Unscytheable

MUST SHING THE GOLD DEVIL.

There has been some serious SHINGing going on around this muther fucker.

And by SHINGing, I mean scything because of the SHING SHING SHINGing it does when I'm slicing oh-so-satisfyingly through acres of 10' tall thistles and the tall grass before it turns into fire bait.

SHINGSHINGSHING

I love it.

Seriously, it is like therapy. Like hillbilly dun lost 'er shit therapy. Our neighbors think we're nuts. And dangerous. Which is really something coming from the likes of these fine armed folks.

The cow horn holster (for the whetstone, obviously) isn't helping. 

Anyway - I've been scything. Grass, thistles, wild pea tumbleweeds that are a super pain in the ass to scythe because of the stupid ass way they grow and then get all snarled up and grow giant trunks that are really hard to SHING through.

It's been fairly successful. And despite the physical effort it looks like I'm exerting, it's actually way lighter work than hauling around that weedwhacker. Plus I'm not breathing in gas fumes. Or straining to hear Gojira over the roar of the motor. Or sweating my tits off in coveralls to avoid having grass shot up my pooper.

That shit's a fucking scene, man.

But with the scything I get to ditch the coveralls, groove to whatever French metal I please at a reasonable volume and peacefully SHINGSHINGSHING my way across the hillside.

I mean, until I SHING a yellow jacket nest, of course.

SHINGWHATTHUFUCK?!

Then it's just all scythe-throwing and girlish shrieking and Bubba yelling "WHAT WHAT WHAT??" and me running through the woods at a rate so expeditious that after the Great Yellow Jacket Mauling of 2017 concluded, he tried to comfort me by telling me that he was impressed I could run that fast in work boots.

Cover me in stinging insects and I bet I make a sub-2hr marathon.

Plus the ones on my hands and stomach yay

Yeah, so there's apparently a trend emerging where I make unwelcome advances at stinging insects and end up bringing new meaning to my old standby freakout of OH NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.

And this is an OH NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO that Bubba can't rescue me from because he's allergic as shit to stingers.

So, yeah, probably not the best and smartest move for me to be hurtling myself down the hillside in his direction looking for help. I realized my error about halfway down the hill, but I was moving at such a speed (see sub-2 hr marathon in work boots) that momentum, gravity and the spacing of the oak trees predetermined my path. A path which dumped me out nearly at his feet. And me waving my arms and shrieking "NO NO NO" didn't deter him from coming to my rescue and then being aggressively shooed away so that I could find and kill those stinging fuckers myself.

ASSHOLES. UGH.

Later, after I came down from the adrenaline and rage from my yellow jacket-fueled run, I inspected the yellow jacket nest from afar.

It seemed ACTIVE.

When I went back the next morning to fetch my scythe, which I'd hurtled to the ground in my hasty escape, I found it laying ever so conveniently across TWO entrances to a massive nest.

Delightful.

Thankfully it was cool out and there wasn't much action on at the nest yet, so I pulled my hoodie up, cinched it down around my face, hiked out there, snatched up my scythe, gave the nest a good old American middle finger (it was 4th of July after all) and marched back to the house.

ASSHOLES. UGH.

And then, because I will NOT have my foggy morning dog walk ruined by the likes of a bunch of asshole yellow jackets, I went downstairs to make tea and go for my walk.

Love fog. LOVEIT.

Except then SUPER FUN fishing a yellow jacket out of my sweatshirt when I sat down to put my shoesonyaythanksforthat.

I'm afraid that one bore the brunt of my rage at his entire nest and species. There was not a lot left of that dude when my boots and I were done with him.

GEEZGODDAMN.

So yeah, scythes are awesome for cutting grass but not good for defense against stinging insects.

Got it.

---------
Update a month later, here. Hi! I'm on vacation yay!

The nest was just raided the other night by another suddenly-a-lot-less-loathed beast of the hillside - a skunk.

At first I was pissed when I woke up to the waft of skunk on the morning breeze but when Bubba told me that HEY AWESOME the nest was busted open and there wasn't any flying going on up there anymore, I became very forgiving with the skunks.

I mean, they are fluffy and cute after all. And wasp hungry.

AVENGE ME, MIGHTY FEARLESS SKUNKS INTIMIDATORS OF ALL PREDATORS!

They know. That's why they walk so slow across the road when I'm driving to work in the early hours.

All beasts great and small slow their roll when they see a skunk.

It's the collective OH NOOOOOOOOOOOO of nature.

And for one moment, the skunks were on my side.

PIMP.

Oh nooooooooooooooooooooooo + graduation

Oh you guys.

I feel like I want to sit here and spill my guts to you about finals week, graduation, job interviewing all over the damn place and the drama of it all, but no.

I need a break from mentally chewing on that all the fucking time.

Instead, let's talk about how I inadvertently turned Duchess into a rolling pub.

Let's party.

Firstly, do you remember when I was all, "Hey! We brew beer and my Greenhouse Design and Operations instructor brews beer! And I designed my final project for that class around a greenhouse for hops! I think I'll give him a growler of our homebrew when I turn in my final!" and then people were all, "What the fuck are you thinking, jackass? You can't just give a teacher a big jug of beer when you turn in your final. That's called bribery. Or it's inappropriate. Or maybe illegal. JUST NO.", and then I was all, "Oh."

Do you remember that?

Maybe it just happened on Facebook, I can't remember.

Whatever. That happened and I didn't end up giving him a growler of our homebrew after that final, which was the first semester of classes by the way, which was two years ago by the way, but then the next semester, when I sat down for my second semester of classes, he was all, "Hey! I have a project for you!" and then proceeded to walk us all the way out to the back of the greenhouses to show me the abandoned raised bed area and pointed to a bunch of huge tubs full of what looked like aborted fetuses from the set of Alien and thus my hopyard was born.

At least they grow up pretty.

And from that hopyard and our home hopyard and many orders from Williams and Northern Brewer and More Beer! and the other brewy establishments around the damn country, we have spawned and shared many, many beers, including one that was brewed with my work hopyard's Magnum hops which I named accordingly.

I'm so original.

I think you know that I shared these with my instructor. And my greenhouse boys. And the nursery manager. And so on. Because I'm inappropriate. WHICH YOU ALL KNEW SO WHY WAS EVERYONE ACTING ALL SURPRISED BEFORE?

Sheesh. It's like I don't know you people sometimes. Or you don't know me? Whatever.

SO, for the oh nooooooooooooooooooooooo part...

Last month, when my inappropriateness had been fully restored, I decided that for my instructor's birthday (who, incidentally, is also my boss, program chair and professional job reference - cue the inappropriateness), I'd give him a fabulous growler full of some more homebrew. Because we've been trading homebrews back and forth since last spring and we have a favorite growler maker because we're ridiculous like that and because he'd ogled the growlers we'd shared beer in before and it just made sense.

Because I've embraced my inappropriateness so fuck off, then, if you don't like it.

I mean, right?

And he was into it! Because, obviously. The growlers they make are beautiful things.

*WOLF WHISTLE*

So, he enjoyed the brew (which was actually Ballast Point Sculpin rather than homebrew because our homebrew was still conditioning and this is what was in the keg at birthday time)(also, I told him that it was the Sculpin, so it's not like I pretended that it was our masterfully crafted beer or anything. That would suck.) and then he finished brewing a Nelson and filled up the growler to share back with us and YAY full circle beer sharing was happening and then oh nooooooooooooooooooooooo...

See, I was down at the greenhouse that day, as I am most days, and when he handed off the growler to me, all full of Nelson deliciousness, I immediately texted Bubba to let him know what was going to be joining us and our BBQ for dinner, and then I tucked it carefully into this retardedly elaborate and mostly ineffective Subaru trunk organizer between folds of cushioning canvas shopping bags before I headed back up the hill to go home.

It's about a 45 minute drive up a windy mountain highway from the greenhouse to my house and I didn't want it rolling around or really moving at all during that trip, so I made sure it was all carefully snugged in before I hit Badass mode and rode the lightning home.

Cue the lightning.

All was good. Sun was shining, sunroof was open, Pantera was thunking and I was headed home to study my face off and then Bubba and I were going to BBQ and drink beers and...FOOP!

What the fuck was that?

You know that sound when a cork comes out of a champagne bottle? It was kinda like that. Except not as loud. Although that could have been because of the Pantera.

Anyway, I tried to ignore this almost definitely the sound of an exploded ceramic growler in the trunk of my beloved daily driver for at least 10 minutes.

Nah - it couldn't have exploded. I'd see beer spraying everywhere back there in the trunk. It'd be on the ceiling of the car. 

I'd definitely smell it...oh what is that IS THAT THE SMELL OF BEER? 

Oh nooooooooooooooooooooooo...

But, oh yes.

Driving up a windy mountain highway with no good spot to turn out and even if I did turn out, no way to clean up what was inevitably a huge mess and oh by the way no Nelson for our BBQ and what about my instructor/boss/program chair/professional referral's birthday growler that's probably totally inappropriate?

WHAT ABOUT ALL THAT?

Well, I just drove home.

With what I was imagining was a tsunami of fucking beer sloshing all giddily from side to side in Duchess's trunk, splashing against the windows and soaking into the trunk carpeting and maybe seeping down into horrible places into which nothing should seep.

And I made such complete peace with the huge disaster unfolding in my trunk that I even stopped at the grocery store on the way home, as previously planned, to get a few things for our BBQ and I didn't even open the trunk.

Because what am I going to do? Open the trunk, have a meltdown in the grocery store parking lot and then close the mess back in the trunk and drive home?

I mean, I could have. And maybe a few years ago I would have. But now, no. I've changed again. OR I just save my meltdowns for the privacy of my own driveway where I can really let loose with the soul eating swears.

Honestly, I'm just not sure if the rest of the world is ready for an oh nooooooooooooooooooooooo moment.

So, yeah. I backed into the driveway, took all the groceries into the house and unpacked them. Then I changed my clothes. And had a little lunch. And got my studying stuff out.

And basically tried to pre-calm my shit down so that I didn't flip out and, like, cry or kill someone when I went to open the trunk of the car, and that turned out to be a pretty good plan after all.

Because, even though it was still oh nooooooooooooooooooooooo, it wasn't as oh nooooooooooooooooooooooo as it could have been.

Oh noooo?

Oh. No.

This was, like, a 4 on the 1-10 oh nooooooooooooooooooooooo scale, where 1 is, like Oh? I can clean that up with this napkin from my lunch. Pffft. And 10 is, like, GET ME ROTO ROOTER AND RICHARD DEAN ANDERSON BECAUSE THIS SHIT IS GOING TO TAKE A MIRACLE TO CLEAN UP.

Because the combination of the retardedly elaborate and mostly ineffective Subaru trunk organizer and the simple and highly effective rubber Subaru trunk mat managed to keep the open seas of beer contained so completely in the rubber mat's gullies that NOT A SINGLE DROP OF BEER GOT ON THE CARPET.

Not one.

Seriously.

This mat has seen some things and this beer was the least of its worries.

This carpet has seen nothing and it'll stay that way.

Now, sure, it was a huge loss of beer and the growler would never hold beer again and I had to take everything carefully out of the trunk and rinse it off on the lawn, but the car never smelled like beer and there wasn't any window splashing carpet soaking mess to deal with.

Amazing. Wonderful. So glad I didn't look at it until I got home so that I could imagine all of the worst possible outcomes and then come to find out that, eh, it's not really as much of an oh nooooooooooooooooooooooo as imagined.

Which was all made the more obvious when I emailed the Portland Growler people, who we love even more now than before, and told them what happened and they had mercy on my inappropriate soul and sent me a replacement growler.

THANKS, GUYS! YOU'RE RAD! And welcome in our home brewery any old time.

So, yeah - boss's beer exploded in my car and I didn't have a meltdown.

I HAVE changed.

Though I retain the right to a finals/graduation/WHAT THE FUCK DO I DO NOW oh nooooooooooooooooooooooo meltdown this week.

Because, obviously.

Oh, and the busted growler is now serving an APPROPRIATE purpose by being a tree waterer.

Beer and plants. It's what we do here.

Don't be expecting coherence in this post is all I'm saying.

We skied. OH DID WE FUCKING SKI.
Or rather, Bubba skied and I snowboarded. I can't do the skiing. And I haven't figured out an easy way to say that we went to snow and he skied and I snowboarded without making it sound all over-specific and forever-taking, so I just always say that we're going skiing or we went skiing or, well, you get it.

I'm over-thinking this semantics thing as always and you're used to it.

NOT THE POINT - we saw snow.

And we rode it using our preferred shape of board(s).

AND IT WAS GLORIOUS.

I don't know whether it's the extreme dire horrible depressing alarming sad lack of snow in Tahoe or my own newly developed endurance and pain tolerance thanks to the leg-eating mountain biking, but I didn't take a rest day for the first time in EVER.

Like, usually when we go on these week-long ski trips, I ride for a day or two, take a day off and then ride a day or two more before we blow town. And those final days are usually halvsies because I can't summon the physical strength or stuff my body with enough Advil to keep myself upright on the board long enough to enjoy myself.

Not this year though!

I mean, yes, I was still slow as fuck and not doing anything that a pro rider (or any decent rider) would consider ambitious or strenuous, but I did go out five days in a row, ride nearly the entire mountain in the "Biggest Skiing in America" (and they aren't kidding - Big Sky is...is...is...just fucking massive) and did so with a modicum of grace and dignity and at speeds imperceptibly faster than previous years.

So yay for that.

Also, there was Cards Against Humanity with favorite friends, emptying of the liquor cabinet, soaking in hot tubs, woodsy snowy walks with the dog, birthday whisky flights for Bubba and lots of poor behavior and butt bruises.

See for yourself...



My last semester is underway and OH DAMN THAT WAS FAST
I'm probably not going to stop freaking out about how fast this whole going-back-to-school thing has gone by until I graduate in May, at which time I'll be freaking out about how I need to get a job or something similarly grown up and scary, so just get used to either reading it or ignoring it.

If you're ignoring it, skip to the next section now. Bye!

Yeah, so my first day of class was yesterday and, um, it was kinda the sweetest thing ever. Sweet and also sorta sad, which people call bittersweet but since that sounds cliche, I'm just saying that it was sweet and sad. Like sweet and sour but, well, not.

This makes no sense! Yay! It's a Finny post!

So, you know how you would go back to school in the fall when you were a kid and there'd be happy reunions with teachers and friends that you hadn't seen all summer because your mom wouldn't drive you all over creation to see that one friend whose family lived in the boondocks or because your best friend went to camp or whatever other tragic childhood things befell little friendships? But then you'd see those friends on the first day and it'd be all "HOW WAS YOUR SUMMER?" and "I missed you!" and "Want to grab lunch and maybe we'll get beers because WHY NOT it's a special occasion since I haven't seen you in four weeks?"

Well, it was like that and it was adorable and lovely and sweet and I didn't expect it, so it was even extra special and sweet and now I'm getting all verklempt and sappy and I hate to read that kind of shit, but there it is.

I - me - the girl who was weird and unknown and wearing shiny new red rain boots to work on the muddy farm with her style-y haircut just a scant year and half ago, has made friends that greet with hugs and enthusiastic lunch-with-beers invites and instructors that know it's my last semester so don't even ask whether I've fulfilled the prereqs for their classes and, well, it's nice as hell.

And in a few months I'm going to be sad - really sad - to go.

Fucking love it here.

Again - yay for Awesome Steve.
All was going, like, SUPER well with the beehive before we left for Montana. The girls had put up a super (box) of honey for their winter, they were having babies, foraging, hiding out taking good care of their queen, escorting intruders out of their winter den successfully - ALL WAS WELL.

I had even begun to entertain the idea that me - the most failingest of beekeepers - had actually successfully overwintered a hive of bees and this year was going to FINALLY be the year for honey and YAY.

Oh my delusion. It knows no bounds.

But about the bees pre-vacation - In addition to the overall supreme health and happiness of the hive, I even saw the queen every time I checked the hive. Girlfriend was on the job and darling to boot (she crawled up on my hand a few times and I imagined she was saying HI because I'm sappy like that).

Then we went to Montana.

When we got home, all of the bees were dead except the mighty queen.

ALL OF THE BEES EXCEPT THE QUEEN DIED.

Like, the bottom of the hive was covered with tiny fuzzy sad little bodies and there was a giant mass grave of dead girls around the hive.

The queen, in all of her regal poise, wandered the frames of capped honey and abandoned brood just...lost.

She again crawled up onto my hand, searched around for a clue and flew away briefly - returning to my palm after only a minute or two investigating the nearby airspace for a reason. A cause. Some explanation as to why her mighty colony of hard-working, gentle, productive bees had up and died out of absolutely fucking nowhere.

The waterer was still half full. There weren't any solid signs of invasion, infestation or disease in the hive itself. The weather had been warm, but not hot, and definitely not too cold. They had plenty of food stored away.

I'll tell ya - I nearly cried.

However, in lieu of crying like a puss, I let the Boss Lady crawl back into her empty (albeit full of honey) hive, collected my best and favorite swears and flipped off the sky.

Because I'm a grown up.

Then I read through some of my beekeeping books which, as usual, offered no helpful guidance, and then emailed Awesome Steve because obviously.

Awesome Steve, after reading my mini soap opera synopsis of events, asked whether anyone had been tenting for termites nearby.

WHY YES THEY HAVE. There are fugly tents all over the damn place right now.

Oh.

Apparently he's lost 10 hives to nearby fumigation this year. TEN, PEOPLE. That's 600,000 bees - dead. That's enough bees to pollinate 10 acres of apple trees or five acres of almonds or, or, or...I'm not going to get all statistics and alarmist armageddon bullshit on you, but that's fucking bad.

And terribly, heart-crushingly, soul-smashingly fucking sad.

I'm sad about it.

Alas, he thinks that's probably the cause of my hive die off because of the sudden and complete death of all bees except the one who doesn't leave the hive - the queen.

So now what?

Well, that's a good question. I asked it myself, to myself like a crazy person and to Bubba like a sort of crazy person, and you know what we all said? Resoundingly even?

Welp, time to get another package of bees then.

Yep. Even with no free time to spare, a question as to where we'll live in a few months when I finish school and a history of beekeeping tragedies - I'm getting a new colony of bees. Steve put me down for a package and gave me explicit instructions about what I need to do to prep the hive for their arrival.

There are blowtorches involved, you should know.

The upside, which thankfully exists because otherwise WHOA NELLY REFILL THE LIQUOR CABINET, is that the top super full of capped honey is now MINE ALL MINE.

So, I'll be harvesting 10 full, bright, gorgeous frames of wildflower honey this weekend while trying not to cry about all of my lost girls.

Mostly, I'll just be swearing and drunk. So, normal for a Saturday I guess.

Cheers to you, ladies.

Oh noooooooooooooo [Thanksgiving Edition]

There's a reason that Jada's not wearing a collar and it's not because she's a dog nudist.

Like I was saying, last week was going to be soul-crushingly busy and frantic and crazy and then busy some more.

Actually, did I tell you that or was I just thinking it as I was writing that last post of randomness drunk with the power of a fully functional keyboard?

I can't remember.

Either way - last week was a self-proclaimed hell week of shit to do, people to not kill, events to not ruin, crops to harvest, a house to de-Addams Family, tests to study for, projects to finish, holidays to not destroy and mother-in-laws to not offend.

We got so close.

Bubba mastercrafted this amazing trip for his mom so that they could drive up the coast from Pismo Beach and stop at all of the monarch butterfly migration sites, eat artichokes, visit me at the greenhouse and just generally enjoy some California in November which is noticeably different from Kansas in November, which I'm sure you can all imagine.

Think sunshine and shirt sleeves instead of bitter cold and I NEED ANOTHER DOWN JACKET STAT.

You get it.

And they got it. The trip was perfect. Better than I could have hoped. The butterflies were present and accounted for even though everyone was all ready to ruin our parade by saying that "Oh, they're early/late/extinct this year. They won't see any." (thanks, asses), they ate many artichokes and artichoke-filled foods, they came by the greenhouse and botanic gardens for a tour during gorgeous weather - it was great.

I was feeling like not a failure as a daughter-in-law except for the whole working-the-whole-time-she-was-here thing.

Whatevs.

Then, much to my surprise, the success and not-fucking-it-upness of the week continued. We managed to get the turkeys we'd smoked (we = Bubba with a side of me sitting on my dead ass) sliced and packaged up with the other Thanksgiving-y things we were bringing to my folks'. We got to my folks' place in good time and, despite the crowd, talked to most everyone we'd set out to. We ate Thanksgiving-y things (but not too much somehow). We drank drinks (and not too many)(except after the oh nooooooo, which obvs.).

Does seeing this much turkey make you want to barf now?

We thought we were in the clear.

My MiL was leaving the morning after Thanksgiving, so as we sat down to have the festive holiday pie course (SO MANY PIES WHY?), I'll admit that I jinxed the crap out of us.

I thought to myself - we've made it. We did not fuck up my MiL's trip. We did not forget anything we were supposed to bring. We are not the most annoying ones at the party. We're golden.

And then it hit me.

The smell.

Of skunk.

And terror.

I bolted to the living room to find Bubba outside waving his arms maniacally, eyes bulging (and watering dramatically) and the dog throwing herself frantically against the deck, face first, trying to rid her puppy eyeballs of the two barrels of skunk spray eating through her mucous membranes.

It was not a pretty/welcomed/pleasant sight. As you can probably imagine.

Imagine this cute face looking as sad and eye-drooly and foaming at the mouth as you can. Then know that it was much worse and gross smelling.

I think you know that my first reaction, upon seeing Bubba outside trying to find a lighter so that he could put himself out of his misery, was to bellow a hearty, "Oh noooooooooooooo" while simultaneously removing the suede boots I was wearing for the first time in months.

I certainly wasn't going to be bathing a skunked dog in suede boots. Or the silk dress I'd put on in an effort to appear like a girl for once.

After the initial reaction, I think that you also know that there was a loud "FUCK" as I ran back to my mom's room to find some old clothes to change into, a bunch of old towels, baking soda and peroxide and a change of clothes for Bubba.

I'll spare you the grim details of the dog bathing, but suffice it to say that the 2 1/2 hour ride home in Bubba's new truck, dog sequestered in the back with the window down on a rubber mat, and my MiL (who does not enjoy pets to begin with) up front sitting quietly waiting for it all to just be over with pretty much blew the doors off of our Successful Visit With Mom.

We were so close.

And after tallying up the damages (bras, underwear, jeans, shoes, shirts, belts, collar, towels, bottles of Tecnu, peroxide and baking soda), this one skunk + dog that knows better than to play with the stinky black and white kitties cost us around $500.

Plus the forever ruining of our nostrils and the forthcoming cleaning bill from the shop for whenever Bubba gets his truck in for service.

Meanwhile, Jada's had so many baths that she's gorgeous and fluffy and exhausted enough to allow me to cuddle her but she still smells like rank skunk ass, so no one's cuddling. We're all just eyeballing her and waiting for her to stop reeking so that we can all YAY drive to Montana in a month where she'll get snowed on which will recharge her skunking for our enjoyment.

Hooray holidays.

Don't even look at me, dog. You smell like skunk and shame.

How to remove a Dietes (this is a long one)

In a word, with RAGE, but we'll get to that.

See, friends, I was having an awesome day. I just had the one lecture first thing in the morning and then I'd decided that since I didn't have to write a coaching update or study for an exam or work on a project or do anything extravagant with my crops at work, that I'd go for a bike ride.

OK, strike that - I *was* going to go for a bike ride until I was reminded (frequently and painfully) that my feet were still fucked up from Crossfit waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay back in January and that the doctor had ordered me to get them X-rayed for fractures and I still hadn't done that because LO I had no time.

And, hey, here was some time right here on this fair Tuesday.

So, I actually gave up on the idea of a bike ride (boo) and decided I'd do the stupid boring responsible thing of getting my X-rays done. Fine. I'll drive aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaall the way to Palo Alto to get my feet X-rayed and who cares if it eats my whole day, maybe I'll be able to walk again without sharp pains racing through my feet.

HEY THAT SOUNDS FUN AND NICE YES.

Then an angel, who is actually one of my "little friends from school" (as Bubba likes to call them) told me that the medical foundation I go to (and fucking love) has a location about fifteen feet from our campus.

FUCK YES I'M GOING THERE NOW.

So, I did that. I went there, they X-rayed my feet in under 10 minutes and BAM! I was on the road to freedom.

Oh what to do with all of my freedom and approximately five hours of pseudo-free time?

I'll tell you, that drive home from Santa Cruz was positively saturated with fantasies of productivity and getting-aheadness.

You know, like oh my god I'll finish Donk's birthday gift, assemble stuff for sale at my next event, send some long overdue emails, play with the dog, make a decent dinner, plant a few things in the yard, get ahead on my reading for next week's class, study for next week's plant quiz, etc.

It was nice to feel like I might actually be not totally crushed for time for once in my life.

And then I came home, went to pick up Bubba's dry cleaning from our porch and saw the thing.

The thing that would mean that my dreams of an afternoon filled with luxuriously productive getting ahead projects and dog cuddling were going up in effing smoke.

Oh noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo.

What you're looking at there is the thing and the thing is the water line riding against the foundation of our house.

Did you know that we do not live in a castle with a moat? Because we do not. And that is the only reasonable explanation for why one's house might have a water line right up against its foundation.

But again, we don't live in a castle with a moat (though, wouldn't that be badass?), so this was alarming.

Like, time to make up some new swears alarming.

Like Oh Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo alarming.

But, I'll be honest here, I wasn't ready to give up on my afternoon of productivity. Even when faced with the disaster of There's Standing Water And An Obvious Leak In Our Pipes Which Is AT THIS MOMENT Eating Away At The Foundation Of Our House floating right there staring at me.

I went inside. I shut the door behind me. I stood over the bar and I contemplated crawling inside and not coming out until all of my gin bottles (and there are a few, I'm just saying) were empty.

Then I put away the groceries and took a deep breath. I pet the dog and took some more deep breaths. I realized that THIS was why our water bill had been so high. I took another deep breath.

And then I went to find a screwdriver to pull the lid off of our water meter box so that I could be sure that this was a leak and not just the result of...oh, I don't know, some prankster leaving our hose running until the moment I returned home and then turning it off?

I don't know. It's the only thing I could think of to do: Make sure that there's really a leak.

So, after making sure that all the water in the house was off, I went out to the meter with my screwdriver, pried the lid off, swept for black widows (Hi, bitches! Move your ass! There was a big fatty in there. Blech.), flipped the cap of our meter back and BEHOLD the leak indicator was spinning like it had never spun before.

Hooray. We officially have a leak.

Also, duh.

And then I was put to a decision: go back inside and proceed on with your day as though you never saw the leak and try to not think about it guiltily as you ignorantly go about your day that is now ruined by the knowing of this awful fact OR go put on your work clothes and do the right thing - attempt to fix this thing?

I'd like to say that I raced inside, threw on my work clothes, tied my hair back, gathered all the tools I could possibly need for the job and raced out to the front yard to fix this leak in under 10 minutes without even getting dirty PHEW! but that would be a lie.

No.

I went back inside and made a deal with myself.

I would do a *few* of the things that I'd really hoped to do and THEN I'd put on my work clothes and go fix this mother fucker and THEN I'd take a shower and drink a lot while making dinner and hoping that Bubba would forgive me for the hour in which I did not fix the leak but instead finished gifts, made herb salts and fed chips to the dog.

Also, my favorite mechanism for cheering myself up is to sit in the backyard and feed chips to the dog. She loves chips. And when I have chips, she will sit next to me with her cutest sweet face on and let me face cuddle her and everything as long as I keep feeding her chips.  We share the chips (as in, one for me, one for Jada) and it convinces me that somewhere, deep down in her dog brain, she loves me a lot. It cheers me up and I needed cheering.

So, yeah. I did that stuff and then I bid a fond farewell to my clean clothes and nicely blow dried hair and made up face while donning my real work clothes and a shitty ponytail.

Have I told you I hate wearing ponytails? I do. I hate it. My head looks like a jack-o-lantern when I'm in a pony and it whips around all annoyingly and I hate it.

SO CRABBY RIGHT NOW.

Anyway, whatever.

I went back out to the front yard in my No Fucking Around-wear, with my shovel, a bucket, hedge pruners, trowel and a bad attitude.

Which is when I discovered a few things:

1. There was definitely a leak. HELLO DUH.
2. No amount of scooping and digging with the shovel was making any difference so this must be an active and sort of big leak.
3. Trying to figure out where it was coming from with the sunuvabitching Dietes in the way was never going to work.
4. I have been wanting to get rid of (read: BURN TO THE GROUND) the Dietes for a while anyway, so maybe it was time.

So, now we're getting to the How to remove a Dietes part of this post.

And now you can see why RAGE is the number one tool you must possess in order to get these things out. Because I will tell you with 100% certainty, that if I was not completely soaked in rage at having my beautiful afternoon choked to death by this bastard leak and the prospect of removing the only plant in creation I hate as much as Bermudagrass, I would not have been able to get this fucker out of the ground.

Because Dietes root in the earth's core.

No, really - they do.

And it takes all the rage one 35 year old woman with a shovel, proper shoes and a good amount of physical strength (all without Crossfit, thankyouverymuch) can summon up to get these things out of the ground and into the street yard waste pile for Pinchy to pick up on Thursday.

Dudes - the thing tried to kill me. It took me no less than an hour and a half to get it out of the sodden sinkhole into which it had tried to disappear and into the street and it left in its wake a mess out of Revelations.

OK, I'll be honest, I have no idea what's in Revelations beyond the concept of apocalypse and this thing certainly felt apocalyptic.

Think I'm being overly dramatic?

Well, #1 - Eff you and #2 - no.

From the yard...

Across the sidewalk...

Time out for cute salamander that I rescued from inside the Dietes. Hi buddy! You're safe now.

And into the street.

 Yeah, it sucked A LOT.

BUT - and this isn't nuthin' - I figured out where the leak was coming from (sprinkler manifold), turned the water off to the manifold (handy shutoff valve I LOVE YOU) and left it clear to attach a new manifold on a day when I've recovered from this hot fucking mess of an afternoon.

So, there you go. Remove your Dietes. Or, if you're smart (unlike moi) - NEVER EVER PLANT A DIETES EVER.

Then, also don't go inside to sift through the mail and find your annual property tax bill.

Thanks a lot, dicks.

OK, I'm off to drink heavily and feed chips to the dog.

Oh nooooooooooooooobbbbbbbbbzzzzzzzzzzzzzzoooooooooooo

On Friday, my problem was one bee.
On Saturday, my problem was one million bees.

Let me explain.

On Friday night, the weather cleared up and I decided I'd install the bees in the hive. I imagined my worst case scenario which hilariously went something like; if I forget to put a tool in my box and then have to run off and get it mid-install, that will be really embarrassing.

I'm totally laughing at that right now. Because I'm delusional.

So, I went out to install the hive wearing the full bee suit that I bought and realized I didn't necessarily need but should definitely wear while it's cool enough not to be a death bag and oh I'll just wear the jacket and veil set, which I've worn for every other beekeeping scenario, some other time.

So, you know I strutted out there for my #1 install wearing a suit I'd never worn before.

Except when I got it and tried it on with flip-flops to be extra authentic.

My years of running failures stemming from trying things on race day that I'd never tried before should have told me this was a bad idea, but no.

Immediately I realized that the hat was ill-fitting. And that it was a hat style veil rather than a hood, like my now much beloved jacket. This hat business popped up and down and got in my face pretty much from the word, Go. The thing was falling over my face even when all I was doing was carring my little crate of tools out to the hive.

Again, I should have realized this was a bad idea, but no. I forged ahead.

Which is when Thing #1 That No One Emphasizes Strongly Enough presented itself: Queen bees are fast bitches.

And not, like, fast in the she's streaking around topless being featured on Bees Gone Wild kind of fast. No, fast, like, if, once you've plucked the cork from her cage you don't immediately slide your thumb to cover the hole while you then carefully smush in a marshmallow to close it up again, girlfriend will just slip out and fly off, giving you the finger all the way.

Seriously, she gave me a very small bee finger as she hovered around my big eyeballed face while I fruitlessly but carefully swiped after her with the queen cage. Yes, a queen cage is small with a small hole in it. It could never *catch* an escaped queen bee. Or any other kind of bee for that matter if they're on the lamb like this gal was.

She flew up into my neighbor's tree, at which time I took to swearing enthusiastically, and then she buzzed me one more time before heading up over the fence into the never never.

I'd lost my queen.

Fuck fuck fuck shit damn it crap.

So - know this new beekeepers - queen bees are fucking fast so don't dilly dally when swapping the cork for candy. Don't wear giant bee gloves and expect to have the dexterity of bare hands. Just wear bare hands. I'd say wear tightly fitting gloves, but I *was* and that didn't help. Usually I work the hives at work barehanded, so I'll just have to do that at home, too. I don't know why this isn't emphasized more strongly - particularly in the classes I've attended, books I've read, instructions in the bee box and beekeepers I've talked to (until today that is), but it should be.

Girls have been in their cages for more than 48 hours by the time you see them - they want out.

So yeah, I went to bed last night with a queenless colony hived in my yard.

The book said to just install the colony as planned and go order a new queen. So I did. And then I kicked myself all night about having lost this one bee. Granted, an important bee - all too important, but one bee.

I got up this morning, went out there to see what was going on and saw nothing.

No activity, no movement, no visible change in levels of sugar syrup in the feeder. So I popped the top real quick to make sure something was in there and they were. A quietly buzzing, crawling mass of bees milled about looking vaguely normal.

OK, I thought, maybe a few will come out later and check the place out. That'd be nice. I'll go for a run and when I get home I'll hope for some life back here.

So I went for a run and when I got home THERE WAS SOME LIFE BACK THERE.

My problem was now not the loss of one bee, but the accumulation of, oh I don't know, *one million* bees.

Problem.

I was suddenly VERY GLAD that Bubba was on a long bike ride. For the whole day.

They were all over the place and in a big buzzing ball all at once. They were climbing on the front of the hive, shoving their way in and out of the hive, swirling above and around the hive and darting in and out of my yard in the direction of the hive. And they didn't even pause at any of the blossoming trees or plants.

They were not harvesting pollen. They were robbing my hive.

My queenless brand new hasn't been together for more than a few days hive was getting its ass kicked by some nearby, probably feral, hive that took one look at the entrance feeder and called all its buddies.

Which brings me to the #2 and #3 Things That No One Emphasize Strongly Enough. 

No-no feeder.

First - entrance feeders should never be used to feed a brand new colony of bees in a brand new hive or otherwise. Because they are, apparently, a god damned all points bulletin smorgasbord.

Instead, you should use a hive top feeder arrangement, which is nothing more than the jar and lid from the entrance feeder overturned on the inner cover and then covered with an empty super and then hive lid. Which thank god I had someone to tell me this later in the day because I HAD NO IDEA BECAUSE THEY JUST SELL THESE THINGS AS THOUGH IT DOESN'T MATTER.

I was told that perhaps only use the entrance feeder to provide water for the bees.

The other thing was that OH MY WORD was in no way emphasized appropriately, which I think could probably use some bold lettering or maybe some red ink, is that if you install a queenless colony, you will set off a chain of events that will have you contemplating burning your house down to resolve.

Deliver me from this chaos! I said - BRING ME A MATCH!

See, a queenless new hive is about the most vulnerable COME KICK MY ASS scenario in all of BeeLand. And a queenless new hive is also a completely rudderless entity that behaves exactly like you'd expect 10,000 directionless people to behave - everyone goes everywhere, some clump together, some fight each other. Madness ensues. Then introduce another group of directionFULL folks that want to take over the house and you can kind of imagine what happens.

All that stuff I said before but bigger.

Except I never heard of this threat. Maybe the books and bee yards and classes don't want to scare you with the what ifs, but apparently this kind of What If is sort of understood by experienced beekeepers which I came to know later on when, as the bubble of panic was rising slowly from my feet I punted and called a local beekeeper who'd I once talked to about an apprenticeship.

[FYI: A few other creative ideas were tried to recapture the swarm, stop the robbing and get the directionless half hive that'd taken up residence on my neighbor's fence to come back to my hive, but I'll spare you those stories. Just imagine bees everywhere, boxes and other trapping mechanisms everywhere, a wet sheet, sugar syrup NO WHERE and me looking like a deranged and frightened lunatic trying to keep my panic below my bulging eyeballs so that Bubba didn't call the cops.]

Well, thank god this beekeeper is obviously a saint who reads email on Saturday afternoons and will pick up a phone and call a new beekeeper in distress because otherwise I might be striking a match on our garage instead of typing this post.

Steve, let's call him Steve because that's his name, not only helped me come up with some next steps to put my hive back into some semblance of order and in the best position to actually survive, but also made me feel better about having created a hailstorm of stingers in my yard.

He was the one who explained how a queenless hive is a serious situation and can have some equally serious results. He was the one who said UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES should I ever use an entrance feeder to establish a new colony. He was the one that said to put the queen cage back in the hive, capture the half swarm from the fence, shove them all in the hive together, put the improvised hive top feeder in the hive and call it quits for the night. He also told me that I'd done everything right (except the whole queen thing) and that he'd lost flighty queens before, too, so don't be suicidal.

The best beekeepers are the ones who fail and stick with it, he said. Because they learn the most and have the most successful hives in the long run.

We'll see.

Oh, that was Thing #4 That No One Emphasizes Strongly Enough: don't throw out the queen cage if you lose the queen.

It's THE ONLY THING that will keep your miscreants together until their new lady arrives. Put the queen cage in the hive, let them smell it and reminisce about their queen, and wait for reinforcements to arrive.

Don't, say, lose the queen, swear for half an hour, hive the colony, throw the queen cage away and then go in the house for a night of self-indulgent cocktails and whining.

Do you know that Steve offered to bring over some brood frames (frames with babies in them) to fill my hive back up if it turned out I didn't have enough bees for my new queen? He said it. Oh, and he also said give me a call tomorrow night and let me know how things are going. Oh, and next time you need to buy bees, let me know because I buy them in bulk from the same yard and go pick them up myself so you won't have to pay shipping.

Oh and I'm rad! No, he didn't say that. But I was sure thinking it. Also, thank gawd. Thank fucking gawd because whoa.

So, that's where I am people - we had a big OH NOoooooooooooooooo on Friday, an even bigger OH Noooooooooooooooooo about five times today and, with any luck, the OH Noooooooooos are over except I'm not counting my bees until they're hived. They could do the whole swarming thing tomorrow and I'd be back to super fucked square one again, but even Steve says that, at that point, it's a loss and he'll just start me over with one of the swarms he captured over the weekend.  Who knows, maybe that's the one with my escaped queen. Beotch.

Thankfully, we got to have dinner tonight and BBQ just a few feet from this hive because they'd calmed down and gone to bed. So, you know, for now all's quiet on the western front.

Isn't this FUN? Isn't it exciting to go through the entire "Common problems and their easy answers" section of your beekeeping book on the first day? Doesn't this sound like a good way to test your Losing Your Shit threshold?

Gah.

I'm pretty sure I'm a real crazy person now. Perhaps I need a beard of bees to match my newly discovered persona.

Please cross your fingers that tomorrow goes somewhat to plan. I'll be back. And don't you judge me.

The F Word

I've decided to just go ahead and say it out loud...

I'm ready for Fall.

There! It's out! I can't put it back in the horse! I hate horses!

Whatever.

To celebrate this moment that Bubba has been taunting out of me since July (the man is solidly off his nut) I present to you, the many times aforementioned, Ugly Librarian Sweater:

Like they say to the ugly kids, it's what's on the inside that counts.

Now, notice I'm not modeling it for you and instead it is hanging over this chair here. That is with good reason because this sweater is in no way flattering and I don't need photographic proof to tell me that. I also like to live in a fantasy world where no matter what I'm wearing, I look totally hot.

Funny since I'm fairly certain that 99% of the time I'm at home I look nowhere near hot but whatever, in my head, things look good.

For the record, however, I have not worn the Ugly Librarian Sweater yet THIS FALL (gotta say it loud so I can get used to its sound) because I've had other semi-ugly-yet-warm things to wrap around my shivering bod during those brief moments when NorCal has gone from sweltering to vaguely cool.

Like yesterday morning when I walked the dog at 6:30am and it was, I do believe, a full 53 degrees out. WOWZA. I didn't even unzip my sweatshirt the whole time and, I'll tell you, I was liking it.

I KNOW! Just shoot me now because I'm actually looking forward to FALL and I'm sort of not afraid to admit it.

What I'm not looking forward to is having to fire up the furnace because WHOA that shit is scary. And now I will tell you the embarrassing story that I didn't tell before because I wasn't ready to admit that I almost blew my face off and brought down our wee house all with one match.

Here goes:

Once upon a time I was working from home in the early months of fall. Perhaps it was October or November, I don't really recall exactly.

Anyway, I had on The Ugly Librarian Sweater (tm) and socks and leg warmers (yes, they're hot pink - awesomeness) and jeans and a long sleever top and fingerless gloves and slippers. To put it mildly, I was cold. And when I got sick of shivering despite all my clothes and layers, I decided it was high time to face my fear of the furnace and just turn that bitch on already.

Then I reflected briefly on the times I'd watched over the rim of my G&T while Bubba was doing it. And then I removed the grate (floor furnace people, you have to remove things to start them, it's scary) and used the key (remember: old house) to turn the pilot on.

Then I capped the access for the pilot light and went on a hunt for a long match.

Let me repeat that last part: Then I capped the access for the pilot light and went on a hunt for a long match.

See, this was where things began to go horribly awry in a very death defying way. It would seem that when I was so carefully watching Bubba light the furnace as I finished my cocktail, I neglected to recall that moment when he turned on the pilot and then immediately stuck the match down through the very open access shaft to light the pilot.

For some reason (drunkenness? Who's to say?) I thought that one should cap the pilot access, turn the gas on and then walk around the house and garage for twenty minutes looking for matches so that the gas has plenty of time to build up to Nuclear Holocaust Level in the access shaft.

When I returned triumphantly to the furnace with my handy dandy match and struck it on the top of the grate (it was one of those Strike Anywhere kinds) I should have known something was afoot because I'm sure the precarious Uh-Oh Something Awful is About to Happen music from Bugs Bunny was surely playing nearby.

Loudly.

I then lifted the cap off the pilot access shaft and before I could say OH SHIT (which, believe me, was the least this occasion called for) the lit match combusted with a sound and resonance much like that of a dumptruck falling through the floor of my house.

BAM

And then silence. And then me realizing I've jumped (been blown back?) down the hallway toward the bedroom door and WHOOPSY have no eyelashes, am missing half my eyebrows and have lost all the baby hairs around the crown of my forehead.

Plus it smells like gas, burnt hair and FEAR.

I sat silently for a full 10 minutes, unmoving, while I contemplated the severity of the situation.

I then let out a low, "Oh Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo" and went off to look for Rocket, who was outside sleeping in the dirt. Totally unscathed, but wondering who this eyelashless freak was approaching her with shaky hands.

Yes, people. I tried to blow up our house by collecting gas in the furnace and then lighting it with a match because I'm retarded.

Thankfully Bubba, when arriving home and evacuating us all due to the remnant gas floating around the house, was kind and helpful when presented with the story of how I tried to blow up our house (and my face - that's important, too) instead of rightfully alarmed and angry with my stupidity.

Yes, instead of beating me with the furnace grate or sending me to live in a tent in the backyard, he instead walked me over to the furnace (after all the gas cleared, this is important) and showed me, step by step, how one goes about SAFELY lighting the pilot and managing the heat flow.

Oh. It's really not that hard.

I mean, it's not easy like Sunday morning or anything. Like pressing a button on a wall thermostat, which is all I think I should have to do, but it's not too bad given that this heater is 100+ years old and still works like a fucking champ. Also, we're never going to get the permits to fix it and we aren't putting in central heat, so it's going to have to work. Thankfully, I now know how to make it work without taking our household out in the process.

And so, with that, I welcome fall.

BRING IT.

Oh just ew and damn.

I just ate something disgusting.

I've said before that in moments of paralyzing horror I tend to have ridiculous breakdowns that involve hysterical laughter and the inability to move.

Where all I can do is stand in the place of discovery and say, "Oh nooooooooooooooooooooooo", like a hundred times until my brain catches up with the situation at hand.

Well, I had one of those moments last night.

When I was standing, half-awake in the kitchen, nearly done closing up the house for business so we could go to bed, and I realized the door to the backyard was still open.

This discovery, in and of itself, is not a big deal. We leave it open to ease the wretched heat in our oven house and also so the creatures can go in and out freely to get some relief from their hot fur coats. It's usually a very symbiotic and peaceful existence with the backdoor open. Everyone comes and goes as they please and the house does not implode from extreme heat.

Winners all around!

Except last night when I realized it was open and it was also dark (we usually bring everyone in and close it down before, say, the dead of night) and when I called Jada the first time she didn't come springing into the house like her normal obedient and cheerful self.

And that is when my evening began its rapid descent down the toilet.

I smelled something bad.

And then I called the dog again.

And then I watched her slowly appear in the darkness and apprehensively approach the house.

And then she came into the dim light of the back porch.

And THEN I had my moment of Oh Noooooooooooooooooo.

She had a giant inky-black streak from neck to tail. And some big smears on her hind legs. And a very guilty/euphoric look on her face.

*stream of consciousness* ...That shade of brownish black looks familiar. Kind of like that black mystery doot in the yard. And didn't Bubba see a possum running along our fence the other night? Jada likes to chase possums...*stream of consciousness*

Which is when I realized that my blissful retreat to bed was not to be had because OH YAY THE DOG HAS SOLVED THE BLACK POO MYSTERY and HOW SPECIAL she celebrated her discovery by having a clandestine somersault contest with the possum and all of its shit.

So I stood quietly in the kitchen, fully engrossed in my state of extreme horror, and watched my vision of bedtime go right out the window. Thankfully Jada has learned what to do when I act like this. That it's best not to make any sudden movements that might touch off a full blown bought of hysteria and better to sit quietly in a state of shame and sullen obedience until further notice.

It was everywhere on her. The Mark of the Possum. Chest, back, legs, belly, tail. And after a quick test wipe with a towel it became clear that, not only was this definitely poo, it was also not going to just wipe right off all easy like that. Oh no. This was going to require a bath.

And did I mention that we've never bathed the dog in the year and half we've had her because I'm a horrible dog mom and she never gets dirty so why would I torture her for no reason?

Yes, it's true. I have never bathed our dog. She is such a low maintenance beast 99% of the time that a good brushing will take care of most evils and the rest can be handled with her ritualistic lawn rolling in the yard (where there's normally no poo) or spontaneous swims in the fountain at work.

And since I never give her a bath, you know I don't have any doggie shampoo just hanging out in the house just waiting to be used in a stinky situation like this. Thankfully I had a very large refill bottle of Softsoap that'd been taking FOREVER to get rid of and THANK GAWD because it was that or the crappy TJ's dishsoap that smells like a horse's ass anyway and wouldn't have improved our situation that much.

I won't lie, I briefly contemplated letting the shitty dog come in the house and just go to bed, sans-bath. But, given my crippling aversion to all things filthy, I dissed that idea and came to mournful grips with the fact that I was about to put on work clothes and spend the next hour hosing possum crap off the dog by flashlight.

In my Crisis Manager Mode, I ended up washing the dog down from head to toe with Softsoap and the garden hose while ripping anew the threadbare ass of my favorite work pants that Bubba keeps threatening to steal and burn.

Picture that, will you? 10:30pm, hunching over the dog with the hose running, Bubba holding her back from re-pursuing the possum, pants ripping and feeling the evening's breeze meeting meaningfully with my entire left butt cheek, smell of possum poo in the air.

Dreamy, no?

If I'd only known then that I'd also get to discover the dead stinky Beast itself in the morning when I returned from running, my night would have been complete.

I love my dog.

Allow me to sample your hot dog, mom. Just to be sure.

My yard thinks it's spring + Oh noooooo + Running Update

My yard thinks it's spring right now, which is good because the weather thinks it's winter (rain? again? really?), my flip-flops think it's summer and the water main in the front yard thinks it's Mardi Gras.

Wha?

So, I went out for my run yesterday morning (running update at the end), and while standing on the porch using the light from my iPod screen to figure out which earphone goes in which ear (does it really matter? I doubt it) I kept getting distracted because:

A. It was dark again because Daylight Savings sucks ass
B. I kept hearing the faint sound of running water

It was making me crazy. What is that sound? Where is it coming from?

So, obviously, I had to investigate. Because it was dark, I was supposed to be running, I had no light source other than the ambient light from the White Stripes album cover art waving all over the pod screen and well, what better time to be wandering all over the yard at random?

With Icky Thump leading the way, I squoze the hose (HA!) - no water. I felt up the sprinkler heads - no water. I probed the soaker hoses - no water. I squinted carefully looking for the Russian River cutting an unexpected swath through the yard - nope.

This must be another side effect of Sucks Ass Daylight Savings. I'm sleep deprived. I'm confused by the darkness. That's what's causing this.

And OH CRAP now I am now behind schedule and must run.

It was a confusing time to be sure. Either way, I chalked The Mystery Water up to a neighbor's potential new sprinkler schedule and went about my trotting way.

30 minutes later when I returned, stretched and started to head inside, I heard it again.

The Mystery Water was back!

Now with the light of day to guide me (thank you 7am) I went through the same motions. Sprinklers - no. Hose - no. Soakers - no. Neighbor's sprinklers - no. Russian River on an extreme and frightening detour - no.

But hey, why is it all squishy over here andohmyfuckwhatthehellohnoooooooooooooooooo!

The main pipe feeding our sprinklers had blown its top.

You know, like in Mardi Gras when you rip your top right off and people throw plastic beads at you? No? Ok, sorry. Forget that analogy.

Anywayyyyyyyyyyy, the friggen coupling/gasket/whathaveyou connecting the sprinkler pipe to the water pipe (the main one that goes to the house yikes) had come apart somehow and was shooting water at an alarming rate right into the ground. Right against the foundation.

YES GREAT! WE NEED THIS! Soil around the foundation of your house is overrated.

It was at this moment that I recalled, in that funky rippling way they do on TV when people flash back in time, the time when Bubba was trying to learn me something and pointed right to that exact pipe and said,

"Remember, if you ever need to shut the water off in an emergency, (points to knob) TURN THIS KNOB! Ok? Don't forget."

I didn't forget! I remembered! And when I was done patting myself on the back for remembering, I scampered over and TURNED THE KNOB (!).

Then I alerted Bubba in my least alarmist voice and we went on a hunt to figure out just exactly what had happened and theorize over how this horror came to fruition.

We blamed many innocent parties including the mailman, the dog, every neighbor individually and probably quietly, each other. In the end we decided that it was probably the inaugural turning on of the sprinklers that caused the sudden pressure change and thus broke the thingee.

Uh, whose fault would that be, then? Nevermind, pointing fingers won't help anything I think.

A further investigation of the situation revealed some extra special rivulets and pools all along the distance of the foundation which made our hearts sing with joy. The squashiness of the front yard wasn't to be ignored either - it was a spongy heaven which I hope my plants will appreciate since I will be woe to ever put water to soil there again, lest my house go sliding into a resulting giant hole.

So, Mardi Gras aside (there weren't any beads so I'm not sure it counts), the water situation has been brought under control and we have now pushed off anything fun we wanted to do this weekend so that we can YAY cut and replace pipes and fittings so that we don't wash away on The New Finny and Bubba River through the neighborhood.

Goodie.

On a brighter note, I think, I'm still running in a way that would indicate that I am training for something. Which was technically untrue until yesterday when I actually signed up for a race. I didn't sign up for *all* the races I think I'm going to run this year because I chickened right out when it came to hitting the "Register" button for the Rock N Roll Half Marathon. I mean, I am still running as though I have a 13.2 miler in my future, but I haven't *committed* just yet.

Give me time!

For now, I'm committed to Pat's Run on 5/3 for no other reason that it's the right distance (4.2M) at the right time (no plans that weekend, not too hot yet), the right location and the right type of course (flat and fast -emphasis on the FLAT).

Once that's said and done I might be brave enough to go back to the computer and officially register for The Knee Blaster, aka the Rock N Roll Half in October. Until then I will be increasing my mileage as though I'm training for the half, but without the pressure of knowing I'll HAVE to do it.

Lord I'm a wuss.