The Farm Report

It's finally starting to smell like Spring, which means that here at the farm, we're gearing up for warm weather.

The girls and Fido have been spending more time outside,which has been good for all involved. I've got less fur all over the house and everyone's been really tired at night, eliminating nighttime schenannigans. The dogs guard the driveway through closed eyelids, opening them only when the bobbing of their own sleeping head wakes them up. Somewhere amid the mountains of melting snow Fido has found the few patches of dirt in which to roll. He's been screaming at me through the garage door less often now that it's not so cold out there.

The turkeys have been out in in full force. As I raced down the road my progress was significantly slowed by the leisurely crossing of a flock of at least eighteen turkeys. I keep waiting for the day the Hens leave the farm and join the turkey flock; I'll see them only fleetingly as they trail the turkey pack.

The Hens are enjoying the warm weather and the smattering of bugs that come along with it. With less snow to pad their tread, I'm once again awakened by the pitter patter of Hen feet atop my roof. They still spend the majority of the day on the neighbor's deck. Honking and pooping all over and scaring away the birds Margee beckons with her many feeders. I've been wondering how they make their way all the way out there. It's a distance of probably 350 feet and I've never seen chicken tracks making their way across the field; I know they can fly, kind of, but that's a long way to go. My curiosity was satisfied the other day when I watched them fly home. Hen 1 powerfully left the deck, flapping furiously, until she found a good draft by which she glided gracefully to the roof. From there she hopped to The Tree and settled in for the evening. Following this was a good three minutes of persistent honking as Hen 1 shouted to Hen 2 to "Hey! Hey Hen 2! C'mon over, The Bachelor's almost starting!" And Hen 2 would yell back, "Is it a new episode? I don't know, it's kinda nice here..." And they honked back and forth until Hen 2 reluctantly left the comfort of the deck. She didn't fly as well, she doesn't know when she should flap and when she should glide, making her remarkably awkward in the air. But she made it. And then they honked at one another for a few moments until The Bachelor finally started.

As the temperature rises I'm losing my extra fridge space. It's almost too warm to keep leaving the extra gallon of milk out there. I'm going to have to come up with a game plan because there's no way that the Costco sized juice I buy is going to fit in my tiny fridge.

And I'm pretty sure the goldfish are expecting any day now.

Ah, yes, Spring is in the air and the farm is blossoming.

The Hot Lava Game

I've got a new workout plan, it's called The Hot Lava Game.  Our floors are a classy linoleum pattern of green and white squares.  The white ones are Hot Lava.  Or maybe it's the green ones; I can never be sure, it changes so often. 

All I know is that when Lou says, "THE (insert this moment's color) ARE HOT LAVA!!!" I know that I had better start jumping from square to square.  I sure as hell don't want to burn!

All rugs are safe zones- and the bathroom, which has only white tiles.  And, of course, all furniture is safe.  Standard rules.

It's goofy, it's fun, and it's something that Lou and I can bond over.  I mean, c'mon, there's no better bonding than the kind that happens when you're finally safe on the couch having survived the perils on the floor.

And you know what?  My legs are kind of sore.  This may be a sign that I should start being more serious about my exercise. 

I'm taking it as a sign that I'm finally getting some exercise.

Le Moustache

I've been feeding the goldfish with a color-enhancing tropical fish food.  I have no idea if this food is even appropriate for goldfish, I'm not sure they're considered tropical fish, where are they from anyways?  But it's what I have and I'll be damned if I buy one more useless container of fish food.  They're still alive, so I've decided that this must be the correct food for them. 

One of the goldfish has started getting more and more dark patches.  He must be one of the Walmart survivors.  Mind you, I have no idea if this fish is male or female, nor am I all that worried about finding out; but I call him a he because he reminds me of our neighbor Wayne, in Florida.  He's small and goofy looking and I think that if he had the choice he'd be wearing a Speedo and climbing a banana tree.

Anyways, he's started getting some black on the tips of his fins and recently he's developed a mustache. 

It's a very sophisticated mustache.  It looks quite French, and it fits with his Wayne personality.  He often stares out at you from inside his tank, his look sobered by his mustache.  I've taken to calling him Pierre, although I'm constantly reminded that his name is, in fact, Belle.  We've stated doing imitations of him where we curve our pointer finger around the top of our mouths and ask, "Who am I?  Hey, you guys, look, who am I?"

It's hilarious.

Poor Lou thinks that this is what normal people do for entertainment.

So anyways, I've given him a voice, and I often speak for him, "Oooh, look at me, I am zo Frunch."  I give him a good, thick accent.  It's widly entertaining.  We must be really bored out here.

We were at a party last weekend and Lou turned to me, finger curled around her lip, and said, "Ooooh I am zo Frunch!"

The room erupted into laughter, and I have no idea what everyone at the party thought of my parenting, but I, for one, was so proud!  My daughter is mastering the art of the immitation.  She's ready for the theatre, in the words of Pierre.

Brilliant!

Until you ask her to immitate me...

There's Always Something...

My kitchen is covered in dog food.  I'm not sure why, but recently the girls have begun taking mouthfuls of food and walking a few feet before crunching down.  So I decided to vacuum.  Since I'm vacuuming anyways I should probably get out the hose and get all that dog fur that collects and multiplies in every corner.  Once the floor was dog food free I figured I may as well do a quick mopping, just because I can't see the dog spit all over the floor doesn't mean it's not there.

So I went to the closet to grab the mop.  Of course, the light in the closet is burnt out, and replacing the bulb would mean actually finding a new bulb- who knows where I've been "storing" them lately, and then squeezing a step stool close enough to be able to actually reach the burnt out bulb.

Well, I found a new bulb, in the file cabinet, of course.  And after a perilous attempt at reaching the bulb I give up, add that to my Other Half's to-do list.

Now for the mop.  I finally got it after groping blindly through the darkness.  I had forgotten that the mop head had slipped off and the intricacies of mop head replacement escape me.  By the time I'd gotten the mop together I'd wasted a good twenty minutes.  So much for being efficient.

Once the floor was cleaned I looked around, and much to my dismay, I discovered that my house still looked like I'd rented it out to hillbillies for a month or so.  So I started to load the dirty dishes into the dishwasher, which was quickly filled.  I grabbed the detergent from under the sink and tried to pour it.  The problem is that that cabinet must be extremely humid because all the detergent was clumped up inside its cardboard box and refused to pour.  I closed the top and shook vigorously.  I could hear some chunks clunking around, excellent, I'm in luck!  So I poured out three chunks of dish detergent that bounced wildly, none of them actually landing in the little tray intended for soap.

Ok, dishwasher loaded and finally running, I should probably clean off the stove.  Which means that I have to clean the teapot on the stove that refuses to remain white.  And once the top of the stove is clean I notice that the front of the stove is covered in greasy fingerprints and what appears to be a dog's tongue marks.  At least I hope it's from the dog, I'm in need of some serious parenting help if it's from Lou.  So I clean the front of the stove, and figure that since I've got all my cleaning accoutrements out I should probably wash down the fridge and dishwasher too.  Which means that I have to move all the magnets, papers, pictures and stickers stuck on said appliances.  But where to put them?  Now I have to clean the counter.  So by the time I've mopped the floor I've ended up cleaning the kitchen.

But what's this?  That's right, more dog food on the floor.

There's always something and it never ends...

The Cockroach Game

Cockroaches are gross, beyond gross.  I lived in Florida in my early years, and there is no way to escape the occasional cockroach.  They just happen.  My mom hated cockroaches, and I think this cockroach hating thing may be hereditary.  I've had about three nightmares my whole life and two of them have been about cockroaches. 

So one day, well after our move up here to the tundra, my dad and I were out when we spotted a rubbery cockroach that could totally pass as the real deal.  Of course, we could not resist buying this present for my mom.  I put it in her underwear drawer.  I still remember the scream the next morning when she found it.

She put it in my laundry.  I'd hide it in her book, she'd slip it in my bed, I'd tuck it under the top kleenex.  It went back and forth, and you know what, it was just as entertaining the 800th time as it was the first time.

So in a recent attempt to clear out clutter I opened the jewelry box that's been collecting dust for the last six years or so.  And there it was: The Cockroach.

Lou was there and she completely freaked out.  Even after I'd been holding it (and believe me, I don't do bugs, so this was a sure sign that this bug was definitely not real, as I'd been trying to assure her) she still wouldn't get too close.  It was admired with a grotesque fascination from a safe distance.  I couldn't resist carrying on tradition, so I had to put it in my Other Half's slippers- classic!

Not as great of a reaction as I would have gotten with my mom, but not bad, and I'll take it.

What Lou has learned from this is that it's hilarious to leave things in people's shoes.  The next night she left her tiny slippers in the Other Half's slippers.  The night after that it was her chapstick.  She's even starting leaving things in her own shoes so that she can get a laugh in the morning.  She still won't go near The Cockroach, but she's warming up to the idea.  Which is a good thing.  I don't want to raise a girl who's too girly to touch a fake bug, but believe me, I'm dreading the day when I find that bad boy in my own shoes.

Perspective

Lou has a friend who has recently begun bellowing at school.  Her mom was told that her daughter, "has been bellowing lately and it's been disrupting the other childrens' work cycle".  The teacher is having a hard time not laughing because it's so funny. 

So her mom asked her, "honey, have you been singing at school?"

To which she replied, "Yeah.  And Lou is the only one who knows that I'm singing Ariel's song!"

One person's bellow is another person's song.  I think that's important to remember.

Embracing Wet Dogs

I'm trying to loosen up when it comes to the state of my house.  It's just not reasonable to think that it will always be completely picked up, dust free, and sanitized.  It's a continual work in progress.

I'm not sure when I became such a clean freak, but seriously, why can't it always be completely picked up, dust free, and sanitized?

So it drives me crazy when the dogs come back inside.  They reek like dogs and they're soaking wet, in fact, I'm amazed that there's still snow left outside.  They storm the front door, jockeying to be the first one in and have to immediately check the status of the food bowls, a status which hasn't changed since they went outside, and never will unless I decide to take up dog food, but nonetheless needs to be checked.

And then they have to make sure that, although they're not going to eat, the other one doesn't try to.  So they have a staring contest for a minute or so before going their separate ways, leaving a trail of melted snow behind them.

Chowder goes straight for my bed where she can make sure to get the comforter and pillows wet.  Gidget takes her spot on the couch where she can leave footprints all over.

I've tried keeping them in the garage and letting them dry off before letting them in.  The problem is that they look so pathetic out there that I just have to let them in to stop them from embarrassing themselves further.

Sure I could dry them off with a towel but that's just more work than it's worth. 

As a mama's girl, Gidget is always the first one to sit to be towelled.  But she likes to play tug of war with the towel and Chowder finds that unacceptable.  As Gidge tries to rip the head off of the towel Chowder agitatedly whines and I scramble to hold on to bouncing dog feet and dry them.  And Chowder paces, undoing any progress I may have made with Gidget's snow.

As for Chowder's turn, you'd think I was trying to dry her with sandpaper, the way she acts.  As the doer of the action I know that I can't possibly be hurting her, but the way she looks at me, I begin to wonder sometimes.  Did I accidentally grab an oversized Brillo pad?  Nope, it's still just a towel.

And Chowder's complaining really gets Gidget's goat.  Whatever herding dog is in her comes out as she circles us, daring Chowder to actually do something about her words.  So by the time I've dried them both there's still snow on the floor and I'm left with two very worked up dogs and wet socks.

So I've decided to embrace wet dogs in my house and the snow they bring with them.  I am actively incorporating the outdoors into my interior design.  I'm viewing it as extra moisture added to the dry winter air.  It's cleansing.  It's become a mantra.

Someone please remind me of this in the spring when they start bringing in mud.

Goldfish

Fish don't usually last too long in our house.  It may be the occasional over-exuberance with which Lou feeds them.  A few have fallen victim to the cat.  One unlucky fish became lunch for the dog shortly after she came home.  I couldn't figure out what had happened to the the lone fish I had left in a bowl on the counter while the tank was being cleaned.  Lou and I returned from running errands to find an empty bowl of water.  Gidget was the only one home...

So when the most current Cinderella, Belle, and Ariel went to fish heaven, my Other Half went to PetsMart for some replacements.

After picking out the goldfish, he was asked how big the tank was that he was planning on keeping them in.  He indicated with his hands the size of the tank, it's little, but then again, they're little fish.

"Well, you know, these things grow to be a foot long."

Seriously?  These twenty-eight cent goldfish are going to grow to be a foot long?  What an incredible bargain!  It makes you wonder how PetsMart can stay in business.  We keep joking that they're just hours away from exploding in size.  We're going to have to dig them a lake in the backyard.  But as of yet they appear to be exactly the same size as they were the day we got them.

I want my fifty-six cents back.

Privacy

When I slowly began to emerge from that haze of postpartum depression and actually deal with the fact that I indeed had a child who would soon be mobile, I began the process of childproofing my home.  Electric outlets were covered with a contraption I could hardly remove, breakable objects were moved to higher homes (that weren't safe for very long), the stove door was secured, and sharp corners were covered- I'm still trying to remove the glue from the TV stand.

But for an unknown reason, I decided not to childproof the bathroom.  I had some crazy idea that the bathroom would be my refuge; my one baby-free space since my house is tiny and Lou and I share a room. I put on a door handle cover that I could barely operate and called it a day.

Little did I know that there is no such thing as a refuge, and I would never be needed more than when I was in the bathroom. 

And it's not just Lou.  EVERYONE, it seems, needs me as soon as I go in there.  As I tried to get a few moments of peace yesterday I was mentally blocking out the chaos.  Lou came in, all dolled up in one of my fancy dresses that I will never wear again, teetering dangerously in the heels I feel too ridiculous in to ever wear again.  She brought her blanket and doll with her.

And of course the dogs joined us.  Chowder stood there with her head practically in my lap.  Gidget stood blocking the doorway, pleading with her mournful hound eyes.  She left for a few moments and brought back a rope just in case I felt like playing tug-of-war.  I wonder if the fish were sad that their tank wasn't more mobile so that they could join the party too.

And you should've seen the looks on all their faces when I asked for a little privacy.  You'd think I just told them all that I had cancelled a much anticipated trip to Disney World.

I know, I know, she's not going to want to hang out with me in the bathroom forever, I should really try to enjoy this unique bonding time.  But what about the dogs?  Will they do this forever?  Am I destined to never pee alone again?

Probably. 

Oh well, I'd probably just get lonely anways.

Kid Training Manual

My daughter is three, so it's probably needless to say that we're engaged in a constant power struggle as she figures out how much control she has and where she belongs in the world.  Lou comes equipped with endless amounts of energy; so as I'm just trying to make it through this battle, she's already gearing up for the next one.  I don't want to be a mean mom, I'd love to just relax and enjoy our time together.  I'm young, I'm fun, can't my kid see me this way?  Nope.  Because when she does I become a door mat.

We got a rescue dog last May, and I've been taking some tricks from dog training books, and suprisingly (frighteningly) some of it applies to children too.

Take the concept of being the alpha.  Dogs and children listen when they know who's in charge, if there's any doubt as to who the leader is, chaos ensues. Lou listens wonderfully when she knows that I'm in control of the situation, no ifs, ands, or buts about it. But just let me take a moment to, oh I don't know, take a quiet moment on the couch to read, or perhaps even (gasp!) go to the bathroom alone. And what happens?

Anarchy. That's what happens. Because, apparently, I'm not the boss of her. But once I regain my alpha status, peace reigns over my Queendom.

Both dogs and children listen better when you say their name before you give a command.  Take for instance, "Please bring your toys back into the playroom, someone's going to trip over Cinderella's car".  Simple enough.  But unless I say, "Lou, please bring your toys back to the playroom, someone's going to trip over Cinderella's car," I get no response.  She's under the impression that I must be talking to the fish or maybe just talking to myself since I am the resident maid.

Like the dogs, Lou needs lots of exercise.  She needs to run around and be playful so that when it's story time, she's ready to sit still.  I can count on mischeif during extended periods of cold when we've holed ourselves up for a few days.

I wonder if Lou could learn to heel, that'd definately make the grocery store easier.

Of course I'll keep treating her like the individual child she is, I get it, she's not actually a dog ,and besides, I have no desire for another dog (yet). And although I prayed for a puppy, I did indeed give birth to a human child.  But even so, it never hurts to take a few pointers from experts who have been able to get someone, even if it's a dog, to take them seriously.

Sound Tracks: Music Without Borders | PBS

Sound Tracks: Music Without Borders PBS

Sunday  night we were watching PBS and saw this show on the new identity of propoganda music, the first section of which is on Putin's theme song and it's overwhelming popularity in Russia. I can see why. I can't get it out of my head.  I've been bouncing around, singing that I need "a man like Putin" since late Sunday.

A later section focused on a violin virtuoso from Kazakstan who enlisted Aaron Baron Cohen, brother of Sasha Baron Cohen, and the composer of the music for  Borat, to write a symphony for the people of Kazakhstan.  The piece was performed in Kazakhstan's premiere orchestra hall.  The host of the show then goes around and asks  people what they thought of the composition and if, now that they've heard this song, they could be able to forgive Borat.  One poor kid who was about nineteen was with his mother when they asked him.  "Forgive Borat?" He pauses thoughtfully for a moment, and then, with a slight smile and a gentle nod he says,  "Of course we can forgive Borat".

You should have seen the look on his mother's face.  She was waving her arms and jumping around like a madman, shouting, "HOLY SHIT!!! WHAT DO YOU MEAN WE CAN FORGIVE BORAT?!?!?!"  Except she did it in Kazakhstanian, which means that she just stood still with the same faint smile plastered on her face and  seared him with her eyes.

Oh those Kazakstanian mothers.