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.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Sunday, February 26, 2012
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.
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.
Monday, February 20, 2012
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.
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.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
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.
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.
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