Pretending to Farm

A Wee Vent

I've been on a diet for almost a fortnight (two weeks for you normal speaking people out there) and I have only lost two pounds! Two measly, probably-water-weight pounds. Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr! I have foresaken my love of alcohol and sugar, have eaten scattered mealettes of lean sustenance throughout my Ben-&-Jerry's-craving, Guinness-and-ale desiring, laundry-doing, toddler-watching, business-planning days and I can't get no satisfaction, Mick and Keith! When I was in college and wanted to lose a few pounds, I'd just barely eat for a few days, surviving instead on coffee and cigarettes and, poof!, ten pounds gone. (For the record, I had a very brief, dormitory-floor-mates-caused smoking habit but I am NOT a smoker. Don't think I haven't thought about it this past week or so of flab-losing failure, however. I went without because of impressionable youngsters, that and because I also haven't found an oxygen-equipped motorized scooter yet that brings out my inner Easy Rider.)

So, once again, Grrrrrrrrrrrrr! I'm mad as hell but I have to take it anyway because if I resume normal eating and drinking habits, I'll gain ten pounds. Ask me how I know.

Coffee Toffee Crunch, I miss your sweet java-flavored creaminess and your Heath Bar chunks. Kiltlifter Ale and Guinness Stout, you both know how I feel; don't make me tear up. Alas, poor Urich, I knew them well.

Fowl Respect

I just found out that May 4th is International Respect for Chickens Day. Man, I wish I had known sooner; how’s a girl to plan? After all, our chickens are special creatures. They expect that little something extra and, foolish pretend farmers that we are, we have become putty in their beaks, particularly since the whole we-descended-from-dinosaurs thing.

Take this guy for instance. Even though he’s an incubated-on-premises rooster with questionable lineage, he thinks he’s all that. One movie night (hey, they watched them in “Chicken Run”), he saw Harry Potter and the something or other and decided his hero was Lucius Malfoy, the cad.
Ever since, he’s been wearing his feathers like this and doing his best to become a dark wizard. The jokes on him though; he hasn’t even figured out how to disappirate yet and wand holding? Let’s just say challenges lie ahead for him.

Our other rooster, Guinness, isn’t far behind Lucius in the ego department. As he is named after the very best of beers and, in particular, the most attractive of stouts (can you say cascading goodness? I knew you could), he struts his stuff as if he were the second coming. To top that, he has no respect for the hens and takes them at his will and whimsy. He’s like the villain in a bad romance novel, towering over his harem of hens, their breasts heaving, their beaks open and panting (or maybe it’s just the heat, damned if it isn’t in the nineties already).

The hens handle the abuse remarkably well, thanks to treats throughout the day such as tomato tops, half-eaten-by-Pint apples, and melon rinds. They also get alfalfa in the morning to supplement their regular layer pellets. The eggs they lay (a full dozen yesterday!) are lovely and tasteful and are their special way of rewarding us for our non-lustful attentions.

I like chickens, and yes, even respect them. If you had 15 dinosaur descendents in your yard, you’d respect them, too.

You’ll have to excuse me now. I have to start planning a “fowl” celebration (Shhh, I think I’ll make it a surprise. Chickens just love it when you jump out and scream at them.)

Conversations with Robear

A Quick Aside: When the twins were still babies, but old enough to sit up together in the kid section of a shopping cart, I was standing in the checkout line of the grocery store when I was approached by an enthralled French woman. With broken English, she asked the boys’ names to which I replied Robert and David. Raising her hands in the air and turning to her compatriots, she joyfully declared, and I will write the names phonetically as the spelling is no different, “Robear et Daveed!” To this day, Robert is often referred to thusly or, to mix it up a bit, “The Bear Man.”

I don’t know if you read or heard about the latest scientific findings out of North Carolina State University and published in the new edition of “Science” magazine which indicate that the dinosaurs’ closest living relatives are birds, specifically chickens and ostriches. In fact, their kinship to birds is more so than with living reptiles, such as the alligator. The results of this study were determined from the protein in preserved soft tissues from the bones of a 68 million-year-old T. rex excavated in 2003 by John R. Horner of Montana State University. Mary H. Schweitzer of North Carolina State University discovered the soft tissue by accident as it was previously thought that marrow and such from dinosaur bones could not stay preserved in the indicated time span but, apparently, the burial site offered greater than usual protection from the elements, hence the non-degraded soft tissue.

I had read about this in the April 25th edition of the New York Times. The following day, Friday, was a half day for the boys which means I pick them up at noon. Now whenever I “leave the compound,” which isn’t often, I typically have NPR dialed in (punched in? inputted digitally?) on my truck’s radio and, at the boys’ pick up time, I was listening to Science Friday with Ira Flatow. He and Mary Schweitzer were discussing this very study when the bus arrived. My two boys jumped in the up-until-now quiet cab, filling it with raucous noise and argument until the words T-Rex were somehow heard and all became quiet.

Robert: They found soft tissue in dinosaur bones???!!! (When he gets going, his excitement knows no bounds.) Hey, that means they could clone the T-Rex and make more.

David (using his best aloof monotone): Robert, didn’t you see “Jurassic Park?”

Robert (ignoring David, I honestly don’t think he even heard him): Yeah, they could clone them! Hey, we could clone them!

Robert dreams big as you can read. He thinks he can do things far out of his grasp and makes copious notes planning it all out, does massive research on the internet, and, once ready, comes to me or his father raring to jumpstart his project. Unfortunately, unlike Dexter in the cartoon “Dexter’s Laboratory,” we do not have a secret hidden la- BOR-a-to-ry. We do not have the means to extract DNA and, in fact, we do not have a dinosaur bone. Please do not mention this to my son who has spent a lot of time since learning this new information, digging in the washes surrounding our home for a large prehistoric femur. He will come crashing down to Earth and make moping an art form. The poor child is a sensitive dreamer like his mother, perhaps even more so.

Back to Friday.

Me: Robert, we don’t have soft tissue from a dinosaur bone.”

Let us pause for a moment of pensive silence.

Robert: Do you think we could use DNA from our chickens and then go to an ostrich farm and get their DNA and make a dinosaur?

Me: Well, Robert, if you can figure out a way, go for it.

David: Didn’t you see “Jurassic Park?!”

We’ll see what happens. If you hear about a giant prehistoric reptile roaming the Sonoran Desert, you’ll know why. I better hide my goats.

Don't Talk About Religion or Politics or Rules Are Made To Be Broken

Yesterday, I did a little Hillary bashing and I’ve been feeling a tad guilty ever since.

First, let me shell out the honest truth. I don’t care for her. Her insincere and prevaricating demeanor leads me to believe she’ll say whatever she thinks she has to say to get elected whether she believes it or not. Her recent hawkishness toward Iran frightens me. Plus, I find her manner scolding (hence the nightmares) and caustic. Finally, I think it’s wrong for two families to dominate American politics for a quarter of a century. Remember my Dynasty comment?

That said, I do not doubt her intelligence, her drive, or her work ethic. She’s tough and she needs to be. Although exceptions exist, I am hard-pressed to give examples of highly successful females that do not have the reputations of being “bitches” and/or “ball-busters.” As Tina Fey says, “Bitch is the new black.” Power is there to be assumed, and when a woman does just that, our society as a whole has yet to accept it gracefully. It still comes down to the old scenario: A successful man is tough; a successful woman is mean.

So I’m feeling a little upside down this morning, questioning my own feelings and wondering if society’s norms are affecting my views of her candidacy. Honestly, and I’ve said it before, I wish I could be more like that “A-Type” woman, organized, efficient, and hard-working with a life not ruled by emotions and wind direction. Yet, I was born with talents unappreciated in a monetary sense, particularly in a down economy, talents that are possessed by 100+ people in line before me, talents accompanied by a pitiful lack of perseverance to have them noticed. I wound easily and heal slowly and question my worth at every juncture. In short, I wish I was a bitch.

If, by some political machinations, Hillary Clinton is the Democratic nominee, I’ll support her, if only because our country cannot succeed on more of the same and, although I used to admire John McCain for bucking the establishment, lately he is embracing the party line like a hot new lover.

We, as a society, I, as a person, need to change. We need to work harder and respect those who do. We (I) need to figure out what in the world we’re doing and do it well. We need to take back the pride in ourselves and our country that has been stolen by neocons, radical right-wingers, and, for me, the person who looks back at me when I search in the mirror. It won’t be easy; but the alternative is untenable.

No matter your views, please support our Democratic process. Apathy, ignorance, and non-involvement have led us to where we are today. While you’re at it, give a bitch a hand.

UPDATE: I found this montage after writing today's blog and, as it pertained so strongly to my earlier comments, I thought I should include it. After the Howard Beale moment, the rest is basically an ad for Clinton. The conglomeration of media stars attacking her, however, is still worth watching.)

By the way, I’m thinking about temporarily beginning a separate election-based blog, at least so you aren’t subjected to this drivel here. I’d like to get your feedback if I may. I realize I lean a little more left than some (many, all?) of you but a girl wants to know. Or, in psychobabble, how does this make you feel?

The Week in Review

Call it blogger burnout; call it a lamb hangover; call it mini-boot mobility, but I had to take a week off. I probably should not have done this because when I am not venting on page, I am internalizing life’s irritations and dreaming bad things. So now, in order to sleep properly, I will venture to upchuck the week’s woes in no particular order.

1. I quit drinking alcohol and eating sugar. I like drinking alcohol and eating sugar.

2. 20% of registered Pennsylvania voters admitted to not voting for Barack Obama because of his color (remember a while back when someone questioned his blackness?). If 20% are actually admitting this, what is the true percentage? It’s a sad testament to how far we as a people have yet to evolve.

3. A lot of people are bitter and cling to a myriad of things, be it religion, guns, alcohol, pet collecting, reading junk literature, and/or knitting (not that I’m talking personally here, really, believe me). Don’t shoot the messenger.

4. Hillary Clinton keeps lecturing me about my bed not being made and the dishwasher needing to be emptied. Then she tells me to hold my shoulders back and grounds me. (I think that was a dream, sorry, and no, my mother neither looks nor currently acts anything like Hillary Clinton.)

5. I am on a diet. See #1.

6. Don’t tell anyone but I miss reading the erotica in romance novels. This shakes me to my core. Call tech support; my file has been corrupted. I must have a virus. Doctor, doctor, give me the news; I have a bad case of loving Jews (sorry, I couldn’t think of a way to rhyme news with sex and I have a lot of Jewish friends who I love so there; I could use some suggestions).

7. “Dynasty” was a bad eighties television show; it is not a way to describe presidential rule.

8. Television news sucks (except for the Newshour on PBS). ABC’s debate moderators suck worse. Lapel pins suck. (They ruin the weave.)

9. My skin is turning into tissue paper and my upper arms have a mind of their own if their constant flapping for attention is any indication. And I’ve used the Bowflex twice now!

10. Did I mention I’m on a diet and I quit drinking alcohol and eating sugar?

And now for the glass half full folks:

1. I got my knitting mojo back and am working on a linen neckline panel for a dress I plan to sew when I am the right size to make sewing a dress worth the effort. Notice I said when and not if. This is one of David’s think positive tactics.

2. The Pint-Sized Farmer is finally wearing underwear which gives our indoor plumbing a reason for being. It’s nice when pipes feel needed.

3. It’s also nice not having hangovers (not that I ever drank enough to get one, honest).

4. My triceps are sore. This is a good thing as it shows a spark of progress.

5. I like eating sautéed spinach with poached or scrambled eggs (farm fresh!) for breakfast. I love homemade fruit smoothies. I love salad with baby greens, fresh mushrooms, tomatoes, green onions, a dab of canned salmon, and miso dressing. I love plain lowfat yogurt. I love iced green tea. This diet stuff isn’t all that bad (except for the no sugar or alcohol part; I really should have done this during Lent to put some points in the “UP” column).

6. Not drinking has not made me more efficient. This could be viewed as a bad thing except that when I once again weigh 125 pounds and I allow myself to drink again, I won’t miss my new old self. When.

7. I voted my conscience and in consideration of the issues that matter to me. I was not swayed by the scurrilous and/or nonsensical claims of talking heads repeated ad nauseam by vapid pundits.

8. I’m going to get back into my skinny jeans.

9. Apollo was lost but now is found, never blind but still can see.

10. Despite all my moaning and groaning, we still live in the best country on Earth (though I still dream of my wee sheep farm in County Kerry or Cork with an Irish Pub within drinking distance, aye, I do).

UPDATE: I received a wonderful email from my dear NC friend, Bernice, and had to add an excerpt since she is woe to comment: "I gave up alcohol 2 years ago for lent. I was such a bitch, the minister even asked me to start drinking." Gotta love the woman! (I do.)

Not in My Sleep and Not With a Sheep

In these past few weeks of convalescence, during which a majority of my time was spent with my ankle elevated and my nose in a book, my BFA has grown, as has my stomach and my thighs and I’m feeling pretty darned unattractive. I do not like this, Sam-I-Am, not in a boat and not with a goat, not in my sleep, and not with a sheep.

Before ankle breakage, I was exercising by pushing the Pint-filled jogging stroller in the mornings around a neighborly three-mile loop. My thighs were just beginning to realize that muscles still exist, though quietly, under their flab, and my buns of the-farthest-thing-from-steel were awakening.

Then, I fell off my shoes and everything I had started came to a screeching halt. This is not good; this is not right; my fat is straining my seams too tight.

Yes, I have been reading a little too much Dr. Seuss lately. How’d you know?

So yesterday, I was shopping in Borders since today is the Exalted One’s birthday when I came upon a book, Eat, Drink, and Be Gorgeous(see Amazon box in far left column for link).

From the flap: It’s all about balance. Indulging to satiate, not saturate. No diets, no gimmicks, just real solutions to get the body and mind you want. Esther debates the merits of Chardonnay versus a Cosmo, and prescribes ways to eat to rev up your sex drive, nip a hangover in the bud, combat out-of-control hormones, and more.

Yup, I bought it. I realize it’s hubby’s birthday but if it works, it will be a present for us both. ;-)

Once again, Happy Birthday David. At 45, you still cut a fine figure, that you do. If only I could do as well, aye?

We Have a Weiner

Download random.org-integers.mdi

I tried to be all fancy like The Pioneer Woman and do a screen shot of the Random.org generator results but could only download it. If you need proof, click on the link above.

Random Integer Generator

Here are your random numbers: 6 Timestamp: 2008-04-17 01:01:18 UTC

As I was attempting to be as unbaised as possible (hey you cyber people are my friends), I have not yet looked to see who even left the 6th comment. I'll do it after I post this. Whoever you are, email me with your address and any other contact info you choose to share (blood type, SSN, next of kin, Swiss bank account number) and your preference of yarn or fiber as well as color longings and I'll send a happy package your way.

Because I am a major softy and I have, gulp, too much fiber, I decided to award a consolation prize (and no, it's not a year's supply of Rice-a-Roni, The San Francisco Treat, Rice-A-Roni, Whose Flavor Can't Be Beat). I didn't have the energy to do the failed screen shot thing again so here's the paste:

Random Integer Generator

Here are your random numbers: 3 Timestamp: 2008-04-17 01:21:02 UTC

Same deal, I'll just need your pledge of undying love. I guess that takes care of the contest.

In ankle world, I have mein kleiner stiefel which looks like a modified ski boot. It's much lighter, thanks be to God, and no, I am NOT taking the Lord's name in vain. I can almost walk normally. Michelle, he is a sports medicine guy and David likes him so I guess we can all relax now and eat marshmallows by the campfire. Yes, I am currently in incredible pain but I walked more today than I have since that unfortunate falling-off-my-shoes incident. As I was trying to be tough, I did not ask Dr. Cory for pain meds; I am beginning to regret that decision. Thank goodness for Four Peaks Brewery and Kiltlifter.

BTW, tomorrow is HH's birthday; he will once again be my age. Happy Birthday, My Love!

Peace Through Confusion

Can I tell you how much I LOVE my new little map widget?! (It's in the far left column.) Finally, after all these years, my need for constant reassurance is partially sated. I click on the map; I see flags designating people who read my blog; I feel good.

Hello Caledonia, Minnesota! Hey There, Toledo, Ohio! Greetings, Norwich, Connecticut!

I should have put this thing on here a lot sooner.

This morning, I got a visitor from Cheltenham, Gloucestershire. That’s pretty darned special because, you know, I’ve eaten their cheddar.

I still am struggling with the Dakotans; I’m wondering if I did or said something to offend them. Hey, I read Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee; I sing Rocky Raccoon; and I’d love to visit Mt. Rushmore. Sorry I can’t run up there right now and act all Barackillary and waltz into a diner and serve burgers or drop into a bar for a shot of whiskey and a beer chaser but I’m with you just the same. Don’t bring me down.

And you guys in the Middle East? You know who you are (I just know where you live). You’re both reading this dribble. Write each other; start a friendship; be pen pals. I don’t know why someone from Ahvaz, Khuzestan, Iran and another someone from Beirut, Beyrouth, Lebanon couldn’t be buddies, do you?

You know, I could be starting something here. I don’t have Angelina Jolie’s money and clout (and thankfully not all those children) but I have a blog, darn it, and I have seen the mountaintop, and I have a dream of people living and let living regardless of religious preference or skin color. It doesn’t matter whether you like Baby Ruths or Butterfingers better and it doesn’t matter what the caliph, the rabbi, the minister, and the pope did on the airplane. What matters is that you read my blog and you get all weird inside because half the time you don’t know what the hell I’m talking about and how can you oppress your fellow man when you’re so darned confused.

Would someone please pass this along to Ban Ki-moon or, if he’s too busy maybe Kofi Annan or Butrus Butrus Galli? They might need something to do since they’re not UN Secretary Generals anymore. Tell them about my idea; spread the word blog readers.

Pretending to Farm, confusing the populace enough to keep them from fighting with one another.

And now, for your viewing pleasure (I wish I could capture mine doing this, much less set it to music.)

Vilkommen to Zee Asylum

Maybe it’s just the time of year, but I’m beginning to wonder if somehow a little some-something has found its way into the ruminant feed, that or if they've all gone a little nutso (wouldn't be the first ones around here). They’re all acting a little wacky tobbacky.

Bill Withers (oh did you forget we had goats as well?) keeps strolling over and resting his head against my hip. If I don’t pet him, he puts on a little pressure until I do. When I step back, he looks like this, all ready for his first Grateful Dead concert, twenty-odd years too late. If you listen closely, you can hear him singing CSN’s “Almost Cut My Hair.” Bill definitely lets his freak flag fly.

Then there’s Daisy. Anthony’s mom came over yesterday to drop him off and see the lambs and when she saw her said, “Daisy’s still alive?” Yup, but she’s one weird Boer Goat. She keeps to herself, hanging with the chickens (who admittedly are wonderful conversationalists), soaking up some rays, man, and happily displaying her buzz to the world. She’s also very proud that she still has all her teeth.

Charlotte here keeps trying to make us play made-ya-blink with her. She wins every time. I think it has something to do with the scar tissue on her nose. That must have been some blow (to the head, I mean; I do not endorse the use of any illegal substances on my blog!)

Don’t even ask; I just backed away slowly.

Even the little ones are acting queer, Finnegan in particular. Those sugar lips better be from the roots, bad boy.

I mean look at him! I can’t decide whether he is conversing with the plywood or is trying to get rich quick by finding a vision of the Virgin Mary in the grain and selling it on Ebay so that casino can buy it. Hey, wood’s better than toast, by gosh and golly.

On top of that, Seamus, no longer the object of my anxiety, thinks he’s a dog. Look at that stack! Westminster, here we come. Introducing Shetland Sheep #66, Rancho Laurena’s Seamus Dillon.

This is him doing his impression of Zuul from Ghostbusters (yes, I was having a little too much fun with Photoshop). I’m watching the skies for the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man.

I could go on and on. For now, however, I’ll end with Big-Faced Sean here. Interpret him as you will.

Tomorrow, the removal of das boot!

Das Boot

In Tarboro, NC, from 6th through 8th grade, I had an accelerated English teacher named Mrs. Babcock. She made me a big part of who I am today and, no, I am not exaggerating. She was the best teacher I ever had. When I first started attending her classes, I thought I was pretty hot stuff in the writing department. I had won awards; I was the star pupil; I was resented by my peers. And, as a bonus, when I went potty, it smelled like roses and jasmine. What else did an on-the-edge-of-pubescence child need?

The first paper I wrote for Mrs. Babcock’s class was a sobering, demoralizing experience. My college-lined, three-holed notebook paper came back splashed with red ink as if a bottle had spilled. I did not pass muster. My writing was subpar and she let me know about it. My confidence was shot and, from that point on, when I used the restroom, it didn’t smell all that nice.

After my humiliation, and for a long time period hence, all sentences needed to be diagramed. All verbs needed to be conjugated properly and labeled by tense. I hated/loved her.

I would not be the writer I am today without her. Although she’s probably long passed, I salute Mrs. Babcock. And I still feel guilty each time I start a sentence with “so,” “but,” or in this example, “and,” or when I use the word “really” because she felt “truly” was a better substitute. She didn’t like “there” either. To this day, she probably rolls in her grave over all my incomplete sentences. I like them; so sue me.

Now that that’s out of the way, Melanie, awesome maple syrup tapper and fellow animal freak/farmer had a great idea. I’m not quite sure how it relates to Mrs. Babcock other than the fact that I was going to start this post with “So I got this great idea from Melanie.” Nuff said.

Das boot, Frankenboot, boot of torture, ill-favored ankle stabilizer, your time is short. Or at least in this neck of the desert (I’m sorry to make you roll again, Mrs. Babcock, but you probably need the exercise). Melanie had a flash of brilliance as to the future of das boot. Her words:

I say you should make a traveling exhibit of the boot when you are finally finished with it. We blog followers take turns adding something from our farms/homes to it, and mailing it on to the next, and so on, then finally back to you. Fully decorated, it should be a better conversation piece than the stream of foul language and woe it currently inspires, no?

I love it! Granted, it would involve some shipping costs and mind power (the latter of which we all have in droves) but I think it’s an opportunity not to be missed. So (sorry Mrs. Babcock), if you’re interested, leave a comment or send an email and I’ll put together a database. I want photographic documentary evidence of all the places the boot goes sent to me in fairly real time. Captions would be an added bonus. Strangers posing with the boot would be nice as well. It really wants to see The Black Hills of South Dakota and Rocky Raccoon and I don’t think anyone from there reads the blog. Someone from New Zealand does but the shipping might be prohibitive. Today, I noticed via the way cool new map on the left that I have readers in Beirut, Iran, Manchester, and Nottingham. I love saying Nottingham; it makes me feel aristocratic.

Now, where is that lazy butler Alistair with my tea and crumpets?

What is a crumpet anyway?

I think the boot is willing to travel for at least a year as long as it checks in on a regular basis.

Anyone interested in participating in the Magical Mystery Boot Tour please let me know. Stephanie Pearl McPhee has her socks; Brenda Dayne has her dolls; I have das boot. Spread the word.