If It Quacks Like a Duck . . .

This may come as news to everyone, but I am someone who is relatively routine-bound; maybe not bound so much as routine-dependent. That’s it – routine dependent. Even within the chaos of our lives, which are really pretty unpredictable given the scheduling vagaries of K’s work, my impulsive decisions to do things like join semi-professional athletic teams, and our joint decisions to randomly incorporate large stray dogs into our pack, I manage to build patterns into our daily activities that make me feel grounded, centered, and almost-sane.

I have a very specific routine for the twice-daily care and feeding of the goats, horse, cats and chickens. Note the very specific list: Goats. Horse. Cats. Chickens.

Note the absence of: ducks.

Said absence would be attributable to the lack of domestic ducks here at MisFit Farm. Or perhaps I should say, would have been attributable. On Monday, as I was completing my chores with the goats, horse, cats and chickens, something by the pond caught my attention. I shuffled out to investigate, and found a pair of domestic farm ducks, handily un-camouflaged in snow-white feathers, clambering up the bank from the pond and waddling around the pasture.

We have not had historically good luck with waterfowl here at the Farm. Our annual wild goose-couple were alienated after Azure invaded their nest and consumed their bevy of eggs. Coffee-dog chased a beautiful foursome of Mallard ducks given to us by friends as a pond-warming gift were into the neighbors’ above-ground swimming pool. After these events, I sort of figured were had been labeled locus non grata in the poultry world.

Apparently this pair didn’t get the memo. And so my Monday evening routine came to a screeching halt. I try not to overthink these things. I try not to ask myself if these two have arrived to help us reconcile our be-fowled karma. I like to think of myself as a person of action, not someone mired down in the banality of mindless routine. My first action step was to retrieve some English Muffins I had thrown to the chickens over the weekend and offer them to our visitors. I crumbled and tossed the crumbs to them. When this did not catch their interest, I decided perhaps offering a full muffin half would give them something substantial. Tossing it like a Frisbee, I managed to directly hit one of our guests in the side, resulting in a lot of flapping and quacking. Understandably, they retreated out onto the pond, a safe distance from me, my flying food offerings, and my dead-on aim.

We are not off to a good start.

We are committed to taking action to locate the pair’s rightful owners, but are a bit uncertain how to go about (a) locating the owners, and then (b) the logistics of collecting the ducks for return to their owners. Do we post photos on telephone poles? Buy space on milk cartons? Take out a personal ad in the local paper?

Or do I just adjust the routine to accommodate these additional wards?

Dane-love Thomas Style

People who are familiar with Great Danes as a breed know them to be extremely social – a common Dane characteristic is the “lean,” where they relinquish the task of holding their bodies upright to allow their people to support their weight. They are known to help themselves to open laps for sitting, an art form Trinity has taken to new levels as she scrambles into laps open only by virtue of sitting on a toilet at the time. They seek out companionship and attention; even she-who-will-not-be-bothered Mercy will resort to the elbow-nudge when the need to be petted strikes her. It is not uncommon here at the Farm, when trying to move from one room to another, to find oneself held fast in place by a Dane paw that has been placed atop one’s foot. And when one’s foot has been extricated from under the huge paw, one can almost always count on an entourage accompaniment that makes the journey from one room to another take on the air of a furry, squirmy, chaotic parade marched to the beat of multiple large, long tails drumming walls, doorways and furniture and punctuated by a dialogue of, “oh excuse me, didn’t mean to get in the way, guys – oh sh*t – ouch, my leg - watch out – incoming!”

As I was making my way around the house this morning, it occurred to me our foster boy, Thomas, displays all of the typical Dane traits, but he seems to have taken his need for contact one step beyond. He has somehow moved beyond Dane and reached . . . cat? Which is ironic on a number of levels, not the least of which is Thomas has a somewhat checkered history with cats.

For Thomas, padding up for a morning petting session is not enough. He likes to cram his head into you, rubbing his face on any available body surface. Bellies and hips will do, but if you would be so kind as to use both hands to rub the sides of his face, get his ears really good (he lets you know you have hit the right spot by purring with delight, which unlike a cat’s purr has a low, rolling thunder quality), and then scratch down his back.In return for this massage, he will imitate a classic feline maneuver, where they slam the side of their body against you, pushing and twining through your legs. Only in Thomas’ case with the force of a linebacker and the hazardous consequence of knocking you to the ground if caught unawares or left off balance by attempting the audacious move of continuing to prepare for the day. And as cats will sometimes give you a farewell flick with a tail to send you on your way, Thomas’ frenetically wagging tail will offer a final slap on the back of the thighs, butt, or lower back, leaving you with a sting and a welt, but in most cases, no bruising.

Planes and Wheels

I have long maintained if we are open to it, the cosmos will supply us with the things we need. This belief has carried me through pretty well; since becoming involved in the Great Dane rescue, however, the gifts we have received from the cosmos have been tenfold as much as any two people deserve.

It was through the rescue that I found myself speaking on the phone to a complete stranger about two and a half years ago while trying to coordinate an adoption transport. My lines were crossed; this was not the person to whom I would be passing the transported dog. She was in Minnesota. I was in northeast Kansas. This conversation should not have taken place. But thanks to the cosmos, it did. And it planted a seed that took root enough so that when the same woman on the Minnesota end of the line found herself making a reverse-Dane train trek, we were called into action to intercede her.

The cosmos are sneaky that way. You find yourself in the parking lot of some random gas station, tears being shed all around, and it turns out those tears won’t be the last the three of you share. Those tears are watering laughter and adventures you haven’t even realized are taking shape.
From those tears, we have shared flaming desserts, melancholy restaurant hostesses, and indifferent waitstaff in San Francisco. We have had chance encounters in local airports, where we found her dragging around a sound system as carry-on luggage. We have connected over passing canine maladies and permanent characteristics. We have shared stories and pictures and videos, albeit hers are much more well-produced.

And this past weekend, our friend from the Dane exchange in the parking lot, Evonne, winged in from Minnesota. I know from first-hand observation, she has the ability to make every creature feel like he or she is the only one in the room, so a girl can’t be too surprised at the warm reception the kritters here at MisFit Farm gave her. We watched as the people at her workshop each blossomed and basked in the warmth of her energy. It was a marvelous weekend.

Putting her on a plane to return was so difficult, we almost didn’t make it to the gate on time. But rest assured, there will be stories to come of that adventure and many more.

One of the most magnificent features here at MisFit Farm is, oddly enough, another something we lack. We lack one of the hallmarks of Western Civilization. We lack the standard by which the quality of most neighborhoods is judged. Well sure, we basically lack neighbors, but more importantly, we lack street lights.

What we lack results in an amazing abundance of dark night sky.
Magnificent is almost big enough to capture how truly amazing the sky is out here. I can step out onto the back deck on a clear night and swim in the swirl and thrum of the galaxy. Orion and Sirius’ watchful gaze stand against the south sky. The big dipper pours over our pond. Cephus and Cassiopeia twirl and dance overhead. The night sky here can be so overwhelming in its expanse and its embrace; I will admit having been brought to tears on occasion.

While the stars create their own light show above, the darkness at ground-level is thick and soupy. Discerning pathways and trees is an exercise in shadow-boxing. No matter how large a silhouette, a black Great Dane can become completely invisible in a dark like this.

We learned this the hard way. Unthinking, we let Thomas out to pee last night and immediately lost him. It is not immediately apparent, but Thomas has only a small white stripe on the underside of his chest. The rest of him: pure black. Black as coal. Black as a shadow. Black as night at MisFit Farm.

We stood on the front porch, calling his name and hoping for the best. Unlike the other boys, he can’t be tracked by the sound of a urine stream, since he has more of a spray/sprinkle effect. Maybe it was only a matter of minutes. When you are holding your breath with only the night sky to witness your stupidity, moments can drag on for an eternity. We heard him before we were able to see him, the jangle of his rabies tag and his toenails clicking on the sidewalk. We could have danced there under the stars, we were so relieved to have his big goofy head bump against us for a pet.
This morning, we re-evaluated his collar selection. We dug through the spare collar bin and found something in a nice reflective red. Not so great for the camera, but a tremendous help in keeping tabs on a big, black boy with a need to frequently wade out into the star-filled night.

The Name Game

Among the best things in Great Dane rescue is the “name game.” Most of the dogs who come into any type of rescue are re-named in the process. I am sure the reasons for this are myriad, to greater and lesser degrees of good taste and common sense, but suffice it to say the practice is “industry standard.” Unlike humans, dogs don’t have social security numbers or licenses, so in the case of strays who wander into rescue, the naming process is an exercise of necessity.

Each time a new Dane comes into rescue, an avalanche of e-mail repartee ensues. Although latitude is given to individual foster family preference, the unspoken rule is that KK is the ultimate arbiter of names, if not good taste. Let me add this cautionary note: the name game is not necessarily just about some friendly jockeying for “naming rights.” For some of us, it comes with dire consequences. The right to name, for some, correlates directly to foster failure.

The most obvious example is our boy, Emmett. Having plucked him up quite unexpectedly as I was in the process of relieving ourselves of another foster boy, Emmett was an unanticipated passenger peering from the backseat when I looked into the rearview mirror and commented, “You look like Emmett Kelly with those big, sad eyes.” And so he remains Emmett; and so he remains here at MisFit Farm.

We picked up another boy with big, sad eyes yesterday. Thomas. Tom Tom. Tommy. Thomas-spot. He rides very well in the car. He gets along well with other dogs; if he is not greeted with appropriate ebullience, he is at least indifferent. He is a big boy with droopy jowls that hold drool and water and give his eyes a special kind of character. He is reportedly very good at helping to keep counters cleared. He is a leaner, a groaner, and a cuddler. He is slowly losing his bravado, so we expect he will soon remember to squat and pee instead of lifting his leg and causing a sprinkler effect from his extra pee-hole. He has laid claim to one or two of the dog beds scattered around the house. He has figured out the doggy door; he has discerned K is the soft-touch and I am she-who-will-be-obeyed.



And whether she will admit it or not, I can tell K has been mulling over possible alternative names.

Unresolved

In case anyone (aside from Amanda) noticed, I did NOT make a New Year’s Resolution to blog more regularly. To be completely honest, I am opposed to making New Year’s Resolutions. When I quit smoking a few years back, I actually decided to quit right around Christmas but continued to smoke for three more weeks to avoid leaving anyone with the impression I had quit as a New Year’s Resolution. Apparently impressions are more important than silly things like breathing.

So I don’t appear to be too concerned about the impression my lack of blogging may have on others, this will not be a real blog entry. These are mostly random thoughts and amusements I have collected across the past few weeks when I have not been blogging.

First: Running through fresh snow with a three-legged dog leaves interesting tracks.



























Second: While these leather wipes are totally awesome at cleaning Dane drool off our fancy new couches, they are not suitable replacements for feminine wipes.


























Finally: if one were inclined to follow through on a resolution, completely unrelated to any type of calendar event, such as getting oneself into better physical condition, one would find that sit-ups are a complicated matter here at MisFit Farm.

‘Twas the morning of Christmas

And the day had started as many others; the dogs and I headed our for morning chores, leaving K sweetly slumbering with visions of sugarplums dancing in her head.

Four out of five of the dogs returned to the house with me and settled in for their Christmas Day naps.

Then K with her coffee and I with my beer were waiting for one last bad dog to come here. . .

When what to our wondering eyes should appear, but Emmett
And what’s that in his mouth?
Could it be a deer? Well that explains his absence: he was doing some last minute shopping. Awwww, look honey, Emmett brought us a gift.

We certainly don’t have any others like it. Now to figure out just what to do with it. . . Happy Holidays to all who follow the antics here at MisFit Farm. May your new year be full of unexpected gifts and unadulterated joy!

Batty

Saturday morning phone conversation with my mother (WFKN):

WFKN: So, how are things at the house?

A: Well, to add a new wrinkle to things, we had a bat in the house last night.

WFKN: No way! A bat in the house? It’s YOU!!! IT’S YOU!!! You are the only
person I know who has had a bat in the house, and you have had them in
two different houses!!!! IT’S YOU!!!!

When I recounted the conversation to my sister, her observation was, “Oh, that’s where we get our healthy sense of self-loathing.”

Both are true statements, or at least both statements contain elements of truth.

It is true that I have shared living space with bats in two different homes. My sister says she knows of other people who have had bats in their home, so while it is uncanny to have had it happen in two different domiciles, she encouraged me not to take the situation personally.

As my sister reminded me, bats are naturally occurring creatures, after all. As I have been admonished in the past, they are actually quite useful, eating something like a kerjillion times their weight in mosquitoes and other insects. SOME PEOPLE even erect bathouses to attract the creatures to their premises. Just think of all the money I have saved in bathouses across my lifetime, since there is something, unfathomable to all except bats and my mother, attracting bats into my home.

Having had bats in my house on more than one occasion, I feel competent to observe the following: no matter how many times one has had a bat in one’s home, one is always a bit surprised when they come fluttering through. O.k., let me personalize it. No matter how many times I have had a bat come into my home, my initial reaction is always surprise. Even now, seasoned bat-herder that I am, it takes a moment to bring the aperture of reality into focus before I spring into action.

As for the other inhabitants of this home, who have the luxury of not taking the incursion or its resolution personally, the dogs were completely nonplussed. I imagine if the dogs could talk and I were to squander the opportunity to ask them, “Did you see that bat?!” The answer would be a resounding, “What bat?” K, who was neither nonplussed nor personally affronted, named it Bernie.

Here’s another thing: I have lots of stories about bats in the house. More than one. Maybe WFKN is right, maybe it is me.

Documents and Drenchings

While it cannot be said that our homebuilding drama has come to an end, we did take another significant step last Friday when we finalized the paperwork to close on the mortgage for the house. Now, instead of just owning debt with a theoretical house, we own debt with an actual house.

In my personal and professional life, I have had several opportunities to close real estate transactions and real estate mortgage transactions. I have a pretty good idea of the mechanics, including how long it should take one to complete such a transaction. So when the notary responsible for coordinating the closing called and said to anticipate an hour and a half I was, in a word, skeptical. I hold monthly all-staff meetings where we discuss everything from agency toilet paper usage to federal legislative initiatives in less time. An hour and a half, indeed!

As K later observed, had this woman told us to expect the process would take an hour and 42 minutes, you could take it to the bank that a closing initiated at 4:00 p.m. would be done at 5:42 p.m. K surmises you could ask this woman where she would be at 1:27 p.m. on Thursday, and she would be able to give you GPS coordinates.

When the notary arrived, she pulled sheath of papers, littered with “sign here” and “sign and date here” reusable post-it flags, out of her attaché case. Having clearly organized and adorned the “documents” with said flags prior to her arrival here, she proceeded to re-assess their organization and re-acquaint herself with their orientation as a prefatory matter. She moved items adjudged to impinge upon her social space and removed the ink pens from my desk, placing a pen in each of our hands, explaining that only blue ink would be accepted. She advised that we were to sign all documents as our names appeared on the particular document. If a middle initial was included, we were to sign with the middle initial, no more and certainly no less. We were chastised to write our dates in a standard format, using “2008” or “08” as the year indicator, but under no circumstances were we to use shorthand “8.” Our handwriting was to be clear; mistakes would be punishable under penalty of death, or at least through correction by one line through the mis-marking, each of which would need to be initialed by both of us.

There were to be no markings within ½ of the edge of any page. In an amazing display of rough estimation, she used her finger tip to indicate the inadmissible margin on the page. I offered her the use of a ruler to ensure complete and total accuracy, which met with only a single wide-eyed blink.

She always referred to the paperwork as “documents.” As she was “closing” the top of the “8” on one of my dates, I asked if it was permissible for her to alter my signature in such a way, again eliciting a single wide-eyed blink. By the time we escorted the woman from the building, K had developed a nervous tick and kept muttering, “penmanship class” under her breath.

The exacting and concise world of this woman was sharply juxtaposed against the chaos of the world we inhabit when we arrived home to discover a freshly installed fountain in our basement. Apparently, while we were busy running the gauntlet of closed “8’s” and accurate signatures, a water pipe one of the contractors for the home delivery company had capped came uncorked and was issuing rivers of water into the dog’s room of the basement.

So the project I had intended to start at exactly 7:03 p.m. Friday evening was rescheduled at a time TBD as I swept and sucked the 2.34 inches of standing water from the basement floor instead.

Santa Comes Early

From the warm, safe, spacious distance of the nearly completed house, I think it is safe to say we have wrung every last ounce of life and structural integrity from the trailer that first provided our family with shelter here at MisFit Farm. Maybe all things are relative, and from the luxurious accommodations we now inhabit, the conditions at the trailer seem a little more bleak. On the other hand, it is entirely possible that the conditions at the trailer were really THAT BAD, but I refused to acknowledge it at the time out of a sense of self-preservation, or at least the preservation of my self-dignity.

True, three of the five windows in the trailer were crammed with rolled insulation and permanently sealed with the weather-proofing shrink wrap.

True, the central air conditioning abandoned us last summer and was replaced by a window unit held in place mostly by boards propping it up from the outside, since the window frame didn’t seem up to the task.

True, water from an unknown source collected in the ductwork for the trailer’s ailing HVAC system.

True, the bottom of any cabinet under the two sinks in the house had been pulled out following leakage incidents from different occasions.

True, the aforementioned water leakage on one occasion (we were on vacation at the time) was extensive enough to completely buckle the kitchen floor thereby popping up the lovely parquet tiles.

True, the hot water heater would mysteriously trip the breaker on the unit, requiring me to dig into the back of the closet to re-set it, hopefully a few hours before actual hot water was needed.

True, I had to crawl under the trailer to augment its structure in a way that made leveling the washing machine possible.

True, the floor at the front door was growing a little spongy.

And we won’t even go into the aesthetics of the place.

So, one of the nagging concerns at the back of my mind has been, once the house is built, what to do with the trailer? I am prohibited from permanently keeping it by the zoning variance I received to build the home and by edict of any other person with any sense of taste. Its continued presence has created a nightmare for our loan officer as the underwriters wanted it gone BEFORE we closed on our note. I fault my loan officer for marking “Asian/Pacific Islander” as my ethnic background on our application. The novelty of marking the box overwhelmed his good sense, I guess. So when he was struggling with the underwriters about removal of the trailer, I pointed out that because of his “novel” response on my application they probably thought I was going to move my home village from the island into the trailer.

Truth be told, the underwriters had a good point. I really haven’t had any good ideas about how to dispose of the trailer. Given the lovely recitation from above, we had considered calling the Lecompton volunteer fire department and offering to let them use it for firefighting exercises, on the condition that they first let it burn to the ground.

In the meantime, every person who asked, “so, whatcha’ gonna’ do with that trailer?” received the same glib response, “Free to a good home. Whoever drags it off first, has to keep it.”

We arrived home yesterday to discover that someone had taken us up on the offer, or at least made a good start on it.
I seriously have no idea who is responsible for this. I have searched deep within myself for something – a sense of loss, of outrage, or of deep questioning. I am surprised, as a major control freak, however, all I find is a sense of wonder and relief.

Yes Virginia, MisFit Farm believes in Santa Clause.

A Glorious Thanksgiving

So, with the erection of a house nearing completion just in time for our family Thanksgiving gathering, what could possibly add more excitement into life at MisFit Farm? How about the addition of a new foster baby to the mix?

Enter the sweet Princess MiMi/NeNe/Leia.



Although we can count among our blessings that the house did not catch fire from cooking with the stove-incorrectly-plumbed-for-natural-not-propane-gas, that my mother baked the pumpkin pies long enough to prevent mass food-poisoning, that the leaky septic pipe was spliced back together before the convergence of a dozen festive family members, or that no one was harmed by the tipping dishwasher, the blessing of the love of these creatures eclipses all others.

Third Time's a Charm

Now, while I can’t say this is necessarily true for love and marriage, the third time seemed to do the trick for convincing the nice fellow from the local building inspection office to approve the integrity of the wiring and electrical system in the house. Unofficially, we passed our electrical and plumbing inspections yesterday. Big sigh of relief.

The cynic in me says the poor inspector was just tired of combing through the unintelligible mess of the construction process, but K, being the sweet-natured optimist she is, credits Carl.

Carl is the electrician dispatched to the house to resolve all remaining electrical issues on Monday, just in time for the Tuesday morning inspection. Aside from being a capable and competent electrician, Carl apparently has quite a story to tell. And he told it to K. His whole life story. Two brain surgeries. Divorce. Previous vocational aspirations. History of electrical wiring experience. His own personal homebuilding journey.

Here is the thing: people love K. Without an ounce of hubris, I say that babies and animals nearly universally take a shine to me. Without meaning offense to the intelligence of any, note the difference: creatures who can talk gravitate toward K; creatures who do not, like me.

People don’t just love K, they love to talk to her. And talk, and talk, and talk. I don’t blame them – I myself love talking to her, and most people who spend about five minutes with me figure out quite quickly that I am a talker. I have often thought my snide observations about people talking to K evolved from a jealousy – not from a perceived threat so much as an assertion of my perceived right of first refusal to her attention. “Hey, back off, mister – that’s my K to talk to!”

Although I am not surprised at the comfort others find in talking to K, I am sometimes taken aback at the topics, level of detail, and lack of sensitivity people feel compelled to share with her. On more than one occasion, I have found myself thinking, “If so-and-so said something like that to me, it would’ve been the last thing said for a gooooood long time.” When I find myself coming upon K in the midst of a grocery aisle confessional, the lines from one of my favorite movies, Harold and Maude, run through my head. In the movie, Harold says to Maude, “You sure have a way with people.” To which Maude responds, “Well, they’re my species!”

Of course, as Carl was sharing his life story with K under the pretense of asking her advice on something (that’s another thing – people often turn to K for advice, and unlike the people who call me for the purpose of reinforcing their pre-ordained plan of action, people seem to actually listen to and take K’s advice), I was at work, so it’s not like he was cutting into my talk time. With the rigors of my Monday at work, I was in the infrequent mood where I had nearly talked myself out for the day, so I wasn’t in the space to thrill and delight K with my usual banter and repartee. Carl’s life was an interesting byline for the day, and more importantly, his good work has cleared the way for what we hope to be real progress on our own homebuilding journey.

Lunatic Ravings of the Sleep-Deprived

I had an epiphany of sorts this morning.

I wasn’t doing anything special, just standing at the gate to the pasture, holding it open for the dogs, when I “captured” a very distinct feeling.

As I completed my morning walk with the dogs, I tried to sort out whether it was a true epiphany or just the lunatic ravings of the sleep-deprived before ultimately deciding the two were quite possibly differences without distinction.

I was standing at the gate to the pasture, holding it open for the dogs so we could continue our morning routine, when Mercy came barreling up the hill, bounding, leaping, spinning, and running straight for me. All at once, I was seized with an overwhelming sense of how strangely at peace and calm I was with the beauty and wonder of her madcap dance, and imminently frantic and scared I was of what seemed to be our inevitable and impending collision.

Thankfully, disaster was averted as I executed a well-practiced matador sidestep and Mercy pinwheeled gracefully through the open gate.

Walking with Mercy is a lot like playing a marathon game of low-speed “chicken” without having first obtained all parties’ consent. You find yourself constantly checking over your shoulder to keep her in your sights, lest you be bowled over unawares.
As with this morning, some times you think a collision is impending and fated, when she will pull up or careen around you at the last minute. You learn that her movement or trajectory can be affected by just the slightest touch to a hip or flank. You discover the Cha Cha DiGregorio deep within by swinging open the front door to release the hounds, exhorting Mercy to pull up and press on, or celebrating a perfectly executed lope across the yard.

Perhaps epiphany is overstated. Possibly all people walk through life with a mixture of jubilation and terror, although I tend to think not. Maybe this is just the texture of emotions we call life at MisFit Farm.

Synonyms and Self-Perception

Using the definitive online thesaurus, a search for the word “judgmental” redirects the user to the main entry for “arbitrary,” with synonyms of “discretionary, personal, subjective.”

On the other hand, a search for the word “judgment,” yields the following robust vocabulary list: acumen, acuteness, apprehension, astuteness, awareness, brains, capacity, comprehension, discernment, discrimination, experience, genius, grasp, incisiveness, ingenuity, intelligence, intuition, keenness, knowledge, mentality, penetration, perception, percipience, perspicacity, prudence, quickness, range, rationality, reach, readiness, reason, reasoning, sagacity, sanity, sapience, savvy, sense, sharpness, shrewdness, sophistication, soundness, taste, understanding, wisdom, wit.

My last blog entry and video was essentially a subtle anti-paean to the protracted timeframe associated with one very small but very important piece of our homebuilding process, the construction of our deck. We have, at every step of this process, tried to be patient and understanding of the demands placed on the various parties involved in the homebuilding process. We, o.k., I, really have tried, and patient is not a vocabulary word many would associate with my personality type.

On the final day of deck construction last week, an unfortunate convergence of events resulted in K driving in to work, leaving me to tend to business here at the trailer and use the motorcycle as conveyance into the office.

While finishing up my tasks, the crew of two men who had been more or less working on the deck arrived and began doing precisely that. In the meantime, I took a series of phone calls, prepared myself for what promised to be a chilly trip into town on the motorcycle, tried convincing the motorcycle it was warm enough to start so we could get moving on our day, brought the trash barrel up from the road, and undertook a number of other enterprises while essentially waiting for the motorcycle to get warm enough to want to start. It is a little warm-blooded. Like its primary rider, the motorcycle prefers not to set out while the temperatures are anything below 70 degrees.

As I was basically fiddling around, the fellow who has done most of the deck construction came walking up the drive. I hopped off the motorcycle where I was happily perched, enjoying the warmth of the sun on my black jacket, and headed towards him. When I asked him if he needed anything, he responded by saying that actually, he was checking on me to see if everything was o.k. or if I needed a ride to town or something.

Ouch.

So the whole freezing ride into work, all I could think of was that probably the reason it has taken so long to build the deck is this boy scout of a construction guy has probably been delayed by helping little old ladies cross the street, delivering kittens safely from trees, and catching babies falling out of sixth story windows. Thankfully, the temperature was 44 degrees, so by the time I arrived at the office, I was too busy thinking about the involuntary muscle contractions in my legs and the frozen throttle-position of my right hand to continue to perseverate on the poor, beleaguered, maligned deck builder.


As I sit here, over two weeks after the first day of deck-building, and enjoy the view and the deck's superlative construction and design, I can say honestly, I forgive all those old ladies, kittens and babies who caused the delay in completion for this part of the house.

And when I look closely at the synonyms for the words judgmental and judgment, it reminds me of the punch line of a bumper sticker: you say that like it’s a bad thing.

Take Me Back to Sunny Country Side

I have come to the conclusion that homebuilders must be baseball fans.

I will let that thought sink in for a minute, because I can hear the questions: homebuilders? baseball? Hitting the sauce again before lunchtime, Ami?

Here is my explanation (the long version):

Baseball is a game of failure. A good batter has a hitting statistic of .300; an awesome one checks in at .500. As a former softball coach explained to me one time, that means the best of the best in baseball only hit the ball 1/2 the time they are at-bat, and each at-bat, they usually get at least three swings at the thing.

My problem with the coach's explanation to me was twofold: first, we were playing slow-pitch, which I quite frankly thought was a poor analogy, what with the ball taking a slow, loping arc and sailing across the plate at, say, 2 miles per hour, versus the screaming 90 miles per hour at which most baseballs are hurled. I mean, when someone says, "I threw him/her a softball," the idiom describes the opposite of a "hardball" or difficult question, right? If you fail to hit something small hurtling 100 mph at your face and instead do something smart like duck or run, that seems to be a lot less of an indictment than failing to hit something bigger ambling in front of you at a snail's pace.

Secondly, I am not o.k. with 50% In academic terms, that's not even a "C" grade. I don't know if 50% is even an "F" grade. I never looked that low on the report card. My agency is preparing to have our annual chili cook-off. This year, I designed lovely aprons as prizes (courtesy of cafepress - check out the line of Great Dane Rescue of the Ozarks products at http://www.cafepress.com/kateluvly). First place boasts: 2008 Chili Cook-off Winner. I resisted the temptation to print on the other two: 2008 Chili Cook-Off First Loser & 2008 Chili Cook-off Second Loser. In what I consider to be a tremendously selfless act of sacrifice, I instead had the other two aprons adorned with: 2008 Chili Cook-off Runner Up.

An additional observation about the sports analogy: baseball, like many other sports, is an activity where the meaning of time does not correlate with any notion of "real time." After many years married to a television and sports addict, my step-mother learned to always ask the clarifying question, "Are we talking real time, or sports time?" An inning in baseball, just a matter of three outs, can last a lifetime.

So, to make my point. Homebuilders appear to be satisfied with abysmal statistics. Homebuilders do not appear to operate on time that correlates to calendars or watches. Hence the connection between homebuilders and baseball.

But don't just take these wild, unsupported allegations at face value. I present the following demonstrative video exhibit as further proof:

Of the Pope and Fried Pickles

I don't remember my parents having conversations like many of those we have here at MisFit Farm. For that matter, I don't remember many people having conversations like many of those we have here at MisFit Farm.

K and I snuck out for lunch one day last week, to partake of the seasonal delight of pumpkin pancakes at a local greasy spoon, Hanover's Pancake House. If anyone should find him or herself in the Topeka area within the next couple months, Hanover's pumpkin pancakes come highly recommended. So do their fried pickles, but I would not recommend both in the same sitting.

In the booth behind us (well, behind me - which was a blessing as I would have been completely engulfed, had I been able to both look AND listen), two women spent the entire time talking about other people. We don't have that problem here at the Farm. We have lots of nonsense to keep us entertained.

K: Uh – oh, looks like you have company.

A: Huh. Trinity. Hey, Trin, I was trying to accomplish something here. You stink. You still smell like skunk on your face. Maybe you can sit on my lap later this decade.

K: She’s coming up anyhow.

A: So I see.

K: How can you continue to type while she’s squirming up into your lap?

A: I dunno. Is this a trick question? Is the answer: a ruthless devotion to the Pope?

K: Eeeeeewwwww – she smells like skunk.

A: Only the head part.

K: Eeeeeewwwww – she’s putting her head on your shoulder. It’s right by your face! How can you stand it?!?!?!?!

A: The smell or the fur in my mouth?

K: Eeeeeewwww – all I can say is, you must really love her.

A: Nah, I just respect her for having such low standards.

Don't It Always Seem To Go

It was bound to happen. On some level, it is nearly unfathomable it hadn’t happened before now. Big, active dogs. Country living. Close proximity to nature and her many creatures. To quote the Joni Mitchell song, “Don’t it always seem to go/ you don’t know what you’ve got/ ‘til it’s gone.”

One thing we won’t have an opportunity to miss anytime soon is the lovely bouquet d’skunk Emmett and Trinity introduced to the family this morning as we were trying to complete daily hygienic rituals and zip off to work.

What does one do in this situation? Although I find K’s olfactory hyperbole with regard to skunk odor to be quite amusing, when said odor comes bounding in the front door attached to two loveable, large dogs, what is one to do? Emmett and Trinity clearly took direct hits to the face. Upon entering the trailer, they each began a painful series of snorkel maneuvers across the living room floor, butts high in the air, faces rubbing across the carpet whose overall aesthetic value is improved by adding a scratch-and-sniff feature.

I like to think of myself as a responsible person. I have a responsibility to lead by example and show up to work “on time.” I have a responsibility to look after the safety and overall welfare of the animals. I have a responsibility to keep K in at least a minimally habitable environment, until the house is completed. The introduction of one pissed-off skunk threw all of these responsibilities into a calamitous mental and emotional train wreck.

Not having any easy answer, I decided to take a shower. Whereupon I was joined by Trinity. How miserable does a dog have to be to ask to get into the shower with you? And how weird to you have to be to allow it, 10 minutes post-skunk spray? I tried washing her with the Hy-Lyt dog shampoo that was handy just outside the shower, and the result was a Trinity that smelled like wet dog, skunk and flea shampoo. I was able to wash out her eyes and face with enough water she quit exhibiting signs of distress. But the overall affect for the odor in the trailer was non-extant.

Having refreshed myself with an invigorating shower, I decided to clear a bunch of my clothes (well, o.k., t-shirts) out of the trailer, in case the odor became so pervasive it infiltrated the dresser drawers. I set the clothes I intended to wear to work that day out on the front porch. I turned on every fan available in the 14x 50 foot space we call home. Not knowing what else to do and seeking to bring order from chaos or at least escape the horrifying smell overtaking our living space, I headed out to work.

Here is the list of attempted antidotes and a very unscientific review of their effectiveness:



Tomato juice; didn’t try it, but thanks for asking; the chemical explanation I located on the Internet explains that the poison from skunk spray paralyzes some sinus nerve endings and tomato juice works on others, so the skunk smell doesn’t go away, you just quit smelling it. I have meetings to go to. I have an office where my presence is required in way that does not make others vomit upon entering. I don’t need to not be able to smell, I need to not smell.

White vinegar; I read that I was to boil a pot of white vinegar on the stovetop, simmer it until ¾ has cooked off, and then open the place up, turn on fans, and the odor would be escorted out by the vinegar. It smells like we have opened a pickle factory here at MisFit Farm. The smell of overcooked vinegar is seething from the walls of the trailer, which greets you just before you get knocked off your feet by the smell of skunk as you cross the trailer threshold.

Krebaum’s Formula; A chemist, Paul Krebaum, wrote an article in 1993, proposing that the best remedy for neutralizing skunk spray is to apply a wash consisting of ¼ c. baking soda; 1 Qt. hydrogen peroxide; and, 1 – 2 teaspoons of dishwashing detergent. This chemist was not fooling around. This stuff works. Unfortunately, it only works on the part of the dogs not close to the eyes or face, so while we have managed to de-skunk 7/8 of each of the dogs, there is still a very stinky 1/8 that likes to kiss, rest on my shoulder, and be rubbed. Also, I can’t figure out how I would apply this solution to the entire trailer.

Neutroleum Alpha Concentrate; Underneath the bold letters announcing the exotic and effective-sounding name of this product, purchased for top dollar from the Vet college here in our fine state of KS, is printed in tiny, fading letters, “Odor masking formula.” Never mind.

Despite my under-functioning at the time of the event, we have all survived the great skunk attack of 2008. We have learned important lessons about the chemical composition of skunk spray, the likes of which we had never before entertained. Additionally, we were given an opportunity to offer another quality product analysis and endorsement for our faithful readership.

Oh yeah, and K submits the following as proof of my undying love for Trinity, skunky face and all.

Soak up the Sun

It has been pointed out that I have been extraordinarily remiss in my blogging of late. Work on the house continues and being a constant nag with the various contractors has demanded a lot of energetic and emotional capital. We now appear to be about two – three weeks from completion, and the feeling of being held underwater with my arms bound, a leg missing, and a foot on my neck is less intense, albeit not gone.

I don’t blog much political, but I do blog brutal honesty, so if I were to say that I hadn’t thought to myself once or twice across the past few days, “what in the world are you thinking, buying into a mortgage in the middle of the downward spiral into recession?!?!?!” – I would be lying.

Luckily, the dogs don’t know anything about the slow march into economic purgatory, so they continue to soak up the sun in these last warm days of the summer. The trees are beginning to turn. Hope springs eternal that we will be settled into the house to host my family’s Thanksgiving dinner this year. Given my nephew’s insistence on saying grace and then the brutal honesty he uses the platform to express, I may re-think the whole offer to host Thanksgiving. Last year, his prayer was, “Dear God; Thank you for this food, and please do not let any of us get sick from it.” I shudder to think what the dear boy must pray about on my behalf.



Not that I am making excuses, but over two months ago, I began packing, anticipating our impending move into the new house. Stupidly, I packed away what I mistakenly thought would be “frills,” including my entire CD collection. This explains part of the lag in blogging. Access to the music I rely on to accompany these video clips has been limited, as it requires moving six boxes, removing the tape from the box containing half of the CDs, digging through the CDs only to discover the one I may want is located in a different box of CDs, systematically opening all of the boxes of CDs (which we packed into smaller boxes after discovering that placing over 100 CD's into a single box made it quite heavy) and being unsuccessful in locating the CD I had in mind, returning to the original box to find the disc I was looking for in the hurly-scurvy and now completely un-alphabetized jumble, replacing all the CDs into the boxes, re-applying tape to the boxes, re-stacking them, and retiring to the living room to complete the video.

So tonight when the chaos at the new house was too much, I opted for the above, and while not the greatest video ever – let us consider it proof of life for the inhabitants of MisFit Farm.

As soon as I am done laying the hardwood bamboo flooring in the spare bedroom at the house, painting the laundry room and kitchen, hanging the Mickey Mouse wallpaper, tiling the master closet and bathroom, installing a customized roll-in shower, putting up ceiling fans, and moving all of our worldly possessions and those other possessions we are being gifted from various and sundry locations, I swear I will re-chain myself to the computer, and get to work on bigger and better ways to share the joy that is life here at MisFit Farm.

Ruminations on What We Lack

It recently occurred to me that there is one thing MisFit Farm lacks.

It isn’t kibble


















Chew toys














Cuddles












Or room to run











We ARE curiously devoid of dominance humping. I do not know if this is a happy by-product of the missing limbs or other orthopedic issues many of us brandish, if our pack order is so well-established under Mercy’s domain attempting to express dominance is pointless, or if our pack dynamic is so dysfunctional no one wants to hump his or her way to the top of the heap.

Whatever the reason, and for all the blessings we can boast in spades, I confess my delight in this one particular lack.

Of Homebuilding and More Heavy Equipment. . .

The basic logistics of “homebuilding” were evading us. Notwithstanding dire economic forecasts foretelling doom for the new housing market, we were unable to locate a contractor who seemed to be desperate enough to want to build our house. So about a year ago, we decided to try a different approach.

We waltzed into a showroom, plopped down the blueprints we had spent hours poring over to make “perfect,” and asked to have a pre-fabricated house built. We did not labor under the misconception that this route would be less expensive. We were looking for something that would be easy. We were looking for something fast.

Nothing in our world is easy. And although K likes to take things slow, I can move too slowly for her, even. Over a year later, we are finally seeing some real progress on the project.

So here’s how this thing works, more-or-less: We customized our home plan, and then began the process of de-constructing our ideal to conform to the way they construct the homes (read: off-site, in a factory, to be shipped on trailers). We contracted with a “traditional” homebuilder to construct the non-factory built parts, such as the basement, porches, decks, septic, HVAC, etc. . . Then one day, after much wrangling and hand-wringing, the parts of the house appear, split neatly down the middle, and tightly shrink-wrapped. Another day, a crew comes to pop the roof up into place. And then, at long last, a big crane rolls into the yard and installs the house parts onto the basement parts.

Warning: this video is very long. Please feel free to skip over the painfully boring parts. There won't be a quiz later, and my feelings won't be hurt, I promise.


Yet to go: hew the two halves together, pour/build the deck, front porch, access ramp and basement interior walls, install guttering, finish the sheetrock and on-site installation for things like the eat-at kitchen bar and roll-in shower, and install flooring.

Piece of cake. Fast and easy.

(Of course I am posting this a full two weeks later and progress to date has been limited to: two halves hewn together, interior walls framed in, and electric panel and mast erected.)

Fast and easy. Right.