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Don't adjust your screen....
Elmo is standing on the photographer's back 

If you can bear with yet more goat news, I will tell you that 3.5 goats are litter box trained now. I say 3.5 because Oscar only sort of gets it. He puts his front hooves in the litter box, but fails to scoot the back (and most important) half of his body into the box. Come on, Oscar! Even baby Neko gets it.

Each goat got a bath in the mudroom sink today. I think they enjoyed the nice warm water even though they didn't want to admit it. I was expecting loud meltdowns, but only Oscar cried--and it really was just one or two half-hearted m-e-h-h-h-h-hs. I used all-natural lavender shampoo and conditioner for pets. Lavender is a natural insect repellant, so I'm hoping this will be enough. I hate the thought of chemical pet shampoos.

Believe it or not, goats are not the only thing on our minds around here. We visited Moto, who seems to be warming up to the Wrangler. The Wrangler knows the ropes now and can handle the grooming and hand-walking with ease. Moto just received his routine quarterly vaccinations and is scheduled for his annual teeth floating next Monday. It's remarkable to see how much his mood has improved since he was cleared to resume trotting. Moto's trainer says she can tell that he's glad to be "back to work," and I sure can tell the difference, too. He's less impatient and seems more relaxed. His winter weight is coming off, and he is as handsome as ever.

And so things are happy here. I did, however, halt our quest to buy a farm in this area. I'd be lying if I didn't admit that it's truly beautiful 'round these parts. The climate is pleasant for animals, and I've met some wonderful people in this little town, people I now call friends. But I can't shake my vision of a charming country cape surrounded by acres and acres of green grass on rolling hills and trees that explode with color in the fall. I see an old barn and spacious fenced paddocks for content goats and sheep and horses and chickens. I smell an approaching thunderstorm, and I hear raindrops falling. I see fireflies light up a summer night. I feel the change in the air as summer fades. I revel in the mere possibility of a snow day. I breath in the crisp air when I throw open all the windows on the first day of spring. In the past year, I've made some real progress toward my dream that is the Rainy Day Ranch....I might as well keep going until I get there.

That's Not a Mess. That's "London Bohemian."

Unless I'm expecting guests, my stacks of books and piles of magazines can be found pretty much everywhere around here. I suppose things would be tidier if I embraced the Nook or Kindle, but that's never going to happen. What the Wrangler doesn't understand is that my stacks and piles are rather organized. It might look like clutter, but I actually know where everything is.

The other night I was flipping though Town & Country magazine (to which I've subscribed since I was in grade school; old habits die hard) and was delighted to read Gully Wells' description of "one of America's most intellectually exciting households." He was referring to the Andrew Cockburn family, whose "style of decor is what you might call London bohemian...endless piles of books, magazines, and newspapers, slightly crooked lampshades--in other words, very English and a long way from the manicured chic of their neighbors. No wonder Mick [Jagger] felt right at home [with the Cockburns]."

Excellent! So there you have it. Endless stacks and piles are not messy; they're a decorating style!

Mow in Peace

Last week after I ran interference and all but tackled the gardener in the courtyard to make him turn off his industrial, 90-decibel weed wacker before he scared the baby goats, I decided to dismiss the gardener from courtyard duties and tend to them myself. My first order of business as the new master of the courtyard was to find a hand-powered (translation: quiet) lawn mower. I expected to pay around $350 for a decent mower but was pleasantly surprised to find one for only $70. As I clicked "submit order" on the web page, I felt nothing but doubt. I've been burned by many an unsuccessful gadgety purchase. But since it was only $70 for a lawn mower, I rolled the dice.

My mower arrived today. Assembly was simply snapping the handle into the mower (30 seconds). I took it for its inaugural whirl around the courtyard and, hey, whaddya know? It works perfectly! (Caveat: this might not be the best option if you have a large area to mow.) I love my swift, silent, hand-powered mower. Interestingly, Fenway does not. Gentle, docile Fenway kept attacking it, and I don't think he was playing. I finally had to put him inside the house so I could mow without risk of slicing his button nose.

Gratitude

Since I'm always looking ahead and thinking about what's next, it's easy for me to forget to be grateful for what I do have, right here and right now. Today I consciously stopped and counted my blessings.

We slept until 10--late enough so it feels luxurious yet not sloth-like. The morning sun was bright, but the air felt crisp and autumn-y. We let the pets out into the freshly-mowed courtyard, which smelled like a dream. The doggies happily rolled around in the short grass, and the Wrangler played a few chords on the guitar. We all headed inside to the kitchen where I mixed up a coffee cake and Joni Mitchell sang in the background.

This afternoon I went to the barn to ride Moto. I couldn't help sneaking in a few hugs while I brushed his shiny coat. Mmmm. Animals soothe my soul. Meanwhile, the Wrangler hit golf balls at the driving range. We reconvened and had dinner in our small town (population 1800). The restaurant isn't particularly upscale or worthy of a Michelin star, but the ambiance is pleasant, the service is friendly, and the food is tasty. We're lucky to have any place at all in a town of this size. We got home just in time to see the sunset over the ocean, which looked like a thin, sparkly silver ribbon in the distance. The sky glowed with an ostentatious palette of oranges, pinks, and reds. For five minutes I couldn't think of anywhere I'd rather be. For once I had no complaints at all.

There was no morning at the spa, afternoon of shopping, or dinner at a fancy restaurant. And yet today simply was the loveliest of days.

Small Town USA

We're getting to know our new town, population 1800. The town consists of two strip malls, which boast a surprising number of convenient stores--a small but well-stocked and reasonably-priced grocery, a gas station, a McDonalds, a Mexican restaurant, a Chinese restaurant, a pizzeria, a breakfast cafe, a wine bar, a dance studio, a yogurt place, a spa, a veterinarian, a donut house, a tack and feed store, and a movie theater! There's a public golf course in town, with fine dining in the country club. So all in all, we've got pretty much all we need within an easy five-minute drive to town. We saw a movie tonight and were pleasantly surprised by the small but high-quality theater. Before the movie, the manager came in and gave a little welcoming speech--something we've never seen done.

The Wrangler is officially a country guy now, so I presented him with a pair of Hunter wellies to protect him from rattlers and the like. It's a good look on him.

Skeletons in My Closet(s)

As I sort through things for the upcoming move, out of every closet that I open tumbles remnants of unfinished projects and boxes of abandoned supplies: a few pathetic rows of the crochet cowl, 3/4 of a knitted scarf, placemats that I started during my artfelt days, a rolling suitcase of mysterious-looking, unopened scrapbooking tools, binders filled with pages of recipes, DIY ideas, and hobby farming how-to articles torn from magazines, a bucket of beads and jewelry-making tools, a violin, a sewing machine, bags of fabric, Ball canning jars, blocks of glycerine and molds for soap-making, gardening gloves and muck boots, mosaic tiles...and I haven't even started on the attic. Yikes!

The problem with moving to the farm is that I can no longer sit idly watching The Office reruns and HGTV House Hunters marathons while lamenting the lack of proper space for things like gardening, baking, canning vegetables, sewing, learning to play a new instrument, and writing. There will be no more space limitations--and no more excuses! What have I gotten myself into?

What Are the Bees' Names?

Today at the farmer's market, I purchased some local honey and found myself innocently asking the seller too many questions about the honey: Where was it harvested (Northern San Diego County.) Who is the producer? (A guy with just a few hives.) What kind of flower? (This honey is from orange blossoms, but he's also selling some from jasmine. It just depends on what's in bloom.) During the inquisition, the Wrangler interjected, "And what are the bees' names?" He was referring, of course, to this hilarious clip from the new series Portlandia. Sometimes you just have to laugh at yourself.

Supernova

The Wrangler's pet name for me is Supernova. (There are no Sweeties or Honeybunches on this ranch.) I earned this term of endearment because one minute I'm crazily into something and then, suddenly, I'm not. Sometimes I simply overdo it--like the KFC bowl, for example. Remember those? Mashed potatoes topped with KFC chicken, gravy, corn, and cheese? I ate one every day for two months straight. Then one fateful day I discovered that even thinking about a KFC bowl grossed me out.

Sometimes I just exhaust my resources. After reading literally every book out there on lavender (including books en francais), taking a lavender class, touring lavender farms, researching lavender festivals and vacations, conducting lavender growing studies, learning lavender crafts, talking to lavender experts, and purchasing so many lavender products that the den looked like a wholesale lavender distribution facility (until I threw everything in boxes and stuffed them in the attic), I'm good for now with the lavender research, thanks.

Sometimes I lose interest. Scrapbooking class = $125. Creative Memories scrapbooking supplies = $1500. Discovering that a person with no patience and even less artistic ability has no business cutting up cherished photos = priceless.

And sometimes I crash and burn. In February I decided to start hunter/jumper horseback riding lessons. By March I had added a second lesson each week. By April I had two bookshelves-worth of horse riding manuals, and the guy at the tack store knew me by name. By June I had competed in my first show, was taking two lessons plus hacking each week, and half-leased a horse. And then, the first week of July, I took a bad fall while learning to canter, suffering a broken arm and a severely bruised tailbone. I'm sidelined until late August. My plans to spend the summer on horseback have imploded.

I Get Funny Mail Sometimes

Anniversary

Holy cow, I just realized that today is the one-year anniversary of my Rainy Day Ranch blog. Thanks for sticking around.

Over the past year, we've lost a best friend (beautiful Miss Como) and gained several new friends, including a certain scruffy monster from Texas. I started some projects that fizzled--playing the fiddle, vegetarianism, running, artisan chocolate-making--but I learned something from each failed endeavor. My dusty fiddle reminds me to concentrate on learning to play one instrument really well instead of struggling with three (the 10,000-hour rule!). I missed bacon too much to stick to my veggie diet, but I have a new awareness of what goes on my plate--and a new concern for how it gets there. Training for two marathons and failing to come close to running them made me realize that there's no point in taking up an activity that I dread; English-style horseback riding is proving to be a much more enjoyable way to satisfy my itch for a physical challenge and some mental discipline. My disastrous attempts involving artisan chocolates and, let's face it, candles, soaps, and jewelry too, helped me to better appreciate and admire the special talents of my friends who are much more proficient in these areas.

It's fair to say, though, that the bigger picture hasn't changed much. My visions of the Rainy Day Ranch become stronger and more focused each day--kind of like Harry Potter's visions of Lord Voldemort, but in a good way. I know we're getting very close. And I'm still determined to get me some chickens.

The Two-Sided Kandinsky

Sometimes the pieces fall into place, but the solved puzzle looks much different than what you had envisioned. I never thought English-style riding looked fun. But, as it turns out, I'm enjoying the traditions and protocol associated with this genteel pursuit. This isn't to say that Western-style pleasure riding is disorderly, but certainly things such as dress code are more relaxed.

And speaking of dress code, my formal dressage coat, top hat, and spotless white breeches will look much better in my romantic English lavender fields than would faded jeans and a dusty cowboy hat. I can't think of a reason why I'd be strolling around the lavender gardens in my riding apparel, but you just never know. During today's conference call, I broke the news to the Six-Button Cowgirls that I'm probably a proper English-style equestrian disguised as a cowgirl. They did not blink an eye. "We never bought your free-spirited, rugged cowgirl charade," said one. "No one likes rules, rigidity, and keeping her hands clean more than you," agreed the other. They are not entirely wrong, I suppose. Back in my sorority days, I was VP - Parliamentary Procedure, whose sole job was enforcing Robert's Rules of Order at chapter meetings. I know, I know--there are so many disturbing things about that statement. Wow.

But whatever. If you think about it, an urban cowgirl is by definition multi-faceted; like the two-sided Kandinsky in the John Guare play The Six Degrees of Separation, which has, although not real, triggered many a philosophical discussion about concurrent order and chaos. (Do nature and the ranch represent chaos and the city and the office represent control, or vice versa?) Or maybe the urban cowgirl dichotomy is more comparable to a mullet: business-in-front/party-in-back. Uh, let's go with the Kandinsky.

Icarus(es) R Us

Going to Costco three times in as many weeks was, perhaps, ill-advised. The Costco moratorium is back on. Today the Wrangler flew too close to the sun with his 8-lb bag of frozen potstickers and 15 lbs of bloody, fleshy chicken wings. There are just two of us. I don't feel like seeing Ziplock bags of chicken wings in our freezer for the next four months. Is it so much work to stop at the market a couple times a week for the fresh stuff? "Stocking up" on the ranch should involve things like jars of preserves from the garden, not a five-year supply of frozen processed potstickers. I looked down at the madness in our SUV-sized cart and bolted.

Dearest Costco, it's not you, it's me. Well, maybe it's a little you.

We All Go to Costco

I have an on-again, off-again, love-hate relationship with Costco, but I can think of only two other Costco holdouts among my friends. Whenever I inquire about a particularly nice patio set, beautiful bouquet of fresh flowers, cool surf board, stunning custom photo book, or delicious steak, the answer invariably is, "Thanks! I got it at Costco."

On our last visit to Costco a couple years ago, we had just renewed our membership after a two year lapse. The Wrangler, who unabashedly loves Costco from the $999 flat-screen TVs right down to the 39 cent hot dogs in the cafe, was giddy. "Better get this now, before things get picked over," he kept saying happily, as he filled our cart with things like a lifetime supply of Ziplock sandwich bags and a herd's worth of beef jerky. I grew increasingly annoyed. "Warehouse stores like Costco and Sam's Club represent everything that is wrong with this country," I told the Wrangler indignantly. "What have we as a society done to get to the point where we need six-packs of full-sized boxes of Raisin Bran?" A tray of cinnamon rolls looked yummy, but when I picked up the tray, four other trays came with it. We didn't need five trays of cinnamon rolls. "Who cares," said the Wrangler grandly. "At these prices, just buy the five-pack and throw away four." With that, I imposed our most recent two year hiatus from Costco. We didn't have room in our tiny cottage for the 20 boxes of Ziplock bags, and I ended up donating 19 of the boxes to the Ocean Institute. (The OI goes through a lot of Ziplock bags because it apportions the frozen shrimp it buys in bulk...probably from Costco.)

All this being said, we just renewed our membership a couple weeks ago. The Wrangler, itching to take advantage of Costco's great deals on HD sound systems, explained that if we plan to live on a remote ranch, we have to start adopting the "stocking up" mentality. "On the ranch, a snowstorm could hit and we might not be able to get into town for days or even weeks," he cautioned, as the sun streamed in the window of our urban beach cottage. This was a bit rich coming from someone who constantly employs the "we don't live on a ranch just yet" reasoning to shoot down sensible ideas like getting a pickup truck or two for livestock. "Plus, think of our grocery list for the dinner for 40 at the Friendship House," he wisely argued. "We really do need 20 cans of tomatoes and 15 cans of beans."

And so we embarked on our first trip to Costco since 2007. I will admit that the deals in Costco's electronics section alone knocked me off the soap box, and by the time I cleared the book and DVD aisles, my self-righteousness was but a silly phase of years past. We bumped into friends there, of course. We also happened upon a brochure introducing us to Costco's no-haggle, no-hassle car buying service. The following week, said service saved us a tidy $2000 and a day's worth of headaches when we bought a new car. Costco now has my allegiance. At least $2000 worth.

Time To Put Some Money Where My Mouth Is?

I spent the first day of 2010 taking down the Christmas decorations and researching USDA loans for new farmers and ranchers. The number of financial resources (federal and state loans, loan guarantees, and grants, including special programs for beginners, small family farms, and women and minority farmers and ranchers) surprised me and sort of freaked me out. What if all this Rainy Day Ranch stuff really could happen? Am I all talk, or am I ready for it? 2010 could be an interesting year.

Farm Mentality

My dad was raised on a farm, and I think the "stocking up" concept stuck with him. While growing up in his household, I suffered not for any lack of canned goods. In particular, we never, ever, ran out of baked beans. I can guarantee you that, as I write this, my dear dad has at least eight cans of baked beans in his pantry.

Some of us may resist it, some of us may embrace it, but there's no denying the fact that we become more like our parents with each passing year. Their quirks become our quirks but manifest themselves slightly differently. This was very clear today when I returned home from the grocery store and attempted to put away a new box of powdered sugar...but couldn't find any room for it among the eight other boxes. Doh!

Somewhere, It Is Autumn

Every leaf speaks bliss to me,
Fluttering from the autumn tree.

--Emily Bronte

Little Ranch in the 'Burbs

The Wrangler and I spent the past week getting sort of serious about relocating the Rainy Day Ranch from the beach to the 'burbs. Yikes, right? Well, it's a little exciting! We've been checking out two equestrian communities located about 20 minutes inland. Smack in the middle of everything one associates with The O.C. (shopping malls, strip malls, chain restaurants, SUVs, and all the other trappings of Stepford living) are planned ranch communities with riding stables, acres and acres of trails, mature trees of the non-Palm variety, and spacious residential lots zoned to allow chickens and goats! It's hard to believe that the land in the picture posted above is just five minutes from a 20-movie stadium theater, Best Buy, Borders, and Home Depot.

We'd be trading the marine layer for ceaseless sun. Depending on who you are, this is a bummer (me) or a bonus (Wrangler). But we'd say goodbye to tourists and hello to easy freeway access shaving 20 minutes from the weekday commute. We'd probably miss the unique beach town shops and restaurants, but the unfortunate reality is that we love Target stores and Yogurtland. Most important, we'd be able to try our hand at keeping livestock without having to make huge lifestyle changes like finding new jobs and moving to the country. One of the communities apparently allows bison. No joke. Our friends have seen a resident on several occasions walking his leashed bison around the neighborhood. We don't have plans to keep bison--yet.

We're going to keep looking until we find the perfect place, so who knows what we'll end up doing. I'm still nervous about getting too settled. I have to hand it to the Wrangler, though. He found two places nearby that could scratch the itch for ranch life without actually having to move to one. That guy will do anything to stay here.

Entrepreneurial Spirit

It occurred to me recently that most of my friends have artistic side businesses in addition to their day jobs. When they leave the office, they are professional writers, musicians, photographers, glassblowers, painters, sculptors, bakers and chefs, restorers of old cars, illustrators, and jewelry designers. One friend has her own line of beauty products. Another has her greeting cards in upscale boutiques. Although many of these pursuits are very profitable, most of these businesses were started due to a need for a creative outlet, not extra income.

My artistic endeavors could never bring in money, and I haven't found anything for which I'd have enough passion to turn into a business. For now, I'm happy to try something for fun and then move on. This weekend I picked up an interesting book, Making Artisan Chocolates. I'm ordering some candy molds and cool packaging. I'm also trying another batch of layered soap. My first batch smelled like skunky beer. This time I'm using fancy organic glycerine with (you guessed it) goat's milk, instead of the cheap glycerine cubes I bought in a kit. Also on the to-do list is sewing mittens and stuffed animals made from old Fair Isle-patterned sweaters.

The cottage pretty much looks like a craft store threw up in it. Tables and desks are covered with supplies, and stacks of idea books threaten to topple over in every room. The Wrangler, who actually is a true artist and not a sloppy wannabe-artisan like I, never complains about my creative messes. In fact, he encourages them! Alas, he is not as accepting of my clothing-related messes.

The Steep Price of Manpower

Lately, I've been looking into non-electric household items. When living in an earthquake zone, planning for lights-out situations isn't just for the alarmist end-of-days types. Admittedly, as someone who makes her living assisting clients who build power plants and operate the electricity grid, there is a bit of irony in my preparations for power loss. At any rate, I'm thinking we need, at minimum, a solar power radio. I've even found one that can connect an ipod; no earthquake is going to halt my dance party. As for appliances, I'd like a hand-crank mixer and maybe a butter churn. 

I'd read that Lehmans, which has a large Amish following, is a good source for non-electric appliances. Prior to perusing Lehmans' website, I perceived manpowered appliances as not only being helpful during a power outage and better for the environment than their electric counterparts, but also as being economical alternatives to conventional appliances. Well, sticker shock killed that idea. A countertop-sized butter churn runs about $130! I guess I will stick with the shake-cream-in-a-Tupperware-container method. An apple cider press can be had for the low, low price of...$799. A hand-crank ice cream maker would set me back almost $400. I'm not too devastated--after all, I'm not sure why I'd be making a lot of apple cider and ice cream just hours after the Big One sends part of California into the Pacific. But I'm sorely disappointed that my dual-speed hand-crank mixer is $650. The mixer is something I'd use all the time. 

One the bright side, the yogurt incubator is only $52.95. It may or may not look suspiciously like a simple plastic container. Nonetheless, the order has been placed, and I'm on my way to disaster-preparedness. Homemade yogurt for all!

Thoreau-ing It All Away

This summer I've read several amusing and thought-provoking books by writers-turned-farmers. Although the stories share a common underlying theme (a big-city author who wants to escape the madness and become more self-sufficient), each tale has its own unique twist. After finishing a few books in this modern-day homesteading genre, I realized that the writer-turned-farmer condition is not, in fact, novel (pardon the pun) but an archetype. After all, over 150 years ago, Henry David Thoreau built his cabin on Walden Pond and began a two-year attempt to eliminate the luxuries that "are not only not indispensable, but positive hindrances to the elevation of mankind." It somehow is both comforting and dismaying that one's pursuit of the simple life in 1845 is just as relevant in 2009.

Recommended books by writers-turned-farmers:

Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver; Made from Scratch by Jenna Woginrich; Farewell My Subaru by Doug Fine; Goat Song by Brad Kessler; Farm City by Novella Carpenter; Hit by a Farm by Catherine Friend; Coop by Michael Perry; Fifty Acres and a Poodle, by Jeanne Marie Laskas