There Was Blood

But not much of it, unfortunately.

A few days ago, I heard an announcement on the radio about a Red Cross blood drive. I hadn't ever given blood before, because of an incident a relative had many, many years ago. And you know, I say that that was the reason I hadn't ever done it, but I think the more Honest Abe reason is because I was terrified of passing out. In front of a bunch of people I didn't know.

So, I heard this announcement on the radio, and somehow remembered to get on the website and schedule an appointment.

eek. locked in. no pansying out now.

I read all the articles and tips and how-tos, and when I got there I told every single person I came across that this was the first time I'd voluntarily opened a vein. (You know, just in case these people saw me pass out, then they'd be understanding. As if they wouldn't be understanding if it were my 27th time and I passed out. Duh.) Turns out, I successfully passed all the screening questions - kinda hard not to, as I haven't been infected with West Nile or bird flu, haven't had sex with a prostitute, haven't been abducted by aliens, and haven't ingested any green glowing objects. (Are these things standard experiences for people my age? Have I been living my life to the fullest?? What OTHER things have I missed??? ha.)

So, having dodged that bullet, I hopped up onto a comfy chaise lounge, and in no time at all was being pumped for a donation. All went well for about 5 minutes, when apparently the guy in charge of me noticed that my sack was filling awfully slowly. Two other technicians joined him in jimmying with the connecting tube and sack, then a couple of brief moments of jimmying with the (eek) needle (eek). By the time they decided to call it at a half pint, I had three technicians working on one side of me, and the director of the area Red Cross and their PR person talking to me on the other side. I love a good commotion when I'm trying to bleed. ha. I guess I hadn't ingested enough fluids that morning, and my blood was flowing so slowly that it clotted in the bag and closed it up. (this truly worries me, as I wonder what ELSE is happening because I have a slow current. Is THAT maybe why I forget to close kitchen cabinet doors?! Is that why I can't remember what I was thinking about two seconds ago?! it's terrifying!!)

Anyhow, I did somehow manage to NOT pass out (victory!) and they still gave me a t-shirt for my measly half pint ... not that I have measles. or ever have. So, barring any run-ins with prostitutes, aliens, sick turkeys, or kryptonite, I think I will do it again when I can.

Diversify!

Just like a personal financial portfolio, sometimes farms that have 'all their eggs in one basket' so to speak, decide to include other endeavors in their farming operation - for the same reasons as a portfolio - for financial protection. Take, for instance, the current agriculture market: a farmer who's got cattle AND grain would be balanced out between the sky-high prices of corn and the falling prices of cattle.

When I was growing up, we had mostly cattle, some sheep, and some hogs. Our hog operation has been slowly declining over the years, to the point that last fall, we got rid of the last of them. Or, what we THOUGHT were the last of them. This past weekend, dad decided to go ahead and do some more dabbling in hog production. The ruddy little mud maggots (a term of endearment, I ASSURE you) arrive this weekend, so preparations commenced in anticipation of their arrival. We set about doing things like making sure the pen was still secure enough to keep them in, putting bedding down, and getting their food and water situation lined out.

Check, check, check, check. All is well, right up to the 'food' point. Drat. We didn't anticipate having any more hogs, so when the last of 'em left, we didn't do anything with the feeder (gotta love foreshadowing. Cue the dramatic music). Of course, when I went to clean it Monday morning so the corn in it could flow freely to the trough, at least four inches of gunk in the bottom of it was FROZEN SOLID. And I mean solid. Like concrete. Like bedrock. ... Did I mention that it was SOLID??

So I go's to hammerin' and chiselin' on the frozen gunk. And it doesn't give. At all. For an hour and a half. By this time, I'm cold, p!ssed off, and running out of good ideas. I had surmised that the only way to get all this crap out of the feeder would be to get ALL the corn out of it and go at it from the inside. Ugh. NOT at all the easiest scenario imaginable. But, the feeder's gotta be ready, and the weather ain't gonna warm up much between now and next weekend.

Fine. But how in Missouri's frozen wasteland am I gonna get this done? I decide to get the tractor, put the bucket on the front of it, put that next to the feeder and shovel the corn out of the feeder into the bucket. But, just running willy-nilly into an untried-and-untrue plan isn't really how things are done on Broken B. So, I ran the plan past management (aka Dad and Mom) and got executive approval to carry on.

Dad, on surveying the situation, quoth: Why, this sh!t's frozen down! and vacated to warmer environs indoors. He was the smart one. Mom, on seeing an opportunity to prove Dad wrong (heh heh), stayed and mined for corn with me.

We did finally triumph, albeit at the expense of our backs and hands. But, by gawd, them pigs haveta have sustenance to grow, and now they shall! So they can git in my belly! Mmmmm, pork chops. Hey, if you think about it, in a very distant way, it's like the commercial goes: "It's Shake-n-Bake! An' I helped!"

With friends like me ...

This story starts last Friday night when I went out on the town with a few friends of mine. Well, as the night wore down, the two of us remaining decided to call it a night - for conversation and safety's sake, let's code name this friend Albuquerque. So me and Al were walking to his truck, when I happened to notice that it's FILTHY dirty. Of course, I can't let this opportunity pass by, so I start ribbing Albuquerque about 'pride of ownership' and 'taking care of your stuff' and 'driving around lookin like some WT' and whatnot. And during this roast, I decide to write 'PRIDE' in the dirt on the tailgate. Because Al is cool, he thinks this is funny too.

Flash forward to Monday night. Albuquerque is driving his (still dirty) truck. A highway patrolman drives up next to him, stays there for a minute, then gets back behind him and pulls him over. Being the law-abiding citizen he is, Al is a little perturbed at this action. Very intuitively, Mr. HP tells Al his truck is awfully dirty. Al agrees, taking care to include a fair amount of sarcasm. HP says that he can't even read his license plate, and the word 'PRIDE' is written on his tailgate. Al nods. As it turns out, apparently, a lot of DRUGS have been transported around this area, by cars and trucks with obstructed license plates ... and WORDS ON THE VEHICLES!!!! (are you KIDDING ME?! How'd I get so lucky?!) Yeah. So the HP thought my friend, Albuquerque, looked like a miscreant up to some illegal-ness, which I don't blame him for, cause my friend is a scruffy dude for sure. After the HP ran Al's license and made sure he wasn't carrying his South American Drug Ring membership card, he told Al to go ahead and go ... to the car wash.

Wow. You can't say I'm not livening things up around here, I guess. Ha!

Pickin' out paint

Oooh, boy, while the cat's away, the mice will play! Or, in this particular case, the mice will ... remodel the house.

Around the homestead, home improvements have always been lighter on the priority scales than farm maintenance/improvements/other farm stuff. But in the last couple of days, my dad has been gone on a business trip, and mom's been using that time to shift priorities slightly in favor of her house. There are some things she's wanted to do for a while, like paint the kitchen/dining room, and put new flooring down in the kitchen. And while these kinds of decisions are big for everyone, there are a couple of 'items of special consideration' when purchasing them for a farm house. They're interesting, so I thought I'd share. First, when picking out paint colors for high-traffic areas like the kitchen and dining room, one must consider that shotguns and the like are probably going to be leaning here and there, so scuff marks should be fixable, or at least tolerable with your paint color.

Next, considering flooring. Farm houses are not the place for white carpeting. Or semi-white. or even khaki. Our kitchen floor has served as a surgery for dogs and cats; a nursery for piglets, goats, calves, lambs, and puppies; and as a cafeteria for hungry, muddy-boot-wearing work crews. I don't think Pine Sol makes enough ... Sol ... to get all that out of a light colored floor. I remember actually telling the flooring person all that happens in our kitchen the last time we picked out linoleum. At first she thought we were joking, then she told us to just put concrete down. We went somewhere else to get our flooring.

So, we've been going like gangbusters on the house for the past week and a half, and boy is the 'cat' gonna be surprised when he gets back! That'll teach him to leave me and mom home alone with the checkbook. heh.

Resolution Motivation

Back in the day, I took piano lessons. And, like most of my other skills (welding, sewing, tap dancing, calligraphy, etc.), I was far from a child prodigy, but I liked doing it and was decent at it. In the last four years or so, though, I haven't even touched a piano. So this year, I decided to make one of my New Year's Resolutions be to see if I still have any piano knowledge left, and bring it back. (heh: I'm bringing piano back.)

So you can imagine my terror at church the next week, when the lady who has played piano for our church for EONS announced to me that in the short span of 4 weeks, she and her husband are going to be hookin' up the RV and heading to Arizona for the winter. But that wasn't the terrifying part. That comes next. She says to me: 'So you're going to take over here at church while I'm gone, aren't ya?'

First thought: Panic. Sputter. Stammer. Panicpanic. RUN AWAY!!
Second thought: Well, I'd better dig out the old sheet music and find a practice piano, PRONTO.

Nothing like a little outside motivation to make you stick to your resolutions, huh? I, therefore, have hounded the music department at my alma mater to request the use of their piano practice rooms. I'm positive I won't be rockin' Carnegie Hall anytime in the next ... well, uh ... anytime. But great grand pianos, I can't even describe how sweet it is to play again. (Even with all the sour notes!)

The Cookie Project

Let me start by saying that I am not a baker. (nor am I a candlestick maker or a butcher. But that's beside the point.)

However, I usually don't let a little lack of practice deter me from trying things, so, last night, I decided to make some cookies. Not just any cookies, I wanted to make cut-out sugar cookies. I got me a fine recipe from the 'net, purchased necessary ingredients, and was in business.

Sorta. I moved into The Penthouse in August, and of course, put errthing in the kitchen where I could IMMEDIATELY find it when needed. Right. That's why I spent 20 minutes just trying to locate my mixer. Aaaaaand then spent another 15 trying to find the beaters.

Having finally pieced said appliance together, I had my butter and sugar all in the bowl ready to be beaten into a creamy goo. All went well for approximately 4 seconds. In seconds 5-8, however, I learned a valuable lesson: do not pair a super-overly-excited mixer with a bowl possessing gently curved sides. It results in a gleeful flinging of sugared butter in a manner I'm sure America's Funniest Videos would appreciate.

Having recovered from that slight trauma by getting out one of my grandmother's tried-and-true mixing bowls, and feeling like I probably would've been better off making microwave popcorn, the next few steps went exactly as planned. That is, until I got to the part where you cut out the cookies. Now, I'll have you know, that I did EVERYTHING the recipe said. EVERYTHING. I floured my surface. I rolled out the dough. I did NOT chill the dough, because the recipe specifically said NOT to. And yet, when I went to gently peel up the carefully cut-out candycanes and stockings, they were flimsy and stuck to the counter!!!!

DAMMIT! So I made circles.

Hey, cookies is cookies, man.