Let me introduce you to the new love of my life...

I'm going to name her Alice. She can be cousins to my sister-in-law's Kitchen Aid mixer, Betty.

Look what Alice can do -

After using one of these for 4 years, I just wanted something more.

It was OK, but blah.

Turn on, point, shoot.

Blah.

Now imagine a camera like that on steroids - that's what I wanted.

I wanted a camera that could do more stuff. Like shoot video.

(I'm constantly juggling a camera, a video camera and a baby on my lap)

One that had some manual controls, so I could choose the aperture, shutter speed, ISO, focus & Zoom like a paparazzi...but still had that little green AUTO button that would do all the thinking for me when I felt lazy.

However I didn't want to spend over $500 for a SLR.

After spending 6 hours of my life on Cnet & reading reviews on Amazon,

I decided this was the camera for me.

because I wanted to capture images like this.

Alice is a Canon Powershot SX20-IS.

Mr. Know-It-All.

He's mean. He's bossy. He's stinky. He's cocky. But he does his work well - protecting our hens.

Mr. Know-It-All is our rooster, and he is a stabbing pain in the rump.

Our purpose of keeping a rooster with our hens is to protect them from predators and to fertilize eggs. He thinks his purpose is to be King of the world, and to chase people - preferably little girls & me away from his women.

Chickens have this little language, soft chatters amongst each other. When one of them sees us coming up the hill with fresh water, she chatters "ooooo here comes the water girls!" They all chatter back, "oooo water!" and they come waddling to the gate. There's not a care in their minds - eat, peck around, poop, lay eggs, hop up on a roost & sleep, repeat.

But that rooster. Oh, boy.

He's always got an eye on you. A beady, black little eye.

And his head is cocked to the side so he gets a real good look at you.

Sizing you up. Determining his plan of attack.

But we have to get those eggs everyday, and that means squaring off.

Maddie went up the hill yesterday, leisurely swinging her basket.

She came back down crying with any empty basket.

I put my boots on, grabbed that basket, and came back down crying with an empty basket.

We went up together, she with the basket, and I cleaving a shovel.

Plan A:

I would keep him occupied, she would gather the eggs, we would get the hell out of there.

Plan A did not work.

Plan B:

I forget what Plan B was, but it didn't work either.

Plan C:

Success! But it took some time. Let me first explain that one of his duties as King is to be the last one into the coop at night, and the first one to check things outside in the morning. He goes back tells his ladies the coast is clear, and is the last one out the little sliding door. This particular morning there were still 4 hens left in the coop along with him. I took some handfulls of grain, and sprinkled it down the little ramp. (I realize I keep saying "little" DO NOT assume that this rooster is "little." He is Big, Enormous, and Huge.) Maddie stood away from the door, he was watching her through the cracks in the wood. One by one they started to chatter, "she's throwing out food! FREE food! I realize there's food in there too, but come try it, it's great!"

Finally the moment we'd been waiting for. He stuck out his head. Cocked it to the side. Picked up his left rubbery yellow foot, (get ready Maddie!) stepped down onto the ramp. I sprinkled a little more grain.

He retreated back into the coop. Bastard.

But the hens were really chattering now, "This is sooooo fun girls! Pecking out the corn from all this mud!" I knew Mr. Know-It-All just needed to know what all the fuss was about. He picked up his right rubbery yellow foot, his long spurs glistening in the sunlight, his beady eyes bulging out of his tiny, I mean Huge, head. He was out! (go Maddie, go!) She threw open the door, just as I blocked his opening back into the coop.

We got 12 eggs that day.

I still haven't gathered them today yet. Lord, give me strength.

What a beautiful day.

Grandma's Bakery.

I'd been promising my munchkins cupcakes for going on 3 weeks and finally I had the time to make them. Grandma was over playing with the babies and complaining about my inability to keep up on laundry. She couldn't understand why on earth I was using a pastry bag to ice my cupcakes. "It would be so much quicker if you just spread it on with a knife! The kids won't know the difference." I told her it was because of her.

I grew up spending the night at her house often, and oh how I loved it there. We'd play tic-tac-toe, watch movies & she'd make me fried dippy eggs anytime of day. Grandpa would sleep in the guest bedroom so I could sleep with Grandma in her big bed. She'd yell at me all night for tossing & turning, keeping her awake. We'd go for rides in her little red Tempo to buy produce at the swamps or to the dollar store where she would buy me tiny bottles of nail polish.

She worked at a bakery two doors down and had to leave very early in the morning to start baking. When I'd wake up, Grandpa would watch me walk across Mrs. Mazerka's yard and through the parking lot to the bakery. You could smell the donuts before you reached the glass door and a bell would announce your arrival as it swung open. Grandma would peek around the corner with a big smile on her face. "Mornin' Sweetie!" she'd say, wiping the flour off her hands onto her white apron. I'd spend the day rolling sugar cookie dough, wiping down the glass windows and cases full of cakes, pastries & cookies. And that bell would ring all morning, townspeople leaving with little wax bags of cheese danish, an apple turnover or a white box full of donuts. They'd all talk to Grandma over the counter, asking about our family or just how beautiful a day it was going to be. She'd hand them their confections and they'd sometimes smile & say "bye" to me as I'd peek at them around the case.

We'd go back to the big kitchen where she would tie an apron around my waist, folding it up because it was so big on me. In the kitchen there were tall racks holding sheet pans, a silver mixer that was bigger than I was, and the long wooden table stretching across the middle where I would stand on a bucket to watch her roll dough, ice cakes & fill creme sticks. My favorite treat was a cake donut - with chocolate frosting & sprinkles. "Googlies" is what I called them. My dad would stop in to pick me up around lunchtime and I was always so sad to leave.

All those donuts were beautiful. Perfect little creations made especially for one to enjoy. When I make treats for the girls, I like them to be perfect too. Because they're worth it, they're worth having something made & presented with love.

We don't have a bakery like that around here anymore, and it's always been a little wish of mine to have one of my own. I'd need grandma there of course too! Until then, I'll make little cakes for my little girlies, and she can come over & critique all she wants. I love you, Grandma.

These necklaces.

My cup...

runneth over

I am not Hormonal.

Danny: the father of my children, the bread to my butter, the breath to my life (yeah so I just watched Julia Child) you get the picture…I have to express these feelings towards him often to remind myself how much I do really love this man.

This man that on most typical days drives me mad. For telling me I’m hormonal, (I’m not hormonal! Do I seem hormonal to you? I am not. ) For not taking the trash all the way to the trash can, for leaving his socks all around the house…I can’t think of anything else at this particular moment…Why can’t I think of other ways he drives me nuts? I do not imagine these things for pity’s sake… But I can tell you he keeps me warm at night, is logical when my mind is going in every possible direction, is an amazing daddy to our girls, makes us heaping bowls of homemade spicy popcorn when we have our movie nites,

HE WEARS WRANGLERS. need I say more?

Lord, I do sound hormonal.

My point?

He is the one on the left, with the little yellow hat, I mean helmet. Preparing to descend deep into the depths of the earth. More on that later though, he's home and I need to greet him at the door with a kiss. Or a slap. Not sure which one yet.