Fashion distraction

This farm blog is still in infancy but I must abandon topics of feline hygiene & rodent infestation to discuss something all together different: Fashion.

I know, I’m not exactly queen of couture. Fashion conscious means a clean pair of non-riding jeans. Just last yr my friend Emma (nanny/florist extraordinaire) saved me from my post-college wardrobe by purging the closet and dragging me and my credit card to Tysons. So I have a bit of a clue.

Anyway, I’ve been sorting through the kids’ clothing since Hadley the Barbarian outgrows outfits overnight. Seriously, that kid eats a big meal and she’s popping out of her pants. So, I’m sorting and boxing and I come across this…see pictured above.

My first thought: Yucko, who handed this down?

Then, I see the tags on it. Someone in this house actually bought this fugly ensemble??

Now, unless the dog has finally puzzled out how to steer the car and reach the pedals, there’s only one possible perp: my husband… went shopping… at Walmart.

The realization is a double whammy. Not only has Martin spent money on heinous clothing for the girl, there’s no doubt in my mind that he’s also purchased random crap — things that seem useful but are just clutter. I’m talking about giant tupperware storage containers, a set of gardening tools, plastic cups that won’t crack in the freezer, a board that helps you fold shirts (yea, like he does a laundry all the time.)

I confronted him with the lovely purple-Hanes-premium-Made in Honduras-polyester/cotton- sweat suit and he fessed up (guys are lousy liars, by the way). Turns out, on my last biz trip, he bought this fugliness in lieu of doing laundry!

Well, Martin’s got the WalMart ban. Similar restrictions have been placed on him for rampant shopping at Target and Bed, Bath & Beyond. And Hadley will be spared from the purple nightmare.

So Emma, shield your eyes from this hideousness. Don’t worry, no intervention is needed. Even I can handle this one.

The walls have ears

I hear you guys…skittering in the wall between the kitchen and fireplace.

And in as much as I appreciate the company during the day, ya’ll have got to hit the road.

Where the heck is Blackie, the black snake who lives and mouses in the cellar? I imagine him being bum-rushed by a rodent posse, bound and gagged, and stuffed into some dark corner of the house.

Come back Blackie, we need you!

You can run but you can’t hide

I can see where Stephen King came up with his freaky ideas about killer pets.

I’m holed up in the cellar — as removed as possible from life on the farm. Just me, my laptop….and a chilling, guttural yowl. I’m being stalked. By Drippy.

Drippy, now 20 yrs old, was originally christened “Smokey” by his former owner, a vet, who allegedly acquired the kitten in exchange for veterinary services. Smokey went on to father a litter and quickly realized that parenthood wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. He bolted…next door. “Barn cat #2,” as he was called by the farm’s former owners, conveyed with the farm.

We immediately named him Drippy for the long strings of saliva that seeped from his jaw when he purred…and for no apparent medical reason (Trust me, I took him to the vet clinic; $125 later he was was vaccinated and declared a happy, healthy cat who “drools profusely when excited.”)

Since then he’s been a royal pain the neck. He’s an utterly useless mouser. He is quick to claw friend or foe and is constantly looking for a way inside. Leave the door cracked for a moment while unloading groceries and he’s in. Good luck dragging him out again. When he’s out, he’s lobbying to be let in, meowing at window or door.

Most recently, he endeared himself by pooping in our mudroom b/c he’s decided that it’s too cold and icy to leave the mudroom. My husband said that’s it, time’s up on that cat. I wavered and we’ve compromised with a litter box in the mudroom. I’ll just put it this way… sometimes he nails the target.

His one saving grace? The one thing that keeps us from digging a hole in the orchard? He loves the kids. And unfortunately, the feeling is mutual….