Inked

If White Trash had a bucket list, getting a tattoo would definitely be on it.  How do I know this?  I recently scratched it off.

No, I’m not going through a midlife crisis. 

And no, I don’t think my body needs sprucing up—in that way anyway. 

I got inked because of a lopsided trade deal. 

I agreed that if John would trim away his living tribute to ZZ Top, then I would get what was supposed to be a thumb-sized version of Winnie the Pooh on what once was—albeit a lifetime ago—the small of my back.  Why a Pooh Bear?  Because that is my beloved’s nickname.  It would be an outward sign to all interested men that this middle-aged, mother of six is off the market. 

I have a real problem with guys hitting on me like that.

Perhaps I should have obsessed about it a little more than I had (God knows I obsess about everything else), or at the very least watched an episode of LA Inked, because when we arrived at Jonezy’s Tattoo Parlor, I was way too calm and way too uninformed. 

When Mayle, who tagged along for a touch-up job of her own, asked me for the third time if I was nervous, I began thinking that I should be.  As I nervously glanced at Jonezie’s updated CPR certifications on the wall of his cubicle, it occurred to me that I could die there, amongst a subculture I know nothing about.

Before starting, he made a point of turning up the stereo system loud enough to eliminate the possibility of carrying on any type of conversation.

“Is that to cover up the sound of my screams?” I sarcastically asked.  After all, I’d given birth six times, how painful could a tattoo be?

Pretty painful, I soon found out as the tattoo needle began to jackhammer my flesh.  I panted and breathed characteristic of a Lamaze delivery.  I could only glare at John between shots and think,

“Babies, a tubal, and now this?”

I think I swore more in that hour and a half than I have all year.  I’ve never imagined I’d ever hate something as benign as Winnie the Pooh.

The end result?  Who knows?  I hear it’s sweet, but it’s in place where I’ll never see it.

And John’s beard?  It’s gone, and if he ever grows it back again, I’m taking a pair of scissors to it while he sleeps.  No more negotiating.

It’s been almost an entire week since my experience.  Since then I’ve managed to glance at my palm-sized addition only a fistful of times.  I have, however, been able to enjoy it second hand as my skin sloughs off its inky scales. 

John has found a newfound respect for me. 

“You’re one tough broad!”  he keeps remarking. 

And, of course, he’s right.  I am pretty tough, though not very astute.  If I were, I would have grown myself some leg hair and agreed to shave away mine right after he shaved off his. 

But had I played it that way, I wouldn’t have had the unique experience of getting my first—and mostly importantly—only tattoo with my daughter. 

And who knows, maybe I would have enjoyed my luxurious new leg hair.  In which case, John would still be looking Amish and I very much European. 

Jed Clampett Builds a Chicken Coop

It’s several weeks now since we became chicken farmers.  There are several unexpected outcomes since our initial investment.  First, I wasn’t prepared for just how ugly chicks become as they cross the road to chickenhood. 

Also, I never expected all of them to survive.  I still can’t believe there are 15 of them.

The biggest shock, however, has been the overall cost involved in raising a nonhuman brood.  The cheapest part of this whole adventure has been the actual chickens.

That first egg better be golden. 

They’ve changed a lot in three weeks.  They no longer look like fluffy, sweet dandelions.  They now resemble louse-infected seagulls with sparse possum-like feathers. 

Their cheerful peep peep peeps!!  have morphed into bawk Bawk BAWKS!! and the airborne nastiness that erupts each time their bin is opened is only appreciated by nearly three-year-old Max, who chases their dander with insatiable fervor.

Once they started to habitually fly the coop, I began to question just how healthy it was to have them in the same room we mostly try to eat in. 

When they took to perching on my loveseat and pooping on my floor, I banished them to the basement.  Even I have standards.  Nothing says spring-cleaning like removing dried chicken poop from your hardwood floors with a paint scraper.

Two weekends ago, John began undertaking the task of building a suitable coop. 

Two weekends later, they’re still in the house.

I assist by sending him useful links from Pinterest with encouraging tags like, “What do you think of this?” or “Other coop ideas.”

Mostly he replies, “Yep, you just made mine look like the Beverly Hillbillies.”

Some of the images of coops look nicer than our house; I’m fairly sure they cost more too.  It’s amazing what a couple of rosebushes and some fairy dust can do. 

Yesterday, I came home after work to find all 15 chicks wandering the basement in an obvious pen malfunction.  One was completely complacent sitting in its own bag of food.

I’m very close to whipping their semi-aerial carcasses into the back yard to let them scratch and peck for themselves.  At this point, I wouldn’t care if they all slept in the empty rabbit hutch.  

Without hesitation, I proclaim that chickens are the dumbest animals we’ve ever had.  

Also, John and I stink as chicken farmers.  

I guess as long as we don’t poop on our own food, we aren't in any immediate danger of losing our spot on the evolutionary ladder.

Living the Dream

There are definite disadvantages to having a child with a language delay, aside from the obvious language delay, that is.

Max is our third child that has required in-home services for a language deficit.  What this means for me is that once a month I have to hurry home from work and quickly clear away the visible signs of clutter so not to give the illusion that my house is worthy of an entire episode on the TV show Hoarders. 

Quite honestly, the only thing I really collect is children.  If it appears otherwise, it’s because of what they collect.

Last week, as I spent my lunch hour with a friend, I lamented that instead of knitting, I really should have gone home and picked up a bit before Max’s monthly visit.

She reminded me, “Marla, you have chickens in your dining room.  What’s the point?”

For years, I have pretended that my household is under control.  When speech pathologists, Help Me Grow staff, and school administrators would come to check on the latest mute Thompson, I have been able to pretend for an entire hour that our life on Morgan Street was mostly normal and certainly not at all detrimental. 

This past week, it just wasn’t possible. 

Just minutes before Max’s visit, Stancey came home with pack of giggling girlfriends, adding to the already booming population of native Thompsons.  As I hurriedly scooped up empty dishes and kicked random Legos under the couch, Max came into the living room lugging a gallon of milk and an empty box of corn flakes.

“Unk! Unk! Unk!” he announced, as milk fountained out from beneath the open lid. 

Guest number one poked her head in the door.

“Oh, hey, Max!  Are you hungry?”

Immediately noticing the carton of chicks in the corner of the dining room, conversation naturally veered from Max, to chicks, to Max.

“Remember,” she offered, “the school psychologist is coming too.  Sometimes she likes to ‘counsel’ when she’s involved in a visit.”

“There’s a lot to counsel,” I retorted.

Things were still under reasonable control when the Catholic Charities person arrived.  Max was content eating his third bowl of cereal; Stancey and her friends were casually hanging out downstairs; Sam and Kenny were busy outside; and Madison was last seen skulking up the stairs with a box of graham crackers and a glass of milk in search of a television far, far away from us.

It wasn’t until the psychologist arrived that things began to disintegrate.  Looking already haggard on her first day back to work following spring break, she came in lugging her brief case and blackberry.  Close behind was Kenny, chattering about the dead cat next door and his new bike in the front yard. 

As the intervention progressed, the chaos ensued.  As the intervention staff played with Max, I tried my hardest to focus on her questions, which were habitually punctuated by the needy requests from children.

“Mom!”  Sam kept insisting, “Someone went into my room and stole all my money!”

As she tried to assess how Max’s language delay was affecting his other areas of development, another kid would appear at my knee.

“Mommy!”  Kenny moaned, “I’m thirsty!  Don’t we have pop?!”

As I tried to sign paperwork for testing, the interruptions were incessant as we discussed the past speech problems of Max’s siblings.

“Mom!  Mom!! MOM!!” the kids continued.

 “Max is the last one, isn’t he?” the psychologist questioned. 

Perhaps I should have been offended, but at that point, I was sitting on my hands for fear I would put them over my kids’ open mouths.

Exiting the meeting a bit earlier than the rest of us, she excused herself by saying, “I’m just done here.  I’m done.”

When the door closed behind her, I looked at the remainder of Max’s posse and asked,

“Do you think we scared her?”

Although they tried to assure me that we hadn’t, I’m just not so sure. 

It's kind of liberating showing your imperfect side.  But mostly, it's just funny.  And although it scares some,  I choose to view it differently.  

I'm living the dream--as scary as it sometimes seems.

The Chicken or the Egg?

Our house on Morgan Street not only has its own Matryoshka of Thompson kids, it may be the neighborhood's number one petting zoo.  It’s like a friend of mine remarked, “There is life peeking out from every window in your house.”  It’s true.  We couldn’t possibly live in our house any more than we already do.  We do it in every crevice, corner, and cubbyhole.  Since we moved in, single rooms have served a multitude of purposes.  Closets have served as temporary nurseries.  Living rooms have morphed into playrooms.  And dining rooms, into chicken coops.

For almost a week, in the far corner of the dining room, under the warmth of a single heat lamp cheep fifteen fluffs of new feathers.  Leonard, the family cat, winks lazily at us from his wooden perch next to his discovered pile of fowl.  He seems more bemused than hungry as he watches them roost and tumble. 

What were we thinking? 

Eggs, mostly.

Aside from pizza, eggs are the only food every one in our house that both carnivore and vegetarian will eat.  Fried, scrambled, boiled, or baked in a cake.  As long as they’re not fertilized, we’ll take ‘em.

With the Thompson luck, they’ll all turn out to be roosters. In which case, they’ll be served barbequed or baked.

“You can’t eat my pets!” Kenny has already hollered several times at John.

“But think how tasty they would be all fried up!”  John retorts.

Mr. Fowl can’t pass through the dining room without stopping by to talk to his friends.  He’s like a new mother—except that he’s salivating. 

“Looking yummy!” he often compliments.

“Peep peep!” they call back.

The plan is to have a chicken coop built in the back yard before we resort to blocking off the dining room and scattering wall to wall straw.  Though given the average time it takes to finish most household projects, this solution might not be far off.

I wonder, does having chickens make us white trash or third world? 

My mom worries about us catching lice from our feathered vermin.  I worry just as much about them catching something from us.  After all, daycare Max is our very own Typhoid Thompson.

First breeders, now farmers.  With us, each week is a new adventure.