SATAN

One of the pitfalls of spending a lot of time by yourself is the tendency to verbalize random thoughts. Out loud. When you live alone, it hardly poses any problem. But then, say you start to re-integrate into society by maybe, I dunno, joining a gym, because in your hermetically-sealed state, maybe you got out of shape and added a few pounds. So then maybe you start going to this gym and maybe you're reading "Self" magazine while using the Stairclimber(tm) and maybe you're reading an article where someone has written in, concerned about the health of their born-again vegan friend and maybe the responder mentions that their vegan friend can obtain the recommended daily allowance of protein by preparing food made using SEITAN.

And then maybe you flash back to the first time you were introduced to SEITAN, Thanksgiving of 1995, when you were invited to your Vegan friend's house for T-day dinner and instead of cooking a real turkey, they cooked a turkey-shaped loaf of SEITAN. Now remember, the only reason you accepted this invitation to begin with was to 1) avoid your own hopelessly dysfunctional family and 2) to ogle the husband of one of the guests, of whom you've had a crush on from the first moment you laid eyes on him. And despite the earnest attempts by your hosts to be righteous in their veganism (Please, DO NOT notice the leather chairs in their living room. Please.) you find yourself out on the deck with the smokers chanting over and over "SEITAN SEITAN SEITAN SEITAN SEITAN..." And it's funny, you see, because SEITAN is pronounced the same as SATAN. And every time after that day, whenever you've ever seen the word SEITAN in print, you, in your most evil, Linda Purl Exorcist voice, compulsively hiss, "SATAN," aloud. Every time. It can't be helped any more than my OCD friend touching the light switch 5 times before he leaves a room. 

Flash forward to the gym in Mount Vernon, full of people from America's Heartland, and there's a woman on the Stairclimber(tm) who, for no apparent reason, breathlessly hisses "SATAN."

Chicken Pox

If you don't get Chicken Pox from chickens, why does one of my chickens have it? For whatever reason they call Chicken Pox, Chicken Pox, there's nothing left to call what my chicken is suffering from than Foul Pox. 

I found her teetering in front of the waterer this morning. I picked her up and saw that her beak was caked and bloody with a warty-looking swelling on it, as well as her comb. I whisked her into the bathroom to clean what I thought were wounds and found that her feet and legs had scabs on them. And on the back of her head, I can barely describe. It looked like she had a small rock stuck in the middle of a tumor. I cleaned her up and tried to soften the lesions with warm water and vitamin E oil, but no result.

I called the hatchery and they had no idea what I was describing. I called the vet and they also didn't know, but said I could bring her in on Saturday. "I don't think she'll make it that long." They told me to refrigerate her if she dies and they can run tests and see if it's contagious and take precautions to protect the rest of the flock.

I got on (I LOVE) the internet and tried to Google for a clue. "chicken tumor," "chicken lesions," "chicken diseases," etc. until I found mention of the pox. Google images confirmed that my little chicken has Fowl Pox. There's nothing to be done about it once the chicken has it and in most cases they eventually get better. Unless the Pox has spread to their mouth and throat, making it difficult for them to breath and eat. My chicken is wheezing and won't swallow the yummy yummy special food I made for her, so she's most likely doomed.

You're the one that I want

Rookie.

Trailer Park Boys

Got Netflix? Get "Trailer Park Boys."  

Unless you're unfamiliar with the term "hot knives," then you probably won't like this show. 

If you are on the fence, hold judgment until you see the "Conky" episode. That one'll make it or break it for you.

Foul language, Canadians, ex-cons, rum and Cokes, trailers, closeted gay trailer park manager, wanna-be gangsta, thievery, a man named Bubbles who lives in a shed, cigarette-smoking 9 year olds, track pants, and weed. Lots and lots of weed. That's what it's all aboot.

You too, can dance just like a white person

Is he saying, "dicks, cocks, dicks, cocks...?"

Piles of dead birds... Mystery SOLVED?

Again, on my walk, I encountered a pile of dead birds. Explanations involving UFOs or Satan worshippers faded as I looked directly up from the spot, above it - an eagle perch. The gluttonous eagles are killing more thrush than they are eating, dropping their left-overs on the ground. The thrush, showed no signs of trauma due to the swift and lethal internal-organ piercing eagle talons. 

A Tiny Victory

Last fall when Vashoners got their property tax assessments for 2008, we were treated to a very unpleasant surprise. People with names like Biffle French were outraged. 

My tax-assessed property value doubled from 2007. According to the county, my 1955 Terra Cruiser is worth $95,000. 

I'm no fool, and no bridge salesman. I know that I can't get a dime for my Terra Cruiser. The bank knows it - they won't finance the property and my insurance company knows it - they won't insure it.

So I filed an appeal with the county. Knowing how corrupt and retarded King County is, I had no hopes of being heard, but I wasn't going to take this lying down.

Yesterday I got a call from one of the County appraisers. He had "good news" for me. They had "mis-applied" their "assessment model" to my property and they would be reducing my property value to LESS than what it was 2007, cutting my property taxes by more than half! Not only that, he APOLOGIZED for the error. 

I'm looking out my window for the flying pigs, and wondering if it's a chilly day in hell.

2 Dead Birds

The other bird isn't dead yet - the other Varied Thrush that I found - one dead, the other dying, within feet of each other today on our walk. The dying one I rushed back to my house and fed it honey-laced soy milk in a feeble attempt to revive it. It's sitting on my kitchen table in a cardboard box, in the throes of death. The already-dead one, I posed with other items procured on our walk today: a weird piece of driftwood, a bone from someone and a shmoo-shaped rock. Yes, that bird is dead. Hard to believe, seeing it's glassy eye. When I picked it up, it was still warm, but stiff. And why would two identical birds die within feet of each other? Suicide pact? Fight to the death? 

Yes, that is my house in the background, rotting. 

The dying bird occasionally thrashes around in its box. The mind may have gone on, but the body always fights it. It's instinct. Basic biology. If you've ever watched a creature die, it's not at all like "in the movies." The body fights it. It's too soon. Not now. This can't be.

Taking this picture of the dead bird reminds me of Mr. Audubon who killed every bird who modeled for his paintings. Oh, what a FUNNY STORY of him trying to kill the golden eagle so he could paint it... (sarcasm) 

Cute or Cruel?

Cute or Cruel?

A Cautious Friendship?

Wallace has been let loose in the house while Leon & Comet are outside being tortured by the new invisible fence.

 

Stella is not too sure about Wallace, but she loves the duck poo!

Um...

I had some free time today and I didn't quite know what to do with myself.

"Try to have a better day."

That's what the cop said to me yesterday as he handed me a ticket for going 30mph in a 20mph school zone¹, while the ever-helpful Leon tried lunging at him through the car window. 

My "better day" consisted of:

• Leon trying to kill the bomb/drug sniffing dog in the ferry line².
  
• Being ridden off the road by an oblivious tourist after leaving the ferry.
  
• Arriving at the office to a hysterical message from my very worst client.
  
• Having to meet with said hysterical client.
  
• Having to solve the mystery of the Unbalanced Balance Sheet³.
  
• Spilling soup on my Daytimer and two client files.
  
• My email going down. Just mine. No one else's.
  
• Giving myself a heart attack when discovering what I thought was an error caused by me, that would have resulted in $4,000 in penalties in fines that two hours later I discovered was not an error after all.
  
• Someone tried stealing my car⁴.
  
• Missing the last boat off the island that doesn't go to Southworth first⁵.
  
• The next boat, late because someone forgot to put their emergency brake on and rolled into the car in front of them on the boat and refused to get out of the way while inspecting their vehicles so other cars could load.
  
• At Southworth, having the Banditos board the ferry while I was quietly trying to restore my nerves⁶.
  

1. I've driven down this stretch of road thousands of times. The speed limit is 30 and I routinely go 40. I saw the cop on his motorcycle and I was SO PROUD of myself for actually going the speed limit and then very confused when he pulled me over. I'm guilty of being dulled by a sense of familiarity and never having driven down this road while school was in session. It doesn't help that there's no school in sight, no children in sight, no one waiting to cross at the crosswalk and numerous identical crosswalks on this stretch of road that AREN'T in a School Zone...

2. Thanks to Homeland Security, we now have an overpaid, underworked State Patrol cop on the ferry dock with a DOG to sniff all of the cars getting onto the boat. Because terrorists are going to go right to Vashon to make the biggest impact. If only the terrorists could hit Vashon with an anti-self-importance bomb. The only explosive I carry in my car, is Leon who, whenever he's riding in the car and spots another dog, goes BALLISTIC.

3. For every debit, there is a credit. Assets = liabilities + equity. That is the law of Accounting as solid and as true and consistent as the law of gravity. And that's why, when I saw the Balance Sheet That Didn't Balance, it made as much sense as seeing chocolate rain down from the sky. Never, in all my years in this business, have I ever seen a software program produce this abhorrence of all that is right and holy in our financial world. It's like taking your car to the mechanic to be fixed, returning to find that they have destroyed it with a steamroller and then handing you a bill. Ta Da!

4. There are many reason why I don't aspire to drive a nicer car than a 1989 Toyota Corolla station wagon. One is the dogs - I don't want them to ruin a nice car. Another is the cost - cheap and paid for. There's the worry factor - if something happens to it, I won't be out much. And last but not least, the THEFT factor - I don't want to own anything that someone else wants bad enough to steal. I wasn't exactly surprised to find that my car had been rifled through when I went out to it after work. Car prowling is common on Vashon.  I don't keep anything valuable in the car, it doesn't even have a radio, just wires sticking out of the dash, so I don't care if they take anything. But when I went to put my key in the ignition and there was a knife sticking out of it and the steering wheel was locked, I realized that they were trying to steal my car. My car that has a poodle spray-painted on the side of it. My car that is festooned with Burningman stickers. My car that was parked on Vashon ISLAND where the only way off the island is onto a BOAT where one can not escape should the cops be called to check the boat for a stolen car. My car that I keep SPECIFICALLY to avoid this situation...

5. In the Washington State Ferries infinite wisdom, they route the ferry to Southworth before going to Seattle. This is the equivalent of flying from San Francisco to Seattle and having the plane stop in Dallas "on the way."

6. Actual Banditos.

Meet Joe Pesci

This little guy, the smallest of the lot, spends all of his time lunging at the other chicks, pecking at their faces and focuses the lionshare of his aggression on Wallace the duck. Someone pooped on his head, so I considered naming him Shithead, but changed my mind after watching him struggle for a couple minutes trying to rip his own wing off. Unhinged, this one is. 

Spring Chickens

The chickens arrived today. 

The phone rang at 6:30 this morning and I knew it was the post office calling to tell me the chicks arrived and are ready to be picked up. I went back to sleep and dreamt of chickens for another couple hours.

Other customers at the post office were amazed that chickens get sent through the mail. I thought I lived in farm country out here and everyone would know that already.

I put the chicks in a cow trough in my laundry room, replete with newspaper & wood chips floor, two, count 'em TWO feeders, a waterer full of electrolyte juice and a toasty heat lamp. 

Wallace watched from his transparent rubbermaid penthouse on top of the dryer as I put each chick in the trough and dipped their beaks in the water. By the time I had put the 30th chick in, Wallace was having a shitfit, quacking and banging up against his penthouse wall, so I put him in with the chicks expecting all of them to gang up on him.

The chicks pecked at Wallace and he pecked back but it didn't take to long for them to get used to each other.

I could watch the chicks for hours. I love it when they fall asleep on their feet. I love it when they suddenly dart across the trough. I love it when they poop and make that "splut" noise like the sound that comes out of the ketchup bottle when you're squeezing out the last bit...

Duck, thy name is Wallace.

Talk to the Hand

It's been a couple days since I took the pooches for a good walk, so they were all wound up. Comet was running circles in the field, barking at everything and nothing. Stella found a rodent hole to concentrate on and Leon, well, with the attention span of a gnat, you can imagine that he was very busy.

So I paused for a while to sit on the log bridge that spans the newly-restored stream. Not long ago, a coho swam underneath as I was walking across, so I was hoping to catch sight of another one today.

In no time, something swam right underneath my dangling feet. But it wasn't a coho. It wasn't even a fish. It startled me at first and I turned around to see if it would surface for air behind me, downstream. It never did.

Was it a beaver? I've seen evidence of beaver all around the trails - chewed ends of branches and tracks near the river. But this seemed too small to be a beaver and didn't have that big, wide tail.

Was it a RAT? No. It just couldn't be a rat. It swam so smoothly, like a streak and never came up for air the whole time I watched. Oh please, don't be a rat.

Was it a river otter? There's a thought. I had no idea.

When I got home, I Googled "River Otter" and found some pictures including the one above. Unless river otters are small, like large-rat-sized, I don't think what I saw was an otter either.

So the mystery remains.

UPDATE! It was a young beaver!

Dense and Picky

I've spent two whole days doing practically nothing but trying to pretty-up my BLOG. This is a testament to how dense and incredibly picky I can be about these things.

Is that a KANGAROO?

No, it's a duck. But the story of how I got the duck, started with a kangaroo, or two.

My future husband - Wayne Coyne

Wayne finally added me to his myspace friends list. He waited until now to add me because we've decided that we're going to take things slow. I think that's smart since we've both been burned before... OK, I've been burned and he's been "married..." and still is "married." But, like I said, we're just going to take it slow for now.