It's A....It's A...It's A Girl!!

This is my mother. Her name is Harriet. Everyone who meets her loves her. I don't know anyone who doesn't. She has taught me how to collect fireflies, how to do my laundry, how to balance a check book, how to sew, how to knit, how to grow a garden, how not to cook (sorry, we had a lot of microwaved dinners), how to make a bed, how to do geometry (she's a math teacher), how to love animals, how to be tough, how to finish what I started, how to believe in myself, and most importantly (and I what I want most for my kids...) how to be kind.

My mom was just visiting. I love being with my mom. It always makes me feel safe, even when I'm already safe. I feel like she can fix anything. I guess I want that for my kids too, to feel like I can fix anything.



I'm glad my mom was here this weekend. She was able to help Paul Bunyan and me. We had some shit to deliver. You know, alpaca shit. I didn't want to do that with the spawn around, because shit and the spawn don't mix. Words out that our alpaca shit is worth something. We've been giving it away to anyone who will take it. But now that it's actually a commodity worth something, we're delivering it to gardeners in town who are willing to pay us to shovel it. We had just brought a truckload to neighbors in town and had returned to the farm for a second load. It was just starting to rain, dark clouds on the horizon. Paul Bunyan couldn't get the truck up the tractor road to the shit pile because of the wet ground. I let Liebe out of the truck to get some exercise. We were going to go open the upper gates so Paul Bunyan could drive through the upper pastures to the shit pile. The alpacas are a bit nervous with Liebe around, but none more nervous than Chloe. Chloe (as mentioned in my shearing post, was due (like) yesterday) she came after Liebe like an ultimate fighter on speed. She pinned her down. Paul Bunyan was yelling, "get her outta here!!" (talking about Liebe). That's when we noticed that Chloe, who is trying to kill our dog, has two legs and a head sticking out of her vagina. "Holy Shit," I thought, "she's havin' a baby!" Now I was worried about Chloe, and not so much Liebe, although I love her very much. Very much. I sprinted toward the gate that leads up to our house and luckily Liebe was able to free herself from Chloe's hoofs to follow me to the path. I ran up the hill to our house and made sure that Liebe was safe inside. I panted to my mother that Chloe was having her baby and to make sure the dogs stayed inside. She simply replied, "Okay, take your time. We've got everything covered up here." I ran back down and at this point, it was starting to rain pretty hard. PB had Chloe in the tent and was watching the baby being birthed, but before I could turn the corner to look, he asked if I could run back up to the house to grab some clean towels. Holy Shit...I needed to sprint back up the hill...but good thing, I forgot to grab my camera anyway. As I was returning through the pasture with clean white towels and camera tucked underneath, a bolt of lightening and an earth shattering thunder, our first of the season, made me duck for cover. I rounded the corner, Paul Bunyan grabbed a towel, and scooped up this bundle of joy to clean her off.






My dear momma (first time momma!) you've done a great job!!




Here Paul Bunyan is pulling the amniotic sac off of "Lightning".



Prima, the next momma due to have a baby, gets a sniff of the new herd member.





Brand New Momma Chloe gets to sniff her new baby girl!





Poor little Lightning is cold and confused, and still has goop on her nose.




We try to warm her with a "jacket".



Oh, my god, am I tired.




But, we gotta give standin' up a try.



Let me just take a little rest here.




Before I try again. Here we go. Here we go.



Okay, I think I've got it.



Within an hour, Lightning was up and trying to nurse. She was, albeit, a little cold, but let's hope Momma can keep her warm.



Whoa, but first we gotta get rid of this shit. Here comes the placenta. If you are at all squeamish, please don't look at the following pictures (I know you all want to keep looking!)



Paul Bunyan collects the placenta.



Okay, don't look. Really, don't look....









I told you not to.

I had c-sections for all my children. I never had to see any of my insides, or feel it for that matter. This is the closest I've been to a placenta. I'm glad it's not mine.


Good job Momma bird. You're one tough chick. Now, all I ask is that you teach Lightning to be kind...and not to spit on anyone. Because really, that's all that matters in life. Right Mom??

I Like This Sound, Thank You Very Much

Two weeks ago tonight I was trying on vintage Valentino in the tiny apartment of the Goddess Who is Gone. The drive down to NYC seemed to go pretty quickly, what with the six pack I drank and all. But even though it is a mere 5 1/2 hours away, NYC is like a galaxy away in terms of people, buildings, and sounds. That Friday night in the city, with temperatures in the 70's, we slept with the windows open (and these were big windows folks). It was the first night I had slept with fresh air on my lily white Vermont skin. It felt wonderful. But like all of us who have moved from the country to the city, or vice verse, the sounds are what really make you feel like you are a visitor to a different planet. I couldn't settle my bones because of the sirens of rescue vehicles, and horns of angry taxi cab drivers, or the shouting of people walking by, parties in nearby apartment buildings, other tenants in the building going up and down the stairs. I'm not sure how long it would have taken me to get used to that cacophony; however, I must admit, and I know I'm a little biased, but I sure was glad to hear these noises upon my return to Vermont. These are the sirens and horns and voices I hear in the night. And frankly, I find them a little more soothing than the city's clamor. But that's just my cup of tea.

Mr. Tooth Fairy, Mr. Santa Claus, and Mr. Easter Bunny

Setting: The Bus (my van) is stopped at a traffic light on the way to school. No music is playing, however, the Jeep next to us has a muffler that is about to fall off.

Claire: So, who else would leave coins under my pillow? Who else would do that but the Tooth Fairy?

Me: I don't know honey.

Claire: And who else would eat the Christmas cookies and leave presents at Christmas time?

Me: Hmm, I don't know.

Claire: And who would leave us all that candy at Easter? Who else would do that?

Me: (doing all I can to stop laughing) I don't know.

Claire: I just can't figure out how the Tooth Fairy, Santa Clause, and the Easter Bunny were born.

Me: Well, it's magic. Sometimes magic is unexplainable.

hmmm...seems pretty self-explanatory to me:








Mr. Tooth Fairy




Mr. Santa Claus


Mr. (Drunk) Easter Bunny

A Beautiful Day For A Haircut

Besides walking down the hill to the alpacas to find a brand new baby animal on the ground, already romping around despite being born minutes before, there isn't too many more exciting things on the farm than shearing day. The daily grind of scooping poop, watering, filling hay boxes, and doling out grain is not a glorified job. And nail clipping, or even better yet...shot day, are probably both last on the list. However, yesterday, with the sun shining and a few extra hands on deck for helping, we were able to give the alpacas their annual haircut.


This is Jim, our shearer. He comes over from Jay, N.Y.



The alpacas, with ropes around their ankles, are stretched from end to end. No one gets hurt this way.


Jim starts with the "blanket" which is the heaviest and nicest section of fiber. He then moves to the back legs, tail tip, front legs, neck, top of the head and cheeks, and lastly...the brisket. Each animal takes about 10-15 minutes.




Here's one of our old ladies. She definitely hates getting her hair cut. I know with some old ladies it's the only thing they look forward to. I think she would rather get her nails done. Yes, that's regurgitated food spilling out of her mouth. Luckily, she didn't spit on anyone.




However, this momma got Paul Bunyan pretty good. But she's pregnant and due, like, four days ago. Can you imagine being pulled by arms and legs, stretched in all directions, and having some guy buzz you all over? I definitely would have been reeling at 39 weeks pregnant with the twins. I'd be spittin' too. Luckily, Paul Bunyan's smiling about it!

The alpacas really do love getting all that weight off of them, especially now that we're getting into the 70's and above. They frolic in the fields and rub against the fence and squawk at each other because they don't recognize one another. Don't you think they look happier?


Hey, what are you lookin' at?



I know I look funny.



But do you have to laugh so hard? It's starting to hurt my feelings.


If you're bored and have, like, nothing to do you can watch Jim shear Jumping Jack.

The Rubber Dog

This is Uncle Stinky Jon's Dog, Kozmo, or Kosmo, or Cosmo, or Cozmo (I don't know how he spells it. I can't ask him because he's a dog; and, well, he's never written his name). Kozzy is what I call him. He got in a wicked bad fight when he was younger and lost half an ear, but the fact that he came back and can talk about it...I just have the utmost respect. Uncle Stinky is in Costa Rica changing the world. His parents have had Kozzy for the year that Jon has been gone, but we've acquired him for a month while Jon's parents go down to visit him. And black dogs are welcome here because I'm not prejudiced. I wrote about Jon here. Uncle Stinky Jon got his name because all of Paul Bunyan's college buddies are uncles to my children. There is Uncle Dirty and Uncle Robert Winkler and Uncle Timmy Jimmy Fender Hender and there are some other crazy ones but they're not allowed near my children. Uncle Stinky doesn't really stink, but I had to give him a more unique and special name than Jon; one that my children would find funny and one that would stick and forever embarrass him from here on out. I'm sure Claire will thank Uncle Stinky at her wedding for drinking heavily when she was a little girl and scarring her for life because she saw him ziplining naked in the dark.

Anyway, Kozzy is a rubber. He is a black rubber dog. He rubs. He rubs on you. This is how he lets you know he's there. He rubs on you when he's wet. He doesn't hump. He just rubs. Other than rubbing, he doesn't have too many other bizarre behavioral issues. Oh wait, there is this small thing he does with a ball. Yea, the ball thing. This dog is addicted to balls. Any size, shape, or color. He luuuuvs balls. He's twelve and a half and all his balling around has made him hobble, a lot. So, we've had strict orders to keep the balls away. But I couldn't resist, just this once, to show you the effects of the addiction. He really could do this all day long. I've seen it.



Kozzy first tries to get you to throw the ball, which (of course) we're not allowed to do. But do not fear...he will figure it out on his own!



He then plays catch with himself on the end of the dock for as long as he is able to before this happens:



And then he watches and contemplates for a very long time.



And he watches some more before deciding to....



get wet.




Liebe thinks he's crazy, but Kozzy doesn't give a shit.





Now, let's do it all over again. Play...




whoa, whoa. I almost lost it.




All right let's get it.




Saweet return.



Needless to say, this dog sleeps well at night.


Listen to Jon sing!!

Sometimes Life - Jon Marshall

The Big Apple

So, this is no joke. I'm going to this man's house next month:




See...here's the proof. It arrived today. The paper was almost too thick to fit into my scanner. I'm going to use it as a bulletin board after the wedding.

Paul Bunyan's close college buddy is marrying the Fonz's daughter. As much as I'm excited to meet Potsy, there is a little bit of a problem...I'm a country girl and I've got no L.A. in me. I've got the nails of a country girl (yea, dirty), the skin of a country girl (yea, never have worn make-up), the hair of a country girl (wild and crazy), the nasty toes of a country girl (maybe one pedicure, ever, in my whole life), the white ass of a country girl (never seen the sun), and generally the classless demeanor of a country girl (I can burp really loud). So, I needed some help. I needed the fashion guru...the Goddess Who is Gone. Us Wombats (women on mountain bikes and tele skis) had to endure the painful loss of one of our own a few years ago. The beeatch moved to the big city. But I'm grateful she let us all camp out on the empty floor of her teensy apartment like we were in summer camp again. AND I'm grateful I had these beautiful wombats to drive my ass down there and then put up with my shenanigans when we got there:


This is "E". That's short for Mary Elizabeth. She is a rippin' skier and mountain biker. She loves yoga and hanging her sheets out to dry. She is a dermatologist P.A.



This is Rebecca. She's a rippin skier and mountain biker. She taught me how to give the best blow jobs (sorry Mom, but she did). Paul Bunyan loves Rebecca. She's a saweet doctor with the nicest lookin' boobs.


This is Super Cath. Cath for short. She's a rippin skier and mountain biker (are you gettin' my drift?). She once biked over all the mountains in Europe, in like a week. She has a webbed toe; it's pretty cool. She's a saweet graphic designer who is helping me with my doula logo.

My ladies are all pretty stylin'. I had a grand time trying on dresses in the Goddess' closet when we arrived Friday night. She's got a veritable vintage clothing store under her bed. Thank you Goddess for letting me try on your vintage Valentino, even though my old growth forest poked through. But the real shopping was slated for Saturday. We had one goal: a dress for the Fonz; well, for me to wear to the Fonz's house, in L.A. That's, like, not in Vermont.

The getting ready to go shopping was a long process, especially for someone who DOES NOT have the right clothes, right shoes, right sunglasses, right purse, or any hair or make-up products to put on. But I had fun watching...and so when we finally got to the Lower East Side, we had to eat and fuel up for our marathon day of shopping. We found a tiny restaurant named TEANY, which I am told is owned by Moby. The joint was indeed teany, but it stands for tea n.y. and is a rather good vegan spot. If you go you should try their chicken salad salad (which doesn't have chicken in it) and the amazing raspberry lime rickies.





It was also a great spot to watch for women with shooties. Those are the shoe/boots that the woman in the tight-ass maroon skirt is wearing. Who knew?




This is the Goddess Who is Gone. Teany was a good place to get a good look at her. However, after some lubrication, we were ready for some foreplay. Sorry for the sexual connotations, but that's just how the weekend turned out to be.



Here the Goddess is getting really excited. And at this point I was, unfortunately, asked to put my thingy (camera) away.



A little more lubrication to prepare for the climax.


Nothing like Superman to keep the blood pumping.

The ladies found me THE dress in a beautiful shop on Ludlow Street. I wasn't sold on it, although I should have trusted their eye for fashion, since I don't have one (or two for that matter), but I was still needing more. I wasn't ready to come. I couldn't resist the idea that a better one (or another orgasm) was just around the corner. The ladies climaxed at Mint Julip and I lost them after that. E was about ready to nap, after her titillating experience, on the fluffed up display bed at Anthropologie; no one had anything left to give. I missed my chance at orgasm and had to think about this all night long. I tossed and turned on the wooden board of an air mattress that Rebecca over-blew, I thrashed in the covers, and went over and over and over it in my head. How could I have missed my chance? I had to go back on Sunday with Finn, the Goddess' better half, who simply asked, "Why did we have to come back here?" I bought the dress. I might have missed the climactic orgasm from the day before, but I'm banking on the fact that I just might be able to snag a few in L.A...thanks to the wombats. I'm sorry I can't show you a picture of the dress here (I think the Fonz is reading this and I don't want to give away the surprise) but I'll give you a hint and you can make your own deductions:





Let there be no bones about it, I will be L.A.




Ladies, the weekend is a blur (kinda like this photo) but you guys moved me to places I have never been before. Thanks for being patient with me and for coaxing when coaxing needed to happen, and loving when loving needed to happen. I love you all.

And I can't wait to show you pictures of me, in my frickin' hot dress, dancing with the Fonz.

The Swine Flu

My computer came home from Mexico with a case of the swine flu. It's been in quarantine since. She's better now and will have a new post, for those who care, tomorrow.

Those pigs!