Massage Therapy - Isn't That Just For Women?

I totally take advantage of our community college's massage therapy program. See, it simple: in order to receive their license, the upcoming graduates need to clock so many hours of clinical massage. But, until they are licenced, they can't receive money for their services. So, this means that during this interim time when they're clocking their hours but aren't yet certified they are free game for super-cheap massages. They offer clinics where you pay $25 to the college (for materials and supplies) and get an awesome massage. Since they've just learned everything they're typically very eager to try new things and are very responsive and interactive. I love it.

Laying there last night I recounted my first, and very embarrassing, trip to the massage clinic. Because, really, it wouldn't be me if something didn't go as planned:

I was turned on to the massage clinic by a friend when I injured my psoas muscle. That's the one deep in your hip that flexes when you lift your leg. It's connected to your lower back (lumbar) and runs through your hip to your quad muscle. At the peak of my injury I could not move forward because I couldn't lift my leg. I could only crab-walk until it healed. Five weeks of alternating chiropractor and physical therapy visits landed me mostly healed and relying heavily on massage therapy. This meant getting VERY up-close and personal with my physical therapist who, thank God, was a woman. Seriously. Watching someone massage the psoas ligament is kinda like watching a dirty movie. If you didn't know what was going on you would think it was inappropriate. Digging around like that in some one's crotch isn't normal behavior. Neither is having to go in the back room and strip to your underwear to see the physical therapist. But, I digress.....  Had I not been in tears from the pain I was experiencing someone might have thought it wasn't therapy.

But massage? Sounded wonderful. The clinic is held at the community college in their massage lab - pretty much a large room with hospital curtains dividing up smaller, private areas with tables for massage. I sat with the other six people and signed my release papers while we waited for the massagers to fetch us. After completing my laundry list of "torn psoas muscle requiring chiropractics and physical therapy", followed by "my physical therapist recommending massage to compliment healing" and pretty much detailing that fact that me and this masseuse were going to be getting up-close-and-personal, the practitioners entered. And I nearly died.

There were six seemingly plain college-age girls, any of which would have made the perfect masseuse, and one rather handsome young blond guy. Now, some may think its a dream to have some hot, young college guy massage them. But, really? Come on. I immediately began to regret my decision to have a massage and before I could exit stage left Theron (yes, I still remember his name) called me to his massage table. Oh damn. What were the odds? One in seven? And the one that needs her crotch massaged gets the dude? How embarrassing. So, we began to detail my injury and rehabilitation schedule and then he politely informed me "he'd see what he could do." Great. I could have died. But, he was so professional. And should I see him today I would thank him for that.

But, no. There's more. After I "disrobed to my comfort level (how does one get a massage in their jeans and coat?)" and "started face down between the sheets" we got into the meat of the massage - starting with my back. With my face crammed down on the hemorrhoid-pillow-thingy it was difficult to respond to his constant questioning, "Is that painful?" "How's the pressure?" "Is it tender here?" "Do you have any numbness anywhere?".

Now, remember, we're all in one room separated by curtains. And I can hear the other massagers asking the same questions.

And, it was this fateful question when things really went downhill. "How's the pressure?"

To which I replied, "Good, but you can use more pressure." With my face in the pillow it sounded more like, "id, can't you rasher?" because he said, "Excuse me? What was that?"......and that's when I lifted my head, turned it and said (a little to loudly), "I said 'Can you do it harder?'"

And at that very moment I knew it was bad. Really bad. Too much, too loud, very, very, bad. The others heard and they stopped talking, then started snickering because, really?, had we really just heard the girl who needed her crotch massaged say to the only guy in the place "Do it harder?" Really?

And, surprisingly, I couldn't relax for any part of my hour long torture session. And, he went nowhere near my psoas. Thank god.

How To Find Your Kid at Daycare

So, Colt goes part time to a small in-home daycare near my parent's house. And by small I mean six kids total. And two of them are her own kids. So we're looking at four extra kids there. Not a real difficult time telling which one is mine.

That said, there is the cutest little boy, Fenley, who is about two, maybe two and a half, who also attends the daycare and appears to be the official "watcher of the parents." Completely adorable. When I drive up he's patiently standing at the front bay window on the lookout for expectant parents. He then loudly exclaims as I'm walking up, "Baby Colt's momma is here. Baby Colt's momma is here!!" and then is most often followed by his proclamation of which parent is next to arrive. Usually, "I think Sarah's momma is going to come next for her. Or my momma will come next." And he is always right. Because he and Sarah are usually the only two other ones there!

So, Monday as I approached the house I here the usual, "Baby Colt's momma is here!!" and the following conversation took place:

(Meeting me at the front door) Fen: "You are Baby Colt's momma."

Me: "I am indeed."

Fen: "Are you taking Baby Colt home to see his dadda?"
Me: "I am. We are going home to see his dadda."
Fen: "That's what I thought. Let me show you where Baby Colt is."  

Then, looking at me like, "hello?" he waves me to follow him into the front room where Colt is sitting with Sarah. He then marches over to Colt, pats him on the bottom, points to him and says, "Yes. This one is Baby Colt. Baby Colt is right here. Baby Colt, this is your momma and she is going to take you to see your dadda."

How stinking cute is that?

A Few New Pics!

It's about time to pack up the play mat. He loves to take the links off the bars and chew on them! He tries to pull himself up using the rods of the play mat and tips the whole thing over on top of him.

I swear this baby would go anywhere with you as long as he can ride along in the backpack! He loves his daddy!

Here's the usual shot in the Bumbo. (Notice how good I'm getting at not getting all the wine glasses!!) 

8 months! Can you believe it?

Colt's first 5k! Auntie Amy and Zoey were up visiting from Puyallup last weekend and invited us to do the Alzheimer's walk in Fairhaven with Michelle, Amy's sister. The weather was beautiful! The course went from the Fairhaven Green to Boulevard Park and back. So gorgeous that morning! We completed the race and walked back to Boulevard Park so Zoey could play at the playground (which was a perfect nap time for the little guy.) It was awesome to see Amy and catch up!

Who loves his Auntie Amy??

A Little Goat History..

It seems like lately (stemming obviously from the massive amount of goat-related posts) I've been getting the question, "Wait. Now, why did you get goats in the first place?" and I feel compelled to answer this. As if it will somehow validate or rationalize our decision to purchase the goats.

So, Todd works with a lot of Fijian Islanders (in, like, they're from Fiji.). And they, apparently, eat a substantial amount of goat. The good thing is that they like to purchase whole, live goats and prefer to take them to do their own butchering and processing. So, all that is needed is someone with property (do all Fijian Islanders live in town?), a little time, A LOT of patience and perhaps lacking the ability to, oh, I don't know.....say no? Enter Todd and Rikki! The farm-tackling duo with just the right combination of (or, lack of) brains, property, time and patience!

And that, my friends, is how we came to house five of the most wonderful goats placed on this earth. (Do we all sense the sarcasm?)

Oh, did I mention two of them have developed this weird, scaly rash on their noses? I didn't? Hmm. That's weird. Maybe that's because I've spent too much time posting about them escaping to talk about the strange fungal infections they're developing.

Oh, and I was thinking: maybe they (the Fijian Islanders) don't all live in town and lack the means of raising their own goats. Maybe they're just a little smarter than we are.....

Goat Update.

Just what you've all been waiting for -  a goat update!

Well, it appears that the substantial fencing improvements have made an impression on the goats. We have had ---- drumroll please ----- FIVE CONSECUTIVE DAYS without a wayward goat.

I know, I know. And you were thinking we'd given up. Not this lean, mean, goat-wrangling machine.

'Cause We're Not Weird.

Mother's Day was pretty exciting around our house for one very obvious reason - it was my first Mother's Day! It was also very exciting for another reason - there was an ALL NEW episode of Yo Gabba Gabba! about families where the Gabba Land friends got to visit Muno and Plex's families to learn about taking special care of babies. We also got to see all the Gabba Land friends when they were babies. I've had the TV set to DVR it for, oh, 3 weeks.

I am not a fan of cartoons. In fact, I can't really stand them. But Yo Gabba Gabba! is like a disco-trance kid's show that totally sucks you in! If you didn't know you were at home watching a kid's show, you'd swear you were dancing at some techno club. Seriously. So began our love affair with Yo Gabba Gabba! I mean, so began Colt's love affair with Yo Gabba Gabba. Here are some pictures so you can visualize better:

(Muno is by far the most famous. You might recognize him from the KIA commercials?)

Now, for those of you NOT familiar with the show Yo Gabba Gabba!, let me enlighten you: It's a show hosted by DJ Lance Rock, a 30-something, tall, skinny, black guy, dressed in an orange spandex running suit, complete with an orange feathery hat and HUGE dark rimmed glasses. At the beginning of each show he walks in with his boom-box, sets it down, and pulls out his five Gabba Land friends to the tune of "Come on and let's play with DJ Lance Rock today. Yo Gabba Gabba. Yo Gabba Gabba." The song continues as he puts down each inanimate "friend" and they turn to life. "Muno: He's tall and friendly. Foofa: She's pink and happy. Brobee: The little green one. Toodee: She likes to have fun. Plex: The magic robot.....come and and let's play with DJ Lance Rock today. Yo Gabba Gabba! Yo Gabba Gabba!" Following along? Seeing the hypnosis you're entering? Seriously. You have to watch this show. The messages are short and to the point.

1. Don't bite your friends. Chomp your sandwich, but don't bite your friends.
2. Dirty, ugly germs on  can get on your food if you drop it. You shouldn't eat food off the floor.
3. Sharing: good thing. Knocking over your friend's tower of blocks: bad thing.
4. Babies need special care. Don't handle baby unless an adult is around.
5. You don't have to be scared of the dark.
6. ...and so on and so on...

So, after the baby went to bed night before last, Todd and I sat down after dinner and scanned through our DVR file. And we settled on the latest episode of Yo Gabba Gabba!: Baby. And there we were: two full grown adults, baby sleeping, dinner eaten, chores finished, sitting down to a new episode of our favorite show. Who says we're not well adjusted?

Farm Fun!

So, Tuesday morning I send Todd off to work. I have Tuesdays off and I usually spend it catching up on housework, cleaning, dishes, laundry, organizing, playing with the baby, etc. Usually Todd does all the animal chores in the morning and I tend to the other animal - Colt. However, on Tuesdays we (Colt and I) usually sleep in (until around 6:00am...), have breakfast, coffee (you heard it here first - I'm back on the sauce...) and watch some toons. Tuesdays are also Todd's "free day" because I do all the animal chores after he's left for work.

Instead of sleeping in though, I was up by 5:30 with a lean, mean, housecleaning routine planned for the day. By 7:00 I had: swept, swiffered and mopped the house, unloaded the dishwasher and reloaded it, started two loads of laundry, folded a load, planned my grocery list, eaten breakfast, fed the baby and vacuumed our bedroom. Sweet, huh!? I also had some phone calls to make, but decided to wait until after 8:00am to do that.

So, I head to the barn to start the chores with the baby on my back. First stop: chicken brooders. I notice their heat lamp isn't on and I opened the lid to find the heat lamp blown into a million pieces scattered about the bottom of the brooder. It had literally exploded everywhere. And who knows how long it was out, because all the chickens were shivering! Shards and glass bits were everywhere - in their food, on the floor, in their water. It was terrible. I spent about 30 minutes cleaning that up and installing a new light wondering how many would die from internal bleeding do to glass ingestion. (Chickens aren't the smartest things I've ever met.)

All was well with the horse, donkey and laying hens, so that was a relief. But, when I make it to the goats (remember they're currently housed in the chicken coop) I notice that Ronald (who is not in the coop) is limping around the field. Great. Broken goat. Just what I need. Upon further inspection I notice the rope around his neck (which almost reaches the ground and has a knot at the end) is caught between his two little cloven hooves. He's pulled the rope tight against his toes because it doesn't quite reach the ground when he steps. So, every time he take a step it pulls his head down when he tries to put his foot down. Troublesome, obviously. He's limping around the field doing this head-bob-foot-limpy-thing. I decide (with the baby strapped to my back, obviously..) to wage a one-manned mission to remove the rope from Ronald's neck. (Doesn't every good farm story seem to start with the baby strapped to my back?)

What actually happened was me chasing the poor goat (who wanted absolutely nothing to do with me or my baby) twice around the field as he attempted to trot with his toes hung up on the rope, pulling his head down every time he took a step. I acknowledged the futile mission and went back to the house - leaving Ronald to his own devices, but making a mental note to remind Todd it was imperative we remove the rope.

The rest of the day went as per usual. Kinda. My brother stopped by later that afternoon and was helping me move the chicken coops and repair some fence when he says, "What's Griz got? A rat?" Griz had followed us into the field and found something to gnaw on. All things considered, the rat seemed better than his usual 3-course meal of horse poop, chicken poop and cow poop. However, upon further inspection I made a grizzly discovery. Griz had found and was chewing up the wayward cow-castration byproduct. For those of you unfamiliar with cow castration....let me enlighten you.

Step 1. Catch bull calf.
Step 2. Either a) heavily sedate said bull calf or, b) corner, tie up or otherwise incapacitate the calf.
Step 3. Place large elastic band around their manhood.
Step 4. Release "strapped" calf and allow to wander until banded manhood falls off never to be seen of again.

I'm sure those of you who have been following the blog remember last year's episode of castration and the disaster that ensued. Therefore, we had them banded before purchasing them. This did not, obviously, prevent Griz from finding that little bit of heaven laying around the field.

Absolutely-fricking-disgusting.