Lady of the Flies

Living at a horse farm has always been one of my dreams. I love rolling out of bed and heading down to the barn to feed our horses. I could do without the dramatic whinnying, pawing and kicking, but that is the "music" of impatient, hungry equines. It's best to just block that part out and dole out the goods as fast as you can. Once they've been fed, the sounds of rhythmic hay munching, birds chirping, watching my dogs trot across the dew laden fields and speculating that I can do whatever I want to on a gorgeous summer day is the best feeling ever. Life on the farm has a magical quality on those days. And then...comes fly season.

Fly season is dreaded by the people who take care of horses almost as much as the horses themselves. The flies reach a crescendo around August and the hot, humid days are when they are in their most potent form of irritation. They swarm. They bite. They drive the horses crazy in the paddock.They land on us repeatedly. Worst of all, they come in my house. If we were clever people we wouldn't leave our doors open, but we're not, so they're open and the flies feel welcome. They freak me out.

This is our second summer living at the horse farm. The flies seemed much worse last year and I'm crediting the fly predators that I started using back in May for the lower numbers. Don't get me wrong, there are a lot of flies, but somehow it seems a little better. Still, I have resorted to turning into a fly killing Ninja maniac with a rolled up New Yorker. I'll be fine one minute and then in the next, I grab my rolled up magazine and go on a stealthy fly smashing rampage. I have tactics, too. Successful fly smashing revolves around patience, timing and aim. I'm very good at all three of those things. Should I be proud of my fly smashing skills? Who cares. I like killing these little fuckers, especially when they're trying to land on our food. Sometimes I start talking while I'm on a bender, a little like Bill Murray in his famous gopher eliminating scene from Caddyshack. I like to kill one fly, then I start trash talking to the others in the room. "You want some of that, huh? You want some of what he just got?" I'll even leave a dead fly on the counter, just to show the others that their next on my hit list. While I take on this other persona of Fly Ninja, our dogs and cats usually flee from the room and Jonathan just shakes his head. He can sit on the couch with his legs stretched out on the coffee table and not even flinch as the flies land on him. This drives me crazy. If they land on me it incites feelings of reckless anger. I become obsessed with killing every fly I see. The most satisfying killing is getting two at once. Oh yes, that can happen and it's a sweet victory to get a double header. Very sweet, indeed. The gross part is cleaning up the smashed flies from the various surfaces that I've killed them on. I use a strong bleach fueled kitchen spray for this job. Also, I've learned that flies will not land on a freshly beach sprayed counter top. So, I spray and wipe down my counters a lot during this hellatious time. Being the Fly Ninja isn't a glamorous job. Wielding a blood smeared magazine that has random wings and legs stuck to it isn't something that every woman in the world is game to do, but I'm comfortable with that role, it suits me. I embrace the challenge to kill ALL flies that dare to cross our threshold. I'll restrain myself from laughing an evil laugh as I do it. Even Fly Ninja's have to draw the line somewhere.

The flies will be gone in a few weeks, for the most part. Then life will return to it's former bucolic bliss here at JEM Stables. Lately I've noticed people are already talking about fall and winter. Do they not remember the last winter we just endured? Shouldn't we get some sort of court order that makes it illegal to talk about cold weather this year until say, Christmas 2011? Let's just enjoy fly season while it's here, people.

A New Level

Don't be fooled by the benign squint on Mia's face. She's a member of a gang of cold blooded killers. A gang that lives in my house. I've unwittingly been supporting this gang for years. They're reign of terror over small woodland creatures knows no boundaries. I'm sure there are wanted posters with their faces on them hanging in every vole hole and chipmunk den for miles around.

Even though she's the smallest, I think that Mia is the ringleader. Her method of choice is to catch said quarry and then bring it into the house and release it for hours of bait and switch fun. She and Marbles are the main serial killers, though Big Zeke isn't above joining in the game now and then. Miss Girl would never, never participate in any sort of killing behavior. She's a perfect lady (partly why she's my favorite, there's no blood on her paws).

We had a chipmunk living in the house a few weeks ago that I would see darting around periodically. He got so bold (and generally pissed off) that he would jump at the cats, and Becks when they came near his hiding spot (behind a curtain, in the bookcase, etc.), chirping in as angry a tone as a teeny furry creature can muster. It was almost cute, but also a little sad. He just wanted to go home, I'm sure. Well, I found a dead chipmunk on the oriental carpet in the dining room two weeks ago and figured that was the poor, angry chippie who finally met his maker at the claws of Marbles. Then I had an awful thing happen last Monday. I mean, awful. I walked into my bedroom at approximately noontime and I was bowled over by the smell of dead animal as I passed thru the doorway. GROSS. Immediately, I got on my hands and knees and began searching for the offending carcass, cursing the cats the entire time. Jonathan asked me what I was cursing about and when I told him he said, "You better find it!" Thanks, honey. The thing is that I could not find it. It was baffling and smelly. And there were flies buzzing around. Ewww. Jonathan came in to take a turn at the morbid mission. HE couldn't find it either (ha!). This was really not funny. The flies were buzzing around our bedroom like B1 bombers. The room was virtually humming and I needed to find the carcass. So, I followed my nose to the strongest scented area. It was Jonathan's beautiful antique mahogany bureau. Please, no I said to myself. Removing each drawer gingerly, I could tell that I was onto something for the scent of dead was escalating to a gag inducing odor. Pointing my flashlight into the back corner of the bureau revealed the source of foulness. A decaying chipmunk carcass. Apparently, he'd been forced into hiding and forgot to come out. So he died. In Jonathan's bureau. And I had to tell Jonathan.

Well, of course it was all fine despite the small speech on cats, my cats and how horrible they are and why do we have to have them, etc. He even removed the carcass since I couldn't possibly touch it even with gloves on and several layers of plastic bags. Very gallant of him. I chose not to tell him about the small maggot collection I found in the corner of his drawer. Instead, I had to man up and get those nasty suckers out of there by myself. Marbles actually had the nerve to come into the room and poke around in the drawer that was on the floor while I was doing this wretched job, acting all curious and cute. Unbelievable. So that's this week's grisly tale of life at my house. Just when I think I've had to deal with the grossest thing yet, my animals manage to trump me with a new adventure of disgustingness. It's absolutely ridiculous. I don't know many people who have had to excavate rotting chipmunks and maggots from their spouse's prized antique bureau. I might be alone in that particular category. Lucky, lucky me.

Why was Mary, Mary so contrary anyway?

While we were plunging headlong into the darkest depths of February frigidity, I truly thought we'd never see green grass, or flowers blooming ever again. Here are some photos to prove that I was wrong. Phew! Top left is a shot of some dahlia's (which I LOVE) and Becks (who I also LOVE). Top right is our front porch, with Marbles (aka Barbara Ann) sitting as the greeter on the steps. She's a photo whore. As I was walking up the front lawn with my camera she pranced out from the side garden and placed herself square in the middle of the shot. It's all good, she makes a nice compliment to the moldy steps. (note to self:paint the front porch steps this year, they look trashy) Bottom left is a pic of the garden in front of the barn that Jonathan completely revamped this year. That's Dan, the horse peering out from his stall. And lastly, the bottom right photo is of one of the lovely hanging baskets that Jonathan planted himself. And that's Dan, the horse, again. Have you noticed all of my photos seem to have an animal in them? They are freaking everywhere.

Jonathan turned into some kind of ninja/Martha Stewart gardener this year. I threw some ideas out there of what I had in mind and the next thing I knew the dirt was flying and he was calling out, "Come see this and tell me if you like it here!" He was all very feng shui about the whole placement of each plant/bush. It was serious business and he got irritated when I didn't give each planting the proper amount of attention. I'm glad he got so into the whole project, because gardening really hurts my back and frankly, I don't have the eye for it. My contribution has been dead heading religiously and watering. I can handle those two jobs. Looking at the melange of colors and variety of petals makes me happy. What the hell, it's June. How can you not be happy in June? I'm going outside to sit amongst my cheery flower pots and sip my coffee. I wish I could bottle the feeling of a cool summer morning so I could dispense it in small doses over the course of a cruel winter. But that's what vodka is for, I guess.

Wow, over a month since I last wrote a blog. I'm embarrassed to be here. I just want to slink in, type a few sentences and then slink out. After a few days of purported slinking, I'll give the impression of diligent blogging. "Look," I can say when I announce on Facebook that I've got a new blog(s) written, "Four blogs in four days. See I'm a dedicated blogger, not a pretender who only writes on a whim of passing fancy". (although, who doesn't love a passing fancy?) I could be like the bloggers that fill their posts with pictures. That's way less time consuming. Just hit a few buttons, write a witty sentence or two of explanation and your blogger status is sealed with a gold star. I'm a slacker blogger. A wannabe. It's going to take some dedicated effort, but I'm going to try to do some consecutive blogging. No promises, no pressure, just going to "attempt" this feat. And by the way, that's a picture of Big Zekie working on his summer figure. He becomes a barn helper when the weather turns warmer. Here he is keeping an eye on our new young horse in the paddock. He's a good employee. Works for Friskies and doesn't talk back. I love Big Z. Okay, I'll stop now. Hope to be back soon. :)

Wow, its been a stupid amount of time since I last wrote a blog. In fact, I haven't been writing anything at all. Instead of using the free time that was afforded to me during this miserable winter to hone my creative musings and warped imagination, I chose to allow the weight of the wicked weather to smother any potential ideas and much needed writing practice. Lately I've been having flickers of story ideas which is probably due to the fact that I was able to leave the farm for several days and stimulate my nearly frozen brain matter. Please don't get me wrong, I LOVE the farm life, but this winter combined with monotonous chores every day dulled my edges. Fortunately, just before I turned into a full fledged zombie we decided to go on a trip. We went to Holland-see photo.

It was a first visit to this petite country for both of us. Our intention for the trip was to look for new sales horses for our small stable. I'd put many hours into arranging visits to our various contacts, working out the logistics of geography, booking hotels, rental cars, etc. It was nerve wracking because I was so unfamiliar with the lay of the land, and I spent quite a bit of time studying a map of Holland to familiarize myself with the peculiarly named towns and cities. Dutch is a language unto itself and by that statement I mean it's unintelligible unless you know it. I am now determined to learn it. It's on the bucket list.

I won't go into all of the details of our trip, but I can assure you it was some business and a lot of pleasure. Amsterdam is amazing. The streets are chock full of bicycle riders, zigging and zagging between cars and pedestrians, ringing the bells on their handlebars to announce their presence behind you. Canals snake throughout the city, lending it a peaceful quality despite the hubbub occurring on the streets above the gentle waterways. Wafts of pot smoke greet your nostrils wherever you may be walking, whether it's 8 a.m. or 8 p.m. However, during our 6 day stay no one was visibly impaired, no one was drunk and disorderly, it was all very civilized. Take a lesson from that U.S.

I came home feeling so privileged to have packed windmills, canals, Rembrandt's, tulips, horses, old friends and new friends into a magical 6 day extravaganza. One thing is for sure, we'll be going back. Until then I'm going to revel in my memories and enjoy the advent of spring which is tentatively beginning to emerge one blade of bright green grass at a time.

To Tweet, or not to Tweet

I'm not a tweeter. I don't officially follow anyone on Twitter, but sometimes I find myself coming up with tweets that I would write, if I tweeted. I live in a land of tweet make believe. It's not that I've got anything terribly earth shattering to report, just an occasional flicker of wit that will bubble up and make me think to myself, "Now that right there would be a good tweet!" I have a friend who tweets and she's wickedly witty, often tweeting tweets that make me crack up and shake my head at her mastery with the english language. I told her about my closet tweeting and she encouraged me to get a Twitter account. "Do it!!" she said, but I'm reluctant to go down that road. I already have a FB account (who doesn't at this point?). FB keeps me acutely aware of keeping it real and crossing the line of too much information on the status updates. What little I know of tweeting bears the same peril. Everyone has at least one FB friend who writes about going to the grocery store, then Petco, etc., etc. I'm friends with a woman on FB whom I really don't know at all (does this happen to anyone else?), but I've learned a lot about her through her posts. Many times I've come close to unfriending her after reading a particularly inane post, but somehow I'm bizarrely fascinated by her ability to post such drivel on a constant basis so I keep her on the list for entertainment purposes. Sure, she clogs up my news feed, but I always know what she's having for lunch, dinner and who has hurt her feelings, made her smile, what she's wearing, etc. She even posts pictures that she taken of herself asking her friends to comment on her latest weight loss. Gross. I'm kind of amazed that none of her "real" friends have taken this person aside and said in a low voice, "Um, you might want to ease up on the extremely boring and way too personal status updates. Just saying." Although, I suspect this person is a giant drama queen and she would burst into tears and immediately post something like, "it's always enlightening to learn who is a true friend and who is just jealous of my honesty and willingness to give of myself. Goodbye, XXXX XXXXX"

There are times when I do a status update that causes my friends to make amusing comments and that's always a good time. I get a little rush when I see a list of comments under my current status. Of course, it's easy to blow an hour on FB without even realizing it. Straying from page to page. Stalking this person and that person. It's quite time consuming and I always swear that I'll limit the time I'm on it. But it calls me back like a siren on a rock, wooing me with notifications and updated news feeds. I can't possibly add Twitter to my list of daily chores, too. It would mean getting up at 3 a.m. to get everything I need to accomplish for one day. I think I'll just stick to fantasy tweeting. At least for the time being. Okay, time to check my news feed one last time before I start doing real work. It'll just take a second...

The Haunting

Have you ever woken up in the morning feeling like your dreams kept you so absurdly busy that you barely got any rest? Do you ever have nights when you wake up multiple times and each time you go back to sleep you're transferred into another whacky dream sequence? Or does this just happen to me? Last night I had a series of four very detailed dream segments that were all variations on the same theme, which was coping with my (now deceased) cat, L.B. and his habit of peeing all over our house. I have no idea what sparked L.B.'s "Jason-esque" return to my life, albeit thru my subconscious, but it was haunting and disturbing. I can clearly see the blatant impudence that was so vividly displayed on L.B.'s grey, furry face as he looked me in the eye, backed up to the sofa and squirted. This isn't the first time I've had a posthumous return of the peeing pussycat. L.B. crossed over the Rainbow Bridge (probably spraying during the entire crossing) a little over 2 years ago. We had him for 14 years and he started off as an adorable, normal kitten and then for inexplicable reasons at about age two, he took to a life of crime and began a pissing spree that became the stuff of legend. He literally pee'd on everything in our house, including Jonathan and I at different points. He seemed to really love me, but as he aged he got more and more crazy. Sometimes I'd be petting him and he'd be purring and preening, then for no reason he would spin around and slash me with his nails. I began to identify his behavior with that of a veteran suffering from post traumatic stress syndrome. L.B. would often cautiously walk out the door, peer left and right then make a run for it in a crazed zig-zag pattern to the bushes at the back of the lawn. If he could've put on some camo and bandana, I feel he would've thought himself complete. My other cats seemed to look at him with pity, but he was so asocial that none of them made friends with him. He was sad, insane and tormented. It took me about five years to make the decision to "help" him start his journey to the afterworld, so after one last pee-fest on a new comforter I made the dreaded call to a friend/veterinarian. I am a diehard cat person, so this wasn't a decision that I took lightly, in fact it pained my very core to do it. However, the fact that we were moving to a new house that was freshly painted and cat pee-free helped reinforce it. The thought of watching (and smelling) L.B. as he darted through a new abode marking it was just too much. It had to be done. So it was. And ever since then that grey S.O.B. makes guest appearances in my dream world, always the same, furtively scurrying about the house, spraying pee in random patterns. Each time I see him I have the same reaction, "Oh NO! It's L.B.! How is this possible? We killed him!!" I know it's self imposed guilt that creates these dream-drama's. I did love L.B., but I'm fairly sure most people would've done him in/abandoned him/given him away long before I made the final choice. Twelve years of hard time with a pissing feline and now I'm doomed to an eternity of his resurrections through my dream land. I just now got his odor off the silk drapes that hang in our living room.

I really hope that tonight I get some well needed rest, or at least get to dream about a caribbean vacation, complete with warm sunshine and fruity rum drinks. With the way things have been going it's more likely I'll be laying on the beach and then L.B. will go sailing by and pee on the palm tree I'm sitting near. Here's to cat urine free dreaming!