naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Bloodreds)

Ancient fossil find: This snake could eat a cow! - Yahoo! News


Vertebra of an adult Green Anaconda (Eunectes murinus), dwarfed by a vertebra of Titanoboa cerrejonensis.


NEW YORK – Never mind the 40-foot snake that menaced Jennifer Lopez in the 1997 movie "Anaconda." Not even Hollywood could match a new discovery from the ancient world. Fossils from northeastern Colombia reveal the biggest snake ever discovered: a behemoth that stretched 42 to 45 feet long, reaching more than 2,500 pounds.

"This thing weighs more than a bison and is longer than a city bus," enthused snake expert Jack Conrad of the American Museum of Natural History in New York, who was familiar with the find.

"It could easily eat something the size of a cow. A human would just be toast immediately."

"If it tried to enter my office to eat me, it would have a hard time squeezing through the door," reckoned paleontologist Jason Head of the University of Toronto Missisauga.

Actually, the beast probably munched on ancient relatives of crocodiles in its rainforest home some 58 million to 60 million years ago, he said.

The discoverers of the snake named it Titanoboa cerrejonensis ("ty-TAN-o-BO-ah sare-ah-HONE-en-siss"). That means "titanic boa from Cerrejon," the region where it was found.


I believe they have found [livejournal.com profile] yuki_onna's Equally Large Boa.

I love fossils.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Bloodreds)

Ancient fossil find: This snake could eat a cow! - Yahoo! News


Vertebra of an adult Green Anaconda (Eunectes murinus), dwarfed by a vertebra of Titanoboa cerrejonensis.


NEW YORK – Never mind the 40-foot snake that menaced Jennifer Lopez in the 1997 movie "Anaconda." Not even Hollywood could match a new discovery from the ancient world. Fossils from northeastern Colombia reveal the biggest snake ever discovered: a behemoth that stretched 42 to 45 feet long, reaching more than 2,500 pounds.

"This thing weighs more than a bison and is longer than a city bus," enthused snake expert Jack Conrad of the American Museum of Natural History in New York, who was familiar with the find.

"It could easily eat something the size of a cow. A human would just be toast immediately."

"If it tried to enter my office to eat me, it would have a hard time squeezing through the door," reckoned paleontologist Jason Head of the University of Toronto Missisauga.

Actually, the beast probably munched on ancient relatives of crocodiles in its rainforest home some 58 million to 60 million years ago, he said.

The discoverers of the snake named it Titanoboa cerrejonensis ("ty-TAN-o-BO-ah sare-ah-HONE-en-siss"). That means "titanic boa from Cerrejon," the region where it was found.


I believe they have found [livejournal.com profile] yuki_onna's Equally Large Boa.

I love fossils.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Tootsie Pops!)
Had a vet trip today. Medea, our red-tailed boa, had something wrong with her mouth, so we took her in to have it checked out. Good thing, too, because it turns out she's broken her lower jaw.

We don't know how it happened. Usually, this sort of thing is caused by prey animals biting the crap out of the snake, which is why our snakes eat only dead, thawed rats. She is a vigorous and aggressive striker. She must have hit the feeding tongs or struck the dead rat exactly wrong or something, we don't know. We both feel pretty awful about it. I mean, it's not like we did anything wrong or stupid, it's just dumb luck, like shutting your finger in the door or stepping on your cat's tail, but still . . . the poor girl.

It was a rather nasty fracture, too, so we couldn't just leave it to heal on its own. The vet had to sedate her and wire the bone back together. Now it's several weeks of keeping her clean and hydrated and feeding her the tiniest food possible. Poor thing. She'll recover, I'm not really worried about that, but . . . well . . . I worry anyway.

She is convalescing comfortably in a closed bin where nothing can bother her, and we even have pain meds to give her so she won't hurt quite as much. We're debating at this point whether elevating her temperature would help prevent infection or just encourage her to move around and nose at things and possibly aggravate the injury. I might call the vet tomorrow to ask.

The vet is calling on Monday to check on her anyway, and she will have to go in a month from now for another set of X-rays. I don't really mind that because boy, are snake X-rays ever cool. I'll bring my camera next time and get pictures, or just ask to borrow the slides. I could look at X-rays all day.

Anyway, good healing mojo is much appreciated. She's a tough snake, but this can't be fun for her, and, well, I mentioned I worry, right?

The fun news is that I had meant to sell off a bunch of artwork over the next couple of weeks anyway, so that will help offset the vet bills. Keep your eyes on this space! I'll start posting stuff for sale on Etsy or eBay once I've got good pictures of all of it. There's some really beautiful stuff that didn't sell in the Conestoga art show, and it's all pretty inexpensive, too.

Right now, I'm going to go downstairs and paint, and then probably go to bed. Today sort of sucked, what with a sick snake and vet bills and an overcrowded grocery store and construction all over town and traffic and asshole drivers and being stuck in the car in the 104-degree heat. Tomorrow is supposed to be 105.

Fuck, I hate summer.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Tootsie Pops!)
Had a vet trip today. Medea, our red-tailed boa, had something wrong with her mouth, so we took her in to have it checked out. Good thing, too, because it turns out she's broken her lower jaw.

We don't know how it happened. Usually, this sort of thing is caused by prey animals biting the crap out of the snake, which is why our snakes eat only dead, thawed rats. She is a vigorous and aggressive striker. She must have hit the feeding tongs or struck the dead rat exactly wrong or something, we don't know. We both feel pretty awful about it. I mean, it's not like we did anything wrong or stupid, it's just dumb luck, like shutting your finger in the door or stepping on your cat's tail, but still . . . the poor girl.

It was a rather nasty fracture, too, so we couldn't just leave it to heal on its own. The vet had to sedate her and wire the bone back together. Now it's several weeks of keeping her clean and hydrated and feeding her the tiniest food possible. Poor thing. She'll recover, I'm not really worried about that, but . . . well . . . I worry anyway.

She is convalescing comfortably in a closed bin where nothing can bother her, and we even have pain meds to give her so she won't hurt quite as much. We're debating at this point whether elevating her temperature would help prevent infection or just encourage her to move around and nose at things and possibly aggravate the injury. I might call the vet tomorrow to ask.

The vet is calling on Monday to check on her anyway, and she will have to go in a month from now for another set of X-rays. I don't really mind that because boy, are snake X-rays ever cool. I'll bring my camera next time and get pictures, or just ask to borrow the slides. I could look at X-rays all day.

Anyway, good healing mojo is much appreciated. She's a tough snake, but this can't be fun for her, and, well, I mentioned I worry, right?

The fun news is that I had meant to sell off a bunch of artwork over the next couple of weeks anyway, so that will help offset the vet bills. Keep your eyes on this space! I'll start posting stuff for sale on Etsy or eBay once I've got good pictures of all of it. There's some really beautiful stuff that didn't sell in the Conestoga art show, and it's all pretty inexpensive, too.

Right now, I'm going to go downstairs and paint, and then probably go to bed. Today sort of sucked, what with a sick snake and vet bills and an overcrowded grocery store and construction all over town and traffic and asshole drivers and being stuck in the car in the 104-degree heat. Tomorrow is supposed to be 105.

Fuck, I hate summer.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Bloodreds)
Oh, my God. Talk about your crap couple of days, man.

I really need to take a vacation to, like, Mars or something. Someplace where the guys are all hunky and noble and the girls are all red and scantily-clad, and the dogs are really, really ugly. Oh, and where you don't have to mow your lawn, because your lawn is made of fungus.

It's nothing huge or obvious or even really all that bad, it's just . . . crap. This is Life, and Dealing With Life. And it's not really very much fun, all things considered.

So, in the grand tradition of that vengeful fourth-grader, Life, snapping a rubber band on your nuts when you're not expecting it, I had a weekend full of unanticipated and yet very moving pain.

First was Sunday Lunch With The Family.

It was my granddad's 90th birthday party. I really wanted to go, but was full of trepidation at running the gauntlet of kidlets. We wound up short by four, though, meaning there were only five there. And they were (by and large) wee paragons of virtue, so I have no complaints.

That wasn't what upset me. It was that for the first time we were all sitting around together and Mom wasn't there. I almost quit eating halfway through. I always thought that old line about "food turning to ashes in her mouth" was just a hack phrase trotted out to elicit a response. But as it happens, it's true.

I comforted myself by playing with my food -- our entrees came with alphabet-shaped tater tots which I busily rearranged to spell profanities. Sadly, I neglected to bring our camera. Not that it would have saved me from the crushing avalanche of ennui, but at least I would have a record of the very large "OH BITCH FUCK" I managed to construct atop a decorative frill of lettuce. I was going for "OH BITCHCAKES" but lacked an "A" for the win.

The rest of the day was spent in high-powered brooding, briefly leavened by some Horatio Horblower, but while I was watching and painting, I thought to myself "This box is going to be awesome, and once it's done I really ought to show it to Mom."

Oh bitch fuck, indeed.

Melancholia be damned, I dreamed about snuggling a pirate Wentworth Miller last night, and so I thought I was doing better today.

Alas.

While cleaning cages, I discovered that one of my snakes had died. The one in the icon, in point of fact; Awen; one of my prized pair of bloodred corn snakes that I have raised since they were wee little worms and in whose beauty I took such simple joy.

Now, we've lost several snakes in the last year. One died of what I do believe was simple old age, and another was due to a pernicious condition we could never alleviate. Three others were more disturbing, though, of the "Yesterday they were fine and eating, now they're stone dead!" variety, where an apparently healthy animal just drops dead overnight. Awen is just the latest in a string of fatalities I have been helpless to prevent, since my vet can't find anything wrong with our live snakes, even those kept in the same cage as the ones that have died. Awen has also been the healthiest of all of them -- he was a fat, apparently healthy animal with glossy skin, a healthy appetite, and plenty of energy.

I'm so . . . benumbed that I can't even bring myself to cry about it. At this point, it just seems like another hellish and confusing shock, meant to break me down to my component emotional atoms.

So I've channeled all my tooth-grinding histrionics into painting, which seems about as intellectually demanding a pursuit as I can manage, and I am now halfway through the top panel of a new box. That is, for the record, only about 1/12 complete, but I take my victories where I can get them. And let me tell you, this one is bad ass. So incredibly bad ass. I'll post pictures of a bunch of these when I'm done.

Some levity was supplied, though, by my mailperson. So thank you to [livejournal.com profile] flameelf for the generous package of scent-porn and Pocky, and to [livejournal.com profile] snowfox090 for same. It's a really great pick-me-up to get stuff in the mail, especially when I've gone and forgotten it's coming to me.

Sometimes, the forgetful thing is pretty damn cool.

Now, if I could just manage to forget everything else, we'd have a deal.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Bloodreds)
Oh, my God. Talk about your crap couple of days, man.

I really need to take a vacation to, like, Mars or something. Someplace where the guys are all hunky and noble and the girls are all red and scantily-clad, and the dogs are really, really ugly. Oh, and where you don't have to mow your lawn, because your lawn is made of fungus.

It's nothing huge or obvious or even really all that bad, it's just . . . crap. This is Life, and Dealing With Life. And it's not really very much fun, all things considered.

So, in the grand tradition of that vengeful fourth-grader, Life, snapping a rubber band on your nuts when you're not expecting it, I had a weekend full of unanticipated and yet very moving pain.

First was Sunday Lunch With The Family.

It was my granddad's 90th birthday party. I really wanted to go, but was full of trepidation at running the gauntlet of kidlets. We wound up short by four, though, meaning there were only five there. And they were (by and large) wee paragons of virtue, so I have no complaints.

That wasn't what upset me. It was that for the first time we were all sitting around together and Mom wasn't there. I almost quit eating halfway through. I always thought that old line about "food turning to ashes in her mouth" was just a hack phrase trotted out to elicit a response. But as it happens, it's true.

I comforted myself by playing with my food -- our entrees came with alphabet-shaped tater tots which I busily rearranged to spell profanities. Sadly, I neglected to bring our camera. Not that it would have saved me from the crushing avalanche of ennui, but at least I would have a record of the very large "OH BITCH FUCK" I managed to construct atop a decorative frill of lettuce. I was going for "OH BITCHCAKES" but lacked an "A" for the win.

The rest of the day was spent in high-powered brooding, briefly leavened by some Horatio Horblower, but while I was watching and painting, I thought to myself "This box is going to be awesome, and once it's done I really ought to show it to Mom."

Oh bitch fuck, indeed.

Melancholia be damned, I dreamed about snuggling a pirate Wentworth Miller last night, and so I thought I was doing better today.

Alas.

While cleaning cages, I discovered that one of my snakes had died. The one in the icon, in point of fact; Awen; one of my prized pair of bloodred corn snakes that I have raised since they were wee little worms and in whose beauty I took such simple joy.

Now, we've lost several snakes in the last year. One died of what I do believe was simple old age, and another was due to a pernicious condition we could never alleviate. Three others were more disturbing, though, of the "Yesterday they were fine and eating, now they're stone dead!" variety, where an apparently healthy animal just drops dead overnight. Awen is just the latest in a string of fatalities I have been helpless to prevent, since my vet can't find anything wrong with our live snakes, even those kept in the same cage as the ones that have died. Awen has also been the healthiest of all of them -- he was a fat, apparently healthy animal with glossy skin, a healthy appetite, and plenty of energy.

I'm so . . . benumbed that I can't even bring myself to cry about it. At this point, it just seems like another hellish and confusing shock, meant to break me down to my component emotional atoms.

So I've channeled all my tooth-grinding histrionics into painting, which seems about as intellectually demanding a pursuit as I can manage, and I am now halfway through the top panel of a new box. That is, for the record, only about 1/12 complete, but I take my victories where I can get them. And let me tell you, this one is bad ass. So incredibly bad ass. I'll post pictures of a bunch of these when I'm done.

Some levity was supplied, though, by my mailperson. So thank you to [livejournal.com profile] flameelf for the generous package of scent-porn and Pocky, and to [livejournal.com profile] snowfox090 for same. It's a really great pick-me-up to get stuff in the mail, especially when I've gone and forgotten it's coming to me.

Sometimes, the forgetful thing is pretty damn cool.

Now, if I could just manage to forget everything else, we'd have a deal.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Snakemas)
I changed the background picture on my journal just a little bit. If you don't see the change, hit reload to clear the old image out and get the new one. Not a big change, but I felt like being a bit festive, you know?

And to make up for the woeful lack of content, I now present gratuitously cute pictures of my corn snakes crawling in a giant pile of ribbons!

Enjoy!

Ophiophobes can just walk on by. )



Despite them being "just boring old cornsnakes" and really common in the hobby, I love them because they're so friendly and gentle. I've raised all of them from wee little efts.

Since someone will probably ask, no, I didn't color-correct these pictures. They really are that pretty in good light.

Robin is the normal-phase orange and taffy colored snake, and I've had him since he was little enough to curl up in a bottlecap. Awen and Immrama are my pair of bloodreds, they're siblings. I can't tell them apart in pictures, only in person. Imé has a touch of breeder butt, if you know what I mean, from a mistaken mating when she was too young to know any better. I don't know if she mated with her brother or with Robin or with both. At any rate, the little tramp is now in her own digs, and not sharing space with the Perv Brigade.

I now leave you to the rest of your f-lists.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Snakemas)
I changed the background picture on my journal just a little bit. If you don't see the change, hit reload to clear the old image out and get the new one. Not a big change, but I felt like being a bit festive, you know?

And to make up for the woeful lack of content, I now present gratuitously cute pictures of my corn snakes crawling in a giant pile of ribbons!

Enjoy!

Ophiophobes can just walk on by. )



Despite them being "just boring old cornsnakes" and really common in the hobby, I love them because they're so friendly and gentle. I've raised all of them from wee little efts.

Since someone will probably ask, no, I didn't color-correct these pictures. They really are that pretty in good light.

Robin is the normal-phase orange and taffy colored snake, and I've had him since he was little enough to curl up in a bottlecap. Awen and Immrama are my pair of bloodreds, they're siblings. I can't tell them apart in pictures, only in person. Imé has a touch of breeder butt, if you know what I mean, from a mistaken mating when she was too young to know any better. I don't know if she mated with her brother or with Robin or with both. At any rate, the little tramp is now in her own digs, and not sharing space with the Perv Brigade.

I now leave you to the rest of your f-lists.
naamah_darling: A gray cat with a white chin squinting as though she smells food. (Fish)
I'm sitting on my bed today, trying to have a serious conversation with my husband, when Fish comes in.

I should tell you that Fish is, as cats go, quite clever, and her favorite pastime is watching our snakes, especially those in floor-level cages. She is a hunter by nature, and spent months as a wild kitty, so she is more than capable of killing and eating a measly snake. She is sure of this, and insists on proving it on any shed skins she happens to find.

This is somewhat reciprocal. Many of the larger snakes, though far, far too small to eat anything Fish-sized, are still quite capable of causing cat death, and seem equally fascinated by her.

So we're sitting there and Fish walks by the cage to the right of the bed, and Persephone pokes her snaky head out of the hidebox because she sees the motion. Fish instantly lies down and starts staring in fascination at the big albino snake thing. She has locked eyes with Persephone, who has poked about a foot out of her box and is staring back. Fish does not move.

She stares.

And stares.

And stares.

And stares.

After a while, Fish's tail begins to lash. She yawns, then yawns again. Anyone who knows cats and dogs knows that a yawn is often a disguised "Goddammit, I don't know what to DO!"

Despite growing agitation, she will not look away. Persephone, undisturbed, will not look away.

By this point Sargon and I are watching in silent fascination.

The tail-lashing grows stronger, thwacking against a pile of books. Fish starts waving her paws around on the floor in helpless frustration, the way an uncomfortable person will claw at the arms of their chair. She shifts her hindquarters back and forth three times, four. She stares. Her ears go back. She STARES. The tail is whipping back and forth like a hooked worm, and she STAAARES!

Persephone stares back.

At last, Fish deliberately turns her head away as if to say "Bitch! You mean nothing to me."

After shunning the snake for ten seconds, Fish peers over one shoulder and sees that Persephone is STILL STARING. Fish's ears, which had returned to their upright position in a display of faux nonchalance, immediately slap back. She recoils, then trots out of the room with an offended look on her face.

My husband calls some helpful advice after her, supplying the moral for the whole little Aesop's Fable. "You can't win a staring contest with an animal that has NO EYELIDS!"

The sentiment just struck me as hysterically funny, and I've been amused by it all day. Sometimes I swear to God, I am the cat in this story, and life is the snake. Make of that metaphor what you will.

(This will probably be funnier to those . . . what . . . five of you who know Persephone.)
naamah_darling: A gray cat with a white chin squinting as though she smells food. (Fish)
I'm sitting on my bed today, trying to have a serious conversation with my husband, when Fish comes in.

I should tell you that Fish is, as cats go, quite clever, and her favorite pastime is watching our snakes, especially those in floor-level cages. She is a hunter by nature, and spent months as a wild kitty, so she is more than capable of killing and eating a measly snake. She is sure of this, and insists on proving it on any shed skins she happens to find.

This is somewhat reciprocal. Many of the larger snakes, though far, far too small to eat anything Fish-sized, are still quite capable of causing cat death, and seem equally fascinated by her.

So we're sitting there and Fish walks by the cage to the right of the bed, and Persephone pokes her snaky head out of the hidebox because she sees the motion. Fish instantly lies down and starts staring in fascination at the big albino snake thing. She has locked eyes with Persephone, who has poked about a foot out of her box and is staring back. Fish does not move.

She stares.

And stares.

And stares.

And stares.

After a while, Fish's tail begins to lash. She yawns, then yawns again. Anyone who knows cats and dogs knows that a yawn is often a disguised "Goddammit, I don't know what to DO!"

Despite growing agitation, she will not look away. Persephone, undisturbed, will not look away.

By this point Sargon and I are watching in silent fascination.

The tail-lashing grows stronger, thwacking against a pile of books. Fish starts waving her paws around on the floor in helpless frustration, the way an uncomfortable person will claw at the arms of their chair. She shifts her hindquarters back and forth three times, four. She stares. Her ears go back. She STARES. The tail is whipping back and forth like a hooked worm, and she STAAARES!

Persephone stares back.

At last, Fish deliberately turns her head away as if to say "Bitch! You mean nothing to me."

After shunning the snake for ten seconds, Fish peers over one shoulder and sees that Persephone is STILL STARING. Fish's ears, which had returned to their upright position in a display of faux nonchalance, immediately slap back. She recoils, then trots out of the room with an offended look on her face.

My husband calls some helpful advice after her, supplying the moral for the whole little Aesop's Fable. "You can't win a staring contest with an animal that has NO EYELIDS!"

The sentiment just struck me as hysterically funny, and I've been amused by it all day. Sometimes I swear to God, I am the cat in this story, and life is the snake. Make of that metaphor what you will.

(This will probably be funnier to those . . . what . . . five of you who know Persephone.)
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (SexyI)
Haven't done a real me-update in a while. I've been composting, which is what I call it when I just throw everything into a corner of my brain, leave it there to ferment, and walk over and pee on it now and then. Eventually it turns into something useful, and I spread it on my flowerbed, and I get roses that eat people. It works.

The memorial service. )

The Renfair, Mother's Day, and chocolate. )

Sucky stuff. )

And a haiku. )
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (SexyI)
Haven't done a real me-update in a while. I've been composting, which is what I call it when I just throw everything into a corner of my brain, leave it there to ferment, and walk over and pee on it now and then. Eventually it turns into something useful, and I spread it on my flowerbed, and I get roses that eat people. It works.

The memorial service. )

The Renfair, Mother's Day, and chocolate. )

Sucky stuff. )

And a haiku. )
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Emo Icon)
Things suck.

Oh, my God, things suck.

It is a Litany of Suckdom. Slow, life-sucking suckdom. This is The Purple Suck.

Most of it you know about already (broke, dying mom, car accident/insurance/repair shit, crushing ennui), but to put the frilly cap on the ghoulishly bald head of a freakishly shitty couple of months, over the weekend, I lost two pets.

Not one. No. That would have been bad enough.

Two.

Rhadamanthys, a cape gopher snake, and Chen Fu-Jen Wu Nu, one of my pair of beloved Elaphe carinata, or stinking goddess snakes.

We don't even know what was wrong. Rhaddy had been unwell for a long time, and no amount of worming or temperature adjusting had helped . . . so his passing did not come as much of a surprise.

Lady Chen, though . . . that's horriffic. She had been perfectly healthy, and though she'd refused food a little, recently, she hadn't lost weight or been regurgitating, so I assumed it was just her occasional finicky nature making life difficult. I had absolutely no idea that she was apparently very ill.

None.

To make things worse, it looks as though several of our other snakes are sick with whatever it was that Rhadamanthys and (maybe) Lady Chen had.

So, on top of everything else, we have some sort of herpetological hot zone breeding in our snake room. Buliwyf, Leviathan, Zyni, Shabako, Baba Yaga, Anath, Baal, and possibly Ankhy and Azrael all need to be screened and quarantined.

So now I'm standing in front of an endless mountain of parasite screenings, worming paste, and trips to the vet, not to mention the bills. And we still have to feed them all, which means ordering frodents next month at the very latest, because we're already low.

I'm in so much pain about it that I'm just numb. I can't even cry for my kids, not even when I buried their cold little bodies yesterday. I feel, deep down, that it's my fault, you see. I haven't had time or strength to keep up with feeding them, they haven't been cared for very well.

Now, it's entirely possible that nothing I could have done would have helped. I won't know until I know what killed them. But that doesn't stop me from feeling so guilty I can barely stand to look at the ones who are still alive, let alone do the necessary maintenance on their cages. This isn't good for anyone.

I want out. I want out from under this mountain of exercise, cooking, cleaning, writing, dancing, that I have to do every day. I want a week where I can do nothing, without having to pay for it by coming back to a mess that will stress me out so badly to clean up that it will render the break meaningless.

The sad part is that it isn't even that difficult. I do amazingly little from day to day. But even getting out of bed is hard, especially when there are days, like today, where I can honestly predict the rest of my day from hour to hour and know that there is nothing, not one thing, that I am looking forward to.

Sargon is also not well. Job stress and home stress are causing him nasty physical symptoms that I can't prevent or alleviate. And anytime I need to vent or go to him for comfort, it just makes him worse, so I'm denied that release, too. I have to just sit in my corner and stay quiet and try not to set him off.

He's "getting help" for it, by which I mean he has found his insurance card, but has stalled calling anyone for a month. I'd ride his ass about it, but I don't have the strength anymore. I just can't hold his hand this time. He has to do it himself.

To make things even worse, out of nowhere and for no real reason, I have pain in my right ankle whenever I put weight on it. It's not severe, yet, but I can't go up on relevé on that side at all, which means that, unless it goes away by tonight (which I admit it might), I may as well not bother with class, because Khalil, the dance we're working tonight, is so fast it all has to be done on the toes. The way it is now, this ankle definitely won't stand up to an hour of relevé. Not if I want to be walking tomorrow.

And I still have to do my weight-bearing exercises today. I don't know if I can do the lower-body stuff with my ankle all twingeing. I can do upper body and abdominals, I guess, but if this lasts more than a couple of days, I am screwed. I have a performance on Saturday.

So, a lame ankle on top of dead pets, horrible, crushing guilt, and an uncooperative, sick husband. Oh, yeah. And Bush is still "president," despite the fact that I think he may have lost this election, too.

I will be shocked if I even get out of bed tomorrow.

My poor babies. I just don't understand what happened. I feel so helpless. If I couldn't stop it from happening to them, how can I stop it from happening to the others? I failed. They're dead because I didn't do enough, because I didn't convince the man with the money and the car to do enough.

I'm tired of watching people and things around me get sick, go wrong. My mom, my husband, my pets, my fucking country. They aren't well.

Yes, it's probably just PMS talking. I should probably take some happy-pills or something. I can, after all, choose not to suffer, as so many people are so fond of pointing out. I can just feel whatever I have to feel and move on, or something. Yeah. See how easy that is? Or, better yet, I can put it all into a box and forget about it. Because people only want you to have good feelings. Anything else is bad and should be hidden, covered up.

But no amount of forced smiling and popping Wellbutrin is going to change the fact that my life, itself, is sick. Something is not right, or I wouldn't feel this way so often.

I'm going to go try to write, though my word count is creeping down towards shite. I only wrote about 1,000 words all weekend (oh, yeah, and I'm pissed about that, too). If I can get a couple thousand words of pulpy adventure in, this day will be redeemed.

Edit: Insult to injury -- the ONLY CD I want to listen to apparently wandered off with my husband when he went to work.

FUCK!

link
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Emo Icon)
Things suck.

Oh, my God, things suck.

It is a Litany of Suckdom. Slow, life-sucking suckdom. This is The Purple Suck.

Most of it you know about already (broke, dying mom, car accident/insurance/repair shit, crushing ennui), but to put the frilly cap on the ghoulishly bald head of a freakishly shitty couple of months, over the weekend, I lost two pets.

Not one. No. That would have been bad enough.

Two.

Rhadamanthys, a cape gopher snake, and Chen Fu-Jen Wu Nu, one of my pair of beloved Elaphe carinata, or stinking goddess snakes.

We don't even know what was wrong. Rhaddy had been unwell for a long time, and no amount of worming or temperature adjusting had helped . . . so his passing did not come as much of a surprise.

Lady Chen, though . . . that's horriffic. She had been perfectly healthy, and though she'd refused food a little, recently, she hadn't lost weight or been regurgitating, so I assumed it was just her occasional finicky nature making life difficult. I had absolutely no idea that she was apparently very ill.

None.

To make things worse, it looks as though several of our other snakes are sick with whatever it was that Rhadamanthys and (maybe) Lady Chen had.

So, on top of everything else, we have some sort of herpetological hot zone breeding in our snake room. Buliwyf, Leviathan, Zyni, Shabako, Baba Yaga, Anath, Baal, and possibly Ankhy and Azrael all need to be screened and quarantined.

So now I'm standing in front of an endless mountain of parasite screenings, worming paste, and trips to the vet, not to mention the bills. And we still have to feed them all, which means ordering frodents next month at the very latest, because we're already low.

I'm in so much pain about it that I'm just numb. I can't even cry for my kids, not even when I buried their cold little bodies yesterday. I feel, deep down, that it's my fault, you see. I haven't had time or strength to keep up with feeding them, they haven't been cared for very well.

Now, it's entirely possible that nothing I could have done would have helped. I won't know until I know what killed them. But that doesn't stop me from feeling so guilty I can barely stand to look at the ones who are still alive, let alone do the necessary maintenance on their cages. This isn't good for anyone.

I want out. I want out from under this mountain of exercise, cooking, cleaning, writing, dancing, that I have to do every day. I want a week where I can do nothing, without having to pay for it by coming back to a mess that will stress me out so badly to clean up that it will render the break meaningless.

The sad part is that it isn't even that difficult. I do amazingly little from day to day. But even getting out of bed is hard, especially when there are days, like today, where I can honestly predict the rest of my day from hour to hour and know that there is nothing, not one thing, that I am looking forward to.

Sargon is also not well. Job stress and home stress are causing him nasty physical symptoms that I can't prevent or alleviate. And anytime I need to vent or go to him for comfort, it just makes him worse, so I'm denied that release, too. I have to just sit in my corner and stay quiet and try not to set him off.

He's "getting help" for it, by which I mean he has found his insurance card, but has stalled calling anyone for a month. I'd ride his ass about it, but I don't have the strength anymore. I just can't hold his hand this time. He has to do it himself.

To make things even worse, out of nowhere and for no real reason, I have pain in my right ankle whenever I put weight on it. It's not severe, yet, but I can't go up on relevé on that side at all, which means that, unless it goes away by tonight (which I admit it might), I may as well not bother with class, because Khalil, the dance we're working tonight, is so fast it all has to be done on the toes. The way it is now, this ankle definitely won't stand up to an hour of relevé. Not if I want to be walking tomorrow.

And I still have to do my weight-bearing exercises today. I don't know if I can do the lower-body stuff with my ankle all twingeing. I can do upper body and abdominals, I guess, but if this lasts more than a couple of days, I am screwed. I have a performance on Saturday.

So, a lame ankle on top of dead pets, horrible, crushing guilt, and an uncooperative, sick husband. Oh, yeah. And Bush is still "president," despite the fact that I think he may have lost this election, too.

I will be shocked if I even get out of bed tomorrow.

My poor babies. I just don't understand what happened. I feel so helpless. If I couldn't stop it from happening to them, how can I stop it from happening to the others? I failed. They're dead because I didn't do enough, because I didn't convince the man with the money and the car to do enough.

I'm tired of watching people and things around me get sick, go wrong. My mom, my husband, my pets, my fucking country. They aren't well.

Yes, it's probably just PMS talking. I should probably take some happy-pills or something. I can, after all, choose not to suffer, as so many people are so fond of pointing out. I can just feel whatever I have to feel and move on, or something. Yeah. See how easy that is? Or, better yet, I can put it all into a box and forget about it. Because people only want you to have good feelings. Anything else is bad and should be hidden, covered up.

But no amount of forced smiling and popping Wellbutrin is going to change the fact that my life, itself, is sick. Something is not right, or I wouldn't feel this way so often.

I'm going to go try to write, though my word count is creeping down towards shite. I only wrote about 1,000 words all weekend (oh, yeah, and I'm pissed about that, too). If I can get a couple thousand words of pulpy adventure in, this day will be redeemed.

Edit: Insult to injury -- the ONLY CD I want to listen to apparently wandered off with my husband when he went to work.

FUCK!

link
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Flirty!)
I promised pictures of snakeage, in the spirit of Halloween, and here they are.

I have about thirty, and most have not had their pictures taken. I've done some of my favorites, though, and here they are.

Clicky for adorable scaliness! )



link
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Flirty!)
I promised pictures of snakeage, in the spirit of Halloween, and here they are.

I have about thirty, and most have not had their pictures taken. I've done some of my favorites, though, and here they are.

Clicky for adorable scaliness! )



link
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Default)
Hathor struck the rat, and as it reeled off, a trail of yellow venom droplets spattered behind it. There, on the floor of the cage, was a single fang.



Snakes shed their fangs regularly and grow new ones. We'd noticed Hathor yawning a lot, and figured she had a new set coming in. Looks like we were right.

So, there you have a close-up picture of why it would be a very bad idea to pet an eastern diamondback rattlesnake.

Here's another pic with a quarter shown for scale. This is as close to actual size as I can get it.



It measures 3/4 of an inch measured straight from tip to tip, and not quite 7/8 if you measure along the curve.

I love my snakes. I really do.

link
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Default)
Hathor struck the rat, and as it reeled off, a trail of yellow venom droplets spattered behind it. There, on the floor of the cage, was a single fang.



Snakes shed their fangs regularly and grow new ones. We'd noticed Hathor yawning a lot, and figured she had a new set coming in. Looks like we were right.

So, there you have a close-up picture of why it would be a very bad idea to pet an eastern diamondback rattlesnake.

Here's another pic with a quarter shown for scale. This is as close to actual size as I can get it.



It measures 3/4 of an inch measured straight from tip to tip, and not quite 7/8 if you measure along the curve.

I love my snakes. I really do.

link

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