The Chicks and Their Destiny

I've already been asked which chick we plan to eat. We have no idea whether we have boys or girls. We're hoping we have girls, as we merely want their eggs and fertilizer for now.

If we have a gaggle of boys, things will get complicated. What on earth does one do with five roosters? Break up cock fights all day?

I suppose we could make a pretty penny showing chicken fights. We live in the dirty South, after all.

Fortunately, the internet assures me that feed stores only sell female chicks, although there's a possibility of getting one or two males.

Ian wants to cook any roosters we may have received. It's the practical thing to do, I suppose.

However, every time I so much as look at the chicks, I involuntarily squeal, "My babies!"

It must be some sort of maternal instinct. You know, the instinct that prevents mothers from eating their young.

Please don't eat me, mommy.

Ian and I are stunned at how fast they're growing. Every day, we see a remarkable difference in size. They're starting to lose their baby down and to sprout feathers.

Which produces more squealing:

Laura:  "My babies! They're growing up so fast. Soon they'll be off to college..."

Ian: "Uh huh. They're getting big enough to eat."

Laura: "They're bigger than chicken nuggets now. They're more like chicken strips."

Here are our babies. Or rather, my babies!

They enjoy dance parties. They were forming a conga line here.

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).

The Roller Blades

I've been going to thrift stores in pursuit of roller blades for ages.

I first found a pair of roller blades at Goodwill. They fit, but they cost 30 bucks. As you can imagine, I screeched, "Oh, hell no!" and walked out.

Used roller blades are never worth 30 bucks.

Goodwill, and just about every other thrift store these days, is overcharging. When you charge $10 for someone's used socks, you need to do a little soul-searching.

Anyways, Ian and I discovered a wonderful new thrift store that offers fair prices. And last Saturday, I found my roller blades.

They fit perfectly and cost $5. They are original, authentic roller blades made in 1988.

They are also horrendously 80s ugly. Ian pronounced them "cool."

A word of caution: I'd never roller bladed before. Roller skates have always been my thing.

Ian and I strapped on our roller blades on Monday evening and took off. And when I say I took off, I mean I took off. It seems I can go damn fast on roller blades, but I can't stop.

As we rolled down a small hill, Ian glided expertly while I sped uncontrollably, blasting through the atmosphere.

Ian: "You're going a little fast there."

Laura: "I CAN'T SLOW DOWN."

Ian: "The bearings on those are excellent."

Ian tried multiple times to teach me how to stop, but I continued shooting along at turbo-charged speeds. I finally discovered that I could stop by making a circle.

Because when you're charging downhill towards oncoming traffic, you definitely want to get out the way BY MAKING A COMPLETE 360 CIRCLE.

Ian and I opted to head off the road and try a school parking lot. I got pretty good at looping around. As I said, I'm good at circles.

As we prepared to leave the parking lot, we realized we'd have to roll down a fairly steep incline.

Ian studiously clopped down the incline, calmly preparing me for the ride down: "You just want to carefully glide to the left and to the right, to slow yourself down..."

Meanwhile, I had launched down the hill at a terrifying speed, limbs flailing wildly. As I zoomed into the stratosphere, I spotted a sharp bump in the concrete at the bottom of the hill.

I jumped it.

I landed with a thud, arms flapping and legs contorting, as my blades smacked the pavement. Then I made a 360 circle and turned to face an astonished Ian.

Ian: "I was following you the whole time. I was going to try to grab you if you fell. And I was trying to figure out how to tell your parents that I broke their daughter."

Laura: "Nah. I don't fall. I just go fast."

Ian: "Were you even watching for cars?"

Laura: "No. I was watching my feet."

Ian: "You could have wiped out and bled all over the road. You would have started crying, and I wouldn't know what to do. What then?"

Laura: "......."

Ian: "......."

And then we laughed hysterically. The End.

When New Daddy Had an Affair

Ian works with a house cat. I repeat: Ian works with a house cat. I feel this fact alone should negate any work-related whining. Of course, everyone whines about work: bad days and stressful times are universal and inevitable.

But, again, he works with a house cat. I think I'd sail into work every morning, smiling manically, if my office offered a poodle or a cage full of gerbils. Or, you know, a house cat.

The first cat Ian worked with was named Pepper, but Pepper passed away a few months ago.

Enter Pepper's replacement: a five-month old kitten with enormous eyes, a tiny frame, and a darling nature. His name is Solo. He clings to people and loves to play. He's adorable.

Solo the kitten

As you can imagine, Ian's in love. And Spottswood's jealous.

This is my Daddy, and I don't share him.

Every evening, Ian returns home from work smelling like another cat. Last night I had to tell Spottswood the painful truth: Daddy's having an affair.

Daddy's having a what now?

Spottswood recoils at a Daddy who "reeks" of another cat. (Spottswood's word; not mine). Spottswood stares in wide-eyed horror as he breathes in the "stench" of that "harlot." (Again, Spottswood's words).

I've implored Spottswood to please refrain from such language, encouraging him to use more delicate terms such as "courtesan," "comfort cat," "feline escort," "kitty masseuse," "kitty of negotiable affections," "one night cat," or "kitty of easy virtue."

I've encouraged Spottswood to discuss his feelings with Daddy. Instead, Spottswood runs away in disgust the minute he gets a whiff of Solo on Ian's clothes. The reality of the affair is too much for him.

Comforting Spottswood 

These work-place affairs wreak havoc on families. I'm hoping we can all move on from this. 

But Ian's really enamored with Solo. We're taking it day-by-day. I hope for a positive update in the future. Pray for us.

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.

Laura Denounces Hippie Medicine and Kicks Acid Reflux Ass

Remember when I posted about going the hippie route to combat acid reflux? I was taking two tablespoons of apple cider vinegar every day to fight acid reflux, as directed by internet hippies.

I only lasted three days. First, apple cider vinegar tastes... well, like vinegar. It tastes awful.

Second, the apple cider vinegar didn't do very much. I think it mighta, sorta, kinda worked. Maybe? A little? I figure any relief I felt was due to the placebo effect, so I guess you could call it delusional relief.

I did find a cure for my reflux, eventually. I'm not going to let internet hippies hog all the limelight with their sick, twisted "cure" so I'd like to offer my own internet remedy.

The following are Winiferd in the Burb's official steps to combating acid reflux:

1. Drive to the grocery store, feeling highly acidic and wildly desperate.

2. Buy Prilosec. (Which you totally forgot existed and therefore totally forgot to try).

3. Take Prilosec.

4. Feel relief.

I have now formally renounced all hippie medicine. I was all set to try local honey for my allergies, but I think I'll pass because SERIOUSLY. THIS GODDESS OF THE EARTH CRAP DOESN'T WORK.

Big pharma, I'm sorry I doubted you. I love you, with all your chemicals and poisons and frightening side-effects. Let's be friends forever.

Winnie Loves New Daddy

Something bizarre has been happening lately. Perhaps it was the promise of the treacly sweet Valentine's Day, or perhaps it was the cold, sleety weather. But for the past few days, Winnie has been enamored with New Daddy.

Winnie typically clings to me. Firstly because I'm Mama, and secondly because she's skittish and timid around New Daddy, who yells at her if she acts like a dog. As you can imagine, New Daddy yells at her a lot.

So imagine our collective surprise when Winnie began insisting on sitting next to New Daddy all the time. She follows hims, curls up next to him, and gazes at him. It's the strangest thing.

In the evenings after work, Winnie usually frolics and skips and fetches her toys so she can play ferocious games of Tug of War. But last night she slept on New Daddy's legs until he dumped her on the floor.

Ian: "She's HOT. My legs are on fire."

Laura: "Her body temperature stays at furnace levels."

Ian: "She's HOT. Get away from me, dog. I'm burning up."

Laura: "Personally, I like how she functions as a heater."

Ian: "GO AWAY, DOG."

Then Ian and Winnie began playing a game, where Ian shifted, wiggled, and kicked while Winnie tried to snuggle with him. Winnie won.

It was adorable.

Happy Valentine's Day!

In Which Laura Becomes a Hippie and Fights Back Against the Fire-Breather in Her Esophagus

Hey guys! Let's talk about something exciting! Let's talk about Gastroesophageal Reflux Disease! Oh boy!

I suffer from chronic acid reflux known as GERD. I've been using Pepcid AC and Zantac to control it. And I've popped a lot of that stuff.

Self-described hippie Ian said nothing, but silently disapproved of my contribution to Big Pharma and its poisonous pills (YOU DON'T HAVE TO SAY THESE THINGS, IAN. I JUST KNOW).

However, the over-the-counter stuff recently stopped working. The maximum dose of Pepcid or Zantac is two pills per day. By last week I was popping between 8 and 10 Zantacs per day and getting nervous about sprouting a tail and horns.

I knew I wouldn't be able to visit the doctor for at least a week. So I did what I always do in desperate situations: I Google.

Google reminded me of that old hippie remedy for acid reflux. Hippies all over the internet testify to the acid-fighting powers of apple cider vinegar.

Except, apple cider vinegar contains a veritable shit-ton of acid. But that's the beauty of it. It's the Principle of Similars, otherwise known as Homeopathy. Basically, you cure disease by introducing the same substance that causes the symptoms. AIN'T IT BEAUTIFUL?  

I was prepared to try new-age crap before revisiting Big Pharma crap. So Ian and I ran to Kroger where I bought a jug of raw, organic, unfiltered apple cider vinegar.

Apple cider vinegar contains all of the following attributes:

1. It's highly acidic. In fact, it's so acidic that you should drink it through a straw since the acid can remove enamel from your teeth.

2. You shouldn't shoot apple cider vinegar straight, but mix it with water. Since, again, it can remove enamel from your teeth.

3. Apple cider vinegar tastes like fermented pee pee.

I gagged and groaned, but I sent two tablespoons of apple cider vinegar down the hatch. Ian shot it straight, despite my protests of, "YOU'LL KILL YOUR ENAMEL!"

Actually, he feels compelled to try everything I try. I once bought "fancy" women's multivitamins which he begged to try.

Laura: "Ian, these are for women."

Ian: "But they're gummy!"

Laura: "They contain folic acid and iron."

Ian: "But they look delicious!"

Laura: "Fine. Have one."

Ian: "Can I have two?"

Another time, he opened my brand new bottle of facial cleanser and appeared to give it a taste.

Laura: "GOOD GOD, STOP! THAT HAS BLEACH IN IT!"

Ian: "I wasn't tasting it. I was just... inspecting it."

Anyways, I downed two tablespoons of apple cider vinegar last night and one tablespoon this morning.

I feel slightly less reflux-y, but it'll take a couple of weeks until I know anything conclusive. I'll report back in a fortnight.