Sandy toes are the best way to start the weekend. Or, since I have to work a bit more, a great preview of the weekend to come. Beachin’ man!
Sand and Shadow
Oliphant Parts
Reframing Reality
Categories: Photography
Brain, Pain, Egg
My shoulder has improved a bit, but is still painful to use, and my left arm is still considerably weaker. I need to go back for a recheck and to discuss surgical options, but I really do not feel like being hacked open. If only I were a Lego figurine, the doctor could just snap a new arm on and I would be on my way. Oh, to be shiny and plastic . . . oh crap!- now I’ve got Aqua’s Barbie Girl stuck in my head. Damn damn damn! If it’s going to be Barbie, I’d rather have John Hiatt’s Wreck of the Barbie Ferrari mushing up my mind.
Speaking of mush, here’s what has been on my mind of late:
Italian Invasion
I have a human office-mate for the first time in 8 years. She isn’t much noisier than the fish, so I think I’ll keep her for a bit.
She’s Italian, so far hasn’t complained about the mess, is in no way associated with the mafia and has a high tolerance for bad jokes. I think she’ll go far. Her obsession with Vampires (sparkly Twilight types, that is) may be a bit much, although so far she hasn’t put up any Edward or Bella posters.
Hey Now
Bear with me, as I feel a mental wandering coming on. I promise to avoid discussing the merits (or lack thereof) of the spray and pray, or which photo here makes the best appetite suppressant. Hell, I’ll probably even skip the merits of brain lesions . . .
So, let’s focus on the important stuff, shall we? Birds. It’s hard letting go, but I am trying. I’ve let him loose, he’s come back, and I sent him back into the world yet again. Sure, I have to step out onto the deck every few hours for a feeding, but el birdo is doing quite well outside. Okay, I haven’t a clue how well he’s doing, but he hasn’t been eaten by a cat, so that’s pretty good in my book. Yes, my book is short, and mainly full of pictures.
This:
Has become this:
He still stops by several times a day for some cat food, a mealworm and some seed. Someday he (she?) will realize that I am not a bird, though, and I will finally be free. Sniff!
So, what am I doing now? Working. And listening to Beige Curtains, by Riki Lindhome. And thanking hulu for getting rid of their rtmpe-only streams. Thank you, hulu. Now I can watch an endless stream of crap again. My life is full.
My life is great, it’s just my desk that’s a mess
Papers piled high, books lying here and there
and bird seed everywhere, I guess I should start to clean
Papers piled high, books lying here and there
and bird seed everywhere, I guess I should start to clean
Rhyme and rhythm and a strong urge to pee
Only one of these things describes me
(and it isn’t rhyme and it isn’t rhythm, as you can see)
It’s sunny outside and sunny inside and in the tank, my fish are dying
I should clean the filter, but I don’t
I’m full of doubt and can’t and won’t
It’s good to be me as long as you don’t think too deeply
My bird is free, flying, daughter crying, everybody smiling
at me
Crap — I think my fly’s undone!
Tomorrow I have to battle the dmv. Apparently, Idaho doesn’t believe in notifying people when their licenses expire. I discovered this while attempting to get past TSA on Friday. They prefer you to have a valid license or some form of current id when you board a plane. Rather an uptight bunch, really. Does having an expired license make you more likely to commit acts of terrorism? Or was it just my muttering of “By Allah’s will, it won’t be a problem much longer” when they pointed out the expired license?
And finally, because I seem to lack a point, here is my explanation of why we have so many Mary Kay Letourneau wannabes these days: Three O’Clock High. More evidence of how us eighties teens fucked up the world. Somehow I missed this movie when it first came out. I think I was doing something stupid like jumping out of airplanes and training to kill Ivan. Poor Ivan, just a faded memory now that we are supposed to hate Muslims rather than Russians. Le sigh . . .
Fresh Lemonade!
Ugh. I have joined the world of lolcats. Poor Frank was just trying to cool off his hindquarters in the dog bowl when Ariel chased him off. Just in case you want to violate my pets with your captions, I’ve made the image a cheezburger link.
If I start twattering, just f*@%*ing kill me.
Hot Chick In The Office
The new chick is cute, but constantly yaps. I thought my time with noisy birds was over. Apparently not. She/he/it also takes up too much valuable desk space. I could have more burnt-out light bulbs or another three paper piles where I now have to keep a bird tank and light.
We originally tried just putting the little bugger in a nest, but it wasn’t happy and kept climbing out. Once I added the monkey and the little blanket, it settled right down. Now it gets pissed if you take its monkey away. I have to feed it from between the monkey’s appendages or it just sits there, mouth closed. Maybe if momma-bird hadn’t been so cheap, this baby wouldn’t have thrown itself from its original nest.
So, does anyone know what type of fledgling this is? Besides noisy and somewhat lacking in feathers?
Update 5/21: As the chick fledges, it is looking more and more like an English House Sparrow. I’d say great, at least it’s not another damned Starling, but the House Sparrow is just as bad an invader as the Starling, killing native birds and taking over prime nesting areas. Just once, I’d like one of the birds I raise to be something that’s actually worth setting free. Well, maybe he’ll want to stick around and spend his days in my office, crapping on my shoulder and staring at the great scary world outside my window.
Ewe Two
My stomach thanks this one for being born early this morning.
Cimarron's First Lamb
We’re still waiting on a name for the last one, so obviously this one is also nameless for now. Good news on the name front, though: Jennie’s decided that the Scottish Gaelic translation of Baa Ram Ewe was too long, so now we’re Gaoth Allamaugh Farms or Gaoth Maugh Farms, depending on whether we want to be Windy Wild Field Farms or just Windy Field Farms. I was shooting for Desolate Hellhole Farms, but Jennie’s opposed to that one for some reason. And for anyone who wants to be able to pronounce it, those woud be either Gway Allaway or Gway Way Farms, in good ol’ murican. The latter sounds like I’ve got a speech impediment.
Okay, just checked, and considering that Gaoth also means flatulency, we’re going to hold off on the farm naming as well. Who the hell wants to spend time at Flatulent Field Farms?
The Miracle Of Birth
Makes me nauseous. I am so glad I am not a mama-sheep, hungrily slurping off the afterbirth.
Whatsitsname just born
Cute little bugger, but I am squeamish. Stepping back and giving them some bonding-time is in order.
Okay, let's step back and avoid the ickies.
And there we have it, a clean lamb. So what am I supposed to do now? Look under the tail and see if we’ve got a boy or girl? Or can I go fire up the barbeque?
There, all clean. So tasty . . .
It’s been busy around here lately, which explains why the poor piggies have been neglected, photo-wise. Just in time for the swine flu outbreak, the girl-child’s 4-H group sent home piglets Monday evening.
MMM…this bucket tastes like bacon!!!
Our two have been behaving just like teenagers: Sleeping until noon, eating just to the point of bursting, making a mess of their house and eating the occasional turd. Oh, and a lot of sunbathing in the nude. They’ve doubled in size over the past three days.
Does this snout make me look fat?
Gut Feelings
Due to popular demand, here are the floofy broon ships. Or fluffy brown sheep, when I’m not trying and failing miserably at a Scottish brogue. So, first the entire herd, in their knee-high glory. I took the pics this morning, and nobody wanted to stand still, so they are all a bit blurry.
The Whole Gang
Leading the herd is Monica (preggers), who is the old gal at two. She is the friendliest of the bunch, willing to come up and sniff your fingers in the hopes of finding something tasty. Considering she is a sheep, tasty is pretty bland.
Dirty Monica
In the middle is Cimmaron, a sprightly (and, of course, knocked-up) one-year-old. She already lost her winter coat, so she looks much smaller than the others. She is also the most skittish of the bunch, usually staying in between the other two. Maybe she realizes I’ve been thinking of how good her lambs are going to taste as barbeque . . .
Cimmaron
Following behind is Mister Studly, aka Luxor. He thinks he’s so cool. If he ever gets brave enough to butt me, I’m drop-kicking him over the fence.
Mr. Macho
So, that’s the herd. The lambs are due sometime between May 1 and June 30. Should be fun. In the meantime, I am following my gut instinct and reducing my mochas from six shots to four. It’s nice to finally have decent espresso at home, but the hole in burning through my stomach lining is somewhat unpleasant. Yeah, I know that has nothing to do with sheep. 
Red Rock
We drove up Old Topanga Canyon Road, past my first house, past Erik’s old house, past the home of the Strychnine Sisters and on to Red Rock. We almost gave up, the single-lane road crowded in by parked cars and garbage cans, twisting and rutted, and so obviously leading nowhere.
Red Rock is beautiful, even with a giant home TV antenna almost at the top of Calabasas Peak. An alligator lizard lay twitching in the road, fatally injured. I have no memories of this part of Topanga, the home of infant me. My mother remembers it though, of once giving a ride to Charles Manson, and throwing him out of the the v-dub once he started rambling. His race riot fantasies are the wet dreams of today’s GOP. How sad to go from one crazy motherfucker to an entire political movement full of them.
I love the shade, but wish for wider roads. Topanga was a refuge for the beatniks and hippies. It’s a good thing they got rich, because there is no way they could afford to live here now. Rattlesnakes and earthquakes, hillsides and mudslides, brush fires sweeping through the canyons. This is my childhood.
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