da da DA!

On particularly fine days the goats are well nigh impossible to bring in from pasture for the evening milking. You have to haul them one by one into the barn - and once you get them there, there is no guaranteeing that that is where they will remain while you fetch in the next forty-eight.

Still all hope is not lost for this Sisyphian task.

I have discovered the perfect way to get them all indoors quickly and (relatively) painlessly. Just wander out behind them in a vain attempt at rounding them up and, while reaching for one of the girl's collars, trip over your own foot and crash to the ground all pinwheeling arms and flailing feet. You'll scare the bejeezus out of the goat you nearly fall on top of, and she - in her panicked dash for safety - will panic everyone else in turn. The ensuing rout will clear the field in a jiffy. Leaving you plenty of time to limp back to your trailer and change your pants (as they are now covered in soggy goat poo).


Fret for my integrity, friends. For I have learned that insidious lesson in which all tyrants have been schooled:

How to rule with fear.

BwaHaHaHaHaHaHaHa!

from the shower

I love these damn things.

woe to me

Ummm... hello? Is anybody out there? yoohoo?

Oh good. There you are.

Hmm. I know I've been gone a while, but guys? it wasn't because of you. Okay? Don't blame yourselves. I love you and all that you stand for. It's me. My problem. Okay?

I know, I know. I come back all of the sudden and expect you all to be here. Just waiting. And caring. It's too much, I know. But please understand, I needed this. I needed to go away for a spell and just really wallow in self pity. You understand?

Of course you do.

I mean, poor me. Really. Trapped in Hawaii - wearing short shorts and running out of sunblock. I had all these plans to run off to faraway paradises but noOOOooOOOoo. I just had to go and get myself stuck here. Pshaw. Seriously. The beach is forty minutes away. What kind of Hawaii is that?

Also, I'm a farmer now. I want to enjoy the 'fruits of my labor.' Well I tell you the fruits are not of my labor or anybody's. How can I enjoy those fruits when I did not labor for them? When they are, in fact, so plentiful, that the labor is in enjoying all of them?

It's not like I can enjoy the 'cheeses of my labor' now can I? That just sounds ridiculous.

And nobody told me about the mold. Everything is moldy. Everything. Including myself if I stand still long enough.

To top it off the people are all really nice and laid-back. What the hell is THAT? Where is the angst? The ennui? I'll tell you. It's surfing, that's where. And drinking up sunshine on the near-distant beach. (When it should rightly be, in my opinion, slipping on icy sidewalks and grumbling into its cups in bars and cafes, not playing ukuleles. {And don't think I'm joking about that. Or exaggerating. I'm not. You show me a ukulele-free beach in Hawaii and I'll point out the fact that there is a screaming gale and it's 3:30 am.})

yak. all this sunshine is getting to me.

If you get some time, please forward pity.

There are ants in my

I live in a trailer. Have I made that sufficiently clear? In Hawaii. A trailer - quite old. In Hawaii. (i.e. warm, low to ground, well-ventilated, not the most ship-shape). I have a bit of a pest problem. It's okay for the most part. The cockroaches and I have come to an understanding that if I don't see them, they don't exist. That's going well for us. The spiders are okay. They deal with the flies. Good. But the ants? They just came from nowhere - only to arrive somewhere in particular. In my pant...ies. They have invaded my underwear basket. The clean underwear basket. Not the dirty clothes basket. Or the bikinis/socks basket. Or even the fruit basket - where I have come to expect such things. Nope. They went straight for the underwear one. Theirs is a higher purpose. Apparently to make me act like a spaz.

Maybe I should start storing my underwear in the refrigerator. So far it's the only area that has managed to dodge the rampant pestilence of this place.

...brrr.

Having ants in one's panties adds a whole new color to the old phrase, don't you think? Perhaps it will see a revival.

Family Portrait

Eddie was not at all obliging. But I tried.

It proved difficult to manage, with one arm, a squirming 56lb goatlet who kept trying to go after the camera in the other. Oh, Eddie.

rawsome

sooooo. I kind of work a lot. Very strange hours. An hour to myself here. An half an hour there. Evenings often full up. So when I do have some time I'd much rather, say, drink tea and read ...play my violin ...ride my bicycle ...mess with Otis, pig ...sit and stare ...blog, than cook.

So here is a list of what I have eaten thus far on this day:
-peanut butter and honey on a spoon (several)
-three bananas (one with peanut butter)
-two cucumbers
-a handful of macadamia nuts with raisins
-several small cubes of feta off of the sample plate at the market
-four oranges
-a papaya (with seeds)

[note: the only items on this list from the supermarket are raisins and peanut butter.]

And tonight I plan on putting most all of those same things, as well as some broccoli, avocado, and tomatoes, on top of several different types of lettuce and calling it dinner. Living on a farm (especially one in Hawaii) is awesome.

I think I graze more than the goats do.

dip

My favorite moments at the farmers' markets are when people point to the plate from which they have just sampled and ask "Is that made from goat's cheese?"

"It is goat cheese," I say. At which point they blink at me, apparently unable to grasp the subtleties of my semantics. "It is all goat cheese."

Then they point to one of the flavored chevres, "Is that dip?"

No. But you are.