New Read

I caught wind of this book, got right online, ordered it, and lucky me, it arrived today.

As soon as I finish this post, I am diving in.

MCB is very excited – he’s hoping it helps.


written by her:

Here’s what the front jacket cover says:


And the back flap:

This could end up being my favorite book of all time.


Going away to the desert, alone?


Very very good


Fucking rough

Every time

I feel so good, so grounded, so content, so at peace, when I sleep under the stars and it’s so quiet that the only sound is the energy moving around me.

There’s always a moment when my entire system finally lets down and I can say, “Yes, I am back.”

It seems so rejuvenating in a soul sort of way. I feel like a better person, more at ease, content.

I get in the car ready to return and enjoy another week.

And I really miss my family.

So I come home excited to re-enter my life.

(Until I get to go again, hopefully in another 5 days.)

And then, it rarely, if ever, goes smoothly when I do get home; I butt heads with everyone that I missed.

And it sucks.

And I first think, “Well, there’s no way they missed me.”

Then I think, “Obviously the problem is me. ”

Then, “God, I suck.”

“Why am I such a fucking miserable person?”

“But I’m not. I was gloriously happy just a few hours ago.”

“So it’s coming home… But it’s not them, they’re lovely – I’m the common denominator.”

My home and my life are also lovely.

I do just fine when I am by myself in the middle of the desert. I think fondly about my reality; I have a really good life. I just can’t seem to keep it together when I get back to it.

And to people.

Obviously I can’t live around people. I’m just one of those socially anxious folks who does better in the middle of nowhere not talking to anyone.

Perhaps I should be a professional hermit?

So leaving a staggeringly beautiful landscape is hard, but coming back is just so fucking awkward.

a day with Siri

Me (thinking that I am dictating a text)…what I really said is in purple:

“The first and only time that D ever called a staff meeting I had a total panic attack because I was so traumatized by DHE staff meetings, admin meetings, up in meetings, whatever.”

Siri: “I don’t know how to respond to that.”

Me: “Siri, you are fucking fantastic.”

Siri: “I’d blush if I could.”

How the fuck do they do that?

hawk in the henhouse

After I got home I had to drive my car up the hill to the shop so my friend the car guy can take a look at my (nonexistent) shocks. The dogs ran behind me so they could help check the chickens (who live next to the shop) after I parked the car.

4 girls were in the enclosed pen, the other 11 had gone inside to bed.

Or so I thought.

One of the outsiders was limping so I went to pick her up and check it out. Couldn’t find anything but I figured she should go inside so I put her through their door. She started squawking and came right back out. Then some of the others made a bunch of noise and came running out.

“They are so fucking cute – they love me – they’ve come out to see me before bed!!!!!”

While they ran around outside, I went in to check for eggs. I can open the cubbies and retrieve eggs without actually walking into the house. So that’s what I did.

Hoppy and Big Bird were crammed into one cubby together and they tried to push their way out into my arms. I lovingly chuckled and pushed them back in then closed the door.

Suddenly there were screeches and screams and all manner of henpecking, so I opened the man-door into the inner sanctum and saw this: img_3177

There was also a headless red chicken at my feet but she definitely took a backseat to the very much alive raptor staring me down from 3 feet away.

“I don’t know what the fuck to do,” began circling my brain.

Didn’t want to leave the girls alone with him while I found something or someone to help.

I certainly wasn’t within screaming distance of anyone else.

I kept trying to figure out a way to navigate the teensy space so that I wasn’t between him and his only escape route.

I had visions of him making a run for it, me being in his flight path, and an ensuing tangle which involved blood.


I’ve been attacked by a pair of peregrines before. I don’t fuck with birds of prey.

I called Matt the car guy, “Are you in your shop? I need help. I’m in a pickle.”

“No, on my way to Cortez.”

“I don’t know what the fuck to do. Let me call you back.”

Phone rings. MCB.

“So, we’re supposed to have dinner at _______’s house this weekend…”

“I’m actually having a bit of a crisis at the moment – hawk in henhouse. I need to deal. I’ll call you later.”


“Hawk. Chicken killer.”


Next, a text, “D.O.W. guy coming over.”

Thank you MCB.

By this time, I had pulled my girls out of the coop – I had three in my arms – the hawk managed to get outside through the chicken exit and was in the pen.  All of the girls in the pen were freaking out scrambling to get back into the coop.

They got in. I closed the door.

I spent the next 20 minutes back and forth between comforting my very distraught hens and taking photos of this super cool bird who couldn’t fly out of the pen.

Wing injury?

It kind of looked like it.

But then he’d try to fly and go headfirst into the fence or the wall of haybales.

Head injury?

My girls were terrified. They all hid in the corner and chattered at me. Even the most timid begged me to pet her.

Two are acting hurt, but I couldn’t find anything obvious.

Meanwhile, back on the playing field…

AB, the D.O.W. guy showed up, walked right through the gate and threw a jacket over the hawk and the bird just lay down and put his feet in the air.

AB picked up the hawk and we spent the next twenty minutes checking this guy out.

Everything was incredible. He is SO beautiful.

And tough.

And regal.



And, it was butt cold out there so we all turned blue.

AB took the hawk home and will take it to rehab in the morning.

I sent a doggie bag home in case the killer gets hungry again later:

It was the headless chicken.

Check these out:


he’s so beautiful


staring right at me, beak open, pissed


doing this threatening thing through the fence at Elvis




talking to AB


the blood stuff on his face…my hen’s not his