Personal

Home Remedy: you use what… where?

 

I’ve got a chronic problem with cracked fingers.

Not just cracked skin, but gaping splits where the nail ends and the fingertip begins. Cold weather triggers the problem and cracks appear overnight, as though I’ve been juggling a butter knife in my sleep.

Visually, these razor-thin cracks are unimpressive. A paper cut offers more blood and gore.

But they are painful. Really painful. Sometimes I feel the skin separating.

(And please, spare me the “gloves” lecture. You try prying open a horse supplement container or opening a rusted, double-end snap while wearing gloves. It’s a nice thought but gloves hamper progress. And yes, I’ve tried hand salve — or as Martin inadvertently calls it — hand “slave.” Neither salve nor slave helps.)

Recently I was hanging with my neighbor Sarah, belly-aching about my split fingers. She listened, then held up her hand.

“Yea I have those, too,” she said, revealing cracks that made mine look minor league. “Everyone around here has them. From the cold weather.”

Her tone and expression seemed to say more: finger splits are part of the deal… get over it.

But then Sarah offered a little advice:

“Do you know what I do, what a dermatologist told me to do?” she said. “I use Krazy Glue. Squirt it into the cracks. Seals ’em up.”

I looked at her skeptically. Krazy Glue? A dermatologist told you to use “Krazy Glue”? Doesn’t that violate the cardinal Krazy Glue rule: Do not apply to skin? If product adheres to dermis, seek medical attention. Isn’t that etched on the label? I imagined that 1980s TV commercial depicting the construction worker, haplessly flailing while his hat appears bonded to a steel girder overhead.

Fast forward to 9:30 pm, a week ago. I am tearing apart the house like a drug addict, ransacking desk drawers for a hit. Krazy Glue? Where’s the damn Krazy Glue? I discover an old curled tube and though I spear the tip with a pushpin, the glue’s dried up.

The following day, I bought a new tube of Krazy Glue… that magical adhesive touted for its strength and versatility. Bonds plastic, rubber and metal, tile or linoleum. Sets in seconds.

Works well on skin, too.

 

A New Look

As you can see, ye olde Funny Farm has a new look. A fresh, clean design thanks to Mike — of trunk troll & kid wrangler fame.

He deserves all the credit. (Hey Mike, are you reading this? You’re supposed to digest every pearl of wisdom I write. Hey… are you listening? Add your photo to the cast of characters. Get on that, will you?)

Okay, back to business. So Funny Farm nests in a shiny shellacked shell, but it’s still the same blog fueled by my acerbic observations, blase parenting, and Martin’s buffoonery that we all know and mock.

Just bear with me as I add content, update posts and kick life back into links. (Mike, some of these links don’t work.)

Please email me concerning any glitches and I’ll fix them. Well…someone will.

Feedback is always appreciated. So is sharing it with others. Actually, studies show that reading Funny Farm serves as an appetite suppressant, reduces male pattern baldness, and maximizes vehicle fuel efficiency. You’ll lose weight, your hair will be thick, and you’ll never have to fuel your car again.

 

I’m back, I think

How do I explain 6 weeks of blog silence?

I could blame our busy summer schedule. Or computer glitches. Or insomnia. Or even the kids. But I’ll stick to the truth.

Ever since I started “Funny Farm” — posting goofy photos and essays on rural life — it’s been a little like yelling down an old well: the only reply is my own voice. Responses to my posts are a rarity. (That said, a few folks have emailed me after virtually every blog entry. I won’t mention names. You know who you are… Liz.)

The lack of comments didn’t bother me because I contributed to the problem: While I’ve churned out lots of words, my efforts to promote them have been non-existent. Truthfully, touting my blog and drumming up interest makes me feel a little sleazy.

Then suddenly, I wearied of all that hollering down the well and in early August I quit blogging cold-turkey.

I didn’t look back. Except when I did. Oh, that would make a good blog post, I’d think, logging a mental note. Oh wait, I quit the blog — forget it.

Martin attempted CPR to shock me back to blogging. “Did you read the story about Lady Gaga’s twitter followers? Seventy percent of them are fake! She was supposed to have 20 million.”

“So?” I said, slumped and sulking one afternoon.

“So, she only has 30 percent. It means you can’t rely on social media statistics.”

“It means she still has 8 million followers,” I said blandly.

He blinked and was quiet. “Well, she is Lady Gaga.”

So I don’t have enough followers to fill a bus station. But my readers are quality not quantity and many have missed the blog. And I guess that was enough. I came crawling back to myself and asked me for my job back again.

So I’m here for now. Stay tuned.

As for the photo, it is not symbolic of this post. It is not intended to represent “rebirth” or a sunny future.

It was simply an opportunity 6 weeks ago — a flower-flush field beside a parking lot. I sat in my truck, not far from several other loitering drivers. We admired the flowers while lurking and checking our watches for the magical moment: 11 am. That’s when the nearby ice cream shop opened. So the flowers were just an excuse to stare out on the field and glance at the store front for any signs of activity.

And that’s the point of the photo.

It’s never too early for ice cream.