The Guinea Hens? We'll Miss Them.

We are going to eat the guinea hens.

Scott's mom got them for us despite our insistence that we did not want or need any. When I complained they were slowly chipping away at my sanity she said that many people who have them hate them at first but then grow to love them.

Yeah.

So you know when you are dating someone and there is that moment when you catch yourself thinking 'when I leave him/her I am going to take the TV' and then you realize that you have been subconsciously planning to leave them for awhile but haven't got there yet? Like that but with guinea hens.

For one thing they never shut up. I was assured by the Internet that they would in time, but that was before one of them injured its foot. Now Gimpy freaks out because she is unable to keep up and starts -I don't even know how to define this sound- squawking? Screaming? A possessed demon chant from another world? It never stops. Heaven help us all if Gimpy gets stuck on the opposite side of the fence from her friends.

They have only one job on this farm, and that is to alert me when predators are about. One job. Yesterday there was a hawk in the sky. Just chilling. I spot the hawk, and move myself and the dog closer to the chickens and glared at the offending bird. Then I realize something. It was quiet. So quiet. They had not even noticed. Gimpy was with the herd so therefore all was right in the world.

I have to amend that previous paragraph to say the they were excellent at alerting other predictors that we stepping out of the house with the gun and that they should run. Forget trying to sneak up on stray cat or a raccoon, oh no. If a human being stepped outside carrying something it was code fucking blue motherfuckers. They would yell like the sky itself was raining down lava boulders. This applied to anything: tools, shopping bags, the dog, car keys.

They also developed a habit of coming up to out sliding glass door and beating on it with their beaks.

The final straw was when they started attacking the chickens. I know at least one guinea hen was male, and I think he was doing the worst of it, but since males and females look identical, I made the decision to kill them all.

Lets recap. They were not doing their jobs. In fact they were attacking the very things they should have been protecting and hindering out attempts to protect the chickens as well. They were as loud as fuck all.

So we murdered butchered them all.* My aunt has offered to cook them, so we will see how that goes. I was told that they are not good eating, but the Internet told me that they have a good flavor and are often cooked as a lean alternative to chicken.

You know what? You know what I don't hear right now?

Life is good.

* I do not like killing animals, but I do like eating meat. So there you are. It is my firm belief however, that if you do eat meat you should have to murder something and butcher it. Just once 'cause it ain't fun. I wish more people did that. I wish more people had an understanding of what the process is like. I think we would see more respect for dinner time that way.

Sledge Hammers and Waffles.

So yesterday and the day before that we have been working on tearing down the old barn. Which involved me using a sledge hammer. Yeah. Let me tell you something right now. Sledge hammers are fucking heavy. Also, I cannot aim one very well. Nonetheless it was extremely satisfying to take out my anger at the world on some old boards. I kept yelling things like 'I hate everything' and 'fuck the world' and my personal favorite 'bastard motherfuckers.'

Now the old barn was mostly on the ground, but not really. So we had to bash out boards until it fell over. Sometimes while standing on what was the roof because safety is apparently not important to us. Also there was a nail literally every two inches. I am not exaggerating for the sake of comedic effect here people.

Every. Two. Inches.

There were so many nails in the joists it looked like a comb. This baffles me completely. They didn't bother to put a foundation on the building, or you know, keep the roof repaired to any degree what so ever, but they put in so many, many nails. I can tell you one thing. Whoever built this was getting those nails for free. Somehow. Plus, I am fairly sure I have tetanus by now.

This morning I awoke to the sound of rain hitting the roof and thought 'oh thank god.' Since my spirits were high I rolled over and jokingly asked Scott if we could have waffles for breakfast.

Well I come if from feeding the animals and HE IS MAKING ME WAFFLES. I love him. Except for the fact that the waffles kept sticking to the waffles iron like grim death. It was like the waffles were dead set on ruining Scott's god damned morning. I kept wandering around the kitchen saying things like, 'It's okay I still love you' and 'I'm so sorry I said anything about waffles.' In the end he just made me pancakes and we pretended they were waffles.

This is how my chickens ended up with a nice waffle breakfast this morning. Which they had better fucking appreciate.

Ingrates.

Why are we terrible at going to the store?

I am a firm believer in combining trips. However I am also terrible at anticipating what we are going to need. I can easily put on the list the things we are out of completely, but I can never realize that if have half a brick of cheese that we are going to need more before next week. Or we do fine on food, but don't check anything but the fridge and end up using paper towels instead of toilet paper for two days. 

And it's not just me. Scott does this too. I can't figure out why two intelligent people have such a problem with this concept. 

Now I would like to keep a well stocked pantry so that we have extra of everything, but I can't do that in a mobile home because I live in a shoe box. I like to buy when it's on sale, and then live off my stash of pasta and canned tomatoes for all time. Unfortunately when you travel a lot you tend not to buy perishable things. This leads to getting home and opening the fridge to revel that you only own moldy cheese and condiments. And frozen peas. And sadness.

We also got a magnetic white board for the fridge so we could make a list of foods that we needed as we went though them. This, in retrospect, was a terrible idea. The problem develops because that system eliminates actually looking around the kitchen to see what were out of. In addition to the above organizational issues, I firmly believe I enter some sort of weird trance when I enter the grocery store. This trance makes me unable to remember any item that is not on my list. I call this problem 'store amnesia.' It's like I get terribly distracted by my desire to get the foods as fast as possible. 

I dislike shopping for foodstuffs, unless the store is really empty. It's like a circus where I have to dodge screaming children, fat isle blockers, the elderly, and the group of like five women that have to take up the whole alley and have to stop every three feet because those cake toppers are just to goddamn darling. I hate all of you. I also tend not to buy a lot without the husband there because I never want to get a cart. They slow me down and I get stuck in shitty cart traffic jams. Plus I have to take them out to the car and hunt down the cart return area while people barrel past me while looking for the best parking spot ever. I just want to get my fucking noodles and get the hell out. 

I think what we need is an app where if I mount a web cam with a flash in the fridge, It will take pictures of what I have and then send them to my phone while I'm in the store trying to decide if I need more soy sauce. Or maybe leave one spouse at home so that the shopping half can call home and start rattling off items. “Do we need more mayo? What about butter? Do you still eat this brand?”

I really don't have a good idea of how to fix the problem, which is why none of my sandwiches had mayo on them for the past week and haven't had any tissues in my office now for about three months. 

But it's okay, because not buying enough food is one hell of a weight loss plan, because hunger is the breakfast of champions.