About Me

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I blog. I also mother, wife, create, preserve, recycle, cook, act, quilt, exercise, laugh, write, lolligag, work, volunteer, sing, and sometimes sleep.

Sunday, September 27, 2009

Dewey!


It's true. I should probably rename my blog Ariella's Little Chickens, for as much airtime as they get. It seems like it's even more than my children. Eh. I'm a city girl with a small town fascination and so I raise chickens. As much as I devoured the Little House books growing up, particularly fascinated with the detailed chapters on things like "when we slaughtered the pig" or "getting maple sugar out of the tree", it never occurred to me that in my life as an LA girl, a defining characteristic that has lost it's luster over the last few years, that I myself would have my very own chickens to care for. But I do. And they are crazy animals.

Michael's mom had a pet chicken when we first started dating...way past her prime, she was allowed to wander the large backyard and do whatever she wanted. I used to pick her figs off the tree, lay next to her on the grass, and feed her half while I ate the other half. Yes, I'm odd. When we moved into our own house, a mere 7 blocks away, on the huge by LA standards 1/3 acre lot, we decided to get our own chickens...and as I've blogged about before, it's been an interesting decade of learning the fine art (or not) of poultry farming, so to speak

Which brings me to the last few weeks, where I have repeatedly shouted in the modern day commons (FB status updates and Twitter Feeds) about the fact that a hen keeps making her way into my bedroom. This is generally the cause for a just amount of amusement in said forums, but I don't think people quite understand why this is even happening. And so, I blog.

Our "special chicken", aptly named Catfood (pictured above in her awkward period) was henpecked at around 10 weeks old. Rescued during this trauma by Max, her bloodied body and neck barely moving, I set her in a box with some water and food, trying to make her as comfortable as possible. I didn't have the heart to finish her off. Much to my surprise the next morning, she was up and walking around...and eventually healed completely. Well, kind of. I now know that chickens now better than me about what is good and what isn't, and well, Catfood is a bit, um, developmentally delayed. Also, Physically challenged. Her feet are completely deformed and turned in on themselves, and she's at least a few months behind her sisters in feather development. Because of these issues, and the fact that she is not welcome in the coop, she has been allowed to roam free in our yard. She hobbles about and doesn't really cause any trouble and the dogs ignore her. It turns out she's not as dumb as one might think, as she started nesting right by my bedroom door (I have french doors off my room). I tried to avoid using the a/c as much as possible this summer, and so at night I would open my doors to cool down the room...unbeknownst to me, Catfood used this opportunity to wander in and find herself a much more comfortable nesting spot in the corner of my room.

If you've been in my room, you know it is not the most...empty environment, so a habit was formed without my knowledge. Once I figured out what was happening, I started leaving the door closed. She figured out how to use the doggie door. I blocked it. It seemed to fix the problem. I unblocked it, tired of having to constantly remember to let the dogs in and out. She noticed and came back. I took her out every night to another location, where she'd stay...and then I finally put her in her own enclosure, so the problem became moot. But then... there was Dewey.

More later...going out tonight. :)

Saturday, September 19, 2009

Beauty is in the Eye


I'm working on a few quilts right now, all custom orders, and the one that has consumed me the most has been a t-shirt quilt that was ordered by a young lady for her (now) ex-boyfriend, who happened to have been a high school football star.


Generally, I don't think much about the aesthetics and artistic merits of t-shirt quilts. Someone mails me their old, sentimental for whatever reason t-shirts, we choose sashing fabrics and I make them into a quilt. This one in particular was interesting, partially due to its story- the client is only 17. She and her boyfriend dated for the last 3 years, and she started to make him this quilt, but stopped when they broke up. She was nice enough to not just dump the pile of cut up shirts on his doorstep, but found me online and actually enlisted my services to do what she felt she could no longer do herself, finish his quilt to preserve his high school memories, which, in her words, he deserves.


The school colors on this one are funny...red and green. I sent her fabric combo options, she chose, and away I went. Anything I thought about the quilt was in the story behind it, in the mathematics involved with dealing with her having cut the squares differing sizes (PITA), and making sure I did a good job. Any beauty was lost on me. When I sent her the picture of the top, to make sure she liked it before it was forevermore untakeapartable her response was overwhelmingly positive. Lots of exclamation points and accolades...so many in fact, I was a little shocked. I mean, she sent me these t-shirts. She picked the fabric I sent in her color preference. What was the big deal? What on earth was she expecting? Seemed too enthusiastic for the situation.


Later that day, a friend was over and saw the finished top. She couldn't stop saying how pretty it was. Last night, my husband was helping me sandwich it, as it's just a bit too large to do myself, and started waxing poetic about how beautiful it was. He was particularly struck by how a bunch of old, worn t-shirts could be spun around and attached to fabric and made into something useful, keepworthy, and artistic all at the same time. He's seen a million quilts in his life, including every single one I've ever made, but this was different. It was late, I was tired, but I was so overcome with the sweetness of the absolute sincerity of his words that, well, I had to tweet about it. That's gotta mean something. :)


It had me thinking all day though, about how I dismiss these quilts as more practical, less artistic, than my others. I love helping people preserve their memories, but it isn't necessarily artistically fulfilling. But it seems like I may need to rethink that.

Thursday, September 10, 2009

September What?

I know most of the country is working on being contemplative about the fact that tomorrow marks the 8th anniversary of the attack on the World Trade Towers...but I find myself consumed with other contemplations.

As I sit here in my living room, my often laundry covered sofa providing me with a comfortable spot to sit and write, my poor, overworked, sleep deprived husband completely crashed out next to me, a very ambitious cricket outside tries to get noticed, and a developmentally disabled chicken sits brimming with malcontent outside on the step after being kicked out of the house. Again. This is my life.

When the planes struck the towers I was pregnant with my first child, and after days of sorrow, I tuned out all coverage of the event to protect my fetus from my overwhelming sadness over the losses felt by so many people. Today, the day before the 8th anniversary, I sent my baby boy off to kindergarten. His first full day of school, the first day of the new era, and I found myself torn. Full of sadness? Not exactly. Melancholy, nostalgia, regret for every morning not appreciated, every opportunity potentially lost by me having a quilt to finish, or payroll to submit, or dishes to wash...yes, those things I felt. An overwhelming sense of freedom and the excitement of what lies ahead for both of us? Yes, I felt that too. But as much as I struggled to find my identity after Max was born and I stopped teaching, I didn't realize I'd have to find it again now.
PTA vice president? Yes.
Office Manager? Kinda.
Housewife? I don't think so.
What I want to be and what I can be are very different. I'd love to spend all day creating things, sewing, quilting, making and posting new things for sale on Quilting Mama, but it doesn't seem a valid career option. Teaching is not an option, thanks to Governor Terminator. Office manager is a full time job in theory, but seeing as my paycheck is non existent, it doesn't really count. The plan is to seek representation and try and find work as an actor, but that's a tough world too, and talk about not terribly secure...and what does that mean anyway? Who will I be? It's just all so confusing. And the worst part is that I'm going to miss conversations like this:

Max: Mama, do you know what kind of pets I am going to have when I'm a grown up?
Me: No, honey, what?
Max: I TOLD you already! Why don't you remember??
Me: I'm sorry, sweetheart, can you remind me?
Max: I'm going to have 4 cats, a lizard, a snake, and a hamster.
Me: Hmm, ok.
Max: I don't want dogs because I don't want poop in my backyard
Me: Seems reasonable, but you know those other animals poop too, you're going to have to clean their cages at some point.
Max: I'll make sure to be at work when that happens.
Me: Well, then you'll need to clean the cage when you get home.
Max: (whispers something)
Me: What was that?
Max: (loud sigh) Nearaiah will do it.
Me: How do you know she won't have a job and not be at home either?
Max: She's going to work at home.
Me: You can't decide that for her...she may want to become an astronaut like you and go to the moon, then no one will be home to clean the cages.
Max: She can be an astronaut from home.
Me: That may not work.