Foolery

Murderous Cows, High Blood Pressure and That Goaty Smell

I smelled like a wet goat today. This will surprise those of you who guessed that I might smell like a wet goat at all times. I don't, really . . . well, not too much anyway.

The events of the morning.

Awakened at 6:30 on a Saturday morning by children. Mumbled "happy birthday, Sparky," and went back to sleep for 75 years.

Pulled on shorts and a tank top and started the coffee. Got out buttermilk and eggs to make Sparky's birthday pancakes. Then the phone rang.

"Hi, this is your dad." Uh-oh. Nothing good has ever come from a phone call that started this way. "There's a baby goat on our driveway, and I thought the girls might like to see it."

"Yeah, I'm sure they would . . . whose goat is it?" I asked.

"I don't know . . . it's just here, and all of my cows are upset. Why don't you have the girls come look at it, and then they can bring it home with them?"

"WAIT a minute. What am I gonna do with a baby goat? Especially one that's not mine? And why do you think I want one?"

"Well, I don't want it, and . . ."

"Dad, let's try to find out whose goat it is, okay? Will you help? Because I have a LOT of stuff going on this weekend and --"

"Just send the girls down, and they can take the goat home for a while."

My blood pressure has never been checked, other than during pregnancies. I don't want to break what is likely an expensive machine by burying its needle in the red zone.

So the girls and I slipped on old shoes and walked down the road. The cows in the east pasture were pressed against the fence, bawling to the west. The cows in the west pasture were pressed against their fence, bawling to the east. And in the middle, on the road, stood a tiny brown goat, looking lost.




He looked a lot like this little one. (Photo stolen from this site)

But as cute as he was, he was not interested in human contact, and he squeezed through a wide spot in the fence, into the east pasture. The cows were NOT happy. They went after the little guy like he was made of hay, probably acting upon instinct to attack anything the size of a dog. And they attacked. The poor baby goat ran away, and then, also acting upon instinct, sought shelter in a herd, and ran right into the crowd of obnoxious cows, who abused him all over again. Nothing good has ever come from a phone call from my dad in the morning.

Sighing heavily, I crossed the fence with two chattering little girls in tow. Try as I might I could not convince them to stay on the fence or go home. To add insult to injury, Dad had just irrigated the pasture, and there was standing water amongst the cow pies. *sigh*

The goat would not be caught, the cows would not relent, and it was hopeless. And then the goat disappeared, totally. I combed the grass for him for 15 minutes without finding him. Okay, my work here is done, I thought. Home to wash our feet and shoes and make breakfast, and finally get some of that coffee that's turning to sludge.

After breakfast my maternal instinct kicked in and I had to try to find that goat. The girls insisted upon coming too, so out we went.

It wasn't hard to locate where the little guy was; he was the speck moving east through the pasture with a clot of crabby bovines hot on his heels. By the time we caught up with the herd they had reached the end of the pasture and were snugged up against the east fence. I made the girls stand way back, by the fence, and moved in alone, wading through brown water more than a foot deep and swearing under my breath at my father. One cow was in heat and the bull was not interested in anybody but her; they were canoodling there between the baby goat and me, and they weren't moving for nobody.

The goat saw me and bolted into the herd, still believing he was safe among the cows.

Have you ever seen a mother cow with a  bug up her  bad attitude? It's not something you want to see play out, especially if there are children present. Several of the old bags were pretty aggressive toward the tiny little goat, but one in particular was brutal. She charged at him, ran him over -- and I mean trampled him on purpose -- then turned around and did it again. Then she ground him into the grass with her head. My daughters were screaming in horror behind me, and I was carefully moving toward the fray, not sure what I would do if the cow went for me, but positive I was mad enough that she would regret it at least a little.

I was sure the little goat would be dead.

But up he jumped, staggering, and raced for the fence, where he collapsed. In amazement I watched several of the cows move in as if to finish him off. I charged, roaring like a lion, and I'm not kidding. ROAR. It took a very long time and a lot of roaring, but I was finally able to back the herd up, then I ran at them, which spooked them and they turned tail and ran, at least until their tiny brains stopped them. "Oh look, grass . . . munch munch munch . . ." Stupid cows.




I still had to catch the goat, which was surprisingly difficult. I finally pinned him against the fence and some berry vines, picked him up, and carried him all the way back across the pasture. He was surprisingly heavy; not unlike a hairy smelly toddler with hooves and horns. More than once he tried to suckle on my neck, poor baby.

"What are you gonna do with him, Mama?" asked the girls.

"I'm gonna make Grandpa drive me and the goat around the neighborhood until we find his owner," I answered. And that's what we did. Grandpa was just getting into his pickup to go to lunch with friends, but I walked up with a dripping wet, stinky goat and made him chauffeur us around first. Goaty sat on my lap, fairly calm, considering, as we looked for his home. We left him in a neighbor's pasture, and a phone call later confirmed that we'd picked the right one. The little guy may die, though, if he sustained internal injuries, which wouldn't surprise me. My respect for the size and power of a cow has been renewed.

What I Learned

1. Goats are stupid. They will keep running for the herd that's trying to kill them, over and over and over.
2. Cows are stupid. They forget that there's a goat in the pasture and it's not a dog and didn't we just check that? and Oh look, a dog-shaped thing! Let's GIT IT! over and over and over.
3. People who answer the phone on Saturday mornings are stupid. It's probably your dad and nothing good has ever come from a phone call from your dad in the morning.
4. Those blood pressure machines need to be built stronger, because I'm certain I'd ruin one on contact.
5. Girls who really really need to pee while out in the pasture can pee just like boys only with poorer aim. Who knew?
6. Smelling like a wet goat is every bit as bad as you think it is.

Stumbling In

Today we will learn about Stumbling. No, no -- put your hands down, please . . . not THAT kind of stumbling, which you learned well enough in college when the bars pushed you out onto the sidewalks. I'm looking at YOU, Anonymous.

No, the kind of Stumbling I will explain today is the GOOD kind. The kind that won't make your in-laws talk or bring your china cabinet down around your ears in the middle of a party. The GOOD kind of Stumbling happens on StumbleUpon.com.

A visual aid.

 

This is a blog. MomCrush at the Orange County Register, to be exact. We are going to Stumble this post, BECAUSE IT MADE US LAUGH A LOT, that's why. It did.

What is Stumble? It's like a thumbs up for things that you like, for whatever your reason.  How do you Stumble a post?  Well, you could Stumble a post if they have a button a the close of each post, as Suz does.

Or, you could install a StumbleUpon bar at the top of your screen, as I have done, which makes it oh-so-easy to Stumble something that strikes your fancy.  Like this:

Let me show you what getting Stumbled can do for your traffic on your web site. This is a shot of my stats this month. Now, don't get too excited. Each day is 100-200 hits, except for the spike. And guess what caused the spike. Give up? STUMBLE! Yup, I was Stumbled, by KitMama at Kitmama's Pensieve.

 

And you can see the difference that made. One day I got almost 1740 hits! Wow, talk about feeling like a rock star! Of course, it's up to you to make those new folks stick around, which I didn't do, *sigh.* But I'm sure you're better than I am at all that.

So go to Stumbleupon.com when the mood arises, and spread the love around. There are a lot of great blog posts out there -- let someone know about your favorite ones today. Someone may Stumble you tomorrow.

Thanks again, Kitmama!

The Day

This was the day I met my sister Beth.

Okay, half-sister, but I really prefer just sister. We have enough qualifiers in our lives and we don't need any more tonight. That's Beth on the left, then me, our dad, Mantel Man and Bocci. It was 1976, and it must have been spring because we were in Berkeley for our cousin's track meet.

Beth lived in the San Francisco Bay Area, then as now. She was everything I wanted to be: urban, attractive, thin, sophisticated, and sixteen. I made it to sixteen, eventually.

It's weird to talk about my siblings; I say either "there were three of us" or "we four kids," depending upon the context. Every once in a while I forget and say, "my sister blah blah blah" to someone who knew me before this day, THE day, but who somehow missed the fact that I had a sister out there, somewhere. The last time I was that careless was last year, when I nearly knocked my best friend's mother for a loop; she had never heard the story, somehow.

Beth probably doesn't remember this, but every Father's Day is an anniversary of sorts for us. About 1995 I decided I wanted to find Beth, with whom we'd had no contact for years, and I was going to use my new computer for the job. The idea was to find her as a sort of Father's Day present for Dad.

No luck. I gave up quickly.

And then, on Father's Day of that year, Beth called Dad, out of the blue. Great minds must think alike, or maybe related minds do? We've been a reunited family ever since.

Beth is still urban, attractive, thin and sophisticated. Neither of us are sixteen any longer, thank God. But I am still the scruffy kid with the goofy smile, somewhat bewildered and certainly enchanted by the idea of a big sister. I still don't know how to act around her, but I love her, and I am reminded every Father's Day, which is almost here. It's a little early to be celebrating Father's Day, but I'm writing this tonight because Beth just sent me this photo, out of the blue. The subject line read The Day.

Beth, you can't make me go to Berkeley again, sorry. Happy anniversary, Sistah.

Your Hot Mother

(Photo stolen from these guys)

My internet was working intermittently at best last night. Maybe it was the heat wave that finally broke as the sun went down, I don't know. I just know that I was hot, and the kids were hot, and everything was a little off-kilter.

The breeze came up later in the evening, and slammed Sparky's bedroom door. She woke up screaming and it took a while to calm her down. I climbed into bed with her and she burrowed into me like a marsupial baby. It was too hot for that, but what's a mother to do?

Then this.

Sparky: "Mommy, it smells like a motel in here."



(Photo stolen from this guy)

Mind racing . . . well, I did have a beer . . . motel? Does she smell mildew or disinfectant or old cigarettes? Couldn't be cigarettes -- or disinfectant, for that matter . . .

Sparky: "Or maybe it's just your armpit."



Providing comfort -- that's what mothers are for. Especially hot mothers, like me.

Manny the Uncanny: the American Ballet Theater

It's county fair weekend! And as such I'm distracted and I've got nothin' important to share. Yes, I know this is nothing new. But I found this clip to share with you, and maybe I'll do it fairly often, now that I know that YouTube has Manny the Uncanny.

Back when I was reasonably young, certainly dumb, and unencumbered by either husband or children, I used to watch Saturday morning cartoons. I told myself I was looking for Looney Tunes, but once I found CBS's "One Saturday Morning," it didn't matter; I was home.

Oh sure, the cartoons were fun. But the real attraction was the wacky host in the oversized plaid upholstery fabric suit, Manny the Uncanny. "Where're we going today, Mr. Lighter-Than-Air?"

"Well Manny, some place wonderful."

And it always was. Except when it wasn't, like when Manny "took" us to visit a sewage treatment plant (a treat I shall save for another day, because it's That. Funny.).

The guy was like an eastern European Borat with an indeterminate Yiddish accent and -- well, see for yourself. "It's true!"




p.s. Once I met Chas I introduced him to Manny, and we have been quoting Manny for nearly fifteen glorious years. That's how I knew CHAS WAS THE ONE. And also, we're both morons.

Dr. Doolittle Was Here

It seems that the Swine Flu

has missed me, at least for the time being. I'm surprised, actually, since the Chicken Pox



got me twice, and who could doubt that Mad Cow Disease



has already made swiss cheese of my gray matter?

The Rhinovirus

 
is my enemy. Bird Flu

is waiting in the wings, so to speak. I'm just lucky I was sort of a milkmaid as a girl, or Cow Pox

would have taken me out, for sure.



I'm healthy as a horse, actually. I just don't like zoos.

You Can Have My Girl But Don't Touch My Hat

Photo stolen from these guys)

I don't seem to be able to get it together lately. In between bouts with inflamed skin, a tail bone on the move, and all-night animal games (cats, dogs, owls, coyotes, whatever), I am shot.

I'll just share this little zinger from Sparky, a question she popped apropos of nothing, as we clambered out of the car this afternoon.

Sparky: "Smedley, do you think that cowboys who really, really like being cowboys wear their hats to bed?"

If I didn't know better I'd swear that five-year-old Sparky had been smoking funny plants and picking at her navel fuzz today.

Texasholly and Beavers and Donkey Noises Oh My!

I had no internet connection last night until I was too tired and apathetic to write anything, so I played mahjong instead. This is fascinating stuff, isn't it? And of the 10 unfinished posts in my drafts folder, none were good finished enough to waste spend any time on.

But someone was busy yesterday, someone named Texasholly. Usually she can be found at June Cleaver Nirvana, which you really ought to check out but not until I'm finished with this interminable sentence, okay? Thank you, I'm finished.



(Photo stolen from Texasholly herself. Illustration by Holly at June Cleaver Nirvana, which is where I stole it. From. Whatever.)

For those of you still here, go read one of the best of Texasholly's series Holly's Animated Life that I've ever seen. It's posted at a blog that's new to me, Smart Girl Nation. Unfortunately, I couldn't leave a comment there because I don't have a WordPress account (that'd be the ONLY account I don't have, since I am an avowed New Media Douchebag).





You will be making donkey noises like there's no tomorrow, or, if you're reading Holly's post on the sly, as I may have been but am not telling, you will be doing that painful silent laughter thing that results in wet eyes and sore (but not buffed) abs.

Have a pleasant and productive day. But first, go treat yourself to a donkey noise.

I Leaf Japanese Language Wo Learning Tight to Think.

The tiny room was stuffy. No breeze stirred the late afternoon air, heavy with humidity and pollen and expectations -- for the weekend, two days away; for finals, just around the corner. The converted laundry room on the back of the shabby Victorian house had no air conditioning, no fans, no insulation. A half-hearted attempt at a college classroom, it abutted a campus parking lot, and waves of heat rising from the asphalt outside pulsed through the room.

Shoichi-san, a grad student, guided the four students through the lesson as they fought sleep, or restlessness, or both. Each took his or her turn reading the romanized text aloud; it looked sort of like English but, if pronounced correctly, it sounded sort of like Japanese.

Watashi wa toshokan ni irasshaimasu. I go to the library.

Janet read a few tortuous sentences until Shoichi-san was satisfied. Paula plodded through her assigned paragraph. Laurie approached the words dully, as if trying to read underwater. The stagnant air was getting to her; she cracked a smile and tried not to giggle.

Enpitsu ga arimasu ka? Do you have a pencil?

Joe's turn. Joe's learning curve was flatter than those of his classmates. Japanese did not come easily to Joe, and the warm room and fidgety girls around him didn't make it any easier.

Joe looked at the page. The words swam before his eyes. Joe struggled through the sentence, syllable by syllable.

" . . . shi . . . ma . . . SHIT."

Shta. Joe had wanted to say shta, but it was too late. The word hung in the poisonous air with ponderous finality, daring any of the students to say a word. No words were needed.

I don't remember which of us started giggling first, but Janet and I were goners after that. Shoichi-san blinked at us through innocent eyes -- and ears.  "Eez ever'teeng . . . okayyy?" he asked. We assured him that we were just tired and punchy, that was all. Poor Joe was turning six shades of red and cursing the day he ever chose Japanese as an elective.

Class dismissed.

¡Viva la Smart Aleck!

(Photo stolen from these guys)

One of the funniest things I've heard in forever, from a little boy in my daughter's second grade class.

Teacher: "Who knows why the French went to Mexico?"

Hands went up, but the teacher called on Gary (not his real name).

Gary:  "Um, for a dance-off?"

Ashes to Ashes, DUH to DUH

(Photo stolen from these guys)

Oh my GAHHHHHHHHH I did it again. I freaked you out, didn't I?

I'm sorry. I didn't mean to.

Gotten a few e-mails, IMs, even a phone call. I really do have stuff on my mind, but I'm fine. It's really more the frustration of not being able to say completely what I need to say, here, on my blog. PLEASE tell me you understand what I mean, so I don't think you think I'm suicidal?

I'm NOT suicidal. I'm totally fine and happy. Except for a face on fire, which is almost better, and which I'll explain soon, if I remember.

BUT.

(You KNEW there was a "but," didn't you?)

BUT

my sudden onset of accidental morbidity got me thinking about death.* What if the worst should happen?

No, I don't meant that the Napa Valley burns to the ground and we are all forced to drink paint thinner . . . I mean, MORE paint thinner.

I mean, the worst in MY world, which would be that I tripped over one cat too many, hit my head and met my maker, who looks surprisingly a lot like RonCo in this bright white light . . . what if I died?

The blog would come to an end, but would Chas even know how to tell my on-line friends? Probably not. Would there be a funeral, or -- more my style -- a doughnut exchange?

I'M NOT DYING (as far as I know), but here is a challenge for you. Pick one of these three:

1. Foolery's inscription on the headstone and/or paper plate tacked above the sink hole

2. Foolery's eulogy, Twitter style (140 characters/spaces, max)

3. What song should be playing as Foolery's coffin (a refrigerator carton from behind Sears) is paraded through the street of Orland? Yes, I wrote street singular; it wasn't a mistake.

Pick one and run with it -- have fun! I may as well enjoy my own death before I die, right? Also, I'm not dying.

_  _  _  _  _

*I realized just as I finished this that I may also have picked up the whole "death as schtick" thing from a recent post by one of my favorite bloggers, Kathi at I Think We're All Bozos On This Bus. Yes, I know. That IS the single-best blog name in the history of the planet. And No, I didn't mean to steal her theme, but it must be a subliminal homage.

Blog Purgatory

(Original photo stolen from these guys)

I have so much to say. I can't say any of it. Crap.

Have you ever had stuff right on the tip of your tongue, BEGGING to be released, and you can't? That's me. Two, three, four things I want to tell you. And I can't. Why? Because any of it could be hurtful to someone who will never in a million years happen to read this.

But still.

Mum's the word.

You know what I mean, right? It's happened to you. The blog comment that keeps you awake at night, and you have the perfect comeback, but you just can't bring yourself to do it? The public letter you wish you had the guts to write to the local newspaper? The words left unsaid to the woman who casually, unwittingly tells you her son is gay, but she doesn't even know she knows it yet? You are BURSTING with something to say, but of course, you shouldn't, wouldn't, couldn't. These things weigh on a blogger's soul.

I'm in Blog Purgatory.

I cannot close the deal, I cannot say what I NEED to say, for my own sanity, because I couldn't live with myself if the wrong person just happened to check in here at the wrong time.

This must be how a Trappist monk with a really good funny bone must feel when the perfect comeback comes to him, and he can't say a word. (Does anyone know -- could he scratch it out on a chalkboard, or would he be doing dishes for a month for that? Sometimes it would still be worth it . . . )

I'll hold my tongue. I could be bribed, however . . . I've spilled my guts for far less than a bag of Peanut M&Ms.

Tempt me. Spill it. Tell me something juicy, or get me to spill my guts. GAHHH, I need a release. This Bartender Face of mine can't take any more secrets tonight.

The Grinchatcher

Is it just me . . . ?