Saturday, July 19, 2014

How this psycho gets ready to go back to a full time job.

In the usual Finny Is A Psycho tradition that you've come to expect, I spent my final moments before starting my new job last week killing my to do list.

Because nothing says accomplishment like cleaning the cat box.

Too bad I didn't have a second to spare before starting work because then I could have spent some much fantasized about time sitting naked atop this list.

Instead, I spent some much fantasized about time putting the spong away where I don't have to fucking see it.

What do you mean you can't see it either?

TEE DAH this only took me two hours and a hundred swears.
Yeah, I've wanted one of these tip out drawers for a hundred years and then I was nearing the moment when I was going to be out of free time forever because of the forthcoming full time farming job (YAY! I'm still so YAY over this. Obviously.) and then I was randomly reading some blogs and checked in on one of my faves and damnitall if girlfriend hadn't just put one in.

That tore it. I had to do it. IT WAS NOW OR NEVER. Otherwise I was going to have to look at that grody spong forever. And lest you think that I typoed back there, I did not. We call it a Spong. Like 'Dong' with a 'Sp'.

You get it.

And understand me.

Thanks for understanding. I like that about you guys.

Anyway, the spong and scrubber brush and drain stopper and just whatever the fuck else I decide I want to put in there have homes where I don't have to look at their grodiness.

Especially the spong though. It's the grodiest. Though I'm not sure why it grosses me out.

Moving on.

In my spree of getting shit done before starting full time work again, I did other shit, too.

Like breaking down all of our food for hiking the John Muir Trail.
Which included moving the contents of giant jars of peanut butter and Nutella into squeeze tubes yay fuck.

All I have to say about packing food for two weeks of backpacking is that it completely blows.

I even tried to cheer myself on through it by getting all super organize-y with the laptop up with my spreadsheet tracker going and putting on fun movies in the background and letting myself eat a few peanut M&Ms, but it still sucked.

All I could think about was how much I was going to hate all of this food soon. And how I'd have to carry it while hating it. And smell it while hating it. And eat it while hating it.

My fervent hope is that I at least come home hating Nutella so that it can't taunt my thighs from the store shelves anymore.

I LOVE IT SO MUCH.

Anyway, yeah - I packed a lot of food up for our trip and I'm shipping half of it to our resupply guy this week and THANK YOU A MILLION TIMES to my amazing, badass, loves-to-put-messy-shit-into-squeeze-tubes sister who showed up just in time to put all the messy shit into squeeze tubes.

I was putting it off because the thought made me want to shit twice and die a thousand fiery deaths.

Can you guess what movie I was watching while I did this? If you can, we are soul mates. If not, blow me.

I did, in fact, manage to get to the bottom of that final to do list and, as my reeeeward, I fucked around in the garden for a while.

Nice reeeeward.

It's something. Not a lot. But something.

Tiny melon

Tiny lemon cucumber

And, not on my written list, but in my mental mind list FOREVER, was a trip to float in Lake Tahoe. Which I SO did even when all things were conspiring against me to just forget about it.

FORGET YOU, life's responsibilities

Instead of blood in my veins, I have the icy cold water of Lake Tahoe. Think about that, why don't you. Also, loving my hat Dig - all my friends in Tahoe want one now, too. So, like, expect orders.

I'm sure you can see why I love it here.

Then I did a bunch of other shit that had just been languishing in the back of my head being all, "You know, just get to me whenever you have a free minute, Mrs. I'm Too Busy For Everything Jerk Bitch."

Seriously, it's rude in there.

Planted my lamb's ear some buddies.

Picked a shit ton of Gravenstein apples.

Went on a death march style hike with the goofball dog who doesn't know how to use a backpack and my beloved Bubba who definitely knows how to use a backpack.


Watched Bubba pump his balls.
HAAAAAAAAAA!
This wasn't on my list, but I'm sure you understand why I had to include it anyway. Because of how you guys all understand me, remember? You remember.
Also, I said balls.
 HAAAAAA! 

Bid a tearful farewell to my hydro cucumber and eggplant crop. Love you, babies! Be good and don't get whitefly!

I hugged all of these hops.

I ate all of these peaches. Thanks, Nan!

Make crockpot plum jam.

Sampled the awesome Belgian that Bubba and I brewed.

Drank a LOT of cocktails while swinging in my recently resurrected Sky Chair.

Planted the long-coveted pineapple guava.
And probably there were other things I did, too, but who cares because that shit's over.

I'm a working woman again.

And IT'S FUCKING GREAT.

We'll chat on it.

Saturday, July 12, 2014

Someone banged my queen, evidently.

Since we're back to doing random posts, let's, like, really go for it.

Let's be super random!

Or whatever, sort of random.

Remember when I was all, Someone bang my queen, already?

Well, evidence suggests that someone(s) did. And that evidence is not just my really broken beekeeping intuition, but rather a more trustworthy source - the video feature on my suddenly (shockingly) functioning phone.

Because my phone is apparently a total perv for bee sex and began magically (shockingly) functioning fully like it's supposed to when I was sitting out in my bee spying chair staring all lazily at the hive, the day after the WHY IS THIS SO FUCKING HARD there's no queen in my hive incident, and saw Ms. Someone Bang Me herself just getting ready to take her virgin flight.

YES.

I saw the queen bee outside of the hive. Which is really quite rare since the only time a queen leaves the hive is to mate and all of my queens have arrived mated in the past so this is the #1 time I've seen a queen bee outside of a hive period so I'll thank you to just be impressed and let me show you the video evidence of said Queen Bee Outside of Hive.


video

Outside and waving her lady junk in the air like she just don't care, and such.

Then THEN! about 20 minutes later, I was still out in the garden, like messing with the apple tree or something, when I heard piping again.

Remember piping? The SOMEONE BANG ME, ALREADY song of queen bees everywhere? Yes, well, they sing a slightly different song when they're back in the hive and successfully banged.

It goes a little something like this. And when translated into English goes a little something like, "Inform the women. I have mated with many drones."

And then, a little bit later while I was still out there fucking with the garden because I don't know when to leave well enough alone to bang in my yard, I saw some solid evidence that the queen REALLY HAD returned freshly banged and REALLY HAD been advising the staff of the future arrival of up to a million baby bees because the ritualistic killing of the drones had begun.

Like, the queen had gotten her fill of the drones and now they were of no use to her. So, like, off with their heads and shit.


video


Yay, right?

My hive righted itself, the queen got laid, returned to the hive safely, set her legions of worker gals to KILL and I *may* have a semi-functioning beehive again.

AND I GOT IT ALL ON VIDEO BY SOME FUCKING MIRACLE YAY.

Yes, yay.

And now you may be interested to know that, due to the success of my hive during times of me NOT fucking with it, I have adopted a new beekeeping method.

It's the NOT FUCKING WITH IT method.

Mostly it's just me NOT FUCKING WITH IT unless there's something very visibly wrong with it. From the outside. Where I can't do so much damage.

Like, unless all of the bees are lying dead outside the hive on the ground in a heart crushing display of sadness or not a single bee is flying out of the thing all day even though conditions are perfectly acceptable for flying or I, like, see flames shooting out of the hive - I'm not checking in.

The only time I'm touching the hive is to add water to the entrance feeder (which I can do without fucking anything up), add a super if they've filled the one they have or waaaaaaaaaaay later on if I've been really good, harvest the honey.

That's it.

Otherwise, they're on their own and I think we can all agree that it's better that way. Frankly, I think it may be the only way that I can "keep" bees. Because what I've been doing to date can hardly be described as beekeeping. More like beeFUCKINGUPNOMATTERWHATIDO.

Ugh.

And since no beekeepers can agree on what the right amount of hive checks are, I won't be listening to any that come out of the woodwork and go, "you know, you really should be checking them once a month/week/day/year/second." because shuttup.

Unless you're Awesome Steve. In which case I will totally listen. But Steve is cool with my NOT FUCKING WITH IT METHOD. Because he's awesome and also of a similar mind.

Ooh, on a nice random note to round out the random in this post - I start my first full time farming gig on Monday and HOLY SHIT THAT'S A SCARY AWESOME FUCKED UP THING to be saying.

How do you like my random now, eh?

Thursday, June 26, 2014

CATCHING

I looked like this all day.

Here I am with 45 minutes until a friend shows up and I've done all the shit I set out to do today and instead of watching the first 45 minutes of my favorite Bubba's Away Movie (Cold Mountain - he hates it now after the 435th viewing. Slacker.), I'm writing this post.

For you guys.

BECAUSE I'M NICE LIKE THAT.

Actually, no, I just want to get the random post trend started back up again now that the whole pesky BIG HUGE THING NEWS event of 2012 has come, gone and resulted in gainful employment.

Thank the maker that shit's over. Now we can talk about important random shit like HEY I CAUGHT A BOAT LOAD OF FUCKING FISH WOO!

Yeah, that's right, I got to go fishing. And, to quote my beloved hilarious slightly miffed father, "This is called FISHING, Jessie (my dad calls me Jessie. NOT YOU GUYS. Or anyone other than immediate family that has known me since I was wee. So shut it all up.). You're just CATCHING. You're doing it wrong."

Which he screamed from his boat on Father's Day morn as I caught, along with Bubba and my sweet uncle on our boat, "All the fish in the lake so that no one else had a fucking chance."

Or so says Finny's dad.

Salty sailor, this guy.
You may be getting an idea about from where I get this spicy language. Go with that. You're on to something.

Anyway, yeah. Bubba planned a very lovely Father's Day fishing trip for my dad and uncle to Crowley Lake (just outside Mammoth, CA) and let my brother and I tag along.

I saw it as a very sweet ruse to get me out on a boat for a day of guided fishing, but that's because I see all outings in which I participate as outings created with only me in mind.

Because it's all about me.

You know this.

But did you know that I kissed all the fish in the lake?

Well, I tried, anyway.

This guy was ready for me. Look at that come hither maw.

It's in the eyes here. Or, eye, rather.

Asking for it with those sexy spots, I say.

I mean, really, with the way they dress these days.

Just a little peck!

Whore.


 Also, Bubba took his turn making out with fish.

Full tongue on the first date? Suh-lut.

This one was not of age for kissing.

Practically begging for it.

First we fold the fish, then we kiss the fish.

Mmmmmmmmm...folded fish.

We all kissed this fish. It was the winner of the day - 19" rainbow.


And my uncle is not a fish kisser as much as he is a fish CATCHER.

LINE 1's FOR YOU, MAN!

No kissing. Only catching.

Quick march with the photo, woman! There are fish waiting for my fly!

And back into the lake with you, ya big tease.

No time to waste. In the net, photo taken, BACK INTO THE WATER STAT.

He's a mean tease, my uncle. 

That was the long swear-y way of saying that I finally got to go back out on a guided fishing trip (even made the guide's website) after the awesome one we took with the same guide outfit back in 2012 and HOO BOY was it great.

I love fishing. And catching. And hanging out on a boat all day while someone else does all the work of untangling my shitty casts (Thanks, Jerry! You're really patient and not at all giving me the hairy eyeball every time I fuck up my cast! Thanks for that. Sheesh. I'm a mess.).

Happy Father's Day again, dad. Sorry I caught all of your fish. I mean, it was a trip for me, right?

Monday, June 23, 2014

So, I'll just go ahead and be a farmer then.

I've really written this post a hundred times y'all.

In my head and in my fantasies and in Blogger and I still can't decide how to come right out and tell you guys that after the BIG HUGE THING NEWS and two years of horticulture classes and a new shiny degree and lots of time in a greenhouse and even more time freaking out and changing my mind and then unchanging it and then shaving the cat...

I'm actually going to be a farmer after all.

I mean, yeah, I DID say that I was going to be a farmer and that's why I quit the job and went back to school and tortured Bubba with all that What if I'm crazy? and What if I can never get a job? and What if RISK RISK RISK FAIL FAIL FAIL? then decided that being a field farmer wasn't the thing for me and instead I wanted to grow hydroponically and in a greenhouse instead of in the soil out in a field and then tortured Bubba with Is hydroponic farming even a job that you can have? and OH SO MUCH MORE NONSENSE which I will spare you (and you're welcome) - it has happened.

The farmer thing has happened.

And will BE happening on a full time basis in about three weeks.

So, you know, just enough time for me to relax, freak out again, relax a bit more, prepare a little bit by making some freezer Crockpot meals since I'll never have time to cook again, swim in the lake and then start work. After freaking out some more for good measure.

I freak out a lot. It's part of my method.

In case you're not already glazing over in the eyes at the thought of farmer-being, I'll tell you what I'm going to be doing...I mean farming.

So, like, get your eyes ready for glazing...

I'm going to be farming hydroponic organic live basil.

Like those live basil plants you see at the store that come in a plastic cone-shaped bag and can sit on your counter for the week or whatever while you prune off the fresh leaves.

Like this one that I grew at the college greenhouse with a million of its friends.

You know what I mean.

I'm going to grow those. As a job. In my own big greenhouse and new hydroponic system like a real farmer.

And I am pretty fucking excited about it.

So there. I've been waiting to have the right words to tell all of you kind crazy souls who've ridden this fucked up roller coaster with me for the past few years that IT IS DONE and I'm sorry if these weren't the right words. They're all I have left now after all that studying and freaking out.

Amen.

And now we can go back to talking about things that are less soul-searchy and more interesting like...

Bees! I have videos of the virgin queen taking her flight and coming back and sending the worker hit squad out to kill all the drones!

Uh...we're hiking the John Muir Trail in a few months and LO we are just beginning to train for elevation and just finished our menu and haven't tested our packs for their ability to carry two week's worth of food and booze yet and yes we take booze with us into the woods because how else are you going to have backcountry cocktails? There are sure to be a lot of fucked up stories in there. I'll share those.

The garden and how I predict I will change my tomato growing scheme to include only hybrids next year. That's right - fuck heirlooms! Yeah, I said it.

Um...I shaved Rocket.

This is her happy face. No visible bloody fangs is how you know.
So, back to our roots, then? In a totally non-punny way, of course. I hate puns! There - random Finny info for you. See, we're nearly back on track.

Wednesday, June 04, 2014

Someone bang my queen, already.

So, I started to write this in my ill-kept beekeeping journal and then, when I wasn't even making a move toward said journal and instead trying to convince myself that I'd remember - one day a month from now or whatever - I realized that HEY I have a blog where I sometimes write things!

So I'll blog my beekeeping journal entry this time.

Because that's a thing that people do, right?

Right.

I checked the bees today.

And, like every other hive check in my checkered history with beekeeping, it was not all easy like the books say.

Firstly, there wasn't any sign of newly laid eggs. Which means no queen. Which means FUCK ME WHY IS THIS SO HARD?

Secondly, there was sign of healthy larvae and capped brood (babies). Which means there was a queen about a week ago. Which means OK NOW WHAT?

But then thirdly happened.

I heard piping!

This so-called "piping" is the virgin queen's little cry for boning.

I couldn't spot her in the hive even though I looked at all of the frames because it was so muther effing hot that I had sweat drenching my eyeballs and whole face, but I heard her the whole time I was checking the hive, so I know she's in there.

All, "eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee" and shit.

She and, like, two or three other queen cells stuck on the sides of the frames.

Which I tried to take pictures of but couldn't because my phone was all, "No. I think I'll just not respond to your demands right now and just randomly shut down while you're trying desperately to take a picture of this unique moment. But don't worry because later on, when you're just trying to unlock me or something, I'll take a really unflattering picture up your nose or of your crotch."

The phone is being a problem right now.

Anyway! The hive check today was kind of a disaster, in that I don't have an actively laying queen at the moment, but also kind of not a disaster because I apparently have a virgin queen who will hopefully mate soon with one of the MONSTROUSLY HUGE drones roaming around all uselessly eating the worker bees' honey and then go around killing the other queens in their cells like a total bitch.

Other random notes that are more for me than you, sorry:

  • The medium honey super had drawn comb on most of the 10 frames, though none were full and very little was capped yet. Pretty normal.
  • The brood pattern in the brood box was good - honey and pollen socked away around a center of capped and uncapped brood.
  • Some drone brood was present in the brood box, which is good since someone's going to have to bang this new queen soon.
  • The bees were super mellow as always, not really responding to the smoker or getting riled up or anything.
  • It was hot as shit out there and I do not enjoy sweat in my eyes.
  • No pests were present in or around the hive and there was only 1 hive beetle floating around in the beetle jail and I left him there as a warning to any brethren that may wander through thinking this is a good place to make a home WHICH IT IS NOT.
  • I broke open a few of the drone cells I scraped off the bottom of the frames and didn't see any signs of mites.
  • I think the diatomaceous earth I used around the hive is keeping the ants and beetles at bay.
  • There were a few huge drones hanging out in the brood box

And, yeah - that's it. Checked the hive, found it to be not working as expected which I totally expected, but at least it's not full of wax moth or mites or beetles as I'd imagined and hopefully I'll have a mated laying queen soon and not an empty hive resulting from a swarm.

Let's all say that loudly for the universe to hear, OK? NO SWARMING. Just bang your new queen and let's get back to business.

OK, then.


Thursday, May 29, 2014

I'll stop after this. Promise.

At the risk of alienating all of you with never-ending school banter, I will say that this is the last post on school because BAM, it's over.

I've been graduated.



Meanwhile, did you know that's the grammatically correct way to say it? Learned that during my undergrad, yes I did.

From a psychopathic professor who would put my hand to his scratchy bearded mouth and yell into it.

My undergrad was weird.

This time around though! Also weird, I'm afraid.

But less mouth-to-hand screaming, so that was a relief.

Could have done without all of the rank hippies eating themselves free of the cover crop rows, lunatics running rampant in the greenhouse breaking plants, blind high stoners wandering aimlessly through lab messing shit up and the general teenagery Santa Cruz-ness of it all, too, but I guess that's part of the fun?

Sure, fun. Let's call it that.

LIKE FUN!

Heh. I love it when people said that back in the day when nobody used swears. "You're 23? Like fun you are!"

Anyway, random.

And, hey! I have time for random again! I mean, sort of.

Like yesterday when I searched up my final grades and found that I did, in fact, get all As and then took that as a cue to conduct a little activity demanded by my dear friend, Shelley.

See, she's been on my case for oh 2 years or so to put my As up on the fridge and take a picture.

And then a hundred other people said that to me over the last two years as I bashed them about the head and ears with my test and course scores because I'm terribly self-congratulatory.

I'm also overly-familiar, rudely blunt, foul-mouthed, unforgiving of poor grammar and spelling and not that good at mowing the lawn.

And now that we have some of my most heinous flaws out there for you all to ogle, check this shit out:

I call it my Shrine of Self Congratulation.  Also Where the Tonic Lives.

That's right. I kept all of my school paperwork and tests organized for just such an occasion and also because I'm self-indulgent and sentimental.

It's making me nuts that the folders are out of chronological order.

Now, contrary to my previous declaration, I didn't actually get all As on all things. I mean, yes, I did get all As on my final transcript, but there were a few exams here and there where I didn't get As. Thankfully, some of the professors are tech-fearful and don't use the online learning system so I couldn't see all of my final exam scores, but one of them is less fearful than others and I know that I got a C on a final last semester.

A C! I know. Horrid. Still though, I got an A in the class, so let's pretend I never told you. I need to remain pure in your minds.

Instead, look at this and swoon. That's what I did and, because I'm also terribly self-involved, I assume that's what everyone will do.

Perhaps it's my self-involvement that fetched me the 4.0 transcript that I've always wanted. Or maybe it was the fact that this was horticulture and not, say, organic chemistry.

Or maybe it was the socks.

Definitely the socks.
And since these guys served me so well for the last two years in school, I thought they might have enough juice left to get me through another interview yesterday.

For a job I REALLY want.

A job that's REALLY cool.

And REALLY scary. So scary and cool that I will probably need to wear these socks every day for the first six months of the job if I were so lucky as to get it.

I need to learn how to darn socks.

It would appear that my lucky socks are running out of lucky. Or lucky is running out of the toes? Or? Whatever, they have holes.

Either way though - now you're safe. No more school talk on the blog.

We'll just go back to talking about Oh noooooooooo and the garden and dongs, ok?

I make no promises about it during NaNoWriMo though. Which I'm hoping to do again this year after a two year hiatus. And during which I *may* write up a short story compilation covering the crazy of my last two years.

But not on the blog! You are free from schoolishness talking and grades and shit like that.

Be free!