Manure--Nuts--Stolen Underwear

This morning, I donned my husband's winter jacket over my turquoise-flower printed pajamas then, tramped outside in my muddied hiking boots to feed the dog, cat, sheep, and let out the chickens. I was immediately struck by the oddity of the day's heat and moisture that made it seem like a budding spring day. The birds are singing loudly and I have the urge to plant flowers, not pick up nuts.

I'm sure that urge, or more aptly, that rebellion, is being generated from my thigh bones which are acting as if they're made of rubber.

Went out yesterday with my husband to gather nuts. He drove his noisy, gasoline powered nut picker, and I followed behind to pick up what he misses. (Because men are NATURALLY more mechanically oriented than women they control the machines and that's the reason that 9 out of 10 of them will eventually be fat, while only 7 out of 10 women will be.)

At one point, I was begging my husband to let me use the machine, but he couldn't hear me over the engine noise. I just couldn't bend over one more time so I gave up and went in the house to cook the evening's high-fat meal.

This morning I spotted a pen lying on the floor. I left it there. I just couldn't force myself to bend over to pick it up. Yes, I'm a cripple but my 47-year-old abdomen resembles my 19-year-old abdomen for the first time in decades, so it's worth it. I now understand why women endure the savagery of breast implants . . .we're so programmed to try and fit the physical ideale du jour that we happily embrace self-flagellation.

(I just suggested to my husband that he drive into the village for a croissant run. But he couldn't hear me over the noise of his nut-drier.)

I much prefer picking nuts without using the machine, but we are so overwhelmed with nuts, and so physically beat that we're FORCED to use the machine or lose all our beautiful nuts.

I guess my next Zen challenge is to learn to shut out the ANNOYING noise of the nut machine engine. Perhaps that triumph will come next year.

I don't know what we did right this year, but our nuts are so very big and beautiful that they look as if they've been doused with insecticides and fertilizer . . . the nut buyer won't believe that they're biologique.

I credit the sheep manure.

I've been throwing the chicken poop on my roses and the roses are thriving. . .it's mid October and they're blooming out in big blossoms right now. Problem is, working in my rose garden isn't that pleasant.

I'd much rather use sheep manure on the roses. Sheep poop actually has a pleasant smell if it isn't mouldering in a big pile. But, the Catch-22 is that if the sheep are out roaming in the pasture, throwing off good smelling poo, you can't collect it. . .they leave little pea-shaped pellets lying about.

For dinner I made a pork tenderloin wrapped in bacon, baked green beans, and an apple tart . . .my husband tried to incite me to ALSO make some brownies but I drew the line on the fat consumption for the day.

Roger paid us a visit yesterday morning. I was in the shower when he arrived so he chatted with my husband relating the troubling report that Attila was stealing his dog's bedding.

I thought Attila had pulled all those rugs out of our barn. He's so sneaky. I've never seen him return from Roger's with anything in his mouth.

I now understand why all those Parisian women are seen shopping with their dogs . . .I'm going to take Attila with me next time I make a visit to rue St. Honore! I will start teaching him how to read shoe sizes on Hermes boxes.

Roger and my husband gathered up the stolen rugs. Attila also has a mysterious pair of men's underwear but my husband didn't ask Roger if they belonged to him.