A chicken coop to call our own

Last Saturday we (well, the Mister and our friend Mark) had themselves a good old fashioned barn raising. By which I mean they drank beer and almost finished a sweet little 3'x4' chicken coop.  

Here's the thing: despite what he thinks, The Mister is not all that handy.  And here's the other thing: despite what I think, I am not all that laid back.  I want to be what my friends and I call a "simple mellow"  You know the type: no makeup, enjoys mountain biking, owns lots of fleece, doesn't screech at her husband during parties, would be totally happy with any old coop.  Alas. Not me.

So, I was a little worried about the whole DIY coop thing.  I was a little worried about buying all this mismatched, salvaged wood at Building Resources and just letting the Mister go all commando on the coop design.  Because, well, I know myself well enough to know that I couldn't love an ugly coop.  Furthermore, an ugly coop might just ruin the whole chicken husbandry experiment for me altogether.

So you can imagine my relief when I saw this beaut.

The Mister's face is peeking though our egg collecting door 

Don't you just love its modern lines and clean design? I am so in love with our little coop I don't know what to do with myself. Now it just needs a roof and some paint. It's going to have a pink window.  Set at a jaunty angle.  A PINK window, people! Could life get any better than that?

A thing I like

This video of Maggie trying to catch a chicken.  Is it just me or is this effing hilarious? Oh, and please note the pink window in the background.

My big fat demotion

This place is like the Spelling mansion compared to my new cube

Ok, I know it's completely unsmart and impolitic to complain about work on a blog. I should take a cue from Dooce and just shut the hell up but, um, they are moving me out of my huge office with the view of the gurgling fountain and blooming lavender and they are putting me in a cube in the hall that was apparently designed for little people, and temps. My screen faces out, like towards the masses.  Translation: no more watching SNL videos at work.  No more personal email.  No more oh-my-god-no-waying with my friend in Milan.* Sigh.  

*Note to boss: I'm just trying to be funny.  I've never really done any of those things at work.

A thing I like

Hula Seventy's Polaroid Party.  Lots of Polaroids.  Just the way 

I like them. Plus, this one is of a donut.

Happy Mother's Day, part deux

Because I do have a soft side, you know. My wonderful friend Tara sent me these beautiful virtual flowers from Germany. And I send them to you.

Happy mom's day, yo!

Happy Mother's Day!

I know this video doesn't apply to any of us, but it sure is funny.  (Thanks, Miranda)

At least it's not Hannah Montana

Today I took the kids to exchange a few duplicate birthday gifts.  It was their first foray into a toy store.  Deprived, I know, but I try to keep episodes of sobbing materialism to a minimum.  

The agreement was that they could each pick out one replacement toy.  I was using my mind-meld techniques to steer them towards a new doll stroller (Maggie's broke) and a set of pots and pans for their new stove.   

Instead Oliver fell hard for the first thing his eyes landed on: a nifty Tinkerbell cylinder bag with a beaded handle.  He calls it "my purse" and saying he likes it is to do a grave injustice to the intensity of infatuation everywhere. He is sleeping with it at this very moment.

My only regret was my reaction.  Once I realized he meant business, I gently urged him to check out the trucks, which, duh, could never match the splendor of a lavender tin Tinkerbell purse.  I mean, in a million years. Please.

A thing I like

I just started The Slippery Year: A Meditation on Happily Ever After by Melanie Gideon, which, from what I can tell so far, is a memoir about my current stage of life—the what-next stage when you have the relationship and the house and the kids and maybe even the job and then, well, having it all can be a little static.  It turns out that life is like good fiction: the main character has to want something to make it compelling.  

Anyway, I liked this little passage here:

"There's this strange phenomenon. An hour after you've put your children to sleep, the ways in which you have wronged them sprawl out on your chest, all two hundred and fifty pounds of them, and suck the breath right out of you. It works the same way with gratitude. An hour after your family has left the house, you love them with a piercing intensity that was nowhere to be found when you were scraping egg yolk off their breakfast dishes. Your hope is to one day feel this way about them when they are in the room. This is a pretty lofty goal."

 

Chicks Gone Wild

The Mister thinks I'm such a tough farmer chick because I can pick up chickens and scoop up handfuls of bugs without flinching. Get me near a spider and it's a whole 'nother, much squealier picture.  But I must admit, I like this image of myself as no-nonsense and unfussy (it helps balance out the fugue state shopping trips to Nordstrom Rack and the way in which I am helplessly drawn to Us Weekly).  

Here I am, being totally hardcore with the circle of life.

Naked Gardening, James Beard, and How to Make A Baby

via The Washingtonian

First of all, a massive congratulations to my Sunset coworkers on their James Beard Award!  How cool is that?  They won in the food blogging category and if you haven't already been following the one-block diet blog, may I suggest that you do?  They may have single-handedly started the backyard chicken craze that's sweeping the West.  Plus, James Beard?  He was huge!  And so is the award named after him.

Also, I can't believe we didn't take advantage of this holiday at the twins three-year-old birthday party on Saturday.  It would have made what was a pretty hectic and disorganized gathering of preschoolers (my mural painting idea was ruined by the rain) a lot more interesting.   Oh well, next year.

A thing I like

This "How to Make a Baby" video, via Mighty Girl.  

It's in Spanish so if you need a translation, just ask.