Graveyard Dirt: Two Worlds and In-between

Arctic River

Filed under: Life

This Spring's been an arctic river overflowing with winter run-off. Fast moving, non-negotiable waters thunder past my legs pushing, pulling and sweeping me away with the charging current. There's no use fighting the tidal wave of lightening movement, so I haven't tried. (No struggling means freedom, even when lost amongst the tumbling chaos, and with my attention undistracted I can almost catch all of the beautiful, awe inducing gems the season's hidden away just for me.)

(IN OTHER WORDS, I'VE BEEN SO GODDAMN BUSY FOR THE PAST THREE WEEKS DUE TO SPRING RELATED ACTIVITIES THAT I'VE HAD TO RELY ON MY BRAND NEW BIRTHDAY CAMERA AS A DIARY.)

Late last year I stole a narrow stretch of waste ground where I loosened the earth and haphazardly planted over three heads of garlic. (I didn't think it'd work, but it DID.) Very early in February there were suspicious shoots popping up in a semi-neat row, and now, at the very end of April, this is what it looks like. Next year? Next year I'll try even //harder//. (Any more effort than I originally expended would already be an improvement. Srsly.)

No signs of scrapes yet. (Once the garlic is ready to flower it grows out a tentacle - the scrape - which'll eventually blossom. To encourage bulb growth you need to cut the scrape before it flowers so the energy is diverted below.) But, baby, once those fuckers pop up it'll be garlic scrape pesto time...

Sections of Aberdeen were built on a hill, so a part of it slopes down at a slow angle and is only disturbed by stairs and old buildings. Wild city rabbits live in any patch of green (along roadsides, next to towering blocks of apartments and in cemeteries) and as we were cutting through lanes and streets and alleys to get to our dinner reservation, we saw that the rabbits had already beaten us to Sunday dinner.

I always feel stupidly disappointed when wild animals don't respond to my ANIMAL SPEAK. (ANIMAL SPEAK = PURSING LIPS TOGETHER AND SUCKING AIR IN JUST A LITTLE TO MAKE A SQUEAKING SOUND.) Italics and I have spent years developing ANIMAL SPEAK since our first pair of rats, Ann and Nancy (after Heart, although Nancy was the one who got fat out of the pair).

Animal Speak gets used when I want to attract the attention of the rats (they know it's my COME HERE RIGHT NOW or FOOD PEOPLE HAS FOOD or I WANT TO SEE YOUR LITTLE RAT FACES voice), but it'll also work on wild animals - they cock their head, blink and then give you a straight up WHAT THE FUCK? expression.

Last year we celebrated the winter solstice by renting a hotel room and staying in town overnight. (Aberdeen's roughly 15 minutes away from us; we're in a subdivision in the shire where it's mostly rural.) Even though we were running late we took a few minutes in the privacy of the alley to take some pictures.

(AND WHEN I SAY "TAKE SOME PICTURES" I MEAN, "GET HIGH BEFORE EATING A RIDICULOUS AMOUNT OF CHINESE FOOD AND, ALSO, TAKE SOME PICTURES".)

The above picture was taken mid-April (spring!), and THIS HERE PICTURE was taken mid-December (winter!); both show Marischal College's tower erupting in the background.

In the few instances we've used the stairs as a shortcut we were always on schedule for something. This past trip, however, we were running early so we were able to loiter more leisurely around ancient brick and stone.

While Italics was trying to get our pipe working (JOINTS ARE NICE IN A SUPERFICIAL VISUAL WAY, BUT WASTEFUL - AND, ALSO, I DON'T LIKE MY FINGER SMELLING LIKE CIGARETTES) I noticed, for the first time, that there was writing on the wall.

(I have NO idea what it means, but Aberdeen's known for keeping crazy ass insane records, so it should be easy to find out the history behind the engravings.)

I don't know anything about this church other than it's OLD, OLD, OLD (you can tell by the structure of the buildings attached to it, and the look of the building materials) and IT'S ANOTHER ABERDEEN CHURCH (you guys would not believe how many fucking churches there are in the city). I haven't made my way up to visit it, but I do intend to...eventually. (To see the church at night in winter click on THIS HERE LINK.)

I chose this little Italian cafe place for my belated birthday dinner. Despite being absolutely desperate for a pizza (I'VE TOLD ITALICS V. BLATANTLY AND WITHOUT ANY SUBTLETY THAT I'M WILLING TO PROVIDE SEXUAL FAVORS FOR A REALLY FUCKING GOOD PIZZA; YOU JUST CAN'T GET THE PIZZA I WANT HERE IN SCOTLAND) I saw that they served veal Marsala and my Evil Queen heart (I ALSO WEAR FUR. THAT'S RIGHT - I EAT VEAL AND WEAR FUR AND ADMIT TO BOTH; CRUCIFY OR WORSHIP ME AS YOU PLEASE.) skipped a beat and all notion of pizza was gone.

Italics, either up for the challenge or hoping to fill the pizza void in my Chicago-born heart, ordered a calzone. The picture above does absolutely no justice to the sheer size of the fucking monster; that plate could fit a decapitated head on it easily - EASILY. My veal? A little tough due to being overcooked, but the Marsala sauce was exquisite. Their cured meats (our starter) were terrific, but the Tiramisu was only so-so (they put a layer of jam, or something, through the dessert, but it tasted like apricot-flavored petroleum jelly at best, and apricot-flavored toothpaste gel at worst).

The coffee? To fucking die for. (It was seriously the star of the evening.)

By the time we saw a movie, walked up from the beach, had dinner and returned back to the hotel it was edging just past nine in the evening. I had to keep a straight face while gnawing on a inner cheek when I noticed that our hotel neighbors opposite of us, despite having two trash cans in the room, decided to discard their take-away garbage in the hall.

(LOL, CLASSY! I ESPECIALLY LOVE HOW THEY HUNG THE "DO NOT DISTURB" SIGN. OH, POOR PEOPLE, YOU'RE AN ENDLESS SOURCE OF DISGUSTED AMUSEMENT FOR ME. PS: THIS PICTURE'S BLURRED BECAUSE I FORCED ITALICS TO GO BACK OUTSIDE AND TAKE A PICTURE AND AS HE WAS DOING SO ONE OF THE OCCUPANTS BEGAN OPENING THEIR ROOM DOOR.)

Italics didn't know that I packed away my blond wig, a pair of knee high socks and my cheerleader outfit for fun later that night. I posed, for a second, in his semi-new sort've Indiana Jones BUT NOT REALLY jacket, and the whole cheerleader thing went out the window. (FIGURATIVELY, I MEAN. DO YOU KNOW HOW EXPENSIVE NICE WIGS ARE? JESUS.)

After dinner entertainment was wearing my husband's jacket and nothing else (WAIT, I TAKE THAT BACK - I WAS STILL WEARING A BRA!) and the "movie" mode on our recently retired digital camera. (I was feeling the affects of the coffee - even though it had been a decaf - so I needed a visit from THE FIREMEN to soothe the affects of GERD. <- LAUGH NOW, BUT WAIT UNTIL YOUR OVERLY ACIDIC STOMACH IS IN DIRE NEED OF A SHOT OF SOMETHING ALKALINE TO CALM IRRITATION.)

This is a shot of Union Street running down into Castlegate (the smaller, secondary looking castle in the middle of the picture) in downtown Aberdeen taken by Italics the morning after our belated birthday celebrations. (IT STARTED WITH HIS JACKET, AND ENDED WITH A CHIPPER AND A BAG OF MALTEASERS IN BED.)

Aberdeen, to the naked eye, appears to have been built around a church (St. Nicholas) and its graveyard. This is a picture of the more formal entrance to the kirkyard which is used as a thoroughfare and public park. (I've never seen people so happily sit on green cemetery grass like they were visiting a botanic garden until St. Nicholas.)

"Marischal College is a building in the Scottish city of Aberdeen belonging to the University of Aberdeen. It was formerly an independent university in its own right. A significant portion of the building is currently leased on a long-term basis to Aberdeen City Council for office space. As well as being the tallest building in Aberdeen, it is also the second largest granite building in the world."

Oh, Wiki, you're a blessing to this lazy shell of a human being! (View right outside the newest Starbucks in town.)

Since the St. Nicholas kirkyard is in the center of the city, it's one of the best semi-private places to have a joint before galloping off to diner. Our preferred spot is near Mr. Alex Fullerton, Druggist, which is wonderfully aged and picturesque on gloriously sunny days. (LOLOLOL, I KNOW. WE ONLY REALIZED THE "DRUGGIST" PART SORT'VE RECENTLY.)

When a friend who's involved in medicine and health care requested some graveyard dirt I immediately knew whose grave the dirt was coming off of. (NOTE TO SELF: In return you left one of the red-dyed Easter eggs (Ukrainians, in the olden days, left red eggs at the graves of ancestors and friends to encourage reincarnation and resurrection) and a gold foiled chocolate coin.)

This is the infamous dirtyard, post-crocus season. (IT HAS SERIOUSLY SAT LIKE THIS FOR OVER THREE YEARS NOW.) I took this picture just before I went to work with a flattened box of cereal and a spade to mark the strip where I intended to plant carrots and beets. Unfortunately, the street extends too far beneath the soil so some of the chthonic vegetables I wanted to grow in the dirtyard (carrots!) will have to be planted elsewhere.

Last year my father-in-law, Mr. Awesome, threw away all of my spring bulbs that Italics had given me as a gift. (IN THIS HOUSE, HE GETS TO DECIDE WHAT HAPPENS TO YOUR THINGS.) He never apologized or acknowledged that he had thrown away another gift (or ashes that belonged to my mother, or an anniversary gift I was making for Italics, or...) so Italics stepped in and bought me another round of bulbs.

"Richly coloured tulip of burnt orange-red with petal edges of yellow-gold."

One of my favorite parts of Spring is watching the giant, almost unbelievable changes that seem to happen overnight. One day tulips are tight, pursed buds; the next they've unfurled with a gasp for fresh air. Transformations always seem so immediate during the season of renewal.

Oh, nasty ass Starlings, I love how you don't give a fuck about me even if I'm outside doing gardening work next to your bird food. (Nothing comes between you and the food I put out for you guys, NOTHING.)

When planting out CASTLE PIE ADVENTURE Spring flowers last fall (grape hyacinths, dwarf irises, dwarf tulips, tulips and daffodils) I discovered a handful of mysterious bulbs hidden deep within a dirt filled container. I rescued them (they were buried too deep to properly sprout, Christ only knows how long they've just sat in that plastic bucket) and relocated them to the container with my Finnish poppies. This Spring solved the mystery; they're Narcissus, and they smell like heaven.

Whenever I cook with Italics there's always a fifty percent chance of ass.

(This is our third batch of Cowboy Bread (sort've like a flour tortilla meets pita bread) - THE BEST YET! - after its first rise. Italics is dividing the dough into eight smaller portions so after the second rise we can roll them out and "bake" them in a skillet.)

The Cowboy Bread's risen twice, rolled out and then pan-fried in olive oil until golden spots appear. (We made two super huge ones - the size the recipe suggests - and then halved the other portions so they were more pita than giant, fluffy flour tortillas.)

Once cooked-baked-fried you shove the flat bread(s) into a ziploc bag, or cover them with a damp towel, so the steam keeps them soft and pliable. (We never got around to artfully arranging them on a plate for SRS FOOD PHOTOGRAPHY because all we wanted to do was tear into the fuckers and shovel hummus into our mouths.)

Shango blossoms on the Shango (Bone) Tree. (Technically, Mr. Awesome (my father-in-law) owns the tree, but I adopted it a few years back and have been gradually and systematically exerting control over it.)

Two years ago - the first REAL year I started getting V. serious about all of this magic business - the Shango Tree (a plum tree), bore fruit. Thanks to everyone's complete disinterest in the the garden I was able to secretly reap the reward and ritually consumed the tree-ripened plums without having to share.

I was so swept up in foraging hedonism that I didn't occur to me to KEEP THE FUCKING PITS SO I COULD GROW NEW SHANGO (BONE) TREES FROM SEED. I kicked myself for fucking MONTHS for discarding the pits and anxiously waited for the next growing season to roll around. And what did the tree do last year? NOT FLOWER, OBVIOUSLY. (No flowers = no fruit; no fruit = no seeds; no seeds = no new Shango (Bone) Trees.)

I spent all of last year coaxing it to flower (everything from leaving offerings of food, watering it by hand almost every other day, laying my hands on the tree and giving it some Barry White vocal love) this year, and all of that effort paid off. (Although it would've been A LOT MORE AWESOME if the Shango (Bone) Tree hadn't decided to stick out the ONE FLOWERING BRANCH IT PRODUCED like a fucking flasher with an erection. <- WAY TO ATTRACT MR. AWESOME'S ATTENTION, S(B)T! WHATEVER HAPPENED TO SUBTLE MAGIC? JESUS.)

I can't remember a time when Scotland wasn't washed with some sort of green. Even in winter the wild azaleas and mosses and lichen and holly trees retain their vibrant colors. It takes late Spring to alter my perception of "green".

We're on route to the cemetery and stove to leave belated Easter offerings, passing pasture land, green wheat fields and weathered stone walls. With every new walk to the kirkyard the landscape gets more green and alive.

There's a hedge of ancient beeches that outline an entire side of pasture which touches the crumbling wall that runs in front of the ruined church (with the abandoned walled garden in the background) and the back of the local cemetery. Discarded in the line of trees is this old water trough (or at least that's what I //think// it is) which we call "the stove".

Even though the metal's rusted and old the hinge and latch work perfectly, which allowed me to safely hide roadkill (a rabbit, fresh and in near pristine condition) last autumn when we were stealing potatoes out of a local potato field. (I didn't want to bang up the rabbit while we scrambled over walls and frantically dug up potatoes from an agricultural field at six in the morning.)

There comes a point, every year around Spring, where non-perishable food offerings begin taking over the house. When we begin feeling claustrophobic we know it's time to visit "the stove" and leave the offerings to their Fate*; we've been doing that for two or three years now.

(* IN OTHER WORDS - WE LEAVE IT FOR OUR ANCESTORS, BUT KNOW THAT THE INDIGENOUS WILDLIFE WILL ALSO BE ENJOYING THE SPREAD.)

This Easter season, while I was flipping through one of my Ukrainian cookbooks, I stumbled across a passage explaining several ancient customs Ukies observed around Easter. Apparently, long ago, food was deliberately left IN A STOVE as an offering to feed and sustain ancestors, relatives and friends who have passed on. (WE ARE SO ON THE BALL WITH SOME OF THIS SHIT THAT SOMETIMES IT SCARES ME.)

(NOTE TO SELF: This is the first year you put individual Paska/Babka for loved ones who died since last Easter (i.e., Hezbollah, Beh and Didi) in the stove rather than at the cairn in the cemetery.)

It took until LAST FUCKING YEAR for me to even notice there was a wild gooseberry bush growing in the ruins of the church. By the time I realized what the shrub was the berries were the size of quail eggs. (I AM SO NOT JOKING IN THE SLIGHTEST; THIS BUSH HAS GOT SOME SERIOUS JUNK ON IT.)

Unfortunately, I was hella, hella sick last year (bedridden due to symptoms and ailments that's baffled the medical community and put me in the very familiar category of "atypical") so by the time I was well enough to leave the house the animals had enjoyed every ball-sized gooseberry and left none for me, SIGH.

(Behind the bush you can see one of the walls and doors of the abandoned wall garden directly behind the ruins of the small church.)

When I was a kid and running naked through Midwestern waste fields and woodlands I could name almost every flowering plant I ran across. Finding something totally new felt like discovering new species of previously unidentified vegetated life.

That excitement and drive totally disappeared around the time I started high school, but resurfaced recently (just over ten years later) the deeper I got into indigenous folklore. If I haven't misidentified it, this is Green Alkanet (in the same family as good ole Borage) and it grows rampant in the space between the NEW OLD CRUMBLING WALL and the OLD OLD NOT SO CRUMBING WALL.

Until last year it was an absolute mystery where they were burying the majority of the recently deceased. As it turns out, what I thought was a community football pitch was the new section of the cemetery. (There aren't a lot of headstones, and they're way, way in the far corner of the very long stretch of land. Until you're physically in the open space it's difficult to tell there are bodies actually buried there.)

This was post-stove and pre-cairn, just before we hopped over the road and had lunch in an open meadow beneath an oak tree. Two fields and a line of trees over you can see a man-made loch created a very long time ago.

The stone wall neatly bordering the graves in the background is the wall that separates the cemetery from the pasture field which touches the hedge of beech trees and ruined church. This is the new portion of the old cemetery, where Muriel and the nun are buried.

Our visit to the kirkyard had to be quick on this occasion because hired help were mowing the lawn. (HOW AWESOME OF A JOB IS THAT? MOWING THE VELVETY SOFT LAWN OF AN ANCIENT SCOTTISH CEMETERY ON A GLORIOUS SPRING DAY? HOLY SHIT, DUDE, WHERE DO //I// SIGN UP FOR THAT GIG?)

I HAVE NOT HAD "NORMAL" SEX SINCE FUCKING MARDI GRAS. When the GREAT RITE was celebrated it was celebrated IN MY ASS, so since Easter Sunday we've been joking that I'm only half married (OR PERHAPS "ASS MARRIED"?) and that I'll remain only partially married until ACTUAL VAGINAL PENETRATION IS MADE.

Because I'm so good at making things difficult I suggested we wait to have "normal" sex until we can have sex in the same wheat field where we reaped last year for the first time. (IT MAKES SENSE, RIGHT? IF I'M REAPING AND HARVESTING THE FRUIT, I BETTER BE FERTILIZING THE LAND TOO, YO.)

Content with the half he married (THE ASS HALF, IN CASE YOU'VE FORGOTTEN) he agreed, so we're now just waiting for the right moment (i.e., WHEN WE HAVE POT, WHEN IT'S DRY AND WHEN IT'S DARK ENOUGH) to finish the rite we started on April 12th.

(My idea is to have sex in the space between the two wooden posts, effectively performing Hieros Gamos on and in the threshold of a "door". If not there there's always an unused water trough right next to it...)

The very first local Spring lambs we saw were a pair of black kids. (Ever since Imbolc I've been meaning to leave an offering of oats to the lactating sheep but I never got a chance.) (LAMBS HAVE A PECULIAR AVERSION TO FACTORY PRODUCED STRAWBERRY-FLAVORED MARSHMALLOWS. I, UH, READ THAT SOMEWHERE ON THE NET, OR SOMETHING.)

OH, SKELETON ZOMBIE I WANTED TO TAKE YOU HOME WITH ME, OR AT LEAST TAKE YOU TO SEE A MOVIE. (BUT IT'S PROBABLY GOOD THAT I DIDN'T SINCE MONSTERS VERSUS ALIENS, EVEN IN 3-D, WAS SHOCKINGLY SHIT, EVEN WHEN REALLY, REALLY HIGH.)

I think they must've recently painted and decorated the Haunted Mansion because I don't remember it ever looking so fresh and new. (ONE OF THESE DAYS I'LL FORCE ITALICS TO BUY SIX TOKENS SO I CAN SEE WHAT THE HAUNTED MANSION'S ALL ABOUT.)

I wish I could remember more of this day. I know we saw two movies (I Love You Man and Monsters Versus Aliens), I know we went out to eat (Jack Daniel's Monterey Burger at TGI Friday's) and I know we visited the shoreline twice to get high (once before eating and once again before the second movie).

I also know that I realized something, or said something, or Italics said something - THERE WAS SOMETHING THAT SEEMED OBVIOUS - but now I can't remember what IT was. ("Zoe" was scribbled into the sand, which, if I remember right, means "life" in Greek, and seeing the name/word and even being able to translate it somehow felt significant.)

I poured fresh water on wet, salty sand as an offering, and it left the impression of a dick with balls. Cruelly, the camera's battery died just before I was able to secure a picture of my sand cock. (OH, MAGIC, SOMETIMES YOU JUST DON'T WANT TO BE PHOTOGRAPHED.)

This is my fat little bizza bear, Shoney, who's pretty sure that my camera might be food. (DON'T TELL HER IT ISN'T, OTHERWISE SHE MIGHT NOT BOTHER SITTING STILL THE NEXT TIME I SHOVE IT IN HER FACE.)

OH, BEGGAR RAT SISTERS, LOOKING FOR A FOOD HANDOUT WHILE LOITERING IN MY COMPUTER DESK. (My lap's the bridge between two hollowed out spaces in my desk so there's constant rat traffic streaming back and forth when there's a suspicion of food.)

The trio of rats we have now - Wuzza (Denny's), Choney (Shoney's) and Shakey (Shakey's Pizza) - are damn near impossible to take pictures of. All the other generations of rat roommates we had managed to sit still longer than three seconds which allowed us to build a library of photos. These guys? They've been restricted to "movie" mode on the camera because they're always just a blur of motion in anything remotely resembling a picture.

Within a day of noticing that I turned over earth in the dirtyard to possibly plant some carrots and beets Mr. Awesome drove through the dirt with a car leaving two very distinct tire marks across the strip of land I had marked in the soil.

We've had the dirtyard for years. (AND WHEN I MEAN "YEARS" I MEAN "AT LEAST THREE, PROBABLY FOUR".) After several years of no obvious intent I decided if I can't plant grass I might as well make use of the available dirt and grow some vegetables. After several years of no obvious intent my father-in-law suddenly DROVE OVER THE EXACT SPOT WHERE I HAD BEGUN MAKING A ROW FOR BEETS. (Should I take that as a hint?)

The thing about this NEW DRIVEWAY he's created is that UP UNTIL THIS POINT - THE POINT WHERE I MADE AN OBVIOUS MOVE TO CLAIM SOME UNUSED DIRT - HE'S NEVER, EVER DRIVEN OVER WHAT IS, EFFECTIVELY, THE FRONT YARD.

I don't know what's changed, if he's acting out or if it was a honest necessity when he found he couldn't maneuver any other way out of the driveway. At any rate, it isn't exactly an auspicious start to my adventure into creating a dirtyard vegetable patch.

You know to expect some MAN BEHAVIOR when your husband helps you with the Spring gardening. I was instructed to sit still as Italics ran for the camera to document how perfectly he dropped a Sharpie down my pants on his first try. (OH HEY, I'M WEARING UNDERWEAR FOR ONCE! EVEN IF IT IS A PAIR OF BOXERS.)

Oh, we do horrible, awful things to our Lindt Easter bunnies. This white chocolate one, for instance, graced our Easter basket this year which was blessed at a special church service on Holy Saturday. Even divine intervention couldn't save him (her?) from the melting pot when it came time to make Chex Muddy Buddies. (The giant dark chocolate rabbit? Oh, his (her?) fate's already been determined - dark chocolate brownies.)

My inside outside vegetable garden post-growing closet and pre-bonsai house. (Once the plants get too big in the confined space of the closet they get repotted and moved to the backroom where they'll sit for a few weeks to bulk up before being relocated to the bonsai house to become acclimated to outside temperatures.)

There are two other fruit trees other than the Shango (Bone) Tree trained against a wooden fence in the backyard. One of them is an apple tree, but I can't remember what the other one - the one pictured above - is. It might be another apple, or it might be another plum. Either way, it's getting some extra love this year to encourage the flowers to fruit.

(In the background you can see all of Mr. Awesome's bonsai trees and shrubs that he said would only sit in the backyard for a few weeks. That? That was last year. And on top of that, he killed off all the grass in the backyard - after digging it all up in the front yard - so we literally had NO LAWN to sit on last year during summer.)

WHOOPS, I FORGOT I HAD ALREADY TAKEN A PICTURE OF THE SHANGO BLOSSOMS ON THE SHANGO (BONE) TREE! (This one was taken about a week after the first one. Nearly a week after THAT the petals of the plum blossoms are almost gone, and whatever remains is hidden behind leafy buds that get bigger every day.)

BEAR ME FRUIT, DAMMIT, I'VE MASSAGED YOU LIKE A PAMPERED COW, FED YOU LIKE A HUNGRY HUSBAND AND WATERED YOU LIKE...UHM...A CAR (OR SOMETHING).

The backyard's become a bird sanctuary due to the high ratio of bushes, shrubs and trees to gravel and concrete. (FOR SOME REASON SOME SCOTTISH FOLK LOVE TO TEAR EVERYTHING GREEN OUT OF THEIR YARD, FILL IT WITH GRAVEL AND DUMP A CONTAINER OR TWO OF TULIPS AMONGST THE ROCKS.) It helps that their natural predators - the neighborhood cats - are too busy scarfing down (people) food offerings to be bothered with them.

(That feed container? Yesterday, on May Day, I decided to refill all bird seed containers no matter how full they were in honor of the day. Just before twilight I filled that exact feeder until it was spitting seeds, this afternoon - just after three - it was virtually empty. THESE BIRDS ARE GOING TO PUT ME IN THE POOR HOUSE.)

I first began wedging bones into tree branches as a joke (on my father-in-law, who's forever getting in trouble for TOUCHING THINGS THAT AREN'T HIS), but then the joke grew and before I knew it the Shango Tree had become the Shango Bone Tree. (Winter's a much better time for the S(B)T, with the onset of Spring all of the whitened and weather-stripped decorations get lost behind a canopy of green.)

(I can't believe that A.) that the Christmas goose carcass is still hanging off the truck and B.) Mr. Awesome hasn't touched ANY of the bones dangling off the plum tree I stole from him.)

HOLY HELL OH MY GOD MY ABU HASSAN TULIPS HAVE FINALLY BLOOMED! (OOPS for thinking they were dwarf! WTF gave me //THAT// idea?)

What was it the internet said about the appearance of these tulips? WAIT, HOLD ON, I MENTIONED IT EARLIER IN THIS ENTRY: "Richly coloured tulip of burnt orange-red with petal edges of yellow-gold." OH, NATURE, YOU DO DELIVER, DON'T YOU?

Italics bought these Flava tulips for himself (although I'm taking care of them for him), and they're the very last bulbs to flower from the bags'o'bulbs he bought me on our CASTLE PIE ADVENTURE last year. (I swore they were an early dwarf bloomer, but I also swore that about all of the Abu Hassans I planted.)

The amazing two-headed Bull Heart tomato plant from Ukraine. (OH, GREAT APIS/BA'AL MAY YOU BE EXALTED IN FUTURE TOMATO SAUCES!) I might just keep this one indoors since it refused to grow outside last year. (You can see part of Chippy as he inspects the inside outside garden; he's a very keen gardener, you know.)

What our backroom "lounge" looks like when a witch is hard at work.

(The plastic skull bowl is the ritual bowl I use when I'm doing something a little more heavy duty than baking bread or soaking menstrual rags. The scattered wheat sheaths inside is the last bit of the didukhy that I've systematically picked apart so every wheat kernel from every sheath got saved for growing or ritual use.)

(The eggs are our version of Sharpie pysanky, some especially decorated for pets, relatives, friends and others who've passed on since last Easter. When it's time to leave our Easter offerings at the stove and cairn we leave the decorated eggs amongst the food for the dead.

Beh's bee egg is sitting in a carton as the glue attaching the wings to the egg dries. There's a handmade miniature hat that Italics created for another egg, a bowl of partially shucked wheat (the kernel's still attached to the long, skewer-like spikes), Papa's skull planter with some of his dried tobacco leaves and a Jack Daniels gift set that Italics had given me earlier in the day.

From a tiny, withered peanut to a vibrant, lush plant. Only two of the five peanuts I bought germinated; I can't decide if I want to buy and plant more, or just stick with the two healthy plants I already have. OH, DECISIONS, DECISIONS...

OH, IT'S ALL SUPER CUTE, NOW, WITH ITS BLACK AND WHITE TUXEDO AND LITTLE SMILING BEGGING FACE BUT ONE DAY, DAMMIT, ONE DAY NEAR THE SUMMER SOLSTICE WHEN IT GETS LIGHT HERE AT THREE IN THE FUCKING MORNING THAT FUCKER WILL BE ON MY GODDAMN BEDROOM WINDOWSILL SCREAMING THROUGH THE OPEN WINDOW FOR BREAKFAST. (HOW THE FUCK DOES A MAGPIE KNOW WHICH ROOM IS OUR BEDROOM? I DON'T KNOW, TRY //MAGIC//.)

That's one of the four (five?) aubergines (eggplants) that I've grown from seed. One of these days I'll have to relocate them outside to the bonsai house, but until then they get a chance to flourish in better-than-green-house conditions.

One of my Sub-Arctic tomatoes which will most definitely be moved outside since they were deliberately bought for their "sub-arctic" nature. (GROWING TOMATOES IN SCOTLAND WITHOUT A PROPER GREEN HOUSE CAN BE HELL. I'M SO DESPERATE I'M GROWING THE EQUIVALENT OF SIBERIAN TOMATOES.)

One of my thriving courgettes (zucchini) on the verge of blossoming. (Which is EXACTLY why I kicked that very nearly flowering plant out of this house - the second I let ONE plant mature, flower and fruit in the house is the second I breakdown and let ALL of the damn plants mature, flower and fruit in the house and we don't have the room for that sort've Eden.)

First Bloom

Filed under: Gothel's Garden

I don't remember where it came from, or who it was given to, but since I DO know who's been taking care of it (AHEM, AHEM) it officially belongs to me. (It looked ludicrously happy in the cheap ass wicker basket it was potted in, so I never removed it after all of the other plants in the arrangement died. This is the first time in the several years I've been caring for it that it actually bloomed.)

(IT WAS REALLY, REALLY HARD PICKING ONLY TWO FAVORITES.)

(REALLY HARD.)

(SRSLY HARD, OKAY?)

A New Year

Filed under: Gold, Frankincense and Myrrh

One of these days I'll have to tell you about my thing for lapis, until then we'll just pretend you're suitably mystified and intrigued by "another year, another round of lapis." (Hell's going to need more than seven gates to strip //THIS// ass naked, baby.)

11th Day of Marriage

Filed under: LOL!

"WAIT, DID I PUT YOUR DICK IN MY MOUTH TODAY, OR WAS THAT YESTERDAY?"

Warts to Rot

Filed under: Gothel's Garden

I SWEAR TO GOD IF MY FATHER-IN-LAW TOUCHES ANY OF MY FRUIT TREES, BUSHES, VEGETABLES AND/OR FLOWERS I'M GOING TO SPIT IN HIS EYE AND GLEEFULLY WATCH IT ROT AWAY. (<- IF I CAN SPIT AND GIVE SOMEONE WARTS SURELY I HAVE ROOM TO BUILD ON THAT TALENT.)

She Makes Eden

Filed under: Gothel's Garden

I DROPPED NEARLY £30.00 ON FLOWERS AND FRUIT TREES YESTERDAY. (Dutch Iris [Mixed Pack] and Midget Fruit Tree Collection [Golden Spur, Red Spur, Dwarf Pear Lilliput])

TODAY? I JUST DROPPED £20.00 ON FLOWER AND VEGETABLE SEEDS. (Artichoke [Violet de Provence], Basil [Spice Boys Mixture], Digitalis [Excelsior Hybrids], Dill [Dukat] , Gourd [Cavemans Club], Monarda [Bees Favourite], Passiflora [Caerulea], Squash [Honey Bear], Sweet Corn [Minipop], Sweet Pea [Heirloom Mixed] and Wild Flower Mixture [Herb Rich Grazing Mixture])

ITALICS AND I ARE ALREADY DISCUSSING VARIOUS PSYCHOACTIVE AND SMOKABLE PLANTS WE NEED TO GROW TO CREATE OUR OWN HOMEGROWN BLEND. AND, DESPITE THE LACK OF DEPTH, I'M STILL GOING TO TRY AND GROW SOME BEETS IN THE DIRTYARD OUTSIDE. (OH LORD, IT'S GOING TO BE ONE OF THOSE YEARS, ISN'T IT?)

Extended Family Readjustment

Filed under: Oh No, You Di'int!

WHEN YOUR DEFAULT IS "BAD MOOD" IT TAKES PRACTICALLY NOTHING TO PULL THAT HAIR TRIGGER EVEN BEFORE YOU GET OUT OF BED.

LIKE, FOR INSTANCE:

1.) HEARING YOUR RECENTLY RETURNED IN-LAWS BEFORE EVEN GETTING OUT OF BED

(FOR THE PAST TWO WEEKS I'VE WOKEN UP TO SONGBIRDS OUTSIDE, THIS MORNING? THE LEAD FEET OF MY MOTHER-IN-LAW POUNDING AGAINST THE FLOOR AS SHE FRANTICALLY RAN FROM THE LOUNGE TO THE KITCHEN, AND THEN THEN KITCHEN TO THE BEDROOM. DUDE, IT'S FUCKING SATURDAY. //SATURDAY//, OKAY? GIVE IT A FUCKING REST, ESPECIALLY SINCE YOU AREN'T LATE FOR //ANYTHING//.)

2.) WAITING FOR YOUR RECENTLY RETURNED IN-LAWS TO LEAVE THE HOUSE, BUT THEY DON'T

(SO I TELL MYSELF I CAN DEAL WITH SHIT. I TELL MYSELF I CAN COPE WITH THE REINTRODUCTION OF CO-HABITATION. BUT THAT'S PROVIDED THEY LEAVE THEY HOUSE - LIKE THEY TYPICALLY DO ON MOST SATURDAYS - TO GIVE ME A CHANCE TO COME TO ON MY OWN TERMS AND GRADUALLY ADJUST TO THE CHANGED SITUATION.)

(I SAT IN BED THIS MORNING, WIDE AWAKE, WITH MY HEAD TILTED TOWARDS THE CEILING IN THE HOPES I'D CATCH AN AUDIBLE CRUMB OF INFORMATION. AFTER AN HOUR MY AWESOME TALENT FOR INTERPRETING CONTEXT CLUES LED ME TO BELIEVE THAT THERE WASN'T GOING TO BE A SATURDAY OUTING, WHICH MEANT COMING TO THE REALIZATION THAT MY MOTHER-IN-LAW, AT SOME POINT TODAY, WOULD EVENTUALLY CORNER AND ACCOST ME REGARDLESS OF ANY AVOIDANCE TACTICS I ATTEMPT TO EMPLOY.)

3.) HEARING YOUR RECENTLY RETURNED IN-LAWS TAKE SHOWERS PLUS RUN A LOAD OF LAUNDRY

(ALL IN QUICK SUCCESSION, ONE RIGHT AFTER THE OTHER. HOW DO I KNOW IT'S GOING TO BE AN AMAZING DAY? WHEN MY IN-LAWS WAKE ME UP WITH TOTALLY UNNECESSARY VOLUMES OF NOISE ONLY TO BAIT AND SWITCH ME WITH THE PROSPECT THAT THEY'RE ON THE VERGE OF LEAVING TO GIVE ME A FEW HOURS TO READJUST TO BEING PART OF AN EXTENDED FAMILY AGAIN.)

(HOW DO I KNOW IT'S GOING TO BE A SUPREMELY AMAZING DAY? WHEN I REALIZE THEY AREN'T LEAVING, AND, ON TOP OF IT, THEY'VE PROBABLY USED ALL OF THE FUCKING HOT WATER WHICH MEANS THE ONLY THING NOT CLEAN IN THIS HOUSE - UNLIKE THEM AND THEIR CLOTHING - IS ME. I GET TO SEETHE AND LOATHE IN MY PERSONAL FILTH AS THE TANK SLOWLY FILLS - AWESOME!)

4.) WAITING FOR YOUR RECENTLY RETURNED IN-LAWS TO LEAVE THE KITCHEN SO YOU CAN EAT

(OKAY, HERE'S THE THING - PART OF MY BRAIN IS RETARDED AND CHILDLIKE. OR, I GUESS, THE CHILDLIKE PART IS RETARDED, OR THE RETARDED PART IS CHILDLIKE. AT THE END OF THE DAY, SOME PART OF IT IS RETARDED AND CHILDLIKE, OR HOWEVER YOU FEEL MOST COMFORTABLE AND POLITICALLY CORRECT MERGING THE TWO CONCEPTS TOGETHER.)

(SO IT'S NO SURPRISE THAT LIKE CHILDREN AND RETARDS - WITH ME HAVING ONCE BEEN A RETARDED CHILD - I THRIVE ON A SENSE OF ROUTINE AND SCHEDULE. ANY DEVIATION FROM A CAREFULLY CONSTRUCTED ARRANGEMENT OR PLAN IS ENOUGH TO MAKE ME IRRATIONALLY GROUCHY OR FUSSY OR UPSET OR, WELL, YOU GET THE IDEA. <- ESPECIALLY IF YOU HAVE KIDS, OR RETARDS, OR RETARDED KIDS.)

(IN ORDER FOR ME TO LEAD A HAPPY, PRODUCTIVE DAY I NEED A FEW HOURS TO MYSELF EVERY DAY. IN THOSE FEW HOURS I EXERCISE MY SET PATTERN/MORNING ROUTINE TO GROUND MYSELF WHICH, IN TURN, GIVES ME A SENSE OF FAMILIARITY. I WAKE UP, PEEK IN ON THE CLOSET PLANTS, HAVE A PISS, TAKE A MUG OUT, POP IN A TEA BAG, TURN ON THE KETTLE, GOOD MORNING THE RATS AND GIVE THEM A TREAT, TURN ON THE COMPUTER, POUR BOILED WATER OVER TEA, CHECK EMAIL, GET TOWELS, STRAIN AND SWEETEN TEA, SIP OVERLY HOT TEA ONCE OR TWICE, TAKE A SHOWER, DRY MYSELF OFF, DRINK TEA THAT'S NOW A PERFECT TEMPERATURE, TAKE MY PILLS, DRESS, HAVE A PIECE OF TOAST, LET THE RATS OUT OF THE CAGE AND THEN SIT DOWN TO WORK.)

(THE ORDER ARRANGEMENT DOESN'T HAVE TO BE EXACT, BUT THERE ARE ONE OR TWO INSTANCES LISTED ABOVE THAT DO NEED TO BE EXECUTED IN MY CHRONOLOGICAL RETARD ORDER TO WORK. TEA'S ALWAYS MADE FIRST SINCE THAT'S MY FIRST SOURCE OF HYDRATION FOR THE DAY. SHOWER'S ALWAYS HAD BEFORE I SIT DOWN TO WORK SO I DON'T USE MY NON-SHOWERED STATUS AS A JUSTIFIED EXCUSE TO BLOW OFF WHAT'S LEFT OF MY CAREER TO ARBITRARILY SHAVE MY GODDAMN LEGS.)

(THE KITCHEN'S DECEPTIVELY SMALL. OR, MAYBE, THE KITCHEN'S AVERAGELY SIZED BUT THE WAY MY IN-LAWS OCCUPY THE ROOM MAKES IT SEEM DECEPTIVELY SMALL. DUE TO THEIR PREFERRED CHOICE OF SEATING YOU'LL ALWAYS HAVE TO SQUEEZE PAST ONE IF NOT TWO OF THEM - IN THAT LAUGHABLY NARROW SPACE BETWEEN THE BACK OF THEIR CHAIR AND THE COUNTER - JUST TO ACCESS THINGS LIKE THE FRIDGE, DISHES, THE OVEN, MICROWAVE OR SINK BECAUSE IT DOESN'T OCCUR TO THEM TO MOVE THEIR CHAIRS FORWARD JUST A FEW INCHES TO LET OTHER MEMBERS OF THE HOUSE PASS UNOBSTRUCTED.)

(LOOK, WHEN YOU'RE ALREADY IN A PISS POOR MOOD BECAUSE IRONMAN, DISGUISED AS YOUR MOTHER-IN-LAW, WAS STOMPING THE FUCK OUT OF THE CARPET - CARPET! HOW DOES A 50+ YEAR OLD WOMAN MAKE CARPET SOUND LIKE HARDWOOD FLOORS?! - AND WOKE YOU UP YOU AREN'T GOING TO WANT TO SHARE THE SAME AWKWARD SPACE FOR 10 MINUTES WITH THE PEOPLE WHO WOKE YOU UP, DIDN'T ACTUALLY GO OUT, USED ALL OF THE HOT WATER IN THE HOUSE AND ULTIMATELY DISRUPTED YOUR RETARD ROUTINE WHICH YOU NEED TO FOLLOW ON A DAILY BASIS LEAST YOU FEEL LIKE SOME SORT OF WILD BUT CAGED ANIMAL.)

(NO TEA FIRST THING THIS MORNING, NO TOAST. JUST AS I FINALLY GOT OUT OF BED THE IN-LAWS QUICKLY MOVED FROM THEIR BEDROOM TO THE KITCHEN AND OCCUPIED THE SPACE; THE EXACT PLACE I NEEDED TO GO TO JUMP START MY AUTISTIC SCHEDULE. IT'S LIKE THEY SOMEHOW KNEW I WAS ABOUT TO GO IN THE KITCHEN - AND THEY DID, THEY HEARD ME GET UP AND ACTED ON IT. <- WHEN THEY HEAR FLOORBOARDS CREAK THEY SCATTER LIKE TERRIFIED GAZELLE. UNFORTUNATELY, THEY ALWAYS SEEM TO SCATTER EXACTLY WHERE THE IRRITATED LIONESS WANTS TO/NEEDS TO GO.)

(SO FOR ALL OF THESE REASONS - AND MORE - I TEND TO AVOID COMMUNING WITH MY IN-LAWS IN THE KITCHEN, ESPECIALLY DURING THE FIRST 20 GROGGY MINUTES OF CONSCIOUSNESS . LIKE I SAID ABOVE, MY MORNING IS "ME" TIME WHEN THIS SOFTENED DOVE OF A GENTLE WOMAN IS STILL IN HER DRUNK AND ANGRY WHITE TRASH WHO VIOLENTLY HATES THE WORLD MODE. FOR YOUR OWN SAFETY DON'T LOOK AT ME, TALK TO ME, INDICATE TO ME, SPEAK TO ME, OR SEND SMOKE SIGNALS MY WAY. IF I'M SOMEHOW IN THE EQUATION, FIND A NEW VARIABLE TO REPLACE ME, BECAUSE I'M SO NOT BALANCING THE NUMERICAL VALUE ON EITHER SIDE UNTIL I'VE HAD TEA AND A FUCKING SHOWER.)

5.) SEEING THE STATE YOUR RECENTLY RETURNED IN-LAWS LEFT THE KITCHEN IN

(I CLEAN THE KITCHEN TO A CRAZY LEVEL OF CLEAN, EVERY NIGHT, SO THE FIRST THING I SEE IN THE MORNING WHEN I WAKE UP IS MY EFFORT FROM THE NIGHT BEFORE. I STRAIGHTEN UP AT NIGHT TO DELIBERATELY WAKE UP TO AN ORDERLY HOUSE. YOU WANT TO MAKE ME HORNY FIRST THING? GIVE ME A CLEAN KITCHEN WITH AN EMPTY MUG AND AN UNUSED TEA BAG ON THE COUNTER; I WILL BE YOUR SLAVE.)

(I'M A PERSON WHO, FOR THE MOST PART, ENJOYS CLEANING AND KEEPING THE HOUSE AT A SUPERNATURAL LEVEL OF TIDY. I GET OFF ON IT; IT MAKES ME HAPPY. WHILE BEING THAT BIZARRE, ALMOST MYTHICAL, ANOMALY I CAN APPRECIATE AND EVEN UNDERSTAND THAT I RESIDE IN A NEAR NON-EXISTENT MINORITY AND MY COMPULSIONS CAN'T BE FILED AWAY UNDER THE AVERAGE "YOU".)

(HOWEVER, EVEN WITH ME BEING ME AND YOU BEING "YOU" I THINK WE CAN BOTH FIND MIDDLE GROUND AND AGREE ON ONE ASPECT OF CLEANING - WE WANT A CHANCE TO ENJOY THE END RESULT. LOOK, WE'RE BOTH CLEANING, RIGHT? THAT MEANS, IF YOU'RE A NON-CLEANER, THINGS HAVE GOTTEN TO THE POINT OF DESPERATION AND THERE'S NO SOLUTION OTHER THAN HIRING HELP, OR DOING IT YOURSELF. TO AN OBSESSIVE CRACKED OUT CLEANER LIKE MYSELF IT'S A HARROWING ADDICTION TOWARDS AN UNATTAINABLE GOAL - A FOREVER CLEAN HOUSE WITH NO EFFORT WHATSOEVER.)

(EITHER WAY, WE'VE BOTH PUT TIME, EFFORT AND ENERGY INTO THE END RESULT, AND BY RIGHT WE SHOULD BE ABLE TO ENJOY THE FRUITS OF OUR LABOR, OR AT LEAST BE THE ONES WHO CREATES THE NEW MESS. WHEN I WENT TO BED LAST NIGHT THE ROOM WAS SPOTLESS (I MADE SURE IT WAS), BUT SOMETHING HAD TRANSPIRED BETWEEN THE PERIOD OF ME GOING TO BED AND ME WAKING UP. AND, SINCE I HAD SLEPT THAT ENTIRE TIME, I WASN'T THE PERSON WHO CREATED AND LEFT A NEW MESS. THE MESS, AS WELL ALL KNOW, WHETHER YOU'RE ME OR YOU'RE "YOU", ONLY //I// WAS JUSTIFIED IN MAKING. <- DUDE, IT HAD BEEN LESS THAN 10 HOURS. ARE YOU SERIOUSLY TELLING ME THAT A PAIR OF ADULTS WHO ARE DOUBLE MY AGE CAN'T KEEP 1 ONE ROOM CLEAN FOR LESS THAN A HALF A DAY?)

6.) SEEING THE AMOUNT YOUR RECENTLY RETURNED IN-LAWS LEFT IN THE KETTLE FOR YOU

(I'LL KEEP THIS SHORT AND SWEET SINCE I'VE BURNED MYSELF OUT ON LISTED GRIEVANCES - IF YOU HAVE A COMMUNAL ARRANGEMENT DON'T BE A FUCKING ASS, OKAY?)

(DON'T EAT OTHER PEOPLE'S FOOD WITHOUT ASKING, DON'T USE ALL OF THE HOT WATER UNLESS YOU MAKE DAMN SURE IT'S COOL, DON'T THROW AWAY OTHER PEOPLE'S THINGS WITHOUT ASKING, DON'T USE THE TACO-SEASONED PAN THAT IS ONLY EVER USED TO MAKE TACOS SINCE IT'S TACO-SEASONED TO FRY FISH ESPECIALLY WHEN THERE ARE OTHERS IN THE HOUSE WHO YOU KNOW VIOLENTLY HATE ANYTHING REMOTELY FISH-LIKE, DON'T LEAVE YOUR SWEATY, USED SOCKS ON THE COUCH FOR OTHER PEOPLE TO PICK UP AND CLEAN ON YOUR BEHALF, DON'T PLAY GLORIA FUCKING ESTEFAN AS LOUD AS THE LOUNGE STEREO WILL PLAY WHEN OTHER PEOPLE IN THE HOUSE ARE SLEEPING AND DON'T, FOR THE LOVE OF FUCKING GOD, LEAVE AN OFFENSIVELY INSUFFICIENT AMOUNT OF WATER IN THE SHARED WATER KETTLE AND PRETEND LIKE YOU WEREN'T BEING A LAZY FUCKING ASS WHEN DOING SO.)

(WHAT MAKES 1/4 OF THIS HOUSEHOLD WANT TO SPIT NAILS? WHEN 25% OF THE OCCUPANTS LIFTS THE KETTLE - AFTER BEING WOKEN UP BY NOISY IN-LAWS, HAVING ALL OF THE HOT WATER STOLEN, HAVING TO WAIT TO GET SOMETHING TO DRINK AFTER SLEEPING 7+ HOURS, HAVING A CAREFULLY STRUCTURED SCHEDULE TO HELP WITH AUTISTIC TICKS HOPELESSLY DISRUPTED, SEEING ALL THE CLEANING DONE RUINED IN LESS THAN 12 HOURS BY ADULTS DOUBLE YOUR AGE - AND FINDS THAT 50% OF THE OCCUPANTS FAILED TO REFILL THE TEAPOT AFTER USING IT.)

(WHICH, ADMITTEDLY, IS A LONGSTANDING BATTLE IN THIS HOUSE. MY IN-LAWS, FOR WHATEVER REASON, HAVE NEVER CONSIDERED IT DISCOURTEOUS TO USE ALMOST ALL OF THE WATER IN THE KETTLE, BUT LEAVE JUST ENOUGH TO BE ABLE TO SAY "WE DIDN'T NEED TO REFILL IT FOR ANYONE ELSE, THERE WAS ALREADY SOME WATER IN THERE!". AND WHEN I MEAN "LEAVE JUST ENOUGH" I ACTUALLY MEAN "IT'S AN INSULTING, UNUSABLE AMOUNT THAT REDEFINES THE WORD NEGLIGIBLE".)

(LOOK, THERE ARE UNSPOKEN RULES WHEN IT COMES TO COINHABITING WITH PEOPLE WHO AREN'T PENETRATING YOUR ORIFICES (AND VICE VERSA) - DON'T LEAVE THE LAST SHEET OF TOILET PAPER ATTACHED AND GO "BUT THERE WAS STILL SOME PAPER LEFT!", DON'T PUT BACK AN EMPTY BUTTER CONTAINER WITH "BUT THERE WAS STILL SOME LEFT IN THE CORNER IF YOU SCRAPE IT" AND DON'T FUCKING LEAVE THE COMMUNAL KETTLE EMPTY WHEN YOU'RE THE FUCKING PERSON WHO USED IT ALL IN THE FIRST FUCKING PLACE.)

(I'M GENUINELY RETARDED; WHAT'S YOUR EXCUSE, IN-LAWS?)

Easter's Fruits

Filed under: Gothel's Garden

Easter Sunday's efforts (see EASTER SUNDAY) were rewarded within 48 hours when the first cucumber seed sprouted beneath the glow of artificial light. (OH HONEY YES, THOSE MOFOS GERMINATE LIKE //MAGIC//.) Today's reward? Coming face-to-face with my first peanut plant.

HOLY FUCKING SHIT, DUDE, THE PEANUT - THAT DEHYDRATED, WITHERED HUSK OF A LEGUME WE PLANTED IN A BIODEGRADABLE PEAT POT LESS THAN A WEEK EARLIER ON EASTER AFTERNOON - IS FUCKING //GREEN//. NATURE, THERE IS NO MISTAKE - YOU ARE TOTALLY 100% MAGIC. (THIS IS ALL OF THE SCIENTIFIC EVIDENCE I NEED TO SEE, THANK YOU VERY MUCH.)

(BY THE WAY, PEANUTS, I BETTER NOT CATCH YOU MAKING DOE EYES AT THE SPROUTING PEAS. YOU GUYS ARE FIRST GENERATION COUSINS AND THERE ARE LAWS ABOUT THAT SORT'VE THING, YOU KNOW.)

I love cucumbers because they satisfy the need for immediacy. (Cucumbers, courgettes, and pumpkins - OH, YOU LARGE FLAT SEEDS WHICH BURST OPEN WITH LIFE WITH ONE GIGANTIC EXPLOSION OF A BREATH!) One of the draw backs, though, is they seem to mature hella quick. (I probably should've waited one more month - oops?)

A SECOND ONE JUST BECAUSE I LIKED HOW IT LOOKED. (I'VE GOT A NEW CAMERA AND I'M PLAYING WITH DIFFERENT MODES AND FUNCTIONS.)

(YOU CAN THANK ITALICS FOR MY BIRTHDAY GIFT ONCE YOU FIND YOURSELF SICK OF LOOKING AT MY TOTALLY INCONSEQUENTIAL FLICKR IMAGES TO THE POINT OF THROWING UP.)

...

(SICK BAG, ANYONE?)

So, the peanuts are sprouting, and four out of five cucumbers that were planted on Easter have already germinated. And everything else? They look pretty content to me.

(I TOTALLY <3 MY INSIDE OUTSIDE GARDEN!)

Co-inhabitation Ache

Filed under: Life

In-laws are back home and I feel like I'm a cobra about to strike.

(JESUS CHRIST IN HEAVEN, ITALICS, WAKE UP ALREADY SO I CAN GET HIGH AND DULL THIS CO-INHABITATION ACHE.)

Spanking Day Mist

Filed under: Life

Spanking Day 2009 (April 13th) began with a thick mist enveloping the neighborhood before dissipating beneath Easter Monday's sunrise. (The camera failed to convey how bright it really was.)

Easter Sunday

Filed under: Life

My grandparents, Ukrainians who immigrated to the US from a German refugee camp, being from THE OLD COUNTRY half-observed some of the tenants of the Orthodox's mutilated version of Catholicism. (IF YOU CAN'T BEAT THEM, THEN YOU INCORPORATE THEIR ANCIENT PAGAN BELIEFS INTO YOUR SYSTEM, FILTER THE INFLUX OF INDIGENOUS FOLKLORE, SUPERSTITION AND MAGIC BEFORE GIVING IT ALL A NEW NAME AND A FLIMSY DISGUISE. HEY, IT WORKED FOR THE CELTS, RIGHT?)

And when I say "HALF-OBSERVED SOME OF THE TENANTS" I actually mean "THEY TOOK EVERY GOD-FUCKING-GIVEN OPPORTUNITY TO CRITIQUE THE BEHAVIOR AND MANNERISMS OF OTHERS WHO WEREN'T OBSERVING THE TENANTS". My grandparents were the critical wallflowers pretending to be indifferent while clocking every abomination against god (more about bitching, less about condemning) - like working on Sunday!

(No working on Sunday? FOR REALS? Even as a kid I couldn't wrap my head around certain aspects of the idea, and it didn't help that I was getting unclarified, mixed messages from my grandparents. Is gardening considered working? And, if so, when did gardening stop being a hobby and begin to become work? Why was God totally cool with letting my grandmother water the flowerbeds on Sunday evening, but morally offended by me trimming the hedges with a pair of garden shears?)

(GOD, I'VE BEEN WONDERING ABOUT THE GARDENING WORK VERSUS HOBBY THING SINCE THAT SUMMER EVENING LONG, LONG AGO. WHEN IT'S MOST CONVENIENT FOR YOU PLEASE SEND YOUR ANSWERS ON A POSTCARD, BUT PLEASE DON'T FORGET TO INCLUDE A SASE SO I CAN GET BACK TO YOU. <- LOL, BECAUSE I'M SO DAMN GOOD AT GETTING BACK TO PEOPLE'S LETTERS, EMAILS AND NOTES.)

SO, RIGHT, ANYWAY.

So, being that Easter was on a Sunday and we both woke up around five in the morning I made an executive decision to get all of the grunt work around the house done before sunrise. Cause, baby, Easter morning sunrise = celebration of life, renewal and reincarnation. (I don't care if it's Catholicism and I'm doing my witch thing, some ideas out there transcend any one religion and if a bunch of people are celebrating the conquering of death with chocolate and paska (<- it's a traditional Ukrainian egg-rich Easter bread, not unlike brioche) then this biological creature who's petrified of her own mortal demise is more than happy to jump on the ETERNAL LIFE celebration bandwagon.)

When I was a kid Easter was spent at my grandparents' house digging into the blessed Easter baskets. ("DIGGING INTO THE BLESSED EASTER BASKETS" PROBABLY SOUNDS LIKE A HELLA AWESOME WAY TO SPEND THE MORNING, UNTIL YOU FIND OUT THAT UKRAINIAN EASTER BASKETS - BLESSED AT CHURCH ON HOLY SATURDAY - ARE FILLED WITH SALT, BUTTER, CHEESE, BREAD, EGGS AND A VARIETY OF SMOKED PORK PRODUCTS (BASICALLY, ANYTHING YOU INTEND ON EATING FOR EASTER BRUNCH). DUE TO MY GENETIC BIAS I CAN SAFELY SAY I'D RATHER BE GIVEN A UKIE EASTER BASKET OVER A PLASTIC WAL-MART BASKET FILLED WITH FOIL-WRAPPED CHEAP CHOCOLATE ANY DAY. SERIOUSLY.)

(STOP GROANING, HEART. YOU'VE BEEN GENETICALLY ENGINEERED TO HANDLE COPIOUS AMOUNTS OF PURE BUTTER AND PORK FAT!)

While all celebrated holidays at my grandparents' were an event to look forward to, Easter was slightly bittersweet because there wasn't a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow (in other words, Christmas Eve meant presents after dinner, Easter meant no presents). Whenever our family congregated around the dining table it was a several hour event. Once adult asses sat in plastic covered chairs (WHAT IS IT WITH OLD UKIE PEOPLE AND THEIR COMPULSION TO COVER EVERYTHING - TABLES, CHAIRS, FLOORS - WITH FUCKING PLASTIC?) they couldn't be budged, not even for a crisis that involved a minute amount of blood.

Two hours into worshiping at the mighty trough the coffee would finally surface, an indication to any child that the celebratory meal was at the beginning of its end. (I MEAN, YOU WOULD THINK THAT, RIGHT? WELL, YOU'RE WRONG.) Coffee was half-time. Coffee was when the adults gradually shook themselves out of the smoked pork stupor realizing that they've been sitting stagnant for the past two hours. Coffee brought on a second realization right after the first - after one hundred and twenty minutes they were hungry, again. The third and final realization? They were sitting around a table still covered with food. (GOD BE PRAISED, GOD HAS RISEN!)

(OH THE AWFUL, TRAUMATIZING HORRORS THAT AN UNFORTUNATE, INNOCENT CHILD SOMETIMES MUST FACE. LIKE SECRETLY PEEPING IN ON THE ADULTS WHILE HOLDING YOUR BREATH SO YOU DON'T GIVE YOURSELF AWAY, ONLY TO SEE THE TERRIFYING SIGHT OF YOUR FATHER REACHING OVER THE SEMI-CLEARED TABLE TOWARDS THE SMOKED BUTT, OR KIELBASA, EFFECTIVELY RESTARTING THE NEFARIOUS CYCLE OF EATING. COFFEE? COFFEE WAS A JOKE, A SICK, TWISTED, PERVERTED JOKE. IN EVERYONE ELSE'S FAMILY COFFEE WAS THE END, THE GRAND FINALE, IN MY DERANGED, DYSFUNCTIONAL FAMILY IT WAS THE HIT THEY NEEDED TO CLEAR DIGESTIVE SPACE.)

HOLY SHIT, TANGENT MUCH!

So, in the dark, we cleaned and straightened, and I reconstructed the EASTER / GREAT RITE / WEDDING altar. (It had been dissected the day before for Holy Saturday so I could take some of the altar contents in our basket to get blessed at the church service.) We deliberately had a light lunch to ensure we wouldn't feel too weighed down since we had a kind've sort've loose schedule to keep - a walk to the cemetery to make our offerings, back home for Ukrainian crepes, decorating eggs for those who've passed since last Easter, eating out of the basket while watching the 10 Commandments ("HIS GOD, IS GOD") and dragging out the tarot "board game" to work with Muriel.

And the schedule would've TOTALLY WORKED if we hadn't IMMEDIATELY OFF-ROADED FROM IT TO INCLUDE THE SEX SHOWER. (LOL! "THE"! LIKE IT'S ONLY HAPPENED ONCE IN OUR 10+ YEAR RELATIONSHIP.)(HAVE I EVER TOLD YOU GUYS ABOUT THE TIME WE BROKE THE BATHTUB WHILE HAVING ANAL SEX? AND MY IN-LAWS WERE HOME? OI VEY.) I should've known better than to break out our waffle cone scented sex shower exfoliating gel. (Sex showers, as you may already know, are gateway activities.)

I stepped into the shower an untouched woman. Pure, innocent - Spring's virgin bride, not yet knowing a man or a husband. (FOR THOSE OF YOU WHO AREN'T AS UP TO SPEED AS OTHERS: I OBSERVE LENT...SORT'VE. DESPITE BEING LEGALLY MARRIED TO ITALICS, FROM MARDI GRAS TO OUR WEDDING NIGHT (WE CELEBRATE THE GREAT RITE AS AN ANNUAL EVENT IN CONJUNCTION WITH EASTER AND SPRING) I ABSTAIN FROM MASTURBATION, SEX AND SOME SEXUAL CONTACT. IT'S MY PERIOD OF PURIFICATION BEFORE I TAKE ON THE ROLE AS THE VIRGIN BRIDE.) Hours later, having felt the ecstasy of my husband's touch and body, I stepped out of bed a married woman.

(ACTUALLY - I KNOW, I KNOW "OH, HERE WE GO..." - MY ASS STEPPED OUT OF BED - IF ASSES CAN EVEN STEP - A MARRIED WOMAN. OR, I GUESS, A MARRIED ASS. AN ASS THAT HAD BEEN MARRIED //3// TIMES IN QUICK SUCCESSION. <- ITALICS IS TRYING TO NEGOTIATE "2 1/2" SINCE THERE "WASN'T A LOT" THE SECOND TIME AROUND.)

(SWEPT UP IN THE SPIRIT OF CONSUMMATION - IN THE MIDST OF SHUDDERING AND TREMBLING, GROANING AND THRUSTING - I ARCHED MY BACK WITH MY "I DO" AND WHEN ITALICS, MY NEW AND OLD HUSBAND, HEARD MY ACCEPTANCE HE COMMITTED HIMSELF TO ME, IN A SOMEWHAT UNORTHODOX ORIFICE, HIS "I DO" MOVING IN TANDEM WITH HIS OWN ORGASM.)(OR TWO.)(OR THREE.)

It wasn't the sex shower that derailed us, or even that THE GREAT RITE had somewhat unexpectedly taken place (IT WASN'T IN THE SCHEDULE, DAMMIT!), it was my patented LAUGHING WHILST CRYING orgasm. (IT'S EMBARRASSING, BUT I'LL ADMIT IT - WHEN I'M REALLY FUCKED UP ON SOMETHING, OR WHEN MY CLIMAX TURNS OUT TO BE OUT-OF-THIS-FUCKING-WORLD ASTOUNDING I START SOBBING AFTER MY ORGASM. AND THEN, WITHIN A SECOND OR TWO, I START LAUGHING UNTIL BOTH SPECTRUMS OF HYSTERIA MERGE IN AN EXPLOSION OF HORMONES AND SEROTONIN. OH, BRAIN AND BODY CHEMICALS, MAKING ME SEEM LIKE SOME SORT OF CRAZY, EMOTIONALLY UNCHAINED WEEPY-AFTER-SEX WOMAN!)

Wait, no, I take that back - I can partially blame THE GREAT RITE for ritually slaughtering our carefully crafted schedule. Once someone's unloaded three separate deposits of jizz in your ass, you usually want to have a bathroom handy for the rest of the day. (BETWEEN LOOSENED SPHINCTERS THAT'LL SURPRISE YOU WITH THEIR INABILITY TO FLEX AND TIGHTEN TO A SATISFYING DEGREE THERE'S THE ENDLESS STREAM OF SEMEN AND SALIVA ENCOURAGED ON BY GRAVITY. AND WHEN YOU FINALLY THINK THAT YOU'VE GOTTEN RID OF THE LAST OF IT, YOU'RE WRONG.) Look, I'm more than happy to piss in the woods, but draining various body fluids out of my ass behind a crumbling wall or next to a beech tree? Nice landscape, but I'd rather be sitting on white porcelain, thanks.

ANYWAY. By the time we cleaned, had our light lunch, embarked on the sex shower and ensured prosperity and fertility for the upcoming year (YOU NORTHERN HEMISPHERE FOLK CAN THANK US LATER; WE'RE JUST DOING OUR COSMICALLY DIVINE JOB) it was coming up towards ten in the morning and what little remnants of Catholic knowledge I had left warned me about the possibility of a church service at eleven. (It's nine in the morning and eleven on Sundays, right?)

So we ditched the schedule, not wanting to draw too much attention to ourselves since we aren't your standard cemetery visitors and the church was probably going to be occupied for the second Sunday service. (Especially since we cut through the cow field, climb over the electrical wire, scramble up the old wall in the overgrown lane of woods before using the unused side entrance to access the cemetery. AND THAT'S ONLY DURING THE MIDDLE OF THE DAY, THAT'S US TOTALLY VANILLA.)

Instead, we got high, and with the BBC's Easter morning church service and the Pope's address from the Vatican playing in the background Italics turned to work. (WORK? ON SUNDAY? ON A SUNDAY THAT'S EASTER? OH DEAR. <- NOT THAT I DIDN'T WANT TO SAY "BUT, BABY, IT'S EASTER AND WE JUST GOT MARRIED! WHAT'S YOUR EMPLOYER GOING TO SAY? YOU'RE FIRED IF YOU DON'T WORK ON EASTER SUNDAY?" BECAUSE I DID. BUT, THANKS TO BEING ALL MATURE AND GROWN UP AND RATIONAL AND LOGICAL NOW (LOLOLOLOLOL!), I UNDERSTOOD THAT THE ONLY REASON WHY ITALICS IS HOME 24/7 WITH ME IN THE FIRST PLACE IS BECAUSE HE HAS FOUR AT HOME JOBS THAT REQUIRE HIS ATTENTION WHETHER IT'S EASTER SUNDAY OR NOT.)

Too tired to walk to the cemetery long after the eleven o'clock mass I decided to stay home and capitalize on the gorgeous weather we were experiencing. (NOTICE MY CHOICE OF PAST TENSE. WE HAD A DAZZLING HOLY SATURDAY, EASTER SUNDAY AND EASTER MONDAY, BUT EASTER TUESDAY IS OVERCAST AND DRAB. SIGH.) Since we were now married - OR AT LEAST HALF MARRIED - I decided on BOTH of our behalves that one of the first things we'd do together as man and wife (other than get high) was garden.

Armed with a battered selection of LPs (Tufty the Road Safety Squirrel, Dire Straits and Clannad) I potted on the courgettes, peppers and tomato plant that were threatening to overtake our closet garden as Italics broke discarded trunks and branches (MR. AWESOME, MY FATHER-IN-LAW, PRUNED THE SHRUBS AND BUSHES OUTLINING THE PERIMETER OF THE YARD LAST YEAR, BUT INSTEAD OF DISPOSING OF THE GARDEN WASTE HE LEFT IT BLOCKING THE OPENING OF THE BACKYARD. WHEN HE OBVIOUSLY WASN'T GOING TO MOVE IT - THREE OR FOUR MONTHS ON - I FINALLY SPENT AN AFTERNOON DRAGGING EVERYTHING TO A BETTER LOCATION, BUT EVEN THEN IT JUST SAT FOR ANOTHER SEVERAL MONTHS.) for our eventual GREAT RITE bonfire. (IT'S LESS EXCITING AND CLASSY WHEN YOU FIND OUT OUR RITUAL BONFIRES ARE MADE AND BURNED IN A METAL TRASHCAN.)

He watered my witch's garlic for me, and I watered my sprouting herbs, budding tulips and bonsai house seedlings. (OH MY EFFING GOD. I HAD NO IDEA THAT MY SUNFLOWERS HAD SPROUTED! AND MY PEAS! AND ALL THREE APPLE TREES - SEEDS I PLANTED LAST YEAR THAT ACTUALLY GERMINATED - SURVIVED THE SCOTTISH WINTER! THE PEACH TREE HAD A BUD! THE STRAWBERRIES LOOKED INSANELY HEALTHY!)

Together we scouted THE PERFECT SPOT for the robin/blackbird nesting box we bought earlier in the year. Together we moved the trash can bulging with kindling to a safer, rain-free location so the can's contents had a chance to dry. Together we sat - me outside on the concrete patio steps, and him inside on the carpet - and planted cucumbers, peanuts and two more chili plants, my hands soil stained, my nails caked with dirt, passing on every lovingly filled peat pot to him so he could nestle each seed in the prepared bed. Together - I think, I hope - we marveled at the feeling of newness of life brought on by seeds, earth and tender Spring shoots. (THAT WAS THE IDEA, ANYWAY.)

(GOD, THIS IS WHERE YOU COULD BE INORDINATELY HELPFUL IN LETTING ME KNOW WHEN GARDENING CEASES BEING A HOBBY AND BECOMES WORK. AT WHAT POINT, EXACTLY, DID US NEWLYWEDS CROSS THE INEXCUSABLE LINE OF "NO WORK ON SUNDAY"? AND HAVE WE TERRIFICALLY SINNED AGAINST YOU AND YOUR SON FOR HAVING THE AUDACITY TO GARDEN/WORK ON //EASTER// SUNDAY?)

(FUCK IT, I'M STICKING WITH A BELIEF SYSTEM THAT ISN'T SO DAMN GREY. I'M STICKING WITH A BELIEF SYSTEM THAT GLORIFIES AND CELEBRATES CAKE. WHEN YOU FEELING LIKE CLARIFYING AND/OR CHANGING YOUR OPINION ON CAKE, GOD, PLEASE DO LET ME KNOW. I HAVE NICE COFFEE IN THE FREEZER AND STILL REMEMBER HOW TO USE THE CAPPUCCINO MACHINE.)

Worn out from excessive fertility we retired to the lounge after toiling under the sun, eating Easter brunch (Ukrainian basket!) for Easter dinner as The King of Siam, dressed as the Prince of Egypt, proclaimed there was no god, except God. (LOOK, I DON'T KNOW WHY IT BECAME FAMILY TRADITION TO WATCH THE 10 COMMANDMENTS ON EASTER - MIXED TESTAMENT MUCH? - BUT I'M NOT ABOUT TO BUCK A LONGSTANDING RITUAL. ESPECIALLY IF IT INVOLVES YUL FUCKING BRYNNER.)

Due to co-inhabiting with my in-laws I can only stretch my creative license so far. ("SO FAR" = NO HOLES, RIPS OR TEARS IN THE WALLPAPER WHICH MEANS NOTHING CAN GET PROPERLY HUNG UP - I.E., BACKDROPS - UNLESS I'M TACKING IT TO THE BACK OF A PICTURE FRAME. <- I SUSPECT IF THEY KNEW I PUT TWO TACK HOLES IN THE BACK OF A CHEAP ASS PICTURE FRAME IN ORDER TO HANG UP SWAG THEY WOULDN'T BE SO HAPPY.)

I REALLY wish I had more space to work with (and a more neutral backdrop), but you work with what you got. This particular spot in the room - the CD cabinet - only gets used ritually three times a year: Halloween (the Santa Muerte shrine goes up), Christmas (where a special setting is placed for our ancestors so they can dine with us) and Easter (for our WEDDING / GREAT RITE / SPRING / EASTER celebration).

The CD cabinet altar is our secondary EASTER / WEDDING / GREAT RITE / SPRING altar. (I'll be taking pictures later today of the primary altar which is just off to the left of the picture.)

I won't go too much into detail about symbolism just yet (the bread, eggs and butter sort've detracts and clutters up the picture, I have better images that don't have our Easter brunch spread on the tabletop), but I wanted our beliefs and my cherished memories of Easter (I was raised orthodox, which greatly influenced my need for ELABORATE OPULENCE) to come through in a mishmash of "old country", orthodox Catholicism and witchcraft (with a heavy leaning towards home, hearth and agriculture - hence the chimney, sickle, wheat bundle, etc.).

Paska - the cylinder loaf of bread (ACTUALLY, I LIED, IT'S BABKA AND NOT PASKA, BUT BABKA IS LIKE PASKA PLUS SO, TECHNICALLY, I GUESS IT IS SORT'VE KIND'VE LIKE PASKA IN THE END) - is an egg-rich yeast bread (12 duck yolks and two whole chicken eggs) with a cake-like consistency that's only baked once a year for Easter. To get the long shape modern Ukrainian women usually use metal coffee cans (I used a decorative cookie container bought from TK Max - YOU WORK WITH WHAT YOU'VE GOT, DAMMIT).

It's taken - along with anything you plan on eating on Easter morning - to a special church service on Holy Saturday in a basket to be blessed by a priest. (ALL THIS SHIT IS EXPLAINED ABOVE IN THE TEXT PORTION OF THIS ENTRY.) Pictured on the altar are some of the non-perishable food that graced our basket this year, and my ultra awesome, ultra new ALPHA AND OMEGA candle. (HEY, IF THEY CAN DIP INTO OUR SHIT, WE CAN DIP INTO THEIR SHIT BECAUSE, TECHNICALLY, IT WAS OUR SHIT FIRST.)

My favorite part of Easter? BUTTER. (<- I KID YOU NOT!) Growing up nothing thrilled me as much during the Spring season as seeing all of the lamb-shaped butters on sale. (I HAVE NO IDEA, SO DON'T EVEN BOTHER ASKING.) The paschal butter lamb was a huge staple in every Ukie's Easter basket and, to me, it somehow silently sums up the gastronomic delight of the orthodox celebration of resurrection.

Since you can't get lamb-shaped butter here (do they still sell them in the States, or has that sort've died out?) I scored a vintage kit from the States earlier in the year so we could make our own from now on. (This particular lamb was made by Italics, it was the one that got taken to the Easter basket blessing service on Holy Saturday, which was also my birthday. <- HELLO, 29!)

Last year we embarked on a new tradition of decorating Easter eggs for those who've passed on through the course of the year ("through the course of the year" = since the previous Easter) and leaving them at the cairn in the local cemetery as an offering.

A few months back I stumbled across an off-hand comment about how Ukrainians left red eggs on the graves of their ancestors around Easter to celebrate reincarnation and the resurrection of Christ (that, uh, came later, once the heathens had been partially tamed); the red egg is for my Grandfather, who passed in September of last year (but no one bothered to tell me until around Christmas).

When you haul your Easter basket to the Saturday service to get the contents blessed you take a portion of EVERYTHING you plan on eating on Easter morning - that includes butter, grated horseradish colored with beets (I LOVE EVERYTHING ABOUT MY HERITAGE EXCEPT FOR GRATED HORSERADISH) and even salt.

(AND HOW DOES THAT CONTAINER OF SALT TRAVEL UNSPILLED? PLASTIC WRAP OVER THE TOP, SECURED BY A RUBBER BAND! <- ALTHOUGH I'M BEING SLIGHTLY MORE CLASSY USING CUT GLASS AS MY CONTAINER, TRADITIONALLY UKIES USE SHOT GLASSES.)

Grape hyacinths from the garden, and the tasseled end of the goat whip / riding crop.

(In some Slavic countries the Monday after Easter is SPANKING DAY where, traditionally, men swatted the asses of women they liked to "bless" them with otherworldly beauty and good health for the coming year. After being spanked the woman offers an egg or some token change to her spanker as a thank you.)

(This is the first year we're observing the ancient ritual. The goat whip / riding crop was a martial gift given to me last year when Italics and I were married. To ensure it was on hand for SPANKING DAY I hung it on my cast iron chimney. What Italics doesn't know is that there's an egg - a real egg, hollowed out and filled with chocolate - in the chimney, behind the whip.)

When you can't afford actual needlework you buy the stamped shit. The good thing about the stamped shit? It's easy to replicate via cross-stitch by graphing the pattern and doing the work yourself. (In other words - I'LL GET AROUND TO IT...EVENTUALLY.)

The three daffodils flanking the babka (usually Ukies make paska for Easter, but I like making babka because it's like the super gourmet version of paska) were picked from my containers outside. (It was a worthy sacrifice, although I miss seeing my blooming daffodils nodding in the spring breeze.)

As a wedding gift I'm giving my husband a jar of homemade bridal honey. (Honey which has been spiced and flavored with black pepper, cinnamon, cloves, rosebuds and a pinch of saffron.) I filled a small glass with the spices I was going to use and topped it with rosebuds so I could get the contents blessed - along with a jar of honey - at the Easter basket blessing service on Holy Saturday.

Another daffodil, the braided leather extension of the goat whip / riding crop, and Beh's egg which still needs to get decorated before being left at the cemetery. (Easter is sort've like Christmas - impossible to fit everything you want to do or celebrate in one day. Italics and I celebrate holidays and sabbats over the course of a long week which takes the pressure off of making the most of one 24 hour period.)

I didn't realize until I was outside and gardening how close to unfurling my dwarf tulips are.

Last year for Chippy's birthday we bought him a strawberry growing kit because my house trained chthonic Sumerian demon is totally into strawberries (and butterflies and lesbians). This year I'll probably separate the plants and repot them into a proper strawberry container.

Russian sunflower seeds sprouting.

Russian sunflower seeds sprouting. (AGAIN BECAUSE IT'S SO DAMN EXCITING.)

Second year apple trees grown from seed. I've heard there's a chance they'll never produce fruit, but the likelihood of them germinating at all was pretty slim so I'll keep my hopes up. (At least I've got three attempts, right?)

I thought I had lost this apple seedling, but I finally noticed unfurling buds yesterday.

I planted two trays of early maturing sweet peas for our rats since their favorite treat involves decimating sweet pea pods to pluck out the tender peas.

I planted two trays of early maturing sweet peas for our rats since their favorite treat involves decimating sweet pea pods to pluck out the tender peas.

Nearly 15 years on I still fantasize about my mother's peach tree that grew next to the side of the house where I grew up. When Aldi's - here in Scotland - was selling fruit trees for a £5.00 in February I snatched up one of the only peach trees they had. Up until yesterday I wasn't sure if it had even survived its long slumber in the bonsai house.

Some of the vegetable plants weren't exactly thrilled about being potted on. Give them a day or two and they'll bounce back better than ever.

One of the two chili types that sprouted (hot chocolate and prairie fire didn't make it for some reason, but I planted two more prairie fires yesterday so, hopefully, things'll even out). I kind've sort've forgot to label the containers once I transplanted them so it'll take flowering for me to identify what chili species they are.

(DUE TO MY AWESOME POWERS OF DEDUCTION I CAN SAFELY CONCLUDE THAT THIS PLANT IS EITHER MY CHERRY BOMB OR MY RING OF FIRE.)

You try and be careful but there's always one or two stem or leaf casualties.

F's chili plant - the one she sent me last year for my birthday - has begun flowering again. Since it survived the Scottish backroom winter, it was transplanted yesterday, on Easter, in a lapis colored ceramic pot and welcomed as a FOREVER houseplant.

Twenty-Nine

Filed under: Life

Twenty-nine years from that day someone was born. Twenty-nine years from that day someone died. Twenty-nine years from that day someone turned twenty-nine, pausing - for a second - to reflect on all past, present and future April 11ths.

(If turning 29 was this easy then 30 should be a piece of cake, right?)

(...right?)




















(...right?)

Little Spiny Friend

Filed under: Menagerie

So when I was excavating the protruding ruins of the detached room outside for any evidence of PAAS and relics of celebrations past (those stuffed animal Peeps command a mind-blowing price in the Easter antiquities black market) I flipped the light on.

(I KNOW, I KNOW, "SO I WENT TO GET OUR EASTER AND GREAT RITE BOXES OUTSIDE AND TURNED THE LIGHTS ON" DOESN'T SOUND MUCH LIKE A LEAD INTO A STORY BUT TRUST ME ON THIS, OKAY? THERE ARE PICTURES OF ADORABLE INDIGENOUS WILDLIFE TO FOLLOW, JUST STICK WITH ME HERE.)

Right, so, I TURNED ON THE LIGHT. In the outside room. During the day. (YES, THIS STORY IS GOING SOMEWHERE.) The thing is, I didn't mean to flip the switch because there was sufficient ambient light from DAY-FUCKING-LIGHT. (I'M ONE OF THOSE PEOPLE, FOR THE MOST PART, WHO DON'T REQUIRE MORE ILLUMINATION THAN OTHERS. IF THE SUN'S OUT I'M PROBABLY GOING TO BE OKAY WITHOUT THE DESK LAMPS AND CEILING FAN AND SPOTLIGHTS. BUT DON'T YOU DARE FUCKING TOUCH THE LIGHTS - ESPECIALLY IF YOU DON'T ASK ME FIRST - WHEN I'M IN THE FUCKING KITCHEN COOKING. NEVER ASSUME APPROPRIATE LIGHT LEVELS FOR SOMEONE HOLDING A FILLET KNIFE WHO HATES PEOPLE ASSUMING APPROPRIATE LEVELS OF ANYTHING ON HER BEHALF.)

That absentminded folly didn't come to proper fruition until it was cold and dark and late AND DID I MENTION COLD ALREADY? YES? WELL, I'M IN SCOTLAND SO IT'S JUSTIFIED. (<- That'll fleece at least half of you, AT LEAST! I've never endured sissy weather until I moved from the Midwest of the US (WINDCHILL FACTORS AHOY!) to northeast Scotland. There've been days in fucking December where all I needed was a fucking sweater while romping in the countryside. TEXAS, PERHAPS YOU'D BE WILLING TO GIVE UP SOME OF YOUR EXTREME WEATHER TO GIVE NE SCOTLAND JUST A TEENY TINY EDGE? Y/Y?)

Minutes before midnight I noticed the stark light emanating from sloppily closed, homemade curtains. And I inwardly groaned, because I knew it was MY fault, and I couldn't REALLY expect Italics to go galloping outside for me because what's worse than having to put on socks and shoes and a jacket and find a flashlight that works and locate the outside room key and go out in the dark and cold and late to turn off a light in a detached room? PUTTING ON SOCKS AND SHOES AND A JACKET AND FINDING A FLASHLIGHT THAT WORKS AND LOCATING THE OUTSIDE KEY AND GOING OUT IN THE DARK AND COLD AND LATE TO TURN OFF A LIGHT IN A DETACHED ROOM THAT YOU DIDN'T EVEN TURN ON IN THE FIRST PLACE.

(See? I can be perfectly reasonable, mature and understanding during these unimportant obstacles and events in life.)

NO, NO, I'LL DO IT, IT WAS MY MISTAKE, I offered all magnanimously but kind've sort've waited for a second, more earnest offer from Italics that never materialized. (HELL, I DON'T BLAME HIM.) And just as I'm about to wrench the patio door open, just as I'm about to brace all of my weight to move the goddamn thing (it's warped off the track and you can see some of OUTSIDE from INSIDE so we know EXACTLY where heat's escaping in winter but it doesn't seem to bother my in-laws, so...), just as the flashlight goes on, just as the flip-flops begin stamping in the floor mat I see this and shout "OH MY GOD ITALICS! HURRY, HURRY! COME QUICK!":

For those of you who CAN'T READ MY MIND or USE CONTEXT CLUES TO INTERPRET THE IMAGE YOU'VE JUST SEEN that's a hedgehog - THE FIRST OF THE SEASON! - parked in one of Chippy's stainless steel dog bowls on the patio chowing down on some homemade yogurt soup with root vegetables. Normally our first contact with THE GREAT CHTHONIC WILD PIGS OF SCOTLAND is around June, so an early April visit was a bit of a shock (they traditionally begin to emerge from hibernation around this time).

(I GOT SCOLDED, BTW. MY "OH MY GOD, COME QUICK!" (BECAUSE A HEDGEHOG IS HERE) APPARENTLY SOUNDS MORE LIKE "OH MY GOD, COME QUICK!" (BECAUSE I'VE JUST INJURED, MAIMED, AND AMPUTATED MYSELF) AND IT'S HARD TO TELL THE DIFFERENCE IF I INSIST ON USING BRACKETS TO DENOTE MY REASONING FOR "OH MY GOD, COME QUICK!" USAGE.)

We already had the tripod set up so Italics quickly positioned shit to snap a few pictures from inside the backroom (see above). Plagued by a constant need of closeups I tip-toed back outside, sans jacket but with flip-flops and light, and found our first visitor curled in a hidden corner of the patio. (NOTE TO SELF: Measure the corner to fit a hedgehog box beneath the plant beams! Better to have their house next to the patio door than under a bush next to the road.)

Usually hedgehog visitations include a quick house call (they're brought into the bathroom so we check them over for any visible wounds or injuries, dislodge ticks and fly larvae sacs and then give them a quick rinse beneath a stream of clean water before releasing them back on the patio) but this little guy (girl? I can't tell, I normally have to do the "belly button" check) looked a bit shell-shocked and scared so it got a free pass.

But next time? NEXT TIME YOU GET THE HEDGEHOG LUSH BATH, MY LITTLE SPINY FRIEND.

Ring My Bell

Filed under: Love Letters

You bought it for me; a gift (you know how much I love cheap novelty underwear). It was the morning after the winter solstice, the morning after the Aberdeen Travelodge curse was broken. (At first I was worried. I swung from not wanting to go to wanting to go but wanting it to be over with already. But by the time we were at the steps - already late for dinner at Rendezvous - I wanted more; just an extra ten minutes - remember?)

It was December 22nd, three days until show time, and everything Christmas related was on clearance. They were heaped into dissolving piles in front of the store, hundreds of thin, flimsy bells tinkling while enthusiastic shoppers foraged. (Who would've thought that something that cost £0.50 could eventually, secretly, become a token of devoted and unconditional love.)

When I rediscovered the Christmas thong last month it still had its price tag. After pulling on the festive panties I shook my ass, jingling the tiny, golden bell against my hidden cunt to draw your attention. You smiled, I think, when I said it was like putting on a dainty version of my collar. You laughed, I remember, when I said I felt like a goat following her shepherd into town, my camouflaged bell chiming ownership with every step I took.

It was a special day for no reason. I put up my hair. I wore lipstick. I pulled on panties. (I almost never wear make-up, and I almost never wear underwear. The last time - before GOAT'S DAY OUT- was Christmas Eve, and my dirty make-up brushes were still sitting in a glass tumbler to prove it.) Pure gold mingled with fake gold, and tied around my perfumed neck Santa Muerte and Catholicism merged until two separate roads became one in the valley of my breasts.

I fell asleep crying that night as the washing machine rattled in the kitchen. (I don't know if you remember, but we had a fight after we came home. I couldn't read you and thought you were upset with me.) I cried most of my make-up off, and wiped away your red lipstick. I cried taking the pins out of my hair, and while rolling off your camouflaged bell. (It wasn't exactly how I imagined the day would end.)

I felt stupid. I felt naive and ordinary and just as fucking retarded as any other woman in the history of the world for thinking that if I made an effort, if I dressed nice for you, things would be better between us. That maybe you'd be happy, that maybe all it'd take to make things okay again was me trying a little harder at something that once was so effortlessly present.

That time - that period - was the closest I ever got to wondering "is this the end?". I didn't think it was possible, at least not for us. But then I lost you, and when I lost you I became a fading ghost, haunted by a different life, because there's no me without you.

(How can I be me without you? You define me, you make me whole. I exalt you in unspoken hymns sung from my heart when I'm doing the laundry. I build you empires, erect monuments, and construct temples Ebay item by Ebay item to glorify and materialize my love for you. Every laugh, every kiss, every embrace, every cookie I bake are songs of love pulsing through my heart that I know you'll never hear.)

I fell asleep crying that night as the washing machine rattled in the kitchen, a goat without a shepherd, a wife losing her husband, a person without definition or purpose. And while I cried and slept, and while the washing machine rattled, the goat and bell were severed leaving a Christmas mouse will no bell to ring. When I was in bed and sleeping, you were awake with needle and thread.

You hung my thong on the chipboard separating the dressers from the bookshelves, and I found them the next morning, the abrasive elastic band tarnished but still flashing gold-green in the light. The bell had come off in the wash, you said, and without any provocation you located your mother's sewing box and hand-stitched that tiny, chiming bell back onto the novelty thong you bought me so many months prior while I laid in bed, crying, wondering if it really was the beginning of the end.

You don't know this, but I deliberately let the underwear hang on the chipboard for days and weeks and nearly a month. It was a reminder, a token of devoted and unconditional love. When I was curled up assuming the worst, you were here, where we work, where we love, where we live, fixing clearance underwear. When I thought you didn't want me anymore you were stringing a bell to a broken collar, ensuring that the shepherd would never lose his goat.

A Lot of Food

Filed under: LOL!

If there's no obvious holiday decorations, ornate altar spread in the lounge, or sheepskin rug and rocket bucket in the backroom, how do you know we're on vacation?

Food. A lot of food.

(A lot of food of the likes you've never seen and probably don't want to see and probably shouldn't see after a day or two of mingling and standing at room temperature. <- LOOK, IF YOU'VE GOT YOUR ENTIRE LIFE TOGETHER WHERE EVERYTHING RUNS FLUIDLY INTO ONE ANOTHER LIKE EFFORTLESS MOVEMENT IN GOLDEN WATERS AS HEAVENLY CHOIRS SING, CONGRATULATIONS. SOME OF US - THE LESSER EVOLVED - ARE STILL TRYING TO IRON A FEW KINKS OUT. <- ONE OF MINE BEING "THE DISPOSAL OF RITUALLY OFFERED FOOD AND BEVERAGES IN A TIMELY MANNER.")

(AND WHEN I MEAN "IN A TIMELY MANNER" I MEAN BEFORE IT BEGINS WITHERING AWAY LIKE MOLD ENCRUSTED ASTRONAUT FOOD AND SMELLING LIKE FERMENTING CAULIFLOWER MINERAL WATER.)

After a day or two shit begins to pile up, and by day three our speaker/stereo cabinet begins to look like the table of a buffet enthusiast who's prepared to exploit every single word in the promise of "all you can eat." (One of my greatest sexual fantasies? Italics, unlimited pot and a booth at Warsaw Inn. I AM THAT BUFFET ENTHUSIAST, AND I DON'T WEAR UNDERWEAR, REALLY, SO I'LL BE MORE THAN COMFORTABLE WHEN MY WAISTLINE'S EXPANDING.)

Papa (the Baron Samedi altar doll) doesn't usually "head" the table, but, somehow, his ass managed to park itself right next to the food. I love his GENERAL GEORGE WASHINGTON LOOKING RESOLUTE WHILE CROSSING THE DELAWARE expression in the picture below, if you look above (at the first picture) you'll see the target of his grim, fixed gaze - the dessert plate.

(FOOD. IT'S HIS JOB (OR AT LEAST WILL BE FOR THE NEXT TWO WEEKS), AND HE TAKES HIS JOB V. SERIOUSLY, THANK YOU.)

Spring Migration

Filed under: Rituals

Chile Bird flew the coup on April 1st and made his (her?) great seasonal migration from SORT'VE ALTAR WALL DECORATION to SORT'VE ALTAR WINDOW DECORATION.

(Top left corner: yellow beaded juniper necklace, a string of Papa's unripened (but dry) chillis / Top right corner: Celtic seahorse fake stained glass / Bottom left corner: donkey fake stained glass / Bottom right corner: Celtic peacock fake stained glass / Windowsill, left-to-right: Serket, Hathor, succulent w/sandalwood incense from Egypt, Tawaret, stone jars, Wadjet, Sobek, succulent w/sandalwood incense from Egypt, Thoth, Anubis, little fishie jar filled with buttons that need to be sewn back onto clothing)

I've been going back and forth (for fucking MONTHS, guys, FOR FUCKING MONTHS) on when it'd be most appropriate to change the window guard of the accidental Egyptian altar. (OR NOT SO ACCIDENTAL AS I LEARNED LAST YEAR. MY GOD, HOW LOLERIFICALLY OBVIOUS IT WAS ALL ALONG, BUT IT TOOK ME BEING SUPER HIGH AND ROLLING AROUND ON THE OFFICE FLOOR LIKE SOME SORT OF FARM ANIMAL TO REALIZE IT.)

FUCK IT, I announced a few days ago, amazingly and completely wasted off my ass, CHILE BIRD IS GOING UP ON APRIL 1ST! And with THAT declaration THE SEASONAL CHANGING OF THE GUARDS was set in stone. (IT HAD TO BE! I WROTE DOWN THE REMINDER IN MY WITCH CALENDER IN PEN. IN //PEN// PEOPLE!)(<- BECAUSE SHIT DOESN'T GET ANY MORE SERIOUS THAN USING A FUCKING PEN IN AN ADDRESS BOOK OR CALENDER. INK? THAT'S FOREVER, BABY.)

On April 1st Chile Bird returned home at 6:25 AM (Italics set his phone to go off at dawn), roosting for the first time amongst the dust, ash, cobwebs and withered spider parts. I HONESTLY TRULY FOR REAL intended to give the window altar a thorough cleaning* before hanging up our copper and lapis friend, but I, uh, didn't have the time. (NO, BUT FOR SERIOUS! TIME'S SOMETHING I'VE SERIOUSLY BEEN LACKING LATELY!) But - BUT! - I DID find the time yesterday, the first day of our Easter vacation. (OH HONEY I DID - I SPENT MY FIRST DAY OF VACATION CLEANING LIKE A CRACKHEAD ON CRACK.)

* "A thorough cleaning" = CLEARED OFF ALL OBJECTS, METHODICALLY FLASHWIPED EVERY WOODEN PIECE OF WINDOW AND WINDOWSILL INSIDE, POLISHED HANDLES & HINGES, CLEANED OUT & POLISHED VENT, METHODICALLY FLASHWIPED EVERY WOODEN PIECE OF OUTSIDE WINDOW AND WINDOWSILL, CLEANED OUT SPIDER APPENDAGES & COBWEBS FROM FRAME AND OUTSIDE CORNERS, WASHED & POLISHED OUTSIDE WINDOW, WASHED & POLISHED INSIDE WINDOW, WASHED RADIATOR BENEATH WINDOW, SOAKED SUCCULENTS, DUSTED & POLISHED EVERY CLEARED OBJECT

(All to be performed - AGAIN! - on October 1st when Chile Bird flies south for the winter and the Cobweb Spider returns to fill the seasonal vacancy. Oi vey.)

Ebay WHAT?

Filed under: Life

EIGHT FUCKING DOLLARS TO SEND FOUR FUCKING PACKS OF GINGERBREAD-FLAVORED PEEPS DOMESTICALLY? ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME, EBAY?

(I MIGHT BE BATHING IN A SEMI-EXPENSIVE ROSE AROUND EASTER WHILE WEARING A PAIR OF GOLD EARRINGS THAT ONCE BELONGED TO THE LAST CZARINA OF RUSSIA, BUT WHAT I'M //NOT// DOING IS SPENDING NEARLY TEN FUCKING DOLLARS TO MOVE TWENTY-FOUR FUCKING GINGERBREAD-FLAVORED PEEPS FROM ONE GODDAMN STATE TO ANOTHER.)

(OHMYGODIT'SBEENSOSOLONG.)

State Fair Pasta

Filed under: LOL!

LIKE, YOU KNOW HOW WHEN YOU PASS A DAIRY FARM OR THE ANIMAL STALLS AT THE STATE FAIR IT'S ONLY A MATTER OF TIME BEFORE YOU GET PUNCHED IN THE FACE WITH THAT PUNGENT AND OVERWHELMING WARM-ANIMAL-SHIT-EARTH SMELL? THAT SMELL IS //EXACTLY// WHAT THIS TESCO "THREE FOR £5.00!" HAM AND MUSHROOM CARBONARA TAGLIATELLE TASTES LIKE.

SERIOUSLY.

(WITCHES DON'T LET OTHER WITCHES EAT DISCOUNT, SINGLE-SERVING PASTA BAKES.)

Wadjet Replaces Anat

Filed under: Pay Close Attention

Anat had a slight mishap a few days ago (SHE GOT CAUGHT ON MY TIT, WAS KNOCKED TO THE FLOOR, AND, SUBSEQUENTLY, BROKE INTO THREE PIECES*) and a substitution had to be made to fill the vacancy - this is the SECOND time I managed to break Her in about three years. (WHY IS IT ALWAYS MY FUCKING WAR FACE?)

(Anat's the statue between Tawaret (hippo @ left) and Sobek (crocodile @ right), and in front of the two stone jars. IF YOU'RE A CLUMSY ARIES, LIKE ME, YOU CAN TOTALLY SEE HOW EASY IT IS FOR HER TO CATCH ON THINGS IN THE FIRST PLACE. IF YOU'RE A CLUMSY AND "CHESTY" ARIES, LIKE ME, YOU CAN TOTALLY SEE HOW EASY IT IS FOR HER TO CATCH ON THINGS - LIKE YOUR ARIES C/D CUPS - IN THE FIRST PLACE.)

A few years back, just before I slid into a period of depression, I knocked Anat off the altar and Her "war hand" (the hand holding the weapon, as opposed to her "defense hand" which holds the shield) snapped off. And, snapped off, it sat for months and months in a carved stone jar (WE CAN JUST PRETEND IT WAS ALABASTER) as I went further and deeper Underground, eventually losing myself in those dark internal corridors.

My magic thread back to the world? Burying a rotted egg (see WING & A PRAYER) and gluing Her fractured, battle axe raised "war hand" back to Her wrist. TRUFAX, READERS, TRUFAX. (It's always the stupid-bizarre-totally-unexpected-and-insanely-surprising-little things, right?)

(JUST FOR THE RECORD I'M NOT SAYING THAT BURYING A ROTTED EGG AND GLUING A BROKEN STATUE IS THE MAGIC VOODOO YOU NEED TO CLEAR DEPRESSION. BURYING A PETRIFIED EGG I WAS SUPPOSED TO "PLANT" A HALF-YEAR EARLIER AND FINALLY PIECING TOGETHER AN ASPECT OF MYSELF THAT I LET SIT BROKEN FOR MONTHS AND MONTHS AND MONTHS WAS THE INDICATION THAT I WAS SERIOUSLY-GENUINELY-FOR-REAL-SERIOUS READY TO ROLL OUT SOME PERSONAL CHANGES TO FIX, OR AT LEAST WORK ON, A PRETTY DESPERATE SITUATION. I WENT FROM ZERO MOTIVATION TO LESS THAN A FRACTION AND/OR PERCENTAGE POINT OF ONE BECAUSE I DID SOMETHING DIFFERENT, SOMETHING TOTALLY OUT OF ROUTINE, ONCE A DAY - LIKE BURYING AN EGG, AND REPAIRING OPEN (METAPHORICAL) WOUNDS.)

Kadesh (earrings and all) disrupted the symmetry so She was returned to the bedroom (She stands behind my little digital alarm clock that's never gotten used as an alarm clock - WHEN YOU'RE CHRONICALLY SICK WITH A MYSTERIOUS ILLNESS FOR 2+ YEARS AND ONCE WORKED AT HOME ALL SELF-EMPLOYED STYLE YOU DON'T REALLY NEED AN ALARM CLOCK), but Wadjet, the shy one, fit almost perfectly.

Wadjet normally hides between a trio of terracotta planted succulents in the backroom on top of a warped wooden table-tray-table that was once used as an altar. This is the first time "THE GREEN ONE" has come out of Her hole to sit prominently in view AND the first time She's ever socialized with our other Egyptian statues. Until recently I was using Her Royal Highness (IS THAT ALL CAPITALIZED?) to guard my things in the backroom.

(OH, IT'S A LONG STORY WHICH INVOLVES MR. AWESOME, MY FATHER-IN-LAW, AND HIS BELIEF THAT EVERYTHING IN THIS HOUSE - REGARDLESS OF WHAT /IT/ IS - BELONGS TO HIM. AND SINCE EVERYTHING IN THIS HOUSE - REGARDLESS OF WHAT /IT/ IS - BELONGS TO HIM HE'S NOT REQUIRED TO ASK OR NOTIFY OTHER MEMBERS OF THIS HOUSE WHEN HE MAKES EXECUTIVE DECISIONS ABOUT OUR THINGS, I.E., THROWING THINGS AWAY OR ALTERING STUFF TO ABSOLUTE RUIN. (LOL, WAIT, SORRY, I MEAN //HIS// STUFF!) SO, ON A WEEKLY BASIS, I TYPICALLY LOOK FORWARD TO GETTING SOMETHING BROKEN, RUINED, STOLEN, MISAPPROPRIATED, THROWN OUT OR KILLED.)

Without Her hidden presence I'm worried Mr. Awesome's OLD MAN PSYCHIC talent will come shining through and my seedlings (OR WORSE) will be forced to deal with the consequences. (WHO'S GOING TO "BITE" HIS HAND NOW THAT WADJET'S LEFT THE ROOM? BETTER FIX ANAT, STAT, AND RETURN THE SNAKE TO HER HOLE.)

Maybe if I TRY NOT TO WORRY ABOUT IT then it WON'T BE ON MY MIND so my father-in-law's OLD MAN PSYCHIC TALENT can't get hold of the TOP SECRET INFORMATION and then SUBCONSCIOUSLY EXPLOIT THE KNOWLEDGE resulting in a V. V. V. V. BAD DAY for myself.

("TRY NOT TO WORRY ABOUT IT" - LOL, RIGHT, SUUUUUURE. BECAUSE THAT'S TOTALLY ME ONE BILLION PERCENT; THE PERSON WHO'S ALWAYS LEVELHEADED, DOESN'T JUMP TO CONCLUSIONS AND NEVER WORRIES ABOUT THINGS NEEDLESSLY.)

* THREE PIECES = feet on base, whole of body and "defense hand"

Not Enough Damn Time

Filed under: Life

There's about two weeks of shit I need to properly record but fuck me if finding the time (AND THE MOTIVATION) isn't killing me.

(SO YOU'LL JUST HAVE TO WAIT FOR MY FATHER-IN-LAW AND MY LADDER. HOW MY CUNT TURNED INTO A SPIRITUAL BLACK HOLE VACUUM. HOW I OVERCOOKED THE ASPARAGUS WHILE ITALICS TONGUED MY ASS. (IS TONGUE PENETRATION ANTI-LENT? HMM.) HOW WE'RE BLESSING BASKETS THIS YEAR (I ASKED IF HE'D WEAR HIS CIVIL WAR TIE; IT'S NOT LIKE THE POLISH IMMIGRANTS ARE GOING TO EVEN GET IT). HOW MY BLACK MAGIC CAT HAS COME 'ROUND A FEW DAYS IN A ROW. HOW I ALMOST MANAGED TO EAT AN ENTIRE MEDIUM CHERRY PIE BY MYSELF. HOW I LEARNED HOW TO MAKE IT SNOW (FOR REALLY FOR REALS). HOW...)

(IN-LAWS LEAVE FOR THE 20 DAY EASTER VACATION TOMORROW. I'M SURE I'LL FIND THE TIME //SOON//.)