Sent from The Precious
Today I performed my first hive incursion since getting the new bees, and there is much good news to report. For example, the bees? Are THRIVING. Lots of brood comb and a frillion or so workers in the air. Also, it turns out meat tenderizer really does work a treat on beestings, reducing the swelling by more than half within minutes! Three cheers for old wives' tales and friendly neighbors who don't mind cooking with MSG!
The bad news is, I think they sent me the wrong bees, because I ordered docile Italians and I'm fairly certain the emm-effers in my backyard are Africanized.
Finally, a point of information: if you can't find your beekeeping gauntlets, KEEP LOOKING. Even if you ALLEGEDLY bought docile Italian bees, gardening gloves are no substitute. Because they have that keyhole gap at the wrist, and Italian Africanized bees are highly intelligent and will proceed through that little gap single-file and sting you up to your elbows if given half the chance. THE MORE YOU KNOW.
* This petition. I don't usually use my blog to promote causes, but this one hits close to home. I wish the OP had used people-first language rather than saying "special needs children," but am willing to overlook it because COME ON, UNITED HEALTHCARE, GET IT TOGETHER. If a kid can only digest a super-expensive medical formula, and receives said formula via g-tube, that is ABSOLUTELY A MEDICAL NECESSITY and THAT IS WHAT HEALTH INSURANCE IS FOR! If the insurance company we had when Little Child was on elemental formula via g-tube hadn't covered it I don't know what we would have done, and that is NOT an okay position for any family to be put into by a greedy corporation.
* FRENCH FRIES FRENCH FRIES OMG FRENCH FRIES! The banquets department at my job had a group come through that requested gluten-free fried foods, and the kitchen accommodated by draining and cleaning one of the fryers and special-ordering non-coated french fries, among other things. I HAD NOT HAD REAL FRENCH FRIES IN TWO AND A HALF YEARS AND THOSE FRENCH FRIES WERE AMAZING AND WORTH YELLING ABOUT!
* There is a whooping cough epidemic in California right now, and given that I work in hospitality and come into regular contact with travelers this scares the shit out of me. I have asthma, I do NOT currently have health insurance, and I'm allergic to the pertussis vaccine. So I really don't give a shit if you're afraid it'll give Junior autism based on a debunked study or the word of a woman whose fame is based on shaking her tits on MTV, VACCINATE YOUR CHILDREN PLEASE!
* TODAY WAS MY NINTH WORKDAY IN A ROW AND TOMORROW I AM OFF! WHOO TITS!
How are all of YOU? Are you yelling about anything today?
Today I hauled my carcass out of bed bright and early (I worked late last night and slept poorly due to nightmares about locking my keys in the MFA Minivan and all of my teeth falling out) to attend this year's MFA Middle School academic awards ceremony, where I was frisked at the door by an armed police officer ('MURRICA!). Today Big Child was only in the top 10% for TWO subjects, not four like last year, and did not manage a perfect score on any of the standardized test subjects or straight As for the entire year (he had one B). I'm thinking I should ground him all summer!* Things continued to go downhill when Big Child and the other Top Five Accelerated Readers in the seventh grade were commended by the announcer for their "literal comprehension" (NOW THE COP MAKES SENSE, AND THIS IS WHY I DO NOT OWN ANY GUNS), but the kid was one of only two students in his grade to be recognized as a "Trailblazer" who fearlessly embraces new ideas, so I guess I won't put him on bread and water just yet.*
The XY did not attend this year's awards ceremony, and has already announced that he will not be taking his next weekend either. Between that and his trying to weasel out of providing transportation for Big Child to get to and from the summer program for the gifted that he got into this year (which he had agreed to do since his job schedule is much more flexible than mine) he's totally blowing his chances at winning Father Of The Year (the schmuck). C'est la guerre!
Big Child's a pretty great kid, and I think I will keep him.
* I am KIDDING, people. I would think that would be fairly obvious, but this is the innernet and you never know. I chalk this year's decline (if you can even call it that given that he's still kicking ass) up to cockiness and the advent of Teh Hormones. And maybe genetics on his father's side.
I'm still alive! Things are considerably less grim here now that my bloodlevel of Pristiq has stabilized, or at least they SEEM that way, and perception is everything, AMIRITE? Here are some updates:
* I bit the bullet and picked up the Pristiq, which meant giving up on Anthem, but oh well. As long as I don't get bronchitis or break a bone in the next month or so I'll be able to get on my employer's coverage at that point and this'll just be one more cringe-worthy memory. A reader-turned-Twitterfriend-turned-facespace-friend gave me a discount program code that saved me $30 on the prescription, which was a huge moral victory in that it took the cost from just OVER my former monthly premium amount to just UNDER it. SUCK ON THAT, ANTHEM!
* The title comes from the fact that one of the Feed Store Six is...not a hen. About a week ago SOMEbody started up with this sad, half-whispered puberty-crow, and we've been trying to identify the culprit ever since. We'd hear the pathetic little quasi-crow, and turn around, and all six birds would be standing in a clump looking at us going "peep?" This morning Hotter caught Flash II in the act, though. Chicken soup to follow! If I'm honest it's kind of a relief that one of the six younger birds is not keeper-material, because that means I can let one of the older four stay, and while I am not one to get emotional about smallstock (anymore) (much), there is one bird among the older ones who thinks she is a pet and runs up to crouch at my feet for petting when I go outside. And while I have a heart shaped like an axe, I don't think I can butcher something that LIKES me! The other three would cheerfully kill and eat ME if they could, so they're fine to go in the pot, Blacktop (the friendly chicken) can stay on as our "chicken emeritus" and show the five younger girls the ropes, and we won't be in violation of the c(o)unty's six-bird limit or in danger of landlordly censure thanks to Trashcan Neighbor, who has our landlord on speed-dial, over a rooster.
* The new job continues to be good! It's slightly less money than "The Ritz," but MUCH less physically demanding, and a much friendlier environment. I actually like some of my co-workers! The kitchen staff fills scrap bags for my animals! Management appreciates me, and tells me so on the regular! The hours are less favorable in that I now mostly work evenings (at "The Ritz" I mostly worked mornings), but evenings at The Ritzier are where the money is, so I'm okay with it.
* The only thing I really dislike about the new job is that the most expedient route from home to work takes me directly through the neighborhood where I last saw The Narcissist alive; it's a long and unpleasant story but her final shitfit caused there to be a police search for her involving everything up to and including HELICOPTERS, and me, mere days out from not one but TWO abdominal surgeries, being stranded with my kids talking to the police about the old bitch IN THAT NEIGHBORHOOD. It's a nice neighborhood (another plus to the new job is that I don't have to drive through any shady areas of town where I feel compelled to lock the doors of the MFA Minivan), but puts me in a funky frame of mind that's not the best way to start a workday. Taking an alternate route only adds about two minutes to the commute but feels like admitting defeat, or at least it did...the past few days I've given myself permission to just go ahead and take the long way; I rationalize it by telling myself that highway miles are easier on a vehicle and more fuel-efficient. I think I'm going to give myself permission to take the highway from now on.
* The XY is spiraling down into utter douchebaggery of late; he hasn't taken his visitation since he paid the child support late earlier this month except for one dinner visit where he picked the boys up two and a half hours late and returned them half an hour early, and the boys reported that they spent most of that abbreviated visit at Home Depot running errands with him. I hate that guy extra-much right now.
* The new bees are doing well! I still haven't done a hive inspection since installing the package, but saw a drone come out of the hive yesterday. Bees only make drones when the colony is doing well (drones don't bring IN any food or help the hive in any way and are a drain on the hive's reserves--they only make drones to send their genetics out into the world when they feel they can spare the resources), so I was pleased.
* Quote of the YEAR: "I'm buying a duck and making rabbit and duck confit out of Iden on a co-worker's recommendation, because if a guy named Jimbo with a Jesus tattoo on his neck doesn't know how to cook a rabbit I have lost all faith in The South." Jimbo did not steer us wrong; Iden was delicious.
* How are all of YOU?
Posted on June 10, 2014 at 01:56 PM in actual conversations, bullets from inside my head, chickens are not nice, co-parenting, department of revenue, doctor, doctor, it hurts when I go like this..., mama, my minivan, myself, the MFA Honeybees, too many chefs = AWESOME, wascally wabbits, well bless their hearts | Permalink | Comments (0)
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Today got off to a rocky start, and didn't really get much better from there. I e-mailed The XY yesterday to ask whether, seeing as how his late payment of the child support had cost me my health insurance coverage, he'd be willing to cover the most expensive out-of-pocket drug as a goodwill gesture.
Go ahead and laugh at me, Hotter did. But see, I can't maintain the level of ill will I bear for my ex-husband in good conscience without at least giving him the OPPORTUNITY to Do The Right Thing. As I explained to Hotter, The XY and I are both Jews, and the fine arts of guilt-induction and blame-assignment are very important to our people.
The XY remains committed to his course of ever-increasing twatwhistlery, however, and threw in some bonus bullshit about how HIS child support isn't for MY health insurance, and Anthem wouldn't just DROP me like that (hahaha oh how I wish he was right about that), and it's my fault for not paying the bill on time anyway, but he guessed this was my way of asking for a loan and he SUPPOSED he could swing it in order to help me out AS AN OLIVE BRANCH even after all of the grief I have caused him IF I could promise a swift repayment. And then he launched into this long, sad tale of why he can't take the children for his weekend THIS time. And I will say that I'm proud of myself for not telling him to shove his olive branch up his arse. Instead I counted to ten and e-mailed him back saying that I'd only wanted to give him a chance to help mitigate the damage his delinquent payment had caused, but clearly he still did not prioritize doing the right thing any more than he ever had and clearly didn't care what happened to me AS A DIRECT RESULT of his actions (or, in this case, inactions), and I was not interested in setting a precedent of money-lending between us and thought it best that we both go back to keeping our personal struggles to ourselves. I then told him that a simple yes or no to his visitation would suffice in the future and life happens, so spare me the crying and oversharing about his life, the weather, and the traffic because *I* really didn't care what his latest excuse for not taking the limited parenting time available to him was.
TL; DR - The XY retains his title as The Lord of the Douche.
From there my day continued to suck with a desperate paperwork faxing hustle to avoid Big Child being dropped from his summer program for the gifted (mission accomplished THERE, thank goodness), me blubbering all over poor Hotter for no good reason (except that I'd skipped a dose of Pristiq trying to buy some time for Anthem to potentially pull their heads out of their arses, because once I pay out-of-pocket for the Pristiq I won't be able to pay Anthem even if I do get a managerial exception and they're willing to take all my money and give me back my coverage), spraying perfume in my eye while getting ready for work, and walking into everybody at work in shitty moods.
At work I was at least able to pull it together; something in me turns on the perky at all costs in front of co-workers and guests, and despite having sniffled most of the way there I managed to fix my face in the parking lot and wade into the shitstorm with a smile. And I guess maybe there's something to the whole "fake it till you feel it" thing, because I'm drained and anxious and bone-weary of everything being such a fucking struggle, but at least my face has stopped leaking.
If I disappear for a bit don't necessarily assume the absolute worst, but if things get any worse it'll definitely be for the best that I clam up for a bit, both to deprive Stalky of the spank-bank material and also to avoid being a bummer to y'all in general.
Send baby animals, prepaid hitmen, and brand-name SSR/Norepinephrine Inhibitors, please.
My health insurance situation remains unresolved (I'm uninsured, and can never go back to the Urgent Care that's kind of become my primary care now because fucking Anthem retroactively UNinsured me and now I owe them a mint), and my ankle is killing me, I think the minivan has a sick, and my only living relative turned ninety today and was not particularly lucid when we spoke, which makes me sad, so I don't have much good to say.
But hey, I read some good* books!
* By which I mean look, I may have the big fancy terminal degree in the study of what makes books good, and technically these are not Good Books, but they ARE very entertaining books, and if you look at what I spend on smutty, maudlin, female wish-fulfillment fiction vs. Literature, Literature is sucking hind tit, so yeah. YMMV but I enjoyed these. They are not Literature, will not make you smarter, and you may not even want to admit to reading them in polite company, but that's the beauty of e-readers: for all anyone knows you are reading something far more intellectual.
Disclosure: Those up there are affiliate links, which means that if you click them and buy the books, I get a nickel or something. I LIKE NICKELS!
* This t-shirt, for Little Child. I do not in general approve of this whole collective beating-to-death of the word swagger, and am iffy as to whether or not this is disrespectful to President Lincoln, but had to put all of that aside because tihs is just SO Little Child:
* I was originally at Target because Big Child needed a pair of blue jeans to wear in a middle-school glee club performance. But then I saw this t-shirt and had to get it for him:
* Then, because I try not to let Middly be affected by Middle Child Syndrome, I got him a shirt, too (he is a big fan of meat and loves to help me grill):
* Then because I only visit Target approximately once per quarter and didn't want this to be a "hi I'm a Mommyblogger and I shop at Target, whoo!" post (nor do I put a French spin on the pronunciation, I assure you), here is a picture of the thing I got for free (Poppy), with her lovie, Dead Possum (also not bought at Target):
Figure Four: Yes, it's adorable, but also y'all know how I feel about possums and hopefully Poppy will remember our drills with this thing should I ever need her by my side in battle!
* Aaaand finally, here is Skeeter, with HIS lovie, Dead Poppy (we actually didn't get it for him--Middle Child got it because it reminded him of Poppy and Skeeter immediately glommed onto it, and there were a tense few weeks wherein Middly strove to keep it out of Skeeter's evil little clutches and Skeeter learned how to open dresser drawers, and then Not-dead Poppy at its nose off and Middly said fiiiiine Animal Kingdom, you win):
Yesterday was supposed to be a "sick day" for me. No work, bad cold, sleep it off, feel better. That was the plan.
Instead Haas keeled over dead a la Pfeffer, because Hotter was a space cadet all day (that there is called foreshadowing) and put him out in a grazing pen withOUT shade available (SHADE AND WATER! SHADE AND WATER! NOBODY LISTENS TO ME!), and I decided that while I was building a bonfire for a land-based Viking funeral I might as well burn some offal too and started to process Iden, and then just when I'd hung her up to bleed out Hotter came and said he'd had a seizure aura, and I had to leave the rabbit carcass to its own devices to go and clear electronics off the bed and get a dose of the rescue meds ready.
WHAT THE EVERLOVING FUCK, HOTTER! Some people, man. ALWAYS GOTTA ONE-UP YOU AND BE THE CENTER OF ATTENTION.
The good news is, my theory that rescue meds given BEFORE the seizure began would prevent the full-on breakdancing bedshow and stop-breathing finale proved correct, so I didn't have to piss Hotter off royally by breaking his "NO AMBULANCE NO MATTER WHAT" edict delivered just as he started to seize, as if I'd forget where he stands on that (on the outside I was all "YES DEAR, GAWD" but mentally I was chanting "neck tilt, sweep, pinch, breath" in my head), and it ended up just being a petit mal. The bad news is, the rescue meds make Hotter goofy for several hours and I had to go and finish processing Iden AND make dinner in between checking on Hotter and yelling at him to "STAY ON THE BED, IN THE MIDDLE OF THE BED, STAY DOWN DAMMIT MY BACK IS NOT UP TO SCRAPING YOU OFF THE FLOOR!"
Every oldest daughter in every generation of my maternal lineage back to the Great Flood has been a nurse EXCEPT FOR ME, and that right there is why.
All of which is to say that yesterday for dinner we had an herb-stuffed roasted chicken, roasted rosemary potatoes, and haricot verts, and it was so delicious that the cat lost his mind and shamelessly jumped into the roasting pan right in front of everyone to snatch a mouthful, but it was cooked with SPITE and I am kind of looking forward to going back to work this evening.