Goat Romance

I told this story to a vendor at the Eugene Holiday Market last Sunday and she started tearing up, saying there was hope yet for good relationships out there. Her response made me consider sharing it with you, although tears are optional because it made me laugh as well.

For those of you just tuning in, friends in Southern Oregon have a couple of kids. Nothing unusual about that, except the “kids” are goats. And by goats I mean hairy beasts with pointy horns and cloven hooves. So what? Lotsa people have goats.

Yes, but in their homes? Goats that lounge by the fire chewing cud or sit on the couch watching television and cuddling with their human “parents?” How many goats you know that have their own Santa stockings hanging from the mantle or wear leopard print customized diapers? Yeah, that’s what I thought.

Because 150-lb goaties that dwell indoors take a lot of work, Goat Papa decided to take Goat Mama on a romantic holiday come Christmas. Last August, after he discovered that her favorite musician, Italian tenor Andrea Bocelli, would be in Las Vegas for a one-night only concert, he knew his challenge, should he accept it, would be to get her to that concert without her knowing. In other words, a surprise.

But a very important piece of information is that Goat Mama, while human, is more like a dog with a bone. If she even whiffs of a hint of a plot, she’ll dig and dig AND dig until she unearths it. Goat Papa knew who he was up against and decided to take her on.

Formulating his plan, the first step was to throw her off the scent. Concocting a story about winning free tickets to a Barry Manilow concert in Vegas, he managed to invent an email to himself from the “radio station” that she would stumble upon. Because he kept the free concert fable under wraps, Goat Mama thought she discovered something she wasn’t supposed to and when confronting Goat Papa with it, he acted all disappointed that his “surprise” was ruined. She was cackling, pleased to have discovered his secret.

But did she? Mwa ha ha.

Of course, Groom and I were in on it from the beginning, so we managed the appropriate combination of glee, horror and happiness for a convincing response when they told us about their plans of flying to Sin City to become “Fanilows” for an evening.

His mother was also in on the plot. She purchased the spendy Andrea Bocelli tickets using her own credit card so there would be no paper trail for her blood hound of a daughter-in-law to chance upon.

And then there was the inevitable moment when Goat Mama learned that her beloved Bocelli was appearing in Las Vegas, for one night only on the very same evening as the “stupid Manilow concert.” Oh the lamenting. Of course, she had to check into ticket pricing and was even more disappointed to discover that at this late date only the very expensive seating remained (uh, gulp, like $2,000 a piece).

Up to the final minute, when the limousine picked them up from their Luxor Hotel around 7pm this past Saturday evening, December 11, 2010, she still had no clue. As their swanky ride headed toward The MGM Grand Garden Arena, Goat Papa played the offensive and commented how few signs there were advertising the Manilow concert. A little sulkily, she mumbled that it was because he was no big deal anymore. Ouch!

Cuddling in the back seat of the stretch, he handed her a card in which he professed his ever-present love and finally, after months of plotting, planning, close calls and hand wringing, gifted her with the real concert tickets. What, no Barry Alan Pincus Manilow after all? In an instant, her desire became manifest… great seats to hear the blind, enigmatic opera singer, Andrea Bocelli. Oh gracious, the water works. I hope they got flood insurance for the limo.

Of course, we heard about this blow-by-blow as texting is an easy and convenient way to convey quick messages such as “in the limo now.” But we also received a phone call right away, as soon as she had those hot tickets in hand. Phew! So glad the cat’s out of the bag.

Although Andrea has a gorgeous voice, personally, it also would have been fun to hear, “Her name was Lola, she was a show girl with yellow feathers in her hair and a dress cut down to there…” on the strip from the man himself.

Whatever your tastes, you can’t argue with love.

Tastes Like Chicken

Last week, after a friend’s goat stepped on my head (I have video proof!), I wasn’t too sure about goats…but after this week’s adventure, I can honestly say I like goat. Especially with curry!

We discovered this by traveling to Bill Gatesland, home of the Sea Hawks, the Huskies, Seattle Grace and Dr. Frasier Crane.

Spontaneously boarding an articulated bus (note, if you want some extra fun, try sitting in the bellow seats, they’re super bouncy), Groom and I rode the public transport to the Fremont neighborhood where we sauntered past an Indian Restaurant. Our stomachs growled us into submission (was that yours or mine?), so we stopped to read the large menu board posted near the sidewalk. We both saw it at once.

We looked at each other. “Dare we?”

We dared and it was delicious! Goat meat is not gamey like I’d feared. It’s less fatty than lamb, so it was a perfect combination of texture and flavor. Lip smackety good.

Groom and I are such nerds. Our definition of fun is going to the Planetarium at OMSI in Portland on the way up, having sushi lunch with Bee Bugg, almost getting kicked out of Whole Foods in the Pearl District (they thought Frida was a food spy! Hee-larious), and viewing a Coffee Exhibition at the Burke Museum.

We attended John Fluevog’s birthday celebration on Friday the 15th and each got a pair of shoes. Whoo hoo, mine are bright orange. On Saturday, we hung out with the highest-ranking non-fiction writer on Amazon.com (you can look that up if you want to see who it is) and together were shanghaied into a conversation by complete strangers about the Northwest disappearing into the sea within the next 18 months. Yeah, that was fun.

The other fun thing was the U-District Street fair. The weather in Seattle was positively gorgeous, a miracle in and of itself, but sales were down from last year. Sigh, I know. Want to know by how much? One dollar. I’m not kidding, so I’m doing a little jig.

You’ve heard the phrase, “April showers bring May flowers,” well, here’s another springtime observation. When the sun finally comes out after a long spate of rain, so do the people and who doesn’t love the first of the summer B.O.?

Parades of humanity flowed past our booth, the unwashed masses in their blinding white skin suits, several of them offering their bodies for cash. One guy held a hand written sign advertising you could punch him in the stomach for five bucks while other bright individuals were letting folks staple crisp green Lincolns to their foreheads with a staple gun. Ka thunk, ka ching!

Which might explain why I had a dream that Jane Seymour (the actress, not one of King Henry’s the VIII’s harem) was Miley Cyrus’ mother. I do not know what a Hannah Montana is, but I’m pretty sure Jane S. and Billy Ray did not make it.

But I did catch that episode of My Name is Earl, where Joy, who is White-Trash American, falls in love with Ms. Seymour’s open heart necklace sold by Kay Jewelers and just had to have one.

Every day is a learning opportunity and I learned something new just today. People skills.

Or the opposite of people skills. A woman came into the booth wearing a Jane Seymour open heart necklace sold by Kay Jewelers and recognizing the design, I asked her, “Is that a Jane Seymour open heart necklace sold by Kay Jewelers?

The woman smiled and nodded, her hand instinctively touching the pendant hanging around her neck suspended from a chain, pleased that I had noticed. People skills.

Hey, I saw that episode of Earl,” I told the customer. “Joy sure wanted that necklace bad.”

Oopsey, she was not flattered.

But I was when a very handsome man in a sharp suit gave Groom the full body sweep with his eyes. “Oh my goodness, did you see that?” I squealed, “He was soooo checking you out!”

“He was not,” Groom deferred. (Pause...)“But if he was, did he like what he saw?”

“Ho baby, you got the Dude glance.”

There’s no phobia taking place here, just a milestone. Over the last ten months, Groom has lost 60 pounds and can fit into something other than Diego Rivera’s overalls. With his designer zapatos and form-fitting togs, he finally got the urban seal of approval from a well-dressed fancy man in downtown Seattle. I think my husband is becoming a Metro-sexual.

It’s been fun to watch people’s reactions to him, especially those who haven’t seen him in a while. As the Art Fair season has just begun, we’re at the starting point of visiting our annual destinations and the difference is quite evident.

A woman gasped when she saw him and boldly ordered him to lift up his coat (to his T-shirt) so she could “see his belly.” She gave it a love smack with her hand and after making certain the weight loss was intentional, congratulated him.

We ran into an artist who had also lost a significant amount of weight and while oohing and aahing over her, she confessed Groom had inspired her into it. You go girl!

At the Burke Exhibition, we learned that goats discovered coffee. Shepherds, while watching their flocks by night, noticed how the herd caught a buzz after eating the red berries from a flowering plant that smelled like gardenias.

I’m a little sleepy, so I think I’ll grab a freshly brewed cup of that red berry juice.

“Tossed salad and scrambled eggs, they’re calling again, good night Seattle…”

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.