CATCHING

I looked like this all day.

Here I am with 45 minutes until a friend shows up and I've done all the shit I set out to do today and instead of watching the first 45 minutes of my favorite Bubba's Away Movie (Cold Mountain - he hates it now after the 435th viewing. Slacker.), I'm writing this post.

For you guys.

BECAUSE I'M NICE LIKE THAT.

Actually, no, I just want to get the random post trend started back up again now that the whole pesky BIG HUGE THING NEWS event of 2012 has come, gone and resulted in gainful employment.

Thank the maker that shit's over. Now we can talk about important random shit like HEY I CAUGHT A BOAT LOAD OF FUCKING FISH WOO!

Yeah, that's right, I got to go fishing. And, to quote my beloved hilarious slightly miffed father, "This is called FISHING, Jessie (my dad calls me Jessie. NOT YOU GUYS. Or anyone other than immediate family that has known me since I was wee. So shut it all up.). You're just CATCHING. You're doing it wrong."

Which he screamed from his boat on Father's Day morn as I caught, along with Bubba and my sweet uncle on our boat, "All the fish in the lake so that no one else had a fucking chance."

Or so says Finny's dad.

Salty sailor, this guy.

You may be getting an idea about from where I get this spicy language. Go with that. You're on to something.

Anyway, yeah. Bubba planned a very lovely Father's Day fishing trip for my dad and uncle to Crowley Lake (just outside Mammoth, CA) and let my brother and I tag along.

I saw it as a very sweet ruse to get me out on a boat for a day of guided fishing, but that's because I see all outings in which I participate as outings created with only me in mind.

Because it's all about me.

You know this.

But did you know that I kissed all the fish in the lake?

Well, I tried, anyway.

This guy was ready for me. Look at that come hither maw.

It's in the eyes here. Or, eye, rather.

Asking for it with those sexy spots, I say.

I mean, really, with the way they dress these days.

Just a little peck!

Whore.

 Also, Bubba took his turn making out with fish.

Full tongue on the first date? Suh-lut.

This one was not of age for kissing.

Practically begging for it.

First we fold the fish, then we kiss the fish.

Mmmmmmmmm...folded fish.

We all kissed this fish. It was the winner of the day - 19" rainbow.

And my uncle is not a fish kisser as much as he is a fish CATCHER.

LINE 1's FOR YOU, MAN!

No kissing. Only catching.

Quick march with the photo, woman! There are fish waiting for my fly!

And back into the lake with you, ya big tease.

No time to waste. In the net, photo taken, BACK INTO THE WATER STAT.

He's a mean tease, my uncle. 

That was the long swear-y way of saying that I finally got to go back out on a guided fishing trip (even made the guide's website) after the awesome one we took with the same guide outfit back in 2012 and HOO BOY was it great.

I love fishing. And catching. And hanging out on a boat all day while someone else does all the work of untangling my shitty casts (Thanks, Jerry! You're really patient and not at all giving me the hairy eyeball every time I fuck up my cast! Thanks for that. Sheesh. I'm a mess.).

Happy Father's Day again, dad. Sorry I caught all of your fish. I mean, it was a trip for me, right?

So, I'll just go ahead and be a farmer then.

I've really written this post a hundred times y'all.

In my head and in my fantasies and in Blogger and I still can't decide how to come right out and tell you guys that after the BIG HUGE THING NEWS and two years of horticulture classes and a new shiny degree and lots of time in a greenhouse and even more time freaking out and changing my mind and then unchanging it and then shaving the cat...

I'm actually going to be a farmer after all.

I mean, yeah, I DID say that I was going to be a farmer and that's why I quit the job and went back to school and tortured Bubba with all that What if I'm crazy? and What if I can never get a job? and What if RISK RISK RISK FAIL FAIL FAIL? then decided that being a field farmer wasn't the thing for me and instead I wanted to grow hydroponically and in a greenhouse instead of in the soil out in a field and then tortured Bubba with Is hydroponic farming even a job that you can have? and OH SO MUCH MORE NONSENSE which I will spare you (and you're welcome) - it has happened.

The farmer thing has happened.

And will BE happening on a full time basis in about three weeks.

So, you know, just enough time for me to relax, freak out again, relax a bit more, prepare a little bit by making some freezer Crockpot meals since I'll never have time to cook again, swim in the lake and then start work. After freaking out some more for good measure.

I freak out a lot. It's part of my method.

In case you're not already glazing over in the eyes at the thought of farmer-being, I'll tell you what I'm going to be doing...I mean farming.

So, like, get your eyes ready for glazing...

I'm going to be farming hydroponic organic live basil.

Like those live basil plants you see at the store that come in a plastic cone-shaped bag and can sit on your counter for the week or whatever while you prune off the fresh leaves.

Like this one that I grew at the college greenhouse with a million of its friends.

You know what I mean.

I'm going to grow those. As a job. In my own big greenhouse and new hydroponic system like a real farmer.

And I am pretty fucking excited about it.

So there. I've been waiting to have the right words to tell all of you kind crazy souls who've ridden this fucked up roller coaster with me for the past few years that IT IS DONE and I'm sorry if these weren't the right words. They're all I have left now after all that studying and freaking out.

Amen.

And now we can go back to talking about things that are less soul-searchy and more interesting like...

Bees! I have videos of the virgin queen taking her flight and coming back and sending the worker hit squad out to kill all the drones!

Uh...we're hiking the John Muir Trail in a few months and LO we are just beginning to train for elevation and just finished our menu and haven't tested our packs for their ability to carry two week's worth of food and booze yet and yes we take booze with us into the woods because how else are you going to have backcountry cocktails? There are sure to be a lot of fucked up stories in there. I'll share those.

The garden and how I predict I will change my tomato growing scheme to include only hybrids next year. That's right - fuck heirlooms! Yeah, I said it.

Um...I shaved Rocket.

This is her happy face. No visible bloody fangs is how you know.

So, back to our roots, then? In a totally non-punny way, of course. I hate puns! There - random Finny info for you. See, we're nearly back on track.

Someone bang my queen, already.

So, I started to write this in my ill-kept beekeeping journal and then, when I wasn't even making a move toward said journal and instead trying to convince myself that I'd remember - one day a month from now or whatever - I realized that HEY I have a blog where I sometimes write things!

So I'll blog my beekeeping journal entry this time.

Because that's a thing that people do, right?

Right.

I checked the bees today.

And, like every other hive check in my checkered history with beekeeping, it was not all easy like the books say.

Firstly, there wasn't any sign of newly laid eggs. Which means no queen. Which means FUCK ME WHY IS THIS SO HARD?

Secondly, there was sign of healthy larvae and capped brood (babies). Which means there was a queen about a week ago. Which means OK NOW WHAT?

But then thirdly happened.

I heard piping!

This so-called "piping" is the virgin queen's little cry for boning.

I couldn't spot her in the hive even though I looked at all of the frames because it was so muther effing hot that I had sweat drenching my eyeballs and whole face, but I heard her the whole time I was checking the hive, so I know she's in there.

All, "eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee" and shit.

She and, like, two or three other queen cells stuck on the sides of the frames.

Which I tried to take pictures of but couldn't because my phone was all, "No. I think I'll just not respond to your demands right now and just randomly shut down while you're trying desperately to take a picture of this unique moment. But don't worry because later on, when you're just trying to unlock me or something, I'll take a really unflattering picture up your nose or of your crotch."

The phone is being a problem right now.

Anyway! The hive check today was kind of a disaster, in that I don't have an actively laying queen at the moment, but also kind of not a disaster because I apparently have a virgin queen who will hopefully mate soon with one of the MONSTROUSLY HUGE drones roaming around all uselessly eating the worker bees' honey and then go around killing the other queens in their cells like a total bitch.

Other random notes that are more for me than you, sorry:

• The medium honey super had drawn comb on most of the 10 frames, though none were full and very little was capped yet. Pretty normal.
• The brood pattern in the brood box was good - honey and pollen socked away around a center of capped and uncapped brood.
• Some drone brood was present in the brood box, which is good since someone's going to have to bang this new queen soon.
• The bees were super mellow as always, not really responding to the smoker or getting riled up or anything.
• It was hot as shit out there and I do not enjoy sweat in my eyes.
• No pests were present in or around the hive and there was only 1 hive beetle floating around in the beetle jail and I left him there as a warning to any brethren that may wander through thinking this is a good place to make a home WHICH IT IS NOT.
• I broke open a few of the drone cells I scraped off the bottom of the frames and didn't see any signs of mites.
• I think the diatomaceous earth I used around the hive is keeping the ants and beetles at bay.
• There were a few huge drones hanging out in the brood box

And, yeah - that's it. Checked the hive, found it to be not working as expected which I totally expected, but at least it's not full of wax moth or mites or beetles as I'd imagined and hopefully I'll have a mated laying queen soon and not an empty hive resulting from a swarm.

Let's all say that loudly for the universe to hear, OK? NO SWARMING. Just bang your new queen and let's get back to business.

OK, then.

I'll stop after this. Promise.

At the risk of alienating all of you with never-ending school banter, I will say that this is the last post on school because BAM, it's over.

I've been graduated.

Meanwhile, did you know that's the grammatically correct way to say it? Learned that during my undergrad, yes I did.

From a psychopathic professor who would put my hand to his scratchy bearded mouth and yell into it.

My undergrad was weird.

This time around though! Also weird, I'm afraid.

But less mouth-to-hand screaming, so that was a relief.

Could have done without all of the rank hippies eating themselves free of the cover crop rows, lunatics running rampant in the greenhouse breaking plants, blind high stoners wandering aimlessly through lab messing shit up and the general teenagery Santa Cruz-ness of it all, too, but I guess that's part of the fun?

Sure, fun. Let's call it that.

LIKE FUN!

Heh. I love it when people said that back in the day when nobody used swears. "You're 23? Like fun you are!"

Anyway, random.

And, hey! I have time for random again! I mean, sort of.

Like yesterday when I searched up my final grades and found that I did, in fact, get all As and then took that as a cue to conduct a little activity demanded by my dear friend, Shelley.

See, she's been on my case for oh 2 years or so to put my As up on the fridge and take a picture.

And then a hundred other people said that to me over the last two years as I bashed them about the head and ears with my test and course scores because I'm terribly self-congratulatory.

I'm also overly-familiar, rudely blunt, foul-mouthed, unforgiving of poor grammar and spelling and not that good at mowing the lawn.

And now that we have some of my most heinous flaws out there for you all to ogle, check this shit out:

I call it my Shrine of Self Congratulation.  Also Where the Tonic Lives.

That's right. I kept all of my school paperwork and tests organized for just such an occasion and also because I'm self-indulgent and sentimental.

It's making me nuts that the folders are out of chronological order.

Now, contrary to my previous declaration, I didn't actually get all As on all things. I mean, yes, I did get all As on my final transcript, but there were a few exams here and there where I didn't get As. Thankfully, some of the professors are tech-fearful and don't use the online learning system so I couldn't see all of my final exam scores, but one of them is less fearful than others and I know that I got a C on a final last semester.

A C! I know. Horrid. Still though, I got an A in the class, so let's pretend I never told you. I need to remain pure in your minds.

Instead, look at this and swoon. That's what I did and, because I'm also terribly self-involved, I assume that's what everyone will do.

Perhaps it's my self-involvement that fetched me the 4.0 transcript that I've always wanted. Or maybe it was the fact that this was horticulture and not, say, organic chemistry.

Or maybe it was the socks.

Definitely the socks.

And since these guys served me so well for the last two years in school, I thought they might have enough juice left to get me through another interview yesterday.

For a job I REALLY want.

A job that's REALLY cool.

And REALLY scary. So scary and cool that I will probably need to wear these socks every day for the first six months of the job if I were so lucky as to get it.

I need to learn how to darn socks.

It would appear that my lucky socks are running out of lucky. Or lucky is running out of the toes? Or? Whatever, they have holes.

Either way though - now you're safe. No more school talk on the blog.

We'll just go back to talking about Oh noooooooooo and the garden and dongs, ok?

I make no promises about it during NaNoWriMo though. Which I'm hoping to do again this year after a two year hiatus. And during which I *may* write up a short story compilation covering the crazy of my last two years.

But not on the blog! You are free from schoolishness talking and grades and shit like that.

Be free!

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.

Nothing really to do with garlic scapes.

Obviously garlic scapes are the answer to all of life's woes.

I'm going to do that annoying thing where I put up pictures that basically have nothing to do with the post's context whatsoever except that they were also used to distract me from the issues at hand, so I'm hoping they do the same for you.

Forget your worries and look at this crazy ass garlic.

Because who has time to stress out about an interview tomorrow, a big plant sale this weekend, setting up a new hydroponic crop next week, a different in-person interview next week, finals in two weeks, graduation in three weeks and having to murder at least two people to get registered for a fall biology class when the garlic is scaping?

Look into my eyes and tell me what your fucking problem is.

At least that's my reasoning anyway.

I tried to convince Bubba that garlic scapes were the answer to life's mysteries last night when I proposed that I make a frittata with them, but then he activated his gag reflex and shunned eggs forever because he's even wussier than I am about eggs and so instead we had garlic scape pesto which was fine but WHOA HOLY is it hot.

Always surprises me how hot garlic can be. And how dragon-like my breath can become. Rowr.

So, yeah - got a lot happening in the next few weeks and all of my coping mechanisms are in full effect. AKA - we restocked the bar over the weekend, I spent a lot of time in the garden cleaning up the meadow so that it'd look less like a homeless encampment, I'm cooking some new shit and we are cracking out all of the old classic movie sagas.

This is how I cope. Don't you judge me.

Just eat this, watch the TeeVee and try not to fucking freak out for a second.

We watched Alien (the first one with Sigourney's hair) and then Prometheus (gorgeous and plotless) on Saturday and when Bubba saw the healing power of old sci-fi on my Crazy, he did something that he absolutely-never-except-this-one-time does:

He bought DVDs.

Because *this series* is only available on iTunes otherwise and we...um...don't *do* iTunes in this house and because he knew it was the best way to keep me from completely losing it and because he loves me (or fears me?) he bought the complete Star Wars saga on Blu-ray.

And for that - you don't have to eat eggs.

You see why I love this man, right?

You should love him, too. Otherwise all of your lives might be at risk.

Hey! Also look at what the garden's doing. That's a good distraction, too.

Rocky Top Mix is happening.

Artichokes and onions are, like, MAKE DINNER FOR THE NEIGHBORS and shit.

The Red Baron onions are officially always going to grow in my garden yay.

The bees are working.

I'm picking bouquets when I get stressed, so, you know, every 5-10 minutes. I'm running out of jars.

The poppy field is also working.

The cucumbers basically suck.

The lettuce and alyssum are growing together just as I tell other people to do.

I have so many limes on this one wee tree that I'm concerned for its safety.

There are so many grapes on the vines that I'm concerned for the fence's integrity.

Oh yeah - AND THE TOMATOES HAVE SET FLOWERS.

I hope you are as distracted as I am. Go have a good day, you. And quit freaking the fuck out, already. You're scaring people.