Posted in Down on the Farm, Just Funny

The Naked and the Delicious

Norman Mailer is dead.

Wait, wait.  That’s not where I want to start this story.  I’ll come back to that, okay?
Let’s start here instead:

As Jami Gertz exclaims in Twister, “We got cows!”.

And when I say “we”, I mean my husband, the cowboy, has a small cattle farm.  My involvement with the cows is threefold:

  1. angusComplaining about the odor of manure when the wind shifts toward the house.
  2. Taking parts of them, neatly wrapped in butcher paper, out of the freezer to thaw. And…
  3. Ironically naming the ones I can see from the kitchen window.

My naming venture began with Patty Cow. (Hamburger patty, Patty Melt, “Don’t step in the cow patty”).  When she had her first calf, he was so little, I named him Slider. Probably would have been funnier if he had been triplets.

When the cowboy got his first “herd”, I named them Wendy, Hardee, Krystal, Arby and, of course, Mickey D.

Once the cowboy started buying Angus cows, the names upgraded accordingly: Morton, Doe, and Ruth’s Chris. (Since his cattle venture is becoming lucrative, I’ve decided the next few will be Cash, Sacred, Holy! and Mad.)

Anyway, where was I?  Oh yeah, the obituary.

Norman Mailer is dead.

No, not the Pulitzer Prize-winning author (though he has been “Naked and Dead” since 2007). The Norman Mailer to which I’m referring was a cow. Or rather, two cows. Greg thought it would be cute to name his first calf after the one Billy Crystal brought home in “City Slickers”.  Hence, Norman.

Mailer got his name because once you have a calf named Norman, well, duh.  The two writers in the family thought It was the obvious, whimsical choice.

After a happy little cow life grazing in the sun, Norman and Mailer grew up and took a field trip to the slaughterhouse.  It was then that our son confessed to punching Mailer dead in the nose one time when the cow kicked him.  The cowboy was shocked by the disclosure, and made a snarky comment about children who abuse animals going on to become serial killers.

t-bonesKevin responded, “Dad, the cows are now T-bones.  Consider what I did as pre-tenderizing.”

Norman Mailer.  It’s what’s for dinner.

Posted in Down on the Farm, Just Funny

why aren’t they called horsegirls?

11bootAs I sit in the National Equestrian Center this weekend, trying hard to be a supportive spouse, but about as interested in this “Saddle Boy” Competition as a toddler in church, I looked around and realized I was the only person in this arena who brought alternate forms of entertainment. I also learned THIS…

Fifteen Reasons I Can Never Be a Cowgirl:

  1. The only ranch I want to visit is on the salad bar.
  2. I don’t own any belt buckles that can also double as serving platters
  3. I was completely bummed to find out that a burro is not a deep-fried, chocolate burrito.
  4. 11beltbuckleNone of the real cowgirls keep Doritos in their holster, but darn it, I hear you get hungry out there on the trail.
  5. Hay?  Straw?  Same thing, right?
  6. Wearing a wide-brimmed hat would totally obscure your view of these great highlights in my hair.
  7. Pretty sure there’s no wifi in Montana.
  8. I’ve never breathed deeply and proclaimed, “I love the smell of horse manure in the morning!”
  9. I don’t smoke.  That’s not to say, however, that I’m not smokin’.
  10. It’s considered bad form to pull a 24’ stock trailer with a Honda Odyssey.
  11. To me, the term green-broke means I’m out of cash.
  12. 11seabiscuitPlaytex cannot possibly make a bra with enough support for me to comfortably take the girls horseback riding.
  13. I once went to a movie I assumed was a British comedy, only to find myself watching Tobey Maguire on a horse.  TeaBiscuit.  That’s what I get for not wearing my glasses.
  14. To my knowledge, they don’t make open-toed cowboy boots.
  15. The only cow I care to ever rope better be served medium rare with a side of potatoes.

I also learned that cowgirls become mean girls when you call them “horsegirls”.

Posted in Down on the Farm, Quirks and Other Weirdness

…and boppin’ ’em on the head

Once upon a time, Gus and his friends made Cinderella a ballgown, and Mickey made Walt a legend. Princess_Activity_Kit_Page_08_Image_0009The Mighty one was a superhero; the Mexican one was super Speedy. Spielberg brought a little Russian one to America, and E. B. White let his sail a boat in Central Park. There were, apparently, three blind ones, Fievel_Mousekewitzthough Bart Simpson’s was just Itchy. Laura Numeroff gave hers a cookie, and you’ve probably let one named Chuck E. give you a pizza.

So why am I completely freaked out to have one in my house???

I was sitting in the den chair, one foot tucked under me, the other foot on the floor, and my laptop located where its name implies.

Suddenly I sensed it.

You know that feeling you get when there is SOMETHING else in the room with you? I peeked around the 17″ LED screen and THERE IT WAS, not 4 inches from my foot. I screamed silently (since there was no one else around to hear me, I obviously wouldn’t have made a sound anyway), quickly tucked BOTH feet under me, and watched it watch me.

Ewwww.

If-you-give-a-mouse-holding-cookie-e1399593405467

When it was a safe distance away (safe distance = 7 car lengths), I went to get a mousetrap. Not finding one, I came back with a broom.  I dont know why. I guess I thought I could use it as a getaway vehicle if I saw her again.

I say “her” because she was small. And kinda cute. And completely offensive. And though I NEVER gave her a cookie, she still left little chocolate sprinkles in her wake. *Shudder.

I used to have gerbils as pets. Explain this to me.

Anyway, a couple of days and a mousetrap-shopping-spree later, the cowboy trapped one and notified me via text. I breathed a deep sigh of relief…until his second text arrived stating “what a big sucker he was”.

No, no she wasn’t.

She was a wee little thing. Dainty. Delicate. Disgusting. And apparently still vacationing in my house and inviting her friends.

Oh, where is a hungry snake when you need one???

“Mini Mouse” tormented me for days, zipping around corners, scurrying under sofas, bounding across bedroom floors, forcing me to leap into bed and pull the comforter up on all four sides to make CERTAIN she did not have an access ramp to my bed, and by extension, to me. Once she even stared me down from the back of what USED to be my favorite reading chair.

Finally, I broke down and bought glue traps. I know. They are inhumane. Or inrodentane. But this cohabitation arrangement had gone on entirely long enough; it was time for this unwelcome tenant to go! The cowboy lined up several traps in a row, baited them with cat food (which works great in the absence of an ACTUAL cat) and within the hour we heard her. And saw her. She raced under the couch, around the leather stool, across the brick hearth, landing on one of the glue traps with the finesse of an Olympic medalist, and went flying across the floor like a sticky Jamaican bobsledder.

I will not tell you what happened next, though a reference to Little Bunny Foo-Foo would be appropriate.

Go ahead, Good Fairy, goon me.

The End.

I hope.
I really, really hope.

Posted in Down on the Farm, Just Funny

may the horse be with you…’cause the cat sure ain’t

My husband is fuming about our cat. Smoke-billowing-from-his-ears angry. Curiosity better move over, ‘cause the cowboy is first in line. When he went out to feed the cows and horses, the cat dared not to give him the time of day. puppy kittyBrushed him off, you might say. (Never mind she is a CAT. Snubbing is her native language.)  Probably doesn’t help kitty’s personality that we named her Puppy.  Sarcasm and contrariness seem to run in the family and clearly the cat is not immune.

The cowboy believes all living beings can be trained like horses and should be submissive when called upon to do so (including me . . . but that’s a WHOLE ‘nuther blog!).Hubby is what equine savvy people call a “horse whisperer”. He first began this undertaking when his patience level defined him as more of a “horse yeller”, (not to be confused with “Old Yeller” who had to be put down), mustangbut in the past few years he has become fairly reputable and talented with the whole “breaking wild mustangs” thing. (Ironically, I always wanted a mustang too – just one from 1967 in Candy Apple Red. Sigh . . . ) 

Anyway, I digress. Because the cowboy can adeptly take an unbroken mustang and have him following, loading, eating out of his hand, and disengaging his hindquarters (yeah, that’s a thing), sometimes in a matter of minutes, he believes he should be able to do this with all living creatures.

Our cat disagrees.I’m eager to see who wins this battle.

Posted in Down on the Farm, Just Funny

award-winning cockroaches and beached manatees

This is my bedroom.e2626-mybedroom
I like my bedroom.
It’s dark and cool.
It’s comfortable.
The mattress is firm.
The pillows are fluffly.
Getting into bed is a wonderful end
to most days –
not generally an olympic event.

 
However, while we were in Fort Worth for the cowboy’s “Sadde Boy” competition, we bunked in the horse trailer. (No, not WITH the horse…the back 9/10 is the horse part, the front 1/10 is “living quarters”) I use the term “living quarters” very VERY loosely. It was akin to sleeping in an aluminum shoebox on wheels. The floor section, shaped like the state of Nevada, only had enough room for Kevin’s military-style cot, the step stool, and one standing human. As you can see from the picture, the interior has been gutted, so the walls were bare except for the lovely remnants of brown wood glue. Everytime we turned on the light it threw a breaker. Our “camping spot” was on the gravel parking lot wedged between dozens of $200K motor homes.  We looked like the redneck MIssissippi cousins.
4933242152_44ebfc5025One aspect of the weekend I found particularly enjoyable was the 2-block hike to the bathroom located upstairs and inside the dormitory of the Fairground Swine Building of the Will Rogers Equestrian Center across the street from the National Cowgirl Museum.  Yee. Haw.  When I first stepped into the dark, abandoned concrete shower, which was creepy enough to be the setting where my horror movie doppleganger will die gruesomely,  I was startled by an enormous hog left behind from last weekend’s judging – no wait, that’s just a prize-winning cockroach. He and I did NOT get along. It was a quick shower.

The most entertaining part of the weekend, for those lucky enough to witness it (my 14-year-old son), was me, trying to get into the sleeping bunk of the trailer. Even with the step stool, I was only chest-high to the metal platform. After numerous and wildly unsuccessful attempts to fling my leg up onto the platform, I finally had Kevin stand on his cot, and lift the air mattress up to the ceiling. This allowed me to bend to a 90-degree angle, then roll my entire body onto the platform under the air mattress, much like an injured manatee rolling herself onto the beach. I then spun the opposite direction until I was against the wall, allowing Kevin to drop the mattress. At this point I got onto my hands and knees and crawled onto the mattress. Lying down, there was a good 7 inches between my face and the ceiling. Now to get undressed. Uh oh.  I couldn’t lift my legs – no room. Tried lying in a fetal position and wiggling. No luck with that either. No matter what I did, I couldn’t seem to manage the removal of my clothing. Why didn’t I get into my pj’s BEFORE I clamored up there? I DON’T KNOW. But I sure as heck wasn’t getting back down and then up again! So I called down to Kevin,
“Kevin, help me pull my pants off.”
“Yeah, right, mom.”
“Please, Kevin, I can’t do it.”
“Like that’s gonna happen. I don’t think so.”
“But Kev, I need help!”
“Suck it up and sleep in your clothes, mom!”
“Kevin, please please.” (Imagine a whiny, cartoony voice at this point.)
Kevin begins to giggle hysterically at the thought of my not having enough room to perform this function for myself, and at the audacity that I would even dare ask his help with undressing. Then, of course, there was the mental image of him actually helping me with this, which, I have to confess, was really really funny.
“Keeeeevvvvviiiinnnn, pleeeeeaaaaassssseeee!!!!!”
More giggling. This time from both of us.
This went on for about 20 minutes until we were in tears.

After we fell into a good sleep, probably from the exhaust fumes of all the other motor homes, we were awakened by an 8.3 earthquake – a crash, a jolt and the sound of breaking glass.  Oh wait, that was just the cowboy backing his truck INTO our trailer. Luckily, the only thing he broke was his passenger side mirror.

Extreme Mustang Makeover – reservations for next year have already been secured at the Hyatt Regency downtown Fort Worth.