Oh Yes He Did

I leave notes to myself on everything from check stubs to recipes, about subjects I want to rememember to write about. Then I shuffle papers around and lose those notes. I have now taken to using the voice recorder feature on my cell phone to record musings about topics I want to address; I do this on my way home from work as the roads are winding and it is always dark when I come home. There's no way to type that into the notes section of my phone and it is also now illegal to text while driving. Plus, it is deer season and those suckers will pop up anywhere at any time. I do not want to be messing with my phone and look up to see antlers coming through my windshield!

One of the ever so poignant stories that I should have written two weeks ago was about the White Husky, Gunnar. G-man and I were getting a late start (7am) as it was a weekend and the snow was falling. After donning the "winter wardrobe" I went out to see him. He was peering through the fence of his outdoor kennel so I went over to say hello before loading Old Man Taylor with wood.

I noticed there was some blood smeared on the snow in front of Gunnar and I immediately started to worry that he had done something to his teeth again. Actually what I thought was, "He is not getting another grand out of my wallet!" I looked at his legs and there was a little blood on his front left paw, but he was happy and dancing around on all fours. I looked through the fence to try to find any indication that he had done more than pull a toenail, and I decided to head into the barn to get him dressed for his walk. He was still happy and jumpy and moving all extremities so I decided to walk him as far as we could: that means walk him as far as I could go before I dropped, and when wearing insulated overalls, winter coat, scarf, hat, gloves, and huge boots, that is not more than two miles. I've tried.

We have a wonderful winter walk and then I put Gunnar into the barn with his breakfast. I go into the outdoor kennel with a shovel to remove some of the frozen "tootsie rolls" stuck to the ground. I'm half way through this process when I see the most gruesome sight: blood everywhere on a lower section of the kennel post closest to the gate. I mean, the post is coated with blood. It looks like a murder took place: it is reminiscent of the criminal investigation shows that are on TV. I had my very own "NCIS" episode in Gunnar's kennel.

However, it only took me a few seconds to solve the mystery.  I had all of these images--a video montage if you will--of Gunnar in his outdoor kennel the first few months we lived here: he is happy to see me as I walk towards him, but frustrated that he can't yet get to me for one of his polar bear hugs.  When he is in this state of excitement, he always stands up near the kennel gate and licks the post--I have no idea why he does this. I've never even cared why he does this, because after having Wulf in the family for six years, a compulsive furniture licker and cheek rubber (on carpet), I don't try to figure out animal behavior anymore.

Gunnar had actually gotten his tongue stuck to the kennel post in subzero temperatures! Seriously! I turned toward him because he was by now done with breakfast and he flew through the dog door to see what I was doing. I tried to put my fingers in his mouth and get him to kiss me at the same time--I had to gain tongue visibility.  Gunnar ate his food just fine, chewed it on both sides of his mouth (I did check for that; I'm a good mommy), so I just assumed he had enough tongue left to carry on with life. I also prayed that this lesson would teach him something and that he'd never, ever do that again...

When I came back into the house, I chewed my husband for not giving his youngest son, "the talk." Bill was bewildered and had no idea what "talk" he had failed to give to the G-man. He was probably thinking of the "birds and the bees" talk, but as I recounted the story of the murder scene to him, Bill realized he needed to mention the "don't stick your tongue to metal stuff in winter" story to all five of the kids. I'm not very confident that he's had that talk yet and am pensively waiting with a measuring cup full of warm water every time Wulfie goes outside!

The Twelve Days of Tucson

Here's a little auld lang syne for you, written last year while still living in Arizona.

"(Sing it to the tune of "The Twelve Days of Christmas."  I know, it’s a stretch.):

On the first day in Tucson I walked along and saw… a scorpion hanging from Loki’s tail.

On the second day in Tucson I walked along and saw 2 brown coyotes, and a scorpion hanging from Loki’s tail…

On the third day in Tucson I walked along and saw 3 ground squirrels, 2 brown coyotes, and a scorpion hanging from Loki’s tail…

On the fourth day in Tucson I walked along and saw 4 red ant hills, 3 ground squirrels, 2 brown coyotes, and a scorpion hanging from Loki’s tail.

On the fifth day in Tucson I walked along and saw 5 Rattlesnakes!!!   4 red ant hills, 3 ground squirrels, 2 brown coyotes, and a scorpion hanging from Loki’s tail.

On the sixth day in Tucson I walked along and saw 6 baby quail, 5 Rattlesnakes!! 4 red ant hills, 3 ground squirrels, 2 brown coyotes, and a scorpion hanging from Loki’s tail.

On the seventh day in Tucson I walked along and saw 7 Javelinas, 6 baby quail, 5 Rattlesnakes!!  4 red ant hills, 3 ground squirrels, 2 brown coyotes, and a scorpion hanging from Loki’s tail.

On the eighth day in Tucson I walked along and saw 8 creepy lizards, 7 javelinas, 6 baby quail, 5 Rattlesnakes!!  4 red ant hills, 3 ground squirrels, 2 brown coyotes, and a scorpion hanging from Loki’s tail.

On the ninth day in Tucson I walked along and saw 9 empty Bud cans, 8 creepy lizards, 7 javelinas, 6 baby quail, 5 Rattlesnakes!!  4 red ant hills, 3 ground squirrels, 2 brown coyotes, and a scorpion hanging from Loki’s tail.

On the tenth day in Tucson I walked along and saw 10 little burros, 9 empty Bud cans, 8 creepy lizards, 7 javelinas, 6 baby quail, 5 Rattlesnakes!! 4 red ant hills, 3 ground squirrels, 2 brown coyotes, and a scorpion hanging from Loki’s tail.

On the eleventh day in Tucson I walked along and saw 11 vultures circling (me), 10 little burros, 9 empty Bud cans, 8 creepy lizards, 7 javelinas, 6 baby quail, 5 Rattlesnakes!!  4 red ant hills, 3 ground squirrels, 2 brown coyotes, and a scorpion hanging from Loki’s tail.

On the twelfth day in Tucson I walked along and saw 12 Border Agents, 11 vultures circling (me), 10 little burros, 9 empty Bud cans, 8 creepy lizards, 7 javelinas, 6 baby quail, 5 Rattlesnakes!!  4 red ant hills, 3 ground squirrels, 2 brown coyotes, and a scorpion hanging from Loki’s tail!!!!!"

2010ChristmasCard

Merry Christmas and Happy Homer Holidays!!!

DEER Sue:

I left for work early this morning as the meteorologists – in all of their infinite wisdom – on the local news stations said we were under winter weather advisory and to expect freezing drizzle all the way to the city. Driving in the darkness most of the way, I tuned in to one of the liveliest local radio stations. Perfect timing, because the DJs had taken a call from “Sue,” who isn’t a native to Wisconsin.

Sue felt the need to call in and complain about her neighbor who had gone deer hunting this season and he was apparently still hanging his deer from the ceiling in the garage. Sue had asked him to keep his garage door closed so that they wouldn’t have a view of the inside of his garage from their living room window.  The real problem, Sue stated, was the fact that she didn’t want to have to explain to her school-aged son why there was a dead deer across the street. She said that she didn’t feel the need to explain where meat comes from, especially something as gross as deer meat, as that didn’t come from a grocery store. She stated the meat in grocery stores are raised on farms where they are specifically raised as food animals.  As if that makes it more humane! Sue wanted her son to think his meat comes from grocery stores! Also, Sue didn’t know why hunters wore blaze orange: “It doesn’t look good on anyone; I don’t know why they wear it. It’s not like the deer care what color they wear.” The radio DJs then had to explain twice to Sue why it was important for the hunters to wear blaze orange: “No, it’s not so the deer see the hunters, Sue; it’s so the hunters see each other.” “Why, Sue? So they don’t shoot each other.” (Sidebar: by this time I was swearing so loud at the idiocy that I was hearing I had almost swerved off the road and run over a compact car).

So, here’s to Kate Gosselin – er, I mean Samantha…er “Sue:”

Listen honey, I know blaze orange might not be in your color wheel, but I think you’d better rethink explaining to your child where meat comes from if you’re going to be evolved enough to eat it. Whether it’s caught, trapped, hunted, or farm-raised—and then hit over the head with a big bat to kill it, like in some big slaughterhouses—the meat all ends up in the grocery store for you and your pudgy little family to overindulge yourselves on (with tater tots). Oh, and Sue, please don’t tell me you actually think red meat comes from red animals, too.

Weather Advisory Warning:

I am not proud that it has taken me 34 years to finally admit this and I know how difficult this will be for my friends and family to accept. I didn't want to sit everyone down and explain individually and have a dramatic, snot-filled, tears-and-hugs session with everybody. Besides, why not just tell the whole world and get it all over with in one fell swoop?

It is time I come out and not hide the fact that... I LOVE SNOW! Believe me, no one is more shocked than I am, but it doesn't pain me as much as I thought it would to finally admit this truth. I've only known for a few weeks so I really haven't had time to get used to it either. Well, I really haven't known for that long--I had suspicions.  (I know this will dramatically affect our relationship, Seneca, and I wanted to tell you in person, but I didn't even know myself when we were in Vegas together a few weeks ago. Try not to be too disappointed in me).

I even love to shovel snow, which I was doing just now in my pajamas, rain boots, scarf, and cap, with the chihuahuas observing from indoors. (What? I wasn't going to get all dressed up when it's 24 degrees outside. I was burning up!).

I love all kinds of snow. I love snow that is cold, fluffy and light. I love that sometimes it's wet and heavy and slushy--but not as much as the cold, fluffy and light, kind.  I love all types of snow: white, gray, yellow, and brown.  I don't eat or drink the yellow or brown varietals though: they taste funny.

I guess I came to this conclusion --about loving snow, not about eating yellow snow--on the 2 and 1/2 hour commute I just had in a mini snow blizzard. That is a long commute but it was pretty: it's always pretty in four-wheel drive! I also learned a couple of things:

1) Fog lights are amazing! They do great work in snowy conditions, just like they do in rain.
2) I understand the definition of "snowblind" now, although my version occurs during dark hours instead of daylight.
3) I also learned the destination of the idiot in front of me as she had her GPS mounted to her windshield so high up that I could almost push the buttons if I leaned forward.
4) I learned that it still doesn't matter if you have an Arizona license plate: some Wisconsinites just don't realize that should be their first line indicator that the person behind the wheel has no winter road skills and they might do better if they backed off my luggage rack!

Beauty and Cooking Don't Mix

As my Aunt Tonda has been under the weather -- but quickly on the up-swing-- I wanted to share a story from her visit with us from two weeks ago.

Tonda is one of my mom's four sisters, second youngest; and, she's my favorite. Don't get upset thinking that I am disrespecting the others, because I love all of them so much that it hurts. They are all beautiful and generous, zany and sweet, all in their own way and all of them are much fun to spend the day with. But, as with all truly wonderful people and substances, too much of a good thing causes twitches and side effects.  Besides, I think Tonda is the only one that tried to beat me when I was growing up, so there's a natural affection and fondness there.

She recently came up to visit and take in a Green Bay Packer game.  Having just started a new job, I didn't get to visit with Tonda as much as I wanted to, but fortunately Mr. H got to work from home a bit so he could keep his Auntie entertained. The first night she was here, Tonda treated us to an extravagant meal at Ruth's Chris Steak House. The food was phenomenal and Tonda marveled at how I could sit three feet from the fireplace that was next to my chair and not even break a sweat!

The next night, well, we didn't exactly eat at a number one steakhouse.  "Our" Aunt Tonda went shopping for groceries so she could make one of her specialties: let's just call it chicken and rice. None of the other trimmings are easy to describe, so we will go with chicken and rice. Let me back up:

Tonda, one of the most beautiful, curvaceous, and auburn-haired women in the world was born with many talents. When the Lord gives someone brains and beauty like hers, he skimps a bit in other areas; for Tonda, that area was cooking. Tonda tries her hardest. She always tries to cook Middle Eastern delicacies that are popular in Lebanese cuisine, the food that both of our generations grew up on (on one side of the family, anyway). But, Tonda always misses the mark--just a little bit.  The love is clearly in the couscous so to speak: that is apparent.  But, when a grape leaf roll looks like a cigar and a cabbage roll looks like a baseball bat, traditional menus have been all but thrown out the window.

So, Tonda buys a paycheck's worth of groceries and comes home, already proud of herself, that she is going to make the "most wonderful" Syrian (or Lebanese, who knows at this point?) dish we've ever had.  Maybe that's why we're still unclear as to what it was and if it was tasty or not.

To Tonda's credit, the chicken and rice had a wonderful flavor; I even packed some in my lunch the next day--actually, she packed it for me.  How cute is that? However, I don't want to get near what she called "salad" or "sauce," though: it was some sort of tomato-based mixture with cilantro in it as to give it a Mexican or Italian flair. It was a confusing sauce that might have been great with a jalapeno thrown in and some corn chips! Though still partly crunchy, the rice was seasoned perfectly, just like the chicken: nothing over the top, just garlic, salt, and pepper.  Mr. H took two bites of his chicken dinner the entire meal.  Finally, someone else was witness to the finicky eating habits of my husband. Tonda was shocked--and so was I: I've never seen Bill look afraid of a plate of chicken.  I told him, "Look, you ate a monkey in the frickin' jungle; the least you can do is eat a plate of chicken and rice for Aunt Tonda." Luckily, Tonda found that amusing and we sent her on her way in the morning after a lovely visit and two very, memorable meals.



Chicken and Rice Night: always have the fire extinguisher at the ready in Tonda's kitchen



Here's Tonda volunteering her time and Shaq, her mini horse, at a school

The Unthinkable

When I lived in Arizona, I wouldn't walk any of the chihuahuas if it was less than 60 degrees outside. You heard correctly: 60. Why? I wouldn't walk them because in a very dry climate 60 feels like 40--almost. In Wisconsin, with a huge amount of humidity and sunshine, 60 can feel like 75.

I am not writing about 60 degrees today; I'm not even writing about temperatures above freezing--or above zero for that matter! Every morning with the exception of yesterday, I have walked the White Husky without fail since we adopted him. I normally walk him twice a day; with my new work schedule, he gets a 5 o'clock morning walk and then his father deals with him in the evening.

Over the past few days we have had sub-zero temps. I don't mean barely sub-zero: I mean -10 or better. This morning it was -22 when I woke up but fortunately working from home today meant that Gunnar and I could walk two hours later than usual. Thank heavens! At 7am the temp had warmed up to a balmy -14F, so after I decided whether just to go out in shorts or actually put on my insulated overalls, G-man and I walked up to the woods. He froze two different paws along the way, but just kind of licked them and walked it off. I knew he was okay when he knowingly dove into three different snow embankments--up to his ears-- to check out any possible creatures burrowed under the frozen blanket. I could not convince anyone at this point that this hybrid came from Arizona. He loves snow and he seems to thrive in colder temperatures; humidity is not his best friend!

...Yeah...I did it...exactly what they tell you not to do: don't put your tongue on anything cold and metal!! I'm not sure why it was required but I do remember I was getting Gunnar out of his condo in the barn (thankfully we weren't outside) and I had my left hand on the gate latch and I took the D-ring off and PUT IT IN MY MOUTH! I stopped for a few seconds as Gunnar ran past me and thought, "Should I even try to move it?" "Why does my lip hurt so bad?" and various other things. Fortunately, there's always a happy ending for the idiotic. As my husband explained, I had only put aluminum in my mouth and not steel; otherwise, I would have required assistance. Then he proceeded to tell me about the metal properties of aluminum versus steel and I was wondering why his lazy ass didn't walk the dog. (He's actually not lazy and I love walking Gunnar).

Right now I must go though, as it is 8am: time to punch the time clock. Luckily we bought a quick "office-in-a-box" at the local Circus Freak Show (Walmart), anticipating the work from home I would be doing, so I am on a wobbly desk with two computers, a mug of coffee, the local Buyer's Guide, and two chihuahuas in dog beds next to me. (I have no idea where the other two are). (In our local Walmart's defense, this is a mild, tame shopping center compared to the email forwards we see).

And, I must go check my winter gear again as I am not entirely sure that one of my fingertips actually came out of the glove with the rest of my hand. (Kind of creepy, like "Into Thin Air.").

Breakfast Lasagna--Order UP!

After my early morning adventure shoveling--five times, due to blowing snow--I decided to make coffee and get the day started. Remember, Bill is still sleeping at this point, but the kids and I have an agenda so we start banging pots and pans around in the kitchen because we are making two lasagnas and two breakfast casseroles today. I wanted to be stocked up for the week; or, in case we get snowed in completely!

An hour later lasagnas are baking and Mr. H strolls into the kitchen where I beg him to go up to the barn and feed Gunnar and stock Old Man Taylor with wood. This is very strange because I always (always) do the morning chores up there and this morning I just can't: I can't leave Wulf and Talon in charge of the oven, although they are being very attentive to what is going on. And, I'm pretty sure after six years, Talon can execute a perfect lasagna from watching me do it so many times.

Bill is gracious enough to help out up the hill and feeds the big White Husky while I finish cooking. I told him I would walk Gunnar after having breakfast, which in this case is a huge piece of lasagna. I love dinner food for breakfast, but what I'm worried about is the end result when running up the hill with Gunnar in knee-deep snow. Full stomach + extreme exercise = order up, and not in a good way!

Luckily, breakfast was fine and we had a great romp through the snow; I did, however, leave a lung next to the large birch tree that touches the electric horse fence. Side note: I'm so glad that fence is not turned on right now as I collapsed right on it while trying to catch my breath! G-man also put his nose --and tongue-- on the fence. (I do not want to be there the first time we fire that fence up and he gets jolted!).

It is very beautiful out here in our neighborhood with everything covered with snow. Thankfully, not everything is covered with snow: our neighbor Rich --my hero previously mentioned-- came by to plow us out, or we would not be going anywhere tomorrow morning.

As promised, Gunnar and I head up the hill for some exercise:

The picture of us above is on the down side of the hill. Everyone looks happy and breathing easy...it's a facade. And, I had no idea Mr. H was capturing these candid moments.



 Listen here, Gunnar, let's have a talk. Mommy can't go any further, so we are just going to wait here for a while until I stop coughing up blood:

Okay, Gunnar, I'm gonna stay here and you go get Daddy. Go get help...I can't go on....

What did she say????

Is my mother outside with that big stupid kid again?!!!?



Get away from my mother!!!!

Whoa--this is deep!!! Dad! Come get me!

I'm headed back...my wiener's frozen.

Grillin' Time

I only have one picture to accompany this post today because I figured a mental image would be more than enough. Besides, if photographs repel your audience, there won't be much of an audience left to read the content.

I knew this was coming because I had kept my eye on the weather forecast all day yesterday and was looking forward to the snowstorm that we were expecting...and we got one! Hoping that the kids would stay asleep until at least 6am, I wondered how much snow would be piled up on the patio when they had to be let out in the morning.  I was prepared: I had my back-up snow boots right outside the bedroom--yes, I have a "back-up" pair of snow boots. This way, I could jump in the boots (in my pajamas) and race to the door, grab a shovel and make a trail through the snow before the dogs could lose their nerve.

The dogs and I really gave it the old college try. Keep in mind that Bill is sleeping the ENTIRE time that I am outside in this get up, shoveling snow. I was in a fleece sweatshirt and --wait for it-- my polar bear print pajama pants. Yes, I was in black pj's with polar bears and Christmas trees on them, big brown snow boots and gloves. Oh! How could I forget--I had the black Cousin Eddie hat on too!

Yikes!

We're Not in Kansas Anymore...

...and we are certainly not in Arizona. That is the thought I was having this evening when driving home on what was a 2-hour commute. We only had two to four inches of snow, but it was accompanied by a bit of icy drizzle which made for a fun drive. As I looked out the window on the fourth floor of my office, we started out the last half of the work day like this:

This is a mild snapshot of what the weather can really do up here -- for example, on Monday we will be at a high of 9 degrees Fahrenheit and a wind chill of -20... MINUS twenty! How can they possibly expect me to wear "work" clothes ( I call them dress clothes) when it's that cold? I will be there, on time, in a snowmobile suit and a Cousin Eddie hat.

This is what my car looked like in the parking lot as I got ready to leave work, but not before I brushed it off--don't worry, I do remember some things about living up here!

Every day I have at least one thought about trading this big blue urban assault vehicle for something more economical, yet it's days like today that I realize that would take some convincing. Here's why: not only can I shove this baby into "4-D" or "4-L," it has all of the latest and greatest Toyota technology. Don't confuse that with the "technology" that is going on with the "car" they call a Prius. From the FJ Cruiser's perspective (see big blue beast above for example), the Prius is that cross-eyed, distant cousin that eats his own boogers and was conceived in misguided love by two closely related relatives. (Is "closely related relatives" redundant)?

As I crawled down the Beltline Highway going 25mph, I remembered that my license plate is an Arizona license. I got this image of all the little Subarus skating a wide berth around me afraid that I will make a false and typical, Southerner-move, which will result in them getting squashed and dragged to the next exit.  Oh, here comes a semi...moving on.

Before I leave you all for tonight I'd like to give a huge shout-out to the guys that plow County Highway B: stellar job gentlemen--phenomenal winter skills. They clear the road so completely of snow that it appears there's radiant heat flooring under there. (I put a hyperlink to "radiant heat flooring" for my friends who are standing in their living room wearing flip flops right now while reading this!).

To the guys who plow County Highway G: ummm, would you mind spending a day or so of orientation with the guys that plow County Highway B? I think they've got some tricks of the trade for you. Otherwise, you can just pick me and the urban assault vehicle out of the ditch right there before the very steep curve on the way to the tiny airport, hair care, and tire center. Huge thanks.

And, currently, there is another man in my life I am indebted to: Rich (Amanda's hubby), you are the hero over here at Homer Homestead, because if it wasn't for you we wouldn't even be leaving the driveway -- and there'd be no need to shout-out to cell-block B or G. Rich-- I see some steakhouse gift cards in your future.  You're not plowing for free!

View from the deck 12/5

Keep Yer Fur On

Thank you for your continued patience as I try to fit work, dogs, outdoor antics in freezing temps, and a blog into my schedule. In addition to all of that nonsense, I made an appearance in Vegas last weekend. (How cute are they?)

And, when I came back and realized the planes actually landed safely and I had to drive home and start my regular routine again, I started to feel -- and look -- like this:

Be sure to scroll down in the future-- I tend to post things in between current posts, as funny thoughts tend to pop into the ol' processor out of order. That's supposedly how creativity works...



Chilly--And Not In A Cool Way

(She is pissed!)

If you look above Wanda the Weathergirl's head, you'll see a couple of "swear words."  Okay, they're not swear word symbols really, but don't you think they should be? If the temperature is that cold, my digital thermometer is trying to express to me that if I do dare go outside, I should definitely wear that scarf!! And she's being very forceful about it!

Even the inside of the house is cold: 71 degrees!! Yikes! I'd better get out to Old Man Taylor and throw some wood in.

So, out into the mists of "Bluebird Hollow" I go--that's a mix of the names of the two roads that encompass our little neighborhood.

Weather Girl

The weather is taking a turn up here; it's taking the usual turn. This is not the "usual" turn that Bill and I have been used to for the last five years. In Arizona we went from 85 degrees in the spring to 120 degrees in the summer, then 80 degrees in the fall, and ending the "four" seasons with 60's in the winter. I exaggerate a bit, as Tucson was colder than Lake Havasu and what I just described was only indicative of Havasu, but you get the idea.

I moved up here with one pair of shoes that had a toe in them--the rest were open-toed or flip flops, if you don't count the numerous cowboy boots. Now, since I walk the White Husky at 5am every morning, my wardrobe is having to adapt quickly. I spend more time in my insulated work overalls than I do in pajamas, and despite the luxurious heated garage at home, there is no such animal at work. I am preparing for the blizzard that is winter--too bad, really, about that global warming that's going to have me buried under four feet of snow in less than two months!

Not only am I stocking up on long underwear, gloves, hats, balaclavas, boots, and you-name-it for the family (I'm sure the dogs will get a few things), I went out and bought a new friend yesterday. Meet Wanda, the Weathergirl:

"Wanda" is actually a wonderful digital thermometer that has this girl icon on it and she takes off or puts on clothing as the weather denotes. (The first time I catch Bill baking something in the oven and cranking the heater to see just how much Wanda will take off, she's getting rehomed!).

I opened up the package and Mr. H set out to nail the outdoor sensor to one of Gunnar's tie-out posts in the backyard. However, since Wanda's sensor had been inside and I was baking lasagna, we got to see what happened at a few of the different temperatures.

Here is Wanda in our kitchen:

Clearly it is a bit warm in our kitchen. Come on, you can't completely blame us: we've been in Arizona! The house is set for 74 degrees. As long as Farmer Ron keeps donating firewood to the "Keep Bill and Kimi in Wisconsin" campaign, I'm game.

Here is Wanda's next outfit--a jaunty little shirt dress with shorts underneath:

The sensor is outside and is quickly dropping, as the temperature is definitely not a balmy 77 outside.  It's not even a balmy 66: this is just a stop on the way to "Holy cow, it's cold!"

On this particular day, Wanda only told me to put on a scarf:

I have to admit, this is probably one of the more useful things I've bought since arriving in Cheeseland. There isn't really a need to check the weather in Arizona: it will be sunny and either "warm" or "too damn hot." Those are your only choices.  In Wisconsin, I've quickly realized the absence or presence of wind or humidity makes the difference between one long layer, and what I now call "Wanda Wear."

Gettin' Your Goat

This afternoon I found my way to a little town north of the Homer Homestead so that I could watch Farmer Ron get baby goats from a dairy goat farm. He only gets the bucks because his is not a dairy farm. Primarily, Farmer Ron has a meat goat farm, but doesn't raise the standard meat goat breeds such as Boers. Instead, he takes buck kids from local farmers of any breed and raises them to be a certain weight or age and then sells them at a market. Now, I like to think of this market as an auction in which all the little goats get sold to petting zoos, but as Seneca can attest to, we've been to a goat barbecue. I can't bear to think of these tiny little creatures like that, but I am a meat eater so I won't pretend for too long as to where the goats actually go. This is why I will probably have a dairy goat farm if I am ever lucky enough to have a real farm--the Homer Homestead is still just a chihuahua sanctuary with a White Husky thrown in so the neighbors don't beat us up for only having little desert rats.

On the way to meet Farmer Ron I drove through a tiny town called Lime Ridge where I saw a hunter back from a morning of tree stand sitting and beer drinking, with the craziest neon orange safari hat on. I wanted to pull over and get my picture taken with him right then and there, but was already late to meet my dad.

So, oh mighty hunter with the neon orange hat in Lime Ridge, Wisconsin, please wear that hat next season and I promise to drive through again. That picture would have made a great post, and I laughed all the way to meet Farmer Ron thinking about what I could have done with it. Oh well. On to the farm.

This is Bob's goat barn:

This is Bob carrying two little kid goats to us so that we can put them in their little travel compartments:



Dawn is holding one of the prettiest little goats here

If I could have snuck a goat home today it would've been Blackie. Yes, I named him and he was the tiniest little goat out of the fifteen that we took with us. Blackie was cute, quiet, and calm, unlike some of his little bin mates.





Blackie



Here's a little white goat trying to play with Blackie



Farmer Ron carrying a goat out to the "Goat Wagon,"
a blue Ford Taurus wagon.





Ready for transport




The little goats are content to lay in close quarters with each other.
That is Blackie in the top left corner laying on his little white brother
from another mother.




These must have the same daddy.



I was seriously in the back seat of the station wagon with four bins
 of baby goats. They were so cute. I could have curled up in a bin with
them and slept all day in the car!

Uh, Bob? Are you missing any rabbits per chance?

Frozen in Time

This is not a flattering photo, but it gets the message across:

I waited until 7am to walk the White Husky today as it is Saturday and I needed to catch up on some sleep. I also knew it was the big opening for deer hunting season today, so I wasn't looking forward to strolling down a road with woods on either side. I was prepared and bought an orange vest a few weeks ago. I really didn't buy it for this reason, but was glad to have it. The real reason is extremely embarrassing, but no more embarrassing than the photo directly above this paragraph so I will tell you why I got it.

I got the orange vest for my walks with Gunnar (aka the White Husky) because I figured at some point he will throw me into a ditch, ravine, tree, mailbox, or any number of objects while he's chasing a squirrel, deer, bird, or wooly caterpillar, and then I will be rendered completely unconcious or at least unable to move with a lower back that will refuse to allow it.

I've been very proud of myself thus far because I have maintained a walking schedule with Gunnar twice a day since arriving here September 1st. He lives in a large area in the barn where he has access to the indoors and out, but he doesn't get to run around unless we are playing with him. He is a "runner" and a "digger" so he's always on probation, the poor boy.

The other thing I've been extremely proud of is the way I have been able to handle the weather when I'm out walking him or doing chores. This weather tolerance only extends to the homestead stuff, as I cannot put up with much while dressed in work clothes. I don't care who pokes fun of me at the water cooler, I will be wearing boots and possibly a snowsuit to work when things get a little whiter and fluffier around here.

The weather is not a big issue until you add wind and then it's game on with the weather "1," and Kimi "0."

Today, the weather won. I was so scared my face would be frozen when I got home. Gunnar was just so thrilled to be wandering down the road again, and he is never fazed by precipitation or temperature. He will be alot of fun in the winter, and Bill and I are excitedly waiting to see how the Arizona White Husky handles his first snowfall.

Look at that picture carefully: my face is red and almost looks swollen. There is a tear forming in my left eye and one rolling down my right cheek--cold and wind makes that happen. I'm not actually crying! And, I do believe that I'm so cold that I've gone cross-eyed?! Is that supposed to happen?

The Office Cheerio

There are numerous things that I get a kick out of at work, but I am way too new to start blogging about too much of what goes on there. By the way, for the record, I hate the word "blog" as a verb--in case you were wondering.

That actually reminds me of one of the struggles I've encountered with the new job: learning a whole new lingo. I had no idea that the technology industry would use terminology and abbreviations that were completely unknown to me already-- not that I put much thought into it. I knew that we used a lot of abbreviations, short-hand terms, and for heaven's sake Latin, in the medical field, but had no idea what I'd be in for when I started work three weeks ago.

And, of course, there are the poor guys down in the man-cave that is better known as the "IT department." If I go down one more time asking where the "thingy" is on my company laptop, I swear one of them will slit his wrists.

But to top that off, I almost had a coronary--in the medical field that is actually called a "myocardial infarction"-- when I heard someone say, "Yeah, okay, let's paragraph that." I could have died right there in my little gray cubicle. I believe that means that they wanted the discussion they had  just had on the phone to be written down on paper. Wow.

As if that didn't push me over the top, my self-appointed mentor used the word "dogfooding" the same day, referring to a concept in the tech field. Really? Dogfooding? I have a lot to learn.

But, that is not why I'm rambling today. Today, I am just notifying everyone that I found this in the rest room when I was, er, "resting:"

So now I'm wondering who is multitasking while in the rest room. I mean, I have a walk with the White Husky (Gunnar) at 5am, feeding The Littles (chihuahuas) at 5:45am, getting ready and out the door by 7am (at the latest), and an hour-long commute. My point is, I still make a real breakfast, and eat it, before I leave the house. No one drives as far as I do, so I am pondering as to why they must eat Cheerios in the bathroom at work? And then I'm pondering as to why someone would take pictures in a bathroom?

Squeeze The Cheese, Please

The downside to having such a "family friendly" electronic journal is that you don't always get an action packed story where I'm slinging guns on The Border, or getting flashed by a grocery store clerk in the check out lane--I will archive those somewhere, promise--so you will have to settle for a few plain vanilla entries every once in a while. I think this is one of them; but, you never know what will come next...

I took time out of my busy, corporate week to make some goat cheese out of a gallon of fresh-off-the-farm milk that Farmer Ron had given me a few days ago. I didn't want the milk to go to waste, but I didn't really want to discover that it failed--again--after the last time I tried this. It's not like I'm making an artisanal cheese, incorporating herbs or fruits. I'm not the Beekman Boys, after all; although I wish I had their talent. (Incidentally, I have a photo from Farmer Ron's farm--Scapegoat Farm--on their Web site. Go back and click on "Beekman Boys" to check it out, along with their Web site. It's the photo of "Sen" and "Kimi" goats hiding in their house on chicken butchering day).

The last time my dad gave me goat milk I poured the required 3/4 cup of white vinegar in the vat of 190-degree milk and didn't stir it in. As a result, I made one tablespoon of goat ricotta cheese out of one gallon of milk! How frustrating.

This time, I stirred that vinegar in--gently--and we had considerably more success as illustrated with the little pictorial below:


Gettin' our curdle on: little Ms. Homer's curds and whey.

Milk does not cool fast. Once it gets from 190 degrees (F) down to about 100 degrees, it is supposedly safe enough to handle. I then cut some tracks through the big curdled chunk in the middle of the steel soup pot to release a little more whey. Then, we call the husband over to assist--you know if Mr. H hadn't helped, I would have second degree burns on 80% of my body.



The Curd

 Here's the fresh curd safely dumped into a cheese cloth of sorts. Now we gather the sides up and start squeezing the liquid out. This is going to end up like a ricotta cheese and I've used it before(when my dad made it) for lasagna. Yum!

Draining the whey away. That's not my hairy arm: it's Mr. H being ever so gracious by helping.



Farmer Kimi squeezing fresh goat cheese

I wanted to take over squeezing the liquid out of the cheese so that I could say that I was the one that actually made cheese! (No, I'm not stoned in this picture. I was at work all day and my brain had been working overtime; hence, the tired, lost look).


Dangling Cheese

The cheese had to dangle in the fridge overnight to finish draining. Having no idea how to execute this, Mr. H stepped in again to rescue the cheese and used office equipment to do so: there are clippies and zip-ties incorporated in the process.

Incidentally, for those of you who have internet access and are reading this: tell Grandma Debbie (my mom) that our refrigerator has no food in it since she left and that she needs to hurry and return to Wisconsin. I'm starving!

More goat milk please!