tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-64707675541593384022023-11-16T04:43:50.049-06:00Muffy and SpencerDispatches From the Yacht: a wife and husband take on life with the confidence of a high-society power coupleMuffy and Spencerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01853358070259563506noreply@blogger.comBlogger87125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470767554159338402.post-84938956515166255092012-06-11T09:03:00.001-05:002012-06-11T09:03:13.141-05:00Nesting<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Our chickens are over a year old now, but I still worry about them.<br />
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It's not the same worries as when they were little chicks. I don't fear for their mobility like I did when their legs weren't working or their hardiness when they were croaking from the cold. I'm also fairly certain none of them are going to undergo any sort of sexual reassignment at this point.<br />
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But they still cause me concern. And yeah, at the risk of sounding dramatic, sometimes it has to do with life and death.<br />
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This is because we also have a dog.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Notice how Buddy's staring at them</td></tr>
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About 4 or 5 months ago we decided to take the leap and let the girls wander around the yard during the day. That's right folks, our chickens became free-range sometime in February. Boy, was it satisfying. The rye grass had gotten nice and tall and thick, and they just pranced around the back making their super contented chicken clucks.<br />
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Laugh all you want, but chickens produce a variety of noises, and I have to say that I'm fairly good at interpreting them at this point.<br />
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And while I find them very endearing, I'm sad to report that none of them translate to, "I love you, dear owner, and I am grateful for all you do." That's the kind of affection you look for in a dog. Chickens are more like cats, but without the cute purring. "Where's my food, don't get too close to me, I don't really care whether you exist or not," is a better summation of their standoffish attitude.<br />
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But no matter. After a few days of letting them roam free all day I grow to really love how they'll come running toward me when I enter the back yard. And they'll follow me back to the coop for a fresh feeding in the evenings, sometimes even squatting down to let me pick them up (which I've mentioned is related to their wanting to mate, but I'll pretend it's affection). I pick them up and pet them, then shut the door and let them slowly and safely amble up to the roost for bedtime.<br />
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Well, all that ended the day Buddy decided they looked tasty. Or fun. Or like they had too many feathers.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our party animal at New Year's, apparently resolving to change his diet for the year</td></tr>
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I returned home from an errand late in the morning to find the coop door shut, all 4 chickens inside. Brilliant me, my thought was, "How did the wind shut the door and all the chickens manage to also be inside?" Then I got a good look at Gertie. Dude, she looked <i>rough</i>. She was totally soaked. I've never seen such a wet chicken, not even in a rain storm. They're somehow good at staying relatively dry even in a total deluge.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> This is Glennie in a rain storm, not half as bad as Gertie looked that day</td></tr>
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So I just...let them out again. And I didn't think anything of it until later in the afternoon when I heard the unmistakable Chicken Distress Squawk through the thin pane of the bathroom window. I looked out and saw Buddy down in the grass, Glennie's fluffy yellow butt pinned between his paws.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That's an unmistakable fluffy butt</td></tr>
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NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO. I threw the window open and yelled as much from the house. He looked up at me in a flurry of feathers. I tore through the house, flung myself through the back door and toward the rear of the yard, visions of gory chicken remnants flashing before my eyes.<br />
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My killer dog trotted sweetly over to me, buttery golden feathers all over his face like a damn cartoon. He was wagging his tail and seemed super proud of himself. I gathered up my resolve and looked over toward the scene of the crime. Glennie was...standing up. She fluffed herself a few times and then walked away, nonchalantly.<br />
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Don't question me on this--chickens can do things nonchalantly.<br />
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I got a closer look at her and did <i>not </i>see the grisly punctures and damage I expected.<br />
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But I DID see the scene of the day's previous crime. Gertie's feathers had been scattered over about 10 square feet back by the coop. A huge swathe of the lovely rye grass had been rolled out and her little gray feathers lay among it. And later when my neighbor saw me walking Buddy down the block, she ran after me and asked, "Um, Shannon, is it normal for Buddy to, uh, <i>play</i> with the chickens?"<br />
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Oh lord. That's why Gertie had looked so wet. She'd been chewed on for awhile.<br />
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Apparently neighbor had been in her garden (which backs up to our rear fence) when she heard, "a terrible squawk," (see, I told you that sound was unmistakable) and she looked over the fence to see Buddy "tossing" one of the chickens around in the air.<br />
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God bless her, she ran all the way around the block to our back yard, put Buddy on a leash to restrain him, and ushered all the chickens in to their coop...a perfectly safe haven from which I promptly released them later that morning.<br />
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Of course it hadn't been wind and chance that had trapped all 4 of them in their coop. It was Buddy and instinct and a thoughtful neighbor.<br />
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Ugh, so now the chickens are not so free-range.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That's right, back into the coop you go</td></tr>
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Thankfully they're all still alive, but we only let them out when we're home and can listen for them. Which is probably for the best, because they get sneaky when they're out all day and start hiding their eggs.<br />
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You heard me right. One day they just found a different spot in the yard and started laying there. It took 2 days of no eggs and plenty of worrying on my part before I told Husband that we ought to start looking around for their stash, because there wasn't any way they could go that long without getting sick from an infected stuck egg.<br />
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He found it after a careful walk around the yard's perimeter--it was under some pieces of wood leaning up against the fence. They'd made a new little nest and were laying their eggs there. Sneaky chickens.<br />
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And then recently the twins--that's Ruby and Lemon, now indistinguishable from one another--stopped laying, or at least stopped laying as much. There was a brown egg every other day or so, if that, and of course I started to worry again.<br />
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Did they have a stash? Where was it? Did they have an infected stuck egg? Was I going to have to get some latex gloves and play chicken butt proctologist?<br />
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Thankfully I didn't have to answer that question, (and I'm sure you're glad you didn't have to read about it) because I began to notice their black and brown feathers all over the yard. But not in scary dog crime scene situations--just a few feathers all over the yard.<br />
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Ah. Molting. This is what they do when it gets hot, and they don't lay as much when they're doing it.<br />
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Fabulous. We've learned so much. Now we can find their stash when they nest all over the yard <i>and </i>we can diagnose different feather-loss situations. Many feathers in a pile of messed-up grass=dog attack. A few feathers all over the place=no eggs right now. And no eggs at all means they're nesting somewhere secret.<br />
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Okay. It's not entirely straightforward, this chicken-raising. I mean, we can't even listen for the Chicken Distress Squawk as easily anymore, because Husband himself has been nesting. He's added insulation and double-pane windows to the whole back side of the house. This makes it blessedly cool and silent inside, but also makes it pretty doggone difficult to hear if Budbud's suddenly gotten a case of the munchies.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In nature a nesting husband will insulate his home before the arrival of offspring</td></tr>
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So we open a window when we tempt fate in our little ecosystem out back, and it's come in handy, because I've had to rescue Glennie once again from Buddy's deadly jaws. Seriously, I don't understand why they don't stay away from him. He's killed a couple of doves out back in recent months, and he does a good job of doing that business right in front of the four of them.<br />
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They just stare at him with that uppity chicken attitude of theirs as he scatters unfortunate dove bits all over the place.<br />
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I tell them that they ought to learn from these situations, but they don't seem to pay attention. They're probably plotting where next to hide their eggs. Sneaky chickens.Muffy and Spencerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01853358070259563506noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470767554159338402.post-86251495028398253432011-12-24T09:31:00.000-06:002011-12-24T09:31:30.926-06:00It Becomes NormalWhen husband leaves for work, he calls home to check in on all of us. How's wife, how's Buddy, how are the chickens? It's sweet, and I'm sure most spouses do as such when traveling.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_HTS-D0cEEctn5CdlYupY_qY1VOLEMWkc6SriOjgvVV6x4kZwA5LAhb1DOJe3TwXVGYvyiJOa1zVj5bkwTD2XZLCWkGJUsWW1DWWRjWr6457gGVS8r5VI1OA_N9jl603xqaWgkNiXdv4/s1600/SAM_3637.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_HTS-D0cEEctn5CdlYupY_qY1VOLEMWkc6SriOjgvVV6x4kZwA5LAhb1DOJe3TwXVGYvyiJOa1zVj5bkwTD2XZLCWkGJUsWW1DWWRjWr6457gGVS8r5VI1OA_N9jl603xqaWgkNiXdv4/s320/SAM_3637.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
There's a new set of questions now that the chickens are laying. Did you collect eggs? How many today, what color were they?<br />
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And then my favorite (careful, not exactly appropriate for young children):<br />
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Did you sex 'em up good?<br />
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Yes, husband asks me that about the chickens. Because now that they are of laying age, they are also of mating age, and they instinctively crouch down to "accept" a rooster when we come into the coop. Silly me, I had kinda thought that they were just being friendly and suddenly very generously allowing us to pet them, but no. They are just being proper hens looking for their male counterpart.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Glennie, um, offers herself</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Brendon takes it upon himself to not only pet them, but to kinda grab them and wiggle them a bit. He thinks that this will trigger something in their chicken psyches equivalent to mating fulfillment and thereby translate to more regular (and perhaps satisfying?) eggs production.<br />
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Who am I to argue? Am I any more chicken expert than he? So yes, I do it too. I mean, good heavens, I don't want frustrated chickens! And I was the one who gave away both of their roosters.<br />
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Admittedly I never expected to be crouched down in a chicken coop, roughing up a little hen according to my husband's wish that I <i>sex 'em up good</i>. Once again I find that we are making up a very strange set of rules by which we make our lives in this house, in this neighborhood, with these animals.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Does she look irritated to you that I am not Brendon? I don't think I'm imagining this.</td></tr>
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</div>So not <i>exactly</i> the idyllic image I had of a little backyard mini country farm. Our hound doesn't herd the chickens but rather tries to eat their eggs (he can tell how much we like them, so he likes them too). Our chickens don't come to us to be petted because they adore us. And we shake their little chicken rumps because we think it will stimulate egg production.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3sMIDVwdA-dqvReX3XnmofedIN9huAhzbHh5JaC9C_ooIsSg4MIpUJqu4aqpqrsSjA6Qp2MaRacZ8cK_knvJGfnjKYys1ClMNYcZHc4B8zQ_9YdyOkKRHrCApd70uldpy4dHsAz98WKE/s1600/SAM_3642.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3sMIDVwdA-dqvReX3XnmofedIN9huAhzbHh5JaC9C_ooIsSg4MIpUJqu4aqpqrsSjA6Qp2MaRacZ8cK_knvJGfnjKYys1ClMNYcZHc4B8zQ_9YdyOkKRHrCApd70uldpy4dHsAz98WKE/s320/SAM_3642.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">He could at least not drool when he looks into the coop, come on now</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Yeah. Disney's not going to adopt this as a script anytime soon.<br />
<br />
And the thing is, it doesn't even phase me when he asks. I just reply yes or no, depending on whether any of the hens were feeling, um, frisky enough to let me. Like the rest of the things we've done with the animals and the house, it's been a combination of what we think we should do with them and what actually works in reality.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijeVbk7qdPl4PZ5Vhc3Fm-F3PSPaP24mSkpcsUqT7Vmr3NXmhwJoNPZFzPP_r2sgjL0n-TZ0WEvjoijgw-A239ib40IKwC1XZ17fgrSLLwS7czC2uJ_1tHcr07RB1CQxGxRiNMFc9tFiA/s1600/SAM_3670.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijeVbk7qdPl4PZ5Vhc3Fm-F3PSPaP24mSkpcsUqT7Vmr3NXmhwJoNPZFzPP_r2sgjL0n-TZ0WEvjoijgw-A239ib40IKwC1XZ17fgrSLLwS7czC2uJ_1tHcr07RB1CQxGxRiNMFc9tFiA/s320/SAM_3670.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
So. It's normal for us to ask this question. And when I'm actually doing it, I look up at their warming red light in the roost and think, at least that's appropriate.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigIcvmKVrs8nWALqppjcQeow5S2y0Rw-HmXUlnuXCB26KmAgHaYTpW5CXLGuT2WlRrceXDH3moTALV-IcxgNn6TlZfn_wncH8AEqdDoq5QUdZgrYzF1jN5pTts8W5YdFDEUHJTcMDW3SA/s1600/SAM_3687.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigIcvmKVrs8nWALqppjcQeow5S2y0Rw-HmXUlnuXCB26KmAgHaYTpW5CXLGuT2WlRrceXDH3moTALV-IcxgNn6TlZfn_wncH8AEqdDoq5QUdZgrYzF1jN5pTts8W5YdFDEUHJTcMDW3SA/s320/SAM_3687.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>Muffy and Spencerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01853358070259563506noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470767554159338402.post-32583923772351806442011-12-04T21:19:00.001-06:002011-12-04T21:24:40.933-06:00!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL0lQvVH6qG6u3Dt87kKZ6ylAJEp5trNiHjhYwcabvVoAFDMUcV9XlqB9IbIs03EnBSlX0c39RtnXg1OhGKopJ0hfKpdW2vzkAIDygoS_t3FrWZvpXSj1eeB0cFZItccJaccpVNHAvWRA/s1600/SAM_3613.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL0lQvVH6qG6u3Dt87kKZ6ylAJEp5trNiHjhYwcabvVoAFDMUcV9XlqB9IbIs03EnBSlX0c39RtnXg1OhGKopJ0hfKpdW2vzkAIDygoS_t3FrWZvpXSj1eeB0cFZItccJaccpVNHAvWRA/s320/SAM_3613.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>It's finally happened.<br />
<br />
After eight months of feathers and feeding and cleaning, after five months of searching the coop every day, we have been graced with some sort of tangible return.<br />
<br />
An egg. A tiny, oval, brown egg.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaDIcvr8rYPLJECCP1FLn58yGdLJl1tRl3YuJ9GECKcPSp_iCMiGo_5Ydyii-Kg8_vMM5Pc0gppN3Uv4dSk0M-9n3p0OAvqtIE7xcKZ1ob10E1eAjIC8f6WhyphenhyphenV_cvaDudc__SwR6jLOr0/s1600/SAM_3606.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaDIcvr8rYPLJECCP1FLn58yGdLJl1tRl3YuJ9GECKcPSp_iCMiGo_5Ydyii-Kg8_vMM5Pc0gppN3Uv4dSk0M-9n3p0OAvqtIE7xcKZ1ob10E1eAjIC8f6WhyphenhyphenV_cvaDudc__SwR6jLOr0/s320/SAM_3606.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
I was just getting up to walk out of the coop this morning. I usually crouch down with the girls while they eat. Today, as the cold rain fell, I had picked up Lemon to pet her wet feathers. She has been wandering close to me lately, then crouching down like she's asking me to pick her up.<br />
<br />
It's kind of a funny pattern: sidle up to me, stand very still, then squat until I pick her up. Not that the rest of the girls don't have their own patterns. Glennie still walks up behind me and pecks at my rear. Gertie still keeps her distance but talks up a storm. And Ruby just follows her twin and kinda does what she does.<br />
<br />
Only now, there's a new element to the pattern. Lemon lays eggs.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3BvqpmMWjFY5Gr5ES276qhOEQ2-He3WP0U4DmpG1At6_w3ViEUpA0gWekZBqJW7blmWqcaAuPKhDA5WFfZIN-RvdC8ifKgVzJ6gi_P6mNuGhb-kRyvBUgLr1g6c_IjfRIO-LAg1iLGrs/s1600/SAM_3612.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3BvqpmMWjFY5Gr5ES276qhOEQ2-He3WP0U4DmpG1At6_w3ViEUpA0gWekZBqJW7blmWqcaAuPKhDA5WFfZIN-RvdC8ifKgVzJ6gi_P6mNuGhb-kRyvBUgLr1g6c_IjfRIO-LAg1iLGrs/s320/SAM_3612.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br />
Why do I think it was Lemon? Well, it was brown, so that means it was one of the twins. And I just think Lemon's putting back into the karma of our relationship. I propped her up and bandaged her legs for two weeks in an attempt to save her little chickie life, and now I'm certain she's giving us eggs and asking to be picked up in order to give us some sort of satisfaction in caring for her.<br />
<br />
Or maybe chickens don't get karma and simply make eggs when they're good and ready. Due to, you know, nature and stuff. Less romantic reasoning, but perhaps more likely.<br />
<br />
All I know is, I had a crazy dream two nights ago that our coop was teaming with eggs. Eggs AND chickens. In my dream, there were eggs of all colors everywhere and chickens were hatching from them and flying around.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpb4oOMXB-brSSRHU64lz-2Yj9O449U72gl2b1k8_65X82LmUC5GZX1jeBJiVnEzJJy4SPZOF9kcNT0t7cdK0qr6Len-7sPeo0uyJRNrut5okHpr6vzySSL76Z4bZwOiXBvKNWxi2B40M/s1600/SAM_3610.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpb4oOMXB-brSSRHU64lz-2Yj9O449U72gl2b1k8_65X82LmUC5GZX1jeBJiVnEzJJy4SPZOF9kcNT0t7cdK0qr6Len-7sPeo0uyJRNrut5okHpr6vzySSL76Z4bZwOiXBvKNWxi2B40M/s320/SAM_3610.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br />
Clearly some kind of omen. Because as I performed my daily peek into their little roosting box, there it was. The red light Brendon installed inside for these cold winter months illuminated it, like some kind of crimson spotlight. But there wasn't any other fanfare. I squealed at the girls, but none of them admitted ownership. Someone had just dropped that sucker and then walked down the gangplank for some breakfast.<br />
<br />
I ran out of the coop, not too swiftly in my jammies, rubber boots, and rain jacket, and around to the outside of their roosting box. Brendon had built it especially for this function--so we could access eggs from the outside of the coop. Buddy could sense my excitement and jumped around. Probably because I was looking at him and shouting, "Budbud, we have AN EGG!"<br />
<br />
I took it out and rushed it into the kitchen. I don't know why, but I was afraid it might break or just dissolve without my being able to document it. Buddy certainly tried to eat it. He was highly aware that there was something seriously awesome in my hand.<br />
<br />
And now here it is. Our first egg. Oh man, I never thought it would be this exciting.<br />
<br />
And yes, I know that sounds a little lame, and yes, I'm not ashamed at all. An egg just came out of our little Clark Ranch. This experiment with chicken ownership--heck, with home ownership--is not the utter epic failure I've been fearing. Perhaps we CAN raise critters. Perhaps we CAN make this funky little family and funky little home a functional one. I am renewed in my pioneering spirit! Brendon and I have made our mark upon this little chunk of earth we call ours, and in turn we have...ha ha, in turn we have THIS:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRqZ3fjnE5kTqJQvDINcgUKFI5v2cHLL1b-e_biaVRtErsKDanlvQlyTuBYa3eBkKNw0Rz-tzCuVKbruyA80cV0IcK4DY6Hh_GLzbJ2904FTM0sXEZYrbcwkeJKiEQ2m45PxUFwVwhWH8/s1600/SAM_3609.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRqZ3fjnE5kTqJQvDINcgUKFI5v2cHLL1b-e_biaVRtErsKDanlvQlyTuBYa3eBkKNw0Rz-tzCuVKbruyA80cV0IcK4DY6Hh_GLzbJ2904FTM0sXEZYrbcwkeJKiEQ2m45PxUFwVwhWH8/s320/SAM_3609.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>Muffy and Spencerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01853358070259563506noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470767554159338402.post-32256835795145360372011-10-10T07:06:00.001-05:002011-10-10T09:40:37.269-05:00Cleanup, Aisle 7Shopping at Walmart is an experience. Shall we go on to describe that experience? Yes, oh please yes.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqZ_FRzNm0INUDgMlEgj8zQUzxrQ0dOEwts0h2TXXs6rf7nw7dBMDw5JoG3Im8S0ydmGsf_zmr3FRywx2EfOzsp2L9bPTkihGGHd3slmUpBAViNMvZJJLiufzqyzN-XVT1lc5roodj0_c/s1600/46380-a-wal-mart-cart-is-seen-at-the-parking-lot-of-a-wal-mart-mar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="224" kca="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqZ_FRzNm0INUDgMlEgj8zQUzxrQ0dOEwts0h2TXXs6rf7nw7dBMDw5JoG3Im8S0ydmGsf_zmr3FRywx2EfOzsp2L9bPTkihGGHd3slmUpBAViNMvZJJLiufzqyzN-XVT1lc5roodj0_c/s320/46380-a-wal-mart-cart-is-seen-at-the-parking-lot-of-a-wal-mart-mar.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
I should probably start with calling it normal. Who doesn't shop at Walmart? Even in crazy flaky more-typically-liberal Austin, there are Walmarts, and people shop there.<br />
<br />
The Big W managed to open a location in our hippie/yuppie area of Allendale/Crestview, and did so with the grudgingly admirable adaptability and persistence that it's known for: it barely shows from the street, is nestled among many locally-owned storefronts, and has thoughtfully planted trees and paths throughout the parking lot.<br />
<br />
So it's a normal experience. I know few people who have never shopped there. I know several who have claimed they never would, only to be ultimately faced with a situation where the convenience of everything in one place or the appeal of extreme cheapness lured them through a blue-aproned greeter's sliding doors.<br />
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It was in fact this very combination of reasons that brought me to our neighborhood Wally World this past week. The menu <a href="http://blog.kellytarleton.com/" target="new">Kelly</a> and I had concocted for the upcoming baby shower called for all sorts of ingredients I wasn't used to buying. Where does one go to buy every form of white spreadable condiment known to man, large food storage containers, cornstarch, etc? That's right: Walmart.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjsj-iGmFblHTIkVlGdKS5Iq9JV_FRqSpaDYDmvVsL0ZTUgaPMV2Y3j7XBljv8607AUqixGaZmYP8sjWL4qr9YDBQqE_wnAvLC4zmNVNuu8QP-hNLZ-tZDgl2ERng9i4048BEJ_50sVQc/s1600/10932sour_cream.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" kca="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjsj-iGmFblHTIkVlGdKS5Iq9JV_FRqSpaDYDmvVsL0ZTUgaPMV2Y3j7XBljv8607AUqixGaZmYP8sjWL4qr9YDBQqE_wnAvLC4zmNVNuu8QP-hNLZ-tZDgl2ERng9i4048BEJ_50sVQc/s320/10932sour_cream.jpg" width="215" /></a></div><br />
My list was long, and the items slightly foreign to me, at least where purchasing is concerned. Yes, I'm a lazy shopper. Husband is delightfully thorough about grocery shopping when he's home, and I just can't be bothered to go when he's gone. I kid you not--I am happy to eat beans out of cans in his absence. And if I do muster up the strength for a run to HEB, I often return with yet more canned beans, perhaps spiced up with--gasp--canned tuna. Frozen peas if I'm feeling particularly festive, and yes, always baby carrots.<br />
<br />
People comment on my food at the office, often in critical tones about how healthy it is. I let them, figuring it is nice to let my shopping apathy translate to setting some sort of good nutritional example. How are they to know that I eat boiled eggs because it's the height of my cooking prowess? Nay, fellow cube-dwellers, I bring these hard-boiled lumps of pre-chicken to combat the daily worship of the office's golden calf, the vending machine. Tempting purveyor of Fritos and scary pre-packaged cinnamon buns; it's unholy how it makes its contents look delicious in the middle of a long workday afternoon.<br />
<br />
Anyway, so I went to Walmart because I needed a lot of stuff that I wasn't used to buying. I knew Walmart could deliver, and I was right. Mayo, cream cheese, white bread, sour cream, peanut butter...<br />
<br />
Wait a minute. I stood in front of the peanut butter, doing that thing that so often turns me off of shopping: reading the label.<br />
<br />
Wait just a dang Walmart minute. I thought they weren't allowed to hydrogenate oils anymore. I picked up another jar and waded into its long list of ingredients. A man strolled by and dropped some Peter Pan into his basket, unruffled by partial hydrogenation and seemingly happier for it.<br />
<br />
Why couldn't I be like him? I had accumulated my cart of white strangeness thus far without a glitch. I stared at the Helmann's. Perhaps because I hadn't bothered to read the ingredients of the mayonnaise? I had assumed it was frightening but knew that I needed it, so into the cart it had gone without a label glance at all. Peanut butter, on the other hand, is something very familiar and dear to me, so I had unwittingly turned it around for a quick perusal of its makeup.<br />
<br />
Well. With the backdrop of a basket of sliced white bread and sour cream, getting choosy about peanut butter felt silly. I had a full cart of low priced-items, and I was being offered the chance to cross everything off my baby shower list. This is what shopping at the W-M is all about, Shannon. Put your Muffy loafers away and slip on your Crocs, you <i>chose</i> to come here. This is normal; <i>you</i> are not, you lazy label-reading canned-bean-eater.<br />
<br />
With a sigh (or maybe a shudder) I dropped the peanut butter into the cart. Onward to the meat!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqBJkifZ7Wl-QwXbyG3shXAduiKp7NmhSeYSmwE_IIhiUu1TmarpZNrhegG7Yu5PCqKy0iO2gSoYnj3N123tpiklXvSg-JbAnc87bD9tLzGF-WerUsVTInfIBr3EpJ3ndaTzlaG245v94/s1600/8-Meat-Section-Walmart-Canada-Supercenter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="248" kca="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqBJkifZ7Wl-QwXbyG3shXAduiKp7NmhSeYSmwE_IIhiUu1TmarpZNrhegG7Yu5PCqKy0iO2gSoYnj3N123tpiklXvSg-JbAnc87bD9tLzGF-WerUsVTInfIBr3EpJ3ndaTzlaG245v94/s320/8-Meat-Section-Walmart-Canada-Supercenter.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Ruh roh.<br />
<br />
Why did I consume all that silly media? <em>The Omnivore's Dilemma</em>..."Food, Inc"...."Supersize Me"...curses. The shrink-wrapped blobs of chicken and big reminded me of the aerial shots of the huge cow factories in the movies and lines of the book, along with all their gross details.<br />
<br />
Again, no one else looked upset. I was so close to crossing everything off the list, too. Ugh. And really, would anyone at the shower even eat a mini-quiche made with duck eggs and humanely euthanized venison? Probably not, Muffy my dear.<br />
<br />
A pound of ham was tossed into the basket, and as much of my soul was left in exchange.<br />
<br />
Oh, don't be so dramatic. Shopping at Walmart is a normal experience, we have established that. But still, I felt like I needed to page someone to bring a mop and bucket to wipe up the drips of my feelings of ick. Maybe that was the feeling of totally casting Muffy aside and embracing my creamy, gooey, casein-ridden cart. Or maybe the rbst hormone really does require a little bit of your soul.<br />
<br />
Whatever the case, I accomplished my goal of buying everything I needed in one place without having to take out a loan, though I think I had to leave a little bit of Shannon (or was it Muffy) behind, and surely someone at Walmart had to mop it up.<br />
<br />
Undoubtedly I am the oddball here. I picture myself in a huge kitchen with a crisp linen apron creating gourmet loveliness, but the reality is not so Summer Home in the Hamptons.<br />
<br />
It's Shannon microwaving peas and carrots and feeling proud of the addition of dill as she eats standing up in a pair of sweat pants. Other people are out there raising kids by working long hours and grocery shopping and creatively making ends meet. Shopping at Walmart is a normal experience, and you with the beans and the stand-up dinners and the reading of labels are weird. You may think that other people desire the Muffy experience of hormone-free organics the way you do, but in reality everyone is just trying to do the best they can with what they have.<br />
<br />
Oops, don't get too serious, Shannon, this is a blog for Pete's sake. Just go back to boiled eggs and calling the can opener a cooking utensil. Brendon will be home soon. I can always go to Central Market and just stand next to the $10 olives for a few minutes to recharge my fancy feelings of Muffydom.Muffy and Spencerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01853358070259563506noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470767554159338402.post-31628599522166949022011-09-10T10:34:00.000-05:002011-09-10T10:34:58.738-05:00Bye Bye, BirdiePeepsie's gone.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuA2e64Ev4k3vSgWHXyd0iA3Xkbeimr-rfzfJZMxTre_PNrF9KLxZ-_BpplJE0fcXNPTplFfMTYNMxfLArORb0ivJqRauWrNvPCbrBsRuOEl3NuKQ-T3H8fiEkL3ZA7dfdmkPUADoHRoQ/s1600/SAM_3224.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuA2e64Ev4k3vSgWHXyd0iA3Xkbeimr-rfzfJZMxTre_PNrF9KLxZ-_BpplJE0fcXNPTplFfMTYNMxfLArORb0ivJqRauWrNvPCbrBsRuOEl3NuKQ-T3H8fiEkL3ZA7dfdmkPUADoHRoQ/s320/SAM_3224.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br />
Thanks to the amazing powers of Craigslist, we had no trouble finding "<a href="http://theclosetexperiment.blogspot.com/2011/08/ha-not-peep-not-likely.html" target="new">her</a>" a new home. Is Craigslist not incredible? A very basic free forum exists, and now seemingly random needs of buyers and sellers can be met in one simple space. I've been floored <a href="http://theclosetexperiment.blogspot.com/2010/12/when-shopping-is-hilarious.html" target="new">before</a> at the kinds of things available on this site; now we too have participated in the trade of something strange--a rooster.<br />
<br />
It was like I'd put up the Bat Signal or something. Er, Rooster Signal? Within an hour I'd heard from a pecan ranch out in Hutto that had a great need for a crowing rooster. One post to that amazing buy/sell/trade site of endless stuff, and within a day our coop was free of testosterone.<br />
<br />
Well, free except for that of the rancher and his eager dog.<br />
<br />
Husband is an eager an adept rancher. He boldly works the land and tends to the critters with a fearless confidence that makes his ranchess wife quite pleased on a very deep, biological level.<br />
<br />
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He smokes green chiles and whole chickens on his grill out back--right by the coop--consequently not only making dinner but also forcing everyone to think really hard about the circle of life.<br />
<br />
He runs water spigots to locations convenient to the morning critter/plant-watering routine of the ranchess, cleverly encasing exposed pipes in concrete to prevent freeze damage.<br />
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No longer does the ranchess have to drag the single hose all over the yard, and no longer does any hose get entangled in the stumps of the old trees the rancher felled earlier in the year. For the rancher also rented a stump grinder and ground those suckers up.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMlj3HJfMSOSqfnIflpIVW07DZmNyVHqa_8wixKOhqAvt-plobqqP_rviiyPPJ29vDvZ33Vido8m5e-g8hcvxycSK-enISbuoTrDI_kIJblhOEq2uBk0ufkEAN9-hmWGdiYwSSEYEvYtI/s1600/SAM_3188.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMlj3HJfMSOSqfnIflpIVW07DZmNyVHqa_8wixKOhqAvt-plobqqP_rviiyPPJ29vDvZ33Vido8m5e-g8hcvxycSK-enISbuoTrDI_kIJblhOEq2uBk0ufkEAN9-hmWGdiYwSSEYEvYtI/s320/SAM_3188.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br />
So yes, even though the coop is free of roosters, there is still testosterone in abundance around here. Power equipment usage, the outdoor cooking of animal flesh, and bonding time between Man and Critter all still occur here at the Clark Ranch.<br />
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And unfortunately, I find that my more feminine way of doing things is sometimes at odds with the tendencies of the boys.<br />
<br />
Take the chickens. Both Brendon and Buddy like to approach the chickens head-on--kind of get in their little chickie faces. Granted they probably have different motivations for doing this; I know for sure that Brendon performs the <a href="http://theclosetexperiment.blogspot.com/2011/08/boys-will-be-boys.html" target="new">chicken dance</a> in order to hold them on a regular basis. He wants them to be tame like the other chickens we've seen around the neighborhood, to be used to being touched and handled.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Run, ladies, RUN!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
I'm fairly certain that Buddy just wants to eat them.<br />
<br />
Regardless of motive, both boys go after the girls every day, Buddy from the other side of the coop fence and Brendon from within. Both approach with a stealthy creep. And both leap in suddenly, causing birds to squawk, feathers to fly, and a variety of end results. Eventually Brendon ends up holding a bird and poor Buddy just stands opposite the chicken wire, watching the girls eye him with an overt irritation I thought only capable in cats.<br />
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This is not my method. While it is rewarding to eventually hold one of the girls, I dislike the chase. It actually hurts my feelings when they glare at me once I get them into my terrible grasp.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimtTSzWPEyhhbzowckb6N9oMJWs1xNVMAwjFk7nZlovNijjnKA2iKJ9pYKIYUjtNWQ5Rd0-4sRKzmw91wNKVDf91tg1KEXEibFWrUigLzqYpldwTIYLW9kn2keUX35oNWCB293CDGWZHA/s1600/SAM_3220.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimtTSzWPEyhhbzowckb6N9oMJWs1xNVMAwjFk7nZlovNijjnKA2iKJ9pYKIYUjtNWQ5Rd0-4sRKzmw91wNKVDf91tg1KEXEibFWrUigLzqYpldwTIYLW9kn2keUX35oNWCB293CDGWZHA/s320/SAM_3220.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
So when Hubby leaves to go offshore again, I slowly regain the girls' trust. The first couple of days they are notably suspicious. I enter the coop at least twice a day, and they stay well away.<br />
<br />
But I fancy myself a Jane Goodall of this flock, so I just crouch down by the feed and remain still as their hunger eventually overrides their concern over what I might do with my hands.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAZELKFnuQ4GhgobHmkeX3sRe-LqJfjQHbXsGLEK2gXKMDgNXt2KJoO-MALuJT3iygD4IWRjPyK-dlMYQa0cGSgz-guO7b4oCR1PwGWn0l_BBxM88kRNQVckHLHUdiyXQ7Edb-DYndbMk/s1600/jane-goodall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAZELKFnuQ4GhgobHmkeX3sRe-LqJfjQHbXsGLEK2gXKMDgNXt2KJoO-MALuJT3iygD4IWRjPyK-dlMYQa0cGSgz-guO7b4oCR1PwGWn0l_BBxM88kRNQVckHLHUdiyXQ7Edb-DYndbMk/s320/jane-goodall.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Primates: perhaps slightly more endearing than fowl?</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
After a couple of days, we're back to our usual routine--chickens walking around me, under me, next to me. They brush up against me, peck at my freckles and my ring, and stand up really straight to look at me, clucking expressively. Lemon and Ruby resume eating from my hands again, and they tolerate the occasional petting. This is a coop situation I can love.<br />
<br />
The thing is, I don't believe I have the heart to dissuade The Rancher from his chicken-chasing practice when he returns to our flock again. While I am skeptical as to its results, it makes him very happy to champion over the girls' amazing escape-artist skills and get to slowly pet the subdued bird. So while I love to hear the sweet sound of their trusting and contented clucking when I approach the coop, Rancher's contented clucking is ultimately a sweeter sound.<br />
<br />
Plus I'm not entirely certain of my own skepticism. I'm not sure that chasing down the girls and holding them will ever override the antisocial tendencies of their breed, but then I wasn't exactly sure that Husband's recent endeavor in the kitchen was going to be successful, either.<br />
<br />
How wrong I was.<br />
<br />
Yes, he did it. That Which Is Most Amazing. That installation that has enabled me to break with a particularly overwhelming <a href="http://theclosetexperiment.blogspot.com/2011/08/most-extreme-elimination-challenge.html" target="new">habit</a>--the Topo Chico habit.<br />
<br />
Thanks to the brilliant <a href="http://www.etsy.com/blog/en/2011/how-tuesday-build-your-own-seltzer-maker/" target="new">discovery</a> by dear <a href="http://niclassics.blogspot.com/" target="new">Nichole</a>, Husband found the inspiration to install the apparatus that now gives us fizzy water on demand. With just a press of the valve and a good shaking, I suddenly have a liter of beautifully carbonated water. These tiny bubbles rival those of Topo Chico, and I can honestly say that I don't miss all those glass bottles one little bit.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjryWrpPVE9ZigqaokVJ8Ek2WCKl56KhGB9Q2nufnz2JyN0ZHo2avpVNts2OpqKx3K_yaOKsRNamEJy7SV84PimnTMeJr9Ms4_jzveCBFwWfR9Icf0s4bOsAKWtIs5yx1nYyhEHKw3EuVw/s1600/SAM_3238.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjryWrpPVE9ZigqaokVJ8Ek2WCKl56KhGB9Q2nufnz2JyN0ZHo2avpVNts2OpqKx3K_yaOKsRNamEJy7SV84PimnTMeJr9Ms4_jzveCBFwWfR9Icf0s4bOsAKWtIs5yx1nYyhEHKw3EuVw/s320/SAM_3238.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
And while I casually suggested to Brendon that he put together this ingenious system, ("This is what you should do if you're looking for a really great birthday present, dear!") I still didn't really believe it would be able to fully replace the perfection that is a Topo Chico. What other water achieves that level of carbonation?<br />
<br />
I'll tell you--Clark Water does. He turned the pressure up, experimented for a few days, and then he just had it: perfect water. I was made to believe. I am a convert.<br />
<br />
Yet again I am shown that he has a kind of handy prowess that surprises me. So while my method with the chickens is to go quietly out there and squat among them, perhaps I shouldn't question his big burly man ways.<br />
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I mean, I've been wrong before.<br />
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After all, quite recently I was expecting eggs...from a rooster.Muffy and Spencerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01853358070259563506noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470767554159338402.post-27009427659298960272011-08-20T07:51:00.000-05:002011-08-20T07:51:30.528-05:00Ha. Not a Peep? Not Likely.Why?<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn8tTf6PGsbFlMWnlrQG4_jQoPTf9AtAJ3KCMZfGwPPw1leDn0g6E9V3S4DZx15BJvf_eZkiRMQZ4wiM1Q6tPEoqi0e2Rc_xqVb_y2ghVbzQ6rZ0FnBbDCFoNz9gtJPSDU7nXR1Grmq8c/s1600/SAM_3229.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn8tTf6PGsbFlMWnlrQG4_jQoPTf9AtAJ3KCMZfGwPPw1leDn0g6E9V3S4DZx15BJvf_eZkiRMQZ4wiM1Q6tPEoqi0e2Rc_xqVb_y2ghVbzQ6rZ0FnBbDCFoNz9gtJPSDU7nXR1Grmq8c/s320/SAM_3229.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Why why <b>why</b>?<br />
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Little Peepsie, sweet Peepers, I nursed you back from what seemed like certain death. You grew and overcame and even assumed the role of apparent coop bully.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEFbdlG5G8euoeyVgkcQNx9vDxVrmkEDubKVMUQ70OFesj3RoJ1tj8v1nM-2jBOumnVRrqs0E1WqbltzNChJv-Ve8FMjEpC3mDtR933P9FWbXzKnvZLRssQA6qhQIvVmtwk63T15shedA/s1600/SAM_3227.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEFbdlG5G8euoeyVgkcQNx9vDxVrmkEDubKVMUQ70OFesj3RoJ1tj8v1nM-2jBOumnVRrqs0E1WqbltzNChJv-Ve8FMjEpC3mDtR933P9FWbXzKnvZLRssQA6qhQIvVmtwk63T15shedA/s320/SAM_3227.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br />
And then you woke me up this morning with your crowing.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjz_sTI1bA1wQTuQW9Lv5EH_m9W-bGpQKETbQaoU2cOCR_HNOYHMAPtTcLx0f2Uo0hE4E3K0X165jgfp9JwYjQfx4bdu0_oDUW7coXb9C3bfLXTW7RjsMdgWEsJD4_gbMq-NhcY8wmCdo/s1600/SAM_3225.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjz_sTI1bA1wQTuQW9Lv5EH_m9W-bGpQKETbQaoU2cOCR_HNOYHMAPtTcLx0f2Uo0hE4E3K0X165jgfp9JwYjQfx4bdu0_oDUW7coXb9C3bfLXTW7RjsMdgWEsJD4_gbMq-NhcY8wmCdo/s320/SAM_3225.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
I just don't think I can say anything more about this at the moment. Regress to 8-year-old Shannon: boys are dumb :(Muffy and Spencerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01853358070259563506noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470767554159338402.post-70729350237678269532011-08-20T07:38:00.000-05:002011-08-20T07:38:26.556-05:00Most Extreme Elimination Challenge<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2Tc-htoC0uJD3kh_cYVTmt3GvpHxSCBknZCqB-mujSEVkOrbEy2PuI66TSyrELu_G36kq7wNVdvC1HVVAc85uFlIn818gpWPTHMhysq-I0C6DGmNX-Klfiv7b0lEC-RoWQUurAqKThsk/s1600/Tetrisspan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2Tc-htoC0uJD3kh_cYVTmt3GvpHxSCBknZCqB-mujSEVkOrbEy2PuI66TSyrELu_G36kq7wNVdvC1HVVAc85uFlIn818gpWPTHMhysq-I0C6DGmNX-Klfiv7b0lEC-RoWQUurAqKThsk/s320/Tetrisspan.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Extreme!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Oh how I enjoy this <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4c9kaJksn9Q" target="new">show</a>. Not that I ever watched it with regularity, but the crazy game setups and silly dubbed commentary really get me giggling. Undoubtedly our TV programs also get folks in other cultures laughing; there is no pretense of pride or superiority when it comes to television programming.<br />
<br />
Such extremes...and I come before you to offer my own laughable qualities of hyperbole. I tend to like thing in extremes, too. For example: carbonated water.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkYryZJJd4Btw3nmOkg8UvRoprBqyl5V4-lkaBBTjLIJRH6c8fhyphenhyphenlrXFtSIEV31eJv9dwOxZ90s234LyeguErJKcnsOLFKkQ0CzD3s6iTXxYOZkK3JkBTehnn38Y0wPnQJhUhbk-n3F18/s1600/SAM_3181.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkYryZJJd4Btw3nmOkg8UvRoprBqyl5V4-lkaBBTjLIJRH6c8fhyphenhyphenlrXFtSIEV31eJv9dwOxZ90s234LyeguErJKcnsOLFKkQ0CzD3s6iTXxYOZkK3JkBTehnn38Y0wPnQJhUhbk-n3F18/s320/SAM_3181.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br />
The Topo Chico trend in Austin is booming, so in my defense, I'm not the only one who seems to love it from the bottle. Those perfect bubbles, the strange attraction of the ice-cold glass vessel from whence it pours--it's the combination that seems to have me and a lot of the rest of Austin totally hooked. Oh, also the fact that it's just water seems to make it attractive. Yay, it's healthy!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpD6mF6sLqzhoG4KqvUJHY-njOAx4J1ZidAeRTJTd017c0dnzOSJiHL2O5zysQnPQnRriSzpi2rDU-ovYcXQ_cexjY4iEIOkwI6fgFTpuNPz07dxlEp4lgs8CTxlWrtvfe9_fj0Zle-8A/s1600/SAM_3183.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpD6mF6sLqzhoG4KqvUJHY-njOAx4J1ZidAeRTJTd017c0dnzOSJiHL2O5zysQnPQnRriSzpi2rDU-ovYcXQ_cexjY4iEIOkwI6fgFTpuNPz07dxlEp4lgs8CTxlWrtvfe9_fj0Zle-8A/s320/SAM_3183.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Except for the results. Is this healthy? Really? Yes, we recycle those bottles. But last week I noted that our recycle bin probably exceeded the required 135 lbs weight limit.<br />
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And I felt forced to consider that thing, that Unknown Territory in personal improvement: Moderation.<br />
<br />
My sweet niece sat at dinner the other night with a cup of chocolate mousse. As the only desert on the table, it was beeping loudly on my "YUMMY!" radar. She happily, slowly ate it, getting some on her face and rarely putting anything more than the tiniest lick in her 6-year-old mouth. Swinging her legs back and forth, she seemed to give that mousse the most cavalier of attitudes: I could take you or leave you, mousse, ha ha! And when she abruptly put her spoon down, barely a quarter of the desert gone, the rest of us Desert Vultures attacked.<br />
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She was ready to go back to doodling in her notebook. I was internally screaming for a chilled bite of creamy and crunchy chocolate and heath bar. No way I would have walked from that table with anything left in that cup.<br />
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What has become of me? Why do I want to drink 5 Topo Chicos when I get home from work? Why do I want a <i>gallon</i> at Amy's Ice Cream? Why do I choose to run a freakin' marathon when I decide to start running again?<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinL4MkFssIlVCdEVnaCLWYDckdmBTkMO4IzBQyPztl0IU5b7dc3h6U7Gc7Tv0sjiK3exER-1X4g8QxbMW2d0bYiJBxTkWUcJE_ilQwSwjAMR5mrxLarABmowfyp9mebb1ztrOENQVd19k/s1600/SAM_1465.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinL4MkFssIlVCdEVnaCLWYDckdmBTkMO4IzBQyPztl0IU5b7dc3h6U7Gc7Tv0sjiK3exER-1X4g8QxbMW2d0bYiJBxTkWUcJE_ilQwSwjAMR5mrxLarABmowfyp9mebb1ztrOENQVd19k/s320/SAM_1465.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Really? Did we have to order all of that at Junior's? Probably not.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Why always so extreme? Yes, I can go a year without buying new clothes, I can do a spin class, I can quit eating sugar.<br />
<br />
But can I finally conquer that most elusive thing--the moderation? Can I really do smaller portions, less cups of coffee, just moderate exercise? Can I walk a little bit every day, can I read a little every day, can I do a few small kindnesses on a regular basis?<br />
<br />
It would mean less waste for sure. Those piling bottles of Topo Chico in the recycle bin are just silly. It would probably mean better choices for the environment. Do I really need the water on in the shower when I shave my legs? Ugh. Probably not. And it would definitely mean better health. There's no reason I should get the gigantic ice cream at Amy's. Shorting myself on sleep during the week with the promise of catching up later isn't really a good plan.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7Rbo4KdVH1Ybhyphenhyphenuhxy8fbz5aRzmjTH1PdMwYPob8LrKns0MO1_YPKlehvq8Kg6pJqsP75KLXSwU17J0qg1pUqjDQ95qwrEkmkD62YewyY6Se0soLGy6cJAl0s7BwTM7LTMsWh_jgZpBY/s1600/SAM_1861.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7Rbo4KdVH1Ybhyphenhyphenuhxy8fbz5aRzmjTH1PdMwYPob8LrKns0MO1_YPKlehvq8Kg6pJqsP75KLXSwU17J0qg1pUqjDQ95qwrEkmkD62YewyY6Se0soLGy6cJAl0s7BwTM7LTMsWh_jgZpBY/s320/SAM_1861.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Really? Every desert offered at Thanksgiving? Probably not necessary. Save some for the cute nieces.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>I'd go so far as to say that this strange impulse--to want the whole bag of chips, to exercise for an hour and a half at a time--is part of my personality. It's a little of what makes Shannon the woman we all know as Shannon. And it probably doesn't have to be.<br />
<br />
So for now, I'd like to see if I can identify the moments where I seem to be engaged in blind over-consumption. Um, the recycle bin is a pretty easy one. So is the empty little carton of Ben and Jerry's from last night.<br />
<br />
I'm both embarrassed and intrigued. Husband is clearly quite good at it; moderation has helped him lose 30 lbs over 3 years and adjust his spending habits enough to be able to buy a house. What mental somersaults would I have to do to just stick with one beer, to always bring my own shopping bags to the store, to boil one egg and not two?<br />
<br />
It's about time. Let's find out.Muffy and Spencerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01853358070259563506noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470767554159338402.post-15929436747608919822011-08-04T21:33:00.000-05:002011-08-04T21:33:45.633-05:00Boys Will Be BoysShamelessly overt displays of testosterone abound here at the Clark Ranch.<div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3PwuuznMRNaxJlMc07EpPRqAB-JUxDSE51bO0pF9N-naCvZyO-7zJ7PoMI35Eemlw2Dm1XsvhnViuNtdcy9Aj0r4a-PK_ki8wC6U-RrKA_YAEO8ytygeHcjhzeLmhTObC8GUXxbxYn7M/s1600/SAM_3060.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3PwuuznMRNaxJlMc07EpPRqAB-JUxDSE51bO0pF9N-naCvZyO-7zJ7PoMI35Eemlw2Dm1XsvhnViuNtdcy9Aj0r4a-PK_ki8wC6U-RrKA_YAEO8ytygeHcjhzeLmhTObC8GUXxbxYn7M/s320/SAM_3060.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br />
</div><div>Would you like some examples? Oh, I will gladly provide. </div><div><br />
</div><div>For my first example I give you our rooster. What could possibly exhibit more testosterone than...um, a cock? (Please, I <i>must</i> be allowed to make this pun at least once!)</div><div><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwffMXDeThcjRvz9hWp6NFHdLoYhphIXKhk29PIwH6DhMyGsMVnW_74dY7zuzl2cCXwHE3AB-wTROpejhRezw' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><div><br />
</div><div>And how about the male dominance that is asserted through that classic number we all know as the Chicken Dance? No, not the one played at the roller rinks of our 1980s childhoods. I mean this one--where Brendon, my patient and studly husband--attempts to corral one of our fowl in order to pick it up and pet it. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dx1YsuhxxLuLtGVYE5SqrP5tKU6B6FfDxLM0xQb_OW7geC_xFAUfcC1aSCC_RLthJuhGrW2ArIsk-Q4ziXp3g' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><div><br />
</div><div>He claims that he does this because he wants them to remember his scent while he's away offshore for weeks at a time. But I wonder if perhaps he doesn't like to assert his alpha-male-ness just a little, even in our chicken coop.</div><div><br />
</div><div>And finally there's the endless flirting. No, not by my husband (except with me. Yes, he may be 6 feet 4 inches of lean ex-Navy muscle, but he seems to only have eyes for this often-sweaty redhead in a dirty apron. Go figure.)</div><div><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjemedtkognpJ5TQTHjmReblL98uwgmHR2gczpjST1PgHUY3dj-LTDLxi3sE4GsttG73DXiD2VqJGeU6bTJSA678PdlqGmyGsJUK_xS_3bgTG8qfcEp9AYlrLNLUN-_qT6RnrFPlyo_Kts/s1600/SAM_3045.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjemedtkognpJ5TQTHjmReblL98uwgmHR2gczpjST1PgHUY3dj-LTDLxi3sE4GsttG73DXiD2VqJGeU6bTJSA678PdlqGmyGsJUK_xS_3bgTG8qfcEp9AYlrLNLUN-_qT6RnrFPlyo_Kts/s320/SAM_3045.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Brendon's flirting with me...Buddy's flirting with everyone.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div><br />
</div><div>No, the flirting is committed by none other than our little Cassanova of a dog. Yes, Buddy is is the coquette of the Clark household, and he's totally living it up. When I turn from feeding him to tend to the chickens, he leaps and dances across the yard in a wild attempt to provoke some sort of response. </div><div><br />
</div><div>Today I looked up and he had managed to wrap a towel he'd been chewing on around his head like a bonnet. He stared at me, the ends of the towel in his mouth, as if to say, "What, this? I had no idea it would be humorous and adorable! No, really, you don't have to rush over and pet me at all."</div><div><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvSdxNct4zAgSz9jIYCVRWvDgvYGjXRCQkY8goykQUZ0curUEie5ooJntT6p4L8SzwcnUACbOIt7lGGR6njOQ9mx0oVE6k19gkCvCW1Gw2yPk9vEfx2hmcKoCu8Nq2N6cCEoWsdryac3o/s1600/SAM_3065.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvSdxNct4zAgSz9jIYCVRWvDgvYGjXRCQkY8goykQUZ0curUEie5ooJntT6p4L8SzwcnUACbOIt7lGGR6njOQ9mx0oVE6k19gkCvCW1Gw2yPk9vEfx2hmcKoCu8Nq2N6cCEoWsdryac3o/s320/SAM_3065.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br />
</div><div>It's not just with us, either. He actually stops traffic while we're on our neighborhood walks. And that's both pedestrian and vehicular traffic. Folks are constantly squealing and exclaiming something about a beautiful puppy, and this evening a white Honda slowed down to a crawl next to us while the little old lady in the passenger seat pressed her face against the window and waved at him. </div><div><br />
</div><div>As usual, Buddy wagged his (apparently totally attractive) tail and slobbered back.</div></div><div><br />
</div><div>So what does one do when overrun with manliness in her own home? Well, she starts by relocating her rooster. Especially when her neighbors have begun to pointedly ask her whether there are chickens in her back yard (because EVERYONE can hear Floyd crowing in the mornings).</div><div><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7GA8_SW6j9aRebNhCLBqEXZrj1FhCt8ux1Z1Rs8_wuocqLeOdCg3agWvodDrCcaOJGkbZYLEBgzmKi2pnhRDj2WaZPX14VEEfRlmbxM7kdCn2EqJejphK0eVqekAWNhjTw4n9XstOrMY/s1600/SAM_3062.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7GA8_SW6j9aRebNhCLBqEXZrj1FhCt8ux1Z1Rs8_wuocqLeOdCg3agWvodDrCcaOJGkbZYLEBgzmKi2pnhRDj2WaZPX14VEEfRlmbxM7kdCn2EqJejphK0eVqekAWNhjTw4n9XstOrMY/s320/SAM_3062.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thank you, coworker. See Floyd down in the bottom right? Who rules the roost now!?</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div><br />
</div><div>Luckily, my dear coworker has room in her flock for a rooster. She lives out of town a little ways and has 5 beautiful acres where she, her family, her chickens, horses, and dogs all live quite happily. </div><div><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk962mtX-vMA72BTJvkeJ0A5Uai9e1JU5o4DqlSdSqHiesgzNlP0X46bMOHqIH-wpebQ7uSielyCYmwGWcUZ2bC3NqKaSE-zxl0hbYpe8wwOplgzvrVZg1LZC7l5f3X2xF_qFKf9q_XF0/s1600/SAM_3057.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk962mtX-vMA72BTJvkeJ0A5Uai9e1JU5o4DqlSdSqHiesgzNlP0X46bMOHqIH-wpebQ7uSielyCYmwGWcUZ2bC3NqKaSE-zxl0hbYpe8wwOplgzvrVZg1LZC7l5f3X2xF_qFKf9q_XF0/s320/SAM_3057.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Floyd-in-a-box, in the passenger seat. Luckily there was no en route escape. I don't think I'd be a good driver with an angry rooster flying around the Yaris.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div>So Tuesday evening I went out into our coop, performed the Chicken Dance, and boxed Floyd up to drive him out to his new home. </div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwJ1VPtqGHAURKiyXR2go8BwQPRrjWRY9-5AyL-B2soOeElXTsHuGP0ymcTXi5Xe7H8Z4DYxJuqXEAH-DfQ_w' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><div><br />
</div><div>Three days later, I hear he is settling in quite nicely among the other chickens. </div><div><br />
</div><div>And at least for the moment, it doesn't feel quite so utterly male-dominated around here. Now let's just hope that Peepsie doesn't decide to crow.</div><div><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPM1dprccYO-vb6KwsUJewkxdu7_7JLw-2N8BgP41rbqhOsA7RtFMg9Jx-LGOiRqKy0IfZkYgIhbSmWHnFqeA_wXQyohtQj74Pvuaz0v9fHJT-nNzp5nPWYJuFbsDtDyL-df6lm_XuGAw/s1600/SAM_3019.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPM1dprccYO-vb6KwsUJewkxdu7_7JLw-2N8BgP41rbqhOsA7RtFMg9Jx-LGOiRqKy0IfZkYgIhbSmWHnFqeA_wXQyohtQj74Pvuaz0v9fHJT-nNzp5nPWYJuFbsDtDyL-df6lm_XuGAw/s320/SAM_3019.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br />
</div>Muffy and Spencerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01853358070259563506noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470767554159338402.post-50872165403491707842011-07-19T06:49:00.001-05:002011-08-04T22:50:00.973-05:00Roo the DayWell, so yesterday morning was momentous. Floss walked up to the top of the gangplank behind me while I was setting out the feed. And crowed.<br />
<div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtGrh3hj7PqFQ_740iWqORV6e8lrtka0mb1-y46eSXaI70j1ebhhmhKSYCO6rVbFP0Y4bkRoIgG16yRVeKk0hgUbuXtziLdQqdoQpqnezBlk36QBgPDHQI8snbLQatACvapUSge2Wro6E/s1600/SAM_3003.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtGrh3hj7PqFQ_740iWqORV6e8lrtka0mb1-y46eSXaI70j1ebhhmhKSYCO6rVbFP0Y4bkRoIgG16yRVeKk0hgUbuXtziLdQqdoQpqnezBlk36QBgPDHQI8snbLQatACvapUSge2Wro6E/s320/SAM_3003.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br />
</div><div>I whirled around and our eyes met. She looked right at me and crowed again. </div><div><br />
</div><div><i>He</i>, rather. He looked at me directly while he let out that squeaky, pre-pubescent, yet unmistakable crow. I laughed to myself, wishing there was someone else around at 7 AM to have witnessed this chicken clearing up my burning hen-v-rooster question.</div><div><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXFBDu-xIh61wpMR4OEZdY7Xz1H7GqPUyj4oDaOOmfRHOctC1Q90bTCfq6uOgYTQMfQTQF8hUVn4IG22AhU8dxG-2L82QEp53kHJFZtLn_xuf1tDGTIUanHplDhzPcawDrrLJkr2SfX6c/s1600/SAM_3006.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXFBDu-xIh61wpMR4OEZdY7Xz1H7GqPUyj4oDaOOmfRHOctC1Q90bTCfq6uOgYTQMfQTQF8hUVn4IG22AhU8dxG-2L82QEp53kHJFZtLn_xuf1tDGTIUanHplDhzPcawDrrLJkr2SfX6c/s320/SAM_3006.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br />
</div><div>Now all those little things I was noticing--his brighter coloring, his erect stature, his red comb--seem like clear signs of his chickie manhood. Poor little guy had to actually crow at me to set me straight.</div><div><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrJ7btkQCUcGxZbS8o9k3dIwRNtUEfQ3d34-yej63bjjE6juEiIjwO3L1CJdnckHLptwmQTbOeP_DRr8Zcx4Hy4KXEb5J1eoMzVD-NAxG7LxYxn6Dvv7NSzlIanuq75j7_nmzsL8VB06k/s1600/SAM_3013.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrJ7btkQCUcGxZbS8o9k3dIwRNtUEfQ3d34-yej63bjjE6juEiIjwO3L1CJdnckHLptwmQTbOeP_DRr8Zcx4Hy4KXEb5J1eoMzVD-NAxG7LxYxn6Dvv7NSzlIanuq75j7_nmzsL8VB06k/s320/SAM_3013.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is Gertie--a definite female. The difference is quite obvious to me now.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div><br />
</div><div>And luckily my chicken-raising coworker is open to adding another rooster to her flock. Living in a more rural situation, she can have the noisier roosters without upsetting neighbors.</div></div><div><br />
</div><div>I don't want to separate anyone from my flock, but I also don't want a loud bird in the back that will wake the neighbors. My coworkers wisely instructed me that it won't be a problem as far as the eggs are concerned--apparently those who eat farmer's market eggs often eat fertilized huevos. It's simply a matter of collecting the eggs before the hens go "broody" and decide they want to sit on them to hatch 'em.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Still, I can't be that neighbor who wakes everyone up at the crack of dawn with a cock-a-doodle-doo. Not a great way to make friends on the street.</div><div><br />
</div><div>So Floss, who is now a Floyd, will find a new home. And now I anxiously watch Peepsie and Glennie's combs for signs of super redness. Theirs are bigger than those of the other girls. I'm sure they'll have to crow at me to make me know for sure, so I'm waiting. I've got my fingers crossed for girls!</div><div><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwEXVAf4-TlEcuBLak9PURiCYifs4D4gfYtYX9jFvneqJ57XFhcf9J0rrmy85Ejkzm3RECfJ7Vf46UzMZmfiSQG2nmnmyzyNDaFCz2kC9wgpPrpPB5YuDj8cIoQJg8ML_rC5DUo3epFmM/s1600/SAM_3025.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwEXVAf4-TlEcuBLak9PURiCYifs4D4gfYtYX9jFvneqJ57XFhcf9J0rrmy85Ejkzm3RECfJ7Vf46UzMZmfiSQG2nmnmyzyNDaFCz2kC9wgpPrpPB5YuDj8cIoQJg8ML_rC5DUo3epFmM/s320/SAM_3025.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br />
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</div>Muffy and Spencerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01853358070259563506noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470767554159338402.post-81933114705045054682011-07-15T11:24:00.000-05:002011-07-15T11:24:31.774-05:00Ladies, Please<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtewEXhbvhpABZz9vtxnnhtqibxrLj8fHOVM-zFh4aCZ2bSGc_XkKWdQ5fWFEWh9WAX-ubMh0BrkrDKk8wENtIOwf8udeKb1_uQdxnl6MlvlMtM-3Eqs06GgUidYu3huVvDczUp53JedQ/s1600/SAM_2895.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtewEXhbvhpABZz9vtxnnhtqibxrLj8fHOVM-zFh4aCZ2bSGc_XkKWdQ5fWFEWh9WAX-ubMh0BrkrDKk8wENtIOwf8udeKb1_uQdxnl6MlvlMtM-3Eqs06GgUidYu3huVvDczUp53JedQ/s320/SAM_2895.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Girls(?) enjoy some watermelon</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">We're all led to believe that the age-old question has to do with the order of chickens and eggs. I disagree.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Don't ask, "Which came first?" </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Rather, let's ask, "Are you a hen or a rooster?"</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Supposedly the folks that sell the chicks are knowledgeable in this area. Good. I want them to be. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyDQBMCDbtfKAlSCvmYuf-OFP89fD1-kJ-ZsI5J0huOGyvABReJpyFwm4v2VIPycFGWGoitsYP4qYAt401uLyS6UgwR0YPexPrQVFiM1TUf5SXayemF5WHTsDYuRqnTLTDocTgNNVQSl4/s1600/SAM_2940.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyDQBMCDbtfKAlSCvmYuf-OFP89fD1-kJ-ZsI5J0huOGyvABReJpyFwm4v2VIPycFGWGoitsYP4qYAt401uLyS6UgwR0YPexPrQVFiM1TUf5SXayemF5WHTsDYuRqnTLTDocTgNNVQSl4/s320/SAM_2940.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br />
But to err is human, and I don't think that Callahan's has robots for chickie-rear-checking employees yet. So it's possible that we could have gotten a rooster among our little flock. And now I'm concerned.<br />
<br />
You see, one of our sweet little chickens is developing much faster than the others. While all of our girls will eventually grow a comb (floppy part on top of the chicken's head), it is very noticeable that one chicken is growing hers with...with more gusto than the rest.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Can you SEE that thing? It's huge!</td></tr>
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Floss, is your already-prominent pink comb a sign that you are actually a rooster? Please, no!<br />
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(A little science lesson: like human females, hens produce eggs regularly that will only result in babies if a male is around to fertilize them. Roosters are not a part of our backyard plan. If Floss is a rooster we'll have to donate her to a farm.)<br />
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There are plenty of websites explaining the finer aspects of sexing your chickens. Frankly I'm not interested in careful examination of their little chickie rears, especially since I don't yet have an eye for what I'd be seeing. It just sounds like an uncomfortable--for all parties--waste of time.<br />
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They say that how your chicken behaves and how its tail looks can also indicate hen/rooster-ness. Again, this ranchess sees everything with brand-new eyes and is untrained. I see that Glendora is extremely bossy and protective as if she were a rooster, and I have noticed that Peepsie has yet to grow herself a proper tail. <br />
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But Glennie has always been pushy, and Peepsie is still quite behind the rest of the girls in development. She still has some of her chickie fluff.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtZ_8jUeZ3nEXllacYleYXzJU9RYvV9uvTwcFgAt1c1PcVukNNI_nB1DWXxBnu28lQGQCQ1HfG7RA1voToFi5O60js4OTDkVXz-y35dba5Yw3wK1e-OlkWu7xz6gG-lx-qlnjxLEsEM64/s1600/SAM_2947.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtZ_8jUeZ3nEXllacYleYXzJU9RYvV9uvTwcFgAt1c1PcVukNNI_nB1DWXxBnu28lQGQCQ1HfG7RA1voToFi5O60js4OTDkVXz-y35dba5Yw3wK1e-OlkWu7xz6gG-lx-qlnjxLEsEM64/s320/SAM_2947.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sweet, semi-unattractive (right now) Peepsie</td></tr>
</tbody></table>So all I can do is continue with my routine of feeding and watering them and watching them be silly chickens. I delight in the fact that they now eat scraps of people food (maybe we won't have to buy a garbage disposal after all!)<br />
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I do not delight in the fact that Peepsie likes to stand very very close to me and poop. Open-toed shoes in a chicken coop are a poor choice for a ranchess.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5t5jvn7CcFjt2d6gNRrLqTxZzlTzIPcjQHAE6ij9G__dLc2oe8XhsQcr3ZOY3o7xqQPg7QynzGCCWUzBuxAUTcyTM-rXcxI0agsOxNgmCwzYLd4WSgsIJZEeUpaVCaXAtW7qHLDId6Ss/s1600/SAM_2930.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5t5jvn7CcFjt2d6gNRrLqTxZzlTzIPcjQHAE6ij9G__dLc2oe8XhsQcr3ZOY3o7xqQPg7QynzGCCWUzBuxAUTcyTM-rXcxI0agsOxNgmCwzYLd4WSgsIJZEeUpaVCaXAtW7qHLDId6Ss/s320/SAM_2930.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">While I am taking this photo Peepsie is creeping closer to my toes...ew, stop it!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I also should admit that I can't always tell them apart. As their feathers have come in, I've had to perform little tests to see who was who among the flock. I used to tell Gertie and Floss apart by their looks, and again the same with Ruby and Lemon. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">One day I simply couldn't distinguish between them--all of their colors suddenly seemed different. But Floss was always the one who'd peck at my ring, and Lemon without fail will step up into my hands when I hold out feed. It was kind of sweet to be able to offer my hands out and identify them by their signature pecking and stepping.</div><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">And now I'm watching Floss with even closer eyes. Her pink comb and new feathers are lovely, but I just have to make sure she doesn't start getting, well, cocky.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Is this the face of a dude? Gosh I hope not.</td></tr>
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</div>Muffy and Spencerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01853358070259563506noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470767554159338402.post-54383227407410395602011-07-01T14:09:00.000-05:002011-07-01T14:09:43.944-05:00He's a Buddy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>So I never thought I'd be crazy about plastic grocery bags. Never, that is, until we got a dog.<br />
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Honestly, I never thought I'd be crazy about a <em>dog</em>. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBb1YSpzbPXtrxaVp0d8_omzj3mPc1W0ZtiWQ8cYBUkbJi5XUrl8TZ26B7-95f1gPA6GJys4IU-zz4NXC0QHt1JxdnNgxApqEZgL-jJv9JJRKkYnKnXum45DbQIA74fMdrrEzyfGGa338/s1600/SAM_2734.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBb1YSpzbPXtrxaVp0d8_omzj3mPc1W0ZtiWQ8cYBUkbJi5XUrl8TZ26B7-95f1gPA6GJys4IU-zz4NXC0QHt1JxdnNgxApqEZgL-jJv9JJRKkYnKnXum45DbQIA74fMdrrEzyfGGa338/s320/SAM_2734.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br />
Here it is, my true and probably not-so-surprising confession: I am <strong>not</strong> a dog person. <br />
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I'll concede that there are dog people and then there are Dog People. Shall we say that...dog people just love dogs, all dogs. But Dog People love their dogs, who are in fact small furry people who <em>speak</em> to them and have a dresser full of outfits and have prescriptions that need filling courtesy of their Doggie Therapist. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQwZXPqRCj3DrEMrlxiTNntxAIXgJJEy53hTJpth_eZWGWOaduBiexlkJmK6348lQv3taxCXrjy_BdTobiTinM560Bgn6MkzWlkNbr6ZGOlMi0VFo4soBFRVc2LYf_PmiifTaJ_HXvzGY/s1600/SAM_2727.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQwZXPqRCj3DrEMrlxiTNntxAIXgJJEy53hTJpth_eZWGWOaduBiexlkJmK6348lQv3taxCXrjy_BdTobiTinM560Bgn6MkzWlkNbr6ZGOlMi0VFo4soBFRVc2LYf_PmiifTaJ_HXvzGY/s320/SAM_2727.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
As a new convert to the world of wet-nosed appreciation, I do not mock any of these people--non-dog people, dog people, or Dog People. (Well. Okay, maybe I'll snicker about the Doggie Therapists. I'm trying to be open-minded, I swear.) Having recently had drastic changes in my feelings toward these creatures, I should grant that everyone's feelings toward dogs must be in some way well-founded. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiud7ziwPmwHd9oFFMmIODKhSoHC_jUur0OrW-dvY4kyWwWcq4vvRTJNXoFCT_OpI7GsuyXYo1Fs7rOWkQx7VGXeoCyavNrgYkkpLNgJ0M3BPayO2oUf3BMY7uE59g15OStxbaH2u6LZt0/s1600/SAM_2746.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiud7ziwPmwHd9oFFMmIODKhSoHC_jUur0OrW-dvY4kyWwWcq4vvRTJNXoFCT_OpI7GsuyXYo1Fs7rOWkQx7VGXeoCyavNrgYkkpLNgJ0M3BPayO2oUf3BMY7uE59g15OStxbaH2u6LZt0/s320/SAM_2746.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Slobber. Still gross.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>And here were and are mine. I used to not like how dogs smell, how their wet noses leave those gross marks on your clothes, the feel of their slobber, the itchiness of their fur all over the furniture, and their propensity to chew/pee/poop on your property.<br />
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And I still don't like those things. Yet...when I come home and Buddy almost pees himself for all the excitement he feels at the site of me, I am...happy. <br />
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When I run with him in the mornings and he occasionally (and yeah, kind of stupidly) looks up to confirm that it is still Shannon who is running next to him, I am content.<br />
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When he does that joyful leap into the futon at night to go to sleep out in the other building, I am thrilled to know that I am integral to his favorite daytime routine.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG3AfeVdOWu7ce4H93nbWtN-UgQ5mu7y9mwmX5NxvJeiNz9ZJAuEGmPG08TM5hk0X0S4_PtsPPxufIVyb9s5LzIoSq25_62quM9izdfyiYgY_gIcb-6uLd5fbyOvSJL87CpjrtdMvh6GA/s1600/SAM_2865.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG3AfeVdOWu7ce4H93nbWtN-UgQ5mu7y9mwmX5NxvJeiNz9ZJAuEGmPG08TM5hk0X0S4_PtsPPxufIVyb9s5LzIoSq25_62quM9izdfyiYgY_gIcb-6uLd5fbyOvSJL87CpjrtdMvh6GA/s320/SAM_2865.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
What happened? He licks my face sometimes and I actually have to remind myself that that is also his butt-licking tongue. How did dog ownership so quickly get me to a place where I must cue myself on getting grossed out?<br />
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How did I suddenly become obsessive about having enough plastic bags to comfortably and regularly pick up my own dog's fresh piles of poo every morning? And I am...<em>satisfied</em> every time he promptly makes this pile at the stop sign on our street. Happy to have the bags, happy that his little body is working as expected, happy to be cleaning up that stink.<br />
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This is not the Shannon I used to know.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZCnHsHjuU-qsg9RxeDXxMkgy4l6IY_xrUVbuyyMgSQ91vgJ1sHgoFW2P4ia29eUM_xTm7oWtpYe57yi3oFxYQ15bm6VCyy0JEgvFzvCDymUtZxOHzEEZjx8dunOzKsv4g3QtuWqtKekw/s1600/SAM_2738.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZCnHsHjuU-qsg9RxeDXxMkgy4l6IY_xrUVbuyyMgSQ91vgJ1sHgoFW2P4ia29eUM_xTm7oWtpYe57yi3oFxYQ15bm6VCyy0JEgvFzvCDymUtZxOHzEEZjx8dunOzKsv4g3QtuWqtKekw/s320/SAM_2738.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br />
It's got to be the tongue. That stupid tongue, always hanging out of a mouth that seems to be smiling. The tongue that laps up water in his baby pool while he lounges in it, the tongue that drops the squeaky ball in the water before returning it to me during fetch--as if he is washing it off for me before I throw it for him again. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-gkmKRpL0_uYbGKfXsx790OlveSn6k-y44w7PQJX5T0QvHgPqWXxAqTbDo7RlVn3OhVzoiPMbs1ts_1sQ0zbM_F0EDDI8gnHZ2oYU5pmua-7S4vtBkIk75kHBDeHz004vQgTRR76SJtQ/s1600/SAM_2863.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-gkmKRpL0_uYbGKfXsx790OlveSn6k-y44w7PQJX5T0QvHgPqWXxAqTbDo7RlVn3OhVzoiPMbs1ts_1sQ0zbM_F0EDDI8gnHZ2oYU5pmua-7S4vtBkIk75kHBDeHz004vQgTRR76SJtQ/s320/SAM_2863.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br />
Or maybe the eyes. The rolled eyes that show the whites and turn him into our "Demon Dog" in the evenings as he squirms on the bedtime futon. The eyes that stare up under his furrowed brow in that freakishly human look of sweet expectation.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hello, Demon Dog</td></tr>
</tbody></table>I just don't know. Am baffled at this change of heart. I put on my "dog clothes" when I come home from work and am fine with getting hot and muddy as we cavort around the backyard. <em>My</em> favorite time of day is also when we sit down before he goes to bed. I pet him while he converts from Demon Dog to Sweet Sleeping Puppy. I giggle as he suddenly remembers that he's thirsty, just puts 2 feet on the ground, and streeeeetches to drink his water without fully descending from the couch.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>He follows both Brendon and me everywhere. He doesn't try to run off or chase things. He just wants to be where we are, whether we're taking the trash to the street or building a chicken coop in the backyard or discovering the volunteer sunflowers around the property.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJEABbxfMfTvrxEuwYxOHnoDa4hXIx7ORarpV45caaeEsMNufNqsJxJfiTksMc7XqmJQsrgQjMAIVnrbTslFAzqSP9PV3K_0n8lKYe1tnk0acrwTl1mkEE0AenIIVOEd3BoBaFS9t6JUU/s1600/SAM_2677.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJEABbxfMfTvrxEuwYxOHnoDa4hXIx7ORarpV45caaeEsMNufNqsJxJfiTksMc7XqmJQsrgQjMAIVnrbTslFAzqSP9PV3K_0n8lKYe1tnk0acrwTl1mkEE0AenIIVOEd3BoBaFS9t6JUU/s320/SAM_2677.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Like a little shadow, he's just a buddy. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0LQjQzxoDLHkYwV8nAeoQq8Ti6d_cA8tYGcXxIsTicq-8qWQXcQw3ot9Jg_UK3k3V6Lc5Lz65enguVFjsshs_MGXCPwU2QFwFuDW89QiHYvHtdZCb7CwLsJUjzgngZ4p25rKddf4Fc2E/s1600/SAM_2679.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0LQjQzxoDLHkYwV8nAeoQq8Ti6d_cA8tYGcXxIsTicq-8qWQXcQw3ot9Jg_UK3k3V6Lc5Lz65enguVFjsshs_MGXCPwU2QFwFuDW89QiHYvHtdZCb7CwLsJUjzgngZ4p25rKddf4Fc2E/s320/SAM_2679.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
So blame Buddy for this sappy confession of conversion. WoMan's Best Friend has brought me to the other side, and I feel it's appropriate to explain the change.Muffy and Spencerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01853358070259563506noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470767554159338402.post-43801709136304106382011-07-01T13:14:00.000-05:002011-07-01T13:14:21.091-05:00The Great Chicken Migration of '11Gosh, they grow up so fast! One minute they're stinkin' up your house in a dusty flurry of cute fluffballness, the next they're establishing they're own fully-feathered flock outdoors. <br />
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And tantillizing your new dog with their smell.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9TAO8tPYorJeyVMsIkLHgE0nDbPYJGJ-Pgb1yOoBW43OF5itANOGqSBRpF3xos9ylQvLUfI0WItGmS154FS-_glWJo3Wxt4vxqQHpJ4nYOk5WzwWPw-cMK-GqFME0pPX-kfS4TyYb6zs/s1600/SAM_2792.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9TAO8tPYorJeyVMsIkLHgE0nDbPYJGJ-Pgb1yOoBW43OF5itANOGqSBRpF3xos9ylQvLUfI0WItGmS154FS-_glWJo3Wxt4vxqQHpJ4nYOk5WzwWPw-cMK-GqFME0pPX-kfS4TyYb6zs/s320/SAM_2792.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Buddy stared up at their roost and wagged his tail. He drooled. I tried to explain to him that this was not the doggie equivalent of the Taco Cart, but I don't know if the pertinent facts were conveyed. Pretty sure that to him, it is just a boxy wooden structure that serves bite-sized chicken nuggets.<br />
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But as Brendon and I keep saying, it's Go Time. Sink or swim. Time to really let Darwin take the reins. Maybe Buddy will turn out to be a wonderful guard dog. Or maybe I'll come home one day to see him sitting outside with feathers in his mouth like Sylvester the cat. (Or did he never actually get Tweetie? I don't recall.)<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzlO2tO8MBbG4wgVBveXTN8z1J4mrbwN1LPRHDULfIKCzdMKkrGCBdFp4-fkv9Xa9n5kIAaCm6l7OmX3t_dD01zm_q2qX74o4vcfvlI9RMtndV1bYVZyISX3SDZLwqJ6IdMq7rYp-3jks/s1600/SAM_2831.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzlO2tO8MBbG4wgVBveXTN8z1J4mrbwN1LPRHDULfIKCzdMKkrGCBdFp4-fkv9Xa9n5kIAaCm6l7OmX3t_dD01zm_q2qX74o4vcfvlI9RMtndV1bYVZyISX3SDZLwqJ6IdMq7rYp-3jks/s320/SAM_2831.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yes, those little dots are the tiny chickens in their huge coop.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Anyway, the chickens were definitely restless last Thursday as I dragged their bins to out to the patio. Brendon's mom was in town, and in order to give her a proper guest room it was kind of necessary to move the chickies outside. It was good timing, though; they're definitely big enough to survive the 70 degree temperatures of our nights now.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
As I predicted, when Nancy saw the guest room--filled with chickens and chicken paraphanalia--she was quite motivating in helping Brendon to finish the area where the chickens could sleep comfortably outside. And they were putting the finishing touches on this when I arrived home from work Thursday evening. <br />
<br />
So I began The Great Move. Nancy filled the box with pine shavings and the 3 of us transferred each chicken up into her new habitat. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD71mZ9kLAVu188ksI4MdB8jDiXmoIUr90BpHGlece1jFvJ3F_6PjtqxUwOX66qZUxlELOEEzvw3jcE5iCGxN7XtMpjjgqaXezPDX99hIU4VVhL535KwdhRq2Iv-KT-ezJfeFFonY0Rr8/s1600/SAM_2853.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD71mZ9kLAVu188ksI4MdB8jDiXmoIUr90BpHGlece1jFvJ3F_6PjtqxUwOX66qZUxlELOEEzvw3jcE5iCGxN7XtMpjjgqaXezPDX99hIU4VVhL535KwdhRq2Iv-KT-ezJfeFFonY0Rr8/s320/SAM_2853.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sweet little runt</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Even Peepise. Ah, Peepsie, my little favorite. The total and unquestionable runt of the flock now, Peepsie was suffering on and off since the days of the Splayed Legs. After recovering from her permanent splits, she suddenly became weak again and pretty much sat on her little butt for 5 days. We were doubtful that she'd make it, but every morning and afternoon I'd find her alive, chirping and still clearly breathing.<br />
<br />
She even pecked for food and would drink thirstily when I pushed her close to water (I know, I promised I wouldn't do this...but I kept thinking that if she got strong enough with proper nourishment, she might be able to pull through).<br />
<br />
And then she did. As I transferred the chicks from bins to coop, I saw that she was again on both little legs, hobbling around to try to keep up with her little coopmates. Brendon was shocked, having not seen her make a recovery before.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtjm-B_5gSrdVl_vDwGQHRxs4n2cIbTvt1HTf7g4fJZFjrigcD6MLN2wdLFv0kyrSjUlXLIXbZ5ZWJaguUyVS06XMPAHAGyx_UwGJpkRNL39hmOMly4PIWcGJP9AtSGnwGHy5TuIz8es8/s1600/SAM_2854.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtjm-B_5gSrdVl_vDwGQHRxs4n2cIbTvt1HTf7g4fJZFjrigcD6MLN2wdLFv0kyrSjUlXLIXbZ5ZWJaguUyVS06XMPAHAGyx_UwGJpkRNL39hmOMly4PIWcGJP9AtSGnwGHy5TuIz8es8/s320/SAM_2854.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lemon, Gertie, and sweet Peepsie</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Lord help me but I'm attached to that little chick. Just like I am to Lemon, her splayed-leg partner. Lemon regularly eats out of my hand now, and she likes to perch in it too. Just steps right onto my open palm like she belongs there. Probably because I man-handled her to change her leg band-aids so many times. Poor little thing. Now she's like a miniature mother hen, guarding Peepsie like it's her job.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghc1s1W9yCNNyo0jqJNcNUDWWQIbpqO4cQNbjdnnElrHjrMFQIZNbbjkTWYnu8CPuZkaBDr3Bl6Ti9-EzkRLN3uo_zmCITmCNMhV22NySdKtM1wgM6CUOO6UYxfPlox_TdRPRYVvE7MU4/s1600/SAM_2857.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghc1s1W9yCNNyo0jqJNcNUDWWQIbpqO4cQNbjdnnElrHjrMFQIZNbbjkTWYnu8CPuZkaBDr3Bl6Ti9-EzkRLN3uo_zmCITmCNMhV22NySdKtM1wgM6CUOO6UYxfPlox_TdRPRYVvE7MU4/s320/SAM_2857.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yarrr, Floss and Gertie walk the plank!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>I just adore watching them run down the gangplank in the mornings as I fill their feeders with food. Brendon and Nancy did such a bang-up job of finishing of the coop that he and I started last time he was home!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv4dKeiWTHGhPfwHaUk7AYzLNxQjm6lsmt1lk95ApD3aFWBJY-VL4lhyCnChANLD08XnK_4rA_btMflHQIlSpT2bSKPk0qpUZHYBTLiJc05PraBNLhhLhqlKyZJN0hBDEzVqMB803yLGs/s1600/SAM_2668.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv4dKeiWTHGhPfwHaUk7AYzLNxQjm6lsmt1lk95ApD3aFWBJY-VL4lhyCnChANLD08XnK_4rA_btMflHQIlSpT2bSKPk0qpUZHYBTLiJc05PraBNLhhLhqlKyZJN0hBDEzVqMB803yLGs/s320/SAM_2668.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chicken coop beginnings: mixing concrete</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdhSoWR_5cvTrTmVw1fr-4oDcXXFAPjfQqkAoU4BQ0RA-UqwxgZJm5MuqNyyIDWrC1OjvMPoQIF8osXign8lzR2TWJbJu3SGHSexCT9AdG_Y-PDlbp3B_iB92AJYVwn8NUwbLLG2tjTtw/s1600/SAM_2670.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdhSoWR_5cvTrTmVw1fr-4oDcXXFAPjfQqkAoU4BQ0RA-UqwxgZJm5MuqNyyIDWrC1OjvMPoQIF8osXign8lzR2TWJbJu3SGHSexCT9AdG_Y-PDlbp3B_iB92AJYVwn8NUwbLLG2tjTtw/s320/SAM_2670.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thank goodness Brendon notices details like...things being level</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB2Mgbrk-DwqXrpvmCvT5JQbVJob_RK_CnDa9eG01mlvSocBk_uWfo0DarEqvoW0ULsDc_6G7jasxGC7UP0hHPPjSkZ8V7Md2Gws6-irISiNlU2HS3ssgyZww24YyRByj8Jd_GQo42SiU/s1600/SAM_2675.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB2Mgbrk-DwqXrpvmCvT5JQbVJob_RK_CnDa9eG01mlvSocBk_uWfo0DarEqvoW0ULsDc_6G7jasxGC7UP0hHPPjSkZ8V7Md2Gws6-irISiNlU2HS3ssgyZww24YyRByj8Jd_GQo42SiU/s320/SAM_2675.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu3pTuvzbwBdXhtNlNO8oTPHUa0INRrQ-Q3o-rBbFS2_y02doAX2J6ax_oFozm5ylEj5aWVpQYBu5JxTDa1lpJnow4B8_Bae09fjvN4ImgQcqoNHRRse9OgljRaagkhl5oalOLw3oF5Kc/s1600/SAM_2830.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu3pTuvzbwBdXhtNlNO8oTPHUa0INRrQ-Q3o-rBbFS2_y02doAX2J6ax_oFozm5ylEj5aWVpQYBu5JxTDa1lpJnow4B8_Bae09fjvN4ImgQcqoNHRRse9OgljRaagkhl5oalOLw3oF5Kc/s320/SAM_2830.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's a coop!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Now we can step within the confines of the chicken wire and just watch them be silly chickens.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifUgeZP0wnu3MKcwbiV32mdFiCYvM1R_GYot9Kgx7daQwcIu1JgL3iWHhpo8nNnDpxTsp6nZ16kvSg4VYEcFwvoHOk81eTxNPR6g5fBtXBEowkcezv-t0BWMk-_E7wG00VfzP90f14JpE/s1600/SAM_2838.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifUgeZP0wnu3MKcwbiV32mdFiCYvM1R_GYot9Kgx7daQwcIu1JgL3iWHhpo8nNnDpxTsp6nZ16kvSg4VYEcFwvoHOk81eTxNPR6g5fBtXBEowkcezv-t0BWMk-_E7wG00VfzP90f14JpE/s320/SAM_2838.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Clockwise from the yellow one: Gennie, Gertie, Flossie, and Ruby</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Floss is the most adept at avoiding capture, with Fat Gertie about as elusive as she. Glendora continues to be the leader of them all, often the first to charge across the coop and fly to a new perch. I call these 3 The B*tches, pardon the crassness. They charge and bump their way around their space with little regard for the 3 smaller girls, and I love it. They are our Ameraucanas; we can expect the green/blue/pink eggs from these ladies.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAf3IsDKTNEskg0XXU5wz5RYMl649EvYyx-vRrTvHbvU9-Do8pB0lf38M8AwxPhN457hYG2v0KgZF6VVx_20E8_FuYF4ewVmHZ3nAXdAun92ByjD7BVSlQo5s75CVF-CxJZTjMKBbOR-8/s1600/SAM_2841.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAf3IsDKTNEskg0XXU5wz5RYMl649EvYyx-vRrTvHbvU9-Do8pB0lf38M8AwxPhN457hYG2v0KgZF6VVx_20E8_FuYF4ewVmHZ3nAXdAun92ByjD7BVSlQo5s75CVF-CxJZTjMKBbOR-8/s320/SAM_2841.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lovely little Ruby Lee, our resident redhead chickie</td></tr>
</tbody></table>And then there are the Sweet Ones: Ruby, Lemon, and Peepsie. I think they're some kind of Wyandotte. Smaller and considerably more docile than The B's, they seem to watch out for one another and are less anti-human. Both Ruby and Lemon are often content to eat out of our hands, though Peepsie is still a bit mistrusting. I admit that, after all her special nursing, this kind of pisses me off, but still I'm happy to see her so healthy now. She even has a few little feathers sticking out of her tiny butt--the beginnings of a real tail! One day she'll catch up with the others.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7Ju637k39m46WpcRMn17Ab-bom4WratCW47-1KsWU5-1S4TUIPl5hZrzd8Jrc1w9ZaNAvqn8GnnBxBdHK4j2rh-r0pZHhZaDzjdaghXWEvgjT7RINBA3-t8399ag-bELmQPetrGOxvUY/s1600/SAM_2859.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7Ju637k39m46WpcRMn17Ab-bom4WratCW47-1KsWU5-1S4TUIPl5hZrzd8Jrc1w9ZaNAvqn8GnnBxBdHK4j2rh-r0pZHhZaDzjdaghXWEvgjT7RINBA3-t8399ag-bELmQPetrGOxvUY/s320/SAM_2859.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">She doesn't eat out of my hand, but she adores pecking my toes. Not exactly brilliant, that little bird.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>And really, that's quite enough. I've got to quit pining over these silly birds and address the bigger issues: how can I go on eating chicken when I have them as pets? Because let's be honest, they're <em>clearly</em> not livestock at this point. We almost shed a tear last night when they went back into their roost of their own accord at dusk. Instead of our circus-like routine of catching chickens to shut back into their box, they abruptly ran up the gangplank once we moved their food and water inside.<br />
<br />
Speechless, we shut the box and enjoyed their sudden silence as they bedded down.<br />
<br />
Holy cow. We're Pet Parents. I have real feelings for chickens now. What does this do to our relationship with the fried and breaded variety?Muffy and Spencerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01853358070259563506noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470767554159338402.post-79794806714968751422011-06-19T21:42:00.000-05:002011-06-19T21:42:58.278-05:00Rescue ChickensDid you read the <a href="http://www.madeline.com/" target="new">Madeline</a> books? Oh how I loved that feisty little redhead!<br />
<br />
Remember this inevitable part?<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwT1DXynSguadTK5bwiZtSK3YnVL3WpwhrMHflJwKQUcXu4Ovcyv0rZ6I4UfJkfYD7hXW0Avl_cAm50yVDvFFOt5WENtQSGbnjHJlKo5b7e-MkZYClgkd4OfAJ6jdnsUN540HUBijfJQM/s1600/miss+clavel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwT1DXynSguadTK5bwiZtSK3YnVL3WpwhrMHflJwKQUcXu4Ovcyv0rZ6I4UfJkfYD7hXW0Avl_cAm50yVDvFFOt5WENtQSGbnjHJlKo5b7e-MkZYClgkd4OfAJ6jdnsUN540HUBijfJQM/s320/miss+clavel.jpg" width="224" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In the middle of the night<br />
Miss Clavel turned on her light<br />
and said, "Something is not right!"</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
That happened in the Clark household the other night.<br />
<br />
Trade the old house in Paris (covered with vines) for our old house in Austin (covered in...old siding).<br />
<br />
Trade the 12 little girls in 2 straight lines for 6 chickens in a couple of plastic tubs.<br />
<br />
And obviously I am not a nun. Miss Clavel = Ms. Clark.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVExxH_v5OUho9Qo-cnbotTTDc_8KwPU1UL_KGrHaT-zYWdpUaIMchvXr_Y8l18FV7lXIFzuSmg0cAmZZF95BdQYpTL8oPS7TeDY6GaBe4AOtpGVGeyJwDWT03mvKYc6inSqJUP-lvbyM/s1600/SAM_2720.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVExxH_v5OUho9Qo-cnbotTTDc_8KwPU1UL_KGrHaT-zYWdpUaIMchvXr_Y8l18FV7lXIFzuSmg0cAmZZF95BdQYpTL8oPS7TeDY6GaBe4AOtpGVGeyJwDWT03mvKYc6inSqJUP-lvbyM/s320/SAM_2720.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Last night I was just drifting off when I heard the chicken distress chirp. I sat straight up in bed, a la Miss Clavel. How had I learned it? How did I know that this particular chirp, high pitched and urgent, was the chickie equivalent of putting up the Bat Signal in Gotham?<br />
<br />
I don't know, but somehow in 3 weeks of intense chicken care, I knew instantly that this sound meant HELP.<br />
<br />
I darted down the hall and threw off the towel of the tub emanating the chickie-in-distress call. There was Glendora, sprawled forward with her legs sticking out. Just like the splayed legs had rendered Lemon* a week before.<br />
<br />
"Oh nooo," I groaned. What was wrong? Glendora was the fighter, the tough one! I poked her, she chirped back. The other 2 cowered in the corner as they usually do when my intruding hand entered their house. I picked her up, only to have her instantly flop back down. She was stiff; her legs weren't like the limp noodles the splayed-leggers had experienced. What was wrong?<br />
<br />
Distraught, I tried to stand her up a couple more times, then just watched as she flopped and cried.<br />
<br />
And then I saw something cooler than anything I've ever seen on the Discovery Channel, even during Shark Week. Cooler because it was real and happening right before my eyes.<br />
<br />
The other 2 chickies walked over to Glendora and together shoved her over into the corner on the opposite side of the bin. Hockey-style, they checked her up against the wall. One pushed under her tail, the other under her neck, and then they both stood up...lifting her up to her feet.<br />
<br />
The 3 of them stood there for awhile, propping Glendora up and all chirping as if to say that they were going to make it through this very difficult time. Then the two supporting Glendora eventually wiggled free.<br />
<br />
Glendora began to walk shakily.<br />
<br />
(I know, it would have been AWESOME if I had gotten this on video. Heck, even a little photo could have been good. But frankly, every time something with the chickens appears to be going horribly wrong, I am very opposed to the thought of documenting it. I'll try to get out of that negative habit as things keep on seeming to turn out...well...okay.)<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSNIHE49Hms0h8kRC_XTgG-fnqLlIh4m9Se9__TyNSu5Xztbyt1VN-Vwm84V7jU8l5q5x4weS-JkXIfe0xHk2QaqJS4If7ldwfR0s6HBZYQ-dDq3_K-5EoQIvEpwN2wXJQBMTB-6l0mHs/s1600/SAM_2765.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSNIHE49Hms0h8kRC_XTgG-fnqLlIh4m9Se9__TyNSu5Xztbyt1VN-Vwm84V7jU8l5q5x4weS-JkXIfe0xHk2QaqJS4If7ldwfR0s6HBZYQ-dDq3_K-5EoQIvEpwN2wXJQBMTB-6l0mHs/s320/SAM_2765.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Official Rescue Chicken</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Snapping out of my dumbfounded awe, it occurred to me that perhaps Glendora had just gotten too cold. It was the second night I had <i>not</i> moved their bin away from the window and surrounded it with towels to keep it warmer after sundown (these 3 girls had gotten so big and active that I thought it was becoming unnecessary). Perhaps I had stopped doing this too soon.<br />
<br />
As I followed my old incubating routine, the 3 chickies kept chirping at each other, Glendora occasionally sounding a quieter, shorter version of the distressed chirp, but otherwise now walking around. The other 2 pecked at her a bit and kept moving.<br />
<br />
Eventually I left them alone to warm up and go to sleep. I could hear them chirping for another 30 minutes, and eventually everyone was silent.<br />
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And in the morning, everyone was alive and looking good. Glendora was pecking at the other 2 chicks like she usually does and like they hadn't somehow saved her the night before.<br />
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The 3 littler chicks, formerly of the infirmary, were also doing well. In fact, Ruby and Lemon both ate out of my hand! My heart melted a little.<br />
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So there it is, the latest amazing animal feat. They peck and shove each other, but I think they also protect each other. My 6 little girls in 2 straight bins may not be the subject of a famous children's book, but I swear they're just as entertaining and endearing.<br />
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<br />
*Yes, I've named them all now: Glendora, Peepsie, Lemon, Floss, Ruby, and Gertrude.<br />
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Glendora and Ruby are very dear family names. Floss was apparently a very funky great aunt of my mom's. Peepsie is one of a million silly names I call Brendon. Gertie was my sister's suggestion (I wanted a really good old lady name).<br />
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Lemon got her name even before I thought she was going to turn out to be a lemon. I don't know why I wanted this silly citrus name for one of the chicks already, but when Lemon first went down into her pathetic splits last week and seemed to be on the road to certain death, I started calling her Lemon in my head. And even though she (so far) didn't really turn out to be a lemon, I kind of like the name for her.Muffy and Spencerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01853358070259563506noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470767554159338402.post-72857656726212613892011-06-18T12:27:00.001-05:002011-06-18T12:34:43.566-05:00The Ranchess Shall Not Feel Affection For the LivestockI've made the transition from thinking of the baby chickens as pets to regarding them as livestock. <br />
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I used to burst into the spare room of our house with an excited squeal of, "Hi, babies! Hi babies!"<br />
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Now I have toned down that squeal. I am, after all, a rancher. Ranchess?<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hm. Is this the face of a woman without affection for her chickies? Doubtful.</td></tr>
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So I more formally address them now as "chickies."<br />
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Nothing like a little chickie death and deformity to help harden my opinion about them. I know, wah-waaaah. I shouldn't even report it; this is a fun blog, isn't it? <br />
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But I am learning as I go (which was probably my first mistake--should've studied up a bit more beforehand), so maybe my tale of brooder bumbling will serve as a lesson to future chickie moms. I mean ranchesses. <br />
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Anyway, let's clear the air. I reported in the last post that we had 6 new little chicks. At that time, this was true. We started out with 7 though. One didn't make it through the first night. We learned later that she just didn't quite get enough air on the bottom of the chickie pile that night. Chickens make chickie piles when they are too cold.<br />
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So...turning off the A/C in the spare room and partially covering the tub with a towel is not enough to keep 2-week-old chicks alive. Lesson learned. We added the customary red heat lamp to their home and everyone had a good, warm, non-suffocating second night. <br />
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I began to lose my enthusiasm for naming them. Glendora and Peepsie had already stolen my heart and earned very affectionate names. But after that first night, I though that if they were going to drop like flies then I wasn't too keen on naming the rest.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The chicken who shall remain nameless</td></tr>
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Good thing I waited. The other day I noticed one of the little black ones couldn't seem to stand up. "Great," I thought, "another goner." I watched her become more and more still as the day went on. I read more about chickens, discovering they're each supposed to have 2 square feet of space. EACH!<br />
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Holy crap, I wasn't giving them enough room to run and frolic! In mother hen desperation, I tore apart some huge moving boxes I'd saved last October and duct taped them together, creating a kind of chickie coliseum.<br />
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Brilliantly, I did all of this outdoors and subsequently had to squish it to get it through the doorway and back inside to the Chickie Room. <br />
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All 6 chicks got transferred to the coliseum. The little black one was now laying on her side. Was she ever going to croak? It didn't seem right to let all the other chicks run over her like they were doing, but I hated to separate her, too. Chickies make the saddest little chirp when they're by themselves. <br />
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Back to the trusty interwebs. Oh my goodness, my chickie had <i>splayed legs</i>. She was doing the splits and couldn't hold herself up! I was sad for her, but figured she'd be gone by the next day. I went to bed that night trying to prepare myself for another totally-still little fluffball in the morning.<br />
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But there wasn't one. God love her, she was laying on her side and still breathing the next morning. I picked her up, and she promptly fell over into the food dispenser...where she ravenously began eating!<br />
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Oh, man, thanks a lot little fluffball. Now I <i>really</i> cared. I picked her up and put her little beak in the water, and she drank. She wanted to live! <br />
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The interwebs, upon further reading, gave a <a href="http://www.poultryhelp.com/spraddle.html">recommendation</a> for splayed-leg chickies. You can bandage them together to train them to stand up straight again. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Internet photo. I was too distraught to take my own.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
They also informed me that young chicks get splayed legs from walking on slippery surfaces too much while they're developing. Like...the newspaper we had lined their brooder with underneath the pine shavings. Oh my god,<b> I</b> caused my chickens to be deformed! And while applying the tiny, trimmed-up bandage to her legs, I realized with horror that both Glendora and Peepsie were starting to fall down too.<br />
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No no no, not my favorites! No! Anxiously I taped their legs too and transferred everyone back to the bin, which I lined with paper towels underneath the shavings. <br />
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The next few days were...interesting. The little black one continued to eat and drink when I brought her to food and water, but she wouldn't walk. I'd find her sprawled forward, with her bandaged legs sticking straight out behind her like an old lady who fell down.<br />
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Peepsie would only shuffle backwards, refusing nourishment, while chirping loudly to indicate how much she didn't like the situation. Glendora pecked at her bandages so much that I cut them off immediately. I put Glendora and the 3 healthy chicks into their own bin and the other 2 into the "infirmary" bin.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Glendora. Tough, ornery, and bossy. </td></tr>
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Glendora quickly got up to speed with the 3 healthy chicks, but the other 2 in the sick ward continued on their sad little path. I continued cleaning their cage when I cleaned the others', though they were hardly eating or drinking enough to make any subsequent mess.<br />
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I decided to quit helping them find food and water and just see how things went. I cut both their bandages off after 3 days, and figured I'd let Natural Selection do the rest.<br />
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But lo and behold, Peepsie began walking--forwards! It wasn't a very good walk though; she was standing on curled-up toes and with little balance. But at least it wasn't backwards. The little black one actually stood up, too.<br />
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Well. This was progress.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Peepsie and a couple of chicken butts. Classy.</td></tr>
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And then one morning when I lifted the towel from the top of the bin, they both stood up, chirped, and walked over to get food. Normally, like normal chickens. No monkey knuckle-walking. Amazing. I could have sworn they were going to croak. My heart swelled a little.<br />
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Okay, so maybe I didn't make the transition. Those cute little chirpers are still a little more than livestock to me. I've worked from home twice now just to be nearer to my little poultry physical therapy patients, and I delight in seeing them run around their bins and be just...crazy little chickies.<br />
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Until one of them flew up and out of the bin. She perched briefly on the side, looking out at the rest of the room as if contemplating a real and total escape. And although I was the human in this situation, I found myself squawking and flapping my arms as I attempted to corral her back in her bin.<br />
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I think it might be time to move these little ladies outdoors before they begin a full-on chickie brooder exodus.Muffy and Spencerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01853358070259563506noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470767554159338402.post-10528582167069174112011-06-09T05:55:00.001-05:002011-06-09T05:56:50.628-05:00The Clark RanchWhew, what a week.<br />
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Old McDonald may have had a farm, but the Clarks have a <i>ranch</i>. Now complete with livestock, a working dog, and heavy machinery.<br />
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Okay, the machinery is just a rental, the dog isn't working in a productive way quite yet, and the livestock are just 6 fluffy little chicks.<br />
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But the name stands. There are critters and tools on our little piece of property, so we feel justified: it's the Clark Ranch.<br />
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Some back story? Yeah, I think that's in order. I don't even remember when I converted to being pro-backyard chickens. Brendon has wanted some for a long time, and all I could ever think of was a disgusting pen I'd seen in someone's yard once. They were a client, so when she'd invited me into that den of disgusting, squawking stink, I'd felt obliged to do so. Ew.<br />
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And then sometime after moving to Austin something changed. Was it the laid-back, semi-hippie atmosphere? Was it the uber health-conscious mentality of the local/organic/famer's market folks of this city? I don't know. Suddenly I HAD to have chickens. We had to have a perfect little coop, our own flock, and I wanted to go out and collect fresh eggs every day.<br />
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I think Brendon's desire for a dog was as intense as my desire for chickens became. We acknowledged that perhaps this wouldn't be the best animal combination, but finally decided that we were tired of over-thinking things. If the Circle of Life played out in our back yard, then so be it. We would hope for a dog that was more of an animal herder rather than an animal eater, but beyond that and a little training, what can you do?<br />
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So one of Brendon's many trips to the Town Lake Animal Shelter resulted in this little adoption:<br />
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He also headed out to Callahan's one day while I was at work and brought home some little cheeping fluffballs.<br />
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</div>And then I guess some sort of primal vein had been struck in him, because later in the week he came home with this gigantic trencher.<br />
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Isn't this normal for a man? Once he begins to raise livestock and train a dog, surely he feels the need to plow the earth as well.<br />
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That <i>wasn't</i> meant to be a euphemism. Stay classy, Clarks.<br />
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Thus begins our experience with suburban ranching! I know, all you got to hear about before was silly whining about not buying clothes or perhaps a post or two about trying to run long distances. In a flurry of fur and feathers, the topics are changing!<br />
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Now please excuse me, I must tend to the livestock.Muffy and Spencerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01853358070259563506noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470767554159338402.post-90434614728452655732011-05-23T08:21:00.001-05:002011-06-01T06:56:16.949-05:00The Full ExperiencePerhaps you remember our red wall.<br />
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No? Allow me to reintroduce you.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw2SjvNmVkp-989M8utX3MQWkESDfDuBXXBz8VFOx4rHYd8T8IsZbNWuJnrvPjAb9x8yUIbJbho683AbcKiHzBPffta9wcQLNF7yxvvCoTcI4jfNUZe79J783CZKYJMhOrGTfCB9V3_uY/s1600/SAM_1649.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw2SjvNmVkp-989M8utX3MQWkESDfDuBXXBz8VFOx4rHYd8T8IsZbNWuJnrvPjAb9x8yUIbJbho683AbcKiHzBPffta9wcQLNF7yxvvCoTcI4jfNUZe79J783CZKYJMhOrGTfCB9V3_uY/s320/SAM_1649.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Yeah, that's the one.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPi0at6NevWOmgaSPWIo_QHfsJ1hithFoLS4U2_2wyX0kW3rtDPfqK5KHOApV8WDJuMBXAPwikeHKrB1HLWHF0KOZHu06LIox4C80_BqWPgSO-XKjSBBOFyOiG3OdS6LlaRlZCmwyzxpA/s1600/SAM_1964.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPi0at6NevWOmgaSPWIo_QHfsJ1hithFoLS4U2_2wyX0kW3rtDPfqK5KHOApV8WDJuMBXAPwikeHKrB1HLWHF0KOZHu06LIox4C80_BqWPgSO-XKjSBBOFyOiG3OdS6LlaRlZCmwyzxpA/s320/SAM_1964.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
That very red wall--one might even call it maroon--has rubbed me the wrong way for awhile now. It was slightly more than tolerated at Christmas for creating a lovely backdrop to our tiny tree. <br />
<br />
Otherwise it was a dark corner of overbearing color, sucking the light--nay, the very soul--out of our otherwise kinda sweet house.<br />
<br />
Why? Why a dark red flat paint for the one part of the house? The rest of the house's walls were delivered to us in unassuming shades of "eh". With an appropriate eggshell finish.<br />
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Gentle reader, allow me to tell you what you do about such a color monstrosity. Go instantly to your nearest Lowe's and buy everything you'll need to transform that wall into a delightful, gleaming beacon of Clark Household loveliness. Fall in love with the color swatch for the "Gold n' Sugar Cookie" paint finish--you know it will transform your morning coffee corner into the European Cafe you know it to be.<br />
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Then take it all home and let it sit around for 7 months.<br />
<br />
This will, um, let you get ready for the painting process. Painting 2 square feet of wall can be an overwhelming process, and you don't want to just dive in without proper preparation.<br />
<br />
Seven months of sitting around will just let you really get your DaVinci on.<br />
<br />
Okay, fine, I was a lazy procrastinator. All kinds of busy and useful things happened around the house while I let that wall sit. A new year started. We got Osama Bin Laden. Brendon and his mom did everything from major plumbing work to installing ceiling fans...while I let that wall stay red.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgro3i0yjLY-HLfUEoymk1Z7XIPoh2WHj9MCoMIamWSCEzQsJk4-Y2-zBFb9nSX1QIcZlBIpB8b6gbb2eaEfqDXLEC7zvNm1rDxYjhzUIbWv47x5nAnmz55lqDSz_mIBULWO_EnWhJTXUQ/s1600/SAM_2334.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgro3i0yjLY-HLfUEoymk1Z7XIPoh2WHj9MCoMIamWSCEzQsJk4-Y2-zBFb9nSX1QIcZlBIpB8b6gbb2eaEfqDXLEC7zvNm1rDxYjhzUIbWv47x5nAnmz55lqDSz_mIBULWO_EnWhJTXUQ/s320/SAM_2334.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br />
Apparently my 7-month itch finally needed to be scratched. I busted out the trusty Sugar Cookie paint, the primer, that blue tape, and various drop cloths to protect my beloved distressed wood floors.<br />
<br />
Let's just say that they are now further distressed. Sadly due to my ineptitude. I just didn't read the instructions on the Kilz primer. When I opened it up and it looked like a jar of natural peanut butter--with the oil separated on the top--I did exactly what I do with that peanut oil. <br />
<br />
I poured it off.<br />
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So, um, it was a very long and challenging process to apply that primer. Several times I considered changing the roller for a spatula. I should have used a kitchen implement. It was like priming with cottage cheese.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilKEeRvljLF-GRBttxiN4NQ8O-70Jci3hHRBHjogV7I62gRJZENedWF7nEHEf2RozfuZQ6a-djB6Ix1q5b3eMCj0cXm7bUXrbdSdx0AAGqWhd5BljvEAyg8u_bsdWgzaldFD2QDEgZMM0/s1600/SAM_2381.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilKEeRvljLF-GRBttxiN4NQ8O-70Jci3hHRBHjogV7I62gRJZENedWF7nEHEf2RozfuZQ6a-djB6Ix1q5b3eMCj0cXm7bUXrbdSdx0AAGqWhd5BljvEAyg8u_bsdWgzaldFD2QDEgZMM0/s320/SAM_2381.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>And that oily stuff that had separated spilled a little on the drop cloths. Later I would find that it created fabulous Rorschach-style stains in my wood floors. Stupid drop cloths. <br />
<br />
Luckily I had Pandora to keep me company, and at first my new Depeche Mode station gave me the energy that one can only get from an 80s movie-esque Painting My House Will Change My Life montage. Yeah, my shoulders ached and it was taking forever to apply that cheesy primer, but I was rocking out to bumpin' music only a Cassio can create.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhSLQqt1E-Z6LBBVuJL-O6MMJKpM7rcH3Uh1hhaX8TwUeDRlyOc0PCCbPfgGyeSE9TU9lmeocoCX9Gmi7_9JHJpRPSTkDDvnTnsardf2-9pC4Tk_rCj__9OI6FQQet7vNX53FcR25r9l4/s1600/SAM_2383.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhSLQqt1E-Z6LBBVuJL-O6MMJKpM7rcH3Uh1hhaX8TwUeDRlyOc0PCCbPfgGyeSE9TU9lmeocoCX9Gmi7_9JHJpRPSTkDDvnTnsardf2-9pC4Tk_rCj__9OI6FQQet7vNX53FcR25r9l4/s320/SAM_2383.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
I moved on to painting, hours later. And yeah, there was an actual curve to the learning curve. I stirred the Sugar Cookie can's contents and found it much easier to apply.<br />
<br />
To my hair.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKEhbmwTvcQpeU3qmkumxl6xm2rENoWTUsGcMQuRanZyYfnnGZUgZPdNquJPSwgB283bBBkrJz42Ww_wUA4pAMzBF-yqjL2awH_eVO9e4TLkK2OgaVhltPkpVgBS-g3FBmiSwZiEL7rJ0/s1600/SAM_2389.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKEhbmwTvcQpeU3qmkumxl6xm2rENoWTUsGcMQuRanZyYfnnGZUgZPdNquJPSwgB283bBBkrJz42Ww_wUA4pAMzBF-yqjL2awH_eVO9e4TLkK2OgaVhltPkpVgBS-g3FBmiSwZiEL7rJ0/s320/SAM_2389.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Once the process was finished (by then I'd nixed the idea of applying the gold finish...I couldn't feel my shoulders and I was concerned about how well the drop cloths were sticking to the floors) I tried to scrub the paint from my fingers. <br />
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As hard as that was, when I discovered I had a lot in my hair, I just cut it out.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX-cPPbd8OzpGrGjdxTdYiC2IACmAq46guWXWCZu3U1Ox16DDmIeEib-6xdulwnedcpc-86ZrZYeoYEHiL7uoCUDZMWqWcP3dZvZ04dttuSWwkmVfbMC7RaJnA5q8eYrUAUuFisR7Xb3c/s1600/SAM_2390.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX-cPPbd8OzpGrGjdxTdYiC2IACmAq46guWXWCZu3U1Ox16DDmIeEib-6xdulwnedcpc-86ZrZYeoYEHiL7uoCUDZMWqWcP3dZvZ04dttuSWwkmVfbMC7RaJnA5q8eYrUAUuFisR7Xb3c/s320/SAM_2390.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Um, it was kind of a lot. And only later did I realize it was rather easy to wash out of my hair. Awesome. Now I have a haircut to match my Pandora station.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ5wiSiuYH9dILWJ3EfrbN1NZC_DLAONYgNg2q5sy4bV7s4yeIjA5Kt7yoeeyhFQthdejjoDCH_GF6UsYhuZcISfOUu9baiZFvoq5r6VEH48t2jD8ea6TZSPdHdLb-hHZxK5Ot7nYAc5k/s1600/SAM_2391.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ5wiSiuYH9dILWJ3EfrbN1NZC_DLAONYgNg2q5sy4bV7s4yeIjA5Kt7yoeeyhFQthdejjoDCH_GF6UsYhuZcISfOUu9baiZFvoq5r6VEH48t2jD8ea6TZSPdHdLb-hHZxK5Ot7nYAc5k/s320/SAM_2391.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
And frankly, Pandora, I don't appreciate your determination to prepare me for parenthood. Yeah, I tell you that I like Depeche Mode and you'll obediently play it for me. <br />
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And then you throw in a little U2; okay, yeah, I'll accept that. Suddenly a little...Coldplay? Will you listen to some Coldplay? Weeeell...yeah, I'll take it, but only because it's a fast song.<br />
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Then bam, you hit me with some stupid slow ballad by a really lame artist. What? No. Stop what I'm doing and stomp over to the computer. Thumbs <em>down</em>. <br />
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And the process repeats, like a little toddler testing a parent's boundaries. How far can I go before she hates the song enough to get up from what she's doing? How bad does the artist have to be for her to discipline me? <br />
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Argh. I'm not a mom yet, but thanks, Pandora, for giving me a little taste.<br />
<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzCtVPdCsX4B5Rd1uXo6dzEWjePSW2MB-QdiHrTpI1qF-0OMpw8Pq4gVtkhpD7cQtd0q4X9JkLifYEovZdybw5_zn_An5euejfF27e8Nrhho152OPD5APvfsCSodv8wUuKg-eZP5ocfjk/s1600/SAM_2613.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzCtVPdCsX4B5Rd1uXo6dzEWjePSW2MB-QdiHrTpI1qF-0OMpw8Pq4gVtkhpD7cQtd0q4X9JkLifYEovZdybw5_zn_An5euejfF27e8Nrhho152OPD5APvfsCSodv8wUuKg-eZP5ocfjk/s320/SAM_2613.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Anyway, back to the wall. I admit I was a bit disappointed in all the time I wasted on the prep work of taping and drop cloth-ing. You already know that the drop cloth didn't serve much of a purpose. Well, neither did the tape. See, when you apply paint as thick as a dairy topping to your walls, large chunks of it will come off with your blue border tape. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">So now I have peeling border pieces of Sugar Cookie blowing in the breeze of the air conditioner, revealing the primer and red layers underneath. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Whatever. I was too exhausted at that point to care. And I had gone into the whole thing with the mentality that it would be a learning process. I would make mistakes, and I would be okay with them. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Hm. It seems that I created my Euro Cafe after all. My mistakes gave me a funky new haircut, stained floors, and peeling paint...<em>so</em> European. So I say that I did it on purpose, to create the full experience of being at a little sidewalk table in Spain. Muy bien!</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb5ZEJHHcSCRDC4nbutl8zy6mLhTT3GjS3HHxQXCvTfPWmIH9ifK-sFsme5DF7NhXCRtXwRhDAsQxWbWXQvRZcVBCIjgrppCLwYyrOeNMi0HlWnRjnDqvfOS97FdmO8c99OPMpdMWqXUc/s1600/SAM_2610.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb5ZEJHHcSCRDC4nbutl8zy6mLhTT3GjS3HHxQXCvTfPWmIH9ifK-sFsme5DF7NhXCRtXwRhDAsQxWbWXQvRZcVBCIjgrppCLwYyrOeNMi0HlWnRjnDqvfOS97FdmO8c99OPMpdMWqXUc/s320/SAM_2610.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>Muffy and Spencerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01853358070259563506noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470767554159338402.post-22116658268900803162011-05-14T09:40:00.000-05:002011-05-14T09:40:19.834-05:00Like a Puff to the Eye<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZFyXyft6od9xrGp3KYAII6gFrWfTpCC1Jcoi-WqRvYqTePRjb31Am3RyAI4fcKztzk9sX871dtlMEjnGzK2mIZ9KJ1sJiv0N1H65uTXwaCZgIwI7sC9ZuHNFIj7Kj7J7WFxqqu50t93U/s1600/SAM_2607.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZFyXyft6od9xrGp3KYAII6gFrWfTpCC1Jcoi-WqRvYqTePRjb31Am3RyAI4fcKztzk9sX871dtlMEjnGzK2mIZ9KJ1sJiv0N1H65uTXwaCZgIwI7sC9ZuHNFIj7Kj7J7WFxqqu50t93U/s320/SAM_2607.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
It's hard to say "Manns." <br />
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Try it. Go ahead, out loud. Like your phone's spellcheck, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RMunGypu2zI" target="new">your brain just wants to fix these things</a> and say, "Men."<br />
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Kind of like how your eye wants to close when the doctor sends that puff of air into it. Or when he slices it open to reshape it. You want to close it then, too.<br />
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Yes, I went to the Mann Eye folks and had Lasik performed on my underperforming eyes. And while I previously felt that such elective surgery seemed a bit over-indulgent, now I can't imagine having considered not doing it.<br />
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It started, as most of my silly endeavors do, while Brendon was offshore and I had ample time to myself.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Well, no, I supposed it really started in second grade when I got glasses. But let's condense to the point of my consultation with the Manns (Men) three weeks ago.<br />
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I think they pulled a fast one on me, actually. I didn't notice it at the time, but the guy they employ to do the consultations was a smooooooth talker. I instantly felt happy and comfortable, and he sold the services well. The machine that does the surgery is made to stop working if there is a bump or movement of any kind, the patient is given valium so the whole 5-minute process is super easy, and the laser can't even cut deep enough to cause any damage.<br />
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And in retrospect, when he told me that I reminded him of his buddy's wife--a Dallas Cowboy Cheerleader--that's probably when I was sold. Really? I fell for that? Yes, he said it, and I totally ate it up. Next thing I knew I was making my slice n' dice appointment and taking out my contacts for the last time.<br />
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Let's be fair--I've wanted this for a long time. It was not mere flattery (which I am SURE he says to every female who sits in that chair) but a true desire to see clearly on my own that pushed me to do this.<br />
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Seriously, at a contact prescription of -7.5, this is how I used to see:<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdb1RSHjFptRocy4zsqDX-8Xfwm6UnHpYBg9LevA8sBtcD9xPeEVlY2vbYiHHlxvKKcFRJeLnW9N_F6Jx3tqfCzE4OVG8nHWZhPWBCOK9GpjNj2-7jFvIytM3EE2RsI_E1K4wnsIC_nGs/s1600/how+it+used+to+look.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdb1RSHjFptRocy4zsqDX-8Xfwm6UnHpYBg9LevA8sBtcD9xPeEVlY2vbYiHHlxvKKcFRJeLnW9N_F6Jx3tqfCzE4OVG8nHWZhPWBCOK9GpjNj2-7jFvIytM3EE2RsI_E1K4wnsIC_nGs/s320/how+it+used+to+look.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The artist's rendition of her previous eyesight. See below for real image:</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjGkqCJuHoBewkBg3uBE23inrrCu8-xbDe5J0lInRdxJrZhYs_ZlSDWdVyJaaeyLVS4R9yjgrWbjEwOqwz9kA_pncfeAeC6G3ePTR5f8dHm5WDiPAOub7InZN0L22Cc0VUGsXw4Bjn2FA/s1600/SAM_2585.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjGkqCJuHoBewkBg3uBE23inrrCu8-xbDe5J0lInRdxJrZhYs_ZlSDWdVyJaaeyLVS4R9yjgrWbjEwOqwz9kA_pncfeAeC6G3ePTR5f8dHm5WDiPAOub7InZN0L22Cc0VUGsXw4Bjn2FA/s320/SAM_2585.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br />
So I wore the damn glasses for a week before surgery. They ask that you do this so your eyes can relax back to their true shape. This lets them see if you really have enough cornea to give up for The Scraping and still have enough left over for the aging process.<br />
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And then I went and Mann, Jr. sliced 'em open and fixed 'em up!<br />
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It was a bit unnerving, even on the valium, as the first machine descended on my eyes to make the flap. My vision went black and I felt like I was seeing stars.<br />
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They'd numbed my eyes, but it still felt a bit uncomfortable. Even in my valium cloud. The nurse rubbed my arm and was quite comforting.<br />
<br />
Silly me, I had thought that I was done when they sat me up from that machine. I looked at the infamous clock on the wall--the one that everyone said I should be able to read after the procedure--yet it remained as blurry as ever. I was seriously disappointed.<br />
<br />
Then they guided me to the other chair to do the real work. Relieved, I laid down and The Mann did his thing. This time it was all red and green. He kept telling me to stare at the red dot, but there was so much movement!<br />
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I was nervous that I was somehow looking away, and my eye felt pretty uncomfortable, but I didn't want to go blind from a sudden nerve attack during surgery (despite all of Mr. Flattery's assurances).<br />
<br />
So I used my ol' Pap Smear trick: wiggle the toes.<br />
<br />
Come on, if you've read this far about slicing and dicing eyeballs then a reference to a speculum should not make you squeamish. That first gynecologist suggested I wiggle my toes while in the stirrups, and it's a just kind of my go-to move when I need to relax.<br />
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And then it was over. In a somewhat drug-induced cloud, I was led out of the room. I kind of noticed that I could see, but the light was overwhelming and my eyes felt scratchy. They taped shields to my face and the next thing I knew I was at home in bed having crazy dreams. Brendon administered my eye drops like a champion nurse, carefully un-taping and re-taping my shields.<br />
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When the valium really wore off, I woke up and gazed at the ceiling fan. Though distorted through the goggles, it was clear. The most beautiful freakin' fan I ever saw.<br />
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I had to sleep with the goggles 5 nights, and that first night we found out why. Brendon rolled over and his long lovely arm flopped at me, popping me in the face. The shields made a soft click, and I laughed to myself as I thought of this <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nqMc9B7uDV8" target="new">scene</a> from Dirty Rotten Scoundrels.<br />
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So he's taken to calling me The Bionic Wife. Partly because I've had surgery to improve that which nature bestowed on me, but mostly because of how the shields make me look.<br />
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A small price to pay for 20/15 vision. I gladly accept my new title, dear husband!Muffy and Spencerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01853358070259563506noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470767554159338402.post-42611601277114335412011-04-20T08:31:00.001-05:002011-04-20T08:34:09.901-05:00A Real Closet ExperimentLast week Brendon organized our shed. The little tiny building in the corner of our scruffy lot houses our rakes, shovels, and one non-functioning lawn mower.<br />
<br />
It was a biologically satisfying for both of us, because he got to be the king establishing order in his armory, and I got to see the caveman organizing the few twigs and rocks we have in our tiny cave.<br />
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Also nice because I can easily find whatever garden implement I need with ease. Why is it so delightful to open a closet and see everything so perfectly assembled and in its place?<br />
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With a contented smile I opened the shed door and reached for a rake...<br />
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And encountered a buzzing fly so big that I swear the whole shed moved when it did.<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxQL6F5CDpGfPVDxKIvIs2VTdjcSQSQ7ZIUbsYn6ypl7bPttaeAiAtyPWJPBtlPiOd2DS7ACbug6R4bQCCHiQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br />
It was covered in thick hair and had a huge head with--seriously, I'm dead serious--antlers.<br />
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I got closer to see if it had tags or a brand or something; surely this was a an escapee from an exotic animal ranch.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOBelq0XmsUDp4MiGqM-4DfALDukTuHFQid7qU6-gpnWoRrvrW3mAZXKc1DpAlUOmBRCV-vlXDPjvJYfU2Hy1fCWnVJFICcVe8ZjW9sydPwK2d7R7uKlucJRviuFmk_YbWUERZjlVm-BA/s1600/fly+ranch.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOBelq0XmsUDp4MiGqM-4DfALDukTuHFQid7qU6-gpnWoRrvrW3mAZXKc1DpAlUOmBRCV-vlXDPjvJYfU2Hy1fCWnVJFICcVe8ZjW9sydPwK2d7R7uKlucJRviuFmk_YbWUERZjlVm-BA/s320/fly+ranch.png" width="320" /></a></div><br />
No. He was just a massive fly that must have been trapped in the shed when Brendon first worked on it. He's spent the past week feeding on whatever critters were in that shed, growing huge and fat and hairy.<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih7n8Kdhn6ezZv64z76Q2y3mo9Czzmn5I3sbJN8RhAvtaYnatQiHUCoen36Z1HUOXsKhJKZyfIUh06hnMJEyPe6VZwjHjKP76vgmdbgodoOtKEHPmo18Kaw5-p9rE_5IH5HDsp4QQ1MfE/s1600/SAM_2368.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih7n8Kdhn6ezZv64z76Q2y3mo9Czzmn5I3sbJN8RhAvtaYnatQiHUCoen36Z1HUOXsKhJKZyfIUh06hnMJEyPe6VZwjHjKP76vgmdbgodoOtKEHPmo18Kaw5-p9rE_5IH5HDsp4QQ1MfE/s320/SAM_2368.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
I moved closer and thought about shooing him toward the door. He buzzed angrily and fell on his back, doing the turtle move as he struggled to right himself.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHkI83Gr0A2aX8arWaNrY2L1NlfEjsl9iv9asGzbwNetq8k3pNyuEVblHB_QZibYM5LPSUB77dTPm3SGGaZX1pre3fhEdyMnEW_i_0ST1nPYUM_NoEue7G1iM0i0FNIwqZetQr1IKi5JM/s1600/SAM_2369.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHkI83Gr0A2aX8arWaNrY2L1NlfEjsl9iv9asGzbwNetq8k3pNyuEVblHB_QZibYM5LPSUB77dTPm3SGGaZX1pre3fhEdyMnEW_i_0ST1nPYUM_NoEue7G1iM0i0FNIwqZetQr1IKi5JM/s320/SAM_2369.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Disgusted and fascinated, I watched. Suddenly he got back on his feet and...looked at me. His huge eyes were extra-creepy in that big white face.<br />
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I backed out of the shed, rake in hand. And I left him in there. The world was not ready for such a creature. And frankly he made me nervous.Muffy and Spencerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01853358070259563506noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470767554159338402.post-71162991567875281122011-04-17T12:30:00.000-05:002011-04-17T12:30:39.331-05:00Nature: It's Natural<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGq9tjoxzKn1O1tTAQfr2UhndTQAtBenMjfF7ENFizVcoKOiep-mIam29JfXaexqe3ULV0gov_Bry32IXbocwV0fz2yqkEjFFZpyp8KnhLi7huVxwhlr5CGUFDX7WLasGaLCYdaPdGWQ0/s1600/SAM_2352.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGq9tjoxzKn1O1tTAQfr2UhndTQAtBenMjfF7ENFizVcoKOiep-mIam29JfXaexqe3ULV0gov_Bry32IXbocwV0fz2yqkEjFFZpyp8KnhLi7huVxwhlr5CGUFDX7WLasGaLCYdaPdGWQ0/s320/SAM_2352.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Texas is winning.<br />
<br />
Rather, the natural environment is winning. And that's in the obvious contest between what landscaping I try to inflict on my own yard and what Nature does itself, on its own, here in Texas.<br />
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On gorgeous days like today it's hard to believe there could be a world outside of Texas, so I am going to say that the beauty of nature is simply Texas itself. Laugh all you want, you who didn't experience today's perfect perfection out here in the Hill Country. We'll forgive you because you don't understand.<br />
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I drove out to the Pedernales State Park yesterday, just on a whim. (No, ha ha, actually it was in my car! Ha ha ha...yup, I'm having some Shiner while I write this, you lucky dog. You'll get all kinds of hilarity from me now!)<br />
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Actually, it was not even really on a whim, not even figuratively. It was more in an attempt to alter reality.<br />
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Now doesn't <i>that</i> sound diabolical? Deliciously so! Mwah ha ha ha.<br />
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Because the reality is that I am <b>not</b> an avid sportswoman, not a preppy Muffy always at the ready for a spot of tennis or a quick romp with nature. Yes, I just did a marathon, but tell me, gentle reader, is this the grimace of a natural athlete? I think not.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfi_fdyBHsgN-dR39sU23ZnyYEvaJEns6JjtxbOy5bh4OjR62FtXd8UFLSGYWSGZsYsYye97umDgEPpSKUAiJRH46GgGj_zsYDe1JDpiC_uymphwWLzLMvghw9KLYa3tHMU0KVnmzKMHA/s1600/79345-345-007f.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfi_fdyBHsgN-dR39sU23ZnyYEvaJEns6JjtxbOy5bh4OjR62FtXd8UFLSGYWSGZsYsYye97umDgEPpSKUAiJRH46GgGj_zsYDe1JDpiC_uymphwWLzLMvghw9KLYa3tHMU0KVnmzKMHA/s320/79345-345-007f.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">why do those douchebags take photos of us after 5 hours of running? WHO looks good at this point? </td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
So I went to the state park because I, in a moment of identity crisis without husband or marathon, decided I was the kind of person who just hauls off at a moment's notice and goes hiking.<br />
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I guess that's better than deciding I'm the kind of person who bungee jumps or dances on a pole for a living...both of which are extremely risky behaviors; the former is clearly a good way to catch some scuzzy disease, as I have NEVER seen someone cleaning a bungee cord, and the latter is simply dangerous due to gravity).<br />
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So yesterday I was a hiker. I packed up the Yaris with a cooler of beer and water, a backpack, and dug out my old hiking boots--<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK67Kro4NW9EB2p5pJ_lJ8yPDDEmtgAWpWQxCsdrsVavpZwvbvH5vM2LDUiirasMR0pE64o6D00duekERLzSOKeRyTIKYg5OBBkIHBCRd0BWCknh0Fhorpbb4iCWM9V1PzWsMlzyFcnII/s1600/End+of+the+World+046.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK67Kro4NW9EB2p5pJ_lJ8yPDDEmtgAWpWQxCsdrsVavpZwvbvH5vM2LDUiirasMR0pE64o6D00duekERLzSOKeRyTIKYg5OBBkIHBCRd0BWCknh0Fhorpbb4iCWM9V1PzWsMlzyFcnII/s320/End+of+the+World+046.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
--purchased for a Patagonian hiking trip over 5 years ago and only used once since, and that was because a hurricane makes for too many puddles to navigate in flip flops.<br />
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And I drove out to Pedernales Falls.<br />
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Is there anything more situationally humorous than when your momentum for doing something spontaneous wears off...before you've done it? Yeah.<br />
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While an hour prior I had been giddy about wearing my hiking boots and packing a cooler, crawling out into the hill country in heavy traffic really took that outdoorsy wind out of my sails. Two-thirty, three o'clock...maybe I wasn't such a nature enthusiast after all. I could be home watching Hulu. I could be shopping...<br />
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No! No, I am a veritable REI advertisement! I am a photo shoot for Ralph Lauren yachting! Traffic opened up and I was flying up and down the gorgeous hills of central Texas. With the perfect wind in my hair and a big grin, I communed with nature. (From my vehicle.) And then I pulled into the park and surveyed the stunning beauty.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAQT9KyUnwjdbe9K6kujS2psKe6TtoLAJkxBedIwaqjDCJlCbzsWI6F6LVQht9v-aNPzAzPQRxGB3cqDNj6LlHndhcBj7TwR0MamSLWG5lFxojw1UcydU7buC3-x4zentS2kMpKpcVgxM/s1600/SAM_2360.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAQT9KyUnwjdbe9K6kujS2psKe6TtoLAJkxBedIwaqjDCJlCbzsWI6F6LVQht9v-aNPzAzPQRxGB3cqDNj6LlHndhcBj7TwR0MamSLWG5lFxojw1UcydU7buC3-x4zentS2kMpKpcVgxM/s320/SAM_2360.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
If you haven't been to the Pedernales, it's kinda hard to describe the falls side of the park. In other places you may camp and wade in the river, but at the falls it's kinda like a waterfall/river combination. When it's really dry like it's been, there are less falls & you can't hear the roaring rush of the water from far away like when it's saturated. But it's still pretty stunning nonetheless.<br />
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I hiked and photographed and then found a little sandy area to enjoy some sun. It was silent. Birds hovered lazily in the perfect blue sky. Stark contrast with our own little patch of nature back at the Clark Ranch.<br />
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I've successfully made the grass in the previous sidewalk area grow, so now we essentially have a green sidewalk in our barren front yard. Ditto the bamboo I planted out back; there is nothing else growing.<br />
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Well, except the Mountain Laurel volunteer, which I was delighted to discover. But we must definitely call him a volunteer, because I'd expect far more from a paid and fully employed laurel.<br />
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And then back to what Nature/Texas is doing all on her own:<br />
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<br />
Much better, I'd say.<br />
<br />
Not that I'm going to quit trying here in my own yard or anything. After all, I am <i>quite</i> the nature and outdoor enthusiast!Muffy and Spencerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01853358070259563506noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470767554159338402.post-14262985397971769862011-04-14T22:22:00.000-05:002011-04-14T22:22:45.479-05:00Hello, Wall. Not Nice to Meet You.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-fLeg_EPiQrBVhXqoA1FO42VvIxeMoDrJqsVijJw4nl4ETNa_p8M09q8HzPtEg882wHOxwaxjOx7elSb8AJSTGVw1UbNKCa-w3VVuXptC0NAa8mwZAKDwqIWpXyHeo_if60jR6PJ0oAE/s1600/mile+21.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-fLeg_EPiQrBVhXqoA1FO42VvIxeMoDrJqsVijJw4nl4ETNa_p8M09q8HzPtEg882wHOxwaxjOx7elSb8AJSTGVw1UbNKCa-w3VVuXptC0NAa8mwZAKDwqIWpXyHeo_if60jR6PJ0oAE/s320/mile+21.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>You know how you read those stories about nice sweet dogs that suddenly out of nowhere bite someone? For like 12 years or so they're just awesome and docile. Then bam, one day they've had enough and they take out a chunk of the owner's calf.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimWQaxMJEE3rqTPBFm_YSNzBwlVrvMvhMQOlHye7Y72ufMAcnh5Bau6oelrGXPZfrsHxKItQp-7JK2ZhedRkerMAQR8mb8e8iLDK6xNIct0RzYuGSgESAXF-b7e-T849q68UEjrnHpknQ/s1600/SAM_2341.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimWQaxMJEE3rqTPBFm_YSNzBwlVrvMvhMQOlHye7Y72ufMAcnh5Bau6oelrGXPZfrsHxKItQp-7JK2ZhedRkerMAQR8mb8e8iLDK6xNIct0RzYuGSgESAXF-b7e-T849q68UEjrnHpknQ/s320/SAM_2341.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br />
Sunday's marathon was that dog.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc5XKn6Q1rglff0zLHnKq3a2WxYilxhi2l8RUGLLlfwdQ2fSkDsni38y0veI_7EIKtlgg591qN6XG3osxjEo8SeJF7tG7StzCwJJYKYIn6kfdttQm-gJfEk1vm4sog4EynOLskgDh-hwg/s1600/SAM_2339.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc5XKn6Q1rglff0zLHnKq3a2WxYilxhi2l8RUGLLlfwdQ2fSkDsni38y0veI_7EIKtlgg591qN6XG3osxjEo8SeJF7tG7StzCwJJYKYIn6kfdttQm-gJfEk1vm4sog4EynOLskgDh-hwg/s320/SAM_2339.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>No, actually Sunday's marathon was probably more like the beautiful beach morning that dissolves into a hurricane by noon. I should have seen the devastation coming. But no, I was fooled by the lovely and benign beginning.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQEAX79HnyYkt4guXgA5TCyeYim7ye1BeQdaHkfBfVzT6jR2mhMeiPJMkoilbt7LaEMBOGbtoLF4J8UNy7m86kalU3fmgX5mPqWBae6S_rbf65Kc3sxFlkgJOwrn5b66Tb4J-7pvNzxIA/s1600/SAM_2342.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQEAX79HnyYkt4guXgA5TCyeYim7ye1BeQdaHkfBfVzT6jR2mhMeiPJMkoilbt7LaEMBOGbtoLF4J8UNy7m86kalU3fmgX5mPqWBae6S_rbf65Kc3sxFlkgJOwrn5b66Tb4J-7pvNzxIA/s320/SAM_2342.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Really, I had a great time for those first 13 miles. The cool breeze off White Rock Lake soothed me. The people around me were interesting to listen to. Well, in little spurts of conversation that is; everyone was passing me with no problem so I didn't get to listen to lengthy discussions.<br />
<br />
That actually kind of got to me at first, so I fell into pace with a really athletic-looking woman. She was just in sports bra and running shorts, and from the back she looked like a lean, experienced runner. She kind of turned her head to the left and eagerly I leaned in, thinking she was going to say something to me.<br />
<br />
She proceeded to Farmer Blow over her shoulder.<br />
<br />
I jumped out of the way of her snot and scooted off to the side. Clearly an indication that I should take my own pace and leave the fast running to the serious athletes. So serious that they blow their nose into the very air we mortals choose to breathe.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBBk88F19a063WrXleAqpMW__IN3vluDvTS3dPLBQ2fHL5dzhkrRp0JO1e1ipRkNMVG-IRKLQbN88DqMGrCScVn-SNrZj-O_Qn_5J4dbh2WV4MTjzun_X5aRmMQpPDdgpf1BwSIlGJ8KU/s1600/mile+9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBBk88F19a063WrXleAqpMW__IN3vluDvTS3dPLBQ2fHL5dzhkrRp0JO1e1ipRkNMVG-IRKLQbN88DqMGrCScVn-SNrZj-O_Qn_5J4dbh2WV4MTjzun_X5aRmMQpPDdgpf1BwSIlGJ8KU/s320/mile+9.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
But like I said, I was happy at the beginning. My time even looked good for me to finish under 4:30! Hooray, suddenly athletic and accomplished Shannon!<br />
<br />
Enter the biting dog. Or the hurricane, rather.<br />
<br />
Oh the wind. Oh the sun. Oh the pain.<br />
<br />
Some time between mile 14 and mile 18, all the shade vanished, a nasty headwind stirred up, and everything went uphill. I started noticing myself scanning the horizon for water stations...frantically. I began to feel my thighs and knees in flashes of burning pain. That little rock on my shoe was no longer a friendly stowaway but in fact an evil boulder hell-bent on sabotaging my performance.<br />
<br />
And someone strung fishing line across one of the bridges; people shouted at me to stop so they could untangle it first and I did not even process what they were saying. I could see my dear brother waiting for me under a tree at the Mile 20 marker, and that sight was like an oasis in the desert.<br />
<br />
I barreled through the line, snapping it in two and gratefully joined my brother and his buddy. They had come to cheer me on and run with me in that hellish Mile 20, a part of the race they ruefully recalled from their Big D several years prior.<br />
<br />
In that next 20 minutes, I went to a very dark place. Mikers and Hans got me to Mile 21, where I think I saw my sweet friends again (they had staked out Mile 9 earlier in an awesome show of support). Dazed, I smiled at their signs and spoke some gibberish to them.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6v9II7zpaHDc333lQKmebrcHSKgfJ0fn3n1nGqGGGPhQw8zXpTNvvHvQaHhKcbCDIBQpa_o8DhBAWdVWQHROiqqpUG2r-1JHXfWH5ZnoCThrEPrZQ5_HgwSD2CCRYPuyFrZAEVPc9NVA/s1600/210327_10100722387641250_7910200_69138258_2483829_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6v9II7zpaHDc333lQKmebrcHSKgfJ0fn3n1nGqGGGPhQw8zXpTNvvHvQaHhKcbCDIBQpa_o8DhBAWdVWQHROiqqpUG2r-1JHXfWH5ZnoCThrEPrZQ5_HgwSD2CCRYPuyFrZAEVPc9NVA/s320/210327_10100722387641250_7910200_69138258_2483829_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx44Sk3H4Vm6MXWEPGiJHANiYxzvAcH2SOtgG9Ohf9yvB6223mZGE2el4yULwgzfsxU0q8wFaJ_KqGR5qfG0qvKM4K2VhyJrOIISQFKYbOofxIVtTejuR-Q59aVDJguUT9Qf6U_iM-g1Y/s1600/mile+21+pain+time.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx44Sk3H4Vm6MXWEPGiJHANiYxzvAcH2SOtgG9Ohf9yvB6223mZGE2el4yULwgzfsxU0q8wFaJ_KqGR5qfG0qvKM4K2VhyJrOIISQFKYbOofxIVtTejuR-Q59aVDJguUT9Qf6U_iM-g1Y/s320/mile+21+pain+time.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Where was the next water station? I stumbled into one somewhere in the next mile and asked how many there were remaining. The sun was blazing and the little boy offering me Gatorade shrugged. I think that was when I screamed at the ladies behind him.<br />
<br />
"OH, COME ON! HOW MANY MORE STATIONS ARE THERE?!" Did they not understand how brutal it was? Did they not know that my legs were slowly rotting away beneath me, that the promise of a water station was the only thing that kept me running from tree shadow to tree shadow at that point?<br />
<br />
All of the tactics and mental tricks I'd had planned for those last 6 miles were out the window. Shannon was no longer a part of the game. It was some strange other creature crawling along the streets, squinting into the glaring light and randomly walking without even meaning to. It wasn't a matter of pushing myself or of finding reserves at that point. All I knew was that I could rest when I got back to the fairgrounds, so I had to keep going.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGwyU1-FWU8dG_E5V0-isxIhMdqbJPG-7xiVbwj_NsrRbjAbBmr-itEitsyYgvKDW1BDX2nlvjqYConDnSUh2WLdreuWnKcAkXL4MW0BE4TdvAemM7oMQbeDH1NuKaW1fCGViemFpvgDE/s1600/SAM_2344.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGwyU1-FWU8dG_E5V0-isxIhMdqbJPG-7xiVbwj_NsrRbjAbBmr-itEitsyYgvKDW1BDX2nlvjqYConDnSUh2WLdreuWnKcAkXL4MW0BE4TdvAemM7oMQbeDH1NuKaW1fCGViemFpvgDE/s320/SAM_2344.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
And then I saw that damn ferris wheel. The Star of Texas loomed huge and FAR in the distance as I exited that final neighborhood and turned back out onto city streets. I had to get to that stupid awful wheel, and it taunted me in its hazy farness.<br />
<br />
I turned into a tunnel, oh sweet blessed DARK tunnel! If only I could curl into a ball and live there forever! Hidden from the torturing sun, that tunnel is the only thing I recall with any pleasure in those final moments.<br />
<br />
If Brendon and my brother hadn't been at the finish line, I would have just walked to it. Heck, I might have just quit. But I knew they would be there and that there would be cameras, and heaven help me if the documentation of this thing, The Finishing, showed me walking across. Many scientists would probably call what I was doing just really ugly walking, but I swear I was running.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTUrTR7YGV0_5TVMB9hF3zhg-JTrZrBcrxYkoknCbddto8kdM2G6N_Il5Qo_ICNq8JYjzG8i2PRqL6w8Z7n3d2uU2Y8VISqDdHLUiN9o_ZymNcPSQCMBW39v1BV-nuox8igXPnYacS3MQ/s1600/SAM_2345.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTUrTR7YGV0_5TVMB9hF3zhg-JTrZrBcrxYkoknCbddto8kdM2G6N_Il5Qo_ICNq8JYjzG8i2PRqL6w8Z7n3d2uU2Y8VISqDdHLUiN9o_ZymNcPSQCMBW39v1BV-nuox8igXPnYacS3MQ/s320/SAM_2345.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
And then it was over. Four hours and forty three minutes later, I was done. Mikers and Brendon collected the pieces of Shannon that were scattered about, drove them away from the race, and reassembled her to be cleaned and fed some Amy's Ice Cream back in Austin.<br />
<br />
I got my medal, I forgot to pick up my cool Finisher shirt, and I finished. It was extremely hot and windy and hilly, and I had no idea what it would be like to combat these things at miles 21-26. If friends and family hadn't done so much to cheer me on, there's a fair chance I would have never made it to the ferris wheel.<br />
<br />
If I'd actually gotten snotted on by that lady in the beginning, I definitely would have quit.<br />
<br />
It was rewarding for sure, but I had kinda thought it would turn me into some sort of superhuman athlete. But no, I can't fly, nor do I have a sixpack. In fact, all I have is a weird sunburn, a sense of accomplishment, and some soon-to-be-missing toenails. Not exactly Lance Armstrong material.<br />
<br />
Eh. Who cares. That delicious feeling of <i>I did i</i>t is still quite satisfying. Probably so much so that I'll never have to do this again.Muffy and Spencerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01853358070259563506noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470767554159338402.post-77709205846319908392011-04-09T07:36:00.000-05:002011-04-09T07:36:38.794-05:00Taper Madness and the Bidet Question<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidSMermpZt03cpJ0XMkA_QdFjfWq8qlzP15NaAmYrs2nCEE2oKV-R0DFbI8zT2JPniS663zrW2Jm6sGy74BSVF-iFlo_SuprvepBjeVDc-T8Ve-ZMyeUYjMmMicrY96DvDmaCPyN71A0s/s1600/couch-potato.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="304" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidSMermpZt03cpJ0XMkA_QdFjfWq8qlzP15NaAmYrs2nCEE2oKV-R0DFbI8zT2JPniS663zrW2Jm6sGy74BSVF-iFlo_SuprvepBjeVDc-T8Ve-ZMyeUYjMmMicrY96DvDmaCPyN71A0s/s320/couch-potato.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Wait, <i>what</i>? <br />
<br />
I thought that running was the whole point of this marathon business. <br />
<br />
But here I am in the last days before <a href="http://www.texasmarathon.com/" target="new">Big D</a> Day, and everything I read says I'm supposed to be on my bum more and more in these final hours. <br />
<br />
Is this like how some engaged couples suddenly sleep in separate beds the last weeks before the wedding?<br />
<br />
Or like being extra frugal right before vacation? Holy cow, I want to <em>splurge</em>!<br />
<br />
I jealously watched people on long runs this week on Town Lake. Trotting around the 4 mile loop just once was not what my system wanted, and I looked longingly at the nerdy packs of water and supplies the Distancers carried around their waists.<br />
<br />
I wanted to run up and grab their sweaty arms and ask, "How far are you going??! TELL ME ABOUT IT!"<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik3csBcnPc-ypQH2D5cJV3xeMsBnM3KAxQmzlcQjGhHyXjU-Z-B5deXCb2ES5v_haIpL_8OBsDpquMGF5SPFZlwB_eoKkztd6i8Ihkxp8hfhC81_R34LNgxWPKOeqDoKsg62deAIh5zL0/s1600/bob-strollers-300x287.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik3csBcnPc-ypQH2D5cJV3xeMsBnM3KAxQmzlcQjGhHyXjU-Z-B5deXCb2ES5v_haIpL_8OBsDpquMGF5SPFZlwB_eoKkztd6i8Ihkxp8hfhC81_R34LNgxWPKOeqDoKsg62deAIh5zL0/s1600/bob-strollers-300x287.jpg" /></a></div><br />
I think there were some babies in strollers covering more mileage than I. Ever been envious of a baby? Yeah, it's a strange new sensation. Muttering "damn baby" to oneself kinda makes you feel like a douchebag. It probably should.<br />
<br />
But now I'm starting to get the jitters. What if my muscles totally deteriorated within these few days of rest? Why couldn't I have just done one 10-miler this week? Will my legs really remember how to keep going for several hours tomorrow? AARRRRGHHH!!!<br />
<br />
I've gone to the gym to swim. This doesn't count as anything too physically demanding though; I paddle up and down the lanes with my face and hair well out of the water like the prissy princess that I am. Even the stoic elderly Asian lady in the lane next to me puts on a cap and gets fully wet for her water aerobics, as does the large-bellied Italian dude on the other side.<br />
<br />
So I princess-paddle until my fingers wrinkle, jump in the sauna to at least work up a proper sweat, and then head back to the office. I still don't feel like I've exercised, and all I can think about is running.<br />
<br />
I've got it. I've got the Taper Madness--the insanity that sets in the week before the race when you're allowing your body to rest (when you "taper" your mileage).<br />
<br />
Come on, I'm not even a real runner! This is not something I should be experiencing. The Taper Madness is for the <i>real</i> athletes; secret runners like me should enjoy this time on the couch.<br />
<br />
No. I've gone insane. And I didn't think there was going to be any relief...until my friends managed to give me a seated ab workout.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvQHpFRtzcX6RX76oTAtd5FmG3EjxcaEcP4UQMWK4cAxpPVj9waBg4sAab57Cdq_DZyFOTe_Td0yPdwBou1ObJ5VtqXxdoiHTeDVNHZi5KaUvyCwJqSkjcFTBTF-lIU2EbgJyyktcInqU/s1600/KohlerBidet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvQHpFRtzcX6RX76oTAtd5FmG3EjxcaEcP4UQMWK4cAxpPVj9waBg4sAab57Cdq_DZyFOTe_Td0yPdwBou1ObJ5VtqXxdoiHTeDVNHZi5KaUvyCwJqSkjcFTBTF-lIU2EbgJyyktcInqU/s320/KohlerBidet.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
This is the email chain I returned to at the office one day. I've given my buddies aliases here to protect them from implication in this slightly off-color conversation held from our various places of employment.<br />
<br />
And here's a brief background so you can truly appreciate the humor.<br />
<br />
<b>Babycakes</b>: Knows more about the English language and then general trivia than anyone I know. So when she poses the original question, it really points out how mysterious this bidet issue really is.<br />
<br />
<b>Lurv</b>: Works for AIDS Arms in Dallas and dedicated part of her life to teaching deaf students in Kenya. I know, pretty awesome right? Lurv has had more exposure to parts of the world and societies than the rest of us. Due to the nature of her current work she tends to know a lot about, um, sexual beliefs and practices than we do.<br />
<br />
<b>Redhot</b>: Historically asks the funniest questions. It is because of her that we looked up "sex waffles" on urbandictionary.com<br />
<br />
<b>Hot Dog</b>: Her nickname is Hot Dog, and that should be enough explanation right there.<br />
<br />
<i>Babycakes: Guys, why are bidets common in Europe and not America? For some reason a Google ad about bidets popped up on my Bed, Bath, and Beyond email, so this is not out of nowhere. I promise.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>Lurv: No idea...random! Haha. I can't say I've ever used one.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>Redhot: There was one in our hotel room in Montreal. It came in handy the morning I was hungover, but other than that, I had no idea how to use it. The faucet faced down, so how would that work?</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>Lurv: I think you fill up the basin or something?</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>Rehot: oooooooooooooohhhhhhhhhhh </i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>Babycakes: Hmmm. Clearly they don't work like I thought. However, I am too nervous about Googling at work. </i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>Lurv: I googled. Shall I copy and paste? I've definitely googled weirder things here. </i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>Hot Dog: HAHAHAHA </i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>K: It is generally understood that the user should sit on a bidet facing the tap and nozzle for washing the genitalia, and should sit with back to the tap and wall when washing the anus and buttocks. For a thorough cleaning, the user should use a hand to scrub the area with soap after wetting, then rinse. A dedicated towel or wipe is often available for drying.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>Thanks Wikipedia.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>Babycakes: Why can't you just wash yourself in the shower? I don't understand this separate device business. </i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>Lurv: I think it's for times when a full on shower would be inconvenient, perhaps. Do Europeans have bidets in public bathrooms? I haven't been to Europe in a long time. Unless you count the Amsterdam airport, which does not have bidets in public bathrooms.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>Babycakes: Unless you are a prostitute. I can see how a bidet would be handy in that line of work.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>Redhot: Wait. As a courtesy beforehand? Because I’m pretty sure that won’t help. I have a feeling Katie’s about to tell us.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>Babycakes: Or between clients. If I was a "john," I think I'd want that.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>Hot Dog: tears. tears.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>Lurv: Hahaha. I mean...if you're stankythebody.com and they always have a "strange but true" question and reguarly it's someone asking if they wash themselves immediately after sex if that can prevent them from getting HIV, or from people who are HIV+ asking if they wash themselves before if that can prevent it. Frightening</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>Babycakes: Who else has a gmail ad for basicbidet.com as a result of this chain??? LOLOLOLOL.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>Lurv: I have "Water wash in toilet $25 - install in minutes!" that includes video, basicbidet.com, shower soap ad and comfort clean bidet. Yes. And at the top an ad for energy efficient bidets. Awesome!</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>Hot Dog: I've got "Buy Bio Bidet Online!"</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>Lurv: Now I have ads for barn and fence paint, dairy farmers, "Mepron: Raise Milk Yields" and horse boarding and lessons. Wha? </i><br />
<i>And - whoa - this at the top: Cow Seras - Call 888-373-7601 for Free Samples - of High- Quality Fetal Cow Serum!</i><br />
<i>What.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>Hot Dog: hahahahahahaha. Lurv, i can HEAR you saying that. awesome.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>Lurv: Saying what, high quality fetal cow serum? Hahaha.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>Redhot: omg, I’ve been in meetings for an hour, and this was awesome to return to. I wish I had access to Gmail :(</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>Redhot: OH, p.s., the next email above this in my inbox is from Corporate, titled “Email Security Breach.” Seriously for a split second I thought the bidet/prostitute/disease convo had gotten me in trouble.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
And that was the conversation.<br />
<br />
Now my abs feel super strong from so much laughing, and I am no longer feeling like such a couch potato. Thanks, friends.Muffy and Spencerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01853358070259563506noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470767554159338402.post-87066164319591990642011-04-08T11:16:00.002-05:002011-04-08T14:57:14.837-05:00Ode to Bran<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjjKpT7NX8SF3RnKwUMGO_TIvNp112WqmuBuyVbR4nh3esqIWIawLKb65RrG_Q30D2d4_wC8oHFbFokx0wxU8RZ2TcTiN_e9ILdn0Ljkm8BQV-_uo1pZLE-pNzlnv1VZdEFXVan-0cK0Y/s1600/bran+muffin.BMP" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjjKpT7NX8SF3RnKwUMGO_TIvNp112WqmuBuyVbR4nh3esqIWIawLKb65RrG_Q30D2d4_wC8oHFbFokx0wxU8RZ2TcTiN_e9ILdn0Ljkm8BQV-_uo1pZLE-pNzlnv1VZdEFXVan-0cK0Y/s320/bran+muffin.BMP" width="320" /></a></div>O muffin, bran muffin<br />
my face you are stuffin'<br />
You're not like blueberry<br />
nor McGriddle-scary<br />
Nay, vaguely nutritious! <br />
(with fruit bits suspicious)<br />
<br />
You hide in the bake case<br />
with your pastry goods plain face<br />
And offer me choice<br />
o'er the cinnamon voice<br />
of those damnable buns<br />
(yeah you know the ones<br />
with their thick tasty frosting<br />
BIG calorie-costing)<br />
<br />
But I never did pick you<br />
and it's made me thick, true<br />
So today I begin<br />
to atone breakfast sin<br />
<br />
You don't look too pretty<br />
and your texture is gritty<br />
but your flavor's self-righteous!<br />
Have another? I might just!<br />
<br />
I ignore all the barbs<br />
from the elite Anti-Carbs<br />
and scarf you right down<br />
with nary a frown<br />
For you'll be the sweet engine<br />
of the race--did I mention? <br />
I'm running the <a href="http://www.texasmarathon.com/" target="new">Big D</a><br />
(yes, my senses reneged me) <br />
<br />
That distance sounds grueling<br />
But with bran muffin fueling<br />
I'll take on each mile<br />
With a branny bran smile<br />
<br />
So, muffin of bran<br />
let me tell you again<br />
you're all I've been needing<br />
for my morning-time feeding<br />
You're now my new favorite<br />
This breakfast? I'll savor it!Muffy and Spencerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01853358070259563506noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470767554159338402.post-83253323098201203392011-03-31T07:21:00.000-05:002011-03-31T07:21:54.479-05:00Zuul and the Supermoon<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsXXbs9JBstvaHdHlGGyx1mkd-ouA2_zT5opSSDTEGUqSR7R6Op9IOxyNXFEhI69vAr6mRrinAtu5LUFCIUMD9cAgnfOGVFgyCYPrvso5HpMIAJ4_8Pga6V6hw1Od1oawODSEW_I3BquM/s1600/there-is-no-dana-only-zuul-316.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsXXbs9JBstvaHdHlGGyx1mkd-ouA2_zT5opSSDTEGUqSR7R6Op9IOxyNXFEhI69vAr6mRrinAtu5LUFCIUMD9cAgnfOGVFgyCYPrvso5HpMIAJ4_8Pga6V6hw1Od1oawODSEW_I3BquM/s1600/there-is-no-dana-only-zuul-316.png" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Did you hear about the Supermoon?</div><div style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Yes, it was beautiful to behold the full moon when it was at its closest to Earth. But in retrospect, I wondered if there was more going on than just a lovely celestial spectacle. Despite the scientific <a href="http://www.livescience.com/13323-supermoon-lunacy-full-moon-myths.html" target="new">arguments</a> to the contrary, I think the Supermoon made us crazy.</div></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
I'll start with the hair crimping.</div></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2oc_LRrNemGjnMSodGz-Ayen7DOmP-NmILqg7Ca8w_6p3sB4wtkvIX3xHVstM_amPJyo1xrvBtasLVirxbbXH5cTDjw1bQSpmIdnup5bb-7kirwlQApXhbSE3VeSfY-OEISqHPiFL_9w/s1600/SAM_2253.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2oc_LRrNemGjnMSodGz-Ayen7DOmP-NmILqg7Ca8w_6p3sB4wtkvIX3xHVstM_amPJyo1xrvBtasLVirxbbXH5cTDjw1bQSpmIdnup5bb-7kirwlQApXhbSE3VeSfY-OEISqHPiFL_9w/s320/SAM_2253.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Yes, I busted out the crimper <a href="http://theclosetexperiment.blogspot.com/2011/01/sexy-grilled-cheese-diet-and-velvet.html" target="new">again</a>. The 80s Movie Anthem Singalong at Alamo Drafthouse was on my calendar for several weeks. So was a 20-mile run, but I didn't notice that they occupied the same day until, well, that day. And I did not realize this convergence of these events coincided with the full moon's super duper closeness to us Earthlings, either. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhknm2O0gu7a_50av6IJsyjMF32h4ZNds4_QKwAuT8iP1ZpwEZkVPbFSuoU8tOj1vRiVgOeXetAbAwsY7hgd8PjMLxbb74kU6jLbuj94MhvtCPpbxh3aPD4UtR3K3Lb4yPFHem0lZ9v45o/s1600/SAM_2254.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhknm2O0gu7a_50av6IJsyjMF32h4ZNds4_QKwAuT8iP1ZpwEZkVPbFSuoU8tOj1vRiVgOeXetAbAwsY7hgd8PjMLxbb74kU6jLbuj94MhvtCPpbxh3aPD4UtR3K3Lb4yPFHem0lZ9v45o/s320/SAM_2254.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Again, in retrospect, I should have. And not just because that day brought out such crazy extremes in me: both the exhausted remains of Post-20-Mile-Shannon, and the insane, crimped, dancing on stage to Huey Louis & The News Shannon. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">No, I should have known that there was something strange going on when I began to resemble Zuul earlier on in the week. Not Sigourney Weaver Zuul. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEior-XTGkgedT8M_wTiA7RZhUXjTr0BCdeLEdJwWRpz3GtHKXv86q2vEQ8NBVHBRSXa35K0UJE-QC3dXW3yPiFCWpu1PC82keeXWRe-LfM1U1iUbJNwCW8eyUmJj167SFE6Tap3MX0IykE/s1600/SAM_2257.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEior-XTGkgedT8M_wTiA7RZhUXjTr0BCdeLEdJwWRpz3GtHKXv86q2vEQ8NBVHBRSXa35K0UJE-QC3dXW3yPiFCWpu1PC82keeXWRe-LfM1U1iUbJNwCW8eyUmJj167SFE6Tap3MX0IykE/s320/SAM_2257.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><em>This</em> Zuul:</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><img height="72" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEior-XTGkgedT8M_wTiA7RZhUXjTr0BCdeLEdJwWRpz3GtHKXv86q2vEQ8NBVHBRSXa35K0UJE-QC3dXW3yPiFCWpu1PC82keeXWRe-LfM1U1iUbJNwCW8eyUmJj167SFE6Tap3MX0IykE/s320/SAM_2257.JPG" style="filter: alpha(opacity=30); left: 180px; mozopacity: 0.3; opacity: 0.3; position: absolute; top: 264px; visibility: hidden;" width="96" /> <br />
<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZu-gf1CxdfApelG-X8PXCgF2kQT6pMh3VlJ1GlsT8D9jxygsOTQjt4NOKeS9YK-Ioohg9YOCaKL_q-WbtLXFoXHwjzciRLX7mVULOMi7dzFGlkT8mbXw7iXtlLr__VwOj1nVw2LZMqIM/s1600/zuul-ghostbusters-terror-dog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZu-gf1CxdfApelG-X8PXCgF2kQT6pMh3VlJ1GlsT8D9jxygsOTQjt4NOKeS9YK-Ioohg9YOCaKL_q-WbtLXFoXHwjzciRLX7mVULOMi7dzFGlkT8mbXw7iXtlLr__VwOj1nVw2LZMqIM/s1600/zuul-ghostbusters-terror-dog.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">Do you ever experience that feeling? You know, where your evil twin is in control? I usually believe that it's due to lack of sleep or poor eating or dehydration. Yes, really, I think the biological basics get out of whack & render us unable to cope with the most basic of daily tasks. We cease to function properly.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">Zuul takes over. </div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">It's like suddenly being in the back seat of the Shannonmobile. I can see that I'm not the driver at all anymore, and I'm not really pleased with the route we're taking. Or the direction. But I remain helpless & just watch our collision course, knowing I'll have plenty of cleanup work when I return to driving again.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">Still, there had to be more at play last week. People all over the place were going nuts. Relationships were on the rocks. Coworkers were mad at each other. Horn usage in traffic was up by at least 50%.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">Brendon says my eyes get very dark when I am not the driver of the Shannonmobile. Later on, when I feel normal again, he says they look green & feels comfortable enough to laugh with me about...before. </div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">Ha ha ha, wasn't it so funny the way I tried to make lightning bolts come out of my eyeballs at you while I screamed about _______? </div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">(insert any useless, pointless, not-worth-screaming-about item here: the way strangers look at you, the way people pluralize everything by adding 's to words, the way your coworker laughs, leaving the seat up, putting inside-out shirts in the hamper, the ineptitude of the checkers at our HEB, etc)</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">Usually the Good Shannon hollers from the backseat that things are not going well. So I go to bed earlier, drink more water, have tea instead of coffee, and things go back to normal. Murderous rage is off the table; I take things in stride and can hear the birds chirping again. </div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">Not this time. I believe there was more at play this time. That's why it took 20 miles of running and then a really strange evening of dancing around in neon spandex with both friends and total strangers.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVfpdsBicgU0PtGttIbT6KSlviWImeFfO_k85uh1DhNKCoSUG5_y037JZfZtkdvGs7EOCE-h18jMMTLWP_JMCFsmOT5SQ9rca-ydy4Y8NRnizuerH7YONlZfzP-P3zAgsLaGczB-sxuvY/s1600/SAM_2268.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="cssfloat: left; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVfpdsBicgU0PtGttIbT6KSlviWImeFfO_k85uh1DhNKCoSUG5_y037JZfZtkdvGs7EOCE-h18jMMTLWP_JMCFsmOT5SQ9rca-ydy4Y8NRnizuerH7YONlZfzP-P3zAgsLaGczB-sxuvY/s320/SAM_2268.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">The next day, I was back in the driver's seat. And every single muscle felt the pain of what I had done. Mystery bruises showed up; did we take chairs to the stage as dance props when Flashdance came on the screen? I had to go to Allie Borsch's <a href="http://hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com/2010/02/boyfriend-doesnt-have-ebola-probably.html" target="new">Better Pain Scale</a> to rate what I was feeling.</div><br />
I think I was at her #4. My crimped hair and bruised legs limped to the coffee shop for a wake-up. There I walked through cigarette smoke, sat in crumbs, and listened to pretentious hipster music. All things that would have made me livid when I was possessed. <br />
<br />
But Zuul had left the building. I was happy. I sipped some coffee and smiled at babies and reminisced about the night before. The Supermoon was gone, and there was no Zuul, only Shannon.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPxXN3CdMZXr8N-sm8dLAUBrVf_34zmBwKrkROc7VWKf_R3WiAnpIPo2thjZ7edlQT_kt21ip4fsDXd-iACVlxkCZiQwgFcvJeHO_PmP2pxFoMc_BKAZEg0ZvkY9lBiJvCvJ05l7f9jYk/s1600/SAM_2298.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPxXN3CdMZXr8N-sm8dLAUBrVf_34zmBwKrkROc7VWKf_R3WiAnpIPo2thjZ7edlQT_kt21ip4fsDXd-iACVlxkCZiQwgFcvJeHO_PmP2pxFoMc_BKAZEg0ZvkY9lBiJvCvJ05l7f9jYk/s320/SAM_2298.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Muffy and Spencerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01853358070259563506noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470767554159338402.post-60558402988179208672011-03-23T05:43:00.000-05:002011-03-23T05:43:26.586-05:00The Simple Explanation<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhic9s4GTkEBj2H8x_M6Ce9MVuS-3BJiFcOZHaafwCEqDhFA22bI4CfiAd_Lcy71ccR-A1mnvCwh0e1ypfDUS7cO6btKwlyAwgu5UaC44PnSvkIlwf-LPCe2atvCIhUCHqY8k0QK6oSz0A/s1600/trash+can+sculpture+2008.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhic9s4GTkEBj2H8x_M6Ce9MVuS-3BJiFcOZHaafwCEqDhFA22bI4CfiAd_Lcy71ccR-A1mnvCwh0e1ypfDUS7cO6btKwlyAwgu5UaC44PnSvkIlwf-LPCe2atvCIhUCHqY8k0QK6oSz0A/s320/trash+can+sculpture+2008.jpg" width="250" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">When we first moved in, I thought the garbage men hated us.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It was particularly unsettling, because I in turn was extra happy about their presence. Having lived the previous decade in places where trash was escorted to dumpsters for disposal, I relished the thought of putting all our refuse neatly in a bin at the street for curbside pickup. How modern and luxurious!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I loved them. So their obvious hatred of our household really hurt my feelings.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">How did I know they hated us? I inferred. I gathered evidence and heeded the signs. Basically, they left us one article of trash every week, and I could only interpret this as a very clear, "You suck."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I thought maybe their dislike was due to the amount of trash we produced in those first few weeks. Between wedding gifts and moving boxes, we were putting a lot of wrapping and packing stuff at the street. When I came to collect our garbage can in the morning, I'd find one little leftover. Every single time.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">A piece of plastic in the bottom of the can. One little box. A discarded bag. Without fail, I was greeted with a piece of rejected waste every Friday morning, and it gnawed away at my homeowner self-confidence like nothing else.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">What was I doing wrong? How had I incurred the wrath of the sanitary waste committee? I obsessed over the situation week after week.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Until the morning I was out walking while the trash was being collected. Intimidated by their presence anyway (did they recognize me? Did they know who I was??) I walked a little more quickly. They rumbled past me, and then I saw something that stopped me in my tracks. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">A mechanized arm reached out from the garbage truck, picked up the next trash can, and proceeded to dump the contents into the truck. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">My trash service is robotic.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqwLgJNhaz4kh8jmDPnigBESZPaPUSSQTpvm-zkPFtQIk6N1pU2FmraGkmKmHmt5SSsPcJCZ91wzfGp0RVnmS2tJhcSMDvfNJw_zQH7Xf3IZGCspGwRuYns-dzySakZQd6XKfFwJjER78/s1600/Automizer+Right-Hand+hi-res+cutout.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqwLgJNhaz4kh8jmDPnigBESZPaPUSSQTpvm-zkPFtQIk6N1pU2FmraGkmKmHmt5SSsPcJCZ91wzfGp0RVnmS2tJhcSMDvfNJw_zQH7Xf3IZGCspGwRuYns-dzySakZQd6XKfFwJjER78/s320/Automizer+Right-Hand+hi-res+cutout.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Aghast, amazed, stunned, I stood frozen in my tracks, slack-jawed and wide-eyed. When on earth did this marvel of technology develop? Go go gadget trash collection! I began to count the number of years since I had lived in a place where trash is collected, and I conceded that such a technological development could indeed have taken place.</div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">But did others know about this? I glanced around to see if anyone else was watching this fantastic production. Nope. That lady continued to rake her leaves. That car at the stop sign had long since continued on its way. This was no modern marvel.</div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Not to anyone, in fact, not even children. I looked at trash trucks online when I got home (yes I did), and saw that this mechanical arm is the norm. </div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZnAAsFy81IrGoCXZ8cpzrVnvMVpxAbHPiWM9TN34nHkyvXj9_ULxl1KhNWcNUzXh8Hbnp4rMy5torWJdvJSimSbwRACsnJUkJrdpar-bl7ZVs70FEBYo91kAN6wWrEf5yyHzVlCm-IyQ/s1600/51sDz1qB2gL.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZnAAsFy81IrGoCXZ8cpzrVnvMVpxAbHPiWM9TN34nHkyvXj9_ULxl1KhNWcNUzXh8Hbnp4rMy5torWJdvJSimSbwRACsnJUkJrdpar-bl7ZVs70FEBYo91kAN6wWrEf5yyHzVlCm-IyQ/s320/51sDz1qB2gL.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It's so commonplace that it's on children's toys.</div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Amazed, I stared out the window and snapped photos. You realize what this means? The trash guys don't hate me. They're not being catty when they leave me little leftovers from my own trash. <i>They</i> aren't doing it at all!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpBX4jXV9sTdemwwy7GD6m15UwMYoh9Sks1lMpynH1v7FdB4ZxwJlqI5gdc3V-3daOk6T9TWw6cmyLQnU6iTn93R_v_-Viz8osiVOv6574z0GDRqojA027Xo1AacjFqGwXxkRn-DR8WQ4/s1600/SAM_2184.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpBX4jXV9sTdemwwy7GD6m15UwMYoh9Sks1lMpynH1v7FdB4ZxwJlqI5gdc3V-3daOk6T9TWw6cmyLQnU6iTn93R_v_-Viz8osiVOv6574z0GDRqojA027Xo1AacjFqGwXxkRn-DR8WQ4/s320/SAM_2184.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It's just a by-product of that mechanical arm; if something doesn't fall out of the can, it simply <i>remains in the can!</i></div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I made up this huge situation and filled it with anger and guilt and drama, and it was all explained away with one robot trash-collecting arm. I laughed at myself and resolved to apply this to life more often. </div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Quit reading into things so much. If you pick up on some undercurrent of negative feelings among people, chances are you're making it up and it can all just be traced back to a robot trash-dumping arm. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpBX4jXV9sTdemwwy7GD6m15UwMYoh9Sks1lMpynH1v7FdB4ZxwJlqI5gdc3V-3daOk6T9TWw6cmyLQnU6iTn93R_v_-Viz8osiVOv6574z0GDRqojA027Xo1AacjFqGwXxkRn-DR8WQ4/s1600/SAM_2184.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
</a><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN1cANkMsNfvjeRhV8zKRSSOAN5oSvtdZ5_Y5TeRG67GhyphenhyphenwjldvANiytWqI_6IPmXc7qVKJhryxpIxOKW9-YKaIFZoONhiPHAE1svl6FCieJc9egdHPiqbA4v24wBNx042L_9Cz9KAlxU/s1600/SAM_2185.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN1cANkMsNfvjeRhV8zKRSSOAN5oSvtdZ5_Y5TeRG67GhyphenhyphenwjldvANiytWqI_6IPmXc7qVKJhryxpIxOKW9-YKaIFZoONhiPHAE1svl6FCieJc9egdHPiqbA4v24wBNx042L_9Cz9KAlxU/s320/SAM_2185.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>Muffy and Spencerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01853358070259563506noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470767554159338402.post-13539178703789979862011-03-19T15:53:00.001-05:002011-03-24T21:12:41.618-05:00Best-Kept SecretIf I'd have known that Town Lake was going to be providing me with running snacks, I probably wouldn't have bought those secret-pocket running shorts the <i>real</i> runners seem to love so much.<br />
<br />
I classify them as "real" because I have not yet joined their ranks. I am an impostor. A poser. Perhaps even a ringer, because while I don't look like it at all, I can officially run 20 miles.<br />
<br />
Oh yeah, that's right. Twenty miles this morning on Town Lake, and I went home in my own car (not an ambulance). And I am an impostor/poser/ringer because no one would ever guess that I were capable of such a thing by just looking at me:<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-vxLjh3qpammuueL4f8VqKShqULOpRvElizdX6tWQvgwYweKIxziJwgEHZVjd8gJnjrb-JfooQRhiTIE1FEGuskkzh-DXYQmrxxeI7OVzsn6CGK7yy4F7UsYw_WPl1BOvCav06M8T7YI/s1600/SAM_2241.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-vxLjh3qpammuueL4f8VqKShqULOpRvElizdX6tWQvgwYweKIxziJwgEHZVjd8gJnjrb-JfooQRhiTIE1FEGuskkzh-DXYQmrxxeI7OVzsn6CGK7yy4F7UsYw_WPl1BOvCav06M8T7YI/s320/SAM_2241.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">yeah...I don't hear the Rocky theme playing when I see this person either</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The <i>real</i> runners are lean, lithe, with either cool haircuts or gorgeous bouncing ponytails. They zoom past me on the lake trails, sometimes inspiring me with their speed. But mostly they intimidate me.<br />
<br />
You can even tell who they are in public. Runners just <i>look</i> different. Were they born that way & happily fell into their life role at some point? Or has running made them look the way they do?<br />
<br />
I hope for the latter, because I think it would be cool for someone to ask me if I run...to not respond with an eyebrow to the hairline when I explain that I'm prepping for a marathon (I'm not trying to boast; I <i>have</i> to tell people. Otherwise everyone thinks I'm pregnant when I don't drink and go to bed at 7:30pm.)<br />
<br />
But people do not ask me if I run. It is my body's best-kept secret. The Shannon who runs is stored somewhere deep inside the Shannon who enjoys beer and chocolate, and beer/choco Shannon wins in the struggle to control what shows up on the outside. My butt stands as testament.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxaR7_jB4byXuIsFXyTPW7OynjqwJZtxph34pfduOItSqZcgbwQcStJpdx_xXf_TKHj8dRR9dngYVD1ZMeeAPdhDycd5N1I1qAm3RNm93XkajL4cJIvLGVOz5B3E3tpxZhTHUq7TubLO8/s1600/110937_dt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxaR7_jB4byXuIsFXyTPW7OynjqwJZtxph34pfduOItSqZcgbwQcStJpdx_xXf_TKHj8dRR9dngYVD1ZMeeAPdhDycd5N1I1qAm3RNm93XkajL4cJIvLGVOz5B3E3tpxZhTHUq7TubLO8/s320/110937_dt.jpg" width="276" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">CLEARLY a model for Title 9 and not my actual midsection. I just want you to see the shorts.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Which is kinda why I think it's so great that my secret-pocket shorts allow me to store snacks in a pocket right above my butt. There it is perfectly concealed; what's one more Larabar stored among that which has been created by so many other delicious snacks? Some ladies stopped me on the trail to ask me where I got my shorts, and in a rush of adrenaline I shouted, "TITLE NINE, THEY'RE <b>AWESOME</b>, THEY HAVE POCKETS <b>EVERYWHERE</b>...I HAVE A <i><b>GRANOLA</b></i> BAR IN HERE!"<br />
<br />
They quickly scurried away. I'm sure I was just a vision of sleek athleticism there at mile 16 and it was too much for them to handle. Or maybe they were hurrying to the store to get their own awesome shorts. I didn't care. I was kinda delirious at that point.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQWgGr4c_I00MK9jKwQtGznZr-BodO2C-UemHvBApN48HebhfhNEZLB9bUJxutPRN7gBxRBYPQm-0rFZ8Pn6rozJ3783Ceez9XwFqoq7t9x99pVYfeZfL4zRMOmrbyJbNdkB7FLCy9_Fc/s1600/SAM_2245.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQWgGr4c_I00MK9jKwQtGznZr-BodO2C-UemHvBApN48HebhfhNEZLB9bUJxutPRN7gBxRBYPQm-0rFZ8Pn6rozJ3783Ceez9XwFqoq7t9x99pVYfeZfL4zRMOmrbyJbNdkB7FLCy9_Fc/s320/SAM_2245.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My dear, sweet friend.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Because while I was still only at mile 16, I was at Advil #3. So I was feeling pretty...interesting.<br />
<br />
Not that I like the fact that little pills are helping me to achieve my goal, but after the horrifying knee pain I began to experience 3 weeks ago, I'm willing to do what it takes to make this marathon happen.<br />
<br />
What it <i>really</i> takes is just a little bit of confidence. In the shoe store, that is. I showed up at RunTex to get my second pair of shoes, and this frighteningly harsh Russian lady approached me. She commanded that I take off my shoes, determined that I had a low arch, and put me in a pair of Brooks. It felt like there were little bubbles under my feet in the place where normal folks have an arch.<br />
<br />
Moronically, I <i>still bought them</i> and proceeded to run in them for a week. After that, I became best friends with ice and Ibuprofen. I tried to swim and cycle and pretend like I would still be able to do the marathon, but I was pretty sure I was just going to die.<br />
<br />
Brendon stepped in to end my melodramatic self-pity and just told me to return the shoes and stretch some more. So I forced the evil shoes back on the shoe store (um, a different location where nobody scared me) and bought a pair of even more gigantic flat-footed-folks shoes, which I got nice and dirty today.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0AVcpFdXf1uISHxu0ezkwpXCJNhBqxyCPsSfhA_dxDmsAG7_f5YPS51icGPGm2GdzucJLi9XT5EBzThZA1zGHFiKWFtZdStS83M_AyGmOGtO5oQWoIYSHVYQ0fUGDYQEs6M0RyPwhE3w/s1600/SAM_2242.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0AVcpFdXf1uISHxu0ezkwpXCJNhBqxyCPsSfhA_dxDmsAG7_f5YPS51icGPGm2GdzucJLi9XT5EBzThZA1zGHFiKWFtZdStS83M_AyGmOGtO5oQWoIYSHVYQ0fUGDYQEs6M0RyPwhE3w/s320/SAM_2242.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Look at all that space in the toe box...perfect for long alien toes!<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br />
</span></span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>What I had a hard time with today was the snack issue. See, <i>real</i> runners say you have to eat every 90 minutes or so when doing a long run. They also say you should drink Gatorade. While I know it tastes good, I just don't want to drink something that is the same color as my workout shirt. That just can't really be healthy.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdTL6TVtBOJgxSp7fXZDrjLiLVQBNDiDbu34uoOJ2_5UmVYLaIVE4YEkUILCqX3dfcQMwlQ7DHDVFcmH7eRZ2iQxgNNcm1RJuSVEJ3SDakskmTxwLNVXhyI5Rbv642nFa-GwRdY32ync8/s1600/blog+gatorade+bottle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdTL6TVtBOJgxSp7fXZDrjLiLVQBNDiDbu34uoOJ2_5UmVYLaIVE4YEkUILCqX3dfcQMwlQ7DHDVFcmH7eRZ2iQxgNNcm1RJuSVEJ3SDakskmTxwLNVXhyI5Rbv642nFa-GwRdY32ync8/s320/blog+gatorade+bottle.jpg" width="148" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj35Vy8WcRFxa9qRTRROdBgUijx1dZS6NfriM_iriyJvQupIzRCH3XA8gnU-a8VBL0tdpAaKG2S6GVh8VjbfZ7JrPZ0mCcU3u5IGR1jRDrUCqQqAdTFCwZAHbn0qUACjZXSqoYwhJkh7Vw/s1600/4cf78e3d-85be-48ef-a440-2b3b3ad9e422.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj35Vy8WcRFxa9qRTRROdBgUijx1dZS6NfriM_iriyJvQupIzRCH3XA8gnU-a8VBL0tdpAaKG2S6GVh8VjbfZ7JrPZ0mCcU3u5IGR1jRDrUCqQqAdTFCwZAHbn0qUACjZXSqoYwhJkh7Vw/s320/4cf78e3d-85be-48ef-a440-2b3b3ad9e422.jpg" width="263" /></a></div><br />
And the snack thing? I wonder if that is just for <i>real</i> runners who have nothing on their bodies to burn. I'm carrying around what we might call a nice amount of excess & wouldn't really mind if my body chose to consume it to get to the end. Plus it's really really hard to eat while running.<br />
<br />
I did bite into the Larabar at mile 17, just because I was scared of what would happen if I didn't. But like I said before, Town Lake provided us with snacks back at daybreak...with a million f-ing little gnats.<br />
<br />
And what I don't understand is why they weren't bothering the <i>real</i> runners. They were all over <b>my</b> eyes and nose and mouth, so I ran miles 3-7 waving my arms around my face like I was on fire. I must have swallowed enough to make up a Larabar or two. Which is probably why I never got hungry.<br />
<br />
I did start to fantasize about pink lemonade. I mentally took back everything nasty I've ever thought about Gatorade too. I wanted a tall, cold, sweet drink. With artificial ingredients. Mmm. I wanted donuts and Country Time and waffles. The healthy crap I've been eating was very very far from my mind.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEMqTeXyubQeWY_lI_R5IwMGa3yTRRycP4vu2_wi_R8nbC_z03sT82KP-VkOd6n5Wu7qDSnxpQD8bnfReTXNWfHauRH92slCa0NUPJQjOogbgPaqmp6AJ3euNH3N43UK60yk9FwX10MDQ/s1600/SAM_2246.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEMqTeXyubQeWY_lI_R5IwMGa3yTRRycP4vu2_wi_R8nbC_z03sT82KP-VkOd6n5Wu7qDSnxpQD8bnfReTXNWfHauRH92slCa0NUPJQjOogbgPaqmp6AJ3euNH3N43UK60yk9FwX10MDQ/s320/SAM_2246.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shannon, eat us! Don't give in to Yellow #5. It's us and gnats that will make you look like a runner!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>And then it was over. I almost stopped someone in the parking lot to tell them that I had did it, because I was quite giddy. But it's <a href="http://sxsw.com/" target="new">SXSW</a> this week in Austin, and all the cool hip people that were gathering were just happy to fight over my coveted parking spot. So I drove home to stretch and feel victorious.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAsiY_2gHr6nVn9qUQBI3oWjC_dzTGGy5fbrsYVPAxCOj7gF173fyuEi-c5AqXACbF82Tz-QcN_0kj9zhZ5eS3ld8EesMSlANULoAlPOzlxzxDn8wHAZag-MKogu99kS69wmAwWcPZehQ/s1600/SAM_2247.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAsiY_2gHr6nVn9qUQBI3oWjC_dzTGGy5fbrsYVPAxCOj7gF173fyuEi-c5AqXACbF82Tz-QcN_0kj9zhZ5eS3ld8EesMSlANULoAlPOzlxzxDn8wHAZag-MKogu99kS69wmAwWcPZehQ/s320/SAM_2247.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">V with your feet is for Victory</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
It really was gratifying to lay on the ground and gaze up at my worn-out feet. The dust ring where my socks had been looked like stripes I had somehow earned.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzElKcLDZ-Et6hh2RZ5YHTxu2na8SB5ijI7REDA0iQjdd1u7w7l49NTFV8lSNQoGekAYZlTUSJw3TmD17WnVGK_ie3Gwb5nAz2y_9Uz90avDkANM-ETKGtfwoZe25xm16doKcnWxbMyus/s1600/SAM_2248.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzElKcLDZ-Et6hh2RZ5YHTxu2na8SB5ijI7REDA0iQjdd1u7w7l49NTFV8lSNQoGekAYZlTUSJw3TmD17WnVGK_ie3Gwb5nAz2y_9Uz90avDkANM-ETKGtfwoZe25xm16doKcnWxbMyus/s320/SAM_2248.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br />
I wasn't even mad at all the laundry and mess I'd left around the house. Just...happy and exhausted. And almost unable to get up from my mat. That Advil #3 was wearing off. I crawled into the shower before its effects were so diluted that I'd have to call the Fire Department to wash my hair for me.<br />
<br />
That might be a good fantasy...if you're not smelly and dusty and unable to control most of your muscles.<br />
<br />
The big thing here is that now I know I won't have to get Brendon to help me cheat at the marathon in a few weeks. Oh yes, we talked about it. He offered to drive me from the start to the end if I didn't think I could do it...that way I could still save face with my sweet and supportive family/friends.<br />
<br />
But I'm okay. They say if you can run 20, you can run 26.2. I'm going to believe They.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3w2WYpPiXTiLQhJuRyCYff-dAssa7biCQpCp-fXRMybmPtmeRDgtGchKL06GolJGEmtZx-8xaXddstkvFcVxRNdL80ADBc_W1YxwUoJCiIJf354AVlCp26_-wbkgRuezbY3z_AXoZMC8/s1600/SAM_2250.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3w2WYpPiXTiLQhJuRyCYff-dAssa7biCQpCp-fXRMybmPtmeRDgtGchKL06GolJGEmtZx-8xaXddstkvFcVxRNdL80ADBc_W1YxwUoJCiIJf354AVlCp26_-wbkgRuezbY3z_AXoZMC8/s320/SAM_2250.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I believe They. Even if I feel like this after 20 miles.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
And after my breakfast of gnats and choked-down Larabar, the most delicious thing in the world sounded like...salt. And bananas.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUKg9NRmJDRBnk5TcJ5MUVwbqk5nxnRgX04wf4jrvkbt0ygjDVutjEBp6iosHyEY6PzGYOaU_cQHNq9ULgf4QHEdg0B336TEZTLBo7Mq5yZHYE-MRjvoXhosM3wawcWwnK701IAcMHgFQ/s1600/SAM_2251.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUKg9NRmJDRBnk5TcJ5MUVwbqk5nxnRgX04wf4jrvkbt0ygjDVutjEBp6iosHyEY6PzGYOaU_cQHNq9ULgf4QHEdg0B336TEZTLBo7Mq5yZHYE-MRjvoXhosM3wawcWwnK701IAcMHgFQ/s320/SAM_2251.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br />
So I answered that craving with salty bananas. No, I didn't consume crazy runner food or drinks with <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e1fKzw05Q5A" target="new">electrolytes</a>. Remember, I am a poser. I may be a runner, but it's my best-kept secret.Muffy and Spencerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01853358070259563506noreply@blogger.com1