Catherine Friend's Blog, page 3
November 30, 2012
Stories Lurk Everywhere, Even in the Police Report
We have a weekly newspaper that shares the news of six small communities. My favorite part of the paper is the police reports. These reports list the issues the police dealt with. The report entries are short but intriguing because you can see there's a story there. However, the cops are all business and just share the facts. It's like tweeting for cops.
Some of the entries make me worry, others make me laugh. Most are terse and mysterious, but then suddenly the cop writing the report shares more.
Every item opens the lid to a box of stories just waiting to be told. Most of the stories I could imagine would never match the drama of the real event, but since I'll never know the truth, I just make up my own truths.
So if your life gets too whatever, you could instead wonder about what's going on here from this week's police report...
Someone was shooting in the woods by the pool. (Not good--it's a very small woods.)
A male was hanging over the edge of the bridge on Hwy 52. He said he had lost his job at McDonald's. The officer drove him home and talked to his parents. (Poor guy---probably first job he had, and the first he lost.)
A female was feeling very weak. (Try chocolate and wine.)
A male asked for help in locating his son, from whom he had not heard from in weeks. He had lost his job, his vehicle was repossessed and he had no place to live. (So sad.)
A family was fighting and there was lots of yelling and screaming. (Still sad.)
A stray goat was running loose. (No surprise there. Goats never respect fences.)
A female reported that her neighbor had a huge fire outside and had very loud music on. The officer spoke to the home owner and the music was turned off. (But what about the fire?)
A female reported that a dog was standing outside her door barking. (You call the cops for that?)
A vehicle was parked on a shoulder of a road with hazards on. The passenger had to stop to vomit. (Okay, WAY too much information.)
I love living outside a small town. We have dramas aplenty, but they feel like quieter, calmer dramas than in the big city.
Here's wishing your December dramas, if you insist on having them, are small town ones, nothing more than an amusing line in a weekly police report.
Some of the entries make me worry, others make me laugh. Most are terse and mysterious, but then suddenly the cop writing the report shares more.
Every item opens the lid to a box of stories just waiting to be told. Most of the stories I could imagine would never match the drama of the real event, but since I'll never know the truth, I just make up my own truths.
So if your life gets too whatever, you could instead wonder about what's going on here from this week's police report...
Someone was shooting in the woods by the pool. (Not good--it's a very small woods.)
A male was hanging over the edge of the bridge on Hwy 52. He said he had lost his job at McDonald's. The officer drove him home and talked to his parents. (Poor guy---probably first job he had, and the first he lost.)
A female was feeling very weak. (Try chocolate and wine.)
A male asked for help in locating his son, from whom he had not heard from in weeks. He had lost his job, his vehicle was repossessed and he had no place to live. (So sad.)
A family was fighting and there was lots of yelling and screaming. (Still sad.)
A stray goat was running loose. (No surprise there. Goats never respect fences.)
A female reported that her neighbor had a huge fire outside and had very loud music on. The officer spoke to the home owner and the music was turned off. (But what about the fire?)
A female reported that a dog was standing outside her door barking. (You call the cops for that?)
A vehicle was parked on a shoulder of a road with hazards on. The passenger had to stop to vomit. (Okay, WAY too much information.)
I love living outside a small town. We have dramas aplenty, but they feel like quieter, calmer dramas than in the big city.
Here's wishing your December dramas, if you insist on having them, are small town ones, nothing more than an amusing line in a weekly police report.
November 16, 2012
The Silly Case of the Melted Llama
Now that it's too cold to use our above-ground water pipes, I must hike up to the barn every day to refill a huge water tank for the steers and sheep. As I do, I always pass Tucker on the way.
As you can see, Tucker is very much alive.
When I reach the barn, I lift the handle of the orange water hydrant, and water begins filling the big tank. While it fills, I look around. I look into the barn. I see a large pile of something toward the back of the barn:
OH MY GOD! TUCKER IS DEAD. HE HAS MELTED INTO THE BARN FLOOR!
My heart races. Then I stop and look behind me to where the sheep hang out. There's Tucker. As you can see, Tucker is very much alive.
Then I remember that this summer, when it was so horribly hot and humid, Melissa took Tucker to the back of the barn and sheared him. She was too busy to pick it up, and since there are no animals using that area, we left the pile of llama wool. (Fiber people, relax. His fleece isn't that great, and is terribly dirty.) So I laugh at myself and calm down.
The next day? I pass Tucker on the way to the big barn. He is alive.
Then I reach the barn, turn on the hydrant, and look into the barn. OH MY GOD! TUCKER IS DEAD. HE HAS MELTED INTO THE BARN FLOOR!
Seriously. This happens every flippin' day. So why don't I pick up the fleece?
---Because I've learned that it's not a good idea to walk away from the water tank as it fills---when it overflows, I have a mud lake on my hands.
---Because I'm too busy gazing out over the farm.
---Because I'm too busy fending off the vicious steers living in the pen with the hydrant. This is a steer trying to consume the flap on my coat pocket.
---This is a steer trying to consume the camera I'm holding way above my head.
No matter the distraction, when the tank is full, I shut off the hydrant and walk back to the house. Then I repeat the above steps the next day.
So why don't I pick up that stupid fleece so I stop scaring myself every day?
Some people get their adrenaline rush by driving in heavy traffic or fighting their way to the front of the latte line, or having a crisis at work.
I know we'll pick the fleece up eventually, probably late this fall when we let the sheep into the barn. Until then, I'll continue to get my little OMG HE'S DEAD jolt every day when I see the melted llama.
It's sad, I know, but hey---It's cheaper than a can of Diet Coke, and provides twice the stimulation!
As you can see, Tucker is very much alive.
When I reach the barn, I lift the handle of the orange water hydrant, and water begins filling the big tank. While it fills, I look around. I look into the barn. I see a large pile of something toward the back of the barn:
OH MY GOD! TUCKER IS DEAD. HE HAS MELTED INTO THE BARN FLOOR!
My heart races. Then I stop and look behind me to where the sheep hang out. There's Tucker. As you can see, Tucker is very much alive.
Then I remember that this summer, when it was so horribly hot and humid, Melissa took Tucker to the back of the barn and sheared him. She was too busy to pick it up, and since there are no animals using that area, we left the pile of llama wool. (Fiber people, relax. His fleece isn't that great, and is terribly dirty.) So I laugh at myself and calm down.
The next day? I pass Tucker on the way to the big barn. He is alive.
Then I reach the barn, turn on the hydrant, and look into the barn. OH MY GOD! TUCKER IS DEAD. HE HAS MELTED INTO THE BARN FLOOR!
Seriously. This happens every flippin' day. So why don't I pick up the fleece?
---Because I've learned that it's not a good idea to walk away from the water tank as it fills---when it overflows, I have a mud lake on my hands.
---Because I'm too busy gazing out over the farm.
---Because I'm too busy fending off the vicious steers living in the pen with the hydrant. This is a steer trying to consume the flap on my coat pocket.
---This is a steer trying to consume the camera I'm holding way above my head.
No matter the distraction, when the tank is full, I shut off the hydrant and walk back to the house. Then I repeat the above steps the next day.
So why don't I pick up that stupid fleece so I stop scaring myself every day?
Some people get their adrenaline rush by driving in heavy traffic or fighting their way to the front of the latte line, or having a crisis at work.
I know we'll pick the fleece up eventually, probably late this fall when we let the sheep into the barn. Until then, I'll continue to get my little OMG HE'S DEAD jolt every day when I see the melted llama.
It's sad, I know, but hey---It's cheaper than a can of Diet Coke, and provides twice the stimulation!
The Sad Case of the Melted Llama
Now that it's too cold to use our above-ground water pipes, I must hike up to the barn every day to refill a huge water tank for the steers and sheep. As I do, I always pass Tucker on the way.
As you can see, Tucker is very much alive.
When I reach the barn, I lift the handle of the orange water hydrant, and water begins filling the big tank. While it fills, I look around. I look into the barn. I see a large pile of something toward the back of the barn:
OH MY GOD! TUCKER IS DEAD. HE HAS MELTED INTO THE BARN FLOOR!
My heart races. Then I stop and look behind me to where the sheep hang out. There's Tucker. As you can see, Tucker is very much alive.
Then I remember that this summer, when it was so horribly hot and humid, Melissa took Tucker to the back of the barn and sheared him. She was too busy to pick it up, and since there are no animals using that area, we left the pile of llama wool. (Fiber people, relax. His fleece isn't that great, and is terribly dirty.) So I laugh at myself and calm down.
The next day? I pass Tucker on the way to the big barn. He is alive.
Then I reach the barn, turn on the hydrant, and look into the barn. OH MY GOD! TUCKER IS DEAD. HE HAS MELTED INTO THE BARN FLOOR!
Seriously. This happens every flippin' day. So why don't I pick up the fleece?
---Because I've learned that it's not a good idea to walk away from the water tank as it fills---when it overflows, I have a mud lake on my hands.
---Because I'm too busy gazing out over the farm.
---Because I'm too busy fending off the vicious steers living in the pen with the hydrant. This is a steer trying to consume the flap on my coat pocket.
---This is a steer trying to consume the camera I'm holding way above my head.
No matter the distraction, when the tank is full, I shut off the hydrant and walk back to the house. Then I repeat the above steps the next day.
So why don't I pick up that stupid fleece so I stop scaring myself every day?
Some people get their adrenaline rush by driving in heavy traffic or fighting their way to the front of the latte line, or having a crisis at work.
I know we'll pick the fleece up eventually, probably late this fall when we let the sheep into the barn. Until then, I'll continue to get my little OMG HE'S DEAD jolt every day when I see the melted llama.
It's sad, I know, but hey---It's cheaper than a can of Diet Coke, and provides twice the stimulation!
As you can see, Tucker is very much alive.
When I reach the barn, I lift the handle of the orange water hydrant, and water begins filling the big tank. While it fills, I look around. I look into the barn. I see a large pile of something toward the back of the barn:
OH MY GOD! TUCKER IS DEAD. HE HAS MELTED INTO THE BARN FLOOR!
My heart races. Then I stop and look behind me to where the sheep hang out. There's Tucker. As you can see, Tucker is very much alive.
Then I remember that this summer, when it was so horribly hot and humid, Melissa took Tucker to the back of the barn and sheared him. She was too busy to pick it up, and since there are no animals using that area, we left the pile of llama wool. (Fiber people, relax. His fleece isn't that great, and is terribly dirty.) So I laugh at myself and calm down.
The next day? I pass Tucker on the way to the big barn. He is alive.
Then I reach the barn, turn on the hydrant, and look into the barn. OH MY GOD! TUCKER IS DEAD. HE HAS MELTED INTO THE BARN FLOOR!
Seriously. This happens every flippin' day. So why don't I pick up the fleece?
---Because I've learned that it's not a good idea to walk away from the water tank as it fills---when it overflows, I have a mud lake on my hands.
---Because I'm too busy gazing out over the farm.
---Because I'm too busy fending off the vicious steers living in the pen with the hydrant. This is a steer trying to consume the flap on my coat pocket.
---This is a steer trying to consume the camera I'm holding way above my head.
No matter the distraction, when the tank is full, I shut off the hydrant and walk back to the house. Then I repeat the above steps the next day.
So why don't I pick up that stupid fleece so I stop scaring myself every day?
Some people get their adrenaline rush by driving in heavy traffic or fighting their way to the front of the latte line, or having a crisis at work.
I know we'll pick the fleece up eventually, probably late this fall when we let the sheep into the barn. Until then, I'll continue to get my little OMG HE'S DEAD jolt every day when I see the melted llama.
It's sad, I know, but hey---It's cheaper than a can of Diet Coke, and provides twice the stimulation!
November 13, 2012
Yarn for Sale! 2012 Fall
I don't know why it takes me so long. I must wait months for the yarn to come back from the mill.
Then I struggle to find time to dye the yarn.
Then I must wait for my Website Goddess to make room in her life to put the skeins into an online shopping cart.
The result is my own shopping cart. I feel as if I've set up a lemonade stand, only with yarn, and online. The only thing missing is the hand-lettered sign!
So here's the link to my very own "lemonade stand." I hope everything works as it should (Do you see the words "guinea pig" flashing across your forehead?)
http://www.shop.risingmoonfarm.com/
The skeins are approx. 225-230 yards, about 5 oz. If you have special shipping needs, let me know. I just got an order to send two skeins to Japan. And another three are going to Brussels. Our sheep are going global!
If you have any questions, let me know. I so appreciate my blog readers, even if I haven't been posting regularly. Gaack. Life. So unruly.
Thanks!
Then I struggle to find time to dye the yarn.
Then I must wait for my Website Goddess to make room in her life to put the skeins into an online shopping cart.
The result is my own shopping cart. I feel as if I've set up a lemonade stand, only with yarn, and online. The only thing missing is the hand-lettered sign!
So here's the link to my very own "lemonade stand." I hope everything works as it should (Do you see the words "guinea pig" flashing across your forehead?)
http://www.shop.risingmoonfarm.com/
The skeins are approx. 225-230 yards, about 5 oz. If you have special shipping needs, let me know. I just got an order to send two skeins to Japan. And another three are going to Brussels. Our sheep are going global!
If you have any questions, let me know. I so appreciate my blog readers, even if I haven't been posting regularly. Gaack. Life. So unruly.
Thanks!
A Lemonade Stand, Only with Yarn!
I don't know why it takes me so long. I must wait months for the yarn to come back from the mill.
Then I struggle to find time to dye the yarn.
Then I must wait for my Website Goddess to make room in her life to put the skeins into an online shopping cart.
The result is my own shopping cart. I feel as if I've set up a lemonade stand, only with yarn, and online. The only thing missing is the hand-lettered sign!
So here's the link to my very own "lemonade stand." I hope everything works as it should (Do you see the words "guinea pig" flashing across your forehead?)
http://www.shop.risingmoonfarm.com/
The skeins are approx. 225-230 yards, about 5 oz. If you have special shipping needs, let me know. I just got an order to send two skeins to Japan. And another three are going to Brussels. Our sheep are going global!
If you have any questions, let me know. I so appreciate my blog readers, even if I haven't been posting regularly. Gaack. Life. So unruly.
Thanks!
Then I struggle to find time to dye the yarn.
Then I must wait for my Website Goddess to make room in her life to put the skeins into an online shopping cart.
The result is my own shopping cart. I feel as if I've set up a lemonade stand, only with yarn, and online. The only thing missing is the hand-lettered sign!
So here's the link to my very own "lemonade stand." I hope everything works as it should (Do you see the words "guinea pig" flashing across your forehead?)
http://www.shop.risingmoonfarm.com/
The skeins are approx. 225-230 yards, about 5 oz. If you have special shipping needs, let me know. I just got an order to send two skeins to Japan. And another three are going to Brussels. Our sheep are going global!
If you have any questions, let me know. I so appreciate my blog readers, even if I haven't been posting regularly. Gaack. Life. So unruly.
Thanks!
October 23, 2012
What Happens with Moisture, Heat, and Agitation?
No, this isn't a blog post about menopause. It's about doing something you love for four years then suddenly thinking, "Enough."
For me, it was socks. I knit sock after sock. Same pattern. Different yarns. I was happy. Content, even. Then a month ago I hit the wall. After knitting over 100 socks, I realized I didn't want to knit another sock....ever. Done, done, done. Huh. The only thing you gotta wonder is, "What took me so long?"
My new thing is knitting really huge, saggy bags, then putting them in the washing machine. When you apply moisture, heat, and agitation to 100% wool, the stitches sort of melt together. Felt is created. Felting has occurred. As I've described in an earlier post, the first time I did this I walked away and by the time I returned, the bag had shrunk so small it wouldn't hold a Stephen King paperback.
But now I'm getting it. Here's my next attempt, the long pink thing with the can of corn for size comparison:
After some time in the washing machine, here's the result:
Isn't this hilarious? I love it. It's like a funky stove pipe hat, upside down. I haven't actually used it yet, but I love it so much I sometimes just carry it around the house. (Okay, I don't really do that, 'cause that would just be weird....Wait. As a memoirist I am compelled to tell the truth: Okay, I actually do carry it around a bit.)
I wanted to use up the tail ends of sock yarn skeins, so I started another bag. I had it with me when I suddenly ended up spending some time in the hospital with my stepfather Jim (he's fine now---a "little" heart attack, then angiogram and stent) until my mom returned from her trip to Vienna. So I knit and knit and knit. I think it calmed both me and Jim down.
Here's the saggy bag, with little Teddy for size reference:
After the moisture, heat, and agitation? A bag! Or a felted basket...
Balance is a good idea, but I seem to hyper-focus. I can feel myself starting to obsess about felting bags, much as I slid down the "Sock" rabbit hole.
I've yet to felt the yarn from our sheep. That somehow just feels too precious to waste, so I need to feel more comfortable before I take that plunge.
But it's good to change things up now and then....so good-bye socks, Hello, felted stuff!
For me, it was socks. I knit sock after sock. Same pattern. Different yarns. I was happy. Content, even. Then a month ago I hit the wall. After knitting over 100 socks, I realized I didn't want to knit another sock....ever. Done, done, done. Huh. The only thing you gotta wonder is, "What took me so long?"
My new thing is knitting really huge, saggy bags, then putting them in the washing machine. When you apply moisture, heat, and agitation to 100% wool, the stitches sort of melt together. Felt is created. Felting has occurred. As I've described in an earlier post, the first time I did this I walked away and by the time I returned, the bag had shrunk so small it wouldn't hold a Stephen King paperback.
But now I'm getting it. Here's my next attempt, the long pink thing with the can of corn for size comparison:
After some time in the washing machine, here's the result:
Isn't this hilarious? I love it. It's like a funky stove pipe hat, upside down. I haven't actually used it yet, but I love it so much I sometimes just carry it around the house. (Okay, I don't really do that, 'cause that would just be weird....Wait. As a memoirist I am compelled to tell the truth: Okay, I actually do carry it around a bit.)
I wanted to use up the tail ends of sock yarn skeins, so I started another bag. I had it with me when I suddenly ended up spending some time in the hospital with my stepfather Jim (he's fine now---a "little" heart attack, then angiogram and stent) until my mom returned from her trip to Vienna. So I knit and knit and knit. I think it calmed both me and Jim down.
Here's the saggy bag, with little Teddy for size reference:
After the moisture, heat, and agitation? A bag! Or a felted basket...
Balance is a good idea, but I seem to hyper-focus. I can feel myself starting to obsess about felting bags, much as I slid down the "Sock" rabbit hole.
I've yet to felt the yarn from our sheep. That somehow just feels too precious to waste, so I need to feel more comfortable before I take that plunge.
But it's good to change things up now and then....so good-bye socks, Hello, felted stuff!
September 30, 2012
The Most Unlikely Farm Dog Ever
Last year was a rough year for dogs. Our half-Great Dane Sophie and our border collie Robin passed away. Both were nearly16 years old, not bad for large dogs. We still miss them a lot. Robin's death left a hole in the farm too large to ever fill.
Since it was my turn to choose the next dog, I proclaimed we would wait one year. There's nothing wrong with being a one-dog family.
But what breed? We no longer need a border collie, since the sheep know how to move from paddock to paddock. Also, Robin had more energy than I knew what to do with. I loved the look of Golden Doodles, but they are very expensive. We would, of course, go with a large dog. She said, with a disdainful sniff, "We don't think much of little dogs."
Last month, eight months into the one-year plan, Molly began acting odd. She grew afraid of her water dish, and would bark and bark until one of us stood next to her while she drank. She wouldn't eat right away. She was turning into this 55-pound freakish dog.
"Maybe she needs another dog," I said, and thus slid down the slippery slope by looking at petfinder.com.
It's so sad how many dogs need new homes, given up by divorcing families or elderly or people unwilling to fix their dog's behavioral problems. Somehow, in my search, this face showed up:
Oy. This is not a Golden Doodle. This is not a large dog. Be gone with you.
But the face haunted me. He was a five-year-old Tibetan terrier mix whose elderly owner could no longer care for him.
Oy. Be gone with you. Stop appearing behind my eyeballs whenever I close my eyes.
Seriously. We're not small dog people, whatever that means.
But I emailed with questions. I called with questions. Then we drove 70 miles to meet him. He was an energetic little cutie. Who could not fall for that face? He's 25 pounds, and built like a little B&W tank.
We brought him home with us. His name is Teddy (came with the name, so we thought it'd be easier to not change names)
Molly is not wild about him, but she's no longer freaked out by the water bowl, and eats her food right away. And the two dogs were caught actually playing one evening, so things will work out just fine. Here they are watching the llamas to ensure those wild, leggy animals won't attack.
Teddy has never had boundaries before, and has clearly always been the alpha animal in the house. Sorry, Teddy, but in our house, the humans are the alphas. We are slowly, and gently, showing him that he doesn't always get his way. Egads!, his facial expression exclaims. But I've always done what I want.
A few more months, and he'll get the hang of things. Now that he's been here 3 weeks, he's starting to relax, and is such a funny boy.
Since it was my turn to choose the next dog, I proclaimed we would wait one year. There's nothing wrong with being a one-dog family.
But what breed? We no longer need a border collie, since the sheep know how to move from paddock to paddock. Also, Robin had more energy than I knew what to do with. I loved the look of Golden Doodles, but they are very expensive. We would, of course, go with a large dog. She said, with a disdainful sniff, "We don't think much of little dogs."
Last month, eight months into the one-year plan, Molly began acting odd. She grew afraid of her water dish, and would bark and bark until one of us stood next to her while she drank. She wouldn't eat right away. She was turning into this 55-pound freakish dog.
"Maybe she needs another dog," I said, and thus slid down the slippery slope by looking at petfinder.com.
It's so sad how many dogs need new homes, given up by divorcing families or elderly or people unwilling to fix their dog's behavioral problems. Somehow, in my search, this face showed up:
Oy. This is not a Golden Doodle. This is not a large dog. Be gone with you.
But the face haunted me. He was a five-year-old Tibetan terrier mix whose elderly owner could no longer care for him.
Oy. Be gone with you. Stop appearing behind my eyeballs whenever I close my eyes.
Seriously. We're not small dog people, whatever that means.
But I emailed with questions. I called with questions. Then we drove 70 miles to meet him. He was an energetic little cutie. Who could not fall for that face? He's 25 pounds, and built like a little B&W tank.
We brought him home with us. His name is Teddy (came with the name, so we thought it'd be easier to not change names)
Molly is not wild about him, but she's no longer freaked out by the water bowl, and eats her food right away. And the two dogs were caught actually playing one evening, so things will work out just fine. Here they are watching the llamas to ensure those wild, leggy animals won't attack.
Teddy has never had boundaries before, and has clearly always been the alpha animal in the house. Sorry, Teddy, but in our house, the humans are the alphas. We are slowly, and gently, showing him that he doesn't always get his way. Egads!, his facial expression exclaims. But I've always done what I want.
A few more months, and he'll get the hang of things. Now that he's been here 3 weeks, he's starting to relax, and is such a funny boy.
September 28, 2012
Felting by a Dummy
Felting is a cool concept. Knit something oversized in 100% wool, dump it into the washing machine for a short time, and the moisture, heat, and agitation will shrink it. Voila! The yarn tightens into felt. The tricky part, I am now learning, is controlling the shrinkage so the item is the size you want it.
For my first attempt, I knit a huge bag which I planned to use for books and notebooks. I then put it into the washing machine. I checked in 10 minutes---still too large. I put it back in, then wandered over to my computer.
Oops. When I checked again, the bag had shrunk to something that barely holds one book, let alone several.
Idiot!
So I knit another bag, this time thinking that the size specified in the pattern was wrong. So I added 50% more stitches to the width, thinking that this would help the bag felt down to the size I wanted.
Turns out that yarn seems to felt more along its length, not its width. The result? This boat of a bag:
Idiot! Our new dog could get lost in this bag.
So. Here's the question for my fiber friends out there:
---Do I dump the bag back into the washing machine and shrink it more?
---Do I cut the bag in half and make two bags?
---Do I start over? (Not sure I have the emotional energy for that.)
---Or do I realize I lack the felting gene, and instead buy a bag someone else has felted!?
This last one is looking more appealing every day.
For my first attempt, I knit a huge bag which I planned to use for books and notebooks. I then put it into the washing machine. I checked in 10 minutes---still too large. I put it back in, then wandered over to my computer.
Oops. When I checked again, the bag had shrunk to something that barely holds one book, let alone several.
Idiot!
So I knit another bag, this time thinking that the size specified in the pattern was wrong. So I added 50% more stitches to the width, thinking that this would help the bag felt down to the size I wanted.
Turns out that yarn seems to felt more along its length, not its width. The result? This boat of a bag:
Idiot! Our new dog could get lost in this bag.
So. Here's the question for my fiber friends out there:
---Do I dump the bag back into the washing machine and shrink it more?
---Do I cut the bag in half and make two bags?
---Do I start over? (Not sure I have the emotional energy for that.)
---Or do I realize I lack the felting gene, and instead buy a bag someone else has felted!?
This last one is looking more appealing every day.
September 20, 2012
Well, That Didn't Go Well...
I've changed into dry clothes, and have calmed my nerves with Diet Coke and pretzels, so now perhaps I can write about this morning.
It was time to move the sheep, so I walked up to the West Pasture (we've named everything). For the last two days I'd been walking up close enough to check the level in the sheep's water trough.
I needed to check because a few days earlier the automatic refill part broke (it's like the gear in your toilet tank, with a big float.) The float came off and I couldn't figure out how to put it back on. This meant I had to keep the trough disconnected from the water supply, and manually hook it up once a day. No big deal.
But this morning I was a bit alarmed. The sheep hadn't drunk anything in two days. This time I stepped close enough to see that one of them had pooped in the trough. No wonder they weren't drinking. I yelled in disgust: "Someone pooped in this water trough and ewe know who ewe are!" (Anger brings out my clever side.)
I emptied the trough and dragged it into the Driveway Pasture, bringing the sheep with me. I felt like Bad Shepherd for not finding the poop earlier, but luckily the sheep didn't seem on the point of death from lack of water.
I realized I should probably clean out the trough before refilling it, so I walked all the way back to the barn for the bottle of bleach. But then I realized I should really scrub it out as well, but the scrub brush wasn't in the barn where it belonged, but in the front basket of the 4-wheeler where I'd left it, way down in the shed.
I will confess to another Bad Shepherd moment: I didn't want to walk all the way down there. But then I remembered I was wearing my fitbit (high-tech pedometer) and that I would get credit for all those steps. So it was the thought of all those steps toward my daily goal of 12,000 that sent me down for the brush, not the desire to be a Good Shepherd and scrub out the trough.
Back to the Driveway Pasture. The broken mechanism shoots water horizontally into the trough, so I plugged into the water supply, expecting that to happen. Instead, something inside had shifted and the water shot 4 feet up into the air, landing outside the trough and drenching me. I shrieked in an un-farmer-like fashion, unhooked, tried to fix, couldn't.
I had no choice but to let the water shoot up like a geyser and catch it in a bucket. Windy day, by the way. Water everywhere, not much in the bucket. Spraying glistening in the sun, sheep grazing contentedly nearby, me sputtering in the middle of this geyser, feeling like an idiot, which, actually, I am.
Got soaked. Finally got the trough filled and unhooked the water supply. Stomped many steps back to the house.
Good news: I passed 5000 steps before 10 am!
Bad news: I have to fight the geyser again tomorrow. And I ate so many pretzels that all those extra steps were for nothing....
It was time to move the sheep, so I walked up to the West Pasture (we've named everything). For the last two days I'd been walking up close enough to check the level in the sheep's water trough.
I needed to check because a few days earlier the automatic refill part broke (it's like the gear in your toilet tank, with a big float.) The float came off and I couldn't figure out how to put it back on. This meant I had to keep the trough disconnected from the water supply, and manually hook it up once a day. No big deal.
But this morning I was a bit alarmed. The sheep hadn't drunk anything in two days. This time I stepped close enough to see that one of them had pooped in the trough. No wonder they weren't drinking. I yelled in disgust: "Someone pooped in this water trough and ewe know who ewe are!" (Anger brings out my clever side.)
I emptied the trough and dragged it into the Driveway Pasture, bringing the sheep with me. I felt like Bad Shepherd for not finding the poop earlier, but luckily the sheep didn't seem on the point of death from lack of water.
I realized I should probably clean out the trough before refilling it, so I walked all the way back to the barn for the bottle of bleach. But then I realized I should really scrub it out as well, but the scrub brush wasn't in the barn where it belonged, but in the front basket of the 4-wheeler where I'd left it, way down in the shed.
I will confess to another Bad Shepherd moment: I didn't want to walk all the way down there. But then I remembered I was wearing my fitbit (high-tech pedometer) and that I would get credit for all those steps. So it was the thought of all those steps toward my daily goal of 12,000 that sent me down for the brush, not the desire to be a Good Shepherd and scrub out the trough.
Back to the Driveway Pasture. The broken mechanism shoots water horizontally into the trough, so I plugged into the water supply, expecting that to happen. Instead, something inside had shifted and the water shot 4 feet up into the air, landing outside the trough and drenching me. I shrieked in an un-farmer-like fashion, unhooked, tried to fix, couldn't.
I had no choice but to let the water shoot up like a geyser and catch it in a bucket. Windy day, by the way. Water everywhere, not much in the bucket. Spraying glistening in the sun, sheep grazing contentedly nearby, me sputtering in the middle of this geyser, feeling like an idiot, which, actually, I am.
Got soaked. Finally got the trough filled and unhooked the water supply. Stomped many steps back to the house.
Good news: I passed 5000 steps before 10 am!
Bad news: I have to fight the geyser again tomorrow. And I ate so many pretzels that all those extra steps were for nothing....
September 5, 2012
The Scary World of Book Reviews
I bought an ebook to take with me on my recent writing retreat. The description made it sound great. The top reviews were great. The small sample I ordered looked great. I paid my $3.99, drove to my island retreat, and started to read.
It was awful. Grrr. What an idiot I was.
I am so naive, and behind the times, when it comes to book reviews written by 'customers' on amazon.com. I knew that some authors asked friends to write reviews. These are usually easy to spot because they're all posted within a few days of each other, and they're glowing, often encouraging the reader to "buy this book!" Of the thirty reviews of my memoir, Sheepish, I only recognized one name, and I didn't ask her to write a review. I feel good that all 30 reviews were unsolicited.
But it's gotten much worse than friends and family writing glowing reviews. I just read that authors are posting their own reviews of their own books, under assumed names, of course. This practice even has a name: sock-puppeting. Ha. It's dumb and pathetic.
But wait. Things are even worse than that. The NY Times recently reported that self-published authors pay companies to post positive reviews on amazon.com and other sites. Holy @#$%. Seriously?
So when I returned home, I got back onto barnesandnoble.com and read the reviews more closely. The first 20 or so were 5-star. They were error-free. Not even a dropped apostrophe. Not even a misspelling. Not even one exclamation mark!!! The reviewers were entertaining, articulate, and often spoke in general terms rather than specifically about the book. They could have all been written by the same person.
These reviews must have been purchased. What a sad, sad thing. Cornell University is actually studying how to identify deceptive reviews.
Soon readers, including me, will be too wary to buy anything but big-name authors published by major publishers. This means the "mid-list" authors---published and edited, but not selling 100,000s of copies---will get squeezed out. Unless you know enough about publishers to recognize published from self-published, you'll be cautious.
Here's the link to the NYTimes article: http://www.nytimes.com/2012/08/26/business/book-reviewers-for-hire-meet-a-demand-for-online-raves.html?pagewanted=all
The book I'd purchased was horrible. The sample was well-written, but the author probably got lots of feedback at writing workshops, etc. Most people can write a tight first 10 pages. It's sustaining it that separates authors.
I've not read Fifty Shades of Grey (I'm not into BDSM), but friends who've tried tell me the writing is horrific. Yet 10 million copies sold in 6 weeks. If we, as readers, buy crap, then soon that's all that will be available.
Heads up, everyone. Do your research. Not all self-published books are bad, but many are put out there by people with enough money to pay $1000s of dollars for reviews. They cast suspicion on all books, and on all reviews, which hurts all authors.
Okay. Climbing down off my soapbox now. I feel better for ranting. Thanks for listening!
It was awful. Grrr. What an idiot I was.
I am so naive, and behind the times, when it comes to book reviews written by 'customers' on amazon.com. I knew that some authors asked friends to write reviews. These are usually easy to spot because they're all posted within a few days of each other, and they're glowing, often encouraging the reader to "buy this book!" Of the thirty reviews of my memoir, Sheepish, I only recognized one name, and I didn't ask her to write a review. I feel good that all 30 reviews were unsolicited.
But it's gotten much worse than friends and family writing glowing reviews. I just read that authors are posting their own reviews of their own books, under assumed names, of course. This practice even has a name: sock-puppeting. Ha. It's dumb and pathetic.
But wait. Things are even worse than that. The NY Times recently reported that self-published authors pay companies to post positive reviews on amazon.com and other sites. Holy @#$%. Seriously?
So when I returned home, I got back onto barnesandnoble.com and read the reviews more closely. The first 20 or so were 5-star. They were error-free. Not even a dropped apostrophe. Not even a misspelling. Not even one exclamation mark!!! The reviewers were entertaining, articulate, and often spoke in general terms rather than specifically about the book. They could have all been written by the same person.
These reviews must have been purchased. What a sad, sad thing. Cornell University is actually studying how to identify deceptive reviews.
Soon readers, including me, will be too wary to buy anything but big-name authors published by major publishers. This means the "mid-list" authors---published and edited, but not selling 100,000s of copies---will get squeezed out. Unless you know enough about publishers to recognize published from self-published, you'll be cautious.
Here's the link to the NYTimes article: http://www.nytimes.com/2012/08/26/business/book-reviewers-for-hire-meet-a-demand-for-online-raves.html?pagewanted=all
The book I'd purchased was horrible. The sample was well-written, but the author probably got lots of feedback at writing workshops, etc. Most people can write a tight first 10 pages. It's sustaining it that separates authors.
I've not read Fifty Shades of Grey (I'm not into BDSM), but friends who've tried tell me the writing is horrific. Yet 10 million copies sold in 6 weeks. If we, as readers, buy crap, then soon that's all that will be available.
Heads up, everyone. Do your research. Not all self-published books are bad, but many are put out there by people with enough money to pay $1000s of dollars for reviews. They cast suspicion on all books, and on all reviews, which hurts all authors.
Okay. Climbing down off my soapbox now. I feel better for ranting. Thanks for listening!
