150 Frogs

Tadpoles are like minuscule vessels of childhood joy. It seems fitting that in this house, one that we love and feel right in, we should find ourselves the lucky recipient of a Pacific Treefrog's progeny. All one hundred and fifty of them swimming and sunbathing in our tiny dirty pond. I was going to clean the pond because the algae died and turned the water blackish. It's cleared up a bit since then...but now I cannot clean it without concern about our little nursery of frogs.

In spite of the fact that I have only given birth to a baby once, and am happy as hell to see my reproductive organs put up a "gone fishing" sign*, I seem to find myself surrounded with new life. Everywhere I turn there are babies. My kittens, though healthy and getting much bigger now, are still my babies. Chick came to me as a puppy and was very much my baby. Our hens were day old babies when we got them- nodding off while standing up and then startling awake wondering where they could find some little snail to ravage. Babies keep entering my life.

Now I have one hundred and fifty tadpoles. Somehow, seeing the tadpoles made me imagine how my garden will change from a wasteland of lawn and dusty "low maintenance" shrubs into a wild tangle of flowers and food. There is so much work to be done to transform it that I feel slightly paralyzed. It's a big yard, for which I'm thankful, but every inch of it is either blanketed in lawn or is laid down with four layers of non permeable plastic and has things I must dig up out of compacted clay. I have never gotten a garden that wasn't a lot of work to transform.

While Philip was putting the roof on the chicken run and I was shoveling dirt into the wheelbarrow for the tenth time all I could think is "I'm too old to be starting over with a new garden. Let this be the last time I start over!"

I want a riot of flowers: shasta daisies, penstamon, verbena, black eyed susans, grandmother's pincushions, lilies, corn flowers, poppies, larkspur, cosmos, sage, salvias, lavender, wall flowers, and violets spreading blankets of sweet flowers under the shade of fruit trees.

Obviously I cannot have enough roses. Some of my old friends need to find place in my small paradise of plants: Frederick Mistral, Abraham Darby, Jardin de Bagatelle, Honor, Oklahoma, and Peter Mayle.

I better go get dressed. I have a lot of digging to do. I hope you all have happy productive week-ends!

*Which, technically, they haven't yet.

Chicken Run

I miss our hens. I miss hearing them squawk, shuffle, coo, cluck, argue, and preen. A collection of noises that I find soothing, therapeutic, and charming. It's too quiet here. It's time to shake up the neighborhood and introduce them to their new existence living next door to the McMinnville hillbillies.

Oh, totally random (before I forget again): I keep meaning to say that the owner of the Burnside B&B (Liz) was fabulous and I adore her and she cemented her charm when she asked me who Martha Stewart was. How cool is that? Yes, some people don't even know who she is.

Back to the hens...we can't just bring the hen house over and let them roam the yard because the dog will kill them. So a run has to be built first. Although I have yet to see evidence of skunks or raccoons in our own yard, we know they are plentiful in the McMinnville neighborhoods and aside from dogs they are the most serious predator of chickens. Fortifications must be built that cannot be breached by digging or unlatching or climbing in via tree branches. For this reason, building a chicken run is a little bit like building a tiny Fort Knox. Burying chicken wire down in the dirt several inches is a good tactic. Covering the roof of the run is also smart, the other threat is chicken hawks. Yep, hawks that steal and eat chickens.

Because we live in a suburban area, there are set back rules for keeping chickens that we must adhere to. This is predominantly why we are building our chicken run right up against our lovely porch. Normally we would probably find a different spot for them.

All of our animals were intrigued by Philip's mysterious undertaking. They camped out around him, got in his way, perched themselves importantly on the tools, and generally tried to be as unhelpful as possible which is cake to cats and dogs.

Even our neighbor's puppy got in on the act. Chick dug a hole for her under the fence and I didn't discover it until I saw Chick run by twice in one direction...after my double take I noticed that the extra Chick was actually a Rottweiler puppy. This forced caused me to finally meet our neighbors over the back fence. We've agreed to let our dogs be friends since none of us can honestly figure out how to stop a determined black lab from digging her way to China if that's what she wants. Riley is very sweet, super soft, and more spazzy than Angelina on a farm.

Life is good here. We've discovered that we are much too poor to have our house up on the market but much too poor to pay for two mortgages so our friends Anna and Mitch are going to rent it because they really like the house and are supremely tired of living in a rental house with raw sewage leaking into their basement. Yeah, I don't blame them. We are all super happy with this outcome, though it's been a slightly bumpy ride working this all out. (Sorry for all the ups and downs Anna!!) (They've been very kind and patient with me.)

We are also too poor for me to lounge around here all day eating bon bons (locally made, obviously) so I'm looking for a job. I was really depressed about the prospect until I saw that our local library is hiring. Don't get your undies in a bunch over it, I'm sure there's a lot of competition for the position, but I got a glimpse of how working again might actually be exciting. I was beginning to imagine the drudgery it must be to pump ever more expensive gasoline into giant trucks all day when I saw this little light. It may be a long shot, but this is a job that I am ideally suited for, that I have secretly dreamed of even doing even after graduating from FIDM with my associates degree in fashion design.

Libraries are magical places. There were times in my childhood when I spent more hours talking with the librarians than I did my own parents. There are few places that hold as much promise of attainable knowledge and no other place in which you can broaden your experience of the world without leaving town. They smell of books; they represent the ultimate in organization of information; the human imagination is represented in thousands of ways and celebrated nowhere else so thoroughly than in public libraries...all for free.

Reality is a funny thing and who can say what it will look like tomorrow, but today is Sunday and we are all going to go for a bicycle ride together and I am going to dream yet another impossible dream.

A Room Of My Own
(a before shot of my everything room)

This is my room. My sewing room. My writing room. My guru room. My sanctuary. My spy tower. My hide out. My club room. My retreat. Doesn't look like much right now since it's filled from floor to ceiling with crapola. It's seething with paper and fabric and string and patterns and just about everything a person like me deems necessary to survive. I'm going to redefine my definition of necessary very soon.

My last sewing room was orange and I loved it. I love the energy of orange and I still want to have some orange somewhere but I don't think I want it in my new sewing room because the pink and grey carpet would argue with orange. I want no arguments in my sanctuary. Except for the ones that go on in my own head.

As everyone knows, I'm not a fan of carpet in general. I have to admit that I like this one. Very Victorian. And not plush. Plush is just a big trap for hair and dirt and dust and...

Excuse my Howard Hughes moment. This room could be the perfect place to enjoy my delicate constitution and heart palpitations. I'm going to need a fainting couch though. And a lackey to cool me off with giant palm fronds when I get a little over heated from the exertion of complaining about my very mysterious illnesses.

Well, I've got lots of work to do. I need to get that room set up so I can make a coat. I will at last be able to contribute to the New Vintage Wardrobe flickr group because I'm making a coat from a reprinted Vogue pattern. I'll give you a sneak peak soon. It will probably be a while before I get the room painted because I need the coat for my trip.

Hope you all have a great Wednesday!

Feeding The Farm
And how Angelina pulled a Britney Spears

The hens have not yet moved to the farmhouse so I am going to the old house to feed them and care for them. I miss having them right outside my own back door. They are laying quite well now and one of them is laying some huge ones. Like, double jumbo size, and all I can think every time I crack one open is how that must hurt her chicken lady bits. Most people don't think of chickens as having lady bits, I'll bet. I like to imagine that laying eggs is slightly less uncomfortable that pushing out watermelon sized baby heads (sorry, you're going to have to do that soon Karmyn!) because they have to do it almost every day! No wonder they wear out in a few years.

I love my hens. I really do. I have a thing for birds, as I've mentioned here before. But not just any birds. Mostly it's hens. They're silly, funny, very practical, scrappy, pretty, usually quite friendly, curious, hungry, and chatty. What's not to love?

My pictures today are not spectacular. Here is my oregano barrel, ready for a trim. The last time I harvested oregano I dried it in the dehydrator on too high of a setting and it turned brown and off smelling so I had to toss it. I've been waiting to make a new harvest. Yesterday I picked a nice big bag full and today it goes into the dehydrator.

Eggs and herbs. Not a bad harvest for being in the middle of such a big transition.

In Which I Unpack My Life And It's Old Ambitions:

I realized yesterday that in order to finish moving I needed to make more room for things in the garage. Our garage is huge. But it is having to hold all of Philip's art stuff (he's not only a painter, he is an assemblage* artist which requires that you store vast collections of weird stuff), my pantry (we have a basement space in which the pantry stuff can go once the stairs going down there are supported and no longer considered a "death trap" by our home inspector), my medicinal herbal center (a big shelving unit that Capello would like to lick something to own), and all of Dustpan Alley's merchandise not to mention the usual garage suspects like tools and garden equipment.

I worked for a few hours yesterday arranging the space in the garage. I unpacked lots of boxes and put things away. I'm very pleased with the work I got done. It forced me to look at all my store merchandise though, as Philip had to do when packing up our storage unit to bring it all here. I understand why he felt depressed about it. When I put everything on the shelves I felt a small sense of injustice that so much crap sells so well out there and my really amazing collection of merchandise didn't sell better. Why? But really, it's no use asking such questions and I am very thankful not to have the store anymore. I really am. So the feeling went away as I contemplated what to do with it all.

My sewing room isn't very big and won't fit all the stuff that was in my studio in the other house. So it's going to have to go in the garage too. So more room will have to be made. We have too much stuff. I relish the idea of cleaning up and clearing things out. I love the idea of streamlining my house and it's operation.

When I was done my feet really hurt. I mean, the ball of my feet which gave me a lot of trouble last year before I started wearing only Keens and Birkenstocks (disguised as regular shoes) with inserts were shooting such violent pains up my leg that it would jerk my leg involuntarily and make me go "AH...AH...AH!". It seemed weird that only putting crap away for a few hours could create such pain in my feet. Then I remembered that I took the dog on an hour long walk.

My body is allergic to exercise.

The walk itself felt so good. I listened to Bob Dylan and the dog didn't pull on the leash and the air was fresh and it didn't rain until later. I love walking. But walking apparently makes me fall to pieces later. Just like going to the gym makes my back go out.

I didn't know that being 38 years old was like being 80 years old. I wish someone had told me not to get fat a couple of years ago. Oh well. The deed is done and clearly it's going to be a very long journey to reclaim my body. But notice that I'm not saying I can't or that I've given up. Wait, this is fodder for my other blog. Enough about body stuff.

In Which I Don't Recommend Pornographic Photo Shoots To Aspiring "Actresses":

I have a message for any of you considering an acting or modeling career: don't let any boyfriends or girlfriends tape you having sex and don't let anyone take nude pictures of you. No matter what anyone says, any pictures in which you are wearing "outfits" that come from Frederick's Of Hollywood or from a Hustler store are not going to be "artistic". These things will haunt you later, if you ever want to be taken seriously. Has anyone seen Meryl Streep in sex videos? Did she pose nude for dubious "photographer"s when she was trying to make it?

I also just want to say that I wish Paris Hilton would go grow a garden, without holding a microphone at the same time. Microphone clutching people annoy me. Microphones remind me of penises that untalented people need to constantly pander to for some sense of security and to feel bigger than they are. The way performers use them says a lot about them. People like Paris Hilton don't really have anything to give the microphone but vapid white noise. I think if she went off quietly and did a little real living without cameras or microphones or contracts or riches she might have something of value to contribute.

(Can you tell I got my hands on a gossip rag? My mom brought it for me this weekend.)

Oh, and I have to say that I can't believe Tori Spelling has "written" a book, a biography. I already didn't have respect for her, but now that I've seen the title of her book I want to throw up. It's called "sTORI Telling". That's like dotting all your "i"s with big pink hearts. Which I'll bet she does. What does a girl like that have to say besides "my mom took all my money"? Too bad down and out celebrities can't sell back their boob jobs. This is why they should all be collecting diamonds. Oh wait, they probably already are. Poor Tori. Life is very hard for her.

In Which I Pull A Britney, But Without All The Money:

I almost forgot to tell you all that I got pulled over yesterday! Yes, I violated two laws. This is unusual for me. I usually stick with just one at a time. I got pulled over for endangering a child!!! (Mine, you smart asses.) I also got cited for carrying a passenger on my scooter. The child endangerment was because I had Max on my scooter and he's too young and small (apparently) to ride in or on any vehicle without proper restraints.

But aside from that, in Oregon you are not allowed to carry any passenger on a scooter. Even if it's built to carry a passenger (which mine is). The policeman was really nice and didn't give me tickets for either citation because he admitted that most people are unaware of these laws, especially the one about carrying passengers on scooters. He also suggested that I speak up and try to change the regulation because it was his opinion that scooters that are more than 50cc's are strong enough to carry passengers safely and the law was really passed for mopeds which are under 50ccs and he also said that although he had to uphold the rules he really didn't think Max was in danger as he was protected just as much as I was (he was wearing a full face helmet).

I tend to have good experiences with policemen. He was clearly prepared for me to be angry and defensive and to contest the laws. I did tell him I thought the laws were unfortunate and seemed a little unfair yet I reassured him that I had no idea about the laws I had just broken and would not have broken them had I known. This is true. I don't resent policemen doing their work and do not view them as the enemy. This doesn't mean I never break laws. I do jaywalk sometimes and I do sometimes have chickens where they aren't legal.

Anyway, he was really nice and we had a good chat while about a billion middle school kids ogled me and wondered what the hell I had done wrong. I do find being pulled over embarrassing. That's the first time it's happened to me.



*Say it with a French accent. This can also be less romantically referred to as recycled object sculptures or junk art or whatever. "Assemblage" is so much more classy. Though Philip has his own distinct style, the type of art his work most resembles is the work of Joseph Cornell.