Yellow & Black Attack*

Whelp. Spring has officially sprung around here. I know, not because of crocuses or daffodils (though we do have some of those that are quite pretty right now), but because of the *#$&*#^@ wasps.

These little buggers have been the bane of our existence since we moved here.

We tolerated them, mostly, at first because hey, we're in the woods. They live here. Leave them alone and they'll leave you alone. Blah blah blah. Taking care to just spray and knock out the little hives they tried to build on the eaves of the house.

Then youngest, out playing as boys do, happened upon a ground nest, got seven or eight really painful stings, and spent most of the rest of the next six weeks hyperventilating if you asked him to go outside.

Joy.

We've tried all the things. Our pest control company says they put special stuff out to deter them from the house (ha!) We keep a can of spray handy at all times.

And yet. As I sit here in the living room and look out the patio doors, I can see four of the dang things zipping about.

This year, I'm working on convincing hubby we need to hang traps. The interwebs gives varying reports on efficacy, but at this point, I'd try dancing in the moonlight to the beat of a drum if it had the slightest chance of at least relegating them to the forest so youngest would not be freaking out every time anything that flies appears. (Honestly, he sees mosquito and says "Wasp!" Like no. I get it. It sucked. But let's just not.)

The mosquitos are another issue. As yet, our bat house appears untenanted, so I may have to take matters into my own hands for the dumb little blood suckers as well.

Ah, the joy of country living.

Or something.

*(I don't actually expect anyone to spot the album title here, but back in the day, my sister and I were big fans of Stryper. This album in particular. It seemed fitting.)

Saturday Random

The boys are off camping today (well, last night, they'll be home later this afternoon), and I'm procrastinating writing (I've been writing, but it's break time and whatever) so a little bit of random to pass the time.

• I did manage to read The King's Messenger by Susanna Kearsley. More than that, I ended up enjoying it quite a lot. Even though it was a slow start and two historical timelines instead of one modern and one historical. I'll definitely re-read it (which is more than I can say about her most recent before this one, which I am still confused by. Although maybe a re-read would unconfuse me? Unsure.)
• For now, I have set aside The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes. I just...don't care about anyone in it. I had thought I might watch the movie (breaking my general rule of read the book first), but then realized the main girl is the new Snow White and...meh. I'm not going to willingly support even tangentially someone who thinks it's in a reasonable plan to be insulting about Israel while standing next to an Israeli.
• A friend and I went to dinner last night (her hubby and son were on the same camping trip) and it was delightful. Afterward, we wandered through Barnes & Noble for a little bit. I enjoy bookstores -- the smell of books, the feel of them. But when it comes to reading, I really do prefer my Kindle. 
• I guess I should have said this was a bookish random, as that's what it's turning into.
• Took the elder Sleepy Pup to the vet yesterday and he's healthy and happy. So that's good. He still is not a fan of the vet, though, and grumbles enough that they make him wear a muzzle. (I'm fine with that. He snapped at a tech and that's not okay.) Yesterday, though, he didn't growl or even act like he might snap, so that was nice.
• Younger Sleep Pup continues to be a puppy. Man...he needs to be worn out every day or he's a nightmare at bedtime.

I believe that might be it. It's scintillating around here, as you see.

I Miss Reading

I have had the hardest time focusing on books since my sister passed. Mom and she both commented on how upsetting it was to lose that ability because of chemo, and now I can concur. It really stinks to have lost that little window to escape.

I am, slowly, starting to be able to read a little here and there. But for every book I finish, I've probably started and stopped -- no lie -- ten others trying to find something that would stick.

My current read, which I'll finish tonight, is Dream Town by Lee Goldberg. My uncle (I think it was my uncle) pointed me to them and I am grateful for it. They're police procedurals and kind of a mix of Harry Bosch and Eve Dallas (Michael Connelly for the first, JD Robb for the second). As I adore both of those, it was a no brainer to give them a shot. So far, I honestly have been enjoying these books more than I've enjoyed the most recent Connelly offerings. (Because Bosch is old and retired and he's trying to make Renee Ballenger the new MC, but she's...a terrible mixture of stupid and obnoxious. Flaws are all well and good, but she's so flawed that I'd want nothing to do with her in real life, and I'd warn others off as well. So trying to root for her is...not super successful for me.)

I picked up The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes (the most recent save one in Panem, the world of the Hunger Games) but I can't get into it. Maybe I will eventually, but the start makes me think they're trying to make President Snow something more than the evil villain he is in the initial trilogy and, like Wicked, I don't love the trend of making evil into misunderstood and justified. (Although it's a culturally relevant idea, so I get why, but it's just not a trend I feel like we should embrace in books OR real life.) 

My usual go-tos of Susanna Kearsley and JD Robb have been re-read so often that I don't even want to re-read them again right now. SK did just release a new one, but it's another of two historical timelines (her usual is one modern, one historical) and while I can handle historical fiction when there are breaks for modern day, I found the last dual-historical a bit of a slog so I've started and stopped that one several times as well.

What do I do with the time I would otherwise be reading? I've been watching Pop Culture Jeopardy and playing a dumb little doohickey swapping game on my phone. Because by the end of the day, that's about the concentration/brain power I have left in me. 

I hates it. 

Sourdough and Cookies

I hopped on the sourdough train, gosh, three years ago now. My sister got me a starter kit (jar, stirring thing, proofing baskets) and a packet of dried starter from San Fran. Her hope was to benefit from the baking. And she did.

My boys continue to love weeks when I make loaves. (The recipe I use makes two.) They either chomp through them in record time, or they sit and linger until I end up tossing the last slice or two. There's no rhyme or reason to it.

Regardless, yesterday was dough day, and today was baking day. Some friends sent me stencils to use on the tops of the loaves for this most recent birthday, so I did that. It's kind of a fun, if unnecessary, addition. Hubby had a sourdough grilled cheese for lunch. Youngest had a thick slice covered in butter as part of his. So that first loaf is more than half gone already.

And then, because things have been somewhat annoying of late and I'm trying to find better ways to deal with frustration and annoyance, I baked chocolate chip cookies this afternoon. The boys don't seem to mind that, either.

Of course, pro tip, if you're going to use a timer on the cookies, it helps if you actually hit start instead of just setting it. Oops.

The first dozen are very...crisp. They're not burned. But it'll be interesting to see if anyone actually eats them.

Of course, in the midst of all of this, I'm back at it working on reducing my personal footprint, so I partake of none of these yummies. And that is perhaps the worst part of it. I like the baking - that's definitely true - but I do miss the chance to taste the fruit of my labor as well.

Marching Forth

No one around here appreciates my instructions to March forth today. Then again, eldest is also getting tired of me saying, "Hi hungry, I'm Mom." Every time he tells me he's hungry. Flip side? I'm tired of him telling me he's hungry. He knows where the kitchen is and how to make himself a snack. It's honestly strange how he only wants to talk to me when he wants something from me. Outside of those timeframes? He acts as though it's the Spanish Inquisition.

Which, of course, no one expects.

I have a piano tuner here today, finally.

After we moved (has it been three years now? I think it has. Oops.) I wanted to let it settle and acclimate a bit before getting a tuner out. But after six or eight months, I called the guy we've been using and we had, apparently, crossed juuuussst over the line of how far he was willing to travel.

Fair enough.

So I scoured some of the area FB groups and found some recommendations and...none of them wanted to come this far either. (I had this same issue with mobile dog groomers. They say they service my area. Their little map on their site SHOWS my street...but when I reach out, nope. Too far. Whatever.)

ANYWAY. After six or seven attempts, I got frustrated and life got all lifey and I totally put the piano tuning on the back burner because I'm the only one who plays it, and I could deal with a sour note here or there if I needed to.

But I finally remembered that I needed to do it in...December? And a little Googling turned up this guy and he keeps pretty busy, it seems, because today was the earliest he could come.

Which I mean, that's fine. It's not going anywhere.

But hey, the piano's getting tuned.

Youngest, of course thinks this is the best thing ever because it allows him to watch the piano be taken apart and then ask the man, "Have you ever seen a huge tarantula in the forest?" Because of course that's what you ask a piano tuner.

I shooed him downstairs to play. 

The Sleepy Pups are trapped in the office with hubby because they want nothing more than to bark their little schnauzer heads off at him. Because schnauzers.

Anyway. None of this has to do with Marching Forth, but whatever. I mostly figured it was time to pop over and say, "I'm not dead!"

Snowstorms and Chickens

Our neighbors have chickens.

They're an older couple (I'd say early 70s? I feel like I might be too closer to "older" to use that term when referring to that age range, but so be it.) who just retired down here from closer in. They seem nice, if a tad extroverted.

Anyway, they also seem to travel a good bit. And that explains why they were so outgoing and friendly when they moved in, as they ask us to watch their chickens. And sometimes their dog.

I (we) don't mind doing it, honestly. The chickens are pretty easy, all things considered -- especially since I'm not doing the heavy lifting type care (coop cleaning etc.) - I'm just letting them out in the morning and making sure they have food and water and then closing the coop after they put themselves to bed in the evening. And looking for eggs. Which I get to keep if they're there.

Score.

They'd planned to head to Florida around Christmas to see family, but everyone had covid or the flu, so they postponed until this week. And two weeks ago when they asked me to do the chickens for them, I said sure.

But then we started seeing rumblings of another massive snow dump. Which of course would also coincide with hubby being on travel for work. And suddenly, figuring out how to get over to deal with the chickens when I wasn't sure if I'd even be able to get us dug out (because as much as I'd love to say the kids would do it, they need a lot of...encouragement to make it happen. And even then, they do a pretty half butted job.)

So I asked if there was anyone else who could do it.

Thankfully, she was able to find someone to do Wednesday through Sunday (covering the storm issue) as they had a snow plow on their truck and also have their own chickens so knew what to do to keep the critters from freezing (because honestly, not wanting to have a chicken death or more on my conscience was also part of my concern.)

I said I could absolutely still do Monday and Tuesday.

And now, of course, we're not looking like we're going to get much, if any snow. Maybe an inch? Maybe two?

And I feel about two inches tall.

Regardless, it's all worked out. But I still feel like an awful neighbor.

But this morning, I got a fresh egg. So there's that.

Valentine's Day and Anniversaries

Last year, when my sister went into the hospital in January and it was clear that she'd not be coming home except on Hospice, I joked (at the time we were both joking as everyone assured us that she'd be renewing Hospice at least twice) that I'd rather she not die on youngest's birthday (early Feb) or mine (end of Feb.)

She assured me she'd do her best.

Then, when she did in fact come home on hospice, it was the day before youngest's birthday. But she was still hale and hearty (or as hale and hearty as one is with terminal cancer) and up to her usual bossy shenanigans. 

On the evening of the 13th, Daddy and I had to call the fire department in the evening to move her from the recliner (that she'd moved to of her own volition earlier that day to visit with a friend) to her bed. She was...not herself. And I drove home once she was settled sobbing in a way I thought only happened in badly acted movies as half-wail, half-screams tore from my soul involuntarily.

Because I knew it wouldn't be long. Couldn't be.

And no matter how ready I thought I was, it turns out that I was not.

The next day, Valentine's day, Daddy called around dinner time asking me to come because the Hospice nurse was there and wanted to talk to us about transferring her to a Hospice facility where she'd have stronger round the clock care than we could do even with the private nursing we were hiring.

So I went. I listened to her explanation and agreed it was best. So she got on the phone to arrange medical transport and I went in to hold my sister's hand and talk to her. No dramatic wailing this time, just tears that I only noticed because I had to keep wiping them away. I told her I loved her. I told her about the boys and reminded her that they loved her.

And I told her that if it was time for her to go, that she could go.

Less than five minutes later, she did, while Daddy and I held her hands.

Nothing prepares you for watching someone die. Nothing can erase the image of life there one moment and gone the next. It haunts me sometimes. And yet I'm glad I was there for her. I know it's what she would have wanted, though at the time she was well past knowing what was happening around her. I'm glad she didn't linger or suffer.

And yet I wish I had my sister.

I don't know why losing her was harder than losing my mom. Maybe losing Mom made losing someone else harder? I just don't know.

What I do know is that you need to tell the people you love that you love them. Family. Friends. Doesn't matter. Make sure they know.

Valentine's Day is as good a day to do it as any other. But if you can't get a hold of them today, do it tomorrow. Or next week. Do it every day. Every week.

Because even if you do, when they're gone, you're going to wish you could say it one more time.