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April 30th, 2006

All week long I’ve been seeing signs posted here and there in our neighborhood: APRIL 29 SHEEP SHEARING AT KELSEY CREEK FARM.

Since last week I rode all the way to Eugene and back in order to observe a fence being built, I figured JB owed me a tedious activity this weekend, all the better if it was something that held zero appeal to him.

“We are going to watch sheep being sheared on Sunday,” I informed him. “And you have to go with me! To the sheep farm! Ha ha haaaaa, that’ll teach you, Mr. Fencey Von Fencerton!”

I reminded him on a daily basis (”Sheep! Being shaved! It’s going to be awesome!”) until this morning, when we arrived at the farm and walked past one of the ubiquitous APRIL 29 SHEEP posters.

“I wonder why there’s hardly anyone here,” I said. “Maybe because today is the 30th,” JB replied.

Well, all was not lost–I didn’t get to observe the hot man-on-sheep shearing action, which I had built up in my mind to be something like that dippy Australian guy running around after crocodiles (”Crikey, this one’s a beaut! Just look at the wool on this bugga!”), but the farm was so pretty and rural it was hard to believe we were right smack dab in our Bellevue stomping grounds. Riley rode in the backpack carrier, divvying his attention between the bucolic surroundings and the endless puzzle of the carrier’s straps.

Bok bok bok bok BUGAWK.

Taken in the reflection of a window.

JB, boy, and random horse.

Nothing can sneak up on the boy, for he has ninjalike hearing. Also, a deeply suspicious nature.

My turn with Riley. I love the backpack carrier, it’s so much more comfortable than the Bjorn thingamajig.

Farm relic.

:::

In other weekend news, in the brief periods during which Riley napped, I vacuumed the carpet twice, crammed an entire lemon down our sink disposal in an attempt to rid it of a horrifically foul mystery odor, picked several million sticky seed pod things off Dog, and cycled through about forty loads of laundry. We went to Home Depot twice, bought JB a massive package of socks at Fred Meyer, and visited Half Price Books where I purchased my own weight in used magazines.

It’s funny, sometimes I imagine my younger self being able to somehow observe my life today. “Oh my gah,” she’d say, rolling her eyes (which would be ringed like a panda with fifteen layers of Wet n’ Wild black eyeliner pencil, warmed for the task with a hair dryer) at how boring I’ve become.

“You just don’t understand yet,” I’d tell her. “This life, with all its earthly conventions and humdrum moments, is so happy. You are going to be so happy.”

Then I’d make her watch me putting on pink lipstick, just to blow her fucking mind.

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