Tap Tap Tap

Been thinking about you a lot lately. Yes, you. Reader of my blog. I miss you. I miss writing. I miss having a spot where my verbal diarrhea can go on for more than 140 characters. I've been thinking a lot about things to talk about. The issue is time to write them down. But isn't that pretty much everyone's issue? We have this finite, unknown amount of time, and we tend to fill it up. And then some. If we're evolved properly and smart about it, we fill it up with the important stuff, and we recognize what the important stuff is. If anyone else is like me, then our optimism outweighs our actual ability to finish all we start off to do...but we keep trying.

I'm planning on trying to get out some of the nonsense in my head...hoping that it works out ok. Oh, and if you're still there...thanks for hanging in with me. :)

Save The Earth Fail

I'm heartily indignant right now. Indignant at conversations had long ago and with people I don't even know, but if they were here and now, I'd give them a tongue lashing, oh yes.

6 years ago I commited, via New Years Resolution, to start using canvas/reuseable bags when I shopped. This was waaay before the greening/eco movement had made it so that everywhere, including my local latin market, has their own, logo stamped, re-useable bags for sale. I got weird looks. I had bagboys tell me, perplexed at my repeated requests to NOT wrap my groceries in plastic before putting them in my canvas bags, explain to me as though I were stupid, that the plastic bags are free. "Not for the Earth", was my usual retort. We went from having a surplus of plastic bags in the house, bags of bags in the garage, bags of bags in the kitchen, under the sink...everywhere there was space because this was before you could recycle them, and I wouldn't throw them away...to having one plastic bag holder packed to the brim with bags. But where did these bags come from, if I've been so good at taking canvas? Well, sometimes, ladies and gentlemen, I forget, ok? I'm not perfect. I end up at the store and realize my bags are at home. Oh well. Also, and this is the part that's got me somewhat indignant- I save ALL plastic bags. The ones that carry my pita bread, the ones that carry the bread, the ones that carry the ones that carry my bread. Despite my best intentions to eliminate plastic bags, they're everywhere. And you know something? It's ok.

Sometimes you just need a freaking plastic bag, ok? As the conversations fueling the indignation reminded me, the justification for why we're packing our groceries in multiple bags to carry the 50 feet to the car, then another 50 feet to the house....or even to walk home with (triple bag it then) is that sometimes you need a plastic bag. We uuuuuse them. Ok. I get it. I use them too. But I cannot believe that anyone who goes full gangbusters at the store on the "free" bags actually uses all of them. And I'm aggravated today because I just had to pack up a BAG OF BAGS because I had too many than fit into my little happy chef's butt (this is my grocery bag storage. And I don't even want them. As I bundled up a bag from the wheat bread I bought from Costco, and went to shove it in his butt, I marveled at the thought that these people who tell me they HAVE to get the bags, because they uuuuuuuse them, though I never say anything about their bag consumption...it's obviously their guilt upon seeing my canvas bags and the need to justify their consumptive behavior. How many of them throw away the bag their bread comes in? And this pisses me off.

Yesterday I sold my first eggs to strangers. I've sold to friends before, but never to strangers. I put an add on Craigslist, and boom! Business. I met the cute hippie couple next to the theater before rehearsal and sold them my eggs, then chatted with them for a little bit about chickens, compost, veggie gardens, and flax seed. You know, hippie talk. They were lovely and brought me cartons for my future eggs and gave me some flax pulp they had just received for their worms to try feeding to my chickens. All in all, a nice experience. On my ride home after rehearsal, I was chatting with a castmate and I said something to the effect of having not paid attention to something as it was "hippie talk" and he laughed and rebutted that it was ironic that me, raiser of chickens, would be berating that sort of thing. But I'm not a hippie. I do have hippie tendencies, but I mainly just have eco-OCD. And I like keeping chickens.

This notion that in order to care for our planet you need to be some kind of liberal, labeled hippie person is so very damaging. 18 years ago I took on the challenge of the purple rag, which is a challenge to define a noble life and then to live it. In my journal entry from the night I took on this challenge, I espouse very clearly the importance to me of living a life that is careful and respectful of the earth. This is 18 years ago, people. I'm not saying I started the green movement or anything, but I'm pretty damn impressed with 19 year old me. I also talked about not "preaching" about my life choices, but to just live the best life I can and to lead by example, not by words. But here I am blogging about it. Oh well, it's supposed to be a lifelong challenge.

Make a conscious effort to stop using plastic bags at the grocery store. I promise you, you will still end up with bags you can uuuuuse. Look to ways you can stop throwing so much away, and think of things you can do that won't even change your life much, but will help the planet. And if you need a tote bag, I know where you can get some.

Afternoon with M and M

Children are crazy. Honestly, crazy and also- hellbent on making their parents crazy. Since it's been so long since I've brought you a "morning with Max" story, I thought it's high time I share something. It's brought to you by our school system.

We're in the car after school today, running errands, and I hear the following from the backseat:

Max: Eat my nuts, eat my nuts, eat my nuts!

Stunned, I look back to get a visual on what is going on, but since I'm, you know, driving, I don't get a good look. The chant changes:

Max: Up my tree! Eat my acorn! Eat my acorn!

I sigh a sigh of relief, knowing that my sweet 6 year old boy is just being squirrel obsessed as we, in this house, all are want to do on occasion. Then, a pause in the chant...and Max explains:

"My acorn is my penis!"

I choke a little...but say nothing. With this child, I've now learned it's better to not make a fuss. He LOOOOOOVES fusses.

Evidently, at this point, we're in a testicular nickname discussion, so Magnolia chimes in:

"Today in class I had to read a sentence which said 'She was playing with some balls' and a bunch of kids laughed at me. "

At this point, I have a small stroke. I recover enough to hear her say- "But I don't know why they laughed, do you?"

Channeling my mother, I think "Because they're a bunch of uneducated, classless asshats whose parents don't bother to teach them right from wrong or how to read or add but have no issue teaching them multiple inappropriate euphemisms for body parts and letting them watch movies and tv shows that make those euphemisms a joke."

But what I say is: "Because it's a word that is a way to say testicles and children who aren't taught any better think that it's funny to say those things".

Now, considering at this point, I have some mild brain damage, here is my recollection of the conversation that followed:

Max: Testicles are like the little balls inside your scrotum.

Me: Yes.

Magnolia: Is that the hangy down thing behind the penis?

Me: Yes.

Max: Maybe people call them balls cause they're ball shaped. But on the inside.

Me: Sure.

Magnolia: If there wasn't a scrotum, where would they go?

Me: I don't know.

Max: They'd just fall out

Me: um...

Magnolia: That seems uncomfortable.

At that point, I am pretty sure I blacked out and just auto-piloted to the bank. It's not that I mind having these conversations with them, I really don't. I'm certainly not squeamish, and I'm happy that they ask me things and trust that I will give them honest answers. It's just weird that the 12 year old who lives in my head who giggles at Beavis and Butthead like remarks and who can't help but blurt out "That's what she said" at every possible opportunity collides with the June Cleaver, minivan driving, PTA vice president, soccer mom part of me that comes out when I have my kids around. Or at least, that I think *should* come out. :)

yeah, ok, fine

I am supposed to be going to Seattle tonight. Just me. No husband, no kids, no real reason...just a trip cause I have lots of friends there I've promised repeatedly to visit, and the fares were cheap. Of course, this makes me feel incredibly, incredibly selfish and guilty. I don't do well with selfish. I have a couple things I do that could be construed as entirely for me and even fall within the realm of being selfish, but they are, for the most part, private, free, and don't take up a lot of time. This trip is none of those things.

Yesterday was a banner day of issues. My Driver's license expired about a week and a half ago, and the new one hasn't arrived. Yesterday I realized this would be an issue getting on an airplane (and possibly paying for things). No problem, I'll use my passport, I thought. Except it wasn't in the passport place. Panic ensues, but I have errands to run, so Michael promises to look when he comes home for lunch and he finds it. The passport had jumped out of it's proper drawer and was residing against the back wall of the cabinet underneath it's proper home. Great. Except it expired. 18 months ago. *gulp* Ok, we call the airline and determine that if I allow extra time for searching, I should be ok. 2 different friends echoed this sentiment via IM, so I was ok, but not great...so I went to the DMV to get a temp printout, which shockingly only took 40 minutes and wasn't entirely unpleasant.

Woohoo! We're back on! Until this morning. Max woke up with a nasty, croupy cough. The sort he gets about 2ce a year. He is due, but REALLY? NOW? I know the drill...he's gonna be mellow but ok all day, but tonight (when he's supposed to be at my mom's) he's gonna be up coughing all night and miserable. This won't do. What's a mother to do? Cancel the trip, of course. Brief moment of tears, but really, there isn't a choice in the matter...so I call my mom and tell her. Her headache is so overwhelming, she is ok with it...which of course makes me more annoyed, but then feel guilty over being annoyed. UGH, guilt. I call Michael, he's in a meeting. UGH UGH UGH. So I tweet...not ready to admit defeat on FB yet. When I finally get a hold of him, it's via IM, and he tells me that I'm being ridiculous and I need to go anyway. After much back and forth and more tears, he convinces me, we work out a new plan and so I'm going again. Of course, I've stopped working on laundry in the interim, so I need to get on it. While I'm shoving clothes in the washer, Max meanders over to me, bowl of ice cream in hand and we have the following conversation:
Max: Mom, can I have a BB gun?
Me: No.
Max: But WHHHHYYYYYYYY?
Me: Because.
Max: Because I'm not old enough?
Me: Sure.
Max: But Andrew and Ian (his cousins) have BB guns and Andrew is YOUNGER than me.
Me: I don't really care. They have issues.
Max: But, what do you even DO with a BB gun?
Me: I don't know.
Max: Shoot things?
Me: Yeah, I guess.
Max: (pause) Can you shoot your eye out?
Me: Yes.
Max: (ponders this) How?
Me: I really don't know.
Max: Huh. (walks away)

Vacation? Yeah.
Changing my perfectly planned out plans? Ok.
Mother's guilt? Fine.

Whereby I Want to Punch the World in the Face, but Michael Stops Me

I have an air of aggravation. Nothing is wrong, per se. I am more stressed than usual, as I line all my ducks up in a row for my impending Holiday Boutique and somehow they keep waddling out of line. I have some personal conflicts that are annoying, but not overwhelmingly so. I can't seem to keep my house clean...which makes me irritated, not only because the house is not clean, but because I used to laugh at a character in a musical (Jack's Mother, in Into the Woods) for singing a complaint that her house was a mess...because isn't that just her own fault? So, there is nothing particularly wrong...it's just not unicorns prancing about shitting cupcakes and rainbows...which, as a friend pointed out, just means it's life.

But the air of aggravation grows. It grows because I spend more than my fair time on Facebook, on HuffPost, on Google News, on Twitter, and I am reading posts and stories and articles and links and tweets on injustices, injustices perpertrated against a group to which I belong, if only marginally. Injustices which could have had an impact on my life, but for the grace of Bertha, haven't and in all likelihood, won't. I am talking, of course, of the rights of same sex couples to marry, the fight for marriage equality. I was lucky enough to meet the person I wanted to spend the rest of my life with when I was only 23. He happened to be a man, but my sexual orientation remained unchanged. If Michael had been a woman, I would have just as easily lived happily ever after with her...but he wasn't, so I luckily got to get married in the eyes of the government. Bi-sexual doesn't have to mean you have to have both...it just means you've got a lot more options to start from, but that's a whole other blog entry.

This morning, I was reading yet another post, this one about the Rhode Island governor deciding to veto a bill allowing same sex couples the right to plan each other's funerals, something married people take for granted. Already aggravated from the world not providing me with Unicorns shitting cupcakes and rainbows, I read bits of the article to my husband, whose back is to me as he works on his computer. Incensed, my voice rises and I become completely shocked by the utter awfulness of the situation. I proclaim: All of these people are going to hell!

And herein lies one of the myriad of reasons Michael is the person for me...without turning from the computer, he says, very calmly and matter of factly, "The noise is always worst before the dyke breaks. They're trying everything now because they're ultimately going to lose." And with that, I am calm. I am no longer vengeful. I might even see a unicorn in my front yard.

Whereby the Universe Punishes Me for Trying to be Nice to the Earth

It’s the day before Halloween, which of course means that I am sewing like mad, grumpy, and covered in glitter.

I used to like Halloween. It was never my favorite holiday, but I did enjoy it. Now, I feel like it’s a tedious waste of time. Despite that, I have been doing my best for the years I have felt this way to put on a happy face and carry on. As a former costumer, the assumption is that I love the holiday, that I live to sew my children’s costumes, to come up with something creative for myself and Michael, and to go out and par-tay. Sadly, both you and me are asses in this scenario, as it is simply not true.

But my feelings on All Hallow’s Eve are neither here nor there, as what day it is (or day it will be) has little to do with my total annoyance right now. I am being tried. I am being tried by some unknown force, being punished for my commitment to living life with a small environmental footprint. And I don’t know what to do about it.

The morning started off with the usual flurry of waking up, getting the kids dressed and ready for school, feeding them breakfast, and all the insanity that entails. It was made more crazy than usual because today is the Halloween Parade at the school, so costumes had to be put into bags, shoes found, bags labeled, etc. Yes, this was something an organized person would have done the night before, but I was busy making the damn costumes, going to a friend’s book signing, making dinner to take to my mother in laws, and visiting with a good friend here from China (yes, that was all done at night, although not in that order and not separately). Suddenly, Max decides he needs a brown paper bag. “But, why?” I ask, considering all the reusable lunch bags and totes and other cloth methods of carrying devices of which we have a plethora… and he explains that what he needs to do is make a bag to carry whatever Halloween treats he gets at school. I explain right back that he has a fabric trick or treat bag, covered in skeletons, that I made him, that would serve this purpose. No, he insists, it has to be a brown bag that he can decorate RIGHT NOW before he leaves for school. Not really in the mood to fight over this particular battle, I sigh and mumble something about Mother Nature being disappointed in his desire to kill more trees and find a brown bag leftover from something for him to decorate. He happily scampers off to decorate it, and since it’s the first morning in weeks where I only had to ask him once to get his shoes on, I am relieved and pleased that there won’t be fighting, although, admittedly, still a bit irked.

Suddenly I hear Michael talking to someone at the front door. I walk into the front of the house and hear him talking to the city guy standing there about taking away one of our black trash cans and one of our blues. Now, we have 2 of each, and haven’t filled them both in forever, and since I was under the impression that we were being charged for them, I thought it right to go ahead and have them removed, and save the money. I called earlier in the week, and in the course of the conversation with the lovely lady at the DWP learned that we hadn’t been being charged for them. So I carefully backed out of the whole thing in such a way that I thought she and I had an understanding. Evidently we didn’t, as she put the order in anyway and now the guy had actually shown up to do my bidding. I become more annoyed but not in a way that makes any sense to anyone but me, as Michael had not been told about the whole thing, and as far as he was concerned we were being charged for the cans and were totally fine getting rid of them. I start stomping around and flip flopping on the issue, trying to explain to Michael why exactly I am annoyed and what was going on, at which point he also becomes totally annoyed with the situation but neither of us know how to tell the guy taking away our cans to stop. So we don’t. But we’re now both irritated. Him with the situation, me with myself for messing everything up. Ironic, since really, I had WANTED them to get rid of the trashcans not 3 days ago, but that was when I didn’t know they were free. Also, we honestly never even fill one, which I am PROUD of because it means we don’t generate a lot of trash. Which, of course, just made me more annoyed. I mean, the fact that I was annoyed when I didn’t have any real right to be just made it all worse.

Michael takes the kids to school and I get ready for my day of erranding and work. On my first errand, I call him and start to talk about all my little irritations of the day, some so embarrassingly trivial, I cannot bear to see them in print, so you will be spared. The cumulative annoyances put me in tears…so now I’m crying and at the bank. Fine, the tellers know me and are very, very sweet to me as I do my business. I leave and go to the drugstore to pick up some things and while I am there, feel the need to use the restroom.

Ok, this is where I am placing the warning. If you have an issue reading about feminine (yes, menstrual) issues…then just stop now. Skip ahead to the end and spare yourself. Otherwise, buckle up, cause I’m going to get personal…and kinda graphic. So, my need to use the restroom has nothing to do with me emptying my bladder as I am feeling that old familiar feeling of the mess coming on. I think “oh, no…” and head to the back of the store. Now, I don’t use tampons or pads. I use something called a Diva Cup. It’s a silicone cup that I insert in my hoo-haa when Aunt Flow comes to visit. I keep it in for up to 12 hours, take it out, empty and rinse, and put it back in. Once in a while I have a really heavy few hours and have to empty it more often than that, but it really never leaks or anything like that, and I’ve been using it for over a year now, so this sensation is very unexpected. I think my cup may have runneth over, and go into the bathroom to check. I happened to be wearing back tights under my pants today, as it was so cold this morning, I thought it would help keep me warm, so I sit down and look and lo and behold, there’s some mess on my tights…ok, I look at my pants. Oh my Bertha. It’s everywhere. EVERYWHERE. All over my LIGHT green twill pants…through to the outside everywhere. Evidently, in my annoyance and haste to get ready this morning, I mis-inserted. I sigh, am reminded of the time this happened in France (pre-Diva cup), and think the Studio City Rite Aid is not nearly as nice a place as the Arc De Triomphe. On the upside, there is a sink in the restroom, so I manage to rinse off everything, and put my now clean, but wet tights and pants back on, possibly the ickiest sensation ever. I walk out of the restroom, with my visibly sopping wet pants, head held high, daring anyone to question why I would have wet pants on, and continue with my day.

But in my head, I am thinking…Fuck you, Universe.

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. :)