Petrified Spider Legs (as in turned-to-stone)

You can always tell how unproductive I've been, or how depressed I am, by the state of my home...

...And it is currently spotless, which translates to me being a complete, and mental basketcase.

I've always bemoaned the sad state of my cupboards to Jim, and he always points out the hours I've spent writing, taking pictures, and playing with the kids. Well right now half my kitchen has been overhauled, Jim's dresser has been emptied, sorted and reorganized, and I have bags of stuff ready for the Salvation Army. Conversely, my camera and I aren't on speaking terms, the dog is hiding under the table, and the kids are watching Wonder Pets.

I was supposed to feel a wonderful sense of accomplishment at the sanitized state of my home, but instead I feel...well...still ho hum. Not only is my ability to create, and accomplish anything at an all time low, but I'm also not likely to succeed at proper housekeeping any time soon either. Because lets fact it, I really like to look at my toilets as fungal gardens, and my floors as 24hr soup kitchen for colonies of antenaed insects. It's also not going to win me any points with the more orderly people in my life when I prove yet again that my skills lay more in the picking up and putting away of toys, than they do in cleaning and reorganizing.

I'm not sure if I'm in the minority on this, or if other people only deep clean their house when they are depressed too. On a side note, if anyone has any tips on keeping ones house clean, I'm all ears (because maybe I'm not truly a hopeless case). The petrified state of certain spiders found in the dark recesses of my shelves was alarming.

When I was a child running around tying together adult's shoelaces, scaling trees that said "no climbing" and walking through doors that said "employees only", I did it mostly out of ignorance (except maybe the shoe tying). I don't know if I just wasn't observant, or that restaurants held a confusing number of doors in the hallway for a little girl on a mad dash mission to the bathroom, but whatever the case, I would invariably get stopped mid antic by some stern, scary looking man who quite literally scared the crap out of me. They'd throw a few gruff words in my direction, and I would hightail it out of there in mortification. This weekend I realized I'm now married to one of those scary-ass men.

We were camping at the Agua Caliente hotsprings this weekend with a host of family/friends, which was mucho fun and enjoyable... except for the (boy scout?) troop of boys two campsites over. Every time one of them made the mistake of walking through our campsite, Jim would go over and tell them to get out. After watching two or three kids go positively wide eyed in terror, their heads bobbing up and down as they agreed to never ever touch a toe in our campsite as long as they lived, it suddenly occurred to me that my husband perhaps looks a little intimidating with his mohawk, unshaven appearance and glowering, sleep deprived expression. In Jim's defense, the boys were climbing in the canyon above our heads at midnight. At 1 a.m. we were all laying in our sleeping bags listening to the agonizingly awkward conversation between an adolescent boy and his would-be girlfriend sitting on a rock next to our tent (apparently they missed the memo about tents lacking a sound barrier and all that). At 2 a.m. they were swearing at each other over their lack of tent setting skills, and by 5:30 a.m. they already bright eyed and bushy tailed, standing in the middle of our sleeping campsite, yelling across the campground at their friends. Count it, that's three and a half hours of sleep for all of us. Even though I was as annoyed and sleep deprived as everyone else, I have to admit I had a fair bit of sympathy for the unfortunate miscreants who wandered across Jim's radar. I'm pretty sure I committed the same irritating sins at their age... With the exact same result.

Life on the hill

Jamie uses a tea infuser to catch tiny pretend butterflies. Cute except for the part where he keeps opening the door to release the butterflies and the dog runs out to chase the rabbits on the lawn. Apparently we have a lot of invisible butterflies in this house. That and the constant Monster infestation we always have, while little tea balls may be good for catching butterflies it takes a big yoga ball to take out a monster. The 32 inch sphere is supposed to be my computer chair to help me build core muscles, but instead it flies around the house taking out gremlins and other suspicious creatures hiding behind the couch.

Charlie (although not on crack, or alcohol or any other known substance other than copious amounts of yogurt) is...well odd. He spins round and round before collapsing on the floor in laughter before he gets up and does it again. He also boogies everywhere, all the time, and eats like he's a starting linebacker for a Texas highschool. His pediatrician however is worried because he's so scrawny he doesn't even register on the growth chart. Considering I was the smallest person in every sunday school class until I was 16 makes me think it's more genetic than malnourishment, but I'm still spiking all his food with whole fat yogurt or olive oil. Jamie and I (as firstborns) want to know though, is it normal for second-borns to be an emotional comedian from sunup to sundown? We're quite dubious. We just want to know that wearing underwear on your head while climbing a dresser, falling down in giggles and climbing back up it, is expected behavior.

I'm so far in over this whole book writing thing, it's not even funny. I'm totally and completely stuck and I'd throw the whole thing in the trash if Jim wouldn't growl at me. I've read so much good stuff lately and so much bad stuff that uncomfortably resembles my own writing that it's left me more blocked than processed-carb-fed-human (dont think about that one too long). I cant give up though, and as much as I'd like to throw in the towel, it's just a matter of "when" rather than "if". I'd appreciate any techniques or help if anyone has them. Right now my characters are boring me to tears. Someone please rescue them.

Rubber Rooms and Hill Fairies

There are few things I dislike more than pizza which puts me somewhere in between a person with no soul and a person with no taste. Or maybe both. I'm eating it now and it actually tastes good, which proves what kind of day I've had; It may or may not be the first thing I've eaten all day. (and should also reassure anyone that I can and will eat pizza happily if you serve it to me at your house).

Sometimes I'm convinced I was born with the missing genetics to be a mom. You know how they tell you your own baby's wails in the middle of the night will wake you up? Wrong. As evidenced by my parents once coming into Jamie's room in the wee hours of the morning to find his newborn self screaming bloody murder while Jim and I were passed out on the floor. Sleep deprivation does have its limits.
The pediatrician happens to agree I'm a horrible mother. They called today at 4pm "Mrs Ramsey, were you going to bring Charles in for his TB check?" Crap. They are seriously the only practitioner/therapist/doctor we have or ever have had that didn't give reminder calls (our dentist will even text you a reminder). I survive on reminder calls. I know I shouldn't, but the truth of the matter is I can hardly remember to take eat breakfast most days let alone remember that Charlie's vaccines on Tues included a TB shot that needed to be checked in 2-3 days. The stone-cold lady at the front desk had no mercy on me, and I am dutifully repentant.

I was already having a bad day, but by the time I spent over an hour in rush hour traffic for a ten second confirmation my son doesn't have tuberculosis, I literally got home and wanted to scream into a pillow...until I heard Jamie screaming outside. I rushed to see what the problem was, only to find it was a happy conversation between him and "my friend in the hill", because yes Jamie discovered his echo today.

We laid down on a rock and yelled at the echoes till Jim got home with beer and pizza. Good man.

Don't Ask

Jim shaved his head four years ago. It looked awful, but I love him and I love who he is, and if he wants to rock the shaved head look, then far be it from me to disagree.

...Until he shaved it the second time. I really thought the first time was also the last (got it out of his system), but for someone who has a disgustingly thick head of hair, he sure isn't suitably fond of it. The second time he shaved it, we were supposed to go out on a double date, with friends who were in from out of town. I came home from work, having dropped off the kids on the way home, and when I walked through the door there was some axe murderer in my bathroom. I shrieked a little. It was Jim of course, totally springing the badass look on me unexpectedly. Several years went by before I recovered sufficiently to not start sputtering every time he mentioned doing it again.
And it's not that I don't like the shaved look, but rather just Jim with a shaved head. He looks kind of scary. The kids however disagree with me, or at least Jamie does. He's been begging me all day if he can have hair like daddy, because yes, Jim shaved his head again. Although this time he's sporting a mohawk for a few days before it all disappears.

Somehow (don't ask me how) a few months ago, we both decided it would be cool to shave our heads together. For him it would just be more of the kind of change he loves to embrace, for me it would have shaken my world, rocked my vanity and pretty much left me wondering who I was. I wanted to do it, I really did. And maybe someday I'll work up the nerve to find out who the curly-less side of me is, but this time I chickened out. :-( As a compromise I got it cut short and dyed dark red. Jim loves it. I'm still trying to figure out if I like it or not.

The Lonesome Leper

Jamie got bit by some sort of bug on Friday, we put the heal all miracle salve on it, kissed it with magical kissing powers and told him not to itch it. By Sunday it became apparent bugs had nothing to do with it; his arm had erupted into a full scale attack of poison oak. Where he got himself an armful of poison oak was the mystery of the century, but we do have a dog that likes to chase rabbits so we used our super powerful deduction skills and blamed it on the dog (besides, the dog can't talk to defend himself). Even a Dr agreed it was poison oak or contact dermatitis of some kind. Fast forward through a few play dates, a half a dozen errands, and a large swath of people through San Diego who have been the recipient of Jamie's hugs (or whacks) and when Tuesday evening found him incapacitated from the pain on his arm, I knew we were in trouble.

This morning I called the Pediatrician and they said to bring him in asap, but to sit in the hall till we were called. You know it can't be a good sign when you aren't even allowed in the sick room. 30 min in the hallway, 10 min getting vitals, 20 seconds for the doctor to pronounce judgment: Shingles. How my four year old baby got an old persons disease like shingles is beyond all comprehension. I didn't even know kids could get it. But apparently it's fairly common these days because of the chicken pox vaccination. Something about kids carrying just enough antibodies to never get the chicken pox, but not enough antibodies to resist shingles. You don't even have to have a compromised immune system or a high stress job. Who-da-thunk?

To add insult upon injury, I specifically told them not to give my kids the chicken pox vaccination. Somewhere, somehow, the MA didn't get the memo and she accidentally gave it to him anyway. Short of demanding she suck the poison from my son's veins, there was nothing I could do but throw a fit. Now, three years later my son is writhing around in misery because of it and I'd rather he just had the damn chicken pox. Instead he got a dubious vaccination for a non threatening virus that didn't even successfully prevent it. Brilliant.
Of course this is all my fault according to the doctor. If I had been a good mother, I'd have forgiven the medical community its faux pas and brought him in for extra shots to booster up his system's antibodies. Which, forgive my cynicism and ignorance, I didn't. I'm also guilty of numerous crimes for successfully skipping it with Charlie. They're insisting I bring him in tomorrow for the chickenpox vax. It must be their attempt at clever humor-- surely I must be missing something. I'm already in this mess because of that stupid vaccination. Must I clarify again? I'd rather Charlie just have the chickenpox.

So if you or your child has come in contact with mine in the last few days be warned: They might get the chicken pox. Or if they've been vaccinated: They might get shingles.



Nobody wants to be around him anymore and he's got his Dad and Aunt Liz running scared every time he gets close. So I asked Jamie to give me his best zombie face. This is what I got. Very scary don't you think?


Charlie on the other hand could care less.

I'm too sexy for my salad

You know your homemade beauty attempt was not a wholly successful endeavor when your husband sniffs your hair and declares you smell like salad. However, in exchange for hours of endless puns regarding the chunks of avocado and olive oil in my hair, I now have smooth, shiny, soft locks. Try it and tell me if you think sexy hair is worth smelling like guacamole for awhile.

1 avocado mashed
1 egg
1 t. olive oil

Mix, massage in hair. Wait thirty minutes, rinse and shampoo.

Patience is a tired mare but she jogs on.

Is writing a learned art or a God given ability? My 18 year old self hopes it's the former. I can count on one hand the number of papers I actually finished while being homeschooled--they typically turned into stubborn showdowns with my parents. Consequently the first week of college I found myself clutching a one paged, in class essay on Great Danes vs Chihuahuas, it was covered with corrections and I was in a mandatory meeting with the instructor bawling my eyes out. Those were the days where every cool homeschool chick worth her salt carried a 4 inch folding knife in her pocket. After looking between me, the knife in my hands, and my tear splotched paper, you can't blame the worried instructor for threatening to take my easiest means of suicide away... or maybe he was concerned for his own safety. I'm not sure.

Hopefully I've come a long way since then. Although anything involving the alphabet and a thirty min timer is still doomed for disaster, because I am anything but a fast writer and the best I can do is aim for persistance. I'm not a wordy writer either. People who can whip out four pages without even pausing are geniuses in my eyes. Nanowrimo last year was possibly one of the most painful things I've ever done. To this day I have to resist the urge to check my word count on blog entries and mentally congratulate myself when I hit 800 words.

I've managed to squeeze out 12,000 words in my novel so far. That's 12,000 words I currently despise, but that Jim has forbidden me to erase. 12,000 words that roll over and over in the back of my head and haunt my dreams with what the next 12,000 words will contain. Everything I read says to write the first draft then edit, edit, edit. I think that must apply to people who like to write 150,000 word epic beasts. In my case it will have to be "revise", "rewrite", "revise". Because really, I'll be doing good if I can hit 60,000. The first Harry Potter book was 80,000 words.

Oh and I'm begging... somebody go sign up for Nanowrimo this year, because I can't, what with the rule about not starting till Nov 1st coupled with my inability to do two things at once has sadly disqualified me from participating this year. But I want to live vicariously through someone and cheer them on!

There was this one time...

I have a friend who has the worst girlfriend I have ever met. Seriously. She's one of those people who you want to like. you try really hard to like...mostly because you you really want to be a part of your friends life and you know your friendship with him won't be the same if you hate his wife. But It's horribly horribly depressing. And I've tried, I really have. But what are you supposed to do when you find out she's cheating on him? Do you tell him? I did. He doesn't care. He loves her anyway. And so for his sake I try again. We went out for a girls night one time, shared martinis, gossiped about our favorite books and generally had fun. I was shocked. I couldn't even believe this was the same woman who days earlier had borrowed my car without asking and gave it a dent she insisted was there before. The same woman who flirted with my husband and the had the audacity to tell her boyfriend it was Jim not her. The same women who thinks it's hysterical to send me obnoxious texts around the clock. And yet, despite our becoming "friends" the other night, I find out she told everyone I whine too much and that she really has to bite her tongue to keep from callig CPS because my kids are "emotionally abused and physically neglected." Seriously.
I give up. She's a crazy person and it's a hopeless case.

And yet I can't. Because "She" is the church, and I am her too.


And really, although I know the above is a bit of an exaggeration for me, it isn't for some people; and it is quite the bugger. It would be much easier if I could be one of those people who believe it's only about "your relationship with Jesus" and church doesn't matter. Which yeah, is partly true: your relationship is with Christ, but the church is clearly the bride of Christ. Try being best friends with someone while refusing to acknowledge their spouse. Conversations are awkward and dinner parties are a bitch.

Not that I'm condoning abusive relationships on a person-to-person level. People have shitty things happen to them-- alcoholic husbands, creepy step-fathers, bi-polar mothers, teenagers who are hell-bent on destruction.
But in the case of the church you already know the ending. You already know that no matter how many times she flat-lines, the defibrillator is always going to work. Yes, she's been diagnosed with cancer, but we already know the chemo works.

Clearly we can't give up when we know the end of the story. It isn't a hopeless case. Even though I live in a place where every gosh darn church is either filled with pretty people congratulating themselves on how cool they are, or some watered down, old fashioned service filled with old old or creepy people. In my own beloved circle of reformed churches here in San Diego, it seems like everyone either hates everyone or has some ancient grudge that they refuse to let go. It gets quite depressing to be around people who refuse to let go over things that happened before I was even out of elementary school.

And yet I love my church, I really do. I just suck at trying to figure out how to help.

Maybe Next Saturday...

Jamie and I read "The Little Engine That Could" a lot. My mom used to read it to me too. I hated it. Mostly because everytime I had a meltdown and insisted something was impossible (which was quite a lot), my mom wouldn't say anything but just start chanting "I think I can, I think I can, I think I can" until I went and tried again. It was very annoying. Sometimes she even added a peppy little "choo choo!" to cheer me on. I was only five and it was still mortifying. Even now, I'm tempted to edit and change the book as I'm reading it to Jamie.

"...the little engine tried and tried, but she was too little and not strong enough and children on the other side of the mountain did not get their toys and good things to eat. The End"

After months and months of houseguests/people living with us, I finally decided enough was enough and scoured the house top to bottom. Or tried. I swept the floor and was halfway through mopping it when Jamie and Charlie got hungry and spilled dried spaghetti all over the floor. I told myself to remain calm, and then congratulated myself when I spoke "calmly" but "firmly" to Jamie in my best James Bond voice. "You will pick up these noodles and you will put them in this bag and you will do it now." Jamie didn't sass back, he picked up a noodle, looked at me, snapped it in two and threw it on the floor. He's fond of drawing lines in the sand. I again resisted any screaming or yelling. Even though what was merely supposed to be the daunting task of sweeping and mopping the floor while dodging two small kids and a large dog, suddenly turned into the monumental battle of clashing wills with Jamie + all the mopping. And that was just the floor. While I was disciplining Jamie, Charlie was quietly disappearing to the laundry room where he somehow managed to scale the washer and dryer to empty a bucket of oxi clean on the floor. The dog hopeful it was food, was sadly disappointed and so came to tattle mournfully. I swept up the oxiclean, and was starting a new load of laundry when I was interuppted by shrieks from the kids bedroom. I ran down the hall to find both of them on top of the dresser in the closet where Jamie was hanging upside down off the clothing rod and Charlie was trying to join him. Jamie felt this was highly inappropriate behavior for a little brother (although perfectly reasonable for him to do), thus the shrieks. I rescued both of them and chided them not to do things that will get them hurt. Then I stomped through the house and turned on Angry Men from Les Miserables which I sung at the top of my lungs.

Later I was cleaning the bathroom (since I couldn't remember the last time I cleaned it). Scrubbed the bathtub, dragged Charlie away from the toilet, grabbed Jim's toothbrush from Jamie. Emptied the trash, cleaned the mirror, took both kids out of bathtub that was now covered in muddy foot prints. Re-cleaned bathtub, scrubbed the sink, took kids out of the bathtub again, kicked them out of the bathroom entirely, locked the door and re-cleaned the bathtub for the third time while they both pounded on the door sobbing about my cruelty. Mopped the floor and was hitting the finishing touches on the chrome in the sink when it got quiet...too quiet. I whipped open the door to reveal Jamie and Barnabas gone, with Charlie left munching happily on...toilet paper? no. Trash? maybe. The tied up bag of trash looked like it had been torn open. I pried the prize from his clenched fingers and mouth. Yup trash.
A used tampon to be exact.

They win.

I don't think I can do this.

The Prodigal Chicken

Jamie is grooming Barnabas with a eyelash curler and what used to be my toothbrush... it's obviously Barnabas's toothbrush now. I'm not sure what an eyelash curler is useful for on a Dutch Shepherd, but Jamie seems to think it's necessary and Barnabas isn't minding it, so I'm letting slide. I am kind of curious though what it's like brushing a dog who's three times bigger than you with a tooth brush. Something like brushing a grizzly bear I'd imagine. I was terrified of dogs at Jamie's age because well...they looked enormous and scary to me. Of course I didn't have a dog like Barnabas to help change my mind. The important thing is that I like dogs now...more than chickens. Not that I dislike chickens, but ours are rather relationally distant, emotionally challenged, and dumb as a box of rocks. All of them except Mrs. Marley, she's actually dumber than the rest of them put together, but she's also so sweet and nice, she's won Jamie over for life, and she has Jim and I worried for her safety and well being. I'm not sure what her problem is, but I think maybe she can't see through the fluff in her eyes. Is that possible? I put food out for the chickens and they all come running, except sweet little Mrs. Marley who happily clucks around my ankles still asking me where breakfast is. Jamie has to physically put food in front of her nose in order for her to find it. She does the same for water. The other chickens don't pick on her, and they all seem to get along but I'm still worried. She's by far the smallest, and I'm concerned she doesn't have the necessary survival instincts to be a chicken. Or maybe she really can't see through all the feathers in her face, should I clip them?




Like I mentioned before, we have an even half dozen...or had. We have seven now. Apparently when my parents were bringing them down to us, one escaped and they assumed she became coyote snack. Fast forward two weeks, and my mom heard something clucking in the build up under the house. Yup, it was the chicken, no food or water for two weeks and she was still alive and healthy looking. She's currently a little obsessed with the water bowl, but other than that she's fine. Unbelievable.



She needs a name.

The reluctant

I've been meaning to come out of the closet about something for awhile, but I never seem to quite work up the nerve. Until tonight. For no other reason except that I very nearly lost my mind and ruined my entire life this evening and nobody would ever know why. That and the only reason really to resist confessing, and to not talk about it, stems from pure pride and chagrin on my part because well... I'm writing a book.

Best case scenario: writing it makes me happy, reading it might make other people happy.

Worst case scenario: I pour hundreds of hours into my book, a few small chunks of my soul, and a dash of my sanity only to have it be total and utter crap. Which lets face it, is highly likely.

For all the undiluted opinions I throw out about this book or that book; Twilight sucks, Harry Potter is entertaining but mediocre, Gregor The Overlander doesn't end well, I don't pretend for a moment those books were a cinch to write. It's a little obnoxious that it takes me mere hours to read and pass judgment on a book when in reality an author somewhere poured their sweat and blood into the monumental task of putting eighty-thousand words together in a coherent fashion.

So I would definitely choose in favor of not writing a novel if I could, it's embarassing and a recipe for remorse, but I can't stop. I'm a hopeless case. The story got stuck in my head one day and like pregnancy, it just kept getting bigger and bigger until it had to come out. Like it or not.
Not that I'm entirely pessimistic. I like my story and I like writing. I've got a unmarked white binder stuffed with fifty pages worth of outline and notes on characters, milieu...what they eat and how they spend money. I take the notebook everywhere with me and whenever something strikes my imagination I write it down. I've even pulled over on the freeway to write something before it disappeared into the mom brain malady I suffer from. It has sand hiding in the crevices from trips to the beach, and some of the pages stick together from spitup and pb&j. The outside (nor inside) has a title or label on it anywhere because I was too embarassed to admit its contents to people, contents I completely lost tonight. Took it on a date with Jim tonight, and came home without it. No clue where I left it. I've detailed my penchant for losing wallets and cellphones here before, but this was far far worse. When I told Jim, he looked at me like I'd just announced I dented the car. That's how many hours I've poured into that notebook. Thankfully, Jim could still think clearly and logically despite my hysterics, so a few well placed phone calls to the mall and my notebook was found: Sitting on the counter at Panda Express.
How did I do that?
And what have I done?
Bah.


Anybody else reading this ever started or considered writing a book?

Because it just doesn't feel right...

...To blog pictures and not put them over here. Two blogs? Still getting used to it.

Ben and Danielle's wedding.

Bug sushi

I do clean my house...really. Not that you would ever guess, considering what Charlie finds to put in his mouth. Jamie never put anything in his mouth except maybe the occasional crayon, or razor blade (kidding kidding). So I found it disturbingly shocking that Charlie can locate any coin in a fifty yard radius at any given time. I'm convinced he even has a homing beacon in his sleep, sweeping the perimeter with baby radar, always on the lookout for something dangerous. It's gotten to the point where I've prioritized and categorized. Poisonous spiders, marbles, coins, buttons and nails are things that warrant a red level freakout and trigger the oft-touted mom adrenalin super powers like sprouting wings, bellowing like a baritone bull, and perfecting the headlock-heimlich-poised-finger sweep. Lets just say my adrenalin is running pretty low and Charlie's mad skills even extend to somehow conjuring up rusty screws in a walmart grocery cart. I have given up trying to completely prevent him from eating harmless things like beetles, grass, seaweed, sand...and anything else not poisonous. Seaweed is a good source of iodine!

Amazingly enough, Charlie met his match when baby Jack showed up this weekend with Kevin and Bethany. He apparently not only eats grass too, but he eats lots of it (despite our best efforts to take it away from him). You never know whether to sigh and chide or smile and giggle at him. He is a pretty expressive specimen of baby, and his eyes in particular speak so clearly there really is no need for him to ever learn to talk.

"This rubber bug doesn't taste nearly as good as the real thing"

Our satellite dish is broken and rats have chewed through the electrical wiring on the hot tub (which oddly enough resembles an old monitor plug...who knew?). The kids have declared that in case of such emergency (the lack of Little Einsteins in the morning), they will instead dig holes and play in the mud. I'm supposed to be impressed they get Barnabas to dig holes for them, but I'm not. And yes Jamie, I have noticed he can dig faster and deeper than either you or Charlie.
We have played in the mud every day since last Thurs, not counting the weekend, and each time it started without my knowledge. It's like they wait and watch, distract me with a plea for peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and Bam! they're out the door and in the mud before you can say scudder's-all-natural-peanut-butter. I do what any self respecting person would do in the same situation. I join in on the mudflinging until all we can see is the whites of each others eyeballs and then I hose everyone off. The lawn gets watered, the kids get bathed, and everybody's happy. Until the next day when they do it all over again. Urgh.




I'm snowed under an immense pile of photo editing and even with the addition of Lightroom, thirty min of Dora the Explorer would help tremendously. I'm putting up a few of a family photoshoot this afternoon, and some of a wedding I shot last weekend. So if you want to check them out, go take a peek at my photography blog.

The New Pecking Order

We got Chickens!



Six of them to be exact. And they're all different colors, shapes and sizes, although this one is the cutest in my opinion. She doesn't have a name yet, but check out those rockin blue legs. We ordered them in April, so we had pretty much given up ever seeing them and then Jamie arrived Sunday from his grandparents house belting "CHICKENS...we've got CHICKENS!!" which sent us scrambling trying to figure out what to do with them. They ended up in the garden, but they've since learned how to jump the fence so Jim is frantically building them a coop, and until then Barnabas alerts us to when they've escaped.
At least thats the idea.

And yes, this is my new blog. While you're here you can add it to your subscriptions. ;-)
The xanga one has lived a good life and is passing on to the next life.