Pullin' a Calf

Oh hey! You still here? In case you hadn't noticed I've been taking a little blog siesta. I've taken several, each little disappearance growing longer each time, this one being the longest.
("MAY 6th!" my grrrlfriend said pointedly, "You haven't blogged since May 6th!" AlRIGHT already.) I can't explain it other than to say I WANT to WANT to blog, but, well, I haven't WANTED to. I'm fickle like that. And it's not like my 3 readers will care. Most of them get the live version of this side-show.

But I thought I'd wait until I had something really blog-worthy before I made my re-entry. Let's see.... Pictures of my new woods floors? Boring. Camping with a bunch of Jesus freaks? Nah. Capsizing our canoe on a float trip? Whatever. Jamming some air guitar at a family wedding? Blah. Mom's wedding? Eh.

Oh I know.... more farm stories! Also known as the WHO IN THEIR RIGHT MIND LEAVES THE FARM IN ROB AND LAURA'S HANDS chronicles. Um, Sis? Eventually this is gonna bite you in the *ss. You know that, right?

So the other day I'm minding my own business, working in my yard preparing for the first of five parties we were set to host, when Rob tells me he's heading to the farm to check on a laboring mama cow.



And when he asks if I'd like to join him, I thought for a moment - pull 4-foot tall thistles or witness the birth of new life? - and answered, "hellsa ya."

When we arrived at the farm, we saw Mama Cow lying on her side with the calf's hooves hanging out of her.

This must be a good sign, thought we, the rookie farmer posers, and we grabbed a soda and some popcorn, and prepared to be entertained.



We weren't the only nosy ones. These little calves were curious about us. So while we watched Mama Cow, baby cows watched us.



And these buggers were no help. They insisted on blocking our view of Mama Cow. We'd move further down the fence row; so would they. Cute, yes, but gah - MOVE YER RAWHIDE, wouldja?


They paid a bit too much attention to Mama Cow too, sniffing around her while she labored. Finally, she tired of the attention, leaped up and began head-butting the offending cow.


"I'll give birth AND kick your *ss, b*tch."

Never, ever, mess with a mama in labor.

Eventually, what with all the stress of a nosy audience and, well, FIGHTING while laboring, we noticed Mama Cow wasn't progressing. With each push, the calf's hooves would emerge, but after each contraction was over they'd recede back in. And Mama Cow would again stand up, ask if any other cows wanted a piece of her, and gaze at me as if to say, "Can't you DO something?" before lying down again with the next contraction.

That's when the seriousness of the situation began to sink in. Here we were, sipping soda and munching popcorn like we were at a feature matinee, giddily talking about how great that we were going to witness a live birth right here in the cornfields, when we started realizing we might actually have a wee, tiny problem on our hands.

Sometimes a first-time mama cow has trouble birthing. She gets too tired. Or the calf isn't positioned properly. And sometimes, the calf needs to be pulled. And by pulled I mean CHAINS TIED TO ITS LEGS AND PULLED. Holy freakin' haybales, what do we do now?

The real farmers were on vacation, and even when they're around they need help pulling a calf. Mom and her husband weren't around. And my sister had just blogged about the whole it's bad if you pull too soon and it's bad if you don't pull soon enough thing. I grabbed the bag of popcorn, dumped its contents, and began hyperventilating into it while Rob called my sister.

We got the number of Farmer Scott who lives down the road and is their #1 go-to guy in these kinds of emergencies, and THANK THE HIGHER POWER he answered his cell phone and said he'd be right over. My sister stayed on the phone with us, reminding us that we'd be just fine with Farmer Scott's help, and began giving us instructions.


Rob and Farmer Scott managed to get Mama Cow into the chute in the time it took me to run to the main farm and retrieve the pulling equipment.

I climbed into the barn to help to take pictures.


Farmer Scott adeptly secured the chains around the right spot on the calf's legs (wrong spot and you'll break its legs *shudder*) while Rob and I waited for instructions. Sometimes it takes two people to pull a calf if the Mama Cow isn't helping much. But Farmer Scott decided to give it a whirl on his own.

WARNING: The following Graphic Photos may make you puke up in your mouth a little bit.


Farmer Scott braced his legs against the door frame and pulled, while I balanced precariously over a rusty stall gate. Pulling calves is tricky! I almost fell. And there's 6 inches of slurry manure on that barn floor.


VERY quickly the calf began to emerge. Mama Cow was all over helping by pushing. Farmer Scott was all "C'mon.... C'mon...." and Mama Cow was all "I'm bringin' it! I'm briiiingin' it!" and I was all "Could you move a little to the left so I can get a better shot?"


It was only a matter of seconds before Baby Calf was born. Farmer Scott went from pulling to catching. Ever try to catch a greased-up 80lb calf? That was tricky. I would've helped but, you know, it happened so fast.


Immediately Farmer Scott began sticking straw into the calf's nostrils, causing it to gasp and begin to breathe. Hey, it's better than a slap on the *ss, isn't it?


There were a few nerve-wracking moments as we wondered if Baby Calf was ok. She just layed there.... she was breathing, but not moving much.

Farmer Scott lifted her out into the barnyard so we could release Mama Cow and let her find her babe.


Which she did. She immediately began licking the babe. And licking. And licking. Licky lick lick. Precious.


And no sooner had she gotten a good sniffing in did she begin urging her babe to stand up. "There'll be no lazy calves on MY watch. There is grass to eat, and.... well, grass to eat.... and, well... just get up. I can't stand laziness."


And she did.


She wobbled and flopped and rose and fell, and eventually she began to get the hang of those knobby little legs.



Farmer Scott left, and Rob and I high-fived that we survived our first-ever calf-pulling - and more importantly, Mama Cow and Baby Calf survived!

And I would've settled back in with my popcorn, but I had dried cow blood under my nails.

This farmin' business is rough on a grrrl's manicure.

Uh Oh.

So I've got this hormone imbalance, right?

And I can keep it managed with a strict diet, supplement regimen, and progesterone, right?

And when I run out of progesterone for days at a time, the resulting hormonal hurricane makes me want to rip someone's face off, right?

Well, I ran out of progesterone.

And in 48 hours we leave for a 20-hour road trip.

(It's too bad, really... Rob has a really cute face.)

Close Call, where Close Call means Oh Sh*t

Y'all remember I'm in charge of the farm for a few weeks, right? Where in charge means does driving by the farm reeeally slowly equal doing chores?

And y'all remember there's a mama cow on the farm that's about to die, where die means dragging a carcass by tractor and cash in coffee cans and a really bizarro twist on the whole roadkill thing, right? Oh and piscesgrrl doesn't know how to drive a tractor.

Well, if that isn't enough to worry about, my mom's dog Boomer is also staying with us, where staying with us means dragging his wet mangy dog-*ss all over my carpet. Boomer has no use of his right front leg and therefore hobbles around while occasionally moaning, where moaning equals Laura speed-texting her mom as to the overdose level of aspirin in dogs.

Two lame animals to care for is plenty. So imagine my horror when Rob and I did chores drove reeeally slowly past the farm the other day and saw one of the goats lying in a very unnatural position, slumped over a bale of hay. "OH MY G*D the goat is dead!" I shrieked, where shrieked means Rob swerves off the road.

"What?" he asked, calm as a cucumber, where calm as a cucumber isn't really a phrase, as I continued hyper-ventilating about goats and death and ohmyg*dnotonmywatch.

He turned around at the next driveway, where next driveway equals sometime today would be nice, and we high-tailed it, where high-tailed means took his sweet d*mn time, back to the farm.

As we passed the goat/horse/chicken pasture, there was the goat, laying only slightly-unnaturally now, still slumped over the bale of hay but looking right at me, where looking right at me means you stooopid, stooopid goat!

Let's just say Sunday can't come soon enough, where Sunday means the farmers return and Laura returns to her regularly scheduled life of leisure.

Looks can be Deceiving

You might think, at first glance, "This is not the face of world domination." Total silliness, perhaps, but not world domination. Not Ruthlessness. Chaos. Tyranny. Or destruction.

But...You'd be wrong.

Farm Chores

While my mom is in Florida LIVING IN SIN WITH HER FIANCE - (Ahem) - and my sister and family are in Panama visiting relatives, I've been left in charge of two homesteads, two dogs, and a FARM.


Now let me ask you a question....


Do I look like someone who should be left in charge of two homesteads, two dogs, and a FARM?


I didn't think so.


Nevertheless, my entire family saw fit to jet off and leave us here, in charge. My sister left us a loooong list of farm instructions and gave me a tour of the place to be sure I knew which end was up.

I had to learn how to turn off the dryer on the grain bin if it rained really hard. (Please don't tell my sister it rained really hard and I forgot to turn off the dryer on the grain bin.)

I learned that if you leave the hose in the water tank, it'll siphon it all off overnight. (We tested this theory. It's true.)

I was instructed to feed the cats in the garage. (Um, there are no cats in the garage.)

The chore list goes on and on, but really, there ain't nothing to do. There are eggs to collect, hens to let out and shut in, and water tanks to fill. Bales of hay need to be placed every few days and the mineral feeder needs filling on occasion. Crack the ice if the water gets frozen. Don't let the goats get into the chicken coop or they'll eat all the feed. Sell the surplus eggs.

Pshaw, this farmin' stuff's easy, man.

But then I read the instructions a little closer....

"SICK COW:
*The mother cow with the swollen jawbone is getting skinny. She may die."

I'm sorry... did you say die? Did that just say "She may die?" Die as in dead-carcass-in-the-pasture die?

Oh.

And there's where it gets interesting. In order for the rendering service to handle the carcass, we need to....

"drag her to the side of the road with the tractor and a chain and have the rendering company come and get her."

Oh.

That's going to be fun. And it gets better. The rendering company... well, they're interesting folks. You can imagine you'd have to be a little off yer rocker to want to operate such a business, so they have some strange requirements. You see, they don't want to deal with us any more than we want to deal with them. Hence, the following instructions:

"You'll need to leave the money (cash only) in a coffee can or jar for the driver."

You read that right. We're supposed to put cash in an empty coffee can and leave it next to the carcass. On the side of the road.

Wow.

And now that I've just spilled the beans on a little farm secret, don't y'all go scouring the countryside for ditch-side dead animals just so you can steal a little cash, y'hear?

As for me, I've gotta run. Gotta get my sh*t-kickers on and do some farm chores. And go whisper sweet nothing's in mama cow's ear... Sweet nothing's along the lines of "Please don't die Mama Cow. Please... PLEASE don't die Mama Cow."

Someone Could've Said SOMEthing...

Dear Family,



Just so you know, I can take it. I mean, I'd rather you tell me than I walk around all day, oblivious, while people avert their eyes and snicker about me around corners while I'm standing there on display. I mean, I'd snicker about me around corners too, but then I'd muster the courage to confront the poor unsuspecting soul and put her out of her fashion-faux-pas misery. Then I'd laugh at her around another corner. But at least I'd have told her.

I will be hanging the following on my bathroom mirror:

Fashion rule #1 - do not wear a light-colored bra under a thin, red top.

Cringe-Worthy Post

We saved this spider from death-by-pyre yesterday.

Even though he caused a full-body shudder to overtake us from head to toe - several times - we saved him. We felt badly that he'd built his beautiful web right above the pile of old wood that was destined to become our bonfire.

But seriously, I can barely look at these photos.

Can you view these pictures without cringing?

If you can, you're stronger than me.

*shudder*

No Crises Allowed, Please

When you have a schedule that looks like this....

• Monday - prepare for onslaught of parties
• Tuesday - Jonathan's kid birthday party; Cousins' Ladies Night Out
• Wednesday - Jonathan's family birthday party my side
• Thursday - prepare for continued onslaught; hopefully nap; probably not; Jonathan's track meet
• Friday - get manic about Saturday; Jonathan's family-friends birthday party; practice deep breathing
• Saturday - big Open Mic & Live Music (JUST MAYBE) bash in our yard
• Sunday - clean-up; pack for vacation; leave for vacation? crawl into fetal position and suck my thumb

One does NOT want to hear the following words wafting from upstairs...

"Honey, I just bled all over the comforter."

Holy Mother, It's Online

I got an email just now from one of my favorite grrrls, Gina (mother of my fashion consultant, Lily), saying she saw my shopping video online and it looked GREAT (her emphasis).

I immediately began hyperventilating and asked the kids to begin preparations for CPR and my premature death by public humiliation. And then I paced, wondering if I could bear to see myself on video. In case you're new and don't know what I'm talking about, read my last post first for the scoop!

It helped that Gina said it looked GREAT. I mean, as one of my favorite grrrls, she has to say it was fine, or good, or even a 'great' sans CAPS. But her CAPS insertion gave me a wee bit of hope that if it wasn't fabulous, at least it wasn't *horrid*.

So, breathing into a paper bag, clutching my kids' arms to steady myself lest I pass out, and offering the occasional shriek, I watched it. And then I watched it again. And it's not horrid. It's not fabulous, but it's not horrid.

But you'll notice I get all discombobulated at the apple section.

And my kids are still laughing about what I said in the orange section. Brady is now marching around the house shouting, "If the oranges are not organic, I WILL NOT BUY THEM! And YOU SHOULDN'T EITHER!" Apparently, he thinks what I said is just a hoot and a half. The twerp.

So, if'n you're so inclined, go HERE to see what all the fuss is about.

Ok, now I have to go lie down. Seriously. I need more organic chocolate.

With a side of chest paddles.
*****************

P.S. Is my face really that big?
P.P.S. Is that really how my voice sounds?
P.P.P.S. Let's play "I Spy" - watch for my husband zipping by upstage!
P.P.P.P.S. Jonathan thinks the "I would agree with what Dennis said" part is just hilarious. He's now wandering the house muttering, "I would agree with what Dennis said" over and over. The little twerp.
P.P.P.P.P.S. Will someone come stroke my hair and whisper 'there there' in my ear?

A Shop, and then A Drop

Guess what yesterday was? Need a hint?

You guessed it - it was my debut as a web actress. (And just why does that sound, um, inappropriate?) So there's me. In my favorite produce market, the 320 Store. Waiting for my big debut as a stilted, inarticulate, robotic-sounding actress. They told me to be stilted, inarticulate, and robotic-sounding, actually. Something about "keepin' it real." I think they sensed that I would be way too adept as an actress and they wanted the videocast to show someone normal, someone real, someone others could relate to. So I did my best to quell my inner diva and tried to sound nervous and uncouth and very, very plain.

And that's all just to say, "Egads - put a camera in front of my face and I lose feeling in the upper half of my body." And for those who need more detail, that includes not only my lips, but the nerve endings in my face, as well as the neural pathways that connect my brain to my mouth. Apparently, you need those neural pathways connecting your brain to your mouth to speak in complete, understandable sentences. Who knew?And that's all just to say that while I waited for my turn at getting interviewed, and while my husband and kids (whom I'd forbidden from coming into the store, mind you) were creeping around shelves and boxes to snap pictures of me getting my picture taken, I mostly looked and felt like this:And that's all just to say the only coherent thought running through my panic-addled brain at the time was, "ohmygosh whyamIdoingthis Imustbehigh whodoIthinkIam excusemesirbutcanIseeitfirst IthinkIjustwetmyselfalittle."I was pleased to see that, as evidenced by this freakishly up-close close-up, that while my non-existent colorist missed a few gray spots, my non-existent make-up artist actually did a fine job of covering up the mountain range of zits that had emerged across my chin the day before. But then, because my glory is always notoriously short-lived, Brady gushed, "His camera is HD! COOL!" And then I told my friend that Brady had gushed, "His camera is HD! COOL!" And then my friend said, "Oh, you mean the one that makes actresses freak out and get their faces carved off weekly and eat only raisin-halves for days at a time because it shows every little thing? That HD?" And then I said, "Wh... wh... whu?!?" And then I cried a little bit.

My family thought it was hilarious to stalk me throughout the store as I did my nonchalant robotic acting shopping. So it went a little something like this: The camera man (who, this being his first-ever video gig, was as nervous as me) would ask me to start at point A and walk with my cart to point B, with A being the apple section, for example, and B being the orange section. So I, with my acting finesse, would do that. And it was hard, people, an extremely challenging assignment. And when I'd get around the corner from point A to point B, I'd find something like this peering at me, from behind a crate of red leaf lettuce:


And then I'd go from stoic, composed, spot-on stilted, inarticulate, and robotic to giggling, distracted, and confused. I can hear the editor now - "Why did she keep laughing at nothing?!?"

Perhaps they should have video-taped Rob, who was actually shopping. Rob probably just ambled from aisle to aisle, squeezing avocados and thumping melons, blissfully blase without an HD camera honing in on his every zit move.

I mean, look at him! These are the perfect shopping shots! Take him, kind sir, please-oh-please I-beg-of-you, take him.

Here's Rob shopping in the nut aisle. Incidentally, that's also where Jonathan could be found - waiting in the wings to make this face at me:as they tried to get a shot of my hands while I placed roasted almonds into my cart:

By the time I got home, not only did I have to change my shirt because I've yet to find an armpit diaper vendor, but I emptied my box of produce with all the child-like awe and wonder of a kid at Christmas. Why? Because I honestly had no clue what I'd purchased.

I think I got so into character was so glazed over with fear, I just operated on auto-pilot, doing exactly what the rookie camera man told me to do. It wasn't until I got home that I realized I'd purchased organic brown sugar at $3.99 a pound, an item I neither need nor knew they stocked. What compelled to me to grab that item for my basket rather than one of the other 152 products I actually need, I don't know. I also bought only four apples instead of our usual 8-10, pecans that I don't really like, and I forgot to get another 17 items that were on my list. When I get that nervous I feel a bit out-of-body.

Apparently I was a bit out-of-shopping-sense too.

I'm going to crawl into the fetal position now and wait for the site's debut in a few weeks. Please send chocolate.

Organic chocolate, of course.

Most Important, How's My Hair Look? -or- My Very Unflattering Photographic Portfolio

On Saturday I speak on unschooling at a new homeschooling conference. I've been surpisingly calm about it; usually by now I'm breathing into a paper bag and jumping out of my skin, causing Rob to mutter, "WHY do you say yes to these things?!?" while I spit, "YOU AREN'T HELPING!" back at him. But not this time. It helps, in a way, that I learned there are fewer registrations for the conference than expected, so in some ways it will be more like a conversation than a presentation. I'm disappointed for the organizers, of course, but a bit relieved that I don't have to practice projecting my voice, which, in my oh-so-organized way, is scheduled for somewhere between mopping the nervous sweat from my armpits and gasping, "ohmygoddess people are coming into the room".

But today I got a phone call that makes me nervous to the core of my being. The Register Star, the main newspaper of our nearby city of 200,000, called to arrange a photo shoot. I know!


I was interviewed for an article on eating organic food and now they'd like to take some photographs of my garden, or of me cooking with organic foods, or of me shopping for organic foods. "Ok," says me, followed by "Would you be interested in some stock footage from about 10 years ago? Say, when I had smoother skin, thinner thighs, and gray-free hair?" Question: can someone please tell me why don't I have a plastic surgeon on speed dial, hmmm?!

See, here's the thing. They also want to shoot a VIDEO. V-I-D-E-O. For their new online sister publication. They want to set up this whole thing in the aisles of my favorite produce market and interview me about organic foods and watch me shop. Which will likely be about as interesting as watching toenails grow, but hopefully a tad bit more informational. Unless you've got some weird foot fetish. And if you do, ew, and keep it to yourself. (Sorry, I digress. I digress a lot when I'm nervous.) It will definitely be entertaining for the stateline viewers, in that dude-does-her-left-eyelid-always-twitch-like-that sort of way. And for me? Well, let's just say I might have to sell my house and start anew in a faraway land. Yes, I will go to such lengths to avoid watching myself on video.

Am I overreacting just a bit? Probably. But seriously, people, the idea of watching video footage of myself, footage I will have no editing control over whatsoever, is d*mn close to my idea of hell - a twisted mix of anticipation and dread, hopeful maybe-this-time-I'll-look-fine and or-maybe-not. I'm the person who, after getting photographed by news people, actually begs to see it and then begs them to retake it if I'm not satisfied. And have you ever noticed how **CLOSE** they get when they photograph or tape you? Once I was interviewed after a war protest. Naturally, I hadn't washed my hair that day, and it was cold and windy, being March and all, and I remember fretting about how I'd look on the nightly news, forgetting all about the rush to war and why we'd gathered in the first place.

(Note to self: check for protruding nose hairs)

And really, it's not about me. It's about the organic food movement. So why am I tripping out? Because I'm a wicked critic when it comes to seeing myself in print, that's why. Maybe I should send a stunt double. Anyone? Anyone?

I don't know about you, but I'm a peaks-and-valleys kinda grrrl. I never know from day to day if my skin is going to be clear or blemished; if my hair is going to be straight or wavy; or if I'll manage to have on my game face or not. Even my handwriting is unpredictable; some days I have lovely handwriting, others days it's a scribbly, indescipherable mess. But more important than my handwriting is this: some days I'm photogenic, and some days I'm really, super, very much NOT.

So what, dear readers, if, on the day of "the shoot," I've got my double-chin going on?

Double? Yo, that's like a quadruple!

Or what if, in my nervous state, I can't get my face to stop doing this?

You remember what your mom used to say... "if you keep doing that, your face just might stay that way"... ohdearlord...

More critical questions: Should I wear my hair up?

Egads, no. Or how about a hat?

Nah, too HeeHaw.

Perhaps I could put on a "pensive" look, to mask my inner terror:

But that would require some measure of calm. And is it just me or does my pensive look scream deer caught in headlights...

I could always resort to drinking beforehand, to loosen up:

But then I might risk overindulging. Next thing you know, it wouldn't be Diane I had in a head-lock, but the camera man:

If only I could give them a stock photo. I could use this one, taken by the head-shot photographer at our community theatre when he was teaching ME how to shoot them:
But I guess that one would work better on the cover of my book. That one I'm writing. You know, the one I haven't worked on in, like, 9 months.

Alright, this calls for reinforcements. I'll need a hair colorist, facialist, and a liposuctionist, STAT. I'll need wardrobe options and my own dresser, a nail techinician onsite for touch-ups, and plenty of valium. Oh, and some of those carnival mirrors would be great - the ones that make you look ultra-skinny. Do zits show up on film?

And then I remembered, I know people who know people. And those people have people. And maybe those people's people would be my people and what was I saying?



For fashion advice, I choose Lily:




Hey Sistah, help a grrrl out, yo?


And Lily, in her infinite wisdom, says go with this:


And when Lily speaks, I listen. Any other advice, Lily, wee goddess of fashion?

"HELLO, shoes?!?"


As my dad used to say when playing euchre, "Go big or go home."

Whaddya think - does it say "Organic-Eatin' Mama?" or what?