It has been a sad week of sorts, which goes to prove that even douchebags get the blues. (That could almost be a song title.) The goats, Maddy the Obnoxious and Patrick the Supreme Asshat, have left, and so have my dreams of goat cheese and newborn kids that bound around like they have springs on their hooves. Patrick and Maddy are now living on the farm of a friend of a friend, where they are enjoying their own herd, 90 acres and utter mayhem. (Ever wondered why during medieval times Satan was depicted as a goat? Folks those days may have been way off on many things such as considering baths a yearly necessity, but they got this one right.) Apparently Patrick still shows his affection by head-butting people at groin level, so it is an added bonus that his new humans are not intending to have children…
The reason for the goats’ sudden departure is a realization that hit me during a week of feeling particularly lousy, thanks to the evil superpowers of clinical depression: some problems are not worth having. Having half my mind constantly worry about whether the goats are in or out (of the barn, the pen or trouble) is one of those, as is the realization that the cloven-footed devils were sucking up energy that I don’t have in the first place. Walking into the barn and finding out that one asshole quail hen has pecked her husband’s head open is another problem not worth having. (Birds are mean pricks, by the way, in case I haven’t mentioned that before.) Yet other examples are having my barn cat go missing, and finding a drowned chick in the ducks’ water basin. As I said, it hasn’t been the best of weeks.
At least the goats got their happy ending- lucky bastards that they are. I was left with my problems. Given the option between getting overwhelmed and falling into a half-baked kooky mindset of philosophical acceptance, I chose the latter. And I decided that most of my problems fell into this other category: Problems Worth Having.
Allow me to elaborate. For example, baking a blackberry pie and realizing that in a one-person household the only way to finish it before it gets moldy is to eat pie at least two meals a day, that’s a problem worth having. Not knowing where in the name of all creation you’re going to store the 15+ head-sized pumpkins that your single, over-zealous vine produced is another such problem. As is what on earth you’re going to do with 15+ pumpkins in the first place. Not being able to turn in bed because every inch of available space under the covers is taken up by two warm dogs and a snoring cat is also a problem I consider worth having. Being a mile behind cleaning because you’ve been too busy cooking, freezing, drying and canning; having to put a turnip into each soup and stew because you don’t know how else you’ll use them up; wondering why the hell you (quite successfully) grew turnips when you don’t particularly like them; being nearly -but not quite- sick of eating fresh eggs every day; running through postage stamps faster than a bottle of wine because people still write you letters; having your kitchen look like it’s been invaded by red and green aliens because there are tomatoes ripening on every horizontal surface… these, friends, are all Problems Worth Having. I have a shit ton of them at the moment, and I hope you do, too.
douchebaggeryranch 