Bad Apple

I have an iMac circa 2007 that is now considered "vintage". Are you F'ing kidding me? No. It is so slow it may as well be a paperweight and I have done everything possible to speed it up, but it's a no go. But what makes me so mad is that it still looks brand new, all silverey and flat and shiny with it's big glossy screen and I think it's so dumb. Not only do I have this doorstop, but I also have three laptops and another iMac in my attic that I can't seem to part with because even though they don't work anymore they still have my life in them. I even still have Old Blue the see through bubble Mac with a built in handle that was passed down to me by my sister so it has all the music on it from her life and then everything from my life thrown on top of it and I swear to Jesus I'm not a hoarder but I cannot get rid of these stupid things.

I am learning web design and this "vintage" Mac is just not going to cut it and I have to go to the Apple store with Wendy today because her phone decided to take a dirt nap but luckily it's still under warranty so she's getting a new one and I know as soon as my dirty Birkenstocks set foot in that store and I smell that new Mac smell and see all those flat flashy screens I'm going to be tempted. I've even looked into their finance programs and even though there's no option for trading in first borns, there is a program I could manage and I've already done all the mental back and forth about not even being able to begin any kind of design on my old Mac it's still a very big decision that makes me want to eat a pint of gelato.

I have to put on pants and go now, wish me luck. I'll update when I get home.

Waiting For A Baby

Now that I'm not just a farm blog, but an anything blog I have this new sense of freedom to talk about anything and everything which in turn leads me to the need to blog about everything all the time, to the point that I've even had to start a list of things that I want to talk about since there are so many and they come and go so fast in my brain that they'll fall out if I don't write them down somewhere, so I have a notes section on my phone where I keep track.

Today

My older sister's oldest daughter F is expecting her first baby ANY day now and I am DYING I am so excited! My sister J is in Colorado with F doing the countdown and F is still climbing mountains and carrying on like a super woman and I'm here crocheting and baking and eating and sleeping like I'm the one expecting. In my family, being the last one out of the womb definitely left me with a more lackadaisical outlook on life. My sisters take life very seriously and I'm more of a baloney (bologna?) sandwich kind of gal and that applies to everything from hair color to husbands, when I'm over it, I'm over it. On the other hand, they are both starters and finishers, one of them even more so than the other if that's even possible. If it's broke they fix it, if it's good they make it better and if it's great they stick with it and keep it going. So, it's no surprise that their children have followed in those footsteps and will no doubt raise children of their own like that. For instance, from the looks of things, I would estimate that F has gained somewhere around twelve ounces of body fat during her pregnancy and will probably jog home from the hospital to lose the baby weight. I, on the other hand gained the weight equal to that of a 1973 Volkswagen Beetle and am still fighting the good fight to work it off sixteen years later. I wore maternity underpants until Wyatt was three.

I think F's baby will probably learn sign language (In three languages) and be potty trained by twelve months, whereas Wyatt spoke Teletubby until he was four and then, once he had somewhat mastered the english language, began potty training by peeing off the porch. Don't get me wrong, my children are amazing people, they just caught a different bus. On the bright side though, I have some great stories to tell about them that will have you on the edge of your seat, some real nail biters.

Back to F. This will be my first grandniecechild and maybe what I'm most excited about, other than the whole "new life, new love" part is the part where my sister is going to be a grandmother. From now on she will wear the badge of age. Grammy, or whatever they call her, will be seated at the old lady table with me and even though she will for sure be the hot one and the one who doesn't look like a granny, she will still have to sit at that table with me, and how we got from the new mother chair to the grandma table SO fast is beyond me. I think we were pushed. Even though we have kids in their thirties, we still both have kids in their teens, so will someone please explain to me how that happens when you're not a Duggar.

But this is about F and now my eyes are getting soggy and I can't see very well so I'm going to say this quick. You are an amazing, smart, beautiful, fun and loving woman. I am so proud of you, and while I still have the chance to tell you as my first little niece with the giant head and shiny shoes, I want to say that I love you to the stars and moon, and then I want to be the first to tell you as a new mother how lucky this baby will always be to have you as a mother and your husband as a father. Enjoy every new moment and smell your baby's head a lot and then remember that smell every time you get angry because they broke your favorite whatever or ate cat poop at the beach. Those are all little things and love is a big thing and so long as you remember that you can handle almost anything. You'll still cry in the corner drinking gin every now and again, and that's ok too.

And now, I have to go, because the little bundle of love who calls me Tranny just left from his second sleepover this week and I have to pick Legos and noodles out of the rug while remembering the smell of his head.

New Blog!

Well Everyone, The Fat Bottom Farm has run it's course. I don't have enough to post about since I don't have much of a farm left anymore. Since my heart attack and rotten arterial issues that have followed I have had to considerably downsize the "operation". Because of this I haven't been blogging because I haven't felt like I've had anything relevant to say.
But, since I do have a love for blogging and talking and sharing I have decided to start another blog about our life past and present. Stories about the kids and family, chickens and sheep, dogs and cats, soap and crochet, and funny stories about how we got to where we are today.
I hope you'll take a minute to read the post or two I have up on the new sight and see if you'd like to make the switch.
The Park Supervisor
Hope to see you there!

Brownies and Gin

I'm fat.

Like soft squishy grandma (or in my case Tranny) fat, except the problem is, grandmas don't look like me anymore. Now they all look like Kris Kardashian or Beverly Hills Housewives or even just Old Navy Gap grandmas and I don't know how this happened or even who gave the ok for it to happen. I blame it on Obama and the Internet. Because I don't know who else to blame. Facebook. Maybe Facebook too because everyone is always flaunting their perfect beer and gluten free dinner, hiking to the top of the world after forty pictures.

It really pisses me off Man, because I was ready for this job. I cook, I bake, I crochet, I have a great reading out loud voice, I go to bed early and I have a rotten heart condition so I get the grips and have to rest a lot. Doesn't all that fall into the grandmother job description? Not anymore. Listen, I want to be wearing elastic waistbands and shopping at the dollar store. I want to watch my stories in the afternoon and not be hassled about it. I have served my time with six husbands, two kids and multiple love interests and now I get the word that I still have to touch up my roots, trim my nethers (which I never knew was a thing until a year or so ago) and wax my facial hair and I don't want to. And on top of all this, it turns out that I need to do all of these things just because I'm a self respecting adult under ninety, not even because I'm trying to find a man, which, I most certainly am not.

Two days ago I was watching a movie with the Very Bad Baby (Who is not very bad nor is he a baby anymore but the name stuck) and as I reached for something he gasped in horror and said "TRANNY! Your armpits are falling out!!!" I'm not even kidding you, he thought my under arm flab was my armpit falling out. I think the child has been damaged for life, although when I explained to him that I just have old lazy arms he told me that his Papa had old lazy legs which immediately made me feel better.

So here's the rub. I have two great niecechildren being born in the next few months and a niece wedding to attend next summer and I would like to be down a size or two, but weight loss seems to constantly elude me and weight gain is consistently falling in my lap. And hips, and ass, and thighs...

All of these events will ultimately lead to photos with me in them at some time and I don't want to be the sweaty aunt with fallen armpits in the photos, or herded away from the horsdoeurves table, because right now, I swear to Jesus, this would be me. I even have the same outfit.

I can't get out and run a mile and I can barley hold back my own weight when fighting over a chicken leg. I've tried the juice diet, the low carb diet, the gluten free diet, the no sugar diet and none of it works... Long term. I am in the process of eating less meat and more real food like fruits and vegetables, but I'm telling you STRAIGHT up NONE of it tastes as good as Ben & Jerry's or warm brownies. And so, I'm at a loss. Not of weight, but ideas and hope of ever being hot again. Do I give in to my dream of the sweet life of elastic and polyester or do I keep up the fight? For now I guess I'll go eat some grapes and have a glass of water. Mainly because I don't have any Ben and Jerry's or brownies and gin.

Monkey Bread

One of my favorite short cut trailer park Sunday snacks has got to be monkey bread. Do you know what monkey bread is? It's not bread made with monkey parts and I think it's just called monkey bread because you can pull it apart. Like a monkey. I've made monkey bread off and on for years, but my favorite monkey bread memory is when I used to get the bread dough from the Schwanny Man who would come through the park I lived in every Wednesday evening.

Wyatt (who was four or five at the time) had a big window in his room that opened onto the driveway so when Doug the Schwanny Man would come through he would stop and we would all run to the window and Wyatt would usually get an ice cream and I would get whatever overpriced frozen goods I needed for the week.

After a month or so of Doug being on our route, he got to know the ice cream we liked, my favorite frozen snacks, pizzas, burritos, etc, and of course the frozen white bread dough that I would get every other time or so. As time went on Doug had become curious what I did with all the bread I was making from the frozen bread dough and so I told him I didn't make just any bread, I made monkey bread.  He had no idea what I was talking about. Doug, The Schwanny Man, peddler of frozen goods, didn't know what monkey bread was. So, since Doug was not only handsome, but also well connected in convenient and quick to prepare food circles, I decided to make my move. I invited The Schwanny Man over for monkey bread on Sunday morning and not only did he take the bait, he ran with the line, and my fishing pun is intentional because he said that he would come over after fishing the river early Sunday morning. I seriously thought I had scored a winner at this point, he was so manly, a fisherman, (Which is another story for another day...) handsome, employed and was interested my monkey bread.

Sunday rolled around and I was ready. I had balled up, dipped, sugared and baked a perfect batch of bread, the trailer was clean, the coffee was fresh and Wyatt was being quiet watching the Power Puff Girls in the back bedroom. In other words, my man trap was set, all I needed was the man, and as if on que, he rolled in the park ready for romance.

He smelled of the river and his feet were wet, so he sat back in my big comfortable chair, rolled up his pants, unlaced his boots, took off his wet socks and pulled the recline bar. I brought him a hot cup of coffee just the way he asked for it and handed him the remote. It was really like a dream, here was this handsome man, with a job, sitting in my living room, drinking my coffee, eating my monkey bread, reclined in my chair and watching football. I was in heaven. I was already planning a future with him in my mind, thinking what an amazing reception we could have with the amazing discount we would have on frozen finger foods, and I couldn't wait to tell the girls at work on Monday, because as EVERYBODY knows, there's nothing better than a story about a new love at the nail shop, and the best part about it is you get to tell it over and over all day long.

Doug stayed for an hour or so and then said he had to be going because he had a busy day ahead, but asked he asked if it would be ok if he came over again the next Sunday. I didn't even have to think about it, I responded with a resounding YES, and told him I would have more monkey bread and fresh coffee ready.

The week drug out forever, but we did get a break when we got to see him on his regular drive through on Wednesday. He passed an extra half gallon of cherry ice cream, my favorite, through the window for half price and I think maybe even a free box of damaged ice cream sandwiches for Howie. My heart raced every time our eyes met and my hands were sweaty and shaky.

As he got in his big yellow truck to drive away, he leaned out, winked, and told me he'd see me Sunday

It was either Thursday or Friday, I can't quite remember now, when Jill came in for her after five appointment. All after five appointments included a few pulls from the box of wine we kept chilled in the back and were highly coveted and reserved for only the top tier clients.

It was Jill who would break my heart that early spring evening, when she told me, that Doug, The Schwanny Man, potentially my #6, the love of my life, was married to one of her best friends.

Are you kidding me?

Doug showed up after fishing on Sunday morning for more of my monkey bread and fresh coffee and I told him to fuck off.

It wasn't long after that we had a new Schwanny Man, but I never learned his name. I started shopping the frozen food aisle at the grocery store and actually ended up saving quite a bit.

Monkey Bread

Ingredients

1/2

cup granulated sugar

1

teaspoon cinnamon

2

cans (16.3 oz each) Pillsbury™ Grands!™ Flaky Layers refrigerated biscuits

1/2

cup chopped walnuts, if desired

1/2

cup raisins, if desired

1

cup firmly packed brown sugar

3/4

cup butter or margarine, melted

• 1Heat oven to 350°F. Lightly grease 12-cup fluted tube pan with shortening or cooking spray. In large -storage plastic food bag, mix granulated sugar and cinnamon.
• 2Separate dough into 16 biscuits; cut each into quarters. Shake in bag to coat. Arrange in pan, adding walnuts and raisins among the biscuit pieces.
• 3In small bowl, mix brown sugar and butter; pour over biscuit pieces.
• 4Bake 28 to 32 minutes or until golden brown and no longer doughy in center. Cool in pan 10 minutes. Turn upside down onto serving plate; pull apart to serve. Serve warm.
  
  
  Pillsbury

Random Thoughts...

I have to mow the lawn today. And by "the lawn", I really do mean the grass, or in my case the weeds. It's been so dry here that the grass quit growing a month or so ago, but I have healthy green weeds up to my knees and now they're starting to grow up the middle of the driveway so they whack the bottom of the car when you drive over them. It kind of makes you feel like some kind of explorer discovering new land (In a 97' ford escort filled with junk mail, half empty bottles of water and burger wraps covered in ketchup) not reality show worthy, but still a little adventurous.

I wish I could mow in my caftan, I mean there's nothing really stopping me from mowing in my muumuu other than the disapproving looks of the neighbors, and the fact that I really don't want to add to my description of "weird woman that runs the park with all the frickin animals who never mows her lawn" to all that and then with "in a muumuu" thrown on top. And just in case you're wondering, this is only my around the house look and I wear it with a complimenting headband. It's not a very glamorous look, but too much color is never a bad thing.

Here's the link on Amazon if you want one for yourself. I think it was like twelve dollars or something ridiculous like that, and if you have Prime you can barely afford not to get one. Or two. Maybe I'll buy another one. I'll have indoor and outdoor muumuus. I have never worn my dress to town or even outside -yet- so five two might be nice.

What was I talking about... Oh, the lawn. I need to go mow. I think I'll just let the sheep out instead.

Did you see Bruce Caitlyn Jenner at the ESPYS last night?

Great hair. Man hands.

I have a chicken sitting on eggs in the garage. This may pose a problem at some point, not to mention the fact that it's just bad form to have chickens roosting in your garage.

Do you put corn in your vegetable soup? I don't, but I'm thinking maybe I should... All the recipes I see have corn and I'm really feeling like I'm missing out on something, like I missed some corn memo, and since I've never put corn in my soup before, now I'm almost afraid that if I do put corn in and like it that then I'll be upset that all these years I never used corn. 

The corn struggle is real.

I also feel like it's wrong to make hot soup during summer.

And if you have vegetable soup is a salad overkill?

Blahging About Blogging

My very best blog friend 4 Shoes is back to blogging!
You really have no idea how happy this makes me, she has inspired me to blog again and now I want her to blog every single day!
It seems as though most of my circle of blogs fell out of the loop somewhere along the line and moved to the ever expanding, thought sharing, junk food shaming, over memeing, totally addicting, soul sucking Facebook.
There I have watched children grow, marriages come and go, holidays celebrated and meals prepared.
It is so satisfying and such a quick fix, but here's the problem, I have no reference on my life.
I don't post about the happenings of my day or the funny or horrible or horribly funny things that happen and even more often don't happen in my own life.

When I started this blog it was The Trailerparks Farm.

It was a place for me to post every day about what was happening within my family and for my family as I cared for our aging grandparents, but it quickly turned into a thing that I loved to do and I found a community that made me laugh and sometimes even cry as they shared their lives with me and the rest of the world.
And so, I blogged.
And blogged.
And blogged.
And blogged.
And then, I stopped.
And now I have no reference to the things that have gone on in my life, except for what sticks to the sticky part of my brain and the BIG stuff that I would remember anyway.

I want to get back to my blogging basics and start posting all the boring stuff.
Pictures of cats, crappy arts and crafts and I want to talk way too much about the kid that calls me "Tranny" because he can't pronounce a hard "G".

And I suppose if I talk too much about that stuff, you could just click out and go find something interesting on Youtube or call your mom or something.

And I guess if you're one of the thirtytwoeleventeen people that end up here because you think I'm the Dirty Jobs Fat Bottom Farm (I'm not) you will figure it out and keep looking for them on Google
(They're not there) and just for the record, our farm is NOT named after their farm, we were fat before they were on T.V and our fat bottoms are donkeys not goats.
Jack asses, fat donkeys, fat asses, can't say fat ass on the internet, fat bottoms, Fat Bottom Farm.
Donkeys.
And I do make soap, but I do not make goats milk soap because I do not have goats.
I have donkeys.

And a pig.

And sheep.

And dogs and geese and chickens and some cats.

None of which would make very good "milk" soaps so I stick with the basic home made, cold process milk free soaps that you can buy here at the Fat Bottom Etsy.

So, what all of this has been about, is, I'm going to try to get back to some basic blogging, and if most of my other blogging friends are gone, I hope to make a lot of new blogging friends who like to talk about a lot of boring stuff and look at pictures of cats and kids and crochet projects, and cake, and soap and failed craft projects that would have been better off just left looked at on Pinterest.

Sound good?
Good!

Peas.