Friday, June 28, 2013

Dumb Luck

Emphasis on the "dumb," because there's not much dumber than letting a three-year-old harvest mulberries while wearing a white t-shirt.

But I was too lazy to go ALL THE WAY UPSTAIRS to get him a different shirt, and whatever, the t-shirt was two bucks at the thrift store. I just didn't care that much.

Mulberry juice on the hands, face, and I think a tiny bit on the shorts. But the white t-shirt? PRISTINE.

And an entirely unrelated Cubby anecdote that I want to record for posterity: Early yesterday morning while he was mid-meltdown, I suggested possibly he had gotten up too early and should get back in bed to rest for a bit (HAHAHAHA--oh, the desperate hopes we exhausted parents cling to at 5:15 a.m.). In response, he wailed, "I can't rest in my bed because it's too wet from my tears."

We're expecting his Academy Award any day now.

Wednesday, June 26, 2013

A.P.D.--The Gross-out Edition

I think that in the unlikely event that I were to consult a guide to housekeeping rules--and were I to give a damn about those rules, which is even more unlikely--it would tell me to always sweep the kitchen floor after doing the dishes. But I always sweep before I do the dishes. And that is because I get really grossed out by sweeping a floor with any water on it.

I don't know if I'm just the world's drippiest dishwasher or what, but there are always little drips of water on the floor after I finish washing the dishes. And sweeping when there are drips of water on the floor leads to little muddy smears on the floor where the broom drags those drips across the floor. And worst of all is the way the dust and pet hair that collects on the bottom of the broom gets kind of damp and clumpy and OH GOD GROSS.

I know this is stupid. It's not as if I don't have a really high tolerance for nasty things*. This is just one small thing that is just irrationally nasty to me.

My sister (hi, sis!) has this thing with wiping up counters. She absolutely will not wipe little bits of food or whatever off the counters into her hand for disposal. Instead, she performs the most amazing long-distance wiping courses to keep it all in a continuous sweep to the sink. And this woman is a veterinarian. She deals with seriously gross shit on a daily basis. But the counter wiping is just too nasty for her.

So I know I'm not alone in my weird little aversion to something not too gross in the scheme of things, but repellent to me nonetheless.

And there's your question: What's something that totally grosses you out, but most other people probably never even think about?

* Considering a move to the country? You'd better not get grossed out by the sight of dead animals, parts of dead animals, decomposing animals, the smell of dead animals, or maggoty rotting flesh. You're welcome for the advice. Hope you weren't eating.

Tuesday, June 25, 2013

Haying. I Mean, Silaging

I don't think silaging is actually a word, but since what we did this past weekend was make silage, not hay, I can't say we were haying.

Just in case some of you were like me a few short years ago and have no idea what silage is . . . it's fermented plant material. Grass, hay, corn, whatever. It's chopped up and stored in airtight plastic, to ferment and thereby be quite digestible by cows*.

And sheep.

Sheep! We have sheep! We have no money for crazy-expensive hay that keeps getting more expensive every winter! So when the lawn tractor broke and we waited so long for the part to fix it that our grass grew into hay and then A. finally cut it and it was so thick and long the cut grass would have killed the grass roots if left on the ground so we had to rake it up anyway . . .

We baled it.

Welcome to the farm.

What we actually did was put the cut grass into a plastic-bag-lined garbage can, with A. getting right into the can to stomp around and compact the grass. Then, when it was compact and full, he tied it off, dumped it out of the garbage can, and there was a little round bale of silage.

I helped rake. Cubby was unaccountably THRILLED with this activity and helped rake, carry grass to the can, and compact the grass in the can. Charlie practiced standing with the aid of the finished bales.

It was bizarre.

I have no idea if this will actually produce food for the sheep in the winter, but we had nothing to lose by trying it, so stay tuned to see if we just made honest-to-God silage on our lawn. Or just left some cut grass to  sit around and rot in plastic bags.

I bet the neighbors are getting a lot of amusement out of this one.

* Edited to add: Thanks to Jen for letting me know that horses can't eat silage. I know nothing about horses (obviously), so I appreciate the correction.

Sunday, June 23, 2013


Whatever could be making Charlie laugh so hard he's about to fall down?

Why, his big brother blowing a predator call* over and over and over and over OH MY GOD STOP IT RIGHT NOW.

Charlie was the only one who found it even remotely amusing, but boy, did that baby EVER find it amusing.

Woodchuck from birth, without doubt.

* It's for hunting. I think it's supposed to sound like an injured rabbit, to lure foxes or whatever, although it sounds more like a duck to me. A very loud, very annoying duck.