Blame the basil or Dr. Fischoeder or the paperwhites or my hat or whatever

I could get all oh I'm so ashamed that I haven't posted since, like, November, or whatever and oh I'm so sorry, people and shit, but I'm not and I won't.

See, friends, I've been working my tits off over here trying to get my newly designed hydro system to grow a saleable crop of basil before the year is out and YAY DONE.

On day 363 of 2014, my first harvest was loaded on the truck. All 70 pounds of it.

Farewell, babies. Mama loves you. Now get the hell out of here before 2015 comes and you make me a liar.

Nothing like dragging shit out until the last possible moment to make a good impression on the boss.

So yeah - it's been ALL BASIL ALL THE TIME in my life since July (well, really since a while ago) and I've hardly done anything else, but here I am to say...hi!

Missed you guys.

Also, Mr. Fischoeder got a new accessory.

See, Bubba's been traveling a lot. LIKE, A LOT. Like, going to China twice in a month and then Colorado and then Vegas and then London and then London again a lot. And we haven't gotten to hang out and indulge in our ongoing stream of senseless bullshit silliness like we're used to, so now he pranks the fish to see if he can get me to laugh hard enough to vomit.

My life is very romantic, yes.

So, the day before he left for his most recent trip to China, we had lunch. He came down to the farm and took me out for noodles.

And next to this one noodle joint in the midst of a billion Mexican restaurants is an aquarium store. One that I actually went into after our noodle lunch to get some random shit for my hydro system (it's really something to be The Weird One in an aquarium store, by the way. Load of freaks in there.) and the same place where I got Mr Fischoeder's cleaning lady, Consuela.

What I did not know was that Bubba went into said aquarium store, hung out with my favorite turtle for a while and then did a hilarious thing.

And later that day, when I was standing at the bar sorting mail and decided to look over at Mr Fischoeder and Consuela between recycling a thousand catalogs of bullshit, I nearly honk-laughed myself into the grave.

Yup. Treasure chest.

Now, I didn't vomit, but when I lay gasp-honking for air on the kitchen floor, Bubba knew exactly what had happened and left his suitcase mid-pack to show his naughty face and pretend ineffectively to have no idea why I might be happily laughing myself to death. And also to see if I was going to laugh-vomit.

He is hilarious. And also a perfect gentleman.

And Mr Fischoeder, who's actually recently been promoted to Dr. Fischoeder and moved to a lit and heated location on the grow rack so that he and Consuela would survive the cold winter, is getting used to his elevated status in life.

He's started pooping behind Consuela is how I know.

Civilized, this guy.

And I finally cracked the code on the fucking paperwhites.

You know - those little white daffodils that smell incredible/reek balls (depending on who you ask) and grow in gravel in a little bowl in your house in winter when everything else outside is hiding under snow/unraked leaves?

They look awesome at first and green and pretty and then suddenly they're too tall for their bowl or whatever and Aw shit the paperwhites fell over and I have to, like, tie them up with a piece of rustic twine or something to keep them from crash landing on the floor while also keeping them from looking stupid?

You know.

Well, not this year. This year I win the paperwhites game. Which no one knew they were playing, but we all were.

JUST TRY TO FALL OVER NOW, YOU BEAUTIFUL FUCKS.

The hurricane vases were my secret weapon in this game against the paperwhites.

"GET TALL, YOU FUCKS!" I screamed.

"YOU CAN NEVER GET THAT TALL!" I screamed some more.

And then Bubba came in from the garage to find out what the hell was going on and then realized what was going on and then just went back out to the garage to contemplate a few decisions he's made in life.

But oh. OH do I just win.

Fuck you, paperwhites. Right in your sweetly beautiful flower faces that I love.

OH! And Bubba got me this sweet hat for Chrismahanukwanzawhatever...

The basil was very impressed by my hat.
And if you think I didn't consult the basil on the look of my new hat then I don't even know you anymore.

So, yeah, kinda random I know. But I couldn't let the year end without saying hi and telling you that I'm doing a passable job at work, our fish is potty trained, I outsmarted a plant and I wear woolen hats in an 88 degree greenhouse.

Priorities in life. I have them.

Mr. Fischoeder gets a cleaning lady

Probably I haven't told you that I got a fish.

Please enjoy the fish's ironic backdrop because we know he does.

Not that I haven't caught fish - I've definitely told you about that - but that I have an actual fish living in my house. In a bowl. A fish bowl.

Like a pet fish would.

And like any pet fish, his name is obviously Mr. Fischoeder.

Because we love Bob's Burgers and when you love that show and then you get a fish, what the hell else are you going to call it? Ravioli?

No, that was for my pre-Bob's Burgers fish. Now, though, there is only one name - Mr. Fischoeder. Because it sounds like Fish Odor and that's amusing.

Every time I feed the fish or stare drunkenly at him in his big bowl (now anyway, he used to live in a tiny glass vase and before that in the ill-fated and useless AquaFarm), I laugh.

"Hehe - Hi, Mr. Fischoeder. You look lovely today, Mr. Fischoeder. You have no odor, Mr Fischoeder. Come face cuddle me, Mr. Fischoeder."

And so on. Because I'm a child that's also really easily amused.

Do those exist? I may be the first.

Anyway, so I have this fish with the amusing name and the pretty fluttery fins and also a semi-sordid history with pet fish.

Like, during my undergrad I basically rented some fish to swim around in a fish tank in my apartment and keep me company while I lay hungover on the floor with my hair stuck to the carpet with barf.

And also to entertain the maintenance guy who came around every so often to unclog my kitchen drain that was definitely not full of aquarium gravel.

Oh no. Never ever.

Once I graduated, I promptly returned to the aquarium store from which I purchased this little school of tetra and gave them back. They took them, quarantined them, and then started what I can only imagine was a mildly lucrative fish rental program for strange undergrads that have no time or the sobriety level for normal pets, but can't be left alone while they muddle through their hangovers.

I imagine. I don't know. That's what I would have done if I were an aquarium store owner.

Then about eight years later, when I was working on a new product at Google and it finally came out of beta, my cheeky sunuvabitch of a coworker got us all beta fish in little bowls with little gravels and ha ha he he ha.

My beta fish was blue and cheerful and I named him Ravioli because obviously.

He swam around in that bowl for almost a year and a half until one day I came in and he was not so much a fish, but a cloudy mass vaguely resembling a fish. It was a wee bit grody, but I gave him a proper burial and sent him to the great fish bowl in the sky toilet.

Farewell, Ravioli. You were a regal and trustworthy friend. Or something.

Then I quit that job and my life in high-tech to be a farmer. But instead of being a traditional farmer, I became a hydroponic farmer and got to also grow food the aquaponic way, and that is with fish.

About 400 koi, to be not exact at all.

And also a few sneaky hider catfish that swim along all dark and sneaky at the bottom of the dark tank so that you don't know they're there until you drain the tank and OH WHOOPSY who's that on the floor? Sorry, buddy.

But I was mostly really good to those fish. I made sure their feeders were full, clarifier was emptied regularly, airstones were pumping away and all that fun stuff that aquaponic growers do to keep their fertilizer machines working away happily. I even answered questions from snide bullshit hippies who gave me beef about how I was exploiting another creature for my own gain.

"You seem like fun!"

Asses.

Anyway, then I got the AquaFarm. I'll spare you the stupid details, but basically after running the aquaponic lettuce crop for a while and then having 18 people tell me that I should get one of the AquaFarm things "just to try it out and see if it works even though you keep rolling your eyes like that", I got one and it didn't work just like I knew it wouldn't.

Or something like that.

Basically, yes, it grows microgreens. Hooray. I don't need a $70 over-engineered fish tank to grow a few handfuls of microgreens. I have a jar for that. I think it cost me around $1 a bunch of years ago when I got a flat of them for $8 so that I could can some jam or something.

The other stuff it was supposed to do, like grow basil and lettuce, were, um...false. Even from starts I brought home from the greenhouse that had been growing fine in my work aquaponics system, they just sat and sat and then eventually keeled over and died in the thing. Because it doesn't have any light and Mr. Fischoeder, the resident fertilizer machine, could only poop so much.

Mostly though, it was the light.

Anyway, whatever. The AquaFarm got disassembled and put away in the shame corner of the garage for a future Goodwill outing and Mr. Fischoeder got downsized to an abandoned flower vase with a few bits of gravel but with a prominent spot on the bar.

He socialized a lot back then because we did. He got a lot of attention swimming round and round in his wee bowl because it was so damn small he couldn't do much more than go round and round.

Poor guy. He was probably sea sick. If a fish can be such a thing. Which I'm sure they can't.

Anyway, Bubba was horrified at the guy's living conditions, so eventually I upgraded him to a big boy bowl - a proper actual Fish Bowl. And to fancy it up further, I poured a good portion of my sea glass collection in the bottom because I felt guilty about his former living conditions and was afraid he was going to file an HR claim against me with management.

HOSTILE WORK ENVIRONMENT! Maybe we should have named him Archer?

But, here's the thing with a fish bowl that doesn't have a filter or plants filtering it - it gets dirty and needs cleaning. Which, no thank you.

I mean, I did it, because of my extreme and ongoing guilt and also because I don't like dirty things, but I was not a fan.

So, to get to the point of this random ass post, today while I was at the aquarium store getting some random ass shit for work, I had a random ass encounter with a very nice woman who was essentially buying a cleaning lady for her fish tank.

See, here I was standing in front of the glass case and a wall full of pumps and filters and handle jugs of Anti-Ich juice with my back to a billion aquariums humming away full of fish with my thermometers and humidity sensors and I look over to see what the lady next to me is getting and all she has is a plastic bag with a green ball in it.

"Uh. Whatcha got, there?" (Because I'm friendly sometimes.)

"I don't know, but it's cute!" (Because other people are sometimes adorable older gals making impulse purchases.)

"Hell yeah it is! What does it do?" (Because I always swear.)

"Um...entertain me?" (Because this is who I want to grow up to be.)

"It's a moss ball, ladies, and it doesn't do much more than look pretty and clean your fish's water." (Because aquarium store owners can only listen to so much nonsense before they have to interject and ruin our fun.)

"Ooooooooooooooooohhhhhhhhhh." In unison, of course, because this woman is a kindred spirit.

"I want one." (Because I'm greedy)

"YAY! Isn't it funny what entertains us?" (Because she's adorable.)

"Indeed it is. Do you think I could pet it?" (Because I'm retarded.)

So, yeah, while I was out getting stuff for work, I bought my fish a cleaning lady.

Tell me, Moss Ball, do you do windows?

He's stoked.

Definitely not boring or sad

Um, right - so Jada.

This dog - she's taking years off my life is how much I love this girl.

I dare you to not adore me. GO ON TRY IT.

Because a few weeks ago, right after Bubba took off for a week's trip to London, girlfriend had a majorly bizarre meltdown of the butthole variety that very nearly wiped me from this planet with worrying.

See, if you've followed her exploits over the years, you know that she's basically bulletproof.

She backcountry skis.

She hauls 1/3 of her body weight.

She kills and eats every wild thing.

She's also delightfully predictable and reliable and easy going about pretty much everything.

Ride in the car for 2 days to go skiing? This is acceptable with papa scratchins.

Everything except her butthole. Suddenly. Alarmingly.

See, I came home from work one of these Bubbaless nights with the intention of taking her for a walk and returning to sit my living room couch while a friend regaled me with stories of girlfriend catching up.

Which was SO not to be.

Instead, my night was more like taking her for a walk in which she was all sad and weird and then returning to hover around her while she did not eat but instead her butthole took on the look of a baboon's.

Which, no I did not take a picture. THAT'S HOW WORRIED (and horrified) I WAS. NO PICTURES. ONLY WORRYING.

I ended up taking the baboon to the vet and spending the next two days immersed in 4 alarm WHAT IS WRONG WITH THE DOG, EXPENSIVE SLOW TALKING VET?! mode and ending up with the very best diagnosis an oncology vet can just ever fucking deliver.

Oncology vet without a sense of humor: Jada has an abnormal colon.

Me: So, you're saying it's not cancer?

Oncology vet without a sense of humor: It's not cancer. The very end of her colon is just abnormally shaped.

Me: So, you're saying that her butthole is weird. Canine Abnormal Butthole Disease.

Oncology vet without a sense of humor: It's not a disease. It's just an abnormally shaped colon.

Me: I bet you don't give that diagnosis a lot, huh? "You're dog has a weird butthole, ma'am."

Oncology vet without a sense of humor: It's actually her colon.

Me: I can't believe I've said butthole, like, a hundred times and you haven't laughed once. Come on. This is my coping mechanism. This and drinking.

Oncology vet without a sense of humor: Jada has a weird butthole, yes.

Me: THANK YOU! I need a drink.

Anyway, yeah, the vet really never came all the way around to join me in my coping mechanism humor so I'm just letting it go.

But still - Weird Butthole is the best diagnosis ever. And not just because it's not cancer.

But the real story. Which, surprisingly, is not about weird buttholes or cancer.

Nope...nipples.

As in, Jada was returned to me without any.

Now, I don't know what goes on in super expensive fancy ass oncology veterinarian offices, but nipple shaving off is apparently one of the things.

Again, I don't have pictures, so you're just going to have to take my word for it here, but I'm sure you can imagine my alarm when returning home with my beloved sweet slightly still doped and recently repeatedly ass-probed dog to find, upon belly rubbin's that UM...smooth.

Like, imagine this but with a pink bare belly with six red spots ALL SMOOTH. Creepy.

The hairlessness and pinkness was no surprise. Obviously she has to be shaved before they can do the ultrasound thing to look for cancer in her guts. But the nipplelessness was a surprise.

As were the red spots where her nipples used to be.

THEY SHAVED OFF HER NIPPLES, PEOPLE.

Because apparently her Cleansing Retreat of six enemas, a colonoscopy, a biopsy and ultrasound wasn't enough. They also had to rid her of her pesky dog nipples.

Weird.

It's weird.

But for all of you sweet dog-loving people who have emailed me and Facebook messaged me and texted me - Jada is cancer free and living a life of leisure and homecooked meals.

Seriously. This dog has it fucking made. I'm so worried about her not eating and, thus, sending herself back into Angry Baboon Butthole Let's Go To The Really Expensive Ass Probing Vet land, that I'm basically cooking/preparing/handfuckingcrafting her breakfast and dinner every day.

Making chicken stock in which to cook rice. Shredding chicken to put in said rice. Stockpiling her favorite kibble to mix in the rice. Bubba has been hand choosing the most delicious sounding (and looking - is that wrong?) canned "entrees" to cut with her rice and chicken. Chopping up that Hillshire Farm Sausage looking dog food log thing to mix in with the rice and chicken. Warming it all up so that she gets a good hot meal.

It's so out of control here. I'm certain that we've become those weird pet owners and now I can't judge people who put their dogs on raw food diets and shit because, well, here I am with a slow cooker full of chicken making homemade stock so that she can have her precious delicious chicken rice.

But when I hear the crunching of kibble, it's all worth it.

And phew.

Turkey baster knitting. Because I can't knit like a normal person anymore.

So, someone said they wanted knitting talk. Or, yarny talk. Or something to do with the header of this blog that now seems wildly misplaced.

And I thought, "Yeah. Knitting. What ABOUT that anyway?"

Then I went to Ravelry. 

Because in times of Maybe I Should Knit a Thing, But What? That's where I go.

Despite the fact that I have a whole shelf full of knitting books full of patterns. And all kinds of shit I've printed out over the years and organized in a binder like an old fashioned knitting lady. And patterns folded up with their yarn, all halfway done and foolishly hoping to be finished in my stash in the closet.

I'm FO-averse, friends. That's one of my knitting problems. 

I get started on something and, unless I'm totally obsessed with the finished object it is meant to become, I get part of the way through the thing and just go, "Meh, I'm over it. Let's play PS4."

Oh yeah, because now we have PS4. Which is another one of my knitting problems. 

Because knitting usually makes me angry and when I'm angry I need to kill things and society says I can't really kill things so instead I play PS4 where I'm rewarded for killing things.

Also in PS4, starting over is a matter of hitting a button and in knitting, starting over is a matter of frogging usually hundreds of stitches during which time drinking is out of the question.

Which brings me to another knitting problem and that is - no drinking.

Seriously. I can not. 

Because when I do, shitty shit happens and then frogging happens and then I'm hauled off to prison on homicide charges.

We can't afford that kind of bail, so I (we?) have decided that knitting = no drinking. 

And since cocktail hour is a much hallowed daily event in this house since graduation and starting a new job and Bubba starting a new job and JMT and and and, the result has been zero knitting since April. Though one might contend that April's knitting project looks like it was conceived and created by a very active drunk.

Which brings us to today and the new knitting project I'm about to start. 

Because despite the fact that I've "Cast on" on Ravelry, I haven't cast shit on. In fact, I haven't even knit the gauge swatch that I'm totally going to do because, brace yourself, I LEARNED SOMETHING.

People, friends, remember when I knit that perfectly awesome sweater for Bubba? And it came out all perfect and awesome and actually fit him?

You remember.

All of that was made possible by me actually knitting a gauge swatch. Because if I'd forged ahead knitting forever and all the while hoping that the gauge would magically come out right even though it NEVER DOES when I don't knit a gauge swatch first, it would have come out unmagically like a pile of shit.

And I've decided I don't want a pile of shit. The dog spends her time preparing those for me on the hourly and that is just plenty, thank you puppy.

Instead, I'VE LEARNED that I want a wearable knitted object that fits and in order to have that I'VE LEARNED that I must always knit a gauge swatch first. And then I'VE LEARNED that I must be for real with the measurements and accurately judge whether my gauge swatch is the size indicated by the pattern or whether it means I need to reknit the swatch with a smaller/larger needle or whatever to get it right.

I'VE LEARNED, is what I'm saying, and for this all of your lives are safer. I promise you.

But that's not actually why I haven't started yet. It's because I've also learned that, for me, starting a new knitting project is a fucking project in and of itself.

I have to first find the bloody project, which this time didn't take too long because HELLO.

Mielie Vest on Ravelry

Yes. 

I will make that and it will be orange and I will wear it over my long sleeves to work where I will load up those pockets with my two phones because I'm a loser and my greenhouse keys and my pH probe and all the nonsense that sticks out of my jean pockets all the time and really needs somewhere else to live.

Yes. 

But then next I had to figure out what yarn to use because OBVIOUSLY the yarn used in the pattern isn't available on Jimmy Beans Wool and they're really the only place I ever buy yarn so thankfully they have a calculator on the site to help me find a different yarn.

Not that the yarn used in the original pattern doesn't exist somewhere on the internet, I'm sure that it does, but then I'd have to set up an account on another site and wait and see how many hundreds of years it takes to get the shit in the mail and what if it's not right and UGH.

No.

Another knitting problem I have is that I trust no one. 

I won't delve too deeply into that matter as it relates to yarn buying, but let's just say that I've been burned by one too many fruity geocities-esque craft sites that happen to miraculously carry the otherwise unavailable color/make/model/style/material THING I'm desperately hunting for and then the transaction and usually project all go downhill.

Except at Jimmy Beans Wool which is my safe place of yarn.

As it was this time when I got Malabrigo's Rios yarn in Glazed Carrot because ORANGE. I love orange. You know this.

Extra orange is what I was going for. Obviously.

But, in my haste and excitement to buy this so gorgeous I want to eat it yarn, I forgot to pay the extra WHO CARES amount to have the skeins wound into center pull cakes that make knitting with the yarn just way fucking easier.

I assume, if you are a knitter, you've tried to take one of these beautiful wound skeins (hanks? I can't keep all the nomenclature straight. Nor do I care to. So, don't like, leave me a lot of comments about it.) and just start knitting from it. 

Just one of the more horrible ideas I've had in my life. The resulting pain and misery were enough to keep me from knitting for some time, I'll just tell you. Then I had to only buy yarn from the store near my house that wound it all for you when you bought it. 

Then I found Jimmy Beans Wool that offers this service and TEE DAH we don't shop anywhere else anymore.

Then I forgot to have them wind the wool for me this time. 

DAMN IT ALL FUCK.

So, this brings me to the last knitting problem of mine for this post anyway and that is - winding yarn. 

I do not have a yarn winder. They're big and clunky and OH JIMMY BEANS CAN JUST WIND MY WOOL and, if I need yarn wound I can just go back to that knitting shop which OOPS is out of business, DAMN IT ALL FUCK.

But! I had a momentary flash of genius in my moment of BUT I WANT TO START MY PROJECT WITH THIS FANCY ASS YARN WHAT WILL I DO and that was - go to YouTube. 

Not so much genius as common sense, but you can understand how, to me, that seems genius-y. 

And, on YouTube I found lots of nice people who could show me how to make a center pull ball of yarn from a useless skein of yarn using all manner of tools like a toilet paper roll, giant knitting needle, broomstick, turkey baster and probably lots of weirder things that I didn't take the time to check out.

This is the video I followed, though I used a turkey baster rather than a monster knitting needle, and it worked pretty fucking well.

And because I'm a fancy bitch, I used the dye lot tag as the center pull bit. I'm still congratulating myself on that bit of genius. 

Take that YouTube! You're not the only one that can think of things! 

Kind of.

So yeah, I've spent the last day and a half winding yarn into center pull cakes and I have some impressive carpel tunnel claw hands to show for it, but once I can uncurl my aching fingers and uncramp my meat fists, I'll go about knitting that gauge swatch for this, the project that will take the rest of my natural life.

Yay knitting.

There's a reward at the end of this post. Probably.

I have an hour to kill before I can go pick up Jada from her surprise emergency trip to the vet that's scaring the ever loving fuck out of me, so I decided that this was a good time to write a blog post about...

I have no idea.

I could write about death, since that seems to be a pervasive theme of my 2014, but I don't really dig on morbidity unless you count my phase of loving black toenail polish and listening to Depeche Mode.

Which I don't.

I do, for the record, still love black toenail polish and am waiting extremely impatiently for my two lost toenails to regrow so that I can make all 10 toes look as busted as the few that remain.

My feet are still fucked from JMT, y'all, is what I'm trying to say.

I have two missing toenails, two blackish purplish soon-to-be-gone toenails, one warped toenail and five semi acceptable toenails that would look a lot more acceptable with a coat of shiny black polish.

As Bubba would say, "Oh my goth."

He's hilarious.

I could also write about work, because it's SO awesome at work and I love it SO much and it stresses me out SO much that I need an outlet for it, but I've never been a write-about-work blogger, so it's hard for me to do that now.

You tell me - would that even interest you? To hear about working in a greenhouse on a farm? Keep in mind that it is a farm mostly composed of greenhouses and herb crops and we don't have, say, a bunch of cute fuzzy animals and farm chic shit everywhere and my office is on a loading dock rather than, like, in a distressed red painted barn and I grow crops in a hydroponic system rather than in the dirt like I've been told "real" farmers do.

Just keep all that in mind and then make your decision: work talk or no?

I could write about why Jada's at the vet and how it was so super sudden and extra scary and how my heart has been breaking all day and I'm so fucking worried and Bubba's traveling for work and the two of us have been over-worrying all day long via Chat, but that'd be boring for you guys.

Or sad. And I don't like to write about shit that's boring and sad.

What about the holidays? KIDDING. Just saying that word made me throw up and curse Macy's and Costco.

And if you haven't seen what's happening at Macy's and Costco right now, then you and I could be friends. At least on Facebook. Because my friends have been posting pictures of what the inside of these two stores look like and it's scarier than when I first started watching Walking Dead.

I get scared during Walking Dead, OK, so shuttup.

TV! We could talk about TV! I mean, the series that are on TV and then go to Netflix or Amazon Prime or some other streaming service because we don't have regular TV anymore. Which I love.

I don't know why I held on to DirecTV or cable for so long. It's all a bunch of nonsense and lame content or good content saturated with stupid ads to the point that we can't even watch TV in hotels anymore.

We're spoiled by no commercials and on demand content of our choice.

So what if I watch Bob's Burgers every single day? And I binge watch series after series without going into the kitchen for a snack during the commercial breaks?

Oh wait - those are two awesome things. Yeah - fuck you, regular TV.

OK, so we talked about TV a little.

How about the garden? I mean, it's been so hot here and so dry that the summer garden has been long since pulled out and the winter garden planting is on hold until it's not seedling-melting temperatures anymore, but we could talk about the garden.

That's all I have to say about the garden: It's been hot. The garden can not be replanted until it's not so hot. HOT.

Have you heard that we're having an End of Days level drought out here in California and everyone's calling it the next Dust Bowl even though that kind of doesn't make sense but then if you think about it long enough it kind of does make sense? Yeah. It's hot and dry here and it's been that way for about three years and now shit's getting real.

Like, I've been driving over the same reservoir for the last three years on my way to Santa Cruz every day and that thing is vanishing before my very fucking eyes.

Soon the bridge over the reservoir is going to be pointless and kids being born around now are going to be saying, "Mommy, why is there a bridge here if it just goes over nothing?" And mommy will say, "Shut the hell up back there and try not to sweat because you can't take a bath for three more weeks."

It's dire.

But that topic, too, is sad and boring, so let's skip it.

NANOWRIMO! Let's talk about that.

I was going to do it this year. I even started an outline in Scrivener and started researching shit and behaving like someone who has done this shit before and then...reality.

I have no time for NaNoWriMo this year. I mean, if I wanted to ignore Bubba and Jada, not bathe, fall asleep and drown in my hydroponic system at work and/or alienate myself from all of society in the name of writing something about which I'm only remotely excited still, then yes, I'd have time.

But my response to all that which I just said is, No thank you.

Instead, I've agreed to be a NaNoWriMo mentor for my sister, who's doing it for the first time this year. I feel like that is a good midway point for me so that I don't feel like a complete abandoner of shit I love and also like a decent sister.

Two wins is better than one big bummer, I say.

And now it's time to go pick up Jada from the vet, so thank you for humoring this very long-winded time killer of a blog post and for your reward, I will write about whatever you want next time.

Seriously.

Throw a topic out there and I'll spin some bullshit for you.

Come on. You know you want it. Bullshit that is. Custom written bullshit.

Go.

Let me know if you have a door that needs kicking in.

When I told people I was going to quit my nice corporate high-tech advertising lifestyle to be a farmer, I got a lot of warnings.

I mean, after they asked me how long I'd been doing crack cocaine and/or whether I'd recently suffered a tragic head trauma, of course.

In some cases, I sought out these warnings and in some cases they were just offered up by the knowledgeable and completely ignorant alike.

Because it's super useful to get farming advice from people who've never even been to an unincorporated part of town without sidewalks, but WHATEVER, I was letting everyone get in their potshots.

Fun.

Meanwhile, one of the warnings that I internalized and, for a good bit of time went forward completely ignoring, was doled out by my beloved Bubba who said, without delay mind you, that, "Um, baby, you know you're going to have to wear proper shoes now?"

Because the man fucking loves proper shoes.

I didn't and still don't, but after the first day of my Organic Agriculture class, during which time we were commanded by our instructor to always wear closed-toe shoes to his class because HELLO we are farming now and FYI those digging forks can slice through your bare foot like a pitchfork into compost, I relented and got some proper shoes.

Which Bubba assured me were not proper FARMING shoes, but at least they had closed toes and I had to wear socks, so for that he granted me a pass.

"Nice try" - Bubba

My instructor...well, he was less impressed with Vans as farm appropriate footwear, but because I'd wear my red rain boots more often than not, he then granted me a pass, too.

Dancing with broccoli. Because that makes red rain boots seem normal.

I'd made it - in my mind, anyway.

I got used to wearing socks (ew) and closed-toe shoes (ew again) and it wasn't the end of the world. Like, my feet didn't shrivel up and die, they just shriveled up and didn't breathe until I got home and aired them out while wearing the delightful flip-flops.

And then I went on for a few years through my horticulture degree and working in the greenhouse and working on the farm and then graduated and got a job as a grower at a farm and wore my "Proper Shoes" with my socks and, alas, my feet didn't die.

I mean, I've died a little inside every time I put on the Proper Shoes and Socks combo, but everything else was going so well that I just let it happen.

Made peace with the situation, if you will.

Until last week.

Last week I was sitting in the first of many Farm Meetings, where the growers sit around a conference room table looking awkward and annoyed and go through the never-ending list of things that need doing or following up on so that we can produce our respective crops and keep the farm...farming, and I received The Mandate.

One of the items on our farm director's checklist from a previous Farm Meeting, to which I was not privy, was to ensure that all members of the Production crew, from the growers to every single field crew member, was wearing ANKLE COVERING footwear.

This was being presented as an obvious fact and the annoyance on all growers' faces that it was coming up again because some grower had someone on their crew who was still coming to work in, like, tennis shoes or something, was extreme.

Which is when I looked at my director and pointed to my Pumas.

Oh.

Thankfully, he has a decent sense of humor and also patience with idiots, so all he said was, "Certainly YOU of all people have, like, a pair of hiking boots that will cover those ankles. Wear them."

He's right. I do have a pair of hiking boots that cover my ankles. Unfortunately, they can eat my ass after the shitshow they made of my feet during our backpacking trip and I threw them sidelong into the garage when we returned from our trip and vowed never to wear them again while also giving them the finger and trying to light them on fire.

So, those boots were out.

Thankfully, I still have the Bubba-approved Proper Shoes which are actually boots and totally cover my ankles, have a steel toe, a puncture resistant sole and are totally perfect for the job EXCEPT that my fucked up feet (Hi, Crossfit, I have not forgotten you. Asshole.) kinda hate them after a day of wearing because I can't use my Old Lady I Have Crossfit Inspired Arthritis orthotics in them.

But I've been wearing them because I think, after all of this time, I know that it's the right thing to do. Even if my old lady toes are all cranky after a day of clunking around without my orthotics.

Actually, IT IS the right thing to do and if I'd embraced that fact a little sooner, perhaps I wouldn't have smashed my big toe with the hand truck after lowering it too fast when dropping off the 1HP beast water chiller in my headhouse the other day but whatever.

The beauty of the boot-wearing though, and I am hesitant to put this in writing since Bubba will be all SEE! I TOLD YOU, CRAZY WOMAN! and such, is that I actually kind of love wearing boots.

Because of the feeling like Super Woman in them and everything.

Now, yes, they're technically Proper Shoes, which I'd reject on principle in most cases, but they're also the giver of super human lady strength and make me feel invincible and like I can effectively drive the forklift to move stuff around or kick the door down if I need to or just walk around the farm without smashing one of my fucked up toes into something.

And I have learned that there are a lot of somethings on a farm into which one may smash a toe.

So, yeah, I am now in full compliance with the footwear mandate of the farm while also at risk of getting fired because I just run around kicking down doors all day.

Whatever. It all evens out.

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.

I caught some fish and then didn't die of heat stroke.

Dudes, can I tell you something?

I'm over summer.

Yeah. It's happened. I finally OVER-summered after years of being all "OH I LOVE SUMMER THE MOST! Fall sucks! Don't say Fall! It's the new F word!".

And now it's been summer for, like, three years and all I want in the fucking world is some rain and then some snow and to wear my down booties in the house without Bubba being all, "Really, dude? It's 90 degrees."

I know, my love. I FUCKING KNOW.

Ugh.

He hates it, too. It's not right for me to get all sweary at him about it, especially since we're both pretty sure I brought this on us myself.

Perhaps the entire state has me to blame for the drought and this bloody forever-taking hot ass muther fucking summer.

Perhaps.

Either way, I'm over it. And in a very visible LOOK AT ME MOTHER NATURE - I'M COMPLYING act, I'm setting out to bring about fall.

Like, starting today.

I went out to that yard and I gave everything its fall pruning. And I went out to the garden and took down the tomatoes and peppers. And if this state had adequate water resources to do so, I'd wash my car, but we do not so I'm only fantasizing about it while my beloved Duchess is buried under a heap of dust and bird doo.

Also, I'll probably bake some cookies. And if that doesn't turn on some fall weather, I'll start a knitting project, plant some bulbs, make chili in the crockpot and, like carve a fucking pumpkin or something.

What else is fall-like that I can do to get some NOT-SUMMER to happen, people?

It's gross out here in California, is what I'm saying. This state is dry as a popcorn fart and I have stopped enjoying it.

A week ago though, I enjoyed the piss out of it.

Can't catch the biggest cutthroat of one's life in winter, friends. That's something.

Or the biggest wild rainbow trout of one's life either.

It was approximately 100 degrees in this tent and that beer wasn't nearly large enough.

Riding this bike down the mountain in Mammoth was like descending into hell itself. But with extra sweating. 

Why, hello Eastern Sierras. I haven't seen you in five whole minutes.

So, yeah, it's hot here.

The yard work today was nearly my final act.

I had to lie down afterward is how bad it was. And then I had to have cocktails. You know, to cool off.

So, fall soon, then?

Glad someone's growing something around here because it sure as shit isn't me. Apparently.

You know how people say shit like contractors' houses are always in the worst repair or cleaning ladies' houses are always the messiest or whatever?

Yeah, so I think I'm like that now, but for farmers.

Because WHOA does my vegetable garden suck it this year.

Um, sad.

Um, sadder.

I mean, yes, it's the end of the summer and usually shit looks like shit by now, but it's basically looked this sad since, like, June, and when we got back from our backpacking trip I hobbled out there on my peg leg and ripped the beans out of that empty bed you see there because I couldn't take it anymore.

It was depressing.

It's possible that with finishing my horticulture degree, starting a new farm job and going on a two week backpacking trip that tried to kill me, I *may* have neglected my vegetable garden, like, the tiniest bit.

I should probably be ashamed of myself, but as is my way, I'm just forgetting about it and moving on.

Enter the winter garden.

Red baron onions were so awesome last year, I'm putting in a hundred this year, which is twice as many as last year for those of you who are keeping count. Which is weird of you to do, I just want to say.

Dill and cilantro were so badass all winter last year even when the hard frost came, so that's happening again, too. En mass.

Plus, I've organized the direct sow stuff (Pacific Gold and Ruby Streaks mustard greens, Romance and Nelson carrots, Hollow Crown parsnips, Cherry Belle and French Breakfast radishes, arugula, buckwheat, Aquadulce fava beans, Rocky Top lettuce) that will go in once it stops being in the fucking nineties all the live long day FINALLY GAH.

I'm over summer, people. Specifically, the heat. It's to the point where I'm saying Fall with a capital F to see if I can't bring about the end of this molten summer. It's not working.

Thankfully, for the sake of our winter tomato eating and Other Foods of Summer Which I Failed To Grow eating, I've discovered the best perk of working on a farm and that is the peer pressure to PLEASE TAKE SOME FUCKING WHATEVER YOU WANT OUT OF THE COOLERS BECAUSE THERE'S SO MUCH.

Yes, hi, I will have 22 pounds of dry farmed tomatoes thank you.

And then PLEASE GO HARVEST WHATEVER YOU WANT FROM THE FIELD RIGHT NOW BECAUSE WHOA.

"Plant it, eat it, throw it at the neighbor kids - just take some of this garlic."

"The dry farmed tomatoes are in - let's go taste them." = favorite thing I've ever heard someone say.

"Oh, and pick as many as you want. There are lots." = second favorite thing I've ever heard someone say.

That's a lot of zucchini to leave on neighbors' porches.

These peppers were too big for retail sales, so OOPSY DARN I'll have to take a flat home.

Also I bought a pie from the farm stand because obviously.

And then I finally, after being in a total cooking/eating/dealing with only dehydrated food rut, I took all of that goodness into my kitchen and made a new thing.

Herbed cheese stuffed zucchini blossoms

Ingredients

• A few dozen squash blossoms (pick the males, which are the flowers without the little squash growing on the bottom), rinsed, dried and stamen removed (that's the pointy part in the flower with the pollen all over it)
• 8 oz plain soft farmer's cheese
• A few handfuls of fresh herbs (I used parsley, dill, cilantro, savory and basil), chopped
• 1 cup white flour
• 1T sea salt
• 1T fresh ground pepper
• 1 egg
• 1 cup vegetable oil

To make

Mix the chopped herbs, salt, pepper and cheese until the herbs are distributed evenly throughout the cheese. 

Carefully unravel the blossoms and press a tablespoon or two of the cheese mixture into the stamen-less center of each blossom and twist it closed.

Then set it up decoratively on a plate and spend way too long taking pictures of your handiwork because LOOK HOW FANCY.

Neato.

This one was the king I decided.

Then start your oil heating in a deep fry pan over medium heat until it shimmers and mix together the flour, salt and pepper in a bowl.

Crack your egg into another bowl, whisk it up and set up your conga line to the fry pan.

Then, because you're a dick and probably also because you've been drinking this whole time, take the first stuffed blossom with your handy tongs and completely bypass the conga line and stick the thing right in the hot oil without battering it. 

Then realize the error of your ways, rescue it out of the oil, send it through the conga line while hoping that the hot oil won't start cooking the egg, see that it totally does, replace the egg in the bowl, dip the semi-cooked egg battered blossom in the flour mixture, put it gently in the hot oil, move your cocktail to the bar where you won't be able to constantly sip from it, and then proceed to dip, batter and fry the rest of the blossoms without error.

When you're done frying your battered blossoms to a golden brown by just letting them slowly fry over medium heat instead of trying to speed things up by overheating and thus burning them over high heat, make a quick caprese salad with what's left of your farm haul, put out some good balsamic vinegar to dip your blossoms into and have the most indulgent dinner since the last time you made fried chicken.

Sure, fried stuffed zucchini blossoms should probably be an appetizer,  but eh. 

Eat them all in one sitting because they don't save for shit.