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?

Toughing It Out(doors)

For years now, I have thought that, if Hell actually exists and if each Hellish experience is tailor-made to the individual sinner, my version would involve close proximity with Billy Mayes. You know who I’m talking about, the huckster on commercials/infomercials who yells, nay SCREAMS, at me to buy Oxyclean/Kaboom/500 lb-test hooks/absorbable cloth/you name it. Why does he have to yell at me? I never did anything wrong to him; I bought his Kaboom. Why won’t he leave me alone?!

My current flu-that-won’t-leave reminds me of this guy. It’s a little Hell on Earth, perhaps a warm-up (pardon the pun) for what’s to come. Just when I think it’s over me and has decided to move its germs elsewhere, it insidiously sneaks back, at night, when I am trying to do that inconvenient but necessary sleep thing. It sees my horizontal form and pounces like Tigger’s doppelganger until I cough and cough (and cough) until the next thing I know I’ve chugged the remaining Nyquil and gone through ¾ of a bag of cough drops.

Please make it go away. And if there is any true good left in the world, make Billy go away, too.

Despite all this, I did make it to the RVHA 10th Anniversary Picnic on Saturday. I promised to help man the booth (we raffled lots of good stuff) and I don’t like to let the Well-Deserved Girls’ Group down. Plus, the picnic is always great fun. The food is good, the company better, and the entertainment is top-rate.

As usual, a certain Pint-Sized Farmer/Rancher stole the show.
Not only did he monopolize this horse, he had to go all Mr. Ham on us. It runs in the family, doncha know.

Here is my friend Mo playing jump rope with an equine friend and Elaine. It’s always good to see Mo kick up her heels a bit. She works too hard and is very responsible unlike yours truly.

Her hubby John (who she recently beat in a reining competition; chalk one up for the women) kicked back with a certain handsome man I know, John’s brother Rocco (Cowboy U viewers might recognize him as the host), and a new friend whose name I am sorry to say I can’t remember. She was very nice and patient and took the Pint around the trail 10,000 and one times, hence her posture.

A good time was had by all, making my rare moment of toughing it out well worth it. Don’t expect it to happen again anytime too soon; I have to keep my inner wimp close at hand. She’s been with me for 45 years now and I have to let her down gently. She will be leaving soon enough though, of that I am convinced.

The Big Match Girl

Anthony has been a Pint obsessed as of late. With the advent of warmer weather, he has rediscovered his tricycle and spends a good portion of his day riding around and around (and around) the pool deck on it. At first, it was cute but now it’s gotten rather creepy in its driven repetition. Next thing you know he’s going to use his best kid-in-a-horror-movie voice to chant “redrum, redrum” whilst bending his puppet index finger to the words. This will scare me; but maybe that’s what my body needs. If something can scare the s**t out of you, why can’t it scare the flu out of you? Just a thought, I’m grasping at cures here. I have plans tomorrow that I don’t want to abandon.

After reading yesterday’s post, HH went to Walgreen’s and got some much-needed Nyquil for me and, in doing so, earned another star in his crown. He’s good that way. The bloom fell off the rose a bit this morning though when he told me I looked like the Little Match Girl. Unfortunately, when I looked in the mirror, my reflection confirmed his analysis (except for the little part). It was like finding some previously unknown-to-me poor sickly relation with sallow pallor and mussed hair. A Beth shawl thankfully covered her back and shoulders but did not quiet the wracking cough that visibly wounded her chest with each spell. She looks downright pitiful. Oh, yeah, that’s me. I guess I better find some sulphur on sticks in case I need some pocket change. You never know.

Ewe-wise, I got a better look at both Cookie and Charlotte, both definitely pregnant with swollen udders and filling milk sacs. Carmela, confound her, is still a mystery. Even standing on my head, I can’t see her udders or milk sac and, if I go by girth alone, even Leroy would be pregnant as his full-fleece adds major perceived-poundage. Patience is not one of my virtues but it seems as if I have no choice.

So here I am, doing my flu-ridden best to care for a tricycle-possessed toddler, keep a watch over my flock by day, and sell a few matches on the side. Wish me luck.

Suck It Up

“You know you might just have to suck it up.” Those are the words that ushered from my husband’s mouth three nights ago, and I have been thinking long and hard about them ever since. They were not meant to be cruel or demeaning but came out of the frustration of dealing with a chronically ill wife.

I was feeling sorry for myself as usual. My joints were really bothering me and new painful lesions were popping up in record speed on my skin. My feet had decided not to work when I arose each morning, causing me to walk like Peter Boyle in “Young Frankenstein” and making it impossible for me to pick up a certain Pint-Sized Farmer who always wants to be picked up and loved when he sees me vertical. I was beginning to convince myself that life in a wheelchair was coming sooner rather than later and that old bones would not be reached.

And then there was Taos. Ever since I missed last year’s Wool Festival, I have been looking forward to traveling there to participate in the 2007 festival and drink in the atmosphere. I love it there, the crisp air, real trees, and unique people. Just about everything about Taos, I love. And now I was afraid I would not be able to go, just like I could not go to Minnesota, just like I have had to cancel my attendance at so many events and miss out on so much of life.

You see my hands don’t like to drive. After anywhere from five minutes to an hour, they seize up in cramped pain and protest their prolonged position. Driving the nine hours east to Albuquerque and north through Santa Fe and on to Taos seemed like an impossibility. So I felt sorry for myself some more and ate cry baby soup, lamenting the workshops I would miss and the people and places I would not see.

“You know you might just have to suck it up.”

I’ve decided to go. Armed with if-nothing-else pure stubbornness, Robert and I are making the journey this coming Wednesday. Since I waited too long to make a hotel reservation, thinking I might not be able to go and fearing the cancellation fees I would encounter, I had a difficult time finding a place to stay but then happenstance joyfully danced in and, for just a little more than a regular, generic hotel, I found a tiny bed and breakfast to call home for the four days we’ll be there. Our casita has a fireplace, sitting area, and private patio, and is about a mile from the plaza, forcing us into some much needed exercise and hopefully ordering my feet to once again work properly, dang it. Taos is said to be a place of healing after all, serving as the hub of the 86 mile Enchanted Circle winding through northern New Mexico. This year we will travel this circle. If the legends are correct and healing is there, I’m not passing it up for the world.

If by chance, any of you out there share the good fortune to be in Taos for the Wool Festival, after the day’s workshops have ended and our daily travels complete and before Robert and I head back to our little home away from home, we’ll be sitting under the giant elderly cottonwood trees at Eske’s Brew Pub sharing good company and a delicious meal. Robert will have a home brewed root beer; I’ll be drinking a well-deserved I-sucked-it-up pint.

I Can; I Can; I Can!!!

Not much has changed around here this week, Zorro continues to stalk and attack me, leading Hunky Husband to rationalize that in fact Zorro is sexually attracted to me and that is the reason for his behavior towards me. Nice try, hunny, must be those lesions that are doing it for him. Magic, who is growing with each shake of his tail feather, still enjoys his morning baths in the kitchen sink, taken while I simultaneously feed the Pint-Sized Farmer, three slobbery beasts, one little brown mutt, and Apollo the cat who won’t leave me alone until he has his morning egg. And no, I don’t cook it for him. Raising too many fowl creatures equals an abundance of eggs which equals very lovely coats for the regular domestics.

Severus the new turkey poult is doing well out in the, shock, out of doors, but his nest-mate as we expected didn’t fare as well and died about 24 hours after hatching, poor thing. Excuse the very trite expression but it was for the best. One of his eyes never opened and he never hopped and peeped like healthy poults do.

Me? I’m trying to focus on what I can do rather than what I cannot. Believe it or not, I garnered this little gem of personal advice from the wheelchair-bound character on the children’s cartoon “Dragon Tales” and thought I should do my best to follow it. No Dr. Phil for me, darned high-fallutin’ getting-real know-it-all. I prefer taking advice aimed at pre-schoolers (All I really need to know I learned in kindergarten, anybody?) What follows is a small smattering of things I can do:

1. I can legally ingest narcotics. Lindsey Lohan, eat your heart out.

2. I can turn my head right.

3. I can knit a simple pattern with a medium-sized needle, such as a 7 (4.5 mm). Don’t ask me about lace or socks; they are not on this list.

4. I can guilt my children into administering much-needed and appreciated neck/feet/hand rubs.

5. I can lie in bed and cuddle with a Pint-Sized Farmer guilt-free no matter the time of day.

6. I can be at peace knowing my house is dirty for a legitimate reason for once and not feel too self-conscious about it.

7. I can accept the fact that I will always be a pretend farmer and be happy with our small spinner’s flock. For once, I don’t need to have ambitions of Shetland breeding greatness.

8. I can ingest gold without any apparent side effects. Amazing grace! It goes well with my new gold necklace with a pearl solitaire pendant courtesy of my awesome in-laws. They know how to cheer me and then some.

9. I can appreciate all my friends who have been calling and writing and telling me that they’d wait patiently for me to post once again.

10. I can type for about 10 minutes before agony sets in. The joy of writing overrules the pain of arthritis.

Thank you all for being here for me. This blog has brought me so much more than I ever realized it would.

File Your Neglect Complaints Here

I haven't forgotten you all; how could I? If I had any creative powers remaining after futile attempts at pain blocking and the plethora of fun pharmaceuticals I am injesting, I would be posting up a storm. We need the rain after all.

I promise I will get back to you as soon as I can manage sitting at my desk for more than five minutes at a time. Right now I am waiting for a bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck (just not too hard please) and I'll be blogging in my sleep about you, ruminants.

Golden

If ever I have doubts in the kindness and generosity of mankind and think the world will end because of the evil within it, I will look back over the last 24 hours and know people are innately good. My cyber-friends, physical friends, and family have sent me wonderful words of encouragement and generous gifts and, although the physical side of me is still challenged, my mental state is vastly improved, all due to you. You’re a wonderful bunch.

This morning, after visiting the lab (Anthony opening the bathroom door for all to see me trying to squeeze pee into a cup added a special touch to the occasion) and running a few unavoidable errands, I picked up my gold from Walgreen’s and headed home. Whether through unrealistic optimism, extra sensory perception, or generous pain meds, I have a real good feeling about this new treatment.

To insure its success though, I’m thinking that maybe I shouldn’t stop at 3 mg capsules. Perhaps some jewelry is in order. A nice solid gold necklace and matching earrings might just be thing to put me on the road to good health. A new ring wouldn’t hurt either. One can never be too careful.

You think he’ll buy that (literally and figuratively)?

Seriously though, thank you everyone; I love you all.

There's Gold in Them There Medications

First of all, I am sorry for being such a sad sack lately but also grateful for all the words of sympathy and encouragement I have received from both my cyber and non-cyber friends. Being ill feeds my depression-prone soul and I have been feeling very poorly lately. My day to day responsibilities have begun to seem insurmountable and even the simplest things have felt overwhelming. In hope of help, today I drove the 45 minutes to visit the doctor and came away both frightened and encouraged.

I typically try to keep my dumb disease on the down low. I tell you when I am not feeling well some of the time, usually when it is affecting the quality or frequency of my writing. Because they are not nearly as fun as farming and fiber arts, I haven’t talked too much about the symptoms and I figured you don’t want to hear about them anyway. Today, however, I am just going to get the whole ugly mess out in the open and then make a big effort to just shut up about it from here on out, that is unless I end up in hospital or coffin.

I have a rare, sometimes referred to as orphan, illness known as Behcet’s Syndrome. 15,000 other Americans are as privileged as I to share this autoimmune disease, which causes my body to attack anywhere small blood vessels pulse. Yes, this encompasses the whole ball of wax. To oversimplify a bit, Behcet’s is a cross between lupus and rheumatoid arthritis. From the National Institute of neurological Diseases and Stroke:

What is Behcet's Disease?

Behcet's disease is a rare, chronic inflammatory disorder. The cause of Behcet's disease is unknown, although there have been reports of a virus found in some individuals with the disease. Behcet's disease generally begins when individuals are in their 20s or 30s, although it can happen at any age. It tends to occur more often in men than in women. Symptoms of Behcet's disease include recurrent ulcers in the mouth (resembling canker sores) and on the genitals, and eye inflammation. The disorder may also cause various types of skin lesions, arthritis, bowel inflammation, meningitis (inflammation of the membranes of the brain and spinal cord), and cranial nerve palsies. Behcet's is a multi-system disease; it may involve all organs and affect the central nervous system, causing memory loss and impaired speech, balance, and movement.

The effects of the disease may include blindness, stroke, swelling of the spinal cord, and intestinal complications. The disease is common in Japan, Turkey and Israel, and less common in the United States.

Is there any treatment?

Treatment for Behcet's disease is symptomatic and supportive. Medication may be prescribed to reduce inflammation and/or regulate the immune system. Immunosuppressive therapy may be considered.

What is the prognosis?

Behcet's disease is a lifelong disorder that comes and goes. Permanent remission of symptoms has not been reported.

What research is being done?

The NINDS supports research on painful neurological disorders such as Behcet's disease. This research is aimed at discovering the causes of these disorders and finding ways to treat, prevent, and, ultimately, cure them.

Today, my doctor would not give me the hoped-for steroid shot because my recent dosage has been too high, my bone loss significant (I’ve shrunk an inch), and my weight gain sudden. My neck has permanent joint damage, resulting in loss of movement, and my other joints are in danger of experiencing the same. According to my doctor, Behcet’s is tougher than RA and lupus when it is in full flare as it now. Although I have lost track of how many different medications we have tried to get my symptoms under control (it has been at least 20), all of which my body have rejected soundly, we are now giving gold a try and, being a woman who appreciates precious metals as much as the next person, I say why not?

When he first brought it up, I thought the word gold was a brand name, like Enbrel, substituting for a long pharmaceutical chemical name. But no, it is gold, auronofin, a kind of gold salt, used to reduce joint swelling, damage, and stiffness, and improve the body’s ability to perform daily activities. With the recent ads touting all the new, fancy RA drugs, auronofin is not prescribed often (because of this, Walgreen’s had to special order it for me) and it does not work for 2 to 3 out of 10 patients but what the Hell? I’ve tried almost everything else and maybe, just maybe it will be the golden key.

Although it may be selfish of me, please send a thought and prayer my way in hope that this will work and my life will once again feel manageable. As I said, from here on out, I shall endeavor to hush my mouth when it comes to my dumb disease. Tomorrow, after I go to the vampire, I will do my best to shoo this issue away from my consciousness. I know many, many people have issues far worse than mine and far fewer means to deal with them so please send a prayer their way first and foremost.

Hello, look at the ray of hope that just greeted me in the eastern sky! I think that's a marvelous sign, don't you?!

Yarn on Hooves

The first thunderstorms of the monsoon season rolled through in the night, providing much needed water for the desert plants’ and animals’ survival as well as lightening my mood with the promise of rain-cooled air. Morning’s overcast skies chained me to bed until six instead of the intended 4:30 or 5:00, so timed for snapping photographs while the temperature was still tolerable. I persevered, however, hoping for picture taking in a temporarily cooler atmosphere but instead found East Coast-like humidity. Within moments, I was downright dewy. An overly wimpy heat-sensitive pretend shepherdess can’t win for losing.

I did find out something about myself. Part of my recent melancholy has to do with farm animal separation. While taking photos this morning, I felt like it had been forever since I had visited with my fleecy friends up close. I have to force myself to “suck it up,” Hunky Husband’s favorite mantra, and be out there if only for a little while each day. I have lost touch with the farm and have only a spoiled rotten baby turkey (seen here doing his best rubber chicken impersonation) as close physical evidence of what we have built here. If I have to go as far as wetting towels and putting them in the freezer the night before for application around my neck in order to be out there with the farmy bunch, that is what I have to do. Reconnecting with what I love about this place is the key. I know this now. Don’t think I’ve changed my mind about going to San Diego though. I’m being honest with myself, not masochistic.

Philosophical musings ended; let’s take a peak at the yarn on hooves.

Behold Madeline, still looking the baby bison, just a much larger baby bison. She is almost as big as her mother who, by the way, weaned Maddy just fine without any help from us. After hearing many differing viewpoints from the Shetland email group, I was concerned that once again, we would have to consider separating the sheep into pastures but we let nature take its course and, voila, it worked! Sometimes I think all the human interference is unnecessary, but then I remembered the whole elbow deep in the uterus business, too. Perhaps we shepherds should only interfere when the health of the animal is in danger.

Speaking of, look at poor skin and bones Daisy. She acts like she feels fine, eats and walks around, but she is a shadow of her former self. From her appearance, I’m afraid she’s not long for this world but I am not about to begin meat goat chemo. Hopefully, she’ll rally but I am not counting on it. The sad truth about farming is it is full of heartbreak.

On a lighter note, I present the handsomeness that is Darby O’Gill, blessed with lovely crimped moorit fleece, nicely set horns, and a physique any ewe would lust after. He’s a looker, that Darby.

His twin sister Fiona is as well, though her shy personality made photographing her a challenge. She and her mother, Charlotte, almost look like the true twins. Fiona is just slightly smaller and has that wee bit of grey around her mouth. Other than that, their lovely faces are almost identical.

Until my departure Friday morning, I will endeavor to continue rediscovering my inner farmer and furnish the photos for proof. A very handsome rooster was begging to be photographed for posterity and I wouldn’t want to disappoint him.

In Which the Family Helps Out So I Can Actually Do Something

Hunky Husband (yes, Michelle, I have given in to the truth and David the Husband will now be referenced by this new moniker) is away playing middle-aged Easy Rider with our friend Scott from San Diego, only sans Peter Fonda and with BMW Adventure motorcycles instead of Harleys. Scott says nothing screams old, fat, and bald like a Harley but I think it is only because he is prejudiced in favor of his new toy. The two of them were meeting slightly west of midway between here and there and planning on getting dusty and dirty exploring the trails in the mountains of eastern San Diego County. Though not as hot there as it is here, it’s still too toasty to fit in with my idea of outdoor fun but boy will be boys. For not the first time in my life, I am glad the farm and its responsibilities are keeping me here

Before he left, he did a little turkey sitting so I could finish plying the yarn which I am now calling “Sunny Beach Day.” At first, Zorro did not know what to think of this whiskered mass of handsomeness; but, after a peck or two on the cheek in introduction, decided he would do just fine as substitute for his usual caretaker (me) and they settled down to watch another disastrous Dodgers/ Diamondbacks game together.

Earlier in the day, I had tried to finish the yarn with Zorro along but never could quite get comfortable with the rhythm of it. The cats were poised nearby in case I moved suddenly, knocking Zorro off my shoulder, and, in general, the whole fiber therapy motive was stymied.

Zorro, obviously, didn’t seem to notice my discomfort.

He didn’t mind me knitting either. He must be a fiber friendly turkey poult. That’s a good thing, Martha.

Although I still need to wash it and set the twist, here is “Sunny Beach Day.” I am hoping to have enough to make Pint a little zippered sweater jacket but might have to settle for a vest, probably a more usable item of clothing around here anyway. Most winter days it still gets up into the sixties by the afternoon. Wool, wool everywhere, yet not a climate for its use. Grrrr.

Speaking of grrr, contest #2 did not go quite as well as the first one. I guess people are more willing to come up with cleverness for sock yarn than a Home Depot gift card. Lesson learned, though I was just trying to include the non-knitters among you. Teresa, though she was the one and only to enter the contest, came up with a wonderful and a little too close to the truth at times admission and, for that, wins. Email me funny lady with your address and let me know where your interests lie for your wee surprise. You all forgot about the surprise, didn’t you?

Have a wonderful weekend everyone. I want to thank young David for turkey-sitting so I could type two-handed for the first time in days. I had almost decided it was time to give the blog a rest until my turkey rearing days have come to a close but his reprieve saved me and hopefully lightened your day as well.

Remember to keep on praying for wee Tom, though from what Beth tells me, he is lapping up all the attention he is getting at the hospital and beginning to think he is an only and much-indulged child.