Hey! I can't remember anybody's name, do we still have the tarantula and Coma and Tose? I am proud to announce that I am not, at present, dead. I pushed through the pandemic, left nursing full time in April (per-diem now) for an entirely different professional field, and if the lovely barkeeper or his companion, Tanya (?) would be so good as to line up a Rusty Nail or four that would be fantastic . 😐 Jen
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HeraTeleia
1 day ago
Straight Cis Female
Canada
Forum
Top Shot
Yes, to the extent that anyone who knows me personally can reconcile me in real life (mum, Canadian, tall, always well-dressed if not in scrubs, soft-spoken, church-going United Methodist) with the idea that I write what is essentially literary porn. My pastor, for instance--she knows, she's read my stories, she told me that if G-d blessed me with the ability to convey filthy gutter-level thinking into writing, then it would be turning my back on a blessing to not write literary erotica.
I'm not terribly worried about what anyone thinks--several close friends, after recovering the "wtf Jen?", have passed on my scribbling to other people. My oldest son really isn't a fan, since he believes that porn in general degrades women (true-but I've never watched anything like visual porn); when he was still at home he used to be very unhappy when I left Lush up, because he didn't want his brothers to see anything..
He's at the University of British Columbia in the Faculty of Medicine now. The two younger ones are 19 (University of New South Wales) and approaching 18 (fourth year HS) and they still don't know anything other than "mum writes stories", courtesy of their oldest brother.
I don't understand why one wouldn't share what one writes, no matter the genre. If your family loves you, and your friends love you, why wouldn't you share? Perhaps it's me, but yah, no, I share because I can, and it's not as if I'm forcing anyone to read what I've written.
Top Shot
Quote by Georgia_27_8
50 Shades.
I think a most people in my generation started with this series of books.
Shame about the film, though.
Hi, Georgia! I'm Jennifer, or Jen, whatever. I also answer to ma'am, Mum, Lieutenant, and since I tend to run towards alarms (not recommended), "Help!".
My first read, in English, of true literary erotica was Nicholson Baker's Vox.
I've been away for a tadge bit, I do apologise.
Anyway! I am so glad to see that you made it here, where--with some effort--you can find real literary erotica, not whatever that Fifty Shades of Grey disaster of a trilogy happens to be called by those blinded to the truth and beauty to be found in a well-turned word.
Not to criticise, I'm sure it is a lovely trilogy, I'm sure the author ranks right up there with J.R.R. Tolkien, however, she is not a writer of literary erotica; her writing is not literary erotica by a wide berth.
The author, also known as She Who Shall Not Be Named, never visited Seattle. Ever. She used Google Maps, photographs, and other media, but she didn't know certain particular details and ephemera so important to keeping one's reader engaged.
This means that she lost readers like myself about.....oh, whenever the female protagonist went to cross a street. In downtown Seattle, WA. In stiletto heels. That particular street? No way.
You try crossing that street, or any nearby street, in anything like stiletto heels, you end up flat on your face, stuck in asphalt, stuck in a manhole cover, stuck in something you don't want to know what it is, your heels break off, you fall and break your ankle...or all of the above! It is like a game, except not so much.
Wherever that scene happened, someplace in the first thirty pages of the first book, is where I walked away--in my Dansko clogs. Sexy, I know.
Top Shot
Quote by spriteJust a little inspriation. 6 years ago i tried to kill myself. yesterday my wife and i bought a house. things do get better. hope everyone is in a good place today. if not, just hang in there. it does get better. you are loved.
Congratulations on the house. Here? Here-ish? I mean, you need someone to toss salt and bread. It's a thing.
Top Shot
https://igy6foundation.org/
The ;IGY6 Foundation and others like it--sometimes you will see ;IGY6 superimposed over the number 22, particularly in tattoos--grew out of Project Semicolon.
The IGY6 is a reference to the callback "Got your six" or "On your six", meaning that the person giving the callback is covering the recipient's six--the area directly behind him or her. In civilian wording, it's essentially "I've got your back".
Specific to this abbreviation, the semicolon itself and "6" is not infrequently red, referencing blood lost, lives lost, to suicide d/t PTSI(D). And it's not a "line of duty' thing or a "back the blue" thing, although it can be--it's a recognition that hey, I've seen some shit, you've seen some shit, I survived, you will too.
The "22" specifically refers to the current national average of 22 military veteran suicides per day.
Even two years ago it would've been unimaginable to me that a colleague would clock out, go home, and shoot herself in the right temple. Now? Not so much. The ANA and AMA have both recognised PTSI(D) as something that in this era of SARS2-nCov-19 is to be expected, is our new normal.
Anyway. The ;IGY6 paracord bracelet I wear is orange, with black paracord surrounding, denoting the "thin orange line" (SAR/Recovery and Emergency Management).
The ;IGY6 Foundation and others like it--sometimes you will see ;IGY6 superimposed over the number 22, particularly in tattoos--grew out of Project Semicolon.
The IGY6 is a reference to the callback "Got your six" or "On your six", meaning that the person giving the callback is covering the recipient's six--the area directly behind him or her. In civilian wording, it's essentially "I've got your back".
Specific to this abbreviation, the semicolon itself and "6" is not infrequently red, referencing blood lost, lives lost, to suicide d/t PTSI(D). And it's not a "line of duty' thing or a "back the blue" thing, although it can be--it's a recognition that hey, I've seen some shit, you've seen some shit, I survived, you will too.
The "22" specifically refers to the current national average of 22 military veteran suicides per day.
Even two years ago it would've been unimaginable to me that a colleague would clock out, go home, and shoot herself in the right temple. Now? Not so much. The ANA and AMA have both recognised PTSI(D) as something that in this era of SARS2-nCov-19 is to be expected, is our new normal.
Anyway. The ;IGY6 paracord bracelet I wear is orange, with black paracord surrounding, denoting the "thin orange line" (SAR/Recovery and Emergency Management).
Top Shot
Yup.
If you aren't familiar with or have only a passing knowledge of whatever language you are running through Google Translate, things will likely not end well.
Yes, Google Translate has been vastly improved in the past five years due to the implementation of a system that runs algorithm driven "translation" through actual human beings like myself. The aggregate feedback is then touched by IT magic, and the more accurate translation of the phrase is integrated into the algorithm.
Still, this is only true of very common languages; French is my natural language, and even with 2,727,600 individual contributions from French speakers from around the world, Google Translate still has difficulties. Idioms, for instance. Idioms and certain other types of phrasing simply don't translate.
Same for Spanish, which like French and Portuguese has specific phrases that vary by vast margins depending on where the speaker is from--for instance, Québécois French has entirely different idioms, swear words, and even grammatical rules when compared against Metropolitan French (also called Parisian French). It is so different, and the gulf between the two are so vast, that if IRL, as a Québécois French speaker, I were to attempt to communicate with a Metropolitan French speaker, the latter would likely not understand or miss a great deal of the conversation.
The reverse is not true--Québécois French speakers have no issues with understanding Metropolitan French. In my own case, I volunteer to vet Google Translate translations of English to French because although Québécois French was my mum's native language, she also recognised that speaking Québécois French alone was not a good option, and so I had a governess(?) from Nice for at least the first decade of my existence.
And this is for a language that as recently as fifty years ago was the lingua franca of the world.
Spanish and Portuguese do not have the exact same issues, but again, an algorithm will never be an adequate replacement for a human being. Arabic would be another example, as would Farsi and Hebrew or Yiddish--all super common languages, and all an absolute bafflement to Google Translate. So yah, if you have zero familiarity with any given language, please, find someone who even if not a native speaker is able to spot errors.
If you aren't familiar with or have only a passing knowledge of whatever language you are running through Google Translate, things will likely not end well.
Yes, Google Translate has been vastly improved in the past five years due to the implementation of a system that runs algorithm driven "translation" through actual human beings like myself. The aggregate feedback is then touched by IT magic, and the more accurate translation of the phrase is integrated into the algorithm.
Still, this is only true of very common languages; French is my natural language, and even with 2,727,600 individual contributions from French speakers from around the world, Google Translate still has difficulties. Idioms, for instance. Idioms and certain other types of phrasing simply don't translate.
Same for Spanish, which like French and Portuguese has specific phrases that vary by vast margins depending on where the speaker is from--for instance, Québécois French has entirely different idioms, swear words, and even grammatical rules when compared against Metropolitan French (also called Parisian French). It is so different, and the gulf between the two are so vast, that if IRL, as a Québécois French speaker, I were to attempt to communicate with a Metropolitan French speaker, the latter would likely not understand or miss a great deal of the conversation.
The reverse is not true--Québécois French speakers have no issues with understanding Metropolitan French. In my own case, I volunteer to vet Google Translate translations of English to French because although Québécois French was my mum's native language, she also recognised that speaking Québécois French alone was not a good option, and so I had a governess(?) from Nice for at least the first decade of my existence.
And this is for a language that as recently as fifty years ago was the lingua franca of the world.
Spanish and Portuguese do not have the exact same issues, but again, an algorithm will never be an adequate replacement for a human being. Arabic would be another example, as would Farsi and Hebrew or Yiddish--all super common languages, and all an absolute bafflement to Google Translate. So yah, if you have zero familiarity with any given language, please, find someone who even if not a native speaker is able to spot errors.
Top Shot
Congratulations! R., you are amazing. That's it. All the things you do, all the time. Amazing. Love you, R. 
Top Shot
Thank you, love.
I've now spent...I don't even know, a great deal of money trying and failing to hatch fertile CCL (Loud's breed) eggs.
I switched over to a threatened breed of duck, the Silver Appleyard, and despite it being stupidly hot, the Linebacker (Bielefelder hen) is tending to "her" eggs. Panting, yes, but she is hatching those damn eggs period, full stop. The soon-to-be ducklings must be close to hatching, as she's become more aggressive, chasing other hens and the resident idiot out of the coop should they stray too close to "her" eggs. I did have the coop fitted for a specialized sort of cooling fan two months ago, never imagining that it would be used this soon.
I'd given up on ever obtaining CCL pullets, and then I sort of randomly tripped over a woman on Craigslist who happens to show both CCLs and Bielefelder. And she's NPIP/AI certified, meaning she has to maintain strict cleanliness, monitoring and keeping her flock separated from anything that might possibly be a carrier of any of the assorted bird influenza varieties in circulation.
She had Bielefelder pullets listed, mentioning the CCL pullets only in passing--both breeds autosex, and the pullets hatching from either breed are "chipmunk striped" and therefore difficult to separate. Anyway. After her agreeing to sell some of her day-old CCL pullets, I drove 100-odd miles on Saturday 6/26 to meet her in a parking lot, very legit since flock owners who are NPIP/AI certified also have to follow very strict procedure regarding visitors to those flocks.
Came home with this:
17 pullets total, maybe 10 CCL, a couple Bielefelder, and one oddball, that slightly more yellow/red girl glaring up at me. She's an accidental mix, Rhode Island Red/Bielefelder. The breeder was going to take her home and cull her, I think the only reason she brought that girl is because she was mixed in with the others and was scooped up accidentally. IDK. Doesn't matter, I paid for her along with her sisters and cousins.
I've now spent...I don't even know, a great deal of money trying and failing to hatch fertile CCL (Loud's breed) eggs.
I switched over to a threatened breed of duck, the Silver Appleyard, and despite it being stupidly hot, the Linebacker (Bielefelder hen) is tending to "her" eggs. Panting, yes, but she is hatching those damn eggs period, full stop. The soon-to-be ducklings must be close to hatching, as she's become more aggressive, chasing other hens and the resident idiot out of the coop should they stray too close to "her" eggs. I did have the coop fitted for a specialized sort of cooling fan two months ago, never imagining that it would be used this soon.
I'd given up on ever obtaining CCL pullets, and then I sort of randomly tripped over a woman on Craigslist who happens to show both CCLs and Bielefelder. And she's NPIP/AI certified, meaning she has to maintain strict cleanliness, monitoring and keeping her flock separated from anything that might possibly be a carrier of any of the assorted bird influenza varieties in circulation.
She had Bielefelder pullets listed, mentioning the CCL pullets only in passing--both breeds autosex, and the pullets hatching from either breed are "chipmunk striped" and therefore difficult to separate. Anyway. After her agreeing to sell some of her day-old CCL pullets, I drove 100-odd miles on Saturday 6/26 to meet her in a parking lot, very legit since flock owners who are NPIP/AI certified also have to follow very strict procedure regarding visitors to those flocks.
Came home with this:
17 pullets total, maybe 10 CCL, a couple Bielefelder, and one oddball, that slightly more yellow/red girl glaring up at me. She's an accidental mix, Rhode Island Red/Bielefelder. The breeder was going to take her home and cull her, I think the only reason she brought that girl is because she was mixed in with the others and was scooped up accidentally. IDK. Doesn't matter, I paid for her along with her sisters and cousins.
Top Shot
Not at all important. I would need to go check, but I know at least a handful of my stories lack any names at all. If the characters have names at all, they're usually random.
That said, I do keep running mental list of names that I absolutely won't use, for any reason. The ephemera--like the names of my dogs, or my favourite Islay single malt--those are all very real. Then there's Losing It , which was a collaboration, one in which each of us used our real names. The other thing is, I set my stories in places with which I am intimately familiar, and those places have names.
Sometimes I do slip up and use someone's real name--first only--because that individual is so enmeshed in my real life activities no other name would suit the fictionalized version. The most recent and glaringly obvious example of this is in Drill Day. I wouldn't recommend using real names at all, though, if it can be avoided.
I only use real names because a) I am by nature impatient, and not the sort to waste time trying to figure out what any given character should be named and b) exactly zero people in my everyday life, with the exception of my pastor (yes, pastor), believe that I've written whatever it is they're reading. I don't fit the mold, or something.
Pay attention to Ensorceled, WannabeWordsmith, and others, all far more devoted and accomplished than myself.
That said, I do keep running mental list of names that I absolutely won't use, for any reason. The ephemera--like the names of my dogs, or my favourite Islay single malt--those are all very real. Then there's Losing It , which was a collaboration, one in which each of us used our real names. The other thing is, I set my stories in places with which I am intimately familiar, and those places have names.
Sometimes I do slip up and use someone's real name--first only--because that individual is so enmeshed in my real life activities no other name would suit the fictionalized version. The most recent and glaringly obvious example of this is in Drill Day. I wouldn't recommend using real names at all, though, if it can be avoided.
I only use real names because a) I am by nature impatient, and not the sort to waste time trying to figure out what any given character should be named and b) exactly zero people in my everyday life, with the exception of my pastor (yes, pastor), believe that I've written whatever it is they're reading. I don't fit the mold, or something.
Pay attention to Ensorceled, WannabeWordsmith, and others, all far more devoted and accomplished than myself.
Top Shot
Quote by Liz
I think the best way to start a story is to punch your reader right between the eyes.
Go big. Go bold.
Hook them right from the very first sentence.
This. Anything except going full Bulwer Lytton, really.
Top Shot
Update: Loud is still, well, Loud. He now has the "GOOD FUCKING MORNING" thing down. Fortunately the middle word is not nearly as audible as the rest unless you're in the house.
He's also learned what "time out" means--as in, "Time out? Does my good bird need a time out?". As previously mentioned, he's taken to doing quasi-normal rooster things, including "defending" his hens. That weird kick thing roosters do, and running up into the coop and attacking my hands and forearms when I'm checking on the Linebacker and "her" eggs, as well as another batch of the same eggs currently being cared for by two other Bielefelder Kennhuhn hens.
He's landed some good ones--I do bruise easily, or maybe it's just that bruises show up more clearly on me than most. Anyway! I started snatching him up every time he came at me--yah, he's not too clever in the whole "fighting rooster" category. For a while I was snatching him up and tucking him under my right arm while I checked the girls, which works okay, as I'm mix handed. At some point, though, maybe four weeks ago, I started snatching his ridiculous self up and putting him in his playpen on "time out"--no scritches, no cuddles, nothing.
So he's learned what "time out' means. I don't know if it's true of all chicken/poultry/waterfowl breeds, but Loud definitely demonstrates the capacity to learn and retain information. As in, he still responds to the same commands I use with Lily--"wait" (stop, stay there), "leave it" (pretty self-explanatory), and "let's go" (start moving). Which are basic commands that I have reflexively used since forever, with both dogs and horses. My oldest would argue that I use those with himself and his brothers, too.
The hens are good, the NPIP/AI FDA certified breeder from whom I'm picking up a dozen or so one to six day old CCL pullets is awesome, and the ladies are not sitting on chicken eggs any more. I've switched it up--the Linebacker is on either six or seven Silver Appleyard duck eggs, and then two other hens are on five Silver Appleyard duck eggs.
The Linebacker in particular is super not keen on me checking on the eggs, so I've just stopped. She doesn't leave the nest box very often--she'll run down, eat, drink, and then run back up into the coop, carefully arranging "her" eggs before going back to sitting. The other two hens, squashed in on top of the other five eggs, will leave together to do whatever hens do, walk around and gossip, IDK. The Linebacker becomes super agitated when the other eggs aren't under a hen, and she'll try to reach over and roll the eggs. She also "talks" to them, until the other hens return.
Should you wish to fall into the rabbit hole that is "heritage breed" poultry or waterfowl, here's the link to the Livestock Conservancy site: https://livestockconservancy.org/
He's also learned what "time out" means--as in, "Time out? Does my good bird need a time out?". As previously mentioned, he's taken to doing quasi-normal rooster things, including "defending" his hens. That weird kick thing roosters do, and running up into the coop and attacking my hands and forearms when I'm checking on the Linebacker and "her" eggs, as well as another batch of the same eggs currently being cared for by two other Bielefelder Kennhuhn hens.
He's landed some good ones--I do bruise easily, or maybe it's just that bruises show up more clearly on me than most. Anyway! I started snatching him up every time he came at me--yah, he's not too clever in the whole "fighting rooster" category. For a while I was snatching him up and tucking him under my right arm while I checked the girls, which works okay, as I'm mix handed. At some point, though, maybe four weeks ago, I started snatching his ridiculous self up and putting him in his playpen on "time out"--no scritches, no cuddles, nothing.
So he's learned what "time out' means. I don't know if it's true of all chicken/poultry/waterfowl breeds, but Loud definitely demonstrates the capacity to learn and retain information. As in, he still responds to the same commands I use with Lily--"wait" (stop, stay there), "leave it" (pretty self-explanatory), and "let's go" (start moving). Which are basic commands that I have reflexively used since forever, with both dogs and horses. My oldest would argue that I use those with himself and his brothers, too.
The hens are good, the NPIP/AI FDA certified breeder from whom I'm picking up a dozen or so one to six day old CCL pullets is awesome, and the ladies are not sitting on chicken eggs any more. I've switched it up--the Linebacker is on either six or seven Silver Appleyard duck eggs, and then two other hens are on five Silver Appleyard duck eggs.
The Linebacker in particular is super not keen on me checking on the eggs, so I've just stopped. She doesn't leave the nest box very often--she'll run down, eat, drink, and then run back up into the coop, carefully arranging "her" eggs before going back to sitting. The other two hens, squashed in on top of the other five eggs, will leave together to do whatever hens do, walk around and gossip, IDK. The Linebacker becomes super agitated when the other eggs aren't under a hen, and she'll try to reach over and roll the eggs. She also "talks" to them, until the other hens return.
Should you wish to fall into the rabbit hole that is "heritage breed" poultry or waterfowl, here's the link to the Livestock Conservancy site: https://livestockconservancy.org/
Top Shot
I grew up loving the fireworks. It was always a six plus family kind of thing, with buckets of water staged fire extinguishers all over. There was probably drinking going on but the short version of me didn't notice.
We also had a self-imposed curfew of around 2200, so that everyone could go up on someone elses' deck and watch the now-history Ivar's Fourth of July fireworks display over Elliott Bay.
I don't know what has changed. Part of it has to be that people from other areas moved here, part of it has to be the "it's mine I'll do what I want" mindset. And GPS does us no favours; for a while I lived in sort of an island of unincorporated county . Thing is, before GPS was really a thing, there weren't many problems--the city banned fireworks, and nobody was super interested in a citation. Then GPS came along, and all of a sudden there were all-night fireworks and alcohol and other substances--to the point that would water down my roof and soak my yard.
I moved, and this was years ago, but yah. I voted "yes" because stupid people are going to be stupid. And I had the chance to see the stupid uncomfortably up close, when we, I, were/was still living in that area. Neighbour starts shooting off bottle rockets around 1700, drinking who knows what--beer and something out of keg kind of thing--and so as it got later, and more drunk people showed up, I sat in the corner of my yard--it was built on a hill, so I was overlooking the stupid people party.
I don't remember what time it was, or even why, I went down to street level with my Norman. Late, probably. All kinds of legal and wildly illegal fireworks, alcohol, and not a water bucket in sight. I'm standing on the corner with Norman, sort of assessing the sitch, and then I heard screaming. My dumbass drunk neighbour was holding a Roman candle kind of thing, and I was trying to figure out who was screaming, and then I saw dumbass drunk neighbour's hand. Or what was left of it. And he's still holding the fucking Roman candle thingy.
Long story short, this guy was not only so drunk that he didn't realise his hand was blown off (I'm avoiding graphic detail here) he also didn't notice that his shorts were on fire. And exactly zero people were doing anything to help him. Guy blows his hand off and sets himself on fire, and no one calls 911.
I ran at him full speed, no real plan except a) get rid of fire, fire bad and b) get rid of firework thingy, firework thingy bad. I tackled him, already had my EDC knife out, and cut off his shorts while rolling him--he dropped the Roman candle. Idiot was screaming about his pants. Anyway, I had him more or less pinned, not on fire, and tore off my blouse to wrap around what was left of his hand. Norman helped me, in the sense that he kept the guy on the ground.
Somebody called emergency services, I don't know when. Pretty sure it wasn't a good look when the first engine arrived; huge white ball of fur and teeth standing/lying over dumbass neighbour, me covered in blood with no blouse. I/we moved shortly thereafter, but yah, I'm absolutely fine with stringent controls on fireworks.
We also had a self-imposed curfew of around 2200, so that everyone could go up on someone elses' deck and watch the now-history Ivar's Fourth of July fireworks display over Elliott Bay.
I don't know what has changed. Part of it has to be that people from other areas moved here, part of it has to be the "it's mine I'll do what I want" mindset. And GPS does us no favours; for a while I lived in sort of an island of unincorporated county . Thing is, before GPS was really a thing, there weren't many problems--the city banned fireworks, and nobody was super interested in a citation. Then GPS came along, and all of a sudden there were all-night fireworks and alcohol and other substances--to the point that would water down my roof and soak my yard.
I moved, and this was years ago, but yah. I voted "yes" because stupid people are going to be stupid. And I had the chance to see the stupid uncomfortably up close, when we, I, were/was still living in that area. Neighbour starts shooting off bottle rockets around 1700, drinking who knows what--beer and something out of keg kind of thing--and so as it got later, and more drunk people showed up, I sat in the corner of my yard--it was built on a hill, so I was overlooking the stupid people party.
I don't remember what time it was, or even why, I went down to street level with my Norman. Late, probably. All kinds of legal and wildly illegal fireworks, alcohol, and not a water bucket in sight. I'm standing on the corner with Norman, sort of assessing the sitch, and then I heard screaming. My dumbass drunk neighbour was holding a Roman candle kind of thing, and I was trying to figure out who was screaming, and then I saw dumbass drunk neighbour's hand. Or what was left of it. And he's still holding the fucking Roman candle thingy.
Long story short, this guy was not only so drunk that he didn't realise his hand was blown off (I'm avoiding graphic detail here) he also didn't notice that his shorts were on fire. And exactly zero people were doing anything to help him. Guy blows his hand off and sets himself on fire, and no one calls 911.
I ran at him full speed, no real plan except a) get rid of fire, fire bad and b) get rid of firework thingy, firework thingy bad. I tackled him, already had my EDC knife out, and cut off his shorts while rolling him--he dropped the Roman candle. Idiot was screaming about his pants. Anyway, I had him more or less pinned, not on fire, and tore off my blouse to wrap around what was left of his hand. Norman helped me, in the sense that he kept the guy on the ground.
Somebody called emergency services, I don't know when. Pretty sure it wasn't a good look when the first engine arrived; huge white ball of fur and teeth standing/lying over dumbass neighbour, me covered in blood with no blouse. I/we moved shortly thereafter, but yah, I'm absolutely fine with stringent controls on fireworks.
Top Shot
Now Loud is a 100% outside all the time Very Normal Grown-Ass Rooster. As in, now he sleeps in the coop--in a nestbox, pulling bedding over himself and sleeping on his side. Plus the yelling/crowing "Good Morning" and "Loud's A Good Bird!!!" thing, all Extremely Normal Rooster behaviour.
As is the pecking at the patio door (off the formal dining room), or at the living room windows, because he doesn't like the rain and wants in. Very normal. As is his Trump-level inability to walk down a ramp without doing it either very slowly, or falling, or both. And his newly acquired "Good FUCKING Morning!!". Not quite as distinct as the others but give it a week.
No live chicks. The one Bielefelder hen, whom we call the Linebacker, did hatch two, both pullets (Cream Crested Legbar chickens are auto-sexing), both found dead--pretty common for a first time brood hen, but sort of devastating for myself and the Linebacker. She's on another batch now, but I am going to go to a local NPIP certified breeder in two weeks, pick up a dozen live CCL day old pullets regardless of how the Linebacker's new "eggs" hatch out.
Top Shot
I don't think so, and have been told as much. I'm a very dark brunette and don't have one freaking grey hair--and I do wish it were otherwise, for reasons.
Side note: d/t my being a tip of the spear frontline nurse, and therefore washing my hands probably 60 ish times per shift, plus hand sanitizer, plus PPE, my hands currently look to be those of an 80 y/o woman.
Side note: d/t my being a tip of the spear frontline nurse, and therefore washing my hands probably 60 ish times per shift, plus hand sanitizer, plus PPE, my hands currently look to be those of an 80 y/o woman.
Top Shot
Yes. Hence the formal dining room v. the dining area. I haven't held any entertaining events of any kind for over...yah, going on two years now, given my workplace and work demands concomitant with and amplified by the arrival of SARS2-nCoV-19, but yes.
I love the little details in setting a proper table, in making the house glow with scented candles and floral arrangements (see: profile/florist), love laying out the sterling silver utensils and serve ware, and the feel of history in the cut crystal salt cellars and the sterling silver napkin rings, bearing the crest of the RAF on the obverse and the winged caduceus on the reverse. Even the things that might go unnoticed, like pressed linen Scottish lace work mantle scarves, they're all a part of the joy of entertaining.
As to the actual food--that is left to my sons, for good reason. Unless it's specifically a Viet or Cambodian meal to be served, in which case I do the cooking. Otherwise, yah, I'm a shit cook, and so my boys have long since aced the art of planning, preparing and serving everything from a family meal to a multi-course meal.
My tasks are limited to selecting wines, ensuring that the liquor cabinet is stocked (my mum's one piece of good advice, ever: "Always keep a liquor cabinet, well-stocked, with bitters and garnishes, and a copy of the Bartender's Bible. No one will care if the lasagna is burnt if you can mix a solid martini."), and cleaning up.
Now that I've reclaimed my formal dining room from a certain Very Normal Rooster who still yell/crows "Good Morning" or if he sees me, "Loud's a GOOD BIRD", quite clearly instead of, you know, just crowing, it's kind of depressing. Dusted, scrubbed, cleaned, sparkling, and woefully unused.
I can't entertain--or won't, out of an abundance of caution d/t again, the nature of my work and the various emerging SARS2-nCoV-19 variants of concern (VOC), primarily still b.1.1.7, b.1.1.7+E484K, and b.1.351, here in the Lower Mainland/Pacific Northwest. There are other factors currently in play as well which will probably be a bit of a thing for a while.
I love the little details in setting a proper table, in making the house glow with scented candles and floral arrangements (see: profile/florist), love laying out the sterling silver utensils and serve ware, and the feel of history in the cut crystal salt cellars and the sterling silver napkin rings, bearing the crest of the RAF on the obverse and the winged caduceus on the reverse. Even the things that might go unnoticed, like pressed linen Scottish lace work mantle scarves, they're all a part of the joy of entertaining.
As to the actual food--that is left to my sons, for good reason. Unless it's specifically a Viet or Cambodian meal to be served, in which case I do the cooking. Otherwise, yah, I'm a shit cook, and so my boys have long since aced the art of planning, preparing and serving everything from a family meal to a multi-course meal.
My tasks are limited to selecting wines, ensuring that the liquor cabinet is stocked (my mum's one piece of good advice, ever: "Always keep a liquor cabinet, well-stocked, with bitters and garnishes, and a copy of the Bartender's Bible. No one will care if the lasagna is burnt if you can mix a solid martini."), and cleaning up.
Now that I've reclaimed my formal dining room from a certain Very Normal Rooster who still yell/crows "Good Morning" or if he sees me, "Loud's a GOOD BIRD", quite clearly instead of, you know, just crowing, it's kind of depressing. Dusted, scrubbed, cleaned, sparkling, and woefully unused.
I can't entertain--or won't, out of an abundance of caution d/t again, the nature of my work and the various emerging SARS2-nCoV-19 variants of concern (VOC), primarily still b.1.1.7, b.1.1.7+E484K, and b.1.351, here in the Lower Mainland/Pacific Northwest. There are other factors currently in play as well which will probably be a bit of a thing for a while.
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Quote by Ensorceled
I used to be pretty much 3rd person only, and was even bizarrely snobbish about it being somehow better than 1st person. A friend suggested I try 1st person, thinking I needed less distance from the reader. It's been a revelation! My last several stories have been first person (including the one posted here) and it's made me a better writer.
Okay, J., you were/are a better writer than most and definitely were/are a better writer than myself every damn day of the week, twice on Sundays.
Now, as to the question, I prefer to write in the the third person, although at least a couple, maybe most, of my stories are either first person or a sort of odd first/second person mix. Although Tension is by far the most read, and is a very thorough example of both my writing in the third person and my absolute inability to dismiss an inherent economy of words (read: I do well to submit a Flash of >750 words, total).
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Well, with me, with an official diagnosis of generalized anxiety disorder and major depressive disorder x at least 18 years, it's escitalopram (Lexapro) 20mg PO q24h, clonazepam (Klonopin) 1-2mg PO q12h, and alprazolam (Xanax) 2mg PRN. The latter I do not take often d/t my work.
I also have zolpidem 12.5mg (Ambien ER), to be taken PO PRN sleep, d/t my work schedule, but again, as under normal circumstances I have my entire 24h schedule reversed d/t working nights, I do not take it often.
I don't do any kind of talk therapy, as I learned long ago that my every answer to every question is invariably "I'm good. Next question."
That said, with both my oldest and youngest now diagnosed with the exact same diagnoses, responding to the exact same medications (the youngest does not tolerate benzodiazapine class meds, so still working on that, but otherwise the same), I can assure you that in some cases, including both of my affected sons, talk or behavioural cognitive therapy or whatever the fuck the talk therapy is called, definitely works when used in addition to medication, and more importantly, with the psychologist working with the psychiatrist.
And feelings? Yah, okay, yah, no. Those are not a thing, not for me, ever, and especially not right now. Doesn't mean they aren't a thing--just not a thing for me. I take care of shit first and then I document that shit and then I move on. It should also be noted that the word "feelings" should not be confused for the more empirical "caring".
Meaning that if someone within the scope of my authority, especially my sons, any of them, is threatened with danger/in danger/sick/whatever, well, you can choose to get behind me (sick) or choose to remove yourself from my path (threatened with/in danger), or I will assist you in removing yourself from my path.
As for dealing with stress by itself--not a thing, not for me.
I don't know how to explain that except by saying that in this era of a pandemic, plus idiots, plus the normal stress concomitant with working at a tertiary/quaternary hospital on a L&D/Antepartum unit that even pre-pandemic served the most critical patients/pregnancies from a five state region, yah. Pretty sure that if my own house caught fire, after verification that both younger sons and Lily/any fosters were evacuated and being treated, I would just sit down and call my insurer.
Probably not helpful, J. is way more helpful, but this is me answering you.
I also have zolpidem 12.5mg (Ambien ER), to be taken PO PRN sleep, d/t my work schedule, but again, as under normal circumstances I have my entire 24h schedule reversed d/t working nights, I do not take it often.
I don't do any kind of talk therapy, as I learned long ago that my every answer to every question is invariably "I'm good. Next question."
That said, with both my oldest and youngest now diagnosed with the exact same diagnoses, responding to the exact same medications (the youngest does not tolerate benzodiazapine class meds, so still working on that, but otherwise the same), I can assure you that in some cases, including both of my affected sons, talk or behavioural cognitive therapy or whatever the fuck the talk therapy is called, definitely works when used in addition to medication, and more importantly, with the psychologist working with the psychiatrist.
And feelings? Yah, okay, yah, no. Those are not a thing, not for me, ever, and especially not right now. Doesn't mean they aren't a thing--just not a thing for me. I take care of shit first and then I document that shit and then I move on. It should also be noted that the word "feelings" should not be confused for the more empirical "caring".
Meaning that if someone within the scope of my authority, especially my sons, any of them, is threatened with danger/in danger/sick/whatever, well, you can choose to get behind me (sick) or choose to remove yourself from my path (threatened with/in danger), or I will assist you in removing yourself from my path.
As for dealing with stress by itself--not a thing, not for me.
I don't know how to explain that except by saying that in this era of a pandemic, plus idiots, plus the normal stress concomitant with working at a tertiary/quaternary hospital on a L&D/Antepartum unit that even pre-pandemic served the most critical patients/pregnancies from a five state region, yah. Pretty sure that if my own house caught fire, after verification that both younger sons and Lily/any fosters were evacuated and being treated, I would just sit down and call my insurer.
Probably not helpful, J. is way more helpful, but this is me answering you.
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Quote by HeraTeleia
All of it. Probably the most difficult was filling out death certificates--I'm an L&D nurse, women don't just up and die on us. Early in the year, as I was filling out one of the first ones, a Reuters pool photographer caught a pic of me. My hair was tied up and I was sort of at an angle to the photographer, but what is stunning is what he captured--there were teardrops on the paper. And I don't cry.
I'm up to 203 certificates now, just me. I don't know why I keep track of the number, I just do. We are all human, but at the end of the day, we're just numbers and letters on paper, lives untold.
Update. 337 death certificates now. Again, all adult women, and that number is only what I myself have filled out. Mothers. And I failed to mention in my post last year that we are the designated tertiary/quaternary level L&D/Antepartum care unit for a five state region, including Alaska. We manage, or manage as well as the patient can be managed, patients who have something seriously wrong with their pregnancy, or something seriously wrong themselves (think solid organ transplant patients, or TOF patients, or Marfan's patients), or both. The latter is by far the most common. And this was before SARS2-nCoV-19 decided to pay the world a visit.
We have seen some shit, is what I am saying.
More on a positive note, our unit was, in partnership with the teaching hospitals of Harvard, Yale, and Emory, both the first university-affiliated hospital and the first university-affiliated unit to safely deliver an infant to a patient with active COVID-19. We changed, and are still changing through continuing studies, how pregnant women known to be infected with COVID-19 are managed, worldwide.
We are lucky, so lucky. We lost an aggregate total of only 19 L&D/Antepartum nurses and support staff out of a pool of probably 180. Other units, smaller and larger, lost many, many more. It should be noted that across the system, we lost nursing and support staff to things not d/t COVID-19 infection--suicide being a popular choice.
Now, as we head into the week of 6 June 2021, we have an influx of new nurses, right ahead of an expected surge of COVID-19 patients requiring hospitalization, and yes, it's a little rough. We are all damaged goods now, and that is what it is.
Also, if you are one of those people who think that things will return to "normal", next week or month or year, or just as soon as wherever you are reopens, well, here's the thing. There is no going back to November 2019. There is no return to what we had as our "normal". If you don't understand, or some idiot friend or family member doesn't understand, think of it like this: 2019 is 9/10/2001, and 2021 forward is 9/12/2001. Much simpler.
Side note: for whatever reason, and it's bizarre, just over 1/3 of my (mostly new) colleagues on nights are natural redheads. Second is natural blonde, and then gray (some former redheads in there, too), with natural very dark brunettes like myself coming in dead last. FFS, one of my Black colleagues has naturally red hair. Google that shit. It's a thing.
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Bien sûr.
Ha. No. He is outside 100% of the time now, unless he can run and hurl himself into his playpen when I'm not paying attention. My Bielefelder girls are currently sitting on 7, 9 total, Crested Cream Legbar eggs, Loud's breed, which is a breed of concern per the Livestock Conservancy.
Also, he tries--instinctively, presumably--to do that kick thing roosters do, plus the biting thing (see the the thread for pics of my forearm post-Loud encounter)--however, it's proving difficult to look like a Very Definitely Absolutely Normal rooster, because a) the girls, when not ignoring him, are actively rebuking him and b) now I just reach down or over, grab him, and tuck him under my right arm, and he immediately starts the cooing thing he's done since hatching, wanting a cuddle.
There's other things, like his falling off the ramp to the coop on the regular, and he's still sleeping on his back or side, only in a nestbox. Still pulls bedding over himsellf, like a Extremely Normal Grown-Ass rooster does. Or not.
Quote by LikeToWrite
The pleasure would be all mine. On a side note of interest, has Loud been behaving himself lately?
Ha. No. He is outside 100% of the time now, unless he can run and hurl himself into his playpen when I'm not paying attention. My Bielefelder girls are currently sitting on 7, 9 total, Crested Cream Legbar eggs, Loud's breed, which is a breed of concern per the Livestock Conservancy.
Also, he tries--instinctively, presumably--to do that kick thing roosters do, plus the biting thing (see the the thread for pics of my forearm post-Loud encounter)--however, it's proving difficult to look like a Very Definitely Absolutely Normal rooster, because a) the girls, when not ignoring him, are actively rebuking him and b) now I just reach down or over, grab him, and tuck him under my right arm, and he immediately starts the cooing thing he's done since hatching, wanting a cuddle.
There's other things, like his falling off the ramp to the coop on the regular, and he's still sleeping on his back or side, only in a nestbox. Still pulls bedding over himsellf, like a Extremely Normal Grown-Ass rooster does. Or not.
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Quote by sprite
we go our best to clean up stories, but in the long run, stories should be sent in with as few typoes, etc, as possible. that's on the author, not the mods.
This. Submit your story or poem in proper format, with proper spelling and grammar, and check, check, check it again and again before submission. If English is not your natural language, as with myself, get an APA style manual and a Whatever-English dictionary and Whatever-English grammar book, and try not to use idioms--they don't translate well in Google translate, even in super common languages like French and Spanish and Arabic. Feel free to reach out to any moderator and ask about English weirdnesses; odds are, with all of us spread worldwide, one of us will at least have a passing familiarity with your natural language.
Finally, if the story or poem is rejected, don't waste energy on berating the moderator--there will be a note attached to the rejection written by that moderator, and you would do well to read it and make the suggested corrections or changes. We are here to help, and telling us that we're just being mean or don't know a good story or poem when we see it is only going to slow the process and decrease the amount of help the moderator is going to give--we just don't have the bandwidth.*
*please note that I am not a story moderator, because reasons.
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Noll, sorry for the delay in response. I believe the wait is at least 15 minutes at all vaccination locations, no matter the vaccine, and I know that some providers require up to 45 minutes of observed wait time. I didn't see in my post where I mentioned an hour long observed wait, but that's neither here nor there. The observed wait time varies.
It's kind of like Gardasil 9, the HPV vaccine (and, incidentally, the only vaccine ever to hit 100% coverage, meaning it "takes" in everyone). For whatever reason, it can cause dizziness, lightheadedness and syncope. Patients are vaccinated, given apple juice and observed for at least 15 minutes). Anecdotally, in the case of vaccinations of my two older sons--no problems. Hopped off the exam table and strolled out every time. The youngest, though, did have syncope (fainting) with a controlled fall. I believe it was his third dose--like his brothers, he'd tolerated the first two doses fine.
With both their first and second doses of the Pfizer vaccine, they were given Quaker Soft and Chewy granola bars, sliced apple (prepacked) and apple juice. Both were fine, and they pocketed everything but the apple juice.
The message is this: If you have an egg allergy or a history with issues with vaccines, discuss this with your provider--I don't know that the "traditional" vector vaccines, the Janssen product and the Oxford/AstraZeneca product, are produced using chicken eggs, but I'd guess that they are produced in that manner. Otherwise, if you have the option, go for the Pfizer or Moderna mRNA products. And yes, the second dose of Moderna will kick your ass.
This isn't a reaction--it's that the Moderna product is essentially the actual virus, with a lipid coating. Pfizer removed/modified substantial chunks of the RNA of the virus; Moderna, to my understanding, removed/modifed only a very small amount of the virus. So when you receive the second dose, your body, having produced B- and T-cells (as opposed to antibodies, with the vector vaccines) that are specific to the SARS2-nCoV-19 virus, sees the second Moderna dose as the real virus and your immune system goes into full elephant-on-meth on the "virus." Which is a good thing.
However, in some individuals (including myself and perhaps 10 other nurses I work with), because the immune system thinks it is fighting off the real thing, causes your body to slow or stop production of anything "normal" , like red and white blood cells and instead starts producing "killer" T-cells as fast as possible. "Killer" T-cells are specific to the virus, and they are produced in the long bones, same as "normal" blood cells. In my case, since "killer" T-cells are produced over about seven days, almost to the hour, and in those long bones and ribs, not only did my upper arms (humeri), ribs and femurs hurt, literally bursting with "killer" T-cells, but I had very bizarre delayed fatigue. As in, I fell asleep the Friday morning a week after receiving the second vaccine--and didn't wake up for something like 26 hours.
This same thing happened, again in least 10 of my colleagues, and the bizarre sameness for all of us was that when we woke up, our bedding was totally undisturbed, as if we hadn't moved at all while asleep. The immune system essentially decides that nope, don't need higher cognition, we need to kill this fucker, and thus the sleep and the ensuing 24-48 hours of feeling like I was walking in Jello.
Again, this is a good thing, but yah, be prepared.
It's kind of like Gardasil 9, the HPV vaccine (and, incidentally, the only vaccine ever to hit 100% coverage, meaning it "takes" in everyone). For whatever reason, it can cause dizziness, lightheadedness and syncope. Patients are vaccinated, given apple juice and observed for at least 15 minutes). Anecdotally, in the case of vaccinations of my two older sons--no problems. Hopped off the exam table and strolled out every time. The youngest, though, did have syncope (fainting) with a controlled fall. I believe it was his third dose--like his brothers, he'd tolerated the first two doses fine.
With both their first and second doses of the Pfizer vaccine, they were given Quaker Soft and Chewy granola bars, sliced apple (prepacked) and apple juice. Both were fine, and they pocketed everything but the apple juice.
The message is this: If you have an egg allergy or a history with issues with vaccines, discuss this with your provider--I don't know that the "traditional" vector vaccines, the Janssen product and the Oxford/AstraZeneca product, are produced using chicken eggs, but I'd guess that they are produced in that manner. Otherwise, if you have the option, go for the Pfizer or Moderna mRNA products. And yes, the second dose of Moderna will kick your ass.
This isn't a reaction--it's that the Moderna product is essentially the actual virus, with a lipid coating. Pfizer removed/modified substantial chunks of the RNA of the virus; Moderna, to my understanding, removed/modifed only a very small amount of the virus. So when you receive the second dose, your body, having produced B- and T-cells (as opposed to antibodies, with the vector vaccines) that are specific to the SARS2-nCoV-19 virus, sees the second Moderna dose as the real virus and your immune system goes into full elephant-on-meth on the "virus." Which is a good thing.
However, in some individuals (including myself and perhaps 10 other nurses I work with), because the immune system thinks it is fighting off the real thing, causes your body to slow or stop production of anything "normal" , like red and white blood cells and instead starts producing "killer" T-cells as fast as possible. "Killer" T-cells are specific to the virus, and they are produced in the long bones, same as "normal" blood cells. In my case, since "killer" T-cells are produced over about seven days, almost to the hour, and in those long bones and ribs, not only did my upper arms (humeri), ribs and femurs hurt, literally bursting with "killer" T-cells, but I had very bizarre delayed fatigue. As in, I fell asleep the Friday morning a week after receiving the second vaccine--and didn't wake up for something like 26 hours.
This same thing happened, again in least 10 of my colleagues, and the bizarre sameness for all of us was that when we woke up, our bedding was totally undisturbed, as if we hadn't moved at all while asleep. The immune system essentially decides that nope, don't need higher cognition, we need to kill this fucker, and thus the sleep and the ensuing 24-48 hours of feeling like I was walking in Jello.
Again, this is a good thing, but yah, be prepared.
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I get women who are just minding their own damn business from door to a nice sterile room within 7 minutes. Also, I change clothes with my colleagues, sometimes stripping so fast that I lose lingerie. It's a thing.
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I'm cheap. And I believe in sweaters. So it's usually no higher than 64F, although sometimes I'll go up to 68F, maybe.