I got some new chickens. They are Kourtney, Kim, Klhoe, and Rob. Along with Kate, the last chicken standing, they are the Kardashian-Olsens. Kate doesn’t seem to like them very much. Or, at least she is very busy squawking at them. Not to busy to lay eggs, though, for which I am grateful. Chickens are sort of a pain, but buying eggs is bullshit.
Inspired by my recent visit to Indigo House, I put up some tomatoes. It was really a great deal I happened onto. See, the nice lady at my CSA has been too busy growing tomatoes to can any of her own, so she gave me about a million tomatoes and I did the canning and we will split the jars. Perfect, yes? Yes.
I used ye olde internetz and found these guys, whose canning deal looked do-able, and I dove right in. I have 8 pint jars of Juliets, which are like romas, and 8 quart jars of some other sort of tomato. It really wasn’t that hard, although I did have to reprocess a few jars whose seals were for shit. I am pretty proud. I am also hopeful that I don’t give my nice farmer family botulism. As a side note, I’ve discovered, given my n of 3 (me and those two nice guys in the above link), that gay people like to can tomatoes. Also, we like to drink beer and eat chinese food.
Summer is ending. Now, don’t think for a minute I had the summer off. The mortgage still has to be paid. So I did a little summer camp and it was fine. Only until noon, which is almost like not work. And only six weeks, so I could return to the classroom refreshed. Re. Freshed. Or something. Anyway, I went to school for a bit yesterday, to tidy a little for the parent meeting that was scheduled for the evening and I ended up hauling around a bunch of furniture. All new in September, kids! Well, it would be all new to them anyway, since they are so small. It’s not done yet by a long shot, but I think I’ve made for an easy work week for me and cho-girl.
And to round out this all about me post (really, are there any post that are not all about me?), I have my annual summer spider bites. Oozy and itchy. There’s no picture. You’re welcome.
I am currently waiting for tomorrow’s beta. And fake-uphostering/slipcovering a chair.
I am taking, in no particular order:
- baby asprin
- otc folic acid
- prescription folate
- crazy Chinese herbs in tea form
I am feeling a little crampy
I am sleeping for shit and waking a million times a night to pee. (One of the wonders of infertility is that the various meds one can take do all the things that various hormones would do if one were in the early stages of a “regular” pregnancy, thus producing pregnancy symptoms, regardless if one is knocked up or no. Fun!)
I am pretty chill, re this cycle working, for no good reason. Or maybe it is the “steroid euphoria”? Whatever it is, I’ll take it.
I am doing restorative yoga with props brought over by T of Tuesday Fame. Props are fun!
I am also doing some little qi gong, as per my acu told me to. First and second brocades, if you care about such things. I sort of love it. Or maybe that’s the steroid euphoria speaking.
I am getting a prog check with tomorrow’s beta, because if that shit is low, I want to bump it right away.
I am a little tired of my blog template. Maybe I will fuck with it tomorrow.
Beta in the morning, y’all. Beta in the motherfucking morning.
Apparently, it is easier to dig a grave with a pointy shovel than with a flat one. Or so I am told by my neighbor who is on his way over to bury my second dead chicken of the summer. They are old, these chickens, and there is only one left. Kate, if you must know. Although, to tell the truth, Ashley is still large and in charge down in Esmont, so there are really two men standing, title of this post aside. Sex of the poultry also aside.
Now, I’ve had chickens for a while now, if you’ll remember. There were these guys, who turned out to both be roosters and got sent to the country to have a chance at full free-rangey-ness and both ended up in their rightful place on the food chain via a hawk. Then I got the big girls, Mary, Kate and Ashley, and then two random others from a friend, Valerie and Meghan, Jr. Valerie took up the mantle of resident rooster with pride, stretching up to crow and hopping on the other chickens’ backs for Fun Times (What? You have a problem with my trans chicken? Get over it.) but a raccoon or something got her all the same a couple years ago.
So for sometime there have been three. Mary, who never laid any eggs and was sort of mean. MJ, whose name had to be shortened, because otherwise it made me sad all the time. And Kate, who laid occasionally, but went broody this summer and almost got put in a pot for her pains.
Mary died close to two weeks ago. She was listless and hanging out on the ground one evening (next to a stick that I thought was a possum tail, which caused me to jump *and* scream *and* scrape my knee, which was The Best Story Ever to the children at camp that week), and then the next day she was dead when I came home from camp. It was a little sad, and my roommate buried her over by the cats on the north side of the house. She was old, and I wondered if there was something not right with her insides, on account of the No Eggs Issue. Who knows.
And then, last week, Meghan, Jr. started looking listless. And pale, if you can imagine it. And then she disappeared while I was on bed rest. I sort of hoped that some animal had taken off with her – doesn’t that seem a more fitting way to die? But no. After 4 or 5 days outside in Virginia in August, I found her by smell, behind the crazy old painting of the Queen of Hearts that leans on the fence by the chicken coop. Funny, it is easier to call her by her old, real name now that she’s dead. She was a sweet chicken, she’d allow herself be held and would come running when I’d call to all of them.
Anyway, she’s going to be buried with everybody else. I will have to expand that flower bed, man, it’s getting crowded over there. I never thought I’d bury my chickens; they aren’t really pets to me in the way the cats are. I mean, I like them; they are living things. But I don’t love them the way I love the cats. But I’m sadder than I expected about Meghan, Jr dying. Not in a weepy, keening sort of way, but in a “wow, that animal’s life is over and we saw each other every day” sort of way.
(just in case you need some additional hate-free chicken)
Aiming for once a week for the rest of the summer is do-able, don’t you think? I mean, I’m hardly working. And then perhaps I could also do things like clean up my blogroll, which is sadly out of date, and maybe log my lunch everyday. Really, I have no excuse.
It’s been a hard couple of years, y’all. But I think I am feeling better. Time. I’ve taken two years of it and now I am calling you, though not in the morning.
Here are things:
- it is hot as fuck here, again, and there has been no rain and the plum tree has lost about 1/3 of it’s leaves. Jim Waive saw fit to remind me that I like to freak out about the weather in July.
- I am gearing up for (yet another!) embryo transfer, avec steroids and lovenox, which is said not as if you planned on marrying an ox, but as if you started to sing “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot” and then changed your mind and wanted to talk about vans and oxes.
- there is Neighborhood Dramaz. Really. More than one drama. One neighbor is concerned that my cats mistake her front flower bed for a litter box. Oops. Not much to be done but apologize and give her some eggs. Production has improved slightly since my last post, btw. Other neighbor, previously featured on Caved as a Serious Cat Person, is very upset that another neighbor has vicious sounding big dogs that are not supposed to be at his house but for some reason keep coming back. Written out, it sounds so silly, but she is truly distraught. To the point of sounding irrational. And the offending neighbors do nothing, which is the shame of it, I think. Starrhill is pretty tight; there are really only a few of us in the place and this is how we usually handle shit: if you’re upsetting somebody, go talk to that somebody, hold your damn hand out and try to make some compromise. I fear it has gone on too long for that at this point. And that the actual owner of the dogs seems to be the sort that thinks she doesn’t need to hold her hand out.
- LB and I are splitting a share from Appalachia Star farm again this summer and it’s pretty great. The tomatoes are about to come rolling in and I am very excited. In other food news, I have pots of herbs that I am actually using for the first time in years. It’s like being born again. Sort of. Being home to make a lunch is like being born again.
- I had another miscarriage awhile back – whee. This one didn’t hurt, which was nice. The sliver lining is that it put me up to the magic number of three miscarriage, which makes my insurance company willing to pay for the Big Giant Pannel of Autoimmune tests. I do love a good visit to my lab people.
- my old neighbor, who should just move back to Starrhill, solving all the Neighborhood Dramaz, loaned me the book about running everybody read like 2 years ago, and which I also happened to give my dad but never read myself, and for about 5 minutes I was all “I could run!” And then I laughed at myself. Because the part of the book about eating beans and tortillas is really much more up my alley than running.
- one of the search terms I just saw in my stats is tiny tits. Hahahahahahaha! Sorry, wrong blog.
I have been thoroughly enjoying Twitter and Instagram. We can blame that for my lack of blogging, but didn’t everybody have that particular crisis like 4 years ago? Only my laziness to blame, as per usual.
- the market, pre-yuppie invasion. Got tiny pumpkins for singing the 5 Little Pumpkin song at school. Did not get any meat. Am sorry now.
- let the kittens outside to play.
- let the chickens out of their yard to be temporarily free range.
- visited with LB.
- coffee out plus tiny grocery shopping at Reid’s with newly re-found gift card!
- helped change spark plugs on dad’s truck. Got to borrow t-bird. Fair trade, yes?
- went to tiny reunion of kids from my summer job/birthday party, which was fab.
- dinner with K and E, which was also fab.
- bed, ah, bed….
- let kittens out again to play. Kittens are SO happy! So! Happy!
- let chickens out again, too. Chickens are SO chickens! Just chickens.
- had coffee and the comics in the sun on the front porch
- admired frolicking kittens
- yard work: moved thyme and oregano to newly weeded bed on the south side of the house; moved wooly thyme from pot to ground in two spots to reclaim it’s ground-cover roots, mowed lawn.
- gamboling kittens!
- laundry: delicates, whites, sheets. All on the line. (I run out of clothes pins before I run out of line space with my new clothesline.)
- moved litterbox to mudroom, freeing downstairs bathroom from lowly “cat bathroom” status and facilitating transition to no motherfucking litterbox. I hope.
- picked up LB in the t-bird and went for a drive. Saw Jim Waive play, drove home. Did not cruise through a hamberger stand, but had fun all the same.
Yesterday, there was a random knock on my front door. Now, things have been pretty shit around here, and I didn’t really want to answer the door, but I did. Cause it’s rude not to and why compound misery with rude?
Anyway, it was this older guy, smoking a cigarette, with some story about being hired to rake some lady’s yard, but she didn’t have a rake and his was at his house across town and he didn’t want to walk all the way home to get it and did I have a rake he could borrow?
It seemed maybe sketchy. But I do have a rake so I told him to meet me around back and I gave him my rake, which has been much neglected of late and he thanked me and swore up and down he’d bring it back and went on his way.
It wasn’t real generosity on my part; it was an attempt not to snap at him and refuse just because of my own unhappiness. It didn’t make me feel particularly better and I did wonder if I’d see the rake again.
When I answered the door just now, it was him. With my rake and and offer of a few dollars, which I refused. He asked God to bless me and I replied, “you too, sir” and what I meant was that his stranger’s blessing was enough for my atheist ass.
It’s mini-vacation time here in Starrhill – no school till Monday! Whee!
So far today, not in this order: plotted killing schemes with LB; written dirty emails; fed cats; saw a very hot, brand new Porsche outside my window; fed and watered chickens; got up; got dressed; made turkey broth; went to Reid’s for sour cream for cupcakes, thereby breaking my vow to not buy things on Buy Nothing Day (*sigh* crap); read the comics.
Now I’m going to make cupcakes and listen to Al Green.
OMFG. WordPress has fucked me again with the pictures. Anyway. There are cupcakes. Yay!