Pretending to Farm

Dear Mr and Mrs _______________ ,

Please excuse Lauren’s absence from the blog yesterday. She had a doctor’s appointment in the morning to make sure she doesn’t have TB (looks good so far). When she arrived home, she received a telephone call from the people at Enbrel whose medication necessitated said test. The representative and eventual counselor told her that even with pre-authorization from her insurance company, Lauren’s policy mandated 30% of “non-insulin injectables” would be too expensive for her to afford, i.e. $405/month.

This tear-inducing bit of news prevented Lauren from posting to the blog.

Once again, please excuse her absence.

Thank you,

Secretary of Meltdown Central

Yes, I did meltdown something awful yesterday. Every once in a while, I still get that been-crying-too-long catch in my throat. However, I channeled said meltdown into hours of spinning mixed with repeated calls to the Pint to not touch the spinning wheel. Eventually, I did call the first of the three foundations the nice lady at Enbrel who had to listen to me cry gave me but they are income-based and we are in that make-too-much-money/ make-not-enough-money chasm.

Spin Lauren, tune out the world.

The fruits of my labor:

Bill Wither’s: I love the natural mohair, no added dyes, just colored with the lovely gradations with which he was born.

The same applies to Cookie’s first fleece: I have spun one full bobbin and as I have 2.2 pounds of roving (Cookie is nothing if not prolific in her fleece production), I have many to go but will ply after the next bobbin is full. David the Husband, who rarely wears a sweater, has already called dibs on his “Cookie.”

Finally, today would have been my parents’ 45th wedding anniversary and I know my mother is sad. Certain dates do that to her. Send some positive thoughts her way; you could even send her a supportive email. I love you, Mom.

Keeping You Informed

As I got very little sleep and am still mourning the Suns’ loss last night, I was not going to post today and instead try to have a low-key day if that’s possible around here but first guilt and then the need to keep you all informed induced me to move my big fat ass from one place to another.

We actually had a very nice time at the game. Since this was a business schmooze-fest, we had a “suite” stocked with beverages of all kinds, munchies, and real food (vegetarian and turkey wraps, hot dogs, veggies, and Buffalo wings). I behaved until the final quarter (drink a beer, drink a bottled water, repeat) when those dirty-pool-playing Spurs just pounced on us. We had been ahead the entire game, at times with an over ten point lead. The Spurs are a very mean basketball team and I couldn’t help it if my anger got the best of me and I happened to yell God F**king Damnit in their general direction. No one seemed to notice or even mind except David the Husband who gave me “the stern look” and basted on me as we left the game about it. Oh, well, he knows me and realizes I feel things stronger than the average bear. As he has stayed married to me for 20 years and one day, it can’t bother him too awful much. (However, I do have a feeling that I might not get invited to any more schmooze fests. Oh well, it was fun while it lasted.)

Speaking of years of conjugal bliss, Melanie wanted to know how David and I met. The short answer (too tired for long one) is that I was attending college at UNC Wilmington and renting a house by the ocean with two surfer dudes. David was a paratrooper in the 82nd Airborne stationed at Ft Bragg, NC and, as he was a San Diego born and bred surfer dude, would drive down to Wrightsville Beach on weekends to ride the waves. On one of those weekends, he met my roommates in the water and they invited him over. I had just gone clothes shopping and bought a grey leather miniskirt which I, influenced by the Fates, walked out to model for my roommates just as he walked up. The rest is history.

What else is history is my old email address. After attempting to change my email address everywhere important, though I am sure I have missed a few places, and giving it a week or so, I cancelled my Hughesnet account just minutes ago. I updated the link on the blog but those of you who have just been emailing me from a saved address need to change it to [email protected].

Excuse me now as I once again relocate my BFA. Between my fatigue and the spider who is crawling around my desk and freaking me out (I forgot spiders, tarantulas, black widows, and brown recluses, and scorpions of many different species the other day when I mentioned the things that can kill you here), I must be going now. LOVE.

Happy Anniversary My Love

Today is David the Husband and my 20th (!) wedding anniversary. I could muse about the ups and downs of marriage and philosophize about how we got this far (it wasn’t all tea and cupcakes) but I won’t. The world is jam-packed full of enough nauseating Dr. Phil-types without me adding my take on things and telling you to get real. I hate to vomit and I’m sure you do, too; I don’t want to be the one who puts you over the edge. The bare facts? We have stayed married 20 years and that’s a good thing, Martha.

We are celebrating by going to the Suns/Spurs playoff game. (Yes, this is something David had to do for his work and he finagled a ticket for me as well. Some stranger schmoozing will be required but hey, playoff tickets, food, and, cue the trumpets, drinks!) What more could one marriage-celebrating sports fan ask for? Well, maybe for the NBA to get their asses in gear and un-suspend Amare Stoudemire and Boris Diaw for leaving the bench to protect the MVP of the entire NBA, Steve Nash, who had just been dealt a cheap elbow knock down shot by the Spurs’ Jerkface Holly. Amare’s the guy. He and Nash make the team. Our chances of winning have been lowered exponentially. I’m steaming mad.

Note to self: Watch your drinking tonight, young lady. You know how you get when you’re really pissed off about something and you add alcohol. These are important business associates with whom you’re mingling. Behave! (Oh, I do hope I listen to myself.)

To end the post today and in celebration of our 20th anniversary, let’s take a little walk back in music history to that special year. (Please excuse this blatant theft of your idea, Ann.)

The Top Ten Hits of 1987:

1. Walk Like An Egyptian, Bangles
2. Alone, Heart
3. Shake You Down, Gregory Abbott
4. I Wanna Dance With Somebody (Who Loves Me), Whitney Houston
5. Nothing's Gonna Stop Us Now, Starship
6. C'est La Vie, Robbie Nevil
7. Here I Go Again, Whitesnake
8. The Way It Is, Bruce Hornsby and the Range
9. Shakedown, Bob Seger
10. Livin' On A Prayer, Bon Jovi

Hmmm. Apparently, we picked a bad music year to marry with the exception of that Bruce Hornsby song (and perhaps the Bangles one as well; even though it was total bubblegum, I involuntarily did the head and hand Egyptian thing every time I heard it and still do. Yes, I am here to embarrass myself; you’re very welcome.) Thankfully, neither Whitesnake nor Starship and the rest of the bunch have affected our marital bliss.

Happy Anniversary, Darlin’. I love you. Here’s to another 20!

Catching Up

First of all, I’d like to congratulate Julie, Giant Schnauzer Rescuer Extraordinaire, for winning the name our sheep contest. She went that extra mile and searched the blog to come up with the remaining ruminants’ names as well and therefore deserves the previously promised extras. As she is a non-knitter, I was stumped as to what they would be but am formulating a plan (gleefully rubbing hands together).

Next, we almost lost Molly or Momma, as we typically call her, Friday night. She had a slight altercation with Marshall in front of the refrigerator, which from my point of view was initiated by her. Why they would argue over a cold food storage vessel which neither of them can open is beyond me but hey, they’re bloodhounds and not high on the dog intelligence scale.

Shortly after the fight, Molly began labored quick and shallow breathing accompanied by intermittent cries of pain. (By the way, this was the impetus for turning on the AC; my shallow, labored breathing and this-heat-is-going-to-be-the-death-of-me cries only received suck-it-up looks from David the Husband.) We were sure this was the end. We gave her lots of love and shed a few tears. David set up a pillow and blanket beside her and stayed by her side all night long. In the morning? She was fine; I think she orchestrated the whole thing so we would turn on the air conditioning. Maybe bloodhounds aren’t so dumb after all. Thanks, Molly.

We did lose Bennifer Aflac, the white Pekin duck who laid enormous, bigger-than-turkey eggs. She was face down and cold Saturday morning. As David did farm chores and disposed of her himself while I watched the Pint, I didn’t get a chance to examine her but I have an inkling she was killed by a rattlesnake. (Cue smoky atmosphere and see everything in sepia tones.)

It was a dark and steamy night. Fact one; just before she nodded off, audio witness Seaman Recruit Jessica heard a commotion in the soon-to-be pen of doom. Fact two: ducks have been known to eat snakes; fact three: rattlesnakes are typically nocturnal.

On a typical evening, the ducks sleep together blissfully unaware in the corner of their pen. Yet, this night was anything but typical. Bennifer felt something menacing in the air and could not sleep. Then, she saw it, slithering out of its hole in preparation for a night of evil-doing. She could not let this happen and prepared her inner super-duck for administering the quack of death. Sadly, she was too slow for the fangs of the heir of Slytherin but was heard in her final words urging everyone to get disability insurance.

End of sad story. Cue sunshine and color.

Finally, thank you to everyone who offered advice as to how to conquer or at least repel the furry garden thieves, which Julie tells me are desert cottontails and have slightly longer ears than regular cottontails but aren't nearly as big as jackrabbits. Michelle, of course, had to one-up me with her “my garden predators are worse than your garden predators” talk because deer can leap over and dig under. Her flowers are also prettier than my flowers and she lives at the base of Mt Hood, magnet for death-wishing climbers everywhere, while I just see Four Peaks. Okay, Michelle, well we have more things that can kill you, top that. Gila Monsters, about 300 species of rattlesnakes, javelina, bobcats, pumas, and strange toads that college students lick for their psychotropic effect but kill countless dogs each year. Ha!

Oh, I almost forgot. Darby’s scrotum has turned to stone. Figure that one out.

Filthy Furry Thieves

When we first moved here to this convection oven known as the Sonoran Desert, one of the first things, other than the scenery, that caught my admiring eye was the plethora of rabbits. “Oh, they are adorable,” I said. “Aren’t we lucky to live somewhere that cute little bunnies hippity hoppity all around our yard?!”

Well, let me tell you, ladies and germs, those days are over. The Elmer Fudd in me has come out of his den. Pretty soon I am going to carry a rifle, talk with a lisp, and set up a large stew pot in the yard with a roaring wood fire blazing underneath it.

These creatures I once went all awwww over? Let me tell you; it is all a Sylvilagan act. That cute little thing they do with their nose and whiskers? Deception, that’s what it is. Don’t turn your back on them; they will destroy the bounty created from all your hard work and perseverance.

First of all, rabbits have no manners and no concept of boundaries. See this hole? One of the ruder cottontails dug it under a perfectly obvious good-fences-make-good-neighbors barrier. This is the third one I have found. Our counter attack?
Blocking the holes with rocks. We are a bunch of tree-hugging wimps but that’s all about to change.

Look at this! It was a Japanese eggplant, covered with leaves and blooms. I had planned on using its yummy produce to create my favorite Sichuan eggplant recipe that I would have posted for you, gentle readers, to share in all of its deliciousness. But no, no Japanese eggplant and no recipe. See? They are not just hurting me; they are hurting you. They are a virus spreading throughout the blogosphere.

Green beans, anyone? I went to harvest this morning and found this. I love green beans. Can anyone say favorite vegetable? Filthy furry thieves, that’s what they are.

Luckily, they haven’t found the honeydew

And haven’t bothered the muskmelon/cantaloupe.

However, I take nothing for granted anymore. I have research to do, rabbit repellent to mix, perhaps even traps to set. I’ve never eaten rabbit but there is a first time for everything. Rabbit Cassoulet, anyone? I need to replace that Sichuan Eggplant recipe with something.

The Naked Pleasure of Gardening

Or those green beans sure tickle!

To my two mothers, Mimi and Carolyn, to my maternal friends, and to mothers everywhere who have blackmail shots like this one stored, patiently waiting for the right moment to whip them out.

HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY!!!

As a wee contest/Mother's Day gift to my readers, the first person who sends via comment (I need the time stamp) the correct names of all seven of our sheep, I will send this unopened copy of:

I listened to it on my iPod and no, you don't have to be a knitter to enjoy it, though it deals with the power of knitting and creating something to heal personal loss and how everyone, no matter how deeply hidden, has their own loss with which they have struggled. It's not as morose as it sounds.

From Publishers Weekly
While mourning the death of her daughter, Hood (An Ornithologist's Guide to Life) learned to knit. In her comeback novel, Mary Baxter, living in Hood's own Providence, R.I., loses her five-year-old daughter to meningitis. Mary and her husband, Dylan, struggle to preserve their marriage, but the memories are too painful, and the healing too difficult. Mary can't focus on her job as a writer for a local newspaper, and she bitterly resents her emotionally and geographically distant mother, who relocated to Mexico years earlier. Still, it's at her mother's urging that Mary joins a knitting circle and discovers that knitting soothes without distracting. The structure of the story quickly becomes obvious: each knitter has a tragedy that she'll reveal to Mary, and if there's pleasure to be had in reading a novel about grief, it's in guessing what each woman's misfortune is and in what order it will be exposed. The strength of the writing is in the painfully realistic portrayal of the stages of mourning, and though there's a lot of knitting, both actual and metaphorical, the terminology's simple enough for nonknitters to follow and doesn't distract from the quick pace of the narrative. (Jan.) Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.

Start typing those comments to win the prize, extras for those who can name the goats and alpacas as well. And above all, Happy Mother's Day! What a challenging yet rewarding job.

Three Facts:

1. Tomorrow is Mother’s Day.

2. I am a procrastinator.

3. I am a slow knitter.

Now as far as procrastinating goes, I have been working on improving that habit (get that smirk off your face, I truly have).

In contrast to my behavior though, my mind, specifically the idea center of my mind, does not put things off. In fact, it thinks far into the future, verging on to the delusional. I knew at least three months ago what I wanted to get my two mothers. The gift we planned on giving the Meem or Mimi (that’s what the kids and progressively, we, call my mother) involved driving to a place we rarely go that is about 45 minutes from our house. And no Mother, it is not expensive; please don’t deliver one of those don’t-spend-your-money-on-me lectures. I thought I’d get there because I wanted to be the one to pick it out but time constraints entered the atmosphere and I belatedly assigned the errand to David the Husband.

The present we planned on giving Carolyn, David’s mother (and now my) mother necessitated me getting loopy with yarn, i.e. knitting. I do not have the time I had pre-Pint to knit but that didn’t enter into my almost nonexistent sphere of reality. I stayed up late at night trying to finish and, in fact on that last night before my mailing deadline, I stitched until after midnight and set the alarm for 3:45 am. I blearily knit, with only my blessed iPod for company. I didn’t even post to the blog. Surely I would get done in time.

Around 11:30 the following morning, I got the look, the unsuccessfully disguised disappointed distorted side mouth smirk from DH as he picked up my work in not-enough-progress and said, “You’re not going to get done, are you?”

The results? Meem, your gift, as usual, will be late. Tuesday they said. This does not mean I love you any less, only that I am still the flawed being you raised. Carolyn, you will receive half of your gift on time. Don’t hurt yourself hopping around while I finish (and as God is my witness) I will finish this weekend.

I love you both. Please excuse your flawed daughter.

Sowing the Seeds of Love

Since the initial preparation and subsequent sowing and planting of our wee garden, the Pint has enjoyed getting his hands dirty and morphing into the Pint-sized gardener we all know and love. Admittedly, most of this has involved him pointing at the various flora and me trying to teach him the names of things, this in concert with vainly attempting to train him not to step on the vegetable beds and/or plants. Because most toddlers don’t know weed from watermelon, I have assumed the role of main cultivator and harvester for all but the most basic of plants and he hangs around before getting bored and heading for his tricycle. We’ve gone on this way for a few months now and all has been as it should in our Pint-sized, partially Pint-maintained garden.

This morning, however, I found the boy feeling horticulturally ambitious. With the rising heat, my desire to stand outside and meet the garden’s increased watering needs with the shower nozzle has vanished. So in order to keep the full-of-vitamin goodness reaching for the sky, I have instead begun using the soaker nozzle, periodically moving it from bed to bed in between laundry loads and Pint entertainments.

To keep the boy happy, I changed him into his bathing suit and sent him out back while I ran in and out, folding laundry and cleaning the kitchen in full view of his exploits. He could play on his climbing set, ride one or all of his various scooters, tricycles, and ride-in cars and/or splash around in the baby pool we set up beside the larger one for those times we cannot join him and keep him safe.

Well, all of a sudden I couldn’t see him. Panicked, I ran outside and instead of what-has-become-more-typical toddler misbehavior, I found this. What a good Pint-Sized Farmer!

Sometimes watering the dirt was more interesting than irrigating the plants.

The sky won out a few times as well.

All in all, he did a darned awesome job watering the garden and raising his Gramma’s pride and admiration of the little guy even though I got watered as well. (I truly don’t need to grow any more; I hope it doesn’t happen again.)

Join me in admiring the boy and the fruits (vegetables) of our fun.

By the way, that yellow pepper? Chile de arbol. I have great plans for it but for now, I’ll keep you guessing as to what they are.

Under the Broiler

Wed 97 / 70 Thu 100 / 72 Fri 101 / 73 Sat 102 / 74 Sun 100 / 74 Mon 100 / 73 Tue 99 / 72

It’s beginning. Despite my greatest attempts to squash it down, the dread is rising within me. The heat is here and will not leave, except during the occasional monsoon-driven thunderstorm, until mid-October. I need to sit in a dark, quiet corner and say “Ohm” over and over so as to avoid the inevitable heat-induced meltdown. (Actually, I have never successfully done this, my mind is too busy; it wanders to tasks undone or dreams unfulfilled. My brain is purple, remember?)

We are doing our best to avoid the first step in acknowledging that Mother Nature has turned on the oven, which is cranking up the air conditioning. This is a turnaround for me. When we first made the decision to move here, I said to David the Husband, “I want to go but don’t ask me to economize on the AC. You know how I am with the heat.” Well, that was before our first $475 electric bill knocked me on my generous rear.

Would someone please give me a hand up? It’s time to check and repair the existing misting systems and add more around the garden and sheep pen. Shade cloth has to be repaired and added. We will need to rise earlier, just like Ben Franklin advised but apparently did not adhere to himself, to accomplish outdoor chores before it is hot enough to bake biscuits and fry eggs in the yard.

I don’t like this time of year but nonetheless I feel blessed to have our home, land, and animals who have added infinite pleasure and experience to our lives.

Don’t take that to mean I am not looking forward to October. I might be a mush-factory today but I know that some too-soon day I will tear up because I can’t touch the steering wheel of my car without receiving first degree burns.

By the way, keep an eye on that weather pixie. In the 90's, she wears shorts and a bathingsuit top. She might just get nekkid when it gets over 100, at least David the Husband hopes so. It's the little things that keep us going somedays. Woohoo!

Quiet Species My You-Know-What

Mornings on the farm are noisier of late, even with the subtraction of two roosters. Sheep, considered a docile, quiet animal, know when feeding time should take place and, unless one or both of us are distributing Bermuda and alfalfa as scheduled, they voice their displeasure for everyone and everything within listening distance. As noise carries more than typical areas in the desert, this encompasses many inhabitants.

Leroy Used-To-Be Brown is the worst. His bray (it’s too deep to call a bleat) resembles that guy with the ridiculously low voice in the Oak Ridge Boys (if said man had a bad cold). And he is a bad influence; the babies have picked up on his cue. As I sit here at my laptop, I can here the cacophonous chorus commence, Leroy’s bass loudest of all yet mixed with high and very cute lamb bleats and feel that pull/guilt to get out there and shower them with hay and love.

As usual with me, the guilt won over. Everyone is fed and happy and much, much quieter.

Poor Leroy, I shouldn’t pick on him. Can you see how his horn is about to grow into his skull? This is what the pro-pollers are trying to avoid yet it obviously did not work on him. Yes, I have called the vet, twice with no response. I guess as she is the only sheep vet in a city of over 5 million, she is up to her eyeballs (or elbows) in sheep. Plus she treats horses as well. I tried snapping the horn in half with no luck and received a very grumpy response from the unfortunate ram.

Madeline, in contrast, is very fortunate. Being a singleton, she has grown much faster than her half-brother and sister (I called them cousins once and realized my mistake). We’ve decided she more resembles a baby bison than a Shetland lamb and possesses that same quality her mother Cookie has, that is a certain lack of feminine wiles. In the human world, she’d be waving that rainbow flag (not that there is anything wrong with that; you know me, accepting of all lifestyles as long as no one gets hurt).

Charlotte, who is very dainty and feminine in comparison, continues to be a wonderful mom, proudly parading her twins around the big yarn after feeding time, showing the ducks, turkeys, and chickens what cute truly is. Take that, Lauren the turkey!

As for those twins, Darby is still very wary of me which I suppose is understandable since I did grab his scrotum sac and put an extremely tight and I imagine painful band around it. And no, he has still not been castrated. We had borrowed the tool from the nice folks at Western Ranchman but returned it after our first failure. Since I wanted to give it another try this past weekend, I asked David the Husband on Saturday to pick up the castrator again as he was heading that way. Instead he came home with Cascade. Cascade, castrator, men don’t listen.

Well, as David the Husband is off to meetings, the kids are at school, and Pint is with his mother, I think I shall take advantage of this rare solitary moment and log off for now. Enjoy your day.