Ruh Roh

 Note:  Not a Cheerful Walk Among The Daffodils.

_______________

Among other things, I have Generalized Anxiety Disorder, which has chosen the Spring of the year to come back with a vengeance.

This sounds like a fake thing even to me, and I have it.  I know.  But it's so peculiar and so unnatural and scary that I can truly understand why people used to believe in demons, because when it hits, it's not like any other kind of fear or apprehension.  It comes out of nowhere, for no reason, and it  consumes you body and soul.

Imagine ramping up into full panic.  For no reason.  I mean the kind of nervous, terrified, helpless panic that hits you in a hospital bed, or after a car accident, as it dawns on you what just happened.  That's what GAD feels like to me.

Luckily I have an understanding psychiatrist and I'm taking care of it.  But what the hell, universe?  Why now?  

I don't know if any of you have anything like this, but you have  my sincere sympathy if you do.  

None of  those "Just _____________" suggestions simply do not work because when this shit hits,  you don't have the access to those parts of your brain anymore.  Like 'Just take deep, calming breaths.'  I am the Grand Master of Deep Calming Motherfucking Breaths.  Doesn't do Jack Shit.  This is not to say that I eschew Deep Calming Breaths; shit, I'm willing to try anything up to a full on goat sacrifice just to make this shit go away.  I have a mantra. It does not work.  I have a safe place, and people to call and talk to. Mantra does not work. Talking to people and being safe does not help.  That part of your brain that can use those tools is turned OFF.  You can think of those things, you can try to do them, but your body chemistry has other plans for you. 

Sometimes I think about it as being this channel my mind seems to be tuning in to whether or not I want it to.  I think of it as a definite bandwidth, certain limits where it comes in loud and clear with a blast of  total static disruption.  You doppler up and down, but you can't escape that station until something in your brain changes.  And you can't turn the channel.  

While you are tuned in to this station, everything you are as a person is expressed on that bandwidth.  For as long as it lasts, what you think, what you feel, what you decide and what you do are defined and circumscribed by this thing.  You can make yourself do 'normal' things, but that ability is limited, and you have to choose your low static moments and plot out your next few activities at top speed, before the hard fear comes back and all you can do is pace, unable to make a decision, unable to stop 'doom ideation', unable to stop 'suicidal ideation', unable to take in information without it's going through the bandwidth and becoming a 'bad' thought. I see a car pass by and I think about what would happen if it crashed through the house.  I see the birds outside and I think about Avian Flu and salmonella.  I had to drive myself to the pharmacy today and I kept thinking about engine fires, head-on collisions and 'sudden flying vehicle, Russian Style' type incidents as I crept along at 20 mph in the school zone nearby. You tell yourself it's not real, it won't happen, you fucking flat out KNOW IT'S ALL BULLSHIT and it Does Not Matter.  Your mind and body have decided to panic whether you like it or not.  So you only have sheer will? Cussedness? Contrariness? To get you through those moments. I don't know what it is, but it's in damned short supply.  And there have been three occasions in my life now that I completely lost that quality and was overcome.  The first two times I was 'bearhugged' through it.  Look it up.  They use this method on autistic kids and it works. The third time I did something stupid.  Luckily my liver and kidneys were on my side that day.

If it hit like that again, and I didn't have any backup,  I'd do myself to get away from it. So there's my deepest darkest fear revealed:  That I have a thing made of horror that is tracking me, like Ged in the Earthsea books, and it is part of me and will eventually win. 

You can get into treatment cycle of diminishing returns with GAD.  Downers treat it, but the side effect of too many downers is drug tolerance and, you guessed it, GAD.  Booze solves it, but booze is entirely too seductive in my case. I stay hydrated. Get all my vitamins. Avoid red meat. Exercise. I've spent the last week getting all my medications recalibrated and taking blood tests (I passed!) and so far it's looking like I might be a cunthair too high on the thyroid medications, like off by 5 fucking milligrams, so there's that to try and see if shit doesn't change in the next week.

Sitting here feeling the medication wear off and that black channel tune back in, bit by bit, is eerie as hell.  You feel your heart rate begin to accelerate.  Your breathing gets thin and rapid.  Your whole body tenses up.  And remember, there's no reason for this to be happening.  That's frightening in and of itself.  You literally feel yourself...I have to put it this way...losing your mind.  Or at least a good part of it.

So here I am trying to read my goddamn Viking Sagas and my Cloisters Apocalypse, and editing a story I wrote (because I know how to party) and just chilling out to some jazzlike sounds on this one channel, blogging.  It's a nice sunny day, I'm relaxed, comfortable, and yet I can feel it creeping up even as I sit here typing.  Just a little tingle of apprehension in the back of my mind.  Like the cold, nagging worry you feel when you send your child off to play at a friends house for the very first time.  And I'm feeling this for absolutely No Reason Whatsoever.  

My choices are very, very limited at this point. I can sit here and see what happens - it might just fade away.  Or I can get proactive and medicate - and ace myself out of being able to  interact with the adult world on a meaningful level; because I'll be loose as a goose on a measly 5mg Valium.  Knocks me on my ass.  As does Diazapam.  And a few other mood stabilizers I can't remember the name of right off, but that I take in minute doses, and that fuck me up.  Some people can do that, go out and maintain and be all competent.  I cannot.  I am a pathetic, sloppy, sentimental high person, one who will reveal embarrassing facts about my marriage, profess my platonic love for you unto eternity and gladly fill  you in on the Middle Ages without provocation and get all the names and dates wrong.  Either way, I can't make grown-up plans for the rest of the day. It's a good time to call me up, though.  I am entertaining as hell, from what I've been given to understand.

Feel absolutely free to give me any tips, tricks, links, what have you.  I'll be here.  

Back From The Ashes

With apologies to ACDC

I'M BACK!

Yes I'm back in black! 

Got my snacks! 

Bill Nye t-shirt on and cuttin' no slack

Yeah I mowed grass, got class! 

Using sharp tools with joyous abandon, yeah...

Cuttin' wood!  Feeling good!  Head full of pharms that my psych has prescribed, 

I got mad jive!  All live! Fixing those weeds so they say their goodbyes! 

Yeah, they gotta die, 

No lie, 

Get out of my yard or you're gonna fry! 

Got fire? I'm the blame! Pyro ho gonna burn you all down 

with that 

Propane, in the main, 

Crack a match and watch the flame! COS I'M BACK!!!!

_________________________

OK enough of that.

No Fool Like...Well, Me, Basically.

 So we had a get-together to celebrate a friend getting a new job.  And that was nice.  Nobody exchanged droplets and we all had a lovely time.

I also fell off the wagon HARD, drank half a bottle of vodka and a six-pack of high test beer.  Me and one of the other hard chargers stayed up until 5:00 in the morning talking complete drunken bullshit, and I spent all day yesterday sick as a dog.

This is new for me.  Not making shitty choices; hell, I could give classes on that.  No, it's the whole 'feeling like shit the next day' that I'm not used to.  And I felt like SHIT.  I spent most of the day either snoozing or in the bathroom.

Yeah, shit.   

I feel like an idiot.  I don't even remember half of what was said (Except one guy who kept asking me 'What about the Copts?" which, I have no idea whatsofuckingever how the Copts came up. He really wanted to know about the Copts, though, right around 2:AM.  Yay Beer!)

I found the Copts!  Now what do we do with them?

2 days later I still feel poisoned and my house smells like tobacco flavored vape fumes.  There's a howling rainstorm outside or I'd have all the doors and windows open.  As it stands I carpetbombed the joint with Febreeze, so now my house smells like whatever Febreeze is supposed to smell like and tobacco flavored vape fume.  Last time I ever try and play 'cool hostess' like that.  If you can set it on fire, take it outside, vato!

Gone indeed are the days when I could out-party everyone and not pay the wages of sin the next day.

 

  Hooray age.

Muk At The Movies! Tagine Chicken Video, YouTube

 Morrocan Tagine Chicken Video.  Video quality: excellent.  Sound quality: excellent.

I own a clay tagine, and I've used it a few times.  Have a sudden desperate hankerin' for some Tagine Chicken, and wanting to switch it up a bit - usually green olives and preserved lemon - I go a-roaming on YouTube looking for a video with real Moroccans making tagine, figuring I'll get some ideas.  Sounds good!  Giddyap lets go, then!

Cut 1. View: glowing embers of a wood fire.

2. Title "Moroccan Chicken' superimposed over a delicious looking braised chicken thigh, skin browned, dripping juices. YUM.

3. Closeup: chopping a red onion with a dirty piece of sheet metal.  I think. It could be a hoe.

4. Closeup:  close shot of Moroccan chicken bubbling over an open fire, ingredients being tossed artistically a few times.  YUM.

5. Fondling random owl.

6. The word 'Parsley' superimposed over shot of hand picking stems of parsley.

6. Still pickin' parsley.

6. Yup.

7. Fondling random owl.

8. The backs of two filthy, tattered men, one of whom has a sizeable wedgie going. They settle into an outdoor inglenook.  Wedgie Dude sits on a tiny chair.  Like, the seat is four inches off the ground.  The other goes to poke at a large laid-stone oven.  With a broom. Not sweep, just poke.

10. Closeup: lighting fire using handful of burning grass.  Very rustic. Style points +4

11. Panning shot of laid stone oven.  Sleepy the Disney elf is prominently displayed on the mantle, and nearby are cutouts of Sleeping Beauty and maybe Doc, I don't know.  Roasting over the fire is a guitar.  I think.  No, it's an oud.

12. The words "The Kitchen" superimposed over a worn and profoundly greasy wooden slab upon which rests a Bowie knife in a leather sheath.  The oud is still roasting over the fire, rear.  Twigs and general schmutz covers everything.  

Cleanliness is not a high priority in this outdoor inglenook.  Disney, however, is.

13. A mans hand fondling a length of cinnamon bark, which he then proceeds to beat the fuck out of with a rock.  The oud is either finished cooking or has been removed from the fireplace for some other reason.

14. The names of various herbs are superimposed over shots of a mans hand, in dire need of washing, dumping handfuls of those herbs into a mortar and smacking the crap out of them.

15.  Continuous bashing of herbs in  mortar from different angles, during which the man's hands get dirtier and dirtier. Oud still AWOL.

16. A red onion twirls in midair against a background of flames.

17. Onion is cut using very sharp hoe, which is now filthier, as are the mans fingernails.  I want to look away.  I cannot.

18. Very close shot:  Peeling garlic by hand.  Cannot un-see black fingernails. Help me.

19. AW GEEZIZ The man slaps raw chicken onto the sooty slab of wood he's been using as a cutting board.  Cannot unsee black fingernails. Cannot unsee greasy slab of wood. Why God why.  Uses filthy farm implement slice-y object to scrape ingredients into filthy pan ICK ICK ICK ICK

20. Oud still missing.  

21. Man pours spices on chicken.  Turns chicken over. Tight shot to reveal the chunks of crud that chicken has picked up from less than clean cutting board.

22.  The worlds filthiest clay pot is put onto the fire. Just, right on the burning coals.  The worlds filthiest large frying pan is put next to it.  It is half-filled with oil.  Could be petroleum.  Can't tell.

23.  Chicken and all chopped vegetables is put into frying pan, which is cracking away on full boil, and actually begins to look quite delicious.  YUM.  I tell myself that fire purifies.

24. A homeless person twirls the frying pan.  This is me assuming. We never see anyone's face, just the backs of various unbathed persons.

25.  Chicken is cooking.

26. Boy, is that chicken cooking.  It is really cooking. 

27. Chicken:  cooking.

28.  Homeless person twirls pan some more.  Chicken still cooking.  Oud still missing.

29.  Homeless person twirls pan wherein there are no longer any discernable secondary ingredients, only four charred lumps of protein in stuff.  Oud: suspiciously absent.

30.  Close shot:  Man with filthy hands oils up the worlds filthiest clay pot.  There are actual chunks of shit sticking to this pot,  like, twigs and old burnt...dog, or something.  I don't know.

31. Ooooooh fuck the chicken is goin' into the  - I can't look.

32.  Filthy handed man produces a battered plastic bottle filled with red liquid.  "Home made tomato juice' proclaims the superimposed title.  O.......K.

33. THERE IS AN AUDIBLE 'POIK' WHEN HE OPENS THE LID.  Bottle deflates. This may be home made tomato juice, but it is not FRESH home made tomato juice.  I know what will happen next.  I think we all know what happens next.  Happy place. Happy place.

34.  Oh damn.

35. We can only pray for the contents of the pot as Filthy Hands puts an almost impossibly dirty, greasy, sooty lid on the whole shebang. Seriously the dirtiest object in the video so far.  So much filth.  So much.

36.  Closeup of abominable lid as it is lifted for Filthy Hands to add dried apricots to what is actually looking pretty delicious, to be honest. YUM.

37. Pot goes back on fire.  Lid goes AWOL, like so many things in this video.

38. Right view

38. Left view

38. Center view

38. 

38. 

38. 

39. Cooking.  Juuuuuust cooking.

40.

41.  Yep, it's cooking.  Lidless.  It's supposed to be a tagine, but no lid.  This is probably just as well, considering the lid.  Wow. It is really cooking in there.  Yes indeed it is.  It's just...cooking.

41. Yup.

42. OK NOW GEEZIZ COME ON he just ladled out a chunk onto the greasy board that just had raw chicken on it ew ew ew ew ew ew oh geeze oh barf 

43.  Closeup of crud stuck to stone oven, because I'm not grossed out enough.

44. Filthy Hands and Wedgie Dude sitting next to salmonella wood slab which is covered in what is ostensibly tagine chicken.  Filthy Hands picks up chicken with same bare fingers he just fondled a random owl with and eats chicken.  Farewell, FH, we hardly knew ye.

45. Tight shot of Wedgie Dude eating raw parsley.  His hands are also...well. Yeah.

46. Oud - missing.

46 1/2.Oud - missing

46 3/4. Oud still gone.

47. Owl - missing.

*goes back to beginning and watches again*

Horse Nipples Aren't Supposed To Look Like That

Quaint mental vignettes from my charming rural idyll:

 Early nerd interests always seems to follow the same basic path of interests:  1.Volcanoes  2.Dinosaurs 3. Ancient Egypt 4. Mayas/Aztecs/Human Sacrifice 5.Elizabethan England.  And then they're off!  Just about every nerd I know personally went through the same progression as a little kid.

Except my granddaughter.

She took the following path:  

1.Planking.  From the time she was 4 days old (yes, really) this kid could plank like an internet star.  She could plank between two chairs, the table and a chair, you name it. I would stick the kid into place and then stack toys and stuff on her tummy.  We have a couple of pictures of this, in fact. I could fly her around the house and she'd be like a carbon-fiber glider, just laughing up a storm. Her mother was less than pleased, but....her mother. Ahem.  

2. Hauling around live chickens.  Everywhere.  

3. Peas, because what's not to love about climbing peas? 

4. ACORNS.  The kid was obsessed with acorns.  Her life was acorn-centric.  She would only listen to acorn stories and look at acorn pictures.  We visited Old Salem Village while all the trees were shedding acorns, and that kid was in her element.  She told me that she was the queen of the squirrels and her squirrel army would enslave all the other squirrels and steal their acorns.  This was quite the Squirrellian Iliad, too. She was about six and you could tell that she'd really been thinking about her strategy.

"Is she even interested in the Egyptians?" I asked my daughter, the Stainless Steel Amazon (AKA 'Mega Karen')

"Not a lot of acorns in Egypt," my daughter sighed.  "I've tried.  We've all tried.  Nope.  Acorns.  Her nightstand is full of them.  There's always acorns in the wash."

(Grandma brag) Both grandkids are in magnet schools, way ahead of the curve, so if they want to haul chickens around - or create a YouTube cooking show starring a dachshund, like my grandson just did, then more power to them.  It's just the FirstNation gene momentarily effecting their cognitive functions.

_________________________

The most annoying human being in the world is Zawi Hawass.  He is ruining Ancient Egypt for everybody.  If anyone high up in the Egyptian government is lurking on here, would you please fire him already?  He's a freaking national embarrassment.  He is a spaz and a twat.  This dude was clearly raised as mommy's Precious Princeling.  It's not a good look on a grown-ass man, anonymous Egyptian governmental lurker. Fire his ass now.  I mean it.

___________________________________

There are different levels of flipping someone off.  Apparently I am the only person who remembers this, so let's review.

Let's say Joe flipped someone off.  You would say "Wow, you shoulda seen Joe flip the eagle."  Or "Joe didn't say shit, he just shot an/the eagle and walked off."  

1. Eagle.  Just flipping someone off in a no-nonsense manner.  The hand is not clenched.  The thumb protrudes gently from one side. The forearm is raised at a right angle to the floor, and the gesture is made at face level or slightly raised.  This is the classic Eagle.

2. Double Eagle.  Same as above, but using both hands.

3. Full Eagle. Standing up (and leaning in a bit for style points) specifically to perform an Eagle.

3. Full Double Eagle Royale, which is a standing Double Eagle used while giving voice to multiple swears, such as 'Fuck ya ya fuckin' fucker and fuck your fuckin' mother, ya motherfuckin' fucker, yeah, fuckin' fuck you."

4. Flying an Eagle. Rolling down the window of your car to stick your arm outside and execute an Eagle while in traffic.  My personal specialty.

5. Flying Double Eagle. When both driver and passenger fly an Eagle in traffic.  The Biker and I are past masters of this art.  It's like synchronized swimming, man, we're rolling down the windows in tandem and BOOM shakalaka, our car has Wings of Vengeance.  A Rancho FirstNations trademark move.

6. Screaming Eagle.  See above, and add horn honking and/or shouted invective.

7. Imperial Eagle. Torso entirely out of car window flying a Double Eagle and screaming invective.  If you are the driver, and are also honking the car horn using your knee, you are in 'Legend' territory and become a demigod.

I can't believe I'm the only person who remembers this. Of course I was in 7th grade and haven't matured much since then, so there's that. 

________________________________

I just had my prozac dosage increased.  One of the side effects is extremely vivid and peculiar dreams.  But see, that's my life, man.  That's every single night for me, my whole fuckin' life.  I'd never noticed any difference on the lower dose.  Not a bit.  And then...

I dreamed last night that a brown horse fell passionately in love with me.  At first the horse and I were just playing, but the tumbling and chasing began to take on an intimate note, and finally the horse rolled over and asked me (using these very words) "See if you can scratch my nipples effectively." 

This is not something a horse says to you every day.  It had a tummy like a dog, not a horse. I decided to leave the horse at this moment, because I was weirded out, and I was busy helping some people clean out a garage (?) but the horse kept sneaking around peeking at me around corners and through windows, and from behind bushes.  

Don't listen to the bullshit out there about Prozac.  It's the most fun you can have while totally unconscious!

______________________________

Behavior Modification, Marriage Edition

           I had this album. Note Gary's expression.  Cue my future.  Premonition?  One wonders.

We watch a lot of stuff from the YouTube channel here.  Oddly, one of our big faves is watching guys turn wood burls into various shapes, usually bowls, but not always.**  It's really fascinating, and some of these guys are incredibly brave and innovative, making things that seem to defy physics, that look more fluid than solid.  This is not your hippie aunt's live-edge wood bowl. She sold that for .50 at her last garage sale.  See footnote.

The problem is, the Biker and I have totally different interests when it comes to what we like to binge watch.  Me, I'll listen to that robot British voice on the Reddit videos for hours.  Him?  Cars.

Now I've bitched about this before and I'll bitch about it again, I promise.  This guy will literally watch anything as long as it is car-centric.  FOR HOURS.   I've already mentioned the 437,916,y73,975,697,832,100000 car wreck compilations; talk about visual torture. They're just cars.  Any cars. Getting in wrecks. And there are thousands of these compilations online.  Note to self: Cancel that trip to Russia.  All the Biker sees is cars, not human tragedy, not vodka, just cars.  

Anything will do, he's not at all picky.  He'll watch videos of cars in parking lots. Literally some guy with a cell phone rambling around in store parking lots making video about the cars he walks past.  That is a thing.  Cars on streets.  Cars in car collections.  Cars being auctioned off.  Cars sitting in the weeds. New cars. Old cars. Trucks (technically cars, apparently.) Cars being dropped from cranes. Cars falling off cargo ships.  Cars being test-driven; and not high performance cars either, just sedans and shit. Cars going up mountains.  Cars going down mountains.  Cars...just...going places. Cars not going places.  Fixed cars being broken.  Broken cars being fixed. 

I have to admit that there's some interesting and even entertaining stuff out there in the Mr. Fixit's Garage genre.  But the vast, vast majority of the 'My Home Shop' shows are some dude with a voice like a goddamn dial tone wrenching away endlessly on some rusted hulk.  And just...no commentary, no nothing.  Just a depressing, messy garage with oil stains on the floor and some guy jacking away at a stuck nut.   

This is where I'd put a provocative and tasteless picture 

gleaned from the internet after a leading comment 

like that.   

One of the less than entertaining subsets of the Mr. Fixit video genre is Annoying Host and his Shitty Cars, AKA Wow I'm So Wacky Look At Me Return This Yugo//Trabant/Pinto To Showroom Condition!!!

No!  Let's not!   

Nine times out of ten the host is trying way too hard to be a yokel, hyuk hyuk git'er done yee-haw, I am such a character.  This alone is enough to make me want to throw something through the screen.  Or, the host is a characterless lump who is literally and un-ironically, hour after excruciating hour, episode after interminable episode, throwing money at a turd.  And my husband will watch this shit without judgement or complaint.  

One of these 'restore a dog' goons is called Scooby.  His big thing is restoring 'hoopties.'  Sounds enticing, doesn't it? Scooby is 85 pounds of I Abuse Coke with this super sad 'STAR' attitude that is just embarrassing, like those guys who had Sunday-only shows on local television and acted like the joint would fall apart without them.  Eeesh. It is tough to watch.  And ol' Scoob doesn't wrench on his 'hoopties' either...his acres and acres and warehouses filled with 'hoopties'.  No, he has a mechanic he calls 'Wizard' who does all the heavy lifting, and he refers to the poor dude as 'Wizard', and then just ponces around talking about his 'hoopties' and pissing me off.  Fuck this dude.  And fuck the idiots who made him YouTube famous too, as long as I'm at it.  Get off my lawn.

_______________________________ 

One day, after I had to pull over to the side of the road on my way to Everson to let a big truck pass me because it was a big truck - not too close, driving safely, just a big honkin' truck in my rearview mirror, but it was FREAKIN ME OUT - we here at Rancho FirstNations had A Discussion about the fucking 156,385,638.999,999,000000 car wreck compilation videos.  This discussion helped, but our recent trip to Anacortes is what really put a stake through the heart of that obsession.   

Here's what I'm obsessed with staking through the heart. Thanks for ruining the Pacific Northwest, assholes.    

It took place right before we  went to Anacortes. We were both nervous for that whole trip.  (Fun fact:  After a steady diet of 285,630,563,8680000 car wrecks, your peripheral vision becomes just as acute as all the rest of your vision, including inner vision, your vision statement, psychological hypervigilance and clairvoyance.) 

It doesn't help that the traffic to Anacortes on Highway 20 is all huge trucks, nervous swabbies with high performance cars they don't know how to handle, and regular Joes cannoning their way toward the ferry terminal - or the casino, Gawd.  They just can't go fast enough to throw their money away, apparently.  And this describes a completely normal trip, average traffic flow, no accidents, no problem.

...or it would have described his perception of an average car trip - previous to his having discovered "Wrecks A' Plenty" videos.

I was kind of sneaky on that trip.  See, I just had a feeling that I wasn't the only one who'd been appalled and frightened by all the images of sudden disaster on the road.  So I angled the rearview mirror on my side so that I could seem to be looking out my window at passing scenery while I was actually watching the Bikers reflection in the back-up bubble-mirror. 

Stealth optics:  This is was 34 years of marriage leads to.  

That man was shitting bricks every time a semi passed us.  He'd flinch.  His grip on the steering wheel was viselike, and tightened whenever a car merged, or changed lanes. By the time we got to our little hotel his shoulders were way up around his ears, and he just dropped his luggage, laid on the bed and stress-breathed for awhile.

"You OK?" I ask.

" I'm just lying down, geeze." (Which I expect.  Mere stress dare not visit such as he.  It is a foreign concept, invented by the weak.) 

His hands were still in the 'clutching the wheel' position. 

Me,  I went into the bathroom and listened as he groaned and wheezed trying to make his limbs assume the lying down flat position. I am not too proud to admit that I made 'conducting an orchestra' gestures in the mirror.

See, I've heard this composition before.  It's the "I Must Drive At All Times Requiem", and it plays after a while spent on the road behind the wheel. Previously it would have taken an all day stint; say,  driving over Snoqualmie Pass, to cue up the orchestra. It was now playing after just a little more than an hour's worth of normal traffic.  

Mmm-hm.

(Believe me, the "I Must Drive At All Times Requiem" beats the Top Ten hit "Just Checking The Speedometer Constantly and Putting On the Passenger Brakes and Clutching Wildly at Interior Parts While you Make a Slow, Gradual Sweeping Turn" song, the one that plays while I drive and he fails to passenge correctly.  I finally decided 'Screw it'' and let him do all the driving. He's a bigger road hazard than anything outside the car because he's constantly gasping and panic-reacting and then denying it and pissing me off, which isn't worth me deliberately running high-speed into a bridge support, so I just let him drive - and let him pay the piper.  Because 34 years of marriage, kids.)

So here at the Rancho we are blissfully entering the 'Post-498,569,836,986,905,6366665836 car crash compilation' phase of our relationship.  All indications bode well.

Next in my sights?  "Inbred rural dork repairs a Lada using sheetrock nails."  

Watch this space.

_______________________________

**(but seriously, how many frickin' wood bowls does the world need?  I find these things, once beautiful, high-dollar objects, at garage sales going for a dollar or less these days, all sprung and cracked from from being let to just sit and gather dust near a forced air heater.  If you're going to invest in an $800.00 burlwood bowl, for fucksakes take care of it, otherwise it'll be worth nothing in about five years.  Yeah. No shit.  I see you out there abusing your burlwood burl.) 

 

YIKES

 So I took off my rose-colored glasses today and realized that Neighborhood Crackhead is more than likely a chimo.  

The guy lives in the apartments that take 'difficult to place' ex-cons.  The address that always comes up on the 'offenders in your area' site.  He's got an ankle bracelet, and fine, that shit happens.  Usually he's dressed kind of hip-hop.

Today he was out in this all-pink 'Dora the Explorer' adult sweatpants outfit, cut off at the knees, with comedy socks and pink super-girly Dora Sketchers.  

His dog was dressed to match. 

I've seen him in this outfit before, and other 'adult sized girly cartoon' pants outfits, and figured fine, the dude has gender messages to send.  He sure isn't the only person in town out repping for their side. Today, though, every single one of my mental red alerts went off as I was talking to him - and he'd just come from copping - and I mentioned how 'springtime' his outfit was, giving him a friendly grin.  Something about how his face clouded up and he spidered in on himself at that moment was too familiar.  Way too familiar. 

So, there's that.  

Now I'm going to be looking out for him for a completely different reason.  I'll still be friendly (I'm not a mind reader after all) and I'll still make over his dog, but I've got a new attitude.  

Christ I hope I'm wrong.  But I don't think so.    

The Gift Of Sleazy Pressure-Fried Chicken

 Holy shit you guys, I just had my very own Reddit moment!

So. The Biker leaves me a coupon and a note this morning.  The coupon is for an eight-piece fried chicken box for $4.00 an order, first two orders.  So this means you can get two 8-piece orders of ck at $4.00 bucks apiece - two orders adding up to $8.00. Am I going to go for that?  

Fuck yes I am.

Safeway is where we always get our fried chicken, because in the universe of sleazy fried chicken, Safeways' sleazy fried tzikken-birdie reigns supreme.  Their eight-piece mixed box is a treasure chest of crunchy, greasy, salty, chicken flavored Heaven.  No other supermarket deli has anything like the wonderful, sheer pressure-fried awesomeness of Safeway sleazy ass fried chicken.

The note that the Biker leaves me says "Get two orders!"  And I am all about that, plus I need another bottle of vodka, so off to Safeway I rock, thinking about how awesome it's going to be to have two eight piece orders of sleazy fried chicken to chomp on at whim.  

I get to the store, get my order filled at the deli department, pick up a big ol' bottle of cheap vodka (I drink the shit out of a little coffee cup mixed with Sunny D so it's not like I'm going to be spending for Grey Goose - money ahead all the way) and happily go to check out with my big ol' buckets of sleazy fried ck and a economy sized plastic bottle of distilled potato juice.

And the coupon is not for Safeway.  

I'm in the line.  The dude scans it, and the coupon won't run.

Furthermore, my debit card won't run either!!!  This is ten metric  tonnes of doggie squatto's for real.  I am fucked at this point, and I look like a dork.

I stood there and tripped tits.  "Oh my God I am so sorry," I say sincerely, embarrassed all to heck. "I can't see anywhere on the coupon where it says the store name. I just assumed Safeway because we always come here.  My husband left it for me this morning with a note!" I tell the poor checker.  

And then, to make things just awesomely perfect, my goddamn debit card won't run, crap oh Murphy dawg, and the customers are stacking up behind me, and I feel like Mrs. Fuck Off O'Lady for realzes.  I am fully ready to pay full price and I tell the checker this fact.

That checkout dude was so sweet and so nice to me about this!  Long story short, he cancelled the sale, re-set the card reader, my card went through and I got both buckets of chicken FOR THE SALE PRICE!

And I got the coupon back!

So now I have two orders of smoking hot eight piece fried chicken, bishezz! At this very minute, we here at Rancho FirstNations are watching Trailer Park Boys and chomping down on sleazy supermarket deli chicken like demigods, with another untouched 8 pack waiting in the fridge for tomorrow!

AND I HAVE A STILL-VALID COUPON FOR TWO 8 PIECE  MIXED BUCKETS FROM ENNENS' MARKET!  

Fuck yeah I'm going to use in a couple of days for more sleazy pressure-fried chicken awesomeness!  Even though Ennen's Market has less than optimum sleazy fried chicken, I am willing to make that sacrifice. Why?  Because eight piece fried ck for $4.00 an order, first two orders, kids.  You don't just flick that shit into the round file.  We are gonna be living like Masters of Trash here for the next four days.  Just cheap vodka and fried chicken, man.  Maybe some nudity.  Maybe some small arms use.

AMERICA!  FUCK YEAH!

Here's the deal though.  Yeah, I got a freebie.  But I didn't go skipping out of the store with my pressure fried prize.  I found a manager and I gave that checker a GLOWING review.  "He was so polite, and so accommodating, and treated me so respectfully that I'm really grateful, because it was an embarrassing situation and he really made me feel special.  He's awesome and incredibly professional. You got a customer for  life," I told the manager.  Made sure to point out the guy.  Made sure to make the manager saw the guy I was talking about.  I'll go online a little later and put it in writing, too.  

You don't just take your gift from the universe and run.  You give credit where credit is due.  Particularly in the public service sector, man.  I think everyone reading this knows what a nightmare job working with the public can be.  Glowing customer reviews really mean a lot to employees.  And you have to spread the vibe and send the karma back around. That's what keeps the good vibe rolling. That's what keeps life on Earth from being a thankless nightmare.

With ADHD I had to learn this behavior. (Christ knows my parents didn't teach me to treat other people with respect.)  I have a little motto I tell myself; it's an acronym - ENATA.  It stands for ' Effective, Necessary, Accurate, Timely, Appropriate.' It's the way you measure the message that first springs to mind in response to any given conversational gambit, and a way to judge whether or not your response is worth voicing.  Nine times out of ten, my first impulse is...less than optimum.  Unless you let your goddamn dog piss on my Birds' Nest Evergreen.  You will get yelled at for that shit.  

I get one half second's worth of time to decide 'should I say/do something?' thanks to Adderal - that's the beauty of Adderal.  You get that one split second that normal people get and think nothing of.  Untreated, an ADHD person just does and says the first dumbass thing that crosses their mind. With Adderal and the 'ENATA' guideline I can keep myself in line during my everyday interactions. I really work at this shit too because I was not a wonderful person in my youth, and I have a lot of karma to set right.  That, and I genuinely want to be a positive note in a less than positive world - this is my revolution. I grew up with people who had damaged and blackened souls, and my soul became damaged and blackened by the contact, and further damaged by the kind of vibe that 'Scarlet Letter' broadcasts about you into the world - water seeks it's own level, like seeks like, yin yearns for yang.  Part of putting a stake through the heart of my awful past means I decide consciously to deliver the most positive response to any given act, and it will suck your soul dry sometimes.  I don't always feel like  being Sister Mary Sunshine. But I have to live in a neighborhood too, in a small town, and so I must work at this shit.

I know I bang on about 'Think Globally, Act Locally' and I get preachy.  But it's the only thing that's  made my life mean something.  I didn't find any meaning in religion or politics or anything but in the basic human act of choosing reciprocal survival as a life model.  The Biker and I do our best to keep the flame alive here.

But I'm still going to re-use that coupon and get 16 more pieces of sleazy fried chicken for $8.00 bucks.

Happiness Is A Big Steaming Pile Of Shit

 And I should know, because I got my very own big pile of steaming shit today! Even now, as I glance out my window, I can see it literally steaming away in the cool of the evening.  I have my very own 'Mystical Forest FX/CGI' shit pile.  It's pretty awesome. 

American Robin Official Harbinger Of Spring Approves Of Steaming Piles Of Shit.  How Do I Know?  American Robin Be All Up On Steaming Pile Of Shit Picking Out Redworms For Baby American Robin Lunch Which Implies Tacit Shit Approval By Robins (American)    

I have been slinging shit all over my garden this afternoon.  You'd think I was tossing Mardi Gras necklaces the way everyone flipped me their tits.

  Have a New York Slice of bush with those tits, podner!  

Which is a lie.  But everyone just had to stop and chat with me all afternoon long.  This says a lot for my neighbors, because I was out there in a "Fuck Off And Die" t-shirt, shit crusted barn boots, and absolutely covered in cow ass head to toe.  But everyone had this kind of stoned grin on their faces, like 'Wow, we're all outside, and that big glowing thing is in the sky again!' including me - although a good half of my good mood was having a pile of Mystical Forest FX/CGI shit - and we all kind of rambled on to each other in a super friendly way.  Even Neighborhood Crackhead (who is one of my favorite people) was in on the 'Love Peace Chicken Grease' vibe, talking really kindly and patiently to the little kids gathered around him, petting his dog, being super chill.  

To be honest, Neighborhood Crackhead is super chill anyway, and if dudeboy likes to get high, as long as he behaves himself who the fuck am I to judge, as I sit here around an Orange Driver and a rompin' stompin' valium?  The guy is friendly and polite, dresses neatly, and he treats his dog like canine royalty and the dog reflects the man.  That dog is a sweetheart, a friendly and well behaved lil' Staffie love bug who does not cringe, does not jump up or act a fool, and is so incredibly healthy it looks polished.  That little dog loves his dad, and NC sits out in the field with that dog and they have them some conversations sometimes, and play tug, and fetch, and I'm Gonna Gitcha.  I am all for Neighborhood Crackhead.  You go, bud.

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Because my Biker loves me, he bought me a1991 Dodge Dakota V8 longbed.  I love a truck, and a longbed is just right for my needs.  Man it feels good to hop behind the wheel.  I would rather have this truck than I would have a diamond ring.  

If my ass had the cash I'd hire a guitar player and rampage.  As it stands, let a girl dream.  

It runs perfectly, the wipers and heat work, there's no rust, it's got a bench seat and I can carry a sheet of plywood or a steer or a bunch of coffins or whatever you need carrying. I have no time for a passenger vehicle unless I'm travelling, and even then I'll probably find some bigass thing that I need a truck to carry home anyway.  No I will not help you move.

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Dairy Farmer Sent From God, my free shit connection, practically ran to me with open arms when I showed up at his farm this afternoon, because apparently I am a harbinger of Spring.  

Harbinger of Spring.  You saw it here first.  

We yammered in his driveway for awhile, and then I drove around back of his loafing sheds, where the lagoonage and barn waste stacks are, and just stood out in the sunshine listening to the happy cows make happy cow noises.  He came up in his loader and kind of grinned at me and said "Smells good?"

"Yeah.  I like the way a farm smells," I said.  He kind of smiled again uncertainly.  He loaded up my truck, and it was when I was backing up, looking in the rearview mirror, that I realized that while we had this conversation I had been standing inches away from a dead calf.

Circle of life, folks.  A dead newborn calf goes in the compost because all it is at that stage is jello with hair.  

Surprise them at your next the' dansant with this festive treat!  Newborn Calf With Radish Roses and Pimiento Olives!  Ole!  Cha Cha Rama Lang-lang!  

Some farmers drag them out and let the eagles have them, but Dairy Farmer Sent From God does not have a convenient thicket to hide the dead calf in (because by law you cannot feed eagles. That's right.  It's ill-eagle to feed wild raptors.  Yes, I said it.) The farms that do have those thickets are outstanding in that they will have up to 75 and upwards bald eagles sitting in the trees waiting for their chance, which attracts the Audubons and the birders to this dot on the map to get out and oo and aw and take pictures by the side of the road.  Little do they know that the reason for this flock behavior is the plentitude of jello-calves in the nearby underbrush every Spring.   Fun farm fact:  a dead newborn calf smells like warm condensed milk!  See what you can learn here at Steve?

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Oddly, just as the Orange Thing administration brought the shits and the bigots out of the woodwork, so has the Biden Administration brought out the undercover liberals.  People I'd been saying 'Hi' to for years suddenly unloaded their secret liberal leanings to me today, which made me regain faith in my community. 

Formerly, under the Orange Regime, I had been disenheartened as people I'd been acquainted with for years suddenly came out with this 'Yay!  We can hate "__________" openly now!  Grab my pussy Mr. President!  Fake News!  Gonna plaster my car with Trump stickers!' bullshit, and I was left thinking "Dear Lord do I even know you?" and stopped doing business in a couple of places.  

It really was this bad.  Never forget, folks. It really was like this.  

During all that horseshit, my Biker found an old street sign, a big old reflective yellow and black one for 'Democrat Street' and put it up over the garage, which is where manly men declare their political stances out here in Fuckyersisterville. In addition, he got a 'Biden-Harris' campaign sign and nailed it way up high on the gable of our house so nobody could steal it - and it's still there.  (As if the multiple rotting strings of Buddhist prayer flags on my porch weren't enough to indicate our social stance.) It was his Bull Of The Woods manly repping, out and proud there in a sea of MAGAshittery that made the difference in our little town.  

My husband.  Actual photo.  Seriously.

So many people told me "I felt so relieved to see that on you guyses house."  And "I was really getting scared, so thanks for putting that up."

An old road sign.  Imagine something like that giving people hope.  We're just a couple of chubby people out here in the boonies and people are telling me that the old road sign my husband put up to piss his mark gave them hope.  Imagine that. 

DICKED, Bitches!!!

 I have got my garden dicked.  Dicked!

D, I, C, K - ed, dicked, smashed, under Kon-trol, happenin', chilled, choice, down and done did, Sid! (See above for Sid)  

Early Spring power gardening powers activated! All systems go, all plants weeded and beds cleaned! Got my lagoonage connection firmed up for another year of sweet, sweet strained liquid dairy manure solids; kids, it's all going on here on the ornamental vegetation front.

So I'm officially in week one of Booze Resumed.  This amounts to two Orange Drivers an evening, which are enough to render me a sniggering, guffawing wreck while watching 'Redneck Fails' on YouTube.  I've loosened up considerably, is what I'm saying.  I really think I needed to loosen up, too.  Read on.

The reason I keep coming back to this subject, I think, is that this past Winter was such a motherfucker.  I worried that hell, come Spring, I'd be all broken and frail and shit, the way I remember all the older people being when I was a kid.  That all the stress and isolation would eat me away and I'd emerge in the Spring wihered, tremulous and vague, barely able to manouver a walker (Zimmer Frame to you Brits.)  

The thing is, all the older people I knew when I was a kid were straight off the boat from the Olde Country, had suffered wars, famines, plagues,  poor nutrition and health care at the best of times ( not to mention the literal feudal conditions my dads' folks came from in Finland - my grandfather literally had to run away under cover of darkness because the landowner wouldn't give him permission to leave his estate!  He had the police on his heels until the ship left dock!)  

My formative, first memories of old people are of little, tiny, bent frail people who used two canes to walk, who had swollen and bent fingers, who were all but blind and usually deaf as posts;  who would yatter in foreign languages and drink coffee out of saucers.  They all wore black and they all looked like miniature Ents, gnarled and sickly.  And just about all of them dipped snuss or smoked for some reason, male and female.  So that was my first impression of what being 60 was like - you shrunk up until you were about 60 lbs of 'No English', toothless, smelling like mothballs, salted liquorice and horehound drops, with fingers so knotted and bent with arthritis that you had to have someone else mince your food for you.  The first thing you did was break a hip.  It's just how it was.  They were always covered in horrifying skin conditions or strange varicose relief maps.  The women had thin, cotton candy wisps of hair and the men had long, long, long beards and moustaches stained yellow around their mouths.

Now I'm not going to be posing for coture swimwear anytime soon.  But I'm so far from the above descriptions that it's kind of a strange culture shock effect.  

I expected sixty to be horrible.  I expected to have had my first heart attack and my first stroke long since now.  I'd always figured that by sixty all I'd be good for was sitting out on the porch shouting at passing cars, like my elderly second cousin Leota, who had dementia, and who was kept in check with a bottle of whiskey and a gate on her front porch steps so she couldn't wander out into traffic.  This is what was done in those days, and cousin Leota was happy enough, drunk as shit, sitting on her porch waving at cars, dogs and passers-by, swigging out of her bottle.  I thought that would be me.

Me, I'm out in my Bill Nye t-shirt slinging topsoil and operating power tools. I can speak passable English, and I only wear black because it's metal.  I'm still 5 ft. 5 inches.  I'll shout at traffic, but it's usually "SLOW THE FUCK DOWN COCKSUCKER" and not "HELLOOOOO SUGAR BABY!" like cousin Leota, who was cheerful and nutty.  I am able to maintain a reasonably passable semblance of normality and I'm only cheerful when I feel like being cheerful Goddammit, not because my synapses have turned into mush.  Hell, I don't even pee myself.  WINNING.

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I had the cutest thing happen today.  The little neighbor boy asked me "Do you have water?"

"I sure do," I said cheerfully.

"But do you have octopusses?" he asked.

"No I don't, just regular water.  But I wish I had octopusses, that would be cool," I replied.

"DAVID, COME HERE NOW," shouted his mother, at this point. 

I don't know if it was the octopus discussion or what, but you could hear the cautionary tone in the womans' voice.  Tell you what, I'd rather talk about octopusses with a six-year-old than exchange polite banter with an adult any day of the week. If she thought I would be off-put, she was mistaken.  I will talk about octopusses all day long.  And now the poor kid thinks that he can't talk about octopusses with the elderly.  Does that suck or what?  Shit, when I was little, old people would talk to you about all kinds of nutty stuff, and that was fine with everyone. They'd teach you dirty words in Swedish and tell you weird stories about The Wompus Cat.  I learned the lyrics to 'Down In Da Meddo In Da Iddy Biddy Poo' from a random old person.  How the hell are we supposed to pass on our legacy of demented shit if sniffy mommies in yoga pants keep cock-blocking our efforts to weirdify the young?  They're all going to grow up with no imaginations whatsoever.  Their souls will be fossilized by Minecraft and porn.  

I for one intend to fight this trend.  If you ever come back around, little random boy with a green airplane toy, I will talk to you about octopusses! And hey,  let me tell you about a special octopus, a real crazy octopus guy named C'thulhu!  He is just like Davy Jones in the Disney Movie, only he can make you insane just by looking at him!  He's going to bring about the end of the world! Now go home and spread that tale around to all your little friends!  N'ghai!

Gimme A V! Gimme an 'O'! Gimme A 'D'! Gimme A 'K'! Gimme An 'A'!

 I decided to dry out last November.  No more alcohol.  And I'm able to quit things without too much drama (except smoking) and change my habits without much effort.  Yes, I'm one of those disgusting people who actually keep their New Years' Resolutions. I suck and am uncool. I've also lost 50 lbs and gained a 6-pack, kids, so when you call me Granny, SMILE MOTHERFUCKER.

I had an iffy week after I stopped drinking, I won't lie.  Around about 4 in the afternoon I'd begin thinking about a Bloody Maria or a Vodka Driver, or a Lagunitas 'Lil Sumpin Sumpin' or six.  I'd have to write it out furiously, or go online and find a substitute habit, like Reddit topics or true ghost stories.  I did a lot of pacing and drinking water.  But after that week passed, my body shook off the physical jones and I spent the next week sweating all the precursor out - the fat-stored 'welcome, booze!' chemicals - which was nasty as fuck and stunk.  That right there was enough to buck up my willpower, because there is nothing nastier than ex-booze stank.  It just cascades out of your system and taints all your bodily products.  I had to Febreeze my hat, coat and shoes for a week just so I wouldn't be simmering in my raunch or inflicting it on others.  It may have been in my head, but I wasn't going to take a chance.

TMI? Nah, I know you degenerates.  And hey -  anybody out there who has given up a chemical habit knows I'm telling the Gods' honest truth.  And if you'd care to chime in with your own tales of 'I gave up _________' feel free.  I'd be super interested to hear your experiences!

Oddly, once I quit drinking I suddenly thought 'damn, I'd like a cigarette.'  (Not vape, although I am all for vaping. I've tried it and I really enjoyed it.  Particularly the awesome, massive clouds of cold smoke you exhale.  That really pleased the six year old child of Satan in me.)  

No, I wanted a cigarette, and the whole ritual that goes along with smoking.  The tamping of the pack, the shaking out of the smoke, cracking the lighter, that first excellent hit that goes right to that sweet spot right behind your sternum and puts the world right for a moment, and then the exhale.  Holding the cigarette between  my fingers.  The smell of the unsmoked pack, the tobacco and the paper and the foil.  The smell of the butane.  Holding the lighter in my hand.  Flicking my hair back as I lit up.  Even that rich couple of coughs midway through that first cigarette of the day. 

When you are a smoker, smoking punctuates your day - after a meal.  When the phone rings.  During a break.  After a task.  At a tavern or a bar - I mean, walk in the door and light up (I'm really old and this was pretty much what everyone who smoked did.  You walked in, took off your coat and lit up a smoke before you ordered.  It was just that way.)  With a beer.  As soon as you got into a car.  As soon as you hit the bus stop. As soon as you got off a bus.  Like that.

And see, that's what makes smoking cigarettes so hard to say goodbye to.  There's so many different habits going on.  So many little routines.  It pervades your life.  I FOUGHT for years to quit, and once I did, I knew that I couldn't play around with cigarettes again. So I said 'fuck no' to that impulse. 

Meanwhile, I like a cigar with a shot of Bushmills (thank you, MITM!) because there is nothing as fine as the play of a quality cigar combined with a good whiskey.  It puts you in touch with your heart chakra.  But that is a very, very special and specific treat (thank you, MITM!) that I only indulge in a couple of times during the Fall of the year, period, full stop.

Here's the deal.  I'm thinking about starting drinking again.

I've had a couple of drinks lately.  Once in Anacortes, and one the other day.  And it was good. It put the cap on the day and smoothed out my vibe. I realized 'Damn, this is what's been missing. This cherry on top of the day.'

 I decided to try full-on waterwagon abstinence, and it was a thing. I was happy. I can flourish and create.  

But I also like a buzz.  I've always been into the recreational buzz - chemical, dust, smoke.  I don't do the others any more, but alcohol is a known quantity, one I can navigate, manage, and one I enjoy.  The buzz is a treat.  And I really missed it, come to realize.  

So I'm going to start drinking again.

DISCUSS.

I Survived Modern Dentistry 2

 ...that's pretty much it.  I went back and got my permanent crowns put in.  No pain.  No bother.  In, done and gone. That and I saw someone on T.V. who had a pet wombat, and they were having a blast together,  and now I want a pet wombat so I can name him Arthur.   Wombats crap cubes and dig holes, so we'd have a lot in common.

In anticipation of summer, I bought myself one of those portable air conditioners for my bedroom because dammit, I get to have an air conditioner.  I sleep cold, and this business of multiple fans going all night long, all summer long bullshit is played and done; I am 60, I get air conditioning.  FTW.

  Phase 2 is going well here, the town is coming back to life. It's like the weight of the world is off my shoulders.  Just seeing and hearing all the kids going by on their way to and from school, and seeing people in stores and in cars...I mean, traffic.  The sounds of  normal traffic.  It's crazy how great it feels to see things turning around again. Just not having The Orange Thing in office is a load off.  I may even start watching the news again. Not feeling ashamed and embarrassed about who's in charge of my country - and that's such an odd thing to be stressed about, but I really was.  I guess I never realized how deep my patriotism ran until someone pissed all over it.  

But the best thing by far has been getting outside and working in my garden again. The exercises I've been doing REALLY paid off.  I'm able to put in a solid day outside and not stumble in wrecked as I have been every Spring for years - that first week is a killer.  Not this year! Nope!  This year I just crack off a hundred crunches because I'm badass like that, do my weights and stretches and go forth.  I have hacked and I have slashed.  I have whacked weeds and raked twigs.  I have pruned; lo, I have brought the blade unto mine elm and unto my magnolia also did I bring sharp steel, and their limbs fell, and I have brought them unto the place of gathering whereof limbs of old are piled and did pile them.

No complaints here. Nope.

Naked Fireworks Unicorn

 Home again.  Yeah, well, it had to happen.  

It seems like it might actually be Spring.  I don't want to curse it by coming out with a statement of fact, but it seems to be happening out there.  I could be wrong.  I don't know.  Really.  I don't.  But I've been able to put in a couple days of work in the garden and really made a difference, and it looked like buds were budding and leaves were leafing and snowdrops were dripping or however that goes.

It really rescued my sanity, being able to work outside again.  As you all know I came real close to losing it this past Winter.  I had been one of these people who thought 'Yeah, so stick me in jail and just try to punish me with Solitary Confinement; that's My LIFE, assholes' but apparently it's only my life for a few months.  So if I ever do get thrown in jail (it's only a matter of time)  I'll have to try not to shank anyone.  I mean shit, that impulse is something I fight off weekly here on the outside, so, yeah.

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We just got the biggest box of Girl Scout cookies you ever saw.  This was not something that I knew that the Biker had ordered, but apparently one of the parents where he works was shopping them around.  I pick up this giant box at the Post Office yesterday, super heavy, and I have no idea what it is. Found it busted open this morning with half the cookies gone.  Aha.  So I quickly snagged a few packages and hid them in my room, because I am six, and Girl Scout cookies.  About $80.00 worth of fucking Girl Scout Cookies.  My God. 

 Did I eat an entire package of Samoas?  Yes.

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We are bingeing on Peaky Blinders and DAMN it's good.  Season One could have stood by itself, perfect ending, great place to stop if you don't want to get hooked.  I did because it has the best fucking soundtrack, of all things!  If you haven't seen it, it's about a 1920's gangster family in Birmingham UK.  Super violent, super bloody, excellent story.  Season Two, it's getting kind of Godfather-ish...the creeping rot, the decline and fall of a criminal empire kind of thing.  Still good, but I see myself bailing pretty soon.  The only thing marring Season 2 is all the fucking PJ Harvey songs.  GAAAAAAAH PJ Harvey.  I hate that pukey hipster girl singing and the deliberately awkward lyrics, like Alanis Morissette.  But I can still forgive them that because of all the Nic Cave, White Stripes, Raconteurs, Arctic Monkeys, The Kills, Royal Blood and so forth.  Super dynamic tunes backing the action, and not at all what you'd expect, but the mood matches perfectly.

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I have to remember to get my second part of the shingles vaccine. I'm due this month.  After seeing what so many of the elderly in my life have gone through, the terrible pain; and just from having chicken pox in your youth?  Hell, I caught it four different times!  No way I'm NOT going to get that taken care of.  If you haven't already, do it soon.  it's such an easy thing to do and it spares you absolute agony - go. Now.  I mean it.