fluppy breath

This is Lizzie the cow dog - er, cow pup. She's new around these parts.

"u has a new WHAT?"

"cow pup! i'm a cow pup! is yur ears broke?"

It's okay that she's new, though. She already has lots of new friends showing her the ropes.

"o hai! another new friend fer me!"

"mabee not."

"i has a sorry. try agin pleese?"

(grumble)

"dis much bettur."

Welcome to our family, little Liz.

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ken asked for it

So now everyone who reads this entire post will have to suffer the consequences of one person being curious about what has been on my mind, musically speaking, lately.

So, let's see. I've been thinking about what it must have felt like to be a wanted outlaw in the Olde West, for one.

Dang, those Jovi boys were so young and...big-haired. And glittery.

And I've also been thinking about what might be done with an inebriated seaman:

(I know for a fact this is a direct result of having SpongeBob SquarePants playing all too frequently in the background while I work). (There's also a "waddle, waddle, quack, quack" song that's been implanted in my brain by my daughter, who will be a pre-schooler for only one more week. Talk about bitter-sweet.)

Oh, let's see. For a whole host of reasons Wagner's Ride has been a recent cerebral staple lately (which sounds rather painful, I realize, after typing that). Maybe it's because Rush was playing some of his old bumper music the other day when I happened to be tuned in. Who knows.

Also, Shakira. Because it's one of the best running-on-the-prairie songs there is. Don't believe me? Come on out with your spandex pants and trail running shoes and try it some time. (That midget mummy in the video totally creeps me out, though.)

Speaking of Latin loveliness, nobody else brings it like The Gipsy Kings. Nobody. I saw them at the Greek Theater in Berkeley in another lifetime. They were amazing.

And finally: Dang it all if I can't stay away from this cutie pie. He makes it so durned hard to be glum (and is it even possible to resist someone who sings a line like, "Scootch on over closer dear and I will nibble your ear"?)

So, there you have it. A random look inside the musical mayhem happening inside my brain at any given moment. Thrilling, I know.

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happiness is

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and then the weather does this

...and I feel bad for ever snapping at it.

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talk about an awkward pre-adolescence

Today's post is brought to you by Ivan the Terrible:

And by Elizabeth Swan:

And by daughter's "little baby hen" Maribella (who, I am suspecting more and more every day, is going to need to have his name changed):

And, finally, by Tiny:

Have I mentioned before that life gets considerably more complicated when you have four chickens living in the bathtub?

Their first day outside is going to happen soon. It was supposed to have happened already, but, unfortunately, it hasn't. Wanna know why?

Because today's post is also brought to you by the letter 'S.' As in Snow on the windows. On May FLIPPIN' twenty-second:


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okay, here's the thing

Be forewarned.

You should never give me something cool, random and free, like, say, an old hunting trailer:

Because something inside me will inevitably take over, until the original thing you gave me will start to become an Even More Original! thing.

Why is this? What is it about me that always wants to take something perfectly fine and scre- um, pretty it up?

Don't rightly know, but it's a streak I've always had. And I'm okay with that now.

As the "prettying up" process unfolded (and, really, the process is still just getting started), I kept hearing John Cougar Mellancamp's southern drawl saying, "...and we're gonna paint the mother PANK."

Does anyone remember that line from his Little Pink Houses/MTV album promotion back in the 80's, when JCM (or was he still just John Cougar at that point?) was supposed to actually show up at the contest winner's house and help a bunch of the lucky winner's friends paint it pink?

There's no telling how things might degenerate - er, how much MORE original things might get from this point forward (i.e. just wait 'til I get murals painted and epoxy some big ol' rhinestones on there).

You think I'm joking, don't you.

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um...

Okay, so it is the merry month of May, right?

I mean, it's not like I've slipped through a random crack in the space/time continuum, and it's really February again, right?

Because, when I woke up this morning and looked out the back door, this is what I saw:

The animals, all of whom have lost their winter coats by now, were looking at us humans like this was somehow our fault (when we all know it's really Bush's fault). Daughter built a snowman:

(which, uh, had a rather embarrassing skin condition apparently). Then she came inside to drink some hot apple cider and watch A Charlie Brown Christmas (I kid you not), which somehow managed to get left out months ago after I packed away all the other Christmas videos and DVDs. Listening to Linus plinking out "Jingle Bells" on his piano and hearing Lucy say, "Of all the Charlie Browns in the world, you're the Charlie Browniest" was extremely jarring somehow, with summer only weeks away. I told the husband it was like eating liver pate' for dessert - just plain wrong.

Fortunately, yesterday, we were able to visit the Grand Canyon Deer Farm with our 4-H Clover Kids group before the snowstorm moved in.

No, shy, timid wallflowers, these ungulates. Especially when the nearest human has a handful of deer treats.

Yeah, so I got a hump. What's it to you?

Okay, okay. I get the picture. No donkey treats. Sheesh.

Maybe I should have taken the reindeer as a sign that all would soon turn funky in the world of Northern Arizona weather.

Course, I got me some goat love, which means that even a spring blizzard can't bring me down.

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attention Wal-Mart shoppers

So, I'm in Wal-Mart on Saturday, returning a $6 toaster which (shock!) stopped working after the fourth toast, when an announcement comes over the speaker system:

"We have a misplaced little boy back here in the layaway department. He appears to be about four-years-old and Native American, wearing a red shirt and blue jeans."

A Navajo lady nearby turned to one of her teenaged children, sighed and said, "Sounds like your father's lost again."Follow @nicole_mcinnes

you tell me

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hell yeah

How cool is it that Gretchen Wilson went back and got her GED at the age of 34? As someone who used to teach GED classes in an uber-rural part of Arizona, I know firsthand what a challenge it can be for working adults struggling to just put food on the table to carve out the time for something like that. It's such an important step, though, and I've seen how finally holding that little piece of paper can make a person look at him/herself in a whole new light.

Gretchen is out there giving interviews, talking about how it was a mistake not to graduate from high school and how, now that her daughter is in school, she realized it was important to set the right example, to be able to help with homework, etc. How many of her fans who chose to (or had to) leave high school for whatever reason are now thinking to themselves, "If Gretchen can do it, so can I"?

I think it's awesome.Follow @nicole_mcinnes

cowgirl bling

I spent Saturday at a rodeo queen contest with a bunch of 4-H girls. For as much time as I've spent in the horse world (about 25 years now), I've had pretty limited experience with the rodeo. I mean, aside from watching a few local events, admiring the scenery

and noticing that bull riders at the National Finals have started wearing crash helmets (It's about time, says I, the old riding marm), Rodeo and I haven't crossed paths much. Of course, every time I hear Garth singing about it I wish I'd spent my life on the circuit. But I digress.

I have to remind myself occasionally that I chose "Try it" as my motto for 2008. Besides, it's not like the whole rodeo queen thing was for my benefit. As the great Bob the Tomato once said, "It's for the kids." And what the 4-H girls want, the 4-H girls get. I'll admit it. I'm a total pushover (I've even managed to wheedle them in as my ring stewards for a show I'm judging later this month, so they can get a center-ring view of the classes).

So, anyway. Rodeo queens (like cheerleaders and beauty pageant contestants) = Extremely visible, flashy targets for all sorts of ridicule. But, you know what? Some of those girls were really impressive. Not only did they have to memorize and perform a reining pattern on the spot, but they had to dismount in front of a panel of judges and stand there looking pretty while answering a bunch of random, off-the-cuff questions like, "Can you name a famous bronc rider?" and "Can you point to your horse's gaskin?" and "Who is the stock contractor for the 2008 Pine Country Pro Rodeo?"

A couple of the girls were clearly flustered by some of the questions, and I heard a few of them tell the judges, "I'll look into that and get back to you" (with those dazzling smiles glued firmly in place, of course). After the Q&A each girl had to mount up, ride over to the announcer's booth, take the mic and deliver a speech to the crowd about why she should be chosen as this year's queen. Then she had to demonstrate a victory lap around the arena - at a gallop - while holding up a huge American flag. Heck, I'd do that and more for the chance to wear the flashy chinks that get passed down from queen to queen every year. And don't even get me started on the tiara.

Anyway, the winner was a completely adorable Navajo cowgirl with a smile that could melt steel, a personality that could re-carbonate a keg of flat sarsaparilla and a thorough knowledge of all things rodeo. She was a solid hand, too, on her big, borrowed paint. Total crowd favorite, and I think everyone but the runner up's mom was thrilled that she won.

When I got home I saddled up Zzari and headed out for a long ride all over the prairie. I rode up to a big ridge I'd never visited before, and from where I could see a little lake/cattle tank below. Then I discovered an old homesteader's cabin, long abandoned, before heading to my favorite spot on Earth, which is basically a big pile of boulders that sits on a hill overlooking the prairie below with pine-covered hills and mountains all around it.

I love bling as much as any cowgirl, but I guess I love the simple stuff just as much. It was pretty fun to enjoy both in one day.

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how was my weekend?

Oh, it was great, thanks. Really special. In fact, it was a lot like this.

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the quick and the dead

Well, it was quite a weekend. Our hatch that was due on Friday didn't start making an appearance until Sunday. Here is some of what we saw when things started moving along:


This was on of the first "pips" in the shell that we saw:

After a chick pips, it "zips" the shell -sort of pecks away in a semi-circle until it's able to start pushing its way out:

It's so exciting to see that first real fissure in the egg shell start opening up:

Then you start to see some feathers. Silkies have black skin (and even black bones, apparently), so even the lighter-colored ones look black when they're still wet at hatching time:

There's one little claw:

Free at last!

...except for this darned sombrero, which was a bit hard to shake:

Ah, nap time. Nobody told us they were going to look and act like drunken space aliens who'd been severely slimed on their journey to Earth:

This is a bit more comfortable:

And before long, there's a buddy in the 'bator:

By late Sunday night, we had three new chicks and one more pipped egg. The chick that took the longest to zip the shell (about 30 hours) had its feet curled into little clenched fists, so it wasn't able to get around like the others. I ended up splinting its tiny, weak toes to try to straighten them out, after being told that this should be done ASAP. For a while it looked like it was rallying: I'd dipped the tip of its beak in water and tried to introduce it to some warm chick starter mash so it could get its energy up. By last night, though, my husband and I agreed that it didn't look good, and despite all efforts my son went into the bathroom first thing this morning and woke me up to tell me that he thought it had died. Sadly, he was right. It was hard, but it wasn't a shock; and I also knew we'd done as much as we could for the little one. So, we had a chick funeral first thing this morning before school. My son asked me if the burial spot was a chicken graveyard now, since that's also where we buried his prize-winning rooster after it was killed by dogs last fall. I told him I guessed it was.

So, that was a little somber, but it wasn't the hardest part. The hardest part was when I went to check on the remaining pipped/zipping egg in the incubator. Since yesterday it had been making progress, but it was very slow progress. Last night, my mother-in-law and I debated about maybe putting it under the broody hen to see if that would move things along, but we eventually decided that leaving it undisturbed would be the better option. I wish I'd paid more attention and intervened, though, because it didn't take long for me to realize that, though it had about a centimeter of the shell zipped, there were no cheeps and no signs of life as there had been last night. Sure enough, when I took the egg out and started picking away at the shell with my fingernail, I could see that the little chick had died, probably at some point during the night.

Part of the problem, I believe, was that it had pipped the wrong end of the shell (the smaller, pointy end), which meant it didn't have as much room to move around and peck itself out. The chick was also huge (and perfect looking), so I'm pretty sure it suffocated in there. That was the part that got to me - the fact that I could have easily chosen to get in there and help it out if I had maybe paid closer attention and realized the chick was in trouble. That was the part - that sense of culpability - that had me sitting out on the back step with the dead chick still partially cradled in its egg bawling my eyes out. If only.

But I have to remind myself that I didn't know. That even experienced egg hatchers lose chicks at all stages of the incubation and hatch process. It's a beautiful and brutal thing, this life and death business. Now, it's time to tend to the life part, to the sweet little survivors:


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day 22 (or: and then there were six)

Chicken eggs need 21 days to incubate before they are ready to hatch. During those three weeks all sorts of changes are constantly taking place, eventually turning that microscopic little dot on the yolk into a full-fledged chick. Tons of genetic and environmental factors can influence the final outcome, however. For instance, if an incubator's temperature spikes a few degrees for an hour or so, there's a good chance all the embryos will die. I haven't had to deal with temperature spikes during my first incubation experience, but I have had humidity issues. One of the biggest was the discovery at the end of week 2 that my PetSmart hygrometer was defective. I thought I was maintaining a lovely 62% humidity for days on end, only to find out (when I finally got suspicious) that the stupid thing read 62 percent whether I put it in the 'bator or outside (where the humidity was right around 15%).

Anyway, we're at day 22 now, which means the hatch is officially overdue. But I'm not worried or anything. Nah. Not me. I've just been shining a light through the incubator window every five minutes because I have nothing better to do. Yeah, that's it. I must have stared for hours yesterday as the eggs started to rock and roll a little, and when the kids and I actually heard cheeping from a couple of the eggs this morning you would have thought Willy Wonka himself had just announced that we'd all won golden tickets.

It would have been lovely if my broody hen had been ready to set when the eggs arrived, thus allowing me to bypass all this anxiety and overwroughtedness (is that a word?). But she wasn't. She is now, though:

The other hen isn't broody at all, and I think it's because she views herself as just way too above all that sitting-on-eggs nonsense. That blue ribbon from the fair last year went straight to her head, I tell ya:

My mother-in-law (aka the genuine farmgirl in the family) came over to candle the incubator eggs a second time, this time with a more powerful candler. Unfortunately, when held to the light, most of the eggs glowed like little yellow Christmas lights (which meant there were no chicks inside). In fact, when we broke those 18 eggs open (outside in the fresh air, of course), only one of them contained an embryo, and that one looked like it had died in the first week. The others showed no sign of an embryo presence, much less development, which leads me to believe they weren't fertile in the first place, or they were scrambled by the post office en route from Florida to Arizona, or a combination of both.

Anyway, so there we were - down to six eggs. It was sad to see the incubator so uncrowded all of a sudden, but that's the breaks (especially with shipped eggs, as I've learned). The good news was that we saw definite chickage in the remaining ones. That's when the last, longest part of the wait began. I was glad to get away to Phoenix for a couple days, and then a new job started up, which kept me further occupied. There was a 4-H meeting to get ready for, too (I lead the local horse group), and that turned out to be fun. My husband gave a shoeing demonstration, and we all stood out in the arctic wind, proving what tough equestriennes we are (yeah, right).

There was a new tomcat to figure out, too. This is Mogi (short for Mogollon, which is pronounced Mogiyon)...

...so named because the Mogollon Rim just south of Flagstaff has the dubious distinction of being one of the most lightning-struck places on the planet, and I think Mogi looks just like a grey thundercloud over the prairie.

He may be something fancy, too, like one of those Russian Blues. All I know is he's young and sweet, and he definitely seems to be sticking around. Also, those fuzzy little round things between his hind legs will be snipped off very soon.

But still, despite all these distractions, I have continued to worry, and I continued to obsessively research all the things that can go wrong not just during the incubation process, but during the actual hatching process, when you'd think you'd pretty much be in the clear. But Nooooooooooo. Chicks can drown in the air sacs before they pip the egg (make that first little hole). They can suffocate inside membranes that dry out too quickly after pipping (back to the humidity issue), and they can fail to fully absorb the yolk or hatch with their intestines hanging out. Nightmare-creating stuff, I say. I told my husband that I would have made a completely neurotic hen, so it's a good thing God made me a female human instead.

He chose the strategically intelligent response of total silence.

Then I started to worry about my kids. They've been so patient and excited during these past three weeks that the thought of a failed hatch hurt my heart on their accounts. So, I hemmed and hawed, and deliberated and thought...and then my neighbor mentioned that the feed n' grain in town was due to get another shipment of day-old Silkie chicks in the next day.

You just knew this was coming, didn't you?

There's four, one for each person in the family. Mine's the big yellow one, and I've named it Ivan the Terrible due to the fact that it unmercifully tried to peck the sh*t out of all the others their first day home. If it turns out to be a pullet and not a cockerel, I'll call her Ivanka.

I dare you to tell me the last time you saw something cuter.

I'll let you know how the hatch goes.

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better stand tall when they're calling you out

Okay. I totally have no clue how to get the concert pics off my cell phone and onto my blog. What a dork.

Anyway, here's a bad video clip someone took at Saturday's show. Like I'm one to talk.

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dudes.

I'm so psyched. I'm sitting here in a Phoenix parking lot waiting for my husband to finish up one of his Microsoft re-certification tests, so I thought I'd get online and try to figure out who's going to be opening for Bon Jovi tonight.

It's DAUGHTRY!!!!!!!!

Okay, I thought I was excited before.....

:-D !!!!!!!!Follow @nicole_mcinnes

a normal-sized fig leaf would do it

Wait for the anteater.

Wait for it.Follow @nicole_mcinnes

adventures in egg candling

My mother-in-law, who is a true, authentic, dyed-in-the-wool farm girl, came over this afternoon to candle the Silkie eggs that have now been sitting (and hopefully growing) in the Little Giant incubator for eleven days (that means we're officially more than halfway to hatch day - hooray!). In case you're not familiar with egg candling, it basically entails shining a bright light through an egg to get some idea of what's going on inside. Ideally, you want to see a growing embryo in there, and some people on the egg boards I frequent (yeah, I know, I'm a total poultry geek) even report seeing a little beating chicken heart!

I tried candling a few of the eggs in the dark of the closet yesterday with a flashlight, but it was a very disconcerting experience. You know when you get a bad headache and decide to look up your symptoms online, only to discover that you surely have a brain tumor the size of a grapefruit and about 36 hours to live? Well, I've been doing way too much incubation "research" online lately, so I was sure that each egg I shined light through was either a) an explosive about ready to blow, or b) a total dud that had never been fertilized in the first place.

Fortunately, my MIL was able to dispel some of those fears. She came over with her homemade candler, and the kids and I followed her into the guest bathroom, turned off the light, and watched her expertly "read" our 21 potential peeps. So far it looks like we have only two or three true duds (eggs that were never fertilized while still developing inside the mama hens). It was hard to tell if the remaining eggs contained live embryos or not, but there was definitely something in there.

On another farmy note: I was watching RFD-TV the other day, and they were doing a show for corn-growers (did I mention I'm easily amused?). One of the farmers commented that corn has recently gotten very expensive - no kidding! Gallon jugs of corn oil from Wal-Mart (which we use for supplementing our 27-year-old gelding's feed) were going for $5 last year. Now, they're $8!

Don't even get me started on hay prices. Sheesh.Follow @nicole_mcinnes

yesterday I got so old...

I guess I've come down with a touch of the post-birthday blues, since yesterday turned out to be quite nice - no marching bands, no bi-planes writing my name in the sky, but there were beautiful homemade cards from the kids, a lovely cake and more concert tickets from the husband (to see The Cure in June)!!! They were my favorite band of all time about twenty (GAH!) years ago, and I haven't seen them live since the early 90's, when I went with a guy who wore more eyeliner than I did. Oh, wait - DUDE. I am so totally going to wear the Punk Rebel Sketchers I bought in California last year when going through a personal crisis!

It promises to be much fun (and a little strange if my husband actually joins me, since he hasn't had a single punk/new wave tendency in his life).

I also got these lovelies from a dear friend of whom I'm now quite jealous since she has a pair of baby ducks and got to see them swimming around in her sink today:

I'm feeling a little broke this weekend, so I think it will be a quiet one involving egg turning, sleeping in and catching up on some work. Oh, and I picked up a copy of The Assassination of Jesse James to watch, since I didn't get to see it while it was on the big screen. Can't wait to see how my old teacher Ron's book translates to film. I recently finished another edit of my lit fic-turned-YA manuscript, so that's off my plate for a while and onto my agent's. The editor feedback thus far has been incredibly helpful, so I have hopes that it's getting closer to finding a home.

Have a lovely spring weekend, Everyone!

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for those about to rock

I turn 38 tomorrow. Yup. Inching ever closer to the big Four-Oh. That's okay, though, because Oprah assures me that 40 will be the best year of my life. So, I'll have that going for me in a couple years.

For my gift this year the husband is giving us a trip down to Glendale to see Mr. Bongiovi and the gang. I can't wait. We saw them in San Jose a few years ago for the Have a Nice Day tour, and it was - DUDE - totally radical. I just hope Richie can hold it together long enough to play that night. Last time we saw the band he had just broken up with Heather, and it wasn't pretty. He still worked that six-string over, though.

I've been prepping my eardrums for the big event by traumatizing the speakers in my truck with the following:

A little Nickelback (because nobody holds a candle when it comes to Joseph Cambell-ish testosto-ballads. Gah - Chad Kroeger's voice makes me all goosebumpy. What a nice Canadian export.)

Queen (because Freddie was magic, and they walked the line of hard rockin' vs. sweet sentimentality so flippin' well)

Night Ranger (because, I'm sorry, who DIDN'T pound out this particular drum beat on their steering wheel in the 80's?) (Also, this video was partially shot at my high school's rival - Tamalpais High - which, incidentally, was where my junior year prom date went to school... and I've now officially crossed into TMI territory)

Finger Eleven (because they are essentially the love child of Franz Ferdinand and Metallica, with a disco ball hung over its crib. Also, David Sylvian - the patron saint of the Pretentious Twits of the Late 80's Association (PTL8A - of which I was a card carrying member) - has filed a paternity suit.)

And then I've been warming down with a little Jason Mraz, because...well, I don't know, actually. It could be that he has finally achieved universal domination by brainwashing all of us with this song. Even if that's the case, I still totally dig the chicken-and-egg theme.Follow @nicole_mcinnes

the return of rhythm

I was going to write a post called "Goosed" a few weeks ago. It was going to describe my experience of standing at the horses' water trough as it filled and hearing a far-off sound that was almost foreign but not quite. The sound tripped some ancient sensor in my brain, which suddenly started going through all the accumulated audio files, trying to place it.

Finally, I looked out into the sky above the prairie and spotted the source: one lone goose, the first I'd seen since this time last year, headed toward the bird sanctuary next to our house. He was flapping and honking, honking and flapping, as if to say (warning: shameless anthropomorphizing ahead), "I'm here! I'm here! I'm here." (Or, "I just flew in from Mexico, and boy are my arms tired.") His honk sounded like someone opening a big, rusty metal door over and over again, and it was a glorious sound. It was the kind of sound that made me want to honk right back at him or maybe start dancing in place. It was the sound of nature's orchestra getting ready to warm up the instruments.

The music hasn't begun in full yet, but activity in that orchestra pit is heating up. After our brutal winter in which all music and rhythm seemed to be pummelled and then buried under icy sludge, I'm almost getting used to the sound of birds calling to each other first thing in the morning; The sight of green grass clumps here and there on the property no longer startles me; My crocus leaves poked through the ground last week, and I spent a few hours yesterday with a couple of little girls - spring's sparkling, unencumbered poster children - planting some late, pink tulip bulbs and gathering eggs from the coop (eggs which made a great snack when we came back inside and cooked them up).

There's no way to capture this fleeting return of the rebirth season really, no way to preserve it in Mason jars or on film as the commercials would have us believe. I guess the best I can do is give it a shout out. So, "Yo! Spring! Good to see ya back!"Follow @nicole_mcinnes

perspective

I was sitting in the waiting room at the doctor's office today when a couple came in with their little boy and brand new baby girl. It was hard not to stare: The dad was tall and handsome; the little boy had these adorable curls, and the baby - SO cute in her little yellow pj's (size 0-3 months, no doubt). The mom was very pretty, too, in a Molly Ringwald sort of way - or at least I'm sure she was underneath the massive eye bags and cloud of utter exhaustion that hung over her.

Now that my own kids are school-aged, I look upon new mothers with the compassion of someone who has been through that particular war zone and survived (even if it sometimes felt like the survival was the "just barely" kind). Because while it is obviously beyond awesome to hold that new little life in your arms and nourish it with your body, new motherhood can also (in my experience and the experience of countless women I've known) be an incredibly lonely and sometimes scary place. The sense of responsibility you feel is enormous - which would be unsettling enough if you were well-rested. Add sleeplessness and all the attendant tension and hormones into the mix, and the situation can spiral downward quickly. And while I never experienced clinical post-partum depression, my hat is absolutely off to any woman who does.

Why am I blogging about this? I don't know exactly, other than I guess I realized today that I have the sort of perspective on the care and feeding of babies that I didn't think I'd ever have when I had babies of my own. Perspective is goooood. It made me want to sit down next to that new mom in the waiting room and tell her, "It won't always be like this. It will get better. You will get your life back. It may not ever be quite the same, and it will come back in increments, but it will come back. And when it does your heart will swell in compassion at the sight of an exhausted new mother, because by that time you will proudly wear the badge of someone who has been through that particular war zone and survived."

Of course, I didn't sit down next to her and say that, because the look in her eyes told me she might bite my head off in one clean snap if I did. That's probably the same reason no one ever told me. It's okay, though. I discovered it when the time was right.Follow @nicole_mcinnes

vicarious gestation

I suppose vicarious incubation would be more accurate, since we're talking about eggs here. I actually ordered them months ago from a Silkie breeder in Florida, but then chickened out (so to speak) when I realized that - duh - I'd be trying to raise baby chicks at the coldest time of year. Fortunately, the lady was willing to put off the egg shipment until earlier this week.

You'd think I would have learned my lesson at this same time last year when we had five chicks living in the kids' bathtub, but I'm nothing if not stubborn. So, there's an incubator with 21 eggs inside set up in the master bedroom. I find myself obsessively checking the hygrometer to make sure the humidity level inside the incubator is where it's supposed to be (it never is, because - hello? I live in Arizona). How chickens were ever introduced into this climate I'll never know.

And it's not just humidity and temperature levels I'm obsessing about lately. Did you know the eggs need to be turned on a regular basis (i.e. several times per day?) In the absence of a good, broody hen who will get up off the clutch of eggs to do this instinctively (we have good hens here but not broody ones at the moment), you can buy automatic egg turners which will do this work for you. But was I going to take the easy route through this process? No, sirree. So, I've been turning the eggs several times per day by hand instead, starting first thing in the morning and ending last thing at night before bedtime. The husband found me groggily turning the little darlings right after I woke up this morning. "Aren't you supposed to do that with your beak?" he asked. Har.

Anyway, hopefully, I'll have much fluffy cuteness to share in a few weeks. Until then, I'm just hoping no disasters happen - like power surges and exploding eggs (which is possible, and what better way to become a total insomniac?).

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nobody puts baby in a corner

It just made me incredibly sad today to read that Patrick Swayze is battling pancreatic cancer.

For one thing, I was a teeny-bopper Dirty Dancing fan, just like every other teenaged girl I knew in the late 80's.

For another, Patrick and his wife Lisa Niemi have had a tremendous impact on the Arabian horse world (note: scroll all the way down to the bottom of the site and click on the link in the lower right hand corner). Who could forget Polly Knoll's famous shot of the man and his gorgeous Egyptian stallion, Tammen?

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offers comin' over the phone

Must. Remove. From. Inside. Head.Follow @nicole_mcinnes

seeing the unseen

All seen things are temporary. All unseen things are eternal. Take time and know that what you seek is like music—it sweeps you along so you are moving in glory among the stars. Take time to find the unseen. ~A Wrinkle in Time

My husband recently brought home the movie version of Madeleine L'Engle's classic book. I remember reading it in grade school and feeling my grey matter stretching. I liked it, but even at that early age I must have realized that I was not going to be an avid reader of fantasy or sci-fi - genres that call so strongly to some readers and not to others. Anyway, the movie was actually pretty good, if a bit new agey woo-woo in places. Now I want to go read the book again, but it may have to wait until my current attempt to get through Antonia Fraser's Mary, Queen of Scots has been satisfied.

And continuing on a note of cerebriality (I don't think that's an actual word, but I like the way it sounds and looks, so I'm keeping it), this video and subsequent written explanation touched me deeply. Talk about seeing the unseen. I found it via Neatorama, which is always a reliable "good stuff" source.Follow @nicole_mcinnes