Queen Mums For a Day

Happy Mother's Day to all of you who are moms, have moms, or know a mom ... be sure to treat her like a queen today.

We are combining our mom visit with Medford's annual Art in Bloom festival. For the next few hours you can find us in our traditional location on the plaza by the Ginger Rogers Theater - so far the weather is holding out, but you may want to make it quick!

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Whatever The Weather

What do moms, kids, and shopping have in common? Mother's Day is a good guess, but that's next weekend. If you add art, rain, and the OSU campus to the list, you get Mom's Weekend. Those proud parents of educated Beavers converge upon Corvallis, and spend the next couple of days visiting frats or sororities, attending a variety of events, and generally getting to sample a bit of life on the quad.

One of the events is the annual Art Faire, and thus, here we find ourselves as well. Kudos to those who braved the less than appealing weather and browsed the booths, and fie to those who didn't (did I mention this used to have a Rennaissance theme?).

Anyway, this is our first on-the-road entry for the season, but don't fear - I'm sure things will get more interesting as the weather improves...

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Never approach a goat from the front, a horse from the back, or a fool from any side.

- Jewish proverb

Oregon has many interesting places to lay one’s head. There’s a bed and breakfast in the trees called Out’n’About Treesort near Cave Junction, the historic lodge at Crater Lake (which has bragging rights as the deepest lake in the United States and is considered a natural wonder), the writerly-themed Sylvia Beach Hotel at the coast, the purportedly haunted Heathman Hotel in Portland or a Tudor style Inn near the Shakespearean Festival in Ashland. But there’s no place quite like Goat Mama and Papa’s.

To recapra (ha ha, Capra means goat in Latin), our friends in the Rogue Valley have rescued two baby goats that live part time in their house (the other part in their customized garage-stable or sizable yard). Of course, a couple years have passed since the adoption and those darling kids are now full grown behemoths, no longer wearing leopard print customized diapers, having been somewhat house broken.

I say somewhat, because the parents still have to be cautious, making sure the girls’ horns don’t puncture the artwork on the wall while playing on the back of the couch, they don’t nibble poisonous plants or eat the kitchen sink.

I just had a thought (surprise!). If Capra means goat in Latin, is a Capricorn a mix between a goat and a unicorn?

I’m not sure what a “spiritual enticement” is, but we saw this sign while visiting Grants Pants over the weekend. We had our own woo-woo moment the first morning we woke up at our friend’s house. While I fumbled with the coffee pot, Groom suddenly pointed to the reflection on Goat Mama’s cupboard.

As plain as you can see, there was a cross shimmering on their newly installed cabinet. I lunged for the camera as Groom waved his hands about trying to figure what in tarnation was casting the shadow. It was a comical scene, me snapping away as a pre-caffeinated hubby did his best to find the originator. Along with the garlic braids, we felt very safe from Vampire attacks, and, Blessed.

Follow me while I jump ahead a few days…

On Sunday evening, after taking down the booth and loading the van when Art In Bloom had finally closed, we walked back into our friend’s house. All the lights were off and it was unusually quiet. Uh-oh…

Phew! Everything was “normal.” They were all curled up on the couch together, cuddling and cudding. There’s nothing quite like the sight of two full grown goats ruminating (chewing their regurgitated food) on the couch while watching television. I take that back, one of the goats was on the couch while the other was stretched out in the recliner, each with an adoring parent petting or combing the pampered lassies.

With five cats and two goats, it’s a common occurrence, although a tad unsettling, to find any one of them on our air mattress, or perhaps discover a “present” they’ve left behind. Creatures of habit, these cloven hoofed beasties require all manner of food and snackies practically around the clock.

In addition to the fresh hay in a manger, the grass in the back forty, and what else can be rooted, foraged and cleverly grasped, Goat Mama provides them with various and assorted treats. They are ga-ga for the almond butter she slathers on her index finger and bravely inserts into their mouths. Baby is gentle, while Honey Bunches of Goats prefers a bite of dactyl to go with her nut spread. Ouch!

They are cuckoo for dried oats served in silver bowls, mushed bananas to the point of liquification, pumpkin innards, and special organic alfalfa hors d’oeuvres. To say these goats are spoiled, well, that would simply be stating the obvious.

Raised in the country, Goat Mama had horses, donkeys, dogs, cats, guinea pigs, and skunks as playmates. Well, the skunks were actually squatters, making their presence odiferously apparent, but the point is she grew up around a variety of animals and is more comfortable around them than the two-legged kind.

She has her own language and patter and can be overheard clucking, bleating, purring, barking or growling. Goat Mama has amazing animal intelligence and can nurture any species. They instinctively know this and untold numbers of wounded critters have managed to find their way to her house so she will take care of them.

As a two-legged varmint myself, I don’t fascinate her the way I would if I had tusks, talons, beaks, wings, fur, feathers, tails or paws. I do have whiskers, but that’s a personal issue that requires tweezers and a magnification mirror.

It was a precious gift to spend Mother’s Day with my folks, see old friends, try new restaurants, and go treasure antiquing. We found some very cool vintage pieces to retrofit into our new line of necklaces, and while we’re on the momentary topic of neck girdles, we successfully sold more, breaking another record, so we’re doing the happy dance about that!

In the aftermath of relishing our visit, I am also glad to be back in our own house, sleeping in our own bed, snuggling with our own cat. As the enduring wisdom of Dorothy rings true, “There’s no place like home.”

Getting Your Goat

At this moment I have no idea what to write about. In the last installment, I simply wanted to eat chocolate, watch mindless television, have a full body massage with benefits and take a break from personal growth lessons, but instead Companion and I went to Southern Oregon over the weekend to spend Mother’s Day with my folks and do an art show.

There’s no room at the Inn, so to speak, at the family hut, so we stay with friends whenever we make the trek to the Rogue Valley. This sounds like a normal arrangement, except, well, they’ve recently adopted a couple of kids and we’re adjusting.

And when I say “kids,” the common image of human children might sproing to mind, perhaps a couple of diapered brats running wild, spoiled kidlings with bottles and toys and general mayhem in their wake.

And yes, this is the case, only the kids are not human, they are goats. Yes, that’s right, I said “goats,” as in barnyard critters with cloven hooves, curved horns and voices that can wake the dead. Only these particular beasts wear diapers, sit on the couch or curl up comfortably next to the fireplace.

We were awakened each morning at 7am by a baby goat bleating and then bottle fed in our sleeping quarters.

In addition to the heavily aromatic goat’s milk, the “kids” are hand fed rose petals, plums (which give them the appearance of wearing lipstick), pears, bananas, organic corn chips, carrots, apples, uncooked oatmeal and the occasional Wheat thin.

The kids are named Baby and Honey Bunches of Goats. When they aren’t climbing the recliner, watching television or having their diapers changed, they have a large back yard to frolic in and specially built structures to mount.

For their outside meals, they scarf creep (starter pellets), inhale grass hay, and forage for bamboo and lilacs, but their very favorite snack involves stripping the butterfly bush.

Keeping an eye on these two is a full time job. To protect them from eating things lethal, Friends have constructed fencing around their rhododendrons and azaleas and learned via an upset stomachs (they each have two) that wilted leaves from stone fruit is a bad idea.

Goats are obsessed with their mouths and are constantly on the hunt for things to put in them. MamaFriend must pay attention at all times and whenever I’m in proximity, any string, button or loop from my clothing instantly becomes a teething ring. Can you say goat slobber?

To ruminate means to mull something over. Goats are ruminators, as in they eat and chew, eat and chew and finally swallow only to have the food land in one stomach and then come up again a bit later like a mini-vomit for them to chew some more and redirect to their spare stomach.

And here’s a little hard-earned advice: Never fart in a goat’s face.

Rooting around for food, Baby shoved her face in my bikini area. I certainly was not pleased by this turn of events, but became even more embarrassed when the male of the household announced in his baritone voice, “Oh, someone must be near their moon.” Okay, he didn’t say it quite that gracefully, but I’m already turning six shades of red.

Immediately repositioning my body to avoid further truffling, she took offense and began posturing for dominance. Disinterested in fighting with a goat, I assumed the more mature position and started to walk away. Holding a wee grudge for the Aunt Flo shoutout, I gifted her with a SBD (silent, but deadly) as payback. This gave her room for pause.

She stopped in her tracks and I swaggered down the hall, victorious in my own small way.

I didn’t see it coming.

Leaving something to sniff was my first mistake, turning my back on her was the second. Lowering her head and pawing at the white plush carpet like a bull in the ring, she snortled a puff of smoke and charged, ramming me in the tush with her horns.

Eeeeeeeeeeeee!!! Guest abuse, guest abuse.

Here comes a segue. Yep, that was it. Making a slight right turn in conversation, on Sunday, while at the show, an old high school crush and his wife came by to see us. It’s no secret to all parties involved that I used to scribble his name with hearts all around it on my Pee Chee, and still, we have an annual tradition of saying hello. I won’t tell you who he is, but I will let slip that he is related to a famous country singer and a serial killer.

He was a bit surprised to learn I don’t cook and I reminded him that I did not exactly pop out of the Traditional Box. Which is why, after the show, we went to my mom’s house so that Companion could cook her a lovely Mother’s Day meal (we had pasta carbonara, in case you are curious).

We brought our own pots and pans along with some spices and the ingredients, but forgooed any utensils. “Mother-in-Law,” Companion called, “where might I find a spatula?”

“A what?” she said entering the kitchen, a puzzled expression on her face.

“You know, a plastic scrapey thing or maybe a wooden spoon?”

“Hmmmm,” she ruminated and began looking in the oven and under the sink. After searching through this cupboard and that, she finally pulled open a drawer that contained an ice pick, a fondue fork and an old timey cheese grater. “Oh there’s my utensil drawer,” she said relieved to have found it.

“That’s it?” we said, peering inside the lonely drawer, as if we stared hard enough the tools required might materialize.

“Would this help?” Mom said, holding up a partially melted plastic ladle she pulled from somewhere mysterious.

Companion blew dust off it and shrugged. He proceeded to fry bacon with the whitley ladle and in fact, made the entire dinner with it (the fondue fork would have scratched our non-stick cookware). I was proud to watch him improvise in my mother’s “Kitchen,” and pleased that he was my Groom instead of the country singer slash serial killer’s cousin.

I smiled, knowing that even though I did not grow up with Betty Crocker (my mom’s favorite culinary text is Phyllis Diller’s I Hate to Cook cookbook), she taught me enough life skills to marry a domestic god. Thanks mom!

Setting the card table, I asked where the placemats were hiding. She handed me a roll of paper towels and said, “Here are the placemats and the napkins.”

Over dinner, she asked, “What does your Friend’s mother think of the goats?”

“Oh, she loooooves them. She bought a Grandma’s Brag Book, loaded it with photos and takes it down to the Senior Center to show them off.”

After dinner and dishes (I had to wash them with the placemats, i.e. the paper towels, as she doesn’t believe in sponges), we sat around and watched a video of Barbershop Quartets.

I considered the weekend full of masticating goats, unstocked kitchens and musical preferences and realized I didn’t have a criticizing word to say, after all, I carry around a doll and use her “voice” and point of view to write.

Question: What’s the classic definition of humor? Answer: Someone falling down. What’s the definition of tragedy? Me falling down.

Therefore, what’s the definition of weird? Pretty much anything anyone else does.

Monkey Mom

This week’s activities included a pre-Mother’s Day tea at a 105 year-old chapel. This historic Cloverdale Meeting House is currently available as a beautiful site for weddings and other social gatherings. In our event, friends congregated to sell wares, sip exotic rose milk, nosh on handmade chocolate and exchange bits of old fashioned gossip. Wanna hear some?

Let’s see…God’s Minion just became a grandmother for the second time (Congratulations!), Kimmmm’s husband is being presented with the Ashden Award for Sustainability (Way to go!), Bo Peep was commissioned by said husband to create a top hat to be worn for his audience with Prince Charles (Yeah, Baby!), Sister was bit bad by a dog (Ouch! Sorry, honey), Chakra Girl is learning to Salsa (move those hips, darlin’), cousin Mary designed us kimono’s from material brought back from Japan (Thank you!) and I overheard a musical friend talk about her “glory hole.”

Conversation was brought to a halt with that one. Huh? Upon further explanation, we learned that a glory hole is a warm place where something hard is put to melt. Yeah, that didn’t really clear things up too much. There might have been something about glass blowing in there as well.

Which brings me to this week’s spelling mishap. I’ve already mentioned Brande Roderick’s flexible use of the American language (remember “forgooed?”), but I think she may have been eliminated from the competition by pulling a Dan Quayle. While expressing frustration, Brande tried to spell crap and came out with “s-r-a-p.”

To rap, er, wrap this up, I’m pretty tired and don’t have the energy to share my windy lesson on intention and resistance. I’d rather snuggle up with Companion and watch “Project Runway,” dish on girls behaving badly (Ms. Joan and Melissa “Oh grow up” Rivers), contemplate who’d make the better, ahem, “coffee” date, the character Patrick Jane on The Mentalist or Detective Sam Tyler from Life on Mars.

I want a full body massage, to be fed chocolate, to sleep for awhile, to have toe-curling “coffee,” and not have to be anywhere or do anything or process information or learn any lessons or be challenged for a little while. Yes, I want to indulge in mindless television without losing brain cells and eat junk food without gaining weight.

On that indulgent note, I’d like to wish all the women out there a Happy Mother’s Day! Whether you diaper a goat (you know who you are), nurse a cat, pamper a dog, or have a human animal, it all counts. We nurture the earth, each other, our men, our creativity, our bodies, our businesses, our minds, our pocket books, our homes, our parents and hopefully, ourselves.

Speaking of moms, I was on the phone last night with Sister, checking on her wounded finger, when she told me this story about our mother that she’d just heard. After the telling, we argued as sisters are wont to do. “No way, that’s not true.”

“Oh, yes it is, go call and ask her yourself.”

“Fine, I will,” etc. etc.

I hung up with Sister and dialed Mother. Okay, more accurately, there was no dialing involved using a cell phone, but it doesn’t sound right to say “I hung up with Sister and punched Mother.”

“Mom, is it true?”

She verified that it was indeed.

“How come I’ve never heard this story before?”

Mom’s reply is so casual, “I don’t know, it didn’t last very long.”

“Tell me what happened!”

“I took Eldest child to the doctor and was holding her in my arms at the check in counter when I felt something tug at my leg. Naturally, I thought it was one of the other kids in the waiting room, but then the sensations dramatically changed and I turned my head just in time to see a monkey climb up my body.”

“A monkey? A real monkey? Are you sure it just wasn’t Sister as a toddler, she was so hairy and cute, you know, or another kid?”

“Oh no, this was way before you or Sister was born. It was a real monkey and all I could think was that it was going for my child.”

“What did you do?

“Oh, I don’t know, I think the woman it belonged to came and got it or something.”

“A monkey is climbing you and you don’t remember what happened?”

“It was a long time ago.”

Yep, that’s my mom, cool under pressure, doesn’t fuss much. If only I could get her to say in an Australian accent, “The monkey took my bay-bay.” Oh never mind. Love you mom.

As Mother’s Day is just around the corner, I’d like to leave you with a quote from the estimable Dan Quayle. “Republicans understand the importance of bondage between a mother and child.”

Oh, glory hole!