We have had a really rough time kidding this year. So far we've lost 9 kids, and have 12 alive. We believe it is because of an iodine deficiency that we are working hard to correct. Rather than dwell on the sad stuff we are going to focus on the good. Here are some of our healthy, fiesty, frisky kids:
Here is little Cowboy strutting his stuff. He is a real character and keeps his mama, Betty, on her toes.
Here Puff feeds her twins Ned and Nancy. She was the first mama to kid so you can see their newborn pictures below. Puff is a great mama.
Here Margo feeds her twin bucklings. She has her work cut out for her with this frisky pair! She is also a doting mama who caters to her two little guys needs.
This is Nancy, our "first born" doeling and a real princess. She is teeny tiny but still considers herself quite the special little girl. She doesn't walk...she prances.
This is Phil. We found Phil nearly frozen to death as a sopping wet newborn. We took him in the house, warmed him in the bath and even had to perform mouth to mouth on him. His mama rejected him, probably because he was just too darn clean, glowing white and smelled like a civilized meterosexual goat after his bath. We decided to give Phil a new mama, Janice. They took to each other right away. Phil did great for about a week, then one day he was suddenly limp and cold. We brought him in, stomach tubed him and warmed him up. He started to perk up and continued to improve with bottle feeding every few hours. We were sure he'd be a house goat. When he started to improve we replaced the bottles with feeds on his foster mama then back to the life of luxury in his warm bed. He was improving and things were looking up. When we went out to feed him one morning he was just gone. We tried so hard to keep him going. He was a sweet little goat. We love you, Phil! Rest in peace, lil buddy. We wish you abundant fields of willows and lots of creamy milk in goaty heaven.
This kidding is hard work. Like they say "T'was the best of times, t'was the worst of times". I just have to keep focusing on the healthy little ones and looking forward to next year when we won't be facing so many challenges.
Take care,
Tam
Sunday, February 11, 2007
Monday, January 29, 2007
Just Kidding!!
We have babies!! Lovely #6 (aka "Puff") birthed a lovely set of twins today. A little buckling with Boer colouring (aka "Ned") and a pure white doeling (aka "Nancy"). Puff did a great job, having them in the shelter full of clean straw, licked them dry and let them nurse right away. They are hardy little kids, wrangling for a teat before they could even stand. Phew, what a great start to our new kidding adventure.
Pig on the Run
Its just another peaceful country morning. The sun is shining through the windows. Dappled shadows play across the kitchen floor. Just another day in paradise.
Suddenly the entire trailer starts to shudder as though someone has driven a compact car into the end. What is going on? Alarmed, we rush to the window. What could have shattered our blissful, relaxing morning?
There on our deck is a hefty, black creautre. She is covered in dense, bristly black hair, with a startling dash of pink on her underside and behind each armpit. Peach. The pot bellied sow has escaped from her pen (again) and is investigating the deck. As she 'tippity taps' along the wooden deck the entire trailer vibrates under the weight of her prancing. She elegantly picks up her hooves and descends the stairs with an unexpected grace from a body so rotund. She truly is poetry in motion.
She scampers across the yard, stopping briefly in front of the pen that houses our resident boar, Vern. She flirts a bit. From my lookout post in the front room I can see her long, luxurious piggy eyelashes batting. Vern raises his head in interest. Its not hard to imagine him giving Peach "the wink and the guns", if he had opposable thumbs, that is.
My Dearly Beloved decides that enough is enough. Pigs aren't meant to be free ranging around our yard. Peach raises her snout as he approaches. She begins wagging her tail and trots to meet him. Her intelligant eyes survey him curiously. Dearly Beloved guides her back to her pen, and she williingly scuttles through the gate he holds open for her. What a good pig. Peace is restored.
A few moments later we feel the familiar rumble outside on the deck. She's out again. *sigh* What to do with her? She suns herself on the warm wood, content. Now who can complain with a sight like that out their front window?
Monday, January 22, 2007
Playing Poohsticks
What is up with children's books? I am appalled, disturbed and often bewildered at the stuff that gets published. Today, for instance, lil Peanut totters up to me with a big grin and a Winnie the Pooh book. Delighted, we snuggle up to read a tale of, I assume, cutesie bears and piglets. Not so. The story was nonsensical and borderline pornographic. The text follows:
Playing Poohsticks
Inspired by A.A. Milne
Illustrations by Ernest H. Shepard
Copyright 2003 Dutton's Children's Books
"One day Pooh and Piglet and Rabbit and Roo were all playing Poohsticks together.
They dropped their sticks and when Rabbit said "Go!" they hurried to the other side of the bridge to see whose stick would come out first.
"I can see yours, Piglet," said Pooh.
"Mine's the sort of greyish one," said Piglet.
And out floated Eeyore.
"I didn't know that you were playing," said Roo.
"I'm not," said Eeyore. "Tigger bounced me."
"I didn't bounce. I coughed," said Tigger.
"What does Christopher Robin think about it?" asked Pooh.
"I think we all ought to play Poohsticks," said Christopher Robin.
So they did."
I shit you not. That is an actual published children's book. In its entirety. Sad, eh? Is it any wonder that our youth has gone to hell in a handbasket? I am sure some book wig author choked this bad boy out on a piece of toilet paper while draped across a toilet seat in some drunken haze. How do I get me one of those gigs??
Playing Poohsticks
Inspired by A.A. Milne
Illustrations by Ernest H. Shepard
Copyright 2003 Dutton's Children's Books
"One day Pooh and Piglet and Rabbit and Roo were all playing Poohsticks together.
They dropped their sticks and when Rabbit said "Go!" they hurried to the other side of the bridge to see whose stick would come out first.
"I can see yours, Piglet," said Pooh.
"Mine's the sort of greyish one," said Piglet.
And out floated Eeyore.
"I didn't know that you were playing," said Roo.
"I'm not," said Eeyore. "Tigger bounced me."
"I didn't bounce. I coughed," said Tigger.
"What does Christopher Robin think about it?" asked Pooh.
"I think we all ought to play Poohsticks," said Christopher Robin.
So they did."
I shit you not. That is an actual published children's book. In its entirety. Sad, eh? Is it any wonder that our youth has gone to hell in a handbasket? I am sure some book wig author choked this bad boy out on a piece of toilet paper while draped across a toilet seat in some drunken haze. How do I get me one of those gigs??
We've Gone to the Goats
The queen of the flock, Flora (brown head) says "Well how do you do?"
Yes, its true. We've finally lost it. What originally started out as a business venture has now snowballed into a wild obsession. Its amazing how quickly that happened!
We've all got goat fever. Yes. All of us. Dear lil Peanut is found rolling about in the hay and straw (and goat berries) "moooooing" in the afternoon sun. My Dearly Beloved takes shifts checking the "girls" before and after work, filling his evenings with construction projects and operating the tractor, albeit rather awkwardly, to bring them hay. Sweet lil Mama pipes up with her opinions on the goat's names: "Well you've GOT to have a Maude!" My dear, sweet Dad has me up at 6 am and out til 10 pm constructing kidding pens that even I'd be honoured to birth in. He's talking about getting his own herd and expanding into goats. The fever has hit us all pretty hard.
Here we introduce our new Maremma livestock guardian dog, Luna, to lil Peanut. Dearly Beloved looks on with majestic pride while our herd looks on. Luna is named after Peanut's book club selection of the month, the eerily disturbing "Goodnight Moon" hence her name is "Ravenwood's Goodnight Moon".
Luna says "Am I doing a good job, boss?"
Perhaps the fever has hit me worst of all. I've ALWAYS loved goats. ALWAYS. Ask anyone from my high school graduating class what they remember about me and they'll likely say "GOATS" without a moments hesitation. Perhaps they will also remember my fashion phases, including the painfully awkward "Mr. Ferly" stage in which I sought to glorify the wardrobe of the turtle-esque "Three's Company" landlord. I refused to wear anything aside from hideous retro plaid bell bottom courderoy pants and rubber Ducky boots. Thankfully I outgrew the plaid pants, but I am still wearing those Ducky boots. Those lil babies covered my feet while I wore shorts in Disneyland circa 1997 and white water rafted in Costa Rica in 1998. They are a timeless classic. But I digress.
Oh yes, the goats. I am perhaps one of the few who had the lovely caprines mentioned during the actual high school graduation ceremony. I suppose I should have seen the addiction starting then. Or perhaps it was years earlier when I first acquired Demetri, the demon goat that smashed the side window out of our mini van and tap danced all over the hood of the Jehovah Witnesses' car. Now there was a goat with a sense of humour!! Demetri was also notorious for head bashing little kids for peanuts and gum when we took him to watch the local parade, and pooping all over the Dance West float the following year when he was actually in the parade. I fondly remember sharing a sleeping bag with him as I slept in his stall at age 11, til he had a bad case of scours and I opted to sleep in the house. You may recall my fond memories of him donning my BroMo's gonchies to treat gangrene when his nads (the goat's nads, not the boy's) fell off. He loved to dropkick the door and come in for a visit, to taste test Mom's dried flowered arrangement and hop on my bed. He was welcome til he smashed my favourite porcelain unicorn, at which point I banished him outdoors forever. He was also skilled at pulling a sled holding kids or hay bales while I ran alongside him. His communication was top notch as he'd crawl under a vehicle (and thereby remove his passengers nimbly by bashing their foreheads into the car door) when he'd had enough. I guess with a childhood like that it isn't any wonder I ended up "like this".
I suppose it comes as no surprise then that with the accumulation of 26 Savanna goats plus my 4 Pygmy goats that it is fully embracing my weakness and shouting to the world "Yes, I am a crazy goat lady". I suppose its akin to being a crazy cat lady sans the shitty litter boxes, wild bird's nest hair do and flowing moo-moo gowns...well, I guess I've got the hair do down anyway.
I've joined the Alberta Goat Breeder's Association. I volunteered to corrupt, er, convert other children as I've volunteered with a youth goat club. How could I resist when I saw pictures of a girl and her goat in matching tutus? I've ordered 2 dairy goat babies (they are fetuses yet!) from BC, and a Pygmy buckling from northern Alberta. I am anxiously awaiting a phone call from southern Alberta to see if we can get a purebred Savanna buck to breed our meat does. I am researching alternative ways to enjoy goats, from chevon recipes to how to make goat's milk soap to finding a group of people that train their goats to pull carts and do agility. AGILITY!! I am in heaven. Who knew such a thing existed? I guess it goes to prove that I am not alone in my insane addictions. I dream of brushing out their wooly coats, collecting the sheddings and making my own cashmere sweater. Yes, cashmere comes from those humble little beasts as well.
When you think about it, goats are the VW bus of the animal world. When God cooked up the notion of GOAT He did a bang up job. What other creature comes fully equipped with meat, milk, pack/draft/cart capabilities, fibre for your sweet threads and friendly companionship in the meantime?? They truly are the all purpose creature of the world. Even their dowdy exteriors remind me of the humble and functional rolly polly lines of the retro everything-ya-need-under-one-roof-and-shag-carpet-to-boot VW vans. God bless ya, goats, God bless ya.
Tam
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
My Hair Don’t
For the past two years my Mom and I have been driving to a salon in Red Deer to have our hair cut by Aaron, a master of the scissor craft. Despite his wild hair and numerous piercings, Aaron was a sensitive gentleman with a knack for good conversation, remembering important details and names from your life, and an eery sixth sense to know exactly how to cut your hair. You can imagine, therefore, why we were so devastated when he declared in November that he was leaving for a 6 month vacation in Costa Rica before moving to Vancouver for good.
That left us in a real pickle. What to do? Where to go?
Well mid-January is a long time to wait, so finally we got a little antsy and bit the bullet. We booked an appointment at a salon in Red Deer, hoping it would be everything we’d hoped for…and MORE! We gathered every ounce of courage that we could and headed to our date with destiny.
The salon was located at the very edge of the city and we had a heck of a time finding it. We finally found it, took a deep breath and went inside. The huge salon was surprisingly empty. It was trendy enough, and we were lulled into a false sense of security.
I was the first victim. The stylist asked me how I’d like my hair cut. I told her I’d like to go a bit shorter, a little edgier with more texture. She said that was not a problem and set to work. I will never know what happened in the next ½ hour. I think I may have blocked it out for emotional reasons. When I came to the stylist was using a razor to texture my hair. I think she had no concept of my hair type or the fact that I have a cowlick. She just kept sawing away at my head. It was damp when she started, but got drier and consequently shorter as time went on. When she finished it was quite the scary sight, but I told myself to be calm and trust in the stylist. Usually cuts look much better after they are dried and styled. As I am thinking this she says “ALL DONE! Or do you want a little product?”
HELL YEAH, bring on the product! I have hair the consistency of a beaver pelt. Without a fist full of goop you might as well give up.
“Ok” she says meekly, as she dabs a fingertip worth of wussy gunk in my hair. I don’t think she understands we need MORE goop, STRONGER goop. She half-heartedly rubs it around on my head. A noogie would have done a better job.
I bravely smile and thank her for my new style. It looks remarkably like Lloyd’s hair on Dumb and Dumber. Every woman feels beautiful after a bowl haircut.
My Mom went next. She assures me her fate was similar, but I think she looks presentable (ie. Can show her face in public within the next 8 weeks).
We left the salon and had a good laugh in the car. I suppose laughing was a good choice, considering the only other reasonable reaction was tears and shrieking. My Mom tried (in vain) to reassure me that my hair didn’t look like one of those hedgehog shaped boot cleaners people have next to their front doors. She said things like “Now your hair won’t get in your eyes!” to which I responded “Yes, not for at least 3 months!” She said “All you need is some styling product” to which I replied “Yes, some of that spray on hair to put on my forehead where there is hair missing”. Somehow the stylist left the bangs on the left down to brow level while the right side barely skims my hairline.
The only saving grace was that I didn’t get a chance to have a brow wax so I can easily tease my brows up and claim they are my bangs.
It is quite an adventure I’ll tell you. My hair is about 1 inch long in most places, aside from the mange-esque fringe here and there for “texture”. My cowlick causes the “bangs” to stand straight on end, springing up like a rooster's ass feathers. My, oh, my. It’s a good thing my Dearly Beloved is stuck with me because there is no way I’d attract a mate in this lifetime with this ‘do, er, “don’t” I should say. I am tempted to cut my losses and shave it all off and start over. Ai yi yi.
I can’t believe I paid someone to make me look like this! Now I can understand why my Mom stopped going to stylists after my youngest BroLo was born. She let it grow and didn’t return to a stylist til Log was EIGHTEEN years old. Her hair was past her arse, but it sure didn’t look this bad. I’d be pleased if my hair looked half as good as arse hair. Ahhhh, well, what can you do?? I guess the best therapy for such a terrible occurance is to write about it for all the world and post a picture as proof.
Til next time,
Tam (“What the hell happened here?”)
You've Goat to Be Kidding, Right?
Hello friends.
Well, its been a while since we last had the chance to sit down and shoot the breeze. In fact, its been a while since I’ve had the chance to sit down at all!
You see, we’ve really gone off the deep end around here.
We decided that we’d like to get some goats. Not many, maybe just 4 or 6 so we’d have a few babies to sell each year as a hobby that might earn a bit of money. I started searching around and researching goats, breeds, the industry and the market. The more I researched, the better the idea became. We started going out to goat farms, talking to breeders, looking for a few “girls” to bring home.
One of these phone calls resulted in the discovery that there was a small herd of bred does for sale about ½ hour from us. Wow! What a find!! I spoke to the owner Sunday morning, and two hours later I was standing in his pasture viewing his lovely goats. He had 25 bred does and a buck for sale as a package. Right then and there I told him “I’ll take em!”
I guess I must have been running a fever that day because who in their right mind would do such a thing?
The following week was a whirlwind of preparations. We had exactly one week to get a load of straw, hay, build a fence, construct adequate shelter (with electricity and heat lamps no less), figure out how to get water to them, research goats (their habits, nutrition, health and kidding), find a livestock guardian dog, and somehow remain semi-sane. Exactly one week from the day I discovered this herd we loaded them up and brought them home.
And so it began.
Of course, we weren’t done everything yet.
We frantically continued preparing the pens while the goats waited patiently in the trailer. As darkness started to fall we wrestled each goat to the ground, gave her an eartag, vaccination, dewormer, vitamin E/selenium injection and trimmed her hooves. Mind you, it was -20 C, the vaccine kept freezing into slush, the ear tags were so cold they were brittle and kept breaking and the light was fading fast. Definitely not ideal! By 8 pm on Sunday we were finally settling them into their pens with hay and water for the night. Phew. What an ordeal.
We managed to get a few restless hours of sleep in and at 2:30 am I decided I best go check how everyone was doing. I was worried the stress of the day would have convinced one of the girls that kidding would have been a good idea. When I stumbled into the pen with my eyes half closed and my PJs tucked into my goaty-smelling coveralls I couldn’t believe my eyes. The youngest doe, a yearling, had a huge swollen cheek. It was about the size of a baseball and she couldn’t seem to eat, drink or bleat normally. Poor little creature!! She was also limping badly on the front end from our rushed hoof trimming job that clipped her toe and left her bleeding. She was limping on the hind end, perhaps from a sore muscle from vaccine or? I didn’t know. I was so devastated to see “Dora” in such bad shape.
I rushed back to the house and fired up the computer. I searched everything I could on lumpy goats. The most glaringly obvious cause was a terribly contagious abcess disease that renders your herd worthless as the carcasses are condemned. My first day as a goat farmer and already my herd was in ruins!! I was in such a panic that I couldn’t sleep a wink for the rest of the night.
Early the next morning I called the vet clinic that had sold me the vaccine. I described the symptoms and they assured me it was a vaccine reaction. My darling husband rushed 45 minutes to town to buy the goat some anti-histamine and raced straight home, taking the day off of work. We bundled our little Peanut into his car seat, parked next to the corrals and practiced rugby tackles to catch Dora. We gave her the injection and inspected her lumpy face. It sure seemed hard. I stuck my finger in her mouth….hmmmm, pulpy and gross. Must be one heck of a bad infection.
I decided to call a different vet for a second opinion. This vet agreed, it did sound like a bad abcess. I asked that she please come straight out and drain it. We didn’t need it spreading like wildfire through the herd.
An hour later I sat waiting in the corrals, covered in sweat and with my elbows coated in goat shit from 8 failed attempts at tackling Dora myself. Apparently while this was going on the vet was wandering around our property, lost, and enticing the dogs dispatch her should she take one misstep. She phoned Dearly Beloved who was trying to encourage Peanut to nap asking where in God’s Name was his wife. Dearly Beloved told her to go to the corrals as I was waiting there. The vet then drove over to my parent’s yard and started honking. Luckily she chose vet medicine over a career that requires some sense of direction and navigation.
Finally I lured her to the proper area and we waited for Dearly Beloved, with Peanut in tow, to come help rugby tackle Dora. Once we had her secured the vet took her temperature and checked her over. Oh yes, her face was mightly swollen, poor little goat. The vet then stuck her fingers in Dora’s mouth and groped around. She managed to pull out a baseball sized ball of cud. Oh my, did my face turn 87 shades of crimson. But PRAISE BE JESUS! The goat did not have a terrible, contagious disease. She was just a glutton. The vet bandaged up her sore foot in a smart hot pink bandage and was on her way.
Phew.
What an intro to goats.
Things went better the rest of the day. Nobody died or even threatened to. We continued to work in a frenzy to get everything ready. I think in a week or two we’ll be ready to bring goats home.
As night fell I went out one last time to check the girls over. Best be sure nobody was in trouble or deciding to birth their babies. Everyone was nestled into their bedding, comfy and content. Oh, but what is this I see?? Dora, officially World’s Stupidest Goat, holding the world record for Not Swallowing the Contents of Your Mouth for the Longest Time was sitting there with another huge baseball sized lump in her face. What a friggin idiot.
Now, you may think I may be regretting my decision to become a lowly goat herder. Ahhh, yes, it may seem that way, but there is a silver lining.
You see, I’ve always been a bit downtrodden that I didn’t pursue a career in vet medicine. I’ve always felt like a bit of a weenie for obtaining my degree in Animal Science instead of going the distance and completing vet school. Yet yesterday it all fell into place and it was perfectly clear to me that this is where I am supposed to be in life. The young female vet came out and worked on our goats. I asked her how things were going and she told me she was unable to ride anymore due to lack of time. We had a lengthy and intelligent discussion about health care, early castration and tusk removal in pigs. Then she drove off to the next farm. Meanwhile, I finished checking up on my new herd of 25 lovely, fluffy snow white goats, and pulled my 15 month old son home in his sled, enjoying the sunshine at a leisurely pace. Once home we enjoyed lunch and a nap. It doesn’t get much better than that, does it? I am convinced that this is exactly the perfect job for me and I feel very fulfilled. Today Will and I spent the afternoon enjoying the fresh air and sunshine as I recorded ear tag numbers and came up with a name for each of the girls. Will loved exploring the pen with the docile and curious goats, and even tried to start a conversation, standing face to face with one of the does and saying “Mooooooooo”. LOL It was so cute and I really couldn’t imagine being anywhere else at that moment.
So please join me in extending a warm welcome to our 26 new residents: Fiji, Diva, Penelope, Scoop, Puff, Peggy, Freckles, Betty, Jett, Janice, Salsa, Frizz, Claudia, Pepper, Margo, Flips, Pixie, Tyra, Polly, Angelique, Capri, Twist, Flora, Dora, Twiggy and Big B.
Til the next adventure,
Tam
Well, its been a while since we last had the chance to sit down and shoot the breeze. In fact, its been a while since I’ve had the chance to sit down at all!
You see, we’ve really gone off the deep end around here.
We decided that we’d like to get some goats. Not many, maybe just 4 or 6 so we’d have a few babies to sell each year as a hobby that might earn a bit of money. I started searching around and researching goats, breeds, the industry and the market. The more I researched, the better the idea became. We started going out to goat farms, talking to breeders, looking for a few “girls” to bring home.
One of these phone calls resulted in the discovery that there was a small herd of bred does for sale about ½ hour from us. Wow! What a find!! I spoke to the owner Sunday morning, and two hours later I was standing in his pasture viewing his lovely goats. He had 25 bred does and a buck for sale as a package. Right then and there I told him “I’ll take em!”
I guess I must have been running a fever that day because who in their right mind would do such a thing?
The following week was a whirlwind of preparations. We had exactly one week to get a load of straw, hay, build a fence, construct adequate shelter (with electricity and heat lamps no less), figure out how to get water to them, research goats (their habits, nutrition, health and kidding), find a livestock guardian dog, and somehow remain semi-sane. Exactly one week from the day I discovered this herd we loaded them up and brought them home.
And so it began.
Of course, we weren’t done everything yet.
We frantically continued preparing the pens while the goats waited patiently in the trailer. As darkness started to fall we wrestled each goat to the ground, gave her an eartag, vaccination, dewormer, vitamin E/selenium injection and trimmed her hooves. Mind you, it was -20 C, the vaccine kept freezing into slush, the ear tags were so cold they were brittle and kept breaking and the light was fading fast. Definitely not ideal! By 8 pm on Sunday we were finally settling them into their pens with hay and water for the night. Phew. What an ordeal.
We managed to get a few restless hours of sleep in and at 2:30 am I decided I best go check how everyone was doing. I was worried the stress of the day would have convinced one of the girls that kidding would have been a good idea. When I stumbled into the pen with my eyes half closed and my PJs tucked into my goaty-smelling coveralls I couldn’t believe my eyes. The youngest doe, a yearling, had a huge swollen cheek. It was about the size of a baseball and she couldn’t seem to eat, drink or bleat normally. Poor little creature!! She was also limping badly on the front end from our rushed hoof trimming job that clipped her toe and left her bleeding. She was limping on the hind end, perhaps from a sore muscle from vaccine or? I didn’t know. I was so devastated to see “Dora” in such bad shape.
I rushed back to the house and fired up the computer. I searched everything I could on lumpy goats. The most glaringly obvious cause was a terribly contagious abcess disease that renders your herd worthless as the carcasses are condemned. My first day as a goat farmer and already my herd was in ruins!! I was in such a panic that I couldn’t sleep a wink for the rest of the night.
Early the next morning I called the vet clinic that had sold me the vaccine. I described the symptoms and they assured me it was a vaccine reaction. My darling husband rushed 45 minutes to town to buy the goat some anti-histamine and raced straight home, taking the day off of work. We bundled our little Peanut into his car seat, parked next to the corrals and practiced rugby tackles to catch Dora. We gave her the injection and inspected her lumpy face. It sure seemed hard. I stuck my finger in her mouth….hmmmm, pulpy and gross. Must be one heck of a bad infection.
I decided to call a different vet for a second opinion. This vet agreed, it did sound like a bad abcess. I asked that she please come straight out and drain it. We didn’t need it spreading like wildfire through the herd.
An hour later I sat waiting in the corrals, covered in sweat and with my elbows coated in goat shit from 8 failed attempts at tackling Dora myself. Apparently while this was going on the vet was wandering around our property, lost, and enticing the dogs dispatch her should she take one misstep. She phoned Dearly Beloved who was trying to encourage Peanut to nap asking where in God’s Name was his wife. Dearly Beloved told her to go to the corrals as I was waiting there. The vet then drove over to my parent’s yard and started honking. Luckily she chose vet medicine over a career that requires some sense of direction and navigation.
Finally I lured her to the proper area and we waited for Dearly Beloved, with Peanut in tow, to come help rugby tackle Dora. Once we had her secured the vet took her temperature and checked her over. Oh yes, her face was mightly swollen, poor little goat. The vet then stuck her fingers in Dora’s mouth and groped around. She managed to pull out a baseball sized ball of cud. Oh my, did my face turn 87 shades of crimson. But PRAISE BE JESUS! The goat did not have a terrible, contagious disease. She was just a glutton. The vet bandaged up her sore foot in a smart hot pink bandage and was on her way.
Phew.
What an intro to goats.
Things went better the rest of the day. Nobody died or even threatened to. We continued to work in a frenzy to get everything ready. I think in a week or two we’ll be ready to bring goats home.
As night fell I went out one last time to check the girls over. Best be sure nobody was in trouble or deciding to birth their babies. Everyone was nestled into their bedding, comfy and content. Oh, but what is this I see?? Dora, officially World’s Stupidest Goat, holding the world record for Not Swallowing the Contents of Your Mouth for the Longest Time was sitting there with another huge baseball sized lump in her face. What a friggin idiot.
Now, you may think I may be regretting my decision to become a lowly goat herder. Ahhh, yes, it may seem that way, but there is a silver lining.
You see, I’ve always been a bit downtrodden that I didn’t pursue a career in vet medicine. I’ve always felt like a bit of a weenie for obtaining my degree in Animal Science instead of going the distance and completing vet school. Yet yesterday it all fell into place and it was perfectly clear to me that this is where I am supposed to be in life. The young female vet came out and worked on our goats. I asked her how things were going and she told me she was unable to ride anymore due to lack of time. We had a lengthy and intelligent discussion about health care, early castration and tusk removal in pigs. Then she drove off to the next farm. Meanwhile, I finished checking up on my new herd of 25 lovely, fluffy snow white goats, and pulled my 15 month old son home in his sled, enjoying the sunshine at a leisurely pace. Once home we enjoyed lunch and a nap. It doesn’t get much better than that, does it? I am convinced that this is exactly the perfect job for me and I feel very fulfilled. Today Will and I spent the afternoon enjoying the fresh air and sunshine as I recorded ear tag numbers and came up with a name for each of the girls. Will loved exploring the pen with the docile and curious goats, and even tried to start a conversation, standing face to face with one of the does and saying “Mooooooooo”. LOL It was so cute and I really couldn’t imagine being anywhere else at that moment.
So please join me in extending a warm welcome to our 26 new residents: Fiji, Diva, Penelope, Scoop, Puff, Peggy, Freckles, Betty, Jett, Janice, Salsa, Frizz, Claudia, Pepper, Margo, Flips, Pixie, Tyra, Polly, Angelique, Capri, Twist, Flora, Dora, Twiggy and Big B.
Til the next adventure,
Tam
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
Tuesday, January 02, 2007
Caroline Area Man Almost Ruins New Year's
Well, Caroline Area Man has done it again.
He claims to have saved Christmas by decorating the helloutta our house when we weren't home. If you want to read the story from HIS side, please visit the link on the left (My BroMo Caroline Area Man).
What he didn't tell you was that although he saved Christmas he nearly ruined New Year's by almost killing my husband.
Sometime in the wee hours of the morn the dogs started making a ruckus. My Dearly Beloved got out of bed and let the dogs out for a piddle. What he didn't realize was that good old Grandma and Grandpa left the gate open when they left that evening. The dogs raced out of the yard after a deer or skunk or coyote or other evil beast. They were yipping and yowling and running like demons into the night. My poor Dearly Beloved ran out into the snowy night after them in his bare feet and underpants. He stood at the end of the sidewalk and yipped into the night til the dogs came running back. He was swearing a blue streak and finally the hounds returned. While he'd been standing on the sidewalk the snow beneath his barefeet melted into a nice pool of water. Once the dogs were safely inside the fence he swung the gate shut. He was standing in a nice pool of water, barefoot, in his skivvies. Somehow the 25,000 Christmas lights hanging on the wire fence shorted out and gave my poor, dear, saint of a husband the jolt of a lifetime. Later he told me he thought he would die there, alone, in the cold, in his skivvies. He said his heart stopped.
Yes, so Caroline Area Man, you did bring the festive spirit to our little home. But you nearly killed off our Sugar Daddy in the process.
Happy New Year everyone!
Tam
He claims to have saved Christmas by decorating the helloutta our house when we weren't home. If you want to read the story from HIS side, please visit the link on the left (My BroMo Caroline Area Man).
What he didn't tell you was that although he saved Christmas he nearly ruined New Year's by almost killing my husband.
Sometime in the wee hours of the morn the dogs started making a ruckus. My Dearly Beloved got out of bed and let the dogs out for a piddle. What he didn't realize was that good old Grandma and Grandpa left the gate open when they left that evening. The dogs raced out of the yard after a deer or skunk or coyote or other evil beast. They were yipping and yowling and running like demons into the night. My poor Dearly Beloved ran out into the snowy night after them in his bare feet and underpants. He stood at the end of the sidewalk and yipped into the night til the dogs came running back. He was swearing a blue streak and finally the hounds returned. While he'd been standing on the sidewalk the snow beneath his barefeet melted into a nice pool of water. Once the dogs were safely inside the fence he swung the gate shut. He was standing in a nice pool of water, barefoot, in his skivvies. Somehow the 25,000 Christmas lights hanging on the wire fence shorted out and gave my poor, dear, saint of a husband the jolt of a lifetime. Later he told me he thought he would die there, alone, in the cold, in his skivvies. He said his heart stopped.
Yes, so Caroline Area Man, you did bring the festive spirit to our little home. But you nearly killed off our Sugar Daddy in the process.
Happy New Year everyone!
Tam
Saturday, December 30, 2006
I stand corrected!!
My dear, dear brother, wishing to save me from utter humiliation on the world wide web (bless his soul) has pointed out that Britney is now Mrs. Ex-Federline (No. 34829). So please pardon my ignorance for not being up to date on the latest (and I am somewhat shocked and a little disturbed that my BROTHER knew that). But I guess that goes to show that I have really had my head in the sand...well, the sandbox and toy box at least.
Nighty night,
Tambot
Nighty night,
Tambot
Thank You, Mrs. Federline
Ahhh, I am feeling pretty good about my parenting skills today.
You see, a few days ago Peanut attended his first hockey game. It was the local hockey league in my dearly beloved's home town. The entire small community crammed into the tiny, small town arena and hooted and hollered as the men pushed, shoved and glided around on the ice. Dear lil Peanut spent the entire game rolling around on the tar black floor, sticky and covered in layers of unidentifiable filth. The same child who will not eat chicken or peas or potatoes at supper will gleefully scavenge for broken hard candies lying under the vending machine, or a mushed french fry pried from the seam of two black rubber floor mats. I just don't understand this kid. He had a total meltdown when I wouldn't let him pick up a discarded snotty Kleenex he found on the floor. He laid on the ground and screamed bloody murder when I removed a jagged piece of scrap metal from his reach (why in the hell they have crap like this laying around is beyond me). By the end of the 2.5 hours I was utterly exhausted and Peanut was coated in a layer of black grime. He had a sticky coloured ring around his mouth from the licorice and Blue Whale candies his Gramma snuck him. And stuck in this colourful ring were tufts of stray hair and dirt he picked up off of the floor like a mini Swiffer. I truly felt defeated and a complete failure as my child screeched, hollered, cried and yelled throughout the entire game, often to the shocked and horrified stares of bystanders. Oh, woe is me and how did I end up the mother of a wee Rink Rat??
So it was with my satisfaction today that I had a chance to sit down and read a little gossip about Ms. Britney Spears/Federline. You see, her darling Sean Preston is a few weeks older than my Peanut. I suppose you could say that Britney and I are kindred spirits. In fact, we just might be members of the same Mom and Tot group if we lived closer to each other.
Of course, that would be short lived because I am sure I'd dropkick her in the esophagus shortly after the first meeting, and she'd probably quit attending after that. Or I'd be incarcerated and unable to attend...you never know.
Anyway, back to my original point. I found myself reading this magazine today and getting all the dirt on Britney (more on how I came to be sitting down and reading a magazine to come...) The magazine was celebrating Sean Preston's first birthday. Now, for Peanut's first birthday we had a giant cowboy-themed family gong-show. Poor Sean Preston, was not so lucky. He was roasted by this magazine, which really isn't all that fun when you are one. The magazine went on to describe all of the horrors the poor kid endured from being nearly dropped when his mama tripped in high heels and ridiculously long jeans to driving around town (literally, he was driving) to falling from his high chair and cracking his skull.
Ahhhhhhhh, yes. Thank you Ms. Spears/Federline, for making me feel like a competent, saintly Mother. My kid thinks the four main food groups are Licorice, Cheese, Kethcup and Cookies, but he has yet to sustain a brain injury due to my parenting skills (or lack thereof). My little guy might only speak in tones of barks and meows, but he certainly hasn't been mocked for his fashion choices as the Worst Dressed Man of 2005. So AMEN and HALLELUJAH (where's the Tylenol)...thank goodness for Britney Spears. Its great to have a gal like her around when one starts to feel a little down and out. And I don't mean down and out in the "Sorry, man, I can't spare a quarter, I'm down and out" kind of way (a comment which nearly got my Dad punched out by a homeless man). More a "Maybe I am the world's worst mother" kinda down and out. Then, like a glistening beacon of worse-suckage, there is Britney. Ahhh, God Bless ya.
Now, back to the previous mention of WHY was I reading a magazine today. It isn't often that I end up sitting still, uninterrupted with a magazine. Well, yesterday Mr. Love o' My Life, Peanut and I came rolling home from our Christmas Vacation (and YES, it was very National Lampoon's-esque). Dearly Beloved decided he'd best shovel the walk a bit so lil Peanut and his lovely wife wouldn't take a tumble and smash on the hard, frozen ground. He was shovelling in a mad fashion, flinging snow left and right with the shovel. Somehow in this burst of energy he dropped the keys out of his hand and in a single "swwwwwoooooooosh" of the shovel he launched them into the snow. And that was the last time we saw the keys to the Vue. The back door of the Vue was locked so we were unable to get any of our luggage out. Dearly Beloved flew into a rage and searched high and low and even employed a giant magnet intended to pick up stray nails. No luck. He then rushed out to the Vue to find the registration papers so he could get a new key cut at the dealership. He ran into the house, and somewhere between our driveway and the front door he misplaced the papers. So in a 15 minute span the man totally obliterated our keys and vehicle registration. This is a guy whose career is based on minute, stiflingly-anal details so you can imagine the state of frustration he was in. I ended up calling our insurance broker who promptly emailed a copy of the registration. Today we drove into town in the busted up jalopy farm truck to the dealership and had a new key cut. And that is when I had the opportunity to sit for a few moments and gloat over my motherhood victory over Britney.
The lost keys/registration fiasco turned out to be quite a blessing in disguise, actually. Dearly Beloved and I had a nice leisurely day of shopping, matinee and an adult WARM meal in an adult restaurant...what a treat! Its not often that I am served food at a place where toys aren't included. Lil Peanut spent the day with his grandparents (and yes, occasionally they've been known to attempt to "Sean-Preston" him, but God Bless 'em anyway). And by the end of it all I was so ready to come home and give my sticky little ketchupy Peanut a big hug. Its great to be home.
Tam
You see, a few days ago Peanut attended his first hockey game. It was the local hockey league in my dearly beloved's home town. The entire small community crammed into the tiny, small town arena and hooted and hollered as the men pushed, shoved and glided around on the ice. Dear lil Peanut spent the entire game rolling around on the tar black floor, sticky and covered in layers of unidentifiable filth. The same child who will not eat chicken or peas or potatoes at supper will gleefully scavenge for broken hard candies lying under the vending machine, or a mushed french fry pried from the seam of two black rubber floor mats. I just don't understand this kid. He had a total meltdown when I wouldn't let him pick up a discarded snotty Kleenex he found on the floor. He laid on the ground and screamed bloody murder when I removed a jagged piece of scrap metal from his reach (why in the hell they have crap like this laying around is beyond me). By the end of the 2.5 hours I was utterly exhausted and Peanut was coated in a layer of black grime. He had a sticky coloured ring around his mouth from the licorice and Blue Whale candies his Gramma snuck him. And stuck in this colourful ring were tufts of stray hair and dirt he picked up off of the floor like a mini Swiffer. I truly felt defeated and a complete failure as my child screeched, hollered, cried and yelled throughout the entire game, often to the shocked and horrified stares of bystanders. Oh, woe is me and how did I end up the mother of a wee Rink Rat??
So it was with my satisfaction today that I had a chance to sit down and read a little gossip about Ms. Britney Spears/Federline. You see, her darling Sean Preston is a few weeks older than my Peanut. I suppose you could say that Britney and I are kindred spirits. In fact, we just might be members of the same Mom and Tot group if we lived closer to each other.
Of course, that would be short lived because I am sure I'd dropkick her in the esophagus shortly after the first meeting, and she'd probably quit attending after that. Or I'd be incarcerated and unable to attend...you never know.
Anyway, back to my original point. I found myself reading this magazine today and getting all the dirt on Britney (more on how I came to be sitting down and reading a magazine to come...) The magazine was celebrating Sean Preston's first birthday. Now, for Peanut's first birthday we had a giant cowboy-themed family gong-show. Poor Sean Preston, was not so lucky. He was roasted by this magazine, which really isn't all that fun when you are one. The magazine went on to describe all of the horrors the poor kid endured from being nearly dropped when his mama tripped in high heels and ridiculously long jeans to driving around town (literally, he was driving) to falling from his high chair and cracking his skull.
Ahhhhhhhh, yes. Thank you Ms. Spears/Federline, for making me feel like a competent, saintly Mother. My kid thinks the four main food groups are Licorice, Cheese, Kethcup and Cookies, but he has yet to sustain a brain injury due to my parenting skills (or lack thereof). My little guy might only speak in tones of barks and meows, but he certainly hasn't been mocked for his fashion choices as the Worst Dressed Man of 2005. So AMEN and HALLELUJAH (where's the Tylenol)...thank goodness for Britney Spears. Its great to have a gal like her around when one starts to feel a little down and out. And I don't mean down and out in the "Sorry, man, I can't spare a quarter, I'm down and out" kind of way (a comment which nearly got my Dad punched out by a homeless man). More a "Maybe I am the world's worst mother" kinda down and out. Then, like a glistening beacon of worse-suckage, there is Britney. Ahhh, God Bless ya.
Now, back to the previous mention of WHY was I reading a magazine today. It isn't often that I end up sitting still, uninterrupted with a magazine. Well, yesterday Mr. Love o' My Life, Peanut and I came rolling home from our Christmas Vacation (and YES, it was very National Lampoon's-esque). Dearly Beloved decided he'd best shovel the walk a bit so lil Peanut and his lovely wife wouldn't take a tumble and smash on the hard, frozen ground. He was shovelling in a mad fashion, flinging snow left and right with the shovel. Somehow in this burst of energy he dropped the keys out of his hand and in a single "swwwwwoooooooosh" of the shovel he launched them into the snow. And that was the last time we saw the keys to the Vue. The back door of the Vue was locked so we were unable to get any of our luggage out. Dearly Beloved flew into a rage and searched high and low and even employed a giant magnet intended to pick up stray nails. No luck. He then rushed out to the Vue to find the registration papers so he could get a new key cut at the dealership. He ran into the house, and somewhere between our driveway and the front door he misplaced the papers. So in a 15 minute span the man totally obliterated our keys and vehicle registration. This is a guy whose career is based on minute, stiflingly-anal details so you can imagine the state of frustration he was in. I ended up calling our insurance broker who promptly emailed a copy of the registration. Today we drove into town in the busted up jalopy farm truck to the dealership and had a new key cut. And that is when I had the opportunity to sit for a few moments and gloat over my motherhood victory over Britney.
The lost keys/registration fiasco turned out to be quite a blessing in disguise, actually. Dearly Beloved and I had a nice leisurely day of shopping, matinee and an adult WARM meal in an adult restaurant...what a treat! Its not often that I am served food at a place where toys aren't included. Lil Peanut spent the day with his grandparents (and yes, occasionally they've been known to attempt to "Sean-Preston" him, but God Bless 'em anyway). And by the end of it all I was so ready to come home and give my sticky little ketchupy Peanut a big hug. Its great to be home.
Tam
Monday, December 25, 2006
Have Yourself a Merry Little Happy Meal (also known as How McDonalds saved Christmas)
I suppose you could say I have a real “Love/Hate” relationship with McDonalds.
I remember a time back in highschool when I couldn’t go a day without a McDonald’s fix. At noon hour 10 of my closest friends and I would all pile into someone’s ridiculously tiny car and head to McDonald’s drive thru. We’d each order a Kids’ Meal and dine on the pint sized burgers and fries. Of course it was a Kids’ Meal. We were of course watching our figures and complexions with fierce determination to be THE skinniest with THE most beautiful dew-kissed skin. Somehow we had it ingrained that a Kids’ size helping of grease and salt wouldn’t sabotage our aim of perfection. Those were the days. We’d then spend the remaining noon hour “cruising” or terrorizing the streets as only a boatload of teenaged girls in a ridiculously small car can., tunes cranked, sunglasses on, with a belly full of greasy fries and a head full of crazy dreams.
Then Grade 12 arrived and I decided to become a vegetarian. It was a moral decision I suppose, but, oh, how terribly hip, deep and modern! I vowed to never eat meat again and sealed my fate with one last McDonald’s cheeseburger. Kind of an odd “last meal” wouldn’t you say? I ‘spose you could consider that going out with a bang.
Well “never ever” in teenaged years is the equivalent of 2 years in reality. In my second year of university the novelty had worn off and I was ready to join the ranks of carnivores again. I started out slow, a bit of chicken here, a skiff of pig scabs (aka Bacon Bits) here. But I just never worked up the gumption to return to McDonalds.
Fast forward a few more years. I’m an adult now. Nay, a MOM! I still haven’t set foot in a Mickey D’s since the highschool days. I avoided the place like the plague, wrinkling up my nose every time someone suggested we stop in for a bite to eat. “I don’t eat at Ronnie Ratburger!” I would say with indignation as if someone had asked me to consume a pile of fermented roadkill rather than set foot in the world’s most popular burger joint.
Well, that all changed today.
Today is Christmas Eve. A holy, blessed and beautiful day. A day to be filled with family, friends, carols, apple cider, butter tarts and the smell of the pine Christmas tree. A day to reflect and say “AMEN, SISTER!” to the Blessed Virgin for birthing J.C. sans epidural in substandard conditions under the curious and watchful eye of a variety of species. So how did I end up riding shotgun in a Saturn Vue (also known as the “Soccer Mom Mobile”) packed to the brim with suitcases, gifts and a very busy 14 month old boy? Well, this year we are celebrating Christmas with my inlaws, which is wonderful in all respects aside from the torturous 9 hour drive.
So here we are beetling down the highway, weaving in and out of traffic like Santa and Rudolph were late for a special delivery. The festive spirit was heightened even more with my continual shrieking “HOLY SHIT! SLOW DOWN AND LIVE!!” to my dear husband as he drove bee-sting speed from Alberta to Saskatchewan like he was commandeering a one horse opened sleigh. There was nothing remotely Christmasy about the drive, although I did exclaim “Sweet Jesus” a time or two (referring only to the sweet innocent baby Lord, of course) and I’m sure the non-stop praying probably counted as well.
Midway through the hellish drive we come to a city. This city is a beautiful sight on any long journey. You see, this city means “Stop. Rest. Eat.” on our family roadtrips. This is a godsend because any toddler strapped into a carseat for more than 5 hours straight starts to go a little squirrelly and experiment with his vocal range. There have been times that this little sweetheart will hit just the right pitch that will make your eye start to twitch and you have to catch yourself from veering off of the road into the next power pole. Upon arriving in this city we are all more than ready for a pitstop. We typically stop at this really nice little diner and have a real sit down meal, the kind your Mom would make, in the event that you have a mother who likes cooking.
Tonight we pull into the city and the blasted diner is closed in light of this holy, blessed holiday. Damn them and their holiday spirit! Now what? Our lil Peanut is reaching a new octave and I fear the windshield will shatter if we don’t get him the hell out of his seat. My beloved soulmate and I scanned the horizon for something, ANYTHING. Alas! A Wendy’s! We pull in there to see that they closed an hour earlier for the holidays. What next? I was beginning to consider screaming and kicking my legs in unison to dear little Peanut.
That is when it dawned on us.
We looked to the east and there she was, glowing like that star of Bethlehem must have all those years ago. The golden arches. Now I have been on a Ronnie Ratburger fast since the mid-nineties, but Peanut’s vocal exercises were enough to break even a hardened terrorists spirit, so I begrudgingly agreed to cross the saturated fat threshold once more and show my face to my estranged friend, Ronald McDonald. Our relationship has been a tumultuous one since we first met back when I was but a wee girl myself. I felt a bit sheepish to have been away so long, but I knew good old Ronnie would take me back.
We released Peanut from the evil clutches of his carseat and sauntered inside. My! How McDonald’s has changed! They have a FREAKING FIREPLACE!! Now THAT is festive. The décor is quite updated, no more garish yellows and reds. Subtle neutrals and warm woods greet you under the inviting and ever-so-flattering lighting. If I hadn’t seen the golden arches for myself I would have sworn we were in a fancy “sitdown” place. I’ll be damned.
BUT WAIT!!! What is this we see? The entire front half of this luxurious restaurant has been designated for KIDS! KIDS!!! Can you believe it! I shit you not. Most restaurants meet you at the door with a sneer and an upturned nose…“You have leprosy? Come on in! Table for how many?? A highchair you say? Oh, I’m afraid we can’t serve you. We don’t take kids”. If you can get past the door you are likely going to spend the next 40 minutes inhaling your food, dabbing a wet wipe in futility at the fancy ornate carpeting and shooting apologetic glances to the other patrons as Junior does his best velocoraptor impersonation. But a place that welcomes, nay, EMBRACES kids!!
Peanut and I ventured into the Kids’ area while my dearly beloved fetched us sustenance. The Kids’ area was dominated by a looming network of giant gerbil-esque tunnels in vibrant primary colours. The tunnels had a lustrous sheen, likely the result of years worth of nugget-sauce-laden little fingers probing their every surface. Peanut let out a gleeful yip and shuffled over to the play area. A giant sign stated the rules: “Children from 3-10 years old only. No shoes. You must wear socks. Purchase socks from the front counter if needed.” This enlightened me to several newfound truths. A) I was allowing a not quite 1.5 year old play on the equipment. He wasn’t even half old enough. Is that the same as letting a 9 year old go to the bar? If so, I am the worst mother in the world and I committed such a terrible crime on Christmas Eve of all days. B) He was wearing little shoes. Double whammy. I am going straight to hell. C) Hmmmm, do I want to be eating food from the same counter that sells socks to barefoot wandering children?
Being the rebel that I am I threw caution to the wind and let Peanut continue playing. There was only one other family in the restaurant at the time. They seemed to be there for the same reason we were. Lil Peanut scampered and explored the giant plastic fortress with sparkling curiosity. I couldn’t bear to pull him away. At one point an employee approached and I felt my hackles bristling, ready to go Mama Bear on this poor, unsuspecting fast food employee if he tried to ruin my baby’s fun on Christmas Eve. Thankfully he was just coming closer to smile and wave at wee Peanut. I sighed in relief and vowed to work on simmering down the Mama Bear response. Peanut continued to explore, and it occurred to me that we may just be up shit creek should he venture into one of the tunnels and was somehow lost in the belly of the beast. I was fully prepared to dive in if needed. I’d have the fire department on standby should he somehow manage to scale the three stories worth of tunnels and take a wrong turn the giant see-thru bubble window.
My true love then appeared with tray in hand and our little family settled down to eat. Another glorious discovery was an entire fleet of highchairs resting against one wall. We wouldn’t have to battle another family for the one and only highchair, or sit in some other little kids’ orange pop explosion in an icky sticky chair. Praise be little infant Jesus! This Christmas Eve just kept getting better and better.
We dug into our meal. I was pleasantly surprised to see that not much has changed in the 10 years since last put a McDonald’s French fry past my lips. They are still 98% sodium, 2% trans fats and 100% goodness. Wee Peanut chowed down on his delicious nuggets and we had our own Christmas miracle. We showed him the little plastic container of dipping sauce. “Seeeeee, like this” and I would exaggerate the motion of dipping the chicken into the tiny vat of sauce. He looked up at me with those wise-beyond-his-years-eyes, grabbed the sauce container and dunked his own nugget for the first time. A true Christmas miracle. We all smiled and celebrated.
It was at that moment that I felt the feeling seeping into my veins. That warm, Christmasy feeling that feels like home. I savoured every moment as lil Peanut rubbed ketchup on his forehead, pursed his little lips around the straw of his milk and patted his sweet-n-sour-sauced fingers on his hair. This is what Christmas is all about. Its all about being with family, sharing in the bountiful feast and love, sweet love. Its surprising what you’ll find in your local McDonalds! I smiled to myself and noted how festive and Christmasy the ketchup around Peanut’s mouth and left earlobe looked.
And so, dear friends, I wish you all the very best this Christmas season. May you surround your heart with the love of family and friends, even if you are sitting in a swivel chair in the shape of the Hamburglar. God Bless McDonalds.
And to the dear Virgin Mary, thanks for taking one for the team. You rock.
Happy Birthday Baby Jesus. We love you man.
Amen.
December 24, 2006 11:23 pm.
I remember a time back in highschool when I couldn’t go a day without a McDonald’s fix. At noon hour 10 of my closest friends and I would all pile into someone’s ridiculously tiny car and head to McDonald’s drive thru. We’d each order a Kids’ Meal and dine on the pint sized burgers and fries. Of course it was a Kids’ Meal. We were of course watching our figures and complexions with fierce determination to be THE skinniest with THE most beautiful dew-kissed skin. Somehow we had it ingrained that a Kids’ size helping of grease and salt wouldn’t sabotage our aim of perfection. Those were the days. We’d then spend the remaining noon hour “cruising” or terrorizing the streets as only a boatload of teenaged girls in a ridiculously small car can., tunes cranked, sunglasses on, with a belly full of greasy fries and a head full of crazy dreams.
Then Grade 12 arrived and I decided to become a vegetarian. It was a moral decision I suppose, but, oh, how terribly hip, deep and modern! I vowed to never eat meat again and sealed my fate with one last McDonald’s cheeseburger. Kind of an odd “last meal” wouldn’t you say? I ‘spose you could consider that going out with a bang.
Well “never ever” in teenaged years is the equivalent of 2 years in reality. In my second year of university the novelty had worn off and I was ready to join the ranks of carnivores again. I started out slow, a bit of chicken here, a skiff of pig scabs (aka Bacon Bits) here. But I just never worked up the gumption to return to McDonalds.
Fast forward a few more years. I’m an adult now. Nay, a MOM! I still haven’t set foot in a Mickey D’s since the highschool days. I avoided the place like the plague, wrinkling up my nose every time someone suggested we stop in for a bite to eat. “I don’t eat at Ronnie Ratburger!” I would say with indignation as if someone had asked me to consume a pile of fermented roadkill rather than set foot in the world’s most popular burger joint.
Well, that all changed today.
Today is Christmas Eve. A holy, blessed and beautiful day. A day to be filled with family, friends, carols, apple cider, butter tarts and the smell of the pine Christmas tree. A day to reflect and say “AMEN, SISTER!” to the Blessed Virgin for birthing J.C. sans epidural in substandard conditions under the curious and watchful eye of a variety of species. So how did I end up riding shotgun in a Saturn Vue (also known as the “Soccer Mom Mobile”) packed to the brim with suitcases, gifts and a very busy 14 month old boy? Well, this year we are celebrating Christmas with my inlaws, which is wonderful in all respects aside from the torturous 9 hour drive.
So here we are beetling down the highway, weaving in and out of traffic like Santa and Rudolph were late for a special delivery. The festive spirit was heightened even more with my continual shrieking “HOLY SHIT! SLOW DOWN AND LIVE!!” to my dear husband as he drove bee-sting speed from Alberta to Saskatchewan like he was commandeering a one horse opened sleigh. There was nothing remotely Christmasy about the drive, although I did exclaim “Sweet Jesus” a time or two (referring only to the sweet innocent baby Lord, of course) and I’m sure the non-stop praying probably counted as well.
Midway through the hellish drive we come to a city. This city is a beautiful sight on any long journey. You see, this city means “Stop. Rest. Eat.” on our family roadtrips. This is a godsend because any toddler strapped into a carseat for more than 5 hours straight starts to go a little squirrelly and experiment with his vocal range. There have been times that this little sweetheart will hit just the right pitch that will make your eye start to twitch and you have to catch yourself from veering off of the road into the next power pole. Upon arriving in this city we are all more than ready for a pitstop. We typically stop at this really nice little diner and have a real sit down meal, the kind your Mom would make, in the event that you have a mother who likes cooking.
Tonight we pull into the city and the blasted diner is closed in light of this holy, blessed holiday. Damn them and their holiday spirit! Now what? Our lil Peanut is reaching a new octave and I fear the windshield will shatter if we don’t get him the hell out of his seat. My beloved soulmate and I scanned the horizon for something, ANYTHING. Alas! A Wendy’s! We pull in there to see that they closed an hour earlier for the holidays. What next? I was beginning to consider screaming and kicking my legs in unison to dear little Peanut.
That is when it dawned on us.
We looked to the east and there she was, glowing like that star of Bethlehem must have all those years ago. The golden arches. Now I have been on a Ronnie Ratburger fast since the mid-nineties, but Peanut’s vocal exercises were enough to break even a hardened terrorists spirit, so I begrudgingly agreed to cross the saturated fat threshold once more and show my face to my estranged friend, Ronald McDonald. Our relationship has been a tumultuous one since we first met back when I was but a wee girl myself. I felt a bit sheepish to have been away so long, but I knew good old Ronnie would take me back.
We released Peanut from the evil clutches of his carseat and sauntered inside. My! How McDonald’s has changed! They have a FREAKING FIREPLACE!! Now THAT is festive. The décor is quite updated, no more garish yellows and reds. Subtle neutrals and warm woods greet you under the inviting and ever-so-flattering lighting. If I hadn’t seen the golden arches for myself I would have sworn we were in a fancy “sitdown” place. I’ll be damned.
BUT WAIT!!! What is this we see? The entire front half of this luxurious restaurant has been designated for KIDS! KIDS!!! Can you believe it! I shit you not. Most restaurants meet you at the door with a sneer and an upturned nose…“You have leprosy? Come on in! Table for how many?? A highchair you say? Oh, I’m afraid we can’t serve you. We don’t take kids”. If you can get past the door you are likely going to spend the next 40 minutes inhaling your food, dabbing a wet wipe in futility at the fancy ornate carpeting and shooting apologetic glances to the other patrons as Junior does his best velocoraptor impersonation. But a place that welcomes, nay, EMBRACES kids!!
Peanut and I ventured into the Kids’ area while my dearly beloved fetched us sustenance. The Kids’ area was dominated by a looming network of giant gerbil-esque tunnels in vibrant primary colours. The tunnels had a lustrous sheen, likely the result of years worth of nugget-sauce-laden little fingers probing their every surface. Peanut let out a gleeful yip and shuffled over to the play area. A giant sign stated the rules: “Children from 3-10 years old only. No shoes. You must wear socks. Purchase socks from the front counter if needed.” This enlightened me to several newfound truths. A) I was allowing a not quite 1.5 year old play on the equipment. He wasn’t even half old enough. Is that the same as letting a 9 year old go to the bar? If so, I am the worst mother in the world and I committed such a terrible crime on Christmas Eve of all days. B) He was wearing little shoes. Double whammy. I am going straight to hell. C) Hmmmm, do I want to be eating food from the same counter that sells socks to barefoot wandering children?
Being the rebel that I am I threw caution to the wind and let Peanut continue playing. There was only one other family in the restaurant at the time. They seemed to be there for the same reason we were. Lil Peanut scampered and explored the giant plastic fortress with sparkling curiosity. I couldn’t bear to pull him away. At one point an employee approached and I felt my hackles bristling, ready to go Mama Bear on this poor, unsuspecting fast food employee if he tried to ruin my baby’s fun on Christmas Eve. Thankfully he was just coming closer to smile and wave at wee Peanut. I sighed in relief and vowed to work on simmering down the Mama Bear response. Peanut continued to explore, and it occurred to me that we may just be up shit creek should he venture into one of the tunnels and was somehow lost in the belly of the beast. I was fully prepared to dive in if needed. I’d have the fire department on standby should he somehow manage to scale the three stories worth of tunnels and take a wrong turn the giant see-thru bubble window.
My true love then appeared with tray in hand and our little family settled down to eat. Another glorious discovery was an entire fleet of highchairs resting against one wall. We wouldn’t have to battle another family for the one and only highchair, or sit in some other little kids’ orange pop explosion in an icky sticky chair. Praise be little infant Jesus! This Christmas Eve just kept getting better and better.
We dug into our meal. I was pleasantly surprised to see that not much has changed in the 10 years since last put a McDonald’s French fry past my lips. They are still 98% sodium, 2% trans fats and 100% goodness. Wee Peanut chowed down on his delicious nuggets and we had our own Christmas miracle. We showed him the little plastic container of dipping sauce. “Seeeeee, like this” and I would exaggerate the motion of dipping the chicken into the tiny vat of sauce. He looked up at me with those wise-beyond-his-years-eyes, grabbed the sauce container and dunked his own nugget for the first time. A true Christmas miracle. We all smiled and celebrated.
It was at that moment that I felt the feeling seeping into my veins. That warm, Christmasy feeling that feels like home. I savoured every moment as lil Peanut rubbed ketchup on his forehead, pursed his little lips around the straw of his milk and patted his sweet-n-sour-sauced fingers on his hair. This is what Christmas is all about. Its all about being with family, sharing in the bountiful feast and love, sweet love. Its surprising what you’ll find in your local McDonalds! I smiled to myself and noted how festive and Christmasy the ketchup around Peanut’s mouth and left earlobe looked.
And so, dear friends, I wish you all the very best this Christmas season. May you surround your heart with the love of family and friends, even if you are sitting in a swivel chair in the shape of the Hamburglar. God Bless McDonalds.
And to the dear Virgin Mary, thanks for taking one for the team. You rock.
Happy Birthday Baby Jesus. We love you man.
Amen.
December 24, 2006 11:23 pm.
Does this make me a weaner?
Be forewarned, dear reader….this is about to get ugly.
You may recall that some months ago…14.5 to be exact, I hatched a delightful little male offspring, my beloved Peanut. I decided upon his arrival that I would nurse him from birth to age one, thus giving him the best possible start in life by expanding his cerebral cortex, enhancing his IQ and supersizing his serving of the good stuff you find in minute quantities in your morning Wheaties.
Lets fast forward. The big “ONE” comes and goes. Somehow I am still booby hostage.
Now that in itself is not necessarily the worst possible thing that could ever happen to a soul. But here comes the unpleasant feature. I’ve had mastitis 6 times in 7 months. That is some kind of new record. Akin to having the largest feet, or fitting the most perogies in one’s mouth. Yes, I am a hero. A beaten, battered booby hero.
Upon Mastitis #6, we’ll call it MACH6 for effect, I lamented my case to a new Dr. He (YES! That is correct, HE!) shook his head in disbelief. Boobs just shouldn’t go through that! MACH6 was not welcome, we’d see to that. So he prescribed a whole vat of super strength super hero antibiotics. They will knock MACH6 into the next century. I was relieved to hear this bit of good news, but it is not alllll good. You see, these magical little MACH6 fighting pills are laced with some kind of pungent-burnt-garlic-sumo-wrestler-B.O.-on-a-tire-on-a-hot-day aftertaste. No wonder MACH6 will bugger off. If I wasn’t stuck in my own body I wouldn’t want to be here either! Yucko. No amount of brushing, rinsing or ingesting various yummy substances will make the putrid death rot flavour go away.
But that is not all! Helpful Man Dr also wants me to get this MACH6 cured once and for all. I am not sure why he was so adamant that there would not be a MACH7. Perhaps he was hoping that honour would be bestowed upon one of his good buddies and his helpfulness was really a sneaky way of stealing my thunder and denying me fame and fortune. Whatever his motivation, the Helpful Man Dr sent a referral to a “specialist” (such a vague and ominous word) to help me with my problem, whatever that may be.
A few days pass and I receive a call from the “specialist” clinic. Wouldn’t I please come at this time that is convenient for them and no, they don’t have anything else. Quit asking and just be thankful and grateful and joyful that you even got in. I nodded in agreement (although I was on the phone at the time so I am not sure it did a whole heap of good). I’ll be there. I carefully scratch the directions on a notepad and hang up, thankful, grateful and joyful feelings welling up in my heart. Oh, crap! I forgot to find out what kind of “specialist” this may be. All I know is that it is at the “Women’s Clinic”, which is even more vague and ominous.
The day arrives and we pawn lil Peanut off on his doting grandparents. No sense dragging the poor kid 2 hours into the big city to some mysterious (gulp) Women’s Clinic. That would never do. Dearly beloved husband drives me to the appointment. We find the meat coloured building despite my directions…”Oh, go RIGHT to the stop sign, not RIGHT at the stop sign!” We enter the clinic and the 14 year old Goth Barbie behind the desk raises an eyebrow and says “Where’s your baby? This is a breastfeeding clinic you know”. Imagine my embarrassment. Oh shit! I brought the boobs, the first half of the equation, but forgot the vital other component! “You can come back another time you know,” the receptionist said haughtily. Ahhhh, no thanks. One 2 hour drive per week is good. I sheepishly took a seat amongst the other woman with both boobs AND babies. I felt like such an idiot, especially since my baby would have been the coolest since he can walk and talk while there little bundles just laid their opening their cavernous mouths to release shrill quacking cries. Yes, Peanut would have won the coolest kid award. My kid is the biggest and best, so there you baby-remembering mamas. Of course this would be only approximately the second time we’ve left Peanut at home in his whole life. Of course.
It was finally my turn so into the little Mommy-friendly exam room we go. Pictures of cute (but not AS cute as mine) babies lined the walls. The specialist (still not sure what her official guru title is) listened with a healthy mix of disbelief, horror and sympathy. At the end of my speil: “Hello. My boobs are ready to fall off. Please kill MACH6 and get this horrendous ass carcass taste out of my mouth” she took a deep breath and formulated a plan.
The only approach is to wean. Yes, wean. I was a bit sad to hear this, which is kind of odd, considering. I mean, breastfeeding has been one hellish nightmare after another between the sore nipples, tongue tied baby (akin to having rubber bands snapped repeatedly on wet, chapped nipples – you should try it, its character building), recurrent thrush, bastard MACH1 thru MACH6 infections, the joys of teething and biting, and most recently, the freakish looks from every single member of society when they see a half grown human sprawled across your lap and suckling away. Yes, I was surprised that the emotion in the forefront of my mind was sadness. The end of an era. “But I LOVE him!” I thought, somehow equating the sacrifice of having your breasts fall to the ground in ball of flames with the deep unconditional love you can only really appreciate after creating a mini-man-you.
The mystery specialist went on to explain the protocol. In addition to the horse dose of garlic athlete’s foot flavoured pills I would now be adding a hormone pill to the mix for 7 days. Apparently my problem was overabundant milk supply, that which would never, ever dry up on its own, even if my son was 32 and the head of a major accounting firm. Wishful thinking wouldn’t do the trick, let’s bring out the big guns. Oh, and she hoped the nausea that accompanies such things wouldn’t be too bothersome. And hadn’t I always dreamed of sporting a stylish beard?
Now that the first component, the boobs, were addressed, it was time to come up with the master plan for Peanut. The little munchkin would have to be cut back. And she means NOW. No more free lunch, so to speak. Replace nursings with cow’s milk when possible. And while you’re at it, you should probably purchase one of those little electric milking devices. Not sure if it’ll help the MACH6 problem, but it will help you appreciate your bovine counterparts that much more.
OK? OK.
See you in one week. And bring your kid next time. We need to see him in action.
With my head reeling I stumbled from the clinic. OK, so somehow I have to survive a 9 hour roadtrip to the inlaws and Christmas festivities while convincing Peanut that he really doesn’t need his mama any longer. That should be fun. Oh, lets not forget about MACH6 still reeking havoc on my system making me feel like death is at my door, while the antibiotics to combat MACH6 make my breath smell like death’s door. And in case that wasn’t enough, lets mix some hormones in there to see if a little stray facial hair and esophageal sphincter spasms won’t liven things up.
God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change….
Surprisingly its not going too bad so far. I still feel like death is stomping the snow off his boots and getting ready to knock on my door. My breath seems to have wilted my inlaws Christmas tree upon arrival. My boobs are like two giant, painful watermelons filled with liquid hot magma. I am queasy and my five o’clock shadow would rival even my dearly beloved (and HE’S as furry as an Ewok!). BUT, Peanut is doing GREAT and that is all that matters. He is still his happy little self and is moving on with this new stage of his life just fine. My little boy is growing up (sniff, sniff) As long as he’s good, I’m good. We’ll get through this, just like we got through all of the other challenges thus far. It sucks (ha!) but such is life.
And if anything, the dear little boy is doing his part to make this easier on me. Rather than cry and scream and repeatedly say “Mama! Mama!” in a frantic voice he simply smiles up at me as I offer him one of the infrequent and rare feedings as chomps down with his sharp little teeth into the tender, engorged magma filled boobs. When I scream “OUCH!!!!!” in horror and attempt to get him the hell away from the danger zone he simply giggles, shows those dimples and bites down again. What a good, thoughtful and sweet soul to do his part to make this all the more easier on me!
Rest well my friends, until we meet again (that is assuming you will still recognize me with a stylish goatee and Double Ds).
Tam-Bam-Thank-you-Ma’am
You may recall that some months ago…14.5 to be exact, I hatched a delightful little male offspring, my beloved Peanut. I decided upon his arrival that I would nurse him from birth to age one, thus giving him the best possible start in life by expanding his cerebral cortex, enhancing his IQ and supersizing his serving of the good stuff you find in minute quantities in your morning Wheaties.
Lets fast forward. The big “ONE” comes and goes. Somehow I am still booby hostage.
Now that in itself is not necessarily the worst possible thing that could ever happen to a soul. But here comes the unpleasant feature. I’ve had mastitis 6 times in 7 months. That is some kind of new record. Akin to having the largest feet, or fitting the most perogies in one’s mouth. Yes, I am a hero. A beaten, battered booby hero.
Upon Mastitis #6, we’ll call it MACH6 for effect, I lamented my case to a new Dr. He (YES! That is correct, HE!) shook his head in disbelief. Boobs just shouldn’t go through that! MACH6 was not welcome, we’d see to that. So he prescribed a whole vat of super strength super hero antibiotics. They will knock MACH6 into the next century. I was relieved to hear this bit of good news, but it is not alllll good. You see, these magical little MACH6 fighting pills are laced with some kind of pungent-burnt-garlic-sumo-wrestler-B.O.-on-a-tire-on-a-hot-day aftertaste. No wonder MACH6 will bugger off. If I wasn’t stuck in my own body I wouldn’t want to be here either! Yucko. No amount of brushing, rinsing or ingesting various yummy substances will make the putrid death rot flavour go away.
But that is not all! Helpful Man Dr also wants me to get this MACH6 cured once and for all. I am not sure why he was so adamant that there would not be a MACH7. Perhaps he was hoping that honour would be bestowed upon one of his good buddies and his helpfulness was really a sneaky way of stealing my thunder and denying me fame and fortune. Whatever his motivation, the Helpful Man Dr sent a referral to a “specialist” (such a vague and ominous word) to help me with my problem, whatever that may be.
A few days pass and I receive a call from the “specialist” clinic. Wouldn’t I please come at this time that is convenient for them and no, they don’t have anything else. Quit asking and just be thankful and grateful and joyful that you even got in. I nodded in agreement (although I was on the phone at the time so I am not sure it did a whole heap of good). I’ll be there. I carefully scratch the directions on a notepad and hang up, thankful, grateful and joyful feelings welling up in my heart. Oh, crap! I forgot to find out what kind of “specialist” this may be. All I know is that it is at the “Women’s Clinic”, which is even more vague and ominous.
The day arrives and we pawn lil Peanut off on his doting grandparents. No sense dragging the poor kid 2 hours into the big city to some mysterious (gulp) Women’s Clinic. That would never do. Dearly beloved husband drives me to the appointment. We find the meat coloured building despite my directions…”Oh, go RIGHT to the stop sign, not RIGHT at the stop sign!” We enter the clinic and the 14 year old Goth Barbie behind the desk raises an eyebrow and says “Where’s your baby? This is a breastfeeding clinic you know”. Imagine my embarrassment. Oh shit! I brought the boobs, the first half of the equation, but forgot the vital other component! “You can come back another time you know,” the receptionist said haughtily. Ahhhh, no thanks. One 2 hour drive per week is good. I sheepishly took a seat amongst the other woman with both boobs AND babies. I felt like such an idiot, especially since my baby would have been the coolest since he can walk and talk while there little bundles just laid their opening their cavernous mouths to release shrill quacking cries. Yes, Peanut would have won the coolest kid award. My kid is the biggest and best, so there you baby-remembering mamas. Of course this would be only approximately the second time we’ve left Peanut at home in his whole life. Of course.
It was finally my turn so into the little Mommy-friendly exam room we go. Pictures of cute (but not AS cute as mine) babies lined the walls. The specialist (still not sure what her official guru title is) listened with a healthy mix of disbelief, horror and sympathy. At the end of my speil: “Hello. My boobs are ready to fall off. Please kill MACH6 and get this horrendous ass carcass taste out of my mouth” she took a deep breath and formulated a plan.
The only approach is to wean. Yes, wean. I was a bit sad to hear this, which is kind of odd, considering. I mean, breastfeeding has been one hellish nightmare after another between the sore nipples, tongue tied baby (akin to having rubber bands snapped repeatedly on wet, chapped nipples – you should try it, its character building), recurrent thrush, bastard MACH1 thru MACH6 infections, the joys of teething and biting, and most recently, the freakish looks from every single member of society when they see a half grown human sprawled across your lap and suckling away. Yes, I was surprised that the emotion in the forefront of my mind was sadness. The end of an era. “But I LOVE him!” I thought, somehow equating the sacrifice of having your breasts fall to the ground in ball of flames with the deep unconditional love you can only really appreciate after creating a mini-man-you.
The mystery specialist went on to explain the protocol. In addition to the horse dose of garlic athlete’s foot flavoured pills I would now be adding a hormone pill to the mix for 7 days. Apparently my problem was overabundant milk supply, that which would never, ever dry up on its own, even if my son was 32 and the head of a major accounting firm. Wishful thinking wouldn’t do the trick, let’s bring out the big guns. Oh, and she hoped the nausea that accompanies such things wouldn’t be too bothersome. And hadn’t I always dreamed of sporting a stylish beard?
Now that the first component, the boobs, were addressed, it was time to come up with the master plan for Peanut. The little munchkin would have to be cut back. And she means NOW. No more free lunch, so to speak. Replace nursings with cow’s milk when possible. And while you’re at it, you should probably purchase one of those little electric milking devices. Not sure if it’ll help the MACH6 problem, but it will help you appreciate your bovine counterparts that much more.
OK? OK.
See you in one week. And bring your kid next time. We need to see him in action.
With my head reeling I stumbled from the clinic. OK, so somehow I have to survive a 9 hour roadtrip to the inlaws and Christmas festivities while convincing Peanut that he really doesn’t need his mama any longer. That should be fun. Oh, lets not forget about MACH6 still reeking havoc on my system making me feel like death is at my door, while the antibiotics to combat MACH6 make my breath smell like death’s door. And in case that wasn’t enough, lets mix some hormones in there to see if a little stray facial hair and esophageal sphincter spasms won’t liven things up.
God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change….
Surprisingly its not going too bad so far. I still feel like death is stomping the snow off his boots and getting ready to knock on my door. My breath seems to have wilted my inlaws Christmas tree upon arrival. My boobs are like two giant, painful watermelons filled with liquid hot magma. I am queasy and my five o’clock shadow would rival even my dearly beloved (and HE’S as furry as an Ewok!). BUT, Peanut is doing GREAT and that is all that matters. He is still his happy little self and is moving on with this new stage of his life just fine. My little boy is growing up (sniff, sniff) As long as he’s good, I’m good. We’ll get through this, just like we got through all of the other challenges thus far. It sucks (ha!) but such is life.
And if anything, the dear little boy is doing his part to make this easier on me. Rather than cry and scream and repeatedly say “Mama! Mama!” in a frantic voice he simply smiles up at me as I offer him one of the infrequent and rare feedings as chomps down with his sharp little teeth into the tender, engorged magma filled boobs. When I scream “OUCH!!!!!” in horror and attempt to get him the hell away from the danger zone he simply giggles, shows those dimples and bites down again. What a good, thoughtful and sweet soul to do his part to make this all the more easier on me!
Rest well my friends, until we meet again (that is assuming you will still recognize me with a stylish goatee and Double Ds).
Tam-Bam-Thank-you-Ma’am
Thursday, December 21, 2006
The Shit Hits the Fan...Literally
Today is one of those days. We are holed up in our singlewide like a family of antisocial badgers or something. Its nearly 2 pm and I'm still in my jammies. Ahhhh, hell. Who cares?
I was reminiscing a bit more about the good old days on the farm. I remember one of our favourite activities as kids was manure fights. Yes, that is right. We threw shit at each other. You may think that is the most disgusting, insane thing you've ever heard. You could be right. Let me explain, however, as there is a good theory behind this.
You've probably heard about mud fights. Good clean fun, er, good fun anyway. But there is a problem with mud fights. Nobody really hates getting a bit of mud thrown at them. I mean, it might soil your clothes a bit, but its not the end of the world. In fact, if you are a grubby farm kid than you've probably got a bit of mud on you already. There is no real challenge in it, as people don't try to avoid being hit by mud at all costs.
Now shit on the other hand, that is a different story. There is NOBODY that likes being plastered with shit. Its just human nature I 'spose. Start a manure fight and you'll really see the shit hit the fan. Its ingenious, really. People will scream, run, leap, contort and wail in despair and disgust. They will stop at nothing to avoid the wrath of a big steaming ball of turd. I am not sure who started the first shit fight (well, I have my suspicions) but it soon snowballed from there.
Some of the more memorable shit fight moments...
I recall a summer when 2 of my girlfriends were out for a visit. I would have been about 12 at the time. We had our usual fun of running through the oat field after pheasants and playing with colts. We were dirty, wild and free. Sometime during the afternoon Ma's co-worker stopped by with his kids. Amongst his offspring was a girl our age. She was a city kid, through and through. She'd recently had her hair permed. If you've ever had your hair permed (or watched the stunning legal defense on Legally Blonde) you know that you can't wash your hair for a few days after the treatment. So lets imagine the worst possible thing for newly permed hair...yup, that's right. Shit. And what a shit fight we had. Poor city girl didn't know what hit her.
Fast forward a few years later when I was about 14. My family and I went camping out west. We were camping alongside one of my friends, Squeaker, who was involved in the aforementioned shit fight. Oh yes, another fight broke loose. This time we plastered, yes, plastered my Unc Tim's pickup from one end to the other with horse shit. He was none too pleased. I also thought it would be a great idea to give BroLo a face wash in the poo. He would have been about 11 at the time. I recall the wrath of Ma when she discovered her youngest covered in turds when we were stuck way out in the mountains without running water. I believe she hauled him down to the creek and made him wash his face in ice cold glacial run off. heh heh heh
Fast forward a few more years. I am now in college, home for a visit with my future husband. I believe it was one of his first visits out to the farm. The poor bastard didn't know what was coming. We went for a walk so I could show him around the farm. As he was gingerly shimmy-ing through the barbed wire fence I innocently dropped a horse nugget down the back of his shirt. I was unprepared for the reaction. Although his parents farmed he was raised in town, far from the clutches of shit. He reacted with a violent spasm that sent him hurtling full force into the barbed wire fence, tangling his clothes and ripping his shirt. He glared at me accusingly asking "Who would do something like that?" (very Austin Powers-esque "Who throws a shoe?") I think it was nearly the end of our relationship right then and there. But alas, it was the true test of love, because he forgave me and years later he is still suffering from my very unusual sense of humour.
The most recent poop fight would be this past spring at a BBQ held in honour of BroMo's completion of his degree. As per family tradition we had an "Amazing Race" in his honour. This is basically my family's cooky tradition of planning an uber competitive scavenger hunt and using any excuse (ie. birthday, degree completion, Easter, anniversary) to put one on. One of the tasks had us running through the horse pasture in search of the next clue. BroMo's team was on their way back to the house as my team was just heading into the field. I needed to stall them. What did I do?? My first instinct, of course. I grabbed the nearest horse turd and winged it at BroMo's head. He hesitated, dodged left and right. I threw a few more handfulls. Sure, it didn't stop him in his tracks, but he was momentarily thrown off course. I believe the worst of it was that he had invited his friends, nice, clean girls from Calgary, out to this party. I am sure they were horrified to see a baleyard squatting burly mama throwing fistfulls of feces. To those girls...I am truly sorry.
I'll admit it. I love poop fights. I know, I know, not the typical hobby you'd list on your resume. But there is a lot of thought that goes into a well planned manure fight. The strategy would make your mind spin. For example, you must choose species. Will you go with the liquidy cow turd, the doughy horse ball or the tiny goat pellet? Next you must choose age. Will you choose fresh?? It is a little harder to fling, but upon impact it will make the biggest lasting impression. Will you choose aged? Usually dry and hard, these babies are the tidiest on the hands and can really inflict pain at close range. Or will you choose a nice middle-of-the-road specimen? These are the cream of the crop. A hard, painful outer exterior, yet the insides still hold that horrid, explosive fresh turd goodness. In addition to selecting the perfect weapon one must also employ the perfect strategy of attack. Where will you aim? How hard? At close range, or do you prefer the long distance sneak attack?
Personally, my favourite is the mid-range horse turd. Perfectly round, like a tennis ball, these little nuggets will travel far and fast and deliver a powerful blow. They are fairly tidy to handle, yet explode with devastating results. I also play to win...close range and fire that bad boy as hard as you can muster.
This has me thinking. Hmmm, now if we eliminated all guns, tanks, nuclear weapons, etc. and forced all people to use SHIT, I am sure we would live in a very peaceful world. Do you really think soldiers would go to battle knowing they'd have to handle feces daily? Who in their right mind would financially back a shit fight? And NOBDODY, I mean NOBODY, wants to be on the receiving end of a fresh powerbomb horse turd. That's just human nature.
Well I am sure this discussion has thoroughly blown your mind. A little food for thought. And please don't be discouraged from coming out to Ravenwood Ranch. New victims, er, I mean, visitors are always welcome.
Tam
I was reminiscing a bit more about the good old days on the farm. I remember one of our favourite activities as kids was manure fights. Yes, that is right. We threw shit at each other. You may think that is the most disgusting, insane thing you've ever heard. You could be right. Let me explain, however, as there is a good theory behind this.
You've probably heard about mud fights. Good clean fun, er, good fun anyway. But there is a problem with mud fights. Nobody really hates getting a bit of mud thrown at them. I mean, it might soil your clothes a bit, but its not the end of the world. In fact, if you are a grubby farm kid than you've probably got a bit of mud on you already. There is no real challenge in it, as people don't try to avoid being hit by mud at all costs.
Now shit on the other hand, that is a different story. There is NOBODY that likes being plastered with shit. Its just human nature I 'spose. Start a manure fight and you'll really see the shit hit the fan. Its ingenious, really. People will scream, run, leap, contort and wail in despair and disgust. They will stop at nothing to avoid the wrath of a big steaming ball of turd. I am not sure who started the first shit fight (well, I have my suspicions) but it soon snowballed from there.
Some of the more memorable shit fight moments...
I recall a summer when 2 of my girlfriends were out for a visit. I would have been about 12 at the time. We had our usual fun of running through the oat field after pheasants and playing with colts. We were dirty, wild and free. Sometime during the afternoon Ma's co-worker stopped by with his kids. Amongst his offspring was a girl our age. She was a city kid, through and through. She'd recently had her hair permed. If you've ever had your hair permed (or watched the stunning legal defense on Legally Blonde) you know that you can't wash your hair for a few days after the treatment. So lets imagine the worst possible thing for newly permed hair...yup, that's right. Shit. And what a shit fight we had. Poor city girl didn't know what hit her.
Fast forward a few years later when I was about 14. My family and I went camping out west. We were camping alongside one of my friends, Squeaker, who was involved in the aforementioned shit fight. Oh yes, another fight broke loose. This time we plastered, yes, plastered my Unc Tim's pickup from one end to the other with horse shit. He was none too pleased. I also thought it would be a great idea to give BroLo a face wash in the poo. He would have been about 11 at the time. I recall the wrath of Ma when she discovered her youngest covered in turds when we were stuck way out in the mountains without running water. I believe she hauled him down to the creek and made him wash his face in ice cold glacial run off. heh heh heh
Fast forward a few more years. I am now in college, home for a visit with my future husband. I believe it was one of his first visits out to the farm. The poor bastard didn't know what was coming. We went for a walk so I could show him around the farm. As he was gingerly shimmy-ing through the barbed wire fence I innocently dropped a horse nugget down the back of his shirt. I was unprepared for the reaction. Although his parents farmed he was raised in town, far from the clutches of shit. He reacted with a violent spasm that sent him hurtling full force into the barbed wire fence, tangling his clothes and ripping his shirt. He glared at me accusingly asking "Who would do something like that?" (very Austin Powers-esque "Who throws a shoe?") I think it was nearly the end of our relationship right then and there. But alas, it was the true test of love, because he forgave me and years later he is still suffering from my very unusual sense of humour.
The most recent poop fight would be this past spring at a BBQ held in honour of BroMo's completion of his degree. As per family tradition we had an "Amazing Race" in his honour. This is basically my family's cooky tradition of planning an uber competitive scavenger hunt and using any excuse (ie. birthday, degree completion, Easter, anniversary) to put one on. One of the tasks had us running through the horse pasture in search of the next clue. BroMo's team was on their way back to the house as my team was just heading into the field. I needed to stall them. What did I do?? My first instinct, of course. I grabbed the nearest horse turd and winged it at BroMo's head. He hesitated, dodged left and right. I threw a few more handfulls. Sure, it didn't stop him in his tracks, but he was momentarily thrown off course. I believe the worst of it was that he had invited his friends, nice, clean girls from Calgary, out to this party. I am sure they were horrified to see a baleyard squatting burly mama throwing fistfulls of feces. To those girls...I am truly sorry.
I'll admit it. I love poop fights. I know, I know, not the typical hobby you'd list on your resume. But there is a lot of thought that goes into a well planned manure fight. The strategy would make your mind spin. For example, you must choose species. Will you go with the liquidy cow turd, the doughy horse ball or the tiny goat pellet? Next you must choose age. Will you choose fresh?? It is a little harder to fling, but upon impact it will make the biggest lasting impression. Will you choose aged? Usually dry and hard, these babies are the tidiest on the hands and can really inflict pain at close range. Or will you choose a nice middle-of-the-road specimen? These are the cream of the crop. A hard, painful outer exterior, yet the insides still hold that horrid, explosive fresh turd goodness. In addition to selecting the perfect weapon one must also employ the perfect strategy of attack. Where will you aim? How hard? At close range, or do you prefer the long distance sneak attack?
Personally, my favourite is the mid-range horse turd. Perfectly round, like a tennis ball, these little nuggets will travel far and fast and deliver a powerful blow. They are fairly tidy to handle, yet explode with devastating results. I also play to win...close range and fire that bad boy as hard as you can muster.
This has me thinking. Hmmm, now if we eliminated all guns, tanks, nuclear weapons, etc. and forced all people to use SHIT, I am sure we would live in a very peaceful world. Do you really think soldiers would go to battle knowing they'd have to handle feces daily? Who in their right mind would financially back a shit fight? And NOBDODY, I mean NOBODY, wants to be on the receiving end of a fresh powerbomb horse turd. That's just human nature.
Well I am sure this discussion has thoroughly blown your mind. A little food for thought. And please don't be discouraged from coming out to Ravenwood Ranch. New victims, er, I mean, visitors are always welcome.
Tam
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Flashback: Mr. Nudey
Ohhhhhhh ho ho ho...what do we have here. Upon scouring my computer I found this oldy but goody. Gone are those carefree college days. But the memories will live on forever. Nay, they are burned into my memory, despite my best attempts to rid my mind of images of Mr. Nudey. This is a series of posts from the summer of 2001 when I took an art class. Enjoy.......
YIKES!!! I am enrolled in summer session at the university so I can finish my degree faster. I am majoring in Animal Science so my typical classes are things like Biochemistry, Swine Nutrition. Ruminant Management, etc. Well, I need some 'filler' classes and you are free to choose anything you like. So this summer I am taking a Classical Greek Myth class, a Statistics class, a Philosophy class (I've taken 3 already and really enjoy them) and a Biology class about ecosystems (aka going on field trips to lakes=summer fun while getting credit). Anyway, the class that is most challenging, new and exciting is Foundation in Painting. I have NO experience and wanted to give it a shot.Well the class is for 3 hours everyday of the week for 7 weeks. The instructor is pleased/surprised I am in the class because everyone else is a Fine Arts major (aside from me and a Math guy). This also means that everyone else has WAY more experience than me!So today was our third day. The first two days we tried drawing 'contour lines' with charcoal. We drew skulls of animals and our hands. Seemed to be difficult but still lots of fun. Then today (I will repeat...the THIRD day only!) they bring out the NUDE MODEL!!!!! OMG!!!!!!! Everyone else was acting like this was a regular walk in the park and me and Math Guy were nervously darting our eyes around the room to figure out what to do. I was wondering...is there going to be a drumroll? Will everyone clap when the nude person comes in? Sorry folks but I am not well versed in the etiquette of painting nude people. While I was fidgeting with my paper and paints all of a sudden...TA DA...there was the nude person...no warning or anything. YIKES!!! No robe, no word of warning, he was just there in all his glory. The professor said, "Everyone, this is Tom". I then said (rather loudly and awkwardly) "Hi Tom!". Nobody else made a peep. Mental note: don't talk to Mr. Nudey.At first I was relieved because we have these huge easels that I could hide from Mr. Nudey. Then the professor made us all gather in close and turn our easels. I was then fully in view of Mr. Nudey while staring intently and trying (gingerly) to depict him in a masculine/non-insulting way (read: I have trouble with proportion and did not want to insult and/or overly flatter strange nude man). Man oh man, talk about difficult. Everyone set to work immediately setting down beautiful masterpieces on their paper while I attempted to paint him without actually looking at him. A difficult task indeed. The professor said that we could pick one part to focus on and make it really large and fill the paper. So I focused on the safe stuff - feet, elbows, hairline, ears. The whole time Mr. Nudey was frowning and serious. I whispered to Math Guy "I never learned how to do this on Mr. Dressup" - that was my main Art teacher growing up, "I want my smelly markers back, this is hard!" At that Mr. Nudey burst out laughing. Note to nude people: laughing does not look good when you are not clothed. ha ha! And what's with all the sprawling and posing?? I'd prefer if they'd stand stiffly upright with hands and legs firmly clamped to the sides.Then we had to draw 'the works' - the whole body on one sheet of paper. I'm not sure how I got through it, but me and Math Guy survived. After my class I went to my husband's laboratory to show him my work. I told him all about the class. Then I showed him my picture of Mr. Nudey's whole body. He burst out laughing - apparently he found it very hilarious that I could go to a nude Art class and still manage to draw a whole body minus the nether-regions and nipples. LMAO Oh well, maybe it'll be easier next time! Thank GOODNESS for Math guy - his painting looked like a deformed Teletubby. At least I am not alone!Tomorrow we meet Mrs. Nudey.Anyone else taken a nude art class?Tamara
Oh man, I feel like such a bumbling idiot in the class. Everyone is so composed and I am trying my hardest not to snicker like I'm in grade school. Ugh. Honestly - one pose he had a waist-high stool (that you would sit on to paint or whatever) and he bent over and put his elbows on the stool. And I had to paint the 'rear-view' and concentrate on the perfect shape of the, er, crack. I was waiting for a camera crew to jump out and tell me I was on some spoof show because it was too weird to be real!I'm a little worried about Mrs. Nudey. Her name is "Una" and from some of the painting of nude women in the studio I'd have to say Mrs. Nudey might be a piece o' work. Yikes! Tam
Class #4 - Mrs. Semi-Nudey
Well folks, class #4 went A LOT smoother than yesterday. At the beginning of the class the professor brought in a third platform to add to the two platforms that Tom had been sprawled on. I was worried. What kind of woman is Mrs. Nudey if she needs THREE platforms when Mr. Nudey only needed two?? I broke out in a cold sweat.Then they brought out Mrs. Nudey. I bit my tongue and did not guffaw out any brash "HEY THERE" greetings. Note to self: way to go on being very suave today in class.Probably the reason the class went so smoothly was because Mrs. Nudey was actually wearing a bathing suit, not her birthday suit. When she pranced in the room I let out a huge, audible sigh of relief akin to air being let out of a tire. Everyone looked at me. I smiled meekly...heh heh heh, sorry classmates. She wasn't as scary as I had anticipated, and she wasn't as old as Mr. Nudey (who was my Dad's age - THE HORROR).The professor then led the class in warm up stretches - bending here, stretching there and jumping jacks. Note to Mrs. Semi-Nudey - people in bathing suits, although they are not nude, should not partake in stretches and jumping around.We then settled in to 3 hours of scribbling Mrs. Semi-Nudey. It was going pretty good because when people are wearing bathing suits it is ok (nay, it is EXPECTED) that you leave out the nipples and the nether-regions and bum cracks. Luckily that is my specialty.At the start of the class Math Guy whispered to me "Why did Tom have to be naked and Una isn't?" I could sense the injustice of it all. But wait a minute...I'm a girl and I still didn't enjoy seeing Tom in all his glory. Why was it necessary for him to be there in the buff? I'm not too sure. I think Math Guy was disappointed. I was a little miffed though because during the coffee break Math Guy abandoned me (and what I consider my stimulating and ingenious conversation, heh heh) and went to sit/swoon with Mrs. Semi-Nudey. Sheesh. I guess when a man is required to study a woman's scantily clad body for 3 hours it is understandable that Math Guy was suddenly smitten.We did fun exercises where we would start to draw for 5 minutes, then we would switch and work on another person's drawing for a while, and keep switching. I like that because then the artistic people draw on my paper, but I get to take it home to my husband and impress him with my 'excellent artwork'. heh heh heh Math Guy appeared to have been suffering from some type of artistic breakdown. He rebelled by wielding a red pastel only and drawing fierce red squiggles on everyone else's Mrs. Semi-Nudey when we were doing the 'switching exercise". I told him it looked like intestines and he smiled and seemed to be pleased. Note to self: Don't make eye contact with Math Guy - I think the Gaelic music the professor blares out over the loud speakers has sent him over the edge.I spent the rest of the afternoon staring intently at Mrs. Semi-Nudey, enjoying the class a lot more because there were no awkward 'bulges' to worry about 'accidentally' staring at as was the case with Mr. Nudey. The only bad part was that Mrs. Semi-Nudey was BIG on the eye contact. Mr. Nudey (be it for shame or perhaps his manly pride) was very careful to stare at the wall above our heads. But Mrs. Semi-Nudey liked to lock eyes with you every once in a while when you were in the middle of studying her bosom or some other awkward moment. At that second when our eyes met I would jump a little jolting my paint brush or charcoal across my painting while emitting a high pitched sound similiar to the mating call of a deermouse. This resulted in some of my pictures where Mrs. Semi-Nudey has what appears to be a debonaire moustache or beard. I am starting to notice a trend in my portfolio - there are numerous pictures of nipple-less, genital-less bearded people...hmm, a new breed of people perhaps?? Hopefully my professor sees the ingenius creativity in all of that and gives me top marks. That is, if I am not kicked out of the class for consistently emitting odd noises that tend to disturb the other students.So I'd have to say that my 4th day of art was a lot better than the 3rd day. Although Una aka Mrs. Semi-Nude still sprawled a lot (and remember - swimming suits lodge themselves in unusual places during sprawling) it was still a lot better. I would prefer to study Mrs. Semi-Nudey's wedgie lines ANY DAY versus staring intently at the wall behind Mr. Nudey while trying to depict his manliness in a proportional way.Thanks for tuning in...join us next time when we spend 3 hours painting cardboard boxes in a pile. I'm sure it will be rivetting.Tamara
Today...BIG sigh of relief. No nude or semi-nude people in sight. Ahhh, such a nice break from the tedious staring at nekked people's bodies. Today we focused on drawing boxes. Equally tedious but none of the funny bulges that people have that tend to make artists, like myself, snicker.Last night's homework included drawing several 'larger than life' images of our hands. The professor wanted the lines to look 'organic', whatever that means. Today I realize that organic is synonymous for borderline crap, yet still artistic enough that everyone thinks it is brilliant. This is where I succeeded. Apparently an organic line is sort of squiggly, so the edge of the hand looks jagged. I got top marks for this exercise as I was shaking like someone going through substance abuse withdrawal when I was attempting to draw my hand. "BRILLIANT! REALLY GOOD" the professor cooed. I beamed importantly as if I meant for it all to happen that way.One of the consequences of drawing while intently staring at my hand rather than the paper is that the fingers looked mishapen and out of proportion. A few look like ET fingers but the one that really caught my eye is an index finger that looks, well, er, like a giant wrinkled phallus. I was worried that the professor would think I am secretly a sicko or something. But alas! Art people LOVE everything about Nudies (or so I am convinced at this point in the course). I think the professor really enjoyed the phallus-like drawing I accidentally, er, I mean intentionally did with lots of forethought.I think he also really like the subtle smudging in the corners where the dogs were gathered around the coffee table (my at-home version of an easel). The dogs were pressing in trying to see what Mum was staring at so hard. The overall effect of smudged dog-head prints was faaaaaabulous.Math Guy is really starting to irritate me. The art supplies are really expensive and he claims it is a waste of money. So he keeps borrowing my stuff and 'forgetting' to return it. Yeah, like I have enough cashola to buy supplies for both myself AND Math Guy who would definitely use up all of the red drawing those squiggly (or should I say "organic") intestines on everything. This morning we were taking notes (note to self: to be good at art apparently one must be poor at spelling if professor is any indication of artistic success. Also: make all writing look like baby birds pecked the words with their newly hatched beaks). Math Guy says that he won't bother writing it down, he'll just get my notes when he needs them. At his point I bellowed out "Do I LOOK like your Mommy?" Remember, class is quitely taking notes. Everyone appears startled and slightly miffed as I disturbed their concentration while drawing boxes. Math Guy looks peeved. Meanwhile I am trying to erase image of myself gently rocking Math Guy to sleep whilst he wears a bonnet and footed-pajamas. Hopefully he gets the hint that I want nothing to do with him or his red squiggly intestines.It sounds like next week we will be having another nude model to do a colour study with. I am already having terrible visions of trying to mix the correct shade of flesh tones and in some 'regions' *gulp* purple (gasp). Wish me luck...this could be one delicate subject. Tam
Weeeellllll, there was a handsome 20-ish young man in the studio yesterday talking to the professor about being a nude model for an upcoming class. The little voice in my head said "YES, PLEASE!" (note to self: do not admit to others you have voices in your head).But this may not be a good idea...I would be sooooo bright red if handsome Mr. Nudey appeared. Egads. Not sure which is worse - attempting to paint 'nasty old' Mr. Nudey or 'tall, dark handsome young' Mr. Nudey. I guess the good thing about Old Mr. Nudey is that I am accustomed to him and his, ahem, "wares" shall we say.After my art classes I go to my husband's lab (he is a Biology grad student) and lay my pictures out on the benches to show him. His supervising professor's name is Art. Yesterday he told me that I left a large picture of Mr. Nudey on the bench. When my husband's professor came in he asked "What is that?" My husband said that he replied "Why that is Tamara's Art". My husband said that Art took it to mean that I was drawing a nude picture of HIM! THE HORROR!!!! I almost burst into tears at the thought of the skinny, coke-bottle glasses professor thinking I was drawing nude pictures of him! That's when my husband burst out laughing and said it was all a joke. Grrrrrrr.Oh yes, but what REALLY did happen is that I was showing him the picture where we took turns drawing on eachother's pictures with pastels (that is where Math Guy went crazy with the red squiggles). They are quite messy with chalky pastels. After I finished showing him I said "Do I have pastels anywhere on my face?" And he said "Yup, all over." I swatted him and laughed because he's always teasing me like that. Then we packed up and headed for home. We had to walk across campus, encountering probably 100 people (including aforementioned Art and my favourite/good buddy janitor). I was smiling and talking to everybody. Then we get in the car and I looked in the mirror. Sure enough, I had orange and green pastels ALL OVER MY FOREHEAD, NOSE AND CHEEKS! I was so embarrassed. I was so mad at my husband. "YOU SHOULD HAVE TOLD ME!!!!!" I said. But I guess he did. It seems I just can't win. Tamara
You know, what I think would be great? If a whole bunch of strip club regulars came to art class their hooting and hollering would really drown out my stupid comments and loud, inappropriate and poorly timed bellowing of "Hi Tom!" Sounds like a great idea to me. And perhaps the watered down drinks bit would be a good idea too...then atleast I'd have an excuse for all of my crooked 'organic' lines.Tam
Hello folks! I am sorry it has been so long without an update. Life is like that sometimes. Ahhh, where to begin??Well, since Mrs. Semi-Nudey there has been nothing but cardboard boxes, wrinkled up nard-like fruits and vases of flowers galore. I am still wondering WHY in the world did we have to have a Mr. Nudey on the 3rd day yet nothing since? Perhaps the *1st* Nudey experience is like your artistic baptism. The proffessor perhaps realized that we couldn't "really" be artists until we had encountered a Nudey. Hence he took it upon himself to unleash Tom in the first week so that we could get on with the more technical aspects of painting and allow our creative juices to flow uninhibited.Our term project was due last week. The title of the project was "A Small World". The instructions were to create a small world on a piece of cardboard and paint all the objects white. We were then to paint a picture of the small world but to enlarge it so it seems we are actually inside of this tiny model world we have created. I was SO excited because it sounded like so much fun. I set to work on it right away.First, I went to the dollar store and bought a variety of farm animals and a small doll. I then painted all these little creatures white and hot glued them onto the cardboard. I got creative and decided to build a 'tower' out of an large empty yogurt tub. It looked great but was missing something. I added a ring of forks around the tower so the tines were like a railing. It was really taking shape! The last thing to add was the baby doll. Unfortunately the baby doll was wearing a dress and had long curly hair. I had to paint the doll white for the assignment so I decided it would be easiest to remove the dress and cut off all the hair. The end result was rather frightening as anyone who has cut a doll's hair can attest too. The poor baby was now not only naked but also had a circular mohawk hairdo. I ended up hotgluing the baby to the top of the tower with a skewer glued in its hand like a royal scepter. My small world was complete and it looked TERRIFIC! I giggled to myself while putting it together because it was so funny and cute.I painted away at home enjoying the absence of Math Guy and the Gaelic music. At one point I stood up with my 'easel' (aka a large scrap of cardboard). I was caught off balance and dropped my wet painting on poor Luke! The good ole' white boxer boy took the black 'racing stripes' quite well. I think the dog hair texture really added a lot of 'body' to my painting as well.I completed my painting and took it to class for our group "critique". This is basically where we would get up one at a time and display our work while talking about it in fluffy, creative words. I put my painting up on the wall and everyone started to snicker. I couldn't understand why. I said "What's so funny?" The professor (who was also giggling at this point) said "I wonder!" Well yes, I did wonder. "You painted a picture of a naked baby on a tower surrounded by forks with a big giant goose looking up at him!" Everyone was laughing so hard by this point. It was a real hit. Everyone LOVED this weird little piece of work. I didn't really understand what all the fuss was about until everyone else had displayed their pictures. I was the only one who made a "small world" for the Small World Project. Everyone else had just piled a bunch of random items together...bottles, boxes, cans, cones. It seems odd to me that no one else would have interpreted it the same as I.Later that week we had our "porfolio" interviews. Each of us would meet with our professor and go over all of our work from the term to determine our midterm mark. The professor laughed his bum off at my Mr. Nudey's because in the dozen or so pictures I had done I managed to avoid nether-regions and nipples in every single one! But he said I have real potential and that my portfolio was really good. I was surprised because my work is a lot more 'organic' looking and more basic than everyone elses.We got our midterm marks back last week and surprising I am above the class average! I even beat some of the REAL artists in the class! I can't believe it but I am glad he recognizes my effort and attempt at being creative! Tam
My Art Class Comrades:
MARIO (Affectionately known as "Math Guy"):Math Guy is a new breed of arrogance. My goodness. This guy is a genius but his superhuman intelligance comes with a price. And that price is called social skills. He is currently taking Chemistry AND Math degrees simultaneously. He has little regard for any of the other students in our class because they are all in "Arts" as he likes to sneer with an air of superiority. I am spared because I am the lowly Agriculture student and I am A-OK in Math Guy's books because I have taken both Chemistry AND Math myself.Math Guy's paintings leave something to be desired because unless there is a formula involved, he can't do it. His "small world" consisted of a piece of paper painted gray with black smudges in three places. He proceeded to rave about how terrific and three dimensional his painting was. The class was polite and supportive and encouraged him along. Then the rest of the students displayed their work. Math Guy gave a 3 minute speech for each painting explaining why he felt each and every one of their paintings was inferior and incorrect. I felt the other students paintings ought to be on display in a gallery but Math Guy thought they were all crap. Apparently Math Guy is all for the "no-hold's barred" critique session. A lot of the other students have taken it upon themselves to embrace this form of critique for the next session. Yikes, I hope Math Guy wears protective head gear.I could go on about this weird, rotund little man all day but I'm sure you are all bored by now.Take care and don't pose bare! Tamara
The thrilling conclusion...(sorry it has taken so long!)Our professor assigned a large final project consisting of several paintings. There were several choices of topics. One of the choices was called a vanatess or somethingeruther. It consists of a photograph surrounded by objects that are significant to that person. It also shows the 'fleeting nature of life' through rotten fruit, clocks, skulls and other equally morbid symbols. Well, the most interesting 'person' I know was my horse Magnum. I gathered a bunch of items such as a bridle, whip, leg bandages, brushes, riding boot, etc and arranged them around a photograph of Magnum. I put hours and hours into this project. It was really starting to take shape.A few days prior to the due date I contracted a wretched illness that appeared to be a hybrid of Mad Cow Disease, SARS and West Nile. I was one sick puppy. As a result my paintings perhaps didn't get as much attention as I would have liked. They were fairly good though, and I had faith my professor would take pity on my pathetic little self.I dragged my body to the final portfolio interview with all of my paintings from the entire year in hand. I began spreading them out for display when the professor caught sight of my ghostly pale sickly self and told me to sit down and relax. He would worry about laying the paintings out and critiquing them. I sat back and watched.He gently removed each painting from my folder and arranged them on the wall. Finally he came down to the last painting...my final project. This was the one I had poured hours and hours of sickly effort into. He turned it one way, then the other. Finally he hung it on the wall...UPSIDE DOWN! He stepped back and surveyed the pictures.Now, you have to realize this was one of those moments in my life where I thought, heck, why bother correcting him? I'll just sit back and see what happens. It was one of those moments where you feel like a spectator looking in on your life. And yes, what a life I lead sometimes. I was sure he would realize his mistake as soon as he noticed Magnum floating upside down on the painting. Nope. I decided I wouldn't correct him...this was too odd to be true. He hummed and hawed and gave me an 80%. Oh well, it was a great mark even if the painting was upside down. He thanked me for taking his class, invited me to enroll in the second set of classes and then offered to drive me to the emergency room.Ahhhh, what a glorious ending.
YIKES!!! I am enrolled in summer session at the university so I can finish my degree faster. I am majoring in Animal Science so my typical classes are things like Biochemistry, Swine Nutrition. Ruminant Management, etc. Well, I need some 'filler' classes and you are free to choose anything you like. So this summer I am taking a Classical Greek Myth class, a Statistics class, a Philosophy class (I've taken 3 already and really enjoy them) and a Biology class about ecosystems (aka going on field trips to lakes=summer fun while getting credit). Anyway, the class that is most challenging, new and exciting is Foundation in Painting. I have NO experience and wanted to give it a shot.Well the class is for 3 hours everyday of the week for 7 weeks. The instructor is pleased/surprised I am in the class because everyone else is a Fine Arts major (aside from me and a Math guy). This also means that everyone else has WAY more experience than me!So today was our third day. The first two days we tried drawing 'contour lines' with charcoal. We drew skulls of animals and our hands. Seemed to be difficult but still lots of fun. Then today (I will repeat...the THIRD day only!) they bring out the NUDE MODEL!!!!! OMG!!!!!!! Everyone else was acting like this was a regular walk in the park and me and Math Guy were nervously darting our eyes around the room to figure out what to do. I was wondering...is there going to be a drumroll? Will everyone clap when the nude person comes in? Sorry folks but I am not well versed in the etiquette of painting nude people. While I was fidgeting with my paper and paints all of a sudden...TA DA...there was the nude person...no warning or anything. YIKES!!! No robe, no word of warning, he was just there in all his glory. The professor said, "Everyone, this is Tom". I then said (rather loudly and awkwardly) "Hi Tom!". Nobody else made a peep. Mental note: don't talk to Mr. Nudey.At first I was relieved because we have these huge easels that I could hide from Mr. Nudey. Then the professor made us all gather in close and turn our easels. I was then fully in view of Mr. Nudey while staring intently and trying (gingerly) to depict him in a masculine/non-insulting way (read: I have trouble with proportion and did not want to insult and/or overly flatter strange nude man). Man oh man, talk about difficult. Everyone set to work immediately setting down beautiful masterpieces on their paper while I attempted to paint him without actually looking at him. A difficult task indeed. The professor said that we could pick one part to focus on and make it really large and fill the paper. So I focused on the safe stuff - feet, elbows, hairline, ears. The whole time Mr. Nudey was frowning and serious. I whispered to Math Guy "I never learned how to do this on Mr. Dressup" - that was my main Art teacher growing up, "I want my smelly markers back, this is hard!" At that Mr. Nudey burst out laughing. Note to nude people: laughing does not look good when you are not clothed. ha ha! And what's with all the sprawling and posing?? I'd prefer if they'd stand stiffly upright with hands and legs firmly clamped to the sides.Then we had to draw 'the works' - the whole body on one sheet of paper. I'm not sure how I got through it, but me and Math Guy survived. After my class I went to my husband's laboratory to show him my work. I told him all about the class. Then I showed him my picture of Mr. Nudey's whole body. He burst out laughing - apparently he found it very hilarious that I could go to a nude Art class and still manage to draw a whole body minus the nether-regions and nipples. LMAO Oh well, maybe it'll be easier next time! Thank GOODNESS for Math guy - his painting looked like a deformed Teletubby. At least I am not alone!Tomorrow we meet Mrs. Nudey.Anyone else taken a nude art class?Tamara
Oh man, I feel like such a bumbling idiot in the class. Everyone is so composed and I am trying my hardest not to snicker like I'm in grade school. Ugh. Honestly - one pose he had a waist-high stool (that you would sit on to paint or whatever) and he bent over and put his elbows on the stool. And I had to paint the 'rear-view' and concentrate on the perfect shape of the, er, crack. I was waiting for a camera crew to jump out and tell me I was on some spoof show because it was too weird to be real!I'm a little worried about Mrs. Nudey. Her name is "Una" and from some of the painting of nude women in the studio I'd have to say Mrs. Nudey might be a piece o' work. Yikes! Tam
Class #4 - Mrs. Semi-Nudey
Well folks, class #4 went A LOT smoother than yesterday. At the beginning of the class the professor brought in a third platform to add to the two platforms that Tom had been sprawled on. I was worried. What kind of woman is Mrs. Nudey if she needs THREE platforms when Mr. Nudey only needed two?? I broke out in a cold sweat.Then they brought out Mrs. Nudey. I bit my tongue and did not guffaw out any brash "HEY THERE" greetings. Note to self: way to go on being very suave today in class.Probably the reason the class went so smoothly was because Mrs. Nudey was actually wearing a bathing suit, not her birthday suit. When she pranced in the room I let out a huge, audible sigh of relief akin to air being let out of a tire. Everyone looked at me. I smiled meekly...heh heh heh, sorry classmates. She wasn't as scary as I had anticipated, and she wasn't as old as Mr. Nudey (who was my Dad's age - THE HORROR).The professor then led the class in warm up stretches - bending here, stretching there and jumping jacks. Note to Mrs. Semi-Nudey - people in bathing suits, although they are not nude, should not partake in stretches and jumping around.We then settled in to 3 hours of scribbling Mrs. Semi-Nudey. It was going pretty good because when people are wearing bathing suits it is ok (nay, it is EXPECTED) that you leave out the nipples and the nether-regions and bum cracks. Luckily that is my specialty.At the start of the class Math Guy whispered to me "Why did Tom have to be naked and Una isn't?" I could sense the injustice of it all. But wait a minute...I'm a girl and I still didn't enjoy seeing Tom in all his glory. Why was it necessary for him to be there in the buff? I'm not too sure. I think Math Guy was disappointed. I was a little miffed though because during the coffee break Math Guy abandoned me (and what I consider my stimulating and ingenious conversation, heh heh) and went to sit/swoon with Mrs. Semi-Nudey. Sheesh. I guess when a man is required to study a woman's scantily clad body for 3 hours it is understandable that Math Guy was suddenly smitten.We did fun exercises where we would start to draw for 5 minutes, then we would switch and work on another person's drawing for a while, and keep switching. I like that because then the artistic people draw on my paper, but I get to take it home to my husband and impress him with my 'excellent artwork'. heh heh heh Math Guy appeared to have been suffering from some type of artistic breakdown. He rebelled by wielding a red pastel only and drawing fierce red squiggles on everyone else's Mrs. Semi-Nudey when we were doing the 'switching exercise". I told him it looked like intestines and he smiled and seemed to be pleased. Note to self: Don't make eye contact with Math Guy - I think the Gaelic music the professor blares out over the loud speakers has sent him over the edge.I spent the rest of the afternoon staring intently at Mrs. Semi-Nudey, enjoying the class a lot more because there were no awkward 'bulges' to worry about 'accidentally' staring at as was the case with Mr. Nudey. The only bad part was that Mrs. Semi-Nudey was BIG on the eye contact. Mr. Nudey (be it for shame or perhaps his manly pride) was very careful to stare at the wall above our heads. But Mrs. Semi-Nudey liked to lock eyes with you every once in a while when you were in the middle of studying her bosom or some other awkward moment. At that second when our eyes met I would jump a little jolting my paint brush or charcoal across my painting while emitting a high pitched sound similiar to the mating call of a deermouse. This resulted in some of my pictures where Mrs. Semi-Nudey has what appears to be a debonaire moustache or beard. I am starting to notice a trend in my portfolio - there are numerous pictures of nipple-less, genital-less bearded people...hmm, a new breed of people perhaps?? Hopefully my professor sees the ingenius creativity in all of that and gives me top marks. That is, if I am not kicked out of the class for consistently emitting odd noises that tend to disturb the other students.So I'd have to say that my 4th day of art was a lot better than the 3rd day. Although Una aka Mrs. Semi-Nude still sprawled a lot (and remember - swimming suits lodge themselves in unusual places during sprawling) it was still a lot better. I would prefer to study Mrs. Semi-Nudey's wedgie lines ANY DAY versus staring intently at the wall behind Mr. Nudey while trying to depict his manliness in a proportional way.Thanks for tuning in...join us next time when we spend 3 hours painting cardboard boxes in a pile. I'm sure it will be rivetting.Tamara
Today...BIG sigh of relief. No nude or semi-nude people in sight. Ahhh, such a nice break from the tedious staring at nekked people's bodies. Today we focused on drawing boxes. Equally tedious but none of the funny bulges that people have that tend to make artists, like myself, snicker.Last night's homework included drawing several 'larger than life' images of our hands. The professor wanted the lines to look 'organic', whatever that means. Today I realize that organic is synonymous for borderline crap, yet still artistic enough that everyone thinks it is brilliant. This is where I succeeded. Apparently an organic line is sort of squiggly, so the edge of the hand looks jagged. I got top marks for this exercise as I was shaking like someone going through substance abuse withdrawal when I was attempting to draw my hand. "BRILLIANT! REALLY GOOD" the professor cooed. I beamed importantly as if I meant for it all to happen that way.One of the consequences of drawing while intently staring at my hand rather than the paper is that the fingers looked mishapen and out of proportion. A few look like ET fingers but the one that really caught my eye is an index finger that looks, well, er, like a giant wrinkled phallus. I was worried that the professor would think I am secretly a sicko or something. But alas! Art people LOVE everything about Nudies (or so I am convinced at this point in the course). I think the professor really enjoyed the phallus-like drawing I accidentally, er, I mean intentionally did with lots of forethought.I think he also really like the subtle smudging in the corners where the dogs were gathered around the coffee table (my at-home version of an easel). The dogs were pressing in trying to see what Mum was staring at so hard. The overall effect of smudged dog-head prints was faaaaaabulous.Math Guy is really starting to irritate me. The art supplies are really expensive and he claims it is a waste of money. So he keeps borrowing my stuff and 'forgetting' to return it. Yeah, like I have enough cashola to buy supplies for both myself AND Math Guy who would definitely use up all of the red drawing those squiggly (or should I say "organic") intestines on everything. This morning we were taking notes (note to self: to be good at art apparently one must be poor at spelling if professor is any indication of artistic success. Also: make all writing look like baby birds pecked the words with their newly hatched beaks). Math Guy says that he won't bother writing it down, he'll just get my notes when he needs them. At his point I bellowed out "Do I LOOK like your Mommy?" Remember, class is quitely taking notes. Everyone appears startled and slightly miffed as I disturbed their concentration while drawing boxes. Math Guy looks peeved. Meanwhile I am trying to erase image of myself gently rocking Math Guy to sleep whilst he wears a bonnet and footed-pajamas. Hopefully he gets the hint that I want nothing to do with him or his red squiggly intestines.It sounds like next week we will be having another nude model to do a colour study with. I am already having terrible visions of trying to mix the correct shade of flesh tones and in some 'regions' *gulp* purple (gasp). Wish me luck...this could be one delicate subject. Tam
Weeeellllll, there was a handsome 20-ish young man in the studio yesterday talking to the professor about being a nude model for an upcoming class. The little voice in my head said "YES, PLEASE!" (note to self: do not admit to others you have voices in your head).But this may not be a good idea...I would be sooooo bright red if handsome Mr. Nudey appeared. Egads. Not sure which is worse - attempting to paint 'nasty old' Mr. Nudey or 'tall, dark handsome young' Mr. Nudey. I guess the good thing about Old Mr. Nudey is that I am accustomed to him and his, ahem, "wares" shall we say.After my art classes I go to my husband's lab (he is a Biology grad student) and lay my pictures out on the benches to show him. His supervising professor's name is Art. Yesterday he told me that I left a large picture of Mr. Nudey on the bench. When my husband's professor came in he asked "What is that?" My husband said that he replied "Why that is Tamara's Art". My husband said that Art took it to mean that I was drawing a nude picture of HIM! THE HORROR!!!! I almost burst into tears at the thought of the skinny, coke-bottle glasses professor thinking I was drawing nude pictures of him! That's when my husband burst out laughing and said it was all a joke. Grrrrrrr.Oh yes, but what REALLY did happen is that I was showing him the picture where we took turns drawing on eachother's pictures with pastels (that is where Math Guy went crazy with the red squiggles). They are quite messy with chalky pastels. After I finished showing him I said "Do I have pastels anywhere on my face?" And he said "Yup, all over." I swatted him and laughed because he's always teasing me like that. Then we packed up and headed for home. We had to walk across campus, encountering probably 100 people (including aforementioned Art and my favourite/good buddy janitor). I was smiling and talking to everybody. Then we get in the car and I looked in the mirror. Sure enough, I had orange and green pastels ALL OVER MY FOREHEAD, NOSE AND CHEEKS! I was so embarrassed. I was so mad at my husband. "YOU SHOULD HAVE TOLD ME!!!!!" I said. But I guess he did. It seems I just can't win. Tamara
You know, what I think would be great? If a whole bunch of strip club regulars came to art class their hooting and hollering would really drown out my stupid comments and loud, inappropriate and poorly timed bellowing of "Hi Tom!" Sounds like a great idea to me. And perhaps the watered down drinks bit would be a good idea too...then atleast I'd have an excuse for all of my crooked 'organic' lines.Tam
Hello folks! I am sorry it has been so long without an update. Life is like that sometimes. Ahhh, where to begin??Well, since Mrs. Semi-Nudey there has been nothing but cardboard boxes, wrinkled up nard-like fruits and vases of flowers galore. I am still wondering WHY in the world did we have to have a Mr. Nudey on the 3rd day yet nothing since? Perhaps the *1st* Nudey experience is like your artistic baptism. The proffessor perhaps realized that we couldn't "really" be artists until we had encountered a Nudey. Hence he took it upon himself to unleash Tom in the first week so that we could get on with the more technical aspects of painting and allow our creative juices to flow uninhibited.Our term project was due last week. The title of the project was "A Small World". The instructions were to create a small world on a piece of cardboard and paint all the objects white. We were then to paint a picture of the small world but to enlarge it so it seems we are actually inside of this tiny model world we have created. I was SO excited because it sounded like so much fun. I set to work on it right away.First, I went to the dollar store and bought a variety of farm animals and a small doll. I then painted all these little creatures white and hot glued them onto the cardboard. I got creative and decided to build a 'tower' out of an large empty yogurt tub. It looked great but was missing something. I added a ring of forks around the tower so the tines were like a railing. It was really taking shape! The last thing to add was the baby doll. Unfortunately the baby doll was wearing a dress and had long curly hair. I had to paint the doll white for the assignment so I decided it would be easiest to remove the dress and cut off all the hair. The end result was rather frightening as anyone who has cut a doll's hair can attest too. The poor baby was now not only naked but also had a circular mohawk hairdo. I ended up hotgluing the baby to the top of the tower with a skewer glued in its hand like a royal scepter. My small world was complete and it looked TERRIFIC! I giggled to myself while putting it together because it was so funny and cute.I painted away at home enjoying the absence of Math Guy and the Gaelic music. At one point I stood up with my 'easel' (aka a large scrap of cardboard). I was caught off balance and dropped my wet painting on poor Luke! The good ole' white boxer boy took the black 'racing stripes' quite well. I think the dog hair texture really added a lot of 'body' to my painting as well.I completed my painting and took it to class for our group "critique". This is basically where we would get up one at a time and display our work while talking about it in fluffy, creative words. I put my painting up on the wall and everyone started to snicker. I couldn't understand why. I said "What's so funny?" The professor (who was also giggling at this point) said "I wonder!" Well yes, I did wonder. "You painted a picture of a naked baby on a tower surrounded by forks with a big giant goose looking up at him!" Everyone was laughing so hard by this point. It was a real hit. Everyone LOVED this weird little piece of work. I didn't really understand what all the fuss was about until everyone else had displayed their pictures. I was the only one who made a "small world" for the Small World Project. Everyone else had just piled a bunch of random items together...bottles, boxes, cans, cones. It seems odd to me that no one else would have interpreted it the same as I.Later that week we had our "porfolio" interviews. Each of us would meet with our professor and go over all of our work from the term to determine our midterm mark. The professor laughed his bum off at my Mr. Nudey's because in the dozen or so pictures I had done I managed to avoid nether-regions and nipples in every single one! But he said I have real potential and that my portfolio was really good. I was surprised because my work is a lot more 'organic' looking and more basic than everyone elses.We got our midterm marks back last week and surprising I am above the class average! I even beat some of the REAL artists in the class! I can't believe it but I am glad he recognizes my effort and attempt at being creative! Tam
My Art Class Comrades:
MARIO (Affectionately known as "Math Guy"):Math Guy is a new breed of arrogance. My goodness. This guy is a genius but his superhuman intelligance comes with a price. And that price is called social skills. He is currently taking Chemistry AND Math degrees simultaneously. He has little regard for any of the other students in our class because they are all in "Arts" as he likes to sneer with an air of superiority. I am spared because I am the lowly Agriculture student and I am A-OK in Math Guy's books because I have taken both Chemistry AND Math myself.Math Guy's paintings leave something to be desired because unless there is a formula involved, he can't do it. His "small world" consisted of a piece of paper painted gray with black smudges in three places. He proceeded to rave about how terrific and three dimensional his painting was. The class was polite and supportive and encouraged him along. Then the rest of the students displayed their work. Math Guy gave a 3 minute speech for each painting explaining why he felt each and every one of their paintings was inferior and incorrect. I felt the other students paintings ought to be on display in a gallery but Math Guy thought they were all crap. Apparently Math Guy is all for the "no-hold's barred" critique session. A lot of the other students have taken it upon themselves to embrace this form of critique for the next session. Yikes, I hope Math Guy wears protective head gear.I could go on about this weird, rotund little man all day but I'm sure you are all bored by now.Take care and don't pose bare! Tamara
The thrilling conclusion...(sorry it has taken so long!)Our professor assigned a large final project consisting of several paintings. There were several choices of topics. One of the choices was called a vanatess or somethingeruther. It consists of a photograph surrounded by objects that are significant to that person. It also shows the 'fleeting nature of life' through rotten fruit, clocks, skulls and other equally morbid symbols. Well, the most interesting 'person' I know was my horse Magnum. I gathered a bunch of items such as a bridle, whip, leg bandages, brushes, riding boot, etc and arranged them around a photograph of Magnum. I put hours and hours into this project. It was really starting to take shape.A few days prior to the due date I contracted a wretched illness that appeared to be a hybrid of Mad Cow Disease, SARS and West Nile. I was one sick puppy. As a result my paintings perhaps didn't get as much attention as I would have liked. They were fairly good though, and I had faith my professor would take pity on my pathetic little self.I dragged my body to the final portfolio interview with all of my paintings from the entire year in hand. I began spreading them out for display when the professor caught sight of my ghostly pale sickly self and told me to sit down and relax. He would worry about laying the paintings out and critiquing them. I sat back and watched.He gently removed each painting from my folder and arranged them on the wall. Finally he came down to the last painting...my final project. This was the one I had poured hours and hours of sickly effort into. He turned it one way, then the other. Finally he hung it on the wall...UPSIDE DOWN! He stepped back and surveyed the pictures.Now, you have to realize this was one of those moments in my life where I thought, heck, why bother correcting him? I'll just sit back and see what happens. It was one of those moments where you feel like a spectator looking in on your life. And yes, what a life I lead sometimes. I was sure he would realize his mistake as soon as he noticed Magnum floating upside down on the painting. Nope. I decided I wouldn't correct him...this was too odd to be true. He hummed and hawed and gave me an 80%. Oh well, it was a great mark even if the painting was upside down. He thanked me for taking his class, invited me to enroll in the second set of classes and then offered to drive me to the emergency room.Ahhhh, what a glorious ending.
Crispy Goat Nads and Other Fond Childhood Memories
I woke up this morning with a clear vision from my childhood. A real "blast from the past" you might say. When I was about 11 years old Ma and Pa bought me a African pygmy goat named Demetri. He was tiny and just a few days old. I had to bottefeed him several times a day. Ma and Pa had the breeding farm "elastrate" him prior to our acquisition of him. This entails putting a rubber ring around the goat's "junk", cutting off the blood supply so eventually the nads shrivel up and fall off. Gross, eh? Yes, it was gross. I remember we were playing with Demetri in the living room. Suddenly a hairy bacon-bit type nugget fell on the floor. I picked it up to inspect it closer. Egads, it was a crispy, dry, goat scrotum.
Unfortunately the tale of woe does not end there. This barbaric procedure caused a gangrene infection in the little goat. His whole underside became infected and peeled. We took him to the vet who recommended spreading a salve on it daily. The only problem was that the goat would frantically lick the salve off the moment it was applied.
So what did we do?
We got a pair of BroMo's underpants. Mo would have been about 9 at the time, so these were tiny little blue skivvies. We put these little gonchies on the goat, and fastened them in place with suspenders. Luckily little boy underwear come equipped with those little weenie pouches on the front, you know the kind. We were able to stick poor Demetri's tail out through the little weenie pouch. It was a good fit. Slowly Demetri's health improved and he no longer had reason to sport little boy undies.
Yes, folks, that is the first thought I had upon rising this morning.
And don't you worry...there are plenty of tales of that hellion goat to come.
Later,
Tams
Unfortunately the tale of woe does not end there. This barbaric procedure caused a gangrene infection in the little goat. His whole underside became infected and peeled. We took him to the vet who recommended spreading a salve on it daily. The only problem was that the goat would frantically lick the salve off the moment it was applied.
So what did we do?
We got a pair of BroMo's underpants. Mo would have been about 9 at the time, so these were tiny little blue skivvies. We put these little gonchies on the goat, and fastened them in place with suspenders. Luckily little boy underwear come equipped with those little weenie pouches on the front, you know the kind. We were able to stick poor Demetri's tail out through the little weenie pouch. It was a good fit. Slowly Demetri's health improved and he no longer had reason to sport little boy undies.
Yes, folks, that is the first thought I had upon rising this morning.
And don't you worry...there are plenty of tales of that hellion goat to come.
Later,
Tams
Musings on Becoming a Baleyard Princess
Alas! I have arrived on the Blog scene, and only several years late. But really, that is pretty good if you consider my genetics. Our dear G.G. (Great Grandma Watermelon to you) is perpetually late. Christmas would not be Christmas without her rolling in 3 hours late, driving her little red Ford like her hair is on fire. At a recent surprise party she rolled in 10 minutes after guests of honour and the great "SURPRISE". In true G.G. fashion she flung the door open, smiled from ear to ear and threw up her arms to announce her arrival with her own gutteral shout of "SURPRISE". Later, gasping for breath and she covered her mouth and guffawed in her deep G.G. fashion, she jokingly explained that she'd be late for her own funeral. She giggled at the thought of the hearse sitting roadside with a flat tire while family and friends sit wondering how a person could possibly be late for their own funeral.
And there you have it. Its in my blood. "SURPRISE!" Here I am, I've arrived at last. I may be late, but its been a helluva ride to get here.
So where is "here" exactly?? Hmmm, now that is an interesting question, one that I consider with both a guarded joy and intense trepidation. Yes, it is true. I am a Baleyard Princess.
As kids we'd always joke about "settling down in the baleyard" like so many farm families in our area. Ma and Pa have the "big house" while Jr. and family nestle in and get cozy in a (gasp) singlewide trailer, raising babies and dreaming of a day when they'll get to ride the tractor and go to bed in the "big house" rather than biding their time opening gates and battling frozen water pipes in their singlewide during the winter. Of course WE'D never settle for a fate like that. No, settling would never do. One must reach for the stars! Follow your dreams! Move out and move on. I had my sights set on bigger and better things for MY life.
Fast forward a few years...and here I am, baleyard bound. But really, its not as bad as you might imagine. You see, I did move out and move on. I moved all the way out to the bald headed prairies with the vision of vet school firmly in my mind. My first night off the farm I met a young Biology student, a Saskatchewan farmboy with a gentle nature and big smile. I suppose the rest is history. My dreams of vet school didn't materialize. I don't suppose it was failing and not realizing my dream so much as re-evaluating my priorities and discovering new dreams I hadn't considered before. I suppose part of new dreams is that they are often brewed up when you have someone to share them with.
Five years after landing on sacred Sask soil I completed my BSA degree in Animal Science. I suppose I'll perpetually be known as "almost, but not quite" a vet. Yes, it makes me grit my teeth and does sting a little when a well-meaning local asks for the umpteenth time "You're a vet, aren't ya?". I suppose its my own fault for broadcasting my grand plans to the world. My dear Sask Farm Boy (SFB for now) finished his MSc in Biology. At this point we were married and ready to take on the world. We started job searching and lo and behold SFB landed a job not far from my old hometown. Why not? Seemed like a great idea at the time.
We moved to a small town in central AB that was close proximity to SFB's work and my Ma and Pa. What an absolute desolate wasteland of small town it was. It was booming, economically. It had the appearances of a thriving, bustling community. But it suffered from a plague that haunts many small towns these days. It was merely a parasite, a blood sucking mite, if you will, of the neighbouring busy metropolis. The people who lived in this small town didn't want to be there. In their hearts they lived in the city. They worked in the city, their friends were in the city, they played in the city. This small town was all they could afford, but God help them if they'd let it take their souls. So these miserable creatures lived in a town that was a constant reminder of what they couldn't have, couldn't afford. You are "almost, but not quite" well enough off for the city. Dozens of young families and struggling middle-aged labourers found refuge in this small bedroom community, eagerly looking north towards the glow of the big city, a barren sadness on their faces. Does this sound like the kind of community to open you with open arms?? Hell no. In the entire year we lived there we did not even lay eyes on our neighbours across the street. It was only with a bit of cunning and my adept hunting skills that I was able to properly introduce myself to our next door neighbours as I rushed from the bushes to thrust my hand into their clammy palms and introduce myself with a pasted on smile and my own brand of small town barren sadness.
And the cats!!! If it weren't bad enough that we were living in the virtual gluteus maximus of the province, there were cats, multitudes of cats, rampaging the streets. They'd shit in our bushes, taunt our frantic simpleton terriers in the window and fornicate under our window at 4 am, yowling incessantly. In rage I'd grit my teeth and silently curse them. Why should the cats be the only creatures thriving joyously in this town?
A year passed as slowly as if I'd been hired to watch toenails grow. It was excrutiating. One day in passing Ma and I started "what iffing" our living situation. What if, lets say, we moved out to the farm? We could build a house perhaps. Hmmm, wouldn't that be nice. Selling our house in the horrid bedroom community would alleviate some debt. Oh, and lets not forget that at this point we are expecting Baby. Who could stand to raise their offspring in such a negative, empty community? We quickly put plans in motion to sell our house and relocate out at The Farm. It would mean a 56 km commute for SFB each day, but what is a little driving when it comes down to true happiness?
In we move with Ma and Pa. The months start to trickle by faster and faster. My giant egg shaped abdomen keeps on expanding. Plans are not progressing with establishing our own humble abode. The current communal living situation is growing more stifling by the day. I begin having frequent nightmares of Baby's arrival while we are still "homeless". Baby is relegated to a laundry basket in the corner, tightly packed between the stacks of boxes and suitcases we've been living out of.
In desparation I find a trailer to buy. Its 10 years old, but in good shape. It will have to do. Baby will be here soon. Now where shall we put it? We scope out many locations. A beautiful hilltop near the forest with a view of the river? That won't do. Baby could fall in the Raven and the cost of services would be far too high. What about the small wooded grove across the river? Well, that would add to SFB's long drive, and we'd sure have to do a lot of work to build a road to access the private piece of paradise. Baby is coming, let's hurry up! We finally settle on a bare patch of land in the poplar bluff 400 yards from Ma and Pa's. Its flat, open and close to services and the road. Oh yes, and lets not forget, its close to the baleyard as well. Damned close. But Baby is coming! So who cares about the blasted baleyard. Lets get that trailer moved in there and get on with our lives.
That was a little over a year ago now. Its hard to believe we've been "squatting" here in our singlewide just a stone's throw from the baleyard. From my kitchen window I can see a makeshift bale moving trailer, a rusted old army Jeep and a whole cavalry of old busted up vehicle carcasses. 100 m from our front gate stands a massive pile of brush, trees, decaying shed bits and shingles, accumulated there since the last time Pa burned it (and nearly burned out the neighbours as well). Oh Lord, its good to be home.
For the most part I'd say I am quite pleased and proud of where we are now. I realize now that baleyard squatting, although not glamourous, can be quite pleasant at times. Who says that success must be measured by the distance away from home? Perhaps spreading your wings and flying is the dream of some, yet it took me 5 years to realize that sometimes the best place to be is right where you came from.
Baby is now a robust, vibrant 14 month old. He has his own opinions of this world and how it works. He spends his days playing on the faded beige carpet of a singlewide baleyard trailer. Yet, when the sun is out we venture out around the farm, taking in sights and sounds that most kids his age only read about in story books. How many little boys can say they have their very own collection of "minis" right outside their back door? He will grow up thinking that daily adventures with pygmy goats, pot bellied pigs, mini horses, mini donkeys, dogs, cats and cows are normal. He will know what the stars look like in the pitch darkness of night. He will know what fresh mown hay will smell like, and he will see the miracles of life and nature unfolding outside his bedroom window everyday. That is the way I remember my childhood. I am filled with a warm oozie heart buzz at the thought of my Peanut having a similar fate.
This evening my bro (Uncle Momo) and I were driving home from the big city. For some ridiculous reason I enrolled Peanut into a Kindermusik class for $118. Once a week we get up early and drive an hour into the city so that we can sing, play and frolic with other little ones. The theme is farm animals and I can't help but see the irony. It occurs to me as I am rolling around on the floor "oinking" with socks on my hands alongside the other overly enthusiastic mothers that Peanut will probably have much more of an idea than any of these people as to what a real pig sounds like. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised when he looks at me with that wise-beyond-his-years bemused look. He knows the score. He falls asleep as soon as we leave the city lights, unencumbered by any troubling thoughts or schemed, innocent and baby soft. Uncle Momo and I to reminisce about days gone by and our childhoods. We realize now that our "normal" childhoods were far from normal. There are some life experiences and freedoms that can't be experienced anywhere but from the unadultered rawness of the farm. We learned a lot about love, birth, life, responsibility, pain, suffering and death. There were many times our lives were bursting at the seams with joy, excitement and adventure. There were also times that we felt great loss, sadness, grief and curiosity when the life came full circle, our animal friends perished, returned to the ground they were born upon. Growing up on a farm has made my life so rich, and it took leaving the farm to realize it.
And that is that.
I sit here, Princess of my singlewide baleyard trailer, and I can honestly say, without a doubt, that this is where I'm supposed to be.
Take care,
Tams
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