Today, we are going geocaching.
It's something I heard about a few years ago. I was pregnant with Caleb, shopping at the outlet mall up in Ellenton, when the cashier asked me where I was from. I told her I'd driven up from North Port to go shopping for my husband's Christmas party. (Read: I needed a maternity dress that didn't make me look like a Christmas tree, which I had no luck finding anywhere in town.)
She exclaimed, "Oh! North Port! We just did some geocaching there."
Some what? It sounded sort of illegal, but she also stated it in such a matter-of-fact tone that I figured I should know what this is.
"Geocaching. Right on." (I'm pretty sure that was my reply.)
Wondering what there actually was to do in this town besides "Be Pregnant," I looked it up online when I arrived home with my new dress.
In layman's terms, Geocaching is an outdoor activity involving GPS coordinates and a hidden box full of trinkets. It's a treasure hunt, of sorts. You pack some supplies, find the box, take something out and replace it with something of equal value, sign the log book, log your find at the Geocaching website, and be on your merry way.
Fast-forward to last night: a backyard campfire, S'mores, some stories about the Myakka Skunk Ape, and we are ready to get out there and Geocache. I'm excited. Aidan is excited. Caleb is still asleep. (Par for the course. He only gets excited about breakfast, lunch, and dinner.)
As much as I love my children, I'm tired of being the only parent on the weekends. No more "waiting around" for dad to get home: we're doing our own fun shit. And we're doing it outdoors. No more cleaning, sweeping, mopping, laundry. We're getting out, we're getting dirty, and we're not coming home until naptime. :-)
Have you heard of Geocaching? Given it a try? Any tips for us noobs? I'll post an update later, hopefully with some pics of our first treasure. Have a great Saturday, all.
Cherstin
Saturday, November 17, 2012
Friday, November 16, 2012
Leaving Facebook.
Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.
It's the backbone of the American dream, right? The American Way.
It's bullshit.
Initially, I chalked it up to my 20-year high school reunion. That's when things started getting quiet in the Land of Make-Believe. I imagined reconnecting with old friends, seeing faces I hadn't seen since the days of "I made you a mix tape." I figured life would still be life, just ... better. More friends, more connections, more people to get to know.
But it didn't happen that way.
Then the election rolled around and just like the dividing line which ran through our country, so too did the line get drawn down the Friends List. Facebook became the place for armchair politicians, whether or not they'd ever studied politics. It became a place for people to degrade one another, whether with vicious cartoons depicting the stupidity of one party, or a Cracked article showing the idiocy and ineptitude of the other. Lines were drawn, words were spoken, and you know what I realized?
I don't really give a shit about people on Facebook. My "friends." Really? Friends list? How about "list of people I used to associate with, but they probably wouldn't say hello to me if I ran into them at Walmart today." Or, the ever-popular list of "did her, did him, wouldn't do him, kissed him, passed out at her house twenty five years ago"?
Who are these people, and why are they peddling their problems at my virtual doorstep? Really? You're sick again? Why am I not surprised? Everyone on Facebook jokes that you're the biggest hypochondriac ever. Why are they pandering for advice from people on the internet that they haven't seen in years? Ohhh, you lost your job? And you're upset about it? Really? You've been talking about doing that for years so that you could collect unemployment and stay home with your kids. Why are you pretending to be upset about it now? Where are their real lives? Their real friends? And why, oh why, did I ever get sucked in?
I'm over you, Facebook. I will keep an active account which I'll use to share photos with my family from across the miles, but that's all you'll be to me now: just an online bulletin board. My pictures and page will be private. No more sharing of blogs, no more arguing over which type of America is best for my children. No more funny dog videos.
I feel like a weight has been lifted.
Later, peoples.
It's the backbone of the American dream, right? The American Way.
It's bullshit.
Initially, I chalked it up to my 20-year high school reunion. That's when things started getting quiet in the Land of Make-Believe. I imagined reconnecting with old friends, seeing faces I hadn't seen since the days of "I made you a mix tape." I figured life would still be life, just ... better. More friends, more connections, more people to get to know.
But it didn't happen that way.
Then the election rolled around and just like the dividing line which ran through our country, so too did the line get drawn down the Friends List. Facebook became the place for armchair politicians, whether or not they'd ever studied politics. It became a place for people to degrade one another, whether with vicious cartoons depicting the stupidity of one party, or a Cracked article showing the idiocy and ineptitude of the other. Lines were drawn, words were spoken, and you know what I realized?
I don't really give a shit about people on Facebook. My "friends." Really? Friends list? How about "list of people I used to associate with, but they probably wouldn't say hello to me if I ran into them at Walmart today." Or, the ever-popular list of "did her, did him, wouldn't do him, kissed him, passed out at her house twenty five years ago"?
Who are these people, and why are they peddling their problems at my virtual doorstep? Really? You're sick again? Why am I not surprised? Everyone on Facebook jokes that you're the biggest hypochondriac ever. Why are they pandering for advice from people on the internet that they haven't seen in years? Ohhh, you lost your job? And you're upset about it? Really? You've been talking about doing that for years so that you could collect unemployment and stay home with your kids. Why are you pretending to be upset about it now? Where are their real lives? Their real friends? And why, oh why, did I ever get sucked in?
I'm over you, Facebook. I will keep an active account which I'll use to share photos with my family from across the miles, but that's all you'll be to me now: just an online bulletin board. My pictures and page will be private. No more sharing of blogs, no more arguing over which type of America is best for my children. No more funny dog videos.
I feel like a weight has been lifted.
Later, peoples.
Tuesday, November 13, 2012
A new pup and a young dog: Size matters.
Because we simply did not have enough going on in our lives, we decided a few weeks ago to begin our search for another dog to add to the family pack. I know, I know. How on earth did you get your husband to agree to that? you're thinking. I can't remember the specifics, but what I do remember was hearing the phrase, "...but you'd better find one quick, before I change my mind."
Challenge accepted.
8 days ago, we became the proud, albeit nervous, new owners of an 8-week-old Australian Cattle Dog who we've named "Lola." With two boys and a half-acre of land, she pretty much gives us a great reason to go outside all day long.
It's been 25 years since I last owned a puppy and that was "Tippy," a puppy born at our house to our dog, "Cindy" (named after Cindy of The Brady Bunch. It's true, you caught me.). Back in the day, even Bob Barker hadn't started his whole "spay and neuter" speech, and even if he had, single parents couldn't afford that type of stuff, so we never had a spayed pet. Ever.
Having a puppy is one word: Teeth. Little tiny needles of teeth that always want to explore that which you treasure most, like wedding rings and engagement diamonds. Cords that keep your electronics electrified. The tiny sausage fingers of a 21-month-old child.
We started Lola on a pretty tight schedule that goes something like this:
6:30am - Wake up. Go potty. Eat breakfast. Play. Go potty. Walk to the bus stop. Come home and get a drink. Play. Rest in the playpen.
(Note: "Playpen" is different than "crate." In the playpen, it is acceptable to run around, do somersaults, chew bones, rock out. The playpen is set up half-in, half-out of my office. She can see all the action, but when I can't hover over her like a hawk and no one is actively playing with her, she's in the playpen.)
Noon: Go potty. Lunchtime! Have a few drinks, play like a lunatic. Play some more. Out for potty. Play.
3:30pm: Time to take a walk! Off to the bus stop. Play, grab a drink or two, potty, you name it.
4:30pm: Dinner! Potty! Play play play! Again, with the playpen. IF YOU AREN'T ACTIVELY PLAYING WITH OR WATCHING THE PUPPY, SHE IS IN THE PLAYPEN. Not only does this prevent accidents, chewing, and general bad behavior, it teaches the puppy that it's okay to self-entertain. It's okay to be alone sometimes. It's okay to lay quietly and chew a bone or toy.
9:00pm: Settle down time. A few more potties and some soft play, snuggle, watch some tv.
11:00pm: Out one more time, then bedtime in the crate.
Listen. You want your puppy to love you. You want your dog to be happy when you come home. What you do not want to raise is a puppy who cannot function if he or she can't see you. It's not fair to the puppy, it's not fair to the family, and it's not fair to any other pets you may own. It creates separation anxiety, which is probably the number one reason animals end up in the shelter.
Just like you have to teach a child to be independent, you also must teach your puppy that it's okay to be without you. We've had Lola for nine days now, and you know how many nights she's cried in her crate and kept us up? ZERO. None. Zilch. The transition from one puppy to two has been incredibly easy, which brings me to my next thought:
Make sure you give your puppies time apart! No one wants to introduce their family pets like this: "This is our dog, Bella, and this is Bella's dog, Lola." No. Do not let your young dog raise your new puppy. Yes, you want them to be friends. Yes, you want them to play together. What you do not want to do is to create a situation where each dog/puppy loses their individual identity within the family. You have two dogs. Act like it. When you had baby number two, you didn't give baby number one the responsibility of his or her care: don't do it to your pets.
(Off the puppy primer soapbox.)
So far, so good, and it will only get better from here. For now, I'm out. I'm sure someone, somewhere, needs to go to the bathroom around here.
Cherstin.
Challenge accepted.
8 days ago, we became the proud, albeit nervous, new owners of an 8-week-old Australian Cattle Dog who we've named "Lola." With two boys and a half-acre of land, she pretty much gives us a great reason to go outside all day long.
It's been 25 years since I last owned a puppy and that was "Tippy," a puppy born at our house to our dog, "Cindy" (named after Cindy of The Brady Bunch. It's true, you caught me.). Back in the day, even Bob Barker hadn't started his whole "spay and neuter" speech, and even if he had, single parents couldn't afford that type of stuff, so we never had a spayed pet. Ever.
Having a puppy is one word: Teeth. Little tiny needles of teeth that always want to explore that which you treasure most, like wedding rings and engagement diamonds. Cords that keep your electronics electrified. The tiny sausage fingers of a 21-month-old child.
We started Lola on a pretty tight schedule that goes something like this:
6:30am - Wake up. Go potty. Eat breakfast. Play. Go potty. Walk to the bus stop. Come home and get a drink. Play. Rest in the playpen.
(Note: "Playpen" is different than "crate." In the playpen, it is acceptable to run around, do somersaults, chew bones, rock out. The playpen is set up half-in, half-out of my office. She can see all the action, but when I can't hover over her like a hawk and no one is actively playing with her, she's in the playpen.)
Noon: Go potty. Lunchtime! Have a few drinks, play like a lunatic. Play some more. Out for potty. Play.
3:30pm: Time to take a walk! Off to the bus stop. Play, grab a drink or two, potty, you name it.
4:30pm: Dinner! Potty! Play play play! Again, with the playpen. IF YOU AREN'T ACTIVELY PLAYING WITH OR WATCHING THE PUPPY, SHE IS IN THE PLAYPEN. Not only does this prevent accidents, chewing, and general bad behavior, it teaches the puppy that it's okay to self-entertain. It's okay to be alone sometimes. It's okay to lay quietly and chew a bone or toy.
9:00pm: Settle down time. A few more potties and some soft play, snuggle, watch some tv.
11:00pm: Out one more time, then bedtime in the crate.
Listen. You want your puppy to love you. You want your dog to be happy when you come home. What you do not want to raise is a puppy who cannot function if he or she can't see you. It's not fair to the puppy, it's not fair to the family, and it's not fair to any other pets you may own. It creates separation anxiety, which is probably the number one reason animals end up in the shelter.
Just like you have to teach a child to be independent, you also must teach your puppy that it's okay to be without you. We've had Lola for nine days now, and you know how many nights she's cried in her crate and kept us up? ZERO. None. Zilch. The transition from one puppy to two has been incredibly easy, which brings me to my next thought:
Make sure you give your puppies time apart! No one wants to introduce their family pets like this: "This is our dog, Bella, and this is Bella's dog, Lola." No. Do not let your young dog raise your new puppy. Yes, you want them to be friends. Yes, you want them to play together. What you do not want to do is to create a situation where each dog/puppy loses their individual identity within the family. You have two dogs. Act like it. When you had baby number two, you didn't give baby number one the responsibility of his or her care: don't do it to your pets.
(Off the puppy primer soapbox.)
So far, so good, and it will only get better from here. For now, I'm out. I'm sure someone, somewhere, needs to go to the bathroom around here.
Cherstin.
Wednesday, October 31, 2012
Poltergeists, bathtubs, and children. Oh my.
Many of you know that I have children. Two children, to be exact. Two boys, to be even more exact.
And although one is eight-and-a-half going on 30, the other is a mere 21 months old.
Over a span of 8.5 years of parenting, I experienced something for the first time last night. Something no man, woman, or child should ever have to be witness to in their entire lives. I don't even think I'd punish criminals this hard.
My 21-month-old son pooped in the bathtub.
Look. I know a lot of you are thinking, "You are a mom. You have the natural ability and instinct to deal with that type of stuff." I'm here to tell you that is wrong. My husband was a Master Plumber, and even he did not volunteer to clean up that nightmare. He gagged and then ran out of the bathroom laughing, secretly high-fiving the 8 year old when I wasn't looking.
(I can't swear to that, I can only go off gut instinct.)
So I cleaned it.
The image is now stuck in my head for probably the rest of my life, and again I'm struck by how horribly-made children are, because the baby would've had no qualms about continuing his bath. He was actually mad when I made him get out of the tub.
What world do these little Neandrathals come from again? Please remind me. Please tell me in what capacity is it ever acceptable to poop in the bath water and then continue to play in it? I have to know this. They seriously don't come equipped with any sort of "right and wrong" gauge. At all. How bizarre is that? Even newborn puppies paddle their feet when you hold them over water, yet these--our children--the ones that are supposedly the highest on the food chain--they don't care about poop or germs or running out into oncoming traffic or anything.
Unbelievable.
I woke up this morning thinking about the little girl from the Poltergeist movies. Apropos, considering it is Halloween, but what I thought of specifically was little Carol Anne, framed by the light of the television, turning around and letting us know, "They're heeeere," in that no question about it kind of tone.
But this morning, rather than poltergeists and spooks and ghouls, I was thinking about 300,000 writers counting down the hours until November 1st like some kind of spiritual awakening: The remaining 24 hours until the start of National Novel Writing Month.
"They're heeere," and they're writing novels, dammit.
And this is my year, poop aside.
Today, I will brew pot after pot of delicious, steaming coffee. I will "get organized." I might "make an outline." I might do a little pre-writing or something equally tasty. I think I will Organize My Writing Area. I will try to forget all about last night's bathtub episode, and how I gagged and cursed my family and The Gods, wondering how we ever evolved into human beings, and what it really means if we are still born so completely clueless about our own bodily functions. And then I'll wait. And wait. And wait. Until the clock strikes midnight.
And then, my friends, we write.
Until then, there's probably something somewhere that needs to be picked up or washed. Cherstin, out.
And although one is eight-and-a-half going on 30, the other is a mere 21 months old.
Over a span of 8.5 years of parenting, I experienced something for the first time last night. Something no man, woman, or child should ever have to be witness to in their entire lives. I don't even think I'd punish criminals this hard.
My 21-month-old son pooped in the bathtub.
Look. I know a lot of you are thinking, "You are a mom. You have the natural ability and instinct to deal with that type of stuff." I'm here to tell you that is wrong. My husband was a Master Plumber, and even he did not volunteer to clean up that nightmare. He gagged and then ran out of the bathroom laughing, secretly high-fiving the 8 year old when I wasn't looking.
(I can't swear to that, I can only go off gut instinct.)
So I cleaned it.
The image is now stuck in my head for probably the rest of my life, and again I'm struck by how horribly-made children are, because the baby would've had no qualms about continuing his bath. He was actually mad when I made him get out of the tub.
What world do these little Neandrathals come from again? Please remind me. Please tell me in what capacity is it ever acceptable to poop in the bath water and then continue to play in it? I have to know this. They seriously don't come equipped with any sort of "right and wrong" gauge. At all. How bizarre is that? Even newborn puppies paddle their feet when you hold them over water, yet these--our children--the ones that are supposedly the highest on the food chain--they don't care about poop or germs or running out into oncoming traffic or anything.
Unbelievable.
I woke up this morning thinking about the little girl from the Poltergeist movies. Apropos, considering it is Halloween, but what I thought of specifically was little Carol Anne, framed by the light of the television, turning around and letting us know, "They're heeeere," in that no question about it kind of tone.
But this morning, rather than poltergeists and spooks and ghouls, I was thinking about 300,000 writers counting down the hours until November 1st like some kind of spiritual awakening: The remaining 24 hours until the start of National Novel Writing Month.
"They're heeere," and they're writing novels, dammit.
And this is my year, poop aside.
Today, I will brew pot after pot of delicious, steaming coffee. I will "get organized." I might "make an outline." I might do a little pre-writing or something equally tasty. I think I will Organize My Writing Area. I will try to forget all about last night's bathtub episode, and how I gagged and cursed my family and The Gods, wondering how we ever evolved into human beings, and what it really means if we are still born so completely clueless about our own bodily functions. And then I'll wait. And wait. And wait. Until the clock strikes midnight.
And then, my friends, we write.
Until then, there's probably something somewhere that needs to be picked up or washed. Cherstin, out.
Tuesday, October 30, 2012
Methinks.
It might be time to take a break from Facebook.
I enjoy blogging. I love the pace. I type, you read. You respond, I respond. No pressure. But Facebook? Twitter? All those hashtags? Hashtags? It's not even a real word. Chrome has it underlined in red.
I'm tired of the political drama unfolding on Facebook. I'm tired of online arguments which will never ever be resolved. I'm tired of scrolling newsfeeds. Newsfeeds. There. There's another word that's not really a word, underlined in red on Google Chrome.
Enough already, social media. You're killing me.
I have a list of things I'd like to do around here tomorrow. National Novel Writing Month begins in less than 100 hours. My mini-panic attacks have started, not knowing if I'm going back to a previously rehearsed idea or if I'm starting new.
I care, but I don't care. It's going to happen, either way.
For now, bed. Cherstin, out.
(Cherstin. There. That's not even a real word, either.)
I enjoy blogging. I love the pace. I type, you read. You respond, I respond. No pressure. But Facebook? Twitter? All those hashtags? Hashtags? It's not even a real word. Chrome has it underlined in red.
I'm tired of the political drama unfolding on Facebook. I'm tired of online arguments which will never ever be resolved. I'm tired of scrolling newsfeeds. Newsfeeds. There. There's another word that's not really a word, underlined in red on Google Chrome.
Enough already, social media. You're killing me.
I have a list of things I'd like to do around here tomorrow. National Novel Writing Month begins in less than 100 hours. My mini-panic attacks have started, not knowing if I'm going back to a previously rehearsed idea or if I'm starting new.
I care, but I don't care. It's going to happen, either way.
For now, bed. Cherstin, out.
(Cherstin. There. That's not even a real word, either.)
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Refer a Friend - Fastweb
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By clicking the link and registering online at Fastweb, you and I are both entered for a chance to win $500 in the Fastweb "Refer a Friend" drawing! Fastweb is a must-use for anyone enrolled in college, or any high school senior considering college. Scholarships, internships, grants, and loans are easy to find and applying is simple. Do yourself a favor and check it out. Don't let finances limit your education. The money is there: sometimes you just have to do the work and find it!
Friday, October 26, 2012
If there was a medal.
If they gave out a medal each year to the person who seamlessly patched drywall the worst, I would definitely be up for that medal.
The office is coming along great. I mean, it's finished sans one piece of drywall, it has a floor, it has paint, it has doors, and it's starting to have decorations. What it does not have, yet, is very much writing going on. And by "very much," I mean "any." That's okay though. The countdown is on to National Novel Writing Month, which takes place rain or shine, with or without me, every November.
It's kind of a big deal.
So this November, like many Novembers past, I will begin to set my alarm clock for 5am, righteously waking to get a few hundred (a thousand?) words out before the sun and children wake up. I'm excited. Like, really excited this time around.
I'm still not sure if I'm sticking with the last novel idea or if I'm going with something new. A nightmare at nap time yesterday gave me a new idea for a set of characters. I'd tell you more, but I'm already pretty sure that someone stole the idea for Book of Eli from the inner depths of my mind, along with The Road and Cowboys and Aliens, so I don't tell anything anymore.
Let me just tangent off here for a second to talk about writing and telling. And let me say a thousand times over, a million times over, don't do it.
Do not do it.
Have you ever watched a movie, only to realize it was drastically different from the preview? Maybe it was better than you thought it would be based off the trailer, or maybe it was much, much worse. Either way, please for the love of all things written, do not try to explain to someone what your book is about while you're in the process of writing it. Write yourself an outline, if you want. Write your own synopsis of how you think it's all going to play out. But trust me when I say that there is no worse feeling than to spend twenty minutes trying to explain to your husband/wife/best friend what your book is about, only to have them left with a blank stare at the end of it.
And they'll try to be "helpful." Oh God, will they try to be helpful. They'll try to help you fill in plot holes. They'll tell you that something should just be a little tiny bit different. And it will completely ruin your mojo. Seriously. Dead in the water. It has happened to me twice. My husband means well, and it's my fault for not learning the first time. He likes Adam Sandler movies, okay? He is not the judge over what is good literature and what isn't. I love him to death, but this year, my lips are sealed.
You want someone to be as excited as you are about what you're doing...and they will be. AFTER you've finished. You have to finish first. Then, when someone asks you what your novel is about, hand them the draft. Let them work through it, each and every word. Don't try to summarize your work. Fifty different people are going to give you fifty different synopses of The Lord of the Rings trilogy. Things that are important to some people, therefore earning a spot in the synopsis, are not going to be as important to others. Remember that. It might be the most time-saving advice I've ever given. I have two novels written in about 30,000 words, and once you get discouraged by the reaction of someone else--especially someone close to you--you aren't going to go back.
There. Now that all of that garbage is out of the way, it's time to start getting organized around here.
Til next time,
Cherstin
The office is coming along great. I mean, it's finished sans one piece of drywall, it has a floor, it has paint, it has doors, and it's starting to have decorations. What it does not have, yet, is very much writing going on. And by "very much," I mean "any." That's okay though. The countdown is on to National Novel Writing Month, which takes place rain or shine, with or without me, every November.
It's kind of a big deal.
So this November, like many Novembers past, I will begin to set my alarm clock for 5am, righteously waking to get a few hundred (a thousand?) words out before the sun and children wake up. I'm excited. Like, really excited this time around.
I'm still not sure if I'm sticking with the last novel idea or if I'm going with something new. A nightmare at nap time yesterday gave me a new idea for a set of characters. I'd tell you more, but I'm already pretty sure that someone stole the idea for Book of Eli from the inner depths of my mind, along with The Road and Cowboys and Aliens, so I don't tell anything anymore.
Let me just tangent off here for a second to talk about writing and telling. And let me say a thousand times over, a million times over, don't do it.
Do not do it.
Have you ever watched a movie, only to realize it was drastically different from the preview? Maybe it was better than you thought it would be based off the trailer, or maybe it was much, much worse. Either way, please for the love of all things written, do not try to explain to someone what your book is about while you're in the process of writing it. Write yourself an outline, if you want. Write your own synopsis of how you think it's all going to play out. But trust me when I say that there is no worse feeling than to spend twenty minutes trying to explain to your husband/wife/best friend what your book is about, only to have them left with a blank stare at the end of it.
And they'll try to be "helpful." Oh God, will they try to be helpful. They'll try to help you fill in plot holes. They'll tell you that something should just be a little tiny bit different. And it will completely ruin your mojo. Seriously. Dead in the water. It has happened to me twice. My husband means well, and it's my fault for not learning the first time. He likes Adam Sandler movies, okay? He is not the judge over what is good literature and what isn't. I love him to death, but this year, my lips are sealed.
You want someone to be as excited as you are about what you're doing...and they will be. AFTER you've finished. You have to finish first. Then, when someone asks you what your novel is about, hand them the draft. Let them work through it, each and every word. Don't try to summarize your work. Fifty different people are going to give you fifty different synopses of The Lord of the Rings trilogy. Things that are important to some people, therefore earning a spot in the synopsis, are not going to be as important to others. Remember that. It might be the most time-saving advice I've ever given. I have two novels written in about 30,000 words, and once you get discouraged by the reaction of someone else--especially someone close to you--you aren't going to go back.
There. Now that all of that garbage is out of the way, it's time to start getting organized around here.
Til next time,
Cherstin
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