Foolery

Even Death Has a Bye Week Once in a While

The boy who stayed at our house last night last night informed me, after the kids had been sacked out for ten minutes, that he sometimes starts coughing when he's asleep. "Not too often," said Ralph [not his real name]. "Maybe once a week, or twice." This didn't seem important enough for all three kids to get up to tell me.

"Okay," I said.

"You don't understand, Mom," Smedley interjected.

"Yeah, when Ralph coughs he needs water right away, Mom!" said Sparky. Still no reaction from their unconcerned mother (me).

"And if he doesn't get water, he passes out," Smedley offered. Passing out while lying in bed -- what's the problem?

"All three of you have water, right?" I asked.

"Yes, but Mom? If he doesn't get water in time, he passes out!" Sparky reiterated.

"I heard that," I said, but I was cut off.

"And I could die," Ralph stated flatly. Then he coughed.

"He could DIE, Mom!" chorused my daughters.

"Really," I said, but I was thinking, that would just be our luck, right? "Well, how do you handle it at home, Ralph?" I asked. This would have been good information to have a handle on before 9:30 p.m. And he told me that one or another of his siblings was always in the room with him, to wake him up so he could drink water so he wouldn't pass out so he wouldn't die.

"Oh," I said.

"I have a plan, Mom!" Smedley exclaimed. "When Ralph starts coughing I'll throw my inflatable ball down at him -- the one with sand in the bottom that I got at the circus? -- because I'll be up above him in the bunk bed."

"Good plan," I said. It's good to have a plan. "Okay, goodnight everybody. No coughing, no passing out, and no dying tonight, okay?" A chorus of goodnights.

All three kids were at the table for pancakes this morning. I like to think it's the lure of my homemade pancakes that kept Ralph alive, but I think it was probably just a bye week for Death.

Chickens Have Their Reasons

This is a Rhode Island Red hen.

(Photo used with permission) 

We had two hens of this breed, until a few days ago. Their names were Penny and Not Penny, but your guess is as good as mine which was which. They were both terribly ragged, with clumps of feathers missing -- victims of Chicken Dinner, The Rooster I Never Wanted (he was dumped upon us by The Chicken Fairy, and you can read that story here). Neither Penny nor Not Penny was particularly photogenic in their beaten-down state, so I opted to use a photo of the supermodel pictured above.

Penny had had a bad year; she was never the same after being mauled by A Beagle Who Shall Remain Nameless last summer, and almost dying. Against the odds Penny survived, but ever after all of the other hens picked on her (probably sensing her weakness) and she became a loner. She avoided the coop during the day, preferring to lay her eggs in the storage room or behind my car tire, and she wandered far afield by herself and seemed to enjoy the solitude. Last fall I was driving down our road with my sister in the car, and there in the middle of the road was Penny, not budging. I pulled the car up inches from her, rolled down the window, looked down on her bedraggled head, and said, "Go home, Penny." To my sister's great amusement, Penny went home.

When Chicken Dinner, the aforementioned rooster, matured in the fall, he began to bother Penny, so Penny started bunking on a four-inch shelf in an open-air shed, five feet in the air. It couldn't have been comfortable, but she preferred it to the coop. I knew something was wrong and started paying attention. One evening around dusk I plucked Penny off the shelf while she dozed, walked her into the coop to gently put her on a perch, and locked her in. Within a few minutes Chicken Dinner had roused himself from sleep, hopped down from his perch, chased Penny into a far corner, pinned her to the dirt on her side, and was savaging her for no discernible reason. I marched into the coop, picked up the terrified hen, backhanded Chicken Dinner, and whisked Penny back outside to the shed to sleep on her shelf. "I'll never make you go in there again," I told her, and I didn't.

That shed shelf bedroom would be Penny's undoing. Penny always rose with the sun (unlike the rest of the chickens, who stay locked up until midday so at least some of them have to lay eggs in the nest boxes instead of the garage). She would hop down to start her endless search for seeds, bugs and veggie scraps. The other morning our new fox neighbor was waiting for her.

This is all that remains of Penny.

Or, it could have been Not Penny -- I'm not sure. Either way, they're both gone, and so is the Buff Orpington hen who made a beeline for the pasture every day. I don't know why she did that; chickens must have their reasons. In any case, McGillicuddy also became a to-go meal for the fox.

Just after sunset tonight I saw the fox from my kitchen window as he trotted west along the berry hedge. He disappeared behind the big hay barn, but on a hunch I went outside and stood by our fence, watching. Sure enough, in a minute he reappeared, trotting toward our yard. He was coming surprisingly close for a bright orange animal in the half-light of dusk. I called to him.

"No chicken tonight," I taunted. He didn't hear me and kept advancing. "Go on, beat it," I shouted again. This time he heard me, and froze in his tracks. One more word from me and the fox sprang back toward the berry bushes, covering a great distance in a few leaps. He's gone, but he'll be back every day until he gets all the chickens. I'm afraid their carefree days of freedom are over, poor babies.

Except maybe for Chicken Dinner. I think I'll let him out nice and early.

Taking Photos From the Haystack Again

Spring storms are the best. The colors become as electrically-charged as the air.

Shafts of sunlight become spotlights, illuminating objects you didn't even know were there, though you see them every day.

Still, for all its beauty, a spring storm cannot make me a better photographer.

And around here, there's always a pole cow in the way.

Finds

These tiny treasures were hiding beneath the common detritus of life here in Fooleryland.

I had carefully cut and saved the label from a package that was under 2010's Christmas tree.

And the little clothespin ladies are some of Smedley's curious little creations that I find all over the house. She has the greatest sense of proportion and whimsy.

I really miss that Booze Fairy, though. When's she due back?

Emergency in Fooleryland!

It happened today. My eyelids gave out under their own weight and one fold swallowed another fold, like an accordion.

This is an unretouched photo. No makeup, no PhotoShop magic. Just unvarnished horror.

The windows to my soul now have venetian blinds.

Not happy.

Expensive snake oil helps a bit, however. I'm grateful.

Just Like Normal People

Here is my fancy-schmancy new handbag, which is actually a feed bucket for horses.

As promised to my friend Brian, who said he wanted to see it full of Skittles, here's a look inside:

Sorry Brian; no Skittles. That would just be weird. Where do you get these ideas, anyway?

Good Samaritans on the Rampage

The doorbell rang at 10:00 last night. I had forgotten that we have a doorbell, frankly.

It was the neighbor, Lupe, and her granddaughter Miranda. They are lovely and thoughtful and were simply telling me that the dome light was on in my car, thus saving me a dead battery today.

However. When the doorbell rings it sends our two dogs into an absolute frenzy. The kids were asleep. Chas was asleep. I was watching TV and bolted out of the chair.

“Hi? Just a minute!” I yelled through the window of the front door. Lupe and Miranda could hear the howling and yapping of The Demon Dogs, who were not the least bit interested in getting into their crate so I could open the door. Of course not. But at least they were far away, over by the bay window, when I opened the door --

“Hola,” I said, as Wally shot between my feet through the doorway and out into the night.

“Hi Laurie,” said dear Miranda, speaking for her grandmother. “The light is on in your --”

“Just a second, honey -- WALLYYYYYYYYY!” I called frantically, knowing it’s useless to call any kind of hound when his nose is busy (and it’s ALWAYS busy). As I hustled past them onto the lawn, sock-footed, Miranda kept on, undaunted: “-- in your car, so we wanted to tell you, so . . .”

“Thank you so much!” I enthused, distracted by the whuffling beagle I was trying to outsmart by pretending not to give chase. Wally had rounded the front of the house, headed for the pitch black back yard and then . . . THE PASTURE. If Wally got to the pasture there’d be no catching him tonight. “Wally, c’mere boy,” I called weakly, hoping not to spook him. Miranda suddenly understood my distraction.

“C’mere, Wally!” she called brightly. And do you know, that dog -- who has never come when he’s called, EVER -- trotted calmly up to Miranda for pats and scratches? I scooped him up as nonchalantly as I could manage, and thanked Lupe and Miranda profusely for everything, then carried the still sniffing Wally into the house and bolted the door.

A dead battery wouldn’t have been so bad, would it?

Pretty Sure There's No App For This

(Original photo stolen from these guys)

I'm a bit spun in a circle with Sparky's theater performance this weekend, Thanksgiving and two house guests next week, and throwing a family party for 50+ people that Saturday night, all while we are going through a mouse infestation with three dogs in the house. My house smells like mouse poop and regret and looks like an Occupy Wall Street encampment.

Someone please tase me a drag me off to jail.

The Grades Are In

(Original photo from Wikimedia Commons) 

Sparky and Smedley had outstanding report cards today. Smedley called me to tell me about hers after school. I found out about Sparky's on the ride home. We drove up Grandma and Grandpa's driveway to go get Smedley, who had been hanging out with them.

"Go into the living room, Sparky, and tell Grandpa about your report card. He's got something for you," said Grandma. Into the living room went Sparky, dragging her feet in advance of the ceremony to come.

"Here's a nickel for math, and here's a quarter for reading," said Grandpa, dropping coins into Sparky's hand. "And here's another nickel for being lucky, and here's a dime for not having hair in your eyes. A dime for not being married. Here's a penny for being lucky again. A quarter for a trip to Hawaii, and here's a dime for not having a stinky diaper tonight, and here's eleven cents, for no reason."

Report card season is always interesting in Fooleryland.

First, Identify the Problem

Uncomfortable in these clothes. Bloated, moving slow. Grumpy and snarly. Sleepy. General malaise gives way to blazing anger. Not feeling well -- headache-y, tired. Driven to distraction by hunger. Playing the What Can I Eat Next? game all day.

Wait -- of course. I know what it is.



I'm turning into a bear.

A Cock and Bull Birthday Story

For the original Chicken Fairy story click over to my other blog, Reasonably Educated Bumpkins. Don't miss it; it's one of my favorites. But then, can you really trust me?

About a week ago my father, The Chicken Fairy, announced that one of his seven pullets (teenage hens) was probably a rooster. "You want it?" he asked.

"No thanks," I answered, leaving no wiggle room.

"Why?" he asked. "Those roosters are beautiful birds. You should want one; they're interesting to watch. He'll make his first crow in about two months, only it won't sound like a crow. It'll sound squeaky until he learns how, this fall."

"As tempting as you make that sound, Dad, he's not a chicken, he's a chicken liability," I answered. "He won't lay any eggs, but he'll be another mouth to feed. He'll crow in the middle of the night, he could be mean to kittens and people, and it'll be that much more chicken crap on the sidewalk. No rooster -- no thanks!"

I was very clear. Still, I didn't bat an eye when I got the news last night.

"Mama, Grandpa gave you his rooster for your birthday!"

"He did, did he?"

"Yeah, and Grandpa put the rooster in with McGillicuddy and Li'l Supper [I don't know their real names but these are my go-to names for chickens] until they get old enough to run free."

"Super." *sigh* So now I have a rooster. Happy birthday to me.

Later, as I was putting away the birthday cake, Chas approached me conspiratorially. "Listen," he said, leaning in. "When you tell any of your friends in the blogosphere that you got a small cock for your birthday, I hope you'll articulate exactly what that means." *Chuckle, chuckle*

Blink.

Blink.

"You do know this is going in the blog, don't you?"

"I am suddenly aware of that, yes."

Happy Pastel Day

Another successful egg-dying event on a Saturday night with Auntie Beth and Grandma. We ate like kings, cleaned up, slept some and then ate again. Food, fun and family; this is what a good secular celebration should be about.

 
While our family is not religious, I am fond of saying our own secular grace. At every meal someone says, "I'm thankful for this nice [dinner], are you, Sparky?" And then each person lists one other thing he or she is thankful for. Whether or not we attribute our fortunes to a greater power, I think it's good for us at least to recognize our blessings. And so today, over egg salad sandwiches, I asked, "I'm thankful for this nice lunch, are YOU Smedley?"

Yes I am.

"And what else are you thankful for?"

With a knowing nod and eyebrows raised, Smedley said, "Pagan holidays." And took a bite.

A Daylight Savings Time Fooleryland Brunch for Losers

Here's a photo of Sunday brunch the way it was intended:


(Photo stolen from these guys*)

Inviting, right? Note the presence of eggs, and juice, coffee, fine linens, preserves, cold butter, leafy greens to laugh about later, and forgiving lighting. Not shown but almost definitely present include attractive, witty conversationalists and a buttload of alcohol.

This is not quite how Sunday brunch goes down in Fooleryland. To wit, my most recent attempt at the Leisure Culture . . .

Sunday morning I woke up at the crack of Forgot-Daylight-Savings-Time-My-Grandmother-Would-Be-Appalled. Pulling on some plaid jammie pants, bright pink socks, a sweatshirt and an orange headband, I headed for the kitchen.

Coffee started, I pulled dry ingredients out of cupboards and prepared my mise en place, which is a snooty way of saying I pushed a bunch of crap aside to make room for biscuit dough. Each child had to cut a few biscuits, of course, so -- let the dogs out -- after making them wash their hands again -- let the dogs back in -- all biscuits were cut and popped into the oven.

Dicing up onions and mincing garlic seemed to take forever -- put Wally out again to stop the barking -- but eventually they were sizzling in olive oil as I chopped last night's potatoes. Beep-beep-beep! Beep-beep-beep! The biscuits were done. Time to -- let Wally in and now Rilo wants out again -- make the girls' Ovaltine. Don't judge me. Six tiny marshmallows in each cup and -- you're judging me, aren't you? -- the milk was almost heated. Is that coffee ready yet?

Into a bowl went the biscuits, wrapped in a linen towel. Girls, please set the table. Girls. Girls. GIRLS!

BING! Coffee's ready . . . thank GAH. Put the Ovaltine and coffee on the table and --

knock knock knock

Barking ensued. Lots of barking. Oh hi, Brian! What? You say the cows are out? Wait, lemme grab my boots. And turn off the burner.

Pink fuzzy feet and plaid legs jammed into rubber boots. Looking good, Foolery, looking good. Out the door into a light rain. Of course. The cows, which were not ours, numbered only two. One was wearing a padlocked chain like a necklace. THAT'S gonna be fun for someone to get off of her. Brian and I pushed them across the road to a food source (which they promptly ignored in favor of freedom) while my daughters called the right people.

Remembering my appearance I said a quick thank-you and goodbye to my helpful neighbor and slunk back into the house. Burner: ON. Girls, did you put the butter on the table? Girls? Girls? GIRLS!

Potatoes done, juice poured, dogs crated, it was time to sit down to our feast. "I'm thankful for this nice breakfast, are YOU, Sparky? What else are you thankful for?"

Dig in.

Finishing first, I jumped up to wash dishes, since I had quite a mess to clean up. The girls straggled in with their plates and headed off to their rooms. I listened to NPR in peace.

Until.

Until Smedley found the linen towel on the floor under the dining room table. "Mama, why is this on the floor?" she asked, bewildered. "Did you eat all the rest of the biscuits?"

"No, of course I didn't, I --" Oh crap. The dogs. The dogs ate all the biscuits.

"Will it hurt them, Mama?" Smedley asked, terrified that we, as new dog-owners, had just accidentally poisoned our new dogs.

"No, they'll be fine," I answered, not at all sure I wouldn't find piles of, well, let's leave it at piles, around the house over the next few hours. "But I need more coffee."

The clean-up was brutal. As I was finally finishing, Sparky sidled in to check on me. "What's for lunch?" she asked.

I don't think I need to make brunch again for a few more years.

*I originally tried to steal this photo from Mark Pantsari's wonderful blog post "What White Chicks Cherish -- The Unofficial Guide to Things White Girls Officially Love: Sunday Brunch," but lost my nerve and asked him for permission. I think he was sufficiently charmed by my directness that he let me link to him. Really hoping he'll mail me a mimosa. (You HAVE to go read his post, or any of his posts -- they're a scream.)


(Photo stolen from these guys) 

More Bull in Fooleryland*

Dishes done . . . cats fed . . . kids bundled up . . . laundry started . . . ready to leave . . . what have I forgotten?

Oh, crud, I forgot to feed hay. And here I am in my heels again. Shoot.

(I swear I didn't plan it, but Saturday I found myself in a hurry, on the haystack yet again, in heels.)

But wait, what's that noise?

Right there across the manger from me was a strange beast. Not the normal, fat, red or black beef cows, like this little lady --

-- but a black and white, rangy bull, like this one:


(Original photo stolen from these guys) 

An interloper, a Holstein bull who had somehow gotten into Dad's pasture. Meaner than Leona Helmsley, but with nicer features. He was making the most gawddawful throat rumble you ever heard, and staring right at me. Not interested in the bevy of lady cows at his disposal, not interested in the tasty hay I was throwing him. Just crabby.

Also? He had a goiter. Or something.

"Knock knock," I announced as I walked into my parents' house a few minutes later. "We're here, we're ready to go." Dad came down the hallway to get his jacket. "Oh, and Dad?" I asked. "Do you know you have a Holstein bull with a huge goiter in the east pasture?"

"No?" Dad was perplexed.

"Well, you do. He must have crossed a neighbor's fence. Did I mention the goiter? He has a goiter, or a tumor, or something. He's not the least bit happy about it." Can't say I blame the poor guy.

Later that day I helped Dad cut the bull from the rest of the herd, along with another smaller bull who was an apparent break-in accomplice. When I say "helped" I am referring to my aborted attempt to stay in the corral and hold the gate for the bull. Really, I was there for moral support. Also, I need to work on my clambering-over-the-manger-without-losing-a-boot skills.

Had my camera batteries not died I would have gotten video, complete with sound, of the snotty Holstein bull. His bellows and growls were constant, threatening and weird, and he spent most of his time -- a full day, as it turned out -- not just pawing the ground, but actually throwing dirt up and around in a circle, raining it down on his own head. He apparently liked it.

"Sparky, you've just seen the most dangerous animal you'll ever encounter outside a zoo," I told my little girl. "You don't need to be afraid of sharks or mountain lions or anything -- just this guy," I said, pointing at the bull, who was glaring at us through the fence, head lowered, hooves throwing dirt on himself.

"Him?" she asked.

Well, holstein bulls, specifically, I thought. More generally, young males in the wrong place at the wrong time with nothing productive to do and a bad attitude. And the goiter didn't help, I'm sure.

"You're not afraid of sharks?"


*"More" refers to tomorrow's post at my other blog, Reasonably Educated Bumpkins. It's about our trip to the Red Bluff Bull and Gelding Sale and there are photos of real live bulls! Or, there will be, once I get them off my camera. Make sure to stop by over there tomorrow.

It Was a Fooleryland Christmas

It was grand.

And all magical beings still hold sway in Fooleryland, it seems.

Hey, you have your myths and I'll have mine.

Bad Spanish, Bad German, Bad French, Bad English, and Some Ubbi Dubbi Gibberish

The following two-way barrage of text messages took place Thanksgiving morning, while Foolery was still abed and groggy . . . but over at our parents' house across the street, little brother Bocci was bright-eyed and  pushy  bushy-tailed and ready to cook (more). Note Bocci's fascinating -- and, regrettably, effective -- tactic of personal request of a favor followed closely by blistering insults followed by more requests.

Bocci: Hello!!! Bringensi the chickenstockensi whensi comeoverensi

(Original graphic used by permission from Wikimedia Commons)

Foolery: How muchensi chickenshtock?

Bocci: Mucha muchacha...seis, ocho?


(Original graphic used by permission from Wikimedia Commons)

Foolery: Jeebus, what would you do mittout zee Beeg Seestah?

Bocci: Youba saidba datba youba haba lotba


(Image stolen from this site)

Bocci: Whyba awfferba thanna bitcha laterba?

Foolery: Youba suck...ba.  : )  Not bitching, just reminding you how lucky you is to have a crack sous chef like moi. Who's up?


(Original graphic used by permission from Wikimedia Commons)

Bocci: Alllll up. And I slept 8 hours! Watch out!

Bocci: Crack is a good word for you

Bocci: Tienes manzanas?

Bocci: Or an orange?

Foolery: Text whore.

I think I brought him about 14 cans of chicken schtock, no apples, no oranges, and plenty of insults all day long. It was a good day.

(Image stolen from these guys)

Happy Throgsgrafen and Good Luck at Baggage Claim

This is one of the luggage sculptures at the Sacramento Airport's baggage claim. I don't think it's supposed to depress people, but how could a looming pile of unclaimed luggage NOT depress travelers who are stuck standing around watching other peoples' suitcases ride the merry-go-round?

Today. Today I am working . . . well, I am at work anyway . . . until noon, when I will brave S&S Produce crowds for $3.00 chocolate bars and Rice Dream milk-like substance and Martinelli's sparkling cider and what else? Oh yeah, cilantro.

Yesterday I joined the throngs of grim-faced shoppers at Costco in search of six dozen eggs and a bag of pecans. $228 later Smedley and I were disgorged into the packed parking lot and plummeting temperatures with our booty, which included, among other things, a take-and-bake pizza for dinner. So much for healthy food leading up to the Big Feast.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow is the Big Feast, known to most people as Thanksgiving and to John Irving fans as Throgsgrafen. I celebrate Throgsgrafen. I will make the traditional Throgsgrafen guacamole, throw back an ale and an embarrassment of red wine, listen to the annual spinning of "The Alice's Restaurant Massacree," and possibly remember to celebrate Chas's birthday. Or not.

Happy Throgsgrafen to all, and to all a good digestion!

Houston, We Have a Dinner Guest

(Photo stolen from these guys)

Gubby is in town. YAY, Gubby is here! Just found out he's coming over for dinner tonight. What do you fix for your best vegetable-hating friend who you talk to several times a week but haven't actually seen in about six years?

Vegetables, of course.

Things are gonna get REALLY silly. Buckle up. Prepare for launch.

Guess What? Chicken Butt

It was a beautiful day for carving pumpkins outside. I forgot about the varmints, however.



Pretty soon we were up to our elbows in blurry cats and chickens.



Guess what?




Chicken butt.

On an entirely unrelated matter, poor Timmy seems to have expired.* Stupidity will get you every time. Except in my case.


*I don't know Timmy and can only hope and assume he is alive and well, only stupider.

Weekend with McGeen

A great irony about traveling to visit my brother the chef is that we eat so terribly during the journey. A lot of fast food and car crap was consumed (we had McDonald's food for lunch yesterday and Burger King for dinner; we are equal-opportunity masochists).

Upon reaching my brother's home, we are, of course treated to a broad array of culinary delicacies, most of which go completely over my head due to my not paying attention. The octopus salad, for instance. I ate some without knowing there was any octopus in it. I wondered why it seemed so cranky. And have you ever had a delicious white wine that tasted of peaches or pears, but smelled JUST LIKE CAT PEE? Now I have. And I am not kidding, not even a little bit.

One of the best things about my weekend visit was spending time with this guy:



I won't reveal his real name because he is now a successful surgeon, but he was part of my family growing up. That fact and this photo* would kill a solid medical practice; I'll protect his anonymity and call him McGeen.

McGeen and my brothers and I laughed nonstop 30 years ago, and nothing has changed after all of this time. My throat hurts from laughing so hard. My stomach muscles are sore. I rubbed out half of my eyelashes wiping away real tears. I have a whole new batch of crows feet.

I reminded McGeen about the time he and my brother Bocci made me eat cat tuna, and how I got him back by pouring honey all over him (an effective revenge tactic considering how many flies, bees and wasps there are in the country.) Our lively conversation barely touched on the ways we could have ended up grounded for life or in jail back then; maybe next time.

I'm e-mailing McGeen a link to this post, and now I will sit back and smile and remember those days, and wait for the cease and desist letter from his attorney.

*I was kind; I could have dug out the blowfish-face photo. McGeen knows what I mean.