Archive for May, 2007

Ewe’s all Terrific!

Ewe all were so helpful!  Ewe offered up so many wickedly clever names, and I laughed my fool head off reading through them.  Alas, there is but one winner.  Which of ewe wins?

Well, after careful scrutiny of all those wonderful entries, Darling and I finally decided that Ewe Da Man is the winner!  Congratulations, Paul! I’d been thinking I needed something a little masceweline sounding.  I’ll get ewe’s contact info once the soap is made and ready to ship!



What did we do prior to digital cameras?  Back in the day of film, you didn’t waste shots, because each click of the shutter meant you had to pay money.  Not only did we not want to pay money for pics that may not turn out, we certainly didn’t want people at the photo processing places to see the silly shots we were taking. 

Can you imagine what they’d be thinking when they came across an entire roll of this?



I mean, how many pictures of one sheep udder does a person need?


Obviously, I need several shots of the same udder.



And from several different angles.


Not to mention pictures of her vulva.


Needless to say, people may find rolls of film like this a bit odd…


Worse yet, what would they say about this???


(Note to self; don’t let Darling do my hair, take photos and insist I look good enough to go to town anymore!)


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I Need EWE!


 Isn’t Bessie Be-EWE-tiful?
She’s due in June…


I need ewe.

I appear to be lacking my usual creative genius.  There is sheep milk in the freezer, and I simply must create a new batch of soap for this season.  But what? What to create?  Apparently I am brain dead, no longer capable of coming up with something new, refreshing, exciting.

Ewe must inspire me!

I need two things from ewe today.  We shall switch gears in our Winsday contest. No photo naming today.  Nooooo….nothing so simple as that.  Instead, put on your thinking caps and offer up some names and potential fragrances for my next batch of soap.

 Sound too complicated?  Here’s some inspiration for ewe; I’ve currently got soaps such as Ewe Stink, Ewe D’Gardener, Ewe Look Mahvelous and Ewe Are My Sunshine.  Toss out a handful of name ideas.  Winner gets some soap once it’s made and ready to go!  Don’t be sheepish!  Just ram your ideas on through! 

I could also use a few fragrance suggestions.  Got a favorite bar of soap right now that you just can’t get enough of?  Maybe there’s a favorite flower, herb or spice that you’d love to wake up to in the shower? Or relax with in the tub?    Ewe gotta let me know!

And speaking of soap…I think someone here forgot to wash behind his ears.  And in front of them.  And under them.  Good grief, Rufus!  Were you masquerading as a mole  hill this morning in an attempt to catch those squirrels?



This Security Officer Needs a Bath!


Don’t forget to vote today!

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Behind the Scenes

People…uneducated people, are often telling us to be careful with our wild mustangs.  That goes without saying, of course.  But you need to be careful with all horses.  They’re bigger than we are.  If they wanted to snap us in two, they could, be they wild or domestic.

But the folks who tell us to be careful, they’re domestic horse owners who are afraid of what a wild mustang can do.  I’ve gotten to the point where I just smile and say, “Oh, yes, we are.  We are.”

I have to be very careful with Quiet Storm.  If you’re not careful, she’ll try to climb into your wheel barrow.  When it’s full.  She’s always tipping it over.  When it’s full.  Of course, once she’s tipped it, it’s no longer full, which means I’ve got to clean up manure one more time.  Yes, I’m very careful around Quiet Storm.

 The other day I decided I needed some new photographs of her.  She’s shedding out nicely, and we’re hoping to get her down to the Monroe adoption this coming weekend.  We’re putting scrapbooks together of the horses with some before and after shots of how they looked last year compared to now.  Of course, people don’t want to see photographs of horses just standing and doing nothing.  They want to see action.  These are, after all, wild mustangs

Thankfully, Quiet Storm never disappoints!  She put on quite the show for the camera, including the first image where she’s trotting straight at me.  Don’t worry, I was being careful.  I crouched down and pretended I was a mole hill.  I don’t think she noticed.





Now, if you knew Quiet Storm the way we know Quiet Storm, you’d know that she doesn’t just prance about the field for no good reason.  Sure, she loves having her picture taken, but running like a wild mustangtakes energy.  Energy she’d rather spend doing something useful, such as napping.  Evidently, napping takes a great deal of energy, because that’s how she spends most of her free time.

So in an effort to perk her up, I had my lovely assistant, Darling, run about behind me while waving a long strip of fabric.  And just look at that striking Farm Diva outfit she’s got going there!  That kid knows how to dress, no doubt about it.   



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 Memorial Day

My grandmother married young.  She ran off with a man eight years older than she was on her 18th birthday.  It was the depression era, 1938; with no money for weddings back then, elopement was common. 

Three years later, my mother was born, followed by another girl and then a boy.  They were raised on the dairy farm that my grandfather had grown up on, milking cows and haying the fields just like previous generations had, and just like all their neighbors were still doing.  

My grandmother recalls the end of WWII, of driving into to town with her little girls and husband, horns honking in celebration.  What a relief it must have been!  Food was rationed during the war, although on the farm Grandma says they were blessed to eat.  I’ve heard tales of how they used feed sacks to cover the barn windows, so that when they milked no light would show outside in case there should be enemy planes.  They milked by lantern…I have those two lanterns here.  They’re rusty and old and I have no clue if they work or not.  But they’re precious to me.  They speak of hardships during a time that we often think of as being simpler.

My grandfather passed away sixteen years ago, leaving my grandmother a widow.  She continued to live on two acres that they’d shared in their post farming years; it was a remnant of the family farm, a small corner located next door to where my aunt now lives.  She battled moles in her front yard, swung from rafters in her garage and kept her generator running during cold northeasterly winds. 

For ten years she took care of herself and her little plot of land.  Then, one day while she was outside spraying water from her hose down mole hills, the phone rang.  Of course, she didn’t hear it at the time.  But soon she went inside and saw a message on her answering machine, and a voice from the past was telling her he was in the state, a couple hours south, and was she up for a visit?  And it took no time at all for her to dial the number that was left by her old high school sweetheart.

Dashing and dapper, Wayne had been a few years older than my grandmother, and like her brothers, he’d served his country during the war.  Make that plural.  He was a career military man, decorated, even.  His wife had died a few years earlier, and he was in Seattle visiting his brother.  While there, he began thinking of Grandma, wondering what had ever become of her.  It didn’t take long after she’d returned his call for him to hop in the car and come for a visit.



 Grandma and Wayne dancing, just like they’d done when they were kids.

Word spread quickly that Grandma was dating again.  I was at her house one afternoon when no less than four phone calls came in from gossiping biddies wanting to know all the details.  And Grandma sat there with a coy smile on her face, those beautiful big, blue eyes of hers shining.  She’d get off the phone, begin to tell me what had been said, when another call would come in.  She’d smile some more, hang up and giggle.  “Wayne used to date her, too,” she told me, “but I got him when it really counts!”

Yes, Wayne the military man got around some, it seemed, back in his younger days here in this county.  All the women between 80-85 seemed to know of him.  But they’re not the ones he called on when he came to town.  No, the high school flame that’d stayed a small ember for so many years was my none other than my grandmother. 

They dated for a few months, and got married in the fall.  That’s been just over six years ago.  Grandma is currently planning a huge affair this summer for Wayne’s 90th birthday.  Naturally, I’ll bring you along via cyber-party. 

In the meantime, here’s to Wayne and all the others who served our country in time of need!  For the sacrifices you made on foreign soil, or the sacrifices you made at home, God bless you, each and every one!


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It’s the big Ski to Sea weekend here.  They begin up at the mountain, and somehow end up down here in the bay.  It’s a huge relay race with teams from across the globe here to compete, clogging our roads with their skis, canoes and my favorite, their bicycles.  A good day for bowling, really.  But I’m feeling puny, which means I won’t be going anywhere.  I’d probably head out to take some pics if I were feeling a bit better.  Or even if it weren’t raining.  But wandering about in the throngs of people while snuffling and sniffling in the rain just doesn’t sound like fun today.

No, instead I’ll sit at home, and perhaps I’ll have a slice of that rosemary bread Darling and I purchased yesterday.  Rosemary has a high amount of natural camphor, did you know that?  So taking a bite of this bread is like dipping your tongue in Vicks Vapor Rub; should clear me right up. 

There’s a contest over at the Mustang Diaries for a t-shirt. You may want to trot on over, read up a bit more on Quiet Storm and Sunny, and leave a comment.

If you’re interested in reading a lovely blog, visit Ishtar.  She spends half her year in Sweden, the other half in Africa.  Go.  Go now. 

And for you, Rachelle…for your chaotic pleasure… That little buttermilk buckskin is among those slated to come to Monroe… (I knew you’d want to know!)


Your last order of the day is to run over and vote for me!  I’ve slipped in the rankings…how are you ever going to manage visiting me if I don’t win?  Now I think it’s time for me to go find some drugs and down them in an effort to clear my nose and head.  Y’all have a terrific day!  I’m off to blow my nose (again.)

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 Striking bay and white pinto gelding.


How desperate can a Horsewife get?  To what lengths will she go to negotiate the deal? 

An email came through yesterday…with pictures.  Pictures of horses.  Not just any old horses, but the horses that will be here for the adoption event next weekend.  And here I sit, just as desperate as ever, drooling all over City Boy’s keyboard in anticipation. 

City Boy has said, firmly, no.  No more horses.  Wild horses, that is.  He’s made up his mind that I don’t need any more wild ones.  But are there any others?  Not for this Desperate Horsewife.  If it’s not wild, it’s not a horse.  It’s just an equine.  A domestic.  And what’s my motto?  Friends don’t let friends ride domestic.  Ride wild.  Ride real.  Get the picture?   

I crave wild horses like some people lust after their Peppermint Raspberry Java Chip Frappuccino or a Hot Tall Skinny Upside Down with Whip Cream from Starbucks.  They’re my morning fixation.  My afternoon hang-up.  My just before bed weakness.  When I’m not outside playing with them, I’m inside reworking the photos of them.  It’s an addiction; an addiction for which there is no twelve step program.  Not that I want one.  I’m happy with my habit and have no intention of breaking it.   

Just when I think I may have my passions under control, they send me the email complete with links to photos of the horses…and I find myself twitching and trembling once again in desperation.  

(Sorry about the wet keyboard, City Boy!)


This picture I took while in Burns last month.  The horse looking at the camera will be coming up to Monroe. 


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“You want to do what to my babies?”

Congratulations, Dixie!


Best Dressed Farm Diva, eh?

I warned you to get your sunglasses on, didn’t I?  You received fair warning, which is more than I can say for those who had the misfortune of driving down the road while I was outside dressed like this.  I can’t help that I’m fair skinned, can I?  Okay, okay…fair isn’t quite the word.  How about glowing?  As in ‘Her legs were glowing with youthful radiance…’, or ‘There’s a healthy glow about her legs.’  Hmmm…maybe more like ‘A radio-active glow resonated from her nigh transparent legs…’



Well, whatever your favorite description, I can assure you they won’t stay this way long, for I have the entire summer to transform my transparent glow into a radiant white!  The brightest of whites that one only thinks of when one is purchasing computer paper.  The kind of paper you pass by because it’s so bright it hurts your eyes to look at it.  I’ll bet most of you were wishing your teeth were as white as my legs will be come September!  Why, you may not even recognize me, I’ll have so much white color.



And y’all will be sooo jealous of my tan line.  No bikini lines for this girl.  No way.  I’ve got the most risqué redneck tan, showing far more than just my red neck and arms.  That’s right, those knee caps will be causing men to fall all over themselves.  I know, because I see them running (and screaming) when I head to town sporting my farm diva summer outfit.  What can I say?  I’m one hot momma come summer time. 

Dixie, the little wench, has tagged me.  No fair, as I’m old and don’t run so fast (especially in my rubber barn boots), and I couldn’t get away.  More senseless, useless, personal trivia about myself, she’s requested.  Well, let it not be said that I’m not a treasure trove of senseless, useless, personal trivia!

Okay, so here are the blah, blah, blah rules (which I shall break.) 
* Players start with 8 random facts about themselves.
* Those who are tagged should post these rules and their 8 random facts.
* Players should tag eight other people and notify them that they have been tagged.

I will not tag 8 people to list 8 random facts.  Instead, I shall tag three people with booger snorting worthy blogs.  They, in turn, must also tag three people with blogs worthy of a good snort.  Ready?  Okay, here we go. 

  • I swallowed a marble once.  My mother wanted me to clean my room, and I oh-so-hated that task.  For some odd ball reason, I put a marble into my mouth and was sucking on it. My bedroom door was closed, and I was minding my own business (I’m certain I was cleaning hard) when my mother walked in and startled me.  I swallowed the marble.
  • I stuck a rock up my nose once and couldn’t get it out.  I don’t know why I did it.  Does one need a good reason for these things?
  • I like to take bubble baths.  Every night.  And I make my own bubbles (it’s not what you’re thinking!)
  • I’ve got a funky space between my big toes and the rest of them.  Kinda like David Letterman and his teeth.
  • I don’t like to ride in airplanes.
  • I was 18 when I married City Boy.  He married me even though I snorted boogers on our first date.
  • I am convinced chocolate is a fruit and insist on my four to five servings a day.
  • I am a Master Gardener.  I took the classes, I passed the test.  I put in my 50 plus hours of volunteer work.  I grow the best dang looking weeds in the county!

Now, here are my three funny bloggers that I’m tagging:


Karmyn, because you’ve got the silliest mustache!


Jocelyn, because who else can make cooking asparagus so entertaining?


Paul, because your jokes are so corny and elicit a giggle from me every time.  (Why?  I don’t know…perhaps because I’m used to Darling’s knock knock joke.)


Now, the three of you must  sally forth and find snort worthy blogs and tag them!
And take this nose along with you!

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