Jerry: 1; Me: 0

So we're over at the Oregon Coast for the weekend.  The weather is pretty nice for mid-October, with a few sprinkles here and there, but also with some occasional sun breaks.  The fog burned off, and it's a clear view into Tillamook Bay. 

We took a lot of detours, one of which was the Old Scenic Hwy 101, because there was an accident on Hwy 18, close to the 101 junction.  I hightly recommend the trip--beautiful rainforest views, a narrow little road, and sheer drop-offs (which, for some reason, Jerry doesn't like.  Apparently, I hug the side of the road when I drive.  Whatever.  I just like to make sure he's still awake by running over the rumble strips at the edge of the road.  In the case of our detour, there were no rumble strips, just a narrow band of soft, squishy moss that you hit just before you plunge to your death over the cliff...) 

We also took the 3 Capes Scenic Route, but unfortunately we started in Tillamook, and came back to Hwy 101 considerably south of where we started.  Jerry sees this as a navigational failure, since our ultimate destination was Garibaldi (north of Tillamook).  I see it as a beautiful drive that took us in a large circle.  And since I was driving, we will, going forward, see it MY way.

We've checked in to the Harbor View Motel, a little motel, coincidentally, on the harbor in Garibaldi.   The harbor in Garibaldi is very busy.  Lots and lots of boats coming in and out of the water.  Lots of people dressed in rain gear with rubber boots.  Jerry brought his rain gear and rubber boots, too.  He'll fit right in.  I did make him knock the 'paca poo off of the bottoms of his boots before he put them in the van.  The room is clean and homey.  It has wi-fi.  I'm set.  It has a little one-cup coffee maker.  Jerry's set.

Tomorrow, Jerry and Erin will brave the frigid waters of Tillamook Bay and the Pacific Ocean for an 8 hour deep reef fishing trip.  I will sleep in, read, and just generally have a relaxed and lovely day.  Mmmmm....sleeping in....

The charter boat they're taking is literally 300 feet from the front door of our hotel room.  Even Jerry, with his dismal sense of direction, should be able to find it in the dark. 

He is definitely primed and ready to go fishing.  He even convinced me to stop at the Barview Jetty, a little park just north of Garibaldi, so that he could "practice" fishing.  Yes, we brought ALL of Jerry's fishing tackle, two poles, and a big, greatly optimistic styrofoam cooler, so that he can store all the fish he plans to catch. 

Since I do NOT fish, I thought I'd still try to be a supportive wife by at least going out with him and reading while he fished.  We parked, and Jerry scampered out of the van to throw his line in.  Excuse me, CAST.  I've been duly corrected.  I noticed that the area we were in had large rocks that went from the parking lot to the water (I believe the technical term for this type of terrace/barrier is "rip-rap").  I saw that Jerry made it down with no problems.  I figured I'd do the same. 

What I forgot to take into account was that I was wearing my super-cute, super-comfy, brown leather, platform B.O.C. clogs.  With 3-inch heels.  I was also carrying my precious Kindle, and fighting off a way-too-curious yellowjacket.  I made it halfway down the rocks.  Jerry had already thro--CASTED, and his attention was completely absorbed on the end of his line. 

You know that sinking feeling of impending doom that you get when you realize (too late) that your plan is fatally flawed, and a trip to the emergency room may be in your immediate future?  Yeah, that one.  I had a fleeting moment to recognize that feeling before my ankle twisted and gravity took over.  As we're all aware, gravity is NOT my friend.  My right knee hit a particularly pointy rock, and the rest of me just crumpled in a blobby sort of heap. 

I did manage to save my Kindle, and I think the yellowjacket was so disgusted with my embarrassing display of clumsiness that he went to find more coordinated, and ultimately more challenging, prey. 

And what did Jerry do?  NOTHING.  He didn't even know I fell until I (very loudly) pointed it out to him. 

"Huh?" was his response.

"I fell!  Didn't you hear me, or somehow sense, with that special hyper-awareness that only happens between true soulmates, that your beloved was in distress??"  It's possible that I screeched that question.

"You what?  Just a second....I think I have a bite," he answered absentmindedly.

"I COULD HAVE DIED!!!" I calmly observed.  Or not. 

When he finally turned around, it was to find me sprawled on the rocks like a lumpy bag of dirty laundry.  He was surprised that I was still sitting there, but I figured that if this is where my nemesis, Gravity, put me, I'd better stay there.  It's safer for everyone that way.

Jerry's ahead on points so far, but the weekend is young.

Gravity, How I Hate You...Let Me Count the Ways....

It all started with the best of intentions.  I needed to use fly spray on the alpacas, because even though I have obsessively placed fly traps around the pasture, the flies still annoy them.  Atticus is going to give himself brain damage one of these days with all the head tossing he does, and don't even get me started on how weird a winking alpaca looks.

I learned early on that alpacas don't like it when you spray them with random substances.  Even if it's for their own good.  They see me pick up the bottle of fly spray, and they start running. 

Today, I was trying to be sneaky about it.  I was chatting with my mom over the fence, after feeding and watering the boys.  I had the fly spray bottle in my hand.  The boys milled about warily, because they knew I had the fly spray.  I knew they knew I had the fly spray.  My only hope of getting the fly spray from bottle to fleece was to employ the element of surprise.  This would be problematic, because, as we've established, they knew I had the bottle.

What the boys didn't know was the lengths I was willing to go to spray them.  Picture the scene: the boys wandering close to the covered shelter, because that's where the food is,  pretending to graze, but keeping one eye on that spray bottle.  I'm nonchalantly standing at the fence, about 20 feet away, pretending with every ounce of acting ability I possess that I have no intention of trying to spray them with fly repellent.

I was wearing the very latest in barn fashion, of course.  I was wearing my super-special telecommuting attire--a paint-stained, ratty,  hot pink sweatshirt and navy blue sweatpants.  The sweatpants were stylishly tucked into my shiny, black, rubber boots.  Yes, dahlings, Vogue will be featuring my ensemble in their Winter 2011 photo spread. 

This is what I envisioned that the alpacas would see: a hot pink blur, moving faster than the speed of light, spraying them down with fly spray before they could even decide to run away.  The sheer unexpectedness of the attack would render them unable to think, let alone run.

What the alpacas likely saw: a short, round, lumpy, middle-aged, hot pink blob, lurching precariously toward them in rubber boots, dodging mole holes and tree stumps.  

Gravity is a cruel mistress. 

In my mind, I was still the 17-year-old base-stealing fiend, the scourge of complacent catchers everywhere.  Fast as a bullet and as streamlined and muscular as a greyhound in full stride. 

In reality, it was probably more like watching 40-year-old Jell-o run.  A slow, jiggly, vaguely uncomfortable sight.

After the first step, when I realized what I probably looked like (let alone felt like), my strategy swiftly changed from a surprise attack to something completely different.  If I couldn't baffle them with my speed, maybe I could mesmerize them with my zombie-like shamble. 

Alas, they managed to break the spell that my shock and awe campaign created, and loped off toward the other end of the pasture.  And for some reason, which is STILL not at all clear to me, I kept running after them, flapping and flopping and dodging and tripping, waving the fly spray bottle over my head like Excalibur. 

I cornered them, but everyone except Solomon managed to escape.  The sheer panic in his eyes (you could tell that his one regret would be that this hot pink horror would be the last thing he would see in life) was both gratifying and pitiful.  He was frozen in place.  His options were completely exhausted.  What do I do?  Where do I go?  How did I get into this?  Why are you PICKING ON ME?

I quickly sprayed him and he scampered off, and spent the next few minutes fluffing his fleece, as if to get the Human Cooties off of him once and for all.  One down....three to go. 

As for me, I've decided that after years of holding down the couch, I should probably work my way back up to running gradually.  I'm going to have to be in better shape before I decide to try that again.

In Which I Think I Deserve a Medal

Sleep apnea.  That's the diagnosis for Jerry.  And not just sleep apnea, but SEVERE sleep apnea.  When his doctor mentioned that he'd seen the results of the test, his words were, "Wow, scary results."  Scary?  What does that mean?

Me: "What does that mean, doctor?"
Doctor: "Well, your husband stops breathing approximately 51 times per hour."
Me: "51?  Yikes, now I feel a little bad for complaining about his snoring."
Doctor: "That's not snoring, it's gasping for oxygen."
Me: "Okay, I'm feeling a little worse, now.  I guess I'll have to stop smacking him in the arm and screeching, 'ROLL OVER!'"
Doctor: "What kind of wife are you?  The man is struggling to stay alive all night, and you're smacking him in the arm?!"
Me: "Ummm, I'm the kind of wife who NEEDS SOME SLEEP.  Do you have any idea what it's like, sleeping next to someone who snores no matter if he's on his back, his side, or his stomach?  It's torture, I tell you--torture!  In fact, I think I deserve some credit for surviving 11 years of this.  Yeah, he should be thanking me!  How many wives do you know of who would put up with that?  And technically, I think I should get credit for keeping him alive for the last 11 years--if not for me, he could have died in his sleep from a heart attack or stroke.  And this is the thanks I get?? "
Jerry: "I've OFFERED to go to the couch."
Me: "Sure, like that would even help.  You remember Idaho, don't you?"

Idaho:
Several years ago, our kids spent the summer with Jerry's mom and step dad in Montana.  The plan for child retrieval was simple.  Meet in Coeur d'Alene, which was about halfway between our place and Belgrade, MT.  We'd spend the weekend at a KOA campground in a "Deluxe Kamping Kabin", which is about as much as I'm ever willing to rough it, and have some quality family time to close out the summer.

We all converged on the KOA.  It will likely never be the same.  Our "Deluxe Kamping Kabin" consisted of a two-room log cabin--two sets of bunk beds and a double bed in the back room, and a double bed in the front room.  Our niece, who is a month younger than the oldest boy, accompanied her cousins for the trip. 

At bedtime, the three kids, Jerry, and I took the back room.  Jerry's parents took the front room. 

Soon, the snoring started.  Jerry was in fine form that night.  The stillness of the midnight campground amplified the sounds of snoring, causing the sound to reverberate throughout the little Kabin.  As a seasoned veteran of the ear-splitting sounds, I clamped my pillow around my ears and tried to relax. 

Then, an unfamiliar sound joined the cacophony of Jerry's snores.  Duke, Jerry's step dad, is ALSO a snorer.  It was as if the two of them, and their stuffed up nasal passages, had channeled all of the sound in the world, and were blowing it out their nostrils (I love that word--nostrils--it sounds funny.  Kind of like "pudding" and "trousers".  The more times you say them, the funnier they are...). 

I had been prepared to combat the dulcet tones of Jerry's snoring, but when Duke's were added, it was if the decibel level increased exponentially.  I had no defense for it.  I squeezed my eyes tight, prayed that the kids would stay asleep, and practiced every relaxation exercise I knew.

Just as I was finally dropping off to sleep, I heard two sharp sounds--first, the slamming of the Kabin door, and then, the slamming of a car door.  I didn't know what was going on, and at that point, I didn't even care.  I needed some sleep.

The next morning, Jerry's mom looked exhausted.  She glared at Jerry and Duke all morning, until one of them finally noticed and asked her what was wrong.  "You two were so loud, I had to sleep in the car!  You probably kept the entire campground up all night!"  The car--why didn't I think of that?  I could have slept like a baby in the quiet cocoon of the minivan.....

Obviously, Jerry's doctor has never lived with a snorer, or he'd understand that I do, in fact, deserve a medal.

How to Make Sure No One EVER Expects You to Cook

Cooking is one of my least-favorite activities on the planet.  When I was single, I was the Queen of the Microwave Meals.  The kitchen in my apartment was pristine, because it was rarely used.  The stove looked brand-new. 

I'm not sure when my aversion to cooking started.  After all, I like to eat, so you'd think I'd like the process of making things to eat.  Not so much. 

I dutifully plodded through several years of 4-H.  I was allergic to all the animals, so I couldn't raise livestock for 4-H, but did you know that there is a thriving culinary component to 4-H?  Also, there is a booming horticulture contingent, as well.  One year, I won First Prize at the Oregon Sate Fair for my fantastic onions.  Really, it's  a true story.  Onions.  First Prize.  I'm not making this up.

Anyway, after my friend's mom tried diligently to teach 8 giggly pre-teens how to properly measure, stir, mix, bake, and cook all manner of things, I learned some decent skills.  The summer between my junior and senior year of college, I was the head cook at a church camp over on the Oregon Coast.  That was the hardest summer of my life, but I learned how to cook for large groups.  For years afterward, I couldn't cook for myself, but if you asked me to put together a four-course dinner for 250, I was all over it.

When I met Jerry, he lived in Kentucky, and I lived in Oregon.  Yes, we were one of the first internet romances.  11 years later, and I haven't killed him.  And dumped his body in a shallow grave.  Under the miles of blackberry bushes on our property.  Not that I've ever thought about it.

The first time we met in person, he flew out to Oregon over Memorial Day weekend.  I was still in that "wanting to impress" stage of the relationship, so I thought I would blow him away with a spectacular home-cooked meal.  My menu was simple--a chicken and vegetable teriyaki stir fry. 

It was an unmitigated disaster.  My rice cooker broke, so I had to cook rice the old-fashioned way, on the stove top.  The vegetables were limp and uninteresting.  The chicken was overcooked and hard as a rock.  But, I gamely served the meal, and Jerry, the poor unsuspecting guy, ate it.

Afterward, we were laughing about how truly awful dinner was.  And since we were still in that goofy, romantic phase of our relationship, he took me into his arms, looked deeply into my eyes, and said, "If you love me, please don't EVER cook for me again."

Yesss!  I was free of the oppressive yoke of chauvinistic tyranny!  I would never be chained to the stove, my worth measured only by my ability with a frying pan and child-rearing capabilities!  THIS was the man I was going to marry, for sure.  The best bonus was, he COULD cook! 

And so I did (marry him).  And now I don't (have to cook).  Now, I only cook if the mood strikes me.  Which is rare.  But it does happen occasionally.  Whenever it does, I'll share the recipes that were either so intriguing, or so easy, that it prompted me to try them.

Branching Out

 I was told, by my oh-so-sophisticated blogger-husband, Jerry, that the secret to his success is diversification.  His blog, www.jackwagonswithfishingpoles.com, has apparently taken off, and is now being viewed all around the world.  I'm trying not to be bitter.  I'm trying to be the bigger person. 

So, because I have other interests besides the farm, I will be branching out in some new directions.  I will, of course, still be posting about the farm, because our animals are weird and are a constant source of funny stories. 

Jerry suggested posting recipes.  I have no idea why he recommended doing that, when he knows darned well that I don't cook. 

I do, however, like books, movies, arts and crafts, and I'm determined to learn to like spinning, because we have mountains of alpaca fleece that we need to process.  In fact, my mom is at the spinning shop as I'm writing this, learning how to use her spinning wheel.  Updates should be coming shortly.

So, this blog is going to expand a bit.  Come along for the ride!

OUCH!!

Poor, poor Atticus.  Though he is the Alpha 'Paca, and is demonstrating wise, amiable leadership, he still has his bad days.  Take last Saturday, for example. 

All was quiet in the pasture in the afternoon.  Jerry was in his office, hiding from the rest of the family, who had threatened him with torches and pitchforks because he was being a total tyrant during a brief, scary logging event (more about that another time).  I was in the house, trying to figure out my new "smart" phone.  The girls were hiding, wherever it is that they hide when they think they might be press-ganged into working.  And that's when I heard the scream. 

It was unmistakably an alpaca, and it was also unmistakably Atticus.  He has a warning screech that sounds like Goodyears squealing on the road.  I sighed.  What now?  I'd had it with cranky men for the day.  I didn't need to referee another one of the boys' spats. 

I stomped out to the pasture to see what the ruckus was about, and noticed Atticus and Solomon panting, as if they'd done a few laps around the field.  Great, I thought, that's all we need.  Stupid boys getting heat stressed because of some sort of testosterone overload. 

As I looked closer, I saw that Atticus' right eye was shut.  What was going on??  I walked slowly into the pasture, because the last thing I wanted was for the boys to start running again--it was way too hot for that kind of exercise. 

Of course, Atticus wouldn't let me get close enough to him to see what was going on.  I did notice, however, that there were an inordinate number of wasps in the area, and I put two and two together and realized what had happened.  Atticus got stung in the eye by a wasp.  Poor baby.

My mind raced, as I calmly tried to get close enough to Atticus to see what was going on.  Are alpacas allergic to bee stings?  What happens if he goes into anaphylactic shock?  Benedryl works for the dogs--would it work for alpacas?  What if he stops breathing?  How do you do CPR on an alpaca???

Kayla wandered out to see what was going on.  She stood at the fence, and once Atticus' attention was focused on her, I was able to come up behind him and do a light bracelet hold on his neck.  He stood still and let me examine his eye.  It was swollen, but I couldn't see that there were any foreign objects in the eye.  I think his eyelid was stung.  I patted his neck and spoke softly to him for a few minutes, and he seemed to settle down.  Pretty soon, he laid his head on my chest. 

We stood there for a little while.  The other boys came up behind us, humming in support, as I double-checked Atticus to make sure nothing else was wrong with his eye.  Once I released him, he wandered back into the herd. 

His eye has become less swollen in the last couple of days.  I think he's almost back to normal.  I put up a wasp trap, and was surprised at how many we've caught so far.  We've worked hard to get a handle on the fly population, but until this weekend, we hadn't seen many wasps.  Now, it's war.  I don't ever want that to happen again.

A Cry for Help

Harry the Rooster has always had trouble figuring out what time to crow.  At first, I thought it was because he was young, and new at the whole crowing thing.  Then, I thought that his refusal to crow only in the morning was due to an ever-expanding ego--that he thought he was just TOO fabulous to be limited to crowing one measly time per day.

Over the past few days, however, I have begun to wonder if his constant crowing is more of a cry for help.

You see, over the last few days, I've noticed something about Harry, or specifically, Harry's neck feathers.  They're missing.  It would be one thing if they were missing as a normal part of molting--after all, the girls are losing quite a few feathers now that the weather is warming up.  But no, the skin that has been revealed due to the missing feathers appears to be sort of an angry, red color.  Like the feathers have been yanked out.  Like maybe, just maybe, Harry is being picked on. 

Granted, Harry is the only rooster amongst 11 other chickens, but he's always seemed so self-confident and strong, I was mostly worried about him picking on the girls.  Now, though, I'm starting to wonder. 

Maybe the girls got together, and decided that they're tired of being in constant fear for their virtue.  Maybe all 11 hens have formed the We Hate Loud Roosters Club, or have created some sort of Thelma and Louise pact that embraces violence against roosters. 

Maybe one of the other males on our property should be a little more careful about being a cranky tyrant, or the same thing will happen to him.....just saying. 

Anyway, I'm wondering if the girls have banded together to beat Harry up, and his constant crowing is a desperate attempt to get assistance. 

 More research will need to be done in order to determine which hypothesis is correct.