My butt is still a little kicked from the horrible projectile-vomiting virus I had over the last weekend.
After returning to work last week, in my after work hours I separated lambs, rams, and ewes, then chose a replacement ram for the ol’ man who is lookin ‘real bad and probably won’t survive the year. I did not spend a lot of time, like I usually do, worrying about size and correct conformation and size of loin and excellence of wool. Nope. I grabbed the friendliest one that came walking up to me that I didn’t have to chase and tossed him out of the slaughter pen. I thought for a bit about keeping some of the beautiful Tunis ewe lambs, then went completely nuts and kept a cross-bred Rambouillet/Tunis ewe with a gray fleece on the off chance that one day I may actually start spinning yarn again. I couldn’t do any more separating because darkness is arriving too early for the amount of things I need to do now.
Early Thursday morning, I was out separating bred ewes by flashlight so that I wouldn’t accidentally send any of my good ewes off to slaughter. Then I had to race back inside, shower, get dressed, and then race into work. Good thing that truck has a V8! Thursday night I had stop by the feed store for another bag of corn and race home, arriving just as the customer had arrived for my sheep. I helped load the sheep and promised that I’d have a load of ducks and chickens ready for next weekend (might as well since I can’t afford the feed anymore). I have a feeling that those ducks and chickens might head for the Santeria market. Then I ran around like a crazy woman getting the rest of the livestock fed. At 9 p.m., I came inside and collapsed. “What’s for dinner?” SwampMan asked. “Whatever you want to buy!” I groaned. “I’m having a banana.”
Friday morning, I woke up barely able to bend my right arm at the elbow. Felt like I pulled a ligament. Hurt like hell. Maybe I should have stretched or something before grabbing sheep and lifting ’em onto the trailer. Friday night, it hurt to carry the feed bucket, so I decided that I would be up early to feed the chickens instead of feeding ’em at night, moving their pens, and having them crap on the fresh grass before morning.
Saturday morning I slept in a little past dawn, then realized that I had promised Mom to go with her and my bro to hardware stores to pick up (and deliver) lumber to repair her outbuildings. Okay. I can catch chickens and ducks on Sunday, right? I raced around with my feed bucket, then off we went to hardware stores. And the marina. And an antique car show. And a late lunch. I dropped them back by my place to get their car, and SwampMan rode with me up to Georgia, grumping because he hadn’t had a chance to talk to me all week.
Sunday morning I was just about to cook brunch when Mom called. Her front door had never been satisfactory, so my brother decided to fix it while he was here. Long story short, she needed a new front door. Could I leave in about an hour when they got here to pick out a new front door? Yikes! I ran outside to do my morning chores (feeding the rabbits, feeding and moving Thanksgiving the turkey, tossing out corn to various groups of free-range chickens and ducks, feeding the dog, and turning the sheep out to their day pasture. I was just about to finish washing the truck again (I had only washed part of it before they arrived yesterday, so I have a half clean/half dirty truck) when they arrived. Off to town we went. I had used a whole tank of gas yesterday, so I needed to fill up again.
We got the door, trim, nails, etc. Mom was looking at an air compressor because my brother had mentioned that they really should have one. “How about this one?” she asked. “It’s less than $100!” I looked at it dubiously. It was a pancake-style air compressor and our experience with them has been less than happy. “I, uh, don’t think it would do what you want it to do!” I explained. “Unless you just want to air up bicycle tires and, since you don’t have a bicycle, I can’t think of a reason to have this.”
“Does it even have an air hose?” asked my brother. We stared at the box. It said nothing about having anything like an air hose included. We went and stared at the air hoses. Then we went and stared at another box. It was $159 and was a brand I had heard of. This one was actually rated for framing. It had an air hose and a few simple attachments. Brother went to put up the box o’ nails.
Mom looked at me and said “If I don’t have enough money in the bank, the debit card will just be declined, right?”
“Well, yeah, unless you have some outstanding checks or debits that haven’t hit yet. Some stores take longer than others. Do you think you might be short of money?” She’s had out of town guests and a lot of house repairs that have taken place this month.
“I’m not sure how much I have in my account right now!” she confessed.
“You don’t need an air compressor to put your door up. Save it for another day.” I went and found my brother. “Change of plans–put up the nails for the nail gun and get the manual nails. Mom doesn’t have enough money in her account for an air compressor, too.” I don’t think Mom understood my explanation that the trim she chose was $2.00 per FOOT, not per piece. My brother has always been more the artistic type than the accountant type. My Mom has never really managed her own money ever. And they’re living together. My lil’ brother, when he runs out of money, just doesn’t eat. I don’t want my Mom to not eat. When we got to the cashier, the total was over $300. Those little things add up.
I got home, they got in Mom’s car and left for Georgia. SwampMan and I transferred the door, trim, etc. over to the back of his truck and drove it up, because his truck is more fuel efficient. Plus, he’d been waiting for me so that we could eat together. We delivered the stuff and stopped on the way back home for a big ol’ greasy hamburger, our first meal of the day.
We got inside, and the message light was flashing on the phone. I was afraid we’d forgotten a vital part, or perhaps she was reconsidering that $300 door and wanted to return it. I listened to the message. “I know you’re saying ‘Oh, crap! What does she want now!’ but I just wanted to let you know that I put some money in your purse while you were out putting gas in the truck because you wouldn’t let me fill it up. I don’t want you to lose it because you didn’t know it was there!” Awwwwww, damnit. I had refused the money for the gas because (a) I was going to need gas anyway, and (b) I’m not retired, and (c) You supposed to help yo’ momma when she needs it and she ain’t supposed to have to pay for it, and (d) I’m happy to be able to be of service.
Now it’s getting dark outside, my livestock hasn’t been fed, my ironing hasn’t been done, and my floors haven’t been washed. My stomach is rebelling against that big ol’ greasy hamburer after having been starved today. I gotta think about cooking dinner. I haven’t gotten groceries yet.
And people at work will say “Did you have a nice, relaxing weekend?” tomorrow morning. Should I hit them with something heavy or just bite their jugular?