Spring, It Sprung!


Happy Spring!

Did it surprise you?
It surprised me.
I saw it coming, but then I kind of missed the spring-eve anticipation, and then this morning WhAm! It's Spring.

You'd think, with no less than three calendars hanging in just one corner of the Bird House, I would be up on these things. Our calendars mostly say : Robotics. Go to... robotics. Meet for... robotics. Take dinner to... robotics. Make reservations for... robotics.

So, signs of spring must be elsewhere... let's see...


Hmmm... we cannot get enough.
I took almost every post I ever wrote about robotics and put them all in one post, so that it is like a massive Robotics index for Chickenblog. It was pretty much a nightmare trying to make the code work, because I am pretty much an amateur when it comes to code. But I keep trying.

And Maria... she's learning code. Look at all the words she is writing. Her writing skills are springing! I love our message board.

But, spring is outdoors. Right? Nature. So, outside I went, in search of the new season.


Ah, the morning light, the glistening dew. Here is spring. In the flowers. In the air.


And I saw the calla lilies, and Chango reposing in the garden bed. I thought how idyllic and good nature is, how lovely the forms and lines, the rhythm of the new day. And I was totally getting poetic and reveling in the nature high, and this seemed like a good time to photograph Chango. He was there, still and content... what a perfect opportunity to capture the essence of spring.

But.
Nature.
Nature is brutal.
I mean, come on... poetry, and dew drops on lilies... it's real nice, but nature has all kinds of plans and devices.
I'm just saying...


Chango?
Chango, what are you... ?
Nooooo!
Don't eat nature Chango, not spring. Not the very emblem of cute, fluffy-tailed baby spring.

Okay.
Go back inside everyone.
Come on.
Spring is inside.
Let's go.


Blinded by grief, I point my camera in all directions, looking for something lovely to erase the graphic nature of events I have witnessed. Pictures of my ranchero boys. Happy memories of springs past, elotes, beseros, y sombreros. My thrift shop find, a sleek red handbag... perfect for no occasion I am likely to enjoy, but I like the possibility.

Then, salvation. Bill is sending me real life nature pictures. Action shots from Soquel-Cal, where the dear and the antelope play. The dear are my nephew and niece, Dominic and Marissa.


Ah, Nature. Here is Nature. At the lumberyard and garden center.

Thank goodness.


Bill says these reindeer are pretty wild, like buckin' reindeer. Seriously. You have to hang on for eight seconds. Don't get bucked off.

I'm telling you, Nature is brutal.
And spring, spring will spring on you.
You gotta be ready.
Just sayin'.

You're probably thinking I am trying to "look busy," just because Geoff says "Before we go to robotics, we should clean."

Spring Cleaning.
Brutal.

Never Give Up, Never Surrender


When I put those words on Chickenblog, in my profile, it wasn't because I am chronically optimistic, or whole heartedly ambitious, or even particularly perky. For me, Never give up, never surrender, is more than a great movie line... it's a great reminder of what I am striving for. I want to be resilient and daring, I want to overcome obstacles and navigate rough water. And when I lose my way, or get knocked down, I want to believe that those words will rise in my mind, and spirit, and get me on my feet again. I need support. I need encouragement. I need affirmations. Left to my own devices, I am a bit too attracted to feh and meh.


This has been a bad week. Not fatal. Not devastating. Just bad, which is not good. Know what I mean? Hmmm... just admitting this, actually makes it seems a bit better... less bad. Cool.

I was in the yard yesterday and from our bedroom upstairs, I heard Maria's rescue me now cry. I bolted in to the house and flew up the stairs. And even though I was flying, somehow I managed to tear the thingy that makes the calf muscle stick to the thing, which is in my leg... not sure if it was the gastrocnemius or the soleus. I am quite certain it was the one that lets you freely put your own weight down on your leg, which I can longer do. My leg screams at me, then goes floppy. Maria fell though a chair that broke, and scraped her back. Between my wincing and her crying, we were quite a pair.


Geoff is not working one hundred hours/week, and we are all getting reacquainted, which is good, but not as easy as it might sound. Post-crunch mode is always a bit of an adjustment, a combination of recovery and realigning. And now we have a secondary and almost equally consuming project... a little something we call Robotics!!!! Man, I love robotics. Man, do I need a robotics break. Mostly though, I love robotics. Geoff is logging some serious hours as programming mentor, and you may have noticed I have added my unique, sincere, amateur touches here and there. Anyway, our family-domestic Bird House Rhythm is kind of on hold, which is not easy. It might help if there ever was a Family-Domestic Bird House Rhythm, but whatever, it will happen. Right? It's not too late. I am really hoping it's not too late.

Okay. What was my point?


I am taking the high road. My complaints and laundry list of bad week evidence are done. I will leave the rest unsaid. I am going to accentuate the positive. I am going to make that leap of faith, and believe that if I do not give up, if I do not surrender, that we will be alright. We will find the way to heal, and to grow, to learn, to make do, to feel good, be good, and do good. Affirmations, jokes, hugs, band-aids, faith, sweat, Lexulous, and signs of spring... those blossoms of hope, love and courage... those are what I am going to focus on. Maybe especially Joe's nose. Look at it. It makes me feel better already.


Flowers are blooming, even a rose. Betty is happy. The cats are alive, and they are happy too. The children keep working, and learning, and making me proud. Geoff found the Tylenol. Delia and Ron will be in Vegas. William was offered a paying job, from his good work at his volunteer job. Alex recognized Japanese words and phrases when we watched a movie in Japanese. Max makes awesome wishes. Maria is writing and reading words (her own name, Max, Izzy, love, and more). The rainy season is mostly over and the leak in our roof didn't get too bad. Good stuff. Yup.

Funniest Great White Chicken With Dreadlocks


Yes, the "funniest," "great white" "chicken" with "dreadlocks" was reportedly seen wearing "snake stomping boots" at the "Chicken Blog Worst Mommy Blogging Contest." Anyone feverishly searching for these key phrases may, or may not, have found everything they were looking for here, at Chickenblog.

Other key phrase searches include:

"Star Wars Lego People"
"Chicken Polish" ( the breed, I hope, and not a cleaning product)
"Fall and Can't Get Up"
"Fairies"
and "Sparkle Me Clean"

I think anyone searching for "dreadlocks" or "sparkle me clean" had to have left sorely disappointed.

Have you guessed? I decided to dance around in the blog stats... a mine field of ego crushing numbers and facts related to how many people read the blog, where they come from, what they like, and what they were actually looking for.



Staying Long?
No wonder there are so few comments. 83.3% of visitors to Chickenblog stay less than 30 seconds.
I guess it doesn't take long to figure out that I am not going to help anyone 'sparkle clean.'

Building a TreeHouse?
Oh. I bet people are hoping to get treehouse tips, not realizing that these posts are about our days renting a house that was surrounded by trees, where we felt like we were living perched in a treehouse.
Sad note... the landlord built his Tuscan dream home there and took out every single beautiful, mature, lovely tree. It looks like somebody dropped stucco on Isengard.

Chcieken
Huh?
Just kidding. I could never harass someone for misspelling chcieken. I misspell chieken every single time. Ironic, don't you think? So, if you are looking for chieken, then welcome!

Dude, change your thesis.
Who was trying to score information for their term paper?
"... related studies and literature of a roasted chicken and who discovered the roasted chicken"
Let me help... I may have a few servings of Roasted Chicken literature:

Shakespeared: From roasted chickens we desire increase,
That thereby dinner's rose might never die...

John Rooster Milton: A good roast chicken is the precious lifeblood of a blogger spirit.

Mary Hen Shelley: It is a farce to call any roast chicken virtuous whose virtues do not result from the exercise of its own seasonings.

Shockingly, there are very, very, very few people who come around Chickenblog looking for information on robotics, or building robotics, robotic competitions, or what to wear to a robotic competition, or how to get to a FRC.

Why Tuesday?
This post might not be read by anyone. Tuesdays are the busiest days, with the most visits to Chckinblog Chickenblog.


Maria wrote her name. I do not know who wrote the quote, but I find it applicable and comforting.

I'll see you tomorrow.

What? These Ol' Things?

I'll pretend to be coy... My kitty-kitty shoes? You like? They're just something to slip on when I am pussyfooting around.


Here kitty-kitties, come to mama.

Oh, yeah. Had to have them. I saw them at Happy Zombie's house, and then I traipsed over to Calamity Kim's place and sure enough, there they were again.

Meow!


I hope you can adopt a pair too. With any kitties you bring home there is a period of adjustment... they were a bit tight across the top of my feet. Monica, is that why you removed the strap? But, beauty hurts, as the saying goes, so I wore them for a little bit at a time every now and again, and I find they are loosening up and getting comfortable. I know that when Nikkipolani brings home kitties, they get the best, and Aunt Carol would give them her utmost love and devotion too.

It's funny. Most places I go, I am like the invisible woman. Quiet. Low-key. Mousy. Dressed to kill mildly irritate. But the kitties they Meow and whenever I take them out on the town, they turn heads. It kind of throws me off-guard, when they call attention, purring like they do. They get a lot of compliments. Many, many comments and nods of approval.

Tara, if they came in Chicken I'd faint.

If they came in Maria's size, she would leap, fly and slide down a rainbow.

January 20-Something


Very cold.
Well, not "very" compared with all points east and north of here.
But for us... very cold.


Between storms.
Between loads of laundry.
Between drop-off and pick-up.


After Christmas.
Before Geoff's birthday.


Raindrops on roses.
On unpruned roses.
Roses bright as the sun that is not shining.
Raindrops and puddles and mud,
and roof tiles all over the lawn.
Raindrops on the bathroom floor, below the leak.


Betty layed leid laid lathed left gave an egg.


After school, before homework is spread across our table, we will indulge in a Betty-Brownie confection,
so I must remember to grab some milk at the market.
And I must remember to bring Pepper's Ghost to William.
And I must remember to file one more school bulletin announcement for robotics.
And I must remember to... hmmm... something I've already forgotten.
I must not forget to take the brownies out of the oven.


I am so far behind in the list of forgottens, that lately I have felt like raising a white flag.
I surrender, I cry.
Because I suspect that I am in over my head.


It's going to rain again.
I am not sure the shelter over Betty and Joe's house is going to make it through the next storm.
Did you hear there were tornados in California?
Betty and Joe could have wound up in Oz.

Yeah. Now I am just avoiding.
I know.
Back to the laundry.

Bare Root Season
Oh the fruits. The fruits. The miraculous fruits. Last week we paid a visit to the nursery, where they had signs posted announcing the imminent arrival of stone fruits and other bare root trees and shrubs. Roses too, but I already have more than I can handle there. Of course *having more than I can handle* does not instruct me in an appropriate course of non-action... no, I have too much going on and I am taking on even more. Because the fruits, oh the fruits, the miraculous fruits... they have arrived and they want to come home with me!


If the gophers could read they would be as eager and excited as I am, but I have plans to foil their feast. Back when we were Jolly Green Ranchers I learned that tight wire baskets dropped in the planting hole kept vicious pocket gophers from spoiling all our fun. Even here, the battle of the gopher is still being fought, with deadly accuracy I am happy to add. Baskets are right now being assembled. Many hands make light work... such a lovely truth.


Such a lovely barrier. One more screen at the bottom and we will keep our trees safe and sound.


Alex and Maria were with me at the nursery and were we ever astounded at the variety of trees and plants. The delicious possibilities are greater than I had hoped. Pear, three apple varieties, several plums, an apricot, and nectarine, pomegranate, persimmon, and figs. There were also cherry trees, varieties of berries, including blue, black and rasp.
Mouth watering.


Mom and I have discussed grapes, and I will be on the lookout for those too. In the meantime our family is weighing the options, discussing the merits of each choice. Apple and cherry are the two favorites, and Maria would very much like to have a "black apple tree..." she was eager to bring home the tree with the picture of a dark, luscious Santa Rosa plum as soon as possible.

It's too drizzly to prune the roses, a task that keeps facing delays. At least I have some heavy gloves and fresh lopers. The drizzle is not keeping us from digging holes though. Five holes are ready for those baskets, and when Geoff and I figure out where else we want trees, I think we will dig more holes. A lot of fruitless, dull, water sucking shrubs are going to have to make some kind of appeal to me or face the axe.


Poor Benjamin. As though fancy hooded rats aren't torment enough, now he has to be on the lookout for the gopher he fears dug this hole.

We Need to Ratify a Pet Policy

It's not that the children are obsessed with adopting kittens, bringing home stray dogs or raising llamas. It's their mother. Lord help us, their mother is the weakest, silliest, most pagan (from Latin paganus, meaning "country dweller", "rustic"), farm-wishingest citizen in suburbia. And if this post does not turn away lurkers and readers alike, well maybe nothing will...


Here is Benjamin Franklin Thunder-Cat. He is a bad kitty. It says so on his passport. He gets nippy and scratchy. He thinks he's toilet trained. He is not. Maria knows I call him my furry baby. I also call him beast, monster, and Woodgie-woodgie love muffin. He is more than enough pet for any family. And yet we have another cat and a hen. We had a parakeet, but he got wise and gave us the slip. Easy come, easy go. I thought about getting Maria a fish for her birthday, but I resisted.

Just because I resisted buying a gold-feeder to swim in a bowl of water, does not mean I have good sense.

I am the weakest, silliest, most pagan (from Latin paganus, meaning "country dweller", "rustic"), farm-wishingest citizen in suburbia.

And I am a rat wrangler.


Meet Pepper, fancy rat and nose wiggler.
She is curious. Scurious. Sweet and docile and fun to watch.


Hello Polly.
Polly is timid, sweet and docile. She loves to take her lunch in to her hut with her.

Pepper and Polly are my Winter Solstice gifts to the children, who all agreed that Maria's class rat, Cheddar, was great fun to have over for a weekend visit. When I tell the story I emphasize the children's love and fascination with the cute, scampering critters known as "fancy rats." But the children tell it another way... affectionately, a bit warily and with humor they say, "Mom, you're crazy, you know."

At least Gretchen gets it. When I was debating my impulse, she came on board all the way and said that rats are great pets. She wistfully recalled a childhood practically overrun with pet rats. When she said she and her sisters had twenty-one rats, well I felt positively sane for only wanting two. And she is right. Rats are great pets. Easy to care for. No biting. No barking. They like to visit and explore, but are happy too in their modified bird cage.


Benjamin agrees... Oh, never mind. Who cares what he thinks?


Meow.
What?
I love rats.
They're delicious.

No. The real experts are little girls. Izzy and Maria know a fun pet when they get their hands on one.


And just before Christmas, when little girl excitement and energy was at a high watermark, Izzy and Maria were tickled pink to take turns loving and feeding and holding Pepper and Polly.


Rats give you the giggles.
Their tails wiggle and their whiskers tiggle.
(sorry :: poetic license)


"Soft voices" and "gently" were the words of the day.


The "Ratty-Rats," that's what Gretchen calls Pepper and Polly. Izzy called them Polly-Holly and Peppermint, which I thought was awfully clever.

tap-tap-tap... hello?
Is anyone here?

Hmmm.

Either they've all rushed to their local pet shop, because they see what fun we are having, or Chickenblog is being cut from blog lists everywhere.

Come back. We don't bite!

It's Monday and We Are Not Late!

Sometimes gratitude can strike in a really basic kind of way. Like when it's a school day and I am sleeping and then I wake up and for just the briefest painful second I think: Gah!! We're late and the universe is conspiring against my happiness and comfort! And then the suffering subsides, because it's not a school day, and we are not late. Even sweeter... the air temperature is less than 80 degrees and there is a nice breeze.

I wasn't sure what I was going to post about this morning. I haven't been taking very good photographs lately and the ups and downs of California real estate have still been the dominant and mysterious theme in our lives, so weak material there... Or is it? Okay. Okay. So, in the latest installment of In and Out Blue House, on Friday I got fed-up with the particulars of what was being asked of us and feeling abused, and it made me so tense and cranky that I snapped at Max. Stop. I literally stopped my car and said, "Enough already. This house business has me so worked up and turned around that I cannot even function, to the point where I am misdirecting my anxiety at my very awesome son." So I called the appropriate parties and told them I was done, that I refused to go forward under the current conditions, and that nothing would make me cave, weaken or turn around on my decision to bow out from the negotiating. It meant I was willing to let go, which was hard, but living with the cranky-mean-sad-anxious stuff was worse than releasing.

It took some of the pressure off, but it made for a long weekend too. I think it was a good choice. We had reached a place where we were negotiating for almost the same thing, but it was getting out of hand in the details and expectations, and we could not surrender our rights and dignity any further. Monday morning net result: They agreed. And we agree. As I have done a most excellent job of not documenting all the ups and downs, you cannot know how many times this has fallen apart and been repaired and fallen apart again. They agree and we agree, and if they sign the latest paper work and then we sign it, then I might actually be prepared to say, "It is done."

Some people know more details than have appeared in Chickenblog, and I know they have expressed concern that 'maybe we should walk away, that maybe the Blue House is a house of Blues.' I think everything is going to be fine. Better than fine. The hardest part about this process has been Geoff's diligence and the best part of this house buying process has been Geoff's diligence. We liked the house enough to make an offer, but we had to be objective enough to protect our assets. Then we had to pick the house all apart and find out every last flaw, every loose board and leaky pipe, so that we almost did not like the house after all. Then we had to determine what we could do to make the house good... what could we fix, how would we fix it? We called in more experts, got more opinions. We got realistic... I think it's like falling in love... in the beginning it's all romantic and "yes-yes-yes!" and then you start to see the bigger picture and it can be scary and you might want to back out and there are misunderstandings and first fights, but a point of maturity and acceptance is reached, when you know the good, the very good, the bad, the ugly and it's okay, because you know what is reasonable and you appreciate the whole package.

Do I make any sense at all? Basically, we know that Blue House inside and out. I have loved it and cursed at it. I know what's right about it, and I know what's wrong with it, and I still want to live there. And as I have always reminded myself, being in our own home will not be the answer to all of life's problems, it will not cure every ailment... I know this. I am just looking forward to having something new to whine about. tee hee

Now. What do you think of Ruth's hibiscus? It's one of dozens of the cheeriest and most healthy flowers ever, growing on the shrub outside her living room door. Her own living room door, the one attached to her own house. The house she is moving in to right now. She found a comfortable and pretty house, near to all, with convenient places to walk to and the world's friendliest neighbor cat.


Hello Kitty.

Tigger is like a purring, furry welcome wagon.


Gratitude:
I am thankful that we have we do not have to go to school today.
I am thankful that we all got to see Ponyo together!
I am thankful that my Mommy is here and that we can laugh and cry and laugh again.
I am thankful that we may have more company soon!
I am thankful for playground fun.


I am thankful for the view of the sky full of thunderheads.
I am thankful for twelve dollar chairs.
I am thankful for my ride, my hardworking and dependable Odyssey.


I am thankful for finding an old friend.
And new friends.
For friendly cats, for fig trees.

Don't Tell Geoff

I am silly. Geoff knows that. I am silly to confess my weaknesses and big secrets here on Chickenblog. I don't know why I do it. Is it good for the soul? Do I need to open up and spill my deepest thoughts? I guess so, 'cause here I go again.


See my apron? See the big pockets and the wrap around the back fit? This apron is amazing. It has powers. Powers I cannot explain. I know it's the apron, because clean-up skills have never been mine to boast of. So the power is this: When I put this apron on, I get things done.


Shhhh!
If Geoff catches wind of this he'll fly to Michigan and beg Missy-Spring Bean Thing to sew six more. A fresh and cleaning potent one to wear every day of the week.

So, shhh.

When I put this apron on, I get things done. I collect odds and ends in the ample pockets. I worry less about staining, tearing, soiling, mussing or messing my outfit of the day. I am reminded that someone was generous and friendly and really sweet to send me such a nice gift, and it makes me smile, even if I am scraping cheese from dinner plates or collecting stiff socks from the four corners of the living room. Superman has his cape and Wonder Woman has her lasso. I have my roomy, comfy, cheery, big pocket apron, and it is super.


Chango says, "Lady. Open the door already. Then change the litter, fill my food bowl, get the bed made, file those papers you left on the floor, and lose that goofy grin."

May 19, 2002.... May 19, 2009 And More Where That Came From


In honor of the official blogiversary day I am opening with a particularly ordinary picture of our cat, Benjamin Franklin Thunder-Cat. Between making PB & J sandwiches and putting on a bra before taking kids to school, I grabbed my camera and captured morning time at Garage Mahal. I can think of a number of captions for Benjamin's look. I think it is obvious that his breakfast did not impress him. Maybe flash photography in the wee AM is unwelcome.


Gilbert, on the dining table. I see Alex has been adding more paint to his frog in progress. He is using acrylic paint. I think he's smart to take his time about laying down his colors. I tend to want to see things all done, so I rush or worse... I give up. He has a lot going on as the school year winds down, and when he's in the right state of mind he takes another pass at finishing Gilbert. It's looking good.


And what have we here? I see my baby, my Netbook, and Geoff adding some features for Chickens Abroad. Weeks ago he decided we cannot traipse around Europe without GPS. His order for satellite maps of Europe finally came in and he's just beginning to fine tune the whole operation. Is it just me, or do you find that software and new gadgets rarely, if ever, work like they are supposed to? The first time? Straightforward? Without upgrades and calls to Bangalore? In this picture we see Geoff looking for driving directions from Apeldoorn, Netherlands to Köln, Germany. It sorta worked, if you want to include instructions from Garage Mahal! Glitch. Geoff is a relentless, never give-up, never surrender problem solving Geek. It will work.

Let's take the camera outside.


Oh Fantam. Poor girl's gone broody. She won't leave the next box. Not much any way. Most days I find her all ruffled and nesty and patient. She will have to be very patient. It took Betty a long time to realize nothing was coming of her weeks on the nest, and I guess Fantam will figure it out too. I apologize to them, to my family and to our neighbors: I really did think we would be in a real house, with a real yard before the chicks became louder, messier, needier big, fat hens. As much as I wish we could put a couple of fertilized eggs in there, I finally do know better. BTW it is not always fun to "know better."


When was Mother's Day? I hesitate to open the calendar and confirm that these plants should be planted by now. The children chose these lovely specimens to revive the fairy garden. Plants and backyards are not the only thing neglected around here. Sigh.

I started this little post this morning and now it's a quarter after 7... nighttime! I have not accomplished 10% of what I set out to do. Max was in a school play and thankfully I did get to see that. The school lady (she could become a feature character in Chickenblog, like the landlord amalgamation we call "GaryBob.")... so the School Lady takes a long look at Maria and says, "Well, Mom have you registered this one for kindergarten?"

$#!* I'm sorry. But seriously. Where does the time go, and why do these things catch me off-guard? Kindergarten? The baby? And it doesn't help that the School Lady just gets under my skin with her nosy-know it all-bossy front desk throne attitude, so you know she gets my rebel up. Just saying.

The day flew by. Four and half years with Maria has flown by. Seven years blogging has gone Mach 9, and here I am caught off guard.

The best thing to be said for any anniversary is that if I am noticing an anniversary, if I am remembering or celebrating or looking back, or just breathing a sigh of relief, then I can be thankful, because I am here, alive. There's a chance something good is about to happen. At the very least I can look around and appreciate flowers and paintings and love and opportunities and kind words and big plans.

Thank you for reading Chickenblog. Have a nice night. Talk to you tomorrow.