I was perusing the blogs I follow (because I couldn't possibly do something useful like work on a WIP or, perish the thought, go to bed, since I have to get up at six) and ran across this over at Lauren's Crammed Bookshelf and I couldn't help myself. She passed it on to all her followers so now I'm giving it a go!
Here are the rules:
The rules are pretty simple. Answer the following questions with Single Word answers (HA! Let's see if I can actually do this.) then pass this along to 5 other bloggers. Make sure you let them know about it though.
Your Cell Phone? iPhone
Your Hair? Braided
Your Mother? Spamtastic
Your Father? Love
Your Favorite Food? Cheese
Your Dream Last Night? Realistic
Your Favorite Drink? Water
Your Dream/Goal? Published
What Room Are You In? Den
Your Hobby? Horses
Your Fear? Fire
Where Do You Want To Be In Six Years? Published
Where Were You Last Night? Home
Something That You Aren't? Inefficient
Muffins? banana
Wish List Item? Agent!
Where Did You Grow Up? VA
Last Thing You Did? Write
What Are You Wearing? Jammies
Your TV? Left
Your Pets? Nineteen
Friends? Awesome
Your Life? Mine
Your Mood? Serene
Missing Someone? No
Vehicle? Truck
Something You Aren't Wearing? Makeup
Your Favorite Store? Art
Your Favorite Color? Black
When Was The Last Time You Laughed? Dinner
Last Time You Cried? Unknown
Your Best Friend? Soulmate
One Place You Go To Over And Over Again? Library
Facebook? Yes
Favorite Place To Eat? Kitchen
I tag: Anyone who follows or visits my Blog!!! Go to it ya'll! :D
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Friday, January 15, 2010
Demon Chickens From The Planet Zorgnog
That title isn't just for show. The Demon Chickens really exist. There are four of them in my yard and they're named Jemima, Towanda, Woebegone, and Franklin. Now I know what you're thinking. How did Franklin end up with such a square name? Well, he didn't. Originally, he was part of a pair, Beans and Frank. But then my sis, code name Fenris, took Beans to her house to chase her girl-type egg machines, and renamed him Mango. Then Mango met an untimely demise (don't asked, it's best left unsaid) and so now Franklin is the sole remainder of the questionable canned food dynasty. But he does get the girls.
And oh my ladies do have the goods! I'm proud to say that I have two of the loveliest, smartest egg-making-bug-hunting-mouse-stomping featherballs to ever walk the earth. Yes, I did say mouse-stomping. All my Demon Chickens are Jersey Giants, which makes them two foot tall thunder birds, capable (and in Towanda's case, more than willing) of killing things most chickens would run from. Jemima is the real thinker though, always watching how things work and then trying to figure a way around them. Primarily this means the gate to their pen. Lucky for me, chickens the size of a toddler don't sneak very well. Towanda, on the other hand, is serious about egg production. She either gives me double yokers or two eggs in one day. Now I was told by a chicken expert that this is impossible. But he never met Towanda. Nor could he explain two hens and three eggs in the same pen in one day either.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, and in a separate pen, is dear sob story Woebegone. You see, Jersey Giants are horrible brooders. Meaning that they aren't good at hatching their own eggs and raising chicks. Nobody informed one of my sis's hens of this and she hatched out seven eggs a few years ago. Or she almost hatched out seven. She got six. The seventh was Woebegone. We looked in on the hatching one morning, noted the progress, and then went shopping. Eight hours later, we checked again. And found one egg in the exact same place, with the exact same hole, and a very exhausted little chick inside. My sister and I were raised in the wild wood. We knew that the chick was going to die. So we broke him out anyway. And don't you know the darned old thing lived? Yup. He lived in my bedroom for months, until he was the size of a cat. I coddled him, and nursed him. And named him Woebegone. For which he's never forgiven me. Yes, that dear little chick became what all spoiled rotten babies become: Spoil brats. He chases me. Jumps at me. Spurs me (don't laugh until you've had a nine pound rooster leap into the air and hit you with two inch spikes with the force of Cassius Clay going for the title) and pecks me. He's ungrateful, hot-headed and full of crap. And I love him anyway because he beat the odds.
Woebegone is also who provoked me to blather this post out at eleven pm. Because, you see, he's also ridiculously hysterically funny. His right wing won't extend all the way (it was wrapped around his head in the egg, which is what prevented him from pecking his way out in the first place) but he never seems to notice. This causes problems when he tries to flap while on his perch. Usually, he falls off. Sometimes, he only falls off halfway, which means he hangs upside down flapping and squawking before dropping into a disgruntled heap. The best is when this happens in the middle of the night. Woebegone is a light sleeper, unlike Franklin who nestles on his perch with his head hanging straight down towards the ground so that he looks dead. When I take the dogs out for their last bathroom run, Woebegone invariably wakes up. He begins crowing. Never mind that it's pitch black outside. Then he starts flapping. If you're really luck, this awakens Jemima and Towanda who begin squeaking in reproach over having been disturbed. Occasionally they wiggle around enough to make Franklin (still doing an imitation of chicken dinner) to sway back and forth, head swinging like a pendulum. Woebegone's flapping leads to an unbalanced rooster, which leads to Woebegone hitting the ground eventually where he quickly scrambles upright and begins strutting to and fro, completely undeterred and proud to have made an impression. Any impression, just so long as you've noticed him and marked his greatness.
Yes, my Demon Chickens are unlike any chickens you've ever hear of. I have suspicions that they're an advance scouting party of super chickens sent from the planet Zorgnog to size up the human resistance. But that's okay because they make good eggs and they keep my life interesting. And besides, when the Demon Chicken leaders commence their attack on us and their subsequent war for planet earth, I'll already be in good with their kind.
And oh my ladies do have the goods! I'm proud to say that I have two of the loveliest, smartest egg-making-bug-hunting-mouse-stomping featherballs to ever walk the earth. Yes, I did say mouse-stomping. All my Demon Chickens are Jersey Giants, which makes them two foot tall thunder birds, capable (and in Towanda's case, more than willing) of killing things most chickens would run from. Jemima is the real thinker though, always watching how things work and then trying to figure a way around them. Primarily this means the gate to their pen. Lucky for me, chickens the size of a toddler don't sneak very well. Towanda, on the other hand, is serious about egg production. She either gives me double yokers or two eggs in one day. Now I was told by a chicken expert that this is impossible. But he never met Towanda. Nor could he explain two hens and three eggs in the same pen in one day either.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, and in a separate pen, is dear sob story Woebegone. You see, Jersey Giants are horrible brooders. Meaning that they aren't good at hatching their own eggs and raising chicks. Nobody informed one of my sis's hens of this and she hatched out seven eggs a few years ago. Or she almost hatched out seven. She got six. The seventh was Woebegone. We looked in on the hatching one morning, noted the progress, and then went shopping. Eight hours later, we checked again. And found one egg in the exact same place, with the exact same hole, and a very exhausted little chick inside. My sister and I were raised in the wild wood. We knew that the chick was going to die. So we broke him out anyway. And don't you know the darned old thing lived? Yup. He lived in my bedroom for months, until he was the size of a cat. I coddled him, and nursed him. And named him Woebegone. For which he's never forgiven me. Yes, that dear little chick became what all spoiled rotten babies become: Spoil brats. He chases me. Jumps at me. Spurs me (don't laugh until you've had a nine pound rooster leap into the air and hit you with two inch spikes with the force of Cassius Clay going for the title) and pecks me. He's ungrateful, hot-headed and full of crap. And I love him anyway because he beat the odds.
Woebegone is also who provoked me to blather this post out at eleven pm. Because, you see, he's also ridiculously hysterically funny. His right wing won't extend all the way (it was wrapped around his head in the egg, which is what prevented him from pecking his way out in the first place) but he never seems to notice. This causes problems when he tries to flap while on his perch. Usually, he falls off. Sometimes, he only falls off halfway, which means he hangs upside down flapping and squawking before dropping into a disgruntled heap. The best is when this happens in the middle of the night. Woebegone is a light sleeper, unlike Franklin who nestles on his perch with his head hanging straight down towards the ground so that he looks dead. When I take the dogs out for their last bathroom run, Woebegone invariably wakes up. He begins crowing. Never mind that it's pitch black outside. Then he starts flapping. If you're really luck, this awakens Jemima and Towanda who begin squeaking in reproach over having been disturbed. Occasionally they wiggle around enough to make Franklin (still doing an imitation of chicken dinner) to sway back and forth, head swinging like a pendulum. Woebegone's flapping leads to an unbalanced rooster, which leads to Woebegone hitting the ground eventually where he quickly scrambles upright and begins strutting to and fro, completely undeterred and proud to have made an impression. Any impression, just so long as you've noticed him and marked his greatness.
Yes, my Demon Chickens are unlike any chickens you've ever hear of. I have suspicions that they're an advance scouting party of super chickens sent from the planet Zorgnog to size up the human resistance. But that's okay because they make good eggs and they keep my life interesting. And besides, when the Demon Chicken leaders commence their attack on us and their subsequent war for planet earth, I'll already be in good with their kind.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
When Life Gives You Lemons...You Make Lemon Sours and Party Like It's 1999...
So I haven't gotten back on the computer and written any posts about New Years like I planned to. I haven't done much of anything I planned so far this brand new year. What HAVE I done? Just about everything else.
Let me see...
I'm in a fight with my insurance company who wants to put me at a higher premium because I now have a screw in my left wrist... the problem is that that injury is covered by Workers Comp and I've received lifetime benefits... which means that my private insurance will never be billed... but they want to charge me more anyway, even though it'll never cost them...
We have the truck in the shop undergoing CPR and have no idea if it's going to survive, and if so when we might get it back... which means either mooching a truck to haul hay or getting one bale at a time in the back seat of the Beamer...
The woman who owns the estate where I work (don't get me wrong I'm grateful to have the job) has decided to remind us that SHE'S the one with millions who gets what she wants... which means walking nine horses a little more than a mile to another barn that's as cold as a witch's tit just because that's where the boss lady wants them... (did I mention that one of those horses has a torn tendon? Which means she stays behind, and we get to drive back and forth for one lonely pony)
I bought a load of timothy hay... from a GREAT guy... at a great price... but it still took everything I'd saved... and now I don't have a truck to haul it home...
I survived until last Friday only to walk out to my barn and find an east coast version of Old Faithful... the water faucet had ruptured... so after ferrying the horses into the paddock on flat bottom boats, I've been hand-hauling water from the house all the way out to the barn...
And I'm sick, at least sick in that annoying sense that you're nearly dead for a few hours and then feel a little better, then take a nap and wake up worse, then better... ugh
But as Robert Frost (one of my favs) said: The best way out is always through. There comes a time when turning back isn't any better than pushing forward. Embrace the chaos and stop trying to control it. Enjoy the ride even if you're not headed quite where you want to go. You'll learn something along the way and by the time you get there, maybe you won't want to go where you intended to in the beginning anyway. Maybe you will. Either way you'll have a few good stories of conquering trials to tell your grandkids around the fire. And you'll have made it through. You'll have put your own spin on the lemons life gave you...
I WILL get around to posting something about New Years... and about writing... but for now it is what it is... and that's fine by me...
Let me see...
I'm in a fight with my insurance company who wants to put me at a higher premium because I now have a screw in my left wrist... the problem is that that injury is covered by Workers Comp and I've received lifetime benefits... which means that my private insurance will never be billed... but they want to charge me more anyway, even though it'll never cost them...
We have the truck in the shop undergoing CPR and have no idea if it's going to survive, and if so when we might get it back... which means either mooching a truck to haul hay or getting one bale at a time in the back seat of the Beamer...
The woman who owns the estate where I work (don't get me wrong I'm grateful to have the job) has decided to remind us that SHE'S the one with millions who gets what she wants... which means walking nine horses a little more than a mile to another barn that's as cold as a witch's tit just because that's where the boss lady wants them... (did I mention that one of those horses has a torn tendon? Which means she stays behind, and we get to drive back and forth for one lonely pony)
I bought a load of timothy hay... from a GREAT guy... at a great price... but it still took everything I'd saved... and now I don't have a truck to haul it home...
I survived until last Friday only to walk out to my barn and find an east coast version of Old Faithful... the water faucet had ruptured... so after ferrying the horses into the paddock on flat bottom boats, I've been hand-hauling water from the house all the way out to the barn...
And I'm sick, at least sick in that annoying sense that you're nearly dead for a few hours and then feel a little better, then take a nap and wake up worse, then better... ugh
But as Robert Frost (one of my favs) said: The best way out is always through. There comes a time when turning back isn't any better than pushing forward. Embrace the chaos and stop trying to control it. Enjoy the ride even if you're not headed quite where you want to go. You'll learn something along the way and by the time you get there, maybe you won't want to go where you intended to in the beginning anyway. Maybe you will. Either way you'll have a few good stories of conquering trials to tell your grandkids around the fire. And you'll have made it through. You'll have put your own spin on the lemons life gave you...
I WILL get around to posting something about New Years... and about writing... but for now it is what it is... and that's fine by me...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)