Tuesday evening, I had a skin and spa gathering at my house where people could come over and be pampered. Our faces were washed, masked, toned, lotioned, and treated beyond belief. Our feet were soaked, scrubbed, and softened. Our necks were massaged. It was pampering at its finest.
Which is good, since I spent the previous two days cleaning in preparation and was worn out.
Honestly, the idea of having gatherings at my house gives me mild (OK, moderate) panic attacks. Because it really does require that much prep work for me to feel comfortable with having people over.
Now, don't get the wrong idea. I'm not lazy. I clean. Everyday. For large portions of the day.
I swear.
It just doesn't show.
Probably the most frustrating aspect of my life is the fact that no one would ever guess how hard I work on my house because I have five little people who can destroy much faster than I can clean. So, NO JOKE, I may clean something and come back, oh, say TWO SECONDS LATER and it looks like someone slaughtered an animal and left it there for five years.
So gatherings at my house are always preceded by frenzied cleaning. And threatening. Because the threatening is the only thing that ensures it will stay clean.
Yesterday morning, realizing that I had pretty much ignored my children for two solid days (except for the threatening) while I cleaned my house, I decided that we should do something fun together. So I took them to one of their favorite parks for the morning. Then I gave myself permission to lay down for a little bit in the afternoon before having to make dinner and run off to soccer practice for the evening.
In other words, I didn't clean yesterday.
When I woke up this morning, I just about wanted to cry. Two days worth of work had disintegrated Just. That. Fast. And it took me a good portion of the day to get it (mostly) back. Then, I spent the rest of the day making salsa.
I'm whooped.
In less than two weeks, I'm hosting a book club at my house. And Noah's birth family is going to try and come for a visit a few days later.
Would it be wrong to lock my kids in their rooms until the end of September?
I may have mentioned it once, or twice, or 500 times in the past, but I have a slightly obsessive quality to my personality. It is one of the many traits that I'm pretty sure my husband wouldn't mind medicating out of me. But he's an insurance agent and HA HA! taking psychiatric medication is a quick way to raise your insurance rates. So he has to put up with my obsessive, anxiety-ridden self just the way I am. Secretly, I wonder if he thinks Obamacare isn't really such a bad idea after all.
The funny thing about obsessiveness is it can pop up in the strangest ways. The most recent one, undoubtedly (and obviously) was entirely Sean's fault. After all, you just don't tell a woman that you think the dog the two of you have owned since you were newlyweds is dying.
First, NO, my dog is not dying. She's not even sick. As a matter of fact, she's still more than happy to go barking through our woods at night until she, the entire neighborhood, and (sadly) my house all smell of skunk.
I suppose then she IS close to dying because I just want to kill her.
But she is getting old. This spring, she turned eleven, which is definitely hitting elderly for a 70 pound dog (although I don't see grandma and grandpa sneaking out of the nursing home at night to chase skunks). This summer, her age really started to hit her. There is no denying that she is slowing down. And for me? That is the beginning of the end. Especially when you consider that my other dogs are ten and eight years old.
So my husband points out that the coon hound is getting old, and suddenly I'm holding three doggy funerals in my mind.
Last week, while casually searching the dogs in our area, I came across a basset hound named Cooper in a shelter about 45 minutes from my house. He was described as two years old, house trained, and good with kids. And he was BEAUTIFUL.
I wanted him. I knew I couldn't have him, but still. I wanted him.
After a few days of checking the shelter's web page and seeing his picture there every time, I got a little worried. By the end of the week, I made a little deal with myself (one that I determined I just wouldn't tell my husband about). I decided to call the shelter and find out whether or not it was a no-kill shelter. If this guy's life was in danger, I would find out how long he had and, if he didn't find a family, I had every intention of swooping in at the last moment to save him. I'd figure out the rest of the details later.
Luckily for my husband, it was a no-kill shelter. No date was set.
But still, every day I checked. And I imagined this poor, beautiful dog sitting in a small metal pen and wishing he had a family to love him. Several times a day, my heart broke.
Yesterday morning, I emailed this to my husband:
I followed that email up with this, in case "you lack an imagination as much as you lack a heart":
Go ahead. Push play, close your eyes, and imagine the dog singing it. I dare you.
See? I'm very persuasive.
Or, as he put it, "You are sooo wrong."
And people, at that point I renamed that dog Louis.
After taking my basset obsession to Facebook, a friend told me that she had called the shelter and was informed that Cooper/Louis had been adopted. My husband rejoiced and forbade me from going back on PetFinder.
Later, as we talked about Cooper/Louis, he expressed complete confusion at my desire. After all, he reminded me, we already have three dogs.
True. We also have five kids. Obviously, we have established that I have a real issue with setting limits. Beside, hadn't he seen the picture? Those ears! And those soulful eyes! And, need I remind you? He can sing Negro spirituals! What's there to understand?
Today, I went back to the shelter's web page. Cooper/Louis was still there. Throughout the day, I kept checking back. And he kept being there. Finally, around 4:30, I couldn't take it anymore. I called the shelter.
"Yes, I was just wondering if you still have the basset hound, Cooper?" (I didn't tell her that his real name is Louis.)
"Oh, Cooper JUST left the building," she told me. "But we have several basset mix puppies!"
I thanked her for letting me know and got off the phone.
Up to this point, I have refused to even consider the idea of naming my chickens. The realistic side of me knows that I should keep them in the "livestock" category, as opposed to the "pet" category. Pets have names. Livestock don't. And I never want to be in a position that I need to ask myself whether or not I can handle eating Tinkerbell. Besides, other than telling apart the breeds, most of my chickens aren't identifiable as individuals. But now, one of them has a name.
What's that?
It's Pat.
People, I have a chicken of ambiguous gender. About a week ago, I noticed that one of my Easter Eggers seemed different from the others.
Quick detour to talk about Easter Egger chickens. When I bought my chicks, they were identified in the catalog as Ameraucanas, a breed known for its blue and green eggs. Because they were developed from a variety of different breeds, they don't have the consistent look of other breeds. The three chicks I received developed into a light brown bird, a white bird, and a black, white and gray bird.
And then, when the issue of the ambiguous Ameraucana came up, I started poking around on the Backyard Chickens website. And I found out that NO! I don't have Ameraucanas! I have Easter Eggers! And I had darn well better call them by their right name.
Obviously, there is a very important difference between the two breeds. And I think it can be summed up pretty easily--the people who own REAL Ameraucanas have a giant stick up their a...natomy (possibly related to having paid more for their chickens to get them from "reputable breeders"). Oh, and the Easter Eggers have green legs. Which mine do. Mystery solved.
Based on some of the comments I saw by REAL Ameraucana owners, I'm convinced that some of them wake up in cold sweats at night, suffering from post-traumatic stress induced by some horrible childhood 4H experience, and screaming, "NO! IT CAN'T WIN! IT HAS GREEN LEGS!"
But, don't worry. My inexpensive mongrel chickens still lay green and blue eggs. Or they will. Assuming they are female.
Of course, none of this got me any closer to figuring out the gender of my chicken. And why was I confused (especially when they were all sexed at the hatchery and are all SUPPOSED to be females)? Its legs seem thicker. It seems more aggressive. It holds its tail higher. And it has a very noticeable comb developing, while my other two don't.
My first attempt at solving the mystery via the BYC website had me 95% positive I had a rooster. Someone said that a thin comb meant a hen, a "three lined" comb meant a roo. All of my other chickens that have noticeable combs have a single thin line. This one has a wider, three-lined looking thing.
Easy peasy, lemon squeazy.
Then someone else mentioned that Easter Eggers (and Ameraucanas, if you are keeping score) have a pea comb, not a single comb. So they will ALL have a three-lined looking comb.
And that theory went out the door.
I wondered if the fact that it is holding its tail higher than the others meant anything. Then I saw pictures of mature Easter Egger hens--holding their tails up.
Bust.
And then I noticed a feather on its tail.
Do you see it, right there at the base? A single, green, iridescent feather. Surely, iridescent feathers mean a male, right?
Someone on BYC said she had Easter Egger hens with iridescent feathers.
Apparently, Easter Eggers are hard to sex just by looking at them (and I'm not going to go poking around in the less obvious areas, since the hatchery may not have had any success there, either). More than one person said they were SURE they had a rooster--until it started laying eggs.
So I watch. And I wait. And I warn my four-year-old that the chicken that he had already claimed as "his pet" may have to go away (see, I was smart to not let him name it).
And I consider writing a "children's book" called Pat the Chicken. Conceptually, it would be somewhere between the children's classic, Pat the Bunny and the Saturday Night Live classic, "What's that, it's Pat." It would be the tragic, semi-autobiographical tale of a transgendered chicken. Can you imagine the money I would make? You can bet it would be required reading for every kindergartener in Maryland.
No, I am not going to get political. Especially since, while I SHOULD be able to manage a rational discussion about Proposition 8, I just can't think about it without imagining the ex-LIL* in an Elvis jumpsuit. Or was she the polyester pimp? Either way, my exposure to same-sex marriage is not, um, dignified. And is very highly emotionally charged. So, we're not going there.
Anyhow, I've been too busy today obsessing over my chickens.
A couple of nights ago, we finally made the big move. With only painting left to do on the chicken coop, we decided there was nothing preventing them from taking up a new, roomier residence and giving us back a basement that didn't smell like a barnyard. So, with much less chaos than we all imagined (both of my parents made me promise, repeatedly, that I would not move the chickens until they were present--with cameras), we picked the chickens up one at a time and put them in the coop.
And then, it got hot. Not just your regular Hey, it's August! hot. No, we're talking smack you in the face, sweat pouring down the back (especially with my genetics), for-the-love-of-all-things-holy-please-make-it-stop HOT. Heat advisory hot.
Kill the chickens hot.
And since the coop is done, but the run is not, the chickens are stuck in a building with no air conditioning.
Panting.
Drooping.
Leaving me neurotic and feeling like an evil schmuck.
I almost brought them back in the house this afternoon to cool off until the weather broke. Then a thunderstorm came. And the weather broke.
Then, it got hot again.
So, I spent most of the day trying to maximize airflow in the coop. And filling bags full of ice to put on the floor of the coop. And putting partially-frozen vegetables in for them to eat. And giving them ice water. And misting them with cold water.
Somebody help me.
Tomorrow, though, should be better. Don't get me wrong, it is still going to be hot (although about five degrees less than HOT, apparently). But I have two new tools in my arsenal.
First, I am freezing a couple of gallon jugs full of water to put in the coop. But not just in the coop--oh no. I have a plan.
My chickens are getting a wading pool.
OK, well it's really just a shallow Sterilite container (the good people at Sterilite really should advertise on hatchery websites--their products can be used for everything from brooders to chicken wading pools, I know). So, I will spend my day periodically refilling the tub with cold water and ice so my chickens can cool their little piggies (and, by extension, theoretically, the rest of themselves).
And suddenly, I'm ready for Autumn. (Schools coming unbelievably fast, anyway, so why wait?)
*Ex lesbian-inlaw (as opposed to ex-lesbian inlaw, which could have potentially led to a happier end to the story). If you haven't read my blog for long, understand that my feelings about her do not reflect my feelings about any group as a whole. Period.
No, I normally wouldn't find any resemblance between a weasel and my father. But I couldn't help humming that song to myself yesterday afternoon as I watched his head popping up and down through the roof of the chicken coop as he was putting it on.
Have I mentioned how awesome my father is?
Well, he is. Awesome. In a major way. We asked him if he would be willing to help Sean build the coop. Instead, he has done almost the entire thing on his own.
Have I also mentioned how fun it is to have a father who recently retired? He hasn't figured out that he is supposed to slow down and relax now that he isn't "working."
Of course, the rest of us have been putting in our contributions here and there. For instance, this is what my mother and I have contributed:
I'm not concerned by the fact that the tile pattern doesn't stay consistent (we actually finished it off with a third type of tile). The fact is, it is just going to be covered with pine shavings and chicken poop. But I'm hoping it will protect the wood and make things a little easier to clean.
We're hoping to have things to a point where we can move the chickens into the coop by the end of the week. Because, honestly? That's pretty much what they are, now. CHICKENS. And it was one thing when I had some cute, fuzzy chicks peeping in my basement. But now? I have livestock in my house.
