Pretending to Farm

Mwahaha!

Today marks a momentous occasion here at our little pretend farm. You see, a particular so-ugly-he’s-cute house fowl, the two-faced lover of males/attacker of females formerly known as “Ma Boy” made an error of judgment last night and got between Hunky Husband and his favorite snack, “Smart Food.” When rebuffed by said husband, the very bad turkey attacked the hand that fed him and with that, the honeymoon was over. Apparently, it was cute when the bird brutally pecked at Jessica and me but not so much when he had the audacity to jump in the air and lash David with his wing. Yes, ladies and germs, Zorro has made the journey from indoor cage to outdoor misfit fowl pen. Let the celebration begin!

At first, Zorro seemed to think it was a regular farm chore morning. For some time, he has been joining us out in the big yard, running around while we fed, watered, and scooped, and then, before he became too hot and tired, returning to the air conditioned comfort of his cage.

Not so fast buddy. You’re staying out here today. And every day from now on. (Imagine my maniacal laughter echoing through the desert. I just wish I had a white cat on my lap to stroke.)

Once in the pen of misfit fowl, he searched for a way to get out, imagined scaling the walls or tunneling through the mud but saw no escape.

He felt dejected.

Rubius, who used to be the picked upon, was thrilled to be joined by someone he could now dominate. “See how gianormous I am, little turk. I am king of the Pen of Misfit Fowl and you will follow my every order.”

How did the rest of the misfit fowl handle the situation? Well, Big Red and the ducks donned their invisibility cloaks and pretended to see something just on the other side of the fence. Conflict is avoided at all cost in The Pen of Misfit Fowl. They all have to sleep together after all.

Zorro has now accepted his fate though I think he regrets his actions of the night before. He’ll regret them even more when he realizes how damned hot it gets out there by midafternoon. After all, yesterday the greater Phoenix area set a new heat record by reaching the 29th day of 110 degree or above heat. Yet, if I begin to feel sorry for the boy, all I have to do is glance down at the numerous bruises he has inflicted upon me and the maniacal laughter begins again.

Where is that white cat when I need him?

Yeehaw!

These are “The Backyardigans.” You have heard me speak of them before because, one, Pint really likes their show, and two, through his powers of telepathy, he told me he really truly wants to be Cowboy Tyrone, shown 2nd from the left, for Halloween.

I could tell you how much our entire weird family likes “The Backyardigans” as well and how, shhh don’t tell anyone, Hunky Husband and I as recently as last night watched their new DVD together just the two of us after Pint had been sleeping for at least two hours. Who can pass up Pablo in a nineteenth century professor costume searching for the gilded golden butterfly? I know I can’t.

But I digress.

Yesterday afternoon, Pint and I made the decision that is time to start on Cowboy Tyrone’s sweater. The yarn we bought for it calls for a size 7-8 needle which I can somewhat comfortably hold. The pattern, with the exception of some simple shaping, is mindless and can be knit whilst under the influence of pain medication. Beginning this sweater also gave me a chance to have fun with the Sweater Wizard software that I purchased last Christmas with my holiday booty and have not yet used to knit a pattern.

Pint is very excited about his Cowboy Tyrone sweater. He helped me wind the Cascade 220 royal blue into a ball and cherished the feeling of the Filatura di Crosa Luna orange against his skin. (By the way, if anyone has or knows of anyone who has this same yarn in olive green, please let me know. I may know someone, this friend let's say, who knitted a sweater completely except for two inches of shoulder. Oh, the shame of running out of discontinued yarn.)

Last night, we cast on using our Knitpicks options size 8 circulars in the blue. Cowboy Tyrone can’t wait to go riding the range. Yeehaw!

What I Did On My Dumb Disease Vacation

Because in the past few weeks I was too doped up to follow a lace pattern for the Meem’s Shawl and my fingers were too crippled to hold onto teeny tiny sock needles, I was forced to come up with a short, sweet, and simple project to keep what little sanity I have intact. After all, if I don’t knit, I have no excuse to buy more yarn and that, my friends, would be a tragedy. Some women lust after fine jewelry, expensive handbags, and/or designer clothing; I just want pretty string to loop together to form clothing and household items. And books about pretty string looping together to form clothing and household items.

To the rescue came the Mason-Dixon Knitting girls and their by now ubiquitous ball-band dishcloth. I had to go to Jo Anne’s for something, what I cannot recall because of my severe case of CRS (Can’t Remember Sh*t), and at an end cap saw skeins of variegated 100% cotton yarn. They came in a variety of earth tones, were bigger than my head (which is pretty big), and, best of all, cost all of $5.99 each. I bought one.

I have no good excuse for the fact that it took me my full dumb disease flare period to complete said dish cloth, just slightly larger than a gauge swatch at 10 x 10. I would knit a row, stare at the wall, the duck, my cuticles, the wall again, and maybe start knitting after a half hour had passed with me still holding the needles and yarn, mouth agape doing my best cod fish imitation.

As the dish cloth goes well with the kitchen countertop, I decided I would use it in there. Yet Hunky Husband intervened, “It would look nice in our bathroom and I could wash my loins with it.” The man has always loved saying loins.

He had a point. It goes well with the marble around the tub.

And the granite on his vanity.

The dishcloth is now a warshcloth (misspelling intentional, as I am originally from Baltimore, I thought it was spelled and pronounced that way for years). It belongs to my Hunky Husband, the one with the clean and muscular loins.

You Didn’t Think We Could…

Run an incubator cycle with just three turkey eggs, now did you? (We really can’t help ourselves; it’s a sickness.)

When Jessica the Turkey was eaten by coyotes (yes I know I have started a post with these exact words before), as you know we salvaged her wee clutch of three eggs and put them in the incubator. Since an incubator, or at least our inexpensive Styrofoam one designed for elementary science class, has to be constantly monitored to insure correct temperature (100 degrees) and humidity (I don’t know; the trays under the mesh need to be full of water), it seemed a lot of effort for just three eggs. Also, as you now know, only one of the three eggs was viable. One never hatched; one died within 24 hours; and only the last, Severus, survived and is now happily bonded with Lynda the Turkey and all is (knock on wood) happy in Gobble Land.

At the same time we were rescuing poor Jessica’s clutch, we, as per our usual farm chore schedule, gathered three ducks eggs from the Pen of Misfit Fowl. Why not throw them in with the others? After all, we have never incubated duck eggs and ducks are some of the most adorable things that patter the Earth. We placed two turquoise eggs, which we assumed belonged to Peeps the Mallard hen, and one beige egg in with the turkey eggs and waited. This past Saturday morning the pecking began but it was mercilessly slow. I suppose since duck bills are considerably blunter than chicken and turkey beaks, breaking out of their shells takes more time.

Sunday morning I was sure we would awaken to baby ducks but no. In fact, only a small hole presented evidence that any birthing was going on. To the internet Batman:

Many people want to help their ducklings hatch. It is best to allow them to do the hatching themselves. The only time you want to help them is when they make a hole and then cannot progress because they are stuck in that spot. If an actual hole is made, and you can see the duckling, but no progress is made for 12 hours, you can gingerly help the duckling. If blood appears where you break pieces off the shell, stop and wait several hours. If the duckling gets stuck after it has started to break a circle around the egg, it can usually be helped without a problem. But if they are progressing on their own, let them be. Well, neither egg was progressing on its own (the third egg, though fertile, did not develop into a duckling). So I helped, a little at first, opening the hole up but then saw blood and did as I was told, a wonder in itself.

After a few hours, I found the duckling exactly as I had left it except for a freed foot which trembled in the air. I helped some more, waited, helped, waited, until we had, cue the fanfare, a very wobbly duckling named Tonks. Tonks is half Cayuga and half blue Swedish (or half Daffy and half Inge) and in the sunlight her bill is blue.

A few hours later, Tonks was joined by Lupin, half Cayuga and half Mallard (Daffy and Peeps).

I could now go into a long story about how I suggested to Hunky Husband that we set up a brooding box outside in the Pen of Misfit Fowl so they would know they were ducks and how instead he came home from Western Ranchman with a new cage for the inside because “they are too cute to put outside.” You people think this house fowl business is all me. It is so not (using my Valley Girl speak there).

Today, our two ducklings are fluffier, stronger, and abler. They can walk around their cage, drink their sugar water, and (sort of) eat their mash.

Next to bloodhound puppies, I don’t think I have ever seen a cuter baby animal and definitely not a better looking baby bird.

Life is interesting (and I am starting to feel better, too!)

Every Little Thing He Does Is Magic

During my ongoing convalescence, I haven’t been lacking for company. Take my towel-covered bed for example, Millie (whose sensitive canine soul always knows when I am sick or down) lies beside me, Magic stares in front of me, Zorro (behaving for once) sleeps across from me, and Marshall supervises from the other end of the room. Last night we actually added up all the living creatures in our home, not counting the ones outside, and came up with a grand total of 22, four dogs, two cats, two hamsters, five fish, one shrimp, one duck, one turkey, and six people. Wow.

This morning, however, I’d like to concentrate on one whose company has been constant and welcome, my friend Magic.

Consider the duck. He or she considers me enough. When not sleeping, he always looks at me, sizing me up, trying to solve the puzzle that is Lauren.

Even when nuzzling his head under his growing wing, he looks at me. I think he loves me but is perplexed by the emotion of it all; the feeling is mutual. He’s become my certified buddy.

I love his feet,

Whether sprawled or standing.

I love his perfectly tucked wings.

I love how he can relax around me,

How he trusts me implicitly and can fall asleep beside me.

Aren’t babies angelic when they sleep?

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.

Emerging from Their Shells

The turkey hens’ determination to be mothers continues with limited success. The first wee chick, Fenrir drowned, creating great guilt and sorrow on my part. The chick waterers we typically provide were being used by house fowl so I put about ½” of water in a pie plate of water for him. Despite appearances, it was too much and we found his little body that evening during farm chores. It was very sad and it has taken me almost a full week to get past the guilt enough to share the news with you.

Lightening our spirits, however, is the arrival of two more poults, the final descendants of Jessica the Turkey. You see, when Turkey Jess was eaten by coyotes, she left behind a small clutch of three eggs and we did the only thing emotionally-driven, bleeding heart farmers could do and stuck them in the incubator. (Yes, Mother, I lied to you the other night when you asked if we were incubating eggs; I wasn’t up for the lecture. I’m very sorry.)

Yesterday afternoon, the first hatched, looking very much the clone of his or her cousin Zorro and fathered by yet another rainbow-bridge-crossed-over-bird, Alamo. This morning the second poult arrived, less vibrant and weaker than the first but alive nonetheless. We are hoping he is just tired from all that pecking to get out of his shell and will find his inner turkey spirit soon. One egg still remains. Whether it is viable or not, we do not know but candling revealed a presence inside. We shall see (and continue obsessively looking into the incubator every five minutes throughout the day).

Despite protests to the contrary from Hunky Husband (“How could you just put those defenseless babies outside?!”), I placed the newest fowl under Lynda the Turkey’s wing where they are happily bonding with their own species. With atypical honesty with myself, I have decided I cannot physically or emotionally handle any more house fowl. We are hoping for the best but if the worst decides to happen, that is nature and I will not beat myself up about it. My body is doing that to me just fine without any outside help.

By the way, we did get a new chick water dispenser. Something else might get them, but they’re not going to drown (knock on wood, granite, and any other surface within reach).

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?!