Take a walk with me...

Last Saturday, I got off my duff and took a walk around the farm.  It was 75 degrees and sunny which makes it a virtual crime to stay in doors.  I would have liked to take you with me but you were all busy. I know because I peeked in your windows.  You all are impeccable house-keepers. 

Come along with me...

For whatever reason, I always feel like I should provide commentary on every picture but that is not always necessary.  Plus, you might be tired of my snarkiness. 

So, here's some fence posts that are covered in what appears to be green scabs. 

Cows are in a constant state of panic.  For really no reason at all.

Oh, looky.  An outhouse.  How convenient after a long walk. 

Don't mind if I doo.  

 That must have hurt.  Don't ask me why people were eating shoes back in the early 1900's. 

Moving on...

Next stop, an old schoolhouse on the outskirts of the property.  I know a lot about school because I was in for a very, very long time. 

Just ask Sallie freaking Mae. 

I am researching the origin of this early 1900's schoolhouse so I hope to be able to update you at some point.  For now, I've been instructed to talk to the neighbors to my left and the lady at the post office down the road for more information.  However, it's fun to imagine what may have taken place during that time period... 

The inside of the school house.  

Imagine all the lessons that were written on that board or the many noses that were pressed up in the corner...

As a little girl, I wanted to be a school teacher.  My brother, mother and who ever else would give me the time of day were my semi-cooperative pupils.  I won't say I didn't yell at them or give them big red "F's" on their worksheets.  I was tough, but fair.  Mainly, I was just bossy.

 Well, I'm exhausted.  How about you?  Let's go.  While on the way, let's take a picture of the cotton ball clouds.  Sorry if I am excited about the most mundane of objects. 

Almost home.  Calves.  Burning.

Thanks for coming along with me.  

Coming soon, the story of my crazy neighbors.  Literally. 

Nekkid

Montana holds the official title of "Big sky country" but I'm pretty sure West Virginia is its kissing cousin.  Please take a moment to revel in the subtle inference of incest.  

These things come to me in flashes of brilliance.

I hope to show you one day what I mean by "big sky" but my camera has been around for years and is very, very tired.  Its shutter speed is such that the object I intend on capturing on film will have graduated college, gotten married and moved cross country before their image registers.  In other words, the ideal subjects for this rattle-trap Nikon are stationary items like statues, buildings and old people.

Anyway, what was I saying?  Oh yes.  Because of the big sky panoramic views, I am able to forecast inclement weather days in advance.  Well, not days per se.  It sure feels like it.  

Here is a shot of a storm rolling through the other evening.  In the background are Quincy and Winnie being regal. 

The sheep were kept in the barn or "jug" overnight while this weather system moved through because they were getting their hair done cut off the very next morning.  Wet wool is apparently brutal on electric shearers.

The close quarters caused much consternation amongst the community. 

"Say wa? You say this Jerry Curl is coming off?" 

This guy is always consternated. 

At 9:00 the next morning, we had a professional sheep shearer come out the farm and strip these guys nekkid. 

You should know right off the bat that sheep love being on their backs and even more then that, they love loud tools that hover a mere millimeter from their flesh.

Look at how relaxed this guy is?  He's LOVING it.

"Fa-la-te-da"

And just in time for summer, Leila gets a bikini trim.
(sorry, I know that's unsavory but I couldn't help myself)

Going,

going...

 gone.

Coming soon to a mailbox near you, Lands' End Winter Fleece collection 2012.

Meet the Neighbors

Oh boy, oh boy!  I don't even know where to start.  At this juncture in my life, I had imagined I would be living in downtown Chicago with a few kids, a husband, a mortgage and a cute lawn boy to look at because I married for money and not for looks. And because this was birthed from my squirrelly imagination, yes, I would have a lawn in downtown Chicago.

Of course.  

That is why I feel so very blessed that life would throw me this country bone... 

Welcome to el Farm

In the evening when I'm driving home from work is when it hits me.  There are no lights, pedestrians (yuck) or traffic jams.  The only time I get held up is when a neighbor cow stands in the middle of the road and gives me a brown stink eye.  I do not mind cow stink eyes because they are big and brown and sweet.


Well, without further adieu, let me introduce you to some of my friends...

 First up, the Bell of the Ball, Charlie or Chaaaarles as I call him.  Charles sheep-sits for a living.  Say that 5 times fast, please.

Here he is practicing yoga.   

Here Charles is napping on the job while sheep are being mangled by neighboring coyotes. 

Does he care?  I don't think so. 

 Honestly, are there any other creatures on earth as endearing as sheep with their bulbous bodies propped up by match-stick legs?  It was like God was running out of ideas by the fifth day of creation.

Everyone, meet Oliver.   

Oliver, meet my friends. 

(This guy has a story but I'll save that for another day)

Sheep buns.  They are cute, but trust me,  you don't want any part of it. 

And here we have Nelson after a hard night of partying.  The bottle, along with consuming too much lush pasture, will destroy him. 

Precious.

                                                      

Why, look who it is!  Quincy McDougal.  Although he doesn't appear like it here, he's as big as a Tyrannosaurus Rex. 

Quincy's sniffer. 

My pal.

And here are our little hatchlings who, as of this morning, haven't been picked off by neighboring hawks.  It's a brutal world out there. 

 My home on the range...

I'm leaving on a jet plane...

Actually, that is not entirely true.  I'll be leaving not on a jet plane but in a V6 engine that has the gumption and vigor of a V2.  Assuming there is such a thing as a V2, its name would certainly be Cheryl P. Troll-Cruiser.  Let me get straight to the point here--- I am leaving my little condo. *sigh*  


You know, it's strange where life will take you if you let it.


Life has me moving to a very, very far away place called Union, West Virginia.  I feel comfortable putting that information online for a number of reasons:


       1) My readers consist mainly of family, friends and possibly a few lovers. Not likely you say? Kill joys!


       2) Union is so remote and unchartered that I doubt that an ax-murderer would be able to find me anyway.  Seriously, in trying to map the coordinates of  my new digs, Google Earth was like "Woh. Where are my glasses? Please hold."


       3) I underestimate the investigative prowess of said ax murderer.


I just got a chill.  Hold me.


I won't tell a lie, I'm a wee bit sad to be leaving.  The walls have been lovingly painted and then re-painted, the location is convenient for work and, well, it's mine and I've enjoyed living here.  Arriving home after a long day of work, you might hear me bellow "hello house!" as I enter through the front door.  Don't be alarmed.  You should be used to me personifying inanimate objects by now.  It's what I do.

This weekend I'll be saying adieu to my little condo of dreams...

Oh, silly me.  That is an old picture.  Here's *my condo...

Like the pillows?  I sure do. 

Whatever mixed blessing this move represents, where I am moving to, dear reader, is pretty awesome.  I am looking forward to sharing with you some of the sights from my new residence which just happens to be a slice of scenic glory.




*This picture exists in my dreams and also on Pottery Barn.com.

Beauties and The Beast

And here we have two random snapshots from a day in the life of your humble corespondent, BB...

The first is of a familiar face around these parts.  We are not sure how it happened but Clyde got his whipper caught in a door or stepped on. Since I have ESCP (Extrasensory Canine Perception) I knew something was awry.  Well, anyone with half a brain knew what was up:  His tail was bent funny and tucked under his belly. Since I don't actually work while I am at work (shhhhhh), I had plenty of time to drive Clyde to the vet.  Normally placid and calm, this dog was singing a sad tune in the back of my car.

Look at the face in this picture and tell me that your heart did not just bleed out right on your keyboard? 

Oh, and "PAY NO ATTENTION TO THAT MAN BEHIND THE CURTAIN OR THOSE BAGS OF TRASH ON THE SEAT OF MY CAR.  I AM THE GREAT AND POWERFUL OZ..."

Here he waits anxiously by the door.  The doctor is on her way.  Since he was all parts unruly in the waiting area, I was curious if he was going to be the good boy. He was. After being prescribed some canine percocet,  Clyde was back to his normal carcass loving self by close of business that day. 

Below is a photo taken from my rusty iPhone.  I apologize for the picture resolution. Me and a dear friend scored some tickets to the Mrs. America Pageant at The Greenbrier hosted by the lovely, ever gracious and never aging Florence Henderson.  Going to one of these events makes you realize just how sub-par your looks are.  Seriously.  A few of the contestants had children my age and thighs that could crack walnuts. But, oh to see the beautiful dresses, bedazzled costumes, updo's and make-up!  And who does not love that awkward and robotic Q & A session hmmm?  The potential for snarky commentary was almost overpowering.   

Coupon Crazed

I would like to discuss with you my thoughts on a new show on TLC called Extreme Couponing.  The shows premise is this:   You love to coupon?  And you're crazy?  Write to TLC and we will put you on the air!  Now, to be fair, I've only watched two episodes thus far but I'm pretty sure the story line stays consistent... 

Meet Sally. Sally clearly has OCD but is not medicated because, well, what's wrong with being obsessively thrifty these days?  It's a bad economy you know.  And since couponing is considered a noble pursuit, who on earth is going to throw a wet blanket on that penny-pinching pony ride into discount hell? 

Why else do you even come here? Honestly.


Read on. 

• See Sally get up at 3:30 am to ambush the paper boy at the end of her driveway.  She's armed.  
• See Sally run into the house dragging paper boy's bloody satchel behind her.  
• See Sally spend 6 hours in her dank basement with a pair of scissors, a swinging light bulb suspended from the ceiling and stacks of shiny coupon inserts.  She is breathing heavy.
• See Sally race her Chrysler Town and Country minivan across town and pull into Kroger on two wheels.  Canned peaches are on sale. She will buy every last can on the shelf (42 to be exact) simply because...

the. coupons. tell. her. she. can.

• See Sally's marriage disintegrate and CPS make a house call.  

A few of the husbands on the show have the "deer caught in the headlight'' look about them. Sure, they're saving a few thousand dollars a year but if polled in secret, my guess is that they hate their lives and wish for death. Their whole world it seems is cataloged, controlled and shelved.  One scene had a mother proudly showcasing a drawer stocked with rows of various household cleaner, evenly spaced and categorized by size. This particular drawer was found under her young sons bunk bed.  You know, that drawer. The one normally filled with books about insects, GI Joes, silly bands, dirty tube socks and rubber snakes.  Her bedside bargain buys had no choice but to bleed over from brimming pantries, closets and basements.

What else do we call that but a maladaptive obsession?  Cuponing's spend-thrift underpinnings make it a culturally acceptable phenom yet, given its extreme nature, there's a slight element of crazy to it.   


Let me bring it home for you:  You see a carnie working in the circus.  They appear to be having all kinds of fun operating that Tilt-A-Whirl or rickety ferris wheel or making balloon animals for excited little children.  Why then won't you concede that you too should become a carnie?  Because, reader, deep down you know it's not for you.  You'll never be a carnie.  You're too busy blowing your money on chai lattes at Starbucks and TJ Maxx handbags to consider it an option.  And that's okay because carnies are weird.  But let's say you just checked your online bank account and now you are thinking that being a carnie wouldn't be so bad after all.  In fact, in order to make next months rent and keep the lights flickering, you are going to need to channel a lot more carnie and a lot less Kohl's.  Know what I am saying?  No? Okay.  

Name that Caption!

This dog.  He tickles me.  Not literally of course as he lacks opposable thumbs.  But he does sing to my soul much like Michael Buble' who crooned the ballad, "I just haven't met you yet" at his own wedding last weekend.  The title of the song is fortuitous as he has not, in fact, met me yet. I concur, Michael. Our squirrelly love ship has not yet sailed.  But it will, oh it will.  Glory day, it will.

Dear reader, this has been a fantasy of mine for some time... Michael singing to me in a dimly lit room, playing a piano, on stage, crooning in my ear... "that's why I'm singing this song foooor youuuuuuuuu. Wohhh-oooh dooby doooo."

Thank you for listening.  It is a lonely world I live in.

At any rate, here's Clyde at the front office window looking smart.  In reality, he was scouring the area for any sign of his Master's return which is cause for a lot of consternation throughout his day.

This picture demands a caption, but I want my clever friends to conjure up one.  If you are reading this, you are a clever friend so get ta thinking!

Whoever submits the winning caption (or, as I've learned, anything at all) will get an official kudos from me and an all expenses paid, all inclusive trip to Alderson, West Virginia.

"..........................................................."