Becca's Blog

One of those aha moments.

I was just catching up on podcasts, and listening to an old Science Friday episode about hominid fossils. I've always been somewhat interested in anthropology, and someday I'd like to have a decent grasp of the scope of human evolution (that is, how long have we actually been here?). It seems like it's a straightforward fact that I should be able to just learn, but it's slippery, and I can't conceptualize it.

This podcast actually helped me a bit to put into context all the "x million" and "x-ty thousand years ago" numbers that get attached to Lucy and Artie, and all the other fossil remnants of our ancestors. The guest expert mentioned (casually, as if it were an obvious point) that there have been many hominid species: Neanderthals, homo erectus, australopithecus, and plenty more. First little zing of an aperçu: Oh. Homo sapiens is a species like golden eagles and redtails are species. I love reminders that we people are just animals. And I like that we (homo sapiens, that is) aren't solitary or unique; we're part of a big family, and we used to have a lot of relatives.

As the interview continues, the expert describes how homo sapiens moved into territories and extirpated the other hominid species wherever they migrated to. Then the full realization dawns on me: Homo sapiens is an invasive species, like cowbirds and mitten crabs and thistles. We aren't the chosen species—we just won, a long time ago.

It's kind of obvious once yout think about it. I just appreciate that we are no better, or necessarily worse, than any other species. We do have unequaled power to wreak havoc, which is very unfortunate. It's good that we also have the power to control our environment-destroying tendencies, if we will.

And nature lovers tend to get all judgey and hostile about invasive species like house sparrows and starlings, but we're no better. I really like that idea.

Doggy disinfection desired.

I'm tempted to slip a little hydrogen peroxide into the dogs' water bowl because of something Ethel did on our walk this morning. She disappeared into some bushes completely when my back was turned and didn't respond to calls or whistles. Really, I was standing right in front of these bushes looking, and I couldn't see her. When I was good and panicked about spending the day searching for a lost dog she emerged from the bushes--with poop, probably human, on her lips. So she just lost all off-leash privileges, and I dislike homeless people just a little bit more.

There are no chihuahuas in this house.

Sure, there is a rat-chi (rat terrier + chihuahua):

 

And there is a chiweenie (chihuahua + dachshund):

And a chug (chihuahua + pug):

 

And a german shepherd + kelpie pack leader:

But there are absolutely no purebred chihuahuas here.

Meet Ethel.

And Lucy.

 

They came from Muttville, a senior dog rescue based in San Francisco, in early April. We are adjusting to having four dogs pretty well, although walking all of them together is quite the circus. They like it, though—they identify as a pack and they like to be all together.  It's pretty amusing to watch us come down the street, and we've almost certainly cemented our neighborhood rep as crazy ladies.

Coffee and Ethel are both in obedience classes right now, so it's pretty much all dog interaction, all the time.

White blood cells working overtime.

... and dying for the cause.

Last week I caught a quite virulent cold and was miserable for a couple of days (if you follow me on Twitter you know how much I whined). I've felt significantly better since the weekend, but I'm still throwing off toxic snot like you wouldn't believe.

Karma la bitch.

At my very first job out of college (which was awful—Dickensian, even—I lasted 11 weeks), I was so disdainful of the evil middle-aged proprietress. I feared and hated her for other reasons, but I disdained her because for lunch every day she would bring an enormous, multilayered salad packed in a Tupperware container. It reinforced the belief I first had in college: Diets are for prissy bitches.

Well, 23 years on, here I am, packing my reusable lunch bag with a big ol' multilayered salad in a recycled-plastic, reusable container.

Sigh.

Sad day.

I was all ready to compose a triumphant post about persistence paying off, being the mistress of the hunt, yada, yada. Yesterday morning I caught Big Daddy, the older tomcat who probably sired the rest of our feral pack. I've wanted to get him fixed because I do think he's responsible for lots of our neighborhood's strays. He's been around off and on for several years, and he usually gives me that cat steady stare and blink. And I blink back at him, because we know each other. This year I've been telling him that he doesn't look so good, he should come in from the cold, settle down and become semi-civilized. Lately he's sort of been doing that--showing up for breakfast, hanging out with the other three, and sleeping in the sun. So I was able to trap him.

This morning we headed off to my usual vet clinic, which fixed the mom and two kittens last summer. The new vet suggested that this one be tested for FLV/FIV but said the choice to test or not was up to me. Of course I said yes, because I always want to do the proper thing.

And he came back positive for FIV. The vet and I agreed that the proper thing to do was put him down, so he won't infect other cats, and he won't eventually die of pneumonia on the street. But it feels bad.

Ageless — yeah, right.

Above is the aftermath of the big book I just finished proofreading (photo taken with my new cameraphone — I finally got one). Eraser dust everywhere and dictionaries piled on the floor. I'm relieved to have it done (partly because my full-time job has gotten a bit hectic), although in reading the book (a travel guide to France) I learned some new things and got to use my education in French. (Look ma, I'm using my degree!)

"What do you do with a BA in English?" is one of the first big laugh lines in Avenue Q, which Jane and I saw last Saturday, as one of my birthday presents. It was cute and amusing, particularly if you grew up watching Sesame Street, as I did. Before the show we had dinner at CAV wine bar near the Castro. The food was pretty good (high spots: grilled nectarine/goat cheese bruschetta and coffee pot de creme with hot cinnamon beignets) and the wines were mostly very good. Prices were not bad, but it's not cheap. We were seated in the back, but the action is up at the bar (and I mean girl-meets-girl action). Many moneyed and young, sleekly dressed ladies. Made me decide that my cute outfit was actually dorky. At the theatre, I really began to feel like a country mouse (many fancy outfits from Bloomingdales, not my style but much more au courant than mine — I just felt a little bit tattered). Although I start up the "I don't fit in" internal monologue whenever I'm in a crowd, the sartorial life lessons I decided to take away from the evening are these:
a) When I think I can get dressed in under a half-hour and look polished and put together, I am fooling myself.
b) My mother's advice about being able to wear classic, well-made clothing forever is wrong.
c) Corollary to b: Saving clothes for special occasions is a waste. I have a tendency to buy pretty clothes that I love but that belong to some life full of formal meetings and garden parties that I don't live. (I prefer not to think about the clothes I'm saving until I fit into them.) I put them away in my closet and take them out once every 18 to 24 months, wear them on special occasions, and realize I've done what my mother does when she puts on that patchwork velvet long skirt (the holiday skirt, you know). I have no idea when she bought it—it's ageless (yeah, right).

From here on out I am going to seize the day. If I feel like wearing the fringed nubuck wrap skirt out for coffee, I will damn well do it. I will wear the white cotton suit to work, by gosh. And when their time is over, I will let go of them without regret. Not only that, I'll buy cheap, trendy clothes if I like them, and let them go when their moment is over. So there.

Of course, 25 days out of 30 I will still take 5 minutes to put on a t-shirt from Target and some cheap jeans that don't really fit. I'm old enough to realize that I might be able to change a little bit, but fundamentally I'm still the same.

Mini feral kitty update.

Our backyard is their rumpus room ... I watched mom and both kittens chasing and play-fighting, and using the lemon tree as a cat toy the other morning. And when I headed out for work yesterday morning, two small kittens were lounging in the sun, giving themselves leisurely baths on the roof of the neighbor's shed. And it seems that every time we walk out to the backyard, a head pokes up and looks expectantly at us for food.

So I think they're here to stay.

Kind of a cattery.

Again, we have some guests of the wild-animal variety.

Early this week I trapped and fixed a feral mom cat and her two kittens. The kittens were barely old enough to be fixed and too young to be vaccinated. All of them are doing fine; right now they're living in the garage, but they will all be released back into the yard together this weekend.

Where's my damn tiara?

Off to the Pride Run this morning for a nice 5k before breakfast.

Then maybe coffee and knitting in the city for a bit--I haven't been to Samovar Tea Room yet. And I have earned myself a mani-pedi (I hit a weight-loss milestone last week, and have been trying since not to bounce back up). So I might do that before I head home to tackle yardwork, housework, and work work.

Jane and I talked a bit yesterday about going to the Dyke March tonight, but odds are pretty good that we won't feel like going back into the city.