I just got back from the vet. I had to have my little doe goat Lucy put to sleep. She got sick a couple weeks ago --I thought it was because she and the other goats got into some high-protein, possibly medicated Start-Grow-Lay chicken food. Lucy got better (I thought) until yesterday. She went down, couldn't get up, was crying and twisting her head back, looking up, arching, crying. All night she suffered, we had her inside on a blanket. I kept thinking that I must have somehow hurt her with the car, that when I was backing up and she was on the car she must have fallen off or I must have bumped her or something. I took her to the vet first thing this morning. The vet said it was her brain, that her brain had turned all mushy from a thiamine deficiency that may have been somehow caused by Lucy getting in the chicken food. That Lucy had poliomyelitis. I made the decision to put her to sleep; the vet said the prognosis was poor. I stayed with her. I didn't think I would be this upset. I don't know why I'm this sad. I'm always complaining about the goats but all I could think was that we bottle fed Lucy, she was our little girl and now she's dying and it's my fault because of the chicken food and she's dying and she suffered all night and it seems ike it's been so long since I even sat outside and petted her. And the vet had to give her shot after shot of barbiturate and nothing was working, she wasn't dying, it went on for almost an hour, shot after shot and her veins blowing out and she kept breathing and making that sound, that long groaning sound, and I was trying so hard not to cry and I couldn't stop and it was Lucy, lying on this cold steel table dying and not dying and finally the vet gave her a shot of oh fuck I can't remember the name. Something-chloride. Like in death penalty things. And finally Lucy died and I paid to have her cremated because I'm afraid the dogs would have dug her up and I have to get ready, I have a class today, an in-person class and I've got to get in the shower, I've gt to go, and I've got to stop crying because I've got class and besides, wasn't I always complaining about the goats? I am so sorry. I'm so sorry. This is my fault. And Lucy is dead and it's my fault and I've got to get in the shower, and I have so many assignments to do and I killed Lucy and I just don't know what to do
I'm sick. I know! Officially ill. It's like my body was all, Do I have to let you get all sick and stuff before you'll relax? (And I must have been all, Apparently so!)
I feel as though something wrung me out. And filled me up with... with whatever that stuff is that fills squishy balls.
My goal is to relo out to my chair in the family room, have Rainy plug my MacBook in out there (not an easy task with only a few of our outlets actually conducting electricity), beg Sierra to make oatmeal raisin cookies, take control of the remote (lo! Law and Order Criminal Intent uber alles!), hold some cats and my dog Fraction, and submit to my sickness.
How lame am I that this sounds kind of nice?
Christmas-or-whatever-you-want-to-call-it went fairly well. Sierra cooked (and cooked and cooked) a whole bunch of delicious stuff, my mother came over, everything was okay, we were all tired (I knew I was getting sick but didn't want to admit it until evening), and we went to sleep early. (Except for Trin who said she couldn't stand to be here any longer and caught a ride with my mother to a friend's.) (Oh, and except for Rayne who stayed up all night kindly asking me if I needed water and talking with his gaming friends on his new computer microphone thing.)
One of the three chicks died last night. The other two are doing well. I actually managed to catch their game hen mother this morning and while I would like to make up a big complicated story about my courage and ability in catching her (because game hens are almost impossible to catch, with the flying and stuff and the sharp talons and vicious beaks and all), what actually happened is that I staggered outside first thing this morning, all listing somehow to the side as though I'd become suddenly aware that the world was somehow spinning counterclockwise at a thousand miles per hour and I'd decided to just kinda go with it, and as I was trying to unlatch the door to set free the goats and geese, the chick-less hen paused within about a foot of my slippers and in fever-induced slow-mo surrealism I simply bent and grabbed her. (And all hell broke lose and I'm surprised I still have both eyes and all of my fingers.) So anyway, she's in a plastic tote in my bathroom with her chicks, the tote covered loosely with a towel so she'll hopefully stay in it until Rayne wakes up and I can send him out to the storage trailer to bring back a wire chicken cage. And I guess I'm going to have chickens in the house until the weather gets bigger or the chicks get better, whatever comes first. (And at the end of this sentence I look back and am, yes, aware that I switched "bigger" and "better" but I think I'm going to leave it like that because it kind of affirms the fact that I have a fever and stuff.)
I feel dizzy. It's maybe that thousand miles per hour thing. And did you know that after the winter solstice we here in the Northern hemisphere get an additional eight minutes of daylight each day until the summer solstice? It's true. And I love me some 7th grade science and sometimes wonder why I didn't migrate more towards some kind of science-based university major.
Anyway. Holidays '09? Check. No big muss, no big fuss, no horrible disasters, and chickens in my bathroom. Perfect.
I feel as though something wrung me out. And filled me up with... with whatever that stuff is that fills squishy balls.
My goal is to relo out to my chair in the family room, have Rainy plug my MacBook in out there (not an easy task with only a few of our outlets actually conducting electricity), beg Sierra to make oatmeal raisin cookies, take control of the remote (lo! Law and Order Criminal Intent uber alles!), hold some cats and my dog Fraction, and submit to my sickness.
How lame am I that this sounds kind of nice?
Christmas-or-whatever-you-want-to-call-it went fairly well. Sierra cooked (and cooked and cooked) a whole bunch of delicious stuff, my mother came over, everything was okay, we were all tired (I knew I was getting sick but didn't want to admit it until evening), and we went to sleep early. (Except for Trin who said she couldn't stand to be here any longer and caught a ride with my mother to a friend's.) (Oh, and except for Rayne who stayed up all night kindly asking me if I needed water and talking with his gaming friends on his new computer microphone thing.)
One of the three chicks died last night. The other two are doing well. I actually managed to catch their game hen mother this morning and while I would like to make up a big complicated story about my courage and ability in catching her (because game hens are almost impossible to catch, with the flying and stuff and the sharp talons and vicious beaks and all), what actually happened is that I staggered outside first thing this morning, all listing somehow to the side as though I'd become suddenly aware that the world was somehow spinning counterclockwise at a thousand miles per hour and I'd decided to just kinda go with it, and as I was trying to unlatch the door to set free the goats and geese, the chick-less hen paused within about a foot of my slippers and in fever-induced slow-mo surrealism I simply bent and grabbed her. (And all hell broke lose and I'm surprised I still have both eyes and all of my fingers.) So anyway, she's in a plastic tote in my bathroom with her chicks, the tote covered loosely with a towel so she'll hopefully stay in it until Rayne wakes up and I can send him out to the storage trailer to bring back a wire chicken cage. And I guess I'm going to have chickens in the house until the weather gets bigger or the chicks get better, whatever comes first. (And at the end of this sentence I look back and am, yes, aware that I switched "bigger" and "better" but I think I'm going to leave it like that because it kind of affirms the fact that I have a fever and stuff.)
I feel dizzy. It's maybe that thousand miles per hour thing. And did you know that after the winter solstice we here in the Northern hemisphere get an additional eight minutes of daylight each day until the summer solstice? It's true. And I love me some 7th grade science and sometimes wonder why I didn't migrate more towards some kind of science-based university major.
Anyway. Holidays '09? Check. No big muss, no big fuss, no horrible disasters, and chickens in my bathroom. Perfect.
I spent the Eve (of whatever-you-wanna-call-it) editing and moving my porn. I know! I wanted to, like, write some more porn! But instead got caught up in that scary editing frenzy and then decided to pack up my semi edited porn and move it in its entirety to a totally new home and stuff.
Which, btw, is here. Pretty, right? I think it's pretty. I just need to finish editing, get rid of my ridiculous past compulsion to inappropriately capitalize select nouns, my tendency to not quite understand the purpose and potential of the semi colon, and my bizarre obsession with one sentence paragraphs. I also need to figure out a better way to present my fiction. One long stream of entries sucks.
In other news, I woke up this morning to a bunch of frozen white horribleness. Woke up and rescued the last three chicks of the nine some dumb hen ridiculously hatched out last week. Chicks in winter? So wrong. This morning she'd given up; the last three were feebly peeping, unable to stand, flopped over in the snow. Poor, poor things. There're here, Rayne's watching them warm up, I need to get some warm Karo syrup water into them and then some food. Maybe they'll make it; I don't know. They had no chance outside. The poor hen. Where'd she nest? Under the trailer? I don't know. Poor thing.
Present time. Later.
Which, btw, is here. Pretty, right? I think it's pretty. I just need to finish editing, get rid of my ridiculous past compulsion to inappropriately capitalize select nouns, my tendency to not quite understand the purpose and potential of the semi colon, and my bizarre obsession with one sentence paragraphs. I also need to figure out a better way to present my fiction. One long stream of entries sucks.
In other news, I woke up this morning to a bunch of frozen white horribleness. Woke up and rescued the last three chicks of the nine some dumb hen ridiculously hatched out last week. Chicks in winter? So wrong. This morning she'd given up; the last three were feebly peeping, unable to stand, flopped over in the snow. Poor, poor things. There're here, Rayne's watching them warm up, I need to get some warm Karo syrup water into them and then some food. Maybe they'll make it; I don't know. They had no chance outside. The poor hen. Where'd she nest? Under the trailer? I don't know. Poor thing.
Present time. Later.
Or something. I don't know. It's not good.
I just checked FaceBook and OKC was apparently trying to drive somewhere a little bit north of here and all the roads got closed and filled with wrecks and stuff and now she's stuck in a motel with her daughter and dog and no alcohol.
I repeat: No alcohol.
I just checked FaceBook and OKC was apparently trying to drive somewhere a little bit north of here and all the roads got closed and filled with wrecks and stuff and now she's stuck in a motel with her daughter and dog and no alcohol.
I repeat: No alcohol.
I think it's going to snow. I also think we all know how I feel about this.
I think I've run out of things to do on the Internet... hang on. I'm sick of capitalizing the i in internet; I'm thinking it's time to stop.
Okay.
I think I've run out of stuff to do on the internet. I need a project, I need something to do, I need a mission. I mean, it's that or Farmville. And Trinity has been sucked into the whole FarmVille thing on Facebook and is constantly talking about her crops. Her crops that are apparently dying. The night before last I wasn't really asleep and suddenly there was Trinity creeping into my room, stealthily opening up my MacBook. "What are you doing?" I whispered. She looked at me like she wasn't actually going to answer me (that's pretty much how she always looks at me), and finally replied, "My strawberries are all dead. I planted thirty-two strawberry plants and they're all dead." I was all, "I never exactly saw you as a farmer..." And she crept away again.
And crap! I just went to Facebook to see if I was spelling FarmVille correctly (I am now!) and noticed that Trinity unfriended me! Damn! She said she was going to, and I guess she did. She said I was stalking her by wishing her a happy birthday on Facebook. Crap! She unfriended my brother and his wife, too! But hell, she didn't unfriend OKC! (I think Trin still believes OKC is going to adopt her and take her away from "all this.")
I need to do something productive. I guess I could finish cleaning my room. Maybe I should try to write something fictional. (I know! The other f word!) See if I can still write fiction. Because I'm thinking maybe I can't. Maybe all I can put together are, you know, academic papers. Academic papers and, well, blog entries. Nothing in between.
That's about it. Bored, restless, unfriended, possible long-term writer's block.
Okay.
I think I've run out of stuff to do on the internet. I need a project, I need something to do, I need a mission. I mean, it's that or Farmville. And Trinity has been sucked into the whole FarmVille thing on Facebook and is constantly talking about her crops. Her crops that are apparently dying. The night before last I wasn't really asleep and suddenly there was Trinity creeping into my room, stealthily opening up my MacBook. "What are you doing?" I whispered. She looked at me like she wasn't actually going to answer me (that's pretty much how she always looks at me), and finally replied, "My strawberries are all dead. I planted thirty-two strawberry plants and they're all dead." I was all, "I never exactly saw you as a farmer..." And she crept away again.
And crap! I just went to Facebook to see if I was spelling FarmVille correctly (I am now!) and noticed that Trinity unfriended me! Damn! She said she was going to, and I guess she did. She said I was stalking her by wishing her a happy birthday on Facebook. Crap! She unfriended my brother and his wife, too! But hell, she didn't unfriend OKC! (I think Trin still believes OKC is going to adopt her and take her away from "all this.")
I need to do something productive. I guess I could finish cleaning my room. Maybe I should try to write something fictional. (I know! The other f word!) See if I can still write fiction. Because I'm thinking maybe I can't. Maybe all I can put together are, you know, academic papers. Academic papers and, well, blog entries. Nothing in between.
That's about it. Bored, restless, unfriended, possible long-term writer's block.
I need a lover that won't drive me crazy
Some [one] to thrill me and then go away
I need a lover that won't drive me crazy
Some [one] that knows the meaning of a
Hey hit the highway
(John Mellencamp)
***
Of course everyone would drive me crazy, right? Sooner or later with emphasis on sooner.
And I am reminded of SoccerBoy. Remember him? I really don't. I wouldn't recognize him if he walked up to me. (Perish the thought!) I do recall that he was very handsome. Handsome and dumb in equal proportions. (Or maybe just young. Maybe I should give him the benefit of the doubt. The benefit of his youth, because the guy was what? Like a decade or more younger than me or something?) Anyway. I remember that I couldn't bear to have him talk, have him try to engage me in conversation after, you know, afterward. Or in between. Even -maybe especially- during. I couldn't stand to have him talk. I wanted to beg him to stop talking. I think I went to great sexual lengths to keep the guy inarticulate. And I remember once, in some proverbial low-rent rendezvous, on some shabby old tv one of the only channels that would come in featured that early 70s movie "Jeremiah Johnson," in fricking Spanish, and I was all, "Ooh, let's watch!" Because it was preferable to having to try to talk to SoccerBoy.
"Jeremiah Johnson" in Espanol; I'm a terrible, terrible person.
So. I guess I should vow to never sleep with anyone I consider too dumb to talk to. That's probably a pretty good rule, right?
What else?
Let's see...
I'll never sleep with someone who's racist, sexist, Republican. That's easy. (Too bad I didn't have this rule before I fricking slept with Larry S back in CA! I'll never recover from knowing I slept with someone who routinely uses "nigger" to describe President Obama.) (Ugh!)
I'll never sleep with someone who doesn't like animals. (You'd think a person who doesn't like animals would never sleep with me, right? But I think you'd be surprised.)
I'll never sleep with someone who spells "a lot" as one word. And I know this seems all elitist, all grammar fascist extraordinaire, and I shouldn't judge people by this... But I do. I can't help it. And my own brother emailed me through Facebook yesterday, my own brother the Cali college adjunct, and he not only used "was" when he should have used "were", he also, I swear ta Science, typed "alot." I know! I'm not making it up! I was all, WTF??? Anyway. Do we think it would be inappropriate to administer a brief grammar quiz to any prospective, you know, prospective oh-no-Circe's-not-staying-celibate candidate? It would be, right? Probably. At the very least it would kind of wreck the mood.
I've been awake since one a.m. I know! Apropos of nothing I thought I'd throw that in there. I lay awake, thinking inappropriate stuff, and finally at a little before six Trinity stomped into my room, announcing that Camus had pooped in the dining room, there was "poop everywhere!" and she couldn't sleep because of the smell and because she knew there was dog poop just yards from her bed. Of course I'd suspected. Though I kept telling myself it was just Chess being his old dog flatulent self. But that got me up. Because there's nothing like cleaning dog poop in the morning, pre coffee. (Post coffee would actually probably be worse, right?).
So what else? I look kind of weird in the pics I posted of myself yesterday. Kind of tightly wound. I wonder if I really look like that? Or was it just the result of taking pics with my MacBook, having to try to maintain some kind of a facial expression while PhotoBooth takes its time in taking the picture. I look nervous; I look like I expect something terrible to happen.
Also apropos of nothing, Karl has a new (to me) porn site. I've blogrolled it because blogrolling makes it easier to frequently check. I have this weird creepy fear that I'm going to click on his site some day and see pics of Trinity and her friends. I'm jus' sayin'.
Where was I going with this blog entry? (Nowhere good.) Oh yeah. What other rules would I have?
Don't sleep with someone I don't want to be seen in public with. And you'd think this would be a pretty obvious one, right? Again, you'd be surprised.
Don't sleep with someone who really doesn't like me. Again, obvious, right? No.
Don't sleep with someone who's going to do that guilt thing afterwards. Gawd, that guilt thing! And the thing about the other person's guilt? They're going to try to foist it on you, punish you because they feel guilty, one way or another. So. No. Never again.
No active addicts. Thanks. Been there. Done that.
Don't sleep with someone that I have to lie to. I mean lie a whole lot. Lie, omit, hide things. I don't like doing that. I don't like feeling that I have to.
Don't sleep with someone who tries to control and/or change me. I mean, a little bit is fun, fun for a very limited time. After that, eh.
Don't sleep with someone who doesn't "get" me. And this is probably going to keep me in celibacy forever, right? I mean, not that I think I'm so complicated, so difficult to get and stuff. I think that I'm actually very easily understood. But I'm probably wrong.
I can't think of any more. Though there probably are more. And let me disclaim real' fast: I make constant grammar mistakes and I used to make a whole lot more. (The main reason I can't bear to go back and read my archives? Yep. You guessed it.) It's just that "alot" is a deal breaker for me. Crackheads, conservative politics, and "alot."
Some [one] to thrill me and then go away
I need a lover that won't drive me crazy
Some [one] that knows the meaning of a
Hey hit the highway
(John Mellencamp)
***
Of course everyone would drive me crazy, right? Sooner or later with emphasis on sooner.
And I am reminded of SoccerBoy. Remember him? I really don't. I wouldn't recognize him if he walked up to me. (Perish the thought!) I do recall that he was very handsome. Handsome and dumb in equal proportions. (Or maybe just young. Maybe I should give him the benefit of the doubt. The benefit of his youth, because the guy was what? Like a decade or more younger than me or something?) Anyway. I remember that I couldn't bear to have him talk, have him try to engage me in conversation after, you know, afterward. Or in between. Even -maybe especially- during. I couldn't stand to have him talk. I wanted to beg him to stop talking. I think I went to great sexual lengths to keep the guy inarticulate. And I remember once, in some proverbial low-rent rendezvous, on some shabby old tv one of the only channels that would come in featured that early 70s movie "Jeremiah Johnson," in fricking Spanish, and I was all, "Ooh, let's watch!" Because it was preferable to having to try to talk to SoccerBoy.
"Jeremiah Johnson" in Espanol; I'm a terrible, terrible person.
So. I guess I should vow to never sleep with anyone I consider too dumb to talk to. That's probably a pretty good rule, right?
What else?
Let's see...
I'll never sleep with someone who's racist, sexist, Republican. That's easy. (Too bad I didn't have this rule before I fricking slept with Larry S back in CA! I'll never recover from knowing I slept with someone who routinely uses "nigger" to describe President Obama.) (Ugh!)
I'll never sleep with someone who doesn't like animals. (You'd think a person who doesn't like animals would never sleep with me, right? But I think you'd be surprised.)
I'll never sleep with someone who spells "a lot" as one word. And I know this seems all elitist, all grammar fascist extraordinaire, and I shouldn't judge people by this... But I do. I can't help it. And my own brother emailed me through Facebook yesterday, my own brother the Cali college adjunct, and he not only used "was" when he should have used "were", he also, I swear ta Science, typed "alot." I know! I'm not making it up! I was all, WTF??? Anyway. Do we think it would be inappropriate to administer a brief grammar quiz to any prospective, you know, prospective oh-no-Circe's-not-staying-celibate candidate? It would be, right? Probably. At the very least it would kind of wreck the mood.
I've been awake since one a.m. I know! Apropos of nothing I thought I'd throw that in there. I lay awake, thinking inappropriate stuff, and finally at a little before six Trinity stomped into my room, announcing that Camus had pooped in the dining room, there was "poop everywhere!" and she couldn't sleep because of the smell and because she knew there was dog poop just yards from her bed. Of course I'd suspected. Though I kept telling myself it was just Chess being his old dog flatulent self. But that got me up. Because there's nothing like cleaning dog poop in the morning, pre coffee. (Post coffee would actually probably be worse, right?).
So what else? I look kind of weird in the pics I posted of myself yesterday. Kind of tightly wound. I wonder if I really look like that? Or was it just the result of taking pics with my MacBook, having to try to maintain some kind of a facial expression while PhotoBooth takes its time in taking the picture. I look nervous; I look like I expect something terrible to happen.
Also apropos of nothing, Karl has a new (to me) porn site. I've blogrolled it because blogrolling makes it easier to frequently check. I have this weird creepy fear that I'm going to click on his site some day and see pics of Trinity and her friends. I'm jus' sayin'.
Where was I going with this blog entry? (Nowhere good.) Oh yeah. What other rules would I have?
Don't sleep with someone I don't want to be seen in public with. And you'd think this would be a pretty obvious one, right? Again, you'd be surprised.
Don't sleep with someone who really doesn't like me. Again, obvious, right? No.
Don't sleep with someone who's going to do that guilt thing afterwards. Gawd, that guilt thing! And the thing about the other person's guilt? They're going to try to foist it on you, punish you because they feel guilty, one way or another. So. No. Never again.
No active addicts. Thanks. Been there. Done that.
Don't sleep with someone that I have to lie to. I mean lie a whole lot. Lie, omit, hide things. I don't like doing that. I don't like feeling that I have to.
Don't sleep with someone who tries to control and/or change me. I mean, a little bit is fun, fun for a very limited time. After that, eh.
Don't sleep with someone who doesn't "get" me. And this is probably going to keep me in celibacy forever, right? I mean, not that I think I'm so complicated, so difficult to get and stuff. I think that I'm actually very easily understood. But I'm probably wrong.
I can't think of any more. Though there probably are more. And let me disclaim real' fast: I make constant grammar mistakes and I used to make a whole lot more. (The main reason I can't bear to go back and read my archives? Yep. You guessed it.) It's just that "alot" is a deal breaker for me. Crackheads, conservative politics, and "alot."
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