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