When We Adopted Six Babies

Guess what we got?

We got adorable, down-covered, freshly-hatched chicks. Last Saturday, Ian and I drove out to a tractor supply store to buy the tiny babies.

We had planned on buying four, but store policy insisted we buy six. So we watched a store employee grab up six squawking chicks and stick them in a box.

The shape of the box spelled out a clear message regarding the chicks' purpose in life:

It's the original Chicken McNugget Happy Meal. It comes with Happy Meal toys: chicken poop for the girls and salmonella for the boys.

As we drove back home, I cradled the box on my lap and opened the top to gaze inside. I watched in horror as one of the chicks snapped onto another's leg and yanked with all his might.

I lowered my head into the box and yelled, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"

The chicks erupted into intense, resounding peeps.

The chicks: "PEEP PEEP PEEP PEEP PEEP PEEP PEEP PEEP."

Ian: "Close the box! They're scared! They're loud! Oh my God, so loud."

Laura: "I'm sorry. I just can't believe the little devil tried to murder his sister. What a bastard."

Ian: "So you think the evil one's a boy?"

Laura: "Oh, I'm sure of it. That one's gotta be a rooster. Which means we get to use our boy name!"

I've spent the past couple of months preparing for the arrival of our chicks by analyzing chicken names. What, did you think I was going to prepare by buying chicken feed and light bulbs? Please.

Here are their names (and the inspiration thereof):

Bernadette

Marjorine

Sal (short for Salmonella)

Hester Prynne

Gertrude (Gertie)

And our bastard boy who likes to chomp legs and peck faces: John Proctor.

Unfortunately, Gertie looked sickly from the beginning. She passed away after her first night.

That leaves us with five.

(Of course, I have no idea whether we have boys or girls. John Proctor may morph into Jane Proctor at some point).

Opening the Winiferd Vault Again: Laura's Modeling Portfolio

This was originally published in 2011 but was removed recently while I interviewed for my new job (for obvious reasons). This post makes me cringe, but it does sorta sum up the first year of Winiferd in the Burbs.

Ian has this peculiar habit of declaring I should have been a model. He sounds sincere when he insists I should be walking the runways instead of doing office grunt work and coaxing the dog to go doo doo.

When we sift through magazines at the grocery store, he'll point to either severely anorexic or severely Photoshopped girls on the cover of Bimbo Weekly or Hollywood Tonight and claim, "This looks like you."

He's not trying to be funny, either. He genuinely thinks I look, well, modelesque. He's adorable in his insistence because he's wearing Laura goggles, and it all springs from a place of love.

Like, remember the 80s, when everyone fell in love with Cabbage Patch dolls? And people paid hundreds of dollars for them? And they looked like Shrek dolls with yarn hair, and they had ridiculous names? ("My Cabbage Patch dolls are Darius Earl and Gertie Darlene! What awesome names!").

But the whole world fell in love with them and thought they were the cutest things ever? EVER? The same dynamic is at work here.

Which is to say, I would be the Cabbage Patch Shrek doll of the modeling world.

Ian: "You missed your calling in life. You should have been a model."

Laura: "I hardly think round faces and oddly proportioned bodies measure up to model standards."

Ian: "No, really. You look like a model."

Laura: "I suppose I could have been a model for the Playtex company. They use plain girls for their ads, because they're trying to appeal to girls who find tampons shocking and sexuality frightening. I could so be the face for them."

Ian: "You have an exotic look because of the red hair. You would stick out among the other models."

Laura: "Plus, if I modeled for Playtex, I bet I'd get free tampons for life. Do you know how much money I'd save? That stuff gets expensive."

Ian: <Slightly defensive> "Well, I think you'd make a great model."

I've decided to stop arguing with Ian and playing the role of, "Woe is me. For I am an ugly, misshapen wench of wretched visage. Thy soul weeps for I suffer from a vengeful society who doth drink the Haterade. Anon!"

I now embrace Ian's emphatic assertion that I am a beautiful, sexy woman, who the world wants, nay, who the world needs to see.

I have put together my modeling portfolio, which I will send to major modeling executives.

These are definitely my best pictures, and as I gaze over them, I know, deep-down, that Ian was right all along. I truly missed my calling in life by choosing graduate school over modeling. I now strive to correct this mistake.

The New Face of Playtex

Esquire's Cabbage Patch Model of the Year 

Pretty hot, right?

I'd like to thank my two patient and cooperative co-models.

Winiferd

Darius Earl 

Special thanks goes to my fashion photographer, Ian

Say good-bye to your dignity, darling. The Playtex Cabbage Patch Shrek Doll post may mark the day Winiferd in the Burbs officially jumped the shark. 

Man, we are so over this shit.

Monday Night Musings: The X-Men Edition

A while ago, I bought Winnie a purple harness. Shortly afterwords, I bought her a red leash.

I hadn't thought of the weird clash of colors until I slipped on both the harness and leash for her evening walk.

Laura: "Wow. She's colorful, isn't she?"

Ian felt excited about the inadvertent color mix of doom.

Ian: "She looks like Magneto! From the X-Men! His colors were red and purple!"
 

It's like looking in a mirror, isn't it, Winnie?

Laura: "Ian, who was that X-Man? The one Winnie looks like?"

Ian: "Magneto. He was the super-villain."

Laura: "Winnie's super-villain name is Boner Shrinker."

Ian: "That name's definitely more accurate."

Laura: "To the bat cave, Boner Shrinker!"

How CDR Got His Groove Back

In December 2010, Ian and I adopted Guinifred. Shortly afterwards, our old buddy CDR came to visit. CDR stands for Christopher Douglas-Roberts. He was named after the University of Memphis basketball player.

CDR moved in expressly to sweep Guinifred off her feet with his amorous abilities. Ian hoped the union would lead to baby guinea pigs.

Laura: "Most people try to guard against rodent pregnancy. But you encourage it."

Ian: "Guinea pigs are a culinary delicacy in South America. If Guinifred and CDR mate, I could sell the babies for a nice profit. And we could fry us up some good eatin'."

Laura: "I bet they taste like chicken."

Ian: "Guinea pigs are supposedly some of the best meat you can eat."

Laura: "I'd dunk them in ketchup."

Truthfully, Ian wanted to sell the babies as pets. After CDR moved in, Ian and I would periodically place Guinifred in CDR's cage and wait for guinea pig magic.

However, CDR's a roly poly pig, perfectly content to sit idly, nibbling on carrots and throwing poop. He was as awkward as a sweaty-palmed 13 year old wearing a Pokemon t-shirt, asking a cheerleader out to see the latest X-Men flick.

Guinifred, by contrast, was a lithe, delicate creature. CDR would plod in circles, attemtping to get his groove on, while Guinifred sprinted elegantly away from his awkward clutches. They produced zero babies.

Laura: "He's defective."

Ian: "No he's not. Come on CDR! You can do it, buddy!"

Laura: "Guinifred's an intelligent guinea pig. She doesn't consent to casual sex. CDR needs to build a committed, healthy relationship with her first."

Ian: "Eh, you're probably right."

Guinifred sets high standards and believes in eating a wholesome diet full of fruits and vegetables.

We began leaving Guinifred in CDR's cage for longer lengths of time. We would leave the two pigs in the living room, under dim, romantic lights and slip out the back door.

Ian: "We should give them tiny wine glasses and play Barry White records."

Upon returning, we would try to size up the situation, desperate to see any signs of romantic shenanigans.

Ian: "I bet they did it. CDR looks really awkward."

Laura: "CDR always looks awkward. He's the guinea pig equivalent of Louie Anderson."

CDR tried mightily to get his groove on, but the poor boy could never figure it out.

In fact, the title of the post is misnomer. CDR never lost his groove, nor did he ever regain it. CDR has never had groove in his whole entire life.

Ian and I overlooked CDR's social and biological failures and emphatically embraced him into the family fold. Last week, CDR returned to his original home.

We miss him very much.

Long live His Majesty, King Christopher Douglas-Roberts, Lord of Love Making and Duke of Doo Doo Throwing.

Guinifred's Great Escape

Ian: "I'm going to buy a guinea pig."

Laura: "We already have a hyperactive dog and a cat that eats us out of house and home. Plus Spottswood. Why should we add another animal to the mix?"

Ian: "I'm going to mate her and sell the babies."

Laura: "Makes sense."

Ian: "We can start a guinea pig farm, and they can live in the backyard. Winnie can herd the guinea pigs."

Laura: "She'll burn lots of energy that way."

In late December 2010, Ian bought a guinea pig, a beautiful chocolate brown one with caramel colored swirls on her back.

Laura: "Have you thought of a name yet?"

Ian: "No. It usually takes a while."

Laura: "What about Hazel? I like Hazel."

Ian: "I worked with a Hazel."

Laura: "What about Clementine? Pearl? Adele? Margot? Elizabeth? Charlotte? Do any of those strike you?"

Ian: "I like G. Money. Or The Situation. Or Snookie."

Laura: "Those are a bit... avant-garde.

Ian: "I was kidding."

Since the guinea pig remained nameless, I began calling her Guinifred, a play on Winifred. The name stuck.

I also called her Hamster, but not to be funny. I'd never had a guinea pig, so she was all hamster to me.

Laura: "Aww. The hamster looks cute."

Ian: "Guinea pig."

Laura: "The guinea pig looks cute. Aww, she's eating her carrot. Are you hungry, little hamster?"

Ian: "Guinea pig."

Laura: "Are you hungry, little guinea pig?"

Having spent months raising a puppy with distinct psychological and social needs, I felt concerned about the guinea pig's emotional state.

Laura: "Is she bored? Is she lonely? Is she happy?"

Ian: "Guinea pigs are simple creatures. They only want food, water, and a cage."

Laura: "Guinifred seems bright. She looks really alert."

Ian: "I agree. I guess I bought an intellectual guinea pig."

As Christmas drew near, Ian asked me to look after his cats and guinea pig while he visited his mother in Alabama for the holidays: "Just feed them once a day."

I was cool with looking after the cats. Cats are easy. I've had cats. But I felt nervous caring for the guinea pig.

Laura: "If something happens to Guinifred, I'll buy you a new one. I promise."

Ian: "I'm sure everything will be fine."

Laura: "But, like, if anything happens, I'll find another pretty one and I'll buy her for you."

Ian: "Why are you so nervous about it?"

Laura: "I don't know."

The day before he left, Ian gave me simple instructions.

Ian: "You probably won't have to refill Guinifred's water bottle. Just give her food in the evening. And a carrot from the fridge."

Laura: "Wait. Aren't you going to cover her cage? You're just going to leave it open?"

Ian: "Yeah. The cover's too hard to take on and off. Like I said, guinea pigs are simple creatures. She'll just eat, drink, and sit in her cage."

Laura: "..... okay."

Attention readers: By this point you should have noticed some foreshadowing.

On Christmas day, I headed to Ian's to feed the pets. I dialed Ian after I entered his house.

We talked as I filled the cat's bowls. I walked into the guinea pig room and looked at the cage, eager to see Guinifred alive.

She was gone.

Laura: "EEEE-an! EEEE-an! The hamster's gone! OH MY GOD!"

Ian: "You mean the guinea pig?"

Laura: "GUINIFRED'S NOT IN HER CAGE!"

Ian: "Uh oh. I wonder if the cats got her."

Laura: "OH MY GOD."

Ian: "Look for her."

Laura: "YOU MEAN LOOK FOR HER CARCASS? OH MY GOD."

Ian: "She's probably alive and just hiding. Look in the desk area below the cage."

Laura: "OH MY GOD. OKAY. I'M LOOKING."

Ian: "See her?"

Laura: Wait...wait... I think I see her. She's not moving. WHAT IF SHE'S DEAD?"

Ian: "Pick her up and see."

Dear readers, I felt one hundred percent positive that poor Guinifred would look like this:

I was certain of it: Guinifred, left in my care for one day, had already deteriorated into a rotting, bloody corpse. I felt too terrified to fish her poor bloodied body out with my own hands.

Ian: "Did you pick her up?"

Laura: "No. I can't. She's probably lying in a pool of her own blood. And dead."

Ian: "Just pick her up."

Laura: "I can't."

Ian: "What's the big deal? I don't understand."

Laura: "I'm going to get my dad. Don't worry. Everything will be all right."

Ian: "Wait! What? You're going to get your dad? I don't understand..."

I hung up, hopped in my car, and fetched my dad. At Ian's, Dad carefully scooped up Guinifred from her hiding place, blood-free, breathing, and beautifully alive.

Dad: "She's just a little guinea pig. Why were you so scared?"

Laura: "Oh, just...corpse and... blood... and... snuff."

Dad: "Huh?"

Laura: "Oh, nothing."

I called Ian again.

Laura: "Guinifred's alive! She's alive!"

Ian: "Yeah, I figured she'd be alive. She must have escaped and gone on an adventure. Most guinea pigs just sit in their cages and eat."

Laura: "Trust you to buy the smartest damn hamster in the entire store. You couldn't choose a normal sloth one. You got the feminist one who decries cages and captivity and plots elaborate schemes for freedom."

We now keep the cover on Guinifred's cage. We have to keep a careful eye on both Freds.

In Which Winnie Acquires Multiples Names

My dog's name is Winifred. Her full name is Winifred Harriet Agatha Meek (W.H.A.M.). Winifred primarily goes by Winnie. My dad, a proper Southern gentleman with a proper Southern dialect, dubbed her Winiferd. I'm not entirely sure whether he was joking when he began calling her Winiferd. 


You see, he doesn't go the library; he goes to the lie-berry, and he doesn't collect the wash; he collects the warsh. Out of respect, I have avoided asking whether Winiferd is just a joke or truly mangled English. Either way, my boyfriend, Ian, and I have seized upon the name. Thus, Winiferd makes up the first half of this blog's title. 


Winnie currently lives with me in a high-rise apartment in the city. We live within a few minutes of the dog park and the human park and wooded walking trails and the dog groomer. But living in the city, we often run into homeless men and drug dealers. Plus, the sidewalks turn Winnie's paws black. 


Those things are quite harmless, though. The homeless men and drug addicts are generally affable. The only big big drawback to living in the city? Ian (that's New Daddy to Winnie) lives in the suburbs. So in a month, Winnie and I will move to Ian's house in the burbs. 


(Will someone please call and notify my parents? Because they still don't know and I don't want to tell them; LIKE I SERIOUSLY DON'T WANT TO TELL THEM. Let's have a contest. Whoever posts the first comment (snort) wins the privilege of alerting my parents that their only daughter and youngest child WILL BE LIVING IN SIN).


Finally, on a fun note, the best part of having a dog named Winifred is the nicknames. Over the past year, New Daddy and I have thoughtfully compiled a vast array of nicknames. We like to think they highlight her winning personality. From Winifred we have extracted:


Doo Doo Fred
Douce a Fred
Douche a Fred
Dos a Fred
Dogga Fred
Freda Fred
Whine a Fred
Wizafred 
The Ferd
Ferdie
Ferda Fred
Freddie
Dog Dog
Fred Fred
WINNING!
Winabee
Winnifer
Winjamin 
*Winiferd*