(no subject)
You know what I love?
Cleaning the barn myself, and pink cowboy boots.
Here, let me expand...
I'm a do-it-myself kind of gal. Or I try to be. Ted can fix the wheelbarrows I break, and Ted can use the tractor himself, but I'd rather he kept his hands off what is now considered my pitchfork. There are two kinds of clean at Circle K; Ted-Clean, and Janet-clean. Our USDA inspector prefers Janet-clean.
I like to spend cold sunny days in the barn by myself, singing along to the radio and working up a sweat. I like the rhythm I get into when I'm half-way through a stall. I can fill the wheelbarrow in the time it takes one song to finish, and dump it before it finishes another. I appreciate the idea of help in the barn, and when life distracts me I sometimes need help, but I try to avoid it. I know just how far down I need to dig in the sheep. I know when to take the plunge and dump half-full water buckets in the barn, despite the mess they cause. I know how long to leave the third stall un-cleaned for, and when it needs a good pitch-forking, regardless of what Ted says. It's hard to explain to people that Jimmy-jo's stall doesn't get a full bag of shavings, but it gets more than half, but less than two thirds. It's impossible to explain how I decide how often and how much lime I put down.
The goats mill around me while I clean, and it amuses me. They feel as if they need to keep an eye on the goings-on, and every one wants to be the first to get to eat the clean shavings. They don't mind when I toss down their bedding and then toss myself down on top. The babies work their way in and it's far too easy to scoop one up in each hand. Even the young males still have that "new goat smell" that I've come to adore. I think I could lay in the goat barn for ages if I was always supplied with new babies.
Ted has this habit of teasing me, but in the nicest ways possible. He bought bright pink halters for the ponies when I was wearing bright pink muck boots. When I told him I would have preferred pink goat hoof shears, he handed me a Jeffer's catalog. (Side note: Jeffers carries them in green and orange, but no pink.) He buys me pink donuts, even though he knows I just feed them to the ponies, and he almost agreed to changing the farm colors from yellow and black to pink and black. (Almost.)
I haven't told him yet that my pink cowboy boots came in.
I figure, at the tack auction on Friday I just might find some pink blankets for the ponies...
I'd love that.
Cleaning the barn myself, and pink cowboy boots.
Here, let me expand...
I'm a do-it-myself kind of gal. Or I try to be. Ted can fix the wheelbarrows I break, and Ted can use the tractor himself, but I'd rather he kept his hands off what is now considered my pitchfork. There are two kinds of clean at Circle K; Ted-Clean, and Janet-clean. Our USDA inspector prefers Janet-clean.
I like to spend cold sunny days in the barn by myself, singing along to the radio and working up a sweat. I like the rhythm I get into when I'm half-way through a stall. I can fill the wheelbarrow in the time it takes one song to finish, and dump it before it finishes another. I appreciate the idea of help in the barn, and when life distracts me I sometimes need help, but I try to avoid it. I know just how far down I need to dig in the sheep. I know when to take the plunge and dump half-full water buckets in the barn, despite the mess they cause. I know how long to leave the third stall un-cleaned for, and when it needs a good pitch-forking, regardless of what Ted says. It's hard to explain to people that Jimmy-jo's stall doesn't get a full bag of shavings, but it gets more than half, but less than two thirds. It's impossible to explain how I decide how often and how much lime I put down.
The goats mill around me while I clean, and it amuses me. They feel as if they need to keep an eye on the goings-on, and every one wants to be the first to get to eat the clean shavings. They don't mind when I toss down their bedding and then toss myself down on top. The babies work their way in and it's far too easy to scoop one up in each hand. Even the young males still have that "new goat smell" that I've come to adore. I think I could lay in the goat barn for ages if I was always supplied with new babies.
Ted has this habit of teasing me, but in the nicest ways possible. He bought bright pink halters for the ponies when I was wearing bright pink muck boots. When I told him I would have preferred pink goat hoof shears, he handed me a Jeffer's catalog. (Side note: Jeffers carries them in green and orange, but no pink.) He buys me pink donuts, even though he knows I just feed them to the ponies, and he almost agreed to changing the farm colors from yellow and black to pink and black. (Almost.)
I haven't told him yet that my pink cowboy boots came in.
I figure, at the tack auction on Friday I just might find some pink blankets for the ponies...
I'd love that.