….let there be shopping….

Archive for the tag “farming”

Perspective, Priorities,Prestik and Poo

In all honesty I’m not one to “take a deep breath and smell the roses”.

The words “settled ” and “routine” give me an intense urge to run. ( which is probably why I broke off my engagement to the farmer the first time and we ended up getting engaged twice. Having 2 rings was nice though… )

I tend to mentally tick things off and then look for “THE NEXT BIG THING”. Always looking for more, more, MORE…..surely there must be MORE???

So that up to now my life plan has progressed more or less  like this:

1. Get a degree. ( tick )

2. Get a job. ( tick )

3. Get thin. ( tick )

4. Find a husband ( tick )

5. Have a baby (tick)

5. Have a GIRL baby ( tick….lucky lucky lucky me! )

6. Study Journalism. ( tick )

7. Try to get into freelance writing. ( tick. sort of. )

8. Heck, why work for money when I could win the lotto? Or a huge Jackpot somewhere? And then we could go on luxury family holidays every 3 months and leave the farming stress behind us and I could spend weekends at a spa and have regular manicures and pedicures and hair extensions and who knows, maybe even a tummy tuck ??? ( tick for trying and not succeeding, who knew? )

Before you call the shallow police…I do sense the error of my shallow ways…

I had 2 sick children this week and 1 husband with the man flu.

Poo and puke has filled my days. Sticky hands and smelly feverish breaths through sleepless nights with worry knotting my stomach.

And oh, the relief to see they’re on the mend…to see the smiles return and the gradual brightening of the eyes…

Who needs the Lotto when you can have a slurpy wet kiss from your 14 month old daughter while your 4 year old son stands on your big toe with his leather shoe to also get in on the action?

There’s nothing like motherhood to keep your feet on the ground, stretch your coping mechanisms like Prestik  and turn your heart inside out is there?





Being a farmer’s wife doesn’t come naturally to me.

What comes to me naturally is shopping for GUESS, LANCOME, DIOR, CLARINS and LA PRAIRIE. ( no kitchen stuff )

THIERRY MUGLER, ISSEY MIYAKI and POLO. ( no kitchen stuff )

Also EXCLUSIVE BOOKS, WOOLWORTHS and THE BODY SHOP. ( no kitchen stuff )

In short : sunglasses, jewelry, state-of-the-new-face skin care, figure-transforming clothing, home-enhancing cushions and throws and candles and smelly fragrance sticks. ( no kitchen stuff )

Arty earrings, homeopathic,  eco-friendly tranquilizing aides ( read purest lavender and chamomile ) and expensive holidays for me, the farmer , our children and their nanny. I dream of the day I book 2 rooms and a flight for 5 to the Wild Coast Sun. As if that’s ever going to happen. But still. ( no kitchen stuff)

There is a definite theme coming through here.

Did you pick it up too?


Now you  have to keep up with my train of thought here.

Let’s jump from NO. KITCHEN. STUFF. straight to the local Co-op.

The local Co-op is a farmer’s services hardware – type store in every small town close to a farming community. They stock all a farmer will ever need in his farming career. Feeds, bricks and poles. Paint, soil and injections. Leather boots and string. Toiletpaper and cheap sweets.

The local Co-op is a dusty place smelling of sheep.

It is a FUGLY place, believe me. And it, too, does not come naturally to me.

The fact that it doesn’t matters sweet-blue-haydiddle.

Because it is my job as the farmers’ wife to fetch stuff from the Co-op. Every single time I go to town.

It should be written in a farming couples’ marriage contract: THIS HERE WIFE SHALL VISIT THE LOCAL CO-OP 5 MILLION TIMES DURING HER LIFETIME AS THIS FARMER’S WIFE.

And more:

– She shall accept that the service will be slow.

– She shall accept that she will have to sign 3 different coloured forms for every purchase. Green, yellow and blue.

– She shall accept that she will meet other farmers at the Co-op,  dressed in khaki shirts and shorts of a doubtful colour,  who she will have to make small talk with. Unless she wants to be known as “that snooty wife of so-and-so ” .

– She shall accept that she will want to take a bath afterwards to get rid of the sheepy smell.

Yes, I know I’m a highly privileged person living in the wild outdoors with my rough-rider husband.

I know the Wild Coast Sun Hotel dream is extravagant to the extreme.

I know having a childminding nanny ( at times ) is heaven.

I know all of these things.

But I will remain a non-cooking frustrated shopaholic wishing for a mall.



Click to show "sheep fashion" result 5




What’s on your mind?………..

There’s a cloud.


What’s on your mind?………

There’s a wind blowing the cloud.


What’s on your mind?………….

Looks like rain!


What’s on your mind?………..

It’s not raining.


What’s on your mind?………….

It’s still not raining.


What’s on your mind?………….

It’s not going to rain.


What’s on your mind?………….

Farming sucks.



My husband is an intelligent man. He once put together a set of 8 different sized washing baskets in such a way that the result was a perfect rectangle.

He is a successful farmer and knows stuff like when to put the rams with the ewes and how to cut the balls off lambs so that they don’t reproduce.( not so sure about my facts here. )  Also how to classify wool with his fingers so that it sells at the market and our family can eat. And wear clothes.

 He even has quite impressive insight and knowledge of PMS. Which is why I married him. (that , and the gorgeous wooden deck attached to the stoep with the most glorious view of the valley where I regularly sit and sip my wine while contemplating life. )


He can not spell.

He denies this of course, but it drives me up the wall. And makes me think of the time his mother had a car accident when he was 6 months old and he flew through the window  and ended up hanging from the fence by his scalp. ( you know the story) And his parents did nothing about it. No brain scans. No remedial testing. Nothing.

This is the note he made after getting the info on  the preschool we want to send farmerboy to this year :

The teacher’s name is JILL. And the school is called LITTLE STEPS.

See what I mean?

No wonder I sometimes get NO BLOODY WHERE with arguments with this man.




Post Navigation