Pretending to Farm

Charlotte Has Her Say

For those of you who do not know me, let me introduce myself. I am Charlotte, Shetland Sheep and the true and original black sheep of the family.

As an aside, the term black sheep of the family originated from the fact that said sheep were considered undesirable because their wool cannot be dyed. Thankfully, my human parents like black wool and me as well, lately a little too much.

You see, I am heavily with lamb(s) and my humans, particularly the female in pajamas, obsessively come out to our area and, with the pretense of rubbing me behind my ears or scratching my back, not-so-slyly move toward my backside and stare at my private parts. At the least, this is humiliating; at the most, it is downright sexual harassment. I am sick and tired of it and weary of the has-her-water-broken-yet attention. For goodness sakes, I can’t even pee without alarm bells peeling.

As you can imagine, I want these babies out of me just as much as the next ewe. They’re pushing against my bladder, my lungs, and all four of my stomachs simultaneously. I can barely walk from the weight of carrying them. Every step is a struggle, every movement awkward. Mentally, I am ready but my body says otherwise.

Please sympathize with me when I say I think I’ve been through enough here and am due for a break. First they brought that brutish Leroy No-Longer-Brown here to the farm for an arranged polygamist marriage (I have to admit I have come to like, even love him, and I think I’m his favorite. However, I would have preferred a choice in the matter as well as a monogamist relationship). Next he was very forward and if it wasn’t for his unending sexual prowess and generous physical gifts, I might have protested instead of bleating embarrassingly loud with pleasure. What can I say? I have my needs just as much or more than ewe.

Looking back at this, I guess I deserve my current pregnant predicament but not the unwanted aggravation of humans (and even some of my fellow ruminants) staring at my backside all day long.

After all, a watched vagina never lambs.

To the Moon, Lauren, To the Moon

As I patiently wait for Charlotte’s impending lambing (if you believe that I’ve got some ocean-front property nearby to sell you), I am searching my addled brain for things to keep my mind off of the upcoming hopefully blessed event. Since my list of pet-peeve-related wants is on the longish length, as in here to the moon, I thought I’d share the ones tightly stuck in my crawl. So here goes…

I would like someone to make my life easier. Now, I don’t mean come clean my house or do my laundry easier (but if you truly get your jollies that way, drop on by). What I would like is an assortment of why-hasn’t-someone-come-up-with-these-yet inventions.

1. A remote control locator that comes embedded in every television. Cordless phones have them, why not TV’s? I think they (Panasonic, Magnavox, etc.) have wee hidden cameras in every set with which they use to spy upon us. They all sit there together in auditoriums waiting for someone to misplace their remote control (known as a TV-thing in our house) and laugh hysterically when we cannot find them. They have laughed a lot at me. They might have even seen me cry in frustration, but many things make me cry in frustration so they shouldn’t think they are anything special. What would make them special is embedding a damned TV-thing finder on my television.

2. A floating coaster. You see, when I want to relax on the sofa at day’s end with knitting in hand (it does still happen but not as much since the Pint’s arrival), I would like to be able to just casually reach over to easily grab (clutch) my beer (nectar of the gods) for a sip (enormous gulp). Invariably though, in the position I usually potato myself, my beer glass lives on the coffee table and I have to lean forward to accomplish the aforementioned sippage. Without fail, this makes me drop from one to three stitches from my knitting and when yarnovers are involved, fuggedaboudit. I’m frogging (as in rip it, rip it). All I want is a floating coaster; how hard could it be? Opposing magnets, yes, but it needs something to insure stability. Snap to it, genius inventors out there; I know you can do it.

3. Pet hair suckers and, no sillies, I don’t mean regular old vacuum cleaners. They would be more like sensors installed in carpet, embedded in grout, and squeezed between floor boards. They would be too small to see, only the width of a single canine/feline hair follicle but once stimulated by said follicle would dispose of it, sort of like Dr. Evil and his people-eliminating chairs. This invention would save me untold hours of housework; it would be exponential. With all my newfound free time, I could cure cancer, or at the least finish a damned knitting project.

4. A Coiffing Machine. I know I’ve mentioned this one before but it would save me so much time and improve my appearance pick-a-large-number-fold. I mean I spend half the day in jammies with bed head and smeared mascara covering half my face. I’m too busy to practice good hygiene until mid-afternoon and sometimes never. My poor husband. For that matter, my poor animals. I want a Jane Jetson coiffing thingamabob, only not on a moving sidewalk. If you remember, things that move under my feet scare me.

5. A Train-of-Thought Preserver. I know this one is a long shot but I am so darned sick and tired of being mid-conversation with someone and completely forgetting what I was telling them. On many occasions, I am completely sober when this happens. If I am with someone of like age, we stand there together going back over what we have spoken about over the last few minutes in search of where-I-was-going-with-that. Invariably, we fail until about 15 minutes later when I blurt out what I finally remembered, usually far away from the person to whom I had been talking when I lost that locomotive. No wonder people find me odd.

I know some Wunderkind out there has the spunk and aptitude to invent at least one and hopefully all of these make-Lauren’s-world-and-even-other-people’s-world-a-better-place things. I’ll be waiting right here for my ten percent origination fee, in jammies with yesterday’s mascara smeared over half my face.

Anticipation is For More Than Ketchup

Without getting too graphic, this is what I venture out to obsessively look upon a million and one times a day (and even into the night with flashlight in hand). Every hour Charlotte looks larger, her milk bags are fuller, her teets hang lower, and her vulva is more swollen. In addition, I, her human mother who loves her, become more impatient and concerned, nervously pacing the halls in the hospital ward of my imagination.

When Charlotte, when???

And the Winner Is...

Michelle from Bibliomaniacs!

Her new Vaudeville yarn will be going toward a sweater for her three-year-old who is currently running around in a tiara and pink tutu. I remember those days; in some ways they seem so long ago, in others, just yesterday. (Sigh.)

Swappers meet at her place tomorrow.

As far as you muggles out there, we will now return to our regularly scheduled farming.

Swap Til You Drop!

We, as in Beth over at Chocolate Sheep and others, are having a stash swap. Non-knitters, or Muggles as we knitters refer to you, will probably not be overly interested in it as the stash in question is yarn, not marijuana or porn or anything the slightest bit titillating, unless you are a knitter/crocheter/fiber artist. Here are my offerings:

Both of these yarns I got from Webs in one of their we-pick-the-yarn-for-you-and-you-get-a-smokin’-deal-but-might-not-be-so-crazy-about-some-of-these-yarns boxes, a.k.a. Grab Bags.

Offering #1: Classic Elite City Lights, 95% wool, 5% nylon, 101 yards a skein, 8 skeins. 4 sts/inch on US 9 (5.5 MM) needles. I like this yarn but I don’t love it. It has nice sparkles and a little thick and thin action going and I made a wee cocktail purse with it but it can’t decide whether it is black or very dark brown. I find this off-putting. You may be able to cope with it better.

Offering #2: Artful Yarns Vaudeville, 100% merino wool, 76 yards and 50 grams per skein, 8.5 skeins. It has a nice variegation of lavender, blue, mustard, and peony but as hard as I have tried, I just can’t find the right project for it. Perhaps you can. Bonus: It also has a free pattern on the back of the label for a one skein earwarmer headband. Make eight for you and your friends and one for your baby; wear them out together; show your inner geek-squad.

Thus ends my fiber offerings. I could possibly split the lots into smaller amounts if that’s the way you guys want to do it. As this is my first yarn swap, I am a clueless virgin (it’s nice to be a virgin about something at 44) and I am flexible as long as I have my Fiberette gum and a beer at hand.

As we did over at Chocolate Sheep, the I-want-that-one starts at noon eastern time which is 9 a.m. my time so if I don’t get right back with you, it’s because I am doing farm/Pint/house chores. If you are the winner, please email me privately with your mailing address.

Happy Swapping (and not in that Bob and Carol and Ted and Alice way)!

Perchance the Haboob Threw the Stork Off Course

Last afternoon and evening, we had an enormous wind and dust storm, known as a haboob. I suppose this term is Middle Eastern in origin but I think the local weatherman continues to use it so, come commercial breaks, he can giggle and say, “Ha, ha! I said boob on TV.” (My mother and I have concocted a theory that all local newscasters come from an island somewhere full of shallow talkative people with big hair that are helicoptered out as positions become available.) The winds topped 50 mph and once darkness fell, the whistles and groans the heavy gusts created gave me the feeling of, rather than living in an adobe home in the Sonoran Desert, I was huddled in an old stone cottage on the moors of northern England. I felt as if Heathcliff was going to come bursting in anytime lamenting the loss of Catherine and morosely leaning his heavy head against his arm on the mantle of the nonexistent giant stone fireplace. (Yes, I was alone other than a sleeping Pint; yes, I have a vivid imagination; and yes, I am still taking painkillers.)

This morning many things are placed differently than they were before said haboob. The patio furniture upstairs and down is upside down and sideways. Thankfully, we remembered to close the umbrellas and lay them on their sides unlike the last time when, even though the umbrella was closed, it launched missile-style from the roof top deck and committed hari-kari by plunging point first into the ground and breaking into a million pieces. The inflatable pool toys are no more as they were thrown pell-mell into cacti and, once deflated, ended up in tree limbs and stuck in between fence posts. In addition, all the straw that we had carefully raked into lamb-friendly bedding areas is now on the opposite side of the big yard, covering what little we have left of the sod. We lost the shingles from the original ruminant shelter (we have changed to tin roofs in the construction of all further enclosures) and the goat pen is littered with tar paper and other roof-building detritus. As you can tell, I’ve got oodles of clean-up to tackle and no David-the-Husband today, but since I’ve misplaced my helmet and shoulder pads, I will put if off until I have the energy to find them. Interestingly enough, all the VM- (vegetal matter) filled wool I used as garden mulch stayed perfectly in place, furthering my admiration for its stability and usefulness, as well as its warm and fuzzy producers.

Speaking of which, we are still on Charlotte lambing watch. She’s become weary of my looming presence and of me staring at her private parts, which are noticeably swollen. I have been told this means she is effacing and dilating and lambing could occur anytime. As David the Husband is away for business overnight, it will probably happen while he is gone. At least, that’s his fear and mine. As always, I will keep you posted.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go stare at Charlotte’s vagina for the millionth time. Here’s a little something sheepy to keep you entertained while we await the blessed event:

Take a Walk on the Equine Side

Since, contrary to my teenagers’ opinions, the world does not revolve around us (them), I thought it might be nice to take a stroll to see what spring hath bestowed upon earth’s other creatures.

Let’s take a walk on the equine side, shall we?.

Just down the road a spell, the Arabian mares are foaling prolifically.

The very young are plum tuckered out from all the work involved in emerging from their comfy horse womb home to our wide (and sometimes wild) world.

While the more mature seem poised for battling it.

Some like to hang around Mom.

Until needing some solitude to contemplate their surroundings.

All are lovely.

Even when fully grown.

None, however, hold a candle to Madeline. And that's the truth (insert raspberry here).

Waiting to "Pop"

David the Husband and I are still waiting impatiently for Charlotte to lamb. The poor ewe is gianormous and can barely walk around. I feel her pain.

After all, if she is carrying twins which, and at this point I don’t see how she is not; I’ve been through it myself. I was gianormous. I could not fit behind the wheel of a car and touch the pedals and, if I stood with my back to a standard door frame, my stomach would touch the other side. Add to that the final two month bed rest during which my mind was too stupid (pregnancyheimers) to utilize the time reading Kafka or something and therefore spent it watching “As the World Turns” and “The Guiding Light.” (I no longer watch soap operas; I think that time period plus the time constraints of twins cured me.)

I do remember one event in particular that marked my is-that-a-woman-or-a-whale twin pregnancy. Long before I was put on bed rest, in fact when I was about five months along, David the Husband and I attended an early holiday party. It was one of those parties where I knew virtually no one; I was only there because of my husband’s co-worker and David’s plan to do-more-with-these-people-even-though-I-found-them-shallow-and-materialistic.

Now, I don’t know about the rest of you maternal types but during both pregnancies and when my children were much younger, I felt the need to sew. (I still do but have too many other things I want to do so it is further down the line of creative pursuits.) Since I had nothing to wear to a fancy dress-up party, I decided to make myself something and since I was already huge but not yet as gianormous as I would get, I decided to make an A-line red velvet dress (translation: tent), thinking in my warped head I would be able to wear it through the holidays and won’t-that-be-useful.

Well, apparently it was breeding time in Encinitas, CA. (We lived further south in a not-so-posh part of town.) I was surrounded by pregnant women in stylish little black maternity dresses which I am sure they did not sew but instead purchased at “Pea in the Pod” or “Nordstrom.” From the back, one could not even deduce their gestational state. When they (I say they because they did all look the same and act the same and I think they may have choreographed their party movements ahead of time having all been in cheer together) turned around, they had a junior-sized basketball of a belly perkily perched just above their hip bones.

So here I was waddling in my big red tent, larger than all the rest and trying to mingle with these tiny, professionally-groomed ladies who lunch. Although we all spoke English, they could not seem to understand half the words that came out of my mouth, even with my diminished vocabulary due to the pregnancyheimers. I watched as their nothing-in-there eyes glazed over even more as I spoke to them. I tried to fit in. Thank the Lord and whoever else, I failed.

But then came the clincher, the let’s-take-Lauren-down-ten-more-pegs-than-you-people-already-have. We were standing in a group (well, they were standing in a group, being slightly ostracized, I was peaking over well-coifed heads just outside their circle), when a perhaps well-meaning man came up to us all, looked at me, and said, “It looks like you’re the next to pop.”

At this point, all the skinny mini-basketball-carrying women turned to me, (oh, was she here the whole time?) me whose face now matched my dress to hear me admit that no, all the other pregnants were due (I had eavesdropped; what else was I supposed to do?) in the next four weeks and I was not until St Patrick’s Day, four months away. The man, obviously embarrassed as well, mumbled something under his breath and quickly scooted away.

Very shortly afterward, I let my husband know in no uncertain terms, it was time to leave.

So you see I do feel Charlotte’s pain, and then some. At least, Leroy isn't dragging her to shallow social functions.

Madeline's Big Adventure

Saturday marked the end of the suggested three-day mother-daughter bonding incarceration and therefore Madeline’s debut to the outside world.

Here are her first few tentative steps outside the lamb enclosure:

At all times, she stayed close to Mom

And listened closely to instruction,

Some of it whispered so as not to let the other ruminants in on her secrets.

All in all, she seemed satisfied with the fresh air and sunshine and enjoyed the great outdoors in all its majesty.

Leaving Molokai for Rancho Laurena

David the Husband says I write differently when I am sick. He’s right; I know this, particularly as I have already fessed up to you gentle readers about the effect illness has on my IQ. I apologize for not being my try-to-be witty self and for any entertainment factor that has been lacking in the blog lately. You have to admit, though, Cookie filled in pretty well with that whole unexpectantly-giving-birth blessed event.

Knock on wood, I am getting better. The Molokai contingent is no longer banging on my door, asking me to join their leper colony. (I kept telling them that I did not have leprosy, that it just appeared that I did but they were a persistent and stubborn bunch.) After spending the past few weeks in a state of simultaneously itching and hurting and on the verge of panic attacks, I thankfully can stand to be in my own skin. Also, I am even beginning to have enough energy to get back on the proverbial catching-up-with-the-laundry and picking-up-around-the-house-a-bit treadmill (what fun!) and have managed to do a little vegetable gardening.

The zucchini, yellow crookneck, and delicata squash seeds have all germinated and, fingers crossed, will not be eaten by any creatures unlike my sunflower seed sprouts which completely disappeared. One day I was admiring them and the next day, they were wiped from the surface of the earth. Damn those animals trying to survive in a harsh climate, I wanted some pretty flowers. Incidentally, if those sprout eating bastards had the patience to wait a bit, the grown sunflowers would have given them far more food than a simple sprout. That was one of my reasons for that choice of flower, making it a double loss. Regardless, this morning, I sowed muskmelon (better known as cantaloupe), cucumbers, pattypan squash, and Zulu daisy seeds. I am happy we did not give up on the garden as we were tempted to do after the combined whammy of the worst frost in 26 years and the vegetable sprout predators. The broccoli looks lovely, as does the cauliflower, and the potatoes we planted have begun sending out vines with the promise of starchy home-grown goodness to come. In addition to encouraging us to eat healthier, the garden gives me a sense of contentment and reinforces my crunchy earth mother status. I love it.

Speaking of things I love, Wee Madeline is even cuter on day three of life than she was as a newborn. I continue to check on her a million and one times a day and give her love and kisses and bum washings (and, so she won't feel neglected, Cookie gets lots of affection as well, just no rear end involvement). The Shetland group to which I belong has assured me the poo thing is normal and suggested coating the area once clean with petroleum jelly, which I did and things seem to be, pardon the pun, moving properly.

All these visits to the ruminant pen and the mysterious goings-on in the ewe-ewe lamb bonding enclosure have made Charlotte, who is heavy with lamb(s), suspicious and uncomfortable. Even though I had tabulated her due date as April 6th, Cookie’s unexpected delivery has us all on edge and spending an inordinate amount of time staring at and examining Charlotte. During one such examination, I felt a wee kick, which gave me the warm and fuzzies. I know I have said it before, but I truly love my sheep…

…and the farm and family and garden and just about everything we can fit into these two semi-rural acres.

Please excuse the mush brigade but feeling physically better leads to improved mental health and causes me to appreciate all the wee and not-so-wee things in life. Hey, as I could be whingeing instead, consider yourself lucky! I do.