Gardening

Gurgh

Awoken two hours before my wonted time, because I had called the landlord about my furnace not working. I said I hadn't. Fellow insisted that he *had* to check out my furnace and could not check with landlord to make certain he had the right house. (He had the wrong house, and actually left to get a new filter somewhere 20 minutes away because "that may be what is causing the [non-existent] problem" before returning to admit that he did have the wrong house... and repeating the supply run.)

Ugh. Of what possible benefit could it be to me to lie and say that I hadn't called for work on my furnace? I know this fellow is on retainer, so he doesn't get anything out of it himself. Courage, self. Nine and one half hours until I can sleep again.
Gardening

Got up in the middle of Becoming Jane

Not because I was seized with a longing for James McAvoy (sp?), although I don't think he would have done it for me even if I were into that sort thing, nor for Anne Hathaway, who has lost her appeal for me as I drifted toward... monosexuality? Unisexuality? Fussy ingratitude for what is put before me? Nor even for Dame Maggie. No, I had to breathe because I wanted the English library so very badly. Mobile shelves, of the sort which may be gathered up and put in a van will simply not do; nor will bare walls. Nor will a place where a normal human may reach all the books without ladders. And there, my loves, is the very reason I despise my mobile lifestyle and intimate familiarity with forwarding postcards so much; I have resigned to losing all my friends and all my Places whenever the next love affair ends, because it is a just and natural consequence for being so careful with one's own precious heart as to not find some way to love for all time, tending and mending and shepherding wisely, let alone some other person's. It is that one must regard books as cumbrances, and burdens to those loving friends and family who are helping you to once again uproot your life, and one must cull them so viciously...
Gardening

Untitled

Yes, I am a mere bug to be crushed by an uncaring universe. Even so, my life has meaning to me, and that meaning is to leave behind a note: "Dear Universe: Well, you've gone and gotten rid of me. I hope you are happy, with no-one to make love to your ear canal as you sleep. I hope you do the honorable thing and raise my offspring, which will be hatching into your nasal cavity any second now. I hope you are able to, without my intervention, stave off the suicidal spider hoardlings, determined to cast themselves in sacrifice through your slumber-parted lips and hurtle down your gullet in a frenzy of leggy doom. I hope your skin suddenly awakens to the feeling of a half-dozen different crawling sensations, and knows them all as Love."
Gardening

Of course it's tempting. That's why it's called "temptation."

So, you know how I've been babbling about possibly going to Archon this year? And C. and I are doing Frigga/ Loki costumes together? And how I've been ignoring my OKCupid inbox except to donate a quarter to certain charities when I get dick pics/ threesome requests messaged to my e-mail box through OKC?

Um. Just got a message from "Odinsmunin" starting with, "I'm super excited about Archon, too! I've never been, but when I met [author I really like]..." OKCupid cuts the message off there.

Krasdang it, it's one of you playing a trick on me, isn't it?
Gardening

Hrmph.

Depression is worse and worse. Combined with other symptoms, think it's very much thyroid bottoming out AGAIN, and will have to go to doctor. Leaving recent signs of teh crazee up, to remind me not to let it go so long, and so as not to gaslight those who read this blog. ("Wait, wasn't she just mumbling idiocy about...")
Gardening

Dear medical staff

That thing where you act like patients calling to make appointments are being annoying, childish, and whiny, even when they're just scheduling a routine appointment? That's gotten old. I don't think it was ever young.
Gardening

Someday, you will be loved

Depression hit me like Ebola tonight. I am bleeding tears from everywhere. You know how they used to say that Freyja was so distressed that blood burst from her fingertips and became lightning? That is how unaccountably sad I am.

I am reading my victim's e-mails, from the last few months, when things were good, as things go, because he came back from heartbreak and poverty and a terrible and has a wonderful life with a devoted wife and a delightful job now.

I hope and I hope and I hope somewhere out there is the wonderful wife for me, but I suspect I am and will always be the problem.
Gardening

The Wizard Howl

1:10 a.m, like clockwork, he comes to sing us the song of his people.

The first time my daughter saw him, from a distance, she said, "Hey, is that somebody's golden retriever?" No, it's not. It's the Wizard Howl. He's many complex and problematic things, but first, for a cat, he's HUGE. Two feet tall at the forehead, not counting the ears or tail. I call him "Howl" because he's pretty eponymous, but also because he's ginger and could benefit from neutering. I suspect he may be part bobcat, or something.

When I first saw him, he was wandering around my apartment complex. I thought he was an indoor/ outdoor cat. Then, a couple of weeks in, I heard a woman's voice calling, then, "Holy shit, it's my cat! Come on, boy! Come home!" They drove off.

Three weeks later, like the song, the cat came back.

A neighbor corralled him to her mother's house, five miles away. He got out. He came back.

He adores my cat. She greets him with a prout and they go hunting together. Last week, she felt like staying in and snuggling. He dropped a dead bird on the doorstep. When I let her out, she brought it to the end of the walk and sat primly, waiting for him to devour it together. Or... whatever they do. I don't want to think about it. I'm sure I DON'T want to know and I'm glad cats are for the most part self-cleaning.

He comes in. He thinks I'm AWESOME and loves to be petted, but he will always be skittish and will never let me get between him and a door. I think he may have read "Apt Pupil" or something.

I'd keep him in a heartbeat, but my apartment complex has a one-pet limit, and he sprays. He still has his doodads, you betcha. I'd take him to get neutered but he will NOT do live traps or carriers, or even boxes, and I'm frankly afraid to try. YOU stick your typing fingers in that industrial-kitchen Cuisinart, I'm FINE.

He doesn't like dry food. He's skinny enough that I think he doesn't have a home, but I can't be sure of that. He has all his pawpads. I've learned not to put my cat's wet-food leftovers out; he will ALWAYS drop a dead mouse on my doorstep the morning after. I'm not sure of the reasoning behind it--- who can say what goes on in furry heads?--- but there's a definitely cause-and-effect. If I were better at bone stripping, I could open a dandy Etsy fascinator store with tiny mouse skulls.

Um. That's the Wizard Howl. So far... somehow I think we've got more stories coming.

ETA Picture