Mostly unpacked, key word being mostly.

Yes, I know.  We've been officially moved for like six weeks now.  No, I'm not all the way mostly done done, as in the house is all neat and tidy and organized because I need a bookshelf for the books.  

The other day, I cooked a beef roast in the slow cooker with about twelve ounces of beer and it turned out rather well.

I decided it was time for some colcannon, or colcanon, if you prefer that spelling.  It was amazing, of course, and definitely one of my more favorite comfort foods.

Spent quality time with the monkeys when College Monkey was off work for two days in a row.  Best way to do that quality time thing?  Star Wars.  Yes, I raised them to be SW nerds.  It's a wonderful thing in the insanity of this day and age to be able to commune around the tv and discuss all the fun stuff that's SW related and speculate on the upcoming movies.

Football Monkey wanted to know who The Phantom Menace was.  I told him it was Jar Jar Binks.  He asked me if he was really supposed to believe that.  I said yes.  Jar Jar Binks was The Phantom Menace.

Anakin Skywalker is still a whiny bitch, always has been, always will be, except for Little Kid Anakin.  He was tolerable.  After watching the other SW movies (the originals) also, I can safely say that Luke definitely inherited that trait.  Even when the originals came out, I can definitely say that as warped as it may sound, I preferred Han to Luke, even though my cousin told me Han was "too old" for me to prefer.  I liked the idea of Han and Leia, the fangirl in me was so pleased to find out in the SWEU (INSERT GRATUITOUS SPOILER ALERT HERE) that they eventually got together.  Woot.  Han and Leia.  Awesome sauce!  (ETA:  I'm not a professional movie critic, I just like to make opinionated comments on my blog sometimes.  JS)

One of our cats resembles an Ewok.  I want a Chewbacca because then I could tell people I have a Sasquatch for a pet, even though I don't speak Shyriiwook.

On a weather related note, cooler weather is headed our way.  The geese are returning from Canada.  The Children of the Fur have been acting differently this week.  The Ewok looking cat has been super bouncily energetic, so that must mean cool weather is on the way.  This would be a good thing.  The black cat has also been on the spazzy side of energetic, so I'm thinking he will also appreciate the cooler weather.  (Now that said, keeping him out of the fireplace should be a challenge since he seems to like walking around the back of the fire screen.  Glass doors shopping at a home store, here I come, since I don't want the cat to injure himself.)

The amount of laundry I'm doing is down to one load every other day.  I'm not joking about this.  It's a glorious feeling!  The reason for that is A--ginormous washer.  B--it washes a load of laundry in fifteen minutes.  The dryer takes a few minutes longer to dry, but talk about the time I spend on laundry being minimized!  It's amazing!

So, the husband changed jobs.  Just when that was going on, I got a call from the oncology office and was told by the nurse "You have to have your appointment changed.  The doctor won't be in that week."  No, I don't HAVE to change my fucking appointment, because *I* never made the appointment to begin with, so yeah, ever so glad you decided to call me about it.  I have clearly and repeatedly stated I make my own appointments.  (If any of you readers have had a shit storm diagnosis like cancer or something devastatingly similar, you will appreciate making your own damn appointments for yourself because YOU know what's going on in your life at any given time and what your schedule/potential schedule is/could be.)  

The way it works for me is this way.  (And yes, this HAS been discussed with the oncologist, and was, in fact, his idea.)  I don't just randomly go in, see him, get orders for a scan handed to me, get get scanned, and then go back to him to get the results.  In regards to that, I think he's being reasonable, which I don't have a problem with.  Why pay for two office visits when the scan order can be faxed to whatever facility is doing the scan and then just pay for a single office visit to get the scan results from him?  Yay for the common sense factor of this oncologist--I do have an appreciation for that.  (No, that's not actual sarcasm, that's me being serious--I actually do appreciate him having discussed that with the husband and me.)

Not only that, with the job change came insurance changes, so I don't even know if the medical facility where my oncologist is takes this kind of insurance, if this insurance pays for the scans I'm supposed to have, and if the place that does the scans takes this kind of insurance.  (And I'm supposed to see the oncologist, according to what he said, once every three months.  I stretch it out closer to once every six months because I turn into this terrified, excessively stressed out insomniac who can't eat without getting sick any time this even comes up with a visit to the oncologist and/or scans.)  I know, right?  Like it's not stressful enough without having to deal with freaking insurance shit?  ZOMFG, already!

(To make it all much worse though, when the local office where my husband was employed was shut down, he lost five weeks of paid vacation.  That meant he could take off to go with me for scans and oncologist visits.  Now?  He has to work like holy fuck, a week to earn four hours of paid time off.  Now he won't be able to take off to go with me to get scanned or visit the oncologist.  I know you're probably thinking I should grow the fuck up and put on my big girl panties, but fuck, you know, any time there's a visit to the oncologist, once diagnosed, there's always the potential for Bad News.  No, that's not me looking to borrow trouble, that's just the fucking reality of a cancer diagnosis.  Once diagnosed, there's always the potential for it to return FOR ANYONE.)

I'm acquainted with some metsters and have communicated with some of them for around three and a half years now, and some are the #PINKISNOTACURE people, some aren't, but yes, I have a point to this, and that is mets.  How many of you have had it discussed with you when you were first diagnosed?  Like specifically something along the lines of, "You've been diagnosed with breast cancer.  Whatever is done to you to fix you, you need to understand there's always going to be a possibility of mets.  That is the reality of this vile disease."  

There was a discussion recently on my CB group about some things that aren't always discussed with patients.  Things like actually explaining the sort of breast cancer someone was diagnosed with, a prognosis, and...dare I say it?  Mets being a part of that discussion.  Yes, you read that correctly.  Mets.  It was certainly not discussed with me.  I'm not fucking making this shit up.

I was told the breast cancer I had was not hormone fed or driven, as some doctors say.  (I also wasn't told I would need a bilateral mastectomy done.  The entire fucking time, it was "Lumpectomy, lumpectomy, just a lumpectomy, nothing more.  Mastectomy won't be necessary, blah blah blah."  While I understood that a mastectomy might be necessary and the thought crossed my mind, everyone and their fucking brother said LUMPECTOMY.  That.  Was.  It.  

So, yeah, you can imagine the fucked-up-ness of my brain when the fucking oncologist said "Oh, I'll call the surgeon to schedule you for your mastectomy."  What the ever loving fuck all?!  Seriously?  A fucking mastectomy?  After how many months of you saying "just a lumpectomy" and nothing more?  FUCK.  So yeah, when I went to the surgeon, I said "Take them both, I will not fucking do this again and stay sane."  Yeah, I have the feeling he made me pay for the statement because he did a radical mastectomy on me.  I was lied to about that, also.  I was told it would be modified and only breast tissue would be removed.  I fucking woke up with nothing more than skin over ribs from a massive amputation on my entire chest.  Modified, my sarcastic ass.  Is it any fucking wonder I have fucking huge trust issues with anyone medical now?  (That said, Streak does have a friend who is a doctor and I'm okay with being around her because I've never seen her in doctor mode, I've only ever seen her in mom mode in tee shirts, blue jeans, and flip flops.  That, I'm totally okay with.)

Anyway, I was not given a "prognosis."  I was told if I did "treatment A" then I had an XYZ % chance of being alive in X amount of years.  If I did "treatment/protocol B" then I would have ABC Z%Z chance of being alive in Q amount of years.  The percentage between the two "options" and I use that word loosely because I didn't get to make that decision was something like a miniscule amount of maybe two percent.  When that was what I was told, it was more like "This is what you should do." without giving the husband and I an opportunity to really discuss it.  It's ridiculous how it was explained/not explained.  

At best, it's an info dump that would make any patient's head explode because of the kind of diagnosis it is, but when these medical people tell patients "I'll give you the information I think you need to know.  Any questions?"  then how the ever loving fuck all are people supposed to even know what the fuck to ask?  They aren't.  Or is that the whole point?  I can say that more than once, I would ask a specific question and be completely ignored, so what's the fucking point of asking?  Not much of one, is there?

Mets was NEVER mentioned.  The cancer emperor has no clothes?  So that's how it works?  If mets isn't mentioned to the patient, then it must mean that it won't happen to the patients who aren't told about it.  Seriously?  That kind of mentality really fucks the patient over, because it's dismissive of the importance of educating the patient about what's going on with their body.  It's basically the same shit as "Oh, you're breastfeeding your baby?  You'll never get breast cancer."  

I'm fucking serious, people.  I had more than one doctor say that to me when the monkeys were wee little critters.  That's why the shit storm diagnosis that breast cancer is came as such a huge fucking shock to me.  I wasn't aware I had any risk factors going on for breast cancer, other than I had breasts, which evidently IS a risk factor for anyone since men have breast tissue, also.  What probably did it to me was the DES I was subjected to when I was in utero, but it kind of doesn't fucking fix anything related to any of this and it sure as fuck doesn't fix the fact that anytime I would tell a doctor I was DES exposed, it was ignored. 

Why bother even making the effort to fucking communicate with medical people?  They're obviously more educated than the average patient, so they must know more even though they aren't the ones living in these bodies.  What the fuck ever.

I'll get the fuck around to finding out insurance coverage shit when I'm damn good and ready, probably not until after school starts next month.  At this point, one way or the other, it doesn't matter.

I suppose I'll be trying to cram in as much time feeding carrots to horses before the scan, after the scan, and before the visit to the oncologist.  That's the only way I'll be able to deal with the amount of stress my brain will be trying to contend with.

Here's an exciting update!

I'm digging out from under boxes from The Great Moving House Adventure (All two blocks of it--yes, you read that correctly--we moved two blocks.  LOL), although slowly, I'm still trying to get stuff sorted and organized with the unpacking.

A few weeks ago, there was an incident online which I won't even dignify with commenting about, other than to say lesson learned and after nearly twenty one years on the internet, I will remain as neutral as Switzerland.  JS  

Cancer Bitches is growing by leaps and bounds!

Cookies, I've created new ones with using my base recipe, white chocolate chips and raspberries.  People jumped on those like crazy.  Some even made it to Oklahoma City, although I think more of my lavender cookies made it there than the raspberry ones, but that's okay.  My cookies are traveling!  Next up, miniature blueberry lemon cream cuppy cakes!  (Yes, oh yes, there will be foodporn!)

The Children of the Fur like the new house.  I've acquired a couple of small baskets and they really like laying in those for some reason. 

I love living where I live.  I was out and about to pick up Football Monkey this week when I stopped by a shop in town.  At the shop next door to where I was going in, there was a man and a woman, each with a rather large blanket, running around the parking lot.  They were chasing a ginormous rooster that's evidently been running all over town for the last two weeks and nobody can catch it.  I hope they caught it because roosters are chickens and chickens are scary, although I have to say it was pretty fucking entertaining to see people chasing a rooster in town.

People are trashy.  I picked up trash from the fence line earlier this week at Mr. K's around the corner.  People are seriously trashy.  This wasn't stuff that was blown around by the wind because you know, Oklahoma, where the wind comes sweeping down the plain.  This was people being too fucking lazy to ditch their trash properly and tossed it out the window.  A porn mag, seriously?  Beer bottles, water bottles, sports drink bottles, empty cigarette packs, paper soda cups.  But a porn mag?  What a fucking I can't even come up with something creative enough for that shit.

Up side?  I had carrots with me and was nicely hugged, nudged, and loved on by the horses who wanted carrot bites.  (Yes, horses can hug a human if they use their head and neck the correct way.  It's pretty awesome to be hugged by a horse.  It's probably like petting a sea turtle, dolphin, or elephant.)

Now that I've unpacked probably 3/4 of the way, I want to go back over to the small show horse barn and start grooming again, even if it's only once a week because of football going on right now.  (Note to self to avoid the scary, rabid chickens there.)

Speaking of unpacking, I found my horse cookie recipe.  This is awesome because I have peppermints and carrots and molasses and oats, so I can make horse cookies.  How fucking awesome is that, readers?  Pretty fucking awesome!

And speaking of finding my recipe, I stopped off at the local library to see if they had any interesting books available for sale.  Let me tell you, I walked out of there after having paid one USD with five books, two of which were amazingly spiffy recipe books!  I've got a wealth of new recipes to monkey around with in the kitchen and spent only twenty cents on each book!  I am sofa king awesome!

I've acquired more twit followers than I can shake a stick at, all over the world in all kinds of varying fields, and the same goes for my pinterest boards, although pinterest is now wanting to charge for paid pins, so I'm not too sure about that yet.  We'll see how that goes.

There's a crochet project I'm working on, which could turn out to be interesting, if it works.  

Recently, there was a discussion about advice for flatness.  Of course, there was a comment made about breasts not defining us as women--there always is one of those.  And of course, I had plenty to say about that shit.  I said I felt like my breasts did define me as a woman because they helped make me appear to be more feminine and they were part of what made me a woman and I hate not having them now.  If anyone feels like their breast did define them as a woman and that was ripped away, that's normal.  One person said she hadn't thought about it from the perspective of if someone didn't like being flat.  It opened up the conversation enough to where I was able to tell her I got so tired of seeing the fake platitude crap about yippee-skip-acceptance that I started the Cancer Bitches group.  If someone is having a bad day, and it happens to everyone, they're allowed to say something there in a safe space instead of being told to suck it up and wear the pink ribbon because yay, gtfoi, pink ribbons and shit.  Nope, if someone's having a shit day, they can cry or vent or rage in a safe space and will be given kindness and respect and now she's a Cancer Bitch.  (No, we aren't always going to agree with each other about everything all the time, but that's part of being a mature adult, being able to discuss things with others, even if it's not always something everyone will agree about.)

Change what you can't accept or accept what you can't change.  I can't fucking change how much cancer fucked me over in a multitude of ways.  It fucking happened and I can't fucking change that and I sure as fuck refuse to accept it.

You're now returned to your regularly scheduled mundane blog reading.  I know you all missed my bitchtastic bitchitude here since I haven't updated recently.  I'll try to get that regular updating thing sorted out.

House moved and

Currently dog-sitting for T Sparkle Snickerdoodle Dog.  So far, the cats are not impressed.  He'd go up to them and be nose to nose with them and they wouldn't do anything, but when I put him in his crate in the laundry room, so I could post this, they got bent out of shape and their fur was sticking up and they got all pouty.  You can follow me on the twit machine for images of #childrenofthefur, if you're interested.  And yes, that includes T Sparkle Snickerdoodle Dog while he's visiting this week.

Moving went quite well, all things considered, and am now attempting to unpack.  It seems like the more I unpack, the more I'm behind on laundry and cooking.  The more I try to catch up on laundry and cooking, the more behind I get on unpacking.

Wait.  I have a new washer and dryer which I've named Boba and Fett.  Boba washes a ginormous load of laundry in fifteen minutes.  Fett dries same washed ginormous load of laundry in fifteen minutes.  I guess I'm not really behind on laundry any longer, as much as it is I'm behind on folding and putting away.  And unpacking, of course.  

The house is beautiful, I'd love to give a huge shout out to the lovely lady who got us into this lovely custom built house, Dustina.  That's a link to her newly current neck of the woods and those look like lovely homes, also, but I do like mine!  

I think it's safe to say

I finally have a direction in which to point the finger of blame over the cancer diagnosis.  My mother was given a drug when she was pregnant with me that was/is a synthetic estrogen and endocrine disruptor.  It caused/can cause clear cell adenocarcinoma, along with other various types of cancer.

DES.  Diethylstilbestrol.

Does cancer start in the womb?  Breast cancer risk at age 40 and older is two and a half times higher in DES exposed women than women who were not exposed who are the same age.

Maternal DES exposure during pregnancy causes an increased risk to both the mother and their DES exposed daughters.   (Given the fact that males can also get (male) breast cancer, I have to wonder, how many of them were DES exposed in utero?)

DES and Bisphenol A are estrogen-like endocrine disruptors.  Exposure in utero alters a tissue expression of something called EZH2, which is associated with tumorigenesis.

Invasive in ductal HER2+ breast cancer is what I had.  In this information, numbers are broken down to give more insight into exposed versus unexposed numbers.

Mayo Clinic led team identifies Master Switch for cancer causing HER2 protein.  A mutant protein would be used for this.  Of course, I find this of particular interest since I had HER2+ breast cancer.

Just wanted to share that with you readers out there in case someone was needing some further research information while I work on packing for The Big Move.

(And if you're so inclined, please go check out the Bressante Kickstarter page.  It's a very worthy project to help women like me acquire custom made foobs (fake breast prostethics) to wear.  After the crap those of us breast cancer people go through, we should have these available to us, so this is a great invention that I'm hoping will gain some much deserved and much needed attention.  Thank you.)

"Doing XYZ prevents breast cancer." aka a Lying Meme.

(Actually, I've sat on this post just to make certain I was being objective about my perspective.)

Since I was attempting to catch up on fakebook this afternoon, I was scrolling along quickly in between doing a bunch of stuff today.  I found a meme which made me angrivated in an angrivated way that only others like me would understand.  Basically, it's yet another meme circulating about breast cancer with a very false claim about how if humans stop using toxins, then breast cancer would be prevented.  (Note:  WOULD BE was implied as if it was set in stone in would be prevented for any and all diagnosed, implying that no use of toxins will keep anyone from being diagnosed.  There was no acknowledgement of the fact that men can be diagnosed with breast cancer also, which was another thing I found disturbing.)

So, I did what those of me do.  I sent a comment about what I saw and why I believed it to be putting out incorrect information.  (And this particular meme was from a group that is supposedly about "breast health," which makes it even more appallingly sad they're putting out incorrect information.)

I attempted to be polite, convey civility without being condescending, and didn't drop the F bomb.  (I know, right?  Wtf?!)

Here's what I sent:

This picture meme is misleading because it's not known what causes all the different kinds of breast cancer there actually is.  People who have lived "perfectly" have still wound up with one or another form breast cancer.  Men can get breast cancer, you certainly aren't acknowledging that.  

And before you get pissy with me about my comments, I've had breast cancer and I did everything "right" and still wound up with it.  It doesn't discriminate between yoginis who are hardcore vegans and breastfed or women who breastfed and ate the occasional burger or women who were raised on farms or in cities or who are in their twenties or in their eighties or used makeup or didn't use makeup, women who had a genetic pre-disposition to it from a family history or women who have no family history of it at all.  Cancer does not discriminate.

Regarding breast cancer, another lie is that early detection saves lives.  It does not.  Women who are diagnosed at grade zero, stage zero can go stage 4/mets at any time and eventually die from whatever form of breast cancer there is, just like some women diagnosed as stage 4 can survive for a few years, and some won't.  Breast cancer STILL kills.  People diagnosed, and I say people, because both men and women can wind up with breast cancer, can still wind up with mets/stage 4, even though they did everything "right," according to their doctors or did everything their doctors told them to do.  Cancer happens and it's a shit storm.  

Where's your meme telling people this sort of thing about kids who wind up with cancer?  Are you going to imply their parents weren't responsible enough with one thing or another and that's why their child wound up with that vile disease? 

You probably won't take it down or alter it, but at least I said something.  There are tons of people out there like me who are attempting to educate others about the gross misconceptions about cancer.  Toxic chemicals in any form are a bad idea--for anyone.  But to say protecting the earth from them prevents diseases like breast cancer is flat out not true.

Thanks for your time.

Of course I felt as if the reply given to me was standard response fodder, but at least someone did read my comments.

I've been chosen to participate in a really cool thing.  Bressante makes custom foob forms and amazingly enough, I was chosen to receive a pair.  This could be interesting, people.  They definitely appear to be an improvement over the old kinds on the market.  Here's information about Wendy's Kickstarter page.  She's doing this to help people like me.  

Building a Better Prosthesis  That dot in the center of the U.S. you see on the map?  That's me.  I'm hoping that the funding will come through from kind souls who believe this is a project worth contributing to.

There's a few links I'm going to share to some posts/articles related to various cancer related shit since cancer is a shit storm.

Want Attention?  Just Say Breast Cancer.  (This is a lovely commentary about the ribbon versus ribbon stuff that seems to now be going on.  Thanks ever sofa king much, Big Name Pink Ribbon Foundation for being divisive instead of helpful, since ALL cancers can and do kill people.)

Something I Can Use  (More cancer patients versus cancer patients commentary, communicating about what cancer patients really need, and included in this are some thought provoking statements about head shaving.)

Cancer Charities Scammed Millions of Consumers  (Yes, it can and does happen, people.  Please think before you pink, or pay attention to where you're donating.  There is no fucking way I'd donate anything to the Big Name Pink Ribbon Foundation or The Other Big Name Cancer Society.  Neither have ever done ANYTHING for anyone I've encountered who's had to deal with cancer.  They sure as fuck won't get anything from me.  Am I saying not to donate?  Nope, not at all.  I'm just encouraging you readers out there in HorseDoovers Land to check around, ask questions, do a bit of research first, and then donate.)

Living With Cancer; Patients On Our Own written by Susan Gubar says "At one point or another during and after radiation and chemotherapy, the women in my support group have needed physiological, psychological, dietary, cognitive, sexual, child-raising, financial, or housekeeping guidance that none of us received.  Of course we address these matters among ourselves, but why don't cancer centers provide professionals to advise us?  If nothing else, such supplementary counseling would give cancer patients the boost of knowing that we are doing what we can to help us cope with difficult circumstances."  (I have a comment or two about that wonderfully put paragraph.  It's because it's all about money and nobody but others like us really give a fuck about our functionality and quality of life once it's fucked up from the shit storm that cancer is.)

My Life on Xeloda  Commentary about why is treatment still so primitive?  This was an outfuckingstanding read.

Not Long and Beautiful  Interesting thoughts on losing hair and breasts.

Living With Stage Four  The breast cancer nobody understands.

And because I always want to share options I've found for those of you who want foobs, here's a couple of links.

Super Gel Breast Forms  These look like they could be interesting, maybe more comfortable than the old silicone foobs which are pawned off on so many of us as replacement foobs.  Eventually, I would like to try a pair and then share my thoughts on them here for you people who are interested.

38 views in one day?

April 28, 2015, there happened to be 38 page views.  None of them were mine.  Wtf?  Where did you people come from?

Anyway, moving on..."Oh Mother's Day, what are you doing?  Blah, blah, blah."

Please can that nonsense and yes, I'm a Scrooge about shit like that.  To me, it's just another day to do laundry and cook like any other day.  As a wife and mom, if there is appreciation of me, it should be every day, not just one day out of the year.  Did anyone even think of that?  Just curious.

Last week, I was brave and called a place around the corner and down the road to inquire about boarding prices.  $350.00 pasture board, $450.00 stall board.  Those prices are indicative of the lower end of what's customarily charged for boarding.  Some places include vet/farrier fees in that price, if those services are needed, some charge extra.  Those prices are also customary of leasing fees.

I called the place around the corner, around the corner (No, that's not a typographical error.) and inquired.  $125.00 pasture board, $150.00 stall board, because "I try to keep it affordable for people." were his exact words.  He has a horse for lease that's a TWH for $275.00.  Still more than can be afforded right now (but reasonable because that's a full lease with as much riding time as I could possibly stand) what with the house build going on, but I may look into the process of getting hired as a sub so I can pay for my own horse related activities once I contribute several thousand to braces for College Monkey.

The husband told me he didn't want me to work unless I *wanted* to work, but with an insanely expensive addiction of horses that I know I want to continue pursuing, I feel like it's my responsibility to contribute in some manner since writing sure as fuck hasn't paid off.  (So yeah, I'll wind up working to pay for something I'd love to enjoy, only to be too tired to enjoy it.  No logic, but since it's me and we all know I have no concept of limitations regarding my life post cancer until I'm non-functional from exhaustion, well, we'll see how this goes.)

I went and met said TWH and the guy who owns him around the corner, around the corner.  TWH was adorable, of course.  I spoke with the guy for some time and offered to walk his fence line twice a week and pick up trash that blows in.  There are two horses I can groom, TWH and ON.  ON is too old to be ridden, he's a retired re-enactment horse, but would love the attention, so I don't mind.  I'm all about grooming horses since I'm not able to ride right now.

(The one thing that was interesting was that I met a BLM Mustang who was very much interested in nuzzling me, rubbing all over me with his face, and I was amazed at how rowdy he wasn't and how well mannered he was.  He was an absolute kitten horse and evidently, came off the truck like that.  Talk about shattering a legend about Mustangs being rowdy, well, he certainly did.)

Yesterday, I walked between fifteen to twenty acres of fence line and picked up trash.  Of course the horses wanted to follow me around, hoping for treats, but none were overly pushy or demanding, which is a good thing.  The owner of this place had told me he has a stud horse who wouldn't object to me being in his pasture walking the fence, he'd just want treats.  That was funny because when I climbed through the fence and this big, black stud horse notices me standing there, he decides I'm interesting and wants to investigate the new human.  He comes running at me, so I just stood there and waited.  He slowed up to a trot about fifty feet away, then about twenty feet away, he slowed up to a walk and very politely approached me and asked for treats.  I don't make it a habit to give treats to horses I don't know, so I talked to him and petted him for a few minutes and then once he lost interest, read that as he figured out I didn't have any treats with me, he wandered off, I finished that fence line.

Time taken walking entire fence line of said huge property?  Two and a half hours.  I wore my tall boots because of snakes and ticks.  It's not flat terrain, either.  It's very rough and uneven.  I have to clean my boots today because they need it.  I may switch to my shorter boots, even in spite of ticks, since they are easier to clean.

After that, I went to the other barn and groomed the big palomino gelding.  (He'd been a complete jack wagon last week.  Not in a rude manner, but a typical horse manner.  I went out to catch a horse to groom.  He wasn't interested, so I got the big mare, took her into the barn, groomed her, and turned her loose.  I tried again on the big palomino gelding and again, he wouldn't cooperate.  I chose one of the red geldings, took him into the barn, groomed him, and turned him loose.  Guess who suddenly decided to follow me?  You guessed it.  The big palomino gelding.  "Want to be in your pocket!  Want to follow you into the barn!  Right now!  Let's go!  Groom me!"  Dude, seriously?  You had two chances, now I have to go back to being responsible wife and mom and go home, clean up, and cook.  *shakes head*)  Anyway, yeah, yesterday, I managed to groom him.  He was good while he stood for me, although he was funny.  We had to walk from way over in the other pasture area, but he decided once he got into the barn, he needed to poop.  At least he pooped when I brought him in and he didn't actually poop on my head while I was cleaning his back hooves.  (Either you'll get it or you won't.  This is what horses do, get creative about pooping.)

Delightful visit was delightful.

It was Wednesday evening when Army Monkey and his adorable wife arrived with their two cats.  Fortunately, the way this house is, we were able to have space for our two cats in a third of the house and their cats in the other two thirds of the house, so no cat fights here.

They stayed Wednesday night on their way from Further Out West to their New Civilian Life Down South.  (While where they lived in Colorado was lovely, neither were fond of the cold weather.  Both are happy to be heading back down to the Deep South.)

Thursday morning was breakfast of coffee, milk, juice, a double batch of sour cream biscuits, and sausage gravy.  I also threw an herbed pork loin into the crock pot for supper.  Since Football Monkey never misses school, it was decided it would be okay for him to skip school that day since he doesn't get to see Army Monkey and His Wife very often.  The College Monkey only had one class, so while he went to his class, the rest of us loaded up and went to look at the new house.

Once College Monkey was done with class, we all met up at a favorite place to eat lunch.  The two younger monkeys came home and the rest of us paid a little visit to the liquor store nearby.  Everyone was talking about a food coma, but 

Because this was such an awesome post, there needs to be some bitching included.  I don't gaf who you are, jeggings are a bad idea, whether you're a hundred pound stick or weigh three hundred pounds and look like a stuffed sausage in your jeggings/leggings/whatever the fuck it is they're called these days.  Stop with the madness, people.  Please.  I'm all for not giving a fuck what anyone else thinks and dressing to be comfortable, however a little respect for other people's eyes/sanity needs to be taken into consideration.  No, I'm not turning into the fashion police.  Yes, I am going to bitch about this because well, my fucking blog, my fucking posts, my fucking content.  If you don't like it, please feel free to click the back button, and don't forget to burn your tights/jeggings on the way out.