Waterworks

What happens when my husband gets me a brand new bathroom for Christmas?

I trash it.

So maybe "trash" isn't exactly correct. But "temporarily damage" definitely is.

After more than four years, Brandon finally decided it was time to actually make a master bathroom out of the hole in our house where birds kept nesting.

He kept insisting he wanted to "finish what he started" when he demolished the entire room (stripped it down to the drywall and concrete and knocked out a giant window). Sometime this November, he realized as long as he was farming, this was not going to happen. So he broke down and hired someone.

And as of yesterday, we had a functional, pretty bathroom, with just a few final touches to add. Okay, so maybe a countertop and sink for the vanity isn't exactly a "final touch", but if you really knew what we started out with, you might think so.

So, yeah. Shower and toilet are installed and working. We have a tile floor I want to replicate in the rest of our house. I have a pretty red wall. And the vanity, which was by far the most difficult to component to come by, is installed. Unfortunately, my driving resulted in a cracked sink in the countertop that came with it.

I will fully admit I had absolutely no grasp of reality when it came to home remodeling/repair until 2009. Until then, I was a poor college student who could call a landlord for repairs, and just dealt with the things I didn't like about my rental residence. Brandon had already spent several years working on this house before I came on board. He just laughed at me when, every time he sent me to the store after a needed item, I would call and say, "Are you sure we need this? You must have no idea how expensive these things are. Can't we just get by without it?"

...I'm pretty sure some of this was just an exercise for me on spending money when we need to.

Anyway, the vanity. After checking Lowe's (three times), Home Depot and Ikea, I told Brandon there was no way I could spend what was required to purchase a brand new vanity, sink/countertop and faucet. So we began looking on Craigslist. The one I really wanted was about two inches longer than we needed, and stood against the opposite wall than it would in our house. Another one I really liked was on the northeast side of Phoenix, and their asking price was too high. And so on...

I finally, the night before I left Texas, found a suitable vanity, complete with a double-sink countertop. The faucets were ugly, but I found a couple for $25 at Home Depot (which, if you've ever walked down the aisle of faucets, you'll know this is cheap).

So I take this thing home, park my truck, and fly out the next morning. When I get home, Brandon informs me somewhere between when I picked it up and it getting to our house, one of the sinks cracked.

And that's where we stand. An installed, open-top vanity in our otherwise-complete new bathroom.

Other "finishing touches" yesterday included me installing light bulbs in the bar over the mirror, and electrical/light switch plate covers. Things like that.

I was screwing in the second light bulb when Brandon called. Still on the phone, I was climbing out of the open-top vanity (I had to stand in there to reach the lights), and must have kicked the sink valve.

I turned around to find a wall of water (remember, these valves haven't been opened in nearly five years, which builds up a lot of pressure) spraying up my pretty red wall, on the ceiling, to the floor, and basically soaking everything in there. Including the inside of our open-top vanity.

I started shouting into the phone, "Oh, no! Oh, no! Noooo! I just ruined our pretty bathroom! My red wall!"

...As I reached through the waterfall to close the valve.

The aftermath was not so pretty. But most of the damage was easily taken care of with some towels.

I am concerned I may have fried the electrical outlet. It started making a buzzing sound after I got the water turned off, then a snap sound, and it's been quiet ever since. And it's the only outlet in the entire bathroom.

The only really bad damage was the ceiling:

My untrusty valve:

Let's just say it was quite the experience for my first big home improvement project.

Wherin we get wiped out by an eighth grader

I have to begin with this fact: I now have giant brothers.

We went to Texas for Christmas to find I am the family runt. My baby brother has a good fifteen pounds and two inches on me. My older baby brother has twenty pounds and five inches on me.

Five inches, y'all.

As in, Brandon and my brother who I witnessed being born are now the same height.

So, the boys thought they would be able to throw their weight around a little more now.

On my second day in Texas, they challenged my sister and I (she's been taller than me most our lives) to a game of basketball, thinking they would finally be able to beat us.

But, they didn't even come close. We ended up not even really keeping score because we didn't want to embarrass them. Let's just say we would have won by a very decent margin.

After that game, we decided to have a Christmas Morning Boyer Family Basketball Showdown.

We paired up like this: Katie, Brandon and Morgan vs. Calli, Eric and Mason.

In our team huddle before the game started, I directed Brandon to guard Calli (she was by far the biggest threat), Morgan to take Eric, and I would have Mason.

Morgan questioned me on this: "But Katie, Mason can beat you up. Are you sure you want to guard him?"

I responded with, "Morgan, who on that team can't beat me up?"

And Brandon added, "Uh, she has a point, Morgan."

Anyway, the game finally started. In the first possession, Calli came down with a rebound and swinging elbows, nearly knocking me out when one of them caught my forehead. The next day, she had a bruised elbow and I had a red bump on my head.

On the third possession, I had the ball at the top of the key (the imaginary one, since we were playing in the driveway), and managed to get around my defender. One step in front of the goal, I lifted into the air to make what I thought would be an easy layup over the front rim.

The next thing I knew, however, Mason and I were tangled up, sprawled out on the concrete. Apparently, he was thinking more along the lines of me being a football receiver catching a pass in the end zone, rather than a basketball player going up for a layup. I now have a sore hip and a couple bruises to show for that.

A bit later in the game, Brandon crashed the board for a rebound, and ended up flat on the concrete after another tackle by Mason.

Toward the end of the game, Brandon took two more turns being wiped out on the ground by Mason jamming a knee into his thigh.

And let me tell you, these are only the highlights. They don't count the endless over-the-backs, bear hugs and elbow throws Mason dished out during the game. To his own teammates as well.

Despite the linebacker on my sister's team, Brandon, Morgan and I ended up winning the game 20 to 10. I'm pretty sure Calli is going to have Eric running sprints and doing drills in preparation for our next game.

And Brandon and I will be searching for football pads to wear.

Hey, what's this?

We had a wonderful Christmas with my family. All but the last ten minutes anyway.

My sister, almost brother-in-law, Brandon and I were saying the last goodbye to my aunt before heading home. The goodbye went a little long, and Brandon became bored.

A friend of my cousin had arrived a few minutes earlier and left her keys on the kitchen counter near us. The keys included what Brandon described as "a flashlight/lighter looking thing".

And of course, he just had to play with it and figure it out.

He picked it up and said, "Hey, what's this?"

...Right before he found a button that released a giant puff right in the middle of the five of us.

I'm sure you can already imagine what the key ring held.

Two seconds later, I said, "My nose is a little tingly."

Three seconds later, we were all doubled over. On fire.

From pepper spray.

I had my face in the kitchen sink. Everyone else escaped outside.

We spent the next ten minutes coughing, choking, gargling water, and basically feeling like we stuffed habanero peppers in our noses and down our throats.

Somehow, it seemed like I caught the worst of it, even though it practically blew directly into my aunt's face and merely side-swiped me.

When I had finally recovered enough to laugh about the situation (when we had all made it into the car and five miles down the road), I said (between coughs), "All I know, is I want some of that stuff."

How old is she?

So, I flew to Texas on Saturday.

After spending more than an hour in airport lines, I made a mental note to buy lighter Christmas gifts next year. I woke up on Sunday with bruises on my shoulders from the two bags of gifts and bridesmaid shoes I was carrying.

Anyway, back to the real story of the day here.

When my mom and I got to Baytown around 4pm, all I had eaten all day was a peanut butter and honey sandwich and two small apples.

We've covered the fact my appetite is quite a bit larger than the sustenance this meager amount of food had provided.

So, we decide to pick up some Chick-fil-A for us and my MeMe, who we were on our way to visit.

We had a super eager order-taker at Chick-fil-A, which I tend to appreciate. Makes for a much more pleasant fast food experience.

My mom orders her healthy grilled chicken sandwich, and I order my slightly less healthy chicken nuggets and waffle fries.

Then we stand there debating what to order MeMe. The fact she recently got a new set of teeth helps the eating situation, but there are still some concerns. To begin, she only has one eating hand, since the other one was paralyzed from her stroke.

Trying to be funny, our order-taker says, "Well, to make it easy on you, we have chicken, chicken or chicken."

We politely threw him a few laughs, then continued our discussion...

Mom: "Hmmm...what should we get?"

Me: "Well, I think the nuggets would be easier than a big sandwich..."

Mom: "But do you think she would like them?"

Me: "I do. And she typically eats whatever we bring."

...And so on.

After a few minutes, the over-zealous order-taker, in his most helpful manner, asks with a sweet smile, "How old is she?"

My mom and I exchange a little chuckle, then say, "Um...she's 88."

"Oh...well...okay," the order-taker says, clearly surprised. Pretty sure he was betting on an answer more like three.

"Well, the chicken salad sandwich is a popular item among our seniors," he said.

Mom and me: "Perfect!"

And indeed, it was perfect. So was the order-taker's expression when we said "88".

One good thing about the desert

My mom is a big fan of where I live. She thinks a giant cactus is the prettiest thing ever. (I know. Even Brandon, who grew up here, thinks this is crazy.) When we've driven her through places we think are ugly here, she stares out the window wide-eyed and comments on how beautiful it is.

My dad? Not so much. He says the only thing worth seeing in this state is Brandon and me. He likes his swamp.

He called in the middle of the day a few weeks ago, and when I answered, his first words were, "Well, Baby, I finally found out one good thing about the desert."

"What's that, Dad?"

"Well, you won't ever have to move cows in mud up to your knees. That's what I've been doing today."

"Um, maybe not. But Brandon's going to move them in the middle of a dust storm later today."

Dad laughs...

"Well, I guess we all have our problems then, don't we?"

Sure do, Dad. Sure do.

A "cluttered" tree

I'm a big fan of Christmas trees. Live Christmas trees.

I remember my sister and I being very upset at Christmas from the time Mason was mobile until he was, oh, I don't know...seven? And he finally quit eating the tree. Because for all those years, we had one of those artificial trees that was too skinny and didn't make the house smell like Christmas.

So last year, on my first Christmas in my first house with my first husband one-and-only-love-of-my-life, I ran out and bought a live Christmas tree the day after Thanksgiving. And we decorated it together:

This year, we've been a little more busy, and I've been talking about getting a tree since Thanksgiving, but it just hasn't happened yet. We did head out after one last week, but the tree lot was already sold out.

I had pretty well resigned I wouldn't have a tree this year. After all, I'm leaving for Texas in just a few days. Was it really worth it? Probably not. And I was coping okay with this new reality.

But Sunday night, that love of my life I mentioned surprised me with a tree. Maybe he just knew how his Christmas would turn out if I wasn't really in the Christmas spirit?

He was awfully discreet with his surprise, though. It was probably in our house for a couple hours before I found it.

I was in the kitchen busily making sunflower seeds when he arrived, and he ended up going outside to pen the dogs and feed the cows for me so I could keep working on that. I did notice it took him nearly three trips in and out of the house to accomplish that task, but just figured he had other things to do out there.

Finally, when I left the kitchen to retrieve more sunflowers to deseed (which is probably not a word), I found the tree.

Me: "Um, when exactly were you planning on telling me you bought me a tree?"

Brandon: "I don't know..."

Me: "You know what this means, right?"

Brandon, mumbling: "That I have to help decorate it."

I went ahead and got the tree skirt set up and put the lights on myself so all he had to do was help with the ornaments.

I gave him the big box of ornaments, and set out the come-in-a-box nice ornaments for myself, thinking he wouldn't have the patience to open all those individual boxes.

B: "You mean I have to do this whole box?"

K: "Well, until I finish with these. I didn't think you would want to take all these out of the boxes."

B: "No, I don't."

By this time, he probably already had ten ornaments on the tree.

K: "At the rate you're going, you'll have them all up in less than five minutes anyway."

B: "Well, that's my plan."

He continued racing.

A while later...

B: "Why do we have so many ornaments?"

[We do not have that many ornaments.]

B: "This is ridiculous. We don't need this many ornaments. Our tree is just cluttered."

So I take a look on his side of the tree...

K: "That's because you have them all within a one foot radius. Maybe if we spread them out a bit, it wouldn't be so bad?"

Here's Brandon's side of the tree; we'll call it Side B:

Now, a look at Side A:

And Side C:

Please note, neither of these are the back of the tree. It is completely bare.

So basically, the only part of our tree holding ornaments is the top-front, where Brandon could stand in one place and add ornaments directly in front of him — without either bending or reaching.

Coincidence?

And he did finish the entire storage box before I had the dozen or so Hallmark Keepsake ones in place.

But, I do have a Christmas tree. A live Christmas tree.

Stuck pig

I was catching up with my dear friend Allison last night, and toward the end of our conversation, I started shouting, "Oh yes! Yea! Alright!"

"What is going on?"

"Well, you remember that story about when we were hunting a while back and I got all that cactus stuck in my leg, and there was one piece I couldn't get out? I just got it out!"

"Oh, okay. Um, ...congratulations?"

Apparently I was a little over-the-top excited about the cactus, because Allison wasn't quite sure what to do with the news.

Here it is, folks. A whole quarter-inch of cactus, finally out of my leg after five weeks.

What did you do today?

Yesterday morning started so typical. Started the coffee pot. Checked email and news headlines. Fed cows and released dogs from the pen. Ate breakfast. Headed to the in-laws in my pajamas to shower (another story entirely).

But, as soon as I pulled up there in our irrigator truck, Brandon was headed out to the cows. He had received a call from his dad's employee saying we had a calf born sometime that morning that was probably already dead.

And, of course, it's one of our Brahman cows. With a purebred Brahman calf. So the three of us head out to take a look. Yes, still in my pajamas.

When we get there, the calf is surely near frozen and approaching death. You see, the night before was by far the coldest night we've had all winter (which began last week). This morning was the first time we woke up to a blanket of thick, icy frost covering everything. And, the morning this cow decides to give birth.

But there were just the slightest signs of life. Its eyes were open, and it seemed to be breathing okay. Just, like I said, near frozen. Motionless. So I retrieved the pickup, we shooed away the crazy, protective cow, and Brandon lifted the calf onto the tailgate.

It was so frozen, its head didn't even hang down when he lifted it up by the legs. Its neck stayed completely stiff. Brandon described it as more like picking up a board than something that was supposed to be alive.

This is when we find out our nearly dead calf is a heifer. A purebred Brahman heifer. Which is probably the only reason the subsequent events occurred.

On our drive from the pasture, I asked Brandon what he thought the chances of survival were.

"About three percent," he said.

"Really? I was thinking more like one percent."

We both agree it's best to be as pessimistic as possible in situations like this with animals.

As Brandon says, "That way, if it does work out, you can be pleasantly surprised with a good outcome, instead of disappointed with the likely one."

The only place we thought we could take her where we could really get her warm - quick - was inside. So, into Brandon's parents' laundry room we went with our frozen calf.

[It was probably a good thing my in-laws were out of town. Although, now that I'm posting this to the World Wide Web, it doesn't matter all that much.]

We gathered some old towels (which have now been properly washed and sanitized, promise) and a blow dryer. We both went to town rubbing this calf down with the towels (her two back legs were still soaking wet) and concentrating the blow dryer on her head, neck and belly.

Brandon was called away to load a hay truck, and I was left alone with a dying calf.

When he returned, I was still at it with the blow dryer and rubbing, and had added my socks to her hind legs. I knew humans released most of their heat through their heads and feet, so I figured if there was even the slightest chance animals were the same, I could sacrifice my socks.

Of course, Brandon got a good laugh and wanted to know what in the world I was thinking when he walked back in.

Whatever it was, it worked. When Brandon came back, he increased the chance of survival to 25%. He also informed me I had been working on this calf for two hours. Time flies when you're saving lives, I tell you.

Brandon retrieved a space heater, and we got a couple more old towels to wrap around her.

And finally, after more than three hours, she began to shiver. The first sign of her body actually trying to warm itself. The inside of her mouth and her breath was still ice cold. This was seriously a frozen calf when we found her, y'all. We just thawed her out.

At some point in this ordeal, I asked Brandon if he thought the cow would even take her back after all this.

"I'm not sure, but from what we found this morning, a bottle baby would be a great problem to have."

Agreed.

Somewhere between four and five hours, she actually sat up. This is when we started letting ourselves get excited. Brandon increased her prognosis again to 75% survival. Quite an accomplishment from the one to three percent we originally guessed.

Since she was finally upright, Brandon headed out to milk the cow. We weren't sure how much energy this little heifer had left in her after such a warm welcome to the world. I stayed with the calf and our trusty little blow dryer.

And this began a whole new battle. But, not a battle we even thought we would reach in the beginning.

In Round One of the feeding attempts, Brandon ending up spilling more on her than getting it in. What little pressure she was placing on the bottle was more of a chewing action than sucking. Needless to say, it didn't work out so well.

At this point, she had been sitting up for around an hour, so we decided it was time to transfer her outside. Brandon carried her to the back yard, then had to go load another hay truck.

Before he left, he said, "I think we're looking at a 90% situation now. 95% if we get all this milk in her."

So there I was again. Only this time, left alone with a very much alive calf, rather than a very much dead one. And a Mason jar full of cow milk I had to get down a calf that didn't know how to drink. Lovely.

That's where I spent the afternoon. Hanging out in the grass with a calf and a bottle. I just kept shoving it in her mouth every five minutes or so, and somehow managed to get about one-third of the stuff down her throat.

Once a good two hours had passed, she stood for the first time. After many nosedives into the ground, her back legs finally held steady enough for an entire 75 seconds.

I guess she liked the feeling, though, because she kept at it for the next half an hour. Finally, she stood again. And took a few steps. Backwards.

By the time Brandon came back, she had successfully walked about ten feet backwards. Not a single step forward. Still wobbly.

Then, as he approached, she took off, and nearly ran to both of us.

Brandon said, "At this point, I'd say there's a five percent or less chance she dies."

We still had quite a bit to go on the milk, but a standing calf is much easier to work with.

After a few unsuccessful attempts on both our parts, we decided to have Brandon hold the bottle while I kept a finger in her mouth and squeezed the nipple. This was the feeding method for a couple minutes, until she suddenly caught on to the whole sucking concept. I got my fingers out just in time, and she went to town on that bottle.

When it was sucked dry, she started ramming her nose into both of us.

"It's time to take her to the cow," Brandon said.

This was the moment of truth. Now that we had a live calf, we either had to get her back on the cow, or we (which really means I) were going to be making bottles several times a day for the next few months. Obviously not a desirable outcome (but more desirable than a dead calf).

We slid her into the pen, and the cow immediately took over. The problem? The calf wanted nothing to do with her. When Brandon started walking away (he had been holding the bottle when she caught on), she tried to climb through the fence to follow him.

One hour later, we had all the other cattle fed, and it was already getting rather cool out. Sure enough, our calf was already shivering and still not taking to the cow all that much.

So we loaded the cow in the chute to teach the calf how to nurse. Eventually, she figured out the milk came from the back legs, and we were in business. We ended up loading both of them into the trailer for the night in attempt to block some of the cold night air and keep them in a more confined area where the calf might stay closer to cow (she still liked us more).

As Brandon said, "After spending all day bringing her back to life, the last thing we want is to lose her now. We're taking all precautions."

And that's where we're left this morning.

When we had reached about a 75% survival rate, I told Brandon, "You know, if this thing really lives, it makes me want to call everyone I know and say, 'I brought a 98% frozen calf back to life. What did you do today?'"

Right before bed last night, Brandon told me this calf was the closest he had ever had one come to death and survive. "It was as near dead as I've ever seen when we got to it. I don't think I've even had one half that dead survive."

...Which also made me beat my chest a little.

And now we're off to make sure she survived the night!

In the spirit of Christmas...

The Leister household baked Christmas cookies yesterday afternoon. I mean, what else do you do when the farm is rained out?

Okay, so technically, I baked the cookies. But Brandon came in from loading a hay truck in our front yard just as I started decorating them.

And now I'm thinking they might have been better off without his help.

Here is what we called his "fallen angel"...not so angelic, eh?

We did make sure to promote diversity (we're equal opportunity cookie decorators):

Some of the more polished cookies (ones I did):

And what did Brandon have for breakfast this morning? A star, candy cane and snowflake. My stomach hurt just watching him consume all that sugar so early.

The many hats of a farmer

As Brandon headed out the door this morning, he picked up his "work hat" and said, "I need a new work hat. This one's done."

To which I was very grateful. The hat was months past being wearable in public.

I assumed he would simply walk into our room, pick up one of the 32 hats in there, and be on his merry little way. Not the case.

He did go to the bedroom, but I heard him say, "I don't have another hat to wear. I need to get a new one."

To which I immediately jumped up and ran back there to set him straight help him.

"Noooo, nooo, no. Don't you even think about it Brandon Leister. Are you really telling me you can't wear a single hat in this house to work? We're going to find you one."

And I was insistent on this due to the following hat situation in our home.

The wall in the Hunting Room:

The "nice hats" hanging next to the door in our bedroom (partially over our bed, mind you):

The hat rack between Brandon's two dressers (Yes. Two. Just for him. Someday we'll have to go through the whole closet space breakdown in our house.):

There are 11 ball caps on that rack, y'all.

Even these photographs leave out the two probably floating around our house somewhere, three on the dash of his truck, and one he left at his parents'.

No way was I letting him leave the house in search of a "new" work hat. While we were sifting through his hats, he found a few more "old work hats" he was finally willing to part with.

So we ended up with a grand total of four hats to be thrown away:

I told him, "You don't know how long I've waited for this day. This is great!"

One of the suggestions I had for a work hat was turned down.

Me: "You know you're never going to wear it anywhere else. Why not just wear it to work and ruin it?"

Him: "Because I gave one just like it to [former employee] and it was his dunce hat. I'm not wearing it."

Me: "Well, can we at least drop some of these off at Goodwill then, if you never have intentions of wearing them?"

Him: "No, not yet."

He finally found one suitable and placed it on his head.

He said, "I always liked the look of this hat, but it seemed like it sat funny on my head. Like up too high or something."

I quickly assured him it looked just fine.

Before he left, he said, "You know, this is a big day for me. Parting with these prized possessions."

I made sure to holler out the door behind him, "You know, now that you mention it, that hat does look a little funny on your head. Have a good day!"

Wherein I cave to the cold

About this time last year, we were having nightly disagreements over the heater.

Last August, we paid an outrageous electricity bill. Like, so bad I don't even want to mention the numbers. Since then, I have been determined to not pay the Arizona Public Service Company a dime more than what is absolutely necessary.

Which meant I was completely against heating our home. Every night, Brandon would beg for the heater. Every night, I would dismiss his begging. And together, we would freeze.

A little more than a week ago, this cycle began to repeat itself. The temperature inside our house would range from 60 to 66 degrees. All day long. So even at noon when the temperature was relatively warm outside, I was still walking around in full sweats, a beanie and fluffy socks inside.

Then last night came along. Brandon was making his routine weather checks before we headed to bed, and I was standing behind him. Shivering, because I didn't have my sweatshirt on at the time.

He announces Weather.com was predicting a freeze tonight. So was AccuWeather.com. And NOAA.gov. (I mean, doesn't everyone check the weather from a minimum of three sources multiple times a day?)

And not just tonight. For the next four nights or more. At this announcement, I simply walked over to the thermostat, clicked the heater on, and listened to the sound of relief.

Ten minutes later, Brandon asks, "Hey, what's that I hear blowing air constantly? Did you...did you turn the heater on?!"

"You bet I did. As soon as you said four nights of freezing temperatures, I walked over there and flipped the switch. It's time."

And last night, I didn't have to sleep in full sweats. Or a beanie.

The year of the bird

Forget the Chinese Calendar.

2009 was definitely The Year of the Bird for us.

It all started when they invaded our home. And continued when they kept coming back. But then, when our sunflowers were two weeks from being harvested, they really did us in.

Turns out 53.2 acres of nearly-dry sunflowers is a 24-hour all-you-can eat buffet for birds.

The experimental sunflower crop of 2009 was harvested two days ago. Quite successfully, I might add. But prior to that, my job every day for two solid weeks? To load the four-wheeler, take it to the field, bundle up, and chase birds across the sunflowers with a certified "for agricultural use" mini-pistol (it looks like a water gun), and ammo called "Screamer Sirens" and "Bird Bangers".

You see, the fields on this part of the farm are flanked by the following: Interstate 10 on the north, Super Wal-Mart, Sally Beauty Supply and Panda Express (among other places of business) on the west, a housing development to the south, and the Snyder's Pretzels factory to the east.

Needless to say, a shotgun really isn't an option.

So, we stick with our "screamers" and "bangers" and the minimal threat they pose to massive flocks of blackbirds.

My mom called one day while I was on bird duty and asked what I was up to. After I told her, she said, "There's not some sort of net you could put over them or something?"

"Mom, over a 54 acre field of sunflowers? I'm not talking about a garden here." (But I was a lot more polite about it than that statement sounds here. All about tone, right?)

After just the first five days, I ran out of ammunition. The only manufacturer in the U.S. for this stuff? Located in Greenville, Mississippi. And, since it is classified as a "pyrotechnic", they make you sign your life away to buy it, and charge you a $30 HAZMAT fee, tacked on to whatever outrageous overnight shipping price they had.

And the only distributor in the entire state of Arizona? Located in Yuma, at the Vegetable Growers Supply.

Unfamiliar with Arizona geography? Yuma is located three hours southwest of Buckeye. Right on the border of both California and Mexico. And that three hours is through some of the most barren desert landscape possible. From what I've seen, I would classify it as the second ugliest drive in the state.

Brandon was a little upset I didn't make it back that evening in time to help him move cows. But I told him, "Look, I drove to Yuma today so I could chase birds for another entire week. Let's just be happy about that, okay?"

Anyway, it didn't take very many days of chasing birds before I loathed it.

Brandon asked one day why I disliked it so much. I told him, "If I really felt like it was doing any good, it would be fine, but I blow a screamer through them, they fly twelve rows over, and we repeat. They never leave."

Trying to be motivational, he asked, "Well, how much are they eating while they're flying around?"

I was forced to answer "Nothing," to this question, but I'm not sure it made me feel much better.

Brandon was driving a tractor in the field next to me when I left to change water one afternoon. I guess a giant flock migrated in, and he went to resume my post, because I received the following text messages:

"You were right about these birds."

"They keep coming back."

"When are you going to be back?"

We eventually were able to get the birds to migrate out of our field and into some cotton several times a day. You would feel a temporary sense of accomplishment and pride in your work. Then, as soon as you turned your back to celebrate a little, they would begin migrating right back in mini-flocks of thirty or so, and before you knew it, the entire mass of them was back in the field.

But it's all over now. They're still out there pecking at what was left behind the combine, but at least they're not eating up our profit all day long anymore.

And one of my jobs today? To add more mesh screening to the attic ventilation holes around our house so birds quit nesting in there.

I'm telling you, it really is The Year of the Bird.

Finger lickin' good

Somehow, we made out with an entire pecan pie from Thanksgiving dinner.

(I'm just going to attribute it to my favorite daughter-in-law status. Good thing I don't have much competition.)

I was nice enough to save the last piece for Brandon. And by last "piece", I'm talking a good quarter of the pie, y'all. Anything smaller would be classified as a "bite" by Brandon.

So, here he is, enjoying his piece of pie, which was already two-thirds consumed at this point:

Told you it was big.

So big, in fact, he just had to eat it like a sandwich.

So here you go, Mason. Never let Brandon give you a hard time for not using utensils again.

I like what I see

Brandon has shared this story at every social encounter we've had since it occurred. He seems to enjoy it. So I thought I would just make it a little easier on him.

Last weekend, we were helping ourselves to leftovers at his parents' house. It was our first meal of the day at 11am, so I was a little hungry.

Okay, starving.

Anyway, we make our plates. I have four corn tortillas with shredded pork and salsa in them.

Apparently, four tacos is way too much for me to be eating.

Brandon exclaimed, "Four tacos! You're going to eat all that?! Really?"

...And then proceeded to make a big fuss about the four tacos on my plate.

In order to eat my four tacos in peace, I finally replied, "You know what? When I look in the mirror, I like what I see lately. So you just keep it up over there, and I'm going to eat my tacos. All four of them."

He just said, "Wow. How can I argue with that?"

And I enjoyed my tacos. All four of them.