Adventures In The Outback



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Ever had to wear a hazmat suit during an interview?  This is the sort of thing my baby sister (a veterinarian) always gets herself into.  Mind you, she was applying for a job to take care of apes who had been retired from research and still carried infectious diseases.  But it soon became apparent that the hazmat suit was needed for everyday tasks, as the apes liked to throw (Can we call it apeshit?) stuff at their caretakers.

My sister called immediately to tell me about the interview.  She was a bit freaked out and more than a little incredulous.  She told her potential employer she needed to think it over.  The apes were huge, loud, and aggressive; not quite the cute monkeys she had in mind.

I told her I’d had several jobs that involved having quite a bit of shit thrown at me, but I’d never gotten bombarded with shit during an interview.  (Well, maybe, but I didn’t realize it at the time...)

 Four showers later the same afternoon (the hazmat suit had not exactly offered the level of protection she expected and her hair still smelled), she accepted the job.

Fast forward five years:  The ape job has run out of funding, and my sister is heading out on a new adventure.  This time she’s moving to Australia to tend 4000 acres of sheep.  The sheep produce a substance that is used to make the anti-venom for rattlesnake bites, which are quite the problem in The Land Down Under.



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She phones en route and talks about how pretty and expensive New Zealand is (an overnight stop for her on her two-and-a-half day journey to Australia).  Her new employer put her up in a Hilton Hotel there and she was having a lovely time.

The next day I receive an email from her that says that she has arrived in Australia and has been deposited in “an 1850’s settler’s cabin with an outhouse.”  The email after that mentions that she "hopes to sleep better tonight, having finally acquired a pillow and blanket after work, after noticing they were missing too late to do anything about it the night before."  She has to stay in the settler's cabin for at least six months.

My sister is no stranger to getting dirty or even to primitive conditions.  While serving a stint in the Army she was pushed out of perfectly good planes in foreign lands to vaccinate wildebeests in the fields (or something like that).  But the tone of her email worries me, and I envision her in the fetal position on a dirt floor freezing to death.

Her next email arrives complete with an attached photo of a Funnel Web spider.  Her employer is warning her that these, the deadliest of spiders, have been recently sighted near her office.  I am not usually unnerved by spiders, but the photo almost makes me black out.

The next evening another email arrives.  It does not sound like my sister.  I rush into the den and shriek at my TV-watching husband: “Someone has Maggie!”  “Huh?  What?” he replies.  I explain that her email does not sound like her, and I suspect she may have been abducted.  “She’s just tired and fried,” my husband says.  “I know my sister, and this is not her!” I respond. "Just tired and fried," he tries again.

I return to my office and read her email one more time.  My gut still says something is wrong.  I ask a few questions and push “send.”  Minutes later I receive a reply from my sister.  It is bizarre and the conversation is not making any sense.  I worry all night.  (I still have no phone number for her.)

The next morning I receive an additional email from my sister.  Turns out it is actually from her boyfriend, who is using the email account Maggie formerly used when living in her home out West before the move.  (I hadn't thought to check the email address in my excitement at hearing from her and seeing her name in the "from" line!  But hey, I'm not used to someone using someone else's email address!)  I reread the "abduction" emails with this new understanding and have a good laugh.

Later I receive a cheerier email that is really from my sister, explaining that things are just off enough in Australia to have kind of a Twilight Zone feel:  “Everything is the same, but it’s not.  They speak the same language, but they don’t.”  I’m thinking about how true that statement has been for me!



My baby sister, Maggie, Photo by Marianne M. Smith



Maggie emails once more and has finally stoked the fireplace and unpacked all her coats.  I think she’ll probably make it in The Outback.  But when she comes back for a visit, you can bet I’ll be checking that luggage for imported spiders!  Good Day, Mates!

Had any great adventures of your own out of the country?  I'd love to hear about them!  Please feel free to leave a comment.

Marianne M. Smith
Writer At The Ranch
Making You Look Brilliant One Word At A Time
http://writerattheranch.com
wordsmith@writerattheranch.com

My Life as a Man in Ho Chi Minh City

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Last week I joined a seniors only dating service.  I also bought two website domains for my new pornography sites.  I even created my own credit card fraud investigation service so I could acquire additional information to complete my identity.  I then set up five more online charges that should go through at any minute.

Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on your point of view, the real Marianne finally checked her online banking records and called her bank.  I was so good at my job that at first her bank could not confirm or deny whether my credit card fraud investigation service was reputable.

Boy howdy, did I have a few moments of high anxiety last night when I realized some jerk was running amuck online with my credit/debit card information!  And of course it was after hours, making it that much more difficult to sort through these wacky charges and kill the credit/debit card.

This morning, my Friday began entirely too early with me sitting in a chair across from a bank officer, trying to assess the damage.  I took deep breaths and tried to calm myself.  The damages were not as bad as I first feared, and my bank officer was super helpful, concerned, and cooperative.  Aside from jangled nerves and the inconvenience of having to reset all my online credit information (and be at the bank before coffee), the worst damage appears to be having to wait almost two weeks for a new credit/debit card.  (Normally in this circumstance a new card is issued the same day the problem is reported, but my bank just went through a merger, so things are a bit more complicated.)  I almost never carry cash, so this is problematic.



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Oh, and then there was the most damaging moment of all:  At the end of our meeting the young and handsome bank officer advised I was eligible for some nice upgrades to my checking account, “…Because you are over 50, right?”  My driver’s license was right there on the desk, so denial was not an option.  Of course, since I’m not stupid, I took the upgrades.  But I have to say that my ego was a bit dinged.  I assured him that I look younger after coffee, a little later in the day.  He smiled like he would at his grandmother.

I wonder if the man in Ho Chi Minh City knew he had taken the identity of a woman who was currently eligible for LOLCA (Little Old Lady Checking Account)? J  I hope the rest of my weekend is drama-free.  And if you see me out and about, will you please pay my way? Because I’ve already spent the cash they gave me this morning…

Comments?  Commiserations?  I’d love to hear them.

Marianne M. Smith
Writer At The Ranch
Making You Look Brilliant One Word At A Time
http://writerattheranch.com
wordsmith@writerattheranch.com

Cutting Yourself Some Slack

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We all bleed red, we all taste rain, all fall down, lose our way.
We all say words we regret, we all cry tears, we all bleed red. –Ronnie Dunn

In our over amped, supercharged world, we’re often trying to do more and be more, and be perfect at all of it.

But life is a journey and a process, and perfection is not a realistic goal, much less a healthy one.

We fall short.
We screw up.
We make significant mistakes.
We hurt other people.

Not to say we shouldn’t try hard or give a flip, but sometimes we are our own harshest critics.  Being accountable is one thing; being unrelenting in our expectations is quite another.  Frequently we expect more of ourselves than we would ever dream of expecting from other people. 

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It really is ok if someone gets mad at us, or feels disappointed or let down.  We don’t have to like it, but it is ok.  We really can’t be all things to all people all the time!

And we can goal-set and scheme all we want, and sometimes things simply don’t pan out.
 

Consider, too, that without our imperfections, we’d lose a lot of our humanity and most of our compassion.  The difficult and unappealing aspects of our lives greatly influence who we are as individuals, perhaps even more than the good and great aspects do.



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Try letting go of whatever you’re currently beating yourself up about – for a day, or even an hour.  See if it changes things.  This is something I’m working on in my own life – giving myself permission to be wonderfully imperfect.  It’s very liberating.

I’d love to hear about your own experience with cutting yourself some slack.  Feel free to comment or shoot me an email.

Imperfectly yours,

Marianne M. Smith
Writer At The Ranch
Making You Look Brilliant One Word At A Time
http://writerattheranch.com
wordsmith@writerattheranch.com

The Enchanted Hobby Farm Life



Photo of my nieces by Marianne M. Smith





Many who have never farmed harbor the idea that living on a hobby farm is an enchanting experience.  And most days it is!  But as fellow farmer Peggy Marchetti says:  “It ain’t all banjos and butterflies!”

Maybe Mars was in retrograde and the moon was full, but this week all the animals at our farm have been in a total uproar.   And normally my animals soothe me, but this week all they have done is jangle what seems to be my last nerve.

Just yesterday I came home to find that our eighty-pound Weim pup had eaten the mud-catching doormat at the most used entrance to our home.  I’m picking up shreds of the rug, and hear one of the housecats heaving while the other one leads the overly excited dogs on a chase through our too-small house.

While attempting to block the dog/cat exchange, I slide across the wet kitchen floor (dogs have upset their water bowls), ramming into the island.

I am momentarily further distracted by the screaming of an older but beloved goat who has developed an untreatable and unnerving condition.  (Just to clarify, the goat does live outside.)




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The donkeys are braying loudly for their dinner, and I haven’t even landed yet.  My husband walks through the door in time for the dog /cat ritual to begin again.  He pulls dog hair off his office clothes and grabs for one of the ever-present slobber rags.  The Newf has his head in the remaining water and we have exactly four seconds to respond before being totally covered in drool.

We get the dogs and the floor mopped up and attempt to get the pups out the sliding doors, which now totally block the lovely view outside because they are coated in slobber and muddy paw prints.

The dogs then chase the barn cats, who have decided to take up residence on the porch just to torment the dogs.  Then the barn cats return to the porch to torture the inside cats.  I’m yelling at both sets of cats while my husband is trying to decide whether to offer me wine or go on vacation alone.

One of my usually relaxed barn cats  Photo by Marianne M. Smith

We head to the barn to begin the nightly feeding rituals, and the usually complacent barn cats are hissing and spitting and carrying on with each other.  The hay-laden Gator runs out of gas half-way between the barn and the pastures.  It’s quite late, and I’m tired, hungry, and overwhelmed.  The garden still needs to be watered. 

When I have days like this, I have to keep repeating to myself that I love having a hobby farm.  And that the animals bring me great joy and purpose.  But this week, even to my practiced ear, that mantra sounds like the ranting of a madwoman.

Today my “day off” consisted of steadying drugged donkeys in the barn after our spring gelding party.  Doesn’t everyone live this way?   Now, about that vacation…  Did you just volunteer to be our farm-sitter? J

Marianne M. Smith
Writer At The Ranch
Making You Look Brilliant One Word At A Time
http://writerattheranch.com
wordsmith@writerattheranch.com