Pretending to Farm

In Memoriam:

Four Shetland Ram Testicles

The as-of-today eunuchs (by castrating them, we have opened their future Egyptian-queen-guarding career opportunities) came through their surgeries mighty fine and were all set and ready to go home but IT IS RAINING!!! (Can I tell you how this melts, and even clarifies my butter? It’s blessedly POURING outside. According to Bill Kelley, we could get as much as 3” and we ordinarily receive only 8 per year!)

Since the very-nice-veterinarian Dr. Samuelson was concerned about post-surgery infection as we aren’t barn-blessed and three-side-sheltered wet muck isn’t the best environment for patients, no matter the species, father and son are staying overnight in PVAH. In the morning, we plan on raking out one of the lambing jugs, laying down fresh straw, and picking up our huevo-free gentlemen so that they can finish recovering at home.

Since the boys can still be potent for up to two weeks because of vas deferens sperm storage, we will continue, once they are recovered, to keep them in solitary confinement but then they will be free as a wether. Now we wait until spring to see what, if any, pre-surgery seed was sown before their penning. The vet suggests that if we get any rams to wait until six to eight weeks of age and slit the base of their scrotum and pop the life-givers out. Now THAT will be blog fodder. I think I’d rather go elbow deep in a ewe-terus.

By the way, when the doctor was explaining what he would do in today’s surgery, which, in Leroy’s case involved pulverization of the scrotum in order to extract it, Hunky Husband literally turned green as he bent over and used his hands and forearms to protect the family jewels. Somehow I don’t feel the same about my uterus, wonder why?

Just A-Swingin'

As you know, for a while now we have wanted to have all our intact boys (other than the human ones who better behave or they could be next) separated from their testicular appendages. We asked around seeking someone who would perform on-premise castrations and, having no luck, sent out 400 plus email requests through the Rio Verde Horsemen’s Association. Finally, my former and best-ever boss, Nan from Four Peaks Animal Rescue, told me about Dr. Samuelson.

“He does Cedric, so and so’s goat. I think he does house calls; give him a try.”

After getting the contact info from Nan, I called Palo Verde Animal Hospital, was told Dr. Samuelson was on vacation, but, after explaining my situation, was also told he could probably do it. I was over the moon.

The following week, the very friendly and personable Dr. Samuelson called and confirmed that, yes, he could come and do the deed within 10 days or so. The girls would call and set it up. I was surfing Saturn’s rings.

A lady called with an estimate, a throat-tightening, Christmas-budget-nearing atrocity of an estimate, over a third of which was taken up by mileage, travel, and time costs. All in all, the price averaged $125 a testicle, multiplied by two equals $250 an animal. Multiply that by four and you can feel my pain. Maybe they were jewels after all. Landing hard back on Earth, I was suffocating in a deep canary-killing mine.

What if we just do the rams?

After all, as much as I wanted to eliminate seasonal hormonal-driven arguments by ridding the alpacas of their huevos, we had no female camelids in danger of becoming pregnant and, therefore, if not castrating them would make the procedure more affordable, I was amenable to the change in plans.

To make a long story short, not doing the alpacas saved us less than $300. I don’t know how you guys feel, but $700 plus for neutering two Shetland rams seemed a bit extreme.

This is when Darby and Leroy were placed in solitary confinement until we could work out a more affordable alternative.

Leroy paces all day long. He paces right.

He paces left.

When a longed-for ewe comes within a few feet of him, especially Cookie here, he gazes longingly in her direction. I can’t help but feel sorry for the poor guy as much as I know that we don’t want/ can’t afford more ruminant mouths to feed. A ram has needs, you know. Leroy seems to have more needs than average, the horny, literally and figuratively, bastard.

Thankfully a solution has been found. I called the vet back, asked how much it would cost if we brought the rams in to be neutered, and were told $170.90 total. Wow. Apparently, Dr. Samuelson’s time is much more valuable than ours (or at least mine).

Long before the crack of dawn tomorrow, David and I will do very early farm chores, load the rams in the back of our truck, drop the human boys off at the bus stop, and drive to the place where nunus are set free. We pick the rams up the next day, lighter on their feet but missing that certain swing to their step. And it was such a pretty swing, too.

Patience Is a Virtue... Damn It!

When Hunky Husband is out of town, as he is today, farm chores lay precariously and solely on my shoulders. Through no fault of their own, the twins provide no help; the sun is still tucked behind Four Peaks when they board the bus to school. Granted I could wake them early, force them to don miners’ lights, and send them outdoors in 40-something degree darkness to throw hay flakes and scratch chickens, but that’s not my style. After all, pretend farming should be fun, right? Vampira, otherwise known as Jessica, offers no assistance either. Frankly, if it’s before 10 am, she scares me. One of these days she is going to master the look that kills and I will be as dead as Daffodil the Hamster whom I found this morning. Yes, we lost yet another animal, blimey.

One Pint-Sized Farmer, however, is more than eager to “help.” Unfortunately, his definition of helping involves riding in the feed cart, bogarting my farming equipment, and, in general, tripling the amount of time it takes to complete morning farm chores. But that’s okay.

He likes his version of helping, loves the animals and, since this is not an everyday occasion, I am typically a patient grandmother and enjoy watching him farm. Why I decided to blow that all to Hell this morning by bringing out my inner masochist and adding way more farm chores than needed to my agenda, I have no idea but this is what I did.

You see, the garage chicks were outgrowing their accommodations. Each time I went to their box to check on them in the past few days, shavings had been flung into their food and water, making partaking of either near impossible. I decided it was time, time to move the chicks outdoors to the hen house.

I grabbed an extra feeder, filled it with chick starter, and set it in the corner of the building. I chased, caught, and relocated our two Narragansett turkey hens, who had suddenly become interested in the new coop food, into the pen of misfit fowl. I set up a new water dispenser. I ran an industrial waterproof extension cord to the house-where-eggs-were-once-plentiful and set up the heat lamp for those finally-chilly nights. I put a small cage against the back wall in case the full-grown chickens decided to torment the babies and the young ones needed a panic room. As the final step before actually moving the chicks, I spread fresh white pine shavings on the floor of the hen house and in the panic cage, Anthony escorted me and “assisted” with every move, often requiring a break to kiss a chick (the boy is starting early) or to try to give his grandmother apoplexy by climbing on the motorcycles nearby the brooding cage. During each of my activities, he also needed lifting over the knee-high fence that prevents fowl escapees at the coop entrance gate. Heaven forbid he not follow me into and out of the chicken coop Every. Single. Lap.

By this time, I had almost forgotten the point of all this labor but then heard the peep-peep-peeping of our fast-growing chicks. Repeating the whole gate-lifting with full escort process, we moved the babies, one by one, until all ten of them were in their new home. Phew, 8:30 am and I was pooped, looking forward to a hot shower, and maybe a few moments of relaxation before I proceeded with my day.

And that’s when I found the dead hamster. Is it too early for a drink?

Or do I have to wait for this to happen?

Liver, Chopped Accordingly

Over the last year of the Pint’s residence with us, David has been griping off and on about being “chopped liver” to Anthony in comparison to Jessica and me. Lately, however, he has been a gloating fiend. Grampa is numero uno in Pint-sized eyes and, although he hasn’t emotionally abandoned the rest of us, we all know with whom he truly wants to spend his time.

Grampa and Anthony read together, swim together, and go to the playground together. They are a great buddy story in the making.

Joyfully sharing a club chair, they watch football together.

Showing great skill and precision, they practice synchronized drinking together. Hmmm... can one practice synchronized drinking alone? If this was an Olympic sport, these two would be serious contenders for the gold. For now though, Grampa and Pint will continue to practice on schedule each Sunday afternoon.

Very early this morning, after hearing a stirring Pint around 2 am, Grampa went to check on him in the bedroom he shares with Jessica. Upon seeing the man otherwise known as Hunky Husband, the Pint-Sized Fan slid out of bed with Jessica (she had brought him there to quiet him down and get him back to sleep) and ran toward Grampa.

“Take him,” Jessica grumpily remarked. “All he keeps saying is Grampa, Grampa, Grampa.”

Methinks someone else is feeling a bit liver-ish now.

Thankful

I’m home and warm, about which, despite my recent when-is-fall-coming whinging, I am very happy. Don’t get me wrong; we had a GREAT time. We laughed and supped and solved each other’s issues and the world’s problems at least a hundred and one times. We also FROZE.

Poor Pint didn’t seem to understand why all of a sudden we had morphed into a bunch of cackling vagabonds living rough, getting dirty, and huddling in front of scarily popping flames for warmth. He looked at me quizzically with teeth chattering, wondering if this was how we were going to live from now on and trying to decide if he should abdicate the Family Dillon and become a Tisdale or King or Allen, all of whom had either heated trailers, campers, or RVs, instead of the jumble of tents and vehicles that formed our negative star lodging. Touring our circle, he entered and sized up each and every shelter, including the other tents (some had awesome other-kids’ toys and pop tarts, and two had new puppies) but in the end he decided to stay with us if only out of pity.

Daytime thankfully brought sunshine and warmth, with temperatures in the high sixties and low seventies. We celebrated with games and conversation aplenty, cracking each other up every 2.3 seconds. We played Scrabble (note Jessica’s look of frustration; I was over-helping her).
Erin soon had the game mastered thanks to a little Pint-sized help.

We played Dominoes once Chrissy refreshed our memories on the rules. (Not only is she efficient, she has the rules of every camp game committed to memory.)

Some of our more erudite teens even broke out the chess set. Pint served as both referee and critic, urging them each to gain better control of their centers and use their queens wisely.

I knit… and knit and knit. I do believe a reference was made to my fondness of warm and soft balls (of yarn of course). I had no idea to what they were referring.

I also got a hair cut. Jennifer, who I met this camping trip for the very first time and I’m already in mad love with, is a professional hair stylist. She did a darned good job, especially considering the blustery day which constantly blew my fine hair around and the sewing scissors that she was forced to use as her only implements. Plus, it was free, always an awesome bonus.

On Turkey Day proper, Steve barbecued the turkey as always in his official turkey barbequing outfit complete with mandatory frilly apron.

Obviously, there is a science to properly cooking a bird en plein air and, for this, Scoutmaster Steve has his PhD. For this, I love him madly, that and a twenty plus year friendship that like the finest of fine wines, just gets better with age.

First, examine the cauldron of promised deliciousness. Use a shovel to rearrange its contents and scrape, but never completely clean, its grate.

Stuff the turkey cavity with oranges; this adds to the later juicy deliciousness. Point to raw bird. See bird; see bird get turkey pimples from the cold.

Hours later, with proper Steven Karl, BD (Barbecue Doctor) supervision, the main event is on. Yum.

Call in the troops (when did all of our children get so big?)

Richie managed to worm his way to the front of the line and celebrate this special day by expressing his inner maturity, or lack thereof. Nice going, my friend. If it wasn’t for that whole one-lung thing, I’d be up your arse for that one.

A very delicious meal was had by all almost forty of us.

Shortly after this, we cleaned up while the kids hit the pool and Jacuzzi. Darkness fell and so did we, sound asleep by 6:30. (I’ll blame it on our full tummies and not the fact that we had been drinking since 8 am, Steve’s it’s-okay-to-start-imbibing time.) The kids sans Anthony who went to bed with the rest of us, returned to a dark camp with no fire and thought we had all gone “to a disco or something” and left them all behind. Hmmm. First of all, I haven’t gone to a disco since the eighties and secondly, if I had a sudden while-camping hankering to go, I could not go un-showered, un-madeup, and in the clothes I had been wearing for two days.

Later, I might tell you about a few dicier moments, how Katie Scarlett expressed her inner hidden Jew by wandering barefoot in the desert at 3am in 40 degree temperatures searching for the bathroom and almost crying when she lost her way while being stalked by coyotes, how Hunky Husband became a superhero by saving Steve from falling in the fire and then lost that status in a I-so-have-blackmail-on-the-man way, or how even dirt became tear-jerkingly funny.

For now though, I will be thankful for the time we had, for having wonderful friends to share a meaningful holiday with, and for the impromptu visits of both the Amazing Matt and Brother Steve as well as the entire Sammons family, more long term good friends we were afraid we would not see and then thrilled that we were. I am doubly thankful we have a roof over our heads and shelter from the elements and am able to appreciate it all the more for living without it for a few days. Once again, Happy Thanksgiving.

On Our Way

As you read this, we're either on our way to or have arrived at Butterfield Ranch in the Anza Borrego Desert to spend a wonderful camping weekend with some of the funnest and dearest group of folks living in this world. They are also some of the wildest. I packed my camera; there will be blackmail.

Happy Thanksgiving, dear readers. We have much for which to be thankful so let's take this time to appreciate it all. In addition to my family and dear friends whom I love, I especially appreciate all of you. You've enriched my world, broadened my horizons, and made me feel more special than I probably deserve. For you, dear readers, I give many thanks.

Once again, HAPPY THANKSGIVING!!!

No Gravy = No Thanksgiving

I’ve turned into a sausage, not a spicy gourmet sausage with all kids of fun herbs and fruit but a plain old bland sausage that someone put into the microwave without puncturing it first with a fork. Any minute, I’m going to kesplode.

Honestly, I’ve never seen my feet and ankles this swollen (David made the mistake of calling them fat; he won’t do that again), not while I was carrying twins, not after walking for the disease of the month, never. It’s the laundry, I tell you. Five straight 12-hour days of laundry. I think I’m allergic. Must. Stop. Doing. Laundry.

Other than washing every piece of cloth in this house, some items three or more times, I have done nothing whatsoever to get ready for our Thanksgiving camping trip, no menu planning, no packing, no nothing. David did buy the ingredients for gravy and Martini Showers, the two things assigned to us by the group, but other than that, na da. I am a failure as a housewife and as a travel planner. I bet you Chrissy King was completely packed and ready to go two weeks ago, the efficient bitch. (She’s really not a bitch at all. I love the woman, but she “relaxes” by doing the dishes. Give me a break; I relax by sitting down.)

Of course, Chrissy doesn’t have a toddler to raise. I can always use the Pint as my excuse.

“Sorry, everyone, we have no food or clothing with us. I was busy taking care of Anthony. We did, however, bring a gallon of Bombay Sapphire Gin, a gallon of Absolut Vodka, Vermouth, olives, and turkey gravy. Perhaps we can work out a barter system?”

They might be able to live without martinis but everyone knows it’s not Thanksgiving without gravy. I’ll have them by the balls.

In Which All is Revealed

The last four days of playing professional laundress (except without the pay) has severely interfered with my spinning, knitting, and writing time. Honestly, if I had my druthers, which I don’t, I would spend 90% of my day doing something creative. Unlike other media that have eventually left me bored and drifting away toward another artistic outlet, both writing and “fibering” still leave me aching to do more and I find myself straining to stay awake each night trying to either knit one more row or write one more paragraph. It’s a blessing and a curse.

Yesterday morning, though, whilst both washer and dryer were running and every bit of laundry was either sorted and waiting to go into the machines, in the machines, or, best of all, out of the machines, folded, and put away, I finished plying the last of the wool for the Recreation of the Favorite Sweater Sweater. In the past, I had promised that all would be revealed in time and, yes ladies and gentlemen, it is time. (I’m sure you’ve been waiting with baited breath unable to sleep at night. I am here to relieve your suffering. You’re welcome.)

This is the Favorite Sweater. I bought it for Hunky Husband years ago as a Christmas gift. He loves it, the simplicity of it, its sole decoration being a few assorted stripes. He prostrated himself across the bed and cried like the baby he is when I told him the ink stain that he himself had put there would not come out. Not really, but he was majorly bummed out. “It’s my favorite sweater,” he moaned. This is when the rusty gears inside my head began turning and a plan was hatched.

Obviously, the Favorite Sweater is machine knit. In order to truly recreate it, I would have to knit it on size 0000 needles and it would take me from now until the end of time to finish. Perhaps, instead of a recreation, I would design an interpretation. I would knit it solely from yarn I would spin from the first shearings of four of our sheep, Charlotte, Leroy, Cookie, and Carmela (lambswool, I can’t say yum enough).

As of yesterday morning, they are all spun and I have everything I need (with perhaps the exception of time) to make David a new favorite sweater.

Here it is so far, overlaid with my homespun in the order of sheep written above. It is knit in the round (204 stitches a row) and is just shy of the raglan stopping point (where I stopper the cable, start on the sleeves, and once they are to the same point, join everything together to begin the raglan decreases, and finish the yoke). I am hoping to get it done by Christmas but Lord knows what domestic goddess I will be forced to impersonate next.

Plus, even though the yarn is all spun for this project, I can’t live without at least a little spinning and a certain baby I will someday be privileged to know is in utero and, once sprung, will need to be adorned with the softest handspun, made from hand-dyed merino wool.

This washed and dyed mess needs to be carded into
this roving which will need to be spun into hopefully lovely yarn and made into an adorable wee cardigan, cap, and booties. All will be revealed in time (C’mon, I needed to give you fellow fiberholics something to look forward to/lose sleep over).

Time to Wash the Laundry

Do you remember that old Dunkin Donuts commercial featuring the weary baker who got up well before the crack of dawn to go to work? He’d robotically go through the motions day in and day out, saying over and over in the most monotonous of monotonous voices, “Got to make the donuts.”

Now why this was an effective advertising gimmick, I don’t know or remember. Come on in, our employees are unenthusiastic and exhausted at work. It gives our donuts (which personally I think should be spelled doughnuts again) that extra not-so-secret delicious flavor of apathy mixed with a soupcon of fatigue. Yum!

By now, you are probably wondering why I am going on and on about the doughnut guy and this is the reason. I am the doughnut guy and have been for the last few days, the only difference being that, instead of putting in long hours making big fat arse creating pastries, I am folding mountains, or at least foothills of laundry.

How it got so bad I don’t know; well, actually I do. A laundry monster lived in Jessica’s closet. Every time he heard wind of me asking Jessica to do her laundry, he gobbled it all up and hid it in her closet under a sheet, just like he had done when I stopped doing her laundry in the first place. The result of this was that Jessica and Pint’s room looked acceptable and, until recently, I was none the wiser. That is until the monster ate one too many still-damp towels that had been thrown on the floor and exploded like that guy in the Monty Python movie. Clothes, sheets and towels came tumbling out of his former hideout/ demise location and suddenly, I, already behind on the laundry in general, started seriously contemplating arson in order to avoid washing, fluffing, and folding ten tons of soiled linens and wearables.

Since Thursday, and this is no exaggeration even though I am good at that, I have put in at least 12, read it and weep because I am, 12 hours of laundry time each day. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t go through this marathon and instead procrastinate as usual but a very nice lady/ranch hand named Elaine is coming to house-sit for four days and three nights so that we can go tent imbibing with the Camping Crowd/Stinky Cheese Girls/Book and Wine Club for Thanksgiving. I might be a suck-arse housekeeper when it comes to just us but someone else living in my home? Someone who might get attacked by the offspring of Jessica’s closet monster? I have to get the place in shape beyond its typical Universal Studios persona (looks good when you walk in but don’t go on the other side of that wall).

I think tomorrow I will have the laundry done and then the cleaning begins. Scrubbing bloodhounds' slobber, it’s not just for the Meem’s visits anymore.

And now your Pint-related chuckle of the week… yesterday morning as I was scooping dog poo with garbage bag in one hand and plastic grocery bag covering the hand that grabs the feces, Pint wanted to “help.” He jumped up and down chanting, “Scoop poo, scoop poo!” Acquiescing, I grabbed him another plastic grocery bag and into the yard we went. Pint became very unhappy that I was getting all the good poo so I grabbed a few logs-that-don’t-go-on-the-fire and put them in his bag for him. His mood brightened and he chirped, “Thank you!” and we went about our merry way like this until our job was complete. Here we bought the kid choo-choos when what really makes him happy is sh*t in a bag. This is really going to save on our Christmas budget.

Cheers!

I’m Dreaming of a No-Severe-Weather-Pattern Christmas

Here in the lovely Sonoran Desperate, uh, I mean Desert, the temperatures are still reaching the high eighties and sometimes low nineties every day with no sign of reducing even to the seventies. (Maybe the weather needs to go on a diet; somebody call Jenny Craig, stat). I’m not complaining, I told myself I wouldn’t do that, but I just cannot get into “Winter Wonderland” or “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” when I’m still wearing tank tops and flip flops.

Yet just in the other room, mere feet from me, the have-to-have-constant-noise man I married is already listening to Bing Crosby and IT’S DRIVING ME CRAZY. He wonders why I’m grumpy. Well, hint, hint, baby. In addition to the ever-present warmth and sunshine, it’s, um, not even Thanksgiving yet. The rule is no Christmas music until after Turkey Day unless you are a retail establishment and then feel free to start in August because I know you will anyway.

Also, with global warming more and more apparent in its veracity, I think we as a people need to re-work the classic Christmas tunes into songs less dependent on snow and the wearing of wool (as much as I love knitting wool and, whenever possible, wearing the stuff), tunes that don’t demand holly (because pretty soon it will only grow in the Siberian Peninsula) and sleighs with jingle bells (unless you convert them to water skis and ho-ho-ho across Lake Superior).

I’m dreaming of a no-severe-weather-pattern Christmas Just like the ones I used to know Where the tree tops were not destroyed by bark beetles and acid rain And children listened instead of playing violent video games To hear tales of when it snowed

I don’t know; it doesn’t quite have that “ring” to it. Let’s try again.

I really can't stay - Baby it's flooded outside
I've got to go away - Baby there’s raw sewage in the water outside
This evening has been - Been hoping that you'd bring gin
So very nice - I'll hold your hands, they’re cold and remind me of ice
My mother will start to worry - Beautiful, she’s overheated anyway, don’t hurry
My father will be pacing the floor - Listen to that tornado roar
So really I'd better scurry - Beautiful, you’ll make me worry
Well maybe just a half a drink more - Put some more sandbags under the door while I pour

I’m sorry; it just doesn’t fill me with that holiday spirit. I guess for now, we’ll keep singing along with Mitch. (And try not to bitch.)