Pretending to Farm

Enough Ham to Feed a Small African Nation

Due to my current semi-invalid state, I have donned my Crown of Delegation and sent my minions hither and there to keep the cogs and gears of my many rat cages in motion. Although I can tell the halflings do want to help, my entreaties are met with varying degrees of enthusiasm (or lack thereof). I am living in a House of Sighs (not to be confused with Venice’s bridge under which lovers will be assured eternal love if they kiss in a gondola at sunset).

Small tasks become the proverbial mountain out of a molehill whilst the larger ones that instill guilt through all my nether regions are eagerly taken up as if a gauntlet has been thrown. I’ll never understand men, whether they be three, fourteen, or forty four. But I digress.

Yesterday, I asked Young David to snap some shots of the lambs both for my own enjoyment (because I miss them something terrible) and yours. He came back with the following. Teenagers.

You think he’s happy with himself here? He just successfully moved my truck from the front of the house to the driveway. I’ll spare you the 201 photos he took of the precisely parked vehicle.

Like the rest of the family, the boy’s a ham. It’s a wonder they haven’t made sandwiches of us all.

David, sweetheart, child of my womb, joy of my declining years (that last one came from my grandmother; it was probably her second favorite phrase next to telling the mailman she only wanted checks and love letters), I asked for lamb photos. I think you’ve spent enough time around here to know these are chickens, roosters to be exact.

Now this one is a hen, though I have to say I like the composition of this shot. It’s rather artistic.

Nope, that’s a llama. Spartacus is doing a darned good job guarding the new babies. As an added bonus, he looks like he’s going to donate some nice fiber to the spinning cause after I wash it and pull out all the guard hair. I wonder if I can spin in my current physical condition. My right knee is still killing me and I’m getting a hypochondriacal suspicion my patella is fractured as well. (I go to the orthopedist this afternoon for appropriate ridicule.)

This knee-being-broken idea is probably just my resident paranoia, like when NBC’s David Bloom died of a pulmonary embolism in Iraq. I was sure any day one of my varicose veins was going to send a blood clot to my lungs, putting an end to my current life here on Earth but hastening my reincarnation as a duck.

Whoa, wait a minute, what do we have here? Lambs? Yes indeedy, it’s Sean and Katie. I guess two out of four ain’t bad. Maybe after I get my permanent cast today, I’ll be more comfortable venturing into the yard of divots, sand, and BB-like animal droppings and be able to take my own photographs.

Until then… any cast color suggestions?

E = MC2

I don’t know what the rest of the world does upon adopting a very fluffy werebunny and bringing him home to bond with the rest of the family but we, weirdos that we are, well we go to the park.

It didn’t take long for Albert Bunnicula Einstein to display his inner rock star. Due to his my-that’s-a-huge-rabbit size and his overflowing fluffiness, he quickly formed a large and ever-changing fan base. Apparently, these Quarts wander the parks of Scottsdale looking for rabbits with whom to have their picture taken. Groupies.

Albert lapped up the attention. After traveling many confusing and bumpy hours in a cardboard box in the backseat of a Dodge Truck and sharing in the near-death experience with Robert and me off-roading in the Navajo Nation, he had more than a bunny’s share of pent-up frustration and was ready to blow off some steam.

He’s magic, this bunny.

He makes Frisbees levitate

And Pints swing.

He even has the power to soothe the angst-ridden teenager.

I think we’ll keep him.

Summer's Over, Except for the Whole Heat Thing

Tomorrow marks the first day of school. August 9th and on a Thursday? I think that’s criminal but, as both boys are excited to start, I can’t really vocalize my displeasure. “Guys, how can you be excited about going into 8th grade when it’s still early August? You could slack and swim and play World of Warcraft for three more weeks if you started after Labor Day like a majority of the country. Geez.”

Regardless of how I feel, it will begin and with it, the morning shuffle to get them up, fed, and out the door to meet the bus in time. After the initial excitement wears off, tears and excuses will flow and I’ll have to use our shepherd’s crook to roust them out of bed. All we like sheep will go astray.

Yet, all in all, my boys are well-behaved, particularly compared to some I see but they have their moments and have unfortunately inherited their parents’ raunchy sense of humor. I’ve gotten calls. So it is with great embarrassment that I have to admit that two nights before school started, we all watched “The Daily Show” together which guess-starred Andy Samberg whose parody song with Justin Timberlake, ____ in a Box is growing, so to speak, in popularity exponentially on YouTube. Although part of me wishes I could reverse the fact that we watched this together, the rest of me does not because of their priceless reactions.

They laughed until the tears ran down to their necks as they sang the chorus over and over. Hunky Husband, kid that he is, joined in with them and I was left hoping Hell would not be as bad as it is portrayed. To top it off, this morning my twin 13-year-olds cut a hole in a box and stuck their fingers, thankfully fingers, through the hole and sang the chorus to me. I guess I should be happy my boys feel open enough with me to do this but don’t think I didn’t feel groady. I did.

Back to school, I’m going to get calls.

Hey Buddy, Can You Spare a Wheelchair for My Rooster?

Last night, I did something in bed that I have never before done.

Now that I have your attention, I have to admit it is neither kinky nor sexual at all. In truth, I slept with a rooster. Okay, I guess it does sound a little kinky but instead it was dirty, and not like Christina Aguilera.

Jakers, David the Teenager's favorite rooster (of course), has fallen prey to what we think is a scorpion sting or spider bite. Yesterday morning, we discovered him lying on the ground in the chicken coop, unable to stand or support himself in any way. His right foot was noticeably swollen; his head was lolling; and his comb was pale and worrisome. We brought him inside (another of course) and fed him a mash of sugar water and chicken feed and gradually his color improved but he still could not stand. When bedtime came, and with Zorro already inhabiting the house poultry cage, we did the only self-respecting thing we as bleeding heart farmers could do and let him sleep in bed between us. Unbelievably, I actually slept very well cuddled with his feathery warmth and, except for that whole lack-of-house-training thing, he made a good sleeping companion. Yes, my sheets went in the wash at daybreak after which I took a long, vigorous scrubbing-filled shower.

Today, Jakers seems better but still cannot use his feet and keeps trying to stand on his elbows without success. We feel for the poor boy and hope he will not lose his head over the whole thing. Isn't farming awesome?

The other big event yesterday was, of course, the wait for Harry. I had pictured UPS driving up at its usual lunchtime schedule but no. Darkness fell and still no Harry. Anticipation fell to anxiety and then to anger. WHERE WAS MY BOOK??? Finally, around 8:30, the boys made the ¼ mile trek to the mailbox again and it was there. I haven't seen young David since except for when I found him asleep this morning with half the book read.
He must have stayed up all night. Good thing because I want to read it sooner rather than later. Yes, I am encouraging my child's unhealthy habit of sleep deprivation for my own selfish reading greed. Hurry up child; I'm waiting. Don't make me buy my own copy and don't tell me what happens. I like finding out what happens on my own, thank you very much.

And now for something completely different, Cordelia thinks she is a person. Or perhaps a rooster.

Life is beautiful. Happy Sunday everyone.

Have You Had Your Big Red Today?

When we moved here a little over three years ago, the first farm animals we wanted to get were chickens. We had tasted farm fresh eggs; they were delicious; we wanted more. Not too long afterward, it was a fait accompli.

What we did not realize, however, was the amount of personality that would emanate from our feathery yard birds. Something in their eyes sizes us up and, like the very smart crows that put nuts in need of cracking on the roadway and wait for a car to roll its wheels over them, thus furnishing the crows with a simple drive-thru meal, these birds are not stupid. Bird brain, in its negative connotation, is a misnomer.

We have a few favorites among the flock and this large fellow is one of mine. Big Red, we call him. He is a third or fourth generation mixture of Rose Comb Brown Leghorn, Wyandotte, Rhode Island Red, Buff Minorca, and, who knows what else. His lovely, multicolor plumage shows a mixed smattering of his ancestry. His comb is a cross between a rose and more traditional spike, giving the odd impression that he is wearing a tri-corner hat.

Big Red likes to come inside and cool off from time to time and who can blame him? He gets to sit on a comfy lap in air conditioned comfort and receive kisses and caresses from yours truly.

Of course, David the Teenager is the true chicken wrangler. Mostly in charge of their care and love, he wanders outside off and on throughout the day just to visit with them and stock up on avian companionship. These visits never cease to bring a smile and lighten the mood of this typically serious and stern child. Like the ruminants' effect on me, for him, chickens are nature's antidepressants. Someday he would like to join 4H and show them, something we probably should have already done but it is one of those we’ll-get-to-it-eventually events. Hopefully, this year will be the charm.

For now, we’re keeping our chicken relationships casual and looking forward to their occasional ventures indoors. This suits me, and I think them, just fine.

In Which the Family Helps Out So I Can Actually Do Something

Hunky Husband (yes, Michelle, I have given in to the truth and David the Husband will now be referenced by this new moniker) is away playing middle-aged Easy Rider with our friend Scott from San Diego, only sans Peter Fonda and with BMW Adventure motorcycles instead of Harleys. Scott says nothing screams old, fat, and bald like a Harley but I think it is only because he is prejudiced in favor of his new toy. The two of them were meeting slightly west of midway between here and there and planning on getting dusty and dirty exploring the trails in the mountains of eastern San Diego County. Though not as hot there as it is here, it’s still too toasty to fit in with my idea of outdoor fun but boy will be boys. For not the first time in my life, I am glad the farm and its responsibilities are keeping me here

Before he left, he did a little turkey sitting so I could finish plying the yarn which I am now calling “Sunny Beach Day.” At first, Zorro did not know what to think of this whiskered mass of handsomeness; but, after a peck or two on the cheek in introduction, decided he would do just fine as substitute for his usual caretaker (me) and they settled down to watch another disastrous Dodgers/ Diamondbacks game together.

Earlier in the day, I had tried to finish the yarn with Zorro along but never could quite get comfortable with the rhythm of it. The cats were poised nearby in case I moved suddenly, knocking Zorro off my shoulder, and, in general, the whole fiber therapy motive was stymied.

Zorro, obviously, didn’t seem to notice my discomfort.

He didn’t mind me knitting either. He must be a fiber friendly turkey poult. That’s a good thing, Martha.

Although I still need to wash it and set the twist, here is “Sunny Beach Day.” I am hoping to have enough to make Pint a little zippered sweater jacket but might have to settle for a vest, probably a more usable item of clothing around here anyway. Most winter days it still gets up into the sixties by the afternoon. Wool, wool everywhere, yet not a climate for its use. Grrrr.

Speaking of grrr, contest #2 did not go quite as well as the first one. I guess people are more willing to come up with cleverness for sock yarn than a Home Depot gift card. Lesson learned, though I was just trying to include the non-knitters among you. Teresa, though she was the one and only to enter the contest, came up with a wonderful and a little too close to the truth at times admission and, for that, wins. Email me funny lady with your address and let me know where your interests lie for your wee surprise. You all forgot about the surprise, didn’t you?

Have a wonderful weekend everyone. I want to thank young David for turkey-sitting so I could type two-handed for the first time in days. I had almost decided it was time to give the blog a rest until my turkey rearing days have come to a close but his reprieve saved me and hopefully lightened your day as well.

Remember to keep on praying for wee Tom, though from what Beth tells me, he is lapping up all the attention he is getting at the hospital and beginning to think he is an only and much-indulged child.

Findings

We here at Rancho Laurena would like to share with you our era of do-overs and a frenzy of findings. Care to join us?

Found under Lauren the Turkey, her do-over of the season:

I think he or she is very beautiful as does David the Teenager as you can tell from the angelic expression on his face. We don’t often see this side of David lately. I’ve decided when he is exposing the seedier side of adolescence, I will gaze at this photo and know that somewhere deep inside him, this person still lives and thrives.

Also found:

The treasure of the Low Desert Jackalope in the silk purse just a few minutes ago. Apparently, the kids reassembled their hunting kit and were successful during their do-over outing. Kathy wasn’t feeding us all a big entertaining bowl of hooey after all. The woman knows her Arizona legends.

Unfortunately found:

Not one, not two, but, yes, ladies and germs, three colors of mold in our bathroom walls as a result of the shower pan leaking. (I cannot and should not get in there to photograph it.) Shortly after its discovery, the bathroom was hermetically sealed and we are awaiting the arrival of The Mold Men in their white ET suits, Ghostbusters backpacks, and Darth Vader voices. The first tradesmen were not appareled or authorized to demolish mold-filled walls and, although they got a good start on the job, it needed a do-over from a different source called Damage Control. Oh, joy. Please tell me this is covered under our homeowner’s policy, American Family Man.

And just like Poltergeist, they’re here. Mercy.

Here’s hoping all your findings are fortunate and your do-overs successful.

The Three "P"s

It’s a busy morning around Rancho Laurena. After realizing the shower pan was leaking in David the Teenager’s bathroom and the water pooled on the floor was not a result of overzealous washing, we have been invaded by tradesmen of various specialties to remedy the situation. This is a good thing, Martha. It is also a chaos-generating thing with a Pint and three bloodhounds wanting to become pesky apprentices and a germophobic teenager refusing to allow any of the “funny-smelling” shower rods, doors, and/or hardware to be piled in his newly moved into and painted room.

As this will be entertaining us all week long, ladies and germs, I will have limited posting time but nonetheless endeavor to keep writing. Anything for my loyal readers.

Presenting:

The Summer of Love Yarn spun slightly thicker than lace weight, wound into a center pull ball, and plied from the inside and outside of the ball. This is all I have as this was the colorway that Carrie chose. I think it will make a nice accent to an otherwise plain sweater, maybe collars and cuffs or decorative edging.

Premiering:

The Backyardiknits. If those of you with small children have not found “The Backyardigans,” stop what you’re doing and check your TV Guide until you find it. Sit down with your own Pint, watch, repeat. Beth, Brandy, and I started this wee blog, not associated with the show but admiring it. Backyardiknits, as you can deduce from its name, is for its fans that knit. A few free patterns are already there plus a handful of posts from each of us. Come on by and pay us a visit.

Play-Acting:

The Pint, swimming in the Olympics. He puts his face in the water and slithers snake-like across the large top step of the pool. About half his body is submerged. After joyfully witnessing this, we devoted much pool time to teaching the boy for real. He is excelling at putting his face in the water and kicking, but only if he has a death grip around his instructor’s neck. He will perform this same death grip from the back and enjoy a quick underwater swim, which we find amazing coming from a boy who last week would not leave the step under any circumstances. Maybe he will end up swimming in the Olympics, after all.

As the young carpenter’s apprentice is getting a little too eager to learn again, I must get back to playing interference. Have a wonderful week everyone.

A Case for Mr. Monk

I began the morning by sternly eyeing all the children and telling them if they make me cry one more day in a row, I cannot be held responsible for the consequences. Hey, I’ve read Dickens. I can make them eat porridge day in and day out and don grey rags for clothing while they scour the stone floor from dawn to dusk. The lack of corporal punishment manner in which I have been raising my children could be a mistake; I might just pull out the belt AND smack their hands with a wooden ruler. I have one, you now, and have been the recipient of such a smacking, humiliatingly delivered in the front of my second grade classroom by a stern woman with cat’s eye glasses, drab dresses, and a permanent scowl sculpting her why-did-I-become-a-teacher-because-I-hate-children face.

Well, guess what? They behaved. They did their chores as asked and limited their bickering to acceptable levels. Nothing like a well-delivered sincerely meant threat to keep them in their places. And should they fall back to their previous tear-inducing ways, I still have that whole corporal punishment/ Dickensian way of life to fall back on. (Did you notice? I just ended a sentence with a preposition; Grammar Girl said I could as long as I have an object. Dickensian way of life or purely life is my object. So there. Now if I could just rid myself of this nagging guilt like I did something wrong even though I know in my head I didn’t.)

I had wanted Jessica’s visit to go so well. Deep inside I held onto the hope that she would change her mind and stay if only I could keep David the Teenager from instigating their omnipresent arguments, if I could keep my mouth shut about the towels she can’t seem to avoid throwing on the floor and leaving there, and if I didn’t ask for one iota of work out of her. I know now that’s completely unrealistic but I had no idea the visit would go so far from well, at least as far as the sibling battles. When I found her marching angrily down the hallway muttering about remembering why she moved out in the first place on her first full day here, my hope dwindled and I tried harder than ever to make things right. Yet, each time I did, some unknown force pulled them even farther in the opposite direction.

Regretfully, I have accepted this. Jessica has moved out permanently and that’s just the way it is. I will find a way to live with it somehow and enjoy her visits when blessed with them. So be it. Moving on…

Found: This combination of objects on the cutting board in the kitchen when I awoke Thursday morning. Although I can usually deduce what has gone on from the detritus left in the they-were-clean-when-I went-to-bed kitchen and living room, this mixture has me stumped. Now, I realize not all of you are knitters but a good many of you are SO…

The person who most creatively and humorously comments on the story behind the use of these combined ingredients, judged by David the Husband and me, will win these two skeins of Cherry Tree Hill sock yarn, enough to make two pairs of socks or one pair of knee-highs and complete with stray bloodhound hair scattered on their surface. So put your thinking caps on and fill me in on whatever strange ritual my offspring are getting away with while I sleep.

“Tomorrow is another day.”

Yesterday, my day began with an endlessly screaming toddler and two dentist appointments for the teenaged wonder twins. This was our first visit to this particular dentist (David the Husband and Jessica had gone before us) and the waiting room was plush. No hard stackable seating lined the walls, begging for an impromptu game of musical chairs. Instead, we were greeted by an overstuffed sofa and cushy arm chairs, all full of numerous toss pillows beguiling a 2 ½ year old toddler with an arm like Randy Johnson to fulfill their moniker. Within minutes of being there, the Zoom teeth whitening display was broken and the waiting room looked like, well like my house. (I had to fill out paperwork and stupidly entrusted his care to the not-so-wonder-after-all twins.)

There were good things that resulted from this omnipresent chaos that is my life. David the Teenager has no cavities (Robert has one broken tooth only needing a filling to repair) and SR Jessica was being pampered at the Carefree Spa with a 45 minute sugar and spice scrub followed by an hour long massage, our birthday gift to her. The knowledge that she was being thus Tasha-ed (Backyardigans reference, you have to watch it) made my experience bearable.

Other than a short nap, Pint continued his demon mood all day, putting a damper on any festive birthday plans and forcing Jessica to escape the madness which is our lives in an effort to enjoy the rest of her day. I hope she succeeded, poor thing. She seemed let down and who could blame her. 18 is a huge milestone with expectations galore, many of which were not met. What’s a trying-desperately-to-keep-her-little-girl-with-her-for-the-summer mom to do? Nothing apparently as she heads back to San Diego today. Sob and sigh.

I did receive an email from Grammar Girl, a highlight of my day, that and the cat pin I am getting from Sara at Barking Biscuit but that’s another post. I probably should have listed Grammar Girl’s podcast in my favorites but, as I said, I was limiting myself to three. She and Mr. Manners (I listen to both) each run a podcast out of the QD Now network; and during each show, she answers grammar questions and offers examples of wrong and right ways to state things in a grammatically correct manner.

I had written her with an ongoing puzzle of mine, whether or not it is correct to end a sentence with a preposition. To avoid doing so, I find myself constructing stilted sentences in my writing and resenting the dismal results.

Below is her reply, no more for which-es to avoid the dreaded dangling preposition. I heart Grammar Girl.

Hi Lauren,

Here's a sentence that shouldn't end with a preposition:

Where is Claire at?

Here's a sentence that is fine with a preposition at the end:

What did I step on?

The important thing is that prepositions need objects. The quick and dirty tip is if you can leave the preposition off the end of the sentence without changing the meaning, then you should leave it off.

Thanks for listening!

Mignon

Now if I can only figure out the proper placement of a period when using parentheses.

As GG says, that’s all for now. And as Scarlett O’Hara says, “Tomorrow is another day.”

Thanks for reading, my friends.