Dear person or persons whom I have irrevocably failed and/or disappointed,

Facebook is evil. Pure, unadulterated evil.
I really did try to sign up. I really did. My very best. You won't hate me forever, will you?
See, it just rejected me. I think it's because I'm a confessed member of Autodidacts Anonymous. They just hate homeschoolers. The System is trying to bring me down!...In fact, it's succeeding!
Facebook is evil. That is just all there is to it.

With too many apologies,

Me

The Summer has come.

It has come up to terrorize our gardens. It has bred many thunderstorms, but not nearly enough. It has evaporated our pools, fogged our glasses. It has dried up our reservours, killed our chickens, and gunned down many a resolution for Summer Fitness with its tempting array of cold and frozen sugary treats.

And the Summer has gone.

And with it, every friend I have over the age of 18.

I wish every one good luck for the coming year. And the nicest and most understanding of roommates, and very good cafeteria food, and very nice dorm rooms and fridges and professors and classrooms and whatever else you need.
Till next time...

Where's the Big Big Man?

Ever since I was a little girl, the Big Big Man has been in that field on 401 (or capitol blvd, or whatever). You know the one I'm talking about. Blue overalls, black beard, seasonally changes his shirt. I used to beg my parents to go out of their way so I could say 'Hi' to the Big Big Man. At Christmas, the people who owned the farm where he stood would rig up a star over their house, so high up I thought it was part of the sky. During Independence day week, an American flag would be clenched in the Big Big Man's hand.
He was a landmark. No matter where I was, I would think to myself, Okay, the Big Big Man's over there, so I must be...?
He's always been there, the unsung fiberglass watchdog of the capitol.

SO WHERE'D HE GO???
Is it normal for ten-foot-tall men to suddenly dissapear? I mean, he was an innanimate object, for crying out loud.
Or am I just overreacting? Was it 'his time'? Am I going crazy for missing some over-large portrayal of a farmer?

Does anyone have the faintest idea of what I am talking about?

I adore eggs. Almost as much as I adore mayonnaise. Or chocolate. Or Butter.

When we got our first five hens a few weeks ago, I was more than very, very happy. I was ecstatic. I was beside myself with uncontained glee. I was ready to burst with the idea that we were going to have more eggs! Yes! I had just been told that the meaning of life was in my back yard!

But alas, no. Not nearly. Aparently, chickens are slaves to routine, one of their routines being that they go on strike every summer, without warning (maybe there Italian?).

Estimated total egg consumption per week: Let seven eggs be assigned to french toast, three to toad-in-the-holes, six to scrambling/frying, six for hard-boiling, and twelve for baking and ice cream. Total: Thirty-four/Three dozen, at least five per day (and each one of those conclusions came to a completely different number, but whatever).

Actual laying amount per day: Two.

Apparently, our chickens do not share my family's love of eggs. There is a very distinct +/- thing going on here.

(Perhaps I shouldn't write this at lunchtime.)

And it is August.

Is it just me, or is really, really hot?