Annus Horribilis

Latin for "horrible year".

Also, the title of a speech given by Queen Elizabeth in 1992. 

And while it's safe to say that Liz's year at that time was arguably far worse than mine has been of late, I'm still commandeering the phrase for my own purposes. So there.

As you can tell through a simple comparison of dates, it's been almost a full year since I've blogged. My personal life took a fairly distinct sideways turn. 

Or several, as it were. 

(I'll address those in further detail in subsequent posts.)

As I bobbed and weaved and tried to get my life back on track, I fell away from writing for awhile. Partially because I was so busy. Partially because I didn't have the mental or emotional wherewithal to give it its due diligence. 

As time progressed, I eventually worked my way back toward writing. A bit of freelance here and there (time and exhaustion permitting). A bit of my personal WIP, more recently. But it wasn't until this past week that I felt ready to get back to blogging.

Probably sounds weird, right?

But writing is such a personal endeavor. It is something you pour your heart and soul (and a lot of caffeine) into. And with where I was at mentally and emotionally, I wasn't ready (or, honestly, willing) to open those gates again. First, because I didn't want my WIP to be associated with this tough time for me, risking tainting it with bad memories and negative emotions. And second, because blogging is so personal, and I needed to process my own crap before attempting to jauntily parlay that into a series of posts that didn't sound like they were written by a hyper-emotional Crazy Cat Lady with a twitchy eye.

So, eleven months later, here I am, bitches! Back and better than ever! Let's do this!

Intravenous caffeine use needs to be an option

Because Thursday.

Is this a real thing?
Please tell me it's a real thing!

Something wicked this way comes...

I mean school, of course.

Winter quarter is officially upon me. Like an elephant sitting on my chest.

It's gonna be hell, ladies and and gents. Utter hell!

My sociology class should be fine. It's the same instructor I had for last quarter's sociology class (who was awesome), only this is a much lower level class. So easy peasy there.

My econ class I'm still unsure of, because we don't have any papers this quarter (hallelujah), but we have "homework assignments" every other week. Now, in classes past, such "homework assignments" ranged anywhere from "no biggie" to pulling my hair out "are you kidding me?!?", depending on the class. So that's the big unknown. But I've tended to like econ classes in the past, so fingers crossed!

My psychology class?

Oh. Dear. God.

My instructor is already an utter nightmare, and the class has barely even started yet. Her instructions for how she wants us to do the discussion questions and class responses? So unbelievably specific. Like, word count, exact time frame, number of sources cited, etc.

Her introduction to the class was like 10 paragraphs long. Most teachers'? Two or three. At most.

The typical class requires you to have submitted your discussion question answers by Wednesday at midnight, then responded to the specified number of other students' answers by Sunday at midnight. You can respond to other students at any point during the week as long as you fulfill the set requirements.

Not so in this class. We are NOT ALLOWED to respond to other students before Wednesday afternoon, but we have to have our initial three responses done by Thursday at noon. Then, and only then, can we proceed with "further discussion". And we are not allowed to end a conversation. Out of things to say? Too bad! Keep it going! And we have to respond to any question she opens up to the class in another student's discussion thread. And we have to include sources to support all of our opinions. And on and on and on.

Suffice it to say, I regret taking psychology already. I thought it would be an interesting class. Not a tedious OCD-fest.

I keep reminding myself that this is only temporary. That it's a means to an end- my degree. That I only have two quarters left before I am done with school forever.

Like my grandma always says, "This, too, shall pass".

I just don't know yet if my sanity will pass with it!

So just a heads up, my blogging may dry up in the coming ten weeks as I try to keep up with my insane school demands.

And that sound you hear?

That's just me having a mental and emotional breakdown along the way.

Pay no attention to the crazy lady sitting in the corner rocking back and forth, muttering to herself and weeping silently. She's just the fool who decided to take on an extra course load!

Fracking winter quarter

I've decided that someone needs to invent a caffeine drip. Something convenient and non-invasive, for the gal on the go!

Because oy vey.

Winter quarter hasn't even started for me and I'm already exhausted.

Whoever thought taking three classes was a good idea needs to be kicked.

Oh wait, that was me?… Well my comment still stands.

So it worked out that none of my classes got cancelled, which was good, because it saved me from having to scramble and find two new electives and get the books ordered in under a week. However, because I held off ordering my books until I had confirmation on my classes, I still won't have any of my texts in time for Monday. The psych book is still backordered, and who knows how long that will take, and the other two said they shipped yesterday, but the tracking number was "undetected". Whatever that means.

Le sigh.

Almost done. That's what I keep telling myself whenever I start getting all bajiggety. Almost done with my degree. The end is nigh.

(Whether that "end" is my degree or my sanity, I'm still unsure)

Besides that, life is good. Well, mostly. We just recently found out that an oil company may be looking to drill on the lot across from us (nestled between three other occupied lots, mind you).

Clearly, I'm unimpressed with this.

Back in November, shortly after we had moved in, our contractor mentioned that they'd stopped building on the lot across from us. A "landman" representing EOG Resources (you know, Enron) showed up on sight, check in hand, and bought the forty acres.

Then nothing happened…

Turns out, they're in the process of going through the necessary channels to gain approval to drill out here.

And there's pretty much nothing we can do about it, 1) because they're not wanting to drill on our actual land, and 2) because we don't own any mineral rights anyway, so we have no say.

Wyoming (and I'm sure a few other states as well) have what is called "split estates". This means you buy a house, but you don't necessarily buy the ground underneath it. You only own the surface unless you negotiate a separate deal to purchase the mineral rights from whoever owns them, and ownership of those rights could go back as far as the 1860s!

If you own mineral rights, you have much more bargaining power, because the oil companies have to lease the minerals from you. Without mineral rights, landowners only have surface use agreements in their favor. But again, they're not drilling on our forty acres, so we basically have no recourse until they poison our well.

We're basically just along for the ride.

Granted, nothing has happened yet. Our HOA president is fighting tooth and nail with what (limited) power he has. I guess the mineral rights to this entire area are owned 51% by Burlington Northern, and 49% by one individual. And ironically, the railroad is actually the easier of the two to deal with!

So we'll see. And they may not end up drilling there at all (they're looking at a 30-square-mile area in total, so they could pick another spot). But if they do, you can bet we are going to be proactive about protecting and monitoring our water supply. And I will sue their pants off if they contaminate it.

And if they decide to frack instead of straight drilling? Oh you better believe they will become very familiar with my face over at the Capitol building!!! Time for this hippie mama to get her activism on!

Amen sista

Happy Monday

Thought I'd share this little gem. The Husband sent it to me in response to the crap I've had to deal with this past week. If only I could make stickers out of this and stick them to the foreheads of everyone who needs them! Talk about cathartic...

Never work with animals or children

So this week has been… hectic.

And we're only half way through.

HUMP DAY!!! Woot woot!

I love that commercial. It never fails to make me giggle hysterically.

Anyhoodle, as I've mentioned before, I'm severely lacking in the motivation department with regards to school. Half way through week 2, and it's not getting much better.

Part of it stems from the fact that we are supposed to hear back from the underwriter today on whether or not our docs are approved. While she said that everything should be fine, and despite the fact that our credit is really good and we have a substantial down payment and we've given them every single piece of OCD-level documentation they've asked for (I'm almost expecting a request for organ tissue samples at this point), I'm still nervous. Because you never know.

The other part of my distraction stems from the fact that it is uncomfortable for me to type, properly hold a text book, or basically function like a regular human being on account of the vicious assault I suffered Monday night.

Yes, it hurt. And yes, I have a forearm tattoo. It's Anglo-Saxon and Norse runes. It translates into "Fate is wholly inexorable". 

Yeah. Courtesy of my cat. Little bastard.

So, I mentioned before about how he is a Long-Haired Asian, and so without regular trimmings, he can sometimes get poop on himself if he doesn't position himself properly in the litter box. It's gross, but it's something I just know will occasionally happen.

Well, it happened again Monday night. He just got a little bit on himself; better than usual, no biggie right? 

Wrong.

So wrong.

I'm right in the middle of making dinner when this happens, so of course it was super awesome timing.

So I stop what I'm doing, carry him to the bathroom, and clean his bum fir with baby wipes. I then discover he had also gotten some on his tummy as well, probably while attempting to clean the first mess. It becomes clear that he just needs a bath; baby wipes won't be enough in this situation.

We confine him to the bathroom while we eat, and then I start gathering the supplies for bath time. 

Well my daughter accidentally let the cat out of the bathroom at this point, and seeing as how he was already stressed about me cleaning him and pissed that I locked him in the bathroom when there was food smells he desperately needed to investigate, he bolted into the bedroom and tried to hide under my daughter's bed. I grabbed him and gingerly carried him back out, trying not to touch the still-stinky parts of his tummy.

And this is when he flipped the eff out and ripped my arm open*.

Let me tell you, it hurt. A lot.

And it bled. A lot.

To the point that I had to bust out the family pack of paper towels because the first-aid kit was too far away.

So I clean my arm and wrap it in gauze, and The Husband taped me up, and we proceeded to trim the cat's excessive fur and give him a good bath.

It didn't go well.

Lots of growling and angry mewing and escape attempts.

And of course, being that I was newly injured, I was only slightly helpful in the whole process. And a little jumpy about more potential attacks.

But we got him clean, we got him somewhat trimmed, and I kept my distance from him for the rest of the night.

All I can say is he's lucky I am morally opposed to de-clawing and find it utterly cruel; and he's lucky that I understand he was stressed and pissed about being cleaned; and he's lucky I understand that he hates being in the confined space of an apartment. He never used to act like this in our old house, so once we're in the new house (knock on wood) I'm hoping his attitude gets better.

Post-bath look of shame… or hatred...

Cute, fluffy, evil bastard.

*You know my priorities are a little screwy when my first thought was not "oh crap I'm bleeding profusely", it was "oh no my tattoo!"

Sociology of Marvin the Martian

My textbooks came today.

*dunh dunh dunh*

Yep. Fall quarter is officially just around the corner. Slightly over three weeks away.

I can feel it lurking, staring at me, daring me to once again maintain my 3.9 GPA and my sanity simultaneously.

It's not an easy feat, and thus far I've done... well, not too bad overall. Oceanography nearly killed me, but that was awhile ago, and the scars are finally beginning to fade.

Too dramatic, you say?

I assure you, it's not. That class was brutal. I swear it left me with a limp.

Anyway, this is my LAST fall quarter ever! Well, unless I go to grad school. But right now the thought makes me gag slightly, so I'll put a pin in it until... indefinitely...

So yes, Last Fall Quarter.

This is quite possibly my last "not scary" quarter. Winter will be when I laughingly try to juggle an extra course load, and Spring is when I'll be doing my utterly terrifying degree capstone.

This quarter I'm taking Intro to Philosophy, because I love nothing more than blithering on about metaphysical nonsense, and Sociology of the Family, because it genuinely sounded interesting (and the other sociology class I wanted ended up being canceled for this quarter, so plan B).

My main stress for this quarter (besides the "new class" jitters) is the fact that I will be moving right in the middle of it. Which means that I'll need to arrange internet service before we're even in the house, because I will absolutely not be able to wait two weeks or, god forbid, have to attempt dial-up or DSL! It also means that I'll have to do all of my assignments while also packing, loading, and unpacking my entire life, once again.

Le sigh.

I swear, somewhere inside my brain is a tiny little sadist...

Or just him...

Cat sh*t and hissy fits

My oh my.

Today has been quite... trying. For my soul. My patience. My sanity. My caffeine levels.

Things started off fairly well. Alarm went off at the crack of dawn. I got up, rustled my two oldest children out of bed and did the herding cats routine to get them ready for school.

I then proceeded to rustle The Husband up by siccing the three-year-old on him.

Lunches packed, homework gathered, bedhead tamed, breakfast doled out, and hugs and kisses distributed, and the kids and The Husband were on their way.

Little One and I then snuggled on the couch and watched a few of his morning shows on Sprout.

(I hate to admit that I don't despise them as much as I should)

(Though I'm not overly fond of the new Wiggles line up, and I miss DirtGirlWorld and Play With Me Sesame)

(And the fact that I have enough knowledge on this topic to have an opinion is... sad)

Anyhoodle, the day progressed, and being that it was cold and rainy today, I had grand plans to drink tea and read David McCullough's John Adams. As my first cup brewed on the side table next to me, I snuggled under the electric blanket and began to read.

I could hear the cat in the bathroom, scratching around in his litter box. I paid no attention, other than to remind myself to scoop it once my tea was done (another of my unpleasant but necessary morning chores).

The cat meandered out of the bathroom and plopped down next to the coffee table to... ahem... tend to his bits, as he always does after visiting the litter box. Gross, but nothing new.

But then "The Thing" happened; the thing that always alerts me that something is not right with the cat. He jumped up, made this weird panicky "mreow" sound, and started walking in circles shaking his legs.

I have dubbed this the "poop shimmy".

And nothing good ever comes from it.

So I started following him around, trying to get a glimpse of what was stressing him out. I couldn't see it, but I started to be able to smell it.

I gingerly grabbed him, lifted his tail (to which he protested), and saw.... it.

Big ol' turd stuck to the base of his tail.

Le sigh.

See, my cat is an Asian Long-Haired. Which, from what the vet told me (because I'm clearly not an expert) is basically one step down from a Persian.

Dude is FLUFFY.

Which makes for utter cuteness.

But it also makes for a fecal danger zone around his backdoor.

This is resolved through regular bum trimmings. But we've been busy lately, and kept putting it off. Ironically, I had just told The Husband last night that this weekend we needed to give him a good bath and then trim him up.

Too late!

So upon discovering his little fur nugget, I descended into "EWEWEWEWEWEWEWEWEW!!!!!" mode.

Still holding him (away from my body, obviously), I grabbed the nearest cleaning implement I could find, which happened to be Clorox wipes. I used two of those to pull off the biggest chunk of nasty, and then realized that- perhaps- those weren't the best things to use on my poor, poopy kitty.

I can just hear PETA collectively chastising me. I'm sorry! I panicked!

So I brought the cat into the bathroom, scruffed him to hold him in place on the floor, and used much more cat-friendly baby wipes to clean his bum with.

Ten minutes, twenty baby wipes, one pissed off cat, and one hand cramp later, his bum was as clean as I could possibly get it. I released him, and he immediately jumped in the bathtub to hide from me (and go to town on himself).

I scrubbed my hands until they were sore, searched the entire apartment for any possible dingleberries he may have dropped, and then plopped down on the couch exhausted. It's quite tiring holding a squirming, angry, growling cat in place so you can scrape poop off his butt fir.

Just so you know.

I finished my now almost cold cup of tea, but was too distracted to continue reading. I started laundry and puttered around for a bit, and then it came time for Little One's nap time. Amazingly enough, he didn't have a meltdown over having to lay down, which I (mistakenly) took as being a good sign.

He laid down, I checked on him about twenty minutes later to make sure he had actually gone to sleep (never a safe assumption with a three-year-old), and then made my second cup of tea.

The afternoon progressed fairly uneventfully, which I appreciated. But then I began to realize that Little One had been asleep far longer than usual. And it made me a little... apprehensive.

I was just about to go check on him when the door to his bedroom opened, and he came bouncing out, all bright and happy and chipper.

Again, my very wrong assumption was just that he had had a really good nap. I got him his sippy cup and a snack, and then went into the room to open the curtains for him so he could play.

And then I saw it.

A ball of red yarn on the floor.

Sprinklings of red yarn across his bed.

His Jessie doll (from Toy Story) tucked in a clump next to the bed.

And my daughter's craft scissors out of their usual pencil box...

Two and two quickly came together.

Jessie got a haircut!

Oy vey.

No wonder nap time seemed to take forever! He had probably been awake for at least a half hour or so, and had gotten creative.

Poor Jessie. It's not a pretty look!

So Little One got a talking to about not playing with scissors and not cutting people's or doll's hair. He went in time out for a few minutes to get the point across. And then he apologized and fluttered off to go play.

While I was annoyed at the haircutting snafu, I was prepared to let it go. He's only three, he doesn't know better, and it was only yarn.

But then things spiraled. Rapidly.

Little One asked for my help in pulling the Lego bin and toy box out, so I did.

And the hissy fits began.

You see, I made the horrible mistake of not putting the toy box exactly where he wanted it, on account of his request being unrealistic (I'm not going to rearrange bedroom furniture just so the toy box can go where the dresser stands!)

A meltdown of apocalyptic measures commenced. Time out ensued. And discussion of proper behavior, using our words, etc followed. He apologized, hugged me, and went back to play.

Upon walking in his bedroom, however, he remembered why he was been so ferklemped in the first place.

That damn toy box!

Cue another meltdown.

Another (longer) time out.

Another discussion.

More apologies, more hugs, and off to play again.

And then the toy box...

I think you see where the cyclical nature of my afternoon is going with this.

Suffice it to say, at some point in the battle over the toy box positioning, I brewed myself the third cup of tea.

It was desperately needed if I was to refrain from going nu-cu-lar (thanks Dubya for that!)

Finally, I just pushed the toy box back where it was to begin with. Problem solved, right?

Dear god no.

Enter the most epic breakdown in the history of toddlerhood.

He screamed. He cried. He growled. He called me names and told me he hated me. He tried to hit and kick me (a new development). He told me he didn't need me anymore and to leave him alone (good luck with that one, who's gonna change your diapers?) It got so ridiculously over the top that I had a hard time not laughing. It's also surprising how hurtful a three-year-old is capable of being!

Time out was the super-duper-Lord-of-the-Rings-marathon kind of extended version. He stayed there until daddy got home!

'Cause mommy was about to develop a drinking problem.

And then? The most annoying thing of all. Daddy gets home from work, and like magic, Little One is all better. Crisis over. Mood perfect.