Pretending to Farm

Are They With Ewe?

Here it is, practically the last day of February (tomorrow is a day full of interpretive leaping and therefore, does not truly count) and the forecast high today here in the Sonoran Desert is a whopping 82 degrees. This frightens me. Yes, it is gorgeous today but if it is like this now, I wondered, what will July bring?

I swear my heart was palpitating (and not in a good I’m-lusting-after-Hunky-Husband kind of way) just thinking about it.

Since my thoughts were thus diverted, could the wool bearers be ruminating over the same thing? I needed to know, needed to understand their troubles and read their thoughts. With repaired camera (hurray!) in hand, like an Englishman and/or mad dog I moseyed out into the midday sun to check on them and also to see if I could figure out who is with ewe (or ram) and who is not. (Though the meaning is different, sheep are always essentially with you. They do not deliver ultimatums nor do they get all my-pasture-is-better-than-your-pasture on you. The world would be a better place if everyone embraced some sheep-like qualities, like working well in groups for instance. But I digress.)

Here are Madeline and Charlotte. They were being such loves, showering me with kisses and luring my massaging hands towards them both, that I had a difficult time taking their picture. Charlotte, as you can probably tell, is definitely pregnant. Her belly is expanding daily and I prognosticate a repeat of last year’s twin delivery (hopefully I won’t have to go in this time).

Now Cookie here is a mystery. I think she may be pregnant but, as I have said before, her fleece grows so thickly that a definite determination is difficult. And, as I have also said, since lately she won’t let me touch her anywhere lower than just behind her ears, I cannot tell for sure.

And then there’s Carmela, skittish from the start, refusing to partake in the beauty that is shepherd/sheep love (get your minds out the gutter; that was yesterday). I can’t get near her. Thank goodness for telephoto lenses and fear-induced stillness.

So now it’s time for a wee contest. Who’s pregnant and how many lambs will she/they have? When will this happen? Unless a ewe runs over her gestation period, the blessed event(s) have to occur by mid-March. I have no idea when or if copulation occurred and no six-packs were left in the yard for ram consumption. Let me know what you think. A box of romance novels or one of yarn (winner’s choice) goes to the one who predicts the most correct events. Extra goodies for correctly picking male or female.

That is all; I await your comments with baited breath.

Michelle, Get Ready to Blush

It came to my attention quite a while ago that somehow my little blog here had been deemed a "sex site" by the powers that be. I wasn't sure why, though I thought it might have something to do with those photos of the now-dead-and-gone turkey humping the plush sheep toy. Or maybe it was my many references to sheep uteri. Or maybe the internet police, unbeknownst to me, have implanted a sensor in my head and can read my many dirty thoughts. Who knows? I do know, however, that this has never been a sex site.

Today, all that is going to change. Through the powers of YouTube, I am about to share two of the funniest, and admittedly, filthiest (other than that movie "The Aristocrats," that was beyond the pale) videos I have seen.

First from Sarah Silverman (who is in "The Aristocrats," surprise, surprise):

And an answer from Jimmy Kimmel:

Personally, I can't stop cracking up but that's just me; I'm easily amused.

Internet censor people, I have become what you have made me.

Happy Birthday Robear and Daveed!

Today my twin boys, the dynamic dueling duo who go by the names Robert and David, turn the ripe old age of 14. Is it possible that it has been that long since the doctor sliced me open and pulled those critters out of me? In some ways, it seems like ages ago and, in other ways, it seems like last year.

Robert, golden-hearted boy that he is, asked to take cupcakes to school;
David said the kids were dweebs and he wasn’t giving them anything. I tell you they couldn’t be more different if they tried, which perhaps they do.

Tonight, we are planning a noisy dinner at home (it is never quiet in my house) followed by cake and presents. When the boys see their presents, and after the technical aspect of everything is in place, I think they’ll be pleased. Due to what I feel is a ridiculous price point, we’ve been putting off this gift purchase for a while now but have finally caved. I’ll give you a hint, the number 3 is featured predominately in the title. Perhaps they’ll actually play together and even have fun. Maybe they won’t argue… I know, silly me, but a mom can dream can’t she?

So Happy Birthday to my boys who I love more than the moon and stars, my boys who have loved me in return. They have also squeezed just about every other emotion out of me as well but, in the end, they’re worth it. More than worth it.

TNT

I’ve just been paged by Michelle and, as I have stated before, when Michelle McMillen asks, I answer.

Once again, I have been neglecting the blog, that in addition to my knitting, spinning, and any and all responsibilities I can. Instead, I have been reading A LOT and not my usual erudite fare but varying-degree-of-trashy romance novels. You know, the kind on display in the drug store between “Us” and “In Style” magazines. They don’t have nice soft covers like “The Emperor’s Children” by Claire Messud which sits by my bed unopened despite its New York Times Book Review “Best Book of the Year” award seal. Most likely, they are not going to win any awards at all. This does not diminish their nose-in-a-book/ ostrich-in-the-sand conflict-avoiding power. Right now, I’d much rather read about the seemingly-plain-woman-who-inexplicably-falls-for-the-conceited-stud-who-turns-out-to-be-not-so-conceited-after-all-and-realizes-the-potential-in-this-lady-who-turns-out-to-be-lovely-once-her-potential-is-revealed than deal with my warring family. TNT = teenagers and toddler.

You know, I’m a fairly peaceful person. I rarely get truly angry, disappointed yes, mad (except in the head) no. Yet, somehow I germinated three beings who insist on fighting about any and everything from who is allowed in whose room to whose turn it is to empty the dishwasher to who drank the last Coke that they bought with their own money. And heaven forbid someone rearranges someone’s box of teas. For some reason misunderstood by me, this elicits screaming and yelling which escalates to shrieking and cussing. As a parent, it is important that I do my best to stay out of this whirling dervish of ridiculousness. Otherwise, anger can and usually will be volleyed my way. I do not like this; it makes me cry. I feel like frickin’ Rodney King; i.e. “Why can’t we all just get along?”

I realize someday soon I am going to have to figure out a way to manage this powder keg called home. For now though, you’ll find me with my nose in a romance novel and, depending on the time of day, a glass of spirits in my hand.

It’s funny; all this time I thought teenaged drinking was something they did but I now realize it is something they cause. Wait until Brian hits adolescence, Michelle, your teetotaling days could just be in jeopardy.

Happy Valentine's Day

Those of you who have read this dribble for any amount to time know how much I love my husband. You read it in my words; you see it in our pictures; and you just feel it in your bones.

Just in case that's not enough, I'll shoot a little EBB his way as he is traveling back from Calfornia. This is my favorite love poem.

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height

My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight

For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.

I love thee to the level of everyday's

Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.

I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;

I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.

I love thee with a passion put to use

In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose

With my lost saints, --- I love thee with the breath,

Smiles, tears, of all my life! --- and, if God choose,

I shall but love thee better after death.

I love you, David Dillon.

A Beautiful View (and The Ocean, Too)

This is Kona, Australian Cattle Dog and wonder pet of our good friends, Chrissy and Richie (if you remember from previous posts, she's the efficient bitch who, despite this, I love and he's ol' one lung; you better be all cured young man or I'm coming to beat your butt). The photo was taken just this past weekend on the cliff near their home in the Bird Rock area of La Jolla.

I love Bird Rock. It has somehow escaped the hoity toity Prospect Street vibe, instead maintaining its funky surfer dude heritage. Some of the best fish tacos in the world can be found here and, no, I'm not talking Rubio's. I'd live there in a minute, especially with Hunky Husband traveling west just about every week now, but I don't think the town council would lay out the welcome mat for our menagerie. For now, I'll use my imagination to smell the kelp, listen to the waves, and pet a very cute Australian Cattle Dog.

Chrissy, did you bring the wine?

The Mystery of Lambbirth

After yesterday’s request for inspiration, friend Michelle who lives in the lovely Willamette Valley of Oregon and gets to grow real flowers like dahlias and irises, asked if I have “felt up” the ewes to determine pregnancy. Well, as a matter of fact, I gave it a try just yesterday but, other than with Charlotte who was catatonic from the rubdown I had just given her, I had no luck. Cookie reacted like I used to during my cocktail waitressing days by looking positively mortified, glaring over her shoulder at me, and marching angrily away (I assume to tell Leroy to play bouncer and ram my arse out of there). Carmela, having witnessed the scene and deciding I was a downright pervert and all this hay and grain feeding over the past two years has been to cop one cheap feel, wasted no time running after Cookie.

That said, during my brief goosing of Cookie, I did think I felt a swelling udder but I cannot say for sure. And, since I am now listed as farmer non grata on the ovine sexual predator network, I don’t think I am going to get another chance to examine her belly until Papa Ernie comes with his expertly-wielded leg crook or until a divine event occurs.

So you never know. One day in the next month, we might venture outdoors to find that new wee lambies have joined our fibery little flock. Since “Mr. Bad,” as Michelle called him, was penned away around mid-October, and the Shetland gestation period lasts around five months, whoever is going to lamb should give birth by mid-March. It’s lovely lambing weather, sunny and clear with highs in the low seventies and cool but not cold mornings perfect for farm chores and newspaper-gathering walks. But this is the desert and, by nature, it is fickle and unpredictable. It’s a good thing sheep babies come with wool coats.

Will Write for Inspiration

David says I need to post but frankly, my camera is still broken (since I can’t seem to drag my big fat arse to Ritz Camera to see if it can be fixed), and my mind feels dull and uninspired. I’m also supposed to (as of yesterday) submit my quarterly article for the local RVHA Roundup but I have not done that either. Someone please lift this large concrete block off my head.

Snippets: The pullets are becoming hens at last and we have received their first tiny attempts at laying eggs. As a bonus, the ducks have started laying again as well as the days have gotten longer and, more recently, warmer, and we can stop buying eggs at the grocery store. I was about to throw myself over my inner pretend farmer’s cliff spending $4 for a dozen free-range eggs when at one time I was giving them away because we had too many. And ours were better.

Also, I received a nice letter from a fellow duck fancier who kindly informed me that Peeps is a Rouen hen, not a Mallard. This is good as she also informed me that keeping migratory birds is against the law and, as we all know, if we fight the law, the law wins (especially in this administration). By the way, the once shy Magic has assumed his throne as king of the flock and, since I obviously have no problems admitting my many errors and foibles to the world, I have to say I erred and he is not a Cayuga duck as we thought but a chocolate runner. He’s the tallest of the bunch. Maybe that’s why he’s King Drake.

On the fibrous side, I spent a good part of the early afternoon yesterday sizing up (literally) the ewes to see if Bad, Bad Leroy Grey managed to plant his bad seed in any of the girls before solitary confinement. Charlotte is definitely pregnant and, as she gave us twins last year, I expect the same or more from her. Carmela looks big as does Cookie but they both have such thick fleece that it’s hard to tell. Thankfully, the yearlings, as in Leroy’s daughters seem thin and trim, which is good because that would be downright pervy. After Papa Ernie arrives for March shearing, we should know for sure. Here we go again. (But the lambs are very cute and full of blog fodder.)

So now I need your help. I need inspiration, questions, suggestions. Tell this crazy Pretend Farmer what you want to know and as long as it doesn’t get too awful personal, and, knowing me, even if it does, I’ll do my best to answer your inquiries, and, by doing so, rid myself of one huge thought-blocking headache. Thank you; come again.

I'm Afraid It's Contagious

It started with Cordelia. Being the baby of the bloodhound family, she got in her droopy giant head that she deserved to lie on the furniture. She’s done this since puppyhood and we’ve come to accept it. (Notice how it doesn't stop her from taunting us still today.)

Around Christmas, however, a tear opened in the time/space continuum because suddenly all the dogs have decided the role of couch potato is their given right as well. Cordelia is four years old and this has never happened before; something is definitely screwy here. I get up in the morning, pour my much-needed coffee (hopefully in my preferred Farm Ho mug), and, as I head over to my favorite corner of the sofa to ease into the day to come, I can’t sit down. Molly, matriarch, rescue hound, and downright grumpy old dog, is sprawled from one end of the sofa to the other. I try to move her and she growls at me and, believe you me, I am frightened. The dog has issues.

Hunny, Molly is in my spot again. Could you please move her?!

(David is the only one she minds and respects and even that is not a given.)

Big Daddy Marshall has joined in on the act as well except that, instead of lounging on the sofa or loveseat, he has decided he is King of Rancho Laurena, and, befitting his royal status, deserves to sit in a club chair/throne. The dog weighs about 140 pounds and barely fits in the thing but I truly believe he thinks it is his blue-blooded right.

I’ve even found Millie, the little brown mutt, sneaking into one of the chairs, and believe me, her blood is nothing but red.

Monday the final straw was reached. I walked into the restroom and saw this. I think I need to call Stephen Hawking.

Super

Remember just this past holiday season when I said my only anal retentive quality was trimming the Christmas tree? Well, I was wrong. It is decorating for special occasions, our Super Bowl party being one.

Most people would just buy a tablecloth but not me. That would have been too easy and time-freeing. Instead, we bought indoor/outdoor carpet resembling Astroturf and cut it down to the size of our table. Then, I proceeded to spend an entire day painting the thing, albeit with interruptions for Pint-Sized care, teenaged transportation, and laundry, always laundry. Never having painted Astroturf before, I didn’t realize the challenges it would present. It was a little like painting shag carpet, just less fuzzy. And I didn’t have to rake it. Did your mother ever make you rake the shag carpet? Mine did. Anyway, I was mostly happy with the end result as was David who kept saying that it was too bad we had to put dishes over top of it.

The only bummer was the fact that some of our party guests thought I did buy it after all and darned if I was going to let that impression stand. I had to have some recognition in return for my aching feet and knees.

Of course, that done, I had to paint the front entrance. Glass is a much easier canvas but less forgiving of uneven brush strokes and paint thick/thinness. Now that I am an admitted anal retentive decorator, I will fess up to the fact that I spent hours on this as well, walking inside the house to see how the sun was illuminating my many errors and then walking many feet away from the house to see how the logos looked from the street. Still aching from painting shag carpet, I finally gave up on perfection and instead spent another hour hanging blue and red curling ribbon on the inside of the glass to camouflage my errors. My rheumatism can only handle so much anal retentiveness.

Lauren fact #263: I need constant reassurance.

Hunny, what do you think? Is it good? Do you think people will like it, notice it, worship at my feet?

It took everything I had not to quiz each and every person walking in the door. I really need to get over this aberration. They’re NFL logos for goodness sakes, not the Mona Lisa.

After all was said and done, we had a great time, though you can’t tell from this picture. I’m the one in the background raising my arm in a hearty huzzah while everyone else was paying attention to the game. You can’t see it from this distance but I drew a NY logo on my face. I decided to route for them after my preferred Packers lost. In turn, I received unmerciful sh*t from favorite neighbor and fellow Maryland native Tom who repeated ad nauseum, “How can you root for a New York team? You’re from Baltimore!” Apparently, I missed that memo in the Maryland charter. Maybe my rule violation shook up the universe to the point that the Giants won, how about that, Tom? Jeez.

Besides the great company (even you Tom), the food was awesome. We served hot dogs, sliders, and chicken wings, complete with fixins plus a few dips and spreads. Our guests contributed side dishes, snacks, and deserts. Our plates runneth over deliciously.

That’s probably more than you ever wanted to hear about our Superbowl party but I’m a little fuzzy this morning and unable to edit. You understand.

Lastly, one of our guests gave us the photos he took of us at his New Year’s Day Open House (he’s a professional photographer). Other than the fact that I cannot be this old, I like this photo the best. What do you think?

Or do you like this one better?