I used to be a Scouting Sister: I went with my dad and my brothers to every camp out, sang 'American Pie' with the best of them around a fire, ate S'Mores till my lips stuck together, helped to compose the cheers, and wore short sleeves in 49-degree weather.

I haven't been camping in 2 years. It's not that I didn't want to, it's just that The Boys are now Boy Scouts (as opposed to cute little Cub Scouts), and siblings are banned from Boy Scout Land.

I went camping this weekend.

It has come to my attention that I am no longer sufficiently conditioned for camping: I am used to certain necessities, like brushing my teeth, changing my socks, sleeping in a totally dry bed, and being able to stand up while dressing.
(I've even developed the unhealthy habit of looking in the mirror every 12 hours.)

However, I plan to remedy this very soon.

This year, anyway.

I think I'll start by getting a raincoat.

This isn't to say that I didn't have a good time. I had a blast. I was one of five females under 21 in a camp full of Boy Scouts (who all treated me like a cousin, but whatever. I'll take what I can get.).

And even with the tornado watch on Friday, this years' Camporee could have been a lot worse. The Crew might have had to eat our Adult Advisor, and she does come in rather handy!

My brother has been growing his hair out for a few years.
It all started one night at the dinner table, when I said, "hey, you should grow out your hair!" and he said, "hey, I think I'll do that!" and it (dare I say it?) grew from there.

It was very dark brown, and so soft and shiny, and it had a very sweet little curl at the ends.

It's still very dark brown.

And soft and shiny.

But no curl.

More like...spikes.

(I wonder if the hairdresser at Sport Clips got her inspiration from the Volleyball on TV?)

No more the '20-year-old-lumberjack-who-doesn't-believe-in-bathing' look.

No more the 'freak-flag-flying-retro-punk-hippie-grunge-rebel-without-a-cause' look.

And hopefully, I can get back my peace medallion.

WE HAVE CHICKS!!

True, they are loud.

True, they are stupid.

True, they are a pain.

But they are just so cute.

It's something about those pleading, curious eyes and those vulnerable, not-quite-there ears.

But of course, I am not at all taken in by these miniature pom-poms. Oh, no. I chase the cat away from them and clean out their box and endure their suprisingly loud ''peep-peep''s for one reason, and one reason only: the fact that one day, these small, pesky, adorable fluffballs will be laying eggs for my breakfast.

As if determined to throw a wrench into the works of my Pretty Wonderful Week, Facebook has recently kicked my off.

Their reason?

Homeschooled. Me. That's right.

I have been discriminated against not because of skin color, not because of race, not because of religion, not because of political leanings, but because my school isn't like everyone else's school.

How impossibly American.

I didn't think it was possible to be kicked off a 'social network' unless you were a certified public menace.

Do I even need to say how disgusting, infuriating, and just plain unfair this is?

We are to undertake a journey. A journey that, while previously explored, is never the less relatively uncertain.
A journey to the state where it is perpetually Very Cold, where the snow comes down grey and yellow all over, and nobody drinks the water for fear of minute radiation poisoning.

'And where is this paradise?' you ask.
'Why, here in our very country!' I answer you.

It is that turnpike-riddled, round-about crazy, sub-urbianite laden, less glamorous counterpart of New York of which I speak.

Yes, the ever garden-y New Jersey.

I can practically see the glow-in-the-dark snow from here.

I have made cheese! On purpous! And it is good!

This makes me feel extremely powerful, and also rather ecstatic.

I took milk (and water and rennit and citric acid) and heated it and made something edible!

No, more that just edible. Likeable! Delicious! YUMMY!

Happy Mardi Gras!

I am paper-mache-ing a cheap plastic Mardi Gras mask from A.C. Moore.

I didn't do any research on paper-mache beforehand ( my only memory of it involves a baloon and an oven), but I have a modicum of common sense, so I just slathered that sucker with petrolium jelly and started up. It is really a lot easier than I thought it was going to be, which only re-enforces my belief that I AM A GENIUS.

Of course, now I also see why paper-mache Mardi Gras masks are usually in the "ridiculosly expensive things that I will never, ever use, but simply must have" catagory.

Tedium, thy name is sculpture.

Although I probably shouldn't complain. As humans, we seem to be drawn to all things beautiful and/or handmade. People will pay through the nose for beauty. We crave what has been made by hand.

Good thing I love doing messy, hands-on artwork that produces beautiful results, then.

We are re-tiling our kitchen counters.

Well, maybe not re-tiling. Re-tiling implies that they have been tiled before. These counters have always been mind-numbingly dull and extremely uninspiring and VERY VERY BEIGE Formica (with Colonial Blue floral-patterned tile back splash).

But now their Reign of Mass Revulsion is at an end. Soon we shall have relief!

We are 'forcefully re-clothing' our counters.

Forcefully.

With force.

And lots of screwdrivers.

The End of The Evil, Deranged, Troublesome, Very, Very Adolescent Remote

...And why? Because we now have a New Remote.

You may laugh, but this is very exciting to me. After two years of batteries falling out, buttons not working, and general remote-related aggravation, we now have a New Remote.

I have been having a really good time lately, for no real reason at all, except that I am happy, and being happy usually makes me look happy (I can't help it), and looking happy usually makes me feel happy, et cetera.

The only mar in this circle of continuous happiness is that...(deep breath) ...My tall, skinny, Wonder-bread white brother has...(deep breath)...received seven stitches...(deep breath)...for a split chin...(deep breath)...that he got while he was break dancing.
(Falls about laughing uncontrollably).

And in case anyone accuses me of being callous, I would like to point out that my stitches were far greater in number, and the lacerations themselves were inflicted under slightly less ridiculous circumstances.

On the upside, I might persuade him to take up a less dangerous hobby. Like bungee-jumping.

List of Exasperating, Exhilarating, and Just Plain Weird Things That are Happening in My Life Right Now, in No Order Whatsoever, as told by Myself:

1. Was turned down for a job at the Library because of my infernally fabulous choir.
I will admit that the library is not the most exciting place to work, and the salary is all of six bucks an hour, but hey. My first job. It was important to me.

2. I found out that Geisha girls' formal makeup used to be a lead-based mask, but they switched to rice powder after skin and back problems. I thought that was extremely cool. And I must now get some rice powder.

3. I dyed my hair blue. It was rather nice for the first day or so, and then it started fading out, and now it is greenish at the ends. (I sort of thought it looked like Peacock feathers, but I have also heard that it is reminiscent of Ducks and Black Australorpe chickens. Maybe I am just vain.)

4. Mum has started cooking with coconut flour. It is very odd to be eating something white at our house. Normaly, anything that isn't soaked or sprouted or fermented (unless its meat or leafy green veggies, grown by folks two hours away, maximum), isn't eaten at home. White things are barred.

A Safe Comment About the Weather

It is gray, and sad, and stormy. The rain alternately pounds the windows and drizzles abjectly down on our bedraggled chickens.
It's one of those days that usually makes me feel warm and cozy, eager cuddle up with a hot water bottle, to read a good book and sip a cup of something.
Today, however, is a day to be grouchy, pessimistic, and cynical (the last two are NOT the same, just conveniently similar). A day to wear lots of black and eye makeup and talk in a slow, defeated voice.
Even my cat has taken refuge indoors, no doubt confused by the very confusing weather: Yesterday, it was sunny, slightly humid, and 69 degrees in the shade (though there wasn't a lot of it). Today, it is thoroughly dismal and dreary, forlorn and 42.

What ever has happened to our sub-tropical climate? Has El Ninio finally moved against us? Have the Snow Gods had a change of heart? Or maybe we'll wake next morning to find that it was just a fluke, or maybe a nasty trick played on us by those Floridians...

This is a historic day in world history.

In a good way.

On this cold and blustery Saturday in December, 2007, at 3:10 in the afternoon, it was found that EVERY SINGLE CHICKEN WE OWN IS LAYING!!!

Now, I know that we only have nine girls, but five of them are pullets.

And four of them are old, crabby ladies.

Green eggs, brown eggs, speckled eggs, big eggs, small eggs.

And the rest of Dr. Seus' books.

And ALL OF THEM ARE LAYING!!!

Today's news was earth-shattering, to say the least.
It was completely and totally unexpected. I have lost all faith in the human race. There is just nothing to believe in anymore.
And yet, it is true.
Somebody had apparently forgotten to tell our poor, naive radio networks that there are STEROIDS IN BASEBALL.
Shocking. Absolutely shocking.

Yes, the Mitchell Report has now been released.

Perhaps people will go back to eating the Red-Hots that are served at Baseball stadiums. It looks like they have fewer artificial ingredients than the players.

Fame can be so tiring. Someone discovers that under your pretense of mediocrity, there lurks an undiscovered Above-Average Person, and then it's nothing but work, work, work. That's why I'm usually an under-achiever: give them mediocrity all the time, and they'll be much more interested when you eventually display your true Above-Average Qualities. Alas, my dear masses, I have been displaying Above-Average Posting Habits for far too long, and just look at what's happened: Above Average is what you now expect.
After much petitioning from the Above-Average masses, I have decided that it is in my best interests to write an Above-Average post.

Mediocrely, of course.

My choir sang at Duke Chapel on Sunday, and it was very beautiful, and the acoustics were incredible, and the preacher-man had lots of very pretty white hair. We sang our Christmas Concert Repertoire and what felt like the entire hymnal, but it was a nice hymnal, so. That was good.
There is a podcast on the Duke Chapel website of us singing, and it is almost perfect, except that you can't hear Alicia's harp. So for some of the songs, there is silence where it is not supposed to be silent, but it sort of works.

After Duke, my dad drove me downtown, where there is a tour of historic houses every year. This year, most of the houses seemed to be as yet unfinished, but there was 411 Oakwood, with it's French Doors flanked by upside-down Christmas trees, and 523 Bloodworth, the Art Deco house with a bathtub set on illuminated blue glass cubes.
My mum sang with her a Capella group, Domestic Harmony, and they were lovely. I felt like I should be dressed in period costume and sipping tea.

That evening, my friends came over, and we had some Serious Soup, and Kasha-nut loaf, and Chocolate Bourbon Pecan Pie and Mulled Wine.

Today, I have been looking at different college websites, and growing steadily more depressed as I think about what the requirements are, what they will be, and what I will be able to get
done.

Are you masses appeased yet?

There's Just Gotta Be A Morning After...

Hello, dears! Having fun nursing your post-thanksgiving turkey-induced stupors?

It is tradition in my family to go down to Kinston (only we pronounce it kein-stun) and be embraced in the bosom of our family (or, well, our Kin) while a pig cooks in the grille, and eat Cole slaw (with sugar), marinated bean salad (with sugar), cooked down greens (with sugar) and various "sugarless" deserts (with Splenda).

The day after Thanksgiving, we eat our Turkey, our Cranberry-Onion Compote, our Sweet Potato Casserole with lemon, our stuffing and our dressing, and (O, glory of glories! O most perfect perfection!) the Pumpkin Pie.

Then we watch M*A*S*H, entertain ideas of watching Home for the Holidays, and think about what we ought to do next Thanksgiving.

All that to say, the pilgrims probably didn't know what they were getting us into when they boarded the Mayflower.
But I can think of a dozen Turkey dinners that would mean a lot less without them.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Falling thoughts...

1. One year from today, a nation-wide presidential election will take place, employing all of America's favorite pastimes: bribery, gain of power, prestige, and status, and, of course, Political Scandals. For yea! We must uphold the Noble American Way of Life.

2. It's hunting season.
Again.
Time to thin the Union of Non-Edible Animals, which have grown WAY to big for this town, thanks to the overpopulation of Here, the next China.
And besides, dead animals make lovely Thanksgiving centerpieces. Just think of those conversation-starters, "yeah, so I was driving down the street one day..."
And the terror you shall inspire! "Hey, kids! Guess what were having for dinner this year!"

3. It's time to turn those clocks wacky for an hour, just like we did last year. Unless of course, you live in Arizona or Hawaii. A pox upon thee. You people who live in warm, tropical places know nothing of the cold darkness we poor, semi-northern chaps and chapettes are forced feel for six out of every twelve months. Fie to thee, I cry! May a thousand frosts plague your black coral and bolo ties!

4. I believe that it is a manly instinct brought on by the cold weather that awakens the urge to grow a beard (even though your wife hates facial hair), chop loads of firewood (even though it's 75 out and you've had gas logs since you moved in), and hunt deer (even though you'd only shoot yourself in the foot and scare away the game).
My dad has similar testosterone-induced urges, but they verge on sanity, a fact I attribute to all the estrogen my mum and I produce: wearing flannel, brewing beer, and napping with a wool blanket on Sunday afternoons.

My little-little brother is going down the street to collect free candy from strangers.

My big-little brother is trick-or-treating with a Scarlet-French-Maid-Woman of the Evening. (And that will only make sense to you if you have a reliable thesaurus and a twisted imagination.)

And me? I am sitting at home, with my mum, filling up the house with lots of nice Estrogen, and wondering why in heavens' name my parents let my brothers out of the house while they were still minors.

Why, oh why, did my parents have to have boys?

I think I'll make some hot chocolate...

Well, it's time.

Time to finally bite the bullet. Time to get it done and out of the way.

Homicide lawyers, be at the ready.

I have never been at the receiving end of this particular peice of advice, so I'll be quick, so as to damage my cringing reputation as a non-licensed personage little as possible: all you innocents out there, stay off the sidewalks.

I'm doing Driver's Ed next week.

Don't say I didn't warn you.

I just realized that today is Friday! Which means tomorrow is Saturday!
Which means that I am going to be singing downtown with my mum and a bunch of other Theatre Maniacs in LESS THAN 24 HOURS!

Does the fact that costumes aren't required make it easier, or harder?