In English? Canadian. It's pretty soft, though, and it's more the words that I use that are distinctly not in the American English lexicon than anything else that gives me away.
In French? A weird amalgam of Québécois and a true French accent; my mother didn't want myself or my brother growing up with a straight Québécois accent, so she engaged a governess (nanny?) from Nice when we moved to the U.S. We both ended up with this sort of unidentifiable accent in French. Accents in France are super regional, so like three years ago, when my brother travelled to Tirana via Paris with his wife and my nephew, he was asked more than a few times what town/village/province he was from; he was presumed to be French, just not local
In Spanish? Canadian, or the amalgam described above. I do things like drop "e" at the end of a word, because in French, that letter isn't pronounced unless there's an accent over it. Portuguese, same deal, except that Portuguese legit gives me a headache. It's like the bastard child of Spanish and French.
Twelve. Ruth Bader Ginsburg, Andrew Jackson, Harper Lee, Edward Gibbons, Mary Todd Lincoln, Abraham Lincoln, Nina Simone, Upton Sinclair, Michael Ondaatje, Dian Fossey, Socrates, Alexander the Great.
You worthless horrid poor excuse for human beings bitches. Go ahead, tell me again how my very minor patient came to be pregnant while in your fucking custody. Tell me.
Tell me how she came to be given a medication to terminate the pregnancy, that beautiful little girl that died in utero at 30 fucking weeks gestation. A medication that isn't used outside of a hospital setting, period, full stop. And you or your colleagues told her it was "for the baby". You fucking bitches. You're protecting the , because reasons. You insisted on sitting in the room, so you could "take notes" (read: make sure my patient didn't say anything about how she came to be pregnant--again, in custody, with no visitors on account of having no family).
It's not like there weren't options--even sheriff's deputies and police officers sit outside of the patient's room, with a hospital "sitter" inside, to alert the attending and the patient's nurse to any effort at self harm. You. Are. Protecting. A. Rapist.
And yah, maybe we were a little brusque about removing you from the room. We didn't touch you, and G-d knows we wanted to lay hands on your evil ass. You weren't, and aren't, necessary--HIPAA applies to even minor patients, and we all knew why you (and then your oncoming colleagues) really wanted to be in the room. I'm not sorry that your short ass tripped on the way out the door. Oopsie. It happens. And fuck if any of us were bring you a tissue while you stood there whining and whimpering and smearing snot and blood from your nose on your cheek.
Pissing off nurses--and we really don't have the bandwidth anymore to feel anything about anyone, this is a special case--and especially pissing off three very tall nurses, might well result in your tripping. Such a tragedy.
If this is one where it went seriously wrong and brought Medic One to evacuate the patient, who was both confused ("the medication--I took it just like she told me to take it" and "I don't know what her name is going to be...I like your name") and fucking bleeding out, how many times have you given this medication to to terminate the pregnancies occurring d/t ? How many times? One hundred? Five? A thousand? You're supposed to be helping these girls, not aiding and abetting in their rapes.
This patient. She's not even...I can't. Just fuck you, fuck your family, I hope--very sincerely--that you suffer beyond imagination at some point in your wretched lives.
Violet--the one chick to hatch out of however many I put in the incubator in the beginning--passed away in my hands Saturday morning. I'm so sorry.
Welp. Here we are, six to seven days away from the possible hatching of 0-4 CCL chicks, and...yup, Loud has managed to both up his "the fuck are you doing?" quotient and his asshole quotient.
I've been trying to move him outside all week, and this morning, he ran straight out the patio door...yay! That was immediately followed by no! LOUD! NO! because dumbass threatened breed full grown rooster ran directly across the patio and into the ladies' coop run.
Then, because he is exactly that smart, he couldn't figure out how to go up the ramp and into the coop, falling off twice before giving up. The ladies moved fast, trapping his idiot self in the run, under the coop, until I came out and shooed the ladies away, allowing Loud to go running off in his Forrest Gump-like high kick bizarre style. So that's the "the fuck are you doing" quotient.
He's now taken, since he still doesn't understand that he's a chicken, to either sitting by the patio doors and pecking at the glass while yelling "Loud's a good bird!" when he wants in. Which is all the damn time. I know, my fault, but also Google, which is full of information about why you shouldn't have a chicken as a pet, and has very little information on how to convince a chicken NOT to be a pet.
And this afternoon/evening, when a hard rain started up, Ruth (the Barnevelder hen) rounded up the rest of the ladies and they all sat on the patio furniture under cover. Ruth is easily around half of the other (Bielefelder) ladies' size, but she definitely runs the show. Pretty sure that when she is ready to go to bed, and standing in the coop door yelling, it's not nice--more like "Bitches! Bedtime!".
So she (Ruth) is yelling at Loud, but you can almost see the confusion and disappointment on her face. Rather than do whatever Ruth was wanting him to do, Loud runs to the low overhang from the living room windows. Then he sits there, making his little cooing sounds that he makes when he wants to be picked up, and periodically pecking at the glass until someone goes out and retrieves his sorry ass.
I can't take away his playpen, I've given up on a hasty move outside, so today I ordered another Insta-Brooder from Incubator Warehouse.
Keeping my fingers crossed, hoping for a couple of female chicks.
Maybe. Dancing while maintaining social distancing and wearing PPE is surely a wee bit difficult, but whatever. Let's go.
Yah, no. No. And I definitely for sure looked for it.
I don't know how this is even a question. Three easy steps: Click on linky for the Platinum membership. Click on PayPal linky. Click on "Pay Now". Boom, you have a shiny new badge.
Revisiting this topic because all of the things that I thought mattered prior to the pandemic, don't matter at all.
My in-kind donations (time and labour) have dropped substantially, with the exception of Fire/OEM/SAR availability. Well, that's not even a donation, technically, since I am paid for some X hours of my work. Small things like City Hall, where Fire is headquartered, being vacant since about April means we've been working out of an unheated industrial warehouse building, our shiny sparkly Emergency Operations Command Centre gathering dust.
Still donate money monthly to the previously noted organizations (ACLU, RAICES, MSF/DWB, etc.) but in some places my monthly donation has increased. So where I was previously donating an aggregate amount of about USD$2000/month, it's more like USD$6000/month now. I've added some organizations--especially those serving displaced mothers, without taking away from the others.
*MSF=Médecins Sans Frontières=Doctors Without Borders=DWB
Happy belated birthday, Chris.
Update: Loud is still firmly opposed to going outside. Also, he's a goofball, which I already knew. I took him outside to talk with the girls and he sprinted away, with this weird high-kick run, towards the bushes. I brought him back inside. \
I can't remember is I mentioned that I bought eight CCL eggs in the hopes of producing my own flock for Loud. Even Murray McMurray (IA) Hatchery can't guarantee the availability of day old CCL chicks, so I was going alternate. Nope, all eight eggs--and the peeps inside--died, sometime prior to day 14 but after day 8. It's kind of awful to candle an egg that only a couple of days before showed distinct signs of growth, and instead see a "blood ring", a sign of the peep's death.
Anyway, on the bright side, one of the girls was making a racket outside just a bit ago and I finally went out to see what was up, after Lily came back in--which she wouldn't do if there was an actual threat--and the fussing continued. Four eggs! Still warm!! One was on the patio table, another on a chair, and the other two in the coop. So that makes me happy.
I do think that there might be a reason Crested Cream Legbar chickens are a dying breed, despite being an old breed. They just don't do well with human intervention. Murray McMurray can tell you, to the day, when chicks will be available and the sex of the chicks anticipated to be available, on probably 90% of their day old chicks. Nope. Not CCL chicks.
In my house? Right now? A Diptyque Tuberose candle. Last week though it was all prayer candles to St. Michael, here and elsewhere, for reasons. At Christmas, though, I love those WoodWick candles.
Silver, specifically sterling (900 or better). Amethyst(s). Mistletoe--plant, water in which mistletoe leaves have been boiled, or concentrated oil. Lavender (living plant). Tea roses or rose petals in specific colours.
An evil eye amulet (mati, nazar, mal de ocho), preferably several and preferably blue, on a sterling silver bracelet or necklace--depending on the culture, sterling silver may be replaced with high karat gold (the one I wear, a bracelet, is very antique, and is 19k gold). Also, hamsa or the Hand of Fatima, sometimes incorporating an evil eye amulet, pretty much the same as the evil eye, with different cultures believing the hamsa to have different protective powers, depending on a million different things, ranging from colour and composition to orientation and protective prayers written on the hamsa.
"Haint blue", a Southern U.S. thing, and sort of a catch-all protection on your house, against "lost souls" (ghosts), demons, evil spirits, werewolves, vampires, and pretty much anything else lurking in the thick of the dark.
Oh, and the Cross of Lorraine. I do not know what protective powers that particular version of the cross imbues to the wearer, but my grandmother wore a small one as a pendant when she and a hundred-odd other Canadian nurses were hastily attached to the British battalion tasked with the liberation of Bergen-Belsen. She believed that the Cross of Lorraine gave strength to the wearer and sort of acted as protective halo, or something similar. I have it now, and still carry it, on occasion (and most definitely during the past 18 months, give or take a few months).
Congratulations to the awardees, and WSCLG, if I haven't mentioned it lately, you're awesome. xxJennifer
