Sunday, April 17, 2011


The girls are growing. Now we have half-grown birds in a dog crate in the basement. While the girls are still small enough to all fit in there, the face remains that we have half-grown CHICKENS in our basement.

The other day, I was on craigslist, and I saw a piece of furniture called a "chicken hutch." Apparently, this item allows the homemaker to keep a chicken in the house. And it also provides storage.

For what it's worth, I bypassed on the hutch. After a month of chickens in the basement, I am ready for the girls to move out to their new digs.

Saturday, April 2, 2011

Should I blow or should I go?

Nita has entered her annual spring allergy phase. This is always a tense time for me, as she does not like to blow her nose.

Today I was, ahem, discussing this issue with her, and I informed her that she was going to end up in the emergency room if she didn't start blowing her nose. She replied, "But I like going there--they give me popsicles."

I looked sharply at her. She laughed, pleased at her joke, and went off to dramatically blow her nose.

Nita was the one who was evaluated by the school and given an IQ of below 70. For her to joke is such a blessing, as joking requires an awareness of what is absurd, which requires an awareness of what is "normal." That, of course, requires a certain mental acuity.

While I never had any doubt that Nita had mental acuity, the school psychologist apparently did. (Of course, I suspected at the time that the school psychologist lacked a certain mental acuity and I also suspect that Nita noticed that lack in the psychologist herself, which is why she refused to do the evaluation to her best ability.) Anyway, Nita is funny, both intentionally and unintentionally.

Her latest foible was in the car. We were driving past some businesses, including a post office, a nursing home, a restaurant, a Tastee-Freeze, and Jardine's Funeral Home. Nita asked, "Mom, why don't we ever buy furniture there?"

"Where," I asked.

"Back there," she replied. "At the furniture store."

"What furniture store?"

"The one with the J."

"Jardine's?" I asked. She replied yes. "Honey, Jardine's is a funeral home."

"Oh," she said. "It is?" And after a second, she added. "I guess we wouldn't want the type of furniture they sold there."