Somewhere Outside Glasgow, Scotland

Life is all about balance.

Your schedule, your checkbook, your diet, your baby on the counter as you reaaaaaaach for the bottle opener = they all need to be balanced.  (Some more carefully than others.)

Using the same logic, IF you decide to volunteer at an everything’s-connected, heal-the-world, hippie peace camp…… your next job MUST include struggling to keep mud and shit outta your face at a family-owned pig farm.

non-negotiable

Not wanting to leave Scotland’s daily rain showers and vampire-influenced architecture, I scoured the internet for volunteer gigs and found a small family farm, nestled next to the Kilpatrick Hills, 30 minutes north of Glasgow.

Excitement level ten out of ten, this would be my first attempt as a farmhand…… and my first job working with animals.  (Pretty sure I can’t count the cat café back in Vietnam because occupying the same space as something, while it judges you & wants to murder you, does not a connection make.)

Upon arrival, my hosts (Michael, a mid-70s architect retiree who loves to cook and Trudy, a late-40s take-no-prisoners successful businesswoman who never stops & never sleeps) handed me an XXL waterproof jumpsuit, an old pair of wellingtons, and off we went.  With 100 pigs, 30 sheep, 30 ducks, and about 180 free range chickens (that are ‘a little too free range’ if you ask Trudy), there was no time to waste.

Every day, the same.  And every day, a dream.

7:30a – WAKE UP

• This is very important; don’t forget this step.

8a – BREAKFAST

• Per Michael, Michael’s the only one allowed to cook in his kitchen, so Michael makes breakfast.  Sometimes, it’s corn flakes or bran flakes or porridge with syrup, but SOMEtimes it’s a mountain of farm-fresh duck eggs on thick, buttered toast.  Y-U-M.
• Also, can we take a step back and reiterate that he BUTTERS my TOAST?  My 73-year-old roommate BUTTERS my toast for me.  How cute is that?

8:30a – START WORK

• Strap on my waterproof bib and brace overalls; grab 3 egg trays, the portacabin key, a hose nozzle, and a lighter; and head out the door to start my morning routine: making sure all animals have food, water, and the latest season of Kimmy Schmidt.
• #1: WHITE BABY CHICKENS (inside the portacabin)
  • Unlock the portacabin and say hello to the white baby chickens who, during the night, have successfully shit on EVERY SURFACE IN THE PORTACABIN.
  • Guys.  Seriously.  Help me help you.  Stop knocking over your water.  And stop pooping in your own food supply.  You’re only hurting yourself.
  • And me.  Did I mention me?  Especially me.  Because while I appreciate the gesture, I don’t enjoy chocolatey, caramel-y, butterscotch sundaes first thing in the morning.  And I certainly don’t enjoy digging wet marshmallow fluff out of the itty-bitty feeder trays with my fingers.
  • Oh, shoot.  I should have mentioned earlier this was going to be graphic.
  • Apologies to anyone eating a Milky Way and a word of warning that this post is very poop-heavy.  ‘Cuz you can’t spell dungarees without the dung heyoooooo!  #farmlife #chickenshit

hello.

• #2: BANTAM CHICKENS (in Chinese-made huts)
  • Next, it’s onto the bantams – those cute, cuddly, miniature chickens who lay miniature eggs for fancy restaurants and people watching their cholesterol.
  • I open the water nozzle for their water jug, bring out a bucket of grain pellets, and open the door to their Chinese-made huts so those fluffy bird balls can blast into the morning.
  • While they take turns strutting through the yard pecking at the air and then settling back into their own double chins, I open the roofs of all the Chinese-made huts to collect their miniature eggs.
• #3: DUCKS (in that old, blue horse trailer)
  • Man, oh man, do I love the ducks.  They’re always up to something.  Always going somewhere.
  • Do I love them because I identify with their busy walk (the determined walk you do around the office when you want your boss to think you’re very, very busy) or is it because their side-to-side ‘I’m carrying two sacks ‘a potatoes’ dance reminds me of my favorite Jack Handy quote?

‘To me, it’s a good idea to always carry two sacks of something when you walk around.  That way, if anybody says, ‘Hey, can you give me a hand?’, you can say, ‘Sorry, I got these sacks.’’ — Jack Handy

• • As soon as I pull the screwdriver out of the latch, kick a piece of wood out of the door frame corner, and gently lower the 50lb trailer ramp, a flurry of ducks rushhhhhh past me.  Single file.  Headed nowhere.
• #4: BLACK HENS (in the red hut with the broken door)
  • Next to the ducks, the black hens are my favorite.  The biggest troublemakers (always getting into the pig shed straw supply and interior decorating the wrong spaces), they make me WORK for their eggs.  Which, ok, valid; I’m basically bodysnatching their babies on a daily basis while singing ‘thank you for being a frieeeeeend’ so they don’t bite my thumbs off.
  • After putting out food and fresh water, I go one-by-one and plunge my hand underneath their warm chicken bodies, feeling around for eggs.  I feel so dirty.  Especially in the age of #metoo and #timesup, am I violating these chickens?  Are they ok?  I’m not so sure.  They stare up at me, clamping down on their progeny, making this ‘ooooooooo’ sound like we’re in 4^th grade and I just got in trouble.  ‘Taylor Malloy, please come to the principal’s office.’  ‘Oooooooooo.’
  • After week one, I was able to read the room and started in on some throwback Yo Mama jokes to break the tension.
  • ‘Yo Mama so fat, she sat on a rainbow and skittles popped out.’  ‘Oooooooooo.’

thanks for your time, glasgow!  you’ve been great!  g’night!

• #5: WHITE COED CHICKENS (outside in 2 blue & white wooden huts)
  • The older version of the chicks in the portacabin, these meat birds (raised for meat, not eggs) can’t be trusted roaming around the property, so they shack up in a prime real estate chicken enclosure up by the sheep fields.
  • I top up their water and huge food canister, sprinkle ten handfuls of feed around the yard so they don’t kill each other in their mad dash for breakfast, and watch, amused, as they try their best to avoid me.  Do all chickens look like defensive linemen who catch interceptions and don’t know what to do with their bodies?  Or, are these chickens especially odd?
  • ‘Ahhhhhhh!  Take it!  Take it!  Where do I go!?!  HELP ME.’
• #6: THE PIGS, starting with the INSIDE PIGS
  • Finally, the pigs.  I thought we’d never make it.
  • The pigs in the shed are broken up into 7 pens – the girls, the boys, the new babies, the old new babies, the fertile ladies, the horny men, and the coed mixed batch.  (**Just because 3 horny men were segregated in one pen doesn’t mean that pigs in other pens can’t get rowdy.  Patricia (I named her Patricia) in the ladies’ pen likes to get down and dirty on other ladies’ backs.  You go girl.  Get it.  Hump it.  Grind it.  Love it.  #feminism)
  • As soon as you open the garage door to the shed, you better be ready to MOVE.  Pigs are ravenous; they never feel full; and they want their food yesterday.  Using my underhand pop-a-shot skills, I try to rapid fire big & small food pellets into each pen before squeals hit their crescendo.  Which is hard, because things go from ‘hey, there she is’ to ‘hey, I’ll CUT a bitch’ very quickly.
  • After the pellets, repeat with bananas (one full bunch per adult pig), never stopping…… don’t ever stop.  Even if a banana bunch hits a pig’s back and makes a big THUD, there’s no time for laughing.  Just kidding, there’s always time to laugh.  Just kidding again, one of the mommas HOISTED HER FRONT LEGS ONTO THE 4 FOOT METAL FENCE and she’s eye-level with me.  Staring into my soul.
  • I’ll give you anything you want; please don’t eat me.
  • While the pigs are busy flaring up my misophonia, I jump into the pens and start mucking out.
  • What is ‘mucking out’, you may ask?  WELL…… it’s the technical term for getting the shit out.  Pitchforking piles and piles of sopping wet, poopified hay out of the pens, into wheelbarrows, and eventually out to a random field.  Chocolate-soaked shoestring fries.  You still eating?
  • As I shovel the shite in its various solid & liquid forms, I like to sing songs (‘I have a college degreeeeeeee, yes I do, yes I do-oo-oo’), make up radio commercials (‘MONDAY MONDAY MONDAY everything must go go goooo!’), or do my best British accent for another rousing episode of Lifestyles of the Rich & Famous: Where Are They Now?  ‘A story of rags to riches…… the princess of poo, the darling of dookie, transporting tootsie rolls to the fudge-covered fields.  Watch as she resists itching her face for 4 straight hours…… simply amazing!’

i ain’t no gamblin’ man but…

on your face.  poop on your face.

• • After about 8-12 overflowing wheelbarrows of doodie, I replace missing hay with fresh hay, being sure to apologize to every pig I bump into (as they watch me work, fascinated).  ‘Excuse me.  Excuse me, sir.  Excuse me.  Skootch over; you’re standing on my pitchfork.’
  • Sometimes I try to move them outta the way but, of course, the ONE day I gave a good, sturdy pushhhhh to a pig butt…… he pooped on my pants.  Right on my inner thigh.  MY BAAAD!  Sorry, bud.  I should have seen you were mid-poop.  Carry on.  Please proceed.
  • After food and dingleberry duty, I top up the fresh-looking water troughs and replace the questionable-looking water troughs that Patricia probably pooped in.  Arguably the worst job on the farm, it requires scooping bucket after bucket of poop water into a wheelbarrow, sloshing that wobbly watery poop outside, and dumping it in a field.  Then, untying the trough, lugging it outside, hosing it off, lugging it back inside, retying it, and trying to refill it before pigs flip it over.  After a quick sweep, inside pigs = complete!
• #7: THE OUTSIDE PIGS
  • Food.  Water.  Entertainment value.
  • The outside pigs wait for me by the shed and run alongside as I make the 2-minute walk to their feeding area (while singing a remixed version of Willy Wonka’s ‘come with me, and you’ll see, that it’s maaaaagically delicious’).  Because I’m the pied piper of pigs, now.
  • Babe’s ear is f*cked up, don’t stare at it.  Piglets nibble at my boots, don’t worry about it.
  • I focus on:
    • Dodging incoming momma pigs, charging full-steam-ahead for their food
    • Dropping bananas directly in front of the grandma pigs as they are too fat & lazy to move as their bunny ears block their view
    • Swinging my leg overrrr the electric fence, ever so delicately, so I don’t get GZZZZZZT – too late.
    • If you need me, I’ll be a juiced-up Frankenstein the rest of the day.

I AM ALIVEEE

• #8: MISCELLANEOUS
  • Two hours of miscellaneous fun to wrap up the morning – woo hoo!
  • Options include: topping up waters and straw bedding, washing eggs, unloading deliveries, mucking out the chicken & duck houses, carrying steel fence posts and metal sheeting, sorting scrap metal, dragging stuff, burning stuff, refilling stuff, deconstructing pig pens stuck in three-foot-deep mud pits, watching pigs cuddle, watching pigs hump, watching pig penises as they lit’trally fucking SPIN, building new chicken enclosures, and watching the cute, 26-year-old butcher surgically slice his meat.
  • Connor the butcher is a local Scotsman, a ginger, a rugby player, and a lover of fine meats.  All in favor?  Aye.  After explaining the best cuts for sausage and politely rejecting my suggestion to Rocky Balboa the remaining meat, he let me try my (recently-washed) hand at butchering.
  • Again, I must remind you of balance.  This time last month, I was learning to cook in a vegan kitchen and now……… now, I’m living my ultimate meet cute scenario: listening to Chromeo’s ‘Tenderoni’ while tenderizing meat with my future husband.  Save the dates coming next spring.

12:30p – WORK ENDS

• Hop in the shower.  Stay for an hour.

1:30p – LUNCH

• Per Michael, Michael’s the only one allowed to cook in his kitchen, so Michael makes lunch.  Sometimes, it’s ham & cheese sandwiches or 3-cheese sandwiches or double-cream split pea soups, but SOMEtimes it’s – no, it’s usually triple-cheese sandwiches with yogurt and an apple on the side.
• My dietary progression is now complete.  Vegan in Portugal –> vegetarian in northern Scotland –> now, only carbs and dairy.  Dairy and carbs, carbs and dairy.  Counting the seconds ‘til my cor-o-nary.

2p – DOWN TIME

• The first quality down time I’ve had to myself since SOUTHERN CAMBODIA, I can finally do exactly what I want to do.  Absolutely nothing.  Go nowhere, see no one, refrain from exploring the surrounding area even though I’m somewhere cool.  I’m always somewhere cool and momma needs to LOAF.
• You know those weekends when you cancel all your plans, black-out your family room, and order one pizza for every season of Homeland?  That’s what I wanted.  To Netflix and mahjong and google with abandon.  To disappear in a sea of veg.

7:30p – DINNER

• Speaking of seeing or not seeing veg, my body couldn’t handle much more carbs and dairy so thankfully dinner was always a heaping plate of cheese pasta.  Or cheese rice or cheese over this cauliflower mash thing.  We got chicken biryani one night (yay!) but he replaced the chicken with four dollops of sour cream (oh).
• The two-page list of house rules (single spaced) clearly said they’d be happy to get whatever food we might desire, so I casuallyyyyyy mentioned (twice in 3 weeks) that I would love some fruits or vegetables.  To no avail.
• But no bother, I stole two bananas from the pig’s food stash one day.

what of it

8p – START WORK AGAIN, Nighttime Feeding Sesh

• Tuck everyone in, snug as a bug.   Food.  Water.  Lullabies.
• Sometimes, I pretend I’m Santa Claus delivering extra straw bedding to all the good boys & girls…… sometimes I catch turkeys using my infamous high school basketball move ‘look over there while I drive left’…… and sometimes I fall knee-deep into the giant mud pit in the center of the property.  AKA the pit of despair.
• One desperate night, I waited patiently for someone to find me…… and who should come to my rescue but my 73-year-old roommate.  Ambling over after hearing my distress call, he wrapped both fists around his cane, held it out horizontally, and braced for impact.

i can’t

• A moment I’ll never forget: being pulled out of a mud pit WITH A MUTHA FUCKIN’ CANE.
• I close out the shift by singing The Sound of Music’s ‘So Long, Farewell’ to any animal within earshot and imitating paparazzi every time I see a rat.  Because it must be Ratatouille.  The famous Parisian chef with a 4-star review by Anton Ego.
• ‘Ratatouille!  Bonjour!  Over here!’  (It made sense at the time.)

9:15p – DONE FOR THE DAY

And there you have it.

Working on a farm with volunteers from around the world (Madison from NZ, Isobel from Mexico, Meghane from Belgium, and Caitlin from Tahoe)…… getting stronger every day (why do boring crunches when you can shovel shit instead!?)…… and taking hilaaaaarious videos of farm animals with top notch voiceover work (all lost forever because the ONE day I recorded most of my videos is the day I dropped my phone in a questionable-looking water trough while swinging my leg over a fence).

RIP to the second cell phone I’ve dropped in a toilet this year.  And RIP to that whole Joan Rivers bit where I asked each bantam chicken where they were going and who they were wearing.  ‘Those pants!  Those pants!  Who made those FABulous pants!’

look at those fluffy pants!

and look at the view from my bedroom window

and the surrounding area

here’s my fiance, connor

and 2 examples of a balanced diet, if you’re trying to balance carbs & dairy

and finally, a turkey tag team.

This post is now complete.  Or is it the first half of a mystery-two parter?

You see…… the dynamic at the pig farm wasn’t the best, but the benefits of living there far outweighed the drawbacks.  Free lodging, free workouts, free food carbs & dairy, and all the down time I could want after bonding with super cute animals and phenomenal fellow volunteers?  Yes, please.

But then……… things went sideways.  Fast.  And I had to leave the assignment prematurely (a mutual decision between the hosts and myself).  What the heck happened?

Dun dun dunnnnnn.  You’ll just have to tune in next week to find out.

Sylvester Stallone in……

Oh, and here’s a few videos from the farm if you’re bored (xoxo):

A.  pigs that haven’t been fed yet, level 2 excitement

B.  outside pigs- hold onnnn

C.  lifestyles of the poop and famous

D.  sausage nips & poop water