Pretending to Farm

What You Missed

One thing we learn on a farm, even a small pretend one like ours, is that life can be cruel; and, in the last 17 months, we have definitely had our share of cruelty. Loss occurs without narrative or explanation; it occurs via storms, tumors, and predators; it occurs with little emotion from nature itself. 

Although at times I have perceived nuanced sadness from the farm lot and the in-house domestics, mourning is an individually human adventure and mourning we have done. Hey, you wanna mourn some, too? It’s fun; you get to eat all the Ben and Jerry’s you like straight out of the pint carton and people say nice things to you and make you feel all warm and loved inside. Spoons at the ready? Let’s catch up.

 3. Chickens

   

Some of you might recall the Great Chicken Massacre of Summer 2006. Coyotes had discovered the Rancho Laurena Chicken Shack in our backyard and couldn’t get enough of that free range poultry goodness. This led to the purchase of Spartacus, our most excellent guard llama, and essentially took care of The Mysterious Case of the Disappearing Chickens. Well, guess what Nancy Drew? Bobcats ain’t afraid of no llama. And they’re sneaky. And husbands think they’re mountain lions. So the chickens started disappearing, first, the bolder ones who eschewed the comforts of their home for the wilderness of the trees and then the elderly and ailing. We began receiving telephone calls from our area’s mandatory nosey/crotchety neighbor. Poor bitch, she actually had to bend over and pick up a few chicken feathers. Then she had to start hanging feathers with notes attached on our back fence as if we were in danger of impending tribal warfare. 

To give her credit, she was the one who fingered bobcat as the perp though David saw the attack cat early one morning and said it was at least 50 pounds where bobcats who don’t eat fried food top out at 35 so it must be a mountain lion, right? Right? After a particularly bad loss in which all the roosters but one died in defense of their harem, many of which we lost as well, the boys four spent a day in the farmyard battening and boarding and we have lost no chickens since (though we have received a couple more notes from Injun Ginny). 

 2. Ducks

   

It was a dark and stormy night, actually, the stormiest since we moved here. Thunder. Lightning, the way it shook was frightening. You gotta knock, knock, knock on wood. And then awake to a bunch of dead ducks. 

Poor Robert was on a school break and had the misfortune to be saddled with the post-storm farm chores. A scant two minutes after he went out into the farmyard he returned to share this particular non bon mot, “I’m sorry Mom but all the ducks are dead.” Yeeeaaaahhhh, metal poles were maybe not the best materials to use in the construction of the duck pen. With the exception of one horror flick worthy inside out bird, the rest of the birds were without injury and, if not for the fact that they were ducks and could not hold a glass or wear Nikes, one might have thought they committed group hari kari to get on that space ship orbiting for losers. Lightning, shockingly effective killing method. 

Yes, things are no longer ducky here at Rancho Laurena 

 1. Molly

   

Molly deserves the number one spot because, after all, her passing affected us more than any other. She was a crazy old bloodhound but she was our crazy old bloodhound and, for that, we loved her. 

In case you have forgotten/never knew, we adopted Molly from a woman at Camp Pendleton whose husband was injured in Iraq and whose new handicapped housing would not allow pets. Unknown to us, Molly arrived in heat and we awoke the following morning to the raucous sounds of bloodhound sex in our backyard (they howl, you know). Next came puppies and bottlefeeding and wildfires and evacuations, all enough to drive a sane dog a little crazy and this adopted one certifiably batshit. 

Molly was, above all, David’s dog. That dog loved him more than all of Troy loved Helen. Even when old, obese, and very infirm, Molly followed David’s every move, slept beside him, worshipped at his feet. Though perhaps not quite as obsessive, David returned Molly’s feelings and it was a far right nightmare scenario made in heaven (yes, the approval of gay marriage will lead to legal man-dog love). 

In one month’s time, what had been a small fatty tumor on Molly’s torso grew to the size of a large bisected soccer ball which bounced sickeningly at her side. The vet said nothing could be done, that a real danger of bleeding out existed, and that Molly’s rainbow bridge time had come. Sadly, we said au Revoir to our crazy old bloodhound and buried her in that Stephen King novel in our backyard. 

We’re still a little sad but, on the bright side, our food bills are lower. 

So there you have it. I may have missed a few things but I tend to suffer from a combined case of post traumatic farm death disorder and can’t remember shit. Tomorrow, I shall talk about things less rigor mortissy. Until then...

My Apologies to Cary Nation (and Michelle)

Did anyone catch the Diamondbacks yesterday? History-making, let me tell you. I have never, ever seen a pitcher (in this case Micah (good sheep name) Owings) called to pinch hit and then, because that wasn’t enough, knock an opposite side of the park home run. Phew! What a game! We won! And, wait for it, I drank beer (imagine me hanging my head in shame for effect).

Yeah, I know; I’m not supposed to be doing that right now but geez, jaw-dropping, whoop-inducing baseball was on and ice water was just not doing it for me. Plus, there’s that whole only-losing-two-pounds in two weeks thing. What’s a fan to do? Plus, tomorrow the eagle lands.

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(Wavy lines indicate flashback time.)

When we first got a kegorator, it was the bunch-of-guys-in-college-sharing-a-wild-party-house kind, a refrigerator with a hole drilled in the front for the tap and the hoses and workings inside. It was great. It offered freezer storage for delectably cold beer glasses and a little extra room beside the keg for bags of onions and other too-large-for-the-regular-fridge foodstuffs. When we moved here from San Diego, dear friends Jim and Allene bought it from us and it is still doing its imbiber-enabling duty to this day. Pardon me while I get a tissue, Tito; I’m getting all misty-eyed.

Anywho, we (and our many guests) went through about a keg a month (that’s all we ask, anyone else remember that almond commercial?) and each time HH went to exchange the empty keg for a full one, the moment he had it loaded in the truck, he would dutifully call me and announce, “The eagle has landed.” Something like seven or eight years into it, the tradition has held (doesn’t that make you feel all warm inside?).

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(End of flashback.)

Today, courtesy of The Amazing Matt, we have a very pretty, chrome-topped, bar-level, top-of-the-line model. Although it doesn’t store bags of onions, it does a great job of dispensing liquid hops and barley goodness and, for that, we are thankful. We are also thankful that tomorrow Four Peaks Brewery will have a fresh keg of Kiltlifter waiting for our arrival and the eagle will once again land.

So back to that temperance thing, it’s just not working for me. I gave it a try and found that, without beer, I am a tense, not-fun-to-be-around person. Just ask my husband. Also, I have to tie down my right hand in order to prevent myself from shoving knitting needles in my eyes and giving myself a frontal lobotomy. In short, a houseful of teenagers, toddler, dogs, cats, and bunny, plus a farmyard of various fowl, ruminants, and modified ruminants (the llama and alpaca have three stomachs instead of four) does not mesh with a Cary Nation-approved lifestyle.

In conclusion, I will endeavor to make moderation my goal, something my grandmother Dorsee would highly approve of, i.e. “Moderation in all things.” She also often said, “Butter makes it better” but that’s neither here nor there even though it does. I will go without several nights a week and, on my sipping nights, I will limit my intake. There, I’ve spared myself a lobotomy and/or a valium addiction. It’s a good thing, Martha.

Cheers!

Not in My Sleep and Not With a Sheep

In these past few weeks of convalescence, during which a majority of my time was spent with my ankle elevated and my nose in a book, my BFA has grown, as has my stomach and my thighs and I’m feeling pretty darned unattractive. I do not like this, Sam-I-Am, not in a boat and not with a goat, not in my sleep, and not with a sheep.

Before ankle breakage, I was exercising by pushing the Pint-filled jogging stroller in the mornings around a neighborly three-mile loop. My thighs were just beginning to realize that muscles still exist, though quietly, under their flab, and my buns of the-farthest-thing-from-steel were awakening.

Then, I fell off my shoes and everything I had started came to a screeching halt. This is not good; this is not right; my fat is straining my seams too tight.

Yes, I have been reading a little too much Dr. Seuss lately. How’d you know?

So yesterday, I was shopping in Borders since today is the Exalted One’s birthday when I came upon a book, Eat, Drink, and Be Gorgeous(see Amazon box in far left column for link).

From the flap: It’s all about balance. Indulging to satiate, not saturate. No diets, no gimmicks, just real solutions to get the body and mind you want. Esther debates the merits of Chardonnay versus a Cosmo, and prescribes ways to eat to rev up your sex drive, nip a hangover in the bud, combat out-of-control hormones, and more.

Yup, I bought it. I realize it’s hubby’s birthday but if it works, it will be a present for us both. ;-)

Once again, Happy Birthday David. At 45, you still cut a fine figure, that you do. If only I could do as well, aye?

Toughing It Out(doors)

For years now, I have thought that, if Hell actually exists and if each Hellish experience is tailor-made to the individual sinner, my version would involve close proximity with Billy Mayes. You know who I’m talking about, the huckster on commercials/infomercials who yells, nay SCREAMS, at me to buy Oxyclean/Kaboom/500 lb-test hooks/absorbable cloth/you name it. Why does he have to yell at me? I never did anything wrong to him; I bought his Kaboom. Why won’t he leave me alone?!

My current flu-that-won’t-leave reminds me of this guy. It’s a little Hell on Earth, perhaps a warm-up (pardon the pun) for what’s to come. Just when I think it’s over me and has decided to move its germs elsewhere, it insidiously sneaks back, at night, when I am trying to do that inconvenient but necessary sleep thing. It sees my horizontal form and pounces like Tigger’s doppelganger until I cough and cough (and cough) until the next thing I know I’ve chugged the remaining Nyquil and gone through ¾ of a bag of cough drops.

Please make it go away. And if there is any true good left in the world, make Billy go away, too.

Despite all this, I did make it to the RVHA 10th Anniversary Picnic on Saturday. I promised to help man the booth (we raffled lots of good stuff) and I don’t like to let the Well-Deserved Girls’ Group down. Plus, the picnic is always great fun. The food is good, the company better, and the entertainment is top-rate.

As usual, a certain Pint-Sized Farmer/Rancher stole the show.
Not only did he monopolize this horse, he had to go all Mr. Ham on us. It runs in the family, doncha know.

Here is my friend Mo playing jump rope with an equine friend and Elaine. It’s always good to see Mo kick up her heels a bit. She works too hard and is very responsible unlike yours truly.

Her hubby John (who she recently beat in a reining competition; chalk one up for the women) kicked back with a certain handsome man I know, John’s brother Rocco (Cowboy U viewers might recognize him as the host), and a new friend whose name I am sorry to say I can’t remember. She was very nice and patient and took the Pint around the trail 10,000 and one times, hence her posture.

A good time was had by all, making my rare moment of toughing it out well worth it. Don’t expect it to happen again anytime too soon; I have to keep my inner wimp close at hand. She’s been with me for 45 years now and I have to let her down gently. She will be leaving soon enough though, of that I am convinced.

The Big Match Girl

Anthony has been a Pint obsessed as of late. With the advent of warmer weather, he has rediscovered his tricycle and spends a good portion of his day riding around and around (and around) the pool deck on it. At first, it was cute but now it’s gotten rather creepy in its driven repetition. Next thing you know he’s going to use his best kid-in-a-horror-movie voice to chant “redrum, redrum” whilst bending his puppet index finger to the words. This will scare me; but maybe that’s what my body needs. If something can scare the s**t out of you, why can’t it scare the flu out of you? Just a thought, I’m grasping at cures here. I have plans tomorrow that I don’t want to abandon.

After reading yesterday’s post, HH went to Walgreen’s and got some much-needed Nyquil for me and, in doing so, earned another star in his crown. He’s good that way. The bloom fell off the rose a bit this morning though when he told me I looked like the Little Match Girl. Unfortunately, when I looked in the mirror, my reflection confirmed his analysis (except for the little part). It was like finding some previously unknown-to-me poor sickly relation with sallow pallor and mussed hair. A Beth shawl thankfully covered her back and shoulders but did not quiet the wracking cough that visibly wounded her chest with each spell. She looks downright pitiful. Oh, yeah, that’s me. I guess I better find some sulphur on sticks in case I need some pocket change. You never know.

Ewe-wise, I got a better look at both Cookie and Charlotte, both definitely pregnant with swollen udders and filling milk sacs. Carmela, confound her, is still a mystery. Even standing on my head, I can’t see her udders or milk sac and, if I go by girth alone, even Leroy would be pregnant as his full-fleece adds major perceived-poundage. Patience is not one of my virtues but it seems as if I have no choice.

So here I am, doing my flu-ridden best to care for a tricycle-possessed toddler, keep a watch over my flock by day, and sell a few matches on the side. Wish me luck.

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?

Tercero

Yesterday was the 4th Annual RVHA (Rio Verde Horsemen’s Association) Chili Cook-off. As always, we entered because in my insecure but somewhat-confident-in-my-cooking-skills mind, I think I make darn good chili. In truth, it’s my mother’s chili recipe; but through the years, we’ve tweaked it by adding different meats, additional spices, a greater bean and chile assortment, etc.

David and I began cooking early in the morning, chopping, sautéing, frizzling, sizzling, and by ten the house smelled sublime. I love chili; I love my chili. We taste-tested, adjusted for spice and heat, and declared to each other that this was the year; this was the year that we would win the Chili Cook-off.

We’ve now entered the cookoff three times, our sole absence being due to HH’s back surgery. The first two times we took third place. I don’t like taking third place. Maybe my psyche has been invaded by too much American “We’re #!” culture but it is what it is. I want to win. Honestly, I don’t care if there’s a prize; I just want to win.

I guess you have figured out by now that, once again, we took third place. I won’t torture you with the resulting emotions that this “show” welled up inside of me, e.g. this is so indicative of my life, yadayadayada. Somebody warm up some crybaby soup and send it my pathetic way.

These very cute 4-H girls took second. As much as it is killing me, I can’t get all catty about the fact that they entered two chilis and how I don’t think that’s fair. This is due to the fact that they are very cute 4-H girls and were very excited to take second place. The whole little-girls-jumping-up-and-down-together-and-shrieking-with-joy thing saps the feline out of me.

First place went to a man with admittedly very-good-but-different chili. It was dark (unsweetened chocolate perhaps like they use in molé?) with chopped meat instead of ground. As much as I hate to cave this way, considering the uniqueness of his chili, he deserved to win. There, I said it. Don’t tell anyone.

Ridiculous emotions aside, we’re already thinking ahead to next year. I think that, instead of the usual ground beef, we’ll add chopped Chuck. That was the name of the first place winner, wasn’t it?

I Am David

Morning farm chores have taken on a new urgency, unseen before the Great Coyote Massacre of 2007. The small envelope between darkness and dawn is now a crucial time, a time in which the coyotes are still on the prowl and Lauren, the sole surviving turkey (irony noted), gets the urge to alight from her roost in the over-the-coop Palo Verde tree and take a morning stroll. Why she does this I don’t know. She’s seen bloodshed; she’s seen an all-out poultry massacre as a matter of fact but she still needs to get out. I suppose I can identify with my turkey namesake.

It is during this ominous timeframe that we Pretend Farmers are on tenterhooks.

Has she come down from the tree yet? Is the yard safe? Is Spartacus on guard?

On most days, it works out just fine and our worries are for naught, that is as long as we do our duty as good farmers and open the coop gate for Lauren, stand back, and let her decide on her own (because no one living on these premises named Lauren can be forced into doing anything against her will) to deign to enter the enclosure. At this point, we open the locked-up hen house to witness the pullets and cockerels pop out the door and throw scratch to one and all.

By the way, the GCM-surviving elder stateswomen stay perched on their roost, staring down their beaks with disdain at the grain-gobbling teenagers.

They are so new poultry.

On Monday, however, all went to Hell in a handbasket. As I have told you before, we Supermaxed the duck pen. Impenetrable (knock on wood) steel mesh covers its ceiling, chicken wire and rebar is dug three feet into the ground around it, and a block wall that one day I will get around to painting finishes the sides. The chicken coop now has ten-foot fencing and similar ground reinforcement.

What used to be the turkey pen has been neglected. Sadly abandoned, its structure has begun to resemble the rotting tobacco shacks of my North Carolina youth. Since we do not have any more turkeys except for Lauren who prefers the company of chickens to no one, it has not been Supermaxed. Back to Monday.

With three bloodhounds in tow, Hunky Husband headed out to insure Lauren would follow her routine and that our fine feathered friends were all safe. Instead, what he found was a scrawny and wily coyote in the abandoned turkey pen. I suppose normally the coyote, seeing a human heading his way, would have swiftly jumped over the non-Supermaxed gate and high-tailed it out of there. You should all know by now, however, that we are not normal and normal things do not happen to us. This is my life; this is how it has always been. David just happened to acquire it by marriage.

David opened the gate but the coyote, paralyzed by the fear of three snarling and bellowing 120+ pound bloodhounds whose volume out-crescendo-ed the Met just backed up and snarled (the featured photo is a re-enactment). He tried to exit via the back of the pen but that part was Supermaxed with the ten foot fence and although he made it a good seven or eight feet, ten was too much for him. Enter David, assuming his Biblical namesake and persona.

Armed with thick pigskin gloves, he grabbed the coyote and the beast bit him (but thankfully did not break the skin or that would have been a whole ‘nuther story). Chaos ensued and I’m actually not completely sure how the match went for a while (and could certainly not give you a take down, reversal, or pin point count) but, in long, David managed to muzzle the creature with clenched hand and throw him over the ten foot fence to the mercy of the German Shepherds next door. Adrenaline is a beautiful thing.

Thus ends the tale (and maybe the tail) of the RVCWA’s (Rio Verde Coyote Wrestling Association’s) latest match. Hunky Husband came out the victor and all the farm animals, both fibered and feathered, stood high and proclaimed, “I am David.” (I suppose it was a pre-emptive measure in case the coyotes were planning to punish the man.) Me? I’m just proud of him… and also glad it wasn’t me out there.

Is Mr. Wizard Still Out There?

We awoke this morning to unrelenting wind and driving rain, atypical for our little patch of the Sonoran Desert. It was still dark, causing me to wonder if the washes were running, how the livestock were faring, and if anything had been swept away or, on the contrary, deposited homeward. Leaving myself bare, I looked at Hunky Husband and pondered, “I wonder what it will look like when the sun comes up.”

Not missing a beat, he said, “Lighter.” The smart aleck.

This is my life. It is not boring and one has to stay on one’s toes or be slaughtered by multi-directional, not-quite-rapier wit.

An hour later, I still cannot see what the storm hath wrought but, in the dim light, I am assured that none of our livestock are tumbling down our semi-annual river and our home has not leapt from its moorings so I think we’re okay. It’s probably silly to worry about a simple rain storm when elsewhere snow is drifting and waves are roaring but, hey, I’m nothing if not egocentric. We got five whole inches of rain last year; two in a 24-hour period makes an impact.

Meanwhile in the house world, all remains a this-is-the-filthiest-I’ve-ever-seen-it mess. This is not helped by these.

Or the rabbit who thinks he is a cat
(or bloodhound depending upon his present company). His potty training is not going well, still thrown way backwards since our Thanksgiving absence, and he is now in solitary confinement in the master bathroom (which is fairly large so it’s not like we’ve thrown him down a dark hole with a pocket watch and given him the idea he is late for a very important date).

This one doesn’t help either. He has a penchant for knocking things over, graceful feline my you-know-what. Felina can literally pussy-foot her way across a tabletop of clutter and never graze one object but Apollo takes after his Rocky-born namesake, Apollo Creed.

He does make it up by keeping our laps warm during those rare relaxing times. Of course, he also never fails to accompany us to the restroom because no one wants to do their business in solitary peace. I have had Marshall the bloodhound, Apollo the part-Siamese-if-you-please, and a certain Pint-sized farmer all join me in the tiny throne room. Oh, joy. You know, I grew up in a usually-quiet family of three (or four if you include Terry Dog), two parents and me. Lately, I’ve been thinking I conked my head one too many times during those aforementioned eighties, leading to my current predicament/blessing. Help, Mr. Wizard.

So now I must rise and shine (flicker?) and dive into the overwhelming clutter and dustbowl that is my home. I feel like I am in the scene in “Apollo 13” after Tom Hanks’ character and his wife have thrown a party and she says, “The house is too dirty; we’ll have to move.” Wish me luck (or send a housekeeper or ten). I’ll need it.

Mrs. Fool

Before you begin reading this dribble, stop what you are doing and make sure you have your black-eyed peas cooking on the stove (no, not the group, that would be silly plus they wouldn’t fit in the pot). You must cook them today, not tomorrow, nor a week from yesterday. This is a rule that must not be broken; our new year depends upon it.

That said, how was your Hogmanay? After writing yesterday’s post, I looked up Edinburgh’s Website touting their oh-my-could-this-be-more-fun raucousness, shared it with Hunky Husband, and we have collectively set a goal to celebrate the next new year there! Honestly, where else can one march through a river of fire, set a Viking longboat aflame, and burn a giant willow stag?
So 2008-2009 Hogmanay in Edinburgh it shall be where we will celebrate “A guid New Year to ane an' a'!” (Now to just come up with that pesky matter of funding the adventure but I’ll think about that tomorrow, Scarlett. It’s New Year’s Day!)

Dreams of Edinburgh notwithstanding, we had a wonderful evening two doors down (where they were laughing and drinking and having a party). Got that song in your head? Good. The food was wonderful as was the company. We actually behaved ourselves considering the occasion (I’m saving rampant misbehavior for next year) and I had just enough to drink to get to that point where, for some unfathomable reason, I think I can dance and also think I look damned good doing it. My dear friend Karen and I share this phenomenon.

Plus, “The Clash” was blasting “London Calling” on the stereo; it is a not-to-be-broken Lauren rule that I must shake my moneymaker to “The Clash” and/or the “B-52’s.” (As an aside, wouldn’t it be nice if the shaking of one’s middle-aged posterior would generate capital? It would definitely help with trip expenses.) Anyway, here I was in a room with about 20 people dancing all by myself (didn’t want to be but I was all by myself anyway, Eric Carmen) when, unaccustomed to wearing the heels that bedecked my feet, I unsuccessfully navigated the fringed border between the rug and the carpet and fell flat on my ass. Not only did I fall, mind you, I landed in such a manner that a pine side table cupboard smacked into my head with a deafening crack. Yup, there I lay, Mrs. No-Longer-Dancing Fool. Awesome.

You would have thought a bomb had gone off. The room went silent and all heads turned my way. Hunky Husband, Knight in Shining Armor that he can be, rushed to my side, sure I had given myself a concussion whilst our worried hostess filled a gianormous Ziploc bag with ice, wrapped it in a towel, and literally ran across the room to me. I, in my goose-egg-growing state, didn’t really think it was that big a deal. Hey, I made it through the eighties and fell down plenty of times during that decade. Why the concern now?

Today, though, I have to admit I am feeling the effects of my misadventure. Due to our recent viewing of the “Johnny Cash Show” on DVD, a show which ran from 1969-1971, I am experiencing an obsession with hot rollers. That female keyboardist must have put at least five rats in her hair to get it to puff up that high and damned if for some insane reason I am totally wanting that look right now. We have two functions to attend today, a casual corned beef and cabbage luncheon at favorite neighbors Tom and Michelle’s followed by a New Year’s Day Open House at the Candee’s (I’m secretly hoping for shoes) and, no matter how much the pine-damaged portion of my head hurt, I was damned if I wasn’t going to put those rollers in my hair and shove those medieval torture sticks around them to hold them there. Beauty, albeit totally-retro-bordering-B-52’s beauty, before pain, dang it.

I will now end this tale of humiliation and woe. I hope, by sharing it, the rest of you feel just a wee bit better about yourselves and know, that no matter what you do, I alone am the fool on the floor.

Tomorrow, the revolution begins.