Pretending to Farm

I Am Farmer; Here Me Roar

This was the daunting task with which I was faced. Four bags of feed, cob with molasses, scratch grains, game bird developer, and layer feed, plus three bales of hay, two alfalfa and one Bermuda grass, all needed to be unloaded from the bed of the pickup. These items weigh exactly 50 pounds each. Basic math tells us the following: 7 * 50 = 350 pounds of feed that must be lugged off the back of the vehicle by medium ol’ me. This is typically David the Husband’s job. The nice people at Western Ranchman load these things into the truck and David drives them home and puts everything away like a good farmer should.

As you might know, however, David the Husband recently had scary spinal fusion surgery and is not supposed to lift anything heavier than a gallon of milk.

Now I had handled the feed bags before, sparingly and only when no one else was around and the chickens/ducks/turkeys were following my every step with that velociraptorish hunger in their eyes. But never more then one at a time and only from the feed shed to the wheelbarrow to what pen in which the feed was dispensed. This time I had no choice but to assume the entire task. The Halflings were already at school and Seaman Recruit Jessica was asleep like all good high school seniors. (We don’t wake her unless absolutely necessary; she’s scary.)

Take a deep breath; take another ten. No time like the present.

I grabbed the large feed cart from the big yard, smartly (in my not-so-humble opinion) leaving the ruminants penned and therefore unable to impede my efforts. I started with the feed bags and was pleasantly surprised how well I was able to load all four of them into the cart together and push then pull then push them to their intended homes.

Hey, that wasn’t so tough. I’m not as weak as I thought I was.

Then, Shania Twain got in my head, “Man, I feel like a woman.”

I dragged the empty cart back to the truck, admittedly beginning to strut a bit with my new found strength, and feeling a previously unfelt set of endorphins kick in as the sweat (not perspiration, dang it) started dripping down my back. This despite it being a cool 44° and my person clothed only in a single sweatshirt (and jammies and gloves.)

The hay bales were a whole different kind of feed. Awkward in size, they were too large to wrap my arms around and I lacked the grappling hooks the pros use to move them. Holding them together though were three strong bands of twine, barely visible as they were attached so tightly. I did it though. I worked my fingers in between the twine and hay and, one at a time, I lowered them into the cart, hauled them to the feed shed, and stacked them, I repeat, stacked them in place. I began feeling a little like Rocky on those steps in Philadelphia.

Helen Reddy replaced Shania Twain as my strut morphed into a downright swagger. I started saying expressions to myself that I had previously found tacky and obnoxious in their verbiage but it didn’t matter. I was slicker than snot. The raucous cheers of the farmyard creatures encouraged me further and, before I knew it, the truck was empty and all were fed.

Truly and without exaggeration, I have only felt as empowered as I did after completing this task a few times in my life.

I am strong; I am invincible; I am farmer.

R.I.P. Meaningless Things

As a final follow-up to the whole let’s-be-done-with-this Meaningless Things subject matter, I submit the following summarized comments and one self-described-as corny poem.

Melanie has a special physical attribute rather than a particularly meaningless talent. She has a double uvula (don’t think we’re going all porno here.) As she describes it:

“When the party gets dull, and I announce that little tidbit, all the anatomy flunkies get this leer on their faces because they think I'm about to undress to prove it. But I just open up my mouth (remove resident foot) and show them the cool thing hanging down in the back of my throat. Kids are usually more impressed than adults, but that should give you an indication of what end of the party I prefer hanging out at...”

By the way, when I was trying to find an image online for how this would appear, I also found there is a name for this particular condition, Pierre Robin syndrome . I inserted the link for the curious among you but I can’t exactly say it’s heart-stopping adventure reading.

Ali B. (great search-for-real-food blog by the way) can shake her “groove thing” to Marky Mark's Good Vibrations like nobody's business. Like. Nobody's. Business. At least that’s what she says and if I can claim the whole Love Shack/Rock Lobster thing, well, I believe her.

She can also move her hair into pigtails and smile in such a way that she resembles that female body builder (Vera de Milo) that Jim Carrey used to play on his first entree into the public sphere, “In Living Color.” This completely freaks her husband out. As Ali says, “I think it's because I look just so pretty.”

Michelle can wiggle her ears and flare her nostrils. She can also whinny like a horse, loudly and realistically. This really embarrasses her horse-veterinarian husband (why I don’t know- it could subconsciously be one of the reasons he married her). As a teenager, she could call their cows in from the pasture (I wish I had cows and for that matter, a pasture) with one of those nonsense sing-song yells. I wonder what she did once the cows came home.

Finally, my dear, dear friend Karen submits the following poem:

I've been wracking my brain
for most of the day
what is it I do
what can I say?

I can't fold my ears
like Kyle, my son
when he is in college
he'll be lots of fun

I can't flip over my tongue
like Steve and Elise
or touch my toes
or talk politely to police

I can't sew or knit,
or floral arrange,
I've tried before
and it turned out strange

I guess my best talent
as far as I can tell
is writing corny poetry -
hope you think it's swell!

Isn’t she wonderful? And she and her husband are driving six hours from San Diego across a very boring part of the desert to our home in the boonies to come to my birthday party this weekend so I am doubly in love with her right now (not in that way and not that there is anything wrong with that.)

Let us now bury the whole meaningless talent subject (unless you have something truly astonishing.) Tomorrow we shall return to subjects farmy or fibery or Pint-sized or I-don’t-know but no meaningless talents other than my blog writing. The End.

Happy Birthday Boys!

First a disclaimer (I know, another one):

I have a flold, which is more than a cold but not quite the flu, very it-hurts-to-wash-my-hair achy with a head than feels ten times its size and a perpetually dripping post nasal. And when I am sick, I get stupid. I might have mentioned this before.

Did I ever tell you the story about when the educational-powers-that-be tested me pre-kindergarten to decide my placement level and I had a flold and got put in with the slow learners? Never mind that I could read the newspaper at age four and had a Dakota Fanning-like vocabulary. Thankfully, I was quickly moved up. Am I still bitter about this at almost 44? No, but it sure got my omnipresent challenge authority persona kick started at an early age.

I only mention the flold because I might not be able to portray yesterday’s events as well as I might if I was without flold. As evidence, here I am suffering from flold and teenager overload.

Disclaimer ended.

Today, Monday, February 26, 2007, is the birthday of my twin boys, Robert and David. They are officially teenagers and I am now officially the mother of only teenagers. This means I am old; but I digress.

Since their birthday falls on a Monday, we gave them a little shindig, hoo-hah, rousing-success-of-a-party (in their eyes which were the only ones that mattered) on Sunday. We sacrificed large amounts of propane (sorry Al) to heat the why-did-we-need-to-make-it-this-big pool and allowed them each to invite five guests.

Here’s Robert thoroughly enjoying himself.

And David as well, though a little more maniacally, methinks.

The Pint rejoiced in all things festive in the pool for literally hours until his teeth began to chatter and I had to pull him out kicking and screaming to put him in a hot bath for warm liquid goo phase.

Things began to get a little crazy when these more-devious-than-they-look teenagers began taking all my pretty decorative balloons and converting them into water bombs. And then throwing them off the roof.

The object of the sport apparently was to carefully catch the IED, thereby preventing rupture. Here you see them win one for the Gipper. However, take it from a person who spent an inordinate amount of time picking up small pieces of latex from the pool deck; they were less successful than it appears here.

Here’s the Pint examining this new-to-him orb of contained wetness.

Boys of any age like weapons, no matter how hard you (I) tried when they were very young to keep them away from them. If you do not buy them a toy sword, for example, they will fashion one from sticks in the yard and play the eye-poker-outer game. Notice the diverse ages yet equal gleefulness of these water pistol shooters.

We managed to drag most of them away from the pool for spoon and egg relay races. See the one kid prematurely stepping over the line? In the real world, he would have been disqualified and yet...

He was! Not for stepping over the line, however, but for resting the egg on the side of his face as he raced. Cheeky!

Here are the tied winners. Raquel managed to cross the line just in time before losing her egg.

We played an alternative version with spoon held in hand and transferred to partner for another lap. The coyotes enjoyed many broken eggs on the dirt. I know this from the scat they left in appreciation on my front patio this morning.

Then it was ubiquitous piñata time.

Robert’s enthusiasm for clubbing a poor papier-mâché dinosaur was a tad frightening.

By present opening time, everyone was plumb tuckered out (thank the Lord) and the boys were very civilized taking turns opening their gifts,

though I would have been a little happier if the party guests hadn’t dripped on my Oriental rug and leather furniture.

Finally, cake time. Only in Arizona do they offer saguaros as birthday cake decorations. And yes, there are only two candles on the cake. We sort of forgot to buy them. (Oops!)

See how delightfully tired they are? The propane sacrifice which created the warm pool and swimming-to-the-point-of-exhaustion teenagers was so worth it.

The Pint likes birthday cake. Don’t interfere with him while he is eating it. Don’t try to wipe his face or hands. He turns into a scary wee monster.

In conclusion, a good time was had by all. Both David and Robert said it was the best birthday ever, therefore making the dual parents-with-flolds sacrifice more than worth it.

With guests departed and party detritus cleared away, we donned our jammies, opened two much deserved beers, and maybe made it through a few technical awards whilst watching the Oscars.

Mostly Meaningless Things I Can Do

To provide the yin for yesterday’s more-than-humiliating yang, I hereby present you with a few meaningless talents I actually possess:

1. I can lie on my stomach and touch my toes to my forehead. (It’s better to bathe before I do this but since I usually end up performing this particular trick after imbibing a few, it is not mandatory.)

2. I can do a beer bong. No, this does not involve anything illegal being smoked, Aunt Bonnie. For those of you who do not know, a beer bong is a funnel attached to clear flexible tubing which the “bonger” places in his or her mouth while another foolish drunk pours a pitcher of beer in the funnel. Granted, I haven’t done this since college, and I did “lose my suds” a time or ten after doing it but I managed it. Do not take this to mean I can open up my throat for other things. Sorry David, I’ve tried; I just can’t.

3. I can hang a spoon from my nose. Sometimes I wake up the next day with a sore proboscis and even a scab on the bridge but I can do it, darn it.

4. I can recite the “Moses supposes his toeses are roses” tongue twister by heart and flawlessly, no matter my state of mind or health.

5. I can curl my tongue and roll my “R”s. I am not sure how the first one helps me other than entertaining Pint but I can say burrito mui bueno.

6. I can dance to “Love Shack” and gator to “Rock Lobster” probably better than 99% of the population (at least in my own mind.) Thank goodness for the B-52’s for providing me with music that somehow coordinates me. This does not apply to any other music whatsoever. (See Eddie Murphy’s SNL impression of white people dancing.)

Okay, it does not escape my notice that a lot of these things I can do involve alcohol but it is truly not mandatory for all of them. It just helps lower my inhibitions to show them off. Stop judging me. I embarrass myself enough to entertain you people.

Now, for audience participation time. I want to hear from you people, you lurkers who never comment, you email subscribers that rarely go to the website itself, the fibrous and non-fibrous among you. Go to the comment section under this post and tell me what semi-meaningless things you can and cannot do.

I actually have received a few already:

Allene can:

1. tie a cherry stem in a knot in her mouth! (She wrongly thinks everyone can do this. I’ve known like three people in my entire life who can and she is one of them. Men salivate profusely when women do this.)

2. blow spit bubbles off of her tongue that float up above her head and around in the air before hitting something and popping. (Can you believe her family thinks this is disgusting? I think it is a true get-that-party-started talent!)

Allene likes to: drink a ton of water before bed and then roll her stomach like a belly dancer and hear it splash around. It cracks her up every time yet she does not think this is a talent. Imagine, her we-are-not-amused family thinks this is disgusting as well!

Beth in WI (I think this means Wisconsin but it could be the West Indies for all I know) can say her ABC’s like Richard Nixon or Ronald Reagan. I’d like a wav file of this, Beth. I can’t quite hear it in my head. Apparently, though, it amuses babies and toddlers to no end and she needs no other skills because of this.)

Seaman Recruit Jessica (my well-endowed daughter) can crack her back by lifting up her boobs.

Now the rest of you, send in your meaningless talents and inabilities. I’ll be waiting right here, curling my tongue, and saying burrito with a spoon hanging from my nose.

Mostly Meaningless Things I Wish I Could Do

1. Talk like Donald Duck. David the Husband and David the Teenager-in-Three-Days can both do this. It cracks the Pint up to no end. He could be in the middle of one of the biggest temper tantrums/I’ve-been-wounded sobbing spells and, if one of them talks like a duck, he’s laughing. They’ve both given me lessons on how to do this but I cannot.

2. Do a cartwheel. It’s a little late for this one but it would have been very helpful in high school when I went out for cheerleading. It’s genetic, you know. My mother cannot do one (she became a cheerleader because she could do the splits and no, I can’t do them either) and Seaman Recruit Jessica cannot do one. It has something to do with our rear ends, I’m sure. (Don’t get nasty with me; that’s my job.)

3. Whistle loudly through my fingers. David the Husband can do it (of course); his boss’ wife can do it; a lot of not-obviously-otherwise-talented people can do it. Why can’t I? Of course, it took me until some ridiculous age like 12 to whistle (and not very well) with pursed lips; and don’t even ask me about when I learned to blow a bubble (as in gum). Sheesh.

4. Function when the ground moves uncontrollably under my feet. By this I mean, snowskiing, waterskiing, skating (either kind), or (and I can’t tell you how much this embarrasses me) getting off and on escalators and “moving sidewalks.” I brace myself and count before mounting or dismounting moving rubber machinery.

5. Keep up with the laundry. Okay, I know this isn’t exactly meaningless, particularly when an offspring/husband/grandson come up to me lamenting their lack of clothing to wear to school/work that day. (No, the Pint can’t actually voice this yet; but he says it in his head and my ESP/guilt has always been top notch.) But I just can’t do it; if it gets close to done, an evil elf fills all the hampers again. See? It’s not my fault.

There’s more, so, so much more, but I cannot go on in this self-flagellating manner. I have humiliated myself beyond belief only to entertain you people. I hope you appreciate my non-duck-talking, non-cartwheeling, non-whistling, incredibly uncoordinated, and poor laundress of a person. I do think I’m an okay writer though. So there.

Tomorrow, more meaningless things but these I can actually do and a call for audience participation. Be thinking about your talents or lack thereof.

That Voodoo That You Do

Can you guess what this is?

How about this?

Maybe this one can clear up the mystery a bit?

Surely, this photo will.

It was a quiet evening in the Sonoran Desert, too quiet, if you ask me. It was Mardi Gras after all and the only wild thing happening around here was a toddler running amok through the house. No beads (or the partnered naked breasts) were anywhere in sight and no hoots and hollers other than from the owls and coyotes. And then the savior call came from Nancy the Neighbor.

“I just got home and it’s Mardi Gras. I feel like having a beer; wanna join me?”

Is Britney Spears bald?

Seaman Recruit Jessica became very nice babysitter Aunt Jessica and set David and I free to sneak away. At the same time, we reminded the boys to do their farm chores and began to walk down the road. Within walking less than 100 feet, we heard screaming from Robert, hysterical-even-for-Robert screaming.

Share a look of what-now, turn around, return to the farm.

“Robert, what is wrong?!”

“It’s Leroy! He’s got blood all over him and his horn is gone and it’s horrible!”

Well, it was horrible. A bloody stump had replaced his formerly small but handsome horn and sanguine liquid streamed down his face and dripped on the straw of his pen. Although it was quite the horror show, he didn’t look in danger of bleeding to death. The flow had slowed even since we first came upon him but I was afraid of infection.

“David (the teenager), go into the shed and find the Blu-Kote we used to spray on the chicken wounds.”

He returned quickly and handed it to me at which time I attempted to maneuver Leroy into a position similar to the one Ernie the Shearer had, on his butt, rendering him immobile and amenable to medical treatment. Trouble was I failed miserably. David the Husband kept trying to help and I kept yelling at him not to attempt it because he would hurt his recovering-from-spinal-surgery back. Damned stubborn man. He helped, all the time turning deaf ears to my chastisements, but we got the poor ram disinfected and finally made our way to Nancy the Neighbor’s. By the way, if David the Husband hurt his back, he knew way better than to tell me about it.

Somewhere in between our house and the two doors but many hundred feet down to the neighbor’s, I looked down at myself to discover the pictured above shirt and jacket splattered with ram’s blood. And it suddenly occurred to me I had just celebrated Mardi Gras in probably the most genuine, down to the voodoo roots of New Orleans way, possessing the stump of a ram’s horn and smeared with his blood.

Over the Rainbow

Be thou the rainbow in the storms of life. The evening beam that smiles the clouds away, and tints tomorrow with prophetic ray.

-Lord Byron

Things have been emotionally challenging for me lately, you know, that thing-I-won’t-tell-you-about that keeps me up at night. For reasons I-am-about-to-tell-you, Monday morning was particularly hard. First, I had been awake since before four so wasn’t feeling exactly rested plus I had a wee hangover (Mom says I’m not supposed to tell you about that.) These things combined made me ridiculously vulnerable to all things emotionally and physically painful.

We actually had an awesome old west time at Greasewood Flat. It’s amazing how complete strangers with whom you are compelled to share picnic tables and outdoor campfires become best-buds-ever after a few drinks.

The morning trouble began with all things farmy. As I was feeling down, I thought to myself, “Self, farm chores will give you that extra lift you need to get your day going. They always do.” Yet, it wasn’t meant to be.

It started with Elora butting me hard between my thighs in an effort to force her way into the feed shed for her favorite dried beet pulp thereby squeezing the slightest beginning-of-tears-from-my-eyes. Then I noticed Reuben the I’m-a-hot-shot-tom-turkey-and-have-to-prove-it had somehow gotten into the duck pen where Ruby (still limping with massive scar tissue bump on his head) was recuperating and started attacking him again, forcing me to chase, pin down, and carry a 25 pound turkey while bent over because the bird netting and shade cloth that cover the pen are only four feet high. Then the dogs started Wrestlemania early, oblivious to my presence and channeling Hulk Hogan, Jerry ‘THE KING’ Lawler, and ‘Master of Pain’ Mean Mark Calloway (I had to google to find the last two, not being a big WWF fan myself.) ran right into me several times, one of which knocked me to the ground.

That’s when that little Dutch boy took out his finger plug and the dam of stoicism broke. I threw down my shovel and marched out of the big yard, ignoring the bloodhounds who typically follow me at this time to get their breakfast. I screamed at them in a voice loud enough to be heard in a one square mile radius, “You were bad and I’m not feeding you a goddamned thing.”

Then I marched my muddy damned-if-I’m-going-to-wipe-my-feet slippers into the house bawling. Poor David the Husband, sitting there in his favorite morning paper reading chair, looked up at me with one of those perplexed should-I-say-anything-or-just-let-her-get-over-it-looks. I think he knew if he completely ignored me, I might launch into one of those you-don’t-care-about-me tirades so asked what was wrong. Poor guy had to sit there and listen while I recounted the whole sordid mess with many tears, waving arms, and bruise and welt displaying.

Well, the day did get better from there. I showered and calmed down, sat down to knit, and had a little hair of the dog. And then it came, the most gorgeous full rainbow I think I have ever seen, displaying all its Roy G. Biv colors brilliantly. The pictures don’t do it justice; it was too large to capture the entire image and maybe it was supposed to be that way, ethereal, fleeting. Here was my rainbow in the storm. I will endeavor to be the evening beam that smiles the clouds away, and tints tomorrow with prophetic ray.

For those of you practicing Lent, good luck. I decided in a flash of pseudo-brilliance to give up beginning new knitting projects. I bore easily, you know, and have a really, really hard time sticking with much of anything (other than blog writing apparently) for any length of time. My hiatus from starting new items will force me to finish the eleven I have not. I have 40 days. Wish me conviction.

Also, thank you to Bernice and her idea to give back instead of give up. I will endeavor to do that as well.

Now go put ashes on your foreheads.

I Once Shot Mistletoe Out of Tree Tops

While growing up, I lived in many places. In fact, after age six, and until I became an “adult” we moved on average every 2.5 years. And no, I did not have a military dad, just a very ambitious one. I took the good and the bad that came with that nomadic life and still have many friends from all those years ago and will always treasure their friendships.

If I had to pinpoint one place I grew roots, it would be Tarboro, NC; and if I could highlight one family who influenced/impressed me above all others, it would be the Nash Family. They were the most adventurous people I had ever known. They kept their schedules full of hunting (but they ate what they took), fishing, sailing, canoeing, and camping. If they occasionally ate cold cereal for dinner because their days were too full of wild enterprise, so be it.

Oh, did I mention they taught me how to shoot mistletoe out of tree tops? That’s a memory that will stay with me until old bones.

They were like no people I had ever known. As a “young lady” growing up in Baltimore, I was taught to sit with my hands folded in my lap and listen politely to grown-up cocktail speak. Yet after moving to Tarboro, we hung out with the Nashes and Pitts and danced to Carole King’s “Tapestry” or Cat Steven’s “Teaser and the Firecat” on the eight track player.

Did I also mention it was the first and only time I was allowed to run in a house?

The Nashes had three children, one boy my age, one boy a year or two older, and a younger daughter who had health issues in infancy and was therefore appreciated that much more and should have been. She has turned out quite well, like successful doctor/wife/mother well.

The older boy? My first kiss.

The one my age? He hid in the bathroom once to watch me pee and I only caught him because he couldn’t control his giggling.

We used to play sardines, or hide and seek in the dark together in a mid-nineteenth century house that scared that you-know-what out of me.

On rare evenings, an errant bat would wander down one of the many chimneys and inspire a brutal, barbaric, yet somehow fun game of tennis between the boys.

Their life was so entirely different from what I knew at home that it became almost a religion for me. I’d go sit in the blue room or the solarium all by myself, just to get the feeling of it. I’d fantasize about living in a home like the Nash home. I wanted to be like a Nash.

Looking back, it was rather obsessive but I was in awe of and desiring of a lifestyle so different from my own (which wasn’t bad, just very quiet by comparison.) I’m happy with the direction my life has taken me, and might not have taken some of the chances I have without the experience of knowing them.

Still today, a not-so-small part of me will always want an old antebellum home in which my kids could play sardines and the occasional bat would venture down the chimney to check out the excitement.

Now for a few announcements:

1. I was gobsmacked this morning to check my email only to find that yesterdays’ post won blog of the day. Thanks, cyber-guys. I can always use an ego boost.

2. (This one is very important.) Best father-in-law in the world goes in for major you-didn’t-need-that-colon-anyway surgery early tomorrow morning. Please pray and send positive thoughts his way. I know we will be. We love you, Grandpa.

Many Bits of Perfection

As intended, after yesterday’s post, I went on a search for the perfect saguaro. What I found, however, is a life lesson (at least for me.) Every saguaro is perfect. Not one is the same as another, and some are pretty darned funky, but they are all perfect.

This is a baby. Despite his wild hairdo and plump belly, he is perfect. But we knew all babies were perfect, didn’t we?

This is a youngster in saguaro time. As they grow approximately an inch a year, he has already outlived most of our life spans, but time moves differently for the saguaro, and for the earth, and for the universe, and maybe, just maybe, seven days or 10,000 years in God time is very different than seven days or 10,000 years in people time.

This is probably the most traditional and, by some aesthetic standards, perfect saguaro. As you can tell from the block wall, he was especially selected for his placement. Someone drinks their morning coffee or evening beverage and admires the perfection they perceive in his balance and somehow that contents them.

This one is just getting his first arm, making him in the centenarian range.

This is the bare beginning of an arm.

This one has more arms than I can count and provides food and shelter for untold desert creatures. Look for the holes in which the birds nest.

Speaking of, here’s a Gila woodpecker. These guys wake us up each morning drilling on our chimneys. At first, we thought they were stupid but later found that as they learned to live with humans and human creations, they also learned that metal chimney covers transmit communication and mating calls much more efficiently than a fibrous giant cactus.

We met this guy along the way. I think he’s perfect, too.

As an aside, when petting horses over what-looks-like-a-regular-aluminum-fence, check for any small electrical cables that could come into contact with a flabby underarm and shock the bejesus out of you and the horse you are petting. Learn from my pain.

In conclusion, all saguaros and, by association, all creations of nature are perfect, even if they are

feeling a little worse for wear,

dying,

or even dead.

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.