The worst idea ever

To establish my position in this story, I have to give a little background.

Last Monday night, we actually ate a dinner at a normal hour, washed dishes, then headed out on an irrigating adventure. When we returned, I was putting the dishes away while Brandon was on the computer.

So, we have scorpions, right. Brandon hunts them and sometimes tries to catch them. And he's been stung, an experience that told me I never wanted to be.

That night, I took one step over to reach into the cabinet, and felt something under my foot. When I looked down, all I could do was scream. And I mean scream.

It was a scorpion. RIGHT UNDER MY FOOT. Like, my foot was touching it. I remembered the kind of pain Brandon was in, and just knew it was going to get me. My reflexes finally kicked in, and I jumped back and stood there trying to catch my breath while Brandon came running into the kitchen asking what in the world was going on.

I finally mustered out, "Scorpion...scorpion...under my foot...almost got me...under the island...get it...get it..."

He slid the island back and killed the scorpion.

The next morning, I was browsing Craigslist, because that's we do occasionally. And I saw an ad in the Farm and Garden section for free kittens. It suddenly clicked: cats ate all kinds of little critters, and I knew I had heard they killed scorpions. We clearly had a scorpion issue.

I played it safe and sent Brandon a text, "Can we get a cat to kill things around here?"

He replied, "Tried it before. Doesn't work. They run off."

I took this response as he didn't really care, he just thought it wouldn't hang around. But it was free, so even if it ate just a few things and then ran off, no big deal.

So I picked up a cat. At this point I should probably mention neither of us even like cats. I never have. I always thought they were pretty disgusting, actually. And I was a little scared of them after my sister's cat bit me on the neck in the middle of the night when we were younger. Very traumatizing.

But here I was, bringing a cat home.

This was the same day I left the paper on the cheese in Brandon's sandwich. While he was eating in the truck, I broke the news, "So, that cat I was asking you about earlier? I got it."

"What? Katie, we just got rid of the goat two days ago, and now you got a cat? I'm going to come home tomorrow and there's going to be a giraffe in our yard."

"Well, you agreed they kill things and they're okay to have around."

"Yeah, they do. So it's a stray?"

"Well, it's mom was..."

"So it's a kitten? You got a kitten? What we needed was one of those nasty stray cats no one can get within 20 feet of, and you got a kitten."

"Ohhh, well you didn't specify that earlier. And this one was free. People don't put out ads for stray cats."

"No, they don't. You just have to find one and trap it."

At this point, it doesn't sound like such a bad idea, right? Just wait...

He loves me, he loves me not

I tried to be really nice a few days ago.

Brandon hadn't eaten lunch yet, and was pulling into the field below our house to start cutting hay in the afternoon. I made him a couple of sandwiches, (Yes, a couple are required. Don't let his waistline fool you.) and threw a granola bar, some fruit snacks and cookies into a lunch cooler for him.

When I met him at the lower end of the field, he just hopped in the truck with me for a few mintues to eat his sandwiches.

We're talking, and I notice him begin to pick at his sandwich.

"What's wrong? Does it taste funny?" I ask.

This was totally possible. On our weekend trip to Utah, the ice packs we had in the mini cooler with the lunch meat and deli cheese melted before we made it home. We both inspected everything when we got back and it seemed fine. No odor or mold.

"Oh, just the piece of paper that's on the cheese," he said.

Oops...

Racking up street credit

Yesterday, Brandon stopped by mid-morning for what he called his "first lunch". We had several different leftovers to choose from. He decided on cutting up some elk steaks for a burrito.

Burritos are Brandon's staple food. In fact, when we were trying to decide what he would have for his "second lunch" later that day, he said, "I'm not sure. There's only one tortilla left and it's torn up. It would have a blowout. And tortillas are the basis for just about everything I eat."

But back to first lunch.

He grabs a plate and cuts up one of the elk steaks. But now, he has meat cut up all over the plate, and it needs to go in a tortilla to be heated up. He stands back for a minute and says aloud, "Hmm, what to do?"

Apparently some sort of light bulb came on. He places the tortilla on top of the meat, with one hand on top of it, and grabs the plate with the other hand. He flips the plate over quickly, and all but three pieces of his steak end up in the tortilla in his hand.

"Did you see that!? It was pretty bad ass. I'm pretty proud of myself, to be honest with you. I should get some major street credit for that."

So that's how street credit is acquired. Tortilla flipping. Forget the pizza toss.

Ruffled feathers

I've been fairly in touch with my husband's likes and dislikes for quite some time now, but I recently came across a couple more things he's not so fond of. He let me know.

Ruffles

One day while Mason was visiting, we had about 45 minutes to kill in the midst of our work, so we ran over to the SuperTarget about a mile from Brandon's Grandma's house to walk around in the air conditioning.

As always, I made a quick pass through the women's clearance racks. This is what my idea of "shopping" consists of. When I have to go into a store that sells clothing for some other reason (groceries, Band-Aids, computer gear), I pass by the clearance section. It has treated me pretty well so far. I realized a couple months ago I haven't spent more than $8 on any one article of clothing since I moved to Arizona.

Until this one day. A bright yellow shirt in the middle of the rack caught my eye.

Of course, the first thing I checked was the price tag. The red clearance price was $11. Out of my self-appointed price range. I almost didn't even try it on. But there was something about this shirt I really liked, so I took it to the dressing room against my better judgment.

And it fit perfectly. I loved it. I spent the next 20 minutes trying to decide if I was going to buy it. I told Mason about my dilemma, but he just rolled his eyes.

Now, Brandon normally doesn't have much of an opinion about my clothing choices. Even when I beg for one. I guess it's because he likes most everything else in my wardrobe. Until the yellow ruffle shirt.

He didn't know what to call the ruffles. He just knew he didn't like them.

"It just has all that stuff on the front," he said, "It's just all out there. And you've never worn anything like that. Maybe that's what it is. You just don't normally wear clothes like that."

Nope. The next time I tried to put it on?

"I just really don't like that shirt."

So I'll look forward to a Girls' Night, where I can wear my yellow ruffled shirt.

Bangs

There's only so much you can do with short hair. This last time I got mine cut, I wanted to do something a little out of the ordinary. I saw a few pictures with chunky bangs, and decided to go for it.

The lady didn't even make them that thick and chunky. Just thick enough they were obvious. When we were getting ready for Jamie Rovey's rehearsal dinner, Brandon walked by the mirror while I was working on the bangs.

He said, "Those things make it look like you're from the 1970s."

"What, my bangs? I kind of liked them. And Mason gave me a thumbs up the day I got them." (Seriously, that's what he did. He was my consultant before I left to get it cut, and approved the bang decision. When I got back, he just walked in the house, gave a silent thumbs up, and left.)

After several different days of conversation like this, I finally asked him over the weekend, "So no more bangs next time, huh?"

"Nah, I like you better the other way."

Note: None of Brandon's comments about the ruffles or bangs were in bad taste. They weren't against me - they all referenced the ruffles and the bangs. We're just very straightforward and honest about things like that. And I like it that way.

The beauty of Craigslist

Yesterday was a pretty big day for us.

The Goat* found a new home.

We decided many months ago it was time for The Goat to go. She was fun when we first got her. She ran through the yard and played with the dogs, chased cars driving past our house, and helped eat the grass and weeds in the yard.

Then one day, she started eating the trees. The baby fruit trees we were lugging a five gallon bucket all over the yard to water at the time.

Then The Goat ate one of the bird of paradise plants on the porch. Down to a one inch stem. Someone told us later goats were allergic to those plants. Our goat must have been mighty resilient, because she did this five times.

Then she escaped to the neighbors' yard (we don't have a gate, it was our fault), and we got a phone call saying she was reared up on their front glass door, and they thought she might break it.

Even under close supervision, she kept getting to the trees and plants we wanted to grow, and would hardly touch the weeds we didn't.

So, The Goat has been living confined in her pen, all alone, for quite a while now. It was sad, really. Every morning I would let the dogs out, and she would run along the side of her pen hollering at them until I put them up that evening. She was only quiet when eating and when the dogs were in the pen next to her. As a result, she always had a potbelly because I fed her all day long to kept her quiet.

We hadn't really done anything to actively seek a home for The Goat. Then last week, Brandon suggested I put her on Craigslist.

So last Wednesday morning, I added a listing for The Goat, with one free bale of hay. I think I titled it "Free Hay with Goat," thinking the hay was probably more appealing than the goat. I called Brandon to let him know The Goat had been posted.

He said, "So, you put The Goat on Craigslist the day we're leaving town and won't be around for people to come check her out?"

Me: "Yeah, pretty much...I'll take it off."

I reposted The Goat Sunday morning, 12 hours after we returned from Utah.

Just two hours later, someone called wanting to come take a look. An hour after that, he showed up and agreed to buy her. And half an hour later, he came back to pick her up, strapped her down in the back of his truck, loaded up a bale of alfalfa, and handed me my money.

And that, my friends, is why we're such big fans of Craigslist.



*The Goat really is the goat's name. When I asked Brandon last year if I could get her, his only condition was she had to have a name when she came home. We tried out several different names the first two weeks she was here. He eventually agreed nothing fit, and we just stuck with The Goat. Even had it printed on her dog tag. I didn't tell the people who bought her we called her The Goat.

Ants go marching...

Through our living room.

That's right. The latest Leister household disturbance was a pile of ants. And yes, I do mean a pile.

I had offered to actually make breakfast Wednesday morning. Once a norm in our house, sitting down together for breakfast is nearly unheard of these days. It was the first morning in a long while one or both of us didn't have to run out the door to change water or tend to something else on the farm. So on Tuesday night, we decided we would have blueberry waffles for breakfast.

Brandon wasn't feeling so great that morning, so he landed on the couch for a bit while I finished working the waffle iron. I went to warn him the last waffle was nearly finished, and as I entered the living room, I saw what I thought was a pile of dirt at the entryway.

Just as I opened my mouth to yell at politely mention to Brandon he left dirt from his boots there, I noticed the pile was moving.

I leaned in closer. Not dirt at all. Just hundreds, maybe millions, or red ants lining our baseboard.

"Oh my goodness!" (Yes, I really do say that. A lot, actually.) "Brandon, we have ants in here!"

"What? What are talking about?"

"Come here. Look at this. They're everywhere."

"Whoa. How did I not notice that when I came in here?"

"Um, not going to say that thought hadn't crossed my mind too."

"Do we have any ant killer?"

"I don't know. Isn't that your department? I mean, if we did, it would be in the Man Closet, right?"

Brandon, after rummaging through the natural disaster known as the Man Closet — in my kitchen: "All we have is wasp and hornet spray, but I'll give it a try."

The ants did die. But when I went to vacuum them up later, I started at the baseboard where the huge mound was, and worked backward. And found ants scurrying all across the living room carpet.

I vacuumed up what I could find, and we left for Utah a couple hours later. Here's hoping we don't come home to an all-out invasion.

Fuzzy navel

After supper last night, between baling and roadsiding our sudan hay across the street, Brandon wanted ice cream.

The Blue Bell flavor currently in stock at our house is Peaches & Homemade Vanilla.

About halfway through our bowl of ice cream (we shared, because I didn't want much), Brandon says, "I don't really like those peaches in there."

Me: "That's funny. You like to mix peaches in with our homemade ice cream, so I thought you would like this one."

Him: "No, not really. I mean, they're okay, I just like the plain, creamy ice cream better."

Note taken. No more Peaches & Homemade Vanilla.

Later, I look over, and see Brandon scratching the back of his neck with his big spoon. Then dipping it right back in the bowl - the bowl we're sharing, mind you - for another big scoop.

Did I mention he had been out working? Irrigating, then baling hay?

Me: "That is really gross."

Him: "What? It's just my neck."

Me: "Yeah, your dirty neck. That just polluted my ice cream, too."

There were only about three bites of ice cream left, including one with a giant piece of peach in it. Brandon went after the first two, so I dove in for the third. As my spoon is making its way out of the bowl, he starts scraping away the ice cream surrounding the peach.

Me: "Hey, I wanted that!"

Him: "Well, I just didn't want that peach."

Me, laying down my spoon: "Well I didn't want just the peach either. I don't want it anymore."

Him: "I don't want it either. I'll just throw it away."

Me: "Fine. It probably has your neck scales on it anyway. With pieces of sudan grass."

Him: "Ok, I'll eat it."