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.


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.
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.

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.


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.


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.

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.

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.


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.


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?