MFA Mama

GrouponFAIL

Figure One: No. I just...no, no, NO. I can't even (click to enbiggen).

I am still out of sorts; here is a cute fuzzy bunny

Figure One: Nine days and a little fuzz makes a BIG difference! Much cuter now.

Figure Two: And here is a bonus photo; I think it's one of the best I've ever personally taken. This is one of the MFA Honeybees working the borage in the front strawberry bed. Borage flowers are delicious in salads and on cakes and cookies. Bees love them too, though, and will buzz your head aggressively as you pick.

in which the weekend is ruined

   Well, I wrote an entire post earlier and sent it to the blog via e-mail, but it's not here, and maybe it's more than I should've said on the innernet anyway. The essence of it was: Hotter done fucked up. PROBABLY I will forgive him, but what he did was about the worst thing he COULD have done in the context of our relationship, outside of actual violence or infidelity, and I am very, very sad (and freaked out) about the whole thing. This is something that's happened once before, and that time it took a couple of weeks, counseling, and him getting very ill and needing surgery before I fully forgave him. I keep telling myself that I got past it once, and can do it again, but...I dunno. It's bad, y'all, and he really should've known better. Needless to say, this pretty much ruined the holiday weekend, and I'm wishing the children were here, or that I was at work, because I'm feeling really lonely.

the week from the hot place

Dear blog,

I'm sorry about the neglect. It's not you, it's me. Well okay, it's a sixty-hour workweek and the fact that here and there when I get home BEFORE I'm dead-tired I only have the time to EITHER blog or love on my husband (the children are generally already asleep). So...blame Hotter?

Sent from The Precious

eight of 'em

Figure One: Yeah, not so cute. Give 'em a couple of weeks.

magic eightball says: ask again later

   Lots of stuff has been going on that I can't tell y'all about QUITE YET, but one thing I CAN tell you is that Pfeffer is VERY PREGNANT. Like, as in my original research suggested that rabbits COULD kindle (what it's called when they give birth) any time between twenty-nine and thirty-one days' gestation. HOW EFFICIENT!

   Well, today is day thirty-one of Pfeffer's pregnancy and so far? No babies.

   She's DEFINITELY pregnant; you can feel the little buggers squirming around in her belly when you pick her up. In fact, they seem to go almost up to her armpits, so I'm thinking she might have A LOT OF BABIES in there. 

   So I asked Dr. Google, DVM about rabbit gestation length again, because we know what day Haas and Pfeffer got busy (yes, we spell his name with two As, because with one it looks like the past tense of the verb "to have" plus MAYBE HE IS NAMED AFTER OSTER HAAS, THE EASTER HARE, DID YOU EVER THINK OF THAT? OR EVEN THE AVOCADO. Just because Pfeffer is Pfeffer and they're rabbits doesn't necessarily mean his name is Has. This just goes to show you what happens when you ASSume things, people). According to one source, thirty days. According to another, twenty-nine to thirty-one. A third states that first-time mother rabbits can go as long as thirty-FOUR days. 

   What. The. HELL?

   So basically nobody knows how long rabbits stay pregnant, poor Pfeffer just has to wait it out, and I'll keep y'all posted.

the one where I turn into no one from my family tree, apparently

   I was going to start this post out by saying that I've turned into my own grandfather, hobbling around nursing my bad back and carping at the kids that if I had a nickel for every time they opened the dadblamed door I could use that money to pay the power bill...except then I remembered that when my grandfather's back was acting up that was a euphemism for HEMMORHOIDS. I briefly considered who else in my family I might currently resemble...my father, for all that he has ninety-nine problems (of which a solid half-a-dozen involve bitches), never had a bad back. And while The Narcissist frequently SAID she had a bad back, that was usually a euphemism for GOT NEW TITS AGAIN and she never cared about the power bill anyway and I DON'T KNOW, OKAY, I AM LIMPING AROUND LIKE SOME WHOLLY NEW INDIVIDUAL RISEN FROM THE GODDAMN SEAFOAM, OR MAYBE AN AMALGAM MY BRAIN COBBLED TOGETHER FROM STOCK CHARACTERS ON NICK AT NITE.

   My back hurts and my kids will. not. stop. going. in. and. out. of. the. front. door. They even invite their FRIENDS to come over here and go in and out.

   But I actually came on here to tell y'all about a genius new time-saver I came up with for eating backyard salad.* All you need is failing vision, a devil-may-care attitude, and a peppermill. Ready? OF COURSE YOU ARE!

1. Go cut some salad.

2. Toss any obviously non-lettuce leaves, yellowed ones, and leaves with slugs attached into the compost heap. 

3. Rinse the salad.

4. Chop other things into the salad.

5. Make your dressing, and before you apply to your salad, coarse-grind some pepper in (rainbow peppercorns are the best for this).

6. If you see a speck in your salad? Just tell yourself it's pepper and keep eating.

   Trust me, y'all, this is MUCH faster than going through it a leaf at a time. 

   Now, what do I win?

 

*   Which, shockingly enough, IS NOT A EUPHEMISM FOR ANYTHING, GET YOUR MIND OUT OF THE GUTTER. Seriously, GAWD!

slump

   I have missed a LOT of work over this latest oral surgery drama of Hotter's. This whole "easily could have gone septic and died" thing hit me like a ton of bricks and I just want to make sure he's breathing, OKAY PEOPLE? Also I have some kind of lung lurgy and my entire back is seized up and OH MY GOD MONEY and...I dunno. I feel like I could sleep for a week. At least.

   How do YOU break out of a slump?

Surprise! Oral surgery!

I keep thinking I can silly my way out of this. Like SURPRISE! Oral surgery! *jazz hands*

No?

Meh. So now we know why Transplant gets yelly about premedicating with antibiotics before dental work.

Right. Fuuuuudge.*

* except I didn't say fudge

Sent from The Precious

I hate people, bunnies, rainbows, happiness...and anything I may have omitted from that list

   I finally dragged my arse back to work today, despite an aching back and still feeling like utter dookie from this bronchitis-y largynitis-y Cold of Filth (tm May)...but had to leave before lunch because I am cursed by life, as evidenced by a) Pfeffer the very-pregnant rabbit disappearing on Hotter and b) the HEALTH DEPARTMENT sending us a notice that they'd received a complaint about our not using a proper outdoor trash receptacle and threatening to charge us with a class III misdemeanor. SERIOUSLY, CRAZY TRASHCAN NEIGHBOR??? So I had to come home, assess the situation, bust up the floor of an old shed in order to reach and extract the (very angry, vicious, HOLY HAND-GRENADEWORTHY) rabbit hiding underneath, make a garbage run, and mow the lawn for good measure. And sometime in the course of all of that, a mosquito bit the HELL out of me. Remember how I said I'm allergic to mosquito bites and prefer beestings? This is why:

Figure One: Hand shown for scale. And yes, I just put my stretchmarks on the innernet. It's not so much that I have no shame (although I pretty much don't) as that I have a connective tissue disease, and therefore I have these from my neck to my ankles. So I'm kind of over them.

Figure Two: In this one you can see how it's starting to swell. 

   So yeah, I hate everygoddamnthing right now. But especially Crazy Trashcan Neighbor. I think next payday I WILL go and buy a trashcan JUST LIKE HERS, but I will have to mark it with spraypaint so that we can tell them apart.

   Mine will be the one that says "SCREW YOU" in foot-high neon letters.