January 14, 2010
What's your morning ritual? Mine usually begins with the alarm going off at 6 a.m. and my husband hitting the snooze button at least twice. I never "snooze" between the alarms. I just lay there thinking of all the things I need to do for the day and dreading getting out from under the warm covers.
When I finally do get up, I head for the kitchen to make a cup of Chai tea or coffee. Whichever I choose, it's decaf. I never was a caffeine junky, and I gave up caffeine about 10 years ago. I don't miss it. I just like having the warm liquid with lots of milk. It's one of the ways I get my calcium for the day.
While sipping my coffee or tea, I make my son's lunch. He has a ritual too--he always has a peanut butter sandwich for lunch. And, if I'm not mad at my husband, I make his lunch too. Then I kiss my husband and son goodbye as they head off to work and school.
Next, I head for my computer. I check emails, hoping for a thousand new inquiries--okay, at least a few signed contracts--on either of my businesses. Then I look at the clock, realize in shock that it's been an hour since I sat down at the computer and not the 15 minutes I thought it's been, and run down to the barn to feed the animals.
If I have time, I stop by the garden to check on the latest veggies I'm trying to grow--right now it's lettuce and spinach. Then back to the house for some exercise. Usually I walk/run at least 30 minutes on my treadmill while catching up on a travel or home improvement show.
Then comes one of my favorite parts--a nice, long, very hot shower.
I won't bore you with the rest of my day--I've bored you long enough with this blog, if you've even bothered to read this far. But the point is, it's nice to have a ritual to my day. I haven't had a morning ritual much since I left the corporate world about six years ago. And though you can practically make a commercial out of my morning routine, I cherish it.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Cravings
January 13, 2010
Do you ever get cravings? I mean specific cravings. For specific foods and/or combinations. I do. All the time. And they are VERY specific. If I don't satisfy that particular craving for that specific thing--like trying to substitute with something close--then I still crave it.
I used to get asked if I was pregnant when I would voice a specific craving. No, I'm not. In fact, when I was pregnant, I DIDN'T have specific cravings--because I craved EVERYTHING! I've learned not to voice my cravings so much anymore--at least around non-family members--because I always get strange looks, and "the question." But I'll share them with you because I know you won't give me funny looks.
Some of the things I crave that are very specific are: grits with butter and Tobasco, peanut butter and pickle sandwich, french fries with seasalt and malt vinegar, broiled chicken breast on a wheat bun with mustard and pickles, crab legs with a dip of lemon, thyme, and real butter (not that oily stuff they call butter). Oh, and don't forget cottage cheese with Nacho Cheese Dorito's as a spoon. This morning it was Maple Nut ice cream. And the list goes on.
I also like hot sauce on just about everything. But I need specific hot sauces for specific things like Tobasco on the eggs, but Tapatio on nachos or chips or chili (yes, I put hot sauce on my chili), or salsa on my tacos.
What are some of your specific cravings? I'd love to hear about them because I'm always willing to try new things, and, who knows, maybe I can add to my list after trying some of yours! I'll be waiting to hear...
Monday, January 11, 2010
Counting Sheep
January 11, 2010
I count sheep, and it works! No, not when I can't sleep, though if I haven't counted sheep, it does keep me awake. But I'm talking about my REAL sheep.
Every evening I make the trek to the barn to feed the animals, and I start my mental check of everyone. The chickens are already in their coop for the night, so I don't bother them. My ram is waiting faithfully in his pen to be fed and locked in for the night, so I throw a flake of hay to him and close his gate. The cows are waiting by the barn door for their flake of hay, so I toss them their share. And my barn dog, Rocky, starts spinning around in happiness anticipating his Puppy Chow.
By this time the sheep have heard me enter the barn and they all coming running and "talking" to me. This is their evening ritual--to come to the barn for the night and get fed. It's a good habit for them to have, and it allows me to do what I've really come to do--count sheep.
Why do I count them? Because over the years I've discovered that they can disappear from time to time. Several have died of old age; some have been stuck in the fence while trying to reach that tasty morsel of grass on the other side; and lots have died in the jaws of my neighbors' dogs. So when the count doesn't reach the correct number, I begin hunting for the missing.
Luckily that hasn't happened much lately for two reasons: 1) my neighbor has been criminal prosecuted for allowing her dogs to roam free and onto my property--yes, our court system does work some times, and it was all done by the District Attorney, not me. And, 2) Rocky, the barn dog, is a Great Pyrenees puppy who is currently about 6 inches taller than me when he stands on his hind legs and out-weights me by about 10 pounds. But he's only a baby of nine-months, so he'll get bigger. And he loves his sheep! So, needless to say, their aren't too many creatures, canine or otherwise, willing to take Rocky on.
But the habbit is now established. I have to count sheep each night so I can sleep.
I count sheep, and it works! No, not when I can't sleep, though if I haven't counted sheep, it does keep me awake. But I'm talking about my REAL sheep.
Every evening I make the trek to the barn to feed the animals, and I start my mental check of everyone. The chickens are already in their coop for the night, so I don't bother them. My ram is waiting faithfully in his pen to be fed and locked in for the night, so I throw a flake of hay to him and close his gate. The cows are waiting by the barn door for their flake of hay, so I toss them their share. And my barn dog, Rocky, starts spinning around in happiness anticipating his Puppy Chow.
By this time the sheep have heard me enter the barn and they all coming running and "talking" to me. This is their evening ritual--to come to the barn for the night and get fed. It's a good habit for them to have, and it allows me to do what I've really come to do--count sheep.
Why do I count them? Because over the years I've discovered that they can disappear from time to time. Several have died of old age; some have been stuck in the fence while trying to reach that tasty morsel of grass on the other side; and lots have died in the jaws of my neighbors' dogs. So when the count doesn't reach the correct number, I begin hunting for the missing.
Luckily that hasn't happened much lately for two reasons: 1) my neighbor has been criminal prosecuted for allowing her dogs to roam free and onto my property--yes, our court system does work some times, and it was all done by the District Attorney, not me. And, 2) Rocky, the barn dog, is a Great Pyrenees puppy who is currently about 6 inches taller than me when he stands on his hind legs and out-weights me by about 10 pounds. But he's only a baby of nine-months, so he'll get bigger. And he loves his sheep! So, needless to say, their aren't too many creatures, canine or otherwise, willing to take Rocky on.
But the habbit is now established. I have to count sheep each night so I can sleep.
Friday, January 8, 2010
Fire Building: Man vs. Woman
January 8, 2010
I love fireplaces. I love sitting by them with a cup of tea or a glass of wine while reading a novel or watching old movies. It's one of the best ways to relax on a rainy day or to create that romantic mood on date night.
I've had a fireplace in almost every house I've every lived in. And when I lived in Oregon with my dad, the fireplace and our woodburning store was the main way we heated the house.
So when I scoped out the home I now live in, I made sure it had a fireplace. But not just any fireplace--a double-sided fireplace with a whalebone fossil encased in limestone as a focal point.
Now, I don't go for those fakey electric fireplaces, or even a gas-burning one. If it isn't real wood, it isn't a real fire. Some nice sticks to get the fire going, some smaller pieces to feed it once it gets going, and a few big logs to stoke it up and keep it burning for awhile is the only way to go. And the wood? Oak. It burns the longest and I've got plenty of it.
But isn't it amazing the difference between how a woman starts a fire and how a man starts one? I start by crumpling up newspaper to make a bed both on top of the logholder and under it. I put some small sticks and twigs on top of the newspaper, then put a few small logs on top of that. Then I strike a match, apply it to a few places on the lowest newspaper, and watch it go.
My husband, on the other hand, takes fire starting as a battle. He doesn't use newspaper--he doesn't need that whimpy stuff. He puts the logs on the logholder--no sticks--then chooses his weapon: a plumbers torch! He pops the lighter, and, with a deathly look on his face, attacks the logs with a high flame. He keeps at it until either the logs give up in defeat or he wages war with the additional amo of a few pieces of cardboard.
Originally I thought this was just something my husband did. I mean, my dad never used a torch of any kind to start a fire. But when my step-dad came for Thanksgiving, I noticed the same look on his face as he reached for the torch--that same murderous expression as he attacked the wood and the same pleasure on his face when the wood relented.
Funny. I seem to get the fire started with as good, if not better, results with my one match and crumpled newspaper than the men do with their torch. So is it the pleasure they get from using yet another tool or from conquering yet another foe? What's your take?
I love fireplaces. I love sitting by them with a cup of tea or a glass of wine while reading a novel or watching old movies. It's one of the best ways to relax on a rainy day or to create that romantic mood on date night.
I've had a fireplace in almost every house I've every lived in. And when I lived in Oregon with my dad, the fireplace and our woodburning store was the main way we heated the house.
So when I scoped out the home I now live in, I made sure it had a fireplace. But not just any fireplace--a double-sided fireplace with a whalebone fossil encased in limestone as a focal point.
Now, I don't go for those fakey electric fireplaces, or even a gas-burning one. If it isn't real wood, it isn't a real fire. Some nice sticks to get the fire going, some smaller pieces to feed it once it gets going, and a few big logs to stoke it up and keep it burning for awhile is the only way to go. And the wood? Oak. It burns the longest and I've got plenty of it.
But isn't it amazing the difference between how a woman starts a fire and how a man starts one? I start by crumpling up newspaper to make a bed both on top of the logholder and under it. I put some small sticks and twigs on top of the newspaper, then put a few small logs on top of that. Then I strike a match, apply it to a few places on the lowest newspaper, and watch it go.
My husband, on the other hand, takes fire starting as a battle. He doesn't use newspaper--he doesn't need that whimpy stuff. He puts the logs on the logholder--no sticks--then chooses his weapon: a plumbers torch! He pops the lighter, and, with a deathly look on his face, attacks the logs with a high flame. He keeps at it until either the logs give up in defeat or he wages war with the additional amo of a few pieces of cardboard.
Originally I thought this was just something my husband did. I mean, my dad never used a torch of any kind to start a fire. But when my step-dad came for Thanksgiving, I noticed the same look on his face as he reached for the torch--that same murderous expression as he attacked the wood and the same pleasure on his face when the wood relented.
Funny. I seem to get the fire started with as good, if not better, results with my one match and crumpled newspaper than the men do with their torch. So is it the pleasure they get from using yet another tool or from conquering yet another foe? What's your take?
Thursday, January 7, 2010
My Dangerous Store
January 7, 2010
We all have a "dangerous" store. For men, it's usually a hardware supply store or Costco. For my mother-in-law it's Macy's and Nordstrom's. For me, it's Farm Supply.
Yes, it's Farm Supply. I can't go in there without instantly being drawn to the new display of ropes and cinches. I can't pass by the saddles without taking a deep whiff of the leather or feeling the tooling. And I can't walk into the gardening department without picking up at least two packets of seeds.
And don't get me started on the clothing area! At my local store they've at least had the decency to put it in a separate room in an area I don't have to go in to. But I can see it from the register counter, beckoning me with the latest cowboy boots; calling me with the most recent sparkly button-down shirt; taunting me with the newest blingy belt.
I've been into that section of the store before. It's danger with a cherry on top! I wasn't able to leave without purchasing at least two items--but they were from the sales rack. Honest!
Oh well. So I wasn't able to escape with just the chicken fee and worming drench I went in for. But I resolve to be stronger next time. Maybe I'll drop a note in the suggestion box to put up a privacy curtain over the door to the clothing area...
We all have a "dangerous" store. For men, it's usually a hardware supply store or Costco. For my mother-in-law it's Macy's and Nordstrom's. For me, it's Farm Supply.
Yes, it's Farm Supply. I can't go in there without instantly being drawn to the new display of ropes and cinches. I can't pass by the saddles without taking a deep whiff of the leather or feeling the tooling. And I can't walk into the gardening department without picking up at least two packets of seeds.
And don't get me started on the clothing area! At my local store they've at least had the decency to put it in a separate room in an area I don't have to go in to. But I can see it from the register counter, beckoning me with the latest cowboy boots; calling me with the most recent sparkly button-down shirt; taunting me with the newest blingy belt.
I've been into that section of the store before. It's danger with a cherry on top! I wasn't able to leave without purchasing at least two items--but they were from the sales rack. Honest!
Oh well. So I wasn't able to escape with just the chicken fee and worming drench I went in for. But I resolve to be stronger next time. Maybe I'll drop a note in the suggestion box to put up a privacy curtain over the door to the clothing area...
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Lambing Season
January 6, 2010
It's lambing season again. Did I mention I have twenty-one sheep? Well, I do. And about half of them are ewe's (that's a female sheep for you city folks).
Why lambing season is during the coldest part of the year I'll never understand. The poor lambs are usually born early in the morning. They are thrust into the world wet and wool-less onto the cold ground and have to be able to stand up within a few minutes of being born in order to eat. It just doesn't seem fair. But that's mother nature for you.
So, anyway, it's lambing season. And I tried hard this season to keep my ram (that's a male sheep with all parts in tact for you city folks) from getting in with my ewe's. You see, twenty-one sheep is enought for me. And, yes, I'm a whimp because I haven't been able to slaughter any of my previous lambs for meat, or sell them for meat either. They're just too cute! Especially when they come up to me with those big brown eyes and want to be scratched around the ears and face!
My solution? Don't let any more be conceived! Or, at least, that was the idea. My ram had other ideas--again, that whiley mother nature. He got in with the ewe's at least three times, so I'm expecting, at the very least, three lambs.
Now, checking the ewe's for pregnancy is not all that difficult. At least the technique that I use. While the sheep are eating, I simply go down the line, reaching under the ewe's to feel their udders (that's where the milk somes from for you city folks). If a ewe has an udder that is starting to swell, I know she's pregnant, and I keep an eye on her going forward.
You'd think that after having their udders felt-up a couple of times a week that they wouldn't jump, but they do. Every time. I guess it's like having a doctor put her cold hand on you right before a pap-smear. You know it's coming, but you jump anyway.
So far, my luck is holding. No full udders means no lambs on the way. Yet! It may just mean that they'll sneak one in on me when I least expect it. It wouldn't be the first time.
The lamb watch continues...
It's lambing season again. Did I mention I have twenty-one sheep? Well, I do. And about half of them are ewe's (that's a female sheep for you city folks).
Why lambing season is during the coldest part of the year I'll never understand. The poor lambs are usually born early in the morning. They are thrust into the world wet and wool-less onto the cold ground and have to be able to stand up within a few minutes of being born in order to eat. It just doesn't seem fair. But that's mother nature for you.
So, anyway, it's lambing season. And I tried hard this season to keep my ram (that's a male sheep with all parts in tact for you city folks) from getting in with my ewe's. You see, twenty-one sheep is enought for me. And, yes, I'm a whimp because I haven't been able to slaughter any of my previous lambs for meat, or sell them for meat either. They're just too cute! Especially when they come up to me with those big brown eyes and want to be scratched around the ears and face!
My solution? Don't let any more be conceived! Or, at least, that was the idea. My ram had other ideas--again, that whiley mother nature. He got in with the ewe's at least three times, so I'm expecting, at the very least, three lambs.
Now, checking the ewe's for pregnancy is not all that difficult. At least the technique that I use. While the sheep are eating, I simply go down the line, reaching under the ewe's to feel their udders (that's where the milk somes from for you city folks). If a ewe has an udder that is starting to swell, I know she's pregnant, and I keep an eye on her going forward.
You'd think that after having their udders felt-up a couple of times a week that they wouldn't jump, but they do. Every time. I guess it's like having a doctor put her cold hand on you right before a pap-smear. You know it's coming, but you jump anyway.
So far, my luck is holding. No full udders means no lambs on the way. Yet! It may just mean that they'll sneak one in on me when I least expect it. It wouldn't be the first time.
The lamb watch continues...
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Male-Dominated Household
January 5, 2010
I live in a male-dominated house. I don't mean that they are dominant, just that there are more of them.
There's my husband and son, who have enough male-ness between them to create havoc throughout the house: dishes that make it NEAR the dishwasher, but never into it; remote controls on every surface of the family room, not in the basket I supplied so we could find the remotes easily; and more toys scattered about than any one person could every play with.
Then there's the animals: two rabbits, one bird, nine cats (seven are males), a ball python (okay, I don't know for sure if it's male or female, but we DID name it Joe), and three dogs--one of which is female. Does that make us both bitches? My husband would likely say so!
The count does not include the ranch animals. If that's the case, maybe there is more balance that I thought. Let's see. We have nine chickens, all of which are hens (no, they don't need a rooster in order to lay eggs--at least mother nature was kind in this case). Of the four equine, two are female. And about half the sheep are female, and more valuable because they are (at least, per the county agriculture rules).
But back at the house, it's funny how it may be male-dominated, yet it's the females (okay, female--me), who get the most done. My husband would argue that it's because what I consider "getting things done" and what he considers "getting things done" are two completely different things. Maybe I should readjust more to his thinking. After all, watching hours of television while surfing the net and drinking beer is multi-tasking after all...
I live in a male-dominated house. I don't mean that they are dominant, just that there are more of them.
There's my husband and son, who have enough male-ness between them to create havoc throughout the house: dishes that make it NEAR the dishwasher, but never into it; remote controls on every surface of the family room, not in the basket I supplied so we could find the remotes easily; and more toys scattered about than any one person could every play with.
Then there's the animals: two rabbits, one bird, nine cats (seven are males), a ball python (okay, I don't know for sure if it's male or female, but we DID name it Joe), and three dogs--one of which is female. Does that make us both bitches? My husband would likely say so!
The count does not include the ranch animals. If that's the case, maybe there is more balance that I thought. Let's see. We have nine chickens, all of which are hens (no, they don't need a rooster in order to lay eggs--at least mother nature was kind in this case). Of the four equine, two are female. And about half the sheep are female, and more valuable because they are (at least, per the county agriculture rules).
But back at the house, it's funny how it may be male-dominated, yet it's the females (okay, female--me), who get the most done. My husband would argue that it's because what I consider "getting things done" and what he considers "getting things done" are two completely different things. Maybe I should readjust more to his thinking. After all, watching hours of television while surfing the net and drinking beer is multi-tasking after all...
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