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January 26th
Gwen and I occupy a lane each as we propel ourselves through the comfortably heated water of my lap pool, working our limbs and muscles. I love swimminglaps. It’s something we do nearly every afternoon, often with a side helping of healthy competition. The winner gets to sit on their arse and watch the loser cook dinner. The current score is about fifty-fifty to wins and losses.
Coming up for a gasp of air, I can see I’m trailing Gwen by half a lap. With eighty laps down, I’ve got twenty to make up the distance, but I need to get my head in the game. I get distracted while swimming when my mind wanders into to-do lists and thinking about what a bearded golden-blond is doing with his family in snow-covered Alaska.
Something feels askew inside me. I don’t quite know what to do with this feeling like a piece of me is missing. It plagues me in my waking and sleep hours, festering away while I try to ignore it. It doesn’t help that Cocky Caveman has gone silent on Instagram.
I blow out a rush of bubbles, water-growling at myself (that’s not a thing, I just made it a thing) for letting Royal get to me. He must have found that Inuit girl.
Gwen often notices me rubbing the spot over my heart and responds with a smirk that silently states:girl, you’ve got it bad.I reply with a roll of my eyes, and she usually barks out a laugh, kisses my cheek, and pats me on the arse, sending me on my way. She can read me like a book. But as of right now, I am writing Tucker Royal off as a one-night stand. We had our fun, and now I need to get back to reality and stop thinking and dreaming about the guy.
Easier said than done.
The past month has been lots of fun around the Fainting Goat Ranch, meeting guests from various walks of life and professions from all over the country and as far away as Iceland.
It has been a hands-on learning curve. Gwen and I have fallen into an easy pattern as a two-woman team running an Airbnb.
We wake up early, attend to the animals, and put out the coffee machine in the outdoor kitchen area, consisting of a barbecue, sink, and preparation area.
The early risers serve themselves, and we often sit and have a conversation during this time with those who have come to watch the spectacular sunrise and colorful hot air balloon display above the vineyards before they head out for their adventures or breakfast.
If the guests aren’t in a rush, the Mini-Ms, Pearl, and the miniatures all come out to play. Baar-Braaa, the only female Mini-M,and Cheesecake want all the attention from as many guests who will give it to them.
I think my cousin was right. Butthead seems to have a special love for his girl Pearl. They are an odd coupling.
The miniatures love showing their adorable, playful personalities to anyone who wants to say hello.
Photos and selfies get snapped by the guests with the animals, then images get posted on social media with fun hashtags and tagging the Fainting Goat Ranch. Comments flow in from their friends and relatives. Interest pours in acknowledging the good time we are all having. Coco and Oscar are never far from our side and love getting picked up for cuddles, which shows how super photogenic they both are.
I never thought I would have twelve animals, but they all get along and thrive on love.
I’m so grateful to the Mighty MacDougalls and their parents, Tavish and Ellen, who I met on New Year’s Eve, for giving me space on their land for the animals to be free and happy during the day.
I’ll usually keep the coffee machine out until ten in the morning; for the late sleepers who prefer to enjoy having a coffee outdoors before they head off for the day.
The goat yoga idea took a little more brainstorming than we first thought (insert on-the-job learning). It only works if the guests have time and the urge to try it, so we opened it up to the locals four days a week and settled on 10 a.m. as a good time.
Guests enjoy the hour for free, and locals pay five dollars. The female guests are primarily up for goat yoga while their partners laugh and take photos. It works out well.
Gwen has taken on the role of the goat yoga instructor with her brand of enthusiasm. She is the certified one out of the two of us. The boom box comes out, and relaxation music gets played. It really means Gwen does her best to control the fun hour, but the Mini-Ms take over the limelight, much to everyone’s delight. Goats are climbing onto human backs, and they are coming in for a sniff in some inappropriate human body places. They want to be cuddled and lay down underneath the human while in the ‘downward dog’ pose. It’s all about being in a bubble of smiles and laughter.
I’ve been in discussions with the elementary schools in the area to book one class at a time to come along for some goat yoga fun, and I want to branch out into special needs children while I have my yoga instructor living with me. If it proves successful, I can hire a yoga instructor when Gwen returns to Australia, although I don’t like thinking about her going home. I am selfish. I want to keep her. Thinking about waking up to an empty house hurts my heart.
The Fainting Goat Ranch merchandise I bought is flying off the shelves. The yoga participants love walking away with Fainting Goat Ranch yoga mats, towels, drink bottles, and so much more. The plush goats now come with a blinged-out goat name collar—thanks to the local craft ladies at the old folks’ home—I can’t keep up with orders from guests and people online who fall in love with the Mini-Ms on Instagram and want to order the lookalike plush toy. I’ve got an order in for plush donkeys, alpacas, and cows. The interest is there to widen the merchandise lines.
The guys purchase the bottle openers and stubby holders or koozies—why am I equally confused by that word as I find it cute and endearing and something Aussies should have thought up themselves?—and the bar towels with the logo and fun slogan T-Shirts. For Gwen and me, it will always be a “stubby holder” after the beer bottle called a stubby due to its short, squat appearance. Of course, I had to Google why it is called a koozie… yet still… I can’t decide if it is the most random name for a beer/can holder or the most brilliant. It is a conundrum.
Gliding through the water, I execute a smooth turn.
Did I have three laps left?
Crap, I can’t think. I got damn koozies on the brain. I’ll need to pick up my pace.
Today our swim has a lot at stake. Gwen and I are hosting an Aussie barbecue for an early dinner. The winner gets to man the grill, and the loser gets to stack the dishwasher, although paper plates will make that easier.
There is again a group of four couples visiting for three days. It is our second group booking. These bookings are the best because they already know each other, and coffee and conversation flow easily. Later today, they will join all my friends and me for our Aussie-themed barbecue. Gwen and I are pulling out the homemade lamis, aka lamingtons, for dessert to wow everyone. We will serve an array of gourmet snags in bread with Aussie tomato sauce—not ketchup, there is a difference—and cooked onion. We ordered Aussie brands of beer and goon sacks of wine. Goon sacks are the silver bag inside a boxed cask wine: nothing but class for our barbie.
The guests and neighbors are under strict instructions not to drive anywhere afterward if drinking. Walking or Uber is the only option.
