I had a hard day, yesterday....

this is a wheely cart I buy mine at KMart, as they only cost fifteen dollars. THESE cost FORTY!!! Gees!

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Grocery shopping should NOT be a traumatizing and exhausting ordeal, but there it is. Took the bus to Sav-A-Lot (which Ma and I call "Try-&-Save," from either the Simpsons or King of the Hill, I can't remember which.) It's an ugly little store. One day, it stank to high heaven of raw sewage: an appetizing experience for food shoppers.

I usually only buy factory-sealed stuff there: Cheeses, frozen vegies, ground turkey rolls, etc. They had no turkey rolls out, so I asked the butcher and he hauled a case from the freezer for me.

They also had no frozen stirfry vegies, so I asked him whom I should alert. He said Juan, up front. Well, Juan (whoever THAT is) wasn't up front when I got there, so I asked a young woman, stocking dry goods. She acted like I just didn't know where they kept the stirfry. I didn't argue; I just obediently followed her. She picked up a bag of stirfry PEPPERS and said, "here they are." I dug in my cart for a bag of stirfry VEGGIES and said, "no, I want this kind." "Well, if they're not out, we don't have them." I explained about the "not out" turkey. She disappeared in the back and returned with, "They're coming in tonight." Fat lotta good that'll do me. So, I'll have to go back. Ma and I eat LOTS of stirfry vegies, even for breakfast. I make "sausage" out of the ground turkey, seasoned with cayennne, garlic salt, black pepper and sage. Tastes just like real sausage, and, that way, I can get away with melting a thin sliver of sharp cheddar on top. We can't eat much animal fat, and we both LOVE sharp cheese.

Well, I managed to buy about fifty pounds of groceries and pack them in my little "wheely cart." It's about the size of a milk crate. I dragged everything across the lumpy parking lot, across deadly Central Ave., and went to Kmart for nearly nothing. But it's the side of the street where the bus stop is.

At the bus stop, a lady with a maniacal grin and stained, yellow t-shirt said, "can I buy a cigarette off of you?" and fumbled in her purse. I like it when people offer to buy cigarettes, rather than just mooching them, and generally (unless I'm running out) accomodate. I handed her a cig. She took her hand from her purse, turned her back and walked away. She stole my cigarette!

A little while later (I wasn't watching this, but can surmise from the events), an old man passed her, asking for a light. She referred him to me. He stood before me and said, "gimme a light." I said, "did you say, 'please?'" He said, "Please." I was obliged to give him a light. You don't mess with people on the streets; being right can get you killed. He lit his cigarette (not mine) and walked away without another word. I ventured, "you're welcomed." Jees.

I lugged the fifty pounds of groceries onto the bus. The 2 front seats were folded up for a wheel chair. I need to sit near the front, so my cart's not in anybody's way. Drivers don't wait for passengers to sit. I held on for dear life with one hand and struggled with the release lever with the other hand. I asked the driver, three times, for assistance with the seat, to no reply. Two old men got into it and left me dangling from the overhead bar, trying not to fall, cornered by their fumblings, unable to sit anywhere. FINALLY, at a stop, the driver HEARD me ask for help. "Those seats are broken," he said. Great. At that point, one of the old men (the two of them were hogging FIVE SEATS in the front of the bus!!) finally moved things and made room for me to sit.

When we got to the transit center, where I needed to transfer to the bus home, the door kept snapping shut on me, as I struggled to pull my cart down off the bus and onto the sidewalk. An able-bodied white guy sat across the bus aisle, watching the door hit me and watching me worry that the bus might take off with my cart, groceries, wallet.... I finally got the cart down, looked him in the eye, and said, "thank you so MUCH for watching me struggle!" He looked at me stupidly.

Two boys were waiting at the transit center on benches next to my stop. They were saying FILTHY things about girls in their school and smoking weed. Several drivers passed. Nobody stopped them. Children were subjected to their filth and smoke.

The bus came; I went home.

An email awaited. The woman from the Pygmy Goat Club here who said she could castrate Willy had to bow out. Oh, hell! It's got to be done, and SOON! So, I sat down to call every member, whose phone number was on the members' list, who lived in or near Albuquerque. The very first person I called lives just a little north of me and was going to drive just a little south of me for a meeting. She'd do it for free, and would give Willy a tetanus shot, as well. Wow.

Ma TRIED to make it home; I was pretty worried. I'd have to hold the goat while she did the deed. I didn't want Willy to associate me with the pain. Ma volunteered. But she didn't get there on time and I didn't want to hang this woman (and her 2 friends, who came to watch) up. I held him for the injection, which left a big knot in his flank. I massaged it and let him down to walk it off. He was miserable and whimpering, already. He was suspicious of me. It took awhile to catch him again.

It took all four of us to castrate the poor bastard. A big woman held him on her lap and held one leg. I held his head (he has horns) and gently muzzled his mouth to muffle any screams. Another woman held the other leg.

The tool is like pliars (don't wince yet), but they OPEN to pull open an elastic band, round and thicker than a rubber band, something like a gasket. She pulled his scrotum through the band and then let the tool close. She pulled it out and the band was around his scrotum. It takes about two months for the testicles to finally fall off. Willy was in pain. Luckily, I had my orajel ready. I felt like such a kink. Orajel is, basically, clove oil in petrolium jelly. There I was, massaging goat testicles with petroleum jelly! Gawd...

She watched Willy for awhile. He's not trying to sit on them, lie down, roll onto his back, or do anything else that's not healthy for a freshly-castrated goat to do. But he's STILL suspicious of me and actually shies or runs at times if I approach. I'm heart broken.

Nilly thought it was all a great game, kept jumping on people's laps with Willy, danced all over the yard, and bleated whenever he did...which was a lot.

Just when we'd finished, Ma rode up. I thanked the women profusely and they left. I put the goats in my bedroom, to calm them and to mute the crying, and fed them bottles of pure, warm milk (I usually dilute the milk with water, as I'm weaning them, but thought they deserved "comfort food"). I made dinner and did my own whimpering, as Ma listened.

It was all necessary stuff. I was being responsible, all day, even when it hurt.

Today, I'm swamping out the kitchen, doing laundry, washing dishes: catching up on everything that had to be neglected for awhile, in the face of other priorities.

It took a LOT out of me. But we have turkey sausage....