We *may* eat a lot of peaches. If we can get out of here without murdering anyone. I don't think they get a lot of peaches in jail, is what I'm saying.

So, we're kind of in the middle of some more crazy crap in our quest to become the least responsible adults, but instead of diving into that just all right out of the gate, I'm going to talk about plants.

Cheaper than a therapist right here.

Because I'm a plant nerd and also because this crazy crap involves me leaving a garden that I have so literally poured in blood, sweat and tears. And swears and The Money Chicken and bees and a load of seeds and an apple tree that we chose special for Bubba out of a farm stand line up of, like 20 varieties.

To be clear, the bees are coming with us. As is The Money Chicken. 

Plus, also a billion weekends, half a sabbatical, a business, after work cocktail hours and a cat.

Yes. Rocket's back there.

All buried in her old sunning spot (In an urn. Or whatever's inside the little wood box the vet gave me. Not, like, all alarmingly stiff and taxidermy-y wrapped in a blankie or something.) with her middle paw toe just standing at the ready.

So, yeah. Memories and shit.

Oh, and also the front yard meadow. Bye, buddy. You look effing amazing. FINALLY.

We're moving!

Eventually.

But for now - the plants.

I'm having these discussions with each plant sort of non-verbally.

Carpenteria californica, we need to talk...

Like, I look at the bush anenome and in my head I'm, like, "Hey, buddy. Remember the good times we had when I went to that hippie nursery in the woods and picked you out of all those other sorta boring-looking native plants just based on the little picture stuck in your pot and the fact that you didn't need summer water? Yeah? Remember? And then you got awesome. I never watered you after that first winter and BOOM you've gotten bigger and flowered more and when I pruned you properly thanks to all the horticulture classes you got all gorgeous and then I read this thing at a nursery about how come more people don't grow you and I felt proud. Remember? Yeah. You're cool. I'm going to plant you again."

Or whatever.

Each plant is like this. I'm fucking losing it. How will I really drive away and leave behind the grapes that like their fall pruning and making of wreath from their prunings behind? Who will do that now? HUH?

Um, no one. Because most people are normal.

And the citrus trees with their monthly fertilizing?

Um, no one. Because no one fertilizes their citrus trees adequately.

And the everything else with their everything else needs?

By having some shitty ass neighbors, that's how.

Oh - you didn't think this was going to be all about plants without any bitching, did you?

HAVE WE NOT MET?

Anyway then, don't misunderstand me, the majority of our neighbors are AWESOME. And by AWESOME, I mean AWESOME. You know this.

As I type, they're out there dropping off treats, voluntarily taking Jada to their houses when agents have to come show our house to clients, hosting dinner at their houses so that we can get in our hanging out time before moving, texting us with well wishes, offering to help us pack and all kinds of nice awesome things. You know - awesomey stuff that awesome neighbors do when they find out you're moving and want to help/show that they'll miss you/be awesome some more.

But those aren't the neighbors I'm talking about.

I'm talking about the shitty neighbors and the only purpose that they're serving right now is the one that will make it possible to leave all the plants, our sweet house and everything else behind.

Because of fuck those guys.

THANKS SO MUCH TO THEM for providing the crucial "How do we get our asses to the country?" puzzle piece.

YES THANKS.

Because yesterday, after eight (!) years of saying nothing about the fence that we installed (on our own dime mind you because they refused to pay a cent - you remember) they want it changed.

Before we move.

So that they can reclaim a 10 ft2 space next to their house in the name of "We need access to clean our windows."

Access which they'd have if they'd open the gate.

Which apparently they're unable to do because of they're retarded and want to fuck with us.

And they want it done NOW so that they don't have to go through this with The New Neighbors.

Because, you know, we're all just so close already that it's easier to do with us than unknown new people.

Or maybe because they know that, aside from my oft-referenced aluminum bat, we're unarmed and, with The New Neighbors - who knows, right?

Whatever. These neighbors are asshats.

*Sigh*

Thankfully, we have the grooviest, savviest, and also very AWESOME realtor who smoothed everything out with these chuckleheads and coached me on how to smooth everything out with them without using the bat as encouragement.

Poor bat - barely gets any skull time.

So, yeah, we're moving y'all.

99% of our neighbors are awesome and we'll be sad to leave them. 1% of our neighbors are complete assholes and will be lucky if I don't take a farewell swing at them with Cracky the Bat.

But either way we'll be leaving the suburbs of Silicon Valley behind and going to farm country.

Prepare yourself, countryside, for full time facecuddling.

Because that's what you do when you are two kids in adult bodies and are left unsupervised to make life choices.

I'll facecuddle you too, Hawk Carrying Freshly Killed Mouse.

LET'S GO, ALREADY.

Three people will be sad. Everyone else will just be all, "Yup."

So, I kinda don't know how to say this, so I'll just come out with it.

Rocket, the famed deceptively cuddly yet certainly face-rippy and forever-living Maine Coon cat beast of our house is no more.

You woke me? I WILL MURDER YOU TWICE.

 Her reign is over and she can no longer stand between Jada and her dog food or Jada and the dog door or Jada and her dog bed.

Even during her final days, when she was such a rickety deranged hairball that she'd spend solid hours staring at the wall behind her food bowl without eating - not eating, just staring - she'd summon all of her two wits to make sure to inflict her dominance over the sweet patient dog at every turn.

Where am I? Hopefully in your way, dog.

And let's not forget about the ankle-slapping-until-you-gave-her-the-cereal-bowl thing.

The sweet patient dog who, no matter the encouragement by certain Mes and Bubbas, never went after the always taunting cat.

We all tried cuddling with Rocket throughout her many hundreds of years (18) of looking beautiful and fluffy and oh look how cute her fluffy feet are with the elfin toe furs and we all came away with bloody stumps.

Yes. Come closer to my toes. That's always worked out so well for you.

At one point she got a whiff of Nair (stop your judging - I was in college)(the first time I went to college - my undergrad - not the college I just went through)(just to be clear - I was young) and went on a wall shredding rampage through my college apartment during which time she broke a framed poster of pretty doors (shut up), launched herself off of the front of the fish tank which totally splashed and then finally landed, snorting like a wild hog, on the wicker chair that I eventually abandoned at Google approximately 10 years later.

OK, so that whole Life of Chair wasn't necessary, but still. The cat was fucking crazy.

You forgot we were talking about a cat, didn't you?

Anyway, yes - Rocket finally went off into the night and she didn't do so quietly (bit my hand at the vet) or gracefully (rickety as a backwoods Arkansas footbridge), but at least I finally got to pet her fuzzy elfin feet without getting my face torn off.

Which I realize makes this sort of a morbid post, but come on, you know you would have done it, too. THEY'RE SO FUZZY.

The one time I didn't come away with a flesh wound.

Bye, Punk Rocket.

First catch-up. Then gardenblahblahblah.

You guys, it keeps being too long between posts.

I used to be a Coupla Times a Week kinda gal, now I'm...less so.

I get all busy with school and driving to Santa Cruz five days a week and the starting up of this business and the garden OH THE GARDEN and the hunt for snow and then BAM it's been forever since I posted anything.

Rude. It's very rude of me.

So let's catch up really super photographic-like, OK? Then we can all feel better about how it's not you it's me and whatever other relationshippy cliches that I just will not trot out on this blog because they make me want to slice everyone's throat including my own.

I don't do cliches, people, and you know this.

Photo catch-up, then? That's what I thought.

Also, forgive me in advance for showing you photos taken with my phone. You'll know which ones they are because blech.

I brewed my first batch of beer (Chocolate stout) under Bubba's watchful brewer's eye, of course.

 Thing #: I Do Not Know What on the four page To Do List: Tear out the hideous old Santolina and put in a new and ridiculously small Rosemary.

On a separate but equally important To Do list called, "To Do In My Life" - Get first chair at Heavenly.

  Thing #: I Do Not Know What on the four page To Do List: Ski some backcountry (like a freak)

 Thing #: I Do Not Know What on the four page To Do List: Irrigate the new garden bed. WHAT NEW GARDEN BED? I'll tell you in gardenblahblahblah. Just wait.

 Thing #: I Do Not Know What on the four page To Do List: Make lap coasters. Which are, for those of you wondering, a large semi-absorbent fabric coaster that can sit on my lap and absorb the condensation of my cocktail so that it doesn't get my fancy attire all ring stained.  No, I don't know why I make almost pointless things. Let's call it a character flaw.

 Thing #: I Do Not Know What on the four page To Do List: Insulate beer fermentation chamber.
This was certainly NOT pointless.

 Thing #: I Do Not Know What on the four page To Do List: Make new couch cushion pillowcases.

Oh finally it snows in Tahoe. FINA-FUCKING-LY.

This wasn't on any specific list, but who doesn't love watching a cute puppy run around in the snow? Only assholes, that's who.

Some QT in the Sierra backcountry.

And then QT with Bubba at the bar.

I studied for four hours last Saturday and then my neighbors took pity on me and hosted a study break. It is possible that I never returned to studying so it may not have actually qualified as a "break".

I brought these over to the neighbor who hosted my study break. I think you'll agree that she sorely deserved them.

I baked Farmgirl's bran muffins instead of doing 600 other things I should have been doing because that's how I procrastinate, friends - with baked goods.

I shredded all of these vegetables into a big bowl and have been eating it for lunch every day with a squeeze of lemon juice, some olive oil and an avocado sliced on top. It's actually really good and, no, I have not yet shit myself from raw vegetable overload, though I appreciate your concern.

I made some awful Chocolate Chili recipe and it was not good. I still ate it all, but it was way too gritty with spice and too sweet with all that cinnamon. Never again.

For one of my classes I had to open and check our water meter. I found a black widow in there and nearly shit the sidewalk. If I don't get an A in this class, I'm putting a black widow in my teacher's coffee.

Avocado with tuna and fresh dill. It's my lunch about three days a week and every time I eat it I feel like a nerd. I have no idea why.

This is one of my favorite trees in the spring time and this day it happened to have a very cute truck parked next to it. Yay for spring and old timeyness.

We've had some unseasonably warm spring weather and everyone except Bubba wants to soak it into our bodies like big sun sponges. Bubba just shakes his fist at the sky and mutters something about a traitorous so and so.

Remember Rocket? Yeah, she reminds us of her existence by squeezing into spots that are clearly too narrow for her.

And then by taking up spots that are clearly too big for her and that belong to the dog.

The front yard meadow is totally starting to bloom. 

Remember my 500 new pets? They've been pooping and I've been stealing their poops, mixing them with water and spraying it on my plants. It's the weirdest thing I've ever done.

I keep making Brussels sprouts like always and MAN are they good.

I made Farmgirl's Carrot Orange soup, ate it for a week and could still go back for more. That shit is goooooooooooooo-od. 

So, feeling caught up? I'm so glad. Me too. Sorta.

Anyone up for gardenblahblahblah? Because I've got some. LOTS.

A rarely worn hat

I'm dusting off my rarely worn Cat Lady hat today so that I can describe for you the ongoing aggravation with our feisty cat, Rocket, and how I may die a mysterious death so I need to enlist you all as witnesses.

As you may remember from the few rare posts I've done about Rocket over the years, she is not what you might consider to be a pleasant animal.

She's pretty and fluffy as all hell, but don't be fooled - she is a monster.

A monster with a taste for Vet Face.

How so? Oh, let me just give you a quick list of examples. When you read these, go ahead and multiply their occurrence by 100 and their bloodletting by 1,000:

•  When I was in college and dipping my toe into the dangerous waters of self-administered depilatories, she caught a whiff of Nair and went 100% bonkers tearing through my house like someone had lit her tail on fire. (I had not.)(Though I considered it after I saw the damage she did on her tear.) In her ammonia-inspired rage, she tore 3 framed posters (classy) off the walls, overturned 2 chairs, knocked the (very full) trash can over and hissed at her litter box. When I tried to restrain her pick her up to calm her, she filleted both of my forearms so dramatically that I still have scars. That was 12 years ago.
  
• Once, when Bubba tried to get her into the cat carrier, she magically doubled in size, began grunting like a wild boar and shit a giant pile on the floor. When Bubba finally captured her with the help of two sofa cushions and a beach towel, she still managed to wriggle free a single hind claw with which she, nearly literally, sliced him a new one. When they arrived at the vet, they actually treated him first because he was actively bleeding. Or maybe because they were just afraid of her. And rightfully so.
  
• When I went to pick her up from the aforementioned vet visit, the vet tech approached me in the waiting room after I'd been sitting there for 20 minutes to ask me if I could please come retrieve Rocket from the kennel because she "wouldn't come out". When I went back to see what all the fuss was about, two women with towels were standing back from an open kennel and covering their mouths in horror while the inhabitant of said kennel hissed like a loose cobra, my dear Rocket.

 Really, friends, I could go on. For days.

She is a beautiful, cuddly looking cat without front claws who is slow as all hell and uncoordinated to the point where she can hardly be categorized as a cat anymore, but if you approach her with any intention of affection beyond, perhaps, scratching her between her ears or feeding her a raw bloody brisket, she will rip your face off. Or at least make a hearty attempt.

Well, she would have up until about 6 months ago.

See, this cat, she has started to slow down. She's just about 13 now, which I didn't think was *that* old for cats, but her stride tells me differently. She's very slow. She's awkward and uncoordinated. She doesn't really jump anymore. She runs only to beat the dog into the house or to her food. And she just always looks uncomfortable. Like her bones are creaky.

She reminds me of an old lady.

So, because I try to be a somewhat diligent pet owner, I decided to take her to the vet. For a, like, check-up or something. I say, "or something", because this cat hasn't had a check up in a long time. Like, years? I don't know. She's an indoor-mostly cat and so I've not had any call to put Bubba or myself in harm's way just so that we can transport her to another place and put other people in harm's way. And when I say, "harm", I mean, of course - Rocket.

So what I'm used to are dog check-ups. Because the dog is a social being who accompanies me to work and out walking the neighborhood and to the beach and mountains and other places where she comes in contact with cooties, ticks, rabid wild snowmen and the like. So, she needs check-ups and shots and chicken baby food from the jar because our vet is very sweet like that. Then they coo and fuss over her because she's "perfect!", has the "heart of a marathon runner!", is "the ideal weight", "so sweet", "beautiful", "so young for her age" and so on. It's lovely. Jada loves going to the vet. They give her treats, cuddle her and afterward I walk her down to the dog bakery (yes, this is California, we have these things) and let her pick out a toy or something gay like that.

I'm a social butterfly.

Rocket though? Totally different story. A bad story. That has to start with putting her in the cat carrier, and you know how that goes.

Thankfully, sort of, her Cat Carrier Ferocity has mellowed over the years a bit. And my neighbors (oh how they've saved me) loaned me their top-loading carrier for the transporting of said face-ripping beast. It helps. A lot. And I think it helps that she is slow and creaky, so doesn't put up a fight. She's not wild about me picking her up, but she is slow enough that I can move my delicate parts of the way of her swinging claws before they can open up my forearms.

Well, all of this alleged mellowing of old age has done me a fat lot of good because OH YAY, I've come to find out that, after 3 rounds of orally administered antibiotics, she has been acting a hero but is still infected with an unkillable cootie and now requires subcutaneous antibiotics daily for 6 weeks.

Not know what subcutaneous antibiotics are? Yah, I didn't either.

It's a fancy word for, "You're going to have to inject drugs under the cat's skin with a needle. Every day. For six weeks."

A cat whose life mission is to slice me open and display my innards like one might a frog in 7th grade science class. A cat who has terrified hundreds of people in her 13 year lifespan and rendered seasoned vet techs to quivering messes with her well-seasoned low growl. A cat more raccoon than feline, more wild than domestic, more teeth than fur.

And I get to shamble up to her on a nightly basis and jam a needle in her scruff.

I'll let that sink in for a minute.

Good times, right? Something to get off the couch for, right? Wrong.

So I guess what I'm saying is that, of all the hats I might wear on a day to day basis, this isn't my favorite.

Oh, and if you don't hear from me for a few days, Call. The. Police. - Rocket did it.

Punk Rocket

I'm high from the fumes.

Normally I don't bring up the cat because I'm afraid of being called a Crazy Cat Lady or accused of using the Internets to bombard people with mind-numbing minutia about my cat's daily bowel movements, BUT, I think my recent foray into cat torture warrants at least a short post where I display evidence that, no matter what happens with my career, I can NOT ever be a cat groomer.

See, we have a Maine Coon. Her name is Rocket. She has many interesting characteristics such as bloodthirstiness, a great love for waffles, a fetish for men's hair products and an affinity for being shaved.

For some reason, the cat who will bite and claw and try to rip my face right off 99% of the time will, at the sound of the clipper's buzzing, lie calm and serene and allow me to shave her fur off in whichever way I please.

Perhaps she realizes that I'm cutting her workload in half. Perhaps she knows she'll be cooler when I remove half her fabulous fur coat. Perhaps she has some other bizarre hang-ups about which I do not want details.

Either way - my shaving the cat means that I don't have to do all the things that would require taking her to a groomer which would include, but not be limited to: catching her, stuffing her into a box/crate/reinforced steel cage, drugging her, paying off the groomer so they don't sue me for releasing a wild animal in their shop or having to re-upholster the interior of my car due to severe shredding.

And so, about every six months, I cross the line of normal DIY and I shave The Rocket. And I do an hysterically piss-poor job.

I feel like one million dollars.

Usually I start out thinking that this time will be different and I'll make it all even and smooth like they do at those professional-type places and then I realize that not only do I not have the professional-type clippers that they do, I also am not being paid to do it and therefore, don't have the patience to shave a cat the size of a wildebeest in my house which doesn't have A/C.

I think you'll agree that heat, sweat and flying cat hair are not a pleasant combination.

This is why I always end up putting on my Bare Minimum hat and deciding to limit the requirements of the job to: Just give every surface at least one pass.

That way the clippers (we're on our second pair which are on loan from our nice neighbors who DON'T WORRY know what we're doing with them) don't burst into flames and Rocket doesn't suddenly realize that I'm torturing her and revert to her 99%-of-the-time-Face-Ripping self.

Sure, she ends up looking like she just got spit out of the mower, but she's happy, I still have my face on and the clippers can be oiled and brought back to life for future torturing.

At first it used to bother me when Bubba would laugh and point and make fun of the cat's retarded hair cut.

I would defend her and tell her how cute she looked (because I actually think she's cuter with her funny hairdo) and would tell Bubba to shut up and go look at his own hair or something similarly immature.

But then I stopped taking myself so seriously because who really cares if I don't know how to shave a cat right since that's not really a skill I plan to pride myself on or anything. And also because she does look funny and it's always better to laugh than be serious, so there we are.

And this last time around, I really outdid myself in the piss-poor haircut department, which I'm sure was a direct result of my not even trying to do a passable job. Not that any of her haircuts in the past have been any good, but this time I was actually laughing and making fun of my work as I went.

Does this haircut make my ass look fat?

So, now you know that I'm a closet cat shaver and, while I should be ashamed, I'm really not because look how cute she is. All with her various bald spots and what not.

Let's not pretend

So, I'll be honest, I was going to *try* to not open my birthday present from Kelli until next week when it's my actual birthday.

Yes, really, for about five seconds I was going to *try*.

Then, in true Finny form, I said fuck it and opened it with hands a whirring and paper and ribbon flying every which way. Much in the same fashion you'd imagine the Tazmanian devil to open a birthday gift or demolish a small town.

Why open a gift in such a voracious fashion? Well, #1 I still love my birthday even though Hubby tells me that this enthusiastic behavior will begin to wane soon. And #2 This is a gift from the ever thoughtful and all-Finny-knowing AfricanKelli (or Donk as I call her) so I knew it would be great.

Was I right? O'course!



Let me summarize all the greatness that is this birthday gift a la Donk:

• Unabashedly orange dish towel (am I right?) turned handy knitting needle case
• Perfectly handknit and felted lime green and purty blue stripeeed button hole bag
• Fantastically orange note cards tied with the loveliest lime green ribbon
  
• Awesomely adorable YET also mildly hilarious photo of the Donk herself trying not to pet a cow in Nicaragua

Why do I love all these things? Let me count the ways:

1. Orange and lime green are my ridiculously favorite colors
2. A photo of Kelli trying *not* to touch this adorable cow that I would have literally bear hugged is simply riotous
3. That beautiful buttonhole bag was so perfect that it was put into use mere moments after the gift was successfully outed from it's shipping box (perfect project bag - I love, love it long time already)
4. Those orange note cards will be excellent backdrops for all the photos I've been taking and not posting on this here blog

There are prolly more ways to count, but let's not get crazy (to quote my dad.) End of the day - this birthday is off to a fine start and just a short week away. Woot!

Oh, and the FurBeast had a birthday surprise in for me as well.

This is her saying, "Hey look at me! I can jump up on your bed again! Aren't you excited?! I am going to leave you a furry heap of formerly clean laundry right here for your birthday!"



For those of you who aren't fully acquainted with my cat/sheepdog, she is, let us say, large. And since moving into this house (and especially since buying a new taller Tempurpedic mattress) she has been blessedly unable to jump up on our bed, and thus fur up our pillows/sheets/faces. It has been nice. Until now. She has found her way back up onto the bed and therefore we will be waking up with furry faces for the foreseeable future.

But it is kinda nice to have our foot warmer back. Especially since she can cover all four of our feet at once.