SadisticsStatistics


I wish I had never bothered. With the stats, that is. Checking the daily-weekly-monthly numbers of readers, skimmers, lurkers visiting Chickenblog was slightly amusing, kind of interesting, and ultimately intimidating. I learned that Sunday and Monday are slow days, not too many visitors. I learned that most visits to Chickenblog come on Tuesday. Like today. Today is Tuesday and there may be ten or more people here. Seriously. Wow. Wow.

I mean whoa. Like when you drop your head, turning it slowly and sort of sigh disappointedly, whoa. Actually it could be horse talk too... like when you pull on the reins and say firmly "whoa!" It could be like bringing a horse to a quick stop, because it feels like that is where the blog is headed: A complete stop.

After three times checking stats about Chickenblog, I also leaned that readership has plummeted. Dropped. Nose-dived. Tanked. Imploded. Evaporated. *poof*

Where did every body go?

Ah come on. No one really believed I was writing this blog for the heck of it, right? Regularly dragging my brain through html and proofreading my own deep thoughts and other musings, just so I can have an excuse from scrubbing toilets? I am in it for the book rights, the movie contract, the ad revenue (eighteen cents to date). I've been blogging so Ellen would catch wind, and ask me to bring my favorite robotics team on to her show, so she could bestow plane tickets to Atlanta on them, and give me dance lessons. I've been thinking how to sound interesting, modest and super cool for my Fresh Air interview. This is my job people. I am not going down without a fight. *power fist in the air... cheesy grin on face*

Just kidding.

Or am I?

Just kidding.

I don't need a job. I have Molly and McGee to fill my time with productivity and interest. And children, and laundry, and Betty.

Oooh... look, Molly is preening.


Maria did not want to miss the executives' meeting yesterday. She loves this team. Gee, do you think I've had some influence on her? I honestly do not dictate art assignments for her, or drill her on the Paradox dance. She has an internalized passion, that is self-motivated.

I didn't want to miss the executives' meeting either. I keep showing up, uninvited, and they are starting to accept it. I was even offered a private mentor's swearing in ceremony, as soon as Isaac can locate his wand. I hope he wasn't kidding. I plan to mention it, casually, to Terry. I crave ceremony.

This post is mostly random. And I am okay with that.

Funniest Great White Chicken With Dreadlocks


Yes, the "funniest," "great white" "chicken" with "dreadlocks" was reportedly seen wearing "snake stomping boots" at the "Chicken Blog Worst Mommy Blogging Contest." Anyone feverishly searching for these key phrases may, or may not, have found everything they were looking for here, at Chickenblog.

Other key phrase searches include:

"Star Wars Lego People"
"Chicken Polish" ( the breed, I hope, and not a cleaning product)
"Fall and Can't Get Up"
"Fairies"
and "Sparkle Me Clean"

I think anyone searching for "dreadlocks" or "sparkle me clean" had to have left sorely disappointed.

Have you guessed? I decided to dance around in the blog stats... a mine field of ego crushing numbers and facts related to how many people read the blog, where they come from, what they like, and what they were actually looking for.



Staying Long?
No wonder there are so few comments. 83.3% of visitors to Chickenblog stay less than 30 seconds.
I guess it doesn't take long to figure out that I am not going to help anyone 'sparkle clean.'

Building a TreeHouse?
Oh. I bet people are hoping to get treehouse tips, not realizing that these posts are about our days renting a house that was surrounded by trees, where we felt like we were living perched in a treehouse.
Sad note... the landlord built his Tuscan dream home there and took out every single beautiful, mature, lovely tree. It looks like somebody dropped stucco on Isengard.

Chcieken
Huh?
Just kidding. I could never harass someone for misspelling chcieken. I misspell chieken every single time. Ironic, don't you think? So, if you are looking for chieken, then welcome!

Dude, change your thesis.
Who was trying to score information for their term paper?
"... related studies and literature of a roasted chicken and who discovered the roasted chicken"
Let me help... I may have a few servings of Roasted Chicken literature:

Shakespeared: From roasted chickens we desire increase,
That thereby dinner's rose might never die...

John Rooster Milton: A good roast chicken is the precious lifeblood of a blogger spirit.

Mary Hen Shelley: It is a farce to call any roast chicken virtuous whose virtues do not result from the exercise of its own seasonings.

Shockingly, there are very, very, very few people who come around Chickenblog looking for information on robotics, or building robotics, robotic competitions, or what to wear to a robotic competition, or how to get to a FRC.

Why Tuesday?
This post might not be read by anyone. Tuesdays are the busiest days, with the most visits to Chckinblog Chickenblog.


Maria wrote her name. I do not know who wrote the quote, but I find it applicable and comforting.

I'll see you tomorrow.

And Now For my 1,500th Post
Natalie + blogging + Blogger = fail

The List
This is not to be confused with a bucket list. This is a list meant to kick my posterior in to immediate action. A reminder. An organizer. A contract. My destiny. The ugly truth. A dare. High priorities for the month.

*>*>*>*>*>*>*>*>*>*>*>*>*>*>*>*>*>*>Update*>*>*>*>*>*>*>*>*>*>*>*>*>*>
I did cross some things of the big list. And so I will add my "Best Foot Forward."



1. buy freezer paper, and shoe laces
2. buy food for dinner, breakfast, lunch, dinner :: repeat X 3
3. package and mail all kinds of stuff
4. prepare Greengoose for regionals 1 & 2
5. pick up Max's homework packet
6. get snack calendar for Maria's classroom
7. schedule parent conference with Ms Jane
8. turn men's medium T-shirt in to a dress
9. trim the ends of Maria's hair
10. email Daniel and get hair cut appointments for Max and Alex
11. get dishwasher repaired
12. find Japanese language tutor (He couldn't take Spanish?!)
13. incorporate yoga in to routine
14. incorporate routine in to life
15. pay bills
16. get Odyssy Odeyssy Odyssey car repaired
17. carve out personal time to contemplate navel
18. see # 13 :: find navel
19. learn French
20. find users' manual for the camera
21. read users' manual for the camera
22. apply knowledge to use of the camera
23. decipher Google's intentions for urls hosted by Blogger, but not using Blogger
24. rescue Chcieknblog C h i c k e n b l o g from Google-Blogger destruction mission
25. create new Chickenblog label for items that should be filed under "Disturbing, Yet Captiavating, But Mostly Disturbing"
26. host a discussion about why I am disturbed by many things that occurred in the seventies
27. clean the house
28. build a chicken coop
29. turn the garage in to the ultimate workshop and laundry facility ever created
30. clean the house again
31. reaffirm my commitment to never play Dynomite again
32. turn the compost
33. clarify that Geoff will be the one actually doing # 23 and #24
34. take cats to vet
35. think happy thoughts
36. make plan for spring break
37. make plans for summer
38. get school registration(s) signed, sealed, set
39. make time to see friends
40. see friends
41. visit family
42. host a giveaway

I bet there's more. There is always more, right? I registered a miniscule sense of achievement when I addressed part of #2, part of #10, and all of #6. Does this count as #35, think happy thoughts? No. I would like to aim a bit higher.

Truthfully, # 29 makes me excited. I have a vision.

This list is serious. It's so serious I am not even going to include a picture. Serious things rarely include illustrations. Isn't that sad? Okay, if I accomplish five things from the list today I will add a picture of something good. Something worthy of 3-2-1-0!

Like Being Drunk, But Less Social
I really need sleep. The uninterrupted kind I have heard talk of. Not eight collective hours. I need eight consecutive hours of restful, cough-free REM.

Otherwise I am inclined to write unedited posts like this.


Sleep, I have read, is necessary for our mental health. Without good mental health, things begin to slip. When things slip it is possible that someone will completely forget:

1. Back to School Night (an evening for good mothers to demonstrate their love and dedication to higher learning for their progeny.)

2. To return books, papers, forms, sign-this materials.

3. To make motel or camping reservations for our robotic weekend in Lost Wages, Nevada

4. Floss teeth and pluck eyebrows... it seems my sinuses are not the only things congested around here.

5. Choose a school. Hope the school chooses us. Then enroll someone in a kindergarten.

When things slip it is possible that someone will be attracted to reckless ventures and irresponsible impulses:

1. Buy an egg incubator and hatch chicks.
2. Buy chicks.
3. Adopt a kitten and a hedgehog.
4. Drive to Oregon.
5. Get something dyed or lifted, tucked, sucked, or removed.
6. Give up.
7. Say what I really think.

Me, Like A Chickadee

How, like a chickadee?
I cannot seem to stop chattering. Maybe not out loud, but certainly on this blog. And sometimes, like a small bird, I flit from branch to branch, or from subject to subject.

I never have been sure how to categorize Chickenblog. "Random" comes to mind.


A Whatbird.
Ever seen one before?
This bird, and several shyer ones, was sitting on the top of our apricot tree. And it sounded... don't worry, I am not about to give you my audio bird call interpretation... it sounded like a chickadee. When the sky was blue, it did not look as yellow.


And when the clouds filled in, the yellow was more pronounced. Does anyone recognize our little Whatbird?

Last night it rained. It rained more than I had expected it to, which is not necessarily significant information meteorologically speaking... it's just me, chattering away. Yvette you were right about the mud at South Side Mountain, which is why I am glad I left most of the weeds alone. The weeds do a lot of good, I say.


Have you ever had a season when you were sick so frequently that you felt embarrassed? I believe I wash my hands frequently, and I have been taking vitamins. I own and use a neti pot (this might sound like a bad testimonial) and I think happy thoughts. I kind of squirm uncomfortably when I have to admit that, yes, I am sick, again. Recently I missed a very important celebration. Maria was croupy, and I was "under the weather." I thought I made a full recovery and certainly had no clue that I was headed for worse. But. Here I am. I blame Dr. Drillhappy Martin. In 2002 he found his way through my tooth, through my jaw, and into my sinus cavity. I am not sure he was going to stop, but lucky for me Alex walked in to the room and demanded to know, "Why is my mom's mouth filling with blood? Nothing sinusly has been the same since. *shakes angry fist of indignation*

Did I have point?
Maybe the picture is an extreme macro-shot of my sinus cavity?


No. Self-sinus-photography is not one of my skills.
This is Geoff's. He is the Robotics programming mentor.
I was going to make this control panel and write programs to operate the robot, but then I got this sinus thing, so I let him take over.
I would explain it all. Describe the function of that metal box with the thingy sticking out, and why when it is on it sounds like a breadmaker, but... Top Secret.


Yeah, it's pretty much classified. Technical and classified, so sorry. Please step away.


This is slightly less technical, but equally as elaborate as Geoff's programming driver station. It is one of my baking drawers, and it is decadently loaded with measuring cups and teaspoons. The wealth of this drawer makes me lightheaded and bakingly gratified. There is abundance. Disorder, only to the untrained eye. I see clean supplies, ready to go to work. I even have a tool for making raspados and two maple leaf cookie cutters... two? I do love Canada, and autumn.


Want the dish on my kitchen?
I love thrift shopping.


I love aprons.
I love table cloths, dish towels, and bowls.
I really love bowls.


I love these teeny tiny glasses... Holly, Rich, and Ruth came with a bottle of limoncello for Geoff's birthday. We enjoyed the powerful sips from larger cups, but a few weeks ago I saw these pretty five for two dollar glasses and I instantly knew what they would work for... limoncello anyone?

The cow and kitty creamers look like they are straining to get a sip. It is such a blessing to be easily amused.


Not amused.
Time's up. Kitty says so.
Enough random chattering from this Chickadee.
I am going to drink hot tea and go to bed, or the sofa, or maybe to the South Side, and nap with Betty.

We Can't Even Be Friends

Glitter does not love me any more. Glue and paper laugh in my face.


The sparkle is still there, but I can't make anything work.
We are getting a divorce.

Without A Point

Some days it is so quiet, there is so little traffic in my cyber world, that I feel as though I am alone. Unseen. And then I feel as though I am at liberty to say or do whatever I please.

Quick. No one is looking. Say what you really think.

Then I think of other things, like chickens, and raised garden beds, the leaking roof, cleaning.


Before the rain, the days were like spring. There was a warmer sun. We were weeding this week, and pruning roses. We have nine roses, and now, thanks to Karen, they are all pruned and fed and ready for the real spring.

Anyway, before the rain, I was stretched out on the lawn and watching Betty have a dust bath. And I had my camera with me.


She looked left. She looked right. She looked right at me and she did not seem to mind that I was close and admiring. She did not seem to mind my big, black camera.


Oh Betty. I love you Betty.

You should see the pictures I took of Max. He's even better looking than Betty, but he won't let me show those pictures.

Geoff and Max are going to Parker's birthday party. Two years old already? Maria and I are sniffling a bit too much for public interaction. I hope people are grateful for our polite sacrifice, as we are very sad to miss the fun. *sigh* Alex is off to robotics, and maybe William is under the weather too, because he did not sleep well.

Why do we say under the weather? Are we ever above it? I wonder what it could mean if we said "I am in the weather."

Utterly pointless, which is my prerogative, and it is also my special right to include links to the dictionary, when a word strikes a chord.

I can almost suppose why we use the expression strikes a chord, but I am not sure it is a good expression; not for me. I do not play.


However I am feeling about the world, or my life, or the day, when I see Betty run, when she comes to my call, I feel happy. Truly happy. And the happiness lifts me, or heals me, or simply makes me laugh in spite of anything else hanging around my heart. And for my own gratification I would like to write this down: I love you Betty. I am so glad you live here, and that you eat grubs, take dust baths, give eggs, run around the yard, and clean my kitchen floor. You are simple, yet lovely. You are messy and silly. You are something inexplicable, which is good. I like a little mystery.


I may go for a walk. I am meaning to put things away. Kitchen things and backyard-camping things, laundry (clean and dirty), toys, papers, shoes and mud seem to have gathered, converged, and spread all over our home. Not even Betty can help me with this. I may walk, then put things away. I may skip the walk, and watch something on television. I may change the subject, because even I am getting bored with the pointlessness of this...


Isn't she fortunate? I cannot escape my deep thoughts and other musings, but she can. And she does. Run, Betty. Run!

Another Six Weeks of Glorious Winter


(image borrowed from the World Wide Interwebs)

In the timeless spirit of making a big deal out of nothing, we are commencing a family tradition of celebrating the fairly unremarkable calendar event known as: Groundhog Day. It is our intention to break up the monotony of a "long" winter, with frivolity, randomness, song and hoopla.

For many years the boys have inquired about this second day of February and the rumored observation of the behaviors of a certain Marmota monax, aka Punxsutawney Phil. Ironically we have consistently marked the occasion by realizing on the third day of February that we had forgotten to tune in and join in the celebration-observance-calendar event. The realization is generally followed by a discussion about the injustice of this not being a real holiday, and school break.

No more. We are taking charge and from this day forward Groundhog Day is real. It will mark the time when we look to the ground and think of the whistle-pig, the tree climbing, able swimmer, burrowing sciurid. We intend to write songs and sing them aloud, preferably around a campfire on Groundhog Eve. We will develop decorations and finalize what will henceforth be traditional Groundhog Day foods.


Ground hog has been suggested as a tasty, if somewhat insensitive, offering. We did have a vegetarian option this morning: Groundcakes: Groundhog shaped pancakes. While they did tend to resemble gophers, cats, bears and rats, we are certain that over time the form and flavor of Groundcakes will become distinctly Groundhoglicious.

I thought I might have to resort to Groundhog initials if my Groundcakes were going to look like bears.


Ooops
This won't work.


Holidays don't just happen. It takes thought and effort.


So, while I was whipping up a steaming, golden platter of Groundcakes, the boys were waking up in the tent. They spent the night camping in the backyard, a few feet away from where we spent the evening before gathered around a campfire. Smiley and Junie were over for a visit and joined us roasting marshmallows and counting stars.


Real campers, winter campers, deserve Groundcakes for breakfast. And I think this groundhog profile really captures the tasty beauty of the whistle-pig.


A herd?
Flock, covey, posse?
What do they call a pack of groundhogs?
******************UPDATE************************
"The collective name for groundhogs is "repetition". The easiest way to remember that is to think of the movie Groundhog Day :)" This came from Jill of "Because the Alternative is Unthinkable."
Awesome, Jill. Thank you.

Yes, we have a lot to learn, a lot to work out in terms of our theme and purpose.


Or do we?

Seriously. I think we are going to accept Groundhog Day as our very own sanctioned yet uniquely personalized unserious calendar event. We have six more weeks of winter, so there may be rain in our future and there may be mornings when we cannot sit on the lawn eating our breakfast. We will bear this as best we can. Do not pity us, please. And we have a whole year ahead of us in which to anticipate the next observation of Groundhog Day... we are very excited about this. Will there be costumes, a band? Maybe just top hats... Should we always pitch a tent, no matter what, and be super obsessive and formal? Is prognostication and weather lore the emphasis, or are we all about enjoying any weather, any season? The possibilities are limitless and so is our humor. I foresee a bright and absurd calendar-event future for us to enjoy.

What Not to Wear I Wore It


This is a whole new theme. I am going to either shame myself in to a real makeover, or resign myself to embracing my "inner" beauty. I am not so shallow as to propose that nice clothes and a hair brush are above kindness and good deeds, but something tells me I could do better.

My intentions are to:

1. Learn how to use my Christmas tripod.
2. Amuse myself.
3. Confess. We are talking full disclosure.
4. Challenge myself to graduate to a mature-sophisticated-aware state of being.

Issues:

1. I have not located/unpacked my earrings.
I know this is a minor factor in the overall problem subject, but wearing earrings is a small yet effective means of caring about one's appearance, I think.

2. I am not a morning person. I should quantify that... I am not a person that cooperatively and enthusiastically rises and agrees to submit to the timetables and rigors of school schedules.

3. Morning is my time and my time is never-ever-ever dedicated to:
a. ironing, unless for sewing
b. brushing my hair
c. being uncomfortable
d. applying make-up

4. All of the above would go a very long way to making me look less... Sasquatch.


I know.
I could do better.
I should do better.
It's an issue.


The hat. Well, the hat is cute. I made it. But it is, of course, hiding the hair that went unwashed... I could blame the septic system this week, but honestly, most mornings my shower comes late.

I do wear sunscreen, but obviously I have not located/unpacked my make-up. No mascara or foundation or concealer or lipstick or airbrushed shellac.

The brows. Well, yes, I shouldn't leave home without tweezers and a fine toothed comb. Enough said.


Sure, I can let iMac run the airbrush over my picture, but family and neighbors don't get this glossed over version, so it doesn't really count.

Step this way, if you will...

These shoes looked good. They looked good last June. Without socks. I think wearing my heavy wool socks with these summer shoes may have stretched them too much, because my feet are coming way forward and frankly, I don't think they look any better without socks. (Last pedicure: May 1998.)


The pants work for one wearing. One. I must not treat them like my farm-girl jeans that I won't wash until they can stand freely. These pants get wonky and wrinkled after a day and slipping them on for speed and ease is fashionably criminal. Even I can see that. Also, the big red stain on the hip... it's fading, sure, but it is there. Note to self: Lose these pants.


First of all, I want to congratulate myself for putting on a bra. Small measure, huge difference. The T-shirt is another matter. For one thing it is not my T-shirt, and that means one or two things: I am raiding Geoff's side of the closet because my diet is fail, and I have not kept up with laundry. So, as much as I loved SIGGRAPH, I am not wearing this ginormous T-shirt as a geek statement.

I like the coat. The coat is thrift shop vintage... White Stag, Portland, Oregon... in case that means something to real fashionistas.

I like my tripod. Thank you Geoff.


So. This is what I wore today when I dropped Alex, then Max off at school. I came home and, technically, I had time to make certain improvements before taking the next shift, but I did not. This is what I wore when I dropped off William, and I actually walked Maria in to her classroom wearing exactly this outfit. If I hustle, I can shower and change before I pick Maria up. We'll see.

Did I mention... ? I find this amusing. I see what can be done, but there are so many other ways to pass the time, that my personal style will only improve with significant effort. "Significant effort" may not be too big a deterrent, because studying these images I can see that I am closer to Crazy Chicken Lady than Uniquely Herself. I think my goal should be a Uniquely Me look.

January 20-Something


Very cold.
Well, not "very" compared with all points east and north of here.
But for us... very cold.


Between storms.
Between loads of laundry.
Between drop-off and pick-up.


After Christmas.
Before Geoff's birthday.


Raindrops on roses.
On unpruned roses.
Roses bright as the sun that is not shining.
Raindrops and puddles and mud,
and roof tiles all over the lawn.
Raindrops on the bathroom floor, below the leak.


Betty layed leid laid lathed left gave an egg.


After school, before homework is spread across our table, we will indulge in a Betty-Brownie confection,
so I must remember to grab some milk at the market.
And I must remember to bring Pepper's Ghost to William.
And I must remember to file one more school bulletin announcement for robotics.
And I must remember to... hmmm... something I've already forgotten.
I must not forget to take the brownies out of the oven.


I am so far behind in the list of forgottens, that lately I have felt like raising a white flag.
I surrender, I cry.
Because I suspect that I am in over my head.


It's going to rain again.
I am not sure the shelter over Betty and Joe's house is going to make it through the next storm.
Did you hear there were tornados in California?
Betty and Joe could have wound up in Oz.

Yeah. Now I am just avoiding.
I know.
Back to the laundry.

Older and Wiser?
Nothing confuses, frustrates and distresses me more than my birthday. Except taxes. And the wrapping on a DVD. Oh, and choosing paint color. I digress.

Nothing confuses, frustrates and distresses me more than my birthday. My birthdate falls in the void between Christmas and New Year's Eve. People are tired, shopped and partied out, out of town... etc. It's too soon after the big build up of the holidays to imagine one more party-celebration-cause for gift wrapping. We have gifted all we can. We need time and space to replenish our stores of good will and party stamina. Who can bear to look at another cheese platter? I know. I understand. This is why it's been eleven years since I last offered myself a party in my honor.

I was going to say more, but at this point confusion and distress are seeping in to my thoughts. Do I really want a party? How about just a take out container of sauce slathered ribs, some onion rings and one of Geoff's Margaritas? I could invite my most tolerant friends over to alternately cry and laugh over a ridiculously rich chocolate cake.

I am confussed. I cannot spell. Oh dear. I really am getting old. All my girlfriends have been warning me about reading glasses... how in your forties everyone needs reading glasses. I still hadn't noticed, until recently when I realized that I have no idea what I am shaving under my arms. I am armpit blind. Seriously. It probably looks like some cattywampus mow job, or like I have mange.

This is the year I am going to start lying about my age.

Hello.
My name is Natalie.
How old am I?
Why, I am fifty years old tomorrow.
What's that?
I don't look a day over 43?
You're so sweet.
Have a Margarita.

****Uh... evidently lying about my age was not such a hot idea... I am getting sympathy and encouragement. I must actually look closer to 50 than I thought.****

Forget the Turkeys, I Need Help
::I read all of your suggestions, after painting the bench red. The primer looks very promising and when the final color goes on, I think it will be what I wanted. In case I didn't make myself clear: This was only about those benches, and now they pop with their warm cranberry-rose shade. Thank you for playing. Pictures soon.::

Put down your cookbooks and mini marshmallows. I am face to face with a real life paint crisis.
The crisis is: In real life I do not enjoy the stress-anxiety-responsibility of choosing paint colors.
I recognize a wrong choice, but I am not immune from making the wrong choice.
Help me Santa.
Paint fairies?
Friends, wise counselors?
Anyone...

Okay. Here is what we have, and your job is to advise me where to go...
paint wise.


This is the very best of the Bird House blue. Most times and in most light it does not look this bright, this perky.
I wish it did. I like this trick of my camera, that the blue came out so energetic and decidedly blue.


This is a slightly sadder version of what the blue typically looks like. It goes a bit drab, a bit gray.
Where are my good camera battery and charger? I cannot believe these two pictures were taken in the same place and time. One is facing north and the other south... it makes a difference I guess.


So, around the corner from the entry is where I need to paint. But first take a moment to admire the beach pebble set down over the new drainage pipes. The objective was to keep plants, mud, ponds, creeks and salmon from living against the foundation and siding.

Note: Those round pavers are abundant here and I have been moving them around the yard and making very good use of them. I am prone to making good use of materials on hand. I did struggle with the decision a little bit, because they are slightly not super pretty. "Function, paid for, and easy" won my heart in the end. So, yesterday at the garden center I went looking for five more... I only need a measly five more to finish the path to the door. The guys at the garden center rolled their fancy eyes and said, "Oh those. Yeah, we don't carry those anymore. Nobody wants them. Except you," chuckle, chuckle.

Paint.
Right.
I want to know what color to paint the benches.


It needs primer for sure. That dry wood is going to suck up primer like Gatorade at the Super Bowl. After primer comes color. Help. Seriously. I want to enjoy choosing, but I feel so split, so wishy-washy.


Alright. I am sorry if you were doing something important, if I interrupted yoga or delayed you from leaving a comment on PW's blog... something that actually matters. But I know some of you enjoy this kind of thing. Some of you are good at this. Left to my own whimsy, this bench could get painted red, and after Christmas, I could come to regret my seasonal inspiration.


I did consider matching the shutters, but I am not too crazy about the gun metal gray and dark benches would not feel welcoming in the hot summer months.


The house is trimmed in white, which would stay cool and coordinate and... get dirty easy and quick.


Yesterday's post was so much more interesting and meaningful. I do hope you got a chance to read about this wonderful South African artist, but if you didn't, please help me first, before you follow the link. In twenty minutes I am going back to garden/home center to buy paint. Those fancy guys are going to roll their eyes at me again when I leave the store with a gallon of Christmas Red paint.