Desk Sweet Desk

In the grand scheme of world events, a new desk might not exactly qualify as breaking news. CNN has yet to knock on my door. But here at farm HQ, where paperwork mysteriously multiplies like unchaperoned rabbits, this is front-page material. See, I’m the one who handles all things paper—bills, tax stuff, registration forms, insurance documents, and mysterious receipts that no one remembers making but are somehow vital. So while the rest of the world carries on, I’ve been waging a one-woman war against chaos armed with nothing but a file cabinet and a slab of particle board.

For years I’ve managed with “alternative workspaces”—a term I use to make it sound fancier than it is. I've used the dining table, an old TV tray, a bookshelf turned sideways, and once, for a brief and dark period, a collapsible card table that had a distinct wobble and smelled faintly of basement. If it had a flat surface, I’ve tried to make it work. Because let’s be honest—desks are expensive, and why buy one when you can make one out of scraps and imagination?

But lately, my trusty little setup—lovingly referred to as "The FrankenDesk"—has started to feel more like a junk drawer with Wi-Fi. Picture a narrow slab of wood spanning a file cabinet on one end and an old cupboard on the other, with a printer perched on top like a gargoyle watching over a nest of tangled cords. It was functional, sure, but about as inspiring as a DMV waiting room.

So I did it. I took the plunge. I went desk shopping.

Friends, nothing could have prepared me.

I walked into the furniture store expecting maybe five options. Instead, I was met with a sea of desks: flattops, rolltops, glass-tops, desks shaped like executive battle stations, and desks so small they’d make a Barbie dream house look spacious. Some had drawers. Some had secret compartments. Some looked like they required an engineering degree and an allen wrench to assemble. And the price tags? Let’s just say there were a few where I had to sit down on the showroom couch and breathe into a paper bag.

The sales lady, God bless her, saw the panic in my eyes and gently offered to copy some catalog pages for me. "Take them home," she said, "live with them a while." Like stray kittens or paint samples. And so I did.

I spent the next two days living with pictures of desks taped to the wall. Measuring. Squinting. Imagining. Muttering things like “Would I regret going with Mission Oak?” and “Does this drawer configuration speak to my soul?”

Finally, I found the one. A beautiful rolltop. She’s a classic—rich wood tone, drawers galore, and a soul steeped in old-school charm. The top is full of little cubbies and drawers perfect for organizing paper clips, push pins, stamps, sticky notes, flash drives, old birthday cards, dried-up pens I can’t bring myself to toss, and at least four pairs of scissors that will still go mysteriously missing. And the best part? When the clutter starts to take over (because let’s be honest, it will), I can just roll down the top and—voilà—instant respectability. It’s the adult version of shoving everything under the bed when company comes.

Of course, now that I have a new desk, the wall behind it needs repainting. I mean, obviously. You can’t just slap a shiny new piece of furniture in front of faded old paint—it’s like wearing a ball gown with barn boots. Which means the whole living/dining/home-office multipurpose room needs painting. And if that room gets a facelift, well, the adjoining room is going to start feeling a little left out…

It’s like home renovation dominoes. You knock one over and suddenly you’re pricing curtains and considering crown molding.

But that’s a project for another day. Today I sit at my glorious new desk, sipping hot chocolate, surrounded by drawers that glide smoothly and a surface free of paper towers. It’s not world-changing. But for me, it’s a little island of order in a sea of daily farm-life chaos.

Sure, she’s old-fashioned, but so am I—and with all her tiny drawers and the ability to roll down the front and hide my inevitable mess, she’s basically the desk version of Spanx. And that, my friends, is priceless.

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Resolutions

The first week of the new year has come and gone—and so have my New Year’s resolutions. Off they galloped into the snowy distance like a herd of goats that just noticed I left the gate open. I had such high hopes, such bold ambition. I was going to be healthier! More active! Better organized! And thinner by accident!

Instead, I’m sitting here in fleece pajamas, surrounded by cookie crumbs, typing this with fingers slightly sticky from a leftover candy cane I found in my coat pocket. If you need a visual, imagine Cookie Monster and a hibernating bear had a baby and gave it a laptop.

Let’s do a little post-mortem, shall we?

Resolution #1: Eat Healthier
Now, I didn’t say “go on a diet,” because I’ve reached the age where I know myself. Diets are like bad boyfriends: they promise you everything, leave you cranky and hungry, and in the end, you end up crying into a sleeve of Oreos wondering where it all went wrong.

So I figured I’d just eat healthier. Reasonable, right? Swap chips for carrots. Cut back on sugar. Maybe steam some broccoli. I made it all of four hours. I was doing so well—eggs for breakfast, some plain Greek yogurt, a banana that wasn’t even bruised yet.

And then a neighbor showed up with cookies. Homemade. Still warm. I barely remember what happened next—it’s all a blur of butter, sugar, and shame. All I know is that by 2:00 p.m. I was covered in crumbs, looking down at my fourth cookie like, “Well, I can’t stop now, that’d be rude.”

By dinner, I was full of regret and also lasagna.

Resolution #2: Exercise 15 Minutes Every Morning
Okay, stop laughing. It seemed doable at the time. I mean, fifteen minutes? That’s barely enough time to complain about how cold it is outside.

But here in northern New Hampshire, walking outdoors in January is what you do when you’re tired of living. So, I turned to my trusty treadmill—if by “trusty” you mean “completely buried under a year’s worth of seasonal junk, two feed bags, a winter coat I thought I lost, and something I think might be a Halloween decoration from 2008.”

When I finally dug it out, I realized I hadn’t plugged it in since I bought it. Last year. In February. It still had the “remove protective plastic before use” label on the screen. Let’s just say the only cardio happening so far is me breathing heavily after lifting the vacuum cleaner to get to the extension cord.

So, no. No 15-minute workouts. But I have been thinking about working out a lot, and mentally, I’m in the best shape of my life.

Resolution #3: Bring My Last Year’s Accounting Up to Date
I started this one. Honest. I even sharpened a pencil for it and everything. I opened the ledger, pulled out receipts, created a spreadsheet, and stared at it like it might magically balance itself if I just looked at it with enough guilt.

By Day 3, I had organized everything from January through March. Then I accidentally spilled hot chocolate on April. So technically, I’ve finished a quarter of the year and sweetened the second quarter.

On the plus side, I now know exactly how much I spent on goat dewormer and chicken scratch last year—which is knowledge that will be very useful if I ever go on Jeopardy!

Resolution #4: Be More Organized
Hoo boy. This one went off the rails faster than a toddler on espresso. I had color-coded folders, a to-do list app on my phone, and a brand-new planner with inspirational quotes and space for weekly goals. It was going to be my Year of the Binder.

I lost the binder. I think it’s under the stack of seed catalogs and unfinished crochet projects on my desk. My to-do list is now just a collection of notes scrawled on old feed tags and the back of the electric bill. I’d like to say I’m working on decluttering, but I can’t find the list of things I planned to declutter.

By now, most resolutions have met the same fate as last year’s poinsettia—wilted, abandoned, and slowly decomposing in the corner. Mine? They’re somewhere out back, holding hands, humming “Auld Lang Syne,” and washing down their regrets with leftover holiday candy.

If you’ve managed to keep even one, congratulations—you are clearly some sort of mythical creature who thrives on kale and discipline. The rest of us? We’ve reverted to our natural winter form: elastic waistbands, questionable snack choices, and a vague promise to “start fresh on Monday.”

Here’s to the New Year: may our sweatpants be forgiving, our goals just unrealistic enough to give us something to laugh about next January, and our snacks last longer than our resolutions.

Now, pass the cookies. 

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Resolution Survival Rate:

New Year's Resolution Success Chart:

[✓] Eat Healthier..........................  0% Success (Cookies won.)
[✓] Exercise 15 Min/Day..............  0% Success (Treadmill still pouting.)
[✓] Catch Up Accounting...... 25% Success (Up to March. Go me!)
[✓] Be More Organized...................  2% Success (I *own* a planner.)

Average Success Rate:     6.75%
Moral Victory Rate:     100% (I got dressed twice and cooked vegetables once.

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Merry Christmas

Happy Birthday, Jesus.

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Happy Halloween

And it looks like a cold one this morning.

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It's Raining

It's been raining for what feels like the last thirty-seven years. I’ve forgotten what dry socks feel like. The driveway has become a river, the barnyard’s a mud spa, and my boots now make squelching sounds that would make a frog blush. Welcome to storm season at American Way Farm, where the forecast is always “damp with a 90% chance of regret.”

And yet, despite the biblical weather, the Livestock Guardian Dogs (or LGDs, for those who’ve never had the pleasure of owning a 120-pound shed monster with a martyr complex) are still out there, bravely doing their job. Job description? Keep all four-legged predators away from the goats. Personal satisfaction? 10/10. Shelter provided? One sad tree.

This particular LGD (let’s call her “Soggy Sue”) has stationed herself beneath the only tree in the pasture, which, bless its barky little heart, is trying really hard to be a pine umbrella. It’s not. It's more of a decorative suggestion of shelter. Like those cocktail umbrellas—cute, but ultimately useless in a thunderstorm.

Now, I know what you’re thinking: “Surely the dog is just dozing out there in the drizzle, off the clock like the rest of us in weather like this.” Oh no. You see, even when she looks dead asleep, snoring and soggy, that dog is on full alert. Her ears may be flat against her head, but trust me—any sudden movement, suspicious scent, or twig snapped in an unapproved direction would launch her to her feet like a canine missile with an attitude problem. It’s like she’s got predator radar wired into her soul.

And what about the goats she’s protecting, you ask?

Where are they during this courageous display of damp dedication?

Oh, they’re in the barn. Dry. Cozy. Possibly toasting marshmallows.

I walked in earlier and I swear one of them had made a little blanket fort in the hay and was humming to herself. They're all nestled in there like royalty, looking out the barn door at their loyal guardian as if to say, “You missed a spot behind your ear, Your Majesty.”

Now listen, I have a suggestion. Just a friendly, totally-not-judging, whispered-through-a-cracked-window sort of suggestion:

Go inside.

Seriously, girl. Go lay down wit

h the goats. Snuggle up. Live your best fleece-lined life. You’ve earned it. I promise that bobcat isn’t going to brave the squelch-fest of a pasture just for a wet goat burrito. And if he does, we’ve got a door and opposable thumbs—we’ll hold the fort while you towel off.

But no. There she sits. Or lays. Half-submerged like a Roman statue of sacrifice. Occasionally blinking. Occasionally twitching. Always guarding.

You know, I have half a mind to go out there and drag her in myself, but last time I tried that, I ended up face-first in the mud while she just rolled over and sighed like I was interrupting her dramatic monologue. I’d like to believe she’s committed to her job, but I’m starting to think she’s just holding a grudge because I gave the last bit of leftover meatloaf to the chickens.

So we’ll just let her be.

Out there. In the rain. Watching. Waiting. Possibly composing poetry.

Meanwhile, the goats will remain inside, dry and judgmental, with their superior barn privileges and their uncanny ability to act like they, not I, pay the mortgage.

Stay dry out there, friends. And if you see a large white blur lurking under a tree in a thunderstorm, don’t worry—it’s not a ghost. It’s just our LGD, doing her job with soggy pride and a damp sense of duty.

"Ewww, it's wet. We don't do wet."

And where, you might ask, are the goats that this faithful dog is guarding? Hiding in the barn of course!

Might I make a suggestion to the dog? Perhaps it would be better to sleep in the barn with the goats where it's dry. Just sayin'.

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Autumn Splendor

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New Pasture Mates

We originally got Kirby—the mini donkey, aka Barack Kirby, aka BK, aka The Goat God—as a pasture mate for Talon, the horse. It was a good plan. Logical. Sensible. Which should’ve been my first red flag.

Because the goats took one look at Kirby and decided he was theirs. Their idol. Their four-legged messiah. Their fuzzy-eared prophet of grazing. Wherever he went, they followed. It was like watching a very hairy Beatles reunion tour, with Kirby as all four Beatles rolled into one, complete with groupies.

So then that plan had to change. The new plan was to try and make everyone—horse, donkey, goats—into one big happy, non-stomping, non-chasing family. Except Talon had opinions. Specifically, that goats did not belong in his pasture, and every time one wandered in, he’d make it his personal mission to chase them back to the barn like a cranky old man yelling at kids to get off his lawn.

Enter fate, stage left.

We went away for one night. One. Came back today to find Talon not in his pasture, but somehow on the goats’ side of the fence. Just standing there. Grazing. Surrounded by his former enemies like they were old poker buddies on a coffee break. Everyone was chill. No screaming, no trampling, no donkey-led cult worship rituals. Just… peace.

I have no idea how he got in there. The gate was latched. The fence was intact. Unless Talon suddenly discovered how to teleport—or dug a tunnel like a very motivated POW—we may never know.

Maybe I should’ve just left them alone to figure it out from the start. I was always afraid he’d run them over in a fit of “horse superiority,” but maybe I underestimated his emotional intelligence. Or maybe the goats just wore him down with their persistent adoration. (Goat worship is exhausting.)

Either way, cheers to new friendships, unexpected , and the magic that happens when I stop trying to micromanage barnyard politics.

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Hotel Canoe

I would think there would be more comfortable places than the dry end of a wet canoe to check in to take a nap. Just sayin'.

"Do you mind? I'm trying to take a nap here."

"Huh? What? Who's clicking the camera?"

"What's that? There's water in the other end of this thing? Well, I'm sure it'll come in handy if I get thirsty."

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New "Government Math" Diet

You may recall how we got our “free” tractor using what I like to call Government Math—a magical financial system where saving money is the same thing as making money, and if you don’t spend what you could’ve, then obviously that leftover imaginary pile turns into profit. It’s flawless.

So naturally, I figured: if it works for multi-trillion-dollar budgets, why not for my hips?

This morning, I had two donuts for breakfast. Now, before the food police show up with their little calorie citation pads, let me just say—I could have had a bacon egg and cheese biscuit with a side of hash browns and regret. But I didn’t. So technically, I saved about 400 calories right there. That drops the donuts down to a negligible 100 calories. Barely worth mentioning, really.

Then, for lunch, I had a salad. Not one of those fun ones with fried chicken and ranch dressing masquerading as lettuce. I’m talking actual rabbit food. Lettuce, cucumbers, maybe a slice of tomato just to say I live dangerously. Easily saved another 400 calories by not going with a cheeseburger. At this point, I’m basically operating at a caloric surplus in the healthy direction.

Afternoon snack? Carrot sticks. Raw. No ranch. No hummus. Just cold, crunchy disappointment. That’s gotta be worth another 150 calories saved just for the trauma.

Dinner? Another salad. Because I’m committed to bad decisions and leafy greens. That’s another 450 calories banked like some kind of sadistic savings account.

So when dessert rolls around and I’m eyeing that banana split with hot fudge, whipped cream, and a cherry on top like it owes me money, guess what? That 800-calorie tower of dairy joy only counts as 200. Because I earned it.

Tally it up:

• Donuts? 100

• Banana split? 200

• Total for the day? 300 calories.

Which leaves me plenty of wiggle room (pun intended) for an evening chip buffet while watching reruns of Murder, She Wrote. And no guilt, because this is Government Math, baby. If the federal government can “balance” the budget by redefining words and moving numbers around like it’s a shell game at a carnival, I can definitely justify a second helping of Cool Ranch Doritos.

The scale won’t budge? Must be a data error. Probably Russian hackers. Or the batteries.

Hey, if this system is good enough for Congress, it’s should be good enough for my thighs.

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Free Tractor (aka Government Economics)

Our old tractor was getting, well... old. Not the wise, dependable kind of old like Aunt Ethel who bakes pies and remembers the war, but the kind of old that groans every time you try to start it and leaves mysterious puddles on the barn floor. So last summer, we started looking at new tractors. Then we looked at our bank account. And promptly stopped looking.

But this year, I got smart. I figured out how to use the same economic principles the U.S. government uses to get a free tractor. That’s right. Free. Tractor. And before you start questioning my sanity or checking for fumes in the barn, let me break it down for you:

Let’s say you want a $60,000 tractor. But instead, you choose a $30,000 tractor. Boom. You’ve saved $30,000. Apply that savings directly to the cost, and you’ve now paid nothing. Zero. Nada. Tractor = free.

But wait! It gets better. The dealer gave us a $10,200 trade-in for the old one. (Bless their hearts, they must not have actually started it.) Now, we also got a backhoe attachment for about $10,000. Which means, according to my math—and I checked twice—we are now owed $200.

Naturally, we expected the finance company to send us a thank-you note and maybe a nice fruit basket for helping stimulate the economy with such brilliance. Instead, they’re demanding we make monthly payments. Can you believe it? I even tried explaining the government-style math to them, complete with hand gestures and everything, but they just weren’t getting with the program. I may have to draw them a pie chart. Maybe with actual pie.

Anyway, I’m now applying the same economic model to future projects. That new $12,000 roof I need? If I just don’t get the $24,000 slate one I was never going to buy anyway, I’ve saved $12,000. Meaning the roof is already paid for. Technically, I should have $12,000 leftover to fund the matching chicken coop expansion.

I don’t know why everyone isn’t doing this. It’s genius. It’s foolproof. It’s… exactly how the government does it.

Only difference is, they have a printing press.

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Budget Breakdown (a.k.a. How to Retire Rich on Barnyard Math):

• Wanted Tractor: $60,000

• Bought Tractor: $30,000

• Instant savings: $30,000

• Trade-In Value: +$10,200

• Backhoe Attachment: -$10,000

• Total Owed to Us: $200

• Finance Company’s Opinion: Irrelevant. Clearly they don’t understand economics.

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But wait, there’s more!

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Call 1-800-GOV-MATH. That's 1-800-468-6284.

The Free Tractor Plan is not responsible for repossessions, financial audits, or hard stares from your spouse. Use with caution. Offer not valid anywhere sanity is still required.

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