Pretending to Farm

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?

In Which I Ignore The Advice of Professionals

So I’m having a knitting crisis (I know, add it to the list of Lauren’s Dysfunctions and Drawbacks). I blame it on my mother’s neighbor John who recommended I read Janet Evanovich which led me to a whole slew of fluffy paperbacks, some romance and some suspense but none candidates for a Pulitzer. I don’t exactly know what came over me.

Can I interrupt briefly to say I am totally ignoring Mr. MakeMoneyFromYourBlog by writing about myself? The lady who supports her whole family at dooce.com does nothing but write about herself and her exploits. She drank rum by the pool. She saw Rick Springfield in the airport. She’s a reformed Mormon and didn’t drink her first cup of coffee until she was 22, a year after she lost her virginity. If that is not talking about oneself, I don’t know what is. Hey World, I have farm animals, a Hunky Husband, and a tendency toward depression and low self-esteem. I love dark beer, loaded pizza, and getting caught in the rain (like that Piña Colada song, do you?). I refuse to tell you about how I lost my virginity but I have been known to share the story when plied with alcohol. Let’s just say it wasn’t one of my better moments. Don’t I count for something?!

Okay, back to my crisis du jour. I just don’t feel like knitting. I’m surrounded by fiber and fiber producers and damned if I can pick up my needles for more than a few minutes at a time. This coming from a woman who has literally spent all her waking hours knitting when given the opportunity. All I want to do is read, read, read.

If I wasn’t wearing this gianormous Frankenstein boot, I would jump up, throw my arms in the air, and sing “Gotta read” in my best Gene Kelly impersonation. I loved Gene Kelly, and Donald O’Connor. I could watch “Singing in the Rain” over and over.

But not right now folks, cuz it’s throw my nose in a book time.

I’m currently reading “An Irish Country Doctor” (note Amazon plug to your left). It’s a step up from my reading of late and I’m a sucker for all things Irish, as witnessed by the names of our lambs. You’ll have to pardon me if I start saying things like “Och, aye” and calling someone with whom I’m not pleased an unmitigated gobshite. I love that one. My only issue with reading about Irish culture is it doesn’t help me in my ongoing quest to imbibe less. The characters spend a good deal of their time in The Mucky Duck Pub quoting Oscar Wilde, i.e. “Work is the scourge of the drinking classes.” Och, aye, tis a crying shame, I tell ya.

I think I’ll be cured soon. Next week, I go back to the doctor to get this gobshite of a Frankenstein boot removed and replaced with a lighter, daintier version with which I can wear a shoe. Then I’ll actually have to accomplish things. For now though, I’m heading back to Fingal O’Reilly and the village of Ballybucklebo.

By the way, I’m going to pick a random number from the comments received (hint, hint) on this post and send the winner some yarn or roving of their choice. Somebody has got to get to work on this stuff before someone feeds it after midnight and it takes over the world. Contest ends Wednesday at 6pm Arizona time (ha, figure that one out, hint, we don’t change other than our underwear).

Lauren Downer

Despite a generous dose of ruminant therapy primarily involving Bill Withers who couldn’t get enough and kept nudging me for more love, I am in mourning. We lost yet another turkey, Jessica the Narragansett hen, this time to coyotes and, with the exception of indoor Zorro, we are down to three turkeys from our original eight. Whether from fear or boredom, the two remaining hens stay parked in their laying boxes and only venture out to eat and drink. Rubius, our only tom, stays in the pen of misfit fowl and, although he is a good boy, he exhibits none of the personality his former mates did. Yup, it’s pretty lonely and boring in turkeydom.

Also, I finished “The Deathly Hallows.” It was the best book of the seven; I loved it. Yet now, I have no more Harry Potter books to anticipate reading, no more Hogwarts, no more magical spells. I miss them already. With the book freshly read, the characters and lingo keep popping in my head. If I could make just one spell work, it would be turgio; it’s a cleaning charm. How wonderful would it be to just point my wand (which I don’t possess) at the floor, walls, dishes, laundry, etc. and cry “turgio!” and all would be sparkling. If only such a thing was possible.

The third contribution to Lauren’s Land of Mourning is the end of the Tour de France. Despite the scandals that plagued this year’s tour, we thoroughly enjoyed it and looked forward to watching it every day. Our three weeks of placing bets on stage winners with one another is no more. Another thing to look forward to is over. Sob.

All these things happened in a 24 hour period, hence my mourning. I am working on pulling myself out of the abyss which I have fallen into but washing and folding neglected loads upon loads of laundry don’t do much for my overall sense of well-being.

On a brighter note, something snapped and I am finally making progress on the Meem’s lily of the valley shawl from Lacestyle. I might not have yet mastered lace but I am queen of the nupp. For those of you who do not know, a nupp is created by making five stitches out of one and then purling those stitches together on the following row. Not quite a bobble yet more than a bump, it enhances the texture of the pattern.

Sorry to be such a downer. I told myself I wouldn’t post if I was in one of my funks. Yesterday’s lack of post was due to this but I am who I am. You all surely know this by now.

Hey Buddy, Can You Spare a Wheelchair for My Rooster?

Last night, I did something in bed that I have never before done.

Now that I have your attention, I have to admit it is neither kinky nor sexual at all. In truth, I slept with a rooster. Okay, I guess it does sound a little kinky but instead it was dirty, and not like Christina Aguilera.

Jakers, David the Teenager's favorite rooster (of course), has fallen prey to what we think is a scorpion sting or spider bite. Yesterday morning, we discovered him lying on the ground in the chicken coop, unable to stand or support himself in any way. His right foot was noticeably swollen; his head was lolling; and his comb was pale and worrisome. We brought him inside (another of course) and fed him a mash of sugar water and chicken feed and gradually his color improved but he still could not stand. When bedtime came, and with Zorro already inhabiting the house poultry cage, we did the only self-respecting thing we as bleeding heart farmers could do and let him sleep in bed between us. Unbelievably, I actually slept very well cuddled with his feathery warmth and, except for that whole lack-of-house-training thing, he made a good sleeping companion. Yes, my sheets went in the wash at daybreak after which I took a long, vigorous scrubbing-filled shower.

Today, Jakers seems better but still cannot use his feet and keeps trying to stand on his elbows without success. We feel for the poor boy and hope he will not lose his head over the whole thing. Isn't farming awesome?

The other big event yesterday was, of course, the wait for Harry. I had pictured UPS driving up at its usual lunchtime schedule but no. Darkness fell and still no Harry. Anticipation fell to anxiety and then to anger. WHERE WAS MY BOOK??? Finally, around 8:30, the boys made the ¼ mile trek to the mailbox again and it was there. I haven't seen young David since except for when I found him asleep this morning with half the book read.
He must have stayed up all night. Good thing because I want to read it sooner rather than later. Yes, I am encouraging my child's unhealthy habit of sleep deprivation for my own selfish reading greed. Hurry up child; I'm waiting. Don't make me buy my own copy and don't tell me what happens. I like finding out what happens on my own, thank you very much.

And now for something completely different, Cordelia thinks she is a person. Or perhaps a rooster.

Life is beautiful. Happy Sunday everyone.

Whiskers on Kittens

Last night, as I sat down to begin spinning Leroy No-Longer-Brown’s fleece, I found that, not only did it look like it had a lot of VM in it for fleece that had been professionally processed, it in fact did. After losing a few tedious hours to picking out every little scrap of hay, burr, and leaf, I decided to abandon my spinning for the night and haul out the drum carder this morning to re-process it.
This is not one of my favorite things. In fact, it’s exponentially more boring than watching grass grow and, if I didn’t have my trusty iPod, the littered fleece would take many moons to get through.

To counteract the fact that a good portion of my day has been devoted to do something very un-favorite, I thought I would list some of my favorite things, despite the absence of Julie Andrews and/or a highly-desired thunderstorm. So here goes (I’ve limited myself to three of each)…

Favorite Books:

Pride and Prejudice
Jane Eyre
The Secret Life of Bees

Favorite Movies:

Ghostbusters (I know but I could watch it over and over.)
Chicago
Pride and Prejudice (BBC version with Colin Firth)

Favorite Blogs:

Confessions of a Pioneer Woman
The Yarn Harlot
The Panopticon

Favorite Blogs by People I Know (Cyberly):

Chocolate Sheep
Boulderneigh
Sheep Thrills Farm

Favorite Podcasts:

Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me
Sticks and String
Cast On

Favorite Television Shows:
The Office
The Daily Show with Jon Stewart
Iron Chef America

There. I feel a little more balanced. I could have listed a lot more, particularly on the blogs and podcasts but I wouldn’t want to go too far in the favorite direction and feel all giddy while I drum card. I have my emotional, funk-prone reputation to keep up, you know.

By the way, there will be no blog post tomorrow as we go spend half the day at the dentist and then celebrate Jessica's 18th birthday together, as one happy (do you hear me, my offspring?!) family, even if it kills us all.