Your last randomness for 2013

Remember random blogging-by-bullet-points? Yes, that's this.

The semester is over and I killed it, but almost not.
Three classes plus work experience, which was just me getting credit for working in the greenhouse which you know that I love, resulted in three As and a P because I guess you can't get true letter grades for working.

Whatevs.

And since the semester was moving by so smoothly and my grades were nice and solidly in the A range, I did that naughty cheater thing of calculating what I needed to get on my final exams in order to hold on to my As.

I was tired of studying, friends, that is the truth.

As my newly polished math skills showed, I really only needed to get a 56% on one exam and, like a 60-something on another to hold my As.

Fine. I shall slack completely off, not finish the reading and take the approach I took during my undergrad times which was to ride into the final on a wave of "If I don't know it by now, I'm not going to know it." and just see how it goes.

Except that I totally still studied because I've become a total A-loving nerd and couldn't face the idea of What If I Don't Get an A on the Final?

And then, even with all the studying and not slacking off, I managed a 74% on a final exam that I should have aced if only I'd been studying the right content.

ASS.

A is for ass. At least with that final. Except that I didn't get an A on that final. I got a C. And let's not go into what that might stand for because the point is that I still got an A in that class even though I'm ashamed of myself for that hideous C that I wouldn't have even known about if my professor didn't post all of his grades online.

Which got me wondering how many final exams I've not aced but have still led to getting As in the class and then the anxiety started to take over and WHATEVER THEY'RE ALL As AT THE END OF THE DAY AND WHO'S READY TO DRINK?

Me.

That was a long bullet. Sorry.

I started to look the gift horse in the mouth and then decided to shut my yapper.
So, I got this nice little scholarship at the final hour and it's paying for my final semester of classes and I'm stoked.

Free money is a nice thing. Not having to pay for classes is a nice thing. Getting a refund to my credit card from the college is a nice thing.

Going back to the scholarship awarding committee to tell them that their organization's name is improperly punctuated is not a nice thing.

The irony is that it's an organization for writers and the name of the organization itself is, in my opinion, improperly punctuated. Like, it needs an apostrophe and you know how I feel about apostrophes.

But I decided not to include that with my scholarship application and I've decided not to include that with the thank you letter that I will be sending for the award and so, yeah, now I just have blue balls of the brain with regard to the unrequited finger-wagging over the missing apostrophe.

Probably also that last sentence made very little sense.

Weeeeeeee! Randomness.

My feet are Old As Fuck forever plus bonus Weird As Fuck diagnosis
So after my initial Old As Fuck diagnosis of my Crossfit-inspired foot pain and the x-rays that proved that I had extra Old As Fuck bone growth causing extra Old As Fuck foot pain, I decided to be a grown up and accept the referral to the podiatrist to see if he could do something about this Old As Fuckness.

Plus, also to confirm that I didn't have gout. Which I don't. Hooray for that.

What I do have, apparently, is Weird As Fuckness.

See, I made an appointment to see the podiatrist at 9am. So, Bubba and I traveled up to the doctor together via train because we were going to the city to go bowling afterward and that is the most Old As Fuck sounding day of events I've ever constructed.

Starting over.

I had an appointment to see the doctor at 9am, so I showed up at 8:45 to fill out the paperwork they were sure was going to take 15 minutes to complete prior to my appointment, and at 9am I was sitting in the doctor's exam room with my shoes off waiting for his excellency to bestow his footly wisdom upon me.

When he actually walked into the room at 9:01am I'm sure I looked surprised because I expect that all doctors are going to be late because in my experience they mostly have been.

What I did not expect was to have the doctor register my existence with surprise and then go on to tell me that he expected ME to be late because "All 35 year old women are late to appointments."

Um, not THIS 35 year old woman, thankyouverymuch and why are you saying that I'm 35 years old because obviously I'm still 23 which is my perma-age and I'll thank you to remember that next time, Dr. FIX MY FUCKING FEET.

I think he saw the offense on my face because of the fact that I'm punctual as fuck - like, I take time management seriously and do not accept tardiness in myself or others - and also who are these 35 year old whores just wasting everyone else's time by showing up to shit late all the time and ruining my good reputation?

Bubba assumed he was talking about 35 year old women who are mothers and trying to wrastle children into minivans against their will and such, but whatever. My mom was a 35 year old mother at one point and that gal IS NEVER LATE.

I love her for that. And other things, too, but I love her a lot for her punctuality. It's an admirable trait. Enough about my lovably punctual mother though, this is about my Weird As Fuckness.

So, I was weird for the punctuality. Fine.

Then the doc proceeded to tell me that there wasn't much I could do about my "minor" foot pain since the bone spurs weren't "too bad yet, so just wait until the pain's really bad and then come back for surgery or maybe we can make you some orthopedic insoles for your shoes that are really expensive or you could customize some Super Feet or whatever quit your bitching while I tug haphazardly at your toes and feet while you recoil in fear and horror."

Or whatever. That's basically what he said. And did. The haphazard tugging was truly terrifying.

And when I pressed him on what the recovery time was like for the surgery, since I'm not super wild about this whole "wait until the pain's really bad and then come back for surgery" thing, he said that it's only a few days off your feet and then a month and a half in a boot, but don't worry because you'll still be able to drive when the boot's on your left foot.

Except that I drive a stick shift.

Which is apparently Weird as Fuck.

As in he looked up from the wrastling of my feet he was so terrifyingly doing to eyeball me with surprise and then say, "Oh. One of the remaining few. Hmmm..."

Then he made a comment about how long my jeans were (I've been meaning to have them hemmed, but they were tucked into boots for the day so I didn't think I'd be taking lip off of anyone for it), gave my feet a few final horrifying tugs and left me with zero resolution other than that I was now Old, Weird and destined to be old and weird. As fuck.

Oh, and also I have arthritis in my feet and that doesn't get better, only worse, so look forward to that you old, weird, punctual, stick-shift driving freak.

So glad I went to the doctor.

I slipped on my too-long jeans while we were bowling and so had to have three glasses of champs to feel better.

Let's not talk about it.

I'm starting this post in a dangerous way and that is to say, without a specific purpose or message in mind. And while it might seem that this is how I write all of my posts, let me assure that it is not.

Even if the message is retarded, racist, inflammatory or pointless - almost 100% of my posts have started with a specific purpose. Even if that purpose is as stupid as telling you that I'm happy.

But today - nope. No point. I only have things that I *don't* want to write a post about.

Like my commute situation and how people in California (and elsewhere? I can only speak for Californians in this respect) need to learn that, on a two lane highway, the left lane is for passing and the right lane is for driving and if you're in the left lane and you're not passing people driving in the right lane then GET THE MUTHER FUCK OUT OF THE LEFT LANE YOU NON-PASSING SLOW-DRIVING COW DICK.

See why I didn't want to write about that? It's useless. We can't do anything about it and it's not going to change and we all deal with shit traffic so who cares, is my thought.

Who cares because look at my new favorite hat.

I'm also not quite ready to go into detail about why I'm not going to be a tractor-driving farmer after all, because I feel like I need to sort of synthesize that whole deal for myself before I go throwing it out there for the world to judge and see.

You'll notice that I put "judge" first because I know how the world and I are similar and it is in our desire to pass judgement. I'm judging myself right now and it is not pretty. Or nice. But there are lots of swears, so at least I know it's me doing the judging. When I have my story straight for myself and I've completed an adequate amount of self-judging, I will put it out there for y'all to judge at will.

Meanwhile, check out these muther fucking leeks, man.
This is also kind of a vague useless hint. Enjoy.

I'm also studying for finals, which I definitely don't want to write about because I'm pretty fucking burned out on studying as it is and talking about it doesn't improve the situation any. Thankfully I'm going into finals with solid grades, so if I eff up and bomb them all, I can probably still get As.

That is the delusion I'm allowing myself anyway.

Study Cocktails. They're a thing.

Then there are the holidays which I'm blatantly ignoring. I'm not even making fun of people's absurd yard-mounted holiday cheer interpretations because they seem a bit lackluster and I think that's because it's been pretty cold here, by California standards, and these lazy fucks aren't getting out into the yard to vomit lights and inflatables all over their homes because I can't honey, I'm cold. 

Not that I mind, since it means that there is less hideousness from which I need to recoil on a daily basis, but it sure is making my nightly dog walks less amusing and why do you come here during the late months of the year if not to ogle and judge the horror that people call Festive Decorating.

I'll pass, mama.

I'm going to the spa for a massage today and before you get all It must be nice on me, I'll tell you that it's with a gift card I received as a thank you for administering sub-cutaneous injections to my friend's aging cat for 10 consecutive days and I'm spending the rest of the day studying for finals and writing this blog post so shuddup. I am, however, not working in the greenhouse today and for that I am grateful/excited/anxious/sad. I miss my plants when I can't check on them and I worry that a pest settled in the moment I left yesterday and it is taking this opportunity to irretrievably infest the greenhouse to the point of We Must Burn The Greenhouse To Save The Greenhouse.

DON'T DIE, LETTUCES.

The garden. Well, I could talk about the garden, but there's not tons to say since it's winter and the recent cold snap (It's been in the 20s. I know it's been colder wherever the fuck it is that you live.) has slowed everything down to a crawl and the only activity I've been doing out there is covering and uncovering shit so that it doesn't freeze in the night. The worms are still actively eating my trash and the bees are tucked away safely in their hive with the entrance reducer down to the size of a pinhole, so at least my garden creatures are safe and somewhat happy.

Spoooooooooooooooooooooky patio

And yeah, the last thing that I definitely didn't want to write a whole post about was the weather. The cold. People's reactions to the cold. People's UN-reactions to the cold. People's reactions to other people's reactions about the cold. Weather, pardon the mind-numbing pun here, is polarizing. And with its polarizing nature come people who want to, like, fight about how cold it is, or how NOT cold it is, or how it's colder here than there and oh you'd die if you were where I live and I can't believe you're even saying anything since what you have is not cold THIS IS COLD and such.

Dudes, I get it. It's winter everywhere in this hemisphere. Some places it's more extreme than others. And some people who live in places where the weather is less extreme than other places get cold when the weather seems warm enough for you to be outside in a bikini pruning the hedges.

Good for fucking you. Good for fucking me. It's not something that I want to get into beyond look at what my fingers do when I walk the dog in 30 degree temps without gloves on.

As my hysterical friend commented, "Phone hoooooooooooooome".

I just think it's funny.

My body is a weirdo. I have shitty circulation that runs in the family and this isn't even the worst example of shitty circulation that my body has exhibited today. The other morning I went for a run when it was 23 degrees out, wore all of my running gear including gloves, tights, a hooded vest, long sleeves and earwarmers, and when I got in the shower afterward, my entire body was red from the cold and my hands looked like marbled beef with white spots where the blood had stopped flowing/frozen in place and red spots where the blood was still moving/trapped between frozen spots.

I laughed and called Bubba into the bathroom to look at my bright red bod and freaky marble fingers. He laughed at me, smacked my red butt and went back to bed. Because he is classy and hilarious and thinks the cold makes my body do weird and amusing things, too.

Thanks to our annual ski trips, he's had lots of chances to get a load of these cherished moments first hand.

I'm just glad the weird thing my body did wasn't DIE.

So yeah, I'll work on a post about the Not-A-Tractor-Farmer thing and, meanwhile, you can tell me about the shit that YOU don't want to talk about.

There must be something, right?

Something that's just been hovering around in the back of your head and it's annoying, but not so annoying that you'd dedicate any internet space to it, except now you have the perfect opportunity and I want to know it.

Go.

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.