How am I doing? Not so good.
But don’t worry, this isn’t a cry for help.
I felt that creeping pain start in my middle back and work its way up to my chest so I took a break from processing 100 cups of cherries to pop a anti-anxiety pill. And write. Both make me feel better.
I’m experiencing the cumulative effect of the entire last year piling up on me and it makes me want to go underground for a while.
I would never complain about my life. I mean, not really. My life is incredible and the last year was a full steam ahead kind of year, culminating in more houseguests and more parties than I’ve ever had in my entire life.
I get to meet new people and spend time with “old” people, as in old friends, such as The Big Guy and Sissy.
That last time The Big Guy and Sissy were here, I had just gotten Blue. We hadn’t yet started thinking about adopting him.
This year we had our 4th of July party on top of a downtown parking structure.
It could not have been a more beautiful night, except for that part when it started storming but we cowered in our cars until it blew over just in time for the fireworks.
All this is tremendously good stuff.
To add to the good news, I found someone to take our retired chickens!
My coop co-op has been raising chicks to replace some of the more mature ladies in the flock. The same woman that took my retired birds last time was thrilled to add more to her flock.
She says the girls I gave her are still laying.
She’s the loveliest person, has a little boy and lives near Haystack Mountain on a four acre farm with goats and plenty of room to free range.
I can’t think of a more appropriate way to reward the ladies for their service than to retire to a farm. And I’m not talking about “the farm” in an euphemistic way. They are going to free range and hang out with goats, not die.
We decided to keep Blondie around because she is the friendliest chicken we have. It turned out to be a terrible mistake.
She quickly took her place at the top of the pecking order and attacked Aurora, our dominant Brahma chick that we added to the flock.
She tore all the feathers off Aurora’s neck and the skin split open. The poor girl has a square in patch of muscle showing.
Aurora’s name is now Baldy. Or maybe Kojak?
There isn’t a vet in Boulder that would look at a chicken (as Michelle was determined to spend $100 on this bird) but the internet said that chickens recover from this type of injury. Meanwhile, she’s spending the night in my bathroom, AKA Infirmary.
I feel like I’m running a wacky animal clinic these days, what with That Fucking Cat under lockdown for being stupid.
Speaking of That Fucking Cat, AKA Oxykitten, everything is going great with her. She doesn’t seem to mind being in the kennel (perhaps the steady drip of Buprenophrine has something to do with it) and the only problem is that her litter situation is out of control.
She likes the iPad, though.
She’s in a small crate (2×3 feet, as prescribed) and she was using a small pan to go in.
I couldn’t use anything high sided because she’s not supposed to jump. I decided to get crafty.
I started out by googling how to cut plastic and it looked like a $250 hot knife was just the ticket.
A Facebook entreaty didn’t net anything so I decided to make a hot knife by … wait for it … heating up a knife. All I needed was a junky paring knife that I could toss when I was done.
Now where would I find something like that? In my house?
So I’ve got a crated cat in the living room and a chicken in my bathroom and everything feels just about right.
Yet I’m having a damn panic attack.
I kind of expected it because I don’t have panic attacks when shit is panicky, I have them afterwards when things calm down. And aside from picking and making 20 pies worth of cherry filling in my spare time, it’s very relaxing around here.
I really, REALLY, need a break.
I’m going on vacation soon, maybe that will be relaxing.
But face it, driving to the east coast with my kids and the mother-in-law (who I love) and not the dog (which is really fucking stressful to think about) probably won’t be all that relaxing. Especially when both Loony and I maintain our businesses even when we aren’t at home. That kind of sucks.
But this is funny.
This morning I was at The Cup with Loony and Wilkins when JT texted me, which he hardly ever does.
Because he’s obnoxious he doesn’t ever text me, he sexts me.
But not really because he didn’t send me a picture of his tiny penis (not that I would know, I’m just guessing, which now Loony is probably rolling his eyes like, “Suuure, you’ve never seen it.” but I swear I haven’t!)
Whatever JT. This is some weak ass shit if you ask me. Sending me a banana emoticon is NOT sexting.
Game on, baby.
Now THIS is sexting! (ignore the strange shadows on my boobs)
I didn’t go full-nip because I was in the coffee shop and Loony and Wilkins were already looking at me weird. And speaking of weird, the dad from our kids school was all, “Hey, can I get a better angle?” Barf.
The things I do for my friends.
What’s with the emoticons? God, he sound like a 12 year-old girl when he does that. Not sexy.
He always has to have the last word.