I Despise That Chicken

This morning I read an article about how environmentally conscious hipsters are dumping their chickens by the Prius load at animal shelters, and now the animal shelters are stressed under the heavy burden of all these unwanted chickens. Apparently they are getting more than they bargained for when they adopted those fiendish adorable creatures. I hate to be the one to say "I told you so," but...

I KNEW IT WOULD COME TO THIS.

A couple years ago, when this trend of backyard hen-raising came to be, I remember thinking to myself, "HA! These people have NO CLUE what they are getting into. Nobody in their RIGHT MIND would keep chickens and enjoy it."

Because I know from experience something that all these hipsters have learned the hard way:

CHICKENS ARE THE DEVIL.

I'm not even kidding. And I can say it, because I know that they are. You see, back in the late 90's days of my youth, before chickens came into my life and stole my innocence, my mom and dad decided to buy some baby chicks. They were the original hipsters, ahead of their time. The idea was that we would raise the baby chicks to become hens and lay lots of fresh, delicious eggs.

And I, being a dutiful daughter, accepted the responsibility of caring for the chickens.

Oh, Jess. How naive you were.

As with most things that pertain to the devil, in the beginning it was OK. The chicks were adorable little yellow fluffballs and we kept them under a warming lamp in the back room of our house. They made little chirping noises and cuddled with each other and hardly ever pooped.

Idyllic visions danced in my head. Visions of barnyard chickens peacefully pecking in the yard and laying fresh, white, delicious eggs. The chicks were so cute, it seemed that nothing could go wrong with this situation. But that is HOW THE DEVIL WORKS, people. He seduces you with illusions of happiness until you've gotten yourself in deep and it's too late to turn back.

I went gung-ho with my new responsibilities. The hens needed a coop to move into when they came of age. My dad provided me with some split logs and a couple 2x4's and I nailed away for about 3 days (Don't worry, I was a husky girl. I could handle it.). At the end of that time, I had inexpertly constructed about 1/16 of one coop wall.

My dad took over after that, and within 2 hours he had raised a full chicken coop, complete with roosts and a working door.

My mom got all the necessary chicken-raising supplies, including feeding pans and watering devices, which look like an upside-down mason jar attached to a bowl. I remember Mom telling me that it was so the chickens couldn't poop in their water.

Oh, how wrong she was.

Finally the chickens were fully mature and ready to lay eggs, and we moved them into their new coop. I woke up early the next morning, my 13-year-old self excited to go out and collect the first batch of eggs and feed the chickens.

I curled my bangs and attired myself in my best baggy jeans, t-shirt, Doc Marten knockoffs, and scrunchie on my wrist. Bounding out to the chicken coop, egg basket in hand, I thought to myself what a wonderful thing it was that we had chickens. I'd become a regular chicken maid; a teenage expert in romantic fowl-rearing. I'd support my scrunchie habit on the sales of my fresh eggs...

Then I opened the coop door and met with a horrifying scene.

Poop. There was poop everywhere.

Poop.

Everywhere.

I mean everywhere.

There was at least 6 inches of chicken poop covering every flat surface and many non-flat surfaces. Poop streaked the walls of the coop. The feeding pans were covered with poop. The supposedly magical poop-proof watering jars were somehow coated with poop both inside and out.

In a daze, I stumbled back to the house to trade my Docs for some more practical chore boots before I could actually venture inside the coop. Once I entered that den of iniquity, 10 chickens immediately flew on my head and pooped all over my body. They ruined my bangs and befouled my perm with their feces. Eventually--after I had removed each clawed chicken from my body--in a pile of poop-covered poop, I found 3 eggs. One was tiny and deformed (we later found it had no yolk). All 3 eggs were absolutely coated with chicken crap.

At this point, I realized that we had made a horrible, horrible mistake. But we had hens; there was no turning back now. We had made our bed, now we had to lie in it.

Providing a clean, humane home for the chickens soon turned into drudgery of the worst kind. Each day was more horrific than the last. Every morning I would wake up, put on my worst clothes, and tromp out to the coop to feed the chickens, change their water, collect the eggs, and shovel poop. Every day dawned a new, poop filled nightmare. I am convinced I spent fully half that year just shoveling the mounds and mounds of black and white chicken poo. The chicken turds that I slung would have been enough to fertilize the entire bread basket region of Europe.

The days began to blur together like a nightmarish, crap-filled, endless video loop. It seemed there would be no end.

Enter my two younger brothers.

At that point in his life, my dad was really into trapping. And sled dogs. So he had a ton of traps put away for the summer and my brothers, young, curious, with deadly hunter instincts, could not resist themselves.

They set a few traps around the yard. I think they were hoping to catch a fox or maybe a couple skunks or raccoons.

Instead my chickens escaped and fell victim to the traps. It was a glorious day.

But sadly, not all the nefarious fowl were killed. And it seemed that even though a quarter of the flock had been lost, the amount of chicken poop did not decrease.

Then a few months later, my family went on an overnight camping trip. When we came home, we found that one of the sled dogs had gotten loose and slaughtered all the chickens. They lay dead, their bloody corpses, severed limbs, and torn-out feathers littering the yard.

I had never seen so beautiful a sight in all my life.

I scratched the dog's ears and gave him an extra treat that day. He was my hero.

And thus, the world was rid of a great evil and my permanent wave was no more polluted by flying poultry poop.

The End.

Half-Bum Dinner: Mini Pizza

As a child, part of our moral code was (and still is) keeping a clean mouth. Not the brush-and-floss kind of clean, but the profanity kind of clean. I grew up in my beloved LDS faith and part of our strict, but nurturing, moral code was avoiding swear words.

I have several childhood memories associated with profanity:

1) I heard my Mom swear once when I was about 13. It was the only time I've ever heard her swear in my life. I went to my room and cried. I was pretty sure at that moment that my Mom was going to Heck (she's not).

2) Once I was really mad at my younger brother. I think I was around 12 and we were fighting over which movie to watch. He probably wanted to watch Lost in the Barrens and I probably wanted to watch Split Infinity or something. Most of our movies were from Feature Films for Families. Anyway, at some point in our battle over the VCR, I realized I had just lost the fight and in a fit of rage, I thew my video down and screamed, "FINE! WATCH YOUR D*** MOVIE!" I don't remember getting into a ton of trouble for that one, even though Mom was sitting right there. I did feel extremely guilty, though.

3) Not only were we not allowed to cuss, but the following words (among others) were banned in our house: Dang, gosh, gosh dang, freak, flip, shut up, screw, crap, butt, and suck. We were also not allowed to say "Oh my stars," or "Oh my heavens!"

4) After the video incident, I did not say a swear word again for about 12 years. Not even to QUOTE anyone. No lie.

5) When I was a young single adult (not really a childhood memory, but it happened before my non-swearing streak was broken, so I'm counting it), I worked for one of my uncles, who was a manager at a scrapbook company in Salt Lake. I also lived with the same uncle and aunt. I basically worshiped the ground they walked on (and still do).
   One day during the workday I innocently went to my uncle's office to ask a question. As soon as I showed up in the open doorway, I heard him let the H-word fly to a co-worker. SHOCKING. He looked up and saw me. We both turned beet red and I ducked my head and ran away down the hall like a bat out of the unmentionable place he had just mentioned. I was shocked to hear an expletive fly from his lips, since I had been rebuked by him when I was 8 or 9 for saying the P-word. I relived the awkward moment several times in my head afterward. I wondered if his wife knew and vowed NEVER to speak of it, until my uncle brought it up in conversation with my aunt one day.

6) As a child, I was allowed to say a short list of faux swear words: shoot, cotton pickin', heck, and darn

7) I heard my Dad swear once when I was about 14. It was *almost* the only time I've ever heard him swear in my life. I went to my room and cried. I was pretty sure at that moment that my Dad was going to Heck (he's not).

Nowadays, I have some repenting to do, but I do have some strict profanity rules that I abide by before I let one fly. My rules are: Basically all swear words are banned. I allow myself to say the h-word only in the sole company of my husband, and as long as it is referring to the place, not the idea. The h-word is only to be employed on the rarest of occasions. Or when I'm quoting someone. I also have said the B-word once when I was super mad, but I made sure to pronounce the "i" as ee-yaw, Mean Girls style... I'm sure that made it so much better.

Anyway. That long tangent is my way of explaining why I'm not using the straight-up swear word in the title of my post. I just couldn't get around it. Half-bum is my style of cooking. Just ask my husband. I spent the first year of our marriage trying to deliver him the gourmet meals he was used to from his parents, but then I sort of gave up. Why spend 2 hours on something that is going to be eaten in about 10 minutes? I try to step things up a little bit when he's home, but for the most part, JC and I eat lots of breakfast foods, PB&J's, casseroles, and leftovers.

I do not claim to be any sort of good cook, food blogger, or food photographer (this will become obvious when you look at the photos). Most of the time, the stuff I turn out looks like the devil's vomit but I just roll with it and somehow I've managed to keep myself and my son alive. Miraculous, considering I've never fed my child a meal separated into an ice cube tray, a hot dog shaped like an octopus,  homemade fruit leather, apples that look like teeth, or any number of Barefoot Contessa recipes that require you to hike the Andes for fresh Chilean goat milk and then make your own cheese out of it, or whatever. I have better things to do, like recount my childhood malediction stories to the internet.
So here's the recipe. Simple:

You start with frozen dinner rolls. Thaw according to the package directions, then flatten them with a rolling pin (or your fingers; we're half-bumming this). Then bake the flattened rolls at 350 degrees for 10 minutes.

Grab a can of plain ole tomato sauce out of your pantry. Spread a spoonful on your half-baked pizza dough.

Sprinkle some Italian seasoning on it, for flavor. Don't be like the lunch ladies at my high school. A little basil won't kill you.

Then add some shredded Mozzarella.

 Also something I half-bum do: Scrubbing my pans.

Put your toppings on. I used chopped mushrooms, green peppers, red onion, olives, and pepperoni.
If I'd had any alfredo sauce, I would've used that in place of the tomato sauce and put some chicken on instead of the pepperoni. But I didn't have any, so I didn't do that. But you totally could if you wanted.

Bake them for 10 or 15 more minutes. Don't worry if some of the toppings slide off. Just scoop them back on with a spatula, like I did. Your stomach will never know.

Here's my "final product" which apparently you're supposed to show when you do a cooking blog post. You're also supposed to photograph them with a real camera rather than your iPhone, on a white plate, in natural light. My philosophy: Stop worrying so much about "supposed to," except for the important stuff of course.

Note: The side dish that looks like something a cat puked up 3 weeks ago is actually a pretty good and pretty healthy Greek quinoa salad, which you can find the recipe for here. I know it's not the same ethnic cuisine as pizza, but I had leftovers and I wanted some. Sue me.

Baby Texts

So today I got a wrong number text. I relish these moments. When the text came in and I realized that the person on the other end had the wrong number, I clapped for joy and called my husband.

"GUESS WHAT, HONEY! SOMEONE TEXTED ME BUT THEY GOT THE WRONG NUMBER!"

"Huh?"

"I got a text and the other person had the wrong number. I AM GOING TO HAVE SO MUCH FUN WITH THIS!"

"You are psycho. Seriously, you are so weird. Who gets excited about messing with people who got the wrong number?"

"I know. That's why you love me."

"No, it's not. There are a lot of reasons why I love you, but being a weirdo isn't one of them."

"Thanks."

"You're welcome. I knew you needed a pick-me-up today."

Anyway. This series of texts wasn't as crazy/funny as I hoped, but that is a credit to whoever was on the other end. They actually seemed pretty smart and cool. They took my joking very good naturedly. So much that I didn't want to be mean and drag it out together. So today's texting misadventure is short and sweet:

Brown Thumb

Yesterday I dragged my little boy up to my grandparents' farm in Idaho to help them plant their garden. My parents were there too, along with my younger brother and sister and some cousins. 

But Jess, surely those aren't your siblings or your cousins. You're like 1000 years older than them.

Thanks a lot. I'm already feeling bad about turning 28 this year. RUB IT IN MY FACE, WHY DON'T YOU?

Also, I'm the oldest child of two oldest children. My youngest brother is 15 years younger than me. My aunts and uncles are younger too, so most of my cousins are actually closer to my son's age than they are to mine.

Anyways, we all turned up to help plant Grandma's garden. My 12-year-old brother tilled it and then we all went to work-- My mom, my dad, my grandma, my sister, my brother, and three cousins. And the dog, Ginger. She didn't do much to help, though. She just sat there and watched.

The lazy butt.

I did my part by standing around and taking photos to document the occasion and to revel in the beautiful cloudless Idaho sky.

That's my dad, by the way. He came straight over from feeding his horses and milking his goats to help.
That hat is not for show, by the way. He is a legit cowboy. That is the outfit he wears in 110 degree heat. He believes that flip flops and t-shirts are for wimps, yuppies, and city folk. The only time you will ever find him in shorts is if he's at a swimming pool.

Finally someone took my iphone away, shoved a bucket of sprouted potatoes in my hands, and told me that I wasn't going to get any dinner if I didn't start to pull my weight. That was enough motivation for me, but then I looked down at the potatoes. They were covered in white dust and they smelled strange.

"What is this stuff? All over the potatoes? Is it powdered cancer?" I asked.

My dad sighed and said, "No. It's Seven."

"What's Seven? Will I get cancer from this if I touch it with my bare hands?"

"No, it's just SEVEN. Here, wear these gloves."

"OKAY. Sorry. I don't know what I'm doing. It's been a long time since I planted a garden."

My mom: "Didn't you remember ANYTHING from your childhood? We planted a garden every single year! You were there! We made you help!"

Me: "Yeah but do you think I paid attention? You guys did most of the work. I just did as I was told! You told me where to drop the seeds, and that's what I did! I thought I was being a GOOD child! I didn't know there would be a test later!"

At that point one of my cousins reached out and grabbed one of the powdered potatoes and dropped it in the furrow. I dropped the bucket and screamed, "DON'T TOUCH THAT! IT WILL GIVE YOU CANCER!"

My dad sighed again and said, "Where did we go wrong?"

Later one of my other cousins, a little 8-year-old, came to me, pasty white and terrified, and whispered, "I accidentally got some of that powdery stuff on my hand and then I touched my hair. Am I going to die now?"

My Favorites: Stuff on Netflix

Today, for no particular reason (except that my husband works away from home and I have nothing but the TV to keep me company in the evening after my son goes to bed), I will share with you a list of my favorite movies/TV shows/documentaries on Netflix Instant.

If you are looking for a well-curated, tasteful compilation of the greatest cinema in history, go somewhere else. This is just a list of stuff that I watched and personally enjoyed.
Images from IMDb

Lagaan: My favorite Bollywood movie of all time (deal with it). It pretty much has everything I require in a movie: Comedy, romance, love triangles, good vs. evil, espionage, song and dance... grown men who aren't afraid to cry every 5 seconds... It is awesome (seriously, though. Manly bawling aside, it is awesome). The basic plot: It's set back in the Indian province of Amer at the turn of the century during the time when the British took over India (I'm sure there's a correct historical term for that, but I don't wanna look it up). The guy in charge of Amer, Captain Russell, is basically an arrogant jerk who demands that the citizens of Amer--poor, starving, drought-afflicted farmers--either beat him in a game of cricket or pay him TRIPLE TAX AAAAAGGGGHHHH WHAT ARE WE GONNA DO WE ARE DEAD WE'RE DEAD DEAD DEAD. Obviously that doesn't go over well with the villagers. It's up to the main character, Bhuvan, to pull the villagers together to save everyone's lives, defeat the British, all while navigating racism, love triangles, traitors, a new sport, AND DID I MENTION THERE IS SONG AND DANCE. It's basically the perfect movie. Trust me. Watch it tonight.

Doc Martin: After I watched this show I went through a phase where I tried to convince my husband to let us all move to Cornwall and live there forever in an idyllic cottage on the seaside cliffs of Port Wenn (strangely he wasn't interested, I don't know why, something about Scotland being better). Part medical mystery series and part comedy, Doc Martin is a British TV show about Dr. Martin Ellingham, a brilliant but troubled surgeon who develops an unfortunate condition which requires him to give up his prestigious London position. Not knowing what to do with himself, he takes up a general practice in his childhood home of Port Wenn. Dr. Ellingham is a grump with an atrocious bedside manner who clashes with pretty much everyone in town and is constantly annoyed by the eccentricities of the locals, often to great comic effect. Martin has to work through his dislike of Port Wenn and his daddy issues to get his career back on track and get the girl.

Nacho Libre: About once a month, my family has a Nacho party where we eat nachos and watch this movie. Because it is the best. I love it. Do I really need to explain the plot? Because words can't really do it justice... OK. Desperate for some respect and love, peon Catholic monk Ignacio (Jack Black) enters the secret world of wrestling to help his beloved orphans and impress a beautiful new nun, Sister Encarnacion. This movie has a quote for basically every situation you will encounter in life. I've seen it about 2,400 times and I still laugh my head off.

The Office (Seasons 1-5) This is another one I've seen about a thousand times. I can't help it. It's funny.  It starts to go downhill after season 5, but the first few seasons are just the best.

Parks and Recreation: Sort of in the same vein as The Office except this one is about a very optimistic, sunny government employee named Leslie. It is LIT-RALLY one of the best TV shows ever. If you have never watched it, do yourself a favor and see it, if for no other reason than to meet Ron Swanson and April Ludgate. Also like The Office, the last couple seasons are sadly not as amazing as the first few, but watch it anyway because it's awesome (at least seasons 1-3)

 The Business of Being Born: I'm going to start this with a disclaimer: You should not watch this if you are a man, if you are bothered by nudity, gore, or if you are pregnant. Most men who try to watch this will just be horrified and disgusted. There is quite a bit of nudity associated with mothers giving birth. There is a lot of blood and chunks, again, associated with birthing. If you are pregnant, in my opinion you should not be watching any shows to do with having babies because right now your mind is crazed with hormones and mood swings. Also, I guess if you haven't had kids this might scare you a little. But other than that, all you non-pregnant moms are allowed to watch it.

My BFF April told me about this one. It is a very interesting documentary about women who choose to ditch the traditional hospital and have their babies with midwives. It compares the at-home birthing experience to one in the hospital. The stats will scare you and might convince you, like it did me, that having your next kid at home with a midwife might be the best option.

True Grit: Growing up, pretty much the only movies we ever watched were Disney, 60's-era musicals, and John Wayne. I remember watching True Grit and the Rooster Cogburn movies as a kid. The old True Grit was good, but I think I might like this version better (although my dad contends it still can never measure up to the greatness of John Wayne). Watch it. Especially to see the tween girl who plays Mattie. Seriously, that kid has more talent than a lot of actresses twice her age.

 Roman Holiday: Audrey Hepburn. Gregory Peck. Italy. Classic. Beautiful. Amazing. Watch.

Fanaa: Another awesome Bollywood. I admit, it's a little melodramatic, but that's never stopped me from enjoying a good movie. This one throws you sort of a plot curveball in the middle, so I won't ruin it by telling too much. Just this: Zooni is a blind girl who lives a sheltered life out in the country. She takes a trip to the big city with her girlfriends, then meets and falls in love with Rehan, her tour guide WHO IS HIDING A DARK SECRET. Just see it and I PROMISE you will get over her unibrow.

 Jodhaa Akbar: Bollywood again. To be honest, I still haven't totally figured out the plot of this one. The brother's cousin's nephew of the Mughal Emperor is planning to overthrow him. Or something. Then because of a bunch of political stuff, Jodhaa is forced into an arranged marriage with the Emperor and then she has to prove her loyalty to him and then a bunch of betrayals and battles and blah blah blah. Anyways, WHO CARES because PRETTYYY. It's a beautiful film, visually. Jodhaa is so stinking gorgeous that it makes me want to kill myself. There are no gray areas in this movie, but since when is that a bad thing? Also, it's a pretty clean movie. There are a few gross parts (there will be a couple of sickening splats), but no explicit love scenes or anything like that.

 Downton Abbey: I just have one thing to say about this: If you've seen it, you know how awesome it is and you're probably planning to see it again. If you haven't seen it, crawl out of that rock you've been living under.

 Call the Midwife: I didn't watch this right away when it popped up on Netflix, thinking it would be stuffy and boring. It was not what I expected at all. It is about midwives but more than that, it's a fascinating show about life in post-WWII London. It's based on the real-life experiences of Jennifer Worth. In fact, after you watch this show, you should go read the book. Especially if you are at all into history. Heck, it is interesting even if you're not a history buff.

Children Underground: I'll be honest, this movie is a huge downer. It's a documentary about orphans and runaways who take up residence in Romania's metro system and develop their own Lord of the Flies-like social hierarchy. Sad. If it does not make you bawl, make you angry, and make you want to catch the next flight to Romania to rescue them, then you have no heart. You'll root for these kids to get the help that they so desperately need, you'll feel the frustration of the people who are actually trying to rescue them but are thwarted by a variety of obstacles, and you'll be furious at the adults who SHOULD be helping them but won't (I'm looking at you, priest).

Queen of Versailles: My uncle suggested this one. It is also a documentary. This world, though, could not be more different than the one in Children Underground. This documentary takes a look at the lives of a very wealthy couple who made a huge fortune but find themselves now in huge financial trouble because of the 2008 housing collapse. He's the quintessential rich old man and she's kind of a gold digger. I sat there in disbelief at how they just could not manage to pare down their lifestyle, and I had a hard time feeling sympathy for either of them, since in a lot of ways they were in a mess of their own making. Ultimately, though, I did start to feel sorta bad for them and rooted for them to get their crap together (which, due to some Googling, I later find out they did. For now.). Very interesting. Lots of food for thought. Also, they live in this huge house with TONS OF DOG POOPS ALL OVER THE FLOOR EWWWWW. 

The Legend of Johnny Lingo: Here's a goody from the golden age of LDS filmmaking. I like to watch this on quiet Sunday evenings with my little boy, in hopes that the message will sink in someday for him to be nice to the ugly girls and that it doesn't pay to be a bully, because you never know when your long lost BFF will suddenly show up years later as the wealthy king of his own island and business empire. It's a cute family show. It's not particularly deep or anything, but it does have a good moral to it and you wouldn't be horrified to watch it with your kids. Also it doesn't really have any inaccessible LDS references that would turn off non-LDS viewers. It's just an all around sweet film.

MAHANA YOU UGLY!

Conversations With Carson

Being the oldest of 7 kids, and having spent many years babysitting, I feel that I have a certain right to embarrass and torture my younger siblings. After all, at one point or another I have wiped poop off all their butts.

They owe me.

That's why I have no reservations about telling you the following about my younger brother Carson.

Carson & Savanna, my brother and sister

Carson recently received the call to serve an LDS mission to San Diego. I could not be prouder of him. But also, I'm a little worried. Carson is... naive. And I won't say how I know that he's naive because it would seriously embarrass him. For reals. And I love my brother so I would never do anything to embarrass him, ever.

...

...

Anyway.

I told him the other day that this would basically be him when he reaches the inner city of San Diego:





Minus the coffee thing. And instead of an elf costume obviously he'll be in a missionary name tag and suit. But other than that, I'd say this is a pretty accurate depiction of what we can expect from Carson as he discovers the big city.

After I showed him this video, he adamantly told me that this was NOT what he'd be like. He said that, in fact, he would have a lot in common with the people of San Diego because he liked cars and he is a good car mechanic. He said he'd have a few tricks to show the fellow car enthusiasts of San Diego. He has a passion for what my brothers call "straight-piping," where you modify your muffler to make your car sound louder, and therefore, 1,000 times more awesome, than a normal-sounding car engine.

 Then he said this:

"I'm gonna teach 'em how to cut off mufflers down there."

To which my Dad replied, "Oh, they already know how to cut off mufflers."

I can see the headline now:


Mormon Missionary Unknowingly Involved in Massive Chop Shop Operation


Carson, please think twice before helping any "investigators" with their "car part business."

Please. I don't want to have to nickname you "Chop Shop Carson."

Muffin Binge

First of all, I just have to get it off my chest that I went to dinner at my parents' house and I caught my dad gorging himself on muffins. Actually we were all just sitting there wolfing down our soup and muffins and all of a sudden I see this huge pile of muffin wrappers by his plate.

"Uh, Dad, did you eat all these by yourself?

"Uhhh... Yup."

"Holy cow, Dad! How many did you eat?"

"I had a few."

I counted the wrappers. He consumed an impressive amount of muffins. I had to document the moment:

 He was a little embarrassed. Camera shy.

 He had eight muffins. EIGHT.

^^ Eight empty muffin cups^^

Don't get me wrong, my mom makes amazing muffins, among her many talents. Tonight they were whole wheat and apple, fresh out of the oven, and they were delicious. So I really don't blame my dad for eating basically a whole pan of them by himself. It just surprises me because my dad is one of the most wiry people I know. He does not eat refined sugars, white flours, or basically anything processed. Hardly any pork or red meat (Unless it's deer or elk. No, for reals.). He also works out every day. He rides bikes and horses and runs and walks.

When I was younger, he had his own butcher business and his shop didn't have a rail system to move the big sides of beef from cooler to cooler, so he would carry them everywhere. Like, he would literally lift them up and carry them around. Entire quarters of beef. Twice his weight in raw, red meat. By himself. My dad is a tough cookie. Actually, maybe "tough muffin" would be more appropriate.

But he just doesn't look like the type of guy who could fit EIGHT MUFFINS inside his stomach.

Anyway. Eight muffins.You deserve it, Dad.

By the way, if my dad knew I was writing this stuff about him, he'd probably die. When he found out I had a blog, he was like, "Now you have no privacy." So do me a favor and don't tell him he's basically the star of this post.

He doesn't want the whole world to know "muffin" about him.

The Injury

It started with a balloon.

I bought balloons for my son and he loves to pop them with scissors.

Naturally, this seems like a safe, fun way for a 3-year-old to get his kicks before bedtime. I'm such a good mom.

So tonight we popped balloons with scissors. I know. But I had put in a full 8 hours of work and my husband was on the road, and my son had just finished a 1.5-hour tantrum because I wouldn't take him to his grandma's house. ("I WANT MY GWANDMA WOBERTS! WAAAAAA!")

I was worn down. So I blew up balloons and supervised while my son popped them with a pair of sharp-ended scissors.

At length, I announced that it was bedtime and my son dropped the scissors and we both forgot about them as I tried to chase him down and wrangle him into his pajamas. At one point he grabbed a blanket and hid under it, and I lunged for his arm. 

MISTAKE.

Mid-lunge, I slid my foot across the floor and it unfortunately met with the forgotten scissors.

It was OK for about 3 seconds. Well, not OK. Not pleasant, but not horrible yet. There was no pain. I just felt a sort of weird pre-panic sensation, that moment where the cartoon character runs off a cliff and hangs there in mid-air, looks down, and realizes they're going to fall.

Then I lifted my foot, expecting the scissors to slid out again. They didn't. They were stuck there in midair, perpendicular to my foot, and I instinctively reached down and pulled them out. I pulled a lot longer than I thought I'd have to.

THAT'S when the pain started.  I let out an unearthly howl as blood spurted out my heel. I looked down at the scissors and saw about 1/2 inch of the point covered in my blood. I never knew heels could bleed that much. My little boy looked at me with a mixture of fright and curiousity on his face. Then he wet his pants, picked up my phone, and ran off.

I had other things to deal with right then, so I plopped on the couch and howled some more, looking at my foot which was bleeding all over the carpet. I allowed that to go on for a while until there were a few nice-sized puddles of blood on the floor. Then I came to a little bit and started screaming, "JC, I STABBED MY FOOT! I STABBED MY FOOOOOOOOT!"

After a couple of minutes of carrying on,  I started to realize that I was the adult in this situation. Also, the carpet was getting pretty blood soaked so I figured I needed to move the carnage to a second location that would be easier to clean.

Still sobbing and howling, I limped to the bathroom, leaving a nice trail of blood droplets all across the floor. I sat on the edge of the tub and bellered a little more, because it HURT and also because I WAS BLEEDING ALL OVER THE PLACE.

Then my son ran in with the phone, saying, "My Mommy stab herself! She stab her in the foot!"

I heard my husband's voice on the other end, telling our son to give me the phone.

At that moment, I began to feel EXACTLY like Michael Scott in that Office episode, The Injury. Go watch it on Netflix and you'll know what I'm talking about. Season 2, Episode 12. You're welcome.

My husband said, "Honey, what happened? JC is telling me that you stabbed yourself."

"YES! I S-S-S-STABBED MY FOOT WITH A P-P-PAIR OF SEWING SCISSORS. THE SHARP ONES!"

(My Inner Michael: "I'm hurt. I have hurt myself...Oh, this is not looking good, Pam!... BLURRGH! I burned my foot, very badly, on my Foreman Grill and I now need someone to come bring me in to work!")

"Are you OK?"

"Yes. I'm fine. IT HURRRRTS! Seriously though, I'm fine."

("I'm sitting here with a bloody stump of a foot!")

"Do you need to go get stitches?"

"No! No, really, it's not THAT bad." Beller.

(Inner Michal: "Don't freak out. I forbid anybody to freak out. Clearly I have had a very serious accident, but I will recover...I just want to be treated normally.")

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, there's blood everywhere but I'm OK. S-s-s-seriously." Howl.

"I'm going to have you hang up with me and I'm going to call my parents and have them come help you."

"No, hon, don't call them. Seriously! It's fine! I'm fine. There's no need to c-c-c-call your parents! I'll be f-f-f-fine." Sob, sob, sob.

("I don't want any special treatment, Pam. I just want you to treat me like you would a family member who has undergone some sort of serious physical trauma. I don't think that's too much to ask.")

"Hang up. I'm calling them."

I sat there, trying to get all the sobbing, bellering, and howling under control because I knew that my mother-in-law would be showing up soon. Sure enough, there she was a few minutes later and I was sitting there surrounded by all these pools of blood, with JC removing his peed pants and me looking up at my sweet mother-in-law with my very scary-looking, red-eyed, mascara-stained face.

("Help! Help! ...I fell off the toilet. I'm stuck between the toilet and the wall. Get Pam. Get Ryan. He needs to lift me, and he needs to clean me up a little bit. Bring a wet towel.")

It was not pretty. My foot was really starting to hurt after having its flesh separated by 1/2 inch of cold hard titanium. Also, my house was is a holy wreck and that was embarrassing. But my MIL suggested Oxy-Clean for the blood stains everywhere and I went to work on that while she whisked a traumatized JC into his bedroom for story time.

In case you should doubt:

The weapon.

 The wound, after being cleaned up.

Eventually we got everything under control. I began to realize that my wound wasn't as bad as it looked and felt. I started to think that maybe, just maybe, I could be a drama queen. I drenched it in hydrogen peroxide and applied a band-aid.

My MIL was a lifesaver, getting JC into his pajamas, listening to him tell the story of my stabbing approximately 10,000 times, and reading him stories while I scrubbed blood out of the floor, and wallowed in self-pity.

I'm afraid to think what will happen when I have an actual injury.

Joke's On Me

Yesterday my husband played a practical joke on me. The thing he knows about me is, I'm gullible.

 I'm talking GULLIBLE. You guys, when I was about 12 my parents told me that all pasta is made from different sizes of dehydrated cow veins. They said that macaroni came from the bigger blood vessels and spaghetti was the little blood vessels and that the hole in the middle was just so small you couldn't see it. AND I BELIEVED THEM. UNTIL I WAS 17 YEARS OLD.

 I'm so gullible that when the movie Mulan came out, my mom told me that there was a race of people in Asia that have yellow slit eyes, like the villain, Shan-Yu. I THOUGHT IT WAS REAL and I spent, like, the next YEAR of my life watching out for people from this slitted, yellow-eyed race of Asians.

I know this is a character flaw of mine, but I can't help it. You would think after 27 years on this earth, I'd have figured a few things out. Nope. My husband exploits this to his full advantage. The thing is, he botched his joke and I STILL fell for it. Yes.

I have problems.

So what happened was, I got a text message from Josh (my husband) yesterday while I was getting ready for work:

Josh: U need to call this number, 704-319-7251, they've called me twice trying to get U. Not sure who it is but it sounds important. Let me know.

That didn't bug me too bad. I got a new phone number not too long ago and people (who are not with-it enough to keep up with my new phone numbers) call various family members trying to reach me (Get with the program, people!).

So I call the number and I hear a bunch of horoscope stuff. I get very, very confused when I'm confronted with horoscopes. I can't understand the point of them. Just the concept of horoscopes, to me, sounds bat-poo crazy. I'm not even sure what sign I am. So when I heard the pre-recorded voice on the other line saying something about an odor from Uranus (what? If I were a horoscope writer, I wouldn't phrase things like that. People might think they're hearing something offensive. Take note, horoscope writers.) I hung up the phone, figuring that there was a mix-up somewhere. So I texted Josh back and told him I thought it was a prank. Then he responded:

I actually gave u the wrong number. I mistyped it. The number is 704-319-7242.

So I called it. And then STUFF WENT DOWN. I heard this:

"Hello, the following is an urgent message from the National Justice Center. If you are hearing this message it mean that our records indicate that you failed to appear for jury duty last Monday morning at 9:00 am. Multiple notifications of your jury summons were sent to you both by the US Postal Service, as well as electronically to the email address we have on file for you. Unfortunately ignoring these notifications and failing to appear in court for jury duty is a Class 3 Misdemeanor. To  ake arrangements to pay the 500 fine for failure to appear for jury duty, press 2. To make arrangements to begin serving the 30 day jail sentence for failure to appear for jury duty, press 3."
 
At that point, I hung up. There was more to the message, and the automated voice was still talking, but I could not process it. I was FREAKING out. It was like having an out-of-body experience. All the sounds around me seemed muffled. I was starting to feel the effects of adrenaline and I started to cry. As soon as I heard the words "failed to appear for jury duty" I knew that all my worst nightmares had finally come true. It's happening, I thought. WHAT AM I GOING TO DO?! I'M GOING TO JAIL!!

Josh, unwittingly, had stumbled upon one of my worst fears. First of all, I've made it almost 10 years as an adult without getting a jury summons, so a situation in which I get one and don't know it, seems extremely believable. Second, I watch Lockup:Raw, and Locked Up Abroad, guys. I know that jail is not a place I want to be. I still have nightmares about getting arrested for a crime I didn't know that I committed. I dream up all kinds of scenarios in my head, ESPECIALLY when I get pulled over by a cop. I'm always thinking, "When they run my license what if they find an unpaid ticket or something and I GO TO JAIL?"

Don't ask me why I am scared of this. I've paid all 2 of my speeding tickets, I've paid for the 1 parking ticket I've ever gotten, and I never agreed to carry a stranger's bag across the borders of anywhere, anytime. Through diligent reality-TV watching, I've determined that unpaid tickets and smuggling account for 95% of all jailed criminals. The other 5% are serial killers that try to entrap you by playing recordings of babies outside your door.

I called Josh back, sobbing, and said, "JOSH, DO YOU KNOW WHAT THOSE PEOPLE WANTED? THEY ARE SAYING I DIDN'T APPEAR FOR JURY DUTY!" Seriously, I was hysterical.


Josh said, "Hon, did you listen to the whole message?"

"NO, I HUNG UP BEFORE IT FINISHED. I DIDN'T KNOW I HAD JURY DUTY, JOSH. WHAT AM I GOING TO DO. I CAN'T BELIEVE THIS IS HAPPENING TO ME."

Josh said, "Hon-"

"I DIDN'T KNOW ABOUT JURY DUTY, I PROMISE, AND NOW THEY'RE SAYING THAT I'M A F-F-F-FELON!!"

"Hon, calm down. It's a pra-"

That didn't even register. "I'M GOING TO J-J-J-JAAAAILLLL!" I was wailing.

"Oh sweetie, don't cry, it's not real."

It was starting to dawn on me then. "What?"

"It was a prank phone line. I thought it would be funny to have you call it. I didn't know you wouldn't listen to the whole thing! If you had, you would've known it was just a joke!"

Me: "I'm not going to jail?"

Josh: "No, hon, you're not going to jail."

"You're a jerk."

"Hon, I'm sorry! I didn't know it would make you CRY. You were supposed to listed to the whole message."

"You're making this up to me."

I finally felt relief but it took a full 15 minutes for me to stop crying.

My husband has no IDEA the things I'm making him do for me to compensate for this horrible, horrible prank. It involves a spa day, a shopping spree, and him making me dinner for approximately the next 5,000 years.

Texts With My Brother

Messing with people through text messages is one of my favorite things to do. It's like an unexpected little nugget of fun and you just have to grab the opportunity when it comes. One such opportunity was yesterday when I texted my unsuspecting 18-year-old brother, Carson. I found out that his high school wrestling team, minus Carson, had all come down with impetigo. Of course, I had to razz him about it. What I didn't know was that Carson doesn't have my number programmed into his cell phone...so he had no clue who I was. Great times ensued. (All punctuation and spelling errors were on purpose in keeping with the fictional character I had created to mess with my brother.)

Here is our conversation:


Me: Don't get impetigo!

Carson: Who is this?

(At this point I realize that he has no clue who I am... and the fun begins.)

Me: The name's Petigo. M. Petigo.

Carson: Ha ha good joke.

Me: Just kidding I'm Trisha from marsh valley. Maybe u don't remember me I come to all your wrestling meets and I stole your number from your coaches phone. I hope u don't mind. U are a really good wrestler I think u are sooo talented. I'll be at your next match and I'll be wearing a hot pink scrunchie and maroon leggings and my pirate shirt. I'm making a pirate shirt for you too I am making it in my home ec class it is going to have your name on it. I would have had it done already but my pet ferret came and scratched me while I was sewing it and it got some blood and some ferret hair on it so I had to start over

Carson: OK I don't believe any of this but whatever.

Me: You don't believe me?!?! Well wait you will see me at your next meet, I have a schedule and I keep it in my locker and I know when all your meets are and I come to them allllll

Carson: Now I really don't believe you

Me: Is it cuz you have impetigo? Cuz I don't care about that. I have beat impetigo quite a few times too.

Carson: I think this is Adam (one of Carson's friends)

Me: No its Trisha from MV!

Carson: No

Me: Is it cuz I told you about the ferret? Because I'm willing to get rid of Walter if u don't like ferrets
 Here is a pic of Walter he looks mean but he's not. He was just mad about the bunny ears.
 (Then I Googled for photos of ugly ferrets and sent him this:)

Carson: Wow ferrets don't live in idaho mr. liar

Me: It's a house ferret
Then I thought I'd send him a photo of "myself" to make it a little more believable, since he wasn't buying it yet. Another Google search turned up this, the famous possessive girlfriend:

Me: Here's a pic of me too. Behind me is my picture wall of you at all your wrestling meets

Carson: I will believe this whole fabrication when I see it
Then a little later:

Carson: OK if you worship me so much what do I do after my matches?
I couldn't think of a good answer since I am not able to go to very many of Carson's meets, so I quickly texted my mom and asked her. He thought me had me for a minute, but...

Carson: Ya I thought so...

Me: The ref hold up your arm and then you shake hands with the other wrestler then u put on your cowboy boots and sometimes you go to Big J's.
This is where he starts to freak out, I think, just a little bit. He knows he's being messed with but he can't figure out who it is.

Carson: Ha ha You know you're supposed to go to bed on a school night

Me: I'm homeschooled so I can go to bed when I want. Am I keeping you up? Sorry I know u need your sleep so you can save your energy for the ring

Me again: I don't sleep much as night because Walter keeps me up all the time. He always pees my bed too so I sleep on my couch.    

Carson: Ha ha ha got ya you said you have a locker with a westside schedule in it well home schooled kids don't have a locker.
Oops. Well played, Carson. But I wasn't willing to give up quite yet.

Me: My locker at HOME. Just cuz I'm homeschooled doesn't mean I'm not like everyone else! I keep my valuables in the locker to protect them from Walter! He has eaten or peed on everything I own.

Carson: Dirty liar... Only boys text like this

Me: Wrong I'm a girl. My name is Trisha, remember?

Carson: And yes, you are interfering with my slumber

Me: Sorry oh no I'm so sorry I feel like the worst person ever. Well good night sweet dreams my wrestler and sleep well and remember, Trisha from Marsh Valley is dreaming of u.

I left him alone for the night but I picked back up the next morning:

Me: Hi

Carson: Leave me alone

Me: I can't leave you alone, you're too precious

Carson: Dude i have a girlfriend

Me: WHO IS SHE!!!!!!???????!!!!???!?!?!?!?!!!!

Carson: From preston

Me: NOOOO! SHE WILL NEVER LOVE YOU AS MUCH AS I DO!!!!!!!!!!!!

Then Carson calls me, his buddies laughing in the background, trying to find out who the heck is messing with him. I answered, thinking I would still pretend to be Trisha, but I am really bad at keeping cool during real life situations. So I said Hello and immediately burst into laughter. Carson STILL didn't know who I was, though. Seriously. His OWN SISTER. Between bursts of laughter I finally told him that it was me. Then I told him to program my number into his phone already. Because when it comes to me and texting, leaving my number off your phone is pretty much the worst (or best?) thing anyone can do! I suspect that someday all my chickens are going to come home to roost and I will wish I hadn't messed with all these people via text message, but for now it's just way too much fun to stop.