burnt toast life

Chickenworld: the opposite of China

This is a sad post. All other burnt toast sympathizers should abandon it now.

Still with me? I warned you. Ok, here goes.

In our attempt to create what can only be classified as the Harding Family Farm, we adopted 8 chicks. In fact, I’ve been meaning to write about them for quite some time, but then they got really ugly. When we first got them they looked like this:

"I'm so cute!"

Now they look like this:

"I'm pretty awkward."

We had toyed around with the idea of getting chickens for two reasons. First, the notion of having fresh eggs was appealing. Second, it sounded cool. Now, Eric was definitely the instigator behind this whole plan. If I’m being completely honest it was one of those ideas that I hoped would go away and never come back. It’s not that I didn’t want chickens – it’s just that I assumed (correctly) that they would be more of a hassle than we were bargaining for and we were probably romanticizing the notion of owning them.

Then my uncle sent an email saying that his children had embarked on a 4H project hatching chicks from eggs. At the end of it they planned to donate the chicks to a farm. Unfortunately or fortunately for me, they wound up coming home with us this past Easter Sunday.

Obviously we didn’t know the genders, though we crossed our fingers for 7 girls and 1 boy. Sadly, the odds were against us. As the weeks passed it became clear that we had 4 girls and 4 boys. Not the worst outcome, but not what we were hoping for either. And unlike China, the boys are next to impossible to get rid of.

No one wants male chickens. All you need is one. If you keep more than one, they will fight to the death (so I’ve been told). So what do you do with them? I can’t figure it out. I called a family friend with a farm who sounded delighted that I wanted to give away chickens until I mentioned the gender. “Well, I don’t want males. I need layers,” he explained. So what the hell do people do with the men?!

There are different types of chickens and the kind we have are meant for egg-laying, not for eating. Apparently they aren’t tasty and tender. So now I’m stuck with 3 male chickens who no one wants and who will fight each other into a bloodbath of rooster carnage in a few short months. I’m really at a loss here. Plus, I feel so terrible for them that I can’t even go into the dining room where their cardboard box resides. It’s totally out of sight and partially out of mind on this one.

So my question is this – does anyone want 3 awkward-looking and not delicious male chickens? Free delivery.

the unbearable sadness of discarded food

1) See? I told you this blog wasn’t just about dogs. This post has nothing at all to do with dogs

2) I dedicate this one to my sister Ashley, who graciously put up with me panicking, chastising, and lamenting for 5 straight hours at Addison’s baptism celebration because there was just. too. much. food.

Leftovers make me sad. An abundance of food that will likely go to waste makes me anxious. Throwing away week-old stir-fry often moves me to tears. Ok, the last one is an exaggeration – but only slightly. It has only recently come to my attention how much inanimate objects, particularly food, make me uneasy or even upset. It’s a very difficult thing to explain if you’ve never felt it. But if you have experienced it, you may be thinking, “Yes! That’s how I feel, too! And I thought I was the only one.” IKEA captured it perfectly with their lamp commercial a few years ago:

Oh, that commercial makes me tear up. I’m not crazy – I know that lamps, rugs, and leftovers don’t have feelings. But it’s so easy to assume that they do, or to create them in your mind. Bear with me, I’m going to try to paint a picture: Imagine a yogurt. Just a regular, plain container of yogurt. That yogurt was manufactured and shipped to your grocery store and unloaded onto a shelf. Its entire purpose in life (ok, assuming it has a “life”) was to be consumed and enjoyed by someone. That’s why I find it so upsetting to throw away spoiled yogurt – it’s like discarding a wasted life without meaning. Is this mentality a stretch? Perhaps. But still I can’t shake the feeling that food has a distinct purpose and should always reach its intended destination.

This also works the other way – I get a deep sense of satisfaction from chopping up that last green pepper for my salad just before it spoils or perfectly timing meals around the almond milk expiration date. And anyone who drinks almond milk knows that it gives me about 3 months – which is part of the reason I prefer it to cow milk. Quick expiration dates are highly stressful.

I know at least one other person who feels exactly the same way I do, and this comforts me into believing I’m not insane. Plus, IKEA clearly made that commercial for a reason, even if that reason was to sell more lamps. I think this post makes it obvious why we absolutely had to adopt that dog (dammit – I knew the dog would sneak his way in!) I feel deeply sympathetic for unloved food, so when you start to tell me about actual LIVING things being mistreated, my compassion meter goes off the charts. My hierarchy of empathy goes something like this: household objects –> food –> plants –> animals –> people (especially babies).

So the moral of this story is that if you plan to get a new lamp, please do me a favor and have a yard sale, or at least donate it to Goodwill. They may end up throwing it away, but then the responsibility is on them. And then I won’t know about it.

 

how to become a mother overnight

I swear, this blog isn’t just going to be about puppies. But the dog is new and the blog is new, so this is what I have.

It’s no secret that Eric and I want to have children, but haven’t been blessed with one yet. I guess that’s a very short and compact way of summing up a much more complicated reality. But anyway, that’s not the point of this post. The point is that I used to mock people who treated their dogs like children, talked to their dogs like children, and behaved as though their dogs actually were children. Now that I have a dog, I’m starting to understand why this is so easy to do.

It all started at Marshall’s when I was shopping for a dog bed and various other accessories. I started perusing the dog toy section and thinking, “Ooh, this one’s cute. Should I get the wittle bitty lambie or the wittle bitty lion? Oh my, but then there’s a giraffe, too!”

baby toy? dog toy? both..?

Yeah. It felt suspiciously like shopping for a small child, and the similarities were not lost on me. Plus, from the moment we brought him home to live with us, Eric automatically became daddy and I became mommy. Ryder’s new tag bears our last name. It’s like we effortlessly adopted a very furry child.

And like having a new baby, I feel desperately guilty every morning when I leave him and anxious to get home to see him. The romanticized notions are basically gone, and he gets in my way and annoys me daily – you know, like when you have a kid. I’m proud of what he has learned so far – you can already tell he’s getting more comfortable in his own skin and he’s even learning how to walk properly. Our little boy is growing up so quickly…

One non-baby related thing that makes me very happy about Ryder is that he has forced me into exercise. For the past year I have made up excuse after excuse to go back to bed for an hour after waking up at 7 to pack Eric’s lunch. Every night I would go to be saying, “Tomorrow will be the day. I will stay up and do my Pilates video or maybe even go for a run. I will not go back to sleep.” And then morning would come and the bed would look so inviting that I would abandon exercise in favor of sleep. But now that I have this very active pup, I’m guilt tripped into walks in the morning. Well, the first morning was a guilt trip. Now I actually enjoy these walks, probably as much as he does. I actually have more energy during the day, and I feel just slightly less guilty about crating him all day. Eric and I even started taking evening walks, too, rather than flopping down on the couch the minute we get home from work. So all in all, this dog has improved our lives and given us a pseudo-child.

Don’t get me wrong – we still want a real baby. But he’s a nice distraction in the meantime.

must tolerate dogs

I’m not a dog person.

This may even be an understatement, especially since several friends responded to my text about getting a dog with, “What? Did pigs start flying to announce that hell froze over, too?”

The truth is that I never wanted a dog. A few years ago I would go as far as to say I disliked them, but really only when they were jumping or drooling on me. However, I married a “dog guy” and we talked about getting one since the idea of sharing our lives together finally became reality. He insisted that he needed a dog, and over time the idea grew on me. I even began to romanticize the notion, imagining a stoic companion to keep watch beside my armchair while I sipped hot cocoa and delved into a good book. In my doggie daydreams, of course, I never imagined a poorly behaved pup.

Eric and I clashed on what breed to get, and somewhat violently. I wanted a small, pocket-sized dog to carry around in my handbag and strut with down the street. His inclinations leaned more towards large, bad-ass dog that could be his best friend and not threaten his manhood while on walks. He wanted a pitbull; I wanted a pug. We both agreed that whatever dog we picked absolutely had to be a rescue from a shelter and not a pet store purebred. Since we disagreed on just about everything else about our future pet, the matter was laid to rest for the time being.

Then Friday afternoon rolled around. My mom forwarded us an email about a 7 month old Golden who needed a home – and fast. The email came with 2 snapshots, a sad tale of allergies, and a warning that whoever wanted the dog needed to make a decision before Saturday evening. We called and set up a meeting for the next morning.

We could tell Ryder was going to be a firecracker from the first time we saw him straining against his leash as his family walked him down the street. There’s just something about the way he walks – it’s as if he doesn’t quite know how to coordinate his front legs with his back legs. It was immediately apparent that this was a high energy, high maintenance dog – but he was a purebred Golden worth $1,000 that we were getting for free. He was a big dog (Eric’s happy) but a loyal, friendly dog that’s great with kids (Amanda’s happy).

Then we heard a bit about why the family was getting rid of Ryder, and that’s when I knew he was absolutely, without a doubt coming home with us. Eric already chastised me for speculating and giving credit to hearsay, so I’ll just say this – they (supposedly) did not give him the love and attention he deserved, allergies notwithstanding. It became apparent that he was my “burnt toast dog,” which went along well with my burnt toast husband and various other burnt toast people/items in my life. But that’s another story for another time.

So Ryder is our dog, and so far things are going well. He is rambunctious, excitable, and has endless stores of energy. My biggest complaint so far is the ridiculous amount of dog hair and dog dandruff all over my clean floor. It’s pretty obvious that he has never been to the groomer, so hopefully once we get that out of the way the shedding will be less intense. We took him to the dog park on Saturday afternoon and he had an absolute ball, plus he seems to play well with others. He sleeps curled next to our bed at night and follows Eric around the house wherever he goes. He clearly needs to be trained and to get comfortable in his element, but I can tell he’s a good dog already. We definitely made the right decision – though I still would not call myself a “dog person.”