Riding the City Bus

I have taken to riding the city bus, occasionally, to COCC and back home to Redmond. What propelled this insane decision? Three things; it's cheaper, it's easier when the roads are ice packed and it helps me with my tolerance.

Since I work in the Multicultural Department at COCC I am, to a certain extent, an example of kindness and tolerance and acceptance. However, there are many times I do not want to be kind or tolerant or accepting. I would never, under any circumstances, express this attitude, but sometimes I fear that what I am thinking I might say. Sometimes the filter in my brain is not very efficient. Sometimes I just don't like people and I am afraid of what might come out of my mouth.

So my plan is to ride the bus as often as the roads are icy and work on my tolerance in my mind, not just through my words. In other words, I want to not only say tolerant, kind, accepting things, I want to think them.

So far I've ridden the bus a grand total of five hours and I'm beginning to wish I had a permit for a concealed weapon.

I have discovered that I am not a kind, tolerant individual. As a matter of fact, there have been a few brief moments where I've had to sit on my hands so I did not reach up and slap someone.

For example, a rather heavy young woman sat down in front of me with her five year old son yesterday. The first thing he says when he gets on the bus, to the African American man sitting behind me is "Mommy, I'm not sitting by a Mexican Black." This was the first time I wanted to slap someone.

Then the mother opens her mouth and announces to the bus that "he ain't known anyone but bad men in his life so that's why he's that way."This was the second time I wanted to slap someone and not just for saying "ain't."

Through the fifteen minute bus ride (which felt like fifteen hours) the mom tells the audience on the bus that she just moved here from Texas and she needs to get to the jail to vist her boyfriend. Then she tells her son, who is swinging from the metal bars of the bus, that if "he don't sit down right now I'm gonna leave you in jail." He ignores her. So then she says "you don't get your butt down here I'm taking my welfare money and buying me a present and not you." He still ignores her. She then says "as soon as we get off the bus I'm gonna whip your butt and all these people on the bus gonna laugh at you."

The first time I rode the bus I saw that everyone had their ipods or itunes or i-somethings plugged in. I thougth that was rude, after all, I was hoping to make my bus ride into a case study of the human race and I needed to talk to people. Now I know why.

All the logic in my brain knows why this woman is this way. And that same logic tells me that that six  year old was going to end up in jail eventually, probably in a cell next to one of his momma's many boyfriends. This did not help my "mind tolerance."

I was not doing well in this social experiment. I was looking up and down trying to figure out if I could get a window open enough to escape. I was not at all empathetic to her plight. In fact, if the state of Oregon offered me $10,000 per month to foster this child, I would not.

Finally she and her wild child exited the bus. I swear there was a collective sigh of relief (especially from the African American man behind me.)

I got off at the next exit, which was not mine, and walked a mile and a half to COCC.

I needed to clear my mind.

I needed to work on my mind tolerance.

Will I ride the bus again? Yes, because obviously five hours is not going to cut it. Five hours is not enough for a person like myself to show kindness to all human beings. John Trudell said once that we are all of the tribe of human beings. I like that.

But I don't want her in my tribe.

Spring in Deschutes County

Spring in Deschutes County means chickens, and it also means snow but that's okay. It snowed last night about six inches and since there's not a snowplow to be found within 500 miles, everything gets shut down, including schools. But baby chickens have arrived in Deschutes County.

I was driving home from COCC tonight on Hwy 97 and a big banner, right outside Redmond said "Baby Chicks are HERE!!!" I almost drove off the road trying to figure out where HERE was.

You're probably surpised I could get so excited about chickens. But, and this is a little known-fact, I like chickens.

When we moved to Granby there was a chicken coop at our house, so naturally we had to buy chickens. Buying chickens in Granby is unlike buying chickens anywhere else. You have to order chickens through the mail....through the mail! Who would have thought chickens could be shipped through the mail? But they are! So I went online to Murrays Hatchery and ordered 25 "mixed" chickens and paid 15 cents extra per chicken to have them sexed. Which doesn't mean what you might imagine it means. It means that you're are guaranteed to have all females. No pesky, obnoxious, strutting around roosters, only sweet, demure hens to poop all over your yard.

But here, here where I have returned to civilization, you can walk into the feed store and pick out the chickens you desire. There are pictures on the cages that show you what the chicks will look like when they grow up. Imagine that! A store that sells chickens, and you don't have to buy 25. I am, once again, so thankful I don't live in Granby.

However, here's the clincher. We have no chicken coop. So tonight I told Mike that he has to build a chicken coop. And not just any chicken coop. He has to build the Taj Mahal of Chicken Coops. The Buckingham Castle of Chicken Coops. The Trump Mansion of Chicken Coops. Why? Because Redmond has a Chicken Coop Tour. I am not making this up. They sell tickets to the public and the public goes from farm to farm to look at Chicken Coops. If that's not the saddest thing you've ever heard, wait, the following is the saddest thing you've ever heard.

I want our Chicken Coop to be on the tour. Yes, this will be my five minutes of fame and it's up to Mike and the Internet to see my dream come true.

I plan on spending the rest of the night downloading plans for chicken coops. Forget the plywood floors we're walking on. Forget the bathroom shower that's crooked. Forget the roof that is not finished. WE NEED A CHICKEN COOP AND NOT JUST ANY CHICKEN COOP, BUT THE BEST CHICKEN COOP DESCHUTES COUNTY HAS EVER SEEN.

I know, I know, I thought my life was sad when I lived in Granby, but since I've become obsessed with the chicken coop, it's become even sadder.

So here's the plan. Mike drops everything and immediately begins work on the chicken coop. We (meaning Mike) builds the Bill Gates Estate of Chicken Coops and we get on this most prestigious tour and...we win. Okay, I may have made the last part up. I'm not sure anyone wins anything and it's supposed to benefit some charity (I skimmed over that information since I wasn't interested) but, nevertheless, we will soon have the Warren Buffet Chicken Estate right over the septic tank.

I'll send pictures. I know you're excited.

SAT Scores

Mike and I have been married almost thirty years and we still learn new things about each other. For example, I had no idea he didn't like mushrooms.

And, when he took his SATs in high school more than thirty years ago, he actually paid attention to what they said. The scores told him that his strengths were in the Social Sciences, so he thought of becoming a nurse or a forester. I'm glad he became a forester. When anyone's sick around here he tells them to get up and run it off. He would not be a very compassionate nurse.

But what I find so fascinating, is that he listened to his high school counselor. My high school counselor, after seeing my SATs, told me that I was not college material and that I might as well count on working in a mill the rest of my life. I think if she knew of my extenuating circumstances, she might have been more kind. My extenuating circumstances were that I had spent the entire night before drinking. It's hard to get a good score on SATs when you're still half drunk or either half hang over.

Two points to this - one, a person's life cannot ever be determined by a standardized test or a crappy high school counselor and two, Mike pays more attention to the details in life than I do, which is why we're a good couple - we balance each other out.

This afternoon I was so desperate to get out of the never-ending-job-from-hell (yes, we're still working on the roof) that I enlisted Ian to help me tear out twenty-five years of barb wire.

This is how I tear down fences. First I unhook all the little wire thingys that hook the rusted wire to the bent fence posts, then I hook up a rope which I hook up to the truck and then I pull. It's quick and easy. Mike can't stand to watch.

This is how Mike tears down a fence. First he gathers all his tools and puts them in his tool belt. Then he carefully unhooks every stray piece of wire. Then he carefully pulls the fence from the T-posts. Then he slowly, and I mean slowly, digs out the wire that is buried in the dirt. Then he rolls up the wire into humongous rolls, loads them in his truck and takes them to the Cemetary of Old Wire.

I drag long, long lengths of wire to the Cemetary of Old Wire. I drag them as quickly as I can. Then, because I'm so much quicker at this than Mike, I have time to play Stunt Man with Ian.

Stunt Man is when Ian holds on to the same rope that pulls the wire out and I drag him across the field. Ian loves it. He loves bouncing along the ground, ripping his sweatshirt, dried cow dung flying across his face.

Mike can't stand to watch.

That's because Mike pays attention to rules and details. This is good when it comes to buying a house or working for the government or balancing a checkbook. It's not so good when it comes to Stunt Man or skiing off the garage in Granby.

This is why Mike and I are such a good pair. Our kids know that if they want guidance and calm, they go to Mike. If they want crazy and risky behavior, they go to me.

So far it works.

Of course, if Ian gets some sort of horrible disease from cow dung I may have to change my approach to the taking down of fences.

The Wonders of a Glue Gun

We spent the weekend tearing off thirty years of bad roofing off The Crazy House. It was a fun-filled family weekend. I'm glad I have to work today.

But while loading the twelfth pickup load of shingles and roofing that I'm convinced is full of asbestos, I'm thinking there has to be a better way to replace the roof. And then it came to me, a humongous sized glue gun.

I've used my glue gun for all sorts of projects that I'm sure it's not designed for. Hemming pants. Gluing curtains to window frames rather than rods. Broken glass. Just yesterday, as I was thinking of a myriad of chores to do in the house to avoid the roofing outside and then I remembered that the kitchen sink was leaking.

I've never been so happy to have a leaking kitchen sink.

So I cleaned out the 64 beer bottles out from under the sink, moved all the cleaning liquids out and vacuumed up the mouse droppings (Obviously this new cat is not doing her job). The pipe from the sink to the pipe that goes to the drain (it probably has a name but I don't know it...) was just hanging there. It was an easy fix. About one minute to screw it back on. Which meant I had to go back outside to the job-from-hell much quicker than I had originally planned.

Ah-ha. Get out the glue gun. So I glued it in place-Mike would be so proud of me. This took two more minutes. So then I wandered around looking for things to glue. I glued a tear in Ian's sheet. I glued a book cover back on. I glued some bright blue bling onto a lamp shade that I was planning on giving to Goodwill. I glued a hole in one of my shoes, another item I was giving to Goodwill.

With wandering around the house looking for things to glue, I managed to waste 45 minutes. Unfortunately, the roofing was continuing to sail off the roof onto the ground and it was not magically weaving its way over to the burn pile.

But here's what I'm thinking. If you could invent a large enough glue gun, you wouldn't need nails or hammers anymore. You could use a glue gun to build a house. Even someone like myself could help in the building of a house if there was a glue gun. Just point and squeeze. And if it's in the wrong place, you just tear it a part and do it again. No more wrenching out nails. No more hitting your thumb with the hammer. No more nails weighing down your tool but...no more butt crack.

I really think I should stay in the house and refine this invention of mine.We could use a glue gun to glue the metal roofing on or if this works out like I think it might, we could hire real roofers to finish our roof. What the heck, we could buy a new house that already has a roof. I think I'm on to something.

Ian and Grades

One of the reasons we moved to this part of the county, Redmond, was that the schools are good. And they are. The teachers are compassionate and smart and encouraging. All of Ian's teachers are like this. How do I know this? Because I've talked to ALL of Ian's teachers at least two times since we moved here five months ago. Why? Because Ian is the student that I had that began my lifelong high school teacher mantra, "I'd rather have a not- so- smart motivated student than a smart- lazy one."

Which one is Ian?

Take a guess.

Ian's last report card read like a Polish last name - no vowels. He got one C, three Ds and one F.

Another one of my former high school teaching days mantra, "You have to work really hard to flunk a high school class."

Apparently Ian worked really hard at something.

Here's the thing about Ian. He just might be a little smarter than his brother Jordan. He just might be a little bit more athletic than his brother Jordan. Does this matter? No.In high school Jordan got the Citizenship Award. He got one of the Wall of Fame Award. He got scholarships based on his grades, ability to write and what a great kid he was. I'll be lucky if Ian gets the "Might Possibly Graduate from High School Award." 

In December I was at a college conference and had to speak on what I thought were the most important attributes to have in order to succeed at college. I spoke on the idea that smartness, for the most part, does not matter in college. The ability to work hard will carry you further than any other skill.

My fear is that Ian has none of these skills and will either join the Army (the Marines probably won't take him) or work for a landscaping company run by undocumented workers.

No, I haven't given up and neither has Mike. As parents we don't have the luxury to give up (or the money to send him to a boarding school). What we have done is taken away his TV, taken away time at the Skate Park, finally figured out how to login to Ian's daily class grades, taken away his phone and filled his spare time with the multitude of jobs at The Crazy House.

Here's the good thing about all this. Mike, in his retirement, has taken over Ian. Mike picks him up from school. Mike gives him his list of chores. Mike talks to him about his grades. Mike encourages him. Mike has the patience for him.

If he was not my child, I'd have the patience for him. Co-workers are always impressed with my ability to work with the most difficult students. This is true....when they aren't mine.

Quite frankly I'm tired of Ian. He has so much potential and what's scary about him? He reminds me of me. The way of blithely meandering through life. The way of approaching life on a "wing and a prayer," (my grandmother's analysis of my character). The idea that life will turn out, don't worry, be happy.

This may not be good.

My saving grace in my laissez-faire approach to life is that  I do work hard and I'm married to a down-to-earth, salt-of-the-earth kind of guy who shows me where I need to sign, keeps my car gassed up and understands that maps are not necessary for any kind of traveling.

All I need to worry about is getting Ian to graduate and then put an ad on Match.com for a rich, down-to-earth kind of woman who appreciates Ian for who is .

That's all.

How I Got Stuck on the Roof

Yesterday I spent an hour and a half on the roof. Long enough so that the owls who live in the poplars next to our house started hooting. Long enough so that my ankles started tingling. Long enough so that my pants which were slightly damp from washing the windows were freezing to my legs.

I am terrified of climbing trees, ladders and Ferris wheels. I start shaking when I think I may have to go more than two feet off the ground. Last summer when we replaced some windows in our house in Granby, Mike made me climb up on the scaffold and hold them; my knees were shaking, my heart was beating FAST and I almost started crying with fear. Instead I held one window, carefully climbed back down and ignored Mike as he yelled from the safety of the inside of the house.

I let our sweet half-grown orange cat outside onto the deck yesterday. Then forgot about her as I washed the windows in our rental. I went back to our house, called for the cat, saw our dogs who looked rather suspicious and looked up. There was the cat. Stuck in a poplar tree looming about another twenty feet higher over the roof.

Plan A- call sweetly up and believe that she will jump 60 feet down into my arms.
Plan B- throw rocks at her and hope that I will actually hit her propelling her into a free fall down into my arms.
Plan C-Ignore her and let her figure out how to get down.
Plan D-Get a ladder and climb on the roof and get her down.

Plans A,B and C did not work.
Plan D unfolded into a typical Gina fashion.

I asked Mike where the ladder was and told him the cat was stuck in the tree. This was a hint to my husband that the cat was stuck in a tree and he needed to go get the ladder, climb onto the roof and get the cat down.

Did not happen. He was watching the Weather Channel...can't he just look outside and see what the weather is like?

I got the ladder. I figured out what the rope hanging on the ladder does (it moves the ladder up and down - really quite ingenious.)
I put the ladder up against the roof.
I climbed up the roof.
I reached up into the tree and grabbed the cat (after prodding her gently with a limb I violently yanked from the tree to move her down...basically I stuck her with the stick and she fell down another three feet and got stuck closer to me)  stuck her inside my jacket and, feeling quite satisfied that I hadn't vomited on the roof with fear, walked over the ladder.. which was no longer there.

The same two dogs who had chased the cat up the tree had knocked the ladder over.
They were staring up at me, wagging their tails.

Plan A-start yelling for Mike.
I periodically yelled for Mike for the next hour and a half.
The sun began setting.
The owls began hooting.
The temperature began dropping.
The dogs were still staring up at me. Bodie, who is a Collie, is NOT, I repeat, NOT like Lassie. I said,"Bodie, go get Mike."
"Bodie, go onto the deck and scratch the door until Mike comes."
"Bodie, go bark frantically and tell Mike there is Danger!"
"Bodie, go swim across the river, bark with intelligence and get Timmy's father to come rescue me."

I thought about stomping across the roof, but we're in the midst of replacing the roof so I was afraid something might cave in and I'd land in the middle of Ian's room.

So instead I waited and tried to enjoy the sunset and admired the views from our roof and then it got dark.
Still no Mike.
Did he have a heart-attack?
Did he have a stroke?
Did he knew I was on the roof and he was glad for an hour and a half of peace?

Finally he wandered outside, saw the ladder on the ground, came around the front of the house, looked up and said, "What are you doing up there"
I was frozen and I hated him so I did not answer.
Finally I yelled back, "I was getting the cat."

And this was what he said to me, "Why didn't you call me on your cell?" (I'm still on the roof, it's dark, the ladder is still on the ground and THIS is what he asks.)

He propped the ladder up, held it steady while I climbed down and then I, with frozen lips replied, "Do you really think that IF I had my phone I would NOT have called you?"

"Well, you really should carry your phone all the time."

That's true. I really should carry my phone all the time. That way I could immediately call a divorce lawyer.

Moral of the Story - you cannot count on dogs or men.

What I'm Learning About Myself

I'm learning a few things about myself and I'm not sure I like them.

I think I may have a touch of OCD, I think I may be a tad anal and I think there is a small part of me that suffers from ADD.

The OCD has come about with the continuing saga of the book shelves. Mike told me that his design is that the larger books will be on the bottom shelves, regular size books in the middle and paperbacks on the top shelf.

This cannot be.

I have to have my books arranged alphabetically AND in the correct genre. Thus...if there is an oversize book written by Louise Erdrich it must be in the Native American author section after Michael Dorris and before Craig Lesley. It cannot, under any circumstances, be placed randomly on the bottom shelf. I calmly and with great presence explained this to Mike as he showed me his shelf diagram. There are many times that Mike looks at me like I'm crazy, this is the first time that I think he truly believed it.

Why do I think I'm anal? I'm giving Mike lessons on how to stack the dishwasher. Knives must be placed upside down. Plates on the right side, small plates on the left, bowls on the top rack. What happens if Mike does not follow this "rule?" I don't think anything happens except that I wake up at 2 a.m. obsessing over the dishwasher.

Why do I think I'm ADD? Well, for those that know me, that's fairly obvious. I can read an entire book in one sitting, but can't sit through a half hour sitcom (22 minutes counting the commercials). My mind wanders dangerously when Mike and Ian talk to me. I decide I need to rake the yard, go to find the rake and end up moving some rocks I find along the way. I am capable of only brushing half of Bodie before the boredom threatens to kill me. And the more interruptions I have at work, the more I accomplish.

I pity Mike. I pity my children. I pity anyone who works with me and is subject to my yawns of boredom. I pity the person sitting next to me on the couch when I have the remote.

I'm trying to resolve these issues. I'm taking deep breaths when I see my books out of order. I slow my heartbeat when I unload the dishwasher and notice that there is a bowl on the bottom rack. I've decided to hire a groomer for Bodi and a landscaper for the yard. I've decided to check my emails at work only twice during the day AND ignore the little ding that lets me know another email has arrived.

I'm giving myself six months to become a better person. After that, forget it. Everyone around me is just going to have to deal with it.

How I Am Turning into My Mother

I have become the kind of parent I swore I would never be. I am saying things to Ian that I swore I never would. Phrases such as "because I said so," or "You want to cry, I'll give you something to cry about," or my all time favorite, "just do what I say now or else."

When I was a child I never understood the "because I said so." I thought that it didn't seem like a very good answer. What if my mother was telling me to jump off a bridge? Would I jump off the bridge because she said so?

As a parent of a 14 year old boy, I finally understand her. What she was really saying was "Do not ask me any more questions. Do not talk to me. Do not even look at me." When Jordan was born I read boxes of books on child rearing. I was NOT ever going to be the kind of parent my mother was. I was always going to be interested in everything he said. I was always going to be patient even after the thirteenth question on why dogs are named dogs and cats are named cats. Never happened - you become the parent your parent was.

My grandfather was the one who used to say "You want something to cry about, I'll give you something to cry about." Why would we want something to cry about? And what was he going to give us? A new pony? A shiny red sports car? I don't think so.

As a parent of a 14 year old boy, I finally understand him. I want my child to quit whining and pleading and in all honesty, quit talking and possibly move away. I was following in my grandfather's footsteps - the man who once told me after my first horse died, "Things die."

My mother was a single mom, so she used the phrase "just do what I say now or else" frequently. Usually this was in reference to setting the table, making our beds or quit fighting with each other.  I always wondered what the "or else" was. If we didn't do what she said, would she: send us to live with foster parents, give our dog away or hand us a million dollars?

As a parent of a 14 year old boy, I finally understand her. She wanted us to do what she asked in complete silence, complete obedience, complete adoration and then ask for more chores.

I remember once my mother actually pulled the car over, flung open her door, flung open the back door, pulled my sister and I out of the car, slammed the back door shut, got in the front and drove off, gravel spinning. My sister and I had violated all her rules: we didn't do what she asked, we didn't quit whining and we certainly didn't do what she said so.

We were in front of the drive-in movie theater. It was hot and it didn't look like she'd be coming back soon. So what did my sister and I do? We started throwing gravel at each other so by the time my grandfather came to pick us up we had red welts over any patch of skin that was not sheltered by clothing. We didn't say a thing. He didn't say a thing. We climbed in the front seat of his truck, he took us home and we set the table and started dinner and cleaned out the kitty litter box and dusted. We were really, really good for 24 hours.

There are days that if I could get away with dumping my teenage son off on a road somewhere I would.

But until then I'm going to resort to the tried and true methods of my mother: Because I said so, you want something to cry about I'll give you something to cry about and just do it now or else.  It won't get me Parent of the Year, but it might get me some peace and quiet and a little less eye-rolling.

Mike's Decorating Style and Why He Needs to Get a Job

Because Mike is home now more often, way more often, way, way more often, he is now compelled to offer suggestions regarding decorating. For all intents and purposes, our marriage has worked for so long because we know our place in the house. I made the decisions and Mike carried out the work.

Now Mike is actually poring over decorating magazines and watching HGTV. It's really annoying. Especially when his comments on HGTV are more along the line of "How many square feet do you think that walk-in closet is?" "What do you think that tool is that they are using to square off the new counters?" "Is engineered wood floor a better choice than bamboo?"

When my friend Betsey and I used to watch it, these were our comments: "What an idiot, doesn't she know she can paint?" "He's such a moron of a husband," or "I really like David but I think he's gay." These are the kinds of comments that should be made while watching HGTV.

Mike spent ALL day Saturday drawing out plans for the house AND he made me go through the whole house with him. I wanted to kill him at the end of the day, or at least hire a couple of cousins I have that would for a small fee. At two in the afternoon I started drinking, which was a good thing since by then he had gotten to our bedroom and wanted to know if I wanted the entrance to the TajMahal closet here or there? I felt like Sam I am - "I don't, I don't, I really don't like green ham." I told him I want a place to hang my clothes and put my shoes. He looks at me like I have no imagination.

Here's what's bizarre, all these years I looked at HIM like that. I figured that's why he stuck with the Forest Service for thirty years - he had no imagination. Now I realize that with retirement his imagination has surfaced and I am being punished for not giving him credit for his long-buried creativity. I feel like he did when I would talk to him about paint hues and fabrics and ambiance. My eyes glaze over and I start thinking about going to the kitchen to get something to eat (or in Mike's case, and all husband's cases, he started thinking about sex.)

I appreciate my husband, I really do. But what happened to the man I loved and adored who nodded absent-mindedly when I chattered endlessly about the bathroom remodel? I used to think that my move to Granby, Colorado was a punishment for something horrible I did in another life, but now I may have to reconsider that finally, after all my years of talking (read "nagging") he's finally listening to me and his decorating interests are my true punishment.

Seriously, you have to be careful what you wish for.

Scaling Down My Library

We have moved into a smaller house with no bookshelves. One of the few things I liked about our home in Granby were the floor to ceiling bookshelves downstairs. When we moved from Oregon to Granby  the mover commented that I had three boxes of clothes and 63 boxes of books - I think this was some kind of moral judgment (or maybe it was a style judgment.) When we put our house up for sale in Granby our realtor asked me to pare down the books on my shelves - I had.

I'm not sure how many boxes of books we moved from Oregon to Colorado. I just know that I am having to reduce them.

This is emotionally difficult for me. I'd rather put the cat to sleep.(Okay, not a fair comparison if you read the blog before this regarding The Cat from Hell, but you get the point.)

When I first started my rule was "Only books written by Native American Authors." Okay, not a problem since the first seven boxes I opened contained those particular books. And then I opened four boxes that contained books about horses. Okay, I have horses so I have to keep these. Then I opened two boxes of books from my childhood. Okay, I have to keep these because they are Nancy Drew and Trixie Beldon and ALL of the Black Stallion books (which technically fall under the second rule also). Then I opened the three boxes of books I collected for my boys which they seldom read. I have to keep these since they may eventually marry and have kids and my grand kids will need books to read. Then I opened six boxes of classic authors such as Faulkner and Hemingway and I have to keep these because they are, well, they are Faulkner and Hemingway.

So far I've put into the LIBRARY DONATION box the following: all the books about Colorado (as if I care about that state anymore) "Hiking the Bigfoot Country," "An Introduction to Literature," "50 Nature Projects for Kids" and three of the four books Mike owns.

I still have thirteen books of boxes to open. The only solution is for Mike to build more shelves, otherwise I may have a nervous breakdown.