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About MountainMommy

  • Birthday 06/25/1968

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  • Gender
  • Location
    Canadian Rocky Mountains
  • Interests
    Reiki (certified practitioner), essential oils and aromatherapy, metaphysics, computers, reading, writing (former reporter and editor, and currently writing my second novel), gourmet cooking.

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  1. Been a long time, but thought I'd stop in and say hello. How's everyone?
  2. I love your profile. I'm sure that doesn't surprise you though ;-)

  3. He went his own way, and does not want to be contacted. It's sad, but it's how he wants it.
  4. Years ago (in 1999), when I first joined MrsS, we had a forum called Extreme Realities, where we discussed self defense with all sorts of weapons (remember the reverse Z?). Some of you might remember Armorer leading that forum... well, he taught me a lot, and inspired my husband and I to buy compound bows, which we learned how to use, and although they are not ideal weapons for self-defense, they are certainly better than nothing, and are definitely useful for hunting should the s**t hit the fan and food become scarce. Being (at the time) a city dweller, I was a bit nervous, especially since the crime rate was rising as our population swelled over a million people. Although we lived in a good area of town, it was becoming more and more common for gunshots to be heard close to come, and violent crimes happened within blocks of where our young children played. One night, I awoke to a noise in the house. I listened in the dark, just to be sure. I often heard noises, and often woke my husband, only to have him climb back into bed, annoyed that there had been no reason to be rousted from sleep at 3:00 a.m. That night, though, the noise was real. My husband got out of bed and grabbed his samurai sword. I joined him, compound bow in hand, an arrow nocked and ready. We crept downstairs, knowing every spot on the floor that creaked, careful not to alert whoever was in the house. As we approached the lower level, the sounds grew louder. There was definitely someone there, rummaging through boxes. We came to the last set of stairs (we had a four-level split), and my husband went down, then stood outside the door, his sword ready. I stood at the top of the stairs, my bow ready, prepared to put an arrow through the throat of whoever had invaded our home. Then, in a moment I will never forget, our interloper came through the family room door. And I will forever be thankful for the training that Armorer gave us... that we learned that our minds are our primary weapons. That we need to think first, before we act. And thank goodness we did. There was our six year old daughter... sleep walking. I learned a lot that night. I learned that I could master my fear. I learned that I could think my way through a scary situation. I learned that I was not a victim. It was one of many things I have learned at MrsSurvival. I will be forever grateful for it.
  5. Hi...figuring the place out....thanks for all that you are doing!!! It's all just wonderful.

  6. I posted this on the forum, but realized, it was really more appropriate here, in my blog. Yesterday marked my eight month anniversary since I quit smoking. I was a pack and a half a day smoker, for 22 years. Medically, that means I smoked for "33 years". The day I quit was my son's graduation day. I almost died that day. I was very, very sick. I realized I had no right to take my children's mother away. So I threw away my cigarettes and have never looked back. I joined a website called quitnet, which has a cool little gadget which tells you how many cigarettes you have not smoked since you quit, how much you've saved, etc. Here are my stats: As of today, I have gone 246 days without a cigarette. I have not smoked 8,609 cigarettes that I would otherwise have inhaled into my poor lungs. I have saved $4,132.80, and I have given myself at least two months, five days and 18 hours longer to live. It has not been the easiest thing. I still crave them now and then. But when the craving comes, I brush it away. It is never that hard. Living is more important than smoking.
  7. I pulled the toothbrush out of my mouth and leaned closer to the mirror, my jaw hanging stupidly open. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. I turned my head this way and that, my eyes narrowing in disbelief. It wasn't the little dribble of toothpaste, snaking its way down my chin, that had my stunned attention. It was one silver hair just above my left temple. Have you seen those commercials? "I want laugh lines." "I want more laugh lines." I agree with the principle. Gray hair and laugh lines are a part of life - something to be celebrated, not dreaded. But not when you're barely 40. "I think you should pluck it," one friend suggested over coffee the next day. "Don't do it," the other warned. "You'll be sorry. People go bald that way." I covered my head with my hands in an instinctive, protective gesture. If I am going to lose my youth, I don't want to have to wear a wig, too. "It's only one hair," my husband said a few days later when I finally got up the nerve to tell him. One hair. He's a fine one to talk. What hair he has left is so gray not even "Just for Men" will colour it. "You could pull it out," he suggested, when he realized his first comment wasn't welcome. This, from the man who cringes when I say I have to pluck my eyebrows. I learned the hard way that plucking my eyebrows was the way to go. Waxing just doesn't work, not for me. The last time I waxed, I tore off the little muslin strip and discovered I had accidentally coated significantly more of my eyebrow than I wanted to. I walked around looking like a moron for three weeks until it grew back in. Every time I pluck my eyebrows, my husband disappears. I made him watch once, just so he knew what I go through for him. But plucking out my gray hair is not on my list of options. Baldness is not on my list of options. I gave him a scowl. "Well, then, you could dye it." Having had more than enough of his not-so-helpful suggestions, I snarled. Realizing his second idea was even less well received than his first, and wisely recognizing that his comments were quickly putting him in physical danger, he told me I was beautiful, and he loved me. He wasted no time retreating to a safe distance, saving me the embarrassment of an assault charge. I slunk back into the bathroom and took another look at the rogue hair that was standing at attention on the side of my head, like a little soldier at his first formal inspection. Dye it. What a ridiculous idea. A whole box of hair dye to colour one single, gray hair. I waited a week to see what would happen. Maybe it was an anomaly. Maybe the day my kids stressed me enough that I wanted to run away from home caused the poor, little follicle to expel its lifetime supply of pigment in protest. Maybe there wouldn't be another one. I tried to convince myself it was true. After years of highlighting, I only recently decided to have my hair cut short enough that I had only my natural colour. My Russian and Spanish heritage gave me hair as dark as you can get before being called black. I was proud of it. "Not a gray hair on my head," I told my hair dresser, not two months ago. Maybe that was the problem. As they say, pride cometh before a fall. A week after my shocking discovery, there was no sign of a little friend appearing to keep the first interloper company. I heaved a sigh of relief. It was one of those little freaks of nature, that was all. Maybe it was a drip of paint. Maybe it was just the way the light in the bathroom reflected off my glossy tresses. Nothing to worry about, then. I blissfully went about my life, secure in the knowledge that old age is still a long way away. And then I found another. A week after that, I found another. My period of denial was over. There was simply no point in refusing to acknowledge the truth. The problem with gray hair is it's contagious. Highly contagious. You never just get one. It's like chicken pox. One day, you have a little bump. The next morning you wake up and you're covered in them. But chicken pox goes away. Gray hair doesn't. One day soon, I will have enough gray hair to justify the cost of a box of hair colour. Maybe soon after that, I will accept that fact that I am getting older. Maybe I'll welcome those laugh lines, after all. I will hobble along with my cane and smirk at all the young women prancing down the street, oblivious to their future. I will sit in my rocking chair out on the porch and cackle in glee when I see some young innocent tossing her soon-to-be-gray hair over her shoulder. If I'm lucky, I will be gray for years longer than I wasn't. And if I'm that blessed, that's something worth celebrating.
  8. I wanted to stop by and say thanks for all the hard work you have done on our new digs! They are amazing and so are you!

  9. Yes, but cooked till it's MUSH. That's what makes mine better than yours
  10. This is so weird. I just made pea soup a week and a half ago. Didn't see this thread until now. Didn't can any, though. My soup is different, probably thicker. More mushy. Heheheheh. I use more peas, I cube the ham smaller, and I grate my carrots. No potatoes. AND I cook the soup before canning it, so it's thick, thick, thick. (We like the mushy kind, lol.) Pea soup is a family favourite around here.
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