My Unpleasant Surprise For Today...

 

I washed a couple of chair pads in what is apparently, my very own Laundry Thunderdome. Two went in, one came out.

 Like they say...there can be only one.

Cue muttered cussing as I picked allll that fluff outta my washer.

Bowie In The Bathtub!

...and I *don't* mean the singer. 

This Bowie is a naughty little bantam Cochin hen who insists on scratching around improperly in any mud she can find, until it coats the tips of her toes & claws and forms these weird little hard balls the size of peewee marbles.  Then she walks around with little rocks on the end of her toes angling to land at the vets' with some funky new dumb chicken thing I have to stand there and explain to my poor bewildered vet.

Ha ha, NO.  The kid hauled her into the house, where Bowie walked around the dining room floor, her toes clicking like castanets when I ran some warm water into the bathtub.

Time to soak a chicken.

We just put her in a few inches and closed the tub enclosure door and waited for the warm water to work it's magic to the tune of indignant cackling.  We stood outside the tub with arms crossed, yelling back at her that maybe now she'd learn not to make mud castanets on her toes.  Took about 20 minutes.  Mind you, this is the second time Bowie has done this.

After that, I got to scrub out the tub.  As you can see, Bowie was kind enough to jump up on the tub edge several times to really spread the filth.

Criminy, the dumbest things happen around here...

Hey, I'll Be Damned, It's Still There!

Welp, it was one heck of a week, lemme tell ya!

This week we had screaming winds for days on end, a flood AND a whole bunch of snow.  And the flood and snow were within a day of each other!

To give the weather service credit, everyone was amptly warned, given the standard 'Be prepared to be on your own for 3-5 days' instructions, etc.  And the weather service, the local government and emergency services were fully prepared and communicated and meshed well together.  It really was a fine example of handling a not-too-fun situation in the best way possible.

So we had a solid week of heavy-duty weather, everything from high winds to 'catastrophic' (the weather services' word, not mine) rain/flooding to MORE high winds just for fun (weather service missed that 48 hour episode though), then a blizzard that has and *still is* dumping snow on us.  Oh, and meanwhile, the earthquake swarms in our area continue.

Plague of toads must be backordered.

But anyway, this morning when I got up the chicken coop & run was still there...

As far as the yard goes, it's either covered in snow or supremely muddy.  Ya gotta watch where you step though, since the yard had about 6 inches of floodwater standing that froze overnight and then got snowed on to the tune of about 6-7 inches.  When I took this pic most of the snow had melted away.

The coop doors were damaged pretty heavily and we'll have to replace them. Unfortunately we haven't been able to check the house for wind damage yet since it snowed so quickly and thoroughly.  But they say it will melt off in a few days, then we'll know what--if any--damage there is.

At lease the chickens had a genuinely great time ice skating on the frozen lake-that-was-once-a-yard before the snow came!

Plus they had their own Japanese zen garden pond!

Spring Is Bustin' Out All Over...

So the landscaping we put in last year is really taking off...

The pink dwarf flowering almond is especially gorgeous and seems really happy.

They're beautiful things, I'm really glad we put in three of these!

These petunias reseeded from last year, the kid's school grew them for the town's hanging baskets that line Highway 395 through the center of town, they smell amazing.

Both the Lavender Twist contorted redbud trees are blooming with tiny, snapdragonlike blooms.

The Showtime crape myrtle is gearing up...

And out in the future vegetable garden, the Sugar Tyme crape myrtle tree is being stupendous!

But all is not happy in Chickenland today.  Shake, the tiny Belgian d'Uccle, decided to get jealous and take personal offense at Alice the Barred Rock following me around as I took pictures, and picked a fight.

At first Alice politely ignored her, but you can only take so much of a microhen pulling your tail and growling and talking trash at you. 

Alice stares at Shake as if to say, 'You sure about this, little bug?'

She's sure!

Zip stands by, unhappy at the fight and growling, warning these two she's gonna break this nonsense up any second.

Luckily Alice ends things by jumping and sitting on Shake, who wisely decides to retire from the field of honor and runs off.

Meanwhile in the coop, Burger thinks it's too warm to engage in such silliness and cools off.

And egg laying goes on full steam in the nest boxes.

It's SRO, line up girls!

Pie voices her displeasure at being at the back of the line, however.

Adventures With Baking...

So today I'm making two pies for Thanksgiving, pumpkin and pecan. I get out all my implements of kitchen destruction and have at it, starting with the pie crust. Now, I've always been able to knock pie crusts right out with no problem. Today? Here at nearly 5000 feet? With an extra-dry, no humidity day?

Problem!

My very first batch of good ol' shortening pie crust dough went together OK until I'd mixed it all and was forming it into a ball. Then it suddenly seized.

Hard.

I tell you, I've dug stones outta my goddamned back yard that were softer. The thing was an instarock. Now I'm stubborn, so I tried rewetting it a bit to try and save doughrock.

No soap. It's now just a slimey rock. Oh, well, into the trash can it went with a resounding 'thud'.

I know better than to try the same thing, expecting different results. Off to the Internet I fly for advice, where I decide to switch up my pie crust fats a bit and go with a half butter/half shortening recipe, which I have never tried. But desperate times and all that stuff...

I follow the directions, which since they were on a forum thread were offhanded at best. Gonna try using my big ol' honkin Cuisinart food processor to mix the fats and let it earn it's keep a bit. Now...I've had the thing long enough to know that centrifugal force is a scientific fact and stuff sticks to the bowl but heck, all these other people are doing it, so it must work. Right?

Wrong.

I cut the chilled butter into small bits and toss it in, then hit the 'pulse' button. Haha, they do as I suspect and instantly fling themselves against the sides of the processor bowl, clinging like barnacles. I twist the top off and smoosh the butter back down with a spatula, and try again.

Same result.

OK. Maybe if I put the shortening in and try to mix them, some kind of wonderful baking-chemical-science-y magic thing will happen to prevent the stuff from sticking to the damned bowl...

No. Same result. OK.

Scrape goop down again, putting it well into the blades. Hit pulse. Stuff joyously leaps for the sides of the bowl and stays there. It's happening so quickly it boggles the mind, it seems preternatural.

Open lid. Scrape. Replace lid. Hit pulse. Lather, rinse, repeat. Ok, ok, OKAY!

Now, after about 10 tries I started to suspect that all these people online were crazed maniacs who posted maliciously in pie crust forums, and broke out all my $2 cuss words in a muttered, running, free-association rant. Some of it not so 'muttered'. I finally give up on the dumb Cuisinart and finish mixing the fats in a bowl with a pastry cutter, like normal humans do. Works great and I'm happy. In goes the flour, mix with the pastry cutter, add water, mix. Hallelujah, we have pie crust dough! Into the fridge it goes to chill.

Right about then my daughter sticks her head into the kitchen, looking a bit wary. She asks, "What was all the bad language for?"

Oops. Sorry kid.

I apologize and explain about the pie crust. Eventually the stuff is properly chilled, rolled out and made into pies with no further disasters. Won't know how it tastes until the whole family gets to eat it, yikes. Here's hoping the pie crust gods smile upon me.

I've suffered enough today.

What...?

Time to guess, 'What The Hell Am I Doing NOW?!'

It appears I'm cleaning out kitchen cabinets.

But wait--no!

It's jerky making time in the dehydrator! All of the items pictured above are what goes into making the marinade, including coffee.

It was yummy!

Living Room DONE!

Dear God, it feels GREAT to have even one room in this house DONE--cleaned, painted and decorated. There is so much to do here that a lot of the time it feels like a 'fish or cut bait' dilemma, we don't know what to do first.

Boring, ugly living room before:

And after!  New wall paint and trim paint, plus the whole 'scrub the fireplace top to bottom and refinish the wood mantle' thing. Also, curtains up and pictures on the walls! The ugly metal blinds are staying for now, since they are mostly covered while raised and will do their job come winter. You can see where I stopped painting, I have to paint one side of the room, then shift all the furniture to the other side before I can paint the opposite walls.

Of course, because of the way this house is constructed, you can't just hang a curtain rod. Oh, no. It is a roaring pain in the ass to hang anything heavier than a very small picture on the walls, you have to find studs, buy special types of hangers, plan for weight distribution...bleah.

But hey, one down!

Except...except for the 'siliconed-shut window' thing courtesy of the previous tenants, may they rot stinking in Hell for all of eternity. Here's why:

By dint of doing some investigating of the realtor's pictures of the house when it was for sale, we realized the reason for the weird silicone thing--the previous owners had a window air conditioner mounted there and had thought it a GREAT idea to silicone the damned thing into place. A closer look at the 1/2 inch-thick layer of silicone they cheerfully filled the window and it's channels with:

It goes around all three sides of the window and is on the window and the channel. It won't peel off but instead most be laboriously picked at, coming loose in tiny bits & pieces. I worked on it for a few minutes before realizing that it was going to take at least one whole day to get this gunk out of there.

I tell you, I laughed and sang the entire time I worked on it.
Really.
Honest.

Attention, Historians...

...the most hated person in history is NOT, in fact, Hitler.

It's me.

At least, going by the chickens' reactions to me lately. They really, really now how to lay on the guilt with a freakin' trowel.

See, chickens are NOT big into any kind of change in their routine or surroundings. They want everything to stay just as it IS, thank you. Even if it's a change for the better, changes are viewed with unhappiness and distrust, and they'll look at YOU--in their minds the occupier of the position of Head Roo and Giver of All Things Good--to fix it, and fix it NOW.

So when we moved, and subjected our flock to various and sundry (and repeated) offenses and indignities of relocation, stuffing them in carriers, making them live in cramped quarters, etc. we found ourselves apologizng over and over again and trying to make it up to them with extra attention, cuddles and treats.

Food goes a long way in chickenland.

But this morning I went out to check on them and got a dose of heavy duty ChickenGlare from at least 6 of the oldsters. The chicks from last year's hatch were blithely out in the run, dashing about in the 25 degree weather with the wind & blowing snow, not really minding the chill. Youngsters are notorious for being kinda brain-dead and naive, and as such are more flexible in their thinking.

The dignified old ladies of the flock were another story. Their expectations are set in concrete. You don't mess with the ladies' dignity and sense of balance. They like to know what to expect in life from one moment to the next, and moving from southern California to northern Nevada in winter, haha, is NOT condusive to friendly human/poultry politics. They'd huddled in silent groups at the back of the coop. This is what I got from them.

The Stare has the power to drop lesser creatures in their tracks. The Frizzles especially contrive to look extra pathetic, as if those curling feathers only serve to allow the cold to get directly to their skin. I'd unwittingly compounded my sin by forgetting to go out there with goodies in hand to make up for the weather. The piteous looks, Lordy--the whining about their poor miserable condition was truly heartrending. The repeated loud and vocal appeals to me to DO something was undending. You'd think I was twisting off their toes.

I got out of there as fast as I could. Besides, it was cold out there!

I sense a large mealworm order in my future.

Two For One Sale On Chicken Emergencies, Aisle 3!

So yesterday afternoon, we had not one, but TWO hens appear on the back step with dire health issues...one was Houdini, a small gray and white bantam hen, who had managed to rip off one toenail and was bleeding pretty good. She had the sense to come and stand and bleed on the back porch so I'd see her, and let me pick her up and bring her in to clean it up and apply Kwik-Stop, a birdie coagulant. We get her fixed up and close her up in the bathroom for a bit until the she is OK to go outside again without reopening the wound, and return out back again to finish feeding the animals and putting them away.

Then I see Chicken Sister, the surviving VERY elderly buff cochin bantam hen twin, standing in one place, facing the garage door. I do the 'Food' call, and she doesn't move.

Crap.

Go over to look at her and see her do the trademark 'eggbound hen' strain. DAAAAMMMNNNN!!! At age 8 or 10 years (we got her and her twin sister as adults in 2001), she's way too old for this egg-laying nonsense. I can see the egg crowning when she pushes, but it ain't comin' out any time soon.

Grab her and truck HER into the house, for nasty egg binding treatment, which involves me oiling up a finger and getting personally acquainted with her most holy of holies, something which dignified old ladies like her do NOT approve of. The egg is stubborn, so she gets to spend the night on the kitchen floor on a heating pad in hopes of her laying the egg herself. Meanwhile, Houdini has ceased bleeding and is allowed to return to the flock.

This morning, Chicken Sister still has not produced the egg and is straining harder with a pained squeak, and no amount of oiling/coaxing by pressing with my fingers is moving that egg, so off to the vet we go.

Pop! He gets that egg out in under two seconds.

Everyone at the vets' office loves to see the chickens, though, I guess it's a break from dogs and cats all day long. Tonight Chicken Sister is again in the house so we can keep and eye on her and she can rest, tomorrow she should be able to return to the flock.

Criminy.

My Daughter, The Weed

Well, as every parent with school age kids knows, you have to pounce on next year's school uniforms NOW. Because by the end of July, they are gone. Finished. And none of the stupid stores will reorder. Apparantly, kids never outgrow or ruin uniforms midyear, and so never have to replace any. Ha.

Today I loaded up on N.'s first big uniform haul in three years. She enters third grade in September, and so far she's been getting along fine with her uniforms that we got in Kindergarten. Then, even with getting the smallest size, they were miles too big for her and I had to take them in & shorten them--still a bit baggy, but acceptable. In first grade the altered clothes fit, hurrah! Other than having to replace the white shirts I had foolishly bought before Kindergarten (where they only use the finest black and blue paints with the darkest pigments). Last year, second grade...at the end of the first grade school year I had her try everything on, inspected them for rips, etc. All well and good, everything fit. Cool! Uniforms were pressed and hung in the closet to await the start of second grade. I congratulate myself for escaping uniform shopping.

Less than three months later, about a week before school started, I have a horrible creeping feeling and had her try them on again...because, my GOD, she'd outgrown everything else she was wearing by leaps and bounds, mostly shoes.

Yikes, the uniform pants fit at the waist but are laughably SHORT. The jumper dresses are a total loss, immodestly short and nothing to let out. I remove her name tags and donate them to the school, as they are still in great condition (as is the way of ALL clothes that are outgrown, while your stuff that fits ends up wearing out before it's time). The culotts are OK, thank God. The shirts are a teeny bit short when she raises her arms. Child is instructed not to raise her arms for entirety of the school year. The long pants fit fine at the waist, but are way short--but huzzah--I'd taken them up in Kindergarten, so NOW I can let them out to their normal length. I do so, smugly. Ha HA, take THAT, hated uniform shopping!

Until I have her try them on. Mother Macree, they are STILL too short! The kid has simply miles of leg. Break out the steam iron and re-hem pants again, leaving only a tiny hem and torturing the pant cuffs mercilessly with the iron until the old cuff mostly disappears. Not great, but acceptable. She doesn't look like a dork, at least.

So I knew I was in for a major uniform expedition this year.

Shirts are purchased a wee bit big, as the ones in her perfect size across the shoulder are too short. Also I get dark blue except for one light blue shirt. Last years' long pants I am shortening to Bermuda short length, as they still fit fine in the waist. More long pants, again a bit big in the waist in order to be long enough in the leg. I do find some stretchy culotts that fit perfectly, and a few pairs of new uniform shorts. The dresses and skirts they offer this year are irredeemably, aggressively ugly, so I skip those in hopes of finding some that don't look so institutional elsewhere.

I find one pair of sneakers that fit...for now. I KNOW they won't by the time school starts, but she's run her current pair into the ground. The next size up is miles too big, so we'll have to wait until the end of August to go on a shoe hunt. I do manage to grab some bulk packs of socks & undies.

I feel like a chipmunk hoarding for winter, or a post-apocalyptic survivor grabbing anything I can. Criminy.

Except I still have to get her a new backpack...

Life Is Outrunning Me

I hate it when that happens. Things are happening that I'm planning on, but before I'm ready for them.

My car needed work: brakes, transmission adjusted (annoyingly, it won't reliably go into 'park') and the ignition was refusing the key. Had to wait until N. was out of school and I could go without the car for a few days.

OK, so the thing spent three days lounging at the mechanics last week, because everyone else had the same idea. My mechanic is close to having a nervous breakdown, he's so busy. I need the car back so I can go and get new glasses, which I'm trying to schedule for next week.

Get the car back, and it's acting strange on the way home, although it's problems seem fixed. Later that day, I go out to the car...and my car radio is possessed--it scans through all the channels and won't stop, then it fades out and turns off. Restart the car, repeat weird radio problem. *sigh* Well, I knew that radio was on it's last legs, anyway. Start car to run errands...and it dies. Hmm. Go to restart it, and it's dead.

OK, now I'm getting annoyed. An electrical problem. I just GOT the thing back. I need it to be reliable and NOT strand me on some hot as Hell LA freeway in summer. I call the mechanic and he swears up and down that he didn't TOUCH the electrical system. I suspect he shorted something out. So J. gets out his volt meter and finds that the battery has a low charge, and it's dropping. The alternator (which is less than 6 months old) isn't charging the battery. We jump the car and get it back over to the mechanic. HE tests parts, and says both the alternator and voltage regulator are fried. So we take it back home and J. spends a couple of happy hours in the oppressive heat changing out the parts. Joy, it lives again. It still is acting funny though, so I think it has more surprises waiting in the wings.

So this morning I have a doctors' appointment, another tomorrow with a different doctor--I'm going to call the optometrist to make that appointment, but first I run out front to turn off the sprinkler. I get some water drops on my glasses so I grasp them to take them off so I can wipe them dry...

They fall in half in my hands.

*double sigh* I truck back into the house and dig up an old pair of glasses, which I'm wearing now and are a grand headache in the making. I call the optometrist...he only works on Wednesdays.

What's this Wednesday, kids? Fourth of July, yay!

He can't see me till NEXT week. Just once I'd like things to just HOLD OFF for a bit. I'm going to get them done, I swear! Gimme a break, for cri-yi!

No, But Thanks For The Ego Boost, Anyway...

I drive a 1969 Plymouth Fury III convertible.

Not a muscle car, but a beach cruiser/professional gasoline swallower. The other day I was walking away from my car after I'd parked it at a local shopping strip mall, when some guy in an SUV stops next to me as he's passing.

"HEY! Want to sell your car?"

Now, I'm not exaggerating when I say I get this ALL THE TIME. People stop me to ask, shout it across streets and parking lots, pull up at red lights, knock on my front door, leave notes, etc. The longing look in their eyes is downright amusing and they practically drool. Even my mechanic wants it, and he told me that in his research of my car, it's estimated value is around $30,000. I already knew this, as I'd done my own research long ago...but it was nice to hear from an independent source!

So anyway, I politely decline the guys' offer, coupled with a smile and my standard response of, "Sorry, it's my baby." Most people recognize that there is no chance of a sale and accept it graciously enough.

Not this guy, he's determined.

He's also not pulling away, and I stand there somewhat awkwardly, waiting for him to pass by so I can continue into the store.

"Aw, come ON! Are you sure you don't want to sell it?" *cue longing look* "It's an awful nice car, I love those..." *wistful look* Oh dear, another Fury fan. I can sympathize, I know that illness. I again decline, with an understanding smile.

Undeterred, he desperately begins rummaging in his glove compartment. "No, wait! I'll...I'll TRADE YOU! I can give you TWO fully restored Corvairs! I did them myself, it's a hobby..." He waves a fistfull of photographs. At this point he's attracted the frowning attention of a police officer, who is getting into his cruiser parked nearby.

Oh God, the guy loves Furys AND is a rabid auto hobbiest. He's now holding forth the fanned-out photos and has a hungry, pleading look in his eye. This is getting a bit weird, and I'm not about to approach some strange guy's car close enough to inspect the photos. The cops' stare is getting harder by the moment.

I still say no, but nicely, and wish him goodbye and good luck on his Corvairs, then step back a pace or two...I'm going to go around the back of his car and into the store that way. The cop shuts the door to his cruiser and prepares to walk over to the guy, who now has two cars waiting behind him.

Finally, to everyone's relief, the guy accepts defeat and goes on about his business. But I have to say, that's the best offer I've had for my car yet!

Indoor Egg Hunt, Again...

After suffering a setback which involved her darting out underneath the running feet of N. and getting stepped on, Maggie has bounced back. She is now back to the point of standing and hopping again, and seems to be settling in as Housechicken Supreme. She's got the routine down. We put her out in her little run during the day but she spends the night in the kitchen. Maggie has discovered (to our endless amusement) that owing to the slickness of the linoleum floor, she can get around quicker and easier if she flaps her wings madly and does her little hippity-hop run simultaneously, thus zooming about the kitchen. It looks like chicken ice skating. Maggie has adjusted well, and has learned that there is a lesser chance of N. stepping on her if she sensibly stays put on her towel in the evenings.

But the other day it was raining, and since she is still sitting most of the time, Maggie had to stay inside.

Cue loud, unhappy chicken howls. Lots of them. From a BIG hen.

I did open the sliding glass door a bit so she could at least socialize with the other chickens who were huddled on the back porch. THEY howled because it was cold and wet outside, and Maggie was dry and warm INSIDE. I mostly yelled back for EVERYONE to shut up, already.

After a bit I went out to the living room to fold laundry, and listened to Maggie whine and move about restlessly. I knew what THAT meant, but didn't really have anything for her to lay her egg in or on--besides, no matter how nice of a nest you make for a chicken trapped indoors, they will inevitably choose their OWN nesting spot.

She did, finally...here she is giving me a dirty look:

Under my desk. She did manage to pull over a file folder and scatter it's contents, but that was easily picked up later on.

Is Childhood Disappearing?

An uncomfortable thought occured to me last night...was my generation the last to see a true 'childhood'?

When I was a kid we couldn't wait until after school to get outside and play with our friends. We'd roam freely to each other's yards to play (actually going into the house required parental permission and/or notification), roller skate, ride bikes, climb trees, play in playhouses. If we wanted to go down to the elementary school (back when the schools would never THINK of locking up their playgrounds), a friends' house or park to play, we'd just stick our heads in the door in passing and yell out to our parents where we were going. In Summer, we could basically leave the house in the morning and not return until nightfall and our parents wouldn't worry. We could even make an impromptu trip to the drugstore for ice cream with our friends' parent via car without concern. On holidays such as the Fourth of July, we'd have neigborhood block parties where we'd set up sawhorses to block off the street and everyone would bring out pot luck dishes to share and the kids would play. We could wander through orange groves and investigate now housing developments (collecting bits of discarded kitchen tile scraps, brightly colored bits of telephone wire and metal 'slugs' from electrical boxes). We could roam the outdoor halls of the school, peering through the windows of empty classrooms and playing baseball--or even tetherball or foursquare if we found a stray ball laying on the playground. Beyond the basic warning of 'don't talk to strangers' and 'don't get into cars with strangers', there was never a concern.

Things are different today.

Child predators, razor blades on playgrounds, evil neighbors, drugs or drive-by shootings. Terrorism. There are security cameras, metal detectors, lockdowns and metal detectors. Sirens scream and helicopters circle the neigborhood almost daily.

I don't live in a really bad area. I live on a typical southern California residential street, with many families with kids of various ages, some houses have older folks with kids grown and gone.

But rarely do we see any kids playing outdoors. It's almost as if they are trapped indoors. Kids here never skate, ride bikes, jump rope, play hopscotch or do anything else out front. Or out back, for that matter. My next-door neighbors only allow their kids to play out front when one of the parents is present, because of child predators, drug dealers and the like. And I hate to admit it, but I am the same way. There simply aren't enough neighbors out in their yards during the day, I can't count on the typical neighborly folk that might help warn off anyone cruising for kids.

So my neighbor and I have kind of formed an agreement to try and help get the kids out of the house and playing safely. She shoos her kids outdoors as I do mine, so they can interact with each other. Our daughter has an array of outdoor toys such as badminton racquets (we got 8 cheap ones at the dollar store so the neighborhood kids could join in), a jump rope, Frisbees, a bat, ball & mitt and a pair of roller skates. The skates she just got at Christmas, because I remember how much I LOVED skating with my siblings and friends when I was a kid--we would lace up our steel-wheeled skates as fast as we could, then zoom up and down the street for hours...until the street lights came on, that was our signal to go home.

Such fond memories, and knowing how fun it was, we got N. skates. I have been walking up and down the street with her, helping her to learn to skate, balance and fall. What's downright creepy is that there are never any other kids out there playing in any way. It's been almost a month now. Quite frankly we have been hoping that if we ventured out more often and played, the other kids would naturally emerge and join in...maybe we could get something started. There IS hope, today the next door neighbors bought their son (same age as N.) a skateboard, and several other little boys have been around on bikes and skateboards.

I realize that most kids nowadays spend their time playing video games. We didn't own any until recently, when my sister in law gave my husband her sons' old PS2. He now has three different games, but as they are adult games, N. doesn't play them. And I can't say that I want her to get started on video games, I've heard nothing but horror stories from other parents whose kids are addicted to them.

Kids today, out of necessity, are warned early on about the dangers they face. My daughter learned the slogan 'Just Say No To Drugs!' in Kindergarten. I nearly cried when the school held Red Ribbon Week (an anti-drug campaign) and she came home educated on the dangers of drugs and alchohol. She was FIVE. FIVE! I've had to have discussions with her on what to do if someone tries to hurt her or abduct her. Good Touch and Bad Touch. How to deal with bullying, racism, what to do in an emergency and whom she likely can and cannot trust. Good God, it gives me the willies and breaks my heart to think about how different her childhood is from mine, and how SHORT childhood is today.

I'm going to give her the best childhood I can, with simple fun and good times, and make it last as long as possible. She's got the rest of her life to be an adult with worries and issues. That'll come on soon enough without rushing at it headlong.

Hopefully we can spread it to some of the other kids, too.

Progress, I Guess...

I HATE it, just HATE IT, when a long-time, favorite store of mine closes.

This time it's Stat's--a floral and craft supply store nearby. It's been a family-owned business since way back, and they have something like 5 locations so I figured they were safe. No such luck.

Stat's was one of those stores that was a teensy bit pricey but always carried way cool stuff, especially during the holidays. I love the old-time glass Christmas ornaments that are painted, glittered or otherwise done up in a fancy way, and Stat's carried literally hundreds of them in all shapes and sizes.

The other night we stopped by on a whim and the place looked...wierd. Open, but not. Then we realized that while some of the lights were on, most were not, and they had very little merchandise inside. We knew then what was going on, but went inside anyway to see what was left.

While we did score some great things at 75% off, it was strange and sad to walk around the empty, cavernous space inside. There was no heat and only a few lights were on. People were talking in whispers to each other, don't ask me why. They had drug everything out of the back storerooms to sell, even things that hadn't seen the light of day in 20 or 40 years. Out of pure sentimental value I picked up a couple of rolls of 1960 era corrugated border paper, it's white and says 'Season's Greetings' in red Atomic Age font with blue Sputnick-style starbursts, the edges of the paper are scalloped to look like icicles. I remember it from my grade school days.

Much of the remainder of the stuff was damaged in some way, which left it looking like decorations for the Island of Misfit Toys--unloved, unwanted and more than likely destined for the dumpster.