In Our House

In our house, a van....

is a perfectly suitable alternative for

overnight refrigeration.

Eggs - They do a Body Good. Er, wait.

Eggs. My, do we have eggs. We're getting upwards of 4 dozen per day. That's a lot of eggs. YOU try to push 4 dozen eggs on folks every day. It's getting to where people avert their eyes when they see me coming with my cooler strapped to my back. But I have my strategy... "Your first fix dozen is free." Next thing, they'll be jones'n for more. You wait.

Every day we venture to the farm, don our sh*t-kickers, and head into the trenches barn. The hens brrrrrAWK-awk-awk-awk-awk at us as we enter, some scurrying away, other ambling toward us in curiosity. Or in high hopes for stinky compost bucket goodies.

Something else scurried the other night, too. My dog went NUTS and about tore through a wall trying to get whatever it was. The boys followed her nose and, peering with flashlight under a ledge, said, "Hey, there's a little hole there!" I told them to shush and get back to work as uncontrollable shudders ran up and down my spine. I'll collect eggs. I'll water horses. I'll toss in hay for cows. Hell I'll even drag a dead cow to the side of the road if I have to. I draw the line at rats.
My evening routine now includes washing eggs to sell. I line up the full cartons and grab some damp cloths and wipe down each egg, making sure to discard the ones with cracks. I don't mind the chore, and I get a kick out of the different colors and sizes of eggs.

In other news, Laura really needs a life.

I took pictures of the eggs the other night so I could share with you the array of sizes and colors.

Did it just get really, uncomfortably quiet in here or is it just me? You still there? Hello?... hello... hello...

For perspective, I placed each egg next to my thumb ring. Yes, I said thumb ring. Remember - I'm not a farmer, I'm a poser.
There are smallish brown eggs. And larger brown eggs. Brown eggs come from the breed that lays brown eggs.

There are also white eggs. From the breed that lays white eggs.

And the prettiest light-green eggs. From the breed that ate too much grass. *burp*

Do chickens eat grass? Do they burp? I must know.

There are also these "Oooh Ahhh" eggs. These big eggs are called "Oooh Ahhh" eggs, according to my sweet, prim grandmother, because when the hen is pushing the egg out she says "Oooooooh" and once the egg is out she says, "Ahhhhhhh." My grandma, she's a stinker. And that isn't the half of it.

There are even these pretty speckled eggs.

And here they are all lined up so you can really see the range in size, seeing as my thumb ring perspective didn't give any - how do you say it? - perspective.

Eggs. They do a Body Good. I know that's not their slogan, but I'm breaking the mold.

I'm a farmer with a thumb ring.

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.

California's Got Nuthin' on My Cornfield. Well, Maybe a Little

We have some good friends who moved away to California and we've been beseeching them to come back ever since.

In other news, look who has her Thesaurus handy.

"Gray skies!" we exclaim.... "Sub-zero temperatures!"... "Cornfields, as far as the eye can see!" we advertise. They don't respond except to send text photos of their lunchtime sushi plates and flowering backyards and tan faces. Which is sooo, like, whatEVER.

They might have lemon trees in their backyard, avocados year-round, and easy access to wine country and sandy beaches and rocky mountains but we've got one thing they haven't got.

And we use it as leverage every chance we get.

I attended a local staging of The Vagina Monologues recently. Two grrrls from my women's circle were in it, as well as a few other women I know. It was a raucous (and, at times, sobering) good time and we even dragged a few of our menfolk along. (I'm not sure they knew what they were getting into.)

The audience was full of people I know. I didn't expect that. It shouldn't surprise me, though... naturally, I run around with women who'd attend The Vagina Monologues! And being a smallish town, we're a somewhat small contingency. After the show I nabbed some old friends I hadn't seen in a while - mutual friends of those California turncoats - and said, "Let's take 'Nah Nah!' pictures to send to them!"

That's a hobby of mine: taking pictures to send to faraway friends with a big "Nah Nah" attached.

Mature, yes.

So you can have your bright, blue skies 300 days of the year and your stately sequoia trees and your adorable quaint weekend get-away beach houses..... because we've got her:

Take that, California dreamers! We also have her:
That's right. You know it. And if that ain't enough to get you booking the next red-eye into O'Hare, we also have her Momma:

And those folks... well, they make the gray skies, mind-numbingly cold winters, and panoramic cornfields more than tolerable.

If You Need Me, I'll Be in front of the Tube

Bowl of popcorn?
Check. Soda?

Yep. Snuggly blanket?

Got it. Box of tissues?

Nearby. 2-hour final-ever episode of ER?

*sniff*

Can't Get One Past Jonathan

Brady gave up cleaning his room for Lent.But that's not what this post is about.

Brady is also giving guitar lessons to beginners. He started this week with 3 students from our homeschool group. After I suggested several times that he plan what he would do with the kids the next day, Brady had a great idea. He asked Jonathan if he could practice on him. Jonathan, being a good little brother, obliged.He wasn't exactly thrilled about it, though. "Ahhh, it makes my hand hurt funny," he groaned."Urgh, it even makes my hand LOOK funny!" he shivered.

Here he practices his form for his audition for the sequel to August Rush. (You saw August Rush, didn't you? If not, stop reading right this second. Go to your netflix queue and add it, We'll wait.)

But Jonathan's a smart one, he is. After the end of the lesson, he said, "That'll be ten dollars please."

"What?!" Brady asked.

"For helping you learn how to teach a guitar lesson."

It's That Time of Year Again

It's almost time for our 2nd annual trip to Florida, where we'll join up with my mom WHO IS LIVING IN SIN WITH HER FIANCE. (Not that I mind or anything.)So you know what that means... IT MEANS MY MOM IS NAUGHTY. Er, wait. What it means is it's also time for....Jonathan's annual hair cut.

It's been a while since we've gotten a good look at that face.
The shock will wear off in a few days. It always does.

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.

In Our House

In our house....

Jonathan sleeps everywhere....

and I mean EVERYWHERE....

in front of the fireplace....

on any floor....

in any room.....

even on chairs....

But never... EVER....

in his own bed.

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."

Alright, I'm Listening

The universe wants me to pay attention, apparently.

It's that time of year again... the anniversary of my father's death, several annual memorial events. I try my best to squelch the uncomfortable waves of grief that begin deep down in my core, to calm my latent dread; I wait for that day when it all lifts and I can look at a picture of my dad without the bottom of my stomach dropping out. Without holding my breath.

But reminders are all around at this time of year, even unexpected ones.

Yesterday, I helped Brady with a college class project. He had to produce a live video segment for his Video Production class and my friend Kristin and I were his guests. I interviewed Kristin on - what else? - unschooling, while Brady sat in the control room hoping his crew would cue the lights, cameras, and me at the right times. While we waited for our turn, we struck up a conversation with a young woman who was also waiting to do an interview. She mentioned she's from my town, so I asked her name. I didn't recognize it, but told her my name, including my maiden name, asking her if she knows any Flynns. She paused... "Well, I got the John Flynn scholarship last year, are you that Flynn?"

Wow. Tears welled. I sure am. I wasn't able to attend the scholarship presentation last year, and thus, hadn't met the 2nd year recipient. What amazing serendipity.

When I asked where she was going to school, she told her own tale of woe. She'd taken a year off after two of her closest friends were killed - in separate unrelated accidents - in the same week.

Today, another reminder to pay attention. Scrolling through my Facebook homepage, I spy a photo album posted by someone I don't know titled "John Flynn Memorial Tournament." This past weekend was the basketball tournament named in memory of my father. I took a peek, recognizing a few people, my brother included, when a picture of the trophies and plaque unexpectedly appeared - and on the plaque is a photo of my dad. My heart pounded.

I still have a DVD in my desk drawer - right here, not 6 inches away - of my father giving a presentation to the local Historical Society. A kind neighbor gave it to me shortly after his death, thinking I'd like a copy. It was a sweet gesture, but I can't watch that DVD. Seeing still photos of him is difficult enough. Seeing video of him talking? Breathing? Alive? Can't do it.

I know enough about universal messages to understand that I'm not supposed to be stuffing it all away, pretending it didn't happen, that today is just another day and March is just another month. I can run, but I can't hide.

I'm listening now.

Hob-Nobbing with the Competition

I have a habit of being rather blunt sometimes.

Not always - I'm actually diplomatic to a fault, and, being quite intuitive, I'm rather adept at knowing what I can say and when. That said, it's also a happened a time or two that while Rob and I drove home from an event, he was saying, "I can't believe you said such-and-such to so-and-so." Rest assured that should I misstep, I will get a talking-to for it on the way home. Ah, he's so sensitive.

Last night was one of those blunt nights. We attended an awards ceremony hosted by one of the companies for which Rob sells. We've attended these before and while they're a nice perk - dinner, drinks, and a night's stay are on the company - they're also a wee bit awkward in that we don't usually know anyone there and, technically, they're all competitors anyhow.

It was with great relief that I ran into Julie, who worked for my father and was his right-hand woman for many years. Someone to talk to! We ended the night with the folks from her new agency, most of whom were taking full-on advantage of the "free drinks" portion of the perk.

Since Rob doesn't drink any more, and I only indulge in the occasional cocktail, we were in a rather precarious position. Hob-nobbing, sober, with competition who were - shall we say - feeling no pain was quite interesting indeed.

Not once, not twice, but three times I found myself saying, "You might want to rephrase that. Consider what you just said and try that again."

When one extremely tipsy man opened with, "I have to tell you my goat story," I remarked that he might want to rephrase that. "I have to tell you my goat story" is probably not your best choice to strike up a conversation with me. Laughter.

When another man, having just left his wife in their hotel room, said, "I just got rid of my wife," I remarked that he might want to rephrase that. I went on, "Tomorrow's headline: 'Wife of award-winning insurance agent goes missing.'" Laughter.

When a third very-drunk agent said to me, "I'm still waiting for that busload of teenagers to arrive. I guess they're not coming," I suggested he might want to rephrase that. And that perhaps he'd enjoy talking with the guy with the goat story. Laughter.

Normally, these are the kinds of things that might cause Rob to shoot me those "be careful" looks, or ask why I had to 'go there' on the way home. But he didn't. He just laughed.

Sometimes, even he likes my style.

Feel a little of the old Smack-Talk Comin' On

BADGERS WIN! Eat it, Florida State!

Sorry. Just a little excited.

Alright, He Can Stay

My mom's fiance, Gordon, came over today. He hung curtain rods in my bedroom. Then he fixed the light/fan combo in my bathroom.

I guess we'll let him stick around.