So my husband says he wants to be a farmer…

So my husband says he wants to be a farmer… Which wouldn’t be that unusual, except it’s us.

So in the words of the Rolling Stones, please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Carissa, friends call me Riss, and I am originally from southern California. Shout out to the coast where the prices are high and the Mexican food prices are low… I can remember fondly the days in the precious, left-leaning state only because I can confidently say my husband and I agreed to never live there again. Also, I’m still that snowflake sooo… thanks for having me in middle Tennessee, y’all!

I love love: in whatever shade of the rainbow that may come in. I think if we are considered the richest country in the world, we damn well should expect to take care of the weary, hopeless, and struggling. It’s in the Bible, y’all. We are supposed to love the poor. See Proverbs 28:27. See Jesus. See Jesus run. See Jesus jump. See Jesus treat others the way we’d wish to be treated. I do like guns though; guns are fun. There also shouldn’t be a problem with me having a registered gun with a clear background check, as long as I am taking care of my mental and physical health. Yep, I’m one of those.

So now let my introduce my husband, Eric. Obvi, my friends were quick to adopt him as the ‘Ric to go with me (‘Riss.) He is the gun-toting (remind me to get to that story later,) public service supportin,’ red-blooded American with a bleeding heart for the suffering, poor, and less fortunate. Since he’s not here to defend himself, I’ll leave it at that for now *for reference, he just walked in with a giant ice cube, and seeing that I was typing, decided to throw it at my bare cleavage where I was undefended.*

Either way, the point of my brief introduction is to illustrate the VERY important theme that neither of us have ANY experience with farming. I went to college in New York City, and he played football in Santa Barbara. Either way, we both grew up in sunny southern California and can be considered city folk.

I had a garden as a kid. I love gardening. I even roped my mom into getting us horses. Some of my best memories are at a crappy ranch house that my single mother and I spent many-a-day at Home Depot trying to save. My husband learned how to work a chain saw in his firefighter training. Besides that, we got nothin’. SoCal schools don’t teach wood-shop classes, much less drivers ed., and there are certainly no agriculture programs.

Either way, we both knew the Southern California life was not for us and we were destined to be somewhere else. More stories (vlogs) on that later.

Currently, my new (newlywed-cheesey-annoying-lovey smile in here for annoyance purposes) husband and I own a home east of Nashville, Tennessee. *Cue Music City, bachelorette-party slideshow in your mind* Nope, neither of us sing or should even sing in the shower (we do, but that’s not important).

So let’s get back to the original story. The other night after two.. maybe three glasses of wine.. my husband tells me that he wants to be a farmer.

I think I laughed out loud. If I didn’t, then I’m getting wise in my old age and I definitely at least laughed in my head. So let me set the scene.. my older, angel *forever my baby* dog is snoring on a pillow… yes, I wish I was kidding… and we are sitting in the kitchen discussing the upcoming election.

Speaking of kidding, we had recently decided to get some kids. Well, not people kids, but goat kids. And let me tell you, goats are FUN! We just got three new goats! Then, we decided we needed a fourth so our little girl didn’t get lonely. Aaand then, we decided we should get four more girls (come find us in late April), because well, damn, maybe they’d give us a discount on all four if they’re trying to get rid of them?! Yep, that must be it. Truth is, they are adorable, and I am addicted. I’ve reeeeally enjoyed goat shopping and informational reading. It’s probably a real, very diagnosable problem: I’m addicted to baby goats.

As it turns out, my husband is addicted to goats, too, which brings me to the original reason for this post. My husband outta complete nowhere says, “I think I want to be a farmer.”

This is particularly funny because my husband is an especially passionate man. He is passionately kind, and passionately generous, and passionately a pain in my ass. Let’s not get too mushy and forget that he knows-and sometimes damn well chooses-to push every single one of my buttons (see aforementioned ice-throwing.) That being said, by passion, I mean he’s 110% in or not at all. He’s not the red roses and love note kind of passion. He is the kind of passion that comes with complete commitment, whether that be marriage, or hiking from Canada to Mexico, or whatever he gets into. Seriously, this man decides he want to do a thing (or not do a thing), and you best not stand in his way. He’s passionate in saving the lives of others. He’s passionate about doing things efficiently and fairly, for all parties involved. He’s passionate about finishing things he starts and being early to everything. So as he’s gone through several passion projects as of late- each with their own merit- he’s surprised me with “farmer.” Currently, my husband loves being home, with our older shepherd lady, our newly adopted and incredibly anxious hound, and the friendly neighborhood hobo that chose our home as his own. Oh and we can’t forget above Steve. Steve’s a good guy; he’s our friendly orange kitty that braves these three indoor menaces. Outdoors, we’ve added a few chickens, and then a few more, and then a few goats, and then some quail, and hopefully some more baby goats, and potentially an alpaca or miniature horse (still workin’ on him for those last two). All of this brings me to the story today- my kind, sweet, generous, and ever so sassy husband to tell me that he wants to be a farmer.

I gotta refill my wine glass for this.

So I thought, what if I pour myself an extra big wine glass and tell the story about us starting this farm? I’m always trying to adopt anything that has fur. I could tell the story of two Californians moving to Tennessee into a rural southern neighborhood and deciding we needed to live simpler, and thus happier.

Here we are… Welcome to my blog! Welcome to the story we’re going to share. Welcome to what is hopefully the compilation of stories that I will throw together for a book in the future. I made a big promise to my mother as a small child to write a book someday, and I intend to keep my promises.