Igor.... It LIVES!

The sad thing is, this blog is probably an accurate depiction of my life.

Moving on, because I've been silent too long and I have things to say! 

Thank the springtime rain. The shift in weather seems to have awakened my deeper sense of the world. Or something. 

Firstly, I stumbled one step deeper into that dark, cavernous realm called "adulthood". I'm pretty sure I stubbed my toe, and what on earth is that dripping sound? Am I the only one who hears something very large breathing?

My Monday last week started off like this. Yes, that is self-inflicted. Thankfully I'm able to keep the greater life lessons contained to my work place so I at least have someone around to help me pick up the pieces. 

Long story short (because frankly it's embarrassing) I swallowed my tears and replaced the impaled tire with my donut, arranged for and paid to have the tire replaced, and, with the help of a new jack and tire iron, replaced the tire. 

All this with only a little muscle and prodding from my parents. Despite the pain to my pride and my savings account, I'm proud of how I handled myself. (Also, one of my co-workers said I got farther by myself than his wife would have and, coming from him, that's a true compliment.)

2) We have 30-odd eggs about to hatch. 

Item three: there's also a guinea pig now (not mine). No pictures, though. Chubs is extremely shy. We now have poultry (too many to count), canines, reptiles, rodents, and fish. All we need is a house bird and a pony and we will be complete. (Mom also wants goats. We're holding her at bay for now, but no promises. (We don't even like goat milk.)) Someone may try to add felines to that list. I'm dubious of the wisdom of that plan. 

     3.5 - we are also now the hosts of our own hoarde of little cannibals. 

Do not be fooled by their fluffiness. Do heed the warnings of the red light. These are meat birds. Their sole purpose in life is to grow big and fat really quickly and then...! *mimes slicing throat* This picture is a little old and they're already well on their way to the dinosaur stage. They eat, they sleep, they drink, they eat, and if their food isn't constantly full they will turn on your...or each other. If regular chickens are the sharks of bird-kind, these are piranhas. 

Four, as most of you know, is that I have discovered a new artistic outlet which has lasted longer than a month: painting on canvas. Mostly words, because I love those, but a few are just awesome patterns. 

It's all very trial-and-error but I'm catching on quickly. Now master calligraphy.... (More pictures on my Instagram account [the_magicmirror] , because they be many.)

And speaking of social media and the like, (5) I broke down and joined Pintrest. (That's how I broke into the canvas gig.) No, I will not share. The last thing I need is encouragement. Next up: Etsy!

VI. I have managed to sustain a houseplant for more than a month! 

It got a little withered at one point but is surprisingly resilient and perked back up overnight with some water. I looked for one labeled "low diffused light" and "light watering". That is the key. 

7) I haven't washed my hair since Monday. Be jealous. I have rediscovered dry shampoo, and it feels a little like cheating, but my temples get greasy. (You're welcome for the random fact you probably never wanted to know.)

Ocho - my favorite word at the moment is "embrace". Think about it: not only does it mean acceptance and open arms; but is also means safety, arms wrapped tightly. It's a warm hiding place against the world; it's a place of rest; it's a promise of support. *pulls out canvas* plus, it rolls rather nicely off the tongue. 

That really is all I have for now. The goal was to bring everyone up to speed. Can't say as I covered everything, but it's the first step that's always the messiest. I wanted to get over that one quickly. 

The Truth Behind My Name (Also: Planking)

I was sitting at my desk this morning wondering what I was going to blog about today, since it's Tuesday and I'm trying to make that a post day. I have a few posts "in the works", but they're either in-depth or extensive rants and aren't ready for sharing.

I don't believe in karma. I do, however, hold a great appreciation for coincidence and irony. A few minutes after pondering this blog dilemma, I received a voicemail from a customer. It started out, "I was talking to a young lady at your office yesterday," and ended with, "could you please have that young lady call me?" I called her back, and the first thing she said was, "You said Amber? I couldn't remember your name when I left the message, but it's such an unusual name I should have been able to."

Thus contradicting my life-long belief that "Amber" is a fairly ordinary name.

(Counts number of Ambers I know....)

Congratulations, Dad. Not only did you help in choosing nine names collectively for your kids, you managed to pick ones that were relatively unique! Who knew? I certainly didn't.

I suppose now is a good time to share with you the history of my name. Wesley's name story is Mom, Dad, and friends in a car shouting out boy names until they hit upon one they thought sounded nice. Mine? I have the honor of being named after a character in "The Running Man".

Y'know? The Arnold Schwarzenegger movie?

Imagine my delight when I learned that tidbit.

At that point I had never seen "The Running Man". A couple years later, I walked into the living room while Mom and Dad were in the middle of it.

All that hard work learning to appreciate and accept my name started to peel around the edges.

This is why:

Don't even get me started on the suits. Nah, what gets me is that my namesake (or am I her namesake???) spends a good portion of her screen time screaming.

I mean, I probably would spend most of my time screaming if I was in her shoes, but.... Just no. It doesn't help that she plays in a Schwarzenegger movie. (For those of you who can't sense sarcasm through the screen or who haven't already learned this of me: I don't like Arnold Schwarzenegger very much. The fact that I've had to spell his name three times already isn't helping.)

<end rant>

I actually had thought of another topic to amuse you with before the aforementioned phonecall, so since I have the time I'll move on to that!

In the wake of my first post of the year, I sat back and reevaluated several aspects of my life. The conclusion at which I arrived is no surprise: certain things need to change. And unlike some people who are rational and tackle on thing at a time, I've gone for the overhaul approach.

I have a working budget in place and am trying to remain aggressively dedicated to it because, if nothing else, I need a car. I'm already doing OK with my eating habits but they could stand to be adjusted. And I'm trying to stay fit.

Since I miss my 1/2 mile jog at work every day because of the snow, I was starting to get worried about what to do in place of that (not to say a 1/2 mile jog everyday is all I need to do to keep fit, but it's a start). Browsing facebook around the New Year, I came across a post for the 30-day Plank Challenge and thought, "That looks my speed. I do need to strengthen my core. Why not?"

I actually started it Sunday morning, and this is what I have learned so far:

1) My thighs are already killing me. Everything else feels fine so far, so either it's too early to for the rest of my body to get on board the "good kind of pain" train or I have my form all wrong. Possibly both.

2) Never judge a workout routine based on the pictures. I should know this by now. I really should.

3) Never do anything like yoga with my dog around. The moment I lie down on the floor she's in my face. Either she's worried about me; she sees a perfect opportunity to snuggle; or, in her twisted way, she thinks I am finally submitting my authority to her. In any case, I have to ban her from my room when I do my morning stretched.

4) "The secret to getting ahead is getting started." - Mark Twain

5) Half of my problem must surely be the face that I'm trying to plank on a laminate floor.

I've never been very fit. (I ceased being able to touch my toes when I was, like, ten.) The idea is exciting, but I tend to lose my drive pretty quickly. We have Wii Fit and for a while I was going pretty strong on that, at least with a bit of yoga. But have any of you ever had the Wii give that shocked little "Oh" when you wobble on the board? Yeah, I got sick of that. I was walking my dog pretty regularly, but then winter hit and I'm at work sunup to sundown. So planking it is, until I break something or find a better alternative.

I'll keep you posted.

In Summer

It's June. At long last, the warmth is guaranteed to stay.

For me, this is windows-open season. Living in a house without air conditioning (as has been the case for as long as I can recall), I have learned to take advantage of cool nights when I can stick a box fan in front of my window. I love fresh air.

I usually roll down my windows when I'm driving, foregoing the AC unless it's unbearably hot outside (which apparently I'm not allowed to complain about all summer because I complained about how bad winter was). I also like to listen to my own music in the car because I can't stand most talkative DJ's and commercials. 

Thing is, I have a hard time resisting the urge to sing along to my music. Ever.

With windows-down season in full swing, this presents a problem. Because I really get into my music. Particularly after I purchased the "Frozen" soundtrack. I'd sing along to the opening song if I understood the words. I'm not a fan of "Let it Go" (overdone, sadly), but I am quite content to blast "Love is an Open Door" all day. (Personal favorite.)

Up until now, the majority of cars I have passed have had their windows up, so I hum and sing to my heart's content. But the windows are coming down, and I keep catching myself at stoplights before someone notices the blonde serenading with Olaf about the joys of summer. I've taken to switching on the radio on the drive home from work because I'm less likely to find a song I want to join in on (and the station I play has one of the only DJ's I can tolerate). 

Last week, I kept my windows down while I was at work because I hate getting into a stuffy car. What I got into instead was a car full of pollen.

Do you know how hard it is to sing with pollen flying in your face? After the first choking fit, I closed my mouth. It also took days for all the pollen to clear out.

So it's summer. (Almost officially). We took a hike for Memorial Day, Wes's birthday is coming up, all my tulips have faded, there's still traces of sunlight close to 10:00 at night, and it's almost VBS time again.

This year's theme is Sports.

I have absolutely nothing to wear.

I would have loved to find something off-the-wall, like a scuba diving outfit or a fencing uniform or what-have-you. As it is, I'm stumped and will probably throw my hair up in a ponytail, tie on some sneakers, and pretend I'm training for a marathon or something. None to excited about the prospects.

However, I am very excited for the penny offering. I've been saving my loose change since September (in a bona fide piggy bank, no less) and have upwards of $30 to contribute to my lucky team. I'm trying to decide if I should dispense it sneakily throughout the week or bring in one large box of pennies on the last night.

I'm blathering now. Better go. I have a seriously post I'm working on, full of rants and Bible verses and carefully researched facts (maybe), but studying tends to take me a while so that's not ready yet.

Oh! I finished a book! 103,000+ words. It's the one about the dragon who can't fly. I know I mentioned it sometime...last year? Whenever I started it. Been a while. Hopefully summer and fresh air mean the return of productivity. We shall see.

The Definition of Happiness

Please note: the following post is long, confused, disorganized, and raw from my brain. I do apologize, but it's something I needed to say, and the best way I know how is to spew it straight from brain to screen.

Recently it was brought to my attention that I possess a crippling habit: list making.

I can't really be sure how this came about in my life. I used to abhor lists. Heather was always the one with the to-do list she was checking off. Maybe it was just the fact that I never seemed to accomplish as much as she did. Or perhaps she wasn't ever as detailed as I in list making. Where she put "clean room", I may have listed: "make bed, sort laundry, vacuum, etc". Who knows? I'll have to ask.

Anywho, at one time in the last couple of years I discovered the thrill of checking things off a list. Something about that tangible evidence that you accomplished something (even though you might be staring at the freshly scrubbed dishes or folded laundry, it's not the same unless you put a check mark next to that line). Hunger for that thrill developed into an obsession, and suddenly every aspect of my life went onto a list somewhere so I could proudly mark complete every visit to the bank; trip to the store to get ranch dressing (check), tissues (check), dog treats (check), flower pots (check), notebooks (crossed out because, turns out, I don't need another); and game prep completed for Wednesday classes.

I think it must have really started when I tried out that Day Zero Project back when I was sixteen or seventeen. At least in that case, it was all fun long-term goals I didn't really need to accomplish, but it was downhill from there.

Lately, I found that those lists were nothing more than a burden. They mocked me, especially when I forgot to turn off the notifications on the newly-discovered "Reminders" app of my phone: "walk your dog", "please put away that horrendous pile of laundry hiding your floor", "find time in your hectic schedule to tap out two or three hundred words so you don't fall behind", and on and on. Also, every Tuesday and Friday for the last couple of weeks, I've scribbled "BLOG!" on my daily list of things to do. Clearly I have a clear grasp of priorities. 

I also found I was relying on my notes for everything, particularly at work.

It hurts, guys. It's painful, like some terrible addiction I know I need to quit but can't bring myself to quit because it hurts. In her own subtle (or not-so-subtle) way, Mom intervened. (Love how I'm making this into a mock-drama of a drug addiction? You have no idea.) She casually remarked that, for goodness sake, I needed to quit writing notes for everything and just use my God-given (and God-ordained rather poor) memory like humans are intended to.

That's probably the most terrifying part: I'm so scatter-brained, without some sort of note to rein me in, I'm bound to forget something crucial at some point. But slowly I'm forcing myself to let go of that security blanket.

The lists are being reduced to taking notes from phone calls and to writing reminders for things I absolutely cannot forget at any cost (which turns out to be very little, really).

And now, I'm starting a new kind of list.

The idea started months ago, when one of the girls mentioned a challenge their youth group team leader had put to their group: every day, write something you're thankful for.

I have often found that I tend to focus on the negative side of life and don't stop to appreciate the bright side: I see the puddles and don't smell spring rain, which I love.

On the radio the other day, I heard something to the affect of "Instead of bashing the things you don't like, try promoting the things you do like". Which is something else I'm working on: not voicing rude things that come to mind when I'm in a bad mood, but smiling whenever I come across something that perked me up.

But back to that list: happiness.

When I force myself out of my own mental puddle and take a breath and a good look around, there are plenty of things that bring that smile to my face. My goal is to learn to appreciate those things rather than getting glum over their muddy counterparts.

Happiness is....

Sunshine

Fresh air

Home-cooked meals

When another driver lets me go first (unless, of course, their kindness results in me getting rammed into, but I've moved on)

Years ago, our youth pastor preached a message which has stayed with me. He talked about our personal levels of contentment, and I believe he used Philippians 4:11&12:

11) Not that I speak in respect of want: for I have learned, in whatsoever state I am, therewith to be content. 12) I know both how to be abased, and I know how to abound: every where and in all things I am instructed both to be full and to hungry, both to abound and to suffer need.

The idea was that we can choose how much good we require to be content with ourselves and our lives. We define our own level of contentment. If we can agree with ourselves that we can be content with three square meals, a comfortable house, and a car that runs, we will be happy when we have those things. Furthermore, anything about and beyond that measure will be received as a blessing.

On the other hand, if we convince ourselves that we will not be content until we have a car manufactured after the year 2000, a house with an extra bedroom, money to eat out more than once a month, and our favorite store's entire spring clothing line, we will probably never feel content even with the many things we do have.

I have learned to be content with the condition of my life: my poor beater car, our big drafty house, my amazing family, and a talent for making a meal out of practically anything. However, when it comes to the day-to-day circumstances, my personal happiness can flop like a broken pendulum every time someone walks by.

I have a hard time taking every throw in stride, both good and bad. It takes me a while to recover from a hard word, a mistake, or bad news. And yes, I am severely affected by the weather, and possible the lunar phases as well, but I am consciously working on that.

Last year something I dedicated a post to Philippians 4:5 (or at least I tried to, but looking back, that post was all over the place). Very often these days that verse comes to mind:

5) Let your moderation be known unto all men. The Lord is at hand. 6) Be careful for nothing; but in every thing by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known unto God. 7) And the peace of God, which passeth all understanding, shall keep your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus.

Brave the old post if you dare. In short, the idea is maintaining a steadfastness about your nature, not tossed back and forth from despair to joy as the wind changes; leaning on God, trusting Him with tomorrow (rather than borrowing its troubles today), and letting His peace reign.

Happiness is only part of the issue. Happiness is a temporal thing, measured and dictated by our current condition or circumstance, even when we struggle to be content with our lot. The real thing is joy. True joy is something only God can bring, and it is not defined by our outward condition. It's defined by our inward state and our identity in Christ.

I go back to Paul whenever this topic comes to mind. If you want to read about a man who took everything in stride, look at Paul. And after everything, when he stood before King Agrippa and was permitted to give an account of himself, this is what he said: "I think myself happy" (Acts 26:2).

He had suffered shipwrecks and stonings, betrayals and rejection, and now at last was brought as a prisoner before the king. Yet he found himself happy, because he was exactly where he wanted to be, with the king's full attention. Read Acts 26 sometime; Paul makes full use of the opportunity and lays out his testimony in full. Festus calls him a mad babbler, but Paul politely disagrees. He was confident in his work, knowing full well that he was right where he belonged and serving God to the best of his ability, and that was enough.

So maybe I don't have some "great calling" like Paul. I don't think I'd do too well with that sort of adventure right now, anyway. It's better that I bide my time, training myself to take every rude customer and bad day in stride and learn a lesson from each of them, the better to serve when the bigger opportunities rise.

Most of all, I'm learning to be content exactly where I am rather than longing for one more thing, dreaming of a bigger adventure, wasting my time wishing I was doing something else. I'm right where God needs me. I just have to be open for Him to use me in the ways I can't yet see. 

It's Spring...and I have Nothing to Say

I think it's finally safe to say spring is here.

I have never before been so ready for winter to go away. Yes, around February I will hit a phase where I'm impatient for the weather to turn, but this winter I about went stir-crazy. Usually I force myself to tough it up and remind myself how much we need the cold and snow, but not this year.

And now, at long last, the snow is turning to rain and I can abandon my winter coat. Woot!

In honor of the warmer weather, I've been forcing myself to get out more and walk my dog. (Her energy level from being cooped up all winter is half of what drives me up the wall.) I had intended to get myself a membership at the gym for my birthday. I even bought myself some neon-colored running shoes and promised myself that if I could keep it up for a month I could get some real running pants. (Yes, I have a self-bribing system I enforce to make myself perform. You clearly have never seen me in a gym.) I walked in, all ready to slap down my debit card. I took one look at the line of treadmills and shuddered. Then I saw the actual price for the membership and promptly left.

I'm not that dedicated.

So springtime! Of course, it would be easier to believe if all those bulbs I planted last autumn would sprout. Not a single crocus, no sign of my hyacinths and tulips.... Not one green tendril.

We did get more chickens. It's already been established that we are crazy, but just so no one forgets. And they are new breeds from the kind we have. I've officially lost count.

Soon most of the roosters will be gone, except for Rocky (our nicest Buff) and Gerard the Brahma because he's too funny to kill. Mom is hoping to hatch some chicks from our flock, but we kind of want to separate the chosen hens and Rocky to avoid any spawn from Gerard. Funny as he is, he has enough quirks that we don't want to see what sort of creature would result from crossing him and a hen. (If it happens, we're naming the thing Napoleon.)

The ducks have been loving the mud puddles. Poor Alfac injured his leg on the ice in the winter and it healed wrong at the ankle, so he has a permanent limp. Our driveway is a mess now due to the flooding, and I put my rain boots to good use.

Clearly I'm rambling. It has taken an hour for me to get this far. I'm working on a more "deep" post, but it's not finished. However, I knew I kind of needed to say something.

After the murderous winter season we endured, all I want is to see something green and living. My aloe plant just isn't cutting it. I have plans for a flower garden on one side of our yard. Hopefully we'll also get in a vegetable garden like we didn't last year.

We had a spring cleaning session among us girls a couple weeks ago, and I discovered two things: 1) the color of my floor, and 2) the fact that I apparently do not clean my room during the winter. Oops.

Ok, I'm done blathering. With any luck, I'll be back later this week with something more worthwhile, now that I have gotten spring out of my system.

Lightning Bugs and Lightning (and mosquitoes)

Summer nights around our house have been pretty amazing lately. I only wish I was better with a camera (and then had a camera...). Every night the lightning bugs have put on beautiful shows. Do you know how cool it is to drive down a road surrounded by corn fields and see the lightning bugs flashing like crazy? Not only that, but I love star gazing on summer nights (provided I have bug repellent). It's just another perk of moving to the country.

The animals aren't quite so captivated by the lightning bugs. The dogs and cat ignore them for the most part and the chickens only wonder how good they are to eat. The ducks, however, didn't know what to make of them one of the first nights they showed up. I was out settling the chickens for the night. As I was walking back toward the house to turn on the hose, I met the ducks. They were telling me off, as usual, screaming about something or other and following me back to the coop. All of a sudden, a lightning bug floated in front of their faces and lit up. The lead duck was so startled he stopped short and pulled back. And fell silent.

Until I laughed at him.

Last night was even more amazing than our average summer night this year. We've had a bit of a heat wave (like practically every other state in the country). Earlier we'd had a brief but powerful storm, mostly wind and rain. It had cleared up pretty quickly and the day remained muggy. However, Heather came running in from corralling her ducks and said to come quick because there was a storm building and involved lightning. Mom and I followed her out.

All along the north sky there were thick clouds full of lightning; both flashes that filled the clouds and streaks that forked through and even shot out like snake tongues. Pretty soon I was sent back in to get Mom's camera, and Heather followed for hers. This was too good of a show to pass up, because what photographer (casual, amateur, or professional) wouldn't like to get a picture of lightning?

I took mosquito decoy duty while Mom and Heather snapped away. When they paused to wait for cars to pass or to check and see if they got any good shots, we'd raise a chorus of "ooo"s and "ahhh"s. While they clicked away, I stood back in wonder at the display. To add to the spectacle we had a bright moon in clear skies behind us and the lightning bugs were all over. I ran back in to get the tripod and grabbed Mom's phone because Dad had texted. I ended up catching a picture of a lightning streak and, satisfied with my surprising success, retreated inside.

Of course, I took stock of my bug bites. I've been having worse-than-average reactions to mosquitoes lately, and they like to cluster on one spot whenever they attack. I had a good twenty bites on my legs and ankles, but only one on my arm. Naturally.

Years ago, our family took a hiking trip. I can't even remember where we went. We were near dunes, but were in a forest. It was either late spring or early autumn, and we kids were complaining of cold and begging to cut the hike short. Dad stopped and looked at us seriously. He told us to stop whining and enjoy ourselves, because it was a beautiful day and the view was amazing, and that's what we would remember if we'd pay attention. We'd forget about the cold and the wind in no time, and recall instead the breathtaking views of the dunes from a wooded hilltop, or the zig-zagging trail winding around tree roots, or just the joy of spending time with family doing what we loved.

It's his words that helped me remember that trip, and the sights associated with it. I don't know how it's stuck with me, but it came to mind when I was thinking about last night's spectacle. I'll remember that a lot longer than the bug bites. I remember the double rainbow I saw a few years ago better than I remember the terror of driving through tornado weather on a road trip. I remember the fun of a sledding trip and forget about the cold and the damp. I remember the fun of sitting around a campfire roasting marshmallows and singing songs and not the fatigue of a long week at camp.

But you have to choose to move beyond the discomfort, the unpleasant parts, and focus on the good and the thrill and the wonderful displays of God's handiwork. It requires a conscience effort, and perhaps a little time afterward for reflection (and some sort of ointment to soothe the bug bites).

Yes, I am kind of preaching to myself in light of our Peru trip. I'm trying to get it into my head that there will be so much to enjoy and learn and take away from this opportunity that I can't let myself be held back by my own silly psychological issues.
And I have to get going now to make some more progress on preparing for that trip. I'm mostly packed, and I only "need" to buy one or two more things. This time on Monday I'll be either in a plane or in an airport. I still can't process that....

More on the Poultry (naming, the coop, and the neighbors)

I started writing this post a couple weeks ago but got distracted. I figured since I need to keep at the blogging and since I haven't mentioned much about our poultry (yes, I'm still stuck on that) I'll share.
Chickens are turning out to be a great way for me to use names I've always liked but would never attach to a cat or dog, much less a child. A person can name their chickens anything they jolly well please because 1) they don't have to worry about the chicken learning to answer to a name, 2) few people are really going to care what the chicken is named and even less how to spell it, and 3) practically anything goes, because it's a chicken. Name the members of your flock Nugget, Fried, Grilled, Rotisserie, and Crispy; name your soon-to-be-dead roosters after your ex-boyfriends; give them all names from characters in your favorite book or movie or TV show (and now I want a chicken called "The Doctor"...). It all works.

All of our unique chickens (meaning all the ones we can tell apart from the rest, which is about half) have names: Lobelia, Rex, Betsy, Ginger, Euroclydon "Rocky" II, and Crooked Beak are just a few. It makes it easier to care for them, I think, because there's a little fun in doing roll call and screaming names when they bite you instead of, "You blasted chicken! I'm going to have your legs for BBQ'ed drumsticks!" (though that's fun, too).

As I mentioned above, one of our chickens is called Crooked Beak. She's one of the four Americaunas, all of whom we can manage to tell apart. Crooked Beak's name is self-explanatory: her beak is askew. She has to get food down to the back of her beak to grind it up. Despite this deformity, she's actually very sweet. Probably the nicest of the Americaunas. However, when all of the other favorite and prized chickens were getting named, Crooked Beak was excluded from being dubbed something funny or outlandish or cute.

Mom hates the name and wants us to change it, but no one can think of anything better. I tried pirate names (because they have names like Black Beard) and we've considered trying to find Native American names (because of descriptive names like Sitting Bull) but nothing works. Then I found it: Prunaprismia.

Yeah. Caspian's aunt in Prince Caspian. 

I haven't even suggested it to the family (I know Heather would flat out refuse, though Mom seemed to think it was funny when I pointed it out for a prospective future poultry monicker). They wouldn't even let me name my own dog, and I'm surprised Lobelia is still thusly entitled. But it's worth a try, and it's nicer than Crooked Beak (as if we're all looking to be loving and humane to our chickens). We shall see.
In other news, the coop and run is finally coming together. Dad and Mom have both been busy and away from home a lot, so it's been getting done in stages. We got the fence up a couple days ago. Now the ducks spend their days outside and nights inside in the old chicken house, and the chickens are supposed to stay in the coop or fenced area at all times. (I'm still marveling at how difficult it is to corner a chicken. And none of the roosters like me, so it's even harder because they bite me.) However, some of the chickens (mostly the Americaunas, those pesky things) are natural escape artists. The surest way to lure them back is with food, and it usually works; and they also come back every night.
But talking about the ducks, they've kind of adopted our neighbors' flock, especially the two little mallards. For a while the mallards were coming over every day, usually early in the morning, and yelling for our ducks to be let out so they could socialize. I think they were also hoping to beg for some food. Now the ducks all take turns having play dates at each other's homes. Again, they do come home at night.
Oh, yeah. Probably a month ago now, Dad found an egg by the "duck pond". At first we though it was a chicken egg, but Mom declared it too large for a young hen to have laid. So apparently it's a duck egg. This is good because it means we don't have two drakes and also because we have a duck hen to call Jemima, per Heather's desire. (If it turns out both are hens, I want to name the other Daisy, just to be equally unoriginal and cute.)
That's about all I have to say right now. Hopefully I'll exhaust the chicken topic soon and move on to bigger things. We shall see.

In the Wake of VBS

So that plan didn't exactly work. To be fair, it's been a long week; and, for me, the week can't even begin to be wrapped up until today is over and done and I'm curled up in bed with my breathing and heart rate back to normal.

VBS was phenomenal! Even though myself and my amazing assistant teacher were tucked up in a hot corner room where half the time the food workers forgot about us and the other half of the time they were avoiding us for the sake of their well-being, I enjoyed my job. (Plus, I got to play dress-up as a cowgirl all week. No complaints there!) I've had plenty of practice teaching memory verses thanks to Mom and Dad, and despite the fact that the kids were far more interested in their food than in me, I think we accomplished something. And I had enough wonderful, angelic, attentive kids to almost outweigh the not-to-good ones. Almost.

I'm not sure if the fact that every night but one we had to call in the reserves for crowd control is a testament to my poor ability to handle children, or testament to poor judgement with placing kids on teams. I was ashamed.

There were deadly dog-piles and the handing out of "men" and children whose vocabularies were temporarily reduced to "no" and "why", but we survived with our sanity only slightly damaged and some fun memories. And I reminded myself that it doesn't matter if it feels stupid; sometimes I need to play along and laugh at myself, because the kids will love it.

Yellow Team won the overall points for the week. And that's historic at our church. Yellow has had a losing streak for longer than my family has been attending, I think. Some years they may have won third instead of fourth; once I think they got second. But I've never seen them whip everyone else like they did this year. Even though my own Green Team fell in third, I was happy. Even better was the amount we raised in the penny offering for some beloved missionaries of ours. I think we're finally getting the hang of the penny offering.

One of the youth workers, who's more like the "All Youth Activities Director, Supervisor, and Supreme Overseer" at church, is not only brilliant, but I think a little crafty. Our verse for last night was Colossians 3:23: "And whatsoever ye do, do it heartily, as to the Lord, and not unto men." I explained to my kids what "heartily" meant: quickly, happily, and with excitement, the way your parents want you to do your chores. I also reminded them that the verse is saying it doesn't matter if man praises you; man's opinion doesn't matter. All that matters is doing right because it has to be done.

When the Supreme Overseer pointed to a vacuum parked in the middle of the sanctuary and said, "That's yours", that verse rang in my head, and then this sneaking suspicion developed: I bet she picked that specific verse for tonight as a reminder to the workers who get stuck cleaning in the aftermath. Halfway down one row of pews and three banged knuckles later (have you any idea how difficult it is to vacuum between church pews?) I was convinced. Smooth.

I like getting recognized for my work. Who doesn't? And I try to make sure I recognize others for their hard work and when they are honestly putting in an effort. Which is why I incorrectly used the box of candy given to me for prizes in class. The candy was intended for kids who could say all four of their verses. When the head Cowboy for the week came in and suggested a quiet seat prize, I jumped on it. I can do bribes, too. In my last class, I extended it, and all eight of the kids left with candy in their hands (except one who, for reasons I still can't quite figure out, gave his piece to another boy because "I know you worked really hard on your verses"). I had four problem kids in that class, and the last night they all worked harder than I could have hoped, and most said at least one verse. Victory!

Anyway. People did tell me "thank you, Miss Amber" (what is with this "Miss" stuff? Boggles my brain, I tell you) and I sang back over the whine of the vacuum "You're welcome!" But I kept telling myself that, though the praise felt good, I would have put in the same effort if everyone else had all gone off to bed or (because few people my age make a habit of going to bed by 10) out for ice cream. Right? Of course right.

In short (because I have to get going for the longest day thus far in my career), I learned a lot this week. And I'm convinced I'll need every lesson down the road, from child care to knowing the right balance of discipline and bribery to doing what needs to be done simply because it needs to be done and there's a vacuum standing in front of me, even though some silly person will probably come along in 10 minutes leaving behind a trail of dust and garbage. But it's okay.

If I'm still alive and sane, I shall see you...probably next week. Tomorrow is going to be a long one, too.

Changing Gears for Summertime

I think a personal summer challenge should be to write more than three posts a month. Even that will be a challenge with the way our summer is shaping up.

It isn't really warming up, that's for sure. We're somehow still in spring mode, weather wise, including the rain. We don't even have our garden in the ground yet because of all the rain and cloudy days. No corn this year.

I'm trying to think what happened in the last couple of weeks. Well, for starters, I came home one day by bus, skipped up the front steps greeting the chickens, and was met at the door by my grim-faced mother. 

"Before you come in, I need to tell you something."

Naturally, my first thought is, "Great. Who died." My bus driver no doubt saw the shift in my demeanor. I know my shoulders drooped and I tensed up.

"What?" I asked cautiously.

"Sasha was hit by a car."

Commence meltdown.

Most of you already know the end of this story. Mom had warned me because Sasha was in miserable agony and on edge. I came in quietly and knelt beside her where she lay on a towel spotted with blood. Mom explained that she'd just put Sasha out and was painting when she heard a noise outside and looked out to see a dog lying on the side of the road across from our house. Some older lady had been driving a van (which hadn't reached the speed limit for our stretch of road, as evidenced by the fact that my dog was still alive) and Sasha, who had mysteriously escaped from her run, had darted in front of the vehicle. Mom went out calling to Sasha, who didn't respond at first, and the lady turned around in a neighbor's driveway and came back, hysterical.

"Is that your puppy?"

By this time, as I understand it, Sasha had stood up on her own and dragged herself into our yard. Mom got her inside and called the vet. They said it wasn't safe to sedate her in order to x-ray her while she was so alert and still so much in shock. Mom was afraid her leg was broken.

I'd heard the nasty stories of people with broken bones, and how sometimes you can see the broken parts pressing the skin. Sasha's right front leg, the injured leg in question, didn't look mangled or twisted or unnaturally positioned in any way. She also had a cut lip (as in you could see how her tooth had bit right through it) and a few small-ish open wounds on her other legs. She was quiet and still, which in and of itself is startling. Mom said when she'd first brought Sasha inside, Sasha had been hyperventilating and thrashing around.

A little while later, Sasha started that back up, and I about broke down, wondering why on earth we had to wait for tomorrow morning to help her. We couldn't give her any sort of human pain meds in case there was internal bleeding (which, Mom warned me, the vet wouldn't be able to deal with).

However, as the day worn on, Sasha started rolling onto her back to encourage me to scratch her belly and even hobbled a bit when I carried her outside. She didn't drink much and wouldn't eat, though.

Fast-forwarding to the vet visit the next day:

Thankfully, no one else was there. Sasha's last vet visit was a nightmare, as you may recall. However, miraculously, Sasha didn't turn into a slavering beasty when the vet and his assistants appeared. She just maintained her miserable appearance. The vet had me walk her around (I'd carried her from the car and up the steps) and decided her leg wasn't broken or fractured, because no dog would walk on a leg in that condition (although, this is my dog...). Then he took her into the other room.

I cowered in a corner, afraid of the moment when Sasha would snap and show her dark side.

She growled darkly for a while as Mom stood beside her and the vet checked (or tried to check) her mouth. Finally, the vet asked Mom to step outside. Like children, animals act differently when their "parents" are around. He said a soothing owner reaffirms an animal's suspicions that the situation merits fear and retaliation. Good to know. If I want my dog to behave, I'll just step out of the room.

Fast-forwarding again: in the end, the diagnosis was bruising and nerve damage on her right leg and shoulder and some cuts that would heal on their own. Huzzah!

For the next few nights, while she still was having trouble walking, I slept in the living room with Sasha. She wasn't supposed to get excited (and for that we had medicine, which turned Sasha from her hyperactive self to a semi-normal dog). Oh, and we were warned that "in rare cases some dogs will up and die a few days after an accident as a delayed reaction from the shock, even though they looked healthy. I don't want to worry you, but I have to warn you." Comforting, no?

So my obsessive self eyed my dog nervously for the next few days, wondering if, true to character, she was one such rare dog. I know: morbid. I don't know what to tell you.

And that was that. She's still hobbling, but her spirit is back.

Mom thinks her mysterious escape ("mysterious" because she didn't break any part of the lead or her collar) was brought on by the presence of a certain rooster who had been stalking our house for the past week. No one will claim the stupid bird, and he kept strutting up crowing like Peter Pan and attacking our chickens to assert his authority. He even had the ducks scared. He plucked poor Presley's head feathers and chased some of the others under the cars. It took days, a lot of rocks, gardening tools, and other flying projectiles and eventually Dad with a disc to convince him that this was our territory. We haven't seen him since.

Our own roosters (and we have at least six, and one crowed once at me but which Heather still believes is a hen) are starting to work on their crowing. Rex (formerly "Arexi", the little Bantum) is the loudest. He's still by far the smallest, though one of the Polish (Elvis, the girl) is close, but Rex knows how to strut his stuff and crows defiantly at anyone or anything who questions his authority. The ducks are bigger and still as nervous and clique-ish as ever. We had some friends over a couple days ago and the girls wanted to catch one of the ducks. At one point Heather was following them and they came around a car not knowing the ducks were there. One of the ducks was so startled that he fell over like a fainting goat.

I can't think of anything else right now except for VBS, which I am helping with this year. (I haven't attended or helped with VBS in a while.) It helped me make up my mind that the theme is "The Great Western Round-Up". I am working with the kids on the Green Team to memorize their verses each night. While they eat.

Do you know how hard it is to get hyper, excited, hungry children to pay attention when there's food in front of them? It's a study in patience, I will say. And I think I may already be losing my voice.

The kids are split into three age groups after the opening assembly and penny offering. The groups rotate throughout different activities and classes before returning to the main auditorium for a final lesson, songs, and a couple group games. We were all singing along and I was repeatedly poking the shoulders of misbehaving children in front of me when one of them turned around and informed me that I had "the voice of an angel." And I don't think it was a compliment. 

I'm just trusting that someday I'll be thankful for all my voluntary work with children. I'm already thankful for past experience. I only uttered one dangerous word (being "butt", as in "those workers are busting their butts *cough* to get you your food, so please be nice to them") and I don't think I really lost my cool, though I was almighty close.

We return again tonight. I wore my only decent Western outfit last night (and it turned out better than I'd hoped). I might go into town later and check out some thrift stores, it being my day off. Can you believe I only have one decent denim skirt? Me, the former homeschooler. I know.

Oh! We also had our annual BBQ Fundraiser Dinner. I forgot about it because it wasn't the usual tiring day for me. I worked the money table. Well, before that Mom and I and a lady from church spent all day baking 45 cakes at the church. We had a decent turn-out, and I always love helping. 

Well, I need to go. Hopefully I will return tomorrow....

Bubbles and Laughter

"There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle." - Albert Einstein

 

I love spending time with little kids, especially before they hit the stage where they think they know something about life beyond their favorite colors and least favorite foods. I love watching them discover and explore and learn and take in the world around them. Children are free to laugh at everything, love who they choose, and get as dirty as they please. Life is as big as the huge puddle they're trying to jump over, or the silly puppy giving them kisses, or the carrots on their plate. I'm jealous of how simple life is for kids, but sometimes I get a chance to sit down and share it with them.

Yesterday evening I went with Mom to a family photo shoot at a historic house/museum in town. It was also partly a maternity shoot because the mother pregnant with their third child and is due later this month. Their other children are a 3 year old girl and a boy who is about 1 1/2. I was supposed to keep the kids occupied after family pictures while Mom took some pictures of just the parents.

We had some little chalkboards that had been props for one of the pictures. I asked the girl if she wanted to draw, and she settled down next to me and got to work. I asked her to draw flowers and butterflies and a sun, and she did her best, even asking me to draw some things. Her brother saw us and took the piece of chalk I offered him, but he couldn't get the hang of drawing. He ended up grabbing all the chalk he could see and holding onto it tightly. When his sister wanted one of the colors he had so all of the colors could be on her board, we had to trade another color she had. In ten minutes, he had chalk all over his clothes and hands, and it took some work to get him away from it.

A little later we found a large bottle of bubbles someone had left behind. When Mom and the parents left, I pulled it out.

The little girl knew what it was and, after I'd blown some bubbles begged to try it. First she blew too hard, and when I told her to try more softly she barely breathed at all. Eventually she let me resume the bubble-blowing, and she commenced chasing and stomping on the bubbles.

Then her brother picked up on the fun. Soon the lawn was ringing with their excited squeals and giggling. I showed the girl how to try and catch the bubbles in the air instead of waiting for them to hit the ground. Soon she was darting about, arms raised, shouting delightedly as she chased bubbles. Her brother toddled a little more slowly behind her, and whenever he couldn't see bubbles he would cry, "More! More!"

I hadn't imagined this game would keep them occupied for long. I thought I'd eventually have to pull out the gummy bears to keep them appeased. But all they wanted were bubbles.

I held up the wand (or whatever it's called) to the boy so he could try. He actually managed to get some bubbles on the first try, and then kept going. When his sister came over for her turn, it took a little practice, but soon she had it down.

I let her take the wand and held the bottle for her. Eventually, I gave that to her as well and warned her not to spill any. She ended up on the ground with the bottle in front of her and was as happy as could be. By the time the parents came back over, her knees were covered in suds and she was still laughing. She called her daddy over to watch her. When we left a little while later and had to leave the bubbles behind because they didn't have a lid, she wasn't happy.

I, however, truly enjoyed myself. The only thing I had to worry about was making sure I kept the bubbles coming.

 

"A day without laughter is a day wasted." - Nicholas Chamfort

Return to the Windy City (posted a week later...)

Well. Grandma has come and gone and I didn't utter a word about her visit outside of Chicago. Not sure how I managed that one.

It was a quiet couple of weeks, as far as Grandma being here. Mom, Dad, Grandma, and the girls did fun stuff some of the days (miraculously choosing the one day of decent weather as their all day driving tour). I, of course, worked. Oh, the life of an adult. We played dominoes some nights, watched movies and ate junk food others, and overall kept Grandma is tears with our antics (and chicken round-ups). We perform well for an audience, especially when they feed us as well as Grandma insisted. Even on vacation she had to spoil us.

I spent every night sleeping in the office. On the few warmer evenings we had it was nice because the office doesn't get nearly as hot as my upstairs bedroom. For the most part, however, I was curled up under two blankets listening to the rain fall. Weather was not a highlight of the past few weeks. We've been overwhelmed with rain and thunderstorms, even hail in some areas, the last few days, and it's supposed to continue. I'd say "Well, at least it's warming up at last" but now it's just sticky and humid.

We returned last Thursday to Chicago to send Grandma back home. Her train left at 2:00 (prompt, unlike her arrival) and Mom, Heather, and I decided we should do a little sightseeing. Mom headed for the car, intending to drive it around rather than walk, but I reminded her and Heather, both wielding cameras, that there were more photo ops to be had on a walking tour.

My first visit to Chicago involved nice weather, unlike this second time: chilly temperatures (41 degrees at 3:00 PM) and high winds. We'd been planning for rain, because we'd driven through it most of the morning and it was in the forecast, but we didn't have to deal with that. Good thing, too, because we were miserable enough longing for ear muffs and mittens.
Of course, one of the first things we had to do was find the Sears Tower for Heather.
"Oh, look! There it is! Tallest building in America*. Who could miss it?"
"Which one?"
"That big brown one there."

Mom was on a hunt for letters. Yes. She keeps working on this project to spell out our last name using abstract objects. Eventually she settled for finding real letters in cool fonts on the buildings. I don't know if she ever got "y", and all of the "o"s were very plain. Heather busied herself with her preferred style of up-close photos of brickwork and walls and flowers and such. At one point we passed a really cute old couple and Heather said Mom should have taken a picture. After a second's debate, Mom spun around and chased after the couple. Heather and I spun the other way and feigned we were total strangers to the exuberant photographer, much to the amusement of a hotel doorman. I heard the animated conversation behind me and peeked over my shoulder to see the lady smiling and making big gestures, then grabbing her husband's arm and posing with her head titled toward his.

Mom came back grinning, and we passed under the overhang outside the hotel and greeted the doorman formally. The lights under the overhang were surprisingly warm (standing there too long would probably make me start to sweat) and I wanted to stop there for a break, but we pressed on.
Mom started counting Starbucks. (Starbuckses? No, that sounds like Sméagol.)
Our final destination was the Bean in Millennium Park. First off, it's a good thing Mom and I hadn't tried walking there in the hour we had to spare a couple weeks before. Mom was trying to find a pedestrian bridge going over the park, which she'd seen in a GPS or some other map picture. We found the Nichols Bridgeway through the Art Institute across the street from the park. Three stories up, suspended over the road, with a clear view back down into Chicago one way and out to the lake the other. Swaying in every little wind and with every footstep.
And I had to stop right in the middle, over the road, for Mom and Heather to snap their pictures.
Around that time, I was wishing I had a camera for the sole purpose of covertly capturing pictures of some of the funny things the foreign tourist were doing when they posed, often stone-faced, for a photo.
Of course, judging by the looks on a few men's faces, myself and my energetic companions were the best attraction on the bridge. Like I said, we perform well for an audience, and we usually do it subconsciously (and boisterously). I'm surprised I haven't heard of any Royces taking to the stage. Or perhaps Mom's side of the family is to blame?
We finally found our wandering way to the Bean. About the time we hit the bridgeway, we only needed to follow the noise.
Of course, there were a few busloads of school kids touring the area.
Again, I wish I had a camera to capture the funny things people were doing for their picture in front of the bean. Or maybe a video camera to capture one girl face-planting into the highly-polished, stainless steel sculpture when she was trying to perform a cheerleading pose and lost her balance. Priceless.
After Mom dragged us forward to get our own picture, the unsociable side of me was longing to get somewhere less crowded. My wandering eyes spotted the Chicago Public Library, and Heather practically growled at me.
We took a short tour of the park (short in part because a portion of it was closed) and then started back, taking a slightly different route. We had just started when we saw a line of people on Segways crossing the street. Heather said, "Oh! I was a Segway!" and Mom cracked up. (I mean, honestly, picture it: a neat line of nicely-dressed, helmet-clad people gliding not-quite-upright on their clean, little black Segways across a street while the leader spins around, waving at trees and pointing out the next turn.)
Nearby we found a sign advertising Segway tours. Who knew? Then we found the price of such a tour and continued on. The return walk was uneventful. At one point we came to an otherwise unassuming corner and saw the Skydeck. Oh, look. And Heather rolled her eyes at yet another sarcastic comment about happening upon the Sears Tower. (Sorry. Willis Tower.) Soon after, we were leaving Chicago behind.
It's taken me about a week to write this silly post. I'd started out last week intending to write just a little about our second trip to Chicago and say something cool about a recent bus ride, but I'll save that for later. I just need to post this before my procrastination kicks in.

*Technically, I thing the One World Trade Center now holds the title of "Tallest Building in the U.S.", but we'd missed that part in our hasty research after our last trip.

Kites and Alley Cats

Yeah, I know: that lasted really long. I don't have much of an excuse for missing Wednesday. In truth, I had some time between work and church, and then after church, but I lacked both motivation and inspiration. Yesterday, however, I was out of the house by 10:30 after rushing around to get ready, and I didn't get home until 10:30 PM. And I did have something to blog about from yesterday.

I regularly babysit these two adorable, hysterical kids. Yesterday I was at their house. They begged to play outside, now that their backyard is (mostly) no longer flooded. It had been kind of windy, so I suggested we try to fly some kites.

At first neither was interested, but when I almost got my kite aloft, they both rushed to join in. There's a field behind their house for an elementary school, and myself and the kids spent a good hour running around trying to get those kites in the air. Yes, I even used my phone to google how on earth to get them flying.

It didn't work. It almost did a number of times, but always ended with the kite nose-diving and sticking in the mud. But we still had fun, despite the chilly breeze. The little girl spent most of the time running around, a long line of string and then the kite trailing behind her. The boy and I tried to be a little more...methodical? about it, but our method worked about as well as his sister's. Still, it was fun. And there was hot chocolate afterward.

And I have another life snapshot from today.

I'd set an alarm on my phone to be up in good time this morning, because Mom had some appointments to run and then she would be dropping me off at work. Of course, my phone malfunctioned again and the alarm didn't go off. 10 minutes later, I got a text from Mom asking if I was up. I started to reply when she called me. My phone malfunctioned again and wouldn't let me answer, so I trudged downstairs.

Mom was rushing around gathering stuff, breathlessly telling me how she had a photo session at the hospital and we needed to drive to Dad's work to get his car for her so I had mine to get to work. I ran Sasha through the morning routine, hunted down props, and we were off.

We drove by a bunch of yard sales on the way (annual thing). Man, how I was itching to stop by after dropping off Mom! But I'm forcing myself to stick to a budget now, and yard sales are not a good place to test my resolve.

We made it in less than good time at the store. Dad met us out front with the keys, Mom grabbed her things, and we were off again. However, I saw something funny on the way out of the parking lot.

There's a whole family or group or pride or whatever of cats that live around the plaza where Dad's work is located. I suppose you could call them alley cats. They are often wandering around the morning, before things get busy for the day. They're very wary of humans and usually don't appreciate any attention, though there are people who like to feed them.

I'd seen some cats running around when we pulled up, but just then noticed these guys. Two were louging in the sunshine on the sidewalk under the overhang between shops (preposition, anyone?), and one was perched regally on a wooden bench. The one on the bench was a big fluffy black-ish cat, and had such an air about it that I had to laugh. I tried to snap a picture with my phone, but the cats noticed my attention and promptly sauntered off.

I knew I needed to blog about that before the day got away with me and I didn't feel like blogging. It isn't often I find my inspiration this early in the day. Goes to show I need to get back to my old habit of waking up a little earlier.

Yes, I do intend to keep trying this post a day deal. It probably won't always work, as yesterday is evidence to, but I want to try anyway. It's strange scrolling through my blog and seeing how short the posts are. Then I realize that's because I'm not recapping events from a whole week or more.

The Eyeball in the Cupboard (or: I Really Do Love My Family)

Here I am, late again. Good intentions don't mean much, apparently. And I'm up to a week (couting the post I wrote the day before I decided to start this).
There's something about Sunday mornings at my house which I really love. (That is, after we quit paper routes.) I can't say exactly what it is that makes me smile. Ask a friend who's spent Saturday night about watching my family go through the Sunday morning routine. Running dogs in and out and telling them to hurry up and eat, now adding fowl to the list of animals to care for, siblings getting up hours earlier than they would the rest of the week to take showers they didn't want to take the night before, Mom hunting for a lost article of clothing or piece of jewelry or shoe, all to the soundtrack of blow driers and running feet. Always fun.
There are certain things that happen in this house which are seen as perfectly normal but, in any other house, would be a complete oddity. Like the eyeball in the bathroom cabinet.
Yes.
I went to get my toothbrush out of the cabinet this morning and started at the glass eye staring back at me. In another second I was back to squirting toothpaste onto the brush and absently wondering if Wes's allergies were acting up. Mom made a passing comment about it later, but that was all the attention anyone paid it.
Needless to say, our family has its own quirks. We get so used to them that we never think twice, while everyone else is staring at us in confusion. And, in my opinion, jealousy. Wes's fake eye is one of the quirks. We've all grown up with that one around us. We're conditioned to it, in a way. People  will come to me months after we've met and make some remark like, "You didn't tell me your brother had a fake eye," as if it should have been near the top of the list of things to know. I'll shrug. "Yeah, he's had that since he was 1." To them it's special; strange and unusual, sometimes gross, and somehow great for conversation. To me it's the source of a few good stories and the knowledge that, because my brother has a blindspot, it's easier to steal his fries when his head is turned. He and his one-handed buddy at church crack all kinds of jokes. Everyone else stands back in a mixture of confusion, horror, and embarassment, wondering if it's really appropriate, as if those poor boys shouldn't be laughing at their own expense. I roll my eyes.
It's just another little quirk that makes my family all that more endearing to me, like Mom's pouty face when she's not feeling well and wants me to grab her a glass of milk, or my youngest sister when she paces through the house with a smudge of charcoal on her nose and that creative gleam in her eye, or my other sister's reckless abandon when she belts out a song that's intentionally off-key. Like the looks passed when Dad is enjoying too much his day off or my brother pulls another "your mom" pun; the way Mom and I can have a complete conversation without either ever completing a thought; my youngest sister's ability to stare down anyone, friend or stranger, and make them twitch.
Yes, I truly do believe people are jealous when they see us tramping down the store aisles, one of us girls on Dad's arm and another bouncing around while trading jokes with Mom: that boisterous family clearly just from church service calling back and forth about how much milk we consume and if we'd prefer chocolate or vanilla ice cream and making some comment about our chickens. We're genuine, that's for sure. We don't put on a show when we go into public; we're the same people as we are at home. Sometimes it seems the world can't handle that much awesomeness. It's okay; be a little jealous. My mom was always the coolest person to have on youth activities, and inevitably my brother's eye would come out for the sake of the new kids. Only the bravest dare to spend a night at our house, where we have impromptu karaoke in the kitchen and odds are good you'll find an eyeball in the bathroom cabinet.

Rainy Day

I think nearly everyone has those days where all they want to do is sit inside, out of the weather, and worry about nothing but being comfortable. Today was one of those days for me. I'm not even out of my pajamas. Contrary to popular belief and stereotypes, that really isn't normal for me.

We're in the middle of rain and thunderstorms 'round here. Prediction: historic, possibly record-breaking flooding. Perhaps if we lived in town, near the flood plain, I'd believe it. Out here, we're still just a little damp. Good thing, too, because on of my rain boots has a leak.

So today is my day off. I'm not even babysitting tonight on account of the weather. Last night I stayed up late watching Avengers with part of the family, determined to relax for a little today (as if my job is so stressful and life is too tough to deal with). Rainy days stuck at home mean cups of tea, good books, fuzzy blankets, sad music, and/or the like. I'm out of good books at the moment and didn't think of tea until afterward. I curled up in the living room under Mom's amazing sweatshirt blanket (it's literally a big blanket made out of fuzzy sweatshirt material) and turned on Netflix. Commence a couple hours of mindless entertainment. And fighting with Hershey to keep him off the couch. It rained off and on. Sasha had a showdown with the thunder. (I'm trying to decide if she'd make a good guard dog or a bad one.) All in all, a dreary, gray day. Thankfully it's warmer than before and not so windy.

Yes, I feel guilty about it now. I did tend to the dogs and keep an eye on the poultry, but that's as far as my productivity went. The dishes sat waiting, the floor needed vaccuming, and I know I could had put at least an hour to use trying to write or edit or something. Even reading would have been better. But I didn't care. I watched an episode of White Collar, an episode of that Canadian show about the fictional emergency response unit, some BBC movie, and more junk. Now Mom and the girls are home from co-op and it's time to return to the real world. Sigh.

Or maybe not. Mom came home with junk food. And guacamole. Back to the couch I go!

Guys. I only have five paragraphs. What's with that?

Oh, well. Day Three! And Mom picked a cheesy movie.

Little Wonders

A while ago a friend of the family had a blog where she wrote about one magical moment she found in every day. She kept it going for over two years, I believe. When I was a younger blogger over one homsechoolblogger.com, I followed some girls who took challenges to blog every day for a week, a month, or the like. That's a true challenge in every sense of the word for noncommital me.   :)

I've seen little "magical moments" all over the place lately and thought to myself, "That'd be great to blog about". Maybe it'd break from my self-enforced style of long posts, but aren't more, shorter posts better than infrequent long ones? (Especially when most of the length is recapping.) It may not look like it from where you're sitting, but my life is actually very colorful and I find blogging material every day. I just lack incentive. Probably a month ago I drove past an elementary school on my way to work and saw a group of girls posing with a police officer in front of his car; on one of the rare nice (though cloudy) days this month, I saw people flying kites at Overlook Park (which really isn't as picturesque as it sounds); though I vowed not to write about work, sometimes I catch a cute moment I just have to share, like when the boy came in with a hand-written note and said he'd be back later with his girlfriend and could we put the note on her cup? (I have this irrational fear of the people I blog about actually stumbling across my blog and going, "Hey, that's me!", which is part of the reason I don't blog about work much.)

So why not? What could it hurt to try? A post a day, for as long as I wish or can manage, about the ordinary things I'd be otherwise inclined to forget. I don't know about you, but I found my blog rather boring and greatly lacking in proving how much of a tapestry my life can be like.

Here's today's:

As anyone who lives around here knows, we've been having some flooding. I mentioned before that the main (or most direct, at least) road into town was flooded for a few days. It opened yesterday (though, according to the weekly forecast more rain is bound to close it again soon) so we've gone back to using it. However, the areas all around the road are still under significant water.

Riding home on the bus today, I was trying to amuse myself with the passing scenery. We drove past one of the lowest points along the road. On either side, the land had turned into a scattering of ponds, with portions of sidewalks, sturdy trees, and fences lost in their midst. In one temporary pond, I saw a solitary swan. There weren't any other birds on the water; the geese are gone and the sea gulls are in hiding. Just one swan, floating along and occasionally dipping his head under the water.

Swans have interested me more and more. I think it started back on a camping trip when I noticed for the first time the funny sounds they make. Mom was trying to photograph two of them on a pond. Something startled them and they were across the water, honking gruffly and flapping like mad. For a bird depicted as such a graceful creature, swans can be downright awkward when it comes to take-off from the water.

And then, a while ago, Dad somehow got on the topic of the swan song, something I'd either never heard about or didn't remember hearing about before. It's one of those sentimental or sadly romantic kind of things which tend to pique my interest.

I found a book a couple years ago, The Goose Girl by Shannon Hale, based on the classic Goose Girl fairytale. The fairytale itself has always sort of creeped me out. I mean, come on: the princess's servant betrays her on the way to the princess's wedding and the princess is weak enough to be cowed into going through with an identity switch, and then her horse is beheaded and his head hung over the goose pasture gate where she is sent to work, and it talks to her about how her mother's heart would be broken if she knew her daughter's fate. Where did people come up with these stories? (It is a Grimm fairytale.) Shannon Hale's retelling (and I have such a weakness for fairytale retellings) is easier to enjoy. The princess can talk to animals - mostly birds - and has a great love for swans.

So yes! All that prompted by one short glimpse of a white bird in a puddle. Am I the only one whose mental train can switch across so many tracks so quickly?

On a side note: I had a thought today, while pondering how to get back to blogging, that it might be funny to try and record my train of thoughts throughout the day. I quickly dismissed that notion; how embarassing!

There! Day One down. Let's see how long this lasts.

Also: the title of this post was inspired by this song (start at 20 seconds), which plays at the end of Meet the Robinsons. It makes me happy.

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.