On Holiday

The last few weeks -- looking for work, holding down the fort here -- have been exhausting. All the TV I've had to watch and the nachos and pop tarts I've had to eat. It was just too much. A break was in order.

So with plane ticket in hand, we're swapping frigid mid-atlantic weather for more of winter -- but at least we'll see the fluffy stuff. The whole fam-damily is voyaging to a land far far away. A little-known mountain country, accessible by plane or donkey. The locals fondly call their exotic nation: Utah. Others call it "the Mormon State or "the where can you get a drink around here?" state.

I'm not sure our journey can be classified as a vacation. Does a ski trip accompanied by two toddlers, my stressed-out mom, and my dad with advanced dementia, meet the definition of vacation? We shall see.

They're laughing on the inside, trust me.

To my loyal readers -- all 4 of you -- I promise to return with a suitcase full of stories. Toddlers and diapers, dementia and ski lifts. Hilarity ensues.

Have a happy week, all. Enjoy February's last nicotine-racked breaths. (I guarantee that February inhales.)

Hot Pants

A family member was kind enough to give Hadley the Barbarian these ski pants at Christmas. And they'll come in handy in a couple of days. Nice, right?







Only problem: the kid's going to be tripping security sensors right and left. And I'm not saying that someone has sticky fingers but...





...did these pants fall off the back of a truck or what? Ouch, they're burning my hands, they're so hot!






So yesterday, I brought them with me while shopping at a ski store. I first picked out some gear because a) I actually needed to buy stuff and b) to convince the sales lady that I'm legit. Of course I tripped the alarm when I arrived, so the sales staff was tailing me from the get go.

Anyway, I deposited my clothes at the register, whipped out yee-ole credit card, and then off-handedly mentioned, "Oopsie daisy, someone gave my kid these pants but they forgot to take off the security tag. Can you just pop this off?"

"It's from another store," I added. (translation: even if I did steal it, at least I didn't rip off your store.)

"Well, I know that," sales lady says with a touch of scorn. "Our tags are different and I can tell you right now, our machine can't take this off."

I made her try anyway, but finally she said, "Why don't you take it back to the store you stole it from and they can remove it?"

Okay, so she didn't say exactly that, but the look of face said: you, are shady acres.

And at that very moment a security guy strolled through the door and leaned up against the counter. But apparently it was just the rent-a-cop making his rounds.

So my next stop was a guaranteed bastion for bad behavior, a place saturated with ways to buck the system. The internet, of course. I picked up a ton of tips on do-it-yourself security tag removal.

Pry it up with scissors, then use plyers to gently rotate the round end. Wrap a bunch of rubber bands around the metal post to widen the gap until it pops free. Use a flat head screw driver to pry the thing apart, but only if it doesn't contain ink (Ink? who knew?).

But then a little farther down: put the garment in the freezer for a couple of hours to solidify the ink, then crack it open.

One enterprising individual actually sells a curved pin that disengages the device like the stores do.

But in the end, I didn't need internet tips. The farrier came by today! And anyone who pulls horse shoes can figure out how to pop one of these babies off.

Bending a horse shoe nail into a make-shift skeleton key didn't work. But five minutes later, ta da! Yet another use for a good pair of nippers...

Field of bleak

You've all heard it before: "I think October's my favorite month. The leaves just start to turn and there's that crispness in the air..." Or else, "I dig June, it's finally hot, break out the shorts, hit the beach..." And there's always a few saps who claim they "luuuuvvv December because it's soooo festive..."

No one claims to love February.

Because February is a parasitic month. It should be the time to look forward: "hey, we survived 3 months indoors, just 30 more days til spring!" But normal people don't think that way.

February is the month that won't end. It's dead yellow grass, speckled with brown dirt patches, and naked trees as far as the eye can see. Nothing grows but mud, and it feels like nothing ever will.

I know, it's the same every year -- this interminable shade of bleak. Then overnight everything greens up, like spring pulls an all-nighter, frantically slapping buckets of paint on everything before the sun comes up.

I just can't wait for that day. Vile February, be gone!

Mel, who accompanied me to take photos, is less traumatized by February's cruel, cold grasp. Or else, he just keeps it on the inside.

Are you trying to burn the farm down?

This morning starts like any other morning in paradise.

Departure routine: Wrestle kids into jackets, steer Hadley the Barbarian past the smorgasbord in the litter box (thanks Drippy, for missing the box again); set kids free in yard; kick horses out of their stalls, feed cats, throw hay to sheep, chase down kids and stuff them into car seats while using leg to block muddy dog from leaping into the truck.

All the while I'm thinking: should I work on my resume and look for a job this morning? (while perusing non-news sites like tmz and perezhilton) Or should I watch a movie on HBO? Hmm, decisions, decisions.

At that moment, Martin interrupts my heady thoughts: the water troughs are frozen.

Oh really? I barely feign interest. Trough duty falls under Martin's purvey. In the winter, that include the obvious -- filling them up -- but also the annoying task of draining the hoses, which otherwise freeze, and checking the water heaters. One trough has heating tongs installed in the bottom, but the others have floating heaters. They're OK but if the water drops too low, they'll burn a hole into the side of the trough, rendering it useless. Don't ask how we learned that.

So water supply: Martin's responsibility. But, horse health is me, so I enter the field with a crow bar we keep handy for such emergencies, and proceed to bash ice.

Martin: Oh, I guess this is what happened, he says, brandishing the extension cord. The plug -- the prongs -- aren't just singed, they've melted and disintegrated after a long, slow burn.


Holy s&*%! How did that happen?

Martin: I don't know. But it was kind of looking like that before.

I'm sorry... it "looked" like that before? You were using a semi-fried extension cord? Why? Why didn't you replace it??

Shrug. I dunno. He climbs into the truck and drives away.

Later, when I inspect it again to take a photo, the cord starts hissing and popping, which tells me that Martin didn't even bother to unplug it before he peeled out.

What is the wrong with you? Electrical fire's not interesting? We could have had Mississippi Burning, here, and all I get is I dunno!? Sheesh. And Martin wonders why tv commercials portray guys as dopey, lazy, boneheads who can't figure out how to microwave a HotPocket. When the extension cord is smoking....there's probably a problem.


In other exciting farm updates, we have new barn doors. Remember the recent post about the wind? Well, it claimed another victim. The new doors, however, are twice as thick and pressure treated so hopefully, they'll live longer than a couple seasons. Take that, wind!

Out-going door on left, new improved door on ground (still in need of paint)

Crew discusses how to get cursed, ridiculously heavy door on the runners and whether they will support the weight

Martin appears, procrastination ensues. Discussion of door abandoned for conversation about West Va strip clubs, Obama, vascectomies and gas prices (in that order).

Winning is Everything

I'm not going to say that we're too competitive. Just that Martin and I agree on one thing:

There's NO room for losers in this family, dammit!

The two of us compete over who can fit more dishes into the dishwasher, who can be the first to name a random actor on TV, who drives home the fastest, who throws the dog's ball furthest, and who can throw the ball and hit the telephone pole in the yard...at night, in the dark.....after a few drinks...while being heckled.

And if we're walking, we're competing to see who can walk the fastest without breaking into a run (Martin usually wins though I sometimes disagree with his definition of walking). Here's what happens: we're strolling, more or less side-by-side. And then I realize that he's picking up his pace...sonofabitch, he's trying to pass me!

So I walk faster, he walks faster, we both walk faster, until we look like those dorks who compete in speed walking -- minus the short shorts. Now we're neck in neck, sometimes blows are exchanged, an arm is used to detain an opponent. But eventually one finally stops and officially concedes the race by screaming "you suck, you big cheater!" This also guarantees that anyone in ear shot will look at you like you're demented.

Our last face-off was at Dulles airport, daily parking garage #1, 5 am. We were both handicapped -- me by a packed luggage cart, him by the kids doubled up in the stroller. As we're speed walking, we narrowly slide past unsuspecting and ridiculously slow-walking travelers, who jump out of the way and clutch one other like we're going to snatch their samsonite.

But there's no time to apologize. Cause I see the final stretch: the covered breezeway that leads to the terminal. Once we're in there, passing will be impossible. I'm in the lead. Victory is mine! Cackling madly, I glance over my shoulder at Martin, who's huffing behind with the stroller that's lolling under the weight of two kids and a carry-on.

Just as I'm about to shout, "smell my butt, loser!" catastrophe strikes.

Had I been looking ahead instead of taunting my opponent, I would have seen the crater in the pavement. Even so, I'm not sure I could have changed course at such a high speed. The front wheels bottom out and the cart jack-knifes, sending luggage in every direction. The kids narrowly escape a similar fate (ejection would have been certain, we never strap them in), but Martin deftly navigates around the carnage -- suitcases littering the parking lot and the upended cart, its wheels still spinning. He leaps into the lead. Bastard!

So what does this have to do with hay? Last time we brought hay home, our friend Skip loaded 58 bales, nice and tight, in the back of Big Rig. No tie-downs needed.

This weekend, Martin was determined to beat that record.

Unfortunately Skip was not around when we arrived to pilfer his hay. This meant that we had to rely on our own amateur stacking style -- increasing the chance that we'd be shedding hay the whole way home.

We loaded up the truck which appeared to be at max capacity at 52 bales. That's it, I said. But Martin said, "Oh no, I've come too far to turn back. I'm too close. Just 6 bales to tie, 7 to win."

Martin: "Oh yea, no sweat. We'll get this home, no problem.
The Dog: "Dude, your pants stink."

At final count I thought we tied the record at 58 bales. And after a Driving Miss Daisy-paced commute, we unloaded our haul in the loft. Martin did a recount and announced that we were looking at 60 bales. Definitely 60.

Okay Rain Man.

Of course, Skip, this means the ball's in your court. You can challenge the recount, or reclaim the hay stacking title with 61. Otherwise, relinquish your crown of baling twine.

Martin returns victorious with his 58 ... oh, sorry, 60 bales

A glimpse at winter

Yet again, we've been left high and dry in the snow department (hey, I ain't complaining), but the dusting we received a few weeks was pretty... for about 5 minutes until it melted into the muddy ground below.

Wish I could take credit for these 2 images, but they are courtesy of Liz Zander, who's a real photographer and actually knows a thing or two about lighting and composition. And, who probably wouldn't waste her time shooting pics of a dirty litter box.


So, with just 34 days & 9 hours left of winter (not that I'm counting), take a quick drink of these and enjoy!

Does this round bale make me look fat...and really dirty?

When non-horse (aka normal) people think about horses, they picture fox hunters in top hats and scarlet coats (no, they're not red), paired with impeccably turned-out horses, galloping across the rolling countryside in pursuit of their quarry. Tally ho!

Or else, they imagine a show horse, dappled and groomed to a glistening shine, braided up, hooves polished, and a rider -- of course, thin, blonde and beautiful -- clearing a brightly-colored, flower drenched jump. The spectators in the VIP tent offers a smattering of applause before returning to their cucumber sandwiches and champagne flutes.

Wake up!

THIS is what horses look like most of the time.

Especially in winter. A thick wooley coat, smattered with mud and muck, and topped with a blanket that's been worn day-in and day-out for 3 months. Let me tell you, it smells divine.

But this post isn't about dirt. It's about fat. My fat horses.

It's winter, the time of leanness, when most animal species become scrawny and thin. Except of course humans, who combat winter's grasp by fortifying themselves mounds of mac 'n cheese. Unlike us -- and the marshmallows in my pasture -- most wild species are burning any caloric resources they can muster in the hopes that they hang in there til the first glint of spring.

If the horses are so plump, you might ask, why plunk down the giant bale of hay?

Here's the rub. Horses are grazers and it's in their best interest, for various health reasons, to nibble all day long. It just seems that some of them a missing that, "whoa, slow down, pace yourself" gene.

Also, you gotta give them some forage or they'll get bored and seek ways to fill their idle time. Like devouring every tree within their reach or gnawing through the fence like mutant rodents.

And, not all of the horses are fat. Two of my herd actually could stand to pack on a few more pounds. Unfortunately, it's the fatties who don't know when to say when. Like Huck, above, who looks like a bloated guinea pig.

One solution is a muzzle. It's this apparatus that surrounds the horse's nose and mouth, and only allows him to eat through a hole the size of a quarter. Sort of the equine version of the liquid diet, where a person can eat anything they want through a straw. Now imagine if that straw were duct-taped to your face. Oh, the anger, the humiliation, the chafing... that's why most muzzled horses quickly find a way to pull, push or rub that thing off. You get home, your horses are happily chowing down, and somewhere in your field is $48 of mangled nylon and rubber.

Guaranteed, my field is muzzle graveyard, scattered with remnants and bits of twine, duct tape and other crap I've use to trouble shoot the problem.

You can't blame the horse entirely for his weight problem. We've done a pretty good job setting the stage, improving forage with more bang per bite. Ditto with grain and concentrated feeds. And then in the meantime, we don't exercise horses as much as we used to.

Hmm... too much rich food and a sedentary lifestyle. Funny, I feel like I've heard that before.

Here's what bugs me: there are these supermodels who become vegetarians or only eat raw food and suddenly drop weight equivalent to a 6-yr-old child. Why the hell doesn't this work for Huck? He's a vegan. He eats raw food.

Don't be a moron, my husband says. That has nothing do with it. Look at hippos. They're vegans. And how many skinny hippos do you see roaming the earth?

Poor Huck, he used to like this

Now he looks like this

Literary interlude: 4 AM and the weather's knocking

I can’t believe that everyone else is sleeping through this – the kids and husband, that is. Though the dog is at the foot of the bed, exchanging concerned looks with me.

Wind is battering the house and I wonder if this'll be the time that it's ripped from its moorings. The gusts sound like waves breaking on the beach and rolling up on the sand, before the ocean sucks the kelp and deadwood back into its grasp. Sometimes I imagine that our house is ship at sea and we’re in our bunks, waiting for a storm to pass.

It's not hard to picture because the house moves in high winds. Really, it physically moves -- it sways with big gusts. I like to think that it was designed that way, like skyscrapers that shift several feet to resist wind force, without damaging structural integrity. Our house was built 100 years ago and it must be the same, right? It's withstood worse than this. The alternative is too depressing: that the house perches on the foundation like a loose tooth.

For years I was unaware of weather. I lived in a suburban house buffered by a cocoon of homes, planted on 1/4-acre lots, and spared weather extremes. Aside from thunder storms and rare blizzards.

Now, we sit exposed in a flat little valley, with a handful of other properties that, much like "The 3 Little Pigs," challenge the wolf to huff and puff. Go ahead, we dare you.

The wind sweeps down from the north-west (except the rare tropical storm that rolls up from the south and turns the sky green). Over time the northern wind peels paint and clapboard off the side of the barn. It rattles the doors so hard, the wood weakens against the hinges and runners. We’ve been here 8 years and we're on our third set of barn doors.

I used to think that we were the only wind-swept ones but last week, I happily noticed an article that mentioned “Frederick County’s notorious winds.”

The house sways again and there's rushing in my ears. Maisie hears it too, her eyes get big and her ears droop. I’m propped up in bed, on an elbow, and we stare at one another. What is that? It sounds solid and powerful, like a train rushing by. Finally it stops and we both relax. It’s just the wind exhaling in one long, deep breath.

And about the time that Maisie retreated to the downstairs bathroom for shelter (wimp), the weather service issued this: http://www.weather.com/weather/alerts/localalerts/20842?phenomena=HW&significance=W&areaid=MDZ009&office=KLWX&etn=0001

Utterly vile

Most parents fret that their toddlers will choke on something like a grape or a chunk of hotdog. Or they'll swallow something inedible like a penny or a magnet or the top to a magic marker. Something normal.

My kid, on the other hand, went fishing tonight in the litter box and found something that caught her eye. While no one was looking, she taste-tested cat pee generously breaded in litter. I'm still revolved by the incident. But what can you do? Swab her mouth out with a paper towel and move on.

But give me a break already. Can't I have a normal kid who eats dog food or lint balls?

Damn you Drippy, and your semi-used litter box! Your timing is impeccable.

Shortly after the incident, Hadley chases down her cat snack with Doritos. Bon appetit!

Other kid (the normal one), consuming food typically eaten by humans living in the US

"yea, this burger's not bad...but i know what would make it taste better...."

And now that everyone's thoroughly grossed-out, here's a bonus photo. Think of it as a palate cleanser.

It was a tough night and the high chair was a mess. But with a little quick thinking, problem solved.

The wooing of Spook

As if we don't already have enough dependents on this property, another freeloader surfaced about 6 weeks ago.

Martin spied him in mid-December, this blur of fur that popped out of the cat food container like a jack-in-the-box and shot out of the barn. What the hell was that? A cat, a fox? A raccoon?

We didn't give it another thought until the morning after a trip to LA. Jet lagged and bleary eyed, I dumped cat food into the trays and noticed that our orange cat had morphed into two. I blinked a couple times. No, there were still two orange cats. Weird.

Enter Spook, the feral cat residing in our barn. I think he's an adolescent, neither kitten or cat, who set down his little rucksack and threw out the welcome mat in the hayloft. It's warm, there's a nearby food source, why not?

I have to interrupt to say: I don't even LIKE cats. I am a dog person for Christ sake.

As a kid I knew that felines were inferior when my granny's cat Grover was begging at the table, and my father thumped Grover on the head with his butter knife. (Granny took note, another strike against Dad. But he had never been a contender for son-in-law of-the-year anyway.)

I grew up knowing that dog owners were active, social, outgoing people who belonged to tennis & swim clubs, and went to dinner parties where they kicked a few bottles of wine, bitched about their bosses, debated Reaganomics and argued about who really killed JR.

Cat people were eccentric weirdos who wore house dresses to the grocery store, used coupons, and drove rusted caddies that they parked in carports and then draped in car covers. They never mowed their lawns and they popped up at yard sales where they bought bad paperback romances that never should have been published. Cat people were crazy.

But here's the thing: if you have horses and you have a barn, it's your civic duty to own cats. Aside from their mousing services, there are far too many cats in shelters. You got a barn, toss 'em a bit of food and they're good to go.

So, back to Spook. Call it my pet project but I'm determined to de-feralize our wild cat. Plus, I'm out of work anyway. I've got nothing better to do than work on my resume. Uff.

That's why I'm clutching a store-bought rotisserie chicken under my arm like a football and perched alone on the hay loft stairs singing out "Spo--ook. Come here spooker...come on...comere kitten..."

Holy crap.

I'm becoming a crazy cat person.

I only want to win him over. Earn his trust, pet him and love him and wrap my arms around him....and then shove in a cat box, drive him to the vet and have his balls cut off.

I don't know why he won't come to me. Maybe it's time to try pot roast.

Tempting Spook with freshly cooked Harris Teeter chicken (nothing but the finest)

Unfortunately, he's not so sure

Spook status reports to come....

Farewell old friend

Little Zippy 1995 - 2009


Martin and I frequently refer to our offspring as "the kid" or "the boy and the girl" but we always call our vehicles by name. There's "Chitty," the banged-up '87 Ford pickup that was free with our tractor. There's "Big Rig," the big-ass white pickup with the grumbling diesel that could probably flatten a tank. And there's "Little Zippy," my fire engine red Civic which is just that.... little and zippy.

(Ok, so there's also a Toyota SUV but it's utterly personality-less and not yet earned the right to be named.)

So, I'm sad to say that one our fleet sailed away this weekend. Or rather was jumped, sputtered to life, and limped down the driveway.

It's heartbreaking, sort of like losing a toe. But lately, Little Zippy has not been a valued team member. I've had some good times in Zippy (get your mind out of the gutter, not those kinds of good times...he's a small car), but he's been lawn art for the past year.

But I will miss Lil Zip, a car bought off a former college roommate in '95. I had just secured an entry-level editorial position with a horse magazine, and with a little help from Dad, ponied up the cash to buy my own first car. I would later learn that whilst I was retrieving said vehicle from Pennsylvania, the entire editorial staff had been laid off in a battle between publisher and owner. I arrived to work the next day to find a padlocked front door.

How ironic that I'm now unloading Zippy 14 yrs later and just weeks after being laid off from ANOTHER horse magazine. Guess it was meant to be.

Little Zippy will always be car #2. My first ride (shared with the parents) was a blue Volvo station wagon...God, that was sexy machine. All joking aside, it was stick shift, thank you very much, with overdrive.

My best memory of Zippy: cruising down I-81 in Virginia on the way to a horse show, moon roof open, music blasting, dog sitting shot-gun, while I read and re-read the lyrics from a CD jacket, to memorize all the words. Those were the days when the highways were empty and you could actually drive AND read at the same time. Ah, the memories.

Little Zippy was fast, reliable, got kick-ass mileage, and cost about 10 cents to fill up. He survived a near flattening by a tree during a summer thunderstorm. And he experienced not one, but two deer attacks, both on the front bumper.

So Zip, I'm sorry to sell you down the river. I hope you bring joy to future passengers, but judging what I got for you, you may be chopped up and used as an organ donor for younger hot rods.

The meat of our fleet: the tractor that beget Chitty, and the soon departed little zippy.

Execution day commeth

Alright you little F-ers. How do I say this delicately? Pack your sh*t and go because we're exterminating your asses. And when I say "we" I'm talking about a hired gun, the queen bee of rodent control -- these guys have like a 90% approval rating in the Washington checkbook. They are NOT to be trifled with. They are killing machines and they will be here tomorrow afternoon. So, final warning: get out!

I've had it about up to here (hand above head) -- Drippy has defiled our mudroom and the stink is seeping into the kitchen. (I hope it doesn't scare away pest control), the kids are running amok in the house, then at night when it's finally quiet, all I hear is skittering and chewing in the walls.

At this moment, I don't have a solution for the first two problems but you guys, eradication city.

Now, if you were cute like Remy, and you could whip up an omelet, maybe we could have worked something out.

Fashion distraction

This farm blog is still in infancy but I must abandon topics of feline hygiene & rodent infestation to discuss something all together different: Fashion.

I know, I'm not exactly queen of couture. Fashion conscious means a clean pair of non-riding jeans. Just last yr my friend Emma (nanny/florist extraordinaire) saved me from my post-college wardrobe by purging the closet and dragging me and my credit card to Tysons. So I have a bit of a clue.

Anyway, I've been sorting through the kids' clothing since Hadley the Barbarian outgrows outfits overnight. Seriously, that kid eats a big meal and she's popping out of her pants. So, I'm sorting and boxing and I come across this...see pictured above.

My first thought: Yucko, who handed this down?

Then, I see the tags on it. Someone in this house actually bought this fugly ensemble??

Now, unless the dog has finally puzzled out how to steer the car and reach the pedals, there's only one possible perp: my husband... went shopping... at Walmart.

The realization is a double whammy. Not only has Martin spent money on heinous clothing for the girl, there's no doubt in my mind that he's also purchased random crap -- things that seem useful but are just clutter. I'm talking about giant tupperware storage containers, a set of gardening tools, plastic cups that won't crack in the freezer, a board that helps you fold shirts (yea, like he does a laundry all the time.)

I confronted him with the lovely purple-Hanes-premium-Made in Honduras-polyester/cotton- sweat suit and he fessed up (guys are lousy liars, by the way). Turns out, on my last biz trip, he bought this fugliness in lieu of doing laundry!

Well, Martin's got the WalMart ban. Similar restrictions have been placed on him for rampant shopping at Target and Bed, Bath & Beyond. And Hadley will be spared from the purple nightmare.

So Emma, shield your eyes from this hideousness. Don't worry, no intervention is needed. Even I can handle this one.

The walls have ears

I hear you guys...skittering in the wall between the kitchen and fireplace.

And in as much as I appreciate the company during the day, ya'll have got to hit the road.

Where the heck is Blackie, the black snake who lives and mouses in the cellar? I imagine him being bum-rushed by a rodent posse, bound and gagged, and stuffed into some dark corner of the house.

Come back Blackie, we need you!

You can run but you can't hide

I can see where Stephen King came up with his freaky ideas about killer pets.

I'm holed up in the cellar -- as removed as possible from life on the farm. Just me, my laptop....and a chilling, guttural yowl. I'm being stalked. By Drippy.


Drippy, now 20 yrs old, was originally christened "Smokey" by his former owner, a vet, who allegedly acquired the kitten in exchange for veterinary services. Smokey went on to father a litter and quickly realized that parenthood wasn't all it was cracked up to be. He bolted...next door. "Barn cat #2," as he was called by the farm's former owners, conveyed with the farm.

We immediately named him Drippy for the long strings of saliva that seeped from his jaw when he purred...and for no apparent medical reason (Trust me, I took him to the vet clinic; $125 later he was was vaccinated and declared a happy, healthy cat who "drools profusely when excited.")

Since then he's been a royal pain the neck. He's an utterly useless mouser. He is quick to claw friend or foe and is constantly looking for a way inside. Leave the door cracked for a moment while unloading groceries and he's in. Good luck dragging him out again. When he's out, he's lobbying to be let in, meowing at window or door.

Most recently, he endeared himself by pooping in our mudroom b/c he's decided that it's too cold and icy to leave the mudroom. My husband said that's it, time's up on that cat. I wavered and we've compromised with a litter box in the mudroom. I'll just put it this way... sometimes he nails the target.

His one saving grace? The one thing that keeps us from digging a hole in the orchard? He loves the kids. And unfortunately, the feeling is mutual....