Deal or Ordeal: House Sitting Part 2- The Chicken Debacle

Maybe a commemorative stamp will make me feel better about my situation.

It's time for another round of Deal or Ordeal! You may remember that my last house sitting gig involved a galling band of neurotic animals, cleaning animal waste off of a lot of unusual places (upstairs carpet, laundry room sink), and getting locked out of the house on a Saturday morning. So when my neighbors asked if my roommate and I could care for their garden and chickens while they went out of town, we said...sure, no problem! We don't even have to set foot in the house, I thought. Piece. Of. Cake. 

Let me tell you how well that played out... 

Deal: Water the garden and care for the chickens while your awesome neighbors (the ones who sleep in a giant teepee in their front yard) go to Burning Man. You get all the garden produce you want, fresh eggs, and a boatload of good neighborly feelings.

Ordeal: On the fifth day, you walk across the street- not into an idyllic land flowing with kale, fresh eggs and the contented clucks of urban chickens- but into a CHICKEN MASSACRE. Two of the six chickens lie motionless on the other side of the chain link gate. They have not just fallen over from heat exhaustion or food poisoning; they are mangled, bloody, and one of them no longer has a head. 

The remaining chickens seem to be in a state of shock, wandering the yard, clucking softly, unsure of their next moves. You join them in this state, trying to fulfill your original duties as responsible chicken sitter. You fill water containers, check the coop for eggs, and step over bloody carcasses four or five times before realizing I have to do something about this! There are two dead chickens lying on the ground, and I have to do something about it!  

So you leave the yard, start walking down the street, and call your mom. She will recommend that you call your friend the forensic scientist since she is used to encountering repulsive things and properly disposing of them. You call, and she graciously agrees to drive across town to help you out. She also recruits her husband, who has dealt with dead chickens before. 

In the meantime, you walk over to the neighborhood restaurant where your roommate works, sit yourself down at the front counter, and share your sad story with anyone who will listen. Soon enough, without even ordering, you are presented with a hard cider,  cheesy sticks, and an overflowing dish of pasta. You make friends with the regulars eating burgers a few seats away, chat with your former bosses’ wife (this is a small town), and carbo-load your cares away. You remain in this happy state of avoidance until you receive the text informing you that your friends have arrived at the site of the massacre and the inevitable is before you. 

The inevitable involves the following: a pair of rubber gloves, heavy duty trash bags, a can of wasp spray and an iron stomach. The forensic scientist's husband declares the cause of death: raccoon, and carries the body bags to the trash cans in the ally. You close the lid and thank your friends profusely for saying yes to one of the worst questions asked in friend history: Do you want to come over and help me remove some wasp-infested chicken carcasses? When all is said and done, you return home, close the door, and vow never to house sit again.

Epilogue: I opened this card from my cousin right before I went across the street and discovered the chickens. "I thought I would send you a smile today," she said. It wasn't until later, while on the phone with my mom again, that I looked down and realized how apt it was. And, as the card suggests, I laughed. And then I laughed again.

Love Tried: A C+ Caper Inspired by Bob Goff

How can you resist a book with balloons on the cover?

Bob Goff is the kind of crazy person I like. He talks a lot about whimsy and going on capers and how he stuck sandwiches under the wiper blades of his wife's car for months to try to get her to notice him. His book Love Does is full of crazy stories about unknowingly becoming the Ugandan consul, riding around town on a skateboard after his jeep is stolen, and inviting world leaders to sleepovers with his kids. According to Bob Goff, love just doesn't sit around and think about changing the world; love does something about it.

My roommate Ashlee and I spent the summer sitting on our front porch, drinking iced coffee and reading Love Does together. (Yes, please take a moment to acknowledge how adorable this is. Ok, your moment is over.)

After a summer of being inspired by Bob's crazy life* we decided it was time for our own caper. So we hatched a plan and set our alarms for 5:30 the next morning. 

*Note: This was also a summer of fulfilling the role of “requisite single girls” at various weddings. While I do enjoy a good hands-in-the-air-waving to celebrate this fact once in a while (many thanks to Beyonce for the fun anthem), it can get a little tiresome. So our caper included a subtle hint of let’s do something related to the fact that we don’t have boyfriends right now. But only a hint. Ok, we had balloons. More on that later.  

Time for a Caper 

Our good friends at Google told us the sun would be rising at 6:08 that morning, but it was completely light when we left the house at 6:15.

As we climbed up to a butte overlooking the city, the sun was still low on the horizon and almost as red as the deflated balloons we carried with us. Yes, we had deflated balloons. They were meant to be inflated balloons, but didn’t survive the extreme heat in our apartment the night before. Unfortunately our city does not have much of a market for 6:00 a.m. balloon peddlers.  

I’m not sure what one is supposed to bring on a proper caper, but this is what we lugged with us: 

• a thermos of Via coffee (there's a chapter in Love Does about its creator, Don Valencia) and coffee mugs
• zucchini bread
• our copy of Love Does
• two sad, red balloons 
• a Sharpie

We sat on the rocks, poured coffee, prayed, ate our breakfast, read the last two chapters of Love Does, and chatted until it was time to start our normal mornings. 

And There Were Balloons

We brought out the red balloons for our caper's grand finale. We wrote “Love Does” on one side and “The Kingdom of Heaven is near” on the other. While the latter seems like a creepy, End-Times-cultish thing to write, it is merely a joke about current relationship statuses (i.e. whenever people say things like “I feel like your time is coming soon” in relation to getting married, I think about passages in the New Testament that say Jesus is coming soon. Yes, that was more than 2000 years ago.). 

The balloons were supposed to add just a touch of whimsy to the morning. But due to their sad, deflated state, when we released them on the count of three, they just sort of...tumbled to the next layer of rocks below. 

So we packed up, left our strange doomsday litter for confused joggers or playing children to find later, and made our way back down the hill. 

Even though we didn't catch the sunrise, our Via coffee was a little too bitter, and our balloons were more pathetic than whimsical, we were satisfied with our first caper. It was a little C+, but I'd like to think Bob Goff would be proud.

Deal or Ordeal? The House Sitting Edition

Are you ready to play Deal or Ordeal? Actually, you're probably playing already.

Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, stressed-out dogs and annoying cats, I'd like to introduce you to an astounding, life-altering game called Deal or Ordeal!

What is this game, you ask? This is a game of life, a game of making choices, anticipating outcomes, and ultimately winning or losing. In fact, you're probably playing it right now. 

Come again? 
Throughout the game, you are presented with various scenarios. You must maneuver through these scenarios, take correct action and ultimately identify each as either a Deal or an Ordeal. 

Ok, so what do you do? 
A round of play can begin at any moment: over your morning coffee, on your drive home from work, or upon receiving that cryptic 1:17 am text message.

The player is then presented with a scenario. Through a combination of conscientious choices and circumstances beyond the player's control, the player's scenario develops into either a Deal or an Ordeal. 

Ready for an example? 

Scenario 1
Free Couch on the Side of the Road: Deal or Ordeal? 

Deal: It's amazing! It's wonderful! It's free! Take it home and love it forever. 

Ordeal: It's amazing! It's wonderful! It's free! Call up that friend with a truck and convince him/her to help you move your amazing, wonderful, free couch. After transporting said free couch by way of borrowed truck, discover that you have to remove your front door to fit the unwieldy piece of furniture into the house. After much lifting, maneuvering, and angling, it turns out that your beloved free couch simply will not fit. Also, your friend with the truck curses your name and refuses to answer phone calls for the next four months. 

Great! I think you've caught on. This week's scenario is: 

Scenario 2
House Sitting: Deal or Ordeal? 

Deal: Getting paid to hang out, eat someone else's food, water some plants, and basically enjoy a stay-cation 2.3 miles from your own home. 

Ordeal: House sitting a passel of nervous, pooping animals who may or may not do the following: 

• Nearly bites the hand that feeds him. (Hamster) 
• Uses the laundry room sink as a personal bathroom. (Indoor Cat) 
• Uses the whole upstairs as a personal bathroom, multiple times. (Dog) 
• Travels from window to window, repeatedly batting at her own reflection. (Indoor Cat)
• Does the above at 2:00, 4:00 and 6:00 in the morning. (Indoor Cat) 
• Requires that the garage door be open just a crack. In the process of moving the door to the appropriate height, it apparently gets off its tracks, rendering the garage door opener useless. (Outdoor Cat/House Sitter) 
• Ate the other pet's predecessor and must be separated at all times. (Indoor Cat and Hamster) 
• Demands a litter box despite the fact that there are plenty of outdoor spaces at his disposal. (Outdoor Cat) 
• Jumps on the house sitter's face while she is trying to sleep. (Indoor Cat) 
• Weasels through every open door, disappears for a time, and eventually shows up again, preferably after the house sitter has fallen asleep, scratching at the door. (Indoor Cat) 
• Does not know how to eat celery properly. (Hamster) 
• Bats at the other cat's water bowl, causing the house sitter to spill the water, stumble into the garage, pull the door shut and lock herself out for the next 40 minutes. (Indoor Cat) 
• Stares at the frantic house sitter out the window as she feverishly tries removing screens and opening windows. (Indoor Cat and Dog) 
• Greets the house sitter (after she, wearing pajamas and no shoes, has found the one and only neighbor who answers the door at 8:15 on Saturday morning and sends her husband over to climb into an open second-story window) with her shoe in his mouth. (Dog)

On a happier note, the house sitter did enjoy an unlimited supply of Lucky Charms, as well as internet and laundry facilities and will be getting a nice check on Thursday. That's the thing about an ordeal; there's always a deal in there somewhere. 

C+ Budgeting (also, things we shouldn't say in church but want to)

This is Dave Ramsey. He wields giant scissors and likes to put his face on various products filled with good thoughts about being financially savvy.

Last year I dragged my friend Esther to a financial class at our church. If you are thinking, That is an incredibly nerdy and boring thing to do, you are somewhat correct. Let me explain. Esther has owned her own business. She is good with numbers, computers, equations- basically all the things that give me pause in my daily life. I was an English major. Dragging Esther to a financial class is actually a genius thing to do.

During the nine-week course, we started getting together to do our monthly budgets. These meetings consist of Esther carefully syncing her accounts with Mint and me blinking at my Excel spreadsheet, asking a lot of annoying questions. Esther, what exactly is an IRA? Esther, what's the deal with growth stock mutual funds? Esther, what kind of wine should I buy at Grocery Outlet? 

Over the last year we've added a few friends to the group, all hauling out our laptops once a month, eating brownies and drinking tea. In the fall, our little ragtag crew of good financial efforts will become an official community group at church, with a spot on the church website and possible onstage plug during a Sunday service. So this last week I hung out at Esther's house again to come up with a written description of our group. 

And then we needed a name.

Esther, I just can't think of anything more interesting than "Monthly Budgeting Meeting."

We started brainstorming. We needed something that encapsulated the group's casual tone and something to do with budgeting that didn't convey feelings of sudden onset narcolepsy. Interesting things happen when you have a 9:30 pm brainstorming session on a Monday evening. For example:

Rejected Budgeting Group Names

• The English Major's Guide to Finances
• Poor, But Not Broke
• Casual Joe's Guide to Financial Responsibility 
• Budgets R Us
• Budgets We Do
• The Poor Person's Guide to Budgeting 
• The Poor in Spirit 
• Inheriting the Earth 
• Let Them Eat Cake (And Do Budgeting)
• Intentional Budgeting (sounds like a disease) 

There were a lot of budgets and guides and poor and financial thrown around. And then, from the recesses of my tired, and slightly absurd mind, out slipped this gem: Broke Ass Budgeting.

Perfection. And, because I am secretly a 12-year-old boy who finds the word "ass" especially hilarious, I laughed until I cried. Then I imagined myself or Esther onstage, inviting people at church to Broke Ass Budgeting. I also imagine that this would become quite a popular community group. 

So that's the story of how Esther and I became the founding members of Broke Ass Budgeting. Unfortunately, for church website-related purposes, we will be calling our group Brownies and Budgeting. This is not nearly as fun as saying "ass" in church, but I suppose it gets the point across.

False Starts: Love Stories that Weren't

In romantic comedies, there's a meet cute around every corner. In real life, not so much.

If you grew up on a steady media diet of romantic comedies, have been single for any length of time, and possess a uterus, you've likely been guilty of a series of relationship False Starts. The romantic comedy "meet cute" seeps into brains, leading perfectly rational human beings to believe that potential romantic relationships lurk around every corner: at crowded parties, on airplanes, at the DMV (ok, probably not the DMV). Every seemingly serendipitous meeting is a possible beginning to a love story. 

"We both grabbed the same pair of gloves at Bloomingdale's." (Thank you, Serendipity)  

"He spilled his orange juice on me and we started talking." (Thank you, Notting Hill)

"I leaped into the street to save her from on oncoming dump truck." (Thank you, The Wedding Planner)

"Our dogs tangled us in their leashes and we fell into a pond together." (Thank you, 101 Dalmatians) 

Let me tell you what happens in real life: none of this nonsense. I've experienced my fair share of False Starts in my life, those love stories that didn't quite make it off the ground. Here are a few common cinematic scenarios and the ways in which they definitely weren't the beginning of my personal love story. 

False Starts: The Love Stories that Weren't

Scenario 1: The Charming Airplane Seatmate: When I fly, I sit next to the following people: kind grandmothers reading Nicholas Sparks books, women college professors deep into paper grading, Japanese businessmen, and former addicts with inspiring life stories. 

The summer before my senior year of college, fate breaks through and brings me a charming, attractive, male seatmate. We spend the flight from Seattle to Sacramento chatting about our impending graduations, writing, and life in general. After we deplane, he finds me in the crowd, asks where I'm headed next, and...that's it. We grab our bags off the carousel and disappear into the crowd, never to connect again.

Scenario 2: The Clumsy Meeting: Weeks after moving to a new town, I faint during a documentary about female genital mutilation (super romantic). When I come to, I am face to face with a dark-haired off-duty paramedic who is staring into my eyes and asking my name (apparently this is standard procedure, but it seemed significant at the time.) He takes me outside and nurses me back to health. Following this slightly embarrassing introduction, I see him from time to time and he asks if I've seen any documentaries lately. Another year passes, and he's married and moving across the country. It's bittersweet, but perhaps it's best that I don't have to say the words "female genital mutilation" to random strangers at weddings and baby showers.

Scenario 3: The "I keep running into you": For several weeks I go through the same line at Trader Joe’s. My boyishly disheveled blonde checker comments that I’ve been through his line at almost the exact time for at least two weeks. “I’ll see you next week at 8:37,” he says with a smile as I pack up my groceries. On the drive home I dream of our Trader Joe's themed wedding: organic mini quiches, a cake frosted with Cookie Butter, cheeky Fearless Flyer invitations. Alas, my schedule changes, his schedule changes, and I miss our 8:37 date too many weeks in a row. The most I've seen of him since is the back of his head in the produce section.

Scenario 4: The Laundromat Encounter: This was a disaster. Any romantic notions of Laundromats I held to previously were dashed to pieces after I was propositioned by a toothless vagrant at my local Laundromat last winter. He kept implying that he was "lonely and cold," and I've sworn off Laundromats ever since.

Scenario 5: The Foreign Country Connection (i.e. The Hot Local Fisherman): Here is an example of an actual conversation my friend Angie and I had with two Turkish men in Istanbul during college: 

Turkish Man #1: Hello, Americans! We want to practice our English! 

Angie: Hi. Um, I don't think we can talk right now. 

Turkish Man #2: We have bought you drinks. 

 Angie/Me: Oh. Thanks. Thank you. 

Long pause.

Turkish Man #1: We will go to club and dance. 

Me: Isn't it a little early for that? It's only 10:00 in the morning. 

Turkish Man #1: Yes. We will meet you later.

Angie: No, sorry, we can't do that. 

Longer pause. Two stray cats wander through the scene. 

Turkish Man #2: (Sudden declaration) There are many cats in Turkey! (Pause) Are there many cats in America?

At this point, an ancient Turkish woman ambles over with a baby carriage and an outstretched hand. As our Turkish pursuers hand over a few lira, I look into the carriage and notice that her "baby" is a bundle of blankets, newspapers, and a doll head. 

Me: (Whispering to Angie) That's a fake baby! 

Following the fake baby comment, we dissolve into poorly stifled laughter, our pursuers lose interest, and all plans of Istanbul nightlife and possible romance fall to the wayside. 

In other news, all of the local fisherman I've ever met in foreign countries were either 1) married or 2) anticipating a sex change operation.   

So it Goes  

Sometimes I feel like I live in a constant loop of unfinished Nora Ephron scripts. I've got some meet cutes, (some cuter than others), but those stories have been ripped from the typewriter, crumpled and thrown into a wire wastepaper basket labeled "False Starts." My life doesn't fit into 122 minutes of snappy dialogue and serendipitous circumstances. It's a little more complicated, there are more crazy characters than a Muppet movie, and, let's be honest, it's C+. And I imagine a C+ meeting may go something like this:


"I couldn't help but notice you staring at me from across this crowded room."


"I'm flattered, but that's just my lazy eye. I'm seeing a doctor about it."


And then someone will spill something or get on a plane or take a detour to a non-sketchy Laundromat, and the rest will be perfectly imperfect C+ history.

Welcome, and Some Answers to Questions No One Asked

Welcome to The C+ Life! We're all friends here. (Unless you're too pretentious and/or awesome. Then you can leave.)

What is this? 

Great question! This is a blog. More specifically, this is a blog about not being awesome, settling for slightly above average and being totally fine with the idea. This is also a blog about my life, which fits nicely within these parameters.

Where did The C+ Life come from? 

The concept for this blog was hatched in my apartment kitchen in the fall of 2011, with my friends Christy and Mandy. We were discussing life, work, and the sinking feeling that we may never live up to the prevalent and well-meaning "you-can-do-anything-you-put-your-mind-to"-declarations of our childhood. We decided we were done stressing ourselves out, done trying to be awesome at everything. We decided to settle for being C+, at best. We became the founding members of The C+ Club, and they graciously allowed me to use the concept for this blog. 

And you are. . . ?

I'm Megan. I'm a twenty-something living in Central Oregon. I'm a school librarian by day and terribly undisciplined writer by night. (We'll get this out of the way: Yes, I know the Dewey Decimal System. No, I don't own any cats. Yes, I do conduct storytimes. No, I won't loan you any of my shapeless sweaters or calf-grazing skirts). 

I don't own a fancy camera or an iPhone. I live in a 75-year-old apartment without the Internet (or a dishwasher, washing machine, cable TV, or properly weather-sealed windows), and write this blog at my local library, workplace, or some other internet-providing establishment, preferably one where I can get a pint of Nitro Stout or a cafe au lait. 

I don't think my life is terrible, but it certainly won't be showing up on the lifestyle pages anytime soon. I am not the valedictorian or anything "of the year," but I'm fine with it. In fact, it's kind of fun to lower the bar, aim low and be secretly pleased when things don't turn out perfectly. That's The C+ Life, and I hope you come back soon! 

- Megan