Pretending to Farm

Calling All Suggestions

And no, this is not a smarmy way to get comments from you people (though I would appreciate more than I get since about 1% of you all let me know you're here; if it wasn't for StatCounter, I'd think I was alone and unloved in the blogosphere). Here's a special thank you to Michelle, for being a constant commenter (I think they named a tea after her).

So I want to make some money. I desire fulfillment and self-worth and a sense of accomplishment. I'd like to manage this by doing something at which I excell and that I enjoy . More than anything, I need to cover the growing feed and vet bills. Believe it or not, in the week before the great "Lauren Breaks Her First Bone" issue made the newsstands, I was hitting the pavement in a whole different way looking for gainful employment. Unlike the aforementioned Michelle who plans on selling this year's crop of lambs with the exception of a ram which she plans on castrating, I want to keep my sheep. They are my babies, my family, my pride and joy, Stevie Ray, and I can't imagine selling them to another household. Would these folks, nice as I'm sure they'd be, give them oatmeal cookies and rub their chins for them? Would they sit in the dirt and poo with them and tell them notorious family tales (just so you know, Pop Pop didn't really marry a hooker; Gramma just called her one)? Would they sing "Sweet Baby James," "Father and Son," and "You Are My Sunshine" to them? Would they love them as much as we do? Most of all, would they never ever "cull" them and put them in the freezer? How can I possibly know these things and how would I be able to sleep at night wondering how they were doing and if they missed their family? I swear; I'm beginning to hyperventilate just thinking about it and they aren't even weaned yet.

Back to the issue of feed funds. Since between toddler-raising, teenager-refereeing, and farm-maintaining, I need to find something with flexible timing. I actually was thinking about going back into the restaurant business and working in the evening, thus freeing up my days for the aforementioned tasks. With a broken ankle and iffy health, however, I cannot do that right now and would like some feedback from you all as to what you think I could do that is marketable. I don't need to make a mint (or a Peppermint Patty); I just need to score some alfalfa ;-)

I am an artist by talent and think that concentrating on an area in mid to high end crafting would suit me best for both the flexibilty and enjoyment factors, but with the low cost of labor, I can't decide what I could do that would compensate me adequately. Knitting is too slow; designing knitwear is too risky at my skill level. Handspinning yarn is a slow process for me and, therefore, unprofitable as well. Painting is too subjective and I don't think that is where my greatest strengths lie. Glass work is a possibility though hard on me physically so I'd like to miniaturize what I used to do and perhaps make cabochons for use in jewelry.

In fact, jewelry is where I am leaning, both with beads that I make and purchase and wrapped sterling and gold wire. I plan on opening an Etsy shop or perhaps offering my wares directly from a new page on Pretending to Farm. I was also thinking about selling high quality notecards featuring photos of both desert scenes (cacti, flowers, animals) and farm settings (sheep and the rest). I'd like to offer one-of-a-kind jewelry pieces and home decorations. My big fear is that I would drown in a sea of starving artists, going largely unnoticed by the buyers to the point where I would undercut my prices and lose any hoped-for profit.

Soooo... What do you think?

Help! I Need Somebody!

Help! More than anybody! Hellellellellelp!

Okay, it’s truly not that urgent; I just had to have me some Beatles this morning. Poor Paul, that soon-to-be ex-wife of his is a soon-to-be-rich piece of work. Poor Linda, she was unloved because she took the cute Beatle and then she died and people realized that, hey, even being a Yank and all, she was a pretty good bloke (ette).

Speaking of exes, this is why I need your assistance. Because thankfully I am not one (it’s been all tulips and lollipops doncha know), I need the viewpoints of a few divorcees out there. I might, just might be trying to pen the next great American novel because SOMEONE told me that if I can support this family instead of him, we can live anywhere. ANYWHERE! Never one to pass up a near-impossible challenge the failure of which will leave me highly (lowly) depressed and make me question my self-worth, I have already written two chapters and done a character analysis/worksheet. As Hunky Husband has witnessed in the past, if I really, truly, passionately want something, there’s no stopping me.

DISCLAIMER: I have no complaints as to my current living situation. I love my family, my home, my animals, and my farm. The Hellish heat is but a minor inconvenience that we endure in order to live in what otherwise is paradise. I realize others envy and crave my lifestyle. I am truly not complaining. It’s just that my inner you-can-do-it has reawakened and, in addition to some Beatles, I’ve got to have me a Pulitzer (or at least a successful published book). So, while not giving away any plotlines, I would like the perspective of those of you who are either divorced or widowed, what it’s like to be on your own after being accustomed to having a partner around, how it feels to be the sole person responsible when the washer hose explodes and floods the basement/garage or even something simple like not having a second hand to help when hanging pictures or tying ribbons on packages. I’d also like to know your experiences dealing with the co-parenting of a child, nothing horrendous, perhaps just the good and bad sides of shuffling children between families and attempts at communicating with someone you once loved and with whom you shared your life. Did you or do you like your weekend to yourself or do you spend it missing your family and wondering what if?

I realize all these questions are very personal and I understand if you feel uncomfortable sharing your feelings with me. I also understand that, even if you do agree to reveal some of what you have gone through, you don’t want to do it in a comment section. Please email me at davenlar at desertinet dot com (written that way to avoid spam bots, doncha know; I think you guys know what to do). I truly appreciate any information you can give me.

My goal is to write 1000 words a day, not a huge task, but a challenging one nonetheless with a toddler as personal writing assistant. When (not if), the tome is complete, you’ll be the first ones to know and one of the first to thank.

As an advance thank you, here is your joke of the day forwarded to me by my Aunt Shirley whom I love. I wish I could spend more time with her and Dawn Kelly (I’m probably the only one who still calls her that), my cousin, her daughter, whom I don’t know well enough but wish I did.

When you have an "I Hate My Job" day, try this:

On your way home from work, stop at your pharmacy and go to the thermometer section and purchase a rectal thermometer made by Johnson & Johnson. Be very sure you get this brand.

When you get home, lock your doors, draw the curtains and disconnect the phone so you will not be disturbed. Change into very comfortable clothing and sit in your favorite chair.

Open the package and remove the thermometer. Now, carefully place it on a table or a surface so that it will not become chipped or broken.

Now the fun part begins. Take out the literature from the box and read it carefully. You will notice that in small print there is a statement:

"Every Rectal Thermometer made by Johnson & Johnson is personally tested and then sanitized".

Now, close your eyes and repeat out loud five times, "I am so glad I do not work in the thermometer quality control at Johnson & Johnson."

HAVE A NICE DAY AND REMEMBER, THERE IS ALWAYS SOMEONE ELSE WITH A JOB THAT IS MORE OF A PAIN IN THE A** THAN YOURS . . . . .

Hopefully Hormones

I’m having a moment, one of those is-this-my-hormones-talking or am-I-not-what-I-thought-I-was moments. Tears are dangerously close; the edge is near but then far as I get mad at myself for being such an insecure wimp. Is it that I am turning a year older in a few short days and I still haven’t realized my potential? I keep telling myself that I am a late bloomer, that success will come, that someday, somehow my mistake of not finishing college when it was free and available to me without the challenge of family will be forgiven.

Then I think my definition is skewed. I live in a nice house surrounded by people who usually love me and get to play with farm animals and house animals and, although or because I work hard, I am usually somewhere on the scale of happy. But I am rarely content.

I want to be a success of my own definition; I want to publish a book or invent something life-changing or just do something that matters beyond my small sphere of influence.

I’m not sure why I started this blog. Since Ms. Babcock’s three years of accelerated English, I’ve thought of myself as a decent writer. Cousin Eric was starting a blog and, as we are kindred souls in many ways, I thought I should as well. And I enjoy writing, sometimes in a cathartic sense, sometimes in an I-made-someone-smile way, sometimes in an I-taught-someone-a-little-something feeling.

But I am obsessed with stats, the measure of how many unique users visit the blog and how they ebb and flow. In my addled head, it is supposed to go this way:

Someone reads the blog and likes it. They tell two people who tell two people and next thing you know, I’ve got 300 comments like the Yarn Harlot and eager-publisher-person calls with have-I-got-a-contract-for-you.

Then I see the late Lloyd Bentsen standing there, and I am the Dan Quayle character and Lloyd is saying to me, “I know the Yarn Harlot, and you miss are no Yarn Harlot.”

Before my daddy died, too early at 52, he was writing a book but fate prevented him from finishing it and I think to myself, I can be the person in the family who finally writes that book.

But there stands Lloyd Bentsen again, “I knew Bob Dorsee and you are no Bob Dorsee.”

I’m going outside now for some farm therapy; I sure hope this is just hormonal.

Here Sits the fool

Believe it or not, I’ve never cared a great deal about others’ opinions of me. Perhaps I should clarify that statement. I want you to like me; I do, but if you truly don’t, I’m not going to go to a dark corner and rock back and forth pulling out my hair in clumps and calling for my mommy.

If I thought you might think ill of me, I might not tell you people about all my neuroses, hangovers, weight struggles, and health struggles. I’m here to amuse and bemuse. You’re here to chuckle and ridicule me. And perhaps learn a thing or ten about farming, knitting, spinning, and raising children and grandchildren with me.

A few exceptions exist to my nonchalant do-you-like-me-or-not attitude and these are the people nearest and dearest to my heart, my husband in particular. So when yesterday morning began with a bit of a berating from him about our lazy children who can’t (won’t) clean up after themselves, I kind of lost it. It didn’t help that I was (am) still upset about the thing-I-still-am-not-going-to-tell-you-about and therefore had been awake from 2 am until 5 am working on outlining images in Photoshop for the Pretending to Farm Store. Do you realize how long it takes to outline cactus flowers with a shaky hand, sore shoulder, and an old mouse? Do you understand the difficulty in keeping the pixels removed from the background because you forgot you need to save it with a .png suffix in order to maintain the transparency so you do it over and over (and over) again? Isn’t that the definition of a fool? Repeating the same behavior thinking the outcome will somehow magically turn out differently?

Here sits the fool.

Okay, he apologized, a few million times. He’s a good guy but just wanted to get up on a Saturday morning and relax but instead was faced with kid-produced clutter. I understand. I do. I’m sorry as well. I’m just exhausted from pint-sized care, definitely-not-pint-sized-ramifications, and many hours of book writing.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have the perfect saguaro to find, photograph, and outline (.png, remember.) I sure hope I sell some shirts.

Addendum #1: Thanks for your business and much-needed confidence boost, dear Ann! Have fun in Key West not giving up anything for Lent.

Addendum #2: Current voting favors giving up farming in jammies and slippers. I think I’d rather give up beer.

The Obligatory Top Ten Resolutions

In the year 2007, I resolve to:

1. Rediscover lost spontaneity.

2. Sleep at night. If impossible, get up and do something instead of lying there trying to count sheep but instead thinking of everything that needs to be done.

3. Hone my skills as a raconteur.

4. Broaden my vocabulary, thereby making you people look up more words in the dictionary.

5. Eat better cheese, stilton, morbier, stinky. Add wine. See number one.

6. Utilize more creative curse words. F*** gets tiresome, is overused, and is therefore passé, plus I can’t say it in front of the pint-sized. Suggestions? What do you think of bugger?

7. Buy myself some decent, somewhat sexy underwear. I know I’m a grandma but that doesn’t mean I have to undress like one.

8. Finish unfinished projects. I cannot make this funny. It is a damned horror movie and a good part of the reason I can’t sleep at night. Bugger.

9. Not regain lost weight. As the fat pants are gone, and I refuse to buy more, this is mandatory. The name of this blog is “pretending to farm,” not “pretending to farm naked.”

10. Knit five items for charity. Imagine I am UN Knitting Ambassador, a la Angelina Jolie, only with normal lips. Don’t, however, adopt another baby. We are full up, as they say at the inn.

I could go on and on about how I need to exercise daily, eat better, drink less, etc., but I am of the opinion that a little vice is nice. By being too pure, you are sure to bore.

Be Careful What You Wish For

You people never cease to amaze me.  I think you tune in to read about the farm and the fiber and I know some of you do just that.  Apparently, though, a good many of you enjoy reading about blue-tinged cousins intermarrying in Kentucky.  Here, I thought eyes were rolling and mice everywhere were swiftly pointing to the little red “X” in the corner but, no, you liked it.  You really, truly liked it (note the Sally Field impression; poor woman will never live that one down.)

I understand.  How long can you maintain interest in what my chickens are doing?  For that matter, how many things can I find to write about them?  Our animals do not realize they should constantly explore new behaviors to interest us all and frankly, I am glad they do not.  If I walked outside to find a hen standing on its head for entertainment, I’d probably faint.  I don’t want talking alpacas greeting me with “Hello, Lauren” Mr. Ed-style, or organized six-legged racing sheep or cha-cha dancing turkeys.  Maybe if I write another children’s book, but not now.

Soooo.. in addition to any items of interest around here, and the weekly desert creature lecture, I will try to find something quirky, like the aforementioned blue people to muse over.  I do aim to please.

Today, however, I have spun the wheel of blog subjects and determined that it is don’t-decide-where-to-retire-until-you-have-thoroughly-investigated-the-place day.

Nestled at the base of the Rockies, a short drive to Pike’s Peak, Pueblo, and Colorado City, surrounded by great scenic beauty, the white-water rafting Arkansas River, and the Royal Gorge (which has the world’s highest suspension bridge), is Cañon City, CO, subject of previous posts and many daydreams.  You might remember I ordered a relocation packet?   Well, it arrived in the mail yesterday folks, and guess what?  The largest employer in Cañon City is the Colorado Department of Corrections with 2000 employees for the 6,000 inmates (more than 10% of the population of the county) incarcerated in the 13 prisons, 9 state and 4 federal that call Cañon City home.  Abandoning my packet and heading to the internet(s) to discover the unvarnished, away from the Chamber of Commerce truth, I found one headline that read “The Nation's Super Criminals Come Here to Die.” 

Cañon City is home to the highest-security federal prison in the country.  Apparently, Timothy McVeigh lived here as did John Gotti.  Ramzi Rousef still does.  Oh my.  Speechlessness for a long but unmeasured time period turned to absolute confusion.  You know, I don’t have a lot of confidence in our government, particularly lately, but placing a “Supermax” prison complex in amongst awe-inspiring scenery truly astounds me.  What about the Arizona desert (irony noted)?  What about Kansas?  The inmates can’t enjoy the landscape that surrounds them.   They are incarcerated for 22 hours a day in their cells, the other two hours spent in shackles surrounded by at least three guard escorts.  I am completely flummoxed.  I guess this explains the good price per acre for the land I lusted over, huh?  Well, I think I’ll follow the original plan and just stay where I am, hoping to find a second home in cool northern Arizona for the summertime someday.  Away from a prison, that is.

Post #50! Or Lauren, Why can't you ever be happy with what you have?

All the dirt is dust

And the temp is 110

I am stuck inside

In the air conditioning.

I’d be cool and calm

If I was in Ouray

Colorado

Dreamin’

On such a summer’s day

Since our visit from our Colorado-bound neighbors, I have been not too quietly obsessing about buying land there as an investment and future homestead.  (The photos shown here are the actual property.)  We wouldn’t have to build or move right away but it would be ours to play pioneer on when we are ready, even if that is as far away as retirement.  35 acres at the base of the

Rockies

in an area zoned for minimum 35 acre parcels, how awesome is that?  Now, I can see some of you rolling your eyes, those of you who actually like the city, urban sprawl, and a Starbucks at every corner.  Yet, you should know by now it’s just not my thing.  Don’t fence me in and don’t tread on me, baby.  I’ve been looking for wide open spaces long before the “Dixie Chicks” put them on an album.

I have been doing my normal OCD thing and googling the area to death, looking at umpteen million properties for sale, and ordering a relocation packet from the

Cañon

City

chamber of commerce.  (No, I didn’t look at the Ouray in my little Mamas and Papas lyric above; I just needed a city in

Colorado

that ended with an “ā” sound to rhyme with day.  Artistic license and all that.)

Perhaps we’ll have to take a road trip late July or early August and check out

Colorado

in person.  After all, it would probably be smart to actually go to the area to which we plan on retiring.  (I hope David is okay with me planning our entire future without consulting him.) On the weekend of July 22^nd and 23^rd, the

Cañon

City

chamber of commerce is sponsoring the 17th Annual Fiddlers Along the Arkansas competition and also the Royal Gorge Bridge & Park Zebulon Pike Bicentennial Commemoration at the Royal Gorge Bridge & Park.  (It is a short drive to Pike’s Peak from

Cañon

City

.)  Then, of course, on the 29^th is The Bridge Dance and on August 1^st is an amateur wine judging competition which I feel very qualified to attend.  Thrown between these events are farmer’s markets and craft shows and music in the park.  I’m developing a crush just writing about it.

Of course, I can think of no way to pay for this Rocky Mountain High and am wracking my brain to figure something out.  Visions of late night infomercials and junk mail long ago tossed and deleted are dancing in my head.  However, though I have foolishly tried in the past, I cannot get something from nothing.  Pounds don’t “melt away” without diet and exercise, college degrees on paid-for parchment don’t mean the degree has been achieved, and penises don’t grow larger because an email says they will.  (Resisting urge to insert dirty joke here.)  Therefore, I will get ever busier on my two books, one, a book of my own knitting patterns combined with farm anecdotes and how-tos and the other a great American novel about a woman who finds love while pretending to farm.  I am in the beginning stages of both so it might take a while.  Any publishers out there want to advance me the cost of 35 acres in

Colorado

?

Colorado Dreamin'

on such a summer’s day.