Zoofari

I haven't volunteered at the Ocean Institute since my accident last year. Working as an aquarist aide involves a lot of bending, stretching, and lifting, and I needed the break while I recovered. I do miss the sea stars, cucumbers, jellies, and giant lobsters. But I'm signed up for a new adventure. After an orientation next week, I'm going to start volunteering at Zoofari, a non-profit organization just down the street from the farm. Zoofari rescues non-releasable or confiscated wildlife and sponsors wildlife education programs. Zoofari volunteers work a four-hour shift each week and assist the staff with the feeding, cleaning, and socializing of the animals. The resident animals include a chinchilla, python, wallaby, alligator, tarantula, boa, porcupine, lynx, bobcat, and cheetah. No sheep, though.

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?

We Got the Farm!

View from the kitchen window of the villa on the five-acre avocado farm

It's official! Next Friday we will begin our nine-month experiment in country living, of which we already are getting a taste--we just learned that the area does not have cable access and, thus, has very limited options for speedy internet connectivity and phone service. Bummer. But discoveries such as these are what make our decision to lease, rather than jump right in and buy, a five-acre avocado farm in rural San Diego county so valuable. I have to give myself mad props for my forethought. My younger self was more impetuous when making major decisions (e.g., dropping everything to move to Las Vegas for the millennium).

Slow internet aside, I'm eager to head for the country. And it really is country--we have to swap municipal services like sewer and gas for septic and propane. It's coyote territory; fencing will be key to our pets' safety. Now that it's actually happening, I'm startled by how comforted I feel to know that it's only for nine months...we have an out if we need one.

On the other hand, we could discover that life outside the city is amazing. In that case, we have nine months to think about how many acres we want (will five prove to be not enough?) and where we want them.

I guess we'll learn a lot about ourselves between now and next March. In the mean time, if I had to say "where my head is at," perhaps William Butler Yeats said it best in 1892:

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honeybee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,

Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;

There midnight's all a-glimmer, and noon a purple glow,

And evening full of the linnet's wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day

I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;

While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray,

I hear it in the deep heart's core.

Can't Teach This Old Dog New Tricks

I tend to raise a brow at self-help books and the people who read them. I'm skeptical whether, barring some kind of Krakauer-esque Into Thin Air type of accident while climbing Mount Everest, people really can change. But I stumbled upon Live More, Want Less while looking at chicken books in the homesteading section of the bookstore. After skimming the first few chapters, I was rather alarmed. Book's got my number. For example, it asks and advises:

Do you start but then abandon projects? If so, you are influenced by outside stimuli rather than inner passion.

Do you have numerous "some day" projects lined up? If so, you are planning for the future rather than living in the moment.

The book seemed insightful. Alas, true to form, I started reading it but haven't gotten around to finishing it. Rest assured, it's on my "some day" list.

Looking Forward

It's good to have something nice to anticipate, and I'm looking forward to two events this fall: round-up in Montana at the Mountain Sky ranch, this time with the Wrangler instead of the Six-Button Cowgirls, and Jenna Woginrich's Backyard Farming Workshop in Vermont. I just put down a bunch of deposits, so we're all set. It may seem odd to plan for fall before summer has even begun, but that's how I feel about summer--I just wish we could skip it altogether.

The Backyard Farming Workshop is a two-day event that will cover: chicken basics, sheep basics, beekeeping basics, cheese making, lumber-jacking (wood lot management, tree selection, and felling), hand wool processing, canning, bread-making, turkey butchering, winter greens/extended growing, pumpkins, and a field trip to the Merck Forest and Farm Center to observe the sustainability projects and heritage livestock operation. Jenna also promises an autumn campfire with mountain music and home brew.

It also may seem weird that I'm spending my time planning vacations while a certain housing matter looms large. We're moving out of the cottage in the next month, have two sheep on the way, and haven't the faintest clue where we're headed. I'm assuming that, come vacation time this fall, we'll be flying in and out of John Wayne airport. But I decided that it might be a good idea to wait and book our flights in a month--just to be sure.

Gooaaal!

That's me as a fearless rider in last year's show.

It was a little bittersweet attending the home show at the barn today. In last year's home show I proudly placed third and fourth in the walk/trot flat classes. (My lofty goal was simply to not finish in last place.) This year I sat on the sidelines as a spectator. Far from having improved as a rider in the past year, I'm now much worse. Due to my lack of confidence and fear of breaking more bones, I've developed a slew of bad habits: hunched posture, timid commands, and improper hand and elbow positions, to name just a few. I wasn't ready for the show this year.

I haven't even tried cantering in the arena since the accident. I did lope (which is the same as cantering, but in the western saddle) a little on the trails in Montana last month, but it doesn't really count when you're gripping the saddle horn for dear life. If I'm going to progress, I have to canter again sooner or later. I was hoping that it will be much, much later than sooner, but the Wrangler is encouraging me to set a goal.

"When do you think you're going to try cantering again?" he asked, as we watched nine-year-old riders skillfully change leads at the canter in the flat medal class today. "It looks like a lot of fun."

"Well, you know, I'm just going to do it someday when it feels right," I answered. "No sense in rushing anything, right?"

"I don't know. You seem to do really well when you set a specific goal." In truth, I don't necessarily do "really well" when I set a goal, but I do accomplish more when I set one than when I don't.

"How about you set a goal and, when the time comes, if you haven't met the goal, you can just set another one?" the Wrangler suggested encouragingly.

Eghh, all right. I'll take the bait. My goal is to be ready for the walk/trot flat classes in the fall home show in November and to compete in the flat medal class (which includes cantering) at next year's home show in June. I guess it feels good to have a goal.

Home Safety

I'm convinced that cell phones cause cancer, although purportedly, there are no studies that show a direct link. In the absence of anything conclusive, isn't it logical to just use your common sense? And common sense tells me that holding a device that emits and receives electromagnetic radiation near my brain probably isn't the best thing. At any rate, I've taken an interest in reducing everyday toxins and health risks in the home.

I found an interesting book, The Healthy Home: Simple Truths To Protect Your Family from Hidden Household Dangers. I like the book's approach, which recognizes that completely eliminating health risks from the modern home isn't practical. Instead, the book suggests little things we can do to reduce risks. For example, toxic or not, nonstick cookware is here to stay. If I have to soak and scrub a food-crusted skillet every night, you can bet that I won't be doing much cooking. And eating out is probably worse for us than aluminum-laced home-cooked meals. But I'm phasing out plastic storage containers in favor of glass containers. Little steps.

In the interest of full disclosure, I must tell you that this newest mission is driving the Wrangler absolutely crazy. At least five times a day, I spout wisdom from the "Home Safety" book:

"The Home Safety book says that your brand of deodorant is the most toxic," I yelled to the Wrangler through the bathroom door this morning.

"The Home Safety book says that you should avoid microwaved popcorn because of the chemicals in the lining of the bags," I informed the Wrangler, shaking my head in disapproval, as he looked for snacks in the kitchen cabinet.

"The Home Safety book says that if you can't avoid wearing dry-cleaned clothing, then you should sleep on organic cotton sheets. That way at least one-third of your day is spent without chemicals rubbing against your skin," I explained earnestly, as we headed to the store in search of new bedding.

"The Home Safety book says that..." I began, as the Wrangler poured himself a bowl of cereal.

"Okay, Sweets. Enough of the Home Safety book," the Wrangler interrupted. "I can't stand that book," he added, with considerable feeling.

"It's just that the Home Safety book says that many so-called "healthy" cereals have a high glycemic index," I said very, very softly. I couldn't help it.

The Wrangler looked me squarely in the eye and took a huge bite of cereal. Point taken.

Apparently, reducing household toxins may be harmful to household relationships.

Cross Country Cake

I've previously blogged about my cake fixation. In sum, there's a particular cake made by a grocery store in Minneapolis that I love, and no other cake will do. This past weekend I attended a wedding back in Minnesota, and I ordered one of those special cakes to bring home on my return flight to California. The Wrangler doubted that TSA would allow my precious carry-on cargo, but I planned ahead. I printed and highlighted the relevant parts of TSA rules stating that cakes are allowed. I scrunched my fancy wedding attire into a ball and jammed it into my backpack along with a pair of jeans and a shirt. So what if my cocktail dress was wrinkly and that I'd be wearing the same jeans and shirt the rest of the weekend? The airline permits only a carry-on bag and one extra item. And that extra item would be a cake, no matter how unkempt I looked.

We picked up the cake at 2PM today, but we still had three hours before our flight. "We best go straight to the airport," I insisted. It was a muggy 86 degrees in Minneapolis, and I didn't want my cake melting in the car while we traversed down memory lane at the Mall of America or arcane places from our yester-years. The Wrangler didn't hide his annoyance. I could tell he couldn't wait for TSA to confiscate my cake and eat it in front of me. He didn't get his wish. The cake sailed through security with no problem and, in fact, received many oohs and ahhs.

When boarding began, I jostled my way to the front of the line to preboard with the "passengers with children and anyone else who needs a little extra time to board." After all, which is more difficult to carry, a kid or a cake? Did I mention that this is a large cake--serves 24? "Here, I'll put the cake in this special cabinet to keep it from sliding," the flight attendant told me, as I boarded the plane. I looked frantically from my cake to the flight attendant to the Wrangler. Did I dare risk leaving my cake in the galley kitchen of the plane with this stranger? I gave in. "I can't believe you let it out of your sight," the Wrangler marveled, after we'd settled in our seats. He scanned the front of the plane. "I think I see the pilot with a big piece of cake."

I made it home with a perfectly intact cake, and I intend to freeze it and eat one piece a day for 24 days. It's going to be a good month.

From Chaps to Chanel

When I arrived at the barn this morning, my instructor had a western saddle on Francie and we had a great lesson! I respect and admire English equitation, but I'm not nearly as nervous in the western saddle. My instructor, who is all too aware of my fear of falling, often gets creative. Today in the western saddle I felt confident enough to ride with my eyes closed and without reins while my instructor led Francie at the trot. The point of the exercise was to learn to feel the horse's strides and movement, and I would have freaked out (FREAKED. OUT.) being led at the trot with eyes shut and no reins in an English saddle.

"I love the English style of riding, but I think I might be a cowgirl after all," I told the Wrangler as we waited for a price check on western riding chinks at the tack store this afternoon. (Chinks are similar to chaps but hit the mid-calf instead of running the whole length of the leg. They fasten behind the leg with a few buckles above the back of the knee, which allows the chinks to move more freely below the knee.) After buying my chinks, which can only be described as effing awesome, we swung by the mall on our way home. As I handed the salesperson my credit card at the Chanel store, I briefly wondered if AmEx would flag my account for unusual activity. Chaps and chinks and Chanel...well, I always said that I was an urban cowgirl.

While my riding chinks would have come in handy last week in Montana (you really can tear your jeans on those mountain trails), I'll admit that they're perhaps not a huge necessity here in the OC. But that didn't stop me from wearing them around the house the rest of the day.

Follow the Herd

This year at the Mountain Sky Ranch a few of us assisted with round-up. Actually, real cowboys don't use the term "round-up" anymore; they call it gathering. Four of us, including a wrangler, rode slowly into a pasture to locate unbranded calves and their moms in a herd of hundreds of cattle. The goal was to move each pair into a separate pasture for vaccinations and branding--without startling the herd. If the cattle are riled up, the entire herd runs to the far end of the pasture. When you ride slowly through the herd, the cattle don't mind you much.

Each cow and calf has a tag in its ear with a number, and the mom's number is the same as her calf's number. We had a list of five numbers to look for. For example, we had to find pair 331. We spotted calf 331 and then searched for its mom. The moms usually aren't too far away from their calves, but they're not always easy to find.

When the four of us sort of circled calf 331 on our horses, the other cattle moved away but the mom bawled for its calf. We allowed the calf to run to its mom, and then we rode in a wide circle around the pair to guide them into the other pasture. The moms always looked for a hole in our circle to escape through and sometimes made mad dashes for freedom. A bit of a scramble would ensue as we tried to cut them off. Other cows followed the action, and we clucked them away. When we had a mom and calf near the gate, the wrangler rode over to open the gate and the mom resigned to her fate. At that point, the cow willingly walked through with her calf in tow.

We identified, separated, and gathered five pairs; one pair at a time. About midway through, a soft rain fell but we paid no mind. It took us a little under two hours, but it seemed like 10 minutes.

Change

Big news: we're officially moving within the next two months! Goodbye Laguna Beach cottage.

I'm just back from another wonderful trip to Montana and the Mountain Sky Ranch. I'm in love with that Ranch. I love it so much that I can never to move to Montana; if I lived there it would be sort of impractical to spend my vacations down the road at Mountain Sky. But my annual tradition is going to become a semi-annual tradition. While May is for us cowgirls only, I'm planning a September trip to the Ranch for the Wrangler and me.

In the mean time, there's a lot to accomplish. We've got to work out the details for the move, plan for the sheep, and make some big decisions. Change is in the air.

Big Sky

I'm off to Montana next week for my annual trip to the Mountain Sky Ranch located 30 minutes south of Livingston. The itinerary includes horseback riding on mountain trails, fly fishing lessons, team penning, a trip to Yellowstone, yoga, massages, and of course some two-stepping. This year's trip catches all of us Six-Button Cowgirls consumed with our day jobs. We'll be frantically drafting briefs, reviewing contracts, attending conference calls, and sending last-minute emails right up until we land at Bozeman airport. None of us has had the time for the usual preparations--the flurry of fun calls, packing lists, shopping trips.

Three years ago the ranch did not have cell phone reception or internet service. Last year, rumor had it that guests with one cell phone provider (not mine) got service in certain locations around the ranch. I'm crossing my fingers that nothing has changed this year. Being forced to unplug from phones and blackberries and TV and internet once a year is good for the soul, and it will be a sad day when a full respite is no longer possible even at the ranch.

Spinning Yarns

I went to a beginning crochet class today and learned the chain, single, and double crochet stitches and how to read a pattern. My first project is a twisted cowl scarf of super soft Malabrigo Silky Merino. This is my first step toward learning to properly knit and crochet so I can make good use of all that nice yarn I'll be producing as a shepherdess.

I'm not entirely unfamiliar with wool crafts--I tried felting, and I have two somewhat secret hobbies, one of which involves a Knifty Knitter loom and the other of which involves a latch hook and color-coded mesh canvas. Yes, the Knifty Knitter's target market consists of pre-teens (so I've been told), and latch hook kits are popular only among unicorn-loving octogenarians (as is apparent from the plethora of unicorn-themed patterns). What can I say? I have multi-generational interests. In my defense, let the record show that I make cute hats on my little loom, and I only latch hook moderately cheesy landscapes. No unicorns or kittens!

Big Tom

This past weekend the Wrangler and I went to an open house in an equestrian community here in the OC. The house itself was nothing special. I was making a beeline for the car but stopped when I saw the Wrangler squatting down and talking to something in the side yard. I peeked around the corner and was met by a friendly tortoise. The name "Big Tom" and a phone number were written on his shell. (Apparently, Big Tom has a tendency to wander.) Big Tom crawled swiftly over to me to say hello. "How cool is that?" I asked the Wrangler rhetorically. I already was thinking about how pleasant it would be to have a Big Tom of my own lazily sunning himself on our back patio. The Wrangler and I chatted with Big Tom for a few minutes and then politely excused ourselves. As we checked out the rest of the yard, we noticed a raised garden bed that held not produce but tortoises of different shapes and sizes. The sellers had a little tortoise farm! Thankfully there were only four tortoises, i.e., not a gross number of reptiles. Just enough to be interesting.

Thrills and Spills

I fell off Francie during my lesson on Saturday. Things had been going moderately well--I'm still pretty timid when I ride, and this is reflected in my posture. I've developed a bad habit of hunching forward as a protective mechanism, which actually does nothing to protect me and instead puts me at risk of losing control and balance. I'm scared to ride without my stirrups, which used to be a fun challenge and great way to build leg strength. When it comes down to it, the prospect of falling off again is ruining a once merry pastime.

Saturday's lesson was going okay, and I had just rounded the corner of the arena in a posting trot when Francie was spooked by a horse walking on the trail outside the arena. She spooks every now and then, usually at mundane things like a flag blowing in the wind or a person running down the hill. After a sudden lurch and slight rear--while I grab her mane and the reigns and hold on for dear life--she recovers. This time, she kept lurching a little longer than usual. I'm not exactly sure what happened, but I didn't fight hard enough to stay on and found myself airborne. "Well, here we go again," I remember thinking, mid-flight. I braced myself for that horrible lifeless feeling when I broke my arm and sacrum last time. I landed in a heap in the sandy footing. Miracle of miracles, nothing hurt! I could tell immediately that I was fine.

"I'm okay," I yelled, and jumped to my feet. Francie, the little brat, was standing quite calmly a few yards away. I walked over to her, grabbed her reigns, and promptly began to cry. I was glad that her huge body shielded me from the stares of the other riders. (Of course, the riders in the advanced class were practicing jumps at the other end of the arena and witnessed my ineptitude.) My wise instructor comforted me but made me get right back on. After a fall, you really do have to get back in the saddle. We ended the lesson with some confidence-building walking exercises and just the slightest bit of trotting.

I landed on my right side, which proves that my broken arm is in fact now healed--it took the brunt of my fall like a champ. I'm still a little sore, but I suffered injury only to my pride and spirits. I get teary-eyed thinking about things. I'm sad that I'm not a more competent rider; I'm frightened by the certainty of future falls; I'm frustrated that I can't get over my fear; I'm mad that a pursuit that was once exhilarating is now terrifying; I'm puzzled by my inability to do something that even 10-year-olds can do quite nicely and with far less drama. But I. Will. Not. Quit. I am not a coward.

But I might be an idiot.

Day Trip

The Ortega Highway

The Ortega Highway runs from San Juan Capistrano here in south OC and winds east through the Cleveland Mountains and several national forests and state parks. It descends into the Lake Elsinore valley in Riverside County, and then continues on into the Palm Springs area. The approximately 45-minute drive over the pass and down to the I-15 is gorgeous this time of year. Yesterday the Wrangler and I headed over to Temecula, which is about an hour and 15 minutes (without traffic) from Laguna Beach, and I enjoyed the ride despite getting a little queasy from the curves and twists. Our mission: to check out some sheep-friendly residential areas.

We did find a cute equestrian community just 10 minutes from Old Town Temecula. After touring a property, we couldn't resist a stop in Old Town to visit the Temecula Lavender Company, the charming retail store for a small lavender farm in Temecula wine country. I picked up some lavender soaps and lotions. Around the corner is the Temecula Valley Cheese Company. We were served a delicious aged cheddar from a woman who makes her own gouda and has a prominent "I love cheese" tattoo on her bicep, with which the Wrangler was fascinated.

"Is that permanent?" he asked our cheesemonger.

"Yep," was her gruff reply.

"Then I guess you are all in," he observed, with admiration.

Logistics

Hellhole Canyon Preserve

Well, I have not heard from the second breeder yet, so I currently am expecting only two sheep. I hope that this changes, though! Two sheep really aren't enough. They are herd animals and need companions. It's good to have a spare sheep or two, just in case.

I'm getting slightly anxious about finding a place to live with pasture for the sheep. I try to remind myself that I have two full months, but I am prone to worrying these days. I considered moving to northern San Diego county, which isn't too far from work. There are plenty of ranches at reasonable prices when you're about 30 minutes east of the 5. The area always has struck me as unbearably hot, dry, dusty, and prone to wildfires. But, just like the parents who eschew their hip urban lives in trendy but sketchy neighborhoods to raise their young in the comfort of the 'burbs, perhaps I too must make concessions in order to give my little lambs a proper home on the range. The hot, dry, dusty, wildfire-prone range.

Resigned to this fate, I put my chin up and started looking for homes in the area that still is within reasonable commuting distance from work. I located the community on Google Maps and noticed that it is near a large nature preserve. "How nice," I thought, zeroing in. Oh. The preserve's official name is Hellhole Canyon. I paused to consider. "Yes, my thoughts exactly." On to the next plan.

(Actually, as you can see above, the area looks perfectly lovely for a desert-terrain type of cowgirl.)

Alisal Ranch

View from horseback

Last week the Wrangler and I and some good friends headed out of the OC and up to the Santa Barbara area for horseback riding, spa services (for the girls), and golf (for the boys). It was my first trip to Santa Barbara, which was more beautiful than I'd expected. I loved every minute of our drive up the 101--the wildflowers were blooming, goats grazed on grassy rolling hills overlooking the ocean, waves crashed against rocky shores, and clouds covered the tops of the gentle, distant mountains.

The Alisal Ranch is just outside of the town of Solvang, a strange little town that consists of (1) kitschy Scandinavian-themed tourist fare and (2) wine tasting rooms. (It's the town featured in the movie Sideways, which now is just that much funnier to me.)

We had sunny skies and temps in the mid-70s while we were there, but it snowed just one day after we left! The views from horseback were spectacular. At the sight of all those trees and green grass, I was this close to driving back to Laguna Beach, throwing all our stuff in a U-Haul, and moving up to Solvang--kitschy Scandinavian-themed tourist fare-be-damned. But, like anyone suddenly finding herself in a magical paradise, where the sun glistens off a silvery lake, nothing can be heard but the sounds of a bubbling brook, and baby deer dance just yards from the horse trail, I was skeptical. "Does it always look like this?" I asked our wrangler. "Like, what happens in July?"

"We've had an unusual amount of rain this winter," he admitted. "It's usually pretty dry and brown 'round these parts."

I knew it! I looked back at the Wrangler, who was riding a Clydesdale-mix with furry feet. "No need to get that U-Haul just yet," I informed him. But I just can't seem to reach that itch to move to greener pastures...

Wether or Not

Huh. The Wrangler took the news of our impending road trip and the possible doubling of our flock in stride. Perhaps he's grown accustomed to my little surprises, or maybe he's just thinking, "Well, it could be worse." At any rate, we have a sheep pick-up plan. All we need now is some pasture.

We were expecting two sheep, but now it looks like we'll be getting four. This can't be much different than parents who are expecting a baby and learn that they're having twins, right? You just adjust to the idea and then start preparing. There's never any question that you'll welcome the extra bundle of joy with open arms. This past winter, I researched breeders of Southdown baby doll sheep and reserved two sheep from a reputable farm. The thing is, breeders can't easily predict how many and what type of lambs will be born; they can't exactly guarantee that everyone who reserves some sheep will get what they asked for. Thus, we buyers just have to wait for lambing season and hope we get the call. Waiting lists and uncertainty make me nervous. I decided to err on the side of prudence and reserve sheep with a second breeder as well. Both breeders had emphasized that their waiting lists are long. Reserving a total of four sheep seemed like the safest way to ensure that I'd receive two. Unfortunately, the farms I fell in love with are both located a couple days' drive from Southern California. I suspected that the Wrangler might balk at the prospect of a two-day road trip with sheep in the back of an SUV (they will be too little to travel in a trailer), and so I just might have glossed over some details.

I've been, as my dad would say, "hangin' tight" these past few months, reading my sheep books and making my way through the home study sheep course. And then I got the all-important email yesterday. My sheep will be ready. I had requested two wethers, one black and one white. Because I was the first to respond to the breeder's announcement, I have been assured of my picks. They will be ready to leave their home near Branson, Missouri, on any Wednesday or Saturday in June.

I sent an APB to some of my contacts to inquire whether anyone knows of a sheep-friendly hotel chain for the drive home. Oddly enough, I did not receive any recommendations. I did, however, receive invitations to post-up for the night at the homes of friends along the way. Charmaine, the plucky Six-Button Cowgirl in Denver even offered to come along for the Branson-Denver leg.

"Here's what we'll do, " I told her excitedly. "I'll fly you into Branson and will meet you there for a night of fun, and then we'll pick up the sheep in the morning and drive the 13 hours to Denver in one-shot. The Wrangler will fly to Denver, we'll spend the night at your place with the sheep, and then we'll do the 15-hour drive home in one day." It did occur to me that the discussion concerning "meeting in Branson for a night of fun before picking up the sheep" probably had never occurred between two female attorneys under age 40.

Charmaine didn't blink an eye. "If Branson is anything like how it is portrayed on The Simpsons, I have no doubt that there's fun to be had." She followed up with another email notifying me of her husband's gracious offer to refrain from mowing the lawn between now and then. Clearly, our Denver hosts are appropriately focused on the needs of the sheep.

The other breeder, located in Washington state, send word yesterday that she will notify me of my exact place on the waiting list next week when all of her lambs have arrived. When it rains, it pours.

It's Happening!

I got the email today that every expectant shepherdess can't wait to get--a note from the breeder confirming that I want two wethers, asking about color preferences, and notifying me that they may be picked up on any Wednesday or Saturday in June! There are some extra details that I need to share with the Wrangler before I write about them here, as it would not be courteous to have him read here first that we may be getting four sheep instead of two (I'll explain later), or that we will be flying to Branson, Missouri and driving back to California with sheep in the back of a rental SUV. So I'll fill everyone in after I make the Wrangler some nice homemade granola and break the news gently.