Foolery

WARNING: Extremely Gross Discussion of Potentially Exploding Cows

Here's a problem you don't have: what to do with those pesky farm animals who inconveniently die on you?

The answer is "call the tallow works,"* but the problem is deeper than that. If, hypothetically, you're in your yard in hot pursuit of a chicken, and you glance way out in the east pasture and see an unnaturally girthy cow lying on her side, you may or may not notice her. But if, on this hypothetical Saturday morning, you notice the girthy cow in the first place because she has a buzzard balanced on her tummy, you do what I would do. You'd say, "Oh, crap" and go inside to call the cow's owner. Hypothetically, my father.

"Dead cow way out in the east pasture, Dad."

"Oh, okay. Thanks."

Later you'll probably see the cow's owner headed way out into the pasture on his tractor, and this is where the trouble starts. The dearly departed cow will need to be moved out from under the cloud of buzzards to a new location -- one with good access to a road, allowing a large garbage-truck-looking vehicle enough room to easily scoop her up -- stiff as a very large cow-shaped piñata -- and deposit her into the bin on the back of the truck. Officially this truck is in the employ of the rendering company ("tallow works"). Unofficially this truck is called The Dead Wagon. You don't want to be caught driving on a narrow country road, stuck behind The Dead Wagon. It's no fun to drive for over a mile, plugging your nose,  with no way to pass, eyes riveted on a cow leg sticking out of the truck like an umbrella adorning a tropical drink.

A dead cow is no big problem if the cow expires right in front of you. You know she's gone; you have time to call for The Dead Wagon before she becomes stinky. This is a very big problem if the cow didn't tell anybody she was dying and was discovered after, oh, maybe five or six hot July days. She could potentially explode out there in the midday sun of the Back Forty.

So after having been discovered and subsequently towed behind a tractor through the pasture, back to civilization, the Cow Piñata waits for her Monday retrieval in a very convenient place, such as, oh, I don't know, maybe the access lane by my house. The access lane is convenient to the road and accessible to the huge Dead Wagon, which will rumble in on Monday, probably, maybe, we can only hope. The pièce de résistance of this tale is that the access lane, at least at MY house, is just on the other side of the fence closest to the master bedroom.

Yeah, my bedroom. The windows are shut tight and we haven't been outside for more than a sprint across the road all Saturday -- and then we were breathing through our mouths and holding our breath. Sunday will be another hot day of extra fun. I hope the Cow Piñata doesn't explode.

Hypothetically, of course.

*Tallow works, or rendering plant -- a company which recycles dead animals into useful stuff, but that's another story entirely.

The Chicken Fairy Won't Let Me Be

(Original photo stolen from this site)

RING RING

Me: Hello?

Mom: Hi, it's me again -- I forgot to tell you, your dad wants to give you a mean hen.

Me: Really. [Not surprised in the least] Of course he does. Why on earth would I want a mean hen?

Mom: Well, she picks on the pullets, and your dad can't stop her.

Me, Failing To See The Logic: Well, we have three pullets, too -- what makes him think she won't pick on THEM?

Mom: Because she'll be "the new one." [Several puns flood my brain, involving pecking order and the new chick on the block, but don't let me sidetrack you]

Me: Oh, okay, but she picks on MY pullets, I suggest we make her in to a hamburger.

Mom: Right.

Me: Hey, Chas backwashed the pool and I shock-treated it, but --

DING DONG! DING-DONG-DING-DONG DING DONG!

Mom, over her shoulder: Oh, all right, just a minute! To me: Your father is ready to go.

Me: Lemme guess -- he's bringing the chicken RIGHT NOW, right?

Mom: Yeah.

Me: Of course.

Sigh. My father is the Chicken Fairy and I have a lifetime membership in his night terrors.

A No Punctuation Wednesday Actually On a Wednesday

Here it is you have been WAITING for this I know you have
another
No Punctuation Wednesday ACTUALLY ON A WEDNESDAY
which is rare as hens teeth
yup
because OH MY DARNIT were my brains scrambled last night from The Busy
and they are still almost soft boiled
but you wanna know what happened
here goes
I verbally abused a band teacher
there I said it
yes I did
although it was sort of an accident since I did NOT know he was the band teacher
the one who was at that minute gearing up to lead
oh
about a million
squirming kids from fourth grade through high school
from five different schools
in a band concert in front of their parents
friends
relatives
neighbors
parole officers
sweethearts
and the town gossips
yes in front of Too Many Locals
in a high school gym
I stepped onto a bleacher at half court
and the damned thing was NOT locked and it slid and my shin bone slammed into the seat above it and if I had been turned funny or had slipped I could very easily have broken my leg and
did I cry
I did not but did my adrenaline shoot up
yes it did and so I turned and saw two men in ties standing feet away from me and thought
PRINCIPAL
and said to the first one
what I had intended to come out all flirty like
Oh You Look Like Somebody Important And Could You Please Help Me Find Someone To Lock This Mutha Down
what was supposed to be all sweet
came out as
ARE YOU SOMEBODY IMPORTANT
in my overly adrenalized condition
and this man in a tie sort of blinked at me and basically said
NOT MY JOB
which I was to find out later was exactly true
but which
IN MY ADRENALIZED STATE
sounded like small minded horseshit to me
and I got a little cranky
yes I did
I said well can you please direct me to a good person to talk to so some person doesnt do what I just did but this time break her leg and fall down and maybe SUE THE SCHOOL
because that would stink do we agree
and he deferred AGAIN
which enraged me but when he then said
well no one is supposed to be sitting or walking here anyway because I need to sit here to twiddle these knobs
he didnt say twiddle these knobs I just made that up
then I really wanted to pour syrup on his head and stand him on an anthill
BUT
instead I said
Well how would anyone know THAT when there are no signs indicating that
and also the danger thing and
why dont you go get some tape and I will MARK IT OFF FOR YOU
like DO NOT SIT HERE BECAUSE INEFFECTUAL ADMINISTRATIVE TYPE NEEDS TO SIT HERE TO TWIDDLE KNOBS AND ALSO IT IS A DEATH TRAP
I didnt say that but I thought it
so I sat myself down in a huff right there
next to the spot where Knob Twiddle Man had staked his territory
yes I did and I told every person who started up the bleachers at half court
Watch Out Because These Slide And If You Need To Lean On A Shoulder I Am Your Man
just like a Eunice Flabbea type of busybody would do

so then the concert started and guess who got up with a baton in his hand and led a bunch of squirmy children in a Concert C note
yup you guessed it
The Knob Twiddle Man
who at that moment I realized was the sainted Mister Grahn
the band teacher
Smedleys band teacher
and I realized that the reason he was so unhelpful was that he was possibly heavily dosed in enough horse tranquilizers just to get through such an evening
I know I would have been
and he does not actually work at the school and really has no idea what goes on with bleachers and I am POSITIVE he thought I was a cranky bitchy Eunice Flabbea type of busybody who needed to sit the hell down and leave poor syrupy antcovered band teachers the hell alone until their elephant tranquilizers wear off

I was mortified
I was chastened
I was still mad about the stupid bleachers
I was trying to work up a good hematoma on my shin but no luck there
I was meek as a mouse and listened quietly to the variety of sounds masquerading as Concert C

until
the concert ended and after a bunch of local people had had their chance to pound poor Mister Grahn on the back and tell him what a good job he did and thank him
then it was my turn

I introduced myself
Hi I owe you an apology
I am not usually difficult
and that was wonderful by the way
but I thought you were the Principal
or at least someone who might know what a Principal looked like
and I took it out on you
and I am so so sorry
you didnt deserve that just before going on
and certainly not until all the tranquilizers wore off and how many did you take
no I didn't say that last one
but I thought it
And I am Smedeys mom
and I hope this wont affect her chance of passing your class
I didnt say that either
but I thought it

BANG! When Your Principal Is Also Your Father

With gratitude to Mom, not just for her remembered stories, but also for telling them so well. This is the paraphrased version.

On New Year's Eve I had a long talk with my mom, over a glass of wine, about what her school days were like.

It started out as a discussion about cigars.

"When your Uncle Mal was the senior class president, he had to stand before the students and read the senior wills at the end of the year," Mom started, giggling already. Mal is her older brother, and she had been a freshman in that assembly. "He read the wills while smoking a cigar the whole time."

"What? Was this a legitimate school function?" I asked, incredulous. "Were there teachers there? How did they let him smoke?"

"Well, yes, I guess there were teachers there -- there must have been. But anyway, no one stopped him from smoking that cigar, and he just got sicker and sicker," she laughed.



I couldn't get past the idea that the administration allowed smoking in school. "Well, the principal at the time was a complete jerk, so I'm not surprised," Mom continued.  "Not much later he was caught embezzling not only from the school funds, but also from the student body funds. They fired him immediately and he ended up in prison."

Wow, an embezzler in the early '50s. The more things change, the more they stay the same -- except maybe for the prison part. These days embezzlers seem to get slapped on the wrists.

"So the high school was suddenly without a principal, and they asked Dad to move up to be their principal," Mom continued. Mom's father was, at the time, her principal at her elementary school. If you think YOU had it rough in school, how would you like to be educated in a one-room school house with your mother as your teacher and your two siblings in class with you -- then move to an elementary school in which your father was the principal? That was my mother's school experience.




"What was Papa like as a principal?" I asked, knowing the stories but wanting to hear them again. Papa was a no-nonsense person for much of his life, and his creative punishments were legendary.

"Well, it wasn't so bad for me, because I stayed out of trouble," Mom answered, "but it was terrible for Patsy." Patsy was the youngest child, and she had a bit of a rebellious streak. "Patsy had Dad for a principal for most of her elementary school years, and was thrilled to be in high school and finally free of his watchful eye. But midway through her freshman year, Dad became her principal again. Poor Patsy," Mom said, laughing.

"I remember once in grade school when two boys brought water pistols to school," Mom went on. "They were having a great time until my dad caught them. He asked the boys, 'So you really like water pistols, huh?' and then he told them to meet him after lunch in front of the school office. When the boys got there, Dad had a bucket of water and he handed the boys their pistols. He instructed them to water the flowers by the office with the water guns, but each time they shot they had to say 'BANG!' Since they were right outside his office he was able to keep tabs on them, and since it was in front of the school the whole student body paraded past them and laughed."

"I'll bet they never brought those water guns to school again," I said. Mom agreed. BANG!


(Original photo stolen from these guys)

"And then there was the boy in high school who was a real cut-up. He was being loud and smart-alecky during a school assembly. Dad was seated behind him somewhere in the bleachers. Dad got up, went down to the kid's row and crooked his finger at him to follow. The kid followed Dad back to his seat, and Dad made him sit on his lap for the rest of the assembly!"

Act like a baby, get treated like a baby. That punishment could never, ever, ever happen these days, unfortunately.

"Do you remember hearing about Papa punishing Tim?" I asked Mom. (I associate this story with my cousin Tim, though I may be wrong and it may have been someone else.)

"No," said Mom.

"Tim did something wrong when Papa was in charge, and since it happened at the ocean -- Monterey or Fort Brag, I forget -- Papa made Tim sweep the beach."

"Really? I wonder what Tim did," said Mom.

"I dunno, but he probably never did it again!" I answered.


(Original photo used by permission from Shiraz Chakera at Wikimedia Commons)

And there you have the most colorful part of my grandfather's administrative legacy. The more lasting results of his career include bringing that high school back from the mess it was after the embezzlement scandal, but that's just not as much fun to write about.

Even over a glass of wine.

NEW! Acting My Age, Not My Bra Size

(Photo stolen from this site)

I once posted a comment on a lingerie web site extolling the virtues of a fab bra I had bought there. As part of the online info they requested about me in order to post the comment, I had to state my bra size. I was fine with that.

Weeks and months later I got a call from my friend Gubby, who could hardly talk for laughing. He said his mom called to ask him if he knew why I was listed on the internet with my bra size.

Good thing I didn't lie about the cup size. REALLY good thing I was pregnant at the time and didn't need to lie.

Pedicure in a Can

Know what these are?
 

These are the marks left on concrete after painting a cow or bull's hooves with black spray paint, before a show or a sale. And you think YOU get all dolled up.

Microwave Live-to-Tell Stories: Cake

 


(Original photo stolen from jmv at Flickr)

Shirley, my childhood friend, was the first kid I knew whose parents owned a microwave oven. It must have been about 1976, making us 10 or 11, and I was over at Shirley's house one afternoon. Shirley was eager to show me the new machine, so she decided we needed a warm slice of cake. She cut a triangle wedge of yellow cake, plated it standing, and popped it into the Radarange.

 


(Original photo stolen from these guys)

"Lemme see . . . how about five minutes?" Shirley posed the question to no one, as I had never even seen a microwave, much less selected a cooking time.

We watched it cook for a few seconds, and then we noticed that the donkey was out running in the yard, so we ran outside to put him back in his field. This sort of thing happened frequently in both of our households -- daughter of a dairyman and daughter of a large animal veterinarian -- so we thought nothing of the interruption.

Until we went back into the kitchen.

While goats, sheep and deer were not unusual inside Shirley's house, smoke was unusual, and we remembered the yellow cake.

Well, it had started out yellow.

Shirley poked the black wedge with a tentative finger. It disintegrated in a puff of ash. Shirley shrugged, and we ran back outside to find the donkey again.

SO . . .

It's your turn. Tell me about your own personal Microwave Hell. Post it as a comment here, write a post on your own blog, or email it to me at foolery (at) clearwire (dot) net and I'll post it as a guest post this week. Tomorrow I will publish Bob Cleveland's story about a microwave and an egg. Yeah.

In Which We Start With Puberty and End With a Monster Egg

Think back to puberty. Or, as my high school biology teacher Mr. Penner used to say, "POO-ber-ty." He also used to say "di-no-SOURS," but that's another story, and try to stay focused, okay?

Pronounce it how you will, puberty does a number on a body, especially on a girl's body. One can only imagine that the first dozen or so eggs produced by a pubescent female might be rather shoddy in quality, but we don't know because we can't see the eggs.

You can see a chicken's eggs. The first ones don't always turn out as planned.

 


Sometimes their shells are very bumpy. Chas got one from the hen house yesterday whose shell wasn't done well; it was so thin on one end that it crushed in his hand. Occasionally -- rarely -- the egg is even laid without a shell!

But that's not what I came here to tell you. I told you that so I could show you this:

 


This MONSTER egg.

It's a little hard to see how big it is, so I have prepared a demonstration. You knew I would.

First, a large egg from the grocery store.

 


Now let's add one of the little eggs these young hens usually lay -- much smaller.

 


Okay, here's the lunker.

 


See the difference?

 


Yikes. I don't want to know what kind of clucking ruckus she kicked up when pushing THIS bad boy out. We gave it to Grandma across the street, who promptly made breakfast. Later she told me, "That egg had a double yolk."

"Really?" I said. "I should have known, since it was so huge." Then I asked her, "Did you get any pictures of it?" Thinking back, I asked a little too breathlessly.

"Oh -- no," said Mom sadly, as if she had let me down. "I'm sorry! I didn't think of it!"

What, you don't photograph everything you do, buy, or eat? I thought. Definition of a non-blogger.

But when hens 4, 5 and 6 start laying, the camera will be ready.

Cankles

The transition from casual dating to Capital R Relationship happens at about three to four months, after you've used up all of your cute stories and can no longer get by on charm.

The transition from Blog Pals to Oh My GAHHHHHH Make Her STOP takes a little longer, but not too much. Roll your eyes silently if you've heard this one already sixteen times.

 


cankle: An obese or otherwise swollen ankle that blends into the calf without clear demarcation

After the birth of my first baby, Smedley, I was resting quietly on top on my blankets in the hot stuffy hospital room, watching "The Today Show." In walked a short plump blond nurse, brisk and friendly and efficient. "Good morning," she sang. "I need to check you out."
No, this is not one of those stories, so guys, don't run away.

Before any examination began, the nurse looked at my ankles, which had been swollen before the baby was born but which looked like my everyday ankles at this point.

"Oh, look how swollen your ankles are," she said, and noted it on her chart. I blinked. Really? They looked fine to me. Better than fine, actually, considering they had been elevated for 12 hours, and considering I have tree trunks for ankles in the first place. I didn't say anything.

That evening a different nurse -- the physical opposite of my breakfast nurse in every way -- breezed in to check me out. One look at her tall, slender frame, and I figured she would be horrified by my elephantine swollen ankles, and possibly leave a nasty note on my chart. I looked at the offending ankles. They hadn't changed a bit from my vantage point. Was I a failure as a patient? Would I lose favor with the nursing staff? Would they let me keep my baby? I was doomed.

"Oh, would you look at that," she cooed as she checked out my enormous hooves. "Not a bit of swelling!" And she scratched something onto my chart.

Wait, what?

I looked at my feet. I hadn't noticed how lovely they were -- I should be a foot model, really. Such graceful curves up to those perfect, swelling-free ankles. I was proud.

I spent a second night at the hospital. The next morning during "The Today Show," in marched the little round blond nurse again to check me over. I was eager to show off my svelte ankles. She glanced at them.

"Ankles still swollen, I see," she said, scribbling a note on my chart.

The moral of this story is

a) you cannot judge a book by its cover. Short fat nurses are more body-critical than tall thin nurses.
b) beauty is in the eye of the beholder. If we could just control people's eyesight we could rule the world.
c) hospital food is somehow to blame. Mine was delicious and I ate it all.
d) people who watch "The Today Show" get what they deserve.

Come In Here, Dear Boy, Have a Cigar, You're Gonna Go Far

This, to most people, is a fold-down arm rest.

(Original photo stolen from these guys)

In the cars of my childhood there were always two arm rests which folded down independently, and which we called The Two Things. When The Two Things were folded down together they formed a nifty little platform from which to launch small children through the windshield, or, more commonly, a comfy place for my little brother to ride. This was in 1971 and there was no seat belt for a passenger of The Two Things.

(I was sure I'd told you this story before, but maybe not.)

My brother Mantel Man, the one who grew up to climb Mt. Whitney and hike the Himalayas, the very same brother who had a career as a Navy bombardier/navigator pulling Gs in a plane that sometimes flew upside down -- THAT Mantel Man -- was prone to carsickness as a little fellow.

I know. But wait, it gets better.

The only way he kept his nausea at bay on long car trips was by watching the road from the front seat, between my two parents, one of whom was smoking a cigar.* There rode Little Mantel Man, perched on The Two Things, watching the road, breathing cigar smoke and trying not to barf.

Only it was the motion sickness that tended to make Little Mantel Man green, and not the cigar smoke. I sat in the back seat mostly unaffected by the curvy mountain roads of the Coast Range or the Sierras, but green around the gills from the White Owls or Tiparillos that Dad smoked only on car trips.



(Photo stolen from these guys)

Not Little Mantel Man. He liked the noxious smoke.

Yes he did.

And he pestered our dad to let him have a puff. Dad, of course, said NO, because Little Mantel Man? He was only FOUR on the day this story took place. NO you may not have a puff. NO you may not have your own cigar. NO.

Until . . .

Oh, all right, Fella, this should put a stop to this nonsense! Here.

And Dad handed his stogie to Little Mantel Man.

Who liked it, of course.

And continued to puff on this stogie as we cruised along, Mom becoming more and more agitated with the backfired lesson as the minutes dragged on and Little Mantel Man smoked that stogie. And smoked it and smoked it.

And cars passed and stared at us. Stared at the skinny 4-year-old with the so-large head, enthroned on The Two Things like a little prince and puffing away at a White Owl cigar stub. Did they even notice the woozy 5-year-old secondhand smoke victim in the back seat? Doubtful.

The thing that put an end to this disastrous attempt to outsmart a child -- the last straw for Mom -- was the car whose passengers glared fiercely at us as they passed.

In 1969 some of the passing cars might have given my parents a thumbs up for bucking The Man and letting their kid smoke out.

In 1979 those people would have flipped my parents off.

In 1989 they would have used their huge car phones to call the police to report child abuse.

In 1999 they might have taken a shot at us in a fit of drive-by road rage

. . . but in 2009 they'd be on their iPhones to CNN and YouTube with video footage.

My how the world has changed.

Please don't let your 4-year-olds smoke cigars. And if you do, just make sure you're the fastest car on the road so no one can pass you and glare at you. Thank you for your time. This has been a public service message from Foolery.


*Hint: not Mom.

BULL . . . pucky

(Photo stolen from ShanghaiChew on Flickr)

Week two of summer vacation is here. I really need to send thank you notes to the girls' teachers, who are a credit to our education system.

We are so very lucky to have the school that we have, which is a jewel. Involved parents, fantastic teachers, and a very wholesome environment. I discuss this with the girls' grandparents quite a bit, and often when I talk with my father about his own elementary education, the following story comes up.

Dad grew up in Berkeley, California, before and during World War II, when Berkeley was known for the excellence of its schools and for little else. Even so, he remembers little about his teachers or his school days . . . except this incident, which comes up often in conversation.

David's (my dad) second grade (or thereabouts) teacher very unfairly asked her pupils if they had ever heard their parents swear. This was hugely unwise and would get her fired today, but in about 1942 people were a tad preoccupied with a war or something.

When it was little David's turn to answer, he told the teacher, "My father never swears, but one time? I heard my mother say 'bullshit.'"

My poor grandma, when she later heard the story, was horrified. She was not a woman to swear, but obviously she did at least once. She was quite pregnant with her third child in June for little David's birthday, and she made her husband, my quiet grandfather, take the day off to bring cupcakes into the classroom that day because she refused to show her face.

In later years she was able to recognize the humor of the situation, which is part of why I loved her.

I Leaf Japanese Language Wo Learning Tight to Think.

The tiny room was stuffy. No breeze stirred the late afternoon air, heavy with humidity and pollen and expectations -- for the weekend, two days away; for finals, just around the corner. The converted laundry room on the back of the shabby Victorian house had no air conditioning, no fans, no insulation. A half-hearted attempt at a college classroom, it abutted a campus parking lot, and waves of heat rising from the asphalt outside pulsed through the room.

Shoichi-san, a grad student, guided the four students through the lesson as they fought sleep, or restlessness, or both. Each took his or her turn reading the romanized text aloud; it looked sort of like English but, if pronounced correctly, it sounded sort of like Japanese.

Watashi wa toshokan ni irasshaimasu. I go to the library.

Janet read a few tortuous sentences until Shoichi-san was satisfied. Paula plodded through her assigned paragraph. Laurie approached the words dully, as if trying to read underwater. The stagnant air was getting to her; she cracked a smile and tried not to giggle.

Enpitsu ga arimasu ka? Do you have a pencil?

Joe's turn. Joe's learning curve was flatter than those of his classmates. Japanese did not come easily to Joe, and the warm room and fidgety girls around him didn't make it any easier.

Joe looked at the page. The words swam before his eyes. Joe struggled through the sentence, syllable by syllable.

" . . . shi . . . ma . . . SHIT."

Shta. Joe had wanted to say shta, but it was too late. The word hung in the poisonous air with ponderous finality, daring any of the students to say a word. No words were needed.

I don't remember which of us started giggling first, but Janet and I were goners after that. Shoichi-san blinked at us through innocent eyes -- and ears.  "Eez ever'teeng . . . okayyy?" he asked. We assured him that we were just tired and punchy, that was all. Poor Joe was turning six shades of red and cursing the day he ever chose Japanese as an elective.

Class dismissed.

¡Viva la Smart Aleck!

(Photo stolen from these guys)

One of the funniest things I've heard in forever, from a little boy in my daughter's second grade class.

Teacher: "Who knows why the French went to Mexico?"

Hands went up, but the teacher called on Gary (not his real name).

Gary:  "Um, for a dance-off?"

Golf Is Trying to Kill Me

(Photo stolen from this site)

Never mind nearly being thrown from an out-of-control golf cart or hemorrhaging our discretionary income to TopFlight and the Tuscan Ridge Golf Club every month, Golf has been trying to kill me for years.

Once, as I was speeding along the Kaanapali Parkway on my way home to Lahaina (when I lived in Maui, *sigh*), a golf ball came out of NOWHERE to thwack my poor little Corolla on the hood. Had I goosed the gas by a mere fraction the ball would have hit me through the open window, killing me instantly, I'm sure. Or at least making a welt.

A few months later I walked along that same parkway from my ticket booth (where I sold tickets for the company luau and for other tours and activities) down to the luau grounds to deliver the receipts. As I strolled down the sidewalk a car turned into the driveway behind me, and the driver called to me. I turned around and waved, pausing only a second. When I resumed my walk a golf ball hurtled from high in the sky and hit to the right of the sidewalk, about a yard ahead of me. Had I not stopped to wave the ball would have hit me square in the temple, killing me instantly, or at least smarting a whole lot.

This is my only evidence that Golf is trying to kill me, but I think it's compelling. I'm cagey, however, and Golf hasn't gotten me yet. I avoid golf courses, pro shops and Chas on Saturdays.

I think Jai Alai  has it in for me, too.

Karma Is a Bitch, Even For Chickens

This is a bantam white cochin rooster. Isn't he cute?



(Photo stolen from TheBigWRanch12)

Let's call him Chester, because I can't for the life of me remember the exact name of the bantie white cochin rooster I'm about to tell you about. (Even my brother Mantel Man couldn't remember, and that's never happened in the history of Earth.)

Chester was a feisty little bugger, often to the point of obnoxiousness. He favored the sneak attack, scuttling up silently behind a person on his ridiculously cute fluffy legs, then flying up at the person -- let's say ME, for example -- with his feet outstretched toward me. I'd hear the flapping, turn around, and get a frontal assault of snotty chicken. This sounds funny and harmless, but those ridiculously cute chicken legs have spurs on them, which are rather painful if they get purchase on bare skin. It was particularly galling to be attacked by a pet who depended upon our good will to survive, and it was hard to explain being intimidated by a darling little puff ball no larger than a balloon.

But we were all somewhat intimidated. We watched our backs in the back yard.

Chester had a peculiar habit of hanging out near the swimming pool in the early morning. This was annoying because he was a rooster, and roosters crow pretty much all the time (never mind that the story books taught you that roosters crow at dawn. They do -- at dawn and at all other times of day and night). Our bedrooms were close to the pool, and therefore within earshot of a certain snotty crowing puff-ball who hung out at the pool.

We were never sure how he got there or why, but Chester would sometimes get into the pool on those early mornings.  Did he fall in trying to get a drink? Probably, but I would think one time would have cured him of that nonsense. Plus, there was plenty of water around the yard that didn't require swimming lessons to reach. I have a theory: Chester was a thrill-seeker. Chester the Adrenaline Junkie Rooster.

This theory is borne out by the way we'd find Chester -- riding the pool sweep around and around the pool. Our pool sweep at that time* was one that floated on top of the water, so it was possible for a lightweight thrill-seeking chicken to perch atop it and ride around (as long as that chicken didn't mind the revolving tile squirter that must have acted as a sort of chicken bidet; presumably, Chester didn't mind).

(Photo stolen from this site)

Several times Mom would have to rescue Chester from the top of the pool sweep; the wet and bedraggled little turd was NOT gracious about the rescues, making it even less fun saving his puffy little chicken ass.

But one morning Chester had taken one thrill ride too many, and Karma caught up with him. Mom found him in the drink. Poor Chester.

The moral of this story: there is no moral, unless you are a small ill-tempered rooster with a penchant for risky behavior. In that case, the moral is, of course, WEAR A LIFE PRESERVER.


*The pool sweep was named Ernest; my people are not good at naming humans but we're GREAT at naming inanimate objects.

Rock the Boat

Music Playlist at MixPod.com

Every time I hear this song I am transported back in time to the Orland city pool.

Hot dry summer day, ride our bikes five miles into town to the pool.  Lock the bike, pay the bored teenager at the window and go inside. Changing area and bathrooms doused in puddles of unknown origin. Feel the eyes of the Town Kids upon us; as Country Kids we were strangers in our own town. Change in silence and get to the water as fast as possible.

Round the concrete block wall to the blinding brilliance of the sunlit pool, crammed with kids. Tan teenagers with gooey white noses and whistles on lanyards stroll the decks barking warnings at rough-housers. Dive in -- did the water just sizzle on my hot skin, or did I imagine it?

Come up for air and notice the music playing over the P.A. system: AM radio. Still sounds like I'm under water. But the song -- it's always playing, every time we come here. "Rock the Boat" by The Hues Corporation. Rock on witchya bad self.

Funny thing is, several years ago we had a reunion of sorts, three of the Country Kids, over lunch. Talked about this and talked about that.

"Remember the pool?"

"Remember swim team?"

"The lifeguards!"

"The high dive, shudder."

"And whenever we went there, there was one song that always played, no matter what --"

"ROCK THE BOAT!"

"You noticed that too?"

"Of course! It played all summer long, every day, every year we went."

"Huh. So I'm not crazy, then."

"Well, I don't know about THAT . . ."

Hurry up, summer.  Rock on witchya bad self.

 

(Photo stolen from this guy)

Bad Chemistry: What's That Smell?

My memory is fuzzy, but I seem to remember that all classes in the chemistry lab had to be moved to the library that day, at least until the source of the smell was located.

Ooooo, that's a chewy sentence!  I like it; it can stay.

Because wherever class was held that day, it couldn't have been in the chemistry lab, which was certainly toxic.

Loner Lab Assistant Dude stayed in the room all day, rooting out the search of the smell, or so we were told. I had my doubts. If I had been Loner Lab Assistant Dude I think I would have put off the search as long as possible, reading comic books and drinking cheap beer in the storage room because they ain't nobody who wanted to enter that room to check on his progress. Also, brain damage from stray chemicals might not have been a big problem for him.



(Photo stolen from 315ssuahC on Flickr)

The source of the smell was located: an open container of a sulfur compound, pardon my ignorance of the exact compound. Now who could have done that? All eyes fell upon Loner Lab Assistant Dude, but none of us cared, because really? A change of venue for the class? Are you kidding me? That's what high school kids LIVE for.

The sulfur was found, capped and promptly re-shelved. End of story.

Wait -- no it wasn't. Why would I bother telling you THAT?

Trying again: The sulfur was found, capped and placed upon the desk of our beloved teacher, Miss Acid. In plain sight. Within easy reach. With neon lights above it urging someone to STEAL THIS.



That's all true. All except for the "beloved" part.

"Psst -- Laurie," my friend Dave psst'd at me. "I need you to check something for me."

Little did Dave know but I would have gone to the ends of the earth on my hands and knees to check something for him, so, of course, I did what he asked.

"Walk through the school office after class," directed Dave. "Look under the couch right outside of the principal's office."

With stars in my eyes because I was on a mission from Dave, *sigh,* I strolled nonchalantly through the school office, glancing under the designated couch. There was the sulfur container, uncapped, unnoticed.  Sniff sniff -- just a bit of sulfur in the air.

I burst through the doorway out to the quad where Dave waited, smiling as only a teenager who just planted a huge stink bomb can smile.

"Did you smell it?" he asked.

"Yeah, it's starting to stink up the place," I answered. What a great prank, I thought. No one gets hurt and Miss Acid gets blamed for her ongoing lack of control of those honor roll hoodlums.

EPILOGUE

The sulfur must have been discovered by Those Meddling Secretaries, because the administrators were not administrating from the library the following day. Bummer.

Dave went on to college and a brilliant career as a business owner and world-wide manufacturer.

Miss Acid was not invited back to teach any more chemistry ever, ever again.

And I'm still sitting here.

Another Sordid Tale of Underage Debauchery

I was an angel in high school.

Ahem.  Yes I was.  Mostly.  Mostly because no one was particularly interested in getting my wings dirty and giving my halo a tilt.  Mostly.

And then I got to college, where I continued the tradition, mostly, except for that one time, and then there was that other time, and, well . . . mostly.

But by Christmas of my freshman year I was finding my way, stretching my angel wings.  The big Christmas party that Cricket and Judy and I planned, along with some other South Hall, second floor girls, put a good dent and some scratches in that halo.  (Now Mom, if you're reading this, have no fear: we're talking about UNDERAGE DRINKING here, and nothing more.  At my age I don't need to add a therapist's bill to my debt load.)

Drinking of any kind was forbidden in the dorms (yes it was, but this rule was also the spark for President Clinton's Don't Ask Don't Tell policy).  We figured, and we were right, that what the Resident Adviser couldn't see wouldn't hurt her, so we kept the drinks flowing and the party from overflowing out into the halls by creating party rooms.  Cricket and Judy's room was the bar, Mary and Cathy's room was the dance floor, and there were probably more dorm rooms pressed into service for other activities, but I wouldn't know about those.

As one of the hostesses I took my turn monitoring the bar.  We served hurricane punch, which is one of the four food groups in college, and mulled wine, which is one of my biggest mistakes of college life, or any other life.  I took my turn pouring.

It was a very long turn.

Did you know that mulled wine is a lot like hot sangria?  Neither did I.  Did you know that sangria and mulled wine are both registered by the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms as lethal weapons?

I know that now.

I was serving up the hurricanes and the mulled wine to beat the band, of which there was none, but there was plenty of loud music.  I know because I could hear it thump-thump-thumping through the wall-wall-wall of the bar room that was my prison.  Well, a prison that served endless and unregulated lethal weapons mulled wine, anyhow.  So it wasn't all bad.

Until it became all bad.  That was the point at which the noise curfew had been reached, then ignored, then enforced, and we all said "Merrrrrry Chrishmish" and stumbled back to our own rooms, or for some their closest equivalents on the boys side of the dorm.  I fell into my dorm bed, which immediately levitated and began spinning like the Teacups at Disneyland.  Yes it did, and I did what any reasonable college student would do: I threw up on my art supplies.

Well, they were there in a convenient cardboard box under my window, so why not?  The bed finally quieted down, and I fell into a deep slumber.

Until about 6:00 a.m., when I awoke in dread of the coming day.  The room smelled strongly of sour grapes, oranges and horse hair paint brushes.

Oh God.

I staggered to my feet which were inconveniently pointed in opposite directions but which somehow got me down the hall to the communal bathroom.

The damage to my makeshift art supply box was indescribable -- now, and certainly then, in the predawn hours of what would come to be an epic hangover.  Everything was . . . purple.  I dumped the aerosol cans and paint tubes and brushes and trays into the sink and began scrubbing them to get rid of the evidence before --

Too late.  Terri was already up.

Terri was the closest thing I had to a nemesis in college.  She was a tiny thing, definitely under 100 pounds, with the voice of Cinderella and the tongue of a serpent.  Sort of like Angela from the TV show "The Office"


(Photo stolen from these guys)

only crabbier, and with a teeny-tiny baby voice and hair like The Church Lady.



She smiled a withering, tight-lipped smile at me , wrapped her baby pink quilted robe around her even tighter, and stared at my sink full of soapy art supplies.  She looked at me warily.  Did she guess the truth?  It seemed unlikely, since how many people have barf-covered art supplies?

"They needed a washing.  I wash them sometimes," I said.  I didn't add, "before dawn on a Sunday morning when the rest of the world is up setting its hair in hot rollers and glaring at its dorm mates."  I should have added that.



I never volunteered to watch the bar at a Christmas party again, and I never got that wasted again, no matter what Gubby -- whose ISP will be blocked from commenting today -- may try to make up about me.  Back to being an angel.  Mostly.


(Photo stolen from these guys)

Chicken in Training: Bringing Home the Blue Ribbon

I grew up on a dairy; that is well- (shorthand for "overly-") documented.  Dad loves cows, and continues to collect them.

My sister is a horse fanatic.

My brothers and I raised chickens.

With 70 acres of land, lots of barn and corral space, and a father extremely knowledgeable in all things bovine, not one of us ever raised a steer for 4-H or FFA (an activity which, let's face it, is really a license to print money come sale time) or any other market animal.  Why not?  Were we idiots?  Well, I'll come back to that question.

We didn't raise livestock because 4-H and FFA animals don't get to ride home in the truck with you after the fair.  No sirree; they go on to places like Bob's Big Boy, Kibbles & Bits and, heaven forbid, Taco Bell, to become Extreme Value Meals.

Poor Fluffy.

But chickens have a Get Out of Abattoir Free card.  They have return tickets from the fair.  So my brothers and I raised ornamental bantam (miniature) chickens, and gave them names like Cluck, Brewster, and Fluffy.  Poor Fluffy.  (Pet names have never been a LaGrone family strong suit.)

But do you know what it takes for Fluffy to bring home the blue ribbon?  Well, I'm gonna tell you.  As much as I remember, anyway.

First, the chicken must be healthy, and healthy looking.  No scaly leg (a condition I battle myself in these dry, dry months); you've got to grease up the chicken's legs.  (At least we didn't have to wax them.)  If I remember right we used Vaseline on their legs, combs, and wattles, which made them look plump, shiny and very rosy.

If you're gonna enter that bird in the fair you'll need to dust it regularly for mites and other nasty bugs.  My brother Mantel Man usually was in charge of dusting with Malathion, which is why he still walks funny to this day.

But you're not done.  Beaks must be kept trimmed, so we used nail clippers.  This is every bit as tricky as it sounds with a feisty bantie rooster, or even a hen.  So to calm the chicken you've got to cradle it on one hand, with the wings held down with your thumb and pinkie finger.  If you do this right, it's very easy to invert the chicken with one hand -- that is, hold it upside down -- while you trim its beak and talons (claws, fangs, nails -- whatever they're called).  This is apparently calming to a Bird of Very Little Brain, and it's fairly easy to groom them once they're calm.

And, for the pièce de résistance, you must bathe your chicken, especially if it's white.

I'm not kidding.

In the utility sink.  Yes, bathe.  Go on, you're wasting time.  Chop chop.

Have your sink full enough to partially submerge the chicken but not so full that you can't find Fluffy in the bubbles.  Water should be the same temperature you'd use for a baby.  A very gentle shampoo is best, but if your chicken is white, get a shampoo with bluing in it, like you might use on a drop-kick dog white poodle.

before



after

See what a difference PhotoShop bluing makes?  In theory?

The chicken may try to get away, so have the door closed.  But don't worry -- they can fly only a little bit.  Did I mention you should clip their wings first?  Oh, sorry.  You should have done that.

Rinsing the chicken may actually be more challenging than lathering it, but you'll get the hang of it.  Plus, that bird won't have much fight left after it's flown around the laundry room a few times and smacked the window.

Lightly towel dry the chicken.  You'll probably want to use the one-hand-upside-down method as described above.  Then get the blow drier from the -- what?  You didn't have your blow drier out and plugged in already?  Well, that was a mistake, because now you have to carry your wringing-wet bird through the house to your bathroom to retrieve the drier.  Please don't use the hot or high settings, or your

will get all

and you don't need that.  Gently blow dry your chicken.  It could help to have some soulless European house music thumping in the background.  I know that's how the big-time hair dressers do it.

Those are the basics for getting your chicken ready for the fair.  Next time, Judging Day Etiquette: How Not to Be a Backstage Mother.  Thank you for your time.  Also?  We are idiots, very likely.

Stupid Human Tricks and the Stupid Human Who Misused Hers

I have a Stupid Human Trick I used to perform at parties.  Not several tricks; just one.  But in case you might think this might be bragging (AS IF), here is a partial list of my inabilities, to counter the effect:

• I have the vertical leap of a mud shark.

• I cannot confidently say or spell "sea anenome," and I am NOT looking that up.

• I learned to pronounce "anvil" from Bugs Bunny, and it makes Chas laugh, so I don't say it anymore.

Okay, that's enough of that.  I was reminded of this story today by a good friend who can't think when the cherry jar is open, shall we say.  This is for him.

When I was about 20, my childhood friend Cheryl had moved to San Francisco.  She lived in a wonderful old apartment near Golden Gate Park, with hardwood floors and fantastic natural light.  Cheryl decided to throw a party, so I drove down for the weekend.  I helped her get the food ready for the 40 or so people she had invited, and we were having the best time ever.  Neither of us drank much, so a little wine and we were rather tipsy as we prepped.

The Rolling Stones were blaring from the stereo when the doorbell rang.


(Logo stolen from this site)

"Harry!  You made it!" shrieked Cheryl as she greeted the first guest.  Harry was twice our age and had a perpetually sad expression.  He was embarrassed to be the first one to arrive, but we put him to work and gave him a drink and soon he was happy.  Happy with a sad expression.

When everything was finished, we looked around and realized that no one apart from Harry had yet arrived.  No matter; it was time for mixed drinks.  Of course, food would be necessary, so we got into some of the snacks -- but only some, since we would need lots of food when the hoards of villagers finally arrived.

Only they didn't arrive.  Harry was it.  Cheryl's boyfriend arrived, but beyond that the door didn't open again.

Time to get drunk.

I don't know whose idea the maraschino cherries were, but probably Cheryl's, because she always has enjoyed making me perform my Stupid Human Trick.  Since I am a one trick pony, you'd better keep a jar of cherries on hand if you want me to perform.

I started tying cherry stems with my tongue.  Cheryl was laughing, Harry was transfixed, and the boyfriend was probably too stoned to notice.  I think they started timing me.  I vaguely remember feeding cherries to Harry, when Cheryl took me aside to ask me what I had planned with Harry that night.  Apparently I was just shy of peeling grapes for him, so what were my intentions?

Huh?

"Harry?" I giggled.  "Harry's adorable, but he's like a hundred or something," I said, proving my youth an inexperience.

"Harry's 40," Cheryl said.

"Yeah, 'swhat I said," I slurred.  "I'm not doing anything with Harry -- are you crazy?" I scoffed.

"Well, Harry thinks you are," Cheryl warned.  "He's definitely into you."

"Oh, you must be joking," I said, dumbfounded.  "We're just having a good time, that's all."

"Laurie, you've been feeding him maraschino cherries and tying the stems with your tongue," Cheryl said, leaning on the "tongue" part.

Oh.

OH.

We went back to the living room, where I put the lid back onto the cherry jar.  Harry left soon thereafter.


(Photo stolen from these guys)