September 26, 2021

Chicken Drama

 


Confession: Up until this past Wednesday, I hadn't left the house in about two weeks. Well, I've left the house, but I guess I should say I haven't left the property.  There are a few reasons for this. Last week, I worked 80+ hours, plus I haven't really had the need to go anywhere. I have all of my groceries and food delivered anyway. I've also been laying low because the whole COVID thing seems to be ramping up again. And for the last week, I've been in a bit of a funk. It just feels like nothing is going quite right lately. It's almost like I'm re-learning life and what I want and don't want and what I'm willing to put up with and what I'm not. Those are tough lessons on top of grieving my mom, but as my mom herself used to say, life doesn't stop just because someone dies.  

While there are many reasons I've been in said funk, some of it has to do with my chickens. Back in July, I ordered 22 chickens. Well, I ordered 20, but the hatchery sent me a couple of bonuses. I ordered all hens, but one of the bonuses was unsexed, so I knew it was possible that it would be a he. Having one rooster might be fun, I thought. Maybe I could hatch a few chicks. Maybe I could sell chicks. He could also help with predator control. 

Well, that unsexed chick did indeed turn out to be a rooster. A rare breed, apparently — a golden penciled Hamburg. I'd never even heard of them. He's a tiny little guy, and he moves at full speed 24/7. I've named him Leppo, and I kind of feel bad for him because the hens beat up on him, but he's so quick, it doesn't seem to bother him.   

Leppo is the black and orange one in the middle.

I ordered four Cochin hens, and they've turned out to be my favorite breed so far. They're unique in that they have feathers up and down their legs, and they look like big fluffy bears. They're supposed to be gentle and fairly easy to handle. Of course, I noticed right away that one of those four had a much redder comb than the other three. It's hard to get a great picture of him, but meet Rudy, my second rooster. He's actually my favorite of the four and one I definitely want to keep. 

Rudy, the Cochin rooster 

I also ordered four barred rock hens. In my last flock of chickens, I had one barred rock, and she was my absolute favorite. I just knew I wanted more of them. What I didn't know is that two of my four hens would turn out to be roosters. To be honest, I haven't named these guys because I didn't really want to keep them. 18 hens to 4 roosters isn't a great ratio. There's already some tension in my flock because they spent so much time cooped up together due to issues beyond my control. So, now I have to figure out what to do with these guys. I'm okay with keeping two roosters, but I can't keep four, and I've kind of bonded with the other two. But I also feel guilty just giving these guys up because they're males. 

These two need a new home. 

Some people start a rooster-only flock, a bachelor pad.  At first, I was against this idea. The last thing I want is yet another construction project. The duck pen turned into way more than I had planned for it to be, and it soured me on being ready to start something new anytime soon. My dad was creative enough to build the chickens a temporary run out of my mom's old greenhouse frame and my grandfather's old tomato cages, but it won't hold them forever. They need more space and something safer. I plan to build them a more permanent one at some point before the end of the year. Just not today and not this month. 

I do know someone who will take the roosters, but they'll be butchered immediately for a meal. I have no problem with this. No judgment from me.  I eat chicken every other day probably.  But again, I hate for them to lose their lives and for their purpose to change just because of their sex and because the hatchery mistook them for girls. This is the grey area where me and farming part ways. My dad is worse than I am, and he's currently my farmhand, so we talked it out last night. We've decided to work on the bachelor pad after all unless I find someone who wants them in the meantime. We have 8+ acres. Plenty of space. Why not give them a space where they can just chill for the rest of their lives, however long that may be? That will probably be an October project.    

But that hasn't even been my biggest issue with the chickens. Have you ever seen a Polish chicken? They're smaller than the average chicken and have big bushy feathers on top of their heads. They lay eggs, but they're more for show than anything. My mom became kind of obsessed with them because someone she followed on Instagram had them, so I ordered two with my flock for her benefit. I didn't research them well. I also ended up with three because the hatchery sent me an extra. 

They're cute and they're fun, but I don't personally recommend them for a bigger flock full of mixed breeds. (I know many people do successfully keep them together with standard chickens, and that's great, but I would never get more of them.)    

So, now I have these three Polishes: Lola, Butters, and Peanut. This is Butters. Not the best picture, and she's a little beat up and recently got a haircut, but you get the idea.  

Butters hasn't had an easy life so far. 


Before I moved them outside, I noticed Butters laid around in the brooder/on the porch a lot, but I figured it was out of boredom. After I got them outside, I noticed she was almost always cowering in a corner when I went out to feed them. I also noticed her laying around, even when she ate, and one day, I noticed she was missing several tail feathers.  

On the first day in the new run, she never came outside with the others. We brought her in and examined her a bit, and I noticed she'd been pecked a lot and had a few bald spots on her back. So, she spent a couple of days by herself on the back porch. That's why I finally left the house — to go to Tractor Supply to get her some medication. She was okay on the porch, but chickens are not creatures who like to be alone and she got a little depressed. Plus, the longer they're away from the main flock, the harder it is to reintegrate them. So, on Friday, I sprayed her down with this stuff called Blu-Kote. It's an antiseptic for animals that tastes gross and camouflages her bald spots so the others will leave her alone. I also cut some of her crest feathers because Polishes tend to have bad lines of sight.  

We put her back out with the rest of the flock, and she seemed to do okay, but by the end of the day, they were pecking her again. That night before they went up for the night, my dad helped me catch her, and we put more Blu-Kote on her. Yesterday, she did pretty well and held her own with the other chickens. Today, she spent more time inside the coop, but when I went to put them up for the night, I noticed she was eating and pecking at some of the others and holding her own for now. We're beginning to think something might be wrong with her —something neurological or some partial blindness based on the way she acts. She isn't really steady on her feet. Or it could just be weakness from not getting much food or exercise when the others were bullying her. We'll have to wait and see how it plays out. But I'm not certain about keeping her with the main flock forever. If there is something permanently wrong with her, they won't be nice to her. Survival of the fittest, I guess.  

Also, I'll probably let the chickens free range in the near future, and those little Polish chicks are free food for hawks. As a matter of fact, once got loose today, and I was able to sneak right up on her and catch her.  

So, I'm probably going to end up separating the Polish chicks into their own little coop and run at some point soon. This is not exactly what I had planned — three separate groups of chickens — but once I take responsibility for an animal, I just feel that I should do everything in my power to make sure it has a good life, even if it's not exactly what I had in mind. 

And that's okay. I'll get it worked out. I have a few weeks before everyone matures, so I can get it all together. It'll cost more than I planned, and I'll have to give up a few more days to build some new homes, but hopefully, everyone will be happy and healthy once I'm done. To be honest, it took me a few days to wrap my head around it all. I just wanted to keep my little flock together and for everyone to get along. But it was more about me being selfish. I didn't want to have to put in more effort than I had to, but I realized this weekend that this is just lazy and not fair to these little lives that I'm responsible for.  

So, now that I've recommitted myself to these guys and girls, I think that will help me out of my funk a little bit. Being busy this week will help too. I have a carload of stuff to take to the antique shop; a big exam in, of all things, my bird biology class; a big work project; my other regular work; and I need to get back to fixing up my downstairs office and cleaning up the porch from its chicken invasion. I'm even making some plans for some day trips in the weeks to come.          

September 03, 2021

I don't know where I'm going, but I'm on my way...

My mom died. 

It still feels weird to say that, but it doesn't stab me in the heart to say it like I always thought it would. I think I always pictured myself dressed in all black à la Scarlett O'Hara, spending endless days in bed in a deep depression. That's not to say that's not a possibility in the future, but I think I've handled it pretty well so far. Having 31 little mouths to feed also keeps me going each day, especially when 22 of them have turned the back porch into a chicken coop...but that's a story for another day.    

A couple of days after she died, I sat here and wrote it all down. My intention was a blog post, but it turned into a 10,000+ word saga that was pretty personal, so I'm not sure if I'll publish it or not. It'll need some editing before I do. But it helped me work it all out, and I went from questioning everything to feeling at peace with most of it.  

Admittedly, I've struggled more over the last few days than I did in the beginning. Maybe it's because those first days are filled with friends and family reaching out, a mailbox full of cards and notes, and meals and gift cards arriving every other day? After a while, everyone moves on, and you're left thinking what the hell do I do now? Especially when you don't have a husband, kids, or siblings to lean on... I do have my dad, of course, but as I told a friend of mine last night, I'm just a 70-year-old heart patient away from being alone in the world. That can be an overwhelming thought, even for an introverted only child like myself.  

So, that's what I'm focusing on. What the hell do I do now? I've been taking care of my mom for years in some way or another. Probably longer than anyone knows. I've got to relearn how to live my life for me.  

Well, first there's work. Over the last few years, I've more or less had to work part-time. That's been a struggle for me — to cut back when I know I could have been making so much more. I didn't fully appreciate it at the time, and I know I complained often, but looking back, I'm glad my work was flexible enough that I was able to be there for my parents. 

So, you'd think I'd be ready to kick it up and work full-time now...but you'd be wrong. Not only am I not doing that, but I stepped back from one of my jobs. That had more to do with poor management than it had to do with anything going on in my life. I still have plenty of work — so much that I'm having to turn things down — but I really don't want to live my entire life at a computer.  

Another reason why I'm not ramping up my workload is that I want to take some time to write what I want to write. I don't know what exactly that is right now, but I've got some projects started or swirling around in my head. I'm working on turning the formal living room in the front of the house into a nice cozy office where I can work on these things.  

I'm also back in school. Not because I need to be. I'm doing just fine career-wise, and I don't have any big plans for a career change. But because I want to be. I'm actually learning things and studying topics I want to know more about. It's a different and more fulfilling experience than it is when you're 18 or 20.    

One of my biggest regrets in life has always been not finishing my degree at UGA. It's hard to explain why, and I've thought about going back often, but there was never a right moment. This last spring was kind of a dark time in my life, and I woke up one morning and thought I'm going back to school. Thanks to COVID, there seemed to be more classes offered online, and I'm at a place where I can afford to pay for my own tuition. Why not? I knew it wouldn't be easy, working, going to school, taking care of my mom, and starting other ventures, but I managed to do it through the summer. Well, most of the summer. I didn't want to be the weird older student who asked for special privileges, but there I was at the end of the semester, telling my professor I couldn't finish up a project because my mom died. Luckily, she was accommodating.  Anyway, I'm taking two agriculture classes this fall, and I absolutely love it. 

Speaking of agriculture, I'm also starting a small farm. My goal is to ultimately try to make some money with it — going back to that whole "I don't want to live my life at a computer" thing — but if it's just a hobby, I'm okay with that too. It's a healthy and fulfilling hobby to have. I've currently got six ducks and 22 chickens and plans for a huge garden do-over next year.  More animals to follow at some point. Right now, I'm just focused on getting these birds into their permanent housing.  

Well, permanent for now. Anyone who knows me knows I hate the city where I live. I've always dreamed of moving elsewhere in Georgia or maybe to northern Florida or coastal South Carolina. The mountains or the Lowcountry — somewhere I love. Somewhere with more land. Maybe even the Athens area. Without my mom here, I don't even like to drive through town to get anywhere anymore. I dread having to run errands and have most things delivered or shop in neighboring towns. Last night, I had to look something local up on Google Maps, and I shuddered at the sight of it. This place is not for me anymore. I have no doubt about that. 

The problem is I don't want to give up the property we have now — it's been in my family for ages and holds so many memories of my mom and grandparents. I know every inch of it, and it has so many resources for what I want to do. And I'm not sure my dad would ever leave, so if I could figure out a way to keep it (at least for now  — until I make a home somewhere else) and buy something else, I'm all for it. Right now I'm saving for that and waiting for this crazy real estate bubble to bust and competition to die down before I really explore my options.  

I also have a lot to clean out before I could even think about moving. My mom had a lot of stuff. I don't want to use the "hoarder" word because she'd come back and haunt me, but the woman liked stuff. She and I had plans to start cleaning it all out this year, but her health really stood in the way of that happening. I've already started on some of it. I've got a pile of things priced to take to our antique booths, and I revived her old eBay account. I'll probably have an estate sale or two next spring. May as well try to make some money on it to go towards my moving fund... 

So far, it's actually been kind of fun going through it all, but it's also sad because I think back on all the times she wanted us to do it together but I just didn't have time or she didn't feel well enough. And I keep finding things that I know she was looking for as recently as the week before she went to the hospital. On top of her stuff, we bought out our neighbor's estate sale two years ago and have been storing most of that. Plus, at one point in time, I did actually live in my own home, and I've got a whole household of my own stuff to go through. Basically, I have two houses packed full, a huge storage building, a garage, a basement, and two attics full of things to clear out. That should keep me busy for a while. 

I'll be working on some other projects around here too. I'd still like to fix up my parents' old house. There are some things I'd like to do to this house and the property around it. I started re-doing the landscaping at the pool a couple of years ago and would like to finish that. I want to prep some garden beds for next year. 

Other than that, I have no idea what my future holds. I'd like to travel more, but I'm gonna have to wait until this whole pandemic thing calms down again to do that. I've got friends in other parts of the country who are always wanting me to come visit, so I'd like to take some time to do that. I haven't ruled out having my own family at some point. I'm thinking about getting a puppy. I'd like to spend more time reading. I'd like to spend more time swimming for exercise. If it weren't for this whole COVID thing, I'd probably have some bigger plans, but I'm just going to wait and see what happens for now.   

And more than anything, I just want to enjoy some drama-free peace and quiet. Life has been a challenge for the last few years. I need some easy living.  





July 26, 2021

Stranded in Ft. Lauderdale

It's been over a year since I posted, and so much has happened in that year. Much of it has to do with my mom's health — she's currently in the hospital facing a major battle. I don't want to talk much about it, but I slept half of the day away and can't sleep now, so I am going to do some writing to keep myself busy. 


So, last month, I went to Turks and Caicos. It was a trip that had been postponed twice, mostly due to the lovely pandemic we've been dealing with for the last year and a half. The weeks leading up it were tough for me at home, but I made it. The trip was fine. It wasn't exactly what I wanted it to be when I planned it, but that couldn't really be helped, and I'm positive I'll go back one day. I did have a good time. Got a stamp on my passport and all of that.  

The trip home didn't go as smoothly. I've never flown anything but Delta in my life, and there was a Delta flight straight home to Atlanta from the Providenciales airport at 3 pm on the day I left. There was also a Jet Blue flight about an hour later that would take me to Fort Lauderdale. It was cheaper. And for some reason, I got the bright idea that I'd add a little road trip to my itinerary and drive home from there. I'd probably stop and spend the night in the Jacksonville area since I know it so well. It was going to be my 24 hours or so to have some alone time that I never get to have and prepare myself for everything I had going on when I returned home — taking care of my mom, starting classes at UGA again, adding 22 chickens to the little farm I'm trying to build, getting back to work, expanding my garden, working on the duck pen I'm building, working on the pool, etc. 

If I could go back in time, I'd just take that damn Delta flight.  

Getting out of Turks and Caicos was fine. Several people had issues, including the friend who accompanied me on the trip. I did not. Everything went so smoothly. I should have known better. I arrived at Ft. Lauderdale, went through customs, got my bags, walked forever, and finally found a place to sit down so I could take a breather. I called my mom to let her know I was back on US soil. I grabbed a Diet Coke. I looked up how to get to the rental car place. For some reason, I thought I could walk to it, but you had to take a bus. I had no interest in taking the bus. I don't like taking the bus. When I went to UGA the first time around, friends would make fun of me because I'd literally walk miles to classes every day because I didn't want to take buses. But I finally worked up the nerve and energy to walk to the bus stop — in the rain, might I add — and get on so I could start my next adventure. I had it all planned out so well. 

I got to the car rental center, and the company I used, which was the only company I could find with availability, was the furthest away, so I had to walk another mile it seemed, and then I had to stand in line and listen to some guy talk about how the COVID vaccine paralyzed his wife. When I finally made it to the counter, I was so excited to be getting out of there. There's some depressing about that airport. I can't really explain it, but every friend I've talked to who has been there knew exactly what I was talking about. I had no idea that I wasn't going anywhere until the next day.  

"M'am, I'm afraid we can't honor your reservation."   

"Huh?"  

"Blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah."  

"Huh? Please, no."  

"The only way to get around it is to do this and that and this and that." 

"Okay, fine. Do it. Whatever it takes. I'll pay whatever. I just want to go home."  

"Then you have to do this and this and this and this and this."  

"Huh? That doesn't even make sense."  

That's basically how my conversation with the guy behind the counter went. I still can't figure out exactly what went wrong. I'd contacted the car rental place three times the week before to make sure the reservation was legit. But apparently, their policies changed in that short timeframe. Something to do with a pandemic-induced car shortage, a reduction in one-way car rentals, me booking with a debit card instead of a credit card, and me not having a return flight ticket to Ft. Lauderdale. It was all so convoluted. And his solution was to buy a bunch of plane tickets and trick another car rental company. No.  

I'll admit, I lost it. I went into the nearest bathroom and sat in a stall and cried. I'm not a person who does a lot of crying, but this did me in. The few weeks leading up to the trip were very emotional, and I just felt so defeated. I texted my parents to let them know what was going on. I asked my aunt who travels to that area often if she could come up with anything. I remembered there was one more Delta flight back to Atlanta that night, and I could probably just make it if I hurried, but it was all booked up. The next one was at 8 am. It was almost booked, and the price had skyrocketed since I'd last looked. I ended up paying almost three times what I would have paid for the car to get the next to the last seat on that flight.      

By this time, it was around 8 pm. I had 12 hours to kill. There was no sense in trying to get a hotel. I'll just spend the night at the airport. People do it all the time. I've been in the Atlanta airport in the middle of the night, and it's buzzing and busy, and it'll be fine. I'll blend in with everyone. Grab some food. Play on my phone.  

Ft. Lauderdale is no Atlanta. 

First, I realized that the car rental center was a long way from the terminal where Delta flights come and go. I wasn't getting back on that bus, so I decided I'd get something to eat as I hadn't had anything since breakfast. It's 8 pm on  Saturday night, so I would think the restaurants in a decently-sized airport would be open. I would be wrong. Everything I encountered was closed. Starbucks, Burger King. I couldn't even find the Chilis that was on the map. I finally walked to Terminal One and saw a couple of vending machines, got some M&Ms and water, and found a quiet little corner with four benches tucked away from most of the foot traffic. Big mistake.   

On the first bench, a lady was sprawled across it, sleeping. On the one across from her, a guy was sitting there charging his phone. He looked okay — not someone I'd want to approach if I didn't have to, but okay. On the third one, a lady was sitting in her pajamas, looking miserable, and the fourth one just across from her was empty. I opted for the empty one. My plan was to sit down, figure out where I needed to go, eat my M&Ms, and get there quickly.  As soon as I sat down, the lady in her pajamas started coughing. Not like an "I swallowed my water wrong" kind of cough, but like a nasty, sick, congested, "I'm miserable and probably have COVID" kind of cough. It took me a minute to remember we are still kind of pandemic-y after a week of lounging around in paradise and not thinking twice about it. I got up and moved to the bench with the guy charging his phone and washed myself down with hand sanitizer. 

About five minutes after I moved to that seat, this other guy who does not look like someone I want anything to do with walks up to us. He asks the guy charging his phone, in some kind of slang terms, if he wants to buy drugs. The guy is like "huh?" He asks him again. "Naw, man. I don't mess with that stuff. Go on." He says. After that, drug selling guy looks at me and says "You?" I shake my head, but he sits down next to me anyway. I picked up my phone, pretended to make a call, and then pretended to ask the person on the other end where they were at the airport. "Oh, you're over there. I thought you were coming here. Well, I'm going to have to get up and go over to where you are then. I'll see you in a second." I guess I didn't want to hurt the drug dealer guy's feelings if I just got up right after he sat down?   

So, I walked to the other end of the terminal and down to the lowest floor. I found some more seats where a few people were just hanging out, and they all looked decent enough, so I sat there. I knew I actually needed to be in another terminal for my flight, and I was trying to figure out exactly how I could get there because, for some reason, the two buildings do not connect indoors? As a matter of fact, most of the buildings in this stinking airport don't connect at all in any way. I was so tired from walking so much already too, but I was not getting back on a bus either. As I'm sitting there, flights are coming, and I realize most of the people I'm sitting with are merely waiting for other people to arrive so they can take them home. The place empties out pretty quickly. 

As I'm sitting there, alone now, a guy approaches me. I don't pay much attention to him, but he has some sort of badge around his neck, and I stupidly assumed he's an airport employee. He starts asking me if I'm okay because I don't look okay. I tell him what's happened — the whole ordeal about the rental car and how I'm not sure how to get to the right terminal.  He tells me that I can walk to it, but it's gonna take me a little while, and it's all outside. And then he tells me he thinks I need a friend and his name is such and such and he would be glad to be my friend. At this point, an alarm goes off and I look at his badge and realize he is not an airport employee and the name he gives me doesn't match the name on the badge and OMG why do strange men keep approaching me I just want to go home?  

Suddenly, I make up a story about how I am about to meet my friend at the other terminal and I better get going. Apparently, I'm trying to avoid hurting weirdos' feelings on this night. Anyway, I grab my bags that I'm really sick of hauling around — I've been on the go for about 13-14 hours at this point — and start my journey towards the next terminal. 

The walk to the next terminal is indeed outside. It's not as long as I thought it would be, but it wasn't a quick little jaunt either. And earlier, the sidewalk had been filled with cops and security people, but at this hour, most of them were gone, and it was filled with homeless people, people waiting for transportation, and people asking me to get into their cars and they'd take me where I wanted to go. Meanwhile, there are signs everywhere telling me not to get into cars with anyone who is not clearly a taxi. I guess that's an issue there. It's also dark. It's nasty. And the heat and humidity were awful. But I finally made it to my terminal. 

As soon as I got inside, I saw that there were maybe four people sitting around. One guy was brushing his teeth in the water fountain. He was wearing no shoes and had made one of the sets of seats into a bed, complete with pillows and sheets. One guy went up to a hand sanitizing wipe station and just started pulling out all the wipes and throwing them onto the floor. One guy was sitting off to himself, charging his laptop. He looked okay, but he was also taking up a whole roll of seats with his stuff. Then I saw a girl wearing a Georgia State shirt and decided she was my people. I sat across from her. She wouldn't sell me drugs or make unwanted advances. No. But she would leave about 10 minutes after I sat down because the person she was waiting for arrived and was ready to go. Of course. 

At this point, the place was practically empty except for the rogue employee who walked through. Apparently, Ft. Lauderdale doesn't see many overnight flights. For some reason, I started googling the airport around this time. I guess I was looking for some kind of hope that I would not be sitting by myself all night with Guy Who Apparently Lives at the Airport and Crazy Guy Who Throws Wipes All Over the Floor. I completely forgot that there had been a shooting at this airport a few years ago. That knowledge added to the whole creepy vibe of the place. Instead of shutting Google down, I clicked on an article about the shooting. I clicked on a video from the shooting. I realized I was literally sitting in the exact spot in the exact terminal where the shooting took place. Like, it literally happened right where I was. Literally. Not dozens of feet away. Not across the room. Right where I was sitting.  I got up and moved. 

At this point, my mom calls me and asks how I am. I told her I was fine, but I was not feeling it.  At all. Maybe it wasn't as bad as I thought it was, but I was so physically and mentally exhausted. I just wanted to get home. To see my dog. To sleep in my bed. To be away from creeps. A friend texted me some podcasts to listen to keep me company. Of course, when I went to get my headphones out of my purse, I realized I left them on the nightstand in Turks and Caicos. Of course.  

It's around 11 pm by now. I finally had a realization. At the opposite end of the room I'm in, there's some sort of security checkpoint. It's where the airport employees check in and out for work. There are a couple of older women in security uniforms sitting there running it. They look bored but they look safe. I walk up and ask them if I can sit with them. One of them shrugs and says sure. 

After about an hour or so, the other one keeps walking wide circles around me, giving me the side-eye. Finally, she approaches. "What exactly are you doing here?" she asks, her Caribbean accent thick and suspicious. "Are you waiting on someone?" No, I'm not, but I explain to her exactly what happened.  Her attitude changes from airport security lady to mother figure, and she takes pity on me. "Stay right here with us," she says. "Try to get some rest. We'll keep an eye on you." She shows me where all the cameras are and asks about my flight details. When I share them, she tells me exactly how to get to where I need to go and what time I should get there. I loved that woman that night. She checked on me every half hour or so. And she went to lunch, she reminded me where to go and when. I felt like a 12-year-old, but you just have no idea how tired I was. It was a long day in a long month in what's been a long year so far. Defeated is the only word I can think to describe it. 

When the time rolls around to head to where I need to go to catch my flight, I do, but there isn't a Delta employee in sight at the counter. We stand for two hours, waiting. The flight is full. People are mad. They are loud. "We're going to miss the flight," they complain. A security guard who passes through assures us that the flight is not going to leave with all of us not on it. Finally, the employees show up. They check us in with great speed. They put us through security with great speed. Until I get there. Of course. 

Apparently, the detector goes off, highlighting at least four parts of my body as suspicious, ranging from my head to my crotch. The security guard let me know I'm about to receive the ultimate patdown and asks if I want a private room. That just seems like more wasted time and walking. "Just do it, " I say. I don't care anymore. And she does. For a long time. I've never had a patdown like that. But I actually felt worse for her because I was so nasty and sweaty at this point, and I'm sure I smelled just peachy.  For what it's worth, the same thing happened to the girl behind me, so I think their system was malfunctioning, but whatever. 

The plane boards pretty quickly, which is fabulous because there's nowhere to sit after I get through security. And thankfully, I paid the extra $50 for Delta Comfort, so I got to go first and sit in front. I'm pretty sure I fell asleep for part of the flight. The girl next to me probably enjoyed me snoring and smelling exactly like I'd spent almost 24 hours sitting on plastic seats in a hot airport, but I didn't care. 

When we arrived in Atlanta, I wanted to kiss the ground. Instead, I had to walk another 2.4 miles - (I measured it - this whole incident gave me the highest number of steps I've ever gotten in the history of counting my steps) - to get my checked bag. And that includes riding the moving sidewalks and the Plane Train for part of the journey. And then I had to get an Uber. Apparently, there's a specific place to get an Uber at the airport. I've never done it before, but I followed the signs and ended up in the exact wrong place. I finally just sat down on a bench. I was hot. I was tired. I was hungry. I was thirsty. I was lightheaded. I was over it. I asked someone who sat down next to me if they knew where the Uber pickup place was, and they did not speak English. I called my mom and told her I was just going to sit there because if I had to move another inch I would likely pass out. She told me to go back inside and get something to eat or drink, but I just didn't have it in me. I wanted to get home. I texted my cousin who lives near the airport and told him I'd pay him to come get me, but he was asleep and didn't respond.   

So, I walked back to the baggage claim area and followed the signs again. I then realized my mistake. I was supposed to downstairs and then go out, not go out and halfway around the world. So, I did. And there was a short walkway and then I was back out on the sidewalk and there were signs that said "Uber" and "Lyft" and I wanted to kiss the ground again. I pulled out my phone, scheduled a ride, and waited about five more minutes before some guy drove up to get me. He wasn't very friendly. At all. And his idea of "cool," per my request, was rolling the front windows down while he weaved in and out of traffic on I-285 on a 90-degree day. He listened to the most awful talk radio that went against all of my political beliefs. But I didn't care. When he pulled into the driveway, I wanted to kiss him...and the ground again. 

I came in, ordered some Chinese food, changed out of my nasty sweaty clothes, and fell asleep for about three hours. Thankfully, my dad offered to feed all my animals for one extra day because I just couldn't move another muscle. I dreamed about being stuck in an airport for exactly two weeks after I got home. 

I know worse things have, do, and will happen, but that whole experience was just awful. Much of it had to do with the state I was already in from dealing with other stuff, I'm sure, but I maintain that that airport is one of the worst I've ever visited, and I have no interest in ever going back. As a matter of fact, I just Googled "worst airports in the United States" and Ft. Lauderdale was on every single list. I feel validated. And if I ever go to South Florida again, I'll drive.  




May 15, 2020

Quarantine Confessions: Part One

So, it's May 14, and I haven't left the house in exactly two months. Well, that's not true. I've been to a plant nursery twice, though it's mostly outdoors, and I wore a mask. I've been to a pharmacy drive-thru a few times, and sometime around day 39, I started going back to Chick-fil-A, though drive-thru only. Apparently, that's how long I can last without Chick-fil-A. And I have to drop my mom off for medical treatments a few times a week, though I don't go inside there either. I've been to a neighbor's house, though they weren't home, and I dropped some things off at my cousin's house, but I didn't go inside, and I bought some eggs from another neighbor's farm store, but they use an honor system, so there was no human interaction.

That's what my version of what quarantine looks like. 

And I have to confess, I don't absolutely hate it. The older I've gotten, the more I enjoy my own personal time at home. I'd prefer to be here about 80% of the time. 




Over the last couple of years, both of my parents have dealt with some major health issues, and that's kind of left me at their beck and call. Running around doing their errands, spending endless nights in hospitals or driving back and forth to hospitals, buying groceries, taking them appointments...all I wanted was a stretch of time where I could stay home and just do some things I needed/wanted to do.  I was burnt out on errands and running and go go going. I've fantasized about just staying home for a month with no responsibilities.   

And boy, did I get it. Sort of. I didn't want it this way, and I wish I'd been more prepared, but it is what it is. I'm finally getting into the groove of getting some of those things I've always wanted to  do accomplished, but it took a while. The rest of this will probably read like a quarantine diary for my own benefit, so it might get boring. But it's been a surreal time, and I felt like I needed to capture it somehow. 

For me, it all started in January or February. With my dad home from work after a battle with sepsis, followed by open heart surgery, I get to hear about news stories I otherwise try to ignore. He watches a ton of TV these days. (I don't watch it at all and haven't since 2016, a big change for someone who used to be a political/news writer.) But that's the first thing I'd probably change about quarantine — you may or may not know that I've been living with my parents for a few years through no fault of my own. Every time I try to buy a house, something falls through or someone gets sick or injured and I have to put it off a little longer. The three of us suddenly home together 24/7 isn't ideal. Thankfully, there are plenty of places around our property to escape each other's company, but if someone told me last year that a quarantine was a comin', I would have worked a little harder on fixing up the house next to them that I'm probably going to end up living in for a while. 

So, yeah, my dad kept talking about this virus in China, and I didn't think much of it. I had all kinds of travel plans this year, and I didn't have time to worry about what was happening in China. By February, everyone was taking it a little more seriously, and honestly, all I was concerned with was whether or not it would affect my trip to Turks & Caicos. I got sick in late February with what I'm convinced was possibly the coronavirus/Covid-19/reason for quarantine, and shortly after I recovered, my mom decided we needed to run to the store to stock up on groceries and supplies. I dropped her at one store and I went to another. We may have mocked her a little, but I'm the only person I know that hasn't had to scavenge for toilet paper.  

Fast forward to Wednesday, March 11. Shit was getting real. My dad had a doctor's appointment at a hospital about 45 minutes away. We decided it was best for my mom not to go and expose herself and for us to carry a bottle of hand sanitizer into the office with us. When we arrived, nurses greeted us as the door, taking our temperatures and asking us questions about whether or not we'd been out of the country, how we felt, etc. That was the moment when I knew we better take this seriously. My dad talked to his cardiologist about it, and he seemed worried. We drove home with a different mindset than we had on the way there. By that evening, we found out the first known person to die from the virus in Georgia had been at that very hospital where we'd gone for the appointment. The next night, I think, the president canceled travel to Europe. The day after that, they shut down the schools. By Saturday, my cousin called me and told me there was hardly any food left at the grocery store. 

My mom has a lot of allergy and breathing issues, and she was in need of some over-the-counter medicine. My cousin reported that a Dollar General in a not-so-great part of town was fairly empty, so, I put on my mask and gloves and headed over there. It was a little more crowded than normal, and some of the food shelves were empty. They didn't have the medicine I needed, but they did have a few snacks I decided I had to have just in case. I mean, sure, I'd been busting my butt to get into shape for that Turks & Caicos trip — not a carb in sight in my pantry or fridge — but much like I do when there's the possibility of a an inch of snow or a hurricane that'll likely weaken to a tropical storm by the time it reaches me, I decided I needed candy and junk. Spoiler alert: I still have that mentality two months later. Just ask my wardrobe.   

Anyway, this trip to the Dollar Store was memorable because an old man made some rude comments towards me for wearing a mask. Something about how "they" said you don't need it and you're wasting medical supplies. I held my cool...and his wife whisked him away before I could smart off. I paid for my junk food and headed to Walgreens, which was actually less crowded. I saw a few other people wearing masks, and one girl was sitting in an aisle, FaceTiming her mom. She was so upset about toilet paper and certain foods. It was a little surreal, but Walgreens had the meds. And they also had tons of these little breakfast cookies my dad eats, and they had more quarantine snacks for me, so I made my way to the counter with a mountain of stuff in my arms. That was my last real life interaction with another person beyond my parents for a while. 

So, another thing I need to admit here is that this whole situation hasn't affected my job too much. I already work at home. Most of what I write these days is more digital marketing than creative stuff or politics and news. As all of these companies were shutting down and moving their business online, I knew I'd be okay unless we just entered some sort of depression. As a matter of fact, my working from home was born out of the recession of 2009. I have a few friends who lost jobs or were furloughed. Most of the people I know were simply asked to work at home. Others have essential jobs, whether they work in hospitals or grocery stores. 

Anyway, for the first couple of weeks, I had so much work, so I wad largely distracted from the rest of the world. Lots of people I know confessed to being scared or depressed, and I, the queen of needless anxiety, hadn't really felt any of that yet. Other friends seemed like they were on spring break and were binge-watching every show on Netflix and making their way through their TBR piles and beating all the video games. I was jealous. Finally, my work wrapped up for a bit. I tried to jump into spring break mode, but it just wasn't happening. I couldn't even listen to my favorite podcast, Tell 'em Steve-Dave, which has become a bit of a comfort blanket for me through all of my parents' medical issues over the last few years.  

My friend Pat and I talked about this a little bit and she posted some articles on it. I found it difficult to concentrate on reading or writing or doing much of anything but watching the news, scrolling through Facebook (the meme game has been strong during all of this) and not really knowing how I spent my days. It hit me that the last time I felt like this was when my grandfather died a few years ago. It took me a while after that to have the ability to concentrate on much of anything. I guess we were all sort of mourning our formal lives during those first few weeks. Maybe some still are.   

I busied myself with work around the house instead. I started opening the pool and cut grass. Finally, one night, I decided to find a random show on Netflix and just started watching it. What I chose was Reign, a CW version of the life of Mary, Queen of Scots. I've been on a European history kick lately, and it was the perfect blend of that and escapism (it's the CW after all — and there are plenty of cute boys in it). I watched all 78 episodes in less than three weeks. I'll always be grateful for that show.  

In the meantime, I listened to my mother whine about how she wouldn't be able to plant a garden this year, because we couldn't go buy plants and most places are sold out online. So, I made it my mission to get her a garden together. Somehow, we've ended up with 72 tomato plants. Oops. 

Running errands has been replaced with orders beyond orders. I can't even keep up anymore with what I have coming from Amazon and Home Depot and Chewy and Target and Sephora and all the other places I shop. We also order groceries once a week from Publix. I've ordered meat from Omaha Steaks and a local farm here in Georgia where I usually get my beef anyway. And I realize I could technically go to some of these places, as they never closed, but first, my parents are both medically fragile and I can't put them at risk. Second, see my above statement about not wanting to go go go all the time. I've thoroughly enjoyed living in loungewear for two months thank you very much. 

Although, I am starting to get the urge to go to stores again, so maybe I'm healed of my desire to stay home. Maybe not. Anyway, it's getting late — I'm going to wrap this up here and save the rest of my quarantine diary for another post. 






January 26, 2020

On Kobe Bryant

I know it's been a couple of years since I updated this thing, and if I told you what all has happened in those last couple of years, you wouldn't believe me. So, I won't. I don't want this to turn into one of those "here's why I haven't updated my blog or whatever in so long" posts. The real reason I'm updating it is because I've been trying to do more non-work writing lately, and I figured this as good a place to start as any.  

It's been a weird day. The fact that Kobe Bryant died in a helicopter crash has kind of set the tone, which is probably weird considering I don't know him. I couldn't even say I'm a big fan. I used to be really into basketball and go to Hawks game and still watch from time to time, but football is front and center now, and it's about all I have time to keep up with these days.  

I think the real impact of his sudden and unexpected death is broader than basketball, though. Whether you were into sports or not, Kobe was a big part of 90s and 2000s pop culture. He's one of those figures that we — and by "we," I guess I mean my generation or Millennials or whatever — all grew up with, whether we were fans or not. He was just always there in the background.   

Throughout my 30-something years, I've only had strong feelings about two celebrity deaths. One was Paul Walker, and I liken this to that. Whether you were a fan of Walker's or you'd never so much as seen a Fast and Furious movie, he was just kind of just a part of our generation. He was someone who was also there in the background, entertaining us or making headlines. Losing him felt like losing a part of our youth...a part of us. It made us realize that no one is immortal. 

And that's exactly what it felt like when I walked into my parents' living room today, and my dad, wide-eyed and frantic, said, "Did you hear the news?" 

I could never in a million years know what his family is going through. And to find out his young daughter was with him — while that's enough to make anyone sad, let's face it: Kobe's private life has never been very private, so that affected us too.

But for most everyone else, no matter who you voted for, what you look like, or who you sleep with, you probably knew who Kobe Bryant was. Losing him feels like losing a little bit of what unites us. A little piece of our younger days is gone. He won't grow old with those of us who are lucky enough to do so, but he did remind us all today that life is fleeting, and we should all enjoy the ride while we can.  


July 16, 2018

The only good yellow jacket is a dead yellow jacket

My goal for today was to get some exercise. I've been slacking lately and really just haven't had a ton of spare time, so I figured I'd make this Sunday all about fitness. I had a long list of workouts to do, which included a swim, some kickboxing, and some weight-lifting, but I wanted to start it all out by getting in as close to 10,000 steps as I possibly could before I did any of that.

Earlier this year, I discovered that cutting grass with a push mower is an excellent way to get those steps in and feel like a productive member of society at the same time. I'll throw on some music, plug in my earbuds, and push that mower across any yard in town if I have to. Seriously, if you live in the Atlanta area and need your grass cut, give me a call!

So, on this particular Sunday afternoon, when it's 90+ degrees in mid-July in Georgia, with 90 percent humidity and absolutely miserable, I decided I'd cut some grass in front of my parents' house. There's this long grassy embankment, about three to four feet tall, that covers most of the front of their property. My parents typically use a riding mower to cut their grass, but this area is too steep for that. It's a pain to mow, but I decided I'd tackle it. Not only would I get my steps in, but all that climbing up and down that hill, pushing and pulling that mower would most certainly lead to a nice Kim Kardashian butt when I finished for sure.

I worked for about half an hour on it, but I can't lie; it was grueling. Sweat poured off of me, my feet hurt in my cheap Old Navy flip-flops, and the air was so thick I could barely breathe. I went inside for a drink of water and a quick break halfway through the job. It was tempting to stay in, but I only had like 1,500 steps (in my head, I had 8,000) and I'm no wimp. So, I went back outside, determined to finish cutting this little strip of land and earn myself that Kardashian-like body part.

I powered through until I had a space that was about 3 x 3 feet left. The light at the end of the tunnel. And believe me, I was so hot and tired and delirious, I was seeing lights and tunnels and all sorts of other things that weren't actually there. But just as I started to push the mower towards that strip, I felt a sharp pain in my left thigh. And then another. And another. I thought I was having a stroke or something.

All of these searing pains were happening on the same side and seemingly inside my clothes. I was wearing skintight capri leggings, so it's not like anything could just slide down in there without me noticing it. I just knew this was how I was going to go out. Cutting the damn grass.

But then I felt the same sharp, stinging pains on my right side. And down my shirt, in my bra, on my ankles, on my fingers, on my arms, on my calves...  My first thought was that I'd hit an ant bed, but I've been bitten by plenty of ants and none of them felt this severe, nor did they have time to climb up in my bra in such a short period of time.

I guess I'm not the sharpest tool in the shed, because it took a minute for me to realize there were hundreds of angry yellow jackets swarming around me, and it took another minute for me to realize that this is what was causing this searing pain all over my body. Suddenly, I was dancing all over the yard, swatting at the little jerks and screaming every curse word I've ever learned in my life. Thankfully, I'm related to the only close neighbors, and they're used to me doing strange things.

On the bright side, it made me realize there are only 46 days until the college football season starts. Hey, it's July, and I've been without football for months, so if being stung by the mascot of my college team's rival team makes me think about football, even through some of the most awful pain I've been in in a while, then so be it. Go Dawgs!


June 16, 2018

When life hands you lemons, you write stories.

If you know me at all, both in the real world and online, you know life has thrown me many curve balls lately. It started around March 1st when my cousin's dog got a little too excited when he saw my mom and knocked her over onto their cement driveway, breaking her pelvic bone. She couldn't walk for a few weeks, and that set off a chain reaction of new health issues and complicated some stuff she was already dealing with. I won't get into her business here, but I'll sum it by saying I didn't get any sleep for nearly three months, she ended up in the ER six times, and she spent something like 20 nights in the hospital. Maybe more — I lost count. And while there were some scary days mixed in there, she's still here and actually getting better, so I'm thankful for that.

In the midst of it all, my Jeep decided to start going dead at random times. In the middle of busy intersections, at stoplights, in parking lots, in heavy traffic — there was no rhyme or reason to it. It happened dozens of times. Whether or not it would start back up was anyone's guess. I took it to four separate mechanics, and each and every one of them claimed there was nothing wrong. The last guy charged me hundreds to fix something that may have been the culprit, but two days after I drove it out of his shop, it started doing it all over again. When your mom's in the hospital (or has three or four medical appointments a week), and you have no siblings or significant other to depend on for help, having a vehicle that breaks down on railroad tracks at 9 p.m. and on busy highways at 8 a.m. in Atlanta traffic isn't ideal. Thankfully, I am now driving a new SUV, and I thank God for it every time it gets me from one place to another and back home again. 

And in the midst of all that, I lost my job in probably the most terrible way possible. I've worked as a freelance writer for the last nine years, and for approximately the last five or so of those years, I've worked almost exclusively for one client. It wasn't my dream job, but I enjoyed it enough, it opened many personal and professional doors for me, and I dedicated an embarrassing amount of time to it. I won't go into the details of what happened, but essentially a higher up person threw me and a few others under the bus to save her own ass. Other people who worked there tried to come to bat for me, but it became painfully clear after a few days that there was nothing I could do about it. I was collateral damage for something that was beyond my control.

I was devastated.

Many other things happened in the midst of all this job/car/mama drama. I spent a couple of weeks with the flu. A tornado ripped through my parents' property. One of my closest friends lost her mom. I nearly killed my poor sweet dog. A hawk did kill one of my poor chickens. My social life became just me calling a few friends, relatives, and neighbors and asking if they could pick my mom up from whatever appointment because I was stranded in a parking lot. And I could go on, but I won't, because I know it could always be so much worse. It just seemed like it got to a point where I woke up and wondered what was going to go wrong that day. I will say I had big and specific plans for this year — huge life-changing plans — and I watched them all get picked off, one by one, as the last few months rolled by. The only thing I really had left was a plan to buy a house later this year.

And last week, just as I began to try to settle back into a normal routine so I could actually afford that house, the person who planned to sell it to me texted me and said she needed to talk. Long story short, she's decided she wants to live in in the house herself. I am actually okay with that. It's one of my favorite people, and she's lived out of state for too long now. I'll get to spend more time with her and her family. But at the same time, it felt like the last little dangling hope for my year was shot down. I wasn't sure whether I should laugh or cry.

I think I spent the rest of the day trying to come up with a plan B. Maybe I should go back to school. Maybe I should fix up my parents' old house and move into it. Maybe I should try again to beg for my old job. To be honest, I've been offered several jobs since losing that one, but I was either not in a place to take them because of everything going on, or those offers came from previous clients who were rude and awful to work for, and I couldn't bring myself to say yes. But maybe it was time to suck it up and do something I would hate. I had no idea what else to do with myself.

After moping around like some sort of emo 14-year-old for a few days, something occurred to me. Maybe I need to stop coming up with plan B. Maybe it's time to get back to plan A.

Like I said, I've been supporting myself as a writer for nearly a decade. It's been great. Sort of. I have a ton of flexibility, but I'm not writing the things I want to write. I've penned stories about everything from politics to Pottery Barn. Somewhere in there, many years ago, I also wrote a novel. And at some point, I started shopping around for agents and such, and it wasn't all negative. But life got in the way, and work got in the way, and I put it all on hold for a moment. And before I knew it, that moment was four or five years long.

I kept telling myself I'd get back to it after this or after that, but after those things, something else would come up. I had so many ideas floating around in my head for more stories, but the few times I'd take a night and try to do something with them or go back to my old novel to fix it up, I'd find myself writing in the style of whatever I'd written for my paying job that day. I'd lost my own voice.

Thankfully, it wasn't gone forever.

What I haven't mentioned yet is that after I lost my job in March and went through all the phases of grief, something sparked inside of me. All of these ideas I've had floating around in my head came to the surface with so much new inspiration behind them. Even though life was really tough, this wave of creativity came over me. All I wanted to do is write for myself. I had some savings to keep me afloat, so I'd tell myself that I could spend this week working on a story I've always wanted to write, but next week I'd take one of the crappy job offers. And the next week, I'd say okay, you can work on these stories again, but next week you're taking one of the crappy job offers.

I couldn't stop working on the stories. And I also knew I couldn't keep going because I had a house to buy in a few months, and I needed to be working one or some of those crappy writing jobs so I could pay for it.

But I don't have a house to buy anymore. I literally have no concrete plans for the rest of the year at this point because of the way everything happened in March, April, and May. At first, the idea made me miserable. Now that I've had time to reflect, I'm thinking maybe that's not such a bad thing. Maybe it's time for me to buckle down and work on plan A — writing what I want to write — without worrying about backups for a while.

I do have a few odd freelance writing jobs I do here and there for people I like working for, and it's easy work. It's not going to buy me a house (or anything beyond food and utilities for that matter), but it's enough to pay my basic bills, and I really only have to work no more than 10-20 hours a week. I'm basically taking a 80 percent pay cut if I did the math correctly, but maybe I don't have to place weekly Sephora orders or buy every book Amazon has ever recommended right now.  Maybe I can work part-time for a few months and spend the rest of time dedicated to what I really want out of life for once instead of putting so much effort into my backups.

If the last few months have taught me anything, though, it's that you never know what's going to happen from day to day. So, I'm not going to make any promises, but I'd like to revisit my old novel and spend some time on the new one I've started. One is super light and airy Southern fiction and one is super dark and teeters between horror and thriller, so that's fun. I've also got some essays and short stories I've been writing and putting together. Who knows if I'll get anywhere with them, but the idea of dedicating time to work on them is exciting.

One last thing. JT Ellison, one of my favorite authors to read and follow on social media, always posts great advice for writers on her website and beyond. Her online presence has been a bit of a bible for me for several years. This week, right around the time this whole idea came to me, she posted this: The Process Begins by Actually Sitting Down. It couldn't have come at a better moment and felt like the final bit of guidance I needed for this new plan. This needs to be my mantra before I fall back into the same old habits that prevented me from writing before. I may not be working in the traditional sense, but if I'm doing to succeed, writing my stuff needs to be my job. 

April 28, 2018

Reliving the 90s with Little Fires Everywhere + Hootie & the Blowfish tickets

Over the last few months, the book Little Fires Everywhere has been, well, everywhere. I've seen it in places ranging from the grocery store to ads on Facebook, and a few of my good friends were reading it, so I decided to pick it up. 

And that's how it became the second book I've read this year. Yeah, I'm a little behind on that 100-book Good Reads challenge, but when you have to take your mom to the ER four times in less than two months and your car to four mechanics within the same time period, plus you lose your awesome writing job of six years in the midst of all of it, reading kind of gets pushed to the back of the old to-do list. But enough about that. I actually finished this particular novel late one night in my mom's hospital room.  

So, did it live up to the hype? Maybe. I enjoyed it, but I often felt like I was siding with the wrong characters. One of the major conflicts revolves around a baby who is adopted after her birth mother abandons her, and that turns into a custody battle. While reading the second half of the book, I felt like the author, Celeste Ng, wanted you to take a certain side. I felt like she was more sympathetic to one side than the other. After I read it, though, I wasn't so sure. Maybe her goal was to make your feel conflicted. I discussed it with a friend who read it at the same time I did, and I cringed when I admitted to her whose side I took in the custody battle and which main character I couldn't stand. I was shocked when she agreed with me.  

My point, though, is that the book made me think and re-think some of my positions. Adoption, which is near and dear to me, was a central theme. It also took place in a city — Cleveland — that I don't normally read much about, so I learned some things. One of my favorite things about it, though, was that it took place during the 1990s, and there are some music and pop culture references scattered throughout. I wish there had been more, but I'll take it. All in all, I'd recommend giving it a read.  

And if you're into this sort of thing, it looks like Reese Witherspoon and Kerry Washington will be turning Little Fires Everywhere into a miniseries.  



Speaking of the 90s and my glorious teen years, back then, along with the rest of the country, I was a huge Hootie & the Blowfish fan. While I can't pinpoint the exact moment it happened, I'd guess it was circa middle school when Cracked Rear View became a thing, and it was one of the only gifts I asked my parents to get me for my birthday that year. Well, it's 20+ years later, and I'm still a big fan of the band. Next to maybe Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers and REM, I listen to them more than just about anyone. 

The problem is I can't seem to see them live. Ever. 

Every year, they do a concert or two in their hometown and one of my favorite places, Charleston, and every year I'm way too late to get tickets. One problem is that they announce the dates just a week or so before tickets go on sale, and I find out about it a couple of weeks later. This year, however, thanks to many boring days spent unemployed and at the hospital, I saw the initial announcement. This was going to be my year, even if I had to go alone. A leisurely trip to Charleston in August to see one of the greatest bands of my coming of ages years would be a nice reward after the last couple of months from hell, right? 

I wasn't sure if I'd be home at 10 a.m. on the big sale day, so I had other people ready and waiting to buy my tickets for me. But I ended up being home and awake at that, so I was also working on my laptop and my phone at 9:55 a.m. I did everything right.  

I still didn't get tickets.  

I took to Twitter to vent, because it's good for that, and I actually made friends with other people who also didn't get tickets. Despite all the limitations put in place to prevent scalpers from scooping them up, that's exactly what happened. By 10:07, the $50 tickets were on StubHub for $400. I'm all for capitalism and everything, but something about this just seems wrong.  

So, I guess I'm not going to see Hootie & the Blowish yet again this year. I'll definitely try for 2019, though. Hopefully, Ticketmaster and whoever else handles this stuff will get their act together.  If you happen upon this blog and you did manage to snag tickets, though, I'd love to hear from you. 

Especially if you have an extra one or two you'd like to sell for a reasonable price. I'm just saying....  

April 02, 2018

Politics: I learned to stop caring, and I couldn't be happier


If you know me at all, either online or in person, you know that I've always been pretty passionate about politics. Even as a little kid. It's something my grandfather (who agreed with me on most things) and my father (who doesn't agree with me on most things) and I all bonded over. Many of my conversations with both of them always reverted back to current events, elections, and the news stories of the day. I volunteered at voting booths, ran social media campaigns for candidates, and stuck signs in my yards and bumper stickers on my cars. My interest in politics even landed me my some of my first writing jobs. I've interviewed everyone from local politicians and gubernatorial candidates to congressmen and people who've worked in the White House. I kept the TVs in my house on various news stations from the time I got up to the time I went to sleep. I cleared my calendar for debates and conventions. I'd say at least half of the friends I have right now I made through various political ventures over the last decade or so.

And now I'm kind of over it.

Exactly one year ago, I went to great lengths to remove as much political stuff as I could from my life. I unfollowed all news sites on social media. I stopped watching the "news" channels. I stopped reading the newspapers and websites. I even cut back on interactions with people who were nonstop talking about current events and stopped posting about them on social media myself.

Guess what? The world didn't come to an end. The only thing that happened was that I had a little less stress in my life and a little more time to focus on what's real. Because, as it turns out, a lot of this stuff isn't even real. So much of it is manufactured so that people have something to be outraged about. I was tired of being outraged and being around outraged people. Sign into Facebook or turn on a cable news channel, and you'd think everyone hates everyone else. Go spend a day in the world with people who aren't just like you, and you'll realize that for the most part, most people don't actually hate each other and just want to mind their own business. Everyone's not racist, sexist, or homophobic. Everyone's not offended.

Lately, I've spent a lot of time with my parents, and no matter what's going on with them, they have to watch the same network news program at 7 pm every night. My mom gets kind of irritated when I point out how much of it is not really even news at all, or point out how biased it is or whatever. My dad also gets irritated when he says something like, "Did you hear what (random politician) said today?" Nine times out of ten, I didn't and don't want to. 

Admittedly, it's cost me some friendships. Then again, being overtly political did, too. But I've kind of come to the conclusion that I don't want to be friends with people who are going to judge me based on my political views anyway. And I don't want to judge other people based on theirs anymore. I do think social media is to blame for much of it. I managed to go years without knowing how every kid I went to high school with felt about gun control, abortion, or gay marriage. And I'm sure many felt the same way about me.

It doesn't mean I don't have strong opinions about certain issues. It doesn't mean that I will stop voting for the candidates I think are best or doing what I can to stop true injustices. It doesn't even mean that I'm not paying attention. It just means that I'm filtering out the noise. I'm finished listening to everyone shout and argue at each other when it's not going to amount to anything.

I'd rather spend my time hanging out with friends and family. I'd rather spend my time playing with and taking care of my pets. I'd rather travel, see the world, go on adventures, read good books, watch good TV, write stories, swim, hike, plant something, grow something, eat good food, create stuff, explore historical sites, remodel a house, take pictures, enjoy nature, watch sports, listen to music, help people and animals in need, be in a play, go for a drive, or meet interesting people. Not to be cliche, but we're only here for so long, and I'd rather fill whatever time I have left with those things.

December 15, 2017

Jasmine



Since I've been documenting my chicken drama here since March, I thought I'd take a minute to talk about how it all came to an end today. I don't like how it happen, though, but I guess that's not my call.  

If you're new here, the just of it is this: I had a sick chicken in my flock in March. After some TLC, a vet visit, and some medication, she mostly recovered, but my flock wouldn't accept her back. During this time, four random chickens — two roosters and two hens — randomly showed up in my yard. (How does that even happen?) The roosters quickly disappeared, and after trying to find a home for the hens, I decided to keep them. Why? They weren't mean to my sick chicken like my other gals were. They actually kind of loved her. So, after a couple of months of trying to deal with this mess, I built a brand new coop, and I had my old crew in one coop, and the sick chicken and the two newbies in the other. I can't express how stressful things had been up until that point. I'd almost lost all interest in raising these birds, something I'd been really passionate about before.  

Just when I thought the stress was over, it wasn't. Sick chicken, Marigold, died about a week after I finished the coop. She wasn't expected to live long anyway as she had some internal issues with her egg-laying parts. Shortly after Marigold died, one of the two strays, Tulip, got super depressed. She wouldn't eat. She wouldn't walk around much. I believe she mourned herself to death, because a few weeks later, she took her last breaths in the garage. 

That left Jasmine. Oh, Jasmine. She was small, but she made up for her size with plenty of attitude. She hated being alone in the coop and eventually stopped sleeping in it and moved to the garage. She'd greet any cars that drove up. She went broody once, and I briefly considered ordering her some babies so she'd eventually have her own flock, but I don't think I could have handled it if she'd eaten them or something. So, I finally decided to let her join my flock. They didn't get along at first, naturally. She remained pretty low on the pecking order, but eventually they let her pal around with them. Mean Myrtle still pecked her when she tried to eat with them, but she followed them around the yard and slept with them in the bushes. 

She just wouldn't sleep in the coop. Either coop. She slept in the garage for a while, but eventually, she even stopped doing that. I searched the yard over, but I couldn't figure out where she was spending her nights until one evening, I was in the kitchen, and I saw something out of the corner of my eye in the cedar tree that towers over the back patio. "What kind of bird is that?" I said to no one in particular. It took me a few minutes to realize it was Jasmine. She would climb up the patio steps, fly up on the railing, jump into the tree, and walk the flimsy branches until she was in a safe spot. 

What could I do? I let her sleep there until temperatures dropped into the 20s last week, and we experienced an unprecedented snow. My dad helped me get her into the garage where she stayed for about four days. As I said, she's a feisty little thing, and I am personally afraid to mess with her. She's pecked and clawed the hell out of him multiple times, especially when he had to break her from her broody spell. Once the snow melted, Jasmine tried to return to the tree every night, and every night we had to coral her back into the garage. 

Until last night. We had her schedule figured out. She always got into the tree around 5:20, right before my chickens went into the coop for the night. Just before dark. My dad was working out. I was charging my phone. We met on the back patio at the same time we always did, but that damn chicken was already in the tree. I think she tried to outsmart us by going to bed early. At this point, there wasn't much we could do. She wanted to be in that tree. She thought she was safe there. We thought she was safe there. Until she wasn't. 

This morning, my mom and I were working on our antique booth, and my dad called. He'd discovered feathers all over the backyard when he went out to work on cutting up all the trees that fell during last week's snow, and Jasmine was nowhere to be found. When he let my chickens out, they were spooked. They spent the day hiding in the bushes, only coming out when I took them some sunflower seeds. My first thought was a coyote was still out early this morning, waiting when she got down out of the tree. After all, they've been hanging around lately. But that didn't really make sense.  

Long story slightly shorter, my dad thinks something got her in the night. A big limb from the cedar tree she slept in had fallen, creating something of a ladder to the top of the tree. There were little scratch marks up and down it as if something big had climbed it. A raccoon maybe? I can't be sure, but whatever it was must have grabbed her while she slept. I just hope that whatever it was, it killed her quickly. She more than likely would have put up a fight at any other time of day, but chickens can't see what's coming in the dark. 

Believe it or not, my parents were attached to her. I think they took it pretty hard. I'm sad, but I learned a long time ago that when raising animals like this, you can do the best you can, but there is no right way to both keep them 100 percent safe and let them live a free and happy life. I mean, a coyote snatched my little Rose right out from under me back in February. There was literally nothing else I could have done for her, and I've gone to great lengths to protect these girls. You have to detach yourself a little, especially if you believe as I do that animals just don't belong in cages 24/7. 

But I'm glad that Jasmine had a home for the last 9 months of her life, and she didn't have to be a "street chicken," though she still had that instinct. I'm glad she got to pal around with my chickens, even if Myrtle pecked her. I'm glad she had a yard where she was happy to dig and run and explore and nap in the sunshine and the dust-bathe in the bushes. I'm glad she enjoyed treats like biscuits, sunflower seeds, kale, corn, noodles, and yogurt. And if there's a little chicken heaven out there somewhere, I hope she's reunited with Marigold and Tulip, and they are living the high life.