Duck, Duck.... (plus: A Cute Moment at Work)

Add ducks to the list of critters currently in our care. We're turning into a farm. All we need now is a cow or two, maybe a pony.... Just no pigs.

The ducks were Heather's idea. She and Mom went to get more chicks yesterday and came home with 10 assorted chicks and 2 Pekin ducklings.

And I thought the chicks were loud. We're finally getting the ducklings used to our hands, but only because we continued draping them in the box and wiggling our fingers and talking to the ducklings all day yesterday. Whenever we'd pick up one, it and the one left behind would both scream, so it was doubly loud.

Of all people, Wes suggested a name for one of the ducklings: Aflac. We're all in agreement. Heather wants to name the other Jemima, but we don't know if they're male or female.

We got 6 more Buffs (and Mom thinks most of our first ones were Buffs as well), 2 White Leghorns, and four Americaunas, the latter of which are beautiful as chicks but apparently turn out pretty ordinary/kind of ugly as adults. The new Buffs (which all look pretty much the same) are a straight run. If they're roosters, they won't be lasting long, so I'm having to refrain from throwing out more names.

However, one of the Americaunas has black around her eyes coming back to her cheeks. Mom said it looks like eyeliner, so she is Sabrina. I had said the chick with the red stripes from the first half-dozen was named by Allenna, but it was actually the other Banty. She is Arexi. Mom thinks the striped one might be our only non-Buff from that bunch. I think it could be a Rhode Island Red, and suggested Cheryl (Miss Congeniality, anyone?).

Rocky is gone as of this morning. Even among the new ones he was the runt, and with so many running around he had it rough. Although yesterday he laid down for one of his frequent naps (I was beginning to think he was narcoleptic) and one of the Whites cuddled up with her head on his back. 'Twas adorable. (Oh. And I want to name the Whites Galadriel and Glinda. Even though we can't tell them apart.)

But enough about baby fowl. I know I said I wasn't going to write about work, but something happened yesterday that I wanted to share.

I was scrubbing counters when a little boy, maybe 6 or 7, walked in. I waited a second to see if a parent was following, but he was on his own, so I went up to the register with a grin. He had a $20 wadded up in his fist and a handwritten list from his mom. He quietly gave me his order.

Then he asked if it was "Happy Tuesday". My co-worker, who'd wandered up with me, suggested he might mean "Text Tuesday". The poor kid wasn't sure and looked uncomfortable. My co-worker asked if his mom had a text. He didn't know. I wasn't sure what to say when another customer, who was sitting down eating, said, "Here," and slid his phone across the table to offer his own text message.

"Looks like someone's got your back," my co-worker told the boy with a smile.

I told the boy his total, forgetting to say "dollars" and "cents" after the numbers. He looked all confused and nervous, repeated the total questioningly with "dollars" and "cents", and then mumbled that he didn't have 80 cents. My co-worker stepped up, pointing out that he had a $20, which meant he'd get change back.

Once the transaction was complete, I thanked her profusely. I'd been at a loss, feeling kind of stupid because I wasn't sure how to go about the whole thing, but it was cute. When I brought the bag with the smoothies out to the boy, I cautioned him that it was kind of heavy and offered to carry it out to his car, but he told me he could do it, and off he went.

In other news, the weather still doesn't really feel like spring. At least, not all the time. Yesterday we had hail mixed with freezing rain. Today we have sunshine. I know, this way we don't get lots of mud while everything melts all at once, but I'm so ready for spring.

On Sunday, my old Sunday School teacher asked Dad how we liked living in the country. He said he and Mom are enjoying it and he grew up in the country working on farms, kind of mumbled through how my siblings feel, then looked at me and said, "And this one loves it." I get a garden plot bigger than our old backyard, and that's only on one side of the house. What's not to like?

The Chicks have Arrived

It's old news to a lot of you, but we have chickens!

Yes. Quite against the better judgment of the reasonable side of my brain, I'm excited. And I have succumbed to the adorableness of chicks.

And half of them already have names. Even the hypothetical ones we hope to get.

They arrived on Saturday. Mom went to pick them up. (She only wanted a few to start and couldn't order less than 25.) Half a dozen red something-or-other pullets and two banties (which could be either hens or roosters). We got them all settled and then just stared at them for a while, laughing and "oooh"ing. They all have this funny habbit of melting when they go to sleep. The first time it happened, I thought one of them had died. There she was, sprawled out on the bottom of the box, head cocked at an odd angle. One poke and she was up, and we all laughed some more.

The banties are about half the size of the red ones, and the smaller of the two has been picked on and practically trampled relentlessly. When I went to work Saturday night, I was sure I would come home to find him dead (yes, we call that one "he"), because he'd been very unsteady and listless most of the time. He's still alive, though. However, he's definitely the "runt", if chickens have those.

The red ones could be Buff Orpingtons, Rhode Island Reds, or New Hampshire Reds. If their coloring now is any way to tell, we might have one or two of each. Most have dark reddish backs and heads, and one has defined red stripes on her head and the sides of her back. One is a light creamy color without much red at all. Since Buffs are the lightest of the three types, I think the last one is a Buff. Therefore, I called her Lobelia.

Yes. I know. But I couldn't help it.

We all (indeed, everyone in the family including the dogs and, unfortunately, the cat) have spent a lot of time with the chicks. There's almost constantly someone peeking in to make sure the runt is still alive, and to say "hello" to the others. And, of course, to pick them up and play with them. Dad and I have even held one for Sasha to look at. She's been real gentle about the whole thing, sitting still with just her tongue moving (and it never stops moving). "Chicks are friends, not food."
Only once has any of the chicks willingly got into our hands, and that was for Heather. The rest of the time, they either cower or flap their wings and try to jump the three feet back to their box.

Mom has to keep reminding us that chickens aren't the brightest. I'm reminded of finding salamanders in Vermont when I was younger, and of how they kept walking when you picked them up, right off your hand.

Running with the idea that the banty runt is going to be a rooster, I dubbed him Euroclydon (or "Rocky").

I couldn't help myself. Wes asked, "What kind of dinosaur is that?" It's actually the storm that blew Paul's ship off course. (Call me a dork, but it's a cool name.) I've been wanting to use it as a name for a while now. I'd prefer to attach it to a dragon, but those are kind of hard to come by, and dogs stop responding when the word is longer than two syllables, so chicken it is. (Watch. "Rocky" is going to be a hen, along with all the rest.)

Those are only two I've named. Allenna named the striped one, but I can't remember what, and Heather has only named her hypothetical silky. It will be Ginger.
They'll probably be in the house for a month and a half at least, based on how the weather has been all March. By then, I think the novelty will have worn off and we'll be playing with them out of necessity. Mom's chiropractor (one of her leading sources on all things chickens, if you can believe it) said when she had chicks she would play with them, letting them roam around her when she sat down and talking to them, and they were some of the nicest chickens she'd ever heard of. So that's our mission.
Mom thinks the non-Buffs among them might corrupt the Buffs, who are supposed to be docile and friendly as a rule. Probably that idea that good in the company of bad tends to turn bad, not turn bad to good, or something. (The illustration of one bad apple in a bunch of good ones.) It probably has something to do with how generally good-natured Hershey couldn't teach Sasha manners.
Comparing pictures of chicks to mature chickens, it's obvious their coloring can change drastically. I don't know if we'll be able to keep these guys straight very soon.
This whole "naming the chickens" thing has come to prove to me that if a person insists on something long enough, odds are everyone else might decide they're willing to accept it (within reason). It only took around 40 hours of me calling the light-colored chick Lobelia for the rest of the family to play along. Now to introduce them to Roisin....

Retreat! I have tea!

I sat down to blog this morning and, for some reason thinking next week was Easter Sunday, that's what I started talking about.

I almost finished the post before I realized my mistake. So that will be posted next Wednesday. Then I had to figure out what on earth I'd write about instead, and I remembered I never talked about the retreat!

Short story: it was fantastic. Great teaching (hard to call it "preaching" when it's 30 people crammed into the lounge section of a hotel suite), good fellowship, lots of fun and craziness, and even a mini birthday party in my room the first night.

The entire time, Jessi and I were marvelling over how we survived an entire week like that during youth conference. Because I felt dead by noon on Saturday.

We went to the mall, where there's a Teavana store, but I only bought a tea canister for some tea I already have at home. (My friends know me very well, because tea is also one of the gifts I got.) The only other thing I got was a scarf to match a bubble gum pink skirt I picked out when Wes, a friend and I went to our mall before leaving for the retreat.

We played laser tag Saturday night. 3 rounds, and I think they were each 15 minutes long. The group was split into two teams and it was a free-for-all getting the colored vests. Jessi, myself, and our roommate managed to grab green, which was the team with all the hardcore gamers like my brother. We won all three rounds.

No thanks to me. My maximum accuracy was 29.7% and my highest rank out of 27 people was 11. I mostly helped guard the base and provide a human shield of sorts so Jessi wouldn't keep getting hit and deactivated. One game, she got second. Yes, I'll take my credit.

By the end, my thighs were killing me from crouching on an angle and leaning around corners like a wannabe commando. And who knew leaning in and out could be so intense and sweaty? I was getting pretty good by the end of it. Definitely something I can enjoy. So long as my team has people on it who know what they're doing to make sure we win.

I learned afterward that black tea to me is like someone on crack. Who knew?

Here's what happened.

The first night we went to a restaurant. Their main thing is BBQ, but I got a salad and soup combo. And sweet iced tea.

I haven't had black tea in a while. I prefer green or herbal. However, I was kind of craving it. I ended up downing three full glasses (and they didn't go overboard on the ice like some places).

By the time we got back to the bus to go to the hotel, my head was buzzing and I felt dizzy. I wasn't sure why; I figured it was fatigue or something.

Then, of course, we had a service in the hotel suite. Still thinking the light-headedness was me being tired (I'm usually settling into bed by 10), I just wanted to go to sleep.

Then we had the mini party. That was fun. Next time, I need to insist my friends not get me something that I actually really want. Maybe it'll avoid homeschool awkward me from cropping up. I mean, come on, I'm 19. It wasn't that bad.

Around that time, I realized what was wrong with me. (The dizziness, I mean.)

"Jessi, I had sweet black tea."

"So?"

"So...that stuff has caffine in it." (Like it's a drug or something.)

(Starting to laught.) "Yeah?"

"And I haven't had black tea in forever. I haven't really even had soda in, like, two years."

I told Wes later when I wandered down two floors to say good night. (Unlike youth conference, our whole group was neither all on the same floor or on two adjacent floors dividing boys and girls. I felt so grown-up and lost.) He just gave me his, "Really? You're kidding me," look.

The next morning, I wanted to try out my new tea. I decided to skip the black tea flavor and go with a pomegrante one instead.

That's about all I have to say without rambling, and it's almost time for church, so I'll leave you with this: have you ever noticed that the clouds look darker when you're standing under the sun?

No, I don't know what that's supposed to mean. Just one of my poetic observations.

It's My Birthday (also: Braids)

It's my birthday.

Tada!

How am I going to spend it? many of you wish to know.

Pack. Clean my room. Maybe wash some dishes and write. Go to a hotel two hours away and commence a weekend retreat and constantly be on guard for unpleasant "surprises" from well-meaning "friends". (Or not so well-meaning.)

I know. Lame. I already raked dog poop this morning. Then I ate the last of the ice cream. And I was awake by 8.

I was awake by 8 mostly because my phone kept buzzing with facebook notifications because people were posting "Happy birthday!" on my wall. (My phone is demonic, because I turned off the facebook notifications and I still get them.) Thanks, guys! You're awesome.

We aren't doing any huge celebration A) because we aren't big on over-the-top party celebrations, and B) it's kind of a bad day for us because Dad works and I have to leave this afternoon and my youth pastor's sons will be over (which is why I need to clean my room (and by "clean my room", I mean "put away most of my clothes, organize my desk and night table, and shove everything else into my closet")).

So that's the plan for my birthday.

Be jealous.

Ever since I finally taught myself how to French braid my hair a couple years ago, braids have been one of my favorite hairstyles of choice. Diverse, able to be dressy or casual, and fairly easy. One style, however, I have not been able to master: the milkmaid braid.

Yesterday, I found a video tutorial on how to achieve such a braid. (Did you know it is possible to get "addicted" to Pinterest without even having an account. Indeed. I know.)

It was easy. Like "oh, duh" easy.

I used to think the only way to get this look was to braid from one side of your head, by your ear, to the other side. Maybe French braid it. And I just couldn't do it that way.

This method has you do two normal braids and pin them on top of your head.

Duh!

(Yes, I did misplace the video link.)

I tried it yesterday. I had to. Finally, I had a hairstyle which completed my "bookish" look.

Okay, make that more like dorky homsechooler trying to look indie or something. If the stares at Wal-Mart are any way to judge....

Yes, I am very self-concious. I wanted to slap those boys. With a belt. And then hand them the belt and explain it's proper use and their need of it.

(Why, you may ask, were you worried about the opinion of that kid of person? I don't know.)

But it doesn't matter, because after my trip to Wal-Mart I babysat, and the kids loved it. And also my feather earrings. The little girl kept blowing them while we were reading books. These kids also presented (with their parents) cupcakes for my birthday! And they sang to me. So I was happy.

Whatever. I'll try again and again until I find a way to make this style a little more...something. And in the meantime, my plan is to use it when I'm spending all day in my garden in June and want my hair off my neck and out of my face.

I will also never again sleep with my hair still styled this way. 1) It's a little uncomfortable and 2) my hair is a disaster this morning. I unbraided it and poof. (Jessi, it was kind of like you sleeping with mousse at Youth Conference. Only not quite.)

Well, I should go. I don't know when those boys will be here and I still have boxes to shove and clothes to pack and dog hair to vaccum. And then perhaps I shall read a book.
(Also, I'd be pretty freaked out if my day went anything like Rapunzel's.)

There's something wrong with my dog. (Also, my impending birthday.)

I should be cleaning my room, packing for the retreat, washing some very dirty pots and pans, and a load of other things, but no. I'm here instead.

Who's complaining?

Not I.

Actually, I'm currently trying to will away one of those horrid headaches which somehow affect the stomach. (I call it a migraine, but considering how some friends experience migraines, it seems a little rude and unfair to do so.) And also, for some reason, eating "Cap'n Crunch's Oops! All Berries" cereal in hopes that food will force out the headache. Don't ask.

I should also be writing furiously because tomorrow is my birthday and - oh, look! - it's been 16 months and counting since I started that *cough* book and I still have six or seven chapters, 20,000 words, until completion and  two weeks ago I thought I could get it done by my birthday. (16 months to write 70,000 words. What is wrong with me?)

And all I want to do is talk about my dog.

Last day as an 18-year-old. How creepy/weird/unnerving is that?!

Around lunchtime tomorrow, I will have been alive for 19 whole stinkin' years. (And what boggles the brain is taking into account that I'll be stepping into my twentieth year in existence.)

I was once again bemoaning the trials of growing up the other day. Used to be, my biggest dream was owning a horse. But, growing up and all, I've had to learn some hard lessons about life: horses cost money, and require space in which to house and exercise them, and the average American is hard-pressed as it is to make money enough to sustain themselves and a 50-pound puppy when the weather turns to snow and their place of employment caters to people who prefer sunshine to entice their appetite, thus cutting short said average person's expected weekly hours.

Not that I'm bitter.

Back on the "Why growing up is kind of emotionally painful" subject:

When you're a kid, you haven't lived long enough to discover the limitations and expectations and unfortunate truths about life. It's all open and full of possibilities. Anything can happen. And then, like an internet test to judge which occupation is best suited for you, the longer you continue, the more things get whittled down, and suddenly you can't incorporate plants and storytelling into one lifestyle. And one day, you're forced to choose which dreams to pursue and which to let free, only to be recalled when you're telling your kids, "Once, I used to want to...."

But life is also exciting, because sometimes things happen far different than you could ever have imagined, and in some ways the unexpectedness is a pleasant surprise.

Yes, my brain is stuck on surprises because people keep suggesting that that's what I'll be getting lots of for my birthday. Or maybe I'm just reading into all of my recent conversations way too much?

True, I've never been truly surprised for my birthday (Mom likes lists so she has some idea what we would like so we don't get disappointed or she doesn't guess way off or something) but I've come to learn that I don't really like my friends' idea of "surprises". (If you're reading this, Jordan Dear, I'm thinking specifically of you, and in the case of Christmas, I shouldn't have been surprised. But I felt scandalized. Just so you know.)

I was supposed to be talking about my dog.

Well....

Last week, she went to the vet for her skin issues. Bye-bye paycheck.

But no. First, she came to church with us. Because Mom had to take her to the vet so I had to take over Mom's co-op class for the day, and Mom wasn't going to drop us off and then go back home for the mongrel.

And I have decided that, as far as my dog ownership goes, I am a colossal failure. (I was doing to go with "abysmal", but....)

We were the first ones there. Fine. Sasha ran and played and chased and wagged her tail.

People.

Good heavens, people.

My dog turned into a monster.

I was on the verge of tears.

My habit of appologizing profusely when I'm upset or embarassed came out in full force.

Mom left early, dragging the snarling dingo behind her.

And the same display of attitude was presented at the vet.

I will probably never be able to convince my dog that it's okay for me to live with other people, should I ever move out and get a roommate (or get married...).

The vet said it was probably overstimulation or something (new place, lots of new people) and misery from an apparent yeast infection. And I felt like even more of a failure.

Why does my dog have to be bipolar?

I mean, at home, she's generally...well, not quiet, not sweet, but not a monster either. Just weird. But that's her normal. She's almost endearing for it.

Or she has us all deceived.

But she doesn't snarl and snap unless you try to use her for a foot rest. And she loves being petted and doted upon and talked to. She loves playing chase and abusing her teddy bear.

And tomorrow four boys will be arriving to spend the weekend and my darling idiot will be moved to another room while I, her mistress, will abandon her.

I have a very bad feeling about this. Downright foreboding.

So I didn't take my dog to training classes for socialization, and now.... She's hopeless. Good-bye, loving family dog who's so easy going and friendly to everyone and the picture-perfect American household.

And good-bye to "Oops! All Berries". My headache is still present and accounted for.

So the dogs have been begging for more time outside since the weather has changed. We don't have any sort of fense, invisible or otherwise, so I had to cave and get a run. (Even though now we're getting a proper fence soon, which means I wasted $20.) I put Sasha outside on it about 20 muinutes ago.

Apparently she needs me to hold her...paw when she's outside.

I snapped on the lead, took off the leash, and turned back for the door. Sasha didn't move. She just looked at me, waiting, expecting me to pace beside her while she did her business and then frolicked along getting all tangled.

I told her, "Too bad," and went inside.

I've checked on her three times.

She hasn't moved.

She has remained sitting at the end of the lead, watching the door and looked all excited when I appear.

How can this dependant little creature turn into such a horror?

What have I done?

Or is it, What haven't I done?

Well, there. I posted on my last day as 18. Mission accomplished.

Bark, bark here and a cluck cluck there....

I'm back. That's all I have to say on that point.

Not much in the way of news around here. Except for this:

We're getting chickens.

Yes.

Chickens.

Chickens.

No, I don't have anything against chickens in general. I love the edible side of the picture. It's the fact that we will be raising the creatures themselves which puts me off.

I have a (in my opinion not all that irrational) strong dislike/borderline fear of chickens.

There. I said it.

Because what little creature with a sharp mouth, pointed toes, and beady eyes can really be trusted? (Although I loved our cockatiels.)

This hate/fear goes back to a visit to my grandma's years ago. I don't remember how old I was then. Maybe...11 or 12? Grandma had chickens - hens and roosters. I thought they were funny, ugly, rude little monsters. I loved throwing bits of moldy bread into their pen and watching them all scrabble to get a bite. Rather like seagulls, now that I think of it.

On this particular day, I was wandering along toward the backyard, where everyone else was hanging out, when I spotted Grandma's rooster stalking my way. I must have heard something about how mean this fellow could be or perhaps seen some demonstration previously, because I was instantly on guard.

And I learned that chickens, like most other creatures, can smell fear.

The rooster made a beeline in my direction, taking very deliberate, firm strutting steps and eying me maliciously. And silently. At first I tried to pretend it wasn't happening and continue on my merry way, telling the rooster to back off. But he kept coming, and I was overwhelmed by a sudden fear for my well-being.

I do believe I may have been crying or very nearly by that point. I was downright terrified as the rooster continued to advance. I was also struggling to keep an eye on the evil thing without making eye contact, knowing that animals feel threatened and are more likely to attack when you make eye contact with them. (And at that point I didn't care whether or not the rule applied to mean old roosters.)

All my efforts to will the rooster to leave me alone and let me pass were in vain. He charged.

I screamed. My first (and so far only) blood-curddling scream of the terrified and life-threatened.

I don't think any part of the rooster actually made contact with my body, but I was too busy trying to run on legs that had suddenly gone weak, shielding my eyes from wildly flapping wings.

And then Wes came racing around the corner of the house asking what was wrong. I was crying at that point, and I had trouble telling him what had happened.

Though I can't guarantee it because shock gave me a poor recollection, I'm sure Wesley laughed at me, and proceeded to tell Dad that Amber got attacked by a chicken and was now bawling like a baby.

So I think my distrust of chickens is at least well-founded, if a little...well, irrational? I stand by my instincts, though.

Then there's the part where I read a book about a girl in the 19...40's? whose family owned chickens, and the chickens abused her and pecked at her incessantly and were all around monstrous. That's pretty much the only part of that book which has stuck with me.

Mom's been researching all sorts of chickens. She's set on getting Buff Orpingtons. (And I only know that's what they're called because she said, "I want Buff Orps" and Dad said, "Oh, buff orcs?" and proceeded to display his biceps while saying, "Those are the orcs that are..." *flex flex*. I laughed, Dad chuckled, Mom glared.)

I've made my opinions very clear on the subject. Perhaps I've been rude or childish about it. Mom just shakes her head. She has assured me that she's only getting hens because she only wants the eggs, and Buff Orps are "docile and gorgeous".

As if a fat feathered fowl could be called "gorgeous". Granted, they have a nice russet coloring and aren't horribly built as far as chickens go....

And I'm totally going to demand we call one "Buffy". (Get it? "Buff Orpington?" Maybe we should give one a Lord of the Rings name in honor of Dad's quip. Galadriel? Merry? Or that evil female cousin of Bilbo's?)

Much to my confusion, I'm almost excited about the whole notion.

So that's the deal with chickens. And pretty much the only news in our household at the moment.

You know the drill. I was going to post this last week, when Mom declared, "We're getting our chickens next week!" but never got around to it. I have another post I'm planning based on Pastor's sermon last Sunday morning, but I haven't sorted it all out.

Next on the agenda of my uneventful life: my birthday!

Also the day I leave for a weekend single's retreat. Which I was convinced I'd never ever do.

I also said I would never abide chickens, and here I am picking out names.

While Mom plots out places to put the chicken set-up, I'm plotting my garden. So psyched! Beans, peas, squash, cucumbers, tomatoes, peppers, onions, corn.... Most of which I don't eat. And then there's the flower garden(s?) I'm planning. I wish we could have taken the rosebush from the old house with us. I loved that thing. I tried getting a cutting from it to get a new bush, but that failed. And like as not the new tenants will tear it up because they're allergic to or against roses or something.

So I'm hoping to get roses, lilies, irises (maybe), some little annuals....

And I'll spend my days weeding the vegetable garden and tossing overripe tomatoes to Buffy and Lobelia. (That's the name of the grasping relative. Yes, I just googled it.)

How I Run Errands (and don't manage my time properly)

I meant to post yesterday. Don't get me started with the excuses. In short, I lacked inspiration. However, I ran some errands before work yesterday and found my inspiration. Which means you won't get a rave about my new mint plant. Consider yourselves fortunate.

A little backstory of sorts (or is it a preface?):

I don't know if it's the new house, the season, or something else, but the dogs - especially Sasha - have had dry skin issues lately. Sasha has licked herself red in some areas. I found some comfry salve Mom bought at an Amish store a while ago and decided to try it on Sasha's stomach. (Of course, first I googled "can I use comfry salve on my dog".)

What does Sasha do (after I finally manage to get her on her back so I can rub the stuff on her)? Lick it. Seems she likes the flavor. That, or it's just another sign of my dog's overall general.... She doesn't think. She just puts stuff in her mouth for the sake of it.

You know that thing about dogs being like their owners?

Yeah.

Anyway! So I asked Mom if she thought some tea tree oil would help. From personal experience, the stuff is potent. I never actually had to taste any, but I'm sure I'm not the only one who's guessed a thing's flavor based on it's smell. That's half of how we get our sense of taste, anyway.

Turns out we didn't have any tea tree oil on hand, so I said I'd run by a local health food store on the way to work.

Another side note: I'm still practising good time management skills.

This health food store is on Main Street. Don't start imagining anything huge. The buisiness part of our Main Street is about four blocks of Mom 'n' Pop shops, bars, cafes, and the like, along with historic buildings like the courthouse and banks and human service buildings. Doesn't make for a good tourist attraction, but it adds to that "small town" feel the city for some reason seeks to maintain.

So the whole scheme of one-way streets always confuses me, especially when coming from the direction of our new house. I only had a vague idea of how to get where I was headed. I failed. Missed my turn, had to go three blocks to the correct one-way and do a big circle.

Then there were no angled parking spots on Main.

Parallel parking.

I haven't done it since my road test.

Sue me.

I wandered around for a couple blocks, almost turning the wrong way on a one-way and finally finding an empty parallel spot on a slight hill very near my destination.

Yet another side note: if anyone decided to trail me, they might decide I am dangerous. Either to them or to myself, I can't say. When I get turned around, I usually go out of my way to set myself right. I won't guarantee it's...the best method.

I totally blanked on how to parallel park. I started out fine, but somehow became self-concious (I was absolutely sure the driver parking the SUV across the street was watching and laughing) and went too fast. Commence repeated backing up, cranking the wheel, and pulling forward. Bother.

Trying to shake off that blond episode, I made my way to the health food store. One expensive bottle of tea tree oil and some local honey later, my mission was accomplished. Now to Wal-Mart!

Do you ever watch people in passing vehicles? (Maybe it's the fact that I do this that makes me so self-concious?) I was at a stop light right after pulling out of my parking spot. The car across the intersection had their lef turn signal on. There was a woman driving and a man in the passenger seat. The man said something, gesturing to their right, and the blinker went off. After a moment of hesitation, the right blinker came on. Then the driver leaned forward and looked both ways, also gesturing, and the blinker went off. Good to know I'm not the only one who can manage to get lost in a certain small section of city blocks.

I had to grab some things at Wal-Mart and refill our water jugs (we get the reverse osmosis water). Here's where my time management, or lack thereof, comes into play. (Though I'm inclined to blame poor road planning downtown.) I forgot just how long it takes to get 16 gallons of water! 2 5-gallon jugs and 6 1-gallon. I have this dark fantasy about some poor soul during a zombie apocalypse in search of water. So long as they don't have any undead following them, all they need to do is go to Wal-Mart. Forget single bottles (though those do help). Of course, in the event of their being pursued, they might only have time for a few quarts.

But I digress (again).

By the time I'd filled all my jugs (getting many a curious glance in the process) I had to quick step across the store to get dog food (we're trying a half-wet/half-dry diet for the dogs) and allergy medicine (also for the dogs).

On the way, I passed two girls in their mid-twenties. One of them made said, "Oh, it's Friday" and her friend laughed and started singing that ridiculous song***. I had to laugh, because the same thing had immediately started running through my head.

I knew I was late. I resigned myself to the fact, berated myself for the fact, and kept speedwalking (which is hard to do when pushing a cart filled with 16 gallons of water). However, on the bright side, the cashier was really nice and his voice was Josh Turner-deep. Which is just cool.

Skip through a long 6 hours of work/driving home. I ran through the nightly routine with Sasha and headed to bed. I made Sasha lay down on her side (which she hates being forced to do) and applied more comfry salve followed by tea tree oil.

It was late and I was tired, but Sasha wouldn't settle. She kept sniffing around and pacing, and somehow couldn't connect the strange odor to herself. I finally convinced her to lay down. She likes to curl up, but as soon as her nose came near her stomach she was on her feet.

This routine was repeated a few times, combined with sniffing her blanket (which apparently also smelled a little). I finally had to move a different blanket to the top of her "nest" before she collapsed, mostly out of just being tired.

And look! A picture!

 

 

Sasha and Mr. Teddy (plus a sock, my library basket, and a mess spilling out of my closet)

 

So the salve/oil worked. A little too well, it seemed last night. Trial and error, I guess.

By the way, happy March! It felt kind of Spring-y yesterday with sunshine and mud. We've had warmer days where our driveway becomes a muddy mess, and then cold days where the ruts freeze. While I've enjoyed the snow, I'm anxious to get started on my garden. Big plans for that!

 



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