Pretending to Farm

In Memoriam - Raindrops are Falling from my Eyes

I fell in love with this man the moment I laid eyes on him, my eyes on those beautiful blues. I loved him more when I found he was unattainable, a devoted husband to his now-widowed Joanne Woodward. I loved his movies, his off-screen personality, but most of all, his philanthropic work.

Here at Rancho Laurena, we have had more than our share/not enough of his Italian dressing, popcorn, grape juice. Did I tell you I love(d) the man?

The announcement of his death this morning saddens me beyond words. As David was doing farm chores, I walked out to tell him the news and he thought one of our family had died. In a way, one has, and to cancer, salt in a tender wound.

Godspeed Paul Newman. Say hello to Daddy while you're up there. He was always a fan as well.

I realize Bob is still with us (thank goodness) but I thought this was worth adding.

I am the Voodoo Bank Failure Priestess

WaMu Is Seized, Sold Off to J.P. Morgan, In Largest Failure in U.S. Banking History

Don't even try to tell me I'm being egocentric. I know it's true because this is the fourth bank I have caused to fail. Can I even remember their names?

I know the first was Great American. I liked them. My inner voodoo priestess, however, did not. Maybe it was the convenient drive-thru that preceded its time (I think she didn't like through being spelled thru, so gauche). Maybe it was the 25-foot Christmas tree that angered her. She's got her own holidays and all the deck-the-halls and holly-jollies got to her. All I know is that in August of 1991, Great American fell and sent us to Wells Fargo, Wells Fargo who does not credit a deposit immediately which for virtual newlyweds living as a carpenter and a waitress did not fly.

Yes, we lived in the days of writing a check on Wednesday at the grocery store knowing we got paid on Friday and it would all work out... but not with the demonic stagecoach riders. So we changed to...

Another bank, its name escapes me. People's? First Californian? First American? I think the Voodoo Priestess within wants me to forget the wrath she wielded. I've been searching the internets for a good half-hour now trying to find it. The new checks, the ATM cards, the inconvenient branch locations, you know. After the mystery bank came,

Great Western (I guess we like "Great" things). Yet, in March 1997, they failed as well:

Mar 7, 1997 - By SAUL HANSELL. Great Western Financial, moving to thwart a hostile takeover offer by HF Ahmanson & Company, said yesterday that it had agreed to be acquired by Washington Mutual for stock worth $6.6 billion in a deal that would create the country's largest savings and loan ...

Which of course leads us to today. Fuck me. I guess we're Chase people now, that company of course being a result of a merger with JP Morgan (that happened when I worked at Peregrine Systems which went under and was purchased by HP while Carla Fee-o-rena "ran" the place, apparently my voodoo priestess likes to screw with corporations as well).

So here we are, "Chase"-ing what little cash we have blowing in the wind down this dusty dirt road we call life. By the way, Bob, I see no answers here.

Work It!

As of today, I have officially re-entered the workforce as a part-time project coordinator/administrative assistant. I had forgotten how exhausting it is, especially combined with my duties at home. Get the boys up and off to school, love the toddler, do my half of farm chores, love the toddler, work for six hours on gianormous binders called “close out packages”, love the toddler. Now I sit me down to write, I pray the Lord my energy to ignite. Pint-Sized Farmer love serves as fuel for my beleaguered soul; I’m blessed with his presence.

I had to do go back to a paying job. The flood wiped out more than just the landscape and, even with selling Shetland roving and taking the occasional art commission, the household needed an injection of a second regular income. Although I haven't given up on my writing career,I’m fortunate to find work in today’s economy, the economy that was first pronounced fundamentally sound on Black Monday before partially guilty corporate greed became the scapegoat for all our ills and the great deregulator called for regulation for the first time in 22 years. But I’m not here to talk politics. I do that on Open Salon. If you would like to see what talking politics does to my readers, check out the comments on Monday’s “Frightened” post.

I feel sorry for the people who cannot find jobs; I’ve talked to many. I’m also sympathetic to the people like my mother who depend on their investments, some in the stock market, for their sole means of income. It’s next to impossible to live off Social Security alone with today’s inflated food, fuel, and utility prices, and, when the stock market drops, so does the base from which income is derived thus lowering it. It’s hand-wringing. Let’s hope the roller coaster comes to an end soon. Americans love thrill rides in general but we can only take so much before we begin to get queasy. Me? I’ve always had a problem with motion sickness as it is. As a passenger, windy mountain roads do a number on me. Put me on the Tilt-a-Whirl and I’m guaranteed to lose my lunch. I guess this explains the bile I’ve been tasting all week.

So work. Although I still don’t know how I will fulfill all my responsibilities, and I’m counting on a trio of teenagers to pitch in more than they have been, it’s a good feeling to know I am contributing. This morning’s Delancey Place (in case you haven’t heard me mention it before, this e-newsletter is my favorite and never ceases to teach me something new every day, thus crossing that task off my list first thing) spoke of tenth and eleventh-century Japan and the women of Kyoto. In this period, it was shameful for an aristocratic woman to be dependent financially on her husband and many women wrote novels in Japanese (most men wrote texts about war, religion, and law in Chinese, their version of the Europeans’ Latin). By doing this, they invented Japanese literature. For about a hundred years, novels were written only by women. The world's first psychological novel is the Tale of Genji, written between AD 1002 and 1022, by a widow in her twenties. Obviously, women’s lib wasn’t something that first began last century and that’s a good thing.

What this will do to my posting regularity, I don’t know but I endeavor to keep it up. Frankly, until the last week or so, I’ve been doing a pretty piss poor job of it without gainful employment. I enjoy it and I plan on continuing it as long as someone cares to read my dribbling musings.

Now I’m off for some more toddler love and then I’m writing politics. Granted, on Open Salon, I’m preaching to the choir but commiseration from similar thinkers is good for my troubled soul.

Until we meet again…

And now for something completely different

Courtesy of the Meem, how to peel a hard-boiled egg without actually peeling it:

Instructions:

Cover the eggs with water and boil on low for about 12 minutes.
Cool the eggs by placing them in cold water with 1 teaspoon of baking soda and ice.
The baking soda raises the pH level and reduces adherence. If you choose not to use baking soda, be sure to move the eggs into cold water with plenty of ice immediately after boiling
Crack the top of the egg and remove a small piece
Crack the bottom (wide end) of the egg and remove a small piece
Hold the egg in your hand and blow vigorously into the narrow end of the egg, which will expel it out the wide end

Doesn’t get much easier than that! Just be ready to catch it when it comes out…

Frightened.

Although I tend to be a worrier and have wasted immeasurable time on that particular pursuit, my current worry has morphed into concern and my concern into fright.  In my 45 years on this earth, in this country, I have never seen the economy as volatile as it currently is and it is getting worse, not better.  Contrary to what the owner of seven (maybe) homes says, our economy is NOT fundamentally sound but instead is at its worst since the Great Depression.  We as a nation are not in a “mental depression” but do indeed have reason to whine.  Wall Street and the lending industry are in chaos.  After the government rescued Bear Stearns back in March, it must have enjoyed it because it then bailed out Freddie and Fannie.  Lehman declared bankruptcy and Bank of America purchased what was a cornerstone of stable finance, Merrill Lynch.  AIG is struggling to stay in business and is begging for loans from both public and private sources.  In response to this mess, the banks that are not too bloodied to function are tightening their loan criteria beyond what it was pre-subprime mortgages.  For the foreseeable future, only those with perfect or near-perfect credit will be able to acquire a loan for a home or a small business, much less items such as cars, boats, second homes, or land.  What this means is our economy will continue to decline or at least stall.  Because financing will be difficult to attain, the markets for things that are typically purchased this way will suffer.  The already bad housing market will get worse and suffering auto makers will suffer all the more.  Dealerships will go under, realtors will be out of work, and, as a result, the unemployment rate will continue to rise. 

 

As part of a middle class already financially stressed due to high gas prices and rising grocery and retail costs, I am scared.  My husband has a construction management job.  What will happen to the industry and, in turn, his job?  Our country lost a lot of money and a lot of jobs just today and all signs point to more of the same.  Will we become a casualty of that?  Our jobs?  Our investments?  Our house?  Our farm?

 

Soon, we will be ending what has, by majority opinion, been one of the worst, if not the worst administrations in the history of our country.  We have a chance to turn things around.  Yet, both candidates are speaking in soundbites, platitudes, and generalities.  They tell us what they are going to do but not how.  They speak in generalities and not details.  It’s time to dispose of the specious ads and stump speeches and treat the American people like we can handle more than shallow campaigning.  Speak to the press and the people on a regular basis and let us get to know who you truly are instead of continuing to depend on controlled, scripted oration.  Show your passion.  Tell us, tell me what you’re going to do to fix this mess.  Tell me you’re going to help us keep our jobs and our farm.  Be smart, be sincere, and show us that you have what it takes to step into the Oval Office and be a president, a good president, a president your country will be proud of the world over.  Step up.

Decisions

September has arrived and, although the daytime temperatures still border on abysmal, the mornings and evenings feel, dare I say it, pleasant. While I was in Colorado with my mother pretending to be Scottish, the first hint of fall fell over the valley. During morning farm chores, cool air washes over me, causes me to pause and stare and once again appreciate my surroundings. Like carnival Ring-the-Bell Strikers, when the hammer/temperature goes down, the bell rings/my mood lightens. The promise of autumn is a happy one. Leave the awful summer behind, look toward outdoor pursuits; re-familiarize myself with the farm animals. Oh, and make some tough decisions.

As I said in my last post, we have a dozen Shetland Sheep, Leroy, Charlotte, Darby, Finnegan, Fiona, Seamus, Cookie, Madeline, Sean, Katie, Carmela, and Mick. I love every one of them like my own children; I’m weird that way (well in many ways but for now let’s focus on just this one). Put an animal in front of me and, within five minutes, I’m typically ready to bring it home. When lambs are born right in front of me, I’m smitten for life.

Then reality steps in and bites me squarely on the ass. Hay costs a lot of money, in fact 30% more than it did when we first began our farmy pursuits. Add the occasional vet visits, such as the ram lambs’ recent visits to Dr. Samuelson for castration, and this little hobby, our wee Rancho Laurena becomes expensive. Pretend farms are not run with pretend money (too bad because we have at least three Monopoly games that rarely get played) and our bank account is showing the strain of it all.

Steeling my emotions and doing my best to staunch my bleeding heart, I decided it was time to get rid of some sheep. Leroy at the least would have to go. Though now castrated and no longer emulating his title (ram), he never offered us anything but his fleece, no affectionate rubs, no cute personality, no nothing. Yup, we’ll get rid of Leroy; we’ll call it culling like the real farmers do. Sure, that’s what we’ll do.

And then Leroy decided to do this. It was like he read my mind and wanted to prove his worth to me.

Just like Maddy and Charlotte and the rest of the cuddlers, I can be a love. Let me show you. Every time you walk outside.

Who else? Charlotte? Don't even think about it. Darby? No, I went elbow-deep in a uterus for him. Fiona? No, she is Seamus’ mother and has fleece to die for. And Seamus is a huge no way, he’s a non-fading black and he’s polled. Plus, he has the sweetest face and disposition.

Let’s look at Cookie’s line. Not Cookie herself of course, along with Charlotte, she was one of the original two. We can’t get rid of the dynamic duo. Shall we consider her offspring? Her first born was Madeline, arguably the sweetest, most affectionate sheep to walk the Earth. She’s not going anywhere. This year, Cookie gave birth to Sean and Katie who both inherited their mother and big sister’s loving disposition. I don’t want them to leave and neither does HH.

Who does that leave? Mick and Finnegan. If we get rid of Mick, I’m reasonably sure Carmela would have a nervous breakdown. Even though he is five months old and mostly weaned, Carmela still stomps her rear hooves whenever anyone approaches him and he, in turn, is Momma’s boy. They love each other. Plus, he’s damned good looking with wide-set horns, a handsome face, and a fleece of deep mahogany that shows no signs of fading.

So that leaves Finnegan of the strange horn. He cracked it one day and ever since it has grown like a corkscrew. His other horn is in danger of growing into his head and Dr. Samuelson did in fact trim it at the same time he castrated him. His fleece is soft and nice, a medium brown which, at close inspection is not fading as of yet, it has the look of fleeces that eventually becoming an oatmeal color, still pretty but unexciting. By all measures of sheep quality, he’s the one we should get rid of but it seems kind of silly to eliminate just one. We have a nice even dozen after all.

Perhaps a job hunt is in order. After all, I have nothing else to do with my time other than caring for a family of six plus a farm of 37 animals, four dogs, and two cats. There’s cooking, cleaning, writing, and living out my fantasy of beating the Guinness World Record for most laundry done in a lifetime.

Do you think “Will Work for Hay” is a compelling cardboard sign?

Returning to the Three Effs

Each time I sit down to post to Pretending to Farm, I do it with the intention that I am now back to a regular schedule of Three F conversation, Farming, Family, and Fiber.  But then, I get pulled away by those very things in addition to my other writing gig at Open Salon, a social networking and blogging internet venue that is still in its beta stage but now open to anyone wanting to join and give it a try. 

I began writing on my own “All We Are Saying: Give Fleece a Chance” blog page in the hopes of crossing over to the other Salon, a liberal-leaning news and opinion site that I have followed since its inception.   I wanted to be paid for writing short essays and researched pieces whilst continuing with The Great American Novel.  Since I had been invited to be one of the initial beta testers of approximately 200-300 people, I thought the chance of that was a good one, set my expectations high, too high, and wrote, wrote, wrote.  I wrote my heart out.  I wrote of topics too controversial to post here and too personal to be laid out for those who knew me (after all, these people were strangers to me and I to them; my real name was not on display).  Occasionally, I would voice my frustration and sorrow over not being a financially successful writer despite all the positive feedback I received from both the editors and fellow bloggers on Open Salon.  That frustration was and is real and my expectations have been lowered, both by me and by the Overlords as we call the editors and professional staff there.  In the almost six months I have participated there, I have earned a whopping $1 in the form of a tip from another poster. 

 

Admittedly, I have received other awards, arguably more valuable than filthy lucre, friends, lots and lots of friends, some of whom share my ideals, some who make me laugh, some who challenge my mind and make me think in ways I have not before.  When I traveled through Colorado in June, I met one of these friends in person and had a wonderful time.  A group of these people including one of the editors is heading our way for Spring Training in March and we’re planning a fun get-together at the notorious but always entertaining Greasewood Flat.  One of the members is going to drag me to something called Estrella War and introduce me to The Society of Creative Anachronism (SCA or dress up in Renaissance garb and pretend to live in another time period).  Some of these friends I feel will be life-long even if I never meet them in person.  Others will drop by the wayside as some friends do but I will still have had the gift of knowing them if only briefly.

 

So what have I learned?  Becoming a freelance writer and maintaining a steady stream of assignments is very difficult and, besides a golden few, does not typically afford a comfortable living.  I have met the professional writers that I wanted (want) to be through Open Salon, multiply published writers, only some of them were hovering around the poverty line, some were forced to subsist with the help of government programs, and some were humiliated into taking their families to soup kitchens because they could not pay rent and utilities and afford groceries as well.  It is not a glamorous career but is one of an artist, one with which I am all too familiar, long hours and little pay with a crap shoot to the big time.  

 

And what have I decided?  I’m going back to writing for fun, but writing what I feel without the worry of hurting someone’s sensibilities because I have expressed my strong and sometimes unique opinion.  If you can handle that, baby I’m back with a vengeance.  If you cannot, plenty of sites are floating around that speak only of knitting or fiber with a dash of family, some with farms as well.  If by a strange happenstance someone wants to pay me for something I’ve written, great; if not, that’s okay, too, just not as good at paying the power bill.

 

Shall we go back to the Three F’s?  I have lots to catch you up on but I’ll do that over time.  This post has gotten long enough as it is.  For now, I’ll extol the continued wonder that is the Pint-Sized Farmer despite the fact that he is railing at me as I write.  Horror of horrors, I folded his train instruction paper and put it in a drawer.  Apparently, I ruined it. I am a terrible grandmother.

 

I’ll let you know that all the rams are now neutered and some will be offered for sale as fiber wethers, though the thought of it puts a hitch in my voice and a lump in my throat.  Hay has gone up at least 30% and because of the damned publishing industry’s rejection of me; we cannot continue to foot the bill for feeding our babies.

 

Also, since we (I) procrastinated too long in the spring and never got around to calling Papa Ernie to give the ruminants their haircuts, shearing is just around the bend and with a dozen Shetlands plus the three Angoras (we’re holding off on the alpaca and llama), it will be a challenge but should provide some decent blog fodder.

 

Teenager-wise, the twins have begun high school which once again makes me officially old but that’s okay.  I have the mind of a child.  I’ll be sharing that mind with you at least a few times a week and hopefully more in the months and years to come, God willing.  Maybe, just maybe, someone will think I’m all-that and pay me for this dribble but, for now, this girl just wants to have fun.

Animal Magnetism

We're not the only ones who are in made love with the Pint-Sized Farmer. His winning personality shines for people and horses alike, as well as the plethora of house and farm animals that surround him.

We know just how you feel, Party Crasher. We can't keep our lips off his cheeks for long either. If you know our favorite toddler, you understand completely. If you haven't been given that gift, I hope one day you will. It's life transforming, in a wonderfully extraordinary way.

I love that little boy more than life itself, penis obession and all.

Phallic Phatigue

Admittedly, this is an unorthodox way to re-enter the blogging world but I wrote it for a writing site and thought I would share. I apologize in advance for any offense I cause.

Please excuse my long absence. After surviving flood and frustration, my dumb disease took over and I haven't been my best. I will endeavor from this point forward to post more regularly.

I am surrounded by penises, and the males attached, in very many ways, to them. Of the six humans living in my home, four have outdoor plumbing, and of those four, two of them are “hung up”, so to speak, about their anatomies and parade them about like gold medals. And no, I am not envious nor do I feel left out, I’m just tired and distracted by all the dangling.

The chief offender and leader of the phallology procession is the toddler, full of pomp and circumstance, penis and testicles. The child is obsessed with his genitals. He holds them, he talks about them, he loves them. He also loves the word itself. Penis. I hear it a hundred times a day. Sometimes, I long for the days when only doctors and nurses used that word. Truly, when did we as a society become determined to be so literal and biological about our own anatomy? Does anyone remember? Whenever it occurred, I fell for it hook, line, and sinker. I distinctly recall telling the teenagress, then all of two, that she grew in my uterus and the subsequent look I received from my grandmother in response. In her day, one didn’t even use the word pregnant. But I digress, back to the toddler…

I’ve got a penis.

I know Anthony.

You don’t have a penis?

No, I don’t Anthony.

I have a penis.

You told me that, Anthony.

He bonds with the other penis carriers.

Uncle David, you have a penis.(This makes Uncle David, the 14-year-old Teenagrrrrr, happy and proud to be one of the Brotherhood of the Outdoor Plumbing. He just doesn’t speak of it as much, at least to me.)

Yes, I do (spoken in boastful crescendo).

Uncle Robert, you have a penis.

Anthony, stop talking about my penis (Robert, David’s twin and fellow Teenagrrrrr, is, thank the Lord, more subdued about his anatomy, at least in my presence).

Recently, the toddler has taken to using the word penis as a derogatory term, though how he made that switch, I don’t know. I suspect it has something to do with the teenagrrrrrs. Whilst watching “The Daily Show” with Aunt Jessica, he looked at Jon Stewart and called him a “penis head”. Lord knows what he would call Bill O’Reilly.

Until today, I had not instituted any counter measures to deal with Anthony’s rampant phallology other than telling him it’s not nice to call people “penis head”. The child is not yet four and, if I make too big a deal about what he is doing, I am afraid he’ll either do it more or hide his love away and I am not attempting to raise a wildly masturbating and chafed grandson. This morning, though, he put his second-only-to-his-penis-in-how-much-he-loves-it kazoo on his head, and I’m not talking the one attached to his neck. Since, and I hope you’ll agree with me, that’s just plain gross, I “had words” with him over his behavior.

Anthony, don’t you ever do that again. Kazoos do NOT go on the end of your penis.

This made him cry. I separated the two things he loves most in this world. I am a terrible person. He has yet to recover. Who knew the toddler could hold such a grudge?

Second in the phallology parade line and, I believe, a large reason why the toddler is as obsessed as he is, is David the Teenagrrrrr. He loves his penis, too, and has no qualms letting it pop out to visit every few minutes throughout the day.

Yes, each weekday when he comes home from school, the first thing he likes to do is change out of his school clothes and into a pair of boxers. The man-cub loves his comfort and who am I, a woman who spends a good portion of her own time in pajama bottoms and a t-shirt to argue with him over it. The trouble is that boxers have an easy access fly and all of a sudden my son has a man penis.

Yes, the child I nursed and loved has reached puberty; and, all of a sudden, that little thing I wiped clean as I changed his diapers is the envy of his peers (and Lord knows, possibly the desire of some of the females as well). The boy has no locker room insecurity issues. This disturbs me on a level I cannot vocalize as of yet and, for now, I am just trying not to think about it.

The problem is that it wants to be thought about. Like Anthony, young David likes to hold his parts, I suppose to reassure himself that he is the penis god that he thought he was. That alone brings attention to the area. But then all he has to do is shift his weight or turn a certain way, and, Bob’s-Your-Uncle, out it pops to say hello. I’m having a difficult time conversing with the kid because I expend so much effort just keeping my eyes focused on his eyes. So I made him sew up the flies of his boxers but, cue his proud boastful crescendo once more, the stitches keep popping and unraveling. The boy needs to find himself a better lounging costume. So I am at a loss as to how to deal with this House of the Rising Penis. I suppose I just need to figure out a way to stop letting it bother me but other than using copious amounts of pharmaceuticals and alcohol, which I don't do any more, at least the alcohol part, I haven’t yet solved that conundrum.

Oh, What a Week It Has Been!

 

 12,000 Words.