tastes like chicken

We're officially a farm. (Does that make us farmers?)

Just finished up butchering the last of the chickens today. And we sold 10 of them. We had a regular assembly line going. Hubby chopped heads, wings and feet off and removed the rather disgusting innards. The boys rinsed the birds off and took turns bringing them to the house, where I cleaned them further, weighed them, butchered them and bagged them.

Not an entirely pleasant process - I'll spare you the really gross details, but will say that I think eating the meat might be a bit harder than I thought - at least harder than some random chicken I bought at Cub Foods.

Once you've had to cut apart wings, legs, thighs and the hardest part (the breast), it's a bit difficult to look at the meat the same way. To be clear, this isn't because I feel some remorse over killing an animal for food, nor is it that I considered these clucks pets.

But rather, it's more just the grossness of it all. Blood, guts, fat and having to cut into the meat to separate the pieces just isn't so appetizing. I'm not in the mood for chicken, let's just say.

Strangely, none of this seemed to affect hubby. He was ready to get the grill fired up and make a meal of it. Maybe after all the images in my head are replaced by paint colors or yarn samples, then I'll be able to pull one out of the freezer for supper - in about a month. Or better yet, I'll have hubby cook it instead. Hopefully it'll taste like...chicken.

number 88

If you do not know the significance behind this number, consider yourself lucky.

I am officially the mother of rednecks. I don't even know how it started. Here's my theory:

It happened one Sunday after church. It must have been raining. We must have told the boys they could watch a movie so we could take our "Sunday nap." Somehow they turned on the TV and found their way to NASCAR. Boy #1 got immediately addicted. I believe there is something within his male DNA that attracts him to a competition involving cars, speed, bright colors and funny accents from most of the participants. Okay, let's call them drawls, not funny accents, just to be nice. Out went the fascination with Corvettes and suddenly, he's rattling off statistics, car numbers and drivers and even the names of motor speedways.

It's unnerving. This child can remember just about anything he's read or heard about this sport. He has checked out at least 40 books on various NASCAR-related topics. He did his project fair project on his favorite driver - in car number 88 - Dale Earnhardt , Jr. and built "Larson Speedway" so he could show off his NASCAR cars. He has miniatures of both of Junior's 88 cars - the Amp Energy car and the National Guard car - and constantly pesters us with, "Which car do you like better?" I try my best to ignore him. Hubby purposely changes his mind every time he asks. Or keeps telling him he likes Kyle Busch better, just to upset the poor boy.

It has become an obsession. So much so, that cousins and uncles now play along, teasing him that Jr hasn't won a race or that so-and-so is a better driver or has a faster car or a cooler sponsor. All he wants to do is check stats online, listen to or watch a race, talk about the race or all the drivers and who made the pole, who spun out, who crashed and who got how many points. He has even tried to get his Dad to "play" NASCAR on the way to church Sunday mornings, especially if we happen to see someone we know traveling the two-lane highway at the same time.

"Dad, don't let them pass you! Come on, catch their draft!"

So, this is how I instantly know what the number 88 means, who drives it and the fact that today he finally won a race after something like 76 races since his last win. I can still hear the whoops and woo-hoos from the living room. It is also how I know that Kyle Busch drives a Toyota, Kurt Busch is his brother and his favorite meal is chicken wings and beer, Denny Hamlin is teammates with Kyle Busch and Tony Stewart (whose sponsor is Home Depot), Junior's teammates are Jeff Gordon (#24), Jimmie Johnson (#28) and Casey Mears (#5), Jimmie Johnson is sponsored by Lowes, Mark Martin retired this past year, Matt Kenseth drives the #17 Dewalt Tools car (which is a Ford), Carl Edwards drives #99 and is sponsored by Aflac and how I now know that Lowe's Motor Speedway is in North Carolina and only an hour from my brother's (so now all I'm hearing is begging to take a vacation there in October when the next race will be held).

This is all so sad.

Thank heavens we don't have cable - I can't imagine the NASCAR stats I'd be able to spout off then.

adventures in potty training

We're sort of trying to do the whole potty training thing around here.

I say sort of, because the baby has decided that he is ready to go pee on the potty, but the mommy around here just isn't quite up for it yet. Diapers are simply too convenient when you'd rather nap than pull pants down or off and lift a two-year-old onto the toilet to do his business and then dress him back up again.

Today, Number Four decided it was time to go and did half of my job for me. He was already upstairs with his pants off when he yelled down, "Mom, I go pee!"

Knowing older brother (age 7) was already upstairs (in the wrong place at the right time) I yelled back, "Have your brother put you on the toilet!"

There was a brief pause and then he replied, "No! He too young!"

The intelligence he gets from me. The wit is from his father.

And believe me, I recognize that I'm doomed with this one. I will win no arguments once he adds "whatever" to his vocabulary. Hopefully he'll be potty trained by then.

in the wash today...

someone's favorite rocks - all six of them.

laughing out loud

There's at least one person with a sense of humor out there.

Yesterday I got a little gift bag from a friend. She wouldn't say what it was, but when I opened it later in the van, I almost peed my pants.

The tag said:
"Kara - a gift for you to help avoid a repeat of "embarrassing moment #37." (See earlier blog by that title.)

Inside were two pillowcases with these instructions: Simply place your freshly laundered unmentionables within the "sack" and hang on clothesline without fear of anyone finding out what color stripes are on your underwear.

Hubby didn't quite get my hysterical laughter, but that's okay. I enjoyed the moment tremendously.

She later explained that she had just finished reading a book called "Little Heathens." (The title intrigues me greatly.) In the book, the author says that pillowcases were a solution used by Iowa housewives in the 30's.

Apparently someone else must have had a most embarrassing moment.

ugly chicks

Not sure if I'm quite ready to lick my chops yet - especially considering how ugly these chicks get after a few weeks.

Not only are they ugly, but they're also dumb. The other day they had completely run out of food, so I filled the feeder and they're getting too big to all fit around it at the same time. I thought I would be nice and fill the smaller feeder so some of them could eat there, instead of watching them peck each other to get to the feed or water. (They're like some boys I know.)

Anyway, I could pick the half-grown chick up, put it next to the smaller feeder, try to put its head to the feed and it would have nothing to do with it. Instead, it would take off like a bandit for the other feeder, dive in, ruffle a few feathers and kick some other dumb cluck off the feeding line.

I tried several times to get them to eat from the second feeder. Who's the dumb one now? It only worked with one bird - apparently there is a hungry genius in the bunch. The rest, well I'm assuming they got a few bites in. The feeder was empty the next day.

most embarrassing moment #14

In a house we previously lived in, the bedrooms were all upstairs, but the only working shower was on the main floor. One day I took a shower and walked back upstairs to get dressed, leaving the wet towel in the laundry next to the bathroom. (In other words, I was walking to my room in the buff.)

The only trouble was, in order to get upstairs, I had to walk right by the front door. At the exact time I got to the door, a man with a clipboard was standing on the other side of the glass just about to knock. I yelped, jumped back and ran to grab my towel. By the time I got back, he had disappeared.

Great way to get rid of door-to-door salesman. I never saw him again.

paying attention

There is a serious lack of observation around here. Well, that’s not entirely accurate - we are paying attention to things, just not the right things.

For example, I’ve recently been doing some elementary research on the gift-giving habits of men and have come to the overwhelming conclusion that most men need to pay more attention to their spouses when it comes to ideas for gifts (mainly because women tend to drop lots of hints). Whatever their attention is focused on, that isn’t it.

That being said, women (myself included) probably need to pay attention to all the other things men do for them instead of what they don’t. Either way - attention is the problem.

I don’t notice when the dishwasher gets emptied, but I will immediately notice if the toilet seat was left up. I don’t pay attention to my own crabby tone of voice, but will get riled up if hubby does the same toward me.

My boys have attention issues as well. They aren’t grateful to have brothers - instead they can only complain and get distracted that one’s making faces and the other just swiped a Goldfish cracker.

One could care less that his t-shirt is on backwards and his socks are doubled over inside his sneakers, but he will notice immediately if he gets one more chore assigned to him than his brothers do.

Another one can’t see the 45 toys of his on the living room floor, but will instantly whine if the youngest brother grabs his fake redneck teeth to play with.

Another thinks any discipline directed toward him means he’s being picked on, but he feels very free to get after his brothers for even the slightest infraction.

The littlest one has perfected the act of pretending not to pay attention, then repeating back word-for-word what you just said because you thought he either couldn’t understand or wasn’t paying attention. He also has some highly developed radar system that alerts him to wake up from nap time because his brothers are getting snacks and he’s not, and 10 minutes later will have no qualms about sneaking into the pantry to scarf down whatever he can before someone bigger finally pays attention to where he is.

Hubby can somehow ignore his pile of clothes on the bedroom floor, but the mess in the living room will drive him up the wall.

So we are all paying attention, but only to the things that irritate us. We fail to notice (or acknowledge) when someone picks up their socks without being asked, cooks supper without whining, does a simple chore without bellyaching or has a conversation without being glued to the TV.

When did paying attention become such a problem?

We (and I’m guessing this is a problem for more than just me) fail to pay attention to those hurting around us, even though we’ve been on the receiving end of the blessing of other’s concerns. We fail to pay attention to those needing physical assistance because we’re too busy. We fail to pay attention to the shy kid because we don’t know what to say or we might not even notice her.

Instead we pay attention to our pet peeves and we give them primary focus. We pay attention to whatever may offend us in something someone said or wrote, sometimes completely missing the point. We pay attention to our own biases instead of realizing that with many things, biblical things included, there isn’t always a black-and-white answer. We pay attention to “the rules” of our religion, but only in the instances when someone else is breaking them. We pay attention to the local gossip, sometimes even spreading it further. We even pay more attention to our own selves instead of putting our focus where it ought to be.

Perhaps the bigger problem - paying attention to one’s own wants and needs too much is really an issue of self-absorption. We tread a slippery slope then to becoming greedy, having a pity party for ourselves, missing the needs of others or not putting our attention on God.

I tend to pay attention more to what my children are doing wrong than what they are doing right. I pay more attention to what I want than what God wants for me. I pay more attention to my needs than the needs of others that I could easily meet.

So, I’m not paying good attention either.

I find it interesting that the definition of pay attention means to “give or bestow” our attention to someone or something. It is essentially a gift. It is giving our focus – and hopefully undivided. I could give my undivided attention to the laundry, the dishes, the garden or anything else, but at some point it will get interrupted by the next brotherly squabble. I think perhaps I would be wiser to focus my attention on trying to teach these boys how to get along. Or how to fight fair (without pinching or biting).

That’s what tae kwon do is for. Which makes me wonder how they can pay attention to the instructor for 90 minutes without stopping to tell him they’re bored or hungry or so-and-so invaded their personal space.

There’s a secret there somewhere. Guess I’ll have to pay attention to find out.

life in the slow lane

Commuting is slowly killing me. Okay, I might be exaggerating a bit, but it is driving me crazy, pun intended.

I have an hour’s drive each way to work, thankfully only a few days a week. But, it’s starting to become torturous. It’s not the traffic I mind. I have pretty much figured out the best route coming and going and the best and worst times to do either. If I do somehow end up in rush hour at 5:15 p.m., I know that I can plan on an extra 20 minutes to my commute. Not usually a problem. Crank the radio or call a cousin (now that I have a hands-free attachment to the phone.)

What is so painful is when I keep getting stuck behind slow drivers.

Keep in mind that I rarely drive faster than 60 mph, mainly because I’m not punching a clock, but also because Don Shelby assured me that it helps with gas mileage. It just doesn’t help so much with all the angry people forced to pass me as I drive the speed limit in the right lane.

You’d think I’d have a little grace then for the idiots driving too slow down roads that aren’t multi-laned. Nope.

I don’t even mind so much if they’re at least driving the speed limit. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve got stuck behind someone who either appears to not know where they’re going or isn’t paying attention to the line of 14 cars behind them or simply has nothing better to do than drive 44 miles an hour on a road with very minimal passing opportunities.

Just the other day, I was stuck behind someone from a very small town (I’m assuming that because the vehicle had an identifying dealership logo on it) who was tottering down the road in a late-model Suburu station wagon, travelling at the great rate of 42 mile an hour. Every once in awhile we peaked at 43. This went on for at least 12 miles before I finally was able to pass without breaking any MN laws.

I blasted my horn and was disgusted to see, no surprise here, it was a woman driver, perhaps mid-50s. And she had a male passenger. I wondered why he wasn’t driving. My guess is he might have been just as frustrated as me.

I hate to put females down, since I am one, but so many are such bad drivers. Or maybe bad drivers isn’t quite accurate. They’re not bad drivers in the sense that they drive recklessly or agressively; they simply drive stupidly. Or slowly. Or overly cautiously.

It is so frustrating to have only two real good ways in and out of the cities and both roads are single lane, leaving you at the mercy of someone on a Sunday drive on Tuesday afternoon.

I’m not trying to pass myself off as the world’s best female driver, because I sometimes pull out in front of other cars when I should have waited. I sometimes switch lanes and miss a vehicle in my blind spot. And sometimes I irritate people because I’m only driving 60 in a 55 mph zone and they want to go faster. Sometimes, I will increase the cruise control just a bit to make them less upset with me; other times I figure I’m already speeding and I’m not going to take the chance of wasting more than $100 on a speeding ticket.

But, still I know I don't upset that many people, nor am I the stereotypical female driver. Nor do I drive so slow that I have half a dozen or more people behind me who are mad enough to commit murder.

I'm not excusing road rage, but I can at least understand it. Especially when the anger is being caused by someone's lack of driving ability.

I believe there is a lane for slow drivers - it's called the shoulder.

outnumbered

Working in the construction industry is a bit unusual when you're a girl.

I have yet to encounter another female, with the exception of the interior designer, on this painting job. It's not unnerving or weird, but it is interesting.

For instance, until people get to know me, I sense a slight reservation on their part to joke around too much. They appear to feel out the situation before giving out much teasing or abuse. There are the occasional comments of a sexual nature, although much of it has been pretty clean. None of that much offends me anyway. I suppose that puts some men at ease - that I'm not a prude and that I actually have a sense of humor. Just today, a plumber wanted to tell a joke and suggested that I leave the room. I assured him I would like to hear it, and indeed the joke, while not suitable for repeating here, was quite funny. I do think he was a little relieved that I laughed.

It has been an experience painting in the basement of a house that has one working toilet in a bathroom without a door. I can pretty much hear every little tinkle. It's a little weird. Often, one guy simply comes downstairs and yells out, "I'm going to the bathroom!" Not sure if he's trying to prepare me or make himself feel less uncomfortable. The other day another guy asked me if it was tough being on a job with all guys - especially considering the bathroom situation. I could hardly stifle my laughter as I told him I live in a one-bathroom house with FIVE other males, none of whom shut the door before doing their little pee-pee dances. (Okay, only the little ones do the dance.)

Men still are chivalrous, despite what you might see on television or anywhere else. I do not have to move heavy things out of my way or set up scaffolding to reach high places. The men on the job seem more than happy to flex their manly muscles and help me out. They also seem perfectly willing to let me use the little four-foot ladder, even if it might inconvenience them. I really should go buy my own. I do feel a little guilty about that.

The guys also seem to have no problem listening to many different kinds of music. One day it might be current country, the next it might be contemporary Christian, and they don't even seem to mind if I crank up the Refuge for Christian music with a bit of a wild(er) side. One of these days I might turn on a Spanish station, just to play with them.

I suppose in some ways this industry might be a good fit for me - I've always related to men better anyway and don't quite understand the mind games women can sometimes play. It's been a very comfortable environment for me, but part of that could be because at least four of the men that work on the painting, general construction and tile are all professing Christians. So, it stands to reason I would feel at ease with them and be able to have many, many interesting conversations ranging from baptism to false religion to marital bliss.

I should probably count my blessings. It would probably be completely different at another job site. At this one, they've adopted songs for everyone, for some reason they're all country. One guy's is "Don't Blink" by Kenny Chesney. Another's is Montgomery Gentry's "What Do Ya Think About That?" For me, they've selected Josh Turner's "Firecracker." Actually they said that would be the song hubby would pick for me. Still not quite sure what to think of that one.

I guess even if I'm outnumbered, I still feel like "one of the guys."

most embarrassing moment #37

A guy from church comes by to drop something off just as I'm about to take clothes off the line. I thought perhaps I could subtly take my bra down before he got out of the car, kind of swiping it off with some socks. That went okay and so I kept taking everything down while he was talking to me. I thought I was in the clear until I realized after taking down half of the rest of the clothes that there was also a pair of pink and white striped bikini underwear right near my fingertips.

Do I leave it there? Do I take it down? Do I act like everything is totally fine, even though my face is flaming red?

I chose option number two and left my back turned to him, removing clothes until the flushing passed.

At least the underwear were cute ones.

had a bad day

Life is chaos with four boys. There is no limit to fights, punches, dirty socks and loudness.

Hubby came home from lunch today to catch me smack dab in the middle of a near-meltdown over two boys who wouldn't pick up Legos because they each thought the other was responsible for them, one boy who kept trying to dip a knife into the Miracle Whip and lick it and the other boy who kept pestering me about what the word "snicker" meant.

I told him - it's the look on your dad's face right now and the sound that's about to come out of his mouth, which will quickly be followed by a gasp after I throw my dishrag at him. He didn't get it.

Hubby then very astutely observed (out loud) that I hadn't made it into the garden yet today. (It was 11:30 a.m.) My goal was to finish planting and perhaps make it up north for the holiday weekend, but there wasn't a single pot clean to boil an egg, the laundry room was piled with clothes and I spent most of the morning chasing poopy diaper boy around the house. So, no I didn't get to the garden yet.

Then he wondered if perhaps I'd rather be painting today. (There's a running joke there - that me taking on a painting job an hour away was my way of escaping my children.) And the answer would be - YES, I'd rather be walking up and down a ladder repainting a bedroom for the third time than be right here right now. If that makes me a bad mother, so be it.

It's quiet there. It's peaceful there. I can actually hear ABBA on my ipod. I can actually walk without tripping over some shoe or toy. I can think. I can breathe.

This is a job that I started exactly eights months ago tomorrow and am still not done. (This is no reflection on my painting skills mind you, but on the homeowner's color preferences and inability to make a decision on a paint color until the entire room is done.) Even still, I'd rather be there.

Maybe tomorrow. But, in the meantime, I'm laughing about someone else's bad day and finding that life is indeed better when you can laugh at and with another funny mom.

Everyone has a bad day now and then. If you don't, I don't believe you're human.