Just Wasting Time on my CSP

Somewhere along the line we were duped into switching to digital television; a revolution sure to change the way we watch TV forever.

Well it's certainly changed the way I watch TV.  More specifically, I rarely watch it anymore because I can't get a signal.

For those of us like myself, who care too little about what's on TV to have a fancy new digital TV they made a great new box called a Digital TV Converter so that we, too, could enjoy the glory of digital TV.  And I'd love to enjoy that glory if my TV could ever pick up the DTV signals.  Instead I'm constantly fiddling with the antenna collecting dust on top of my TV and intermittently performing new channel scans in a fruitless attempt to get a signal. 

Last summer a friend from Bismarck came to visit this cosmopolitan metropolis that is the Twin Cities, and yet thanks to the big switch, we couldn't watch TV.  We watched Finding Nemo instead.  She didn't understand why we had switched to digital TV and I didn't have an answer to give her.  It makes no sense to me.

For once Bismarck's got one up on us. 

Well here at the farm we like to make lemons of our lemonade so my Other Half and I have started a new game on this brand new gaming system we call the CSP.

That's a Channel Scan in Progress for all you non-gamers out there.

The object of the game is to get to the most channels.  So far my high score is a nine, but tonight I've been averaging a three.  I'm obviously not on my game.  My Other Half and I take turns playing the CSP and believe me, this is competition as you've never seen before.

There are only three buttons on the CSP controller; it doesn't require great dexterity so the skill of the game comes from your antenna placement.  You can play the CSP on the Easy Level where you just try to rack up as many channels as you can.  Or you can switch to Advanced and use your skill in antenna placement to aim for specific channels.

I only do Advanced when there's something I really want to watch.  My Other Half plays it more often in an attempt to watch the hockey games on the ever elusive channel 45.

Since there's no use in petitioning that we go back to the old system of a TV that actually had channels to watch, it looks like I'm going to need a new TV if I want to see what kind of crap they're coming out with now.

But where's the fun in that?  I'd much rather keep playing my new game.

Spring

It's truly Spring.  Looks, feels, and smells like it.

Here's what I love about Spring:

We've started some of our plants indoors, and the time is fast approaching where I can finally get out to the garden and start digging in the dirt.  The yard looks huge now that it's not obstructed by massive piles of snow everywhere.  The dogs spend most of their time outside- less fur on the floor!  Lou can hang out outside while I make lunch instead of quizzing me on how cars, books, sweaters, dishwashers, houses, roads, etc. are made.  The chickens are home and bugs are being eaten!

Here's what I hate about Spring:

Frozen dog poop is SO much easier to clean up.

Chicken Coaxing

The Hens are home!

That's right, it took an afternoon of coaxing, but they're home, safe, sound, and asleep.

The Hens really hate the snow, avoid it at all costs, so I had planned on walking them down the street and back into our yard.  Thanks to all this Global Warming we've had recently, I was able to lure them down through the field; a much shorter distance, and hidden from the road so as not to elicit dubious stares from neighbors.

Not that we have any anyways.

I was prepared for a long, drawn out war as I tried to convince them to move home; won slowly, one battle at a time.  It took about twenty minutes.  Sometimes I forget how dumb they are.

The Sibling and I unthreateningly made our way up the hill to where the Hens grazed mindlessly, tossing crumbs of Saltines and bits of bread as we went along in a gesture of good will.  Bread duly noted the Hens soon relaxed and enjoyed their good fortune.  They made it about 1/3 of the way down the hill when they got cold feet, literally.  The ground is soggy and cold and Hen 2 found a worm.

This was enough to distract her as she took down the worm, one bite at a time.  Hen 1 got a look at what Hen 2 was silently enjoying and stormed in just in time to steal the last bite.  After that they saw the trees separating our yard from Margee's, the trees they had just been standing near, and they got even more distracted.

Hen 1: Oh wow. Trees.  Do you think there's bugs over there?

Hen 2:  I have no idea!  Let's go find out.

Hen 1:  Lets go quickly, those featherless two-leggers over there look like they have plans for our bugs.

So they scrambled up the hill towards the promise of bugs.  Meanwhile, the dogs happily enjoyed the chicken's bread.  Sibling called the dogs and put them in the fenced-in yard; which took forever because he doesn't realize how sneaky Gidge is.  She will look at you with an honest face, pleading for you to believe her that she really wants to do what you say.  But she doesn't give a damn what you say because there are unattended calories on the hill.

Dogs secured, time to get back to Hens.

Sibling showered them with Saltine crumbs: See chickens?  See how we do?  We make it rain Saltines!

I slowly walked behind them and began herding them down the hill.  They were wary at first.  Especially when we made it to their former turning back point.  They couldn't decide which way to go to get around a large patch of snow.  Just going back seemed safest, but when each Hen looked around she didn't see anyone else go back, so she began to have second thoughts.  Panic and keep moving forward, I think that's their mantra.  Sibling and I persevered and kept them moving until they made it safely into what can classically be considered our yard; where they once again became distracted.

They happily pulled up worms and the occasional box elder under the shelter of a pine when they suddenly recognized where they were.

Hen 2:  Hey Hen 1!  Do you see this?  Haven't we been here before? 

Hen 1:  Wow.  You know, it really does look familiar.  Maybe a party or something?

The Hens made their way up to the roof and honked for everyone else; to their enormous relief, no one showed up.  They stood on top of the coop and surveyed their yard, keeping a watchful eye on the dogs as Gidget performed circus tricks in order to get a better look.

Then they skipped across the roof and patrolled the base of The Tree all afternoon.

I can't even tell you how comforting it is to see them pecking away outside my window.  I never realized how much I enjoy the incessant chaos they carry with them, it's just too quiet when they're not around.

And now they rest in The Tree, as peacefully as they know how, and I'm about to rest peacefully knowing that my chicken alarm clock is back in working order.  I know tomorrow's a new day, they'll probably go over to Margee's again and I'll have to repeat today tomorrow. 

But that's okay, I've learned that it's pretty easy to teach a chicken where home is.

Home is where they feed you.

The Art of Bribing Chickens

The mystery location of the Hens' new sleeping quarters has been solved.  They've traded The Tree in my yard for a cozy pine at the neighbor's.

In fact, they've pretty much moved in over there.

They spend each day there and have stopped coming home at night.  Today as Lou and I came home from school we saw them pecking around in the neighbors driveway, apparently quite at home.  I tried to lure them down the road to our farm with some old peanut butter toast.

They took the toast but stayed in Margee's yard.

So this weekend I will be bribing chickens in an attempt to get them to come back home. 

I can see what attracts the Hens to the neighbor's yard.  She's got bird feeders all over, cracked corn for the deer, and a pair of ducks that make their way north to her pool each Spring.  She puts up with all their honking, and I know she treats them with her leftovers.  Honestly, with these two around, who needs a compost?

But the thing is is that they're mine.

I got them because I don't ever want to see a bug again, if I can help it.  But if they're clearing Margee's yard of bugs, who's going to take care of mine?

So I've come up with a plan.  It's not very sophisticated, but neither are they, so I'm hoping it works.  Here it is:

Step 1:  Buy them some food
They're probably more apt to come home if I feed them.  Just a theory but I'm going to try it.

Step 2:  Bribe them 
I'm going to march down to Margee's with as much stale bread and Saltines (their absolute fave) as I can hold and I'm not coming back without chickens. 

Step 3:  Keep the bribe going
From now until they've forgotten the glory of Margee's, my yard is going to be a full blown chicken party zone.  I will litter my yard with bread, bread, more bread, and some croutons.  I'm going to have to do something about the dogs so that they don't eat it all; there are some obvious kinks in this plan, but it's what I've got so I'm going to run with it.

Step 4:  Spend more quality time with the Hens. 
The Hens really just want to be where everyone else is, so if we just spend more time outside, and act like we're having a blast, the Hens should stick around.  Maybe I should get some normal chickens too to make our yard seem more bird friendly...

So, that's pretty much it.  And it had better work because there's no way I'm doing the baby Guinea thing again.

At least not this year

Bear Blankie

I have an obsessive compulsive stockpiling problem.  I have a fear of running out of something, anything. 

Therefore the bathroom closet is a shrine to back-up toiletries, cleaning supplies, and toilet paper.  If you run out of Windex or bleach and it's not there, then just check under my kitchen sink which is armed with enough supplies to clean a small museum for the remainder of the century.  The bottom shelf of my pantry has extra napkins, condiments, pickles, anything that's in a jar and can keep.  I buy new toothpaste when I open a new tube; worried, perhaps, that I'd suddenly finish this brand new tube and find myself unable to brush for twenty minutes.  Honestly, if you ever run out of something, ask me, yes, I have an extra for you.

Lou has Bear Blankie, her Linus Van Pelt blanket, and this mountain of back up supplies, this my friends, is my Bear Blanket. 

This is my way of providing stability to my family.  No matter how rough the day was, it will never be made worse by running out of toilet paper.  When I come home, exhausted, and decide to make chicken nuggets for dinner (again) I know that at least we're going to have ketchup.  I sleep better at night knowing that I have enough baby wipes to take care of an emergency over-night diaper, with an extra package for school, one for the car, and at least one to spare.  And when I wake from that slumber, I wake with confidence because I know that I'm going to be able to have my coffee- even if the Mr. Coffee I'm currently using unexpectedly breaks, you got it, I have a spare one.  Oh yeah, and an aresnal of filters. 

I've heard that security objects aren't healthy beyond a certain age, but how can that be true when we never really get rid of them; it's just that at some point they're no longer made of cotton and thread.  I think Linus said it best when Lucy asked him what he was going to do with his blanket when he grew up: 

Maybe I'll make it into a sport coat. 

We all have things that we need to feel safe.  I need to know that even if I don't come home for three months my family would lack for nothing.

Well that, and I still need Bear Bear near my bed.   

    

Chicken Update

It looks like winter is losing it's steam.  That means that the two rejected chickens that I took for goners in December are actually going to make it another year.  They've earned the right to stick around after surviving this winter, no freeze packed chicken heaven for them. 

I just have no idea how long they'll be sticking around.  You can find all the information you'd ever need on Guinea Hens, even recipes, but you can never find a natural life expectancy; apparently no one lets them live that long.  So they've become my very own experiment.

With the return of a few bugs the Hens have been getting up earlier, actually having a reason to now.  They spend more time around here before retreating to the safety of the neighbor's bird feeder.  They stay out later in the evening, and they're much chattier at night, probably because their beaks are no longer frozen together.  In the deathly cold they came home for the night around 4:00 and slept as close to one another as they could without getting mushy over it.  Now they don't come home until closer to 6:30.

But last night they didn't come home.

Leave it to my stupid birds to pick the return of Spring as the time when they cave and give up their fight against the cold.

And how pathetic am I?  I actually worried about them last night.  I had to remind myself that I actually told them to freeze to death, out loud, just a few months ago.  And yet here I was, not overly concerned of course, but still wondering what they were doing.  Where were they sleeping?  Are they dry and warm?

What am I thinking?  Honestly, I'm not that attached to them.  I didn't even give them proper chicken food all winter, I left them to tough it out and manage on their own.  But now they go and really prove that they don't need me, and I get all sentimental.

My fears assuaged, they've been honking all day.

Relief, guilt, and annoyance sweep over me.  Yep, they've really made it.

Motherhood

There are about a million things that I should probably be doing right now, but I can't bring myself to do any of them.  And while I feel guilty wasting away precious naptime minutes in such a frivolous manner, I'm going to sit here and ever so selfishly type.  I know, I'm wild.

I envy the ease with which my Other Half showers on a regular basis, not limiting these showers to five minutes at a time.  When he has to pee, he simply escorts himself to the bathroom and does so, it's not a big production and no one follows him in.  The other day he noticed that his socks were looking worn, and he casually went to Target and replaced them.

Here I stand in my very last pair of jeans that are not filled with holes that expose my butt, crotch, and or thighs, and I've just noticed that this one pair of perfect jeans is no longer perfect: highlighter has been stained down the side of my right leg.  But I know that I'm not going to buy a new pair.

And why not? you might ask.  Well for one thing there's no way I'm going to get enough me time to even try on a pair.  Having not bought pants since I gave birth three years ago, I have no idea what size I am, which means that in order to have new pants I'd have to stay in one store long enough to try some on.  And all you do-gooders out there who are going to offer to watch Lou so I can do this, save your energy because I've found I'm completely unable to spend money on myself; I'll wander, lost, in a store for some time and invariably find myself in the kids section scouring the clearance rack.   Excited by my great deals, I'll start my triumphant drive home only realize that I still don't have pants, but drained of the strength to find some.

It's not just jeans, this is a condition that extends to all areas of my life, a belief that I should never be spending time, money, energy, on myself because, if I did, I would be shirking my motherly duties.  I think that this self-sacrifice is a self-imposed result of motherhood; specifically young, single motherhood.  With a kid and no wedding ring, I'm an easy target. 

In the world of mothers I already have two strikes against me: I'm young and I'm single (not so single anymore), and because of this I find myself in a constant, possibly imagined, battle to prove my competence in the area of mothering.  You have no idea how many times people offer me unsolicited advice; they see me, see my child, and automatically assume that I have no idea what I'm doing with her.  I have to be more of a mother than any of the other mothers at school, lest I be judged on my parenting.  No one thinks anything when the thirty-something married mother of another child is running a few minutes late at pick-up time.  But if I'm a few minutes late, I get a short talk on timeliness, and Lou gets some looks of sympathy from the teachers watching.  I can almost hear them, "that poor child, practically has to raise herself..."

Mothers who drop their kids off at school in their brand new mini-vans, wearing Uggs, toting iPhones, and weighed down by wedding rings are immediately welcomed into the mother club, something I call the Knitting Circle.  But since I wear the same worn out Ugg knock offs from two years ago, no ring, and my car is old, noisy, and rusty, it took months, and not just one or two, before any other mother introduced herself.  Instead they studied the interaction between myself and Lou, confident that they knew what our lives were like. 

There was one girl who was driven to school every day in style- one day a Range Rover, the next a Volvo, and then suddenly a Sequoia, but the driver looked like she was my age.  I ignored the evidence and allowed myself to get excited.  You have no idea the joy I felt at the possibility of another young mom.  Someone to talk to! 

But alas, she's only the Nanny.  And even she feels bad for poor Lou who must suffer through an inept mother.

I know the facts on young, single mothers, and it's true that they're more often neglectful in their parenting.  But I also know a lot of older, married mothers who are much less involved with their child than I am with mine. 

When we became mothers we entered a strange new world for all of us, and no matter our age or relationship status, we have the same challenges, fears, triumphs, and questions.  Our identity suddenly changed with the birth of our children; we entered the hospital as individuals and we left as mothers.  Motherhood is universal and it changes everything, but through it all we are still a person, and we need support, not judgement.

So the next time you see a young mother who's child looks healthy, happy, and like she's dressed herself, save your comments.  Mother and child are doing just fine.

As for me, I'm taking a cue from my Other Half and I'm going to remember that I'm still a person too and the quality of my parenting is not determined by anyone other than my daughter.  I won't be able to take leisurely showers until Lou's graduated from college and completely supporting herself (does that happen?).  I'm still going to forgo a nap to vacuum instead, but I'm trying to relax and live up to my own standard, not some imaginary standard of how I should be as a mom. 

I'm not Supermom, I'm just Mom, and that's just fine because none of those married mothers are Supermom either.

Pregnant Goldfish

I'm convinced that my goldfish are trying to concieve.  They've been really goofy lately, and Pierre totally has a crush on Cinderella.  So the other night I googled "how to tell if a goldfish is pregnant" and got more information than I could have ever imagined was available; and yes, I now know that goldfish don't get pregnant, they lay eggs, duh. 

One of the sites that came up was the goldfish blog, created by some guy with way too much time on his hands.

This blog is filled with lots of useful information, it's also filled with way more information than most people would care to know about goldfish.  He actually signs each post, "Jamie Boyle, The Goldfish Guy".

Is he the only goldfish guy?  Are their others?  I have to believe that he's the only one as I can't imagine there's a large demand for "goldfish guys".  How did he get into this line of work?  Is it paid work or volunteer work?  Is he trying to better the world for goldfish by promoting understanding of the nature of goldfish?  Is that really necessary? 

Does he have a family?  There's a picture of him with a little girl I'm guessing is his daughter, but how does one have time for a family with a goldfish obsession as massive as his?  And what does his wife think of all this?

Yeah, I know, this really isn't the place for all of these questions....

Looks like I'm going to have to email The Goldfish Guy.

Gross

The Tree has become a favorite hang out spot for the dogs lately, and I couldn't figure out why.

Well, I've figured it out. 

Apparently frozen chicken poop is delicious.  Does anyone want two dogs?