The Sober Life

Last weekend was my first weekend off the zoloft. I made an impromptu 7 hour drive to Miami followed by some wine time with my closest friends. Seconds after the first sip I pondered aloud whether I had made a mistake, uprooting my life and buying a farm in the middle of nowhere. Sweet friends they are, they confided that my sudden leave was shocking and impulsive, but graciously assured me it was not evidence that I was insane. They suggested that maybe I had an early onset of mid life crisis and then belted out a sweet unanimous chorus of "no one would judge you if you just came home." Tempting. Very tempting. Had I rented a place, I would have gladly returned, tail tucked between my legs. Though selling is not quite so simple. After the three months of renovations I put in to the property, and with all the animals I've bought, selling would put me way in debt. So, as I wait for my land to appreciate, I'm stuck in my farmtopia.

When I arrived back on the farm the next day, my goat greeted me on the driveway. Not at, on. She had escaped my maid's clutches and was now locked out of her pasture separated from the pack. Before even going inside the house I decided to feed the goats, with the goal of enticing my pregnant Brady back into the pasture. I naively swung open the gate, bucket of feed in hand, ready to feed them their once a day meal. They all ran out. No problem. They do that, and then when they see the food being poured into their trough they run immediately back in, I lock the pasture gate, and we all go on living our lives. Well this time, as I approached their trough, I noticed it was full to the brim with feed. The maid had played fastball with my laid out instructions, and overfed them quite a bit. And none of them wanted back in. So now I have five goats roaming the yard; no big deal. Though one, appropriately named Spirit, decides to leave the safety of the yard and runs over onto the neighbors property. Neighbors who I have lived next to for 3 months, but who I never met. I go to the fence, trilling her name, and the neighbors pull apart the fence hoping she'll come rejoin me on my side of the property. But why would she? Clearly the lot of them looked to be having much more fun than one single woman. Luckily, as she was close to the fence I was able to grab her horns and pull. The neighbors helped by pushing from the back. I continued to pull, and together we got her on the right side of the fence. Though of course, she forced her way right back over. And so we did it again. And this time when she got back on my side I kept pulling, trying to pull her to the pasture. Stubborn, strong, 200 pounds, I was no match. I cursed, and I cried, and I yanked, and the neighbors stared. The teen son came over and decided to help push, pitiful sight that I was. I said the eff word more times in that 10 minutes than I have the last few years I'm sure. Finally we got Spirit back in the pasture. The other four still in the yard. No way in hell I'd be opening the pasture gate again so they stayed right there until the next day. When it all happened all over again. Except this time it was the fencing guy I had come to give me an estimate that got to witness my meltdown getting Spirit back in the pasture. At this point I just stopped and sobbed like a lunatic repeatedly asking the rhetorical question of "why did I move here and buy a farm!?" He and his buddies then miraculously pushed and lulled all the goats back in the pasture. I stopped crying long enough to say thank you and they left. A few hours later and the three small ones escaped, this time all on their own. I guess now that they learned of a new land, they wanted to experience it a little more. 

They're still out. But I'm tired, and I have a bottle of red to get to.