I could tell that the road didn’t look right, even for Kentucky. At any minute I just knew the creek would turn back into a road. Or like the Wizard of Oz, everything would blast into Technicolor if I could just go a little further. I checked my directions by backtracking in my mind, and sure enough, I was still on course.

I was doing what the paper told me to do. Have you ever talked to a customer service rep who couldn’t understand the situation but could only follow the directions on the paper? Did you ever shout, “Could you stop reading your script and just THINK?” I was that stupid.

I realized there was going to be a problem about five miles in when I came across green branches hanging across the “road” and realized that we’d been where no man had gone before. At least, since this spring. There were no power lines, fencing, driveways, or any other forms of life. I was hoping for a beer can, but noooo. The reason I pressed on was because there was no way to turn around.

When I saw the mud, I swung for the left and punched it, hoping to bump over the worst of it like the Dukes of Hazard. I thought we had a decent chance because it hadn’t rained in a week.

We were stuck. Apparently, that flying stuff only works in the movies. I concede the 12-passenger van probably wasn’t the best vehicle to try this in. Our navy blue 4 x 4 that plays country music, which is what I would’ve been driving had the situation been normal, is in the shop because that’s the way my life works.

The lady at AAA wanted to know if there was pavement nearby because she didn’t want the tow truck to get stuck.

Oh boy.

That’s when I understood this wasn’t going to go well: “You do know I’m in Kentucky, right? There are stories about Kentucky. Let me tell you some.”

“Well, what ROAD are you on?”

This is complicated.

“What’s your cell number?”

OK, this is really complicated. I have a trac-phone about to die and/or run out of minutes, and I just got it, and I lost my real cell phone with my real phone numbers, and I don’t know my (!) phone number, and DON’T YOU PEOPLE HAVE CALLER ID?!

“Well, ma’am, what road are you on again?”

I need a professional. I need a local who knows how to take a left at the old oak tree and cross the creek where it’s low. I really tried to explain to her how I got here, but like the FBI, she wanted names, people, names. Just Google map it, and you’ll get here just like me, but do not look for nice little street signs before you attempt a rescue. You just gotta go for it, you know?

From the back seat, my girls want to know what we’re going to do. I used to watch Survivor Man so I took inventory of the situation. In the deep recesses of my brain, I kind of remember seeing Carri Peterson’s cell number before. I count cards when I play Rook and poker, so this wasn’t a huge stretch. Pulling this number out now could be an asset along with the stale french fries in the bench seats.

“Are you praying?” the girls want to know.

“No. I’m trying to hypnotize myself to remember Carri’s phone number. I mean, yes! Praying!”

Ring, ring. Ba-da-bing. It wasn’t an Indian who fixes computers; it was Carri! Don’t hang up or have to go! Carri assured me that guys in these ridges live for these moments, which would be great so long as we could find a guy. I’m sexist. Please don’t send me a lady.

And just like that, after a chain of phone calls by someone who knows someone whose cousin…. some guy in a Polaris Ranger pulls up out of nowhere. Awesome.

Let’s pause to thank the Lord and give it up for beer cans and bass.

His name was Chris and I almost married him on the spot. Hey ohhh.

He didn’t understand, “Aw shucks. I do this all the time.”

“Yeah, me and the 14 other people who got stuck out here today had a tailgate party. Man, it’s crowded out here. You should put down some gravel. Just saying.”

When the chain broke off and the Polaris Ranger spun out, he told me that I was lucky to have got stuck right here and not up the hill. It’s waist-deep up there and I wouldn’t be a gettin’ out of that. Three cheers for this spot!

So before he left to upgrade to a real truck, we struck a double pinky swear and picked a scab to become blood brothers for-ev-ah that he’d come back. Please. You don’t understand that I’m not from around here (or maybe, just maybe, he did….).

An hour later after my new very best friend forever, Chris, and I had some strategy talk —he did the strategy, and I did the talking—- and I was free free, I was free at last, just minus the suspension, shocks, and a tank of gas. Small price!

BFF Chris personally escorted me to The Valley where I was meeting some new friends (met right here from the ole blog). He knew the Valley. He knew my road, Burnt Beach. (Burnt Beach is a four-wheelin’ trail with cliffs and mudslides, which are mildly 78.2% different than in, say, Florida. One is t-ball and the other is MLB All Stars.) And he wasn’t taken no more chances today with them city slickers. And then he apologized for getting my ve-hi-cle all muddy.

That, my friends, is service. Group hug!

When we pulled in my final destination, triple A, who never found me, wanted to know if I was “happy with my experience today using triple A.” Now that, friends, is what I call reading from the script. Long live common sense….for all of us.

I just wanted to say that your posts have blessed me. Particularly the one I re-read today about QF [Amy: contraception and what conservative Christians refer to as the concept of being "quiverfull"]. I commented on it over a year ago when it ran and I read my comments which looked *very* lame to me today. A lot has happened in the past year. [snip]

I have a baby now and my house looks like a bomb went off in it most days. I am frequently overwhelmed and think women with 2 or 6 or 10 kids must be from another planet than me. Maybe I’m just a “wuss”. This is to say, your post and it’s compassion towards overwhelmed mothers has new meaning for me today and is appreciated. I feel embarrassed about being overwhelmed because I only have one child but it is what it is.

This means a lot to me because there is one more woman in the world who gets it. Catherine, I talk a lot about doing hard things because that’s what life requires. On the other hand, now I understand I could’ve avoided a lot of pain early on in life if I analyzed the situation as it was and not as I wanted it to be. This is harder to do when you are busy convincing everyone, including yourself, that you are doing great. Kuddos to you for your honest assessment.

On the heels of that this morning, I read a post about — OK, of all things — pitch correction by our friend, Rick Saenz. Of course, it’s not my usual fare of the doomed economy. I read the post because I enjoy reading well written pieces, even if I don’t care much about the subject matter. (By the way, you will not subscribe to a better written blog.) I figure the discipline of reading good writing will rub off. If split infinitives are any standard, then we all know that my reason is a bold-faced lie. It’s not rubbing off.

Still, I read it, and my patience was rewarded with this gem. I put it here for your consideration (with my bolded emphasis), with the understanding that it was written in light of tradeoffs in performing and recording music but is applicable to many of the Mommy Wars.

Wisdom does not choose a particular approach and champion it over the alternatives. Instead, wisdom works to understand the pros and cons of each individual choice. It looks to understand how particular choices interact to produce results, sometimes unexpected ones. It considers how wishful thinking can lead us to make poor choices, hoping that things will somehow turn out for the best. It distinguishes between practical matters and pragmatism. It recognizes that when no perfect path is available and knowledge is incomplete, it is often helpful to reserve judgment on what appear to be poor choices that others have made. Most important, it does not refuse to participate in projects that are less than ideal, but applies itself to bring whatever improvements it can to whatever circumstances present themselves.

I think the last sentence is the answer on how to end up at a great church wherever you live.

Like then, I sat by and waited for my blog to implode, and it never happened. My blog is still here, and I don’t know why. I only wanted to tell you before there was a permanent error message.

There is no secret reason about why I fake-quit my blog. I really just didn’t want to fiddle with c-panel stuff, and I didn’t want to transfer archives to blogspot. It’s as simple as that.

It was the rocket scientist who had a tantrum (complete with tears and stomping) and threatened to invoke his first ever Patriarchal “Submit, woman,” forcing me back to bloggerdom. It really happened just as I described.

I’ve never threatened to quit (or pseudo-quit and come back) in four and a half years of blogging. After Challies, that’s gotta be some sort of record. Of course, this isn’t proof of my emotional stability, just proof that I know how to hide my bad behavior – usually. Greg wishes I was this good with my behavior at public events.

[Edit: People with blog commitment issues are not emotionally unstable. That's not what I meant. Just roll with me here. I have writing issues, as well as arts-n-crafts issues.]

I wasn’t trying to be a drama queen. Thank you for your comments and emails. Now how do I tell the 2,000 people who have already unsubscribed?

My blog might blink-blink around here for awhile, but Greg says he’ll fix it up. I love having my own personal rocket scientist. I guess I should’ve mentioned it to him before I started my drama. The truth is, I just thought, “Hm. I don’t want to move it, so that’s that.”

This is fine by me. I didn’t mean to be noncommittal in my last post, but when I say that I don’t take myself too seriously, I include my blog in that too. I don’t have an identity love affair with it, which is why it’s easy to see it in perspective and also to take my smackdowns when they deservedly come.

The bottom line is that Greg wants to fix it. It might go down for awhile. (It might not. Who knows. This is so complicated.) Then I’ll be back to lazy blogging right here.

You can resubscribe to my blog here.

That leaves me with two options: I can move or I can quit.

After moving ourselves out-of-state nine months ago, I said, “I’m never moving again. Ever.” I think I was referring to unpacking china teacups and cranky children, but really, I have [pinching fingers] this much desire to move anything, ever, anywhere. I can only take so much.

Cocoa the Million Dollar mutt is acting almost dead and Greg is on his third trip in three weeks. Never mind the weeds and the laundry and the fake noises in the night. It’s just not on my radar if that makes sense.

The other option is quitting. Maybe it’s a sign. Maybe it’s time. Or maybe I’ll go to blogspot and start an anonymous blog saying all the stuff I can’t possible say under my own name. I’ll talk about my secret weapon stash; the evils of unit studies; how much I hate arts and crafts and my children live for arts and crafts and there are six of them—God bless me; my past life as a happy homeschooler, day trader, landlord, and public school teacher; and I’ll teach you how to always win at Rook and the Rainbow Resource table.

I’ll call it “Stuff Homeschoolers Like” because you know how unseriously homeschoolers take themselves.

Pause for the gaffaw.

I only jest, of course, on ever making fun of anyone other than myself. The blog disappearing very soon, however, is very real. See ya later or maybe not.

After four and a half years of blogging, I always thought my goodbye post would have some thought and effort put into it, but here it is, all five minutes it took me to write it.

On a related subject, this couldn’t happen without American apathy. Here’s an Obama voter who is intellectually honest (profanity at the link).

The largest tax increase in American history passed the House last night, and America was eating popcorn at the movies. I gave up from my phone calling, emailing, and letter writing from TARP days. I am a mother of six with only so many nerves left. Besides, I need to save my time and money for buying gold (that Obama will confiscate like FDR), treasuries from somewhere like Antarctica, and rolled oats that won’t get pantry moths.

Watch the video. Please. It’s worth your time.

Vote them all out.

We wanted someone to read the bill. If they cared, or wanted that pretense for the American people, there would’ve been a copy of the bill in the room.

Forget about the lost jobs, the fact that Obama is taped saying that electricity rates would “necessarily skyrocket”, the fact that it didn’t work anywhere else and gave Spain 18.1% unemployment as a result. Even the Australians are getting rid of their program. Forget about all that for a minute. Just read the stupid bill before you sign the biggest tax hike (according to the New York Times) in history.

The inconvenient thing, of course, is that the EPA (yes, our EPA, that EPA) said that jobs will go overseas as a direct result of cap and trade (because it’s cheaper to produce in a country without, um, cap and trade) and it will actually increase greenhouse gas emissions as a result. Brilliant. But let’s not talk about pesky details.

We just want some common sense.

A lot of people –AIG, Goldman Sachs, GE, Al Gore, Nancy Pelosi ($50,000 - $100,000 invested in Clean Energy Fuels), etc– stand to make a ton of money from trading on this. Politicians will get rich, the government will get more control, and businesses will pass on costs to us. We are the losers.

I’m just so ashamed that these people represent us, the American people. I’m so ashamed that this is the best we can do. We owe our service men and women better than this. If I was the mother of a soldier this week, I’d be livid at the mockery our elected representatives are making of the Constitution that our soldiers risk their lives to protect.

Common people are decent and honest. They pay their taxes. They want to raise their children in a safe community. I know because I live near them. Our community is like that. America is not California and the Fourth Congressional district of Massachusetts (where they keep electing Barney Frank). In turn, we just want some common sense and decency. We just want them to stop lying to us. It’s not rocket science.

I’ve got a real crisis for the politicians in Washington, as opposed to a fake one. How about the economy and cutting the budget? How about Iran and North Korea? How about convincing the world not to dump the dollar?

I just want to go on record for railing against this too, just in case you missed my sideblog and didn’t know I was against all the bailouts and for common sense. ;)

It was my first concert. After that, I was hooked on 80’s pop music and sitcoms, my youth spent in front of MTV jumping off the couch with a tennis racket as my guitar. My first record (got it for Christmas) was Thriller. My first cassette tape was Cyndi Lauper’s She’s So Unusual. My first memorized piece of “poetry” was the entire album of Prince’s Purple Rain. That might explain a lot.

I asked my kids at dinner tonight, “Do you know who Michael Jackson is?”

Nope.

“Do you know that song that goes, ‘Just beat it, beat it, ooo!’” (I sang it passably.)

Nope.

I did the moonwalk.

Nope.

“Do you know what a record is?”

“Yes, it’s the thing Daddy shoots with the .22!”

There’s going to be a ton of media coverage on Michael Jackson, so I thought rank his best songs just so you will know.

Best Michael Jackson Songs Pre-Man in the Mirror

Did I rank them right? I think so. Lemme know if I missed Bad, but I don’t think so.

My children are coming of age, and I feel good about living on a farm. For one, the biology is very natural here. Two and probably more importantly, it means that there is less for me to explain. I hate awkward moments.

I talk about the birds and bees as we go along in order to avoid a “sit down” time where we both feel really uncomfortable. I am the one at the party who will say something stupid just so that there are no awkward moments, and in doing so, create an awkward moment so that nobody feels awkward.

But man, did I ever find myself in an awkward moment last week.

I pulled into the local Methodist church one evening looking for Doug, the neighbor who does artificial insemination.

McGregor, our son who just turned 11, noticed the signs that Heidi, our milk cow, had not been bred. McGregor will make a very good husband one day, not just for his humor and work ethic, but because he intimately understands the female reproductive cycle. In a bovine, anyway, which are quite similar to women I’ve noticed.

The church happened to be holding their VBS last week, and the place was crawling with kids. Folks were standing around socializing. I said “hello” to a few of my neighbors and casually asked Doug’s sisters if anyone knew where he was. He was not here, and so I retrieved his cell number.

In the meantime, I asked the ladies if I needed my own “goods” for the cow or if Doug brought Jersey semen when he came to do the job. I know it is standard practice for the AI guy to bring his own materials, but considering the low cost, $15, I thought I’d ask to make sure.

So the woman I asked wasn’t sure. She decided to ask her sister who happened to be standing on the other side of the volleyball court and parking lot.

“DOES DOUG HAVE SEMEN?” she yelled.

Oh my word. Emily Post would have a heart attack, but what should I do? Where is the rock for a nice southern girl to crawl under?

The implications of the question had me in a quandary. Back in Florida, this would be a Jerry Springer moment, but out in the country, everyone, I hoped, knew for sure that we were just talking about bulls. Naturally. I’m obviously a girl caught between city and country. I can talk about this without giggling, but not yet like….this.

Just when it couldn’t get any worse, the recipient of the question hollered, “WHAT?! I can’t hear you!”

That’s like the dentist finishing a root canal and then telling you that it was the wrong tooth. We must start this over.

There were the children, after all. About a hundred of them all within earshot. I thought we should have a secret meeting behind the church to discuss these matters, but they weren’t having any of it. That’s when the pastor looked at me, but I think that was a coincidence.

“Semen! Does Doug have some? S – E – M – E – N! Has he got any?”

Oh Lord Jesus come quickly.

Indeed, the man had some. We cleared that up. I tried popping my eyes back into my head and drove on home, feeling real lucky to live in a place like this. I thought we were pretty liberal and loosey-goosey around here with the adolescent education, but apparently, I still have a long way to go.

With all my complaining about this and that, there are things that go right sometimes.

But this is not one of them:

Meet Pup. I picked him up last week at an Amish farm. He was one in a litter of nine puppies, and I felt sorry for him soaked in the rain. Now I just feel sorry for my stupidity. But I’m in real good with the kids.