middle-little sister took this photo of me a couple of hours...

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middle-little sister took this photo of me a couple of hours ago. after dinner, while Farm Baby was in the bath with the help of her parents, the two of us (earlier in the day Farm Baby had collectively addressed us as “Aunts!” several times, and in our grating Northeastern accent, it’s pronounced the same as the insect; we’ve all agreed this is hideous but pronouncing it any other way would be intolerably pretentious since that’s not how our accent works, so we must resign ourselves to being Ants) drove my car out to the yurt and set up my giant heavy EZ-Up that I retrieved from my parents’ garage earlier in the week. 

Then it was too much trouble to turn the car around, so instead we took a joyride around the whole loop, and I spotted the pasture where the egg chickens are currently pastured, so we pulled up and hollered at them. We still had the remains of the gin and tonics we’d had after dinner, and I was taking advantage of the pause to drain my glass so it wouldn’t spill on the upcoming bumpy section of road– path, really, this was far back on the farm property. So of course my dear sister took a photo and posted it to Facebook, of me yelling at chickens behind the wheel with a pint glass. Classy!

On her phone it was a video clip, and I was yelling at the closest rooster, who was one of several nondescript black roosters they have. The biggest alpha rooster of the flock is a glorious huge golden monster named Fabio, and he usually comes over to check out any interlopers first thing, but he didn’t. So I was yelling, “WHERE FABIO AT” and it sounded way worse in the recording than I had thought. My accent is hideous and my voice unmelodic. Anyway. 

(I really do have a terrible accent. I just mostly don’t notice it. I think I just generically sound like the people on TV and in movies but if you really listen, I have a sneaking suspicion I don’t.)

But, there’s your moment of farm Zen– two white Yankee aunties in their thirties, full of gin, joyriding through a farm, hollering at organic-fed chickens in the glorious golden sunset. 

I wasn’t even drunk, we had three ounces of hard liquor in five hours. 

the thing about waking up at 5:30 is that when something scratching at the wall of your yurt wakes..

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the thing about waking up at 5:30 is that when something scratching at the wall of your yurt wakes you up at 3:30 and keeps going intermittently for 45 minutes so you’re awake over an hour, then when it’s 4:30 you’re like, well, I’m going to be up in an hour anyway, and you realize you’ve just screwed your whole night’s sleep.

Tomorrow’s a day off– it’s the only day of the week nobody works on the farm, but that doesn’t count the entire category of “Chores”, which are the animal-related tasks which of course have no days off because animals are alive whether it’s your day off or not, so they need food and water and their fences maintained (pigs to keep them in, chickens to keep everything else out), and then while you’re there you might as well mend that broken thing and fix that other thing that’s falling off and before you know it, Chores have taken you two hours. 

And they do a rota, so that everybody has one weekend they’re on, but some of the tasks really do take two people, so even though it’s Farm Manager’s weekend, he’s needed nearly an hour a day from at least one other person. 

Anyway. You’d think, by the way, I’d be in amazing shape, since we basically only eat home-cooked vegetables stir-fried with occasional chicken, and it’s an enormous amount of physical activity every day, but would you believe I’ve gained two or three inches of fat around my middle and my two pairs of pants don’t want to zip properly? It hardly seems fair, but that’s my body for you– it always finds a way to get bigger. At this point only the truly stupid ever reiterate “just cut calories!” at me, because honey if that worked. 

reyfinndameron: New image of Riz Ahmed as Bodhi Rook.

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reyfinndameron:

New image of Riz Ahmed as Bodhi Rook.

I dunno, this vista just struck me as I was walking by. An old...

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I dunno, this vista just struck me as I was walking by. An old barn, a new door, someone’s jacket, the sun.

Fanon Poe: caring, romantic, sensible, always thinks before making the right decision

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Fanon Poe: caring, romantic, sensible, always thinks before making the right decision
Canon Poe: TURN DOWN FOR WHAT *explosions*

Farm Baby was really really really really two this

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Farm Baby was really really really really two this weekend. It was An Experience. On two separate occasions when I was the nearest adult in the house and she made sounds of distress, I came to help her (one time, she was trying to put on a shirt, and had one sleeve inside-out; another time I think she was trying to connect a toy train and it wouldn’t go), and she started S C R E A M I N G that NO NO NO it couldn’t be ME it had to be MOMMY to help her, to the point that one of the times her mother came running in from outside because she genuinely thought the child had at least a broken limb. One time she was trying to put on her shoes and I asked if I could help, since she had the strap twisted, and she screamed NO and grabbed the shoes and RAN, and I said, I won’t, and walked away, and she kept running away through the house screaming. On all three occasions I just said okay and backed off, and it did nothing to lessen her distress. I’ve been trying to make a point of respecting her desires when they’re clearly stated and not something that’s going to put her in danger or destroy the house or both, because both her parents have also been trying to teach her that she’s allowed to have opinions sometimes, and she hasn’t grasped any of those distinctions at all.

Her main jam lately is running away. Just, grabbing whatever you’ve told her she can’t have, and bolting for the door, and just running outside and keeping on running until someone wrestles her down. Which is a Big Problem because the house is twenty feet from a 45-mph two-lane highway on a sharp curve, frequented mostly by enormous semi-trucks heavily laden with tons upon tons of gravel from a nearby mine. They’d cream her flat and straight-up never even notice. And she knows not to run into the road, but she’s two, she’s not that good at remembering stuff. 

(Edited to add: yeah, there’s various locks and fasteners and things on the doors, but she keeps learning how to unfasten them, and at this point she can just lunge straight through the gate in the fence they installed in the yard. It slowed her down for months, but she’s figured it out now.)

So just now I hid myself in the living room as her father very sternly and heartfelt-ly explained the concept of death to her, and also instated a rule that she doesn’t get to watch TV if she runs away like that.

Currently there’s some bloodcurdling screeching coming from the bathroom where she’s being given her bath, but I actually sort of think someone might be tickling her; that could be delight. It’s impossible to tell.

I really might need to indulge myself and write some Baby!Poe kidfic, because as the earlier post I reblogged pointed out, he really embodies the TURN DOWN FOR WHAT aesthetic, and him at two would be kind of fucking intolerable and it’d be a whole new way for me to torture Kes. 

*image of Shara sitting at a table across from some brand-new New Republic official, clutching a mug in both hands with a frozen-serene expression as Kes hollers something incomprehensible that includes the syllable “Poe” repeatedly in the other room*

*something crashes loudly with the distinct sound of shattering components* “So,” Shara says brightly. “You said you’re short on starfighter pilots? It turns out, you know, I think I can get away.”