the type of behavior I emulate when I have mucked things up or found myself lost on the road to success.

 

One day I found myself in this hamster wheel. The one that is unfulfilled. The one that you can't even make yourself grateful for, now matter how many inspiring words you look up in a dictionary or quotes you can google. That's when you have to look at not only where you have been, and what you have learned, but what you want out of all this effort.

And I thought, "Did I just forget where I was going?"

Oh, no. better get busy!

And so I put on my work gloves. The ones my Hon. buys me. The ones he taught me how to wear and hang on for dear life with when there isn't anything but noose to hang onto, or the boat is about to capsize. And I jumped headfirst into a dream.

And my friends are stopping by to check on me because I finally managed to make laundry fun. And nobody can believe it is working, except me.

And now my wild Wednesday joke of  yesteryear, when and where nothing much changes around here in a week, and even the laundry pile looks the same, is now the biggest oxy-moron you ever met. But that's how naked stick bushes dance I guess.

So, here's the introduction to the latest and greatest thing to come from this wild mind of mine. Blondie's Laundry Service. We are Open 7 days a week, serving the Tonopah, NV area from my humble home, here on this mine dump. Service includes Free Pick up and Delivery. Please call or text us to schedule pick up. Our rates and current specials can be found on the Blondie's Laundry page, or by clicking this link. Blondie's Laundry Service.

It is going to be a whole hell of a lot more interesting for this blog than sourdough! And I am grateful again to have something to facilitate this most recent crash course in life; in how to turn laundry into a business; and pursuit of happiness. It has been more wild a ride than I can explain today. I hate to leave it out now, but soon I shall reflect on the fun and frighting things that happened this month in conjunction with the opening of this little business.

So far, it has been everything dreams are made of; every bit of rewarding, and scary, and exciting and exhausting as those words were ever meant, or how you wish to take them. Right now I must go, because there is much laundry and life to sort out.

Thanks for reading and sharing!
Loves,
HjB

A little poof dust

"I want to do something fun this weekend." I told the girls at work. Yes-sir-ree. Some Thing Fun. But what?
 

Well, the hon has been trying to coerce me to stay on pavement until we get the second ride rolling. But, I was unsupervised on Friday, so I wore the boys out with errands and headed out.

I guess the plan had been rolling around in my mind for a month or two. I just kept squishing it down but, alas the dam broke and here I go. The road was good. There were a few spots I felt like I should pick up my speed because of the corduroy.

Weather was on the way, and so at the moment, it was all shades of purple and blue and gray and, Erie still. Calm and the light just right so you know, weather is a coming.

Moisture is on the way. And none too soon. The desert is so dry that even one crack open on the window made for a poof dust vacuum. Ahem, half the desert is on and in my car now. There's no alternative to the truth on this story, once I pick up my man.

I scooted out to the turn off with a few memories bouncing around in my brain and the radio playing background. Once the boys fell asleep I had to flip a bitch at the T&G RR bed, and head back through Tonopah and to my original destination about 20 minutes behind schedule. Goldfield.

Such a sweet quiet moment. Such sweet poof dust in my review mirror.

With the kids asleep it was one of those commutes to enjoy. "Life is a Highway" was playing on the radio and I was thinking about how its funny how this wild Nevadan girl can keep a theme song. And how, no matter what I do with my life there is always 300 miles a week involved. When your life is a highway it can get pretty boring behind the wheel. But, I wasn't bored. I was feeling great. Aw, Nevada.

In Goldfield, I picked up my man but missed a comment about the car. I just knew the Efen poof dust was going to give me away. What is, is. So I scooted over to the passenger seat and put my fingers to my lips and motioned toward the sleeping kids.... Never mind the radio is blaring country radio...

He must have been in a good mood because he never said a word, until we were leaving Goldfield behind and I spit it out. "I'm surprised you didn't say anything about the poof dust."

"Well, I was trying not to."

"Well, I had this hair brained idea. I didn't do it though."I rubbed the poof dust off my camera lens with my shirt and silently kicked myself for telling on myself. Honesty is the best policy right? I'm not sure on this. I knew it is only a matter of time before we dance this dance.

"Ahem. I have a sore throat." I said after he didn't ask any questions. It's as starved for moisture as the desert. So, I go back to listening to the radio and enjoying the scenery. The light on the desert before a weather movement is almost always gorgeous. Because there was hardly any wind I imagine the storm that comes in, won't be ferocious.

We are just about to the Alkali turn off, where my hair brained idea would have brought me out to the highway when he ffinally he puts it all together and asks, "Did you come over on the dirt road? Is that why you were late?"

"No. I only went as far as the railroad bed, and there wasn't any tracks on the turn off. And I am not really too sure about what ALL-WHEEL-DRIVE means. And then I thought I might get into trouble in the sand. And then trouble with you over getting myself into trouble. So I turned around."

"ALL-wheel drive means ALL-wheels-on-pavement, in this car." He answered.

"Next vehicle we buy will have four wheel drive." I shoot back. "And a stick shift." But, I can tell he isn't really upset and that this little dance we do over my tumble dance, ideas that almost always get me into the poof dust. 

And, I'm a little happier now, because although it was but a short trip to the T&G RR bed; It was enough.

Really. A little poof dust never hurt anything. Especially me.

And, I was pretty sure moisture was on the way.

Perfect.

Loves, HjB

Old Biker Babes and These Three Jeans

 

Not much changes around here in a week. It is Wild Wednesday again and I am still trying to put as large a space as humanly possible between myself and the laundry. I cannot understand how it is, my kids always seem to run a muck half naked, and still there is a turn-over of muddy outfits like it is nobody's business.

 

I am between cycles so now is a good time to explain the concept behind wild Wednesdays. Because, my mind is fresh on bikes and bikers and old biker babes, from that little visit to the Elko Jamboree last week, a favorite wild woman/Wednesday story of mine comes to mind. Picture this...

 

It is the middle of summer in the middle of the Midwest and I am in the middle of my second pregnancy. I find myself in the truck outside a store that faces a river tavern, which banks the Mississippi.

 

I am alone in the hot stickiness except an acquaintance, whose acquaintence has gone in after ice, beer, I have no idea what else. Everybody else on earth is at work or whatnot, because it is probably Wednesday.

 

Anyhow, I have a hot thirsty eye on the bar, and was halfway through a tumbleweed wish that I was not pregnant. Out comes this older woman (over 65) in full biker babe regalia. She has the whitest hair you ever saw, black chaps, the leather jacket, the black tank top minus a bra, a little-bit leathery skin, and a big old tasseled biker babe purse. In one hand she carries her drink, which has been put into a "to go" plastic cup. Her friends, are sort of holding on to her, and kind of guiding her toward a vehicle.

 

I say, sort of because, just as I took notice of this woman and her obvious merriment, she bit dust. Her knee high leather boots gave way to the gravel parking lot. She lay flat on her back, head laying on a rock and her giant purse is now 15 feet away. Her friends stood over her, probably looking for blood. In her hand was the cocktail, which was at the end of an arm that was strait up in the air. I am sure she had to be bleeding about the elbows, but she flops herself over and manages to somehow stand back up.

 

She holds out her drink to her friends as if to make a toast. "I did int spill!" I can hear her across the street. And, I think, what a morning the group must have had, if to judge the spectacle, debacle and debochery that has now peaked before the sun even.

 

I was just getting ready to yell out the window, "You go girl!" when the acquaintence next to me said, "Oh, that poor woman!"

 

Poor woman? O my gosh that woman was having a freaking blast! I was probably glowing nuclear green from jealousy. Did I mention I was half pregnant and it was mid-way through summer in the mid-west? Yes, there was sweat pouring out of places on my body that no human sweats from!

 

"Well, I better be having that much fun when I am that age," I told the acquaintance, "Because, I am NOT having ANY fun right now."

 

Years have gone by and I still think about that wild woman outside that riverside tavern every so often. I love old biker babes and their audacious way they carry on the unexpected while the rest of us are headed to the laundry room or cubicle land.

 

It also brings about what should be wild on Wednesday and why we are set to celebrate wild Wednesdays as often as Wednesdays come, here on the Dancing Tumbleweed Blog.

 

Life being mostly work is not usually fun. Even though I do not have a regular work week, it is not impossible for me to feel frayed by Wednesday. I have been to the office so I know some of you will be out to a meeting or other enterprise until dusk. Wednesdays are long and most of life being driven by unfun work, it is good to take a minute, between cycles, to just be wild on Wednesdays.

 

So, on wild Wednesdays at the Wild Nevadan HjB, anything goes. Wild Wednesday posts are for you to enjoy an unexpected break from your day with one of my wild moments. It is a mini decompression machine. It is hump day, wildnevadan style.

 

So where did I leave that old biker babe? Not in the gravel parking lot! Back to her: she was right in the middle of a wild Wednesday but I would hazard, regret came later or the next day. So, as sad as this sounds, wild Wednesday is not about going hog-wild. Dang it.

 

 Alright, its todays wild Wednesday confession time. 

I'm calling it "these three jeans."

 

Did I mention I have an overwhelming pile of laundry which multiplies within the confines of my laundry room? Well, I do.

 

Have I mentioned before how much I hate laundry? Well, I do. (Sometimes, when I hit the button on the dryer I fantasize that I dropped a match on that load instead).

 

And part of this huge mess that seems to always be my Wednesday is these three jeans.

 

I do not think anyone will argue that I have not worn them out past their usefulness. The knees and asses are g.o.n.e.

 

I took a good look at them this morning and figured  one more time through the cycle of life that leads to the washing machine and dryer will vaporize them into jean dust. And, an unexpected thought came to my wild mind...

 

 

Yes I did!

Because, it is Wednesday and I am wild like that!

And now there are three less jeans to wash!

Have a wild Wednesday and thanks for reading,

HjB

June 22, 2011

What's Up Chicken Butt

Warning: If you are too sensitive to read about a dead animal, then you better take this opportunity to move along. Today's post is all about chickens, dead chickens, and chicken dinner.

 

Because I am an ass, I "lost" an entire flock of chickens last summer (around 20), besides two survivors I gave the names of Chicken and Soup.

 

So, all winter, Chicken and Soup hunkered down in the hen house with no sunshine, heat or friends and my family ate store bought eggs.

 

Of course, we had to make things right so Project Do It Again Hen, was conceived.

 

We ordered 25, non-sexed (strait run) rainbow assortment of chicks from Strombergs. They sent us a double batch. Of course, we did not think to count them until they were in the tub on the back porch. But, by then, it was impossible to get an accurate head count. They were too busy, busy.

 

The goal was to butcher the roosters, keep the hens for eggs, and then order more hens-only, when we felt confident we knew what we had gotten ourselves into.

 

Of course, we had to make room for the extra 25 chicks. Of course, that means the cost to feed them would be double.

 

And so, for the past 14 weeks we have fed and cared for a pretty ragady looking bunch of half-grown chickens. About two weeks in, their food cost went up $5 per 50 pound bag. Because we only have two adult chickens, the survivors, I only harvest 2 eggs per day.

 

I have taken to calling them my chicken-pigs.

 

My man and I, have spent considerable hours trying to figure out which ones are roosters, and get a real head count on the hens.

 

To me, when output does not equal input, the creature can be considered a pet. True, when you raise an animal from its defenseless infant stage, it is hard not to get attached, or feel like they have a personality. However, the object of the project was never forgotten. And, so, nobody has a name.

 

This past week, some of the roosters have started to crow. And, some of the white ones are larger than our two adult/survivors.

 

Also, they have gotten to be a handful of fun to care for.  A few days ago the door was left ajar (it happens!) and they ALL escaped their yard.

 

They were scattered hither and yon. I could tell my man could only see dollar bill signs running helter skelter all over. I'm sure a hawk and an owl were circling overhead.

 

No real harm done, (so I think) and all the chickens were returned to the yard (who knows we never can get a real head count on them).

 

Except, now these chicken pigs know about all these yummy bugs in the grass. And, so on Saturday, I notice a couple have escaped a small hole in the fence and are free-ranging. I open the chicken yard to shoosh them in, and out come the rest of the 40-something chicken-pigs.

 

I ran around stupid for about an hour befrore I gave up and went inside for nap time and to plan and cook dinner. Perhaps, the ones left out, will get bored and want to go in later...But, after nap, now here come the boys with a chicken, who is obviously not upset by being held by them.

 

Good gosh, what has happened? Well, something got after them while I was inside. I find a pile of feathers and at least two wet, slobbery, stunned, chickens begging to get back in the hen house. Toby was with me, so he was not the culprit. Who knows it could be a ranch dog or a coyote.

 

I spend the rest of the evening chasing after three dummies, through the tall grass and rose bushes.  Once returned to the coop I counted them to no avail. What is the point? I know Soup is gone. If she was not somebody's dinner, she is never coming back because it is too dangerous! Now we have but one egg layer.

 

So I finally think it is time to turn the chicken-pig-pets into chicken dinner and reduce the the chicken-food bill and my time spent chicky-chasing. 

 

The only problem we have is that my man has not seen a chicken butchered since sixth grade, and I cannot say that I ever remember participating in such.

 

No matter, we decide to do a practice run with two fattys before we go hell bent for Sunday on the rest of the roosters. 

 

 

Because neither one of us can remember "the first time" we butchered, we figure we always did. We think this is how our kids will be, if we make no effort to exclude them from the work at hand. 

 

They were interested for a few minutes but never made any indication they cared about what was going on.

 

We do what we have to do, and it turns out I am better at this butchering chickens stuff than my man (okay, I just like it done my way).

 

I end up taking over. I end up with my hand up a chicken butt. 

Wa-la.

Does it look as good as the chicken you get at the store? I think it looks yummy in my tummy. Needless to say, we are having chicken for dinner tonight. Thanks for reading, HjB.

June 13, 2011