Our farmhouse sits on about five acres of ‘yard’. These five acres are much more trouble than the other 25+ acres of ‘pasture’. Why, you ask? Because, they’re encircled by a wooden rail fence. Although the fence is fairly aesthetically pleasing, it has a serious downside. You can easily spot the downside when you notice the sheep’s reaction to it. They don’t wander about inside it. They don’t poke their heads through its gaps and graze on the other side. No! They put their hooves over their mouths in a failed attempt to smother laughter as they run straight through
Gather around, boys and girls! Before we get to today’s funny, we need to have story time! Once upon a time, many (many) years ago, a perfectly well-behaved teenage girl took eleventh grade French. The girl made good grades and caused no trouble. If she was a little talkative, at least she and her friend Hufflepuff did their illicit chatting in French. (Heck, they probably should’ve received extra-credit for all that practice.) The French teacher, however, did not believe they deserved credit. She believed all smart children should be perfectly behaved. When her constant pacing and patrolling didn’t evoke the
I love being a nurse. Caring for sick children gives my life purpose. My work makes a difference for families on their darkest days. It gives immense satisfaction, opportunities for growth, and an outlet for compassion. —WUUUB-SKRIIIIIIIITCH (That’s the part of the post where that ‘needle on a vinyl record sound’ scrapes across my brain!) Although the above is heartfelt and true, it’s only half the story! Let’s have a Paul Harvey moment, and I’ll tell you the “Rest of the Story”! I have a t-shirt that reads, “Nurses. We can’t fix stupid, but we can sedate it!” Seriously, nursing
I asked, “When you go for hay, can you pick up needles too?” It all started with that simple question. Long time friends were at the farm for our regularly scheduled ‘Gang Day’. My question was followed by a flurry of jokes about needles and haystacks. Then, Liam asked why I needed needles. I explained, that the next day when we tagged sheep, I wanted to inject them with Vitamin B and Iron. Somehow, that casual question led to a hot, sweaty, slightly bloody, sheepish adventure. Hufflepuff and Old Faithful*, my two best friends, insisted it would be an ‘adventure’.
or When Drugs Helped Me Learn to Get a Straight Story from My Slow Talking Texan Husband “Houston, we have a problem.” I’m not sure I can convey the feeling of panic those few words conjure for me. They form my husband’s pat phrase for problems of all sizes. If he wants a sandwich for lunch, and the pastrami is frozen: Houston, we have a problem. If the mortgage company accidentally takes the mortgage payment out twice: Houston, we have a problem. If the tractor won’t start, the lawn mower has a flat, or ‘someone’ forgot to turn out the
…We Looked REALLY Redneck!
Bear with me, I’m going to be nerdy for just a second. I promise it’s relevant later. Ralph Waldo Emerson has been quoted as saying metaphysics is “a blind man, in a dark room, chasing a black cat which isn’t there.” For today’s post, allow me to go with the spirit of the quote, rather than the letter. I say that’s the definition of futility. After all, I think the futility of metaphysics was Emerson’s point. …I became the definition of futility! We have rabbits. More specifically, we have a breeding trio of rabbits. I like rabbits. They are quiet,
“Mama, I have your next Friday Funny!” Grace and I had a chat the other day about this week’s Fridays At the Funny Farm post. She asked what I had planned. I said, I’d considered either The Great Rabbit Roundup or Lambs: Tag You’re It. She was afraid we’d eventually run out of hijinks. I figure with three kids and a farm full of animals, we have a never ending supply. After our chat, I went to bed. (I’m a night nurse and a day sleeper.) When I woke, she greeted me at the foot of the stairs. With barely
…we bought a jackass in disguise! Each time I feed Finnbar, I sing a parody of Elvis Presley’s “Devil in Disguise”. It goes something like this:
…someone asked a stupid question. I know some amazing teachers. People who want to mold, guide and prepare future generations. I have tremendous respect for those folks, and there are several to whom I owe a great debt. However, we aren’t going to talk about them today. Today, we’re going to talk about Mrs. Wilcox. Mrs. Wilcox taught me important lessons. In the third grade, she taught that, not all teachers love their job, not all women love children, and that in 1979 not everyone had conquered their double-knit polyester addictions. Mrs. Wilcox looked like Dorothy Hamill’s over-worked discontent great-aunt