Perhaps you are wondering what it is like to be me? How glamorous it must be to sit around in the early morning and write a blog and some really weird stories that no one wants to even pay you for or possibly even read. Well...you are in luck because today I am going to let you know what a typical day in the world of Julie is like. I am sure you will come away thinking....I should write a blog myself or some silly stories or....not.
5:55 AM: I am awake. The alarm is set for 6:15. Why am I not asleep? I want to be asleep. I should be asleep. I close my eyes. I am not asleep. I open my eyes. I am tired. Who gets up at this unearthly hour? Why am I here? What is the answer to life the universe and everything? Why does it have anything to do with getting up before 6 AM? I hear the dog at the door. She somehow knows I am awake. If I don't get up now she will go and poop on the porch. I get up.
6:00 AM: I pick up my cat, Brutus, who needs to chew on my fuzzy house coat for approximately 3 minutes or all will not be well with the universe. I carry him to the food dish and feed all three cats.
6:15 AM: First attempt to wake up my fourteen year old daughter, Essie. I am pleasant. I turn on the light and tell her in a cheerful voice that it is time to get up. She pulls the blanket up over her head. I pull the blanket down so that I can see one glaring eye. "Get in the shower," I say loudly.
6:25 AM: I have started some bacon. I walk to the end of the stairs. I hear...nothing. I walk up the stairs. Essie is still in bed. I am no longer polite or cheerful. I bellow, "Get up and get in the shower...you are going to be late." I hear a shuffling noise and some banging around as I turn to walk back down the stairs.
6:29 AM: I realize that I have not given the cats their canned food. Brutus has also realized this. He is standing on the table howling, even though he is not supposed to be in the house. I take him down and split a can of some disgusting smelling tuna and egg between the cats. I bring up the remainder for the dogs. They are now unable to eat their morning food unless some small amount of canned cat food has been sprinkled on it.
6:32 AM: I get a bacon splatter on my arm. It hurts. I feel vaguely awake.
6:40 AM: I tell Essie that breakfast is ready.
6:43 AM: I tell Essie that breakfast is ready.
6:45 AM: I tell Essie that breakfast is ready. She says SHE KNOWS.
6:47 AM: Essie stumbles into the kitchen like the undead and eats half a piece of bacon and three tablespoons of oatmeal. I tell her to dry her hair and brush her teeth and find some shoes. SHE KNOWS.
7:00 AM: I take a break from reading emails and drinking coffee to yell up the stairs,"You have twenty minutes. Are you ready?" She has twenty-five or thirty minutes. Better that she doesn't know that. The sounds of I'M GETTING READY! rolls down the stairs. This means she has been sitting around petting her cat and contemplating her navel. She will now begin getting ready.
7:29 AM: We are on our way to school. I realize I have not let the chickens out. They will have to wait. Essie hands me some papers to sign. I remind her that I am driving. I sign them at the stop light.
7:48 AM: I drop Essie at school. A skinny kid dressed in baggy, superlong shorts that make his legs look like they belong to some sort of large prehistoric bird runs in front of my car as I am trying to leave. I would think that I am invisible to him but he turns to glare at me after I slam on the brakes to keep from hitting him.
7:57 AM: I am tempted to run through a drive-through and buy a diet coke on my way back home. I really need the caffeine. But it's probably really bad for me. I am too tired to listen to my own very persuasive arguments against buying the coke. I get it.
8:05 AM: I am in front of the computer. It's time to start writing.
8:06 AM: I am on the way to the chicken house. I have to let out the chickens.
8:10 AM: I am still trying to convince Lady Gwen to leave the chicken coop and walk across the yard with me. She is concerned that I have already let the rooster out. The rooster is angry because I have not let him out. I finally scoot Lady Gwen out of her own personal chicken house and let the other chickens out.
8:15 AM: I am in front of the computer. It's time to start writing.
8:16 AM: I am looking at FARK.
8:20 AM: I am looking at FaceBook. I am hoping you people have done something interesting so that I can continue to procrastinate for a few more minutes.
8:25 AM: Nope. Apparently you people have lives and you cannot spend all your time on FaceBook.
8:26 AM: I remember that I have not checked out Slactivist's website since yesterday morning. I get on Slacktivist. Goody! He has a big list of links. Hmmm...the first one looks interesting. The second one too. The third one...meh. I should skip the ones that don't look interesting since I need to start writing. There are seven. I read them all.
9:05 AM: I am reading the comments on the link page.
9:10 AM: I realize that I am not writing yet.
9:20 AM: I have my blog page pulled up and I am ready to start. I have to go to the bathroom. I go to the bathroom.
9:25 AM: I realize I left some laundry sitting in the washer last night. I go downstairs and put it in the dryer. I realize that I don't have any clean socks or underwear and load the washer too.
9:35 AM: I am back at my computer. It's time to start writing.
9:40 AM: I am not sure what to write. I had some good ideas for a story but I maybe should write a blog post...it's been a week. Actually, I should really write down the ideas for the story before I forget them. I will do that first.
9:45 AM: I am trying to remember my ideas for the story. Wait! I knew this was going to happen. I wrote them down.
9:50 AM: I am looking for my gold notebook. Found it!
9:52 AM: I realize that I wrote down my ideas in the black notebook. Why do I have two notebooks?
9:58 AM: I am cleaning up my office in an attempt to find my black notebook.
10:15 AM: I remember that my black notebook is in the car. Oh well...the office is a little cleaner.
10:30 AM: I am writing down my ideas for the story. Now that I have written them down...I don't like them. This is insane.
10:35 AM: I go out to see what Brutus is crying about. I suddenly realize that I can fix the story. I rush back to the computer to write down the new and better ideas. I trip over the dog.
10:36 AM: I sit down and write out a few ideas for the story. This might work.
10:45 AM: I am a little stuck. I unload a few dishes from the dishwasher and put them up while I am thinking.
10:46 AM: I realize the dishes were still dirty. I try to remember which ones I just put up and put them back in the dishwasher. I finish loading the dishwasher and run it.
11:00 AM: I am writing.
11:30 AM: I am hungry.
11:35 AM: I realize that I have not been to get groceries this week when I look in the refrigerator.
11:36 AM: I contemplate showering. I reject the idea in favor of lunch and just brush my hair and find some shoes. Makeup? No.
11:45 AM: I am at the Mexican restaurant.
12:30 PM: I am driving home and I realize that I am out of dog food.
12:40 PM: Tractor Supply
1:00 PM: I am back in front of the computer. I check out FB. I start writing.
1:45 PM: I have to do some more laundry, walk the dogs and get a package ready to mail before I can pick up Essie. Writing time is over for the day.
And that my dear readers is the story of how this blog gets written.
So yesterday morning, I buried a small chicken. The night before, it was squeezed to death by a six foot rat snake as it was going into its house to roost for the night. It was a little black hen with a gold neck that was almost pullet sized. I had actually been worried about not putting the babies back in the chicken yard and clipping their wings to keep them safe. Ha! I suppose the joke was on me because the monster that murdered her was not the fox in woods or the hawk in the trees, it was a monster that hid in her little house. (Try telling a chicken that the monsters under the bed aren't real.)
Anyway, it was a sad moment in the ongoing soap opera of the Carpenter Chickens. And the funny part, the part that makes me wonder about my sanity, is that it was so sad. After all, chickens are at the bottom end of the food chain. You would have to be a worm or a bug to get any lower. I have lost a number of chickens. There were Angelo's first two wives, Dottie and Millie. Millie went first...food for a hawk. Dottie was next done in by a racoon (who didn't even bother to eat her - at which I took a deep offense). There was Lady Gwen's sister who didn't even last long enough to get a name. And last year, there was a chick who just didn't make it after hatching. There was Sylvia, carried off by a fox in broad daylight and then the two hens Maria and Sophia, also known as the lost tribe of chickens for their wandering ways, and Roderick, Angelo's son, all of whom appear to have been eaten by our red-tailed hawks.
So this spring, when Ligeia hatched off five babies, I decided not to name them. I might as well name the worms I thought. I will see which ones live and which ones don't and name them later, I decided. After all, why should I get attached to an animal that I might eat under different circumstances. It doesn't really make sense. I was very stern with myself...there are plenty of bad things that happen in this world; there are people without enough to eat; people who live in war zones; people who lose the people they love every day. No more of this, I said to myself. "Self," I said very sternly, "This is ridiculous. What would a real farmer think. These are chickens and they do not require mourning."
But yesterday, when I went out to bury her, I kind of remembered her wandering around under the cedar tree with the light on her gold neck feathers. And I kind of thought about how she would turn her head sideways to see if I was going to give her any cat food. And how she was the calmest of the chicks and the fluffiest when she was first hatched and how I accidentally dropped her when I tried to put her into the special small cage I had for Ligeia and her brood when they were little. And even though she was a chicken and I felt that somehow it might be an affront to people who had "real" problems and "real" sadness, big people problems to be upset or sorrowful or angry about, I was sad anyway. And to be totally honest, and under no circumstances should you repeat this to a farmer, I might have even cried a little.
So I buried her under my biggest butterfly bush and I named her Buttercup. And if you ever come here, I can probably show you the place where I have put her under two of the most ornamental logs I could find.
I'm probably just crazy enough to do this again with more chicks next year. If anything happens to them? I'll still be sad. But they will already have names.