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Kiwi Crocus
10 December 2011 @ 01:30 am
I'm going to use a little time to update for the moment because I haven't since the 3rd and that's a long while for me to go without updating.

I've been house-sitting at this house since Monday night, when I stayed over with the owners (two lovely gay men from my congregation) and drove them to the airport early Tuesday morning (and got no sleep). That day may have been the day I then went tree shopping with my Da, had a conversation with the cashier about how an Aggie student (definition: a student from an agricultural high school, namely mine in context) would love working there, found out she was an Aggie student (and knew the beechy woman who's principal there now) and she hinted that if I was looking for a part-time job I should inquire. So I left with an application feeling as though maybe I can complete one of my dreams and work at a plant nursery for a while. We'll see how things go.

Did some tree decorating on Thursday but it was stopped by my near-aunt visiting to pick up pieces of a bed frame. I have finally started getting on my grandmother to call me Kiwi and not my legal name, as it makes my stomach flip and makes me feel il. She responded in a rather unpleasant way that it made her feel the same to call me Kiwi, because she thinks my legal name is beautiful. Which, fine (I think it's lovely for others), but that doesn't make it her decision. At this point I'm just putting my foot down that since this is about what *I* am called, as a person, I get some say in not being called something that makes me feel yucky, however fleeting. I have now been Kiwi for 8 years - through junior high, high school, university and now beyond - and on two different continents, meeting thousands of people this way and having picked up a job with it on my application (even if it was just hippie Rowe); my foot is going down now, because everyone else has got it. I am demanding at least a compromise in calling me something other than my legal name, if she can't handle Kiwi; that used to happen during high school with teachers who refused on professional grounds (or tried...they failed within a few months and I became Kiwi to them anyway). At this point it's a matter of respect. Respect me enough to not call me something to my face that makes me feel ill. Rant over!

Well, at least the mental!rant was over until I realised my cell phone was gone. One minute it was on the sofa as we were decorating and the next it was gone. I've checked everywhere, Mum checked everywhere (including the kitchen rubbish) and we didn't find it. Not even in the 'oh I'm a dolt!' places. (I checked the freezer twice. Why? Who knows.) As of today my number is connected to Mum's old phone and I'll probably look into getting a proper one for winter hols, as I haven't used an upgrade on my contract since some time in 2007.

Yesterday evening I got together with a friend from high school. It was nice to see her again for the first time in a few months, although by the end of the evening I wasn't feeling great and by the time I was back here I felt terrible. (It may have something to do with the fact that I got lost on the way to her house [stupid one-way confusing city], thought I'd lost the house-sitting keys when I was leaving there and then nearly got lost again on the way home [stupid one-way confusing city].) I passed out without bringing the bins up to the road. Oops. Thankfully there's another rubbish pick-up before M and B (house-owners) return; the recycling (every other week) I'll bring to my home for Sunday night/Monday morning, since our recycling comes weekly. Mum says it's no big deal. I just feel I'm doing a bit of a rubbish dog with the non-animal side of house-sitting. I watered the upstairs plants the other day with great difficulty due to a number of hanging plants (I'm under five foot; had to bring them to the loo) and not being able to find a watering can. I tried my best...

Today I headed home again to meet up with Cathy, another near-aunt of mine. It was fun to hang out and do crafty things. (I made a terrible rose and a less-terrible lily with origami.) We ate Da's sushi and it was lovely.

I wanted to get more writing done today but I felt so rubbish still - pounding headache and the like - that I passed out again after taking the dogs out and feeding them. So tonight I'm going to finish my outline by getting the order of my story down and making sure I've included everything I wanted. Tomorrow I have the afternoon and evening to write before heading home to cook stew/see my parents. Sunday I have church in the morning and then the potluck/house-concert with Zoë Lewis, which I'm super excited for. Then hopefully I'll be able to come back here and write my little heart away--without a bed-time, if I need it. And if I can't reach my Sunday night deadline then I'll sleep and keep right on writing through all of Monday, since it's the first day that I don't have any plans at all and don't have to leave this house!

Hopefully during that day I'll get up an entry talking about the lovely animals I'm spending time with over here. (: They really deserve an entry of their own. (Princess!cat, whom I was told I would be unable to pet, just came over to my sofa for a brief petting-and-purring session. I am a happy Kiwi for that.) I also hope the next entry will be less ranty!

It's nice to be here and make this lovely house my home for a while. It's unsettling to have my sleep broken in two, though. The dogs are always fed between 5 and 7 in the morning and, usually, they're awake and wining at me by 5.30 or 6 for taking out and feeding. Now, I can get to sleep at 8 or 9 when I'm feeling very ill; 10 is a 'very early' night for me; 11 is an 'early night' and 12 is the start of my bed-time. During my saner schedule, 12-2am is usually the time I'm able to fall asleep. When I'm less sane, 3-8am becomes the time in which I can fall asleep. So even when I'm successfully asleep at bedtime - midnight or 1, really - I wake up, care for the dogs and have to go back to sleep so I don't feel like a zombie. It's just an odd way for me to live! I'm sure I'll get used to it just in time for the house-sitting job to be over. :B It's 1.30am now, so I'll go finish that outline and get me to sleep.

Sweet dreams!
 
 
Kiwi Crocus
10 December 2011 @ 02:31 am
I know the common phrase is "the cat's outta the bag", but Sir Prince Dorian the cat really prefers going in the bag--my bags--and staying there. Perhaps this is a universal metaphor that indicates my secret-keeping ability is proficient.

Then, perhaps that's why the phrase is "let the cat out of the bag", because getting the cat out really does seem to be the pith of the matter.

Although the phrase seems to imply that getting the cat in the bag takes the effort and getting it out is just a slip, but I am not finding that to be at all true. The cat gets in the bag and has no desire to get out. Tempted to take that as proof he wants to come home with me...

Sir Princess Daphne was just playing with holographic pegasus stickers that I have and is now playing around under her bed. These cats have very interesting takes on common prepositional phrases. Why let the cat out of the bag when you could let him in? Why play in your bed when you could play under it? These cats have it down. Or, perhaps at they would have it, up. These cats know what's down and they have it up.

(Cat-watching is my new sport. Almost done with my outline. Hurrah! McGonakitty icon. alksdjflkajsf Sir Princess Daphne is stalking the stickers! So adorable! If I had my own cats I would never get anything done.)