She’s in Labor…But I’ve Gotta Pool Tournament

I got a call last Thursday:  “My sow’s going to farrow, but I already had plans to go to Kalispell for three days.  Can you come sit with her?”

I blinked about five times, just speechless.  “Huh? Who is this?” I asked.

He told me.  It was the guy whose wife had called my Mom not four months ago because a baby pig needed help.  My mom had, of course, called me, and, reluctantly, I’d driven us all the way up this long, winding road to go rescue the creature who was crushed, starving, and suffering hypothermia.  That’s how Mom got “Lucky,” no pun intended, but a good pun all the same.

I’d told the husband then what I told him now once my brain connected to my mouth.  “If you’re going to raise pigs, you sit there with that sow while she farrows, and you sit there three days more.  Then you keep a wary ear out for another three weeks in case you hear a piglet scream its fool head off because Mom laid on him and isn’t getting up.”  

And, if you want to raise pigs, that’s what you do, whether you farrow them in crates or you, preferably, pen farrow. 

“Well, I thought that you said that, if I had trouble to call you,” he came back.

I’m thinking to myself, This isn’t ‘trouble’.  This isn’t a stuck pig, a prolapsed uterus, or anything dire.  This is you wanting to go gad-about, and your sow is farrowing at an inconvenient moment.  You didn’t think ahead, and now you want somebody to pig-sit while you go to some play-date. What I said was, “I’m sorry.  I’m totally buried in work.  I can’t help you.  But, you know, if you have pigs, you are obligated to be there when they farrow.  It’s part of the contract.”

Later, I found out that good old “boyo” went off on his weekend, anyway, the selfish asshole.  What was the big ‘date’? He had a pool tournament over in Montana.  Had to go suck down brewsky and rack ’em up, you know, or the world just wouldn’t be right.  


If this person ever has the audacity to call me again, I think I’ll tear him a new one, and, believe me, I’m capable. People like this should NOT have animals.  None.  Not ever.

I hope one day, if he has a daughter or granddaughter, when she goes into labor and everybody is expecting the obstetrician to attend, that, when the call comes, old doc says, “Oh, sorry.  Timing’s off.  I’ve got a pool tournament over at Jug’s Bar.  She’ll have to fend for herself.”

A Lesson on Doers

Recently, an online group decided that they would like to try their hand at commercial work. We’re talking a mix of professional people and skilled amateurs who are pretty dedicated to their avocation. All members are very talented people.

Of the pros, most are actively working, but, with the economy the way it is, it never hurts to have something cooking on the back burner.  Among the skilled amateurs are some people who are looking for work along with those who have jobs or who are retired.

So what happens? When it comes to a test “job” with a generous deadline, what we get are the professionals hopping right in and doing right away while the amateurs most in need of work wind up no-shows or making excuses.

Needless to say, the project is already failed before it’s even started. Odd thing is that, from the onset, a couple of us knew it was going to wind up just the way it did. It showed in the manner in which work was done in the group all along–a couple of initiators, the rest kinda sorta going along when it suited their tastes and their private schedules.

The lesson? There are doers, and then there’s everybody else.

The group? It’s still a functioning group, and I’m sure it will remain so, but it certainly demonstrated quite realistically and inarguably that, when it comes to succeeding in a commercial project, everybody has to hold a professional discipline or it just will never get off the ground.

Pounding Her Pulpit

There’s a woman — a missionary, no less — who absolutely insists that we all sit up and pay attention to her every post, her every new self-promotional effort.  I’d can the feed if I could, but I can’t because there are good things happening in the group and there are good people in it. But every time I get another notification with this woman’s name on it, I just get this indescribable urge to hunt her down and stuff all her spam-bytes back down her throat. It’s bad of me, I know, but, gawd, some folks just have no manners whatsoever. Problem is, despite the misery she causes with her bloated self-infatuation, all these “nice” people fawn all over themselves telling her how she just floors them with her energy. It ain’t the energy that’s flooring them, tell the truth, though.  It’s the audacity!  She’s a missionary, remember, guys?  So she can handle the truth, right? (Yeah, yeah, we know she can’t, but, hey, tough, I say.) So, guys and gals, quit your fawning and tell it like it is. Tell her to shut the f— up if she ain’t got something other than her own horn to blow!

Social Networking Fools

Is it something in the water? Are there really that many folks out there in the real world who have nothing better to do with their lives than “tweet” on Twitter or send instant messages, text messages (cell phones) and generally blather and blah?  How in the world do you concentrate on “doing” if all you do is blather?  Productive get-togethers are one thing, but this “social networking” is for what?  To try to win folks over to partake of your…what?  Seems to me it’s just another way to make mouth noise just because.  It’s the lonely hearts club trying to find friendship and love…or something.  Who knows.  What I know is that it’s human white-noise, and I have no use for human white noise.  It’s a waste of time and life.  Go DO SOMETHING!!!

The Plant

I have an Angel Wing Begonia that’s OLD.  Very OLD.  It was given to me by Mom, and I kept it for many years.  When it outgrew my house, I gave it to Undean, who had it for about ten years, then gave it back when it outgrew her house.  I put it in the garden for the summer, because it really was too big for anywhere in the house I lived in, and, come Fall, a lady who loves plants indicated a desire to own it.  So I gave it to her.  

Under her care, it got even BIGGER.  And it bloomed like crazy.  Then, a year or so later, times got tough for them and, ultimately, they moved to a very small, unfinished house that had few windows.  The plant had to go, and it went to her mom’s house, but not before losing a couple of it’s numerous shoots.  

Helping with the move, I snagged the one that hadn’t been walked on and stuck it in water, hoping I could save a small piece of the heirloom plant.  Sure enough, it rooted for me, and, holding my breath, a year later, I put it in soil.  

Moving a plant from water culture to soil culture is hard on the plant.  Very.  I did it in stages, adding soil to the water (mud), then, finally, moving it into a legitimate pot of soil.  And it survived…and thrived.  And now it’s big enough that it outgrew the living room window (which it loved).  I’m holding my breath again because the only place for it is a rather dark corner with no morning sun, fitted with a tall, artificial daylight lamp.  

If it doesn’t do well there, I’ll move it back to the big picture window, even though that’s going to take some major redecorating to accomplish.  We’ll see what happens after a few weeks.  The plant may be okay.   Then, again, I might be calling on hubs to disassemble the bookcase/sill under the front room window.