The Winiferd Family Leaps into the '80s: The Dishwasher

I'm generally pleased with the house Ian bought before I ever came into his life. It's sturdy and cozy and isn't a McMansion, so it's my type of house.

The only real problem I had with the house was the lack of a dishwasher. It's 2012, man. Where's the dishwasher? 

I first suggested the idea of a dishwasher last Christmas, when my parents offered to give us one as a joint Christmas present. However, I hemmed and hawed over the expense and logistics of it.

Ian remarked, "It doesn't take that long to wash dishes by hand."

Thus, we declined the offer. And of course, dirty dishes were always there, never-ending piles of dishes, a rancid, festering landfill of perpetual trash and garbage.

Our kitchen counters

No matter how much you wash the dishes (and I hated washing dishes), when you lack a dishwasher, that crap is always there. Fast forward one more year:

Laura: "My parents want to know what we want for Christmas."

Ian: "I don't know. I can't think of anything."

Laura: "That's good. Because we're getting a dishwasher."

Ian: "It really doesn't take that long to wash dishes by hand..."

Laura: "We're getting a dishwasher. My dad's going to rip out the cabinets and put in a dishwasher. That's what we're getting." 

Ian: "Sounds good."

My dad did indeed rip out the cabinets and install a brand-new dishwasher. I looked into his kind face afterwards and truly saw Santa Claus. Or maybe God. A dishwasher god.

Don't tell anyone but the dishwasher is currently my favorite family member.

What true love looks like

Obsessions So Far

I was warned I'd encounter many a food obsession. Pregnancy cravings, if you will.

Hasn't happened yet.

Here are the bizarre things I have obsessed over in the past few months:

1. Dog toys.

Holy crap.

The day before I took the pregnancy test, way back in early September, I suddenly proclaimed that poor Winnie had zero nice toys to play with, which was obviously dog abuse, and we needed to run to Pet Smart and purchase new toys.

And not just any dog toys. We needed the knitted stuffed animals from the Martha Stewart Dog Toy line, and we needed them now. Because the dog is abused. Look at her. She's miserable.

A skeptical Ian gave me the side-eye: "You're pregnant."

I felt that such a statement detracted from the issue at hand, which was HOLY CRAP, WE NEED NEW DOG TOYS.

We headed to Pet Smart where I purchased a knitted squirrel and a pink rabbit. I cradled them in the car and lovingly handed the polyester pair to Winnie at home.

Winnie, of course, beat the ever-loving shit out of them.

After watching Winnie attempt to destroy both toys, I hopped online and surveyed the Pet Smart website to find when the latest batch of Martha Stewart dog toys would hit the shelves. Because, I don't know. I was really into dog toys.

This obsession has calmed slightly, mainly out of financial necessity.

We probably need to spend money on diapers and car seats rather then the holiday boutique of Martha Stewart dog toys. Although the penguin wearing the snow hat looks awfully tempting...

2. Animal Planet's "Too Cute" television series

We don't have cable nor do we watch much television. I stumbled upon this show while playing around on Youtube one evening waiting for Ian to arrive home from work.

I watched the whole series on sloths before moving on to kittens and then puppies.

Ian calls this show "pregnant woman porn."

There is really no educational value or story line or depth to this program. "Too Cute" consists of gratuitous footage of kittens and puppies eating, sleeping, and playing and, well, that's it.

You wouldn't expect "Frontline" levels of education from a show called "Too Cute," but even I'm amazed at how much of this show I can watch.

Ian: "After about two minutes, I'm kinda done with this thing."

Laura: "Man, I can watch six hours of it."

3. Paint Samples

For the nursery.

I went stark raving mad one Sunday and announced we needed to determine the color for the baby's room. Immediately. I hate baby colors, especially pink.

I decided we needed to paint the room turquoise, since it's been scientifically proven to be the best color in the universe. Ian agrees.

Our bedroom is dark turquoise, our kitchen floor is medium turquoise, and the baby's room will be vibrant turquoise. Check the color wheel; those classifications of turquoise exist.

We haven't done a damn thing towards actually making the nursery, but we have the paint sample and thus we have made that gigantic leap towards the responsibilities and maturity of parenthood.

This Means War

Shit got real this past weekend. We lost two more chickens. That's three birds in less than three days.

I hesitate to reveal which ones because: 1. I obviously think my four readers consider the Winiferd family superstars and will thus sob profusely, and 2. one of the chickens who died actually was a superstar.

That's right. The predator took Janathan Fuzzy Proctor. He also took Hester Prynne.

Jane

Hester 

Baby Jane. Sniff.

Baby Hester, our shy one

It all started on Friday night. Winnie began barking at around 3:00 am. I sleep like the dead and barely noticed. But an irritated Ian tossed Winnie out of the bedroom, thinking she was barking at the cats.

In a less sleepy state, I would have instantly realized something was amiss. Winnie was barking aggressively, which she only does when something is wrong.

At around 3:30 am, Winnie began barking again. I decided this meant she needed to go to the bathroom (What? I was sleepy), so I leashed her up and groggily led her into the front yard. Winnie lunged frantically against her leash, trying to bolt to the backyard.

I picked her up, placed her in the yard, and commanded her to use the bathroom. She used the bathroom. Then I dragged a still-frantic Winnie back towards the house.

By the time we reached the carport, Winnie had grown wild. At that point, I got nervous. I made the most logical assumption one could make in that situation: an axe-wielding, homicidal maniac was in the backyard (WHAT? I was sleepy).

I scooped up Winnie, dashed inside, and locked the door. Winnie and I trotted back into the bedroom.

Ian: "Did Winnie bark?"

Laura: "Yes. She kept lunging towards the backyard."

Ian: "Something's probably after the chickens!"

Laura: "But... I thought it was homicidal maniac. With an axe. [Did I mention I was sleepy?]

Ian scrambled outside, while I fretted over homicidal maniacs.

He returned several minutes later and announced, "No more Hester. And no more Jane."

Bye bye, Janathan 

Hester in the middle of her siblings, always the calm one

Hester Prynne

We think it was a raccoon because it dug underneath the cage to grab the chickens. And we think the raccoon, knowing the chickens' whereabouts, kept coming back for more. 

Laura: "I feel like our chickens are 1940s Jewish refugees, and the raccoons and foxes are the Gestapo."

Ian: "Marjorine's writing a diary."

The next morning, we pronounced war on the wildlife. We dragged one chicken coop into the barn and dragged the other chicken coop directly beside it on the outside of the barn.

The indoor coop

The outdoor coop

Ian cut out out a door and fashioned a walkway between the two coops. 

Ian: "The chickens have a bathhouse. We're going to learn which ones are secretly gay."

Laura: "And Republican."

Marjorine and Sal inspecting the walkway/ bathhouse 

The chickens have access to both coops during the day. At night, we close off the walkway so that they spend the night in a cage inside the barn for double protection.

So far, it's worked. We hope we've thrown the predator for a loop.  

So we're down to four: Sal, Marjorine, Polly, and Caroline.

And to the area wildlife, we formally issue the following statement: Go to hell, motherfuckers. The war is on.

Where in the World is Polly Chickenheimer?

Ian and I keep running into interesting adventures with our newest flock of chickens. And when I say "adventures," I mean, "Dude, these things keep dying."

First, Jessup met his fate and went to that big chicken coop in sky. Then Maybelle did the same thing. Except we weren't fully responsible for Maybelle's demise. That honor goes to some crafty fox or raccoon.

We were two down from our original four. And then, on Thursday night, Polly went missing. Ian had let the chickens out of their cages to play in the yard while he used the weed-eater on the edge of the property.

He never saw a single dog, cat, hawk, or other predator descend upon our chickens. The chickens played merrily, running in circles and squawking.

When Ian finished weed-eating, he discovered Polly was missing. Ian and I searched and searched for Polly. Late afternoon turned into evening, and we had to break out flashlights.

Polly is our fastest and most cunning chicken. She likes to play games of hide and seek, roosting in tree branches and hiding in dark places. She's our friendliest chicken by far.

Also, Polly is bald on top. Either Jessup or Maybelle pecked her poor little head bare.

Being the sort who enjoys formal names on animals, I gave Polly the full name "Pauline" when I named her. Because Polly by itself is just too informal for a chicken, you know? Pauline gives her some dignity.

Polly's full name is Pauline Baldy Chickenheimer.

Ian and I enjoyed singing Polly Wolly Doodle to her. I delighted in calling her "Polly Wobbles" and "Polly Pockets." Polly Wobbles was feisty. We had grown attached to her, bald spot and all.

So when Polly went missing, Ian and I felt distraught.

Laura: "Polly's idol was Amelia Earhart. I bet Polly was building a secret plane. And she finished it this afternoon and flew off. I bet she wanted to be the first chicken to fly across the Atlantic. You know, in a plane."

Ian: "Aww. That makes me sad. I'll miss singing Polly Wolly Doodle to her." 

Laura: "I'll tell my blog readers she's flying around the world, so they won't feel sad. I can make a special column."

Ian: "It'll be like Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego? Except with Polly Chickenheimer."

Laura: "We can Photoshop her into exotic locations."

Ian and I went to bed that night still feeling upset about Polly's disappearance.

The next morning, we awoke to Polly back home in her cage.

Ian: "Ms. Chickenheimer is back in her cage this morning. It's an X-File."

Polly is remaining mum on her whereabouts.

Perhaps she flew to the Hair Club for Men headquarters to try to fix that bald patch. Or perhaps she flew to Buckingham Palace to take tea with the Queen.

I'll let you know when she gives us the scoop.

Here are Ian and me serenading Polly with Polly Wolly Doodle. Ian plays banjo, I provide vocals, and Polly makes a special appearance. 

We had a bit of camera trouble so it sounds like it's playing through the old phonograph.

Watch closely. 

As soon as I finish singing of a chicken, "who sneezed so hard with the whooping cough; he sneezed his head and tail right off," Polly sneezes violently, spraying me with bits of corn and sludgy brown goo. 

Well played, Ms. Chickenheimer. Well played.

When John Became Jane

The chicks have grown into small chickens. And, well, what we thought were newly-developing rooster noises were really just your average chicken noises.

And John Proctor's spur was actually his extra toe, Silkie Bantams having an extra toe and all. (Interesting side-note: Silkie Bantams have blue feet, bones, and skin. Ours has a delicate blue face and crazy blue feet).

And what we thought was growing into a giant rooster forehead was actually a giant Silkie Bantam Afro.  

And what we thought was John's protective rooster nature was actually a Silkie Bantam's inherently gentle and caring nature:

"Silkie Bantams are a fantastic breed for individuals who enjoy birds that are docile [and] good with children. They make excellent mothers."

Silkie Bantams, called "the lap cat of the chicken world," are darling creatures. And Ian and I had no idea what we were dealing with, so we stupidly called John a rooster.

Well, John's a girl. We now call her Janathan or Jane or Janie. Her full name is now Janathan Fuzzy Proctor. We have 100 percent girl chickens.

It's a huge relief because after dealing with Jessup Hush'up, we worried that Jane would grow into a crowing nightmare and we'd have to get rid of her. And neither of us wanted to get rid of her.

If it had come to that, we'd have given her to my parents who live deeper in the country and could get away with a crowing rooster.

Fortunately, our Janie is a girl. She's the smartest of the chickens by far.

Ian will pull off old tree bark and give the grubs to the chickens, who gobble grubs the way I gobble chocolate pie. Jane's the only one with the smarts to go to the bark itself and pull off the grubs directly.

She's also the only one who runs straight into the hen-house when a loud noise or movement spooks the chickens. She runs directly to safety, while the others run in ridiculous, flapping circles.

The Sad Finale of Maybelle 

Then there's Maybelle. Poor, poor Maybelle. Maybelle was one of the four chickens we acquired a couple of weeks ago.

One night last week, Ian slept fitfully.

He kept thinking he heard the distant sound of chicken screams but decided he was suffering from your average poultry-induced anxiety.

At the crack of dawn he headed outside and found that a fox or raccoon had pulled Maybelle from her cage.

Ian followed a trail of white feathers into the neighbor's yard where he spotted some of Maybelle.

The fox had scurried off with as much of Maybelle as he could carry, for Maybelle was a big, fat chicken.

Maybelle in happier times

Ian woke me up to tell me. As he recounted the story, we both giggled because we're horrible people

Laura: "Did you remove the piece of Maybelle from the neighbor's yard?"

Ian: "No, I left it there."

Laura and Ian: <Giggle manically>

Our original 5 babies are doing well. Janathan is the obvious favorite around here, but my second favorite is Marjorine:

Ian's second favorite chicken varies between Sal and Bernadette:

Sal

Bernadette 

Ian has nicknamed Bernadette "Goldie," while I've been trying to enforce the nickname "Birdie."

Hester Prynne is our quietest chicken. She hangs back during playtime in the yard. She sits quietly and watches the others run in circles and flap their wings:

A reflective Hester 

Spottswood plans to knit Hester a sweater with a scarlet letter "A" embroidered on it. 

Neither Ian nor I attempt to hide our favoritism towards Jane. I coo, "I love you, Janathan!" every time I pass the hen-house. 

The blatant favoritism has probably traumatized the others so we're arranging intensive therapy for Sal, Bernadette, Marjorine, and Hester.

And we're arranging some modeling gigs for this sexy thing:

The Sad Story of Jessup Hush'up

The Tuesday after we married, Ian brought home three hens and a rooster. His co-worker had a friend who needed to get rid of all four birds, and Ian had agreed to take them.

Being a responsible pet owner, I scurried to prepare for the new birds' arrival:

Laura: "We'll name the hens Maybelle, Caroline, and Polly. And the rooster shall be Jessup."

I knew we had entered troubling times when I pulled into the driveway that evening and immediately heard the ear-piercing sounds of the rooster crowing.

The rooster crowed non-stop. I'm talking every ten seconds. I walked to the backyard and stared at the monstrous chicken:

Laura: "That thing's gotta go."

Ian: "He's been crowing all day. All day. He never stops. I thought he might slow down once he settled in. But he keeps crowing."

Laura: "Jessup's full name is Jessup Hush'up."

We attempted to hush up Jessup by covering his cage and placing him in the barn. Jessup continued to send his crows blaring through the neighborhood.

Ian: "I keep waiting for the neighbors to call the cops. Should we kill him?"

Laura: "We have to. Loud roosters are prohibited. We can't let him crow all night."

Ian: "Are you sure we want to kill him?"

Laura: "We can either slaughter him now, as humanely as possible, or we can wait until two in the morning when I'll stamp outside, all sleep-deprived and pissed off, and kill him in a murderous rage. We should do it now."

Neither of us have a natural inclination to kill chickens. We picked up Jessup and stared at him and tried to work up the nerve to turn him into dinner.

I was too squeamish to watch, so Ian carried out the task. Through the flurry of feathers and chicken blood, I contributed by making encouraging comments:

Laura: "The honeymoon ends so quickly. One minute you're marrying the man of your dreams and the next you're watching him execute a chicken."

After Jessup breathed his last breathe, we stuck the him in boiling water for ten seconds and then plucked the feathers.

I read instructions aloud from Google on how to gut a chicken, but by the time I reached the section entitled, "How to Disembowel Your Chicken: Ten Easy Steps to Removing the Anus," we decided we only wanted the legs.

Ian chopped off the legs and some of the breast and disposed the rest of the carcass in the trash.

Ian: "Keep your voice down. The neighbors will wonder what the hell we're doing."

Laura: "WHAT'S THAT, IAN? YOU WANT TO HIDE THE BODY IN THE BARN?"

Ian seasoned the meat with chili powder and sea salt and stuck it in the oven. After it cooked, he ate the chicken breasts.

Laura: "Is it good? What's it taste like?"

Ian: "It tastes like chicken."

Laura: "Wow!"

Ian: "Aren't you going to eat some?"

Laura: "Gross. No."

The legs were overcooked and dry, so Ian and the dog split up the rest of the chicken meat.

Ian: "Winnie loves this stuff. She's begging for more... She's gonna fart blood tomorrow."

Laura: "There's a chicken demon in your stomach. But you made that entire meal, from start to finish."

Ian: "I don't know whether to feel ashamed or proud. I guess Jessup's in a better place now."

And he was.

The Greenhouse

When you write a blog, you look for the absurd moments in life. You seize on the wild and unpredictable because those things make really, really, really good writing material.

But sometimes you wake up in the morning, realize you haven't posted all week, and panic because you have absolutely nothing interesting to say.

Then you glance around the kitchen and hope a rhino will suddenly smash through the walls, snorting, roaring, shrieking, and charging. Because that stuff makes for great blogging.

You guys, my life is boring right now. Work is monotonous. I sit all day.

Remember when you were a kid, and college was the key? And once you finished college, you would have a meaningful, interesting life because you would have a meaningful, interesting job?

WELL THEY LIED. PEOPLE WHO WORK IN WINDOWLESS CUBICLES HATE THEIR LIVES.

My life is so boring, I once took a detour home, thinking I'd feel dangerous and wild.

Ian: "Egads! Laura is late. In another hour, I shall file her as a missing person."

Laura: "LOL. I am wild! And dangerous! And LATE!"

Instead I arrived home at the same time I always arrive home.

Luckily when I arrive home from work, I return to these knuckleheads:

I think Ian and I are still trying to figure out what the hell we want to do in life. It seems a shame to waste an entire life in a windowless cubicle.

Especially when I'm wishing the hours away, impatient to get home to New Daddy, encased in dirt and grime, and three furry hoodlums who have spent the day dragging our clothes all over the house, digging through the plants, and exploring the cabinets.

(FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, SPOTTSWOOD, THAT'S WHERE WE KEEP THE ANT POISON).

Did someone say poison?

That's how it goes, I suppose. While we're at work, the baby sniffs out the poison. IT'S A METAPHOR FOR LIFE. THE CAT'S IN THE CRADLE AND THE SILVER SPOON.

Ian understands my frustrations, and we're slowly plotting our escape. I mentioned the greenhouse a few weeks ago. It's almost finished. It's a bit haphazard, but it's beautiful.

The Winiferd House Gets a Makeover: Part One

Remember when I said Ian and I were redecorating the house? The entire house? And I told everyone I'd post an update, resplendent with before and after pictures? Remember?

Way back in August, Ian and I got to work transforming the house, attempting to bring the 1950's ranch style home into the 21st century.

I consider myself a fairly easy-going person, apt to go with the flow, but when when it comes to home decorating, I start frothing at the mouth. I take home design waaaaaaay too seriously.

When I started dating Ian, it was with the knowledge that he was a home-owner and that his home would eventually become my home.

And, well, the house had wood paneling. Every singe surface of the enormous front room was dark brown. The cabinets were the same brown as the wood paneling. It was like cabinet camouflage. Lots of brown. Brown, brown, brown, brown. Apparently, people in the 1950s loved brown.

Let me tell you something about an entirely brown house: it's scary. Like, horse ghost scary.

On Friday nights, Ian would go to bed earlier than me, while I would stay up watching movies. And I was terrified. Lit only by lamps and enclosed in wood paneling, the house looked like a cave inhabited by witches. Also, witch ghosts.

I was terrified of being alone in the house at night.

Err, and the day.

I would take vacation days from work and stay at Ian's house the entire time. I would wake at 8:30 am, eat breakfast, take the dog for a walk, and then haul my ass out of there by 10:00 am.

I would toss the dog in the car, and we would go to my parents' house for the day. I would call Ian at about 3:00 pm to ask what time he'd arrive home from work, and then beat him home by about ten minutes. Hi, Ian! I've been here all day! Just enjoying this wood paneling!

Ian eventually caught on.

Ian: "Why do you always leave the house when I'm gone?"

Laura: "Because it's scary. Witch ghosts arrive when you leave. They love the wood paneling."

Ian: "Witch ghosts?"

Laura: "Yeah. The Paranormal Activity movies are really dumb. Demons don't haunt McMansions. They haunt little houses like this."

Ian: "That's actually quite true."

At that point, we began plotting how to redecorate the house. We decided to paint the wood paneling yellow and the floor a light shade of teal.

We traded the couches for a dining room table, and now the kitchen/ den is just a kitchen. Here are the before and after pictures:

Forgive the clutter. By this point, we had started painting and had piled most of our possessions on the counter.

This is why we painted the floor:

Again, with the clutter. We were deep into the redecorating at this point:

Ian: "This picture makes me feel anxious." As it should. This is what the house looked like when Ian underwent an emergency appendectomy:

After hours upon hours upon hours of work, here's the finished kitchen:

Laura: "Do you ever put up a Christmas tree?"

Ian: "No. I'm Buddhist."

Laura: "No...no Christmas tree? What if we called it a Buddhist tree?"

I love a decorated tree, so I bought two strings of white lights, and we strung them up on one of Ian's plants. Here's our Buddhist Christmas tree: 

Stay tuned. I'll post more about the home redecoration later.

I Am Woman; Hear Me Snore

I am terrible at playing housewife. For one, I never cook. I also find cleaning house tiresome after working a 40 hour week.

I mean, God, people. How am I supposed to find time to Google pictures of hot, obscure rock stars (hellooooo, Win Butler) and watch blurry Youtube clips of South Park (despite having every single South Park episode in high definition) if I spend my free time cooking and cleaning?

It's called priorities, you know?

I consider myself an "eleventh-wave" feminist. Basically, I cherry-pick my feminist sensibilities based on whatever conveniences me.

You see, I can wear make-up and put dresses on the dog and yell for Ian to kill the slug in the bathtub, because as an eleventh-wave feminist, I embrace my femininity.

I am female, dammit! I don't burn bras; I love bras! I celebrate gender differences! I am soft and emotional! I am womanly! I do womanly things!

But the minute talk of cooking comes up? Like, cooking actual meals? OH, HELL NO. I AM A FEMINIST, AND I DON'T DO THAT SHIT.

Ian: "I always cook. You haven't cooked a single meal since I've been with you."

Laura: "You are correct."

Ian: "You don't even try to deny it!"

Laura: "Why would I try to deny it? I don't cook."

Ian: "What if we have kids? Would you feed them macaroni and cheese every night for dinner?"

Laura: "And chicken nuggets from the microwave."

Ian: "!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Laura: "Shut up; it's protein."

Ian: "I think I'm going to have issues with this."

Laura: "I'd nuke a can of corn, too. We can tell the kids corn's a vegetable, even though it's a grain."

Ian: "I'm not sure that's going to work."

Laura: "Hey, I can make milk. Have you seen how awesome these things are?"

Ian: "No complaints here."

Laura: "I'll breastfeed until the kid's 5 or 6. Then he can go on the reduced lunch program at school. And the reduced breakfast program. They make breakfast, too."

Ian: "............ I think I'm going to have issues with this."

Laura: "I bet I can make enough milk for you, too."

Ian: "Wouldn't breast milk taste bad?"

Laura: "No. I've read it tastes sweet. You'd love it."

Ian: "It's too bad you can't blog about this."

Laura: "Or can I?"