Tuesday, December 04, 2007

So Far So Good

 We're still dry here in the office.  In other so far, so good news, chirontraining.com and kzmiller.com are officially live and hopefully well.  I think I got rid of all the place holder text, web links and email links with real ones or deleted the ones we didn't want, took care of some awkward writing, replaced Rory's home page intro with a modified one that sounds more like him, and took care of some ugly spots by replacing them with prettier things.  We still don't have the ability to load our own pics onto the website.  That will be coming soon, I hope.

I've got a big house cleaning and organizing goal, and so far I've made a few dents.  They're not as big of dents as I'd like, but in a lot of ways a household overhaul is a lot like moving (except that you don't go anywhere) in that what looks like a few days work just keeps going on and on until you want to start working with an axe and a flamethrower.  Normally a house overhaul is something I do halfway at best and I don't start until spring, when the good weather inspires me to go out and do crazy things like wash the windows, sweep off the porch, and burn piles of accumulated paperwork I don't need anymore.  I see no reason to put it off, which is a good enough sign to me to just go for it right here in December.

In the meantime I've got to keep writing, especially the query letters, which means putting together a final draft of my Masks synopsis and then modifying it according to the guidelines for each place I'm submitting to.  Ugh.  As much as I feel like I'm pulling teeth when I edit, when I'm forced to market I feel like I'm inside an iron maiden and they're tightening the thing incrementally every minute or so.  

I really need an agent, which will involve marketing but hopefully just in the short term, because I can take this iron maiden thing for only so long.

That's enough of all that.  Next entry, more crazy ladies, I promise.  I've got a good one this time.  Barbie crazy lady.  Wherever you are Barbie crazy lady, enjoy your $95 or so plus tax return!  

Monday, December 03, 2007

Kick 'em when they're up, kick 'em when they're down

So after working hard on setting up drafts of Chirontraining.com and kzmiller.com on the web, I had to take chirontraining temporarily down due to technical problems with editing that were not going away.  I can't fix any typos, add stuff to kzmiller.com or tweak awkward phrases because the same problems that plague chiron plague kzmiller, but kzmiller doesn't have as many issues as chiron so I didn't think I'd be as embarrassed to leave it out there flapping in the web wind.  Not that anyone except my closest friends will ever look at the darned thing, but there you have it.  My husband's coworkers do occasionally search around for him and he has quite a following on his blog, so chiron really needed to be lots, lots better than it is.  And it will be, provided iPower can fix this.

I'm really enchanted with iPower's low prices.  I'm not enchanted by their extremely long wait times for tech support, usually an hour or more on hold.  I'm sure they're not happy either.  They're flying on a new platform and it's making life difficult for everyone.  They're doing their best for me--I've been passed along to a level 2 tech.  I have to admit I don't know what that is, but it sounds like they've taken the next step to solve the problem.  So wish me luck, wish iPower luck, wish the poor souls who need help with their websites luck as they brave the hold music with a crick in their elbows and sore necks.  And may patience rule the day.

In other news not related to Kami's obsession with getting business-related webpages online, we've had a local flood warning issued by the weather service.  I get to see if our french drain will help deter the yearly flood 'o the office.  I hope so, because I have paper stuff on my floor.  Again.  As usual.
Maybe I'll work on cleaning some of this stuff up today.  Ugh.  On my list of projects during Kami's Marketing Month will be to finish tiling in here and organize my office.  Wish me luck with that too.

Saturday, December 01, 2007

Nano Win and Website Building


I crossed the Nanowrimo finish line a day early, and proceeded to get myself entangled (after a long, late shift at work) in website building for the very first time.  But before I get into that:



I have to celebrate!  WEEEEEEEE!  I won I won I won I won I won!






There.  That's quite enough for the likes of me.

I started setting up Rory's new website at www.chirontraining.com first because he's got a book coming out and also because the sooner I set it up, the sooner he can start putting in more than just the placeholders I cut and pasted and wrote in.  Looking at it this morning, there are some things that don't make any sense.  I blame the late hour.  I called it quits about 1:30am today.  Normally I wouldn't have worried about having placeholders, but being a complete novice at this, I didn't want to leave blank spaces that we might not later catch or see.

That fear turned out to be unwarranted, as one thing that I left blank was still available to edit.  Doh!

I'm definitely annoyed at my own incompetence.  I have some neat stuff available to play with on Microsoft (evil!hiss!) Office, which is a format I'm comfortable manipulating, but I don't know how to do an ftp download to get stuff from Office onto the web.  So I'm using their pre-existing pages, and found some really nice ones, but I don't know how to add or subtract segments yet.  Add onto this that apparently the poopyhead interface is screwed up for Macs  and you have the sense of frustration that began to build yesterday.  Text editing fields turn black, and since the font is black I can't see what I'm typing and I don't see a way to change the text color while I'm typing.  Gah!  This seems like a basic problem that should not exist on the interface because I'm sure I'm not the only Mac user out there.  And I was unable to successfully download any pics from Jasmine onto the web for whatever weird, poopyhead reason.  I can do it here on Jestablog, but apparently not with iPower at this time.

It's a learning experience, and not a horrible one.  Even when I'm at my most annoyed, I'm still having fun.  It's all shiney and new goodness.

It's especially fun to look forward.  Coming to a web near you: kzmiller.com

Thursday, November 29, 2007

Within Spitting Distance

Nanowrimo ends with the month of November.  We're almost there.  

Some desperate souls are still under 20,000 and yet still trying to reach the finish line.  I've been there, tried to do that, failed but felt valiant in the attempt.  I cheer them on.

Some souls have their 50,000 and more, but are trying to reach 'The End' in their manuscript.  Some are closer than others to achieving their goal.  To me, this is the ideal for Nanowrimo, and I cheer them on.

Some, like me, are close to 50,000 but not quite there yet.  I have 48,481 words.  I won't reach 'The End' but I'll have crossed the finish line, and that's nothing to smirk at, which you'll know if you ever try Nanowrimo for yourself. 

There are quite a few writers who can write over 100,000 words during that time, and I used to count myself among them.  Something weird happened along the way.  I'm not sure if I do more housework during Nano (as opposed to only doing laundry or dishes if I run out of something) or if it's the part time job or if I write with more consideration on a first draft or what.  In a way, it doesn't matter.  What matters is that people are getting out there and writing lots, learning lots, getting past lots of road blocks, encountering problems they didn't know they had and they learn how to get past them.   Writing is one of those underestimated skills.  A lot of people believe that if they have a good idea, and since they know what they like to read, they can write.  They've been writing since kindergarten, or even before, right?  Well, there's a lot of suppose between that right and write.  Like any skill it takes practice, it takes feedback, it takes thinking and more practice and time and lots and lots of practice and education, learning from peers and pros, and tons of practice.

A lot of pro writers exceed the daily word count to produce a Nano, while a lot of pro writers are well under it.  Pulling a number completely out of my ass, I think many pros aim for about 1000 words in their daily writing, and Nano asks that you do 1667.  It's a fun pace, a somewhat forgiving pace provided you don't have too many zero word days, a brutal pace if you have lots of interruptions or there's a crisis in the midst of November (~which, as we all know, would never happen!~)  Let's cheer the mad, the inspired and the sleepless in these final hours.  I'll cheer me on, and them on, cheer everyone on, and hopefully encourage some of you out there who've been thinking about it to join us next year.

Go Nano!

Wednesday, November 28, 2007

6,790

I've got six thousand, seven hundred and ninety words to write on my Nano novel today.  Well, ideally today.  I work for the next two days and I don't anticipate having much writing time.  So why am I wasting my time here blogging?

Because sometimes I just need to warm up before I get started.  And sometimes I need to face that number.  Over six thousand words.  That's a long writing day, and I do have other things to do, like pee, and eat.  I can actually do substantially more than that in a day, but it takes the joy right out of writing.

There, I've whined, I've faced the number, and I'm ready to buckle down.

Nano finish, here I come.

Monday, November 26, 2007

The Inconvenienced Poopyhead

Tis the season for poopyheads.  

I have an ongoing conversation with the customers about the holidays.  It's a strange conversation, because for me it's all the same, long discussion but they only participate in thirty second to one minute snippets.  A particularly brilliant customer pointed out that she far, far preferred Thanksgiving to Christmas.  No pressure to get the right presents or feel a need to overspend to make others feel loved, no overcommercialization outside of the constant push to buy your entire meal pre-prepped at your local grocery store, etc.  Just family and friends getting together to feast, and maybe watch a parade or football or a holiday classic.

I really like that observation.

Contrast this to my poopyhead customer yesterday.  She wheels up an overflowing cart full of Stuff and Things and starts unloading it, scowling.  Why she came to my counter I'll never know--my station that day is the smallest and is meant for fast transactions and tobacco and razor sales, though we don't have a sign up or anything.  I'm completely unable to help unload, or reload, bags.  She doesn't wait for me to ring things through but keeps loading until it starts to fall over, and then she barks at me to help catch it so it doesn't all tumble to the ground.  Then she scoots over and tells me she wants all her stocking stuffers in one bag.  That would really help.

Eager to improve her mood and keep myself in the running for queen of customer service, I do my best to obey.  Problem is that she has things like sample sizes of baby powder, toothpaste and such included as stocking stuffers along with the traditional chocolates and beanie babies.  Rather than sort them into piles or something she just waits for me to ring them through and impatiently rearranges things from one bag into another when I guess wrong. 

I'm almost done when she says she wants me to call someone to help her out.
"Sure!"  I tell her.
"Call them now."
"I'm not supposed to do that until I'm done ringing the purchase through."
"Well I don't want to wait here for ten minutes while they get around to coming up here.  I know how this works."  Okay, now I'm steamed, so I smile at her and page housewares.  Carrie, bless her heart, is there in ten seconds.

And this isn't even the beauty part.

She tells me "I have two of those and two of those, and I want them rung at the end."  She hands me an organizer of plastic drawers such as a crafter might use.  I obediently follow her command, only to find while I'm bagging them up that the two organizer drawers are *not* the same.  They're about the same size, but one is three drawers with a flip top and the other is five smaller drawers.  I rang up two of the five smaller drawers.  Worse yet, I've already totalled (over $300 of stuff) and the machine is printing off the receipts in hopes of getting Carrie out of here so she can get back to the floor and waiting on customers at the photo-electronics counter.
Naturally, since these were the last items rung, by her request, I've already hit the total key, ran her card, and it authorized.  We're at the point of no return.  Good.  Ness.
"I'm sorry, I just realized these aren't the same," I tell her.  I put them on the counter and she looks them over.
"I don't want this one," she says, shoving the five drawer organizer at me.  "I want two of this one."  She jiggles the flip top.
I'm tempted to tell her just get another flip top and we'll call it square, but I have a sinking feeling I rang up the more expensive one.
"How much does this cost?" she asks, jiggling the flip top one.
"Um, the five drawer is $7.49.  I don't know how much the other one is."  
"Well can't you just check?"
"The receipt is still printing out.  I have to wait until it finishes printing out."
"Just take this one off, then."
"I'm sorry, that has to be taken care of at the customer service desk," I tell her.  "Just sign here on your receipt and take everything over there."
"Can't you just refund my money for the organizer?" she asks.
"Sorry, I'm not authorized to do that.  If you just sign here they'll be able to write you a refund--"
"Well that's inconvenient," she snaps.
"I'm sorry for the inconvenience.  If you would please sign here--"
"I'm not signing anything until this is fixed."
I do a price verify on the flip top and my heart sinks.  $6.99.  I'm not even going to offer.  She's going to blow her top if I suggest we get her another flip top when it costs less.  She'll want her dollar.  Gah!  Darn you flip top organizer, why did you have to cost less?  If only you cost more!  I know my boss would be all over getting her out of the store at any cost, and this would be minor.  But no ...
"I'm sorry, I can't fix this," I tell her.
The customer behind her says, "The customer service desk is right over there.  They'll be able to help you."
She storms off, leaving Carrie to mind her cart.  Carrie doesn't dare leave, in case the woman might come back and feel like she was abandoned.  I can hear her chewing apart the lobby person from where I'm checking about how horrible I was to her.

Merry Christmas, ma'am.  I'm sure everyone will be delighted that you went through so much effort and trouble to get them sample-sized deodorant, weathering the horrible inconvenience of a self-created problem.  Yes, it was partly my fault.  I should have been doing my job instead of doing what she was telling me to do.  Yes, pleasing the customer is the bulk of my job but if I had rung through her order accurately using my own eyes instead of doing what she asked me to do, there would have been no error, and no fuss, and Carrie would have only have had to wait on her majesty for a few minutes.  I'm sure this makes her feel powerful, to prove how incompetent retail workers really are, and how much a trial it is to shop for presents.

Where is the excitement?  The pleasure found in generosity?  Was there ever a time in our own generation's history when people bought beautiful but modestly-priced, thoughtful gifts and enjoyed the spirit of giving?  I thought I used to do that, but I have to admit I've been getting stressed about it the past few years.

Well, the incovenienced poopyhead had cinched it for me this year.  I'm not going to be that.  If I can't find something nice and sweet and modest I'm going to give a card and gift card with my most heartfelt wishes.  I refuse to succumb to deodorant stocking stuffers and Easter-basket-style packaged over-priced gift sets of bath products just because I can't find anything on a store shelf that will bring real pleasure to the person I'm shopping for.  If I get a bath product, it's going to be Burt's Bees or that wonderful company that produced the glorious bath salts I got for my birthday and it's going to be something they'll want and use.  If I get deodorant it'll be because my son asked could he please have that darling deodorant in the window, please or please!  

So shall it be!

Poopyhead shopper.  :raspberry:  Take that, commercial Christmas!  

All my favorite songs

Sometimes music is too distracting to have on while I'm writing.  But when the music is composed of very well known faves, I can sink in beyond the lyrics and get into a great rhythm.  After spending a few mindless hours loading songs, I now have 272 or so faves that play at random while I type.  No commercials, no skipping past songs I don't like, no disk swapping.  It just goes on forever.  Well, twenty hours anyway.

I love that.

Overheard at the checkstand yesterday: 
"We combed over the place for hours and hours.  No blood, no hair.  He asks how we could have possibly missed that.  I don't have an answer for that."

Saturday, November 24, 2007

Home Duck Home

I managed to survive Black Friday at work.  It wasn't that bad, actually.  We rarely had more than two people in line at a given station.  Of course, we had sixteen cashiers.  Yes, sixteen.  We have eight regular register stations and the lobby, and whenever someone took a break or lunch someone took their place, plus some started work early and some came in for the closing shift (which overlap during the busiest time of the day, which happens to be lunch time) so all sixteen people had something to do at all times.  

By six the shopping crowd had burned itself out and everyone apparently went home for dinner, so my boss gave me the option of leaving early.

"Yes!" I cried and closed myself off.  Hurricane winds swept up in my wake as I dashed to the CSM and started to count out.  I came home to duck dinner.  Bliss.

Today:  Nano, laundry, dishes, vacuuming, and organizing.  Huzzah!  It's been a long time since I've had a full day at home.  I've missed being here.


Monday, November 19, 2007

Kami Becomes a Zombie

One of the ideas I put forth to someone who was really looking forward to the Zombie Apocalypse was how sucky it would be if you ended up being one of the zombies.  Now that's no fun at all.

That became my fate after OryCon, although I don't think this is the start of the Apocalypse and hopefully my case is reversible.

I slogged through work today.  I had to keep moving because I was literally falling asleep while standing up.  But I had a nice laugh at the expense of a customer.  She seemed nice, really, and I wish her the best.  I doubt she realized the humor in her words, though.  Her mother explained to me on the sly that she'd recently divorced a real creep recently and had moved back home.  Then, separately, the girl told me that she graduated from high school in 2003.  She'd gotten a membership card before she married, she thought.  I hunted through records and pestered three stores before admitting defeat.  
"I can give you a membership as a courtesy," I told her.
"Oh no!  I can pay the five dollars."
"You can always wait, hunt through your things.  Maybe your card will turn up."
This very young, very pretty woman-girl who was already divorced four years after graduating from high school smiled and said, "I doubt it will.  I'm good at getting rid of things."

Yes, my dear, apparently you are.

Shuffling right along while moaning, I have the Mighty Transfer to look forward to.  I'll probably spend some time on it tonight, but mostly I plan on sleeping and then finishing up as much as I can tomorrow.

Which means it's time to stare blankly a moment, realize there are no brains directly in front of me, turn, and shuffle, moaning, in a new direction.

Wednesday, November 14, 2007

Movies that Make Me Cry

I'm having a bad night, so it's nicely coincidental that at work I read an article about movies that made people cry. It's been blogged about before all over the web, but what the heck, I'm feeling dispirited anyway. Might as well throw in my two cents. They had a top ten list that included The Green Mile, Old Yeller, Terms of Endearment, Ghost and so forth. They mentioned Schindler's List, but it didn't make the top ten and that's when I thought Huh? Not that I can do better, but here are mine, not ten exactly but my list of sob-inducing movies that didn't make the top ten list in the article.

1. Schindler's List--Let's start with the honorable mention from the article and put it on top. This movie is so hard to watch people often watch it just once, even though they report that it was one of the best movies they've ever seen.
2. Forrest Gump--This movie got so much hype it turned people off from watching it. Too bad, because I'm right there with Forrest leaking and snurffling when he's talking to his beloved, buried Jenny. And his little boy--goodness. And there's happy tears at the end, and on and on. I even cry during the credits, dang it!
3. Big Fish--The hardest part for me is when his son carries his father to the water, with all the people his father has loved there to bid him farewell, and his father swims away. But they don't let us off the hook that easy, nope. We go back to the hospital. Brutal. Pass the kleenex, please!
4. Bridge to Terabithia--The ending was terrible, as in some Hollywood jerk couldn't be satisfied with the boy and his sister crossing the bridge together but had to turn it into a bad facsimile of a Hallmark moment. Nonetheless, when I want to feel deeply and let the darkness take me away I grab this movie, some chocolate, a cup of tea and a handkerchief and brace for impact after the museum trip.
5. Braveheart--William Wallace, no matter how many times you're hurt and betrayed, you keep trying. When Wallace sees his beloved as a kind of ghost among the crowd of spectators while he's being disemboweled, I can't take it. Waaaaaaaaah! There are just so many difficult moments in this movie I want to curl up in a ball and rock.
6. What Dreams May Come--Has its moments, good and bad, but when push comes to shove this has to make the list of movies that wring tears from my eyes and forces me to stifle sobs. Robin Williams has a spotty track record but he does well in this. In many places the setting alone makes my throat ache. And then they meet again. Sniff!
7. Cyrano de Bergerac (French remake)--No one can take his panache. Emotional agony by death of a thousand paper cuts, and then it goes in for the kill. Gerard Depardieu is the one and only Cyrano for me. Roxanne, you are unworthy. I miss the semi-yearly tradition of Cyrano, brie cheese, red wine and croissants I used to have. I really need to have a Cyrano night again sometime soon.
8. Fellowship of the Ring--Kudos to Sean Bean for the horrifically beautiful death of Boromir. I felt every arrow, and wanted to soothe his regrets right along with Aragorn. It's not your fault, Boromir. Stupid ring, stupid stupid ring ...
9. Return of the King--While we're at it, when the ships sail, I lose it. I'm filled with joy, and pain, and longing. To the white shore, and a swift sunrise. Geez, it makes me tear up even now.
10. City of Angels--This movie got a lot of flack because apparently most people liked an earlier version rather than the remake. Well I didn't see the original, so this one makes my list. If I ever plan to see the original I'll let you guys know so that you can buy stock in tissue paper first.
11. Charlotte's Web--This movie has become threadbare over the years for me, but Charlotte's song about Mother Earth and Father Time will always get to me so long as I have a soul.
12. Watership Down--I'm not ashamed to say that animations can affect me just as deeply as a drama filmed with the world's finest actors. Bright Eyes, ah yes, I know he survives but dang. It still hurts like a sonuvagun. The movie hits hard with that feeling of loss.
13. Don Juan de Marco (with Johnny Depp)--Happy, happy tears. Chokes me up every time. Why not? And the music swells. Can't ... see ... I need a hug!
14. Toy Story 2--There's something about abandoning a cowgirl doll that kills me. Argh! It's just one point in the movie that makes me cry, but man is it ever reliable.
15. Grumpier Old Men--"I think God forgot about me." If you gotta go, I guess at a venerable age, in the midst of a beautiful love affair, is not a bad time. Here's a rose for the old man. Normally I'd pass on this sort of movie, but I have to admit I'm a long time fan of Sophia Loren, who still has my vote as one of the most beautiful women in the world. Ann-Margret is also in this film. Boy, if I hold up as well against time as these two women, I'll be a happy (if tearful) Kami. I'm glad I caved and watched this. I wasn't disappointed.
16. Somewhere in Time--I almost left this off the list because it's been so long since I've seen it, I don't know how well it holds up. But I still feel the pain after all these years, so here it is, warts, tears and all.

Additions, subtractions, disagreements, rotten vegetables and thumbs up welcome, as always.

Snufflingly yours, Kami

Monday, November 12, 2007

Day Three

Mojo is roaming the house now. We keep calling him a she because he's so pretty. It gives me a new perspective on writing about Jasmine in Mayhem.

Lucky is friendly, as he is to everyone, but Wizard is surprisingly concerned and hostile, although he's never done more than hiss at Mojo. Even Huntress seems a bit more tolerant, although she also hisses at Mojo. Dakota is just confused about this new member of the family, though not any more confused about Mojo than she is about anything else in this house. Mojo acts as if he's lonely, and roams about looking for company. When he thinks he's alone, even if he's not, he cries in his little white kitty voice until someone assures him that he's okay. I think that living in the house with all those cats, even though he was isolated from direct contact from them with just one friend inside a cage, has made him a far more social cat than you'd expect. He likes to be near people and near Lucky, although he doesn't like to be too near Lucky. He's wanting to play, though. He'll stalk Lucky, and then when Lucky looks his way Mojo sits very neatly with his front feet tight together in a tidy package, satisfied that he got at least a look. His Mojo distance of happiness appears to be about two to three feet. If there's someone or Lucky within two to three feet he's happy.

Andrea is knitting scarves again--it's that time of year--and Mojo *loves*, not a little bit but *adores* balls of yarn. They are the best toy ever and he doesn't care one wit if it's a cliche'.

Photo Sharing and Video Hosting at Photobucket
All in all, I think Mojo is content here. In this pic Huntress is on top of the chair back and Rory's leaning against the chair. Huntress protested when Mojo first settled in, but then she decided to ignore him. He's happy as a little white kitty can be.

Meanwhile, Nanowrimo continues apace. I've got a lot of writing ahead of me, so here goes.

Sunday, November 11, 2007

Not again!

We rang the bell and after a moment the grage door rolled up. A couple of people looked at us with puzzled expressions.

"We're here to see Tim," I tell them.

A third, older man comes down a set of side stairs. "We're here to see Tim?" I offer, since no one else ventured any information.

"Oh," he said. "No one told me you'd be coming."

"I emailed," I said.

"Well come on in. How'd you hear about us? Catlink or Pet Finder?"

"Pet Finder," Orion says.

The smell slaps us in the face the moment the door opens. They say meth houses smell like cat piss. Well this place smells like a meth house, and more. Its eye-watering, nose-covering bad and I'm grateful I'm sick. I'm sure it helps deaden the smell and when I cough A. I have a handerkerchief already handy and B. I can explain I'm sick and not have the caretaker give me a hairy eyeball for making a physical comment about the state of the house.

It's full of cats. Last month they had 200, and fortunately many of them were adopted out. He searches for Tim, and finds him. Big Bengal cross, and boy is he shy. The caretaker explains that most of the cats at the facility are or were feral. Tim's a hard case. He's been there two years and he's still incredibly shy.

Why are we here, do you ask? Because Orion pointed out that both he and Andrea lost pets this summer, and Andrea got to adopt one. It seems only fair ...

Yeah, I'm a soft touch.

Unfortunately Orion can't get near Tim. Apparently only the caretaker, and strangely me, can touch him. Tim allows me to pet him, but he makes himself flat. It's not a very convincing flatness, because he's so big. He's a sweetie, and so good natured considering that he's terrified.

Orion wanders. And wanders. And wanders. There are so many cats hiding in bookshelves, tucked in cages, curled up on scratchposts, nibbling on food, playing, chasing, scurrying underfoot that it's overwhelming. There's a poodle in the mix. Someone found him on the side of the road and brought him to the cat shelter. Why, they don't know, but there was no room at the nearest humane society so he's there among the cats, confused and scared and lonely and wondering what the heck he was doing with all these cats. The cats wondered too.

We play with lots of cats. I fall in love with a calico with fur as soft as a rabbit's and twice as glossy. She literally shines wherever she goes. Orion plays with a cute black and white kitten, but I say no. A. Black and white and all black kitties are reliably obnoxious about being vocal and B. he obviously has or has had ringworm.

It sounds like a house of horrors, and in many ways it is, but not for the cats. They're warm. They're safe from predators. They have plenty of food and clean water. They get medical treatment, including for the ringworm that so many feral cats have. And they're altered so that they don't have to suffer through pregnancy or hormonal rages that put them at risk for injury. The FLV positive cats have their own room and don't spread the disease to other cats. It's a very good thing, though it sure doesn't smell that way.

We land beside a cage, overwhelmed, when a small white kitten about four months old reaches through the bars and snags my shirt. "Mew!" He has such a soft yet insistent voice. He's not pure white either. He's unusual. If you can imagine a pure white siamese but with ginger instead of dark coloring, that's him. He has ginger tabby stripes on his tail and ginger ears. It's a red-eared hound! Only, er, not. He looks up at me with big blue eyes.

"Now he has serious personality," the caretaker tells us. "Want to pick him up?"

We had picked up a lot of cats, including a black kitty that likes to ride shoulders like Lucky and fiesty ones and cuddly purr muffins, but this one, yes, he has personality. He likes to be petted but only X amount of pressure, and his body leans away from the stroke to adjust so that you're petting him only just so much. He loves to be carried. He has a tender, ready purr and he's trusting, but not too trusting. Any noise, bump, sudden movement and he hides, but then he comes right back out as if to say 'If you're still out here I guess it must be okay. But next time it might not be so don't forget to hide too!'

We filled out the papers and took little Mojo home. He's our first white cat and he'll be all indoors. White cats are particularly vulnerable to predators, and also are prone to ear cancer.

Here's our Mojo all happy at home. He looks a lot younger in the pic than he actually is: Photo Sharing and Video Hosting at Photobucket

I mean it this time. No more animals. I'm putting my foot down! All you strays out there, you better not show up at our back doorstep because you're out of luck.

Unless you're really, really cute.

Tuesday, November 06, 2007

A moment of regret

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I had a moment today. While I was walking through the garden I was thrown momentarily back in time to spring. I suddenly longed for spring, and the summer to come. I normally love autumn but I wished with all my heart that it was spring, and it made me sad to see just a very few bees humming among the very last of the flowers. Not so long ago there was so much activity in the wildflower bed that you could hear it a good distance away. When the sun hit it, you could see silver sparkles where the insects flew and leapt among the blossoms.

I had a hard time gathering seeds. The birds have really picked them over. But I got enough, I hope, a future garden in little zip lock bags.

We'll get our first really hard frost soon and I'll forget all about this, snug in a house that smells of cinnamon and spiced cider, taking pictures of frost heave, enjoying how fluffy the goats are, and being able to see the birds in the feeder when the leaves are all gone. But for a moment, I had regret.

Sunday, November 04, 2007

Safeguard

I just spent a wee bit of time saving my recent work onto Snape, both writer's workshop stuff as well as my Nanowrimo novel WIP, the most recent Masks edit, and some new stuff that I played with but set aside for now due to time constraints. I feel a little safer about my data after a Finder crash earlier today.

I know what's wrong with Gypsy. Her b-tree is corrupted. I know, I know, say it ain't so, Kami, say it ain't so! I've known about this problem for a long time, but we've lived with the instability and uncertainty for quite a while and I'm sort of used to it. There are certain things that the directory won't support anymore, like changing email identities and then trying to send out emails, going to certain websites, and sneezing on a Tuesday. Those things are annoying but recoverable. The Finder going kaput for a bit this morning, though, scared me. So I took some precautions. Snape has his issues (big time!) but he doesn't appear to have any symptoms that might suggest that his hard drive is starting to fizz. True, b-tree corruption may not necessarily point the bitter black finger of death in the direction of our hard drive, but it's one of those things like coughing up blood where I wouldn't necessarily ignore it and assume everything will be okay.

Wednesday, October 31, 2007

Cleanup

Since I never have enough to do around here, I decided to help Andrea out by steam cleaning her carpet before her dad installed her brand new bed from IKEA (thanks to the generosity of grandma--yay grandma!) If only I'd known. Well, even if I'd known there would be mold growing on the actual furniture, the result would have been the same. It would have to go. But I wasn't prepared to toss out not just her bed, which we suspected was the source of unkempt smell (it wasn't, surprisingly) but her dresser as well. So off I go to the store, where I bought three each of three sizes of white rubbermaid drawers and a clear bin with a blue lid for her storage needs. I thought she'd be put off by the results when she came home, but she was delighted. Thank goodness, because I don't know how these things got moldy in the first place and plastic is not conducive to mold growth. It might have been a problem with the manufacturing, actually, since her bookshelves and computer desk were fine, but I'll never be sure.

It wasn't fun to spend the money but it was fun to get the storage stuff from Elvis, an old man that used to be a woman, a woman who used to be a man, Lucille Ball, a housewife in pjs and curlers, and other riff raff at the store.

Nano is starting in just over an hour. I was going to write today, but cleaning up around here took all the spunk out of me. I don't think I even have any spit or vinegar left. It isn't just bone-weariness. All that dust and mold cleanup done over the last two days left me snuffly and with a sore throat. The boy is snuffly too. Andrea, however, is blissfully asleep in her new bed, and I'm sure she's very happy that she doesn't have to sleep on the futon upstairs like she did last night. I'd love to be asleep too. Maybe I can arrange for that.

Monday, October 29, 2007

Time management issues

Kami swipes the key reader and opens the door to her blog. She turns on a light, revealing a warm color on one wall. Somewhere a prism is creating a rainbow. Everything looks too tidy, except for a fine film of dust. The bed hasn't been slept in for days. The newspaper on her nightstand is from last week. Moonlight glows on the diaphanous curtains. It's late night out in the world. She wants to stay, to snuggle in and write about her day, her week, her life. She's exhausted and willing, but there are Things to Do. OryCon 29 is closing in. Nanowrimo will begin in a few days. Mundane things about the house demand attention, like put away the pork roast before bed and don't forget to give the dog her pill. And she has to get to bed, the real one in the world outside her blog, because she has to get up early in the morning and stay up to go to work. Never mind writing, never mind a few minutes working on art or setting up a mat, and unfortunately, never mind getting deep into a blog entry.

She sets down her stuff on the kitchen nook table--thoughts about a coworker that wanted kittens in her life and then crumbles when she gets slapped with real responsibility, the decision to go ahead and Nano "Mayhem," urges to whine about the difficulties of juggling information with other volunteer jugglers who are definitely out of sync with her rhythm. She gets out her portfolio of images from the sleepy garden, glorious sunrises viewed from the deck, animal portraits, and fans them out on the table. For a moment she lingers, thinking maybe she could spare a few moments--and then reality knocks on the door.

Kami sighs and checks her purse, making sure she has the key reader to her blog before she answers the door. Sure enough, she has to go. She turns out the light. It's just moonlight in the room now, turning everything silver-blue. She walks out, the door shuts, and once again the blog becomes a ghost behind her.

Monday, October 22, 2007

Picture Day

We had gorgeous sunshine so I took some pics inside while I could. Top of my list, of course, had to be:
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Dakota is a sad dog today. She misses her family. Maybe a bit of bacon will improve her spirits.

Wizard is comfortable enough with Dakota already that he rubbed up against her for snuggles. She jumped back because she's already been tagged by the vicious Huntress. I have a feeling Wizard and Dakota will become good friends.

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That's a DOG? Bwa ha ha ha ha ha! Good one. What is it really? I'm guessing a giant tribble, which only confirms that the other dogs are Klingons. I knew that all along.

Dakota is very leery and nervous of the other dogs, especially the puppies who are far too boisterous for her. We're not pushing her. She'll be inside dog and they'll be outside dog and there's no need for them to form a pack. I suspect though that eventually, when the puppies calm down (sometime in three or four years?) she'll actually enjoy time outside with them. For now, we're keeping them separate. Poor Brian wanted to play so bad, and licked her face, and jumped around and ran trying to get her to chase him, basically making an idiot of himself to get her to like him. Her response? Attempt to leave. I put him back in with the sea of unconditional love, where he told the other dogs how awesome she was. Heh.

Irish wolfhound lab mix? Hmm. I haven't had a good close look at an Irish wolfhound face in quite a while. To me her face screams terrier. Any alternate guesses?

Dakota

So this weekend, because we really don't have enough on our plates, we went to see a woman about a dog.

This all started with an email. Actually, it started with Andrea thinking about adopting a small dog to have as a house pet. So when we got the email, we were primed to be soft-touches.

Dakota is an eleven year old lab/irish wolfhound mix, emphasis on the lab. Her original owner, who trained her very, very well by the way, ended up in a housing situation (namely having no housing to call his own) where he couldn't both crash on the couches of generous friends and keep his two dogs. So Dakota ended up in a no-kill shelter. Along comes a family that takes Dakota home. This sounds like a happy ending, and it was happy for everyone, but then the youngest daughter's eczema started really acting up. They did some tests and ack! she is badly allergic to the dog. Not the snuffling, sneezing kind but the horrible rash kind. And medicating her heavily until she moves out of the house didn't sound like a good option. They'd already torn out all the carpet in the house trying to bring her eczema under control Dakota couldn't stay.

So they searched and searched, and their email was spread far and wide looking for anyone who could take Dakota in. She was posted online with various humane society groups. No nibbles. Two separate sets of friends offered to take her in, but they weren't dog people and probably wouldn't be able to handle dogness in the house. And Dakota is most definitely an inside companion dog, exactly what Andrea was looking for. So when a friend of a friend of this family emailed us, we gave it serious thought. And went to visit. Of course it was all over at that point. Dog in need, dog who is very quiet, obedient, smaller than we expected considering the bloodlines, dog who laid her head in Andrea's lap and gave her the worried help-me look, oh yeah, we were sunk.

That was Saturday, and Sunday they drove Dakota to our place. The sea of unconditional love went ballistic, of course, not in a bad way just waaaay to excited for a lone, older dog who is very shy and retiring. So we took her in the back way, putting off the introductions for now, set up her bed, her food, her water. Andrea took her for a walk around the back and let her sniff the other dogs through the fence. And in the evening, though poor Dakota was in distress and constantly looking for her people, things settled down and Dakota hung out with us while we watched tv. And at night, she got to sleep on Andrea's bed.

Today I think she's trying to figure out where everything is and what's off limits. I'm pretty sure this is the quietest house she's ever been to, one without small children and rush hour traffic and the ambient noise of city that isn't very loud but constant, like white noise on a tv. She's going to be sad, but the family has a relative out here in Washougal and they promised to visit her. They're also happy to dog sit should we go on vacation.

Dakota is another symptom of our madness, I'm sure. We really didn't need another dog. But here she is, and I'm very glad she is. Welcome home, Dakota.

Thursday, October 18, 2007

Blog Action Day, plus Poopyhead virus epidemic

I guess someone decided that it was blog action day, and not just any action but green action. (Not greeeeeeeeeen!?) All I can say is that here in the Pac NW it's better than most places in that awareness is high. Apparently on the east coast, things like water efficiency, sustainable flooring and alternative insulation aren't even on the radar. One article I read in "This Old House Magazine" related that one couple hired a contractor purely for his willingness to learn how to work with green and sustainable materials because not a single contractor in their area had actually worked with the stuff. They wanted it because they'd come from California and they'd been educated to value it. Apparently in Florida, there just isn't a market for green buildings, not enough to attract a single contractor anyway. Such is the gist of the article, anyway.

Despite the constant barrage of eco-friendliness around here, however, at work I still see people ask for a plastic bag for something they could easily stick in their pocket or purse. Examples I had just in the last week:
A pack of gum (she got a dirty look from the person in line behind her but missed it)
Two small packages of cat toys (already in plastic)
A vacuum cleaner belt (which was already in its own bag too)
Two rolls of lifesavers
A lipstick and a small bottle of soap
A bottle of pop (the single serving size)
A single DVD

Then there's the bag for the bagged or luggable items. People want bags for diapers and/or adult protection undergarments despite the fact that they have a handle on them. Also, they want bags for pillows even if they have a plastic cover on them, outdoor rugs and doormats, wine boxes, the 12 packs of pop (the kind with handles,) large bomb-proof packaged toys (the kind where you require power tools to get into,) appliances, camping stuff (you really want a bag for your foldable chair in a bag? Okaaay ...) bedding in plastic carrying cases with a handle, and so forth. Many of these require our gigantic plastic bags of doom to contain. These giant bags have no handles--you end up looking like Santa Claus. BTW, if you want a free plastic bag for something else just ask. I don't have to put an item in it to give it to you, and I try to make that clear. Let's not do the ridiculous packing of the auto floor mats into a 30 gallon bag. I understand that some of these things, like the wine and the undergarments, are something you might want to hide from other customers, but on the other hand, you've just lugged them around in your shopping cart, and now all you have to do is get it to your car.

I remember these because they fill me with little Kami outrage, or at minimum, little Kami eye roll impulses. Of course, being a model employee (but a model of what?) I smile and say thank you for coming in. On the reverse side, I've had people carry an armload of stuff and say they don't need a bag. I also have regular customers who come in either with their own paper or plastic bags or a permanent canvas bag. Yay them!

On to poopyheadedness.

There must be a poopyhead virus going around. This particular strain is making people obstinant with folks that they should be nice to. In a writer's workshop I'm running I set out in the guidelines (okay, they're not laws, I freely admit that--and the workshop is being held at a pirate-themed event) that writers need to include a 500 word or less synopsis with their novel portion. Everyone understood this, except Her. Her didn't submit a synopsis, and I didn't catch it until I started organizing the sessions. So I emailed her. Where is thine synopsis? Her response (paraphrased)? I don't see why I have to submit a synopsis. What are they used for?

I assume she doesn't treat editors that she submits to in this manner, or if she does, she'll never get published. Reading and conforming to submission guidelines is part of the test that publishers and editors use to determine poopyheadedness. If you appear to follow their guidelines in good faith (or at least have your ms in industry standard format) that is a signal to them that you have spent time researching, formatting and making things in all ways easy for them, and that therefore you are unlikely to be a poopyhead to work with. No matter how brilliant your writing is, it's unlikely that a publisher will put up with poopyheadedness in today's market. There's always another writer around the corner, just as promising, who is not a poopyhead.

Even if she felt like she didn't have to follow the submission guidelines because she knows more than me, which I guess is fine (who am I after all? Well, I know a lot of the pro writers and an editor or two and I do talk to them, but never mind that she couldn't guess that) there's the fact that she can safely assume that everyone else has a synopsis and that the pros who are reviewing her work will be expecting a synopsis. When they don't get one, what will be her answer? Um, I forgot? I didn't know? Or I didn't think it was worth my time? The excuse I like best is, I wasn't interested in your opinion on my synopsis.

Also had a request to be grouped with a particular writer, and when I said I couldn't guarantee placement with anyone and promptly went on vacation, the same person asked my good friend who graciously served as stand-in for me the same question. As if we wouldn't talk. Ha! Another writer asked to be in a one-on-one. Sometimes I wish I didn't have to be all nice and PR-y to these people. Out of my workshop, so there! And if you're one of these people and reading this, I hope you're blushing with embarrassment. You should. Grow up a little. You shouldn't expect special treatment. The "I paid good money" argument doesn't fly. So did everyone else, and btw $5 for a workshop with luminaries like Ursula LeGuin is not good money, it's a token fee to barely cover expenses for the workshop.

I thought the virus must be making the rounds in just the workshop, but yesterday I had a woman come in with her completed application. I inspected it and found that one of the job description packets was missing. There are two, and when I (and presumably everyone in the lobby) hand the applications out we let folks know that they need to be read, signed and returned with the application. (There is a small group of people who think we hand out those packets for their own records, which sort of makes sense but if you spend thirty seconds thinking about it you'd realize there's no reason for you to have something like that for your own records when you haven't even been hired yet.)

"Did you get both packets?" I asked, holding up the one for sales clerk.
"Yes."
"Well one is missing. Here, I'll get you an extra copy and you can sign it."
I've just turned aside when she says, "Do I have to have it in there?"
"Yes," I say, opening and disemboweling another application, removing the cashier packet and setting it on the counter. "They're not as likely to accept your application without it."
"But I don't know anything about cashiering." This is not mere protest--she has an edge to her voice that says I don't want to cashier.
I resist the urge to tell her goodbye, but that's not my job. I then resist the urge to go into sarcasm mode and say 'there's this thing called training ... Instead I nicely say, trying not to grit my teeth, "Well, they train you to do the job. Everyone starts out as a cashier here." Even the people who hate it. Yes, poopyhead woman, even you shall be forced to cashier even if you don't want to cashier, assuming you want a job.
She whips open the packet and signs it, giving me a dirty look.

Is she not applying for a job here? Does she not know that I got someone a quicker interview by letting our assistant manager know that the applicant who just handed this to me was dressed very nicely and was very friendly? If she doesn't recognize that we all have to work together and the only folks who have any say as to what duties they'll perform on a given day worked hard for that right, and they still have to have to do things they'd rather not do, she's not going to be a, ahem, good fit for the team, to put it in bureau-speak. So I hand over the application to the asst. manager when she's left and said, "she was very resistant to filling out the cashier packet and was pretty snippy." He didn't round file it right there, but he made the mental note.

Poopyhead virus. I've been around enough people with it, I might catch it, so I'll be sure to take extra vitamin C and get plenty of rest on my day off.

Happy Blog Action Day!

Boy, that sounded dumb. If it takes off I guess I'll just have to learn to appreciate the sincerity and proaction of the green movement.

But couldn't they have come up with a better name?

Monday, October 15, 2007

Oh how we've forgotten

I got a little rant in my email box today from a chiropractor. This chiropractic office does good work, has high quality care, and I'm on their list not because I'm a patient but because periodically they help raise money for our local humane society. Our shelter is horribly outdated (a cement block structure built in the 60's more as housing for doomed animals rather than an adoption center) and far too small (do you think the population of Vancouver has increased since the 60's? Yep!) and they need a lot of money to develop a facility that will serve primarily as an adoption center. Hopefully they'll stop being seen as a place of death and more of a place of hope and mercy.

Anyway.

So I got this thing in my email and it ticked me off, as most alarmist mailings do. I'm going to comment (rant back) on some of it.

Quote: Did you know that the flu shot could contain anything from aluminum, formaldehyde, dangerous microorganisms, thimerosal (mercury), ethylene glycol, and other toxic adjuvants? In addition to these substances, the flu vaccine is prepared from the fluids of chicken embryos inoculated with the specific type (s) of influenza virus that supposedly protects against the strains federal health officials believe are most likely to be prevalent during the flu season. The effectiveness in preventing influenza often ranges from 30-40%. Not very encouraging considering the potential health dangers you may be opening yourself up to down the road from the toxic agents in the vaccine.

Why yes, Virginia, I did know that. Much as I dislike the toxic chemicals, how else are we going to formulate these vaccines? The flu vaccine is not alone in this composition, but I'm not going to avoid vaccinnating my children against, for example, chicken pox. This 'innocent' childhood disease nearly killed my sister. It didn't harm me much, but we both have repercussions to look forward to later in life, incredibly painful repercussions from the pox migrating and flaring up, herpes-like, in the nervous system. Shall we try to make a kinder, friendlier vaccine without formaldehyde and mercury? Go for it. Take your time putting together something with chamomile and rum. Oh wait, not rum. That's toxic too. Anyway, please do but until then I'll take the vaccine that we have.

How is the human body supposed to build immunity by being exposed to neurotoxic poisons like mercury, formaldehyde, and DNA from animals?
Actually, it builds its immunity from a crippled or killed virus (hmm, how do we kill or cripple it? Let me guess ...) which the immune system can tackle and 'learn' to destroy. The immune system is remarkable but unfortunately limited. Your immune response--some of which we can feel via fever, sneezing, coughing, etc.--can damage you (through too high of a fever, coughing that breaks ribs or damages the lungs and so forth or through an immune response that attacks your own tissues) even more than the buggy that's bugging you. The way the white blood cells work for their part of immune response (because they don't work alone, they're just a small piece) relies on them identifying and then eating the enemy. But much like orcs, white blood cells aren't too bright and it takes a while for them to figure out something is bad. By then the bug may have overwhelmed you or your own immune response has wiped you down to nothing. I assume as licensed medical types that chiropractors know this, and yet they ask this dumb question. For a vaccine we require: a virus, a means to kill or cripple it so that it won't infect you, and a medium to transport it so that the virus isn't so broken down that it no longer exists in a recognizable form. Most viruses are very fragile and require something vaguely alive and meat-like to keep from breaking down. Hence, the animal parts.

Quote: Mercury is the second most toxic material on the planet. The first is radioactive plutonium. To make thimerosal, they start with elemental mercury. Then, they hop it up 1,000 times by converting it to ethyl mercury. Then, they add aluminum to the vaccine that has a synergistic effect with the mercury, causing it to be 10,000 more toxic than elemental mercury. Mercury is used to sterilize the flu vaccine.

Yay! I would much rather have a sterile vaccine than a non-sterile one. Shall we use something else? I guess we can, and we should explore that, but let's make sure that A. it's effective so I don't get injected with a virus that might kill me and B. it doesn't effect our bodies even worse than the mercury. The trick, too, is that if you use something *less* toxic than you have to either have more of it (which will probably bump it up to the same toxicity and we'll get a bigger shot, yay) or the virus has to be particularly sensitive to the toxin. Let's hope we're not particularly sensitive to the toxin too. And here's the kicker--the virus has to be crippled or killed *but not destroyed*. It must be preserved. Hmm, could this be why they use formadehyde? Genius!

Quote: Consider this insanity; they tell us that it's unsafe to touch, breathe or swallow the mercury from a broken thermometer yet it's perfectly acceptable to inject the same poison directly into your body through the flu shot or other vaccines. In fact, you can't even find mercury based thermometers on the market anymore. Don't worry ˆ Big Pharma knows what's best for you!

Goodness, do they know how much mercury there used to be in a thermometer vs. the microscopic quantity there is in a vaccine? But, it's bad, so while we're at it, let's stop eating fish. Why? Because all the fish on the market today has mercury in it and farm-raised fish, especially ocean-raised, have the highest quantities of mercury. Guess what? Everything you put in your body has toxins in it. Some of them you can control, some you can't. The tiny dose of mercury, formaldehyde and so forth you get in a single vaccine isn't going to measure up to a lifetime of eating fish, and let's not mention smokers. Smokers need not pay any attention to all this nonsense. Because--

Quote: Now let's look at formaldehyde. Formaldehyde is classified as a toxic, colorless, water-soluble gas having a suffocating odor. It's used predominantly in embalming fluid and vaccines as a disinfectant and preservative. There are no long-term safety studies that vaccine manufacturers can draw from to validate the effectiveness of the flu shot. Those that take the shot are the safety studies and only 10% of the side effects associated with vaccines are ever reported to federal agencies. In fact, a simple search on the Internet will lead you to literally thousands of websites and stories that report on vaccine injuries, including the flu shot. What you find will not put you at ease if you've bought into this myth.

Formaldehyde is also in cigarettes. How long do those take to do you in? Seems to me that the exposure to small quantity of formaldehyde in a vaccine pales to a single night spent in a bar, but honestly, I haven't run the numbers. Even so, I myself who hung out with smokers and doesn't mind standing downwind from a smoker am not concerned about exposure to this particular chemical in miniscule doses anymore than I'm concerned about arsenic in bottled water. (What? you say? Heh. And yet I don't see people falling over from drinking Aquafina. Hmm.)

What will also not put you at ease are the deaths from flu. The most vulnerable are the elderly and young children. You have to weigh the risks for yourself. No one has to get the flu shot. If you're a strong, healthy chiropractor you can spout on about how you're never going to get a flu shot, and good for you. You're not vulnerable. You can live a happy, comfortable life with the vaccines you received as a child under your parent's care (*cough* hypocrite!) and not have to worry about a significant threat to your existance. (BTW, Mr. Chiropractor, you better damned well be taking periodic shots for hepatitis because otherwise I don't want you touching me!) But wait, what about the people who are threatened by the flu? I had the flu two years ago. My daughter actually asked my mother at one point if I was going to die. No, of course not, but I was very, very weak. It was the sickest I've been since college when I had the flu and could not stand on my own--I crawled to the bathroom. This time I was bedridden for two weeks and I couldn't do anything significant beyond walking to the bathroom and dressing myself for a month. But I survived. I didn't *need* the flu shot and didn't *need* to expose myself to those chemicals.

Hence the list from hospitals around the nation: If you are immune compromised, if you have a young child in day care, if you are elderly or a health care worker (who can not only get the flu but, while knocked down, get something else in the process from the hospital) then for pity's sake get protection. The flu is not conquered. Antibiotics don't do anything for the viral forms, and let's not get into anti-viral medications if you're paranoid about putting toxic stuff into your body. A single vaccine vs. how many weeks of medication?

Quote: If the public were fully informed and aware of all the ingredients that went into the flu shot, there would be a mass exodus away from it.

That would be a bad thing. If you knew you would be exposed to a deadly disease and the doctor said that the only preventative they had was only 40% effective at best, would you blithely say "Nah, I'll take my chances. Thanks!" Would it matter if the disease killed only rarely these days? What if we called it cancer? We have a high success rate of defeating some forms of cancer, so if it was one of those, would you pass on the vaccine? What if we called the disease herpes--that doesn't kill at all. Would you take a vaccine that was only 40% effective at best?

Some people claim that vaccines may cause autism. The jury is still out (though most are convinced it does not) but still, even if it does, it boils down to this. Honestly weigh the risks. This disease vs. that. This problem vs. another. Life is risk. Once you accept that you can make a rational decision that is inclusive of all options and can place those options in proprotion to what is most important to you.

Just don't forget about the fish, and try to remember what a real risk is vs. a phantom one, lest we forget what flu epidemics do to a society.

Great, now I've just created a downturn in the fish market. (Calling my stock broker...)

Sunday, October 14, 2007

Ideas

Traveling and two great INK meetings (one open one at Starbucks and one just for us) have filled me with all kinds of ideas. I don't know where to start.

In the garden for as long as I can, I guess, since the opportunity to garden will certainly go away. It'll never be like the Buchart Gardens around here, but I can live with country splendor. In the meantime, though, this time of year our wildflowers look intensely shabby. Everything is browning and going to seed. That's what it's supposed to do, but ... And I look at it and it feels like if I just took a pressure hose to it, the brown would come off and my shining, beautiful garden would be revealed from under the muck. But that's just an illusion. There is no muck. There is only this, the natural course of annuals and herbaceous perennials. Underneath the six foot tall mass of withering plant matter there is an evergreen and some deciduous shrubs. They're babies now, but as the years grow them up for us, they'll fill that large bed and I won't put in the wildflowers anymore, at least not there. The idea that I took from the Buchart Gardens was to keep at those weeds. Yes, they're constant and yes, it's a losing battle (I loved the little sign they had for sale that said The Weeds are Winning and the picture of a dandylion going to see on it) but if I never give up, never surrender then eventually the garden will settle in to a point where there will be shade. And where there is shade, there is victory. I already have a few areas where the plant mass over the ground is heavy enough that weeds have no chance to develop underneath. Must keep going ... The other idea I got from the gardens is the concept of patience. Seeing so many mature shrubs and trees there reminded me that I have many, many of those same specimens, but they're only 4 feet high at most. It takes surprisingly little time before they mature, especially when you're busy--

Writing. My second set of ideas came from chit chatting for hours with my writing pals and my beloved, handsome husband. Now I'm all conflicted, of course. I'd been all decided to blue screen Mayhem, my very first novel ever, for my Nano project, but then along came the idea of writing a novel about writing a novel. I realize this is not a novel (heh) idea, but there's something compelling about the subject and I can't seem to let go of it. I don't know.

And then there's the painting. I've been painting steadily, but also I've been better about letting projects rest for long enough so that they can develop better both in my head and on the page. While we were in Victoria one of the more compelling things I got to stare at was a collection of First People's ritual masks. It's unfortunate that you can't take pictures of them, but they're burned into my memory. Normally one viewing isn't enough (and now, thanks to S&C I have a gorgeous sketch book/journal that is just the right size for taking into places like royal museums so in the future I don't have to rely on memory) and this is no different, but this happens to be the second trip to the museum within two years, and so I have a better shot at actually realizing in paint what I experienced. In the end, though, I'm not attempting to accurately portray the masks. What I'm aiming at is what they inspired me to imagine, and conveying how they made me feel. They're mysterious, intriguing, frightening, humerous, beautiful, wild and graceful and primitive all at once. Gotta paint that. I just gotta.

So I'm full of ideas. Now I just have to make them flesh.

Piece of cake.

Monday, October 01, 2007

It's easier in Canada

Blogging on an up-to-date computer is easier. Yay!
Shopping is easier here, mainly because I don't have to stock up.
Housekeeping is easier in Canada. We can do all our laundry in four loads.
Going to the museum is easier. It's right down the street. For that matter, a lot of things are in walking distance.
Doing business is easier in Canada. Everyone is super helpful. Sometimes I feel bad when they can't help me. They keep apologizing. Even strangers that I ask directions of on the street. Especially bicycle dude who just moved here six months ago. Guy--one sorry is enough for being too new to know where Old Vic Fish and Chips might be.
Window shopping is easier in Canada. I'm not that tempted to get anything (carrying stuff home doesn't have much appeal) so we just wander in and out of places. Except used book stores. They get our business almost every time.
There's a bunch of stuff that's not easier in Canada, but I'm having a great time despite these things. I sure do miss my gneh gneh gneh (spoken with grippy hand motions) also known as Wizard, though. He has such a nice face. And my poopy loopies, aka the sea of unconditional love. Heck, all the beasts. They're being well taken care of, so I don't worry much (as little as is maternally possible) but I could stand for some couch time with the Wiz in my lap and Brian bounding about the living room.

Fair weather and great food and wonderful gardens (not having gotten to Buchart Gardens yet) and walks along the bay, hikes in ancient forests, First Peoples art, the poignancy of the Titanic exhibit, seeing bits of the pomp associated with the swearing in of a new lieutenant governor (complete with artillary and parades,) horse-drawn carriages, poutine--lots of memories. I'll go into detail with the best ones when I get home. I'll be forty years old officially, although I think that if I turn forty here in Canada, it doesn't count in the U.S. and I should still be 39. I'll let all y'all know how that part works out.

Saturday, September 22, 2007

Turning Forty

The boy and his dad and his dad's best friend went camping this weekend. I'd planned on cleaning up the house and getting some projects done plus painting and writing. That didn't work out for various reasons--dogs running off, a visitor from out-of-town, much needed mom/daughter time (we were bad and shopped)--but it was still a good weekend.

With a milestone birthday coming up I've been feeling weird. Not mortal weird--that happens all the time and I'm used to that. Not crisis weird either. If I had a word for it I'd name it but I don't so I'll just make one up. I feel dooblesh. Dooblesh involves sensations of wasted time or time going by too quickly interspersed with a craving simultaneously for healthy food and chocolate. Dooblesh has me yearning to write but, despite having time to do so, I end up on the couch with my daughter watching I, Robot. Later I watch an episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer while munching on squash, chocolate, chicken strips and drinking a glass of wine. I get a bag of popcorn but I end up not popping it. I wash one pot and give up on the rest of the dishes immediately. I stop by my barely-begun self-portrait--watercolor on yupo, of course--and pick up a brush, but then put it back.

It might be turning forty, or it might be autumn. Autumn is the wandering. I got a good whiff of actual crisp morning. It's on the edge of uncomfortable to sleep with the windows open, though it's better now that I've added a second comforter to the bed. I'm wearing sweaters. I'm both restless and aimless, something that happens pretty infrequently. I'm usually simply one or the other. Restless Kami does chores, or paints, or gardens. Aimless Kami does sudoku or writes or gardens.

Hmm. I'm seeing why I garden a lot.

It's a good time to go on vacation, but I'm woefully unprepared. Programming Hell happens this coming weekend and I'll be in Canada for it, something I dread. I'll have to put together instructions for the convention's programming staff, CC everyone and hope that the critique sessions, manuscript crit and submit panels, hands-on mini-seminars and the open read-and-critique sessions all end up where they need to be with the people who want to be involved with them. On the 26th, I'll consider it out of my hands. We won't be gone yet, but I'll be too busy prepping to spend any time dealing with convention stuff. My focus will shift to the family, and sleeping in, and wandering.
Photo Sharing and Video Hosting at PhotobucketOh yes, this is good timing, unintentionally so but the chance to drive away from it all when the wind and the chill and reddening of leaves all play a traveling tune is magic. My feet can skip to the music and the landscape can move all around me, taking me everwhere, which is sort of like everywhere but quieter and less fussy. My family and I will adopt gypsy hearts, or maybe we'll become something even less tame and more playful, otters with wings or things with starlight shining in our eyes.

Rory's encouraging me to bring along paper and paint and brushes. That's going to be a big bag, but I think he knows that. Good good. They can plant me in a park or a garden somewhere and go play while I drip and stroke and splatter and flood colors onto paper. I like the idea of them having fun together someplace as much as I like the idea of being alone for a while among strangers in a strange place. Maybe someone will come up and talk to me, or maybe they'll avoid me, not wanting to disturb a work in progress even if it's weird art that doesn't suit their tastes. Meanwhile the fam will be mom-free. Everyone needs a break from the mom now and then, just like the mom enjoys an occasional break from them. I wonder if it's possible to be non-mom-like around them, and for them to be non-husband and non-child-like around me. I think it might be too intense, or a difficult or silly game that leads to secret names, asking questions and spying, or something unexpected and silver-bright.Photo Sharing and Video Hosting at Photobucket

It's late, and I'm not forty yet. The morning alarm is set, the dogs are home, clothes are tumbling in the dryer. It's quiet and I'm the only one awake. Photo Sharing and Video Hosting at Photobucket I'm definitely doobleshing. I thought that the restlessness was wearing off, but it's not. I really want to get up and try painting again. I thought maybe the aimlessness had gone, but I have a feeling that I won't actually paint. I'll look at the painting, and pick up a brush, and then think better of it and move on. I don't mind so much. I don't mind feeling dooblesh. Windy impulses will carry me along until I get blown up against the bed (out of the gutter, you!) and then I'll sleep, one dream closer to forty.

Friday, September 21, 2007

Wizard's cure

Wizard's procedure went well yesterday, or so I hear. I wasn't able to be with him. In fact, I had to abandon the poor thing at the vet for the day because I had to go to work.

Wizard is so sweet, quiet and mild-tempered it's easy to forget that he was half-wild. Easy, that is, until you try to get him into a cat carrier, succeed, and then leave him with a stranger. He's never bitten or scratched us, something I find miraculous considering his trust issues, but he can wrestle like a Gracie on steroids. The power in his body is just amazing. Arnold would be jealous of his musculature. The cat knows how to struggle and get away.

I was ready for him, though. I had a good grip on him and took advantage of the fact that he won't claw or bite the cat carrier either, which might have given him better purchase. It was still a good fight, embarrassing considering that I weigh about 154 pounds and the cat weighs somewhere around 12-15 pounds. Once I got the door shut he did a quick 360 flip and proceeded to panic. No way out! His eyes got wild and he attacked the door, clawless again but with a good two-paw punch that rattled the whole cage. I spoke his name and he calmed and settled--settled, that is into yowling.

He yowled as he had not yowled since we first caught him and took him to the vet. I'd forgotten he had this ability to pierce human skulls with his voice alone. Murmuring comforting words, I carried him out. He'd completely reverted to wild by then, and didn't recognize the dogs. When Finn nuzzled the cage in inquiry, he hissed, spat and growled as if he'd never deliberately jumped into the puppy enclosure when they were tiny to flirt with the dogs.

I checked him in and left him. It seemed like only a short while later they called to let me know I could pick him up, but I couldn't, not until 3:30, a lifetime later for my poor cat. Verdict, abcess, and they irrigated it and put him on antibiotics because his body wasn't fixing it on its own. He still isn't sick-sick from it, but neither is it healing. Hopefully now the healing can finally start.

He was yowling when I picked him up, yowled all the way home, and then as soon as I let him out he ate food and became his quiet self again. I imagine this all baffles him. I'm sure his leg bothers him, and now that he's had this procedure at the vet's, his leg, well, still bothers him, except now he has to take medicine.

Humans are so weird.

Thursday, September 20, 2007

Sometimes They Break Your Heart

Wizard's abcess or wound or whatever it is just isn't getting any better, so it's off to the vet for some antibiotics. They'll probably irrigate his wound too, so he may have to be anesthetized. Poor baby. No food since last night. He's been running around the house like a crazy man this morning, twining around my legs and generally acting as cute as possible hoping that I might feed him.

Two of our cats are missing. Mistah-fluff aka Misty has been gone for over a months. Claire now is missing too, for just over a week. I'm hoping both cats are fine and have moved over to the neighbors, who feed strays at their back door. Knowing Misty's love of attention and her hatred of our other cats, she may have literally gone in there door and moved in where there are no other indoor cats around. This is my fantasy. I've asked the kids to ask Tony about it (he drives their bus) but I think they keep forgetting. Just as well. If he says no, poof, there goes my hope.

In other bad news, yesterday I found one of our chickens dead. She may have died of natural causes, or sickness. It's hard to tell. The water was pretty dirty. I talked with Andrea and found that the animal care situation wasn't as dire as I'd believed when I looked out there. The water was low because she'd been using a smaller bucket to carry it (we're out of 5 gallon buckets. They get used a lot and that busts them up.) She changes it every other day. It's still possible the hen died from drinking dirty water, which transmits a nasty little bug called coccidiosis (sp?) but it's also possible that she had an egg impaction or her heart gave out or any number of reasons. Anyway, I buried her near the old henhouse and struggled with guilt.

Sometimes keeping animals just breaks your heart. At least the dogs and goats all are doing great. Brian is gorgeous, and will probably end up on the dust jacket of Rory's book. Heh--not by himself. Though that would be funny.

Meditations on Violence by Brian Miller. Woof.
As for the culprit, Rory saw a fox the day before yesterday. I love foxes. They're so beautiful. But ... yeah.

So I've told the kids that if they want to adopt another animal, it's going to have to be a small companion dog. No more cats. It's just too dangerous. We did fine for years out here, but with the 'scaping of our garden we're increasing diversity in all the wildlife, and that has brought in much more than the racoons. My mom thought she might have seen a weasel when she was here last. They're pretty nasty customers too. Yes, we could have indoor only kitties but honestly our catboxes--ugh. Three is enough.

I miss our kitties so much. I'm praying they're safe. Three is enough, but I'd just soon have too many, thanks very much, and have our fluff and hairless Claireness back.

Monday, September 17, 2007

Too many good things

After a feverish few days of putting together a bid to chair OryCon 30, Kai Jones aka snippy and I managed to dodge becoming chair and co-chair. If that makes no sense, bear in mind that very few who have taken on a major role in the convention do so again. Even more rare is the individual who chooses to chair a second time. I've seen aspects of the job, and they're no fun. So why in the world would I go for it? Because I knew of only one other bid, and that came in after I decided to put in a bid myself. When I first made the decision no one had stepped up, and if no one steps up, there's a serious possibility that there will be no OryCon.

Meanwhile, the writer's workshop deadline arrived and went, and along with that came the usual mad flurry of emails. I've spent more time in front of the computer today than I have in ages, and none of it has been spent writing. That twists my panties into a knot, but hey, I signed up for this. I have no one to blame but myself.

Which brings me to the third situation: easystreet, grr, has changed its email system. If you're reading this update my email to kamila@easystreet.net and pass the word along. There are some fabulous perks associated with this, the best being that I now have spam filtration and I haven't got a single piece of spam all day. The downside, major downside, is that I don't seem to be able to send out email, and for whatever reason Rory's email doesn't work at all despite my duplicating the changes I made to my account. In order to fully appreciate this problem consider that I can't email everyone in my address book to update their address books with my new email address because I CAN'T SEND OUT EMAIL!

So if you've emailed me and you haven't heard back, well, that's why. I've most likely gotten your email and have a response queued up in my Outbox.

I haven't found the end of my rope yet, but it seems like I have a lot of rope above me and I'm pretty sure there's not much left. Hopefully all these good things going on will eventually settle down and I can get back to what I love the most, well, second most--writing a good story. Okay, fourth most. Maybe even eighth most, because I love my dogs, even if they're playing that stupid you can't get me through the fence game *again*. And I love my cats too.

But you get the idea.

Tuesday, September 11, 2007

She Who Returns

The front door swings open and it's her again, She Who Returns. She gives me a sweet smile. She has her usual prop, her grandson (if that's who he really is) and that's all he seems to be to her, a prop and a bit of a bother but cute enough to divert attention from her, She Who Returns. And of course She Who Returns (henceforth known as SWR which also serves as a fine acronym for Single White Refundee) doesn't simply flash her card and get ding donged in. Nope, she plops a bag onto the counter. "I have a return and an exchange."

Hmm, the exchange part piques my interest. "Okay." I get out the refund slips, trying not to grit my teeth. "What have we got?"

SWR removes the items, and along with them comes a receipt, but that's just her schtick. Naturally it's not a receipt from our store. It's from Safeway. "Oh, she said she put the receipt in there, but this is for the Starbucks."

It's never for our store. SWR is nothing if not a creature of habit. She's always nice, always smiles, always has this child who she places strategically so that he can grab at things, and always brings a receipt that oops, is not the right receipt. I want to go all tired, bored cop on her but I'm trapped by my sworn oath to deliver excellent customer service at all times. Now if I were so foolish as to manuever myself into a supervisory position I could ask a few questions and maybe even deny her this return. But no, I wear the chains of a servant.

Two items pour out of the bag. I grab an RF (secret decoder laser gun, zap zap, take that evil SWR!) and scan. And of course, one of the items comes up worth more than $20. Otherwise this game wouldn't be worth her while. Meanwhile, my initial interest has waned. These are both returns. She doesn't want to exchange a faulty product for one that works. Nope, she hasn't even opened either of the packages, as usual.

I'm not entirely certain what the game is. Maybe it's small potatoes, something she does for pop money, purchasing things in Oregon and then getting the return along with sales tax in Washington. Or maybe they're stolen outright and she gets the whole shebang. As always, the seals are untouched. Both packages are sparkling clean straight off the shelf. Last time it was an ear thermometer. This time it's a wart removal kit and blister bandages.

Helplessly I get the requisite initial because my super is on the way out the door and there's no subtle way to tackle her, wrestle her to the CSM and whisper surreptitiously the whole story of SWR. But I have a backup plan. Besides, SWR might be an actual paying customer (ha! But I must allow for this possibility) and no single super will take her on without The Mighty One's approval, except maybe for our musical second in command, who is not at the store at this time, and this super who wants nothing more than to go home and not get chewed out for unnecessary overtime.

Once SWR is safely away with her return slip I summon The New One. The New One is wise and clever, but new and therefore must certainly consult The Mighty One. However, The New One will be in the store in the morning, as will The Mighty One, and he can collect data from me and spew it on The Mighty One right after coffee. I tell him that I've personally written three or four returns and the routine is always the same. The last time I wrote a note and stuck it in the CSM. And aha! There is SWR in line. I point her out. She notices us, and although The New One turns his back it's not in time, she's made eye contact and her expression is guarded. She may have realized that we're onto her.

But never mind that, for if she is a thief we don't want her to come back anyway. The New One takes the returned items into his lonely citadel and analyzes them. He asks questions, I answer. At last, we have begun to collect real evidence that might prevent yet another round of 'oh gee, I thought I had the right receipt with me.'

So should SWR ever return, then mwa ha ha, she may be met with a gracious smile and-- "I'm sorry, I can't accept this return without a receipt. Could you bring it in with you the next time you come in?"

Take that, SWR!

Monday, September 10, 2007

Bring her home

There are no such things as ambulances for animals, at least, not to my knowledge. Sometimes I wonder if there ought to be. Fortunately we didn't need one last night.

Rory heard Nikita moaning, thank goodness, before he went to bed. She'd gotten stuck under the porch, probably wanting to hang out with the young whipper snappers that like to hang around and dig and wrestle and get dusty under there. Or maybe she wasn't feeling well and wanted to hide. Either way, there she was and Rory crawled under there to help her while I herded the sea of unconditional love into our upstairs bathroom so they wouldn't 'help' too. After much coaxing and help as he could offer her, Nikita finally emerged but she couldn't stand up on her hind legs. She was in obvious pain. While Rory comforted her I got her medication and we gave her a double dose. I volunteered to drive her in so that Rory could sleep, as it was now 10:30 pm and he had to go to work at 5am. We had no idea what they'd say. Maybe it was her time.

I didn't want it to be, but I recognized the selfishness in that. Keeping her with us while she was in horrible pain would be beyond awful. On the other hand, she might be willing to endure that pain to remain with her pack. We've been together for sixteen years. She's seen other dogs come into the pack, and die, and new ones rush about oblivious to things like loyalty, duty and the steadfast protectiveness she's always honored us with. Beast might run off for five days like an idiot and come back wondering what all the fuss was about. Nikita will not wander more than a hundred yards from the house, because she might be needed at home, and the only reason she'd leave would be to investigate potential trouble, which more often than not translated into looking in on the neighbor's dobermans of whom she always took a dim view, them being inclined to bark at her people. Barking at her people is not acceptable. They are also owned by He Who is Not to Be Trusted. I'm not sure why she never took a liking to Chuck, but there you have it.

But I digress.

Rory helped load Nikita into the car with the firm admonition of 'you call if you need help with her.'
"I'll bring her home," I promise.

So on the way to the emergency clinic I sing "You're My Best Friend" by Queen and "Wanderlust" by Heather Alexander. I think about passing on, and how lonely that is and I hope with all my heart that in whatever existence she finds herself in after this one she'll not be by herself but with someone or something loving. I wonder if Frey might not be waiting for her, and it chokes me up to hope that he might be waiting for us both, with his big, goofy grin and his shock of dark brindle fur, the love child of a teddy bear and a huge ball of lint who was never convinced he was a dog, like our others. He was a man, and he sat in a chair like a man, and he had his own ideas about everything. He wasn't a fool or disobedient like Beast. He was independent without being aloof, and self-reliant while being a complete slut for attention. And he was never pushy. He was always nearby, just in case you might be inclined to pet him. His head would be right under your hand.

When I'm on the freeway my hand nestles into Nikita's fur while I sing and tell her she's a good girl. She relaxes, and her breathing softens. The only reason I know she's still with me is because her head is leaning on the car seat rather than lolling over. It's good that she feels warm and that she's not shivering in pain.

Finally we reach the clinic and I park. I try to get her out, but she's a large dog and I'm afraid she might have broken her hip, though she doesn't seem to be in that much pain. I settle her back on her side and close the door. I lose my prevailing cool as I enter the emergency room. "I need help with my dog!"

"How big is he?"

"She's about eighty pounds and I'm afraid I might hurt her."

They get a stretcher and a muzzle. The tech is so good--a tall, slender blonde woman with a firm but compassionate voice. Nikita is typically mistrustful of strangers, but this woman she accepts as someone who's okay. "I get along with big dogs," the woman tells me.

It takes me coaxing Nikita and two techs to get her maneuvered onto the stretcher. They strap her in so that she can't get up and take her away. I can't go with her, just like with a person. I have to stay behind and do paperwork while the doctors do their thing. And then I wait. It won't be long, the nurse says, but even a short wait takes forever. They put me in an exam room because they know. Now that I have nothing to do, the tears will come and it's good to have privacy for that. I don't cry but tears trickle down my face and my eyes feel hot and swollen and my throat is cramped tight around the anger and resentment I've grown toward mortality. It's not fair to Nikita, who loves us. She shouldn't have to be separated from us. Screw grief, screw our pain. What really pisses me off is that she deserves to be with her packmates as long as she wants to be.

The vet comes in and she's smiling. A sense of calm settles in. Good news is coming. We've had a reprieve.

"I can't believe she's sixteen years old," the vet says. "She's in such good shape." And then we talk dog. The vet probably knows this role well. All she has to do is sit and listen to me brag about my dog and spill my little guilts about not grooming her and how she hates to be groomed and how we have these humungous puppies who are both a boon and a bane as they lavish her with attention and in so doing knock her down. She talks back to me in all the right places. The verdict, probably soft tissue damage from being stuck. "When I saw her my first thought was this is an old dog with weak hind legs," the vet tells me. "There's no evidence that anything's broken, and she let me move her legs through a full range of motion. There's no guarding in the abdomen, she's well hydrated, no sign of internal bleeding or shock. It looks like she's going to stay around a while longer. If you'd like, we can keep her overnight, take X-rays just in case ...?"

"She's going to want to go home," I say. "She'll be less stressed if she's with her family."

"Does she have somewhere comfortable to sleep?"

"A carpeted dog house."

"Good."

She gives me a prescription for a pain medication and anti-inflammatory that can piggyback on Metacam safely, and then I go home with my dog. Rory comes out and asks about her. "I brought her home. She's okay," I tell him. "You can go back to sleep."

We can all sleep easy now, at least for a little while. Nikita is home.

Friday, September 07, 2007

Buggy

Today on the way to work I felt that distinctive itch. Yep, it was in fact a flea, in my car, feasting on my ankle. Balancing driver safety with angry vengeance, I shocked myself by actually capturing the little bastage. I opened the window, and something like a person dumping a problem raccoon in the wild (also known as ditching a raccoon in an area where it can do even more damage) I flicked it out onto the highway. Ha! Take that evil flea! Try to find your way back from *that!*

Which of course will lead to the flea version of Homeward Bound.

Later, I was planting bulbs feloniously in my garden. Well, semi-feloniously. I've cut back massively on plant purchases and I felt okay about spending a few dollars on cheap bulbs and three mums at the store after work. Anyway, I was planting these bulbs when I felt something prickling on my shoulder. I looked and ack! Big bug! I brushed it off my shoulder before my mind fully processed what kind of bug it was.

Praying mantis. I love praying mantids and this one was relatively small still and bright green. I found it again, made sure it wasn't hurt to the best of my ability (it wasn't missing any limbs and wasn't leaking goo which is more like a catastrophic injury than what a human knows as 'hurt'--what does a minor injury look like on a bug and would we notice?) and then transferred it to a rose, which I knew wouldn't get weeded, like, ever. The thing about praying mantids about the garden is that weeding potentially kills them, as well as some caterpillars who happen to adore young daisies in their immature rosette form (where the plant is basically a small flush of leaves and nothing else.) These caterpillars are majorly cute, like teddy bear caterpillars except blonde and fuzzy instead of brown and black and fuzzy. I'm not sure what the praying mantids like but they seem to end up on me when I'm near the wild evening primroses and/or the butterfly bushes. It's something tall, because they end up on my arm or my head or my back. I partially smushed one and I felt very bad about it--still do. They're very expressive for an insect. They appear to have the ability to hood their eyes, or maybe at certain angles it looks like they have a structure like an adjustable eyelid. Anyway, they can look mean, or serene, or very wide-eyed and, well, buggy. Their legs too fold up in interesting ways that hints at how aggressive or how passive they are at the moment.

So I hoped that he would stay on stuff that I wasn't planning on weeding until late winter during those rare times when it's nice out but not uncomfortably chilly and the ground is dry enough to weed. During those times I'll have to watch for egg sacs. Hopefully we'll have lots of babies next spring, voraciously gnawing down our pest insects.

Which reminds me. Our beautiful purple beech tree has whiteflies. They're not particularly problematic, mostly unsightly, though they can severely damage young plants. They love the beech, and apparently, finches love the whiteflies. A whole flock of birds came in to clean the leaves off a couple of mornings ago. I went out to see what the noise was all about, thinking I had some migratory birds picking around the birdfeeders. Nope, it was our local finches flitting about the beech leaves like oversized, super-clumsy hummingbirds. One of our hummingbirds wasn't amused by this activity and kept buzzing the finches.

Yep, it's been all about bugs lately. As for the flea--

Crawl crawl crawl crawl--
ZOOOOM! (as a car zooms overhead)
Spring! Spring spring spring! (runs out of hydrolic energy in its brief flea panic)
Crawl crawl crawl crawl crawl ....

Thursday, September 06, 2007

Getting their goat

So I went down to the vet the other day to get advice on what shots to give my girls prior to breeding them for the first time and to hopefully get a lead on a buck to borrow. The pre-breeding advice took all of five minutes. As for the lead on a buck--man, you'd think it would be easy to find a buck, especially since we don't need champion lines.

But maybe it's not so surprising. The thing about bucks is that when they go into rut, they pee on their forelegs and faces to smell sexy for the gals, and apparently this drives the female goats into a sexual frenzy. It drives humans into a frenzy too, but not the same kind. More of the OMG what is that smell?!! kind. They also tend to be more adamant about getting out of fences to wander about hoping to find even more females than the ones that are in the immediate vicinity whether they've bred them all or not. I knew this, hence our not having any unaltered males of our very own, and yet breeding happens around here. It must. We're coming up on October sooner than we'll be ready for it--is there no one willing to pimp out their billy?

It's tempting to drive around the neighborhood and knock on the doors of people with male Boer goats out in their pasture. (There's no mistaking the boys even if they aren't in rut--those balls look like they belong on an Angus bull rather than a goat.) "Hey, I like the balls on your goat. Mind if I borrow him for about a month? I have cold, hard cash for the priviledge of being around his magnificent stench for the duration."

Such is life on the little farm. Sometimes it's hard to get someone's goat.