The Frontier House-(PBS)-My Current Obsession

During the first year of our marriage, Biceps and I were strapped for cash. We lived in a small duplex (that eventually blew up), had a musician’s lifestyle of touring, pinching pennies and being creative on dates.

And of course, this lifestyle meant no cable t.v.. We only watched what we could get with our rabbit ears.
I remember coming upon this PBS series almost 10 years ago. We were fascinated by it, and stayed up almost the entire evening watching episode after episode.

Just recently, I rented it from the library while my family was in town over Christmas. We couldn’t watch it fast enough. My mother dreamt about it, my father dissected the personalities, I coveted the lack of bra-wearing….

PBS was way ahead of its time with The Frontier House Series. The show was long before reality shows were commonplace, scripted or full of hot tub scenes.
The show stars three no-name families from various walks of life–let loose on the frontier of Montana at the peak of Spring. It sounds romantic and beautiful.

But, there’s a hitch. They had to live as if it was 1886. This meant no cell phones, dishwashers, housing (for some) or modern medicine.
The girls had to milk the cows, wash the clothes, cook the food, heat the stove..well, you get the idea.
The men were in charge of chopping the wood, building the cabins, cutting the hay….again, you get the idea.

What is so captivating about the series is watching the progression of each family and the community as a whole as each of them immerse into an 1886 lifestyle.

What the women had hoped for in the experience was thrown to the way side in order to survive. No quilts were sewn, no running through the meadows.

The men became empowered and invigorated seeing a definite end result to their hard work.

Before I tell you anymore-you should just ask your local library if it has a copy. You won’t be disappointed.

Man Hands?

Dear Readers:
I have shared with you my inadequacies as a human as I begged for help with my hair debacle. I’ve shown you my messy kitchen and have revealed to you my loneliness after the guest go home.

Now, I am guilty of something even more sinister and grotesque.

Exhibit A:
These are not man’s hands as you would suppose (or surmise). Whatever adjective works for me.
These are my hands.
Let the record show: Awful cuticles followed by poorly misshapen nails and extreme skin dryness.

Exhibit B:
Scrapes, scratches and pulled off hangnails contribute to the debauchery.

Let the record show: Nothing is being done to rectify the situation. The defendant is displaying a lifestyle of grouting tile, washing dishes without gloves, sanding wood and anything else women with nice hands don’t do.

The verdict: I am guilty of a heinous crime-Hand Abuse and must serve 1-2 days in intensive therapy to improve the Hand Abuse situation.

Case closed.

Christmas Clean-Up

It’s time for it to come down. The tree, the holly, the mistletoe, the lights. All of it.
Granted, I have been listening to and enjoying Christmas music since before Thanksgiving. But, it’s time for all of it to be packed up into boxes and stored away in the attic.

 

I have had my fill of keeping the cats away from the tree, closing them off from certain parts of the house, or cringing when I hear an ornament hit the floor.
So, I start off by corralling all of my Christmas miscellany onto the dining room table. There are jars, platters and dishes full of bulbs, balls, and tinsel.

After pouring a glass of wine, I turn on Billie Holiday and assess my opponents.

 

I can never remember how I got all of that into there.
Max and Bianca entertain themselves as they jump in and out of the empty boxes and chase the run-away tinsel.

 

Certain guilty parties incriminate themselves over and over…

 

…and over.

 

Our Christmas ornaments span the years-beginning with my first out-of-college roommate and I co-investing in maroon and gold ornaments purchased from Wal-mart. We spent $5 between us to decorate our tree. That was high-living for us back then.

 

Now, black and white Ikea balls, along with sparkling blue and silver ornaments have been added to the Christmas decor mix. Throw in a dash of Grandma’s vintage ornaments, vintage deer from the flea market and our yearly ornament purchase, and I am running out of uses for all of them.

 

Soon, everything is packed away, taped up and ready for next year’s frivolities. It almost feels as if Christmas had never happened.
Except for the tinsel I keep finding squirreled away in nooks and crannies due in part to my weird cats Bianca and Max.
I don’t think they can let Christmas go either. I suppose we are good for each other.

All by myself, don’t wanna be….

Since Thanksgiving, our house has been full of company in one way or another. It started off small, with my mother-in-law coming back with us from our trip up north. I got quite used to seeing her each and every day as we ate lunch together or watched movies while Bicep’s was hard at work.
And then, right before Christmas-my mother-in-law was joined by the remainder of the family.

It was glorious, wonderful, family bliss (after I got over the stress of planning everything-let’s be real).

 

Dinners were loud, desserts were consumed without regard and the dishwasher ran around the clock.

 

Bicep’s family transitioned to the their respective homes shortly after Christmas-and my family transitioned into our home days later.
We visited a winery, ate more desserts, played the DIY Family Board Game that Bicep’s and I created, and drank lots of coffee.

 

We sat around for hours with the fireplace roaring, chatting into the wee hours of the night. Maxwell became so used to Dakota-my parent’s pooch-that snuggling became commonplace between the two.
The house was full of life, noise, and people.

 

And as my parent’s pulled out of the driveway, we waved back and forth until we couldn’t see one another any longer, with tears falling down our cheeks.
While I take down the Christmas ornaments, the tree, the lights, and the decor, I am surrounded-for the first time in a long time-by silence. I box it all up, cart it up to the attic-the whole while-silent.
Thick, lonely silence.
Some of you may dream of such silence. But silence day after day isn’t so fun anymore.

I sweep, mop, scrub toilets, change out the laundry-more silence.
Sure-I can put on music, and I did. But, there’s not a body here to chat with.
And, it’s weird.

I’m not sure what to do other than make light of the situation and sing, “All by myself, don’t wanna be, all by myself…” just like Bridget Jones did.
Which is even weirder when you are belting that tune out into your broom handle and the mailman catches you as he drops off your daily dose of junk mail.
Sorry about that, Mr. Mailman. Just write it off as a weird, lonely housewife.
I’m sure you’ve seen it all before…