It's a two-fer, two video posts in one day!
The girls' cousins sing Cee Lo Green's "Forget Youz" to Maisie and Me
Friday, January 6, 2012
That's Amore
As promised, I now have a video of Oli exhibiting his Baryshnikof moves, however not whole heartedly, booo...I'll try to get him first thing in the morning as he rolls (quite literally) out of bed.
Next up: The chickchicks spread their wings...a tour of the new chicken McCondo.
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
Oli Outs Himself and Everybody Else
To say "Oli gets his jiggy on" is the understatement of the year, well not counting that the year is only three days old. He is so full of his crowing and his dancing, and his stalking, and bossing, and puffing, shaking, strutting, self; that I'm afraid everyone within earshot is going to hold a moratorium to have him renamed Stew, and that's not short for Stewart.
Every morning sometime between five and six o'clock he lets at least four crows rip, then again at about 7:15. That's when I let him out of the coop, or shall I say facilitate the "Open up or I'm busting down this door" move. Sleepily and a bit warily I approach the henhouse, or more accurately the chicken coop, NOT the Oliver Sultanate as HE would prefer. Earlier this winter I had hung a flappy rubber door over the opening at the top of the ramp into their sleeping quarters. On cold nights I balance a dustpan against the flaps to shore it up a bit more. It is my job as official "Release the Chickens! person" to remove the dustpan so that the chickens can gingerly push their way through the flaps into the bright sunshine of the day. Oli of course stands first in line, and short of head butting the dustpan, barrels out through the flaps like a clown rolling into a circus ring. He continues down the ramp stylin' a la Jackie Chan until he scissor kicks into the great outdoors where he instantly morphs into Baryshnikof, sweeping "a la seconde" in my direction, and finishing with a pirouette. All the while he fixes his beady eyes on mine illciitng either a full-on laugh at his rather girly antics, or depending on my mood a bellowing, "Bring it on!", and then under my breath , "You stupid beast."
I was telling our friend Clint about this, who seems to know more about chicken rearing than I. He reported that his rooster challenged his wife Kate all the time, even though she kicked back at him while carrying a pitchfork or rake, or some such semi-lethal instrument. Clint felt that perhaps the rooster saw her as an adversary. He suggested picking the bird up and showing it some affection, to sort of break him down with looovve..uh huh! (Do I hear Barry White playing?) Willing to try anything, I decided to give it a go the next day. I pulled him out of the side door effectively aborting any Chan/Baryshnikof moves, and quite surprisingly he tolerated my cudding! I placed him sweetly upon the earth and waited...all of two seconds before he started plié-ing and tour jete-ing, and once again fixing his beady stare on me. Fine! Fine! We'll see who wins this fowl war!
Next up: A video of Oli impersonating Baryshnikof, and the continuing saga of woman versus rooster.
 |
| The Sultan and his Harem of Two |
Every morning sometime between five and six o'clock he lets at least four crows rip, then again at about 7:15. That's when I let him out of the coop, or shall I say facilitate the "Open up or I'm busting down this door" move. Sleepily and a bit warily I approach the henhouse, or more accurately the chicken coop, NOT the Oliver Sultanate as HE would prefer. Earlier this winter I had hung a flappy rubber door over the opening at the top of the ramp into their sleeping quarters. On cold nights I balance a dustpan against the flaps to shore it up a bit more. It is my job as official "Release the Chickens! person" to remove the dustpan so that the chickens can gingerly push their way through the flaps into the bright sunshine of the day. Oli of course stands first in line, and short of head butting the dustpan, barrels out through the flaps like a clown rolling into a circus ring. He continues down the ramp stylin' a la Jackie Chan until he scissor kicks into the great outdoors where he instantly morphs into Baryshnikof, sweeping "a la seconde" in my direction, and finishing with a pirouette. All the while he fixes his beady eyes on mine illciitng either a full-on laugh at his rather girly antics, or depending on my mood a bellowing, "Bring it on!", and then under my breath , "You stupid beast."
 |
| Oli Shakes His Groove Thang |
 | |
| Beady stare....beeeee...deeee.....stare |
I was telling our friend Clint about this, who seems to know more about chicken rearing than I. He reported that his rooster challenged his wife Kate all the time, even though she kicked back at him while carrying a pitchfork or rake, or some such semi-lethal instrument. Clint felt that perhaps the rooster saw her as an adversary. He suggested picking the bird up and showing it some affection, to sort of break him down with looovve..uh huh! (Do I hear Barry White playing?) Willing to try anything, I decided to give it a go the next day. I pulled him out of the side door effectively aborting any Chan/Baryshnikof moves, and quite surprisingly he tolerated my cudding! I placed him sweetly upon the earth and waited...all of two seconds before he started plié-ing and tour jete-ing, and once again fixing his beady stare on me. Fine! Fine! We'll see who wins this fowl war!
Next up: A video of Oli impersonating Baryshnikof, and the continuing saga of woman versus rooster.
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
A Tail of Two Chickens
Once, not so long ago in a little seaside hamlet in Connecticut, there lived a lovely little hen named Meggy. Meggy was quite agreeable, even lovable some might say, especially compared to her somewhat sinister sister, Violet. Although Violet could twinkle her toes as well as any hen out there, she was damned to a voice unheard of by most mortal ears. Some think her to be deaf, because she never fails to exclaim loudly and often about the slightest little thing that appears out of order. Bonnie, the quiet, yet prancey little princess loved all that she encountered and was brazenly favored by her mistress "the hen whisperer", Lyndee. All was well in the busy little garden where it was unlawful to have hens on one's own property, in that quiet little seaside town. So the days passed, with nice neighbors strolling by, seemingly enjoying the long and lovely street's new additions.
But of course, as with most tales, there loomed a dark and heavy cloud on the horizon, beyond the I-95 corridor, so far away that nobody knew it even existed....until that fateful day.
As Lyndee approached the Kingdom of Hen to coax the castle's royalty down the drawbridge so that they may wander near and far on all one third acre of land, a banshee appeared waving wildly and running with great, persistent strides. At first Lyndee thought it to be a neighbor friend out for exercise, but as the banshee approached she saw that it was not. No, this banshee spoke not like the others, and try as she may, Lyndee finally understood the enormity of the encounter...the kind and pretty banshee had lost her canine companion and worried that it may mow down the entire Kingdom of Hen! While everyone ran about crazily, Maisie, "Watcher of All Things Plain and Simple" escaped confinement and joined in the fray. Just as the the marauding canines were being lured in with a fine specimen of parmigiano reggiano, Meggy, who had only completed a partial transformation into Chief Oliver, let out a yell that translated to, ""Halt all ye that trespass upon my fine Kingdom's grounds, I the metrosexual rooster command your attentions, appreciate my fine plumage, notice my wenches as they flock to my side. Be still and kneel before your Oli.". Somewhat unexpectedly it sounded a lot more like "Cock-a Doodle-Doo!"
So that is the tale of two chickens. One that no living thing ever really knew, and the other who we are just now learning to embrace. The "Kingdom of Hen" has since been renamed "The Oliver Sultanate" per Chief Oliver's orders, although no one ever refers to it as such, and they all lived happily ever after.
Up next: Oli Gets His Jiggy On
But of course, as with most tales, there loomed a dark and heavy cloud on the horizon, beyond the I-95 corridor, so far away that nobody knew it even existed....until that fateful day.
As Lyndee approached the Kingdom of Hen to coax the castle's royalty down the drawbridge so that they may wander near and far on all one third acre of land, a banshee appeared waving wildly and running with great, persistent strides. At first Lyndee thought it to be a neighbor friend out for exercise, but as the banshee approached she saw that it was not. No, this banshee spoke not like the others, and try as she may, Lyndee finally understood the enormity of the encounter...the kind and pretty banshee had lost her canine companion and worried that it may mow down the entire Kingdom of Hen! While everyone ran about crazily, Maisie, "Watcher of All Things Plain and Simple" escaped confinement and joined in the fray. Just as the the marauding canines were being lured in with a fine specimen of parmigiano reggiano, Meggy, who had only completed a partial transformation into Chief Oliver, let out a yell that translated to, ""Halt all ye that trespass upon my fine Kingdom's grounds, I the metrosexual rooster command your attentions, appreciate my fine plumage, notice my wenches as they flock to my side. Be still and kneel before your Oli.". Somewhat unexpectedly it sounded a lot more like "Cock-a Doodle-Doo!"
So that is the tale of two chickens. One that no living thing ever really knew, and the other who we are just now learning to embrace. The "Kingdom of Hen" has since been renamed "The Oliver Sultanate" per Chief Oliver's orders, although no one ever refers to it as such, and they all lived happily ever after.
Up next: Oli Gets His Jiggy On
Saturday, December 10, 2011
Chief Oliver who?
As Christmas draws nearer, and the days grow ever shorter, I am finally ready to openly write about our, uh dare I say...r...r...roo...uh hum...rooster. At first I thought our Meggy an extraordinary specimen of feathered finery, and perhaps a tad alpha, but hey somebody has to be top chicken. Then I noticed Meggy becoming irritated with Bonnie when she exerted her independence and fearless curiosity. I thought that a bit controlling of Meggy, I mean why would she care that Bonnie had a certain joie de vivre that allowed her to verily prance and dance about the yard, atop the henhouse, and through the gardens? Just because Bonnie's perfect execution of tour jetes and pleis could easily win her a position alongside Baryshinokov in a Russian Ballet is no reason for such huffiness.
Was Meggy feeling less girly, less chic, less flowery than the other hens? Was her farmer-like gait and super-big feet a cause for embarrasment? She does seem to strain in keeping her cackles and coos in pitch with the others. Then with little warning, her world of metrosexual manliness began to unfold, in the sprouting of a long and high curly tail, the compulsion to herd the other hens to safety, and the macho chase and retreat behavior while I walked away from the brood. No other hen was exhibiting these testosterone laden activities that lay claim to her shall we say unegginess. Yet the coup d'etat, the grand finale was yet to be displayed, I refer to the big one, the tell-all-no-holds-barred one, the no- going-back-yell-your-head-off-share-it-with-the-world-every-morning-of-every-day one, the inevitable, in your face, get the hell up COCK-A-DOODLE-DOO! (I know what you were thinking...I think she, him, uh, he, is still trying to figure that out.)
So it came time to help our Meggy out of the depths of gender ambiguity and call her, um him, by her, uh his rightful name, which our daughter rebestowed upon him...Oliver. My husband began calling him Chief straight away. I think he was privately celebrating another male's presence in an otherwise overburdened female household. I admit the scheduled explosions of not so pretty hormonal outbursts even wears me down. As one girlfriend exclaimed, and we shall not mention any names Amy! "Even I find it hard to live with myself during those times!"
So welcome, welcome O-li-ver, dahoo dores Christmas day. And may all the Who's down in Whoville, and hen's in the yard, stay safe and protected with Oli in charge.
A fond farewell to Meggy and a bright welcome to our Oli in her stead!
Next up: Oh the weather outside's not frightful, oh why's it so delightful? Global warming takes its toll. Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow!
Was Meggy feeling less girly, less chic, less flowery than the other hens? Was her farmer-like gait and super-big feet a cause for embarrasment? She does seem to strain in keeping her cackles and coos in pitch with the others. Then with little warning, her world of metrosexual manliness began to unfold, in the sprouting of a long and high curly tail, the compulsion to herd the other hens to safety, and the macho chase and retreat behavior while I walked away from the brood. No other hen was exhibiting these testosterone laden activities that lay claim to her shall we say unegginess. Yet the coup d'etat, the grand finale was yet to be displayed, I refer to the big one, the tell-all-no-holds-barred one, the no- going-back-yell-your-head-off-share-it-with-the-world-every-morning-of-every-day one, the inevitable, in your face, get the hell up COCK-A-DOODLE-DOO! (I know what you were thinking...I think she, him, uh, he, is still trying to figure that out.)
So it came time to help our Meggy out of the depths of gender ambiguity and call her, um him, by her, uh his rightful name, which our daughter rebestowed upon him...Oliver. My husband began calling him Chief straight away. I think he was privately celebrating another male's presence in an otherwise overburdened female household. I admit the scheduled explosions of not so pretty hormonal outbursts even wears me down. As one girlfriend exclaimed, and we shall not mention any names Amy! "Even I find it hard to live with myself during those times!"
So welcome, welcome O-li-ver, dahoo dores Christmas day. And may all the Who's down in Whoville, and hen's in the yard, stay safe and protected with Oli in charge.
 |
| Fahoo dores Christmas Day! |
 | ||
| Chief Oliver in Charge |
Next up: Oh the weather outside's not frightful, oh why's it so delightful? Global warming takes its toll. Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow!
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
Super Chicken Throws Rhode Island Under the Bus
We were out cycling in the deep, dark forest of coastal Connecticut a few nights ago, when Moustache Mike breaks into the theme song to Super Chicken. I'd like to say the reason I don't remember this cartoon is because I'm too young. The fact is, I fit the time frame, I just don't remember! Mike and I are known to break into song on the trail, maybe more so at night to chase away the creepy woodsey wildlife (local partying teenagers and "man versus wilders" excluded). Upon returning home, my ever adventurous and conscientious husband offers, "You really should see an episode of Super Chicken and post it on your blog, just for fun." I concede, because that's what this blog is all about really...fun. So the following morning I settle in for a 6 minute youtube over fried eggs (but not my girls' ...yet).
Poor Rhode Island takes a chicken lickin':
In defense of our tiniest State of the Union, Providence in particular has come a loooong way. It is a jewel of a city! They have uncovered the pretty river that runs smack through it's center, and then the Italianos in power ordered gondolas from the motherland to ply the river banks. Stunning! Brown University, RISD and Johnson and Wales adorn it's hillsides, and of course Federal Hill, ground zero for all that is Italian, flanks to the North. Btw, looking for fantastic food? Providence abounds with many fine eateries...my pick? La Laiterie Bistro, farm to table yumminess in a pretty cheese shop. If you've just spent a to-die-for day of shopping the Providence Mall, head to Venda Ravioli, but pack a cooler for fresh nibbles, and don't forget an espresso on the way out the door.
Next up: Yep, Meggy's change through puberty ushers in "resticles", not eggs.
Poor Rhode Island takes a chicken lickin':
In defense of our tiniest State of the Union, Providence in particular has come a loooong way. It is a jewel of a city! They have uncovered the pretty river that runs smack through it's center, and then the Italianos in power ordered gondolas from the motherland to ply the river banks. Stunning! Brown University, RISD and Johnson and Wales adorn it's hillsides, and of course Federal Hill, ground zero for all that is Italian, flanks to the North. Btw, looking for fantastic food? Providence abounds with many fine eateries...my pick? La Laiterie Bistro, farm to table yumminess in a pretty cheese shop. If you've just spent a to-die-for day of shopping the Providence Mall, head to Venda Ravioli, but pack a cooler for fresh nibbles, and don't forget an espresso on the way out the door.
 | ||||
| one of our mountain biking haunts at dusk |
 |
| moustache and me |
 |
| moustache and maisie getting snuggly in the back seat |
Next up: Yep, Meggy's change through puberty ushers in "resticles", not eggs.
Saturday, December 3, 2011
Head down, butt up, on your mark...
Our friend Laura hopes to be a happy chicken owner next Spring...in the meantime she has helped us out with ours when in a pinch, like "We're not finishing our mountain bike ride until 7, then its a two hour drive back, we wanted to stop for dinner, can you make sure the girls are locked in their coop snug and safe?" Of course her reply is always, "No problem!"
We were talking about the joys of raising hens, when she exclaimed, "There is nothing funnier than a chicken running!" So true!
We'll pretend Meggy is a hen in this video...
Next up: A slow-mo close-up of chickens on the run! Work it girls, and Meggy!
We were talking about the joys of raising hens, when she exclaimed, "There is nothing funnier than a chicken running!" So true!
We'll pretend Meggy is a hen in this video...
Next up: A slow-mo close-up of chickens on the run! Work it girls, and Meggy!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)