Tuesday, January 3, 2012

Winter Dreams

What could be more exciting than a January showing of Cows on Ice?

Let us review our thrilling Christmas adventures.

Finally time to wake up!
1) the Great Christmas Chicken Die off of 2011 will go down as one of Lucky Farm's more gruesome Christmas surprises.  Chicken number 1 was eventually butchered, our neighbors tell us.  Two of my remaining three chickens also came down with the mystery illness.  A bazillion phone trees later I discovered that the cure for most chicken ailments is called: buying new ones in the spring.  No one could figure out what was wrong with them. The state Avian office offered a necropsy on those already dead.  All I had to do was OVERNIGHT the corpse of Goldilocks to Puyallup and for an additional $40, they'd do an autopsy.  It left me with many questions chief of which was: it's legal to mail dead chickens?  feces, diseases and all?  I ended up spoon feeding my sick chickens antibiotics and vitamins.  One made it and the other died quicker than expected.  My neighbors visited on Christmas Eve to show me how to butcher my chicken.  But when we grabbed her, she was already dead. "Thanks for coming by.  Some other time maybe." And so I bagged her up and put her in the garbage can where she was festively buried under Christmas wrapping paper and then toted to the curb.

Christmas sunrise
The only chicken that didn't fall ill was my scrawny one, the one that lost feathers two years ago in an unfortunate molting and never grew them back.  All farm visitors eventually say something like, "My GOD! What's wrong with that chicken?"  My response now is "Who the hell cares?  She not sick and she lays a good egg."

This whole affair required Huck and I to spend half a day sterilizing the coop in a memorable holiday family project.

2) Christmas morning began at 2 am, when footsteps on the stairs interrupted one of the worst possible uses of the dreaming subconscious known to man.  It was a test dream.  But it wasn't a paper test.  I was standing in front of the kitchen drainboard being timed on how fast I could name each odd object in it and state where it went in the kitchen.  This was followed by a test on the brands and uses of all my boxes of plastic wrap, aluminum foil, sandwhich bags, etc. I could be having sex with movie stars.  I could be flying over the plains of Africa.  I could be socializing with meteors on the Kuiper Belt (a dream still in my top 10),  I could be chasing green snakes around the church sanctuary of my youth.  But instead I was enduring a high pressure grilling on kitchen implements.

After intercepting the kids and putting a timer on them I went back to bed, but I refused to go back to sleep.  If that's the kind of shlock my brain thinks up, I'm not doing it.  At five I hadn't heard the kids yet, so I snuck up stairs and turned off the timer, only to hear a sharp. "Mom! What are you doing!"
YES! A digital dictionary! Geek Blue

3) In Huck's stocking he got a white chocolate candy bar and broke off a generous hunk for me.  Which sent me in to immediate, debilitating and burning hives.  I took a non-drowsy antihistamine and then endured my typical response to uppers of nausea and shaking.  Merry Christmas.  I went back to bed.

I've had low-grade abdominal hives for over a month.  I think I'm allergic to "pea soup fog." Or Winter Solstice.  Or underwear.  

4) My parents and sister bravely trekked across miles of highway in my dad's seat-heated Audi.  God bless their warm buns. With my family here an insane amount of dishes are dirtied and washed.  They do almost all of the cleaning, but SOMEONE has to put them all away.  The key is to keep on the drain board.  And so it's like this Perfection Game (Watch the 1992 Ad!), the timer ticking and I have to get all the pieces in their slots before the next meal, where is all will explode in my face if it's not done.  And if someone should try to help, I will have to describe the place where those skewers go, the tea strainer, the bottle opener: cupboard, drawer, left, right, up, down, corner, left of the sink, right of the oven, under the fridge. How do you describe a location on a Lazy Susan?

Opa shelving Cosmos
5) My dad bought Coyote a remote controlled helicopter.  Needing more space then even our cavernous basement contains, my father took Coyote and the helicopter "Hank" out for a spin, despite 276 warnings on the box alone (not to mention the directions no one read) that it was an indoor toy ONLY.  A few spins in the sun, and suddenly Hank was wanting his freedom.  He shot up two hundred feet, changed direction, and headed straight to the airport: ten miles away. You can see the tower from our house. One wonders what the air traffic controllers thought as a minor helicopter spent the days after Christmas ramming against their window, perhaps one among a swarm of Christmas copters.  Incredulous and sheepish, the whirly birders returned.  Opa finally read the directions.  The throttle on the thing is infra-red controlled and the sun has a lot of infra-red energy to command the copter.  Also, the FAA won't let it have a closed channel, so once at 200 feet, Hank was taking directions from anyone he chose.  And he chose the airport.

Women need power drills.
Also this January, I've been attracted to a book about autopsies.  It's part text book, part "Real world CSI- behind the scenes."  It's terribly written but the information is utterly enticing.  It's my bedtime reading in hopes of preventing any more kitchen crap tests.

                 Happy New Year!

1 comment:

  1. we had a dead chicken too... you've inspired me to write about it! Love this last post. Thank you!
    xo Happy New Year!



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