To My 39 Readers, God Bless Your Little Hearts

I want to say that I would update this blog even without my 39 readers, and that the world can go screw itself if it doesn't like what I write, but I'm pretty sure that would be a lie. It's a strange thing about humans that even though all of our inspirational leaders throughout the history of the planet teach us to care not what others think, we don't believe them. Maybe once they become millionaires we do, but otherwise they can take their care not crap and shove it. The rest of us know what really matters and that is what others think. Why else would 98% of people be so secure and happy and unique?
All that to say, I am grateful to my few but mighty readers, and especially to Sheri, Jess, Robin and Michael, who respond to each and every post, come hell or high water. I will never be able to express to you guys how much your support means to me. If I knew how to say thank you in 1,000 languages I would, but I only have 39 readers for a reason.

Thank you.
And to that list add Jack, my first and everlasting fan.

A Country Life is not Necessarily a Simple Life

Maybe it's the movies or romantic novels or postcards from rural locations, but I think it's fair to say that  most Americans (probably due to the fact that many of us live in cities or close enough to them that trees in fields are a novelty) believe that a country life is a simple life. How could it not be? No rush hour. No long lines at Starbucks. No keeping up with the Jones' dogs. No working for the corporate monster who doesn't give a shit whether you work your paid eight hours, or twelve hours without overtime. No bosses who call you Carrie instead of Camie, or Greaseball instead of Griswald. Yes, living in the country most definitely must be a slice of heaven. And compared to all that, is it. No doubt about it.

But as it is with all things, there is a distinct downside to moving miles and miles away from all the jobs; something that doesn't make it all that simple. Money. We aren't fools. We decided to make this move knowing we were giving up fulfilling and lucrative careers in order to pursue our dream of land and space and quiet. We knew there would be a learning curve. We knew money would be tight for a bit. We knew we would have to live in a 200 square foot Airstream for six months while our barn was being converted into our home. And true to our word, we got through all of that, no problem. (On a side note, I just looked at the clock, and I am officially 38 years old. Good god.)

But what's interesting is that now, after more than a year living here, we are feeling the repercussions of our decision more than ever. We are broke. There it is. We are po' folk in the worst way. For the first time in our life together, we are living paycheck to paycheck. We qualify for Medical, for the love of all that is holy. MEDICAL. And yet we are happy. Happier than I dare say we have ever been. We look over our land each sunset and toast with our expensive wine that we can only drink because I get it for 50% off and say how lucky we are to have this life. We really do this every night. Every single night. And then when the wine is gone we scrounge through our fridge to find dinner.

Being a lover and teacher of literature my entire life, I am a romantic. I have fanaticized about the love of my life and me being poor and destitute and against the world (I have also fantasized about us being the wealthiest couple on the planet, able to give assistance and aid to millions). Us versus everyone else. Our love conquers all. Money doesn't matter. Status doesn't matter. Possessions don't matter.  Of course, in my fantasies we are always in a third world country where no one else has shit either, which makes being broke-ass a hell of a lot easier.

Naturally, our present situation is very different than my fantasies, but that's what makes it breathtaking. That's what makes it real. We are poor in a world that says we are nothing without money. We are broke in a culture that says we are defined by what we own and what we have in the bank. We are penniless in a society where the OC Housewives reign supreme because of their money and homes and cars and Botox (which I just read, I'm horrified to say, fucks you up in a bad way).

And in the face of all of this, we are content. We are happy, even. We are poor and we are happy. We are broke and we are in love and we are at peace. I may have to file for bankruptcy soon, but I have never loved my life more than I do now.

And really, what else can any of us ask for?

The Changing Moods of Music

I opened this page listening to some emo musical piece that made me want to pour my guts out, and then just as I was about to spill the beans, Pandora, bless her heart, began to play a parody of french cafe music. No one in their right mind can wax can confess to murder whilst listening to a parody of anything, so now I've got to start over. Give me a second to think about what else I can write now that my unspeakables are out of the question.
Well, now she's showcasing a cute little female voice singing such an upbeat ballad that I almost want to compose a fairytale right here and now. But wait...now Nick Drake and his lone guitar fill my speakers and once again, my mood changes and I want to write, what? He's folksy, simple, honest and raw. I want to write about what I feel about politics and humanity's behavior towards itself and our planet, and how it treats the animals that occupy this world with us.
But lucky for you, she's now playing bossa nova -  Joao Gilberto, to be exact, and I so want to write about my beautiful and ethereal experiences while traveling around the world with a dear friend of mine, Silvia, some years ago. Forget politics and horrible human beings. There is beauty and wonder and adventure out there!
And now she changes it up again (damn these three minute pop songs) and Ella graces my ears with notes of longing and love and heartache and hope, which lead me instantly to my love, Jack. I want to write a memoir about what he has given me and taught me and shared with me. I want to shout out to the world that my partner is the best man I have ever met, and that we can all have this magnificent love if we will only believe that we, each and every one of us, deserves love, and trust that if we wait patiently and don't settle, we can find it. We will find it.  It took me many years and a marriage I wanted so badly to be right for me to learn this.
Oh, Beyonce. I'm not sure I can even match her talent with my words. But that's one of the most wonderful things about music, don't you think? I would never even think to buy a ticket to see her live or even go out to buy one of her albums, yet when I hear her sing, I feel something ignite inside. I perk up a bit, sit a bit taller, get a little attitude in my walk.
Once again the odd shift that happens with music pulls me from American woman-power to global spiritual-power as Krishna Das enters my room with Indian melodies and god centered chants. If you have yet to bring him into your musical journey, I encourage you to do so now. And if you practice yoga at all and have never done so while listening to Das, you are in for a spectacular treat, for certain.
Uncle Tupalo. A band that has breathed life and truth into my soul since I was in college. The memories that surface with their music are limitless.
And there is always, always room for Rage Against the Machine. He may be American and white, but this boy's heart and soul are connected to the global community. He makes me want to rise up and kick some serious ass. I just need to figure out what ass that is first.
The Beastie Boys, on a slightly less serious scale, have been in their own way, as impactful as Rage to many of us Americans. They may not be all about revolution and justice, but I don't know another group of white boys that inspired their awkward counterparts to break it down as completely as they did. Do.
And just as I am ready to throw in the towel at the god-awful time of 11:24 pm, Pandora brings on Prince. Here I just have to tell it like it is: Prince does not ever, ever, make me want to write. All he makes me want to do is dance (which I just did on our balcony, between me and you).
How does she do it? Pannie just went from Prince to Jewish wedding music (mind you, this is all a shuffle of my many stations, but still. Prince and then Jewish wedding?) So I have to keep dancing, naturally, but instead of booty shaking, I'm now high-stepping in circles while snapping my fingers above my head and rotating my wrists back and forth faster than is natural. It's a highly complicated combination for a goy that secretly wishes with all her heart that she was a shiksa, which my Hawaiian partner would say takes serious chutzpah on my part. 
Well, alas, I must admit that I think I've been outdone. James Brown is now grunting out of my speakers. As no one I know will argue that he leaves little room for interpretation, and I'm not nearly gutsy enough to tell you what his music makes me want to do, I am done.
It's no wonder I wish I was a Jewish African-Mexican American.

God bless the musicians of the world.  
God bless Pandora.
And God bless Christmas music, which is playing right now, even though it is only October the seventh.

Come to Mama

I figure I may need some proof for those skeptics out there who are want to believe my drunken cow stories, so I went out to document the bovine debauchery firsthand. Below you can see our assistant winemaker, Steve, dumping a wheelbarrow-full of fermented grape skins in the field. What is more noticeable, however, is the clear back-end view of every cow in that field. Normally, any human in their midst is front and center, because they have a deep, deep distrust of our species (can you blame them?). If I as much as tiptoe next to the fence, every single one of them is staring at me in a matter of six seconds. And I only say six because some of them are a bit "slower" than the rest, god bless them. But during wine making season, I could be on fire, screaming like a maniac, and they would still turn their asses to me. 

Below, you can see the actual proof of what I write. That purple mound can be no other than fermented grape skins. There are more cows waiting in the wings, but they have to head-butt these five formidable females out of the way before they can partake in the spoils. And that takes guts, no matter what your species. 

I'm not sure if you can tell, but the dude on the left is the bull. He is the only bull.  The other fifteen cows are heifers. And he is staring right at me. Normally this would be cause to soil one's self, but I had one up on him; I knew he was good and drunk. 

Based on his for-the-moment companion's cavalier tongue language, so did she.  What an opportunist. 

Happy Hour Cows

I've been working in a tasting room for almost a year now in the hope of sneaking my neophyte self onto the wine production side of the fence.

So far, it hasn't worked.

Paso Robles is now in full blown "crush" time, and I'm still making ten bucks an hour pouring wine inside an artificially cooled room without the slightest likeness to the beauty and wildness of the green vines and the soft earth and the big blue sky. Dammit.

Still, it's not all bad. I'm close enough to be able to watch the entire process and ask a crapload of questions (much to our wine maker's chagrin)and the whole thing is pretty cool. Making wine is ridiculously simple on one hand, and incredibly complicated on the other. I won't bore you with the reasons for this, but I will entertain you with a cool little something I saw while I wasn't working on the production side of things.

If you've read any of my previous three posts, you know that I am surrounded by cows and that I've grown accustomed to paying special attention to my bovine neighbors. Well, they have yet ceased to amaze me. Not only do they cry when their young are separated from them, scream when any part of their herd is being driven away to slaughter, and run like hell when I approach them, but they also have an impressive affinity for our very own nectar of the gods. That's right: cows enjoy happy hour as much as the next guy.

In a nutshell, once the grapes are picked, fermented and crushed, the skins are all that's left. These little empty sacks are good for nothin', so we load them into a wheel barrel and deposit them on our neighbor's land. Don't get the wrong impression; this is not litter. This little drop off may just be the best part of their cows' entire lives (and I'm not exaggerating). For the past three months I haven't seen a single cow anywhere near the winery, but for the past five days since we've been dumping our skins, the whole herd is suddenly at our gate. Mamas, papas and babies. And guess what they're all doing? That's right...getting drunk. They practically snort up those skins, which maybe they would do normally, but these aren't just grape skins. These are 100% alcohol-saturated grape skins. These pack a punch. And I believe that these clever cows just may know this. Why else the sudden appearance? Why else the crazed eyes and sudden fearlessness when I approach? I'm telling you, they know. And they love it. If I stay and watch them long enough, they start to stumble around, bump softly into one another or the fence, stare longingly at nothing, and try to make out with cows they otherwise wouldn't. It's the darnedest thing.

And the whole time I'm watching this, I'm trying to place where I've seen this behavior elsewhere. These are lowly, stupid, clueless cows after all, so where in the world would I have seen this drunken frivolity before? Certainly not in my own species.

Certainly not.

A Cat and Five Acres of Nets

Well, we're not a farm yet, but now that we have a cat, we are well on our way. About a month ago Jack found a four week old black kitten in our wood pile, and he is now our official farm cat. There's kind of an unwritten law that every farm needs a cat or two, so that means we're one step closer. And having never been cat people, it's big when I say that this cat is rad. He listens almost better than our dogs (which actually isn't saying much, but still) and he cuddles better than they do, too.  He also magically knew to use the litter box within minutes of being introduced to it. Our dogs will still pee in the house after six freaking years. I'm not sure, but my forever belief that dogs are better than cats just might be on shaky ground.  It's clear from the below photo that he is fitting right in.

Next update: I started working weekends at a tiny winery nearby and just had my first experience in working the vines. Well, not actually working them, but covering them. There are birds here called Starlings that send out scouts just like the monkeys in The Wizard of Oz. If these scouts see ripe grapes, they magically signal the rest of the group and within seconds half of your vineyard is toast. So as soon as our winemaker saw the first scout, we were up at sunset the next day ready to "net". It took four of us two days to net five acres of vines. And luckily for the winery, we bested the birds and saved the soon-to-be wine. Another fine win for humans. God knows we need alcohol more than birds need food.

Slaughter Part III

So given the Country Code of Conduct, or the CCC, after about another 1.5 hours of cows crying at an awkwardly obvious decibel, we decided to do the little that we could: sneak up our lane and hide behind an Eucalyptus tree to get a better view of her property.

It was so simple that is was unbelievable. There in the driveway was a cattle car. That was it. A Ford 150 pulling a medium-sized cattle trailer. It looked like it could hold six cows comfortably, eight if it was a rush order. The engine was off, there was no sign of human activity, and yet the cows were absolutely terrified. Somehow, somehow! they knew what that trailer meant. How the freaking HELL could they know that? They knew that the ones getting onto that trailer weren't coming back. They knew that something horrible was going to happen. I have seen dozens of trucks and trailers come and go from that ranch, but never, ever, have the cows responded like they did this night. And it's not like the slaughtering took place in that trailer so the smell of blood alerted the herd. It was simply a transportation device. That was all. And yet. And yet they sensed it. They sensed it. To say they were just responding to being separated doesn't work. These cows had already been through the separation of the calves from the mothers; this is a part of raising cattle, and we have now lived here for two calving seasons. We know what those cries sound like. They are absolutely horrible to hear, but never have we heard anything close to the fear and protest we heard the night that slaughter trailer came. I wrote in my last post that the sounds from the cows this night had layers like a choir. Who was making all the noise is conjecture of course, since I was across the street hidden behind a tree, but I'm going to do my best to describe what it sounded like to us.

 First we heard the babies (again, I'm not sure, but if my mama was being led away to her death and I was a cow, this is what I would sound like). They were crying. This is the only word I have to describe it, but to be truthful, crying is almost an euphemism. It was closer to screaming. Over and over and over and over again. We are used to the sounds of cows, as we are with coyotes and foxes and horses. (FYI, most of us have never actually heard a fox, but they seriously have the most disturbing cry of any animal I have ever heard in my life.) But that is how we knew these cries were not normal. These were urgent; these were screams. And they wouldn't stop. And as if these were not bad enough, on top of them were the cries of the mamas, and on top of them were the cries of the rest of the herd who seemed to know exactly what was happening to the ones being led away. Normally, any group lowing lasts roughly 15-20 minutes. This time is went on for 2, maybe 3 hours. It was excruciating to witness.

I don't write this to convince the four of you reading this of anything. I write this because it has now been three months since this night and still I can't forget it. I have avoided writing about it because I know it is an uncomfortable subject and telling people anything that makes us have to question our actions makes us act all crazy. But here's the thing: I have watched the unimaginably cruel PETA documentaries. I have read the heart-wrenching literature by animal rights groups. Both have made me sick to my stomach and horrified at that which humans are capable. And two days later, I'm pulling into In N' Out. I'm not sure how this strikes you, but to me, it's sort of effed up.

I am trying hard to think of a clever ending that helps you feel like there's an end to this issue like they do on NPR so we don't actually have to do anything, but I got nothing. All I got is my gut, which is telling me that there is no end to this story, which I hate by the way, because shit without an ending is messy and if there's anything humans hate it's shit without an ending, but it can't be helped since I said I'd be honest and so this one has no ending because I don't have one. I'd love to say that I've made a solemn vow to never ingest another living being again. I'd love to say that what I heard with my own ears and saw with my own eyes that night was enough to convince me that animals are so much more than fodder for my table. And actually it did. And it also didn't. I have since eaten about 90% vegan ( not just vegetarian because once you open Pandora's box - the myth, not the website - you find that animals are mistreated in every single industry that benefits humanity), but when I'm depressed or PMSing or hung over, all I really want is cheese and meat with a side of bacon.  And guess what? I eat it. What a friggin' cusshole.

So I will leave us all with this: When we think of cows from now on, know that they are more intelligent and emotive than our Manifest Destiny fairytales taught us. They create bonds and have feelings. True, maybe they can't buy flowers or open the car door, but that doesn't make them any less sentient. It takes a hard heart indeed to ignore these truths in order to feast on fillet mignon or rib eye. Even if it is superbly BBQed.

Slaughter Part II

Disclaimer: I really, really want to insert humor wherever I can into this post to lighten the mood. I truly do. The problem is, I can't find a single place where it is appropriate. I know everyone always warns that if you want people to read, you must stay neutral and PC in all things, but in this situation, that would be totally pathetic. I can't do it. Even though what I heard that evening was profound enough to still impact me three months later (which is really saying something considering my average impact timespan is roughly 3 days), I'm not going to exaggerate or dramatize it. I don't think I have to. Hang on real fast; I need to pour another glass of wine to continue.

So my blessed neighbor doesn't do the slaughtering at her ranch, which every neighbor within a five mile radius is thankful for (turns out, so are the cows). I have heard told my whole life the wonderful fairytale that the animals we eat are too stupid to know what's happening to them. Well, whoever made that one up has clearly never lived near my neighbor.  In the ten months we've been here so far, I am certain that this has happened before, but for whatever reason I've never noticed. Probably too busy grilling, frying, baking and sautéing beef.  Unfortunately for my belief in happy endings, this last time I heard it; everybody heard it.

We are used to hearing the lowing of her cows because they do it often. Maybe they're hungry or thirsty or randy or anxious because they sense coyotes about. This is how it usually is with the cows. But these were not the sounds of this night. On this night, there were layers.  There were so many different voices that it was like a robe-wearing cow choir.  I take it back; that was a horrible simile. They sounded nothing like a choir. In the attempt not to sound dramatic, I won't say what they really sounded like, but it wasn't a choir (cows, forgive me for even writing that).

At dinner I made a brief comment about the unusual amount of noise coming from the cows, but didn't think much of it until I realized that we were on to dessert and they still hadn't stopped. They were getting louder. The cries were growing, like more cows were joining in. This had never happened before (or at least we were too busy grilling to notice) and soon our curiosity was piqued. However, one thing we learned pretty quickly from our neighbors is that most people move away from the city to be left alone. The few times we've driven up their driveways - all at least 1/4 mile long - we've been met with a few shotguns and a lot of large dogs. I personally learned this by attempting to deliver we-are-new-to-the-neighborhood pies to everyone on our street at Christmas time (which, looking back, shouldn't I have been the one accepting pies?). Clearly we were not about to saunter up her drive and get all up in her business. And then there's the other tacit agreement of country folk: we all buy a lot of land so we can do what we want on that land. We don't bother you, so don't bother us. The problem is, I ain't no country gal yet.

Slaughterhouse Part I

Not only was I expecting country life to cure me of my hesitance to kill insects, I was also hoping it would cure me of that pansy feeling that animals have a right to live and not be slaughtered by arrogant humans who believe they can do whatever they want to anything that can't fight back or speak up for itself. I'm honestly not trying to get anyone's goat here; I'm simply pointing out a rather ignorant, superficial hope I had. And worse, that hope stemmed from the desire to eat what I want, when I want, despite who I might be eating.
 Moving next door to an organic, free range cattle rancher seemed like the perfect way to learn to forget my woos. I've done everything I can to convince myself of the Meat Manifest Destiny doctrine. I've tried to "connect" with her cattle, but decided that they are too dumb to be capable of connecting because the smallest movement I made caused them to take off running in terror (unlike my majestic goats who play and run with me; hence, no one would consider eating. Except for, of course, the other half the world). I've spoken numerous times to the rancher who actually makes her living by raising cattle for slaughter. I've listened closely to what she has to say, and I really do admire her philosophy. It costs her more and earns her less to raise these animals in a humane way and I deeply respect her for that. It isn't easy to do what is right when doing what is wrong is so easy and pays 10 times more. For a while there, I thought it had worked. I bought her meat and grilled it with relative ease. And I'm not gonna lie - it was by far the best meat I've ever had.
But then the cattle car came.

I'm Not Adding a Photo Because that Would be Gross

It's now spring in the country and I'm not gonna lie, it's lost a bit of it's romance (wow - three "it's" in one small sentence). Not that living in the country on the whole has lost anything, but more specifically, living in a barn that we failed to properly seal has lost part of its zeal.  Being a city gal my entire life had magically made me believe that there were a lot less insects on this planet than there actually are. And I must say that I am now burning with righteous indignation. There are not only more insects in existence than I thought, but there are more of them living in my HOME than I believed to be in the whole of Orange County. And I worked at OCSHA in Santa Ana where there were cockroaches the size of coke cans roaming the halls.
At any given moment I can look around my concrete floor and find a heterogeneous gathering of bugs that would rival the UN: spiders vying for the top corners of the ceiling, moths vying for the lamp light, beetles vying for the bath rug, pincher bugs vying for the kitchen sponge, mosquito eaters vying for what they think are mosquitos but aren't so they're really helping nothing (these will make their debut in about a month just about when the m. eaters are gone), gnats vying for my compost scraps, and flies who don't know what they're vying for. And if you don't believe that it really is this bad, consider this: yesterday I was paying for flowers at Trader Joe's and a pincher bug ran across the scanner. The man quickly said, "Oh, must have come with the flowers" but I had a sinking feeling that it actually came with me. And then today at work I was thumbing through my copy of  "The Skinny Bitch Vegan Cookbook" when another pincher bug ran across the counter. Um, we serve wine. There are no flowers or dirt or foodstuffs or wet sponges within 100 feet of the tasting room. It hitched a ride on the skinny bitch express right out of my kitchen.

Introduce brief interlude. I just this second killed FOUR beetles and TWO spiders. That was just in the bathroom. God knows how many others are in the rest of the 2000 square feet of this barn. I'm having to listen to Vanilla Ice right now just to keep my spirits up.

Here's the thing. I hate killing things. Anything. I thought that moving to the country would cure me of this liberal weakness but it hasn't. All it's done is magnify the fact that it's either me or them. You're either with us or against us. Oh, George, how I've stooped to your level! But what can I do? No matter where I look or when I look, I promise you I will find an intruder, though if the insect world of Templeton had lawyers, no doubt they would argue that a structure without sealed borders can legally have no intruders. And I would have no choice but to acquiesce. So herein lies my dilemma. The bug lawyers are right: we have not done a sufficient job of  fortifying our living space against these squatters, but none-the-less, I just can't seem to warm to the communal living situation that has developed. And perhaps the shittiest thing about them (besides their unfortunately gross appearance) is that you can't reason with them. I've tried and tried: "Guys, listen. You're gonna die if you don't high-tail it out of this bathroom right now. I don't wanna do it, but I can't very well get into the bathtub with all of you hanging around on the bathmat." And then we just sit there staring at each other. And they don't budge an inch. They really do force my hand. I mean, what would you do? Give them a scotch and tell them to wait in the library?
So there you have it. My insect extravaganza is so consuming that I can't even begin to speak of the other grandiose wonders I'm discovering in this country life, mostly because I'm facing another beetle posse as I write, and trying to decide if this time I will use the spray, the shoe or the toilet.