Pissing for the man

I've been woefully slack about updating this blog. Okay, let's get things back up to speed around here.

About a month ago, I hosted a couchsurfer - Tom from the Netherlands. He hung around a for a few days and was a wonderful guest. We drank beer, shared stories and drove around looking at the countryside. He even helped haul old rotten planks from the barn up to the house so we could have a nice bonfire.

Tom in front of Frankencoop

You can read about his travels on his blog (assuming you can read Dutch). Me, I just look at the pictures.


My parents also came for a visit since my last update. They only stayed for five days - much more manageable than a multi-month visit like last time. They may be back in a week or so for a couple more days.

I managed to keep my DUI under wraps while they were here. B.J. Boomhauer hauled my dead truck away to his farm. None of my court-mandated shit fell on a day when they were here. Nobody spilled the beans on me. All neighbor-cousins were under strict orders not to mention it. I told them "You don't have to lie for me. Just don't bring it up."


Speaking of court-mandated shit: I had to go in for "monitoring" Thursday. A fifty-mile roundtrip for a fifteen minute visit. This cost me twenty bucks. I also had to submit to my first ever piss test. That was another twenty. Fuckers. Forty dollars is about how much I spend on groceries in a month.

I'm in no danger of starving or anything, but those two avocados (a glorious luxury) I got in town are probably the last groceries I'll buy for a while. Thankfully, I have plenty of food right now. The freezer is stocked with lots of venison that my parents brought. Probably a good 30-40 pounds. I have lots of flour, sugar, powdered milk, yeast, oil and other various staples. I also recently received a care package from an Alaskan friend who kindly sent a couple pounds of good coffee beans, my favorite stinky bleu cheese, hummus mix, nori sushi wrappers and other delectables that cannot be found here in rural Alabama.

And I am seriously considering killing my 15-pound rooster, Caleb soon. All of a sudden, he has become very aggressive towards me. He's repeatedly attacking me - and it fucking hurts! He's huge. He has a sharp beak and spurs like arrow points.

When my old alpha-male, Gimpy, used to attack me it, it was kinda cute. He only weighed four pounds. He only attacked my feet. As long as I was wearing boots, I was safe. (I learned the hard way not to wear flip-flops around him.) But Caleb is a 15-pound monster. It's like having a bowling ball thrown at you. A bowling ball with razorblades sticking out of it. And he doesn't go for my feet. He goes for my legs. This will not fly when it warms up and I start wearing shorts again.

I'm sure it's all attributable to hormones and the approach of spring. He's just being a rooster. But I cannot deal with this angry behemoth living under my porch. I'd rather have a two weeks' worth of chicken curry, chicken marsala, chicken salad, sweet-n-sour chicken and a couple gallons of chicken stock than a summer of looking over my shoulder and dodging a crazy cock out for blood (which he has drawn twice in the last couple days).

It would also be easier on my hen, Murray, if Caleb was to disappear. A few weeks ago, he injured her in a bout of rough sex. Ripped big holes in her sides with his sharp claws. She's doing fine but must be kept separate from him until she completely heals otherwise he'll just jump her again and reopen her wounds.

For now, she spends her days confined to the porch and her evenings sleeping in a cage in the back room. Sometimes, I lock Caleb under the porch for a while and let Murray run free in the yard so she can take a dust bath and scratch for bugs.

But this is all a major inconvenience for me (as well as Murray). If Caleb were gone, she could go back to being free-range and sleeping under the porch. And I could go back to not having a chicken in the house. Nothing makes you feel white trash like keeping a chicken in your trailer.


Anyway, back to my piss test...

So, I went back to the same dingy offices behind the minimall where I was summoned before. You know, the place that looks like a child molester's basement. I waited on the raggedy old couch with a book until it was my turn. The woman I had to see was already with someone else. The door to the office was wide open and I could hear their entire conversation. Nothing really juicy was discussed but I thought it odd that something like this wouldn't be more...you know...private.

When it was my turn, I went in and sat down in front of her desk. She asked if I had brought forty dollars. I handed it over while she typed something in her computer. Then, unfuckingbelivably, she picked up the phone and called her goddamned hairdresser! I sat there in disbelief while she yammered away, explaining why she was going to have to cancel her appointment. Like she couldn't have done this two minutes earlier before calling me into her office. The call lasted long enough that I seriously began to consider opening the book on my lap.

She hung up the phone, handed me a plastic cup and pointed me in the direction of the bathroom. I walked back through the lobby, past the guy now waiting for his turn, and went into the bathroom - the only truly private part of the experience. I had half-expected that I would have to piss in front of somebody. So, a tip for those of you taking a court-mandated piss in Randolph County, Alabama: Feel free to bring a friend's clean urine to substitute for yours if you need to. They won't be checking.

I walked back to her office, carrying half a cup of fresh steaming piss which I placed on her desk. Then, unfuckingbelievably, she pulled out a sheet of paper towel and used it to grab the rim of the cup. "We're all out of gloves," she tells me. Jesus! What kind of rinky dink outfit is this?

She takes a little stick and puts it in the cup. While we wait for the results, she turns back to the computer and starts asking me routine questions. Are you still at the same address? Have you been in any trouble with the law since your last visit? Blah, blah, blah. She also apologizes for calling her hairdresser.

After a few minutes, she gingerly grabs the cup with the paper towel again and removes the stick. "I really hate doing this without gloves."

I want to say "Apparently not enough to let me keep my twenty fucking dollars." Wisely, I bite my tongue but refuse to return her awkward smile. I have not a single damned ounce of sympathy for this woman who just took food out of my mouth by making me submit to a test she could have easily waived.

But I'm smiling on the inside because of what I ate for breakfast that morning. Her office is filled with the pungent odor of asparagus pee. At least in some small way, I can strike back against the system. Fuck 'em. I hope I'm on my period next time.

She glances at the stick, throws it in the garbage and types something into the computer. She doesn't say so, but I assume this means I passed. She hands the cup of piss back to me, still grasping it with the paper towel. "You can throw this away." I resist the urge to toss it in the garbage can. Instead, I take it from her (not surprisingly, I am not offered a piece of paper towel) and walk back to the bathroom where I pour it in the toilet.

I go back to her office and she gives me a piece of paper with the info about my upcoming re-education camp - six hours every Saturday in March. This will cost me 265 more motherfucking dollars. Hopefully, this will help them afford some goddamned latex gloves.


There's other stuff I wanted to tell you about but, I'm afraid if I don't wrap this up now, it'll be another week before I get this posted. I swear I'm gonna start updating this blog more often. It's not like I don't have the time.


I'll wrap this post up with a photo of a couple eggs I collected today:


The egg on the right is what's known as a "fart egg." It doesn't contain a yolk - only the white. It's not very common but it does happen occasionally.

Bouncy baby goats

Yeah, I know I'm behind on my posts. I'll catch you all up sooner or later on the happenings here at Spenardo del Sur. But for now, here's a video of my new baby goats gamboling and frolicking on a sunny morning.

The unbearable cuteness of baby goats

My nanny goat, Rosemary, gave birth to two adorable baby goats yesterday morning. Today, I went down early to check on them and discovered my other nanny goat, Lipstick, had given birth to another two. Within 24 hours, I went from three goats to seven.

The cuteness of four newborn goats (all girls) is overwhelming. But don't take my word for it. See for yourself:

There's a black man in the White House and a white woman cleaning the court house.

I'm now two days into my 30 days of community service. They've got me on janitorial duty at the court house. It's pretty easy work. Hell, compared to those days when I worked the graveyard shift at the porno store and had to clean the glory hole booths, this is a goddamned piece of cake.

I did not really want to usher in the Obama era today by mopping, vacuuming and cleaning bathrooms, but a ride to the courthouse fell into my lap and I figured it was best to just get it over with for this week.

It turned out that Victoria, who hails from my old neighborhood of Spenard, was on a southern roadtrip and emailed me to arrange a two-night stopover here at Spenardo del Sur. The timing could not have been better! Not only was she able to drop me off at the court house this morning on her way out of town, she kindly took me yesterday to my court mandated "evaluation" 25 miles away.

It wasn't all about court mandated appointments. Victoria and I still found time to drive down dirt roads, visit a couple local cemeteries and check out a dilapidated old barn. (Okay, party central this ain't.)

My evaluation took place in an unmarked office on the backside of a minimall. It was a sad and forlorn place: shabby furniture, well-worn industrial carpet, no windows. If it hadn't been for the photocopied motivational sayings taped to the dingy walls, you could've easily mistaken it for a child molester's basement.

It was here I was questioned about my living situation, income, drinking habits, the accident and Alaska. As soon as anyone finds out I moved here from Alaska, they can't help but ask about it. The two biggest topics, which were both covered that day, are the weather and Sarah Palin. And then, after it comes out that I worked at a recording studio, the next question is always "Did anyone famous go there?" So then I had to talk about Ewan McGregor and Ted Stevens before getting to the nitty gritty of just how much more time and money am I gonna have to give The Man before I can put all this shit behind me?

Let's just say it's a lot. I have 24 hours of re-education camp to look forward to: four six-hour sessions held in the same gloomy office space. This will set me back $265. I also have to visit once a month for something called "monitoring." This goes on for six months at twenty bucks a pop - forty if they decide to make me pee in a cup.

The piss test pisses me off. There were no drugs (other than alcohol) involved in my accident. The police dog that was there will back me up on that. Yet the state of Alabama now reserves the right to collect my urine (and charge me $20 for it) just because they can. At least they didn't demand any from me on this visit, letting me keep my much needed twenty spot (but still charging me fifty for the evaluation).

And these monitoring sessions/potential piss tests can only be done on a weekday and re-education camp is only on Saturdays so I have twice as many rides to beg for until I get my license reinstated.

So, I'm sorry to say, the pledge drive is still going on. As someone who's living on an average of $300-400 a month (with no government assistance), I'm once again asking for your help. Many of you have already given and I thank you. You paid my initial fine and court costs, keeping me from going back to the pokey. I owe you all big time. But we have not quite met our fundraising goal yet. There's only fifty bucks in the coffers right now and the electric company is first in line to take that. I got another fifty bucks coming in on Friday but that's going to the phone/internet company.


So here's the PayPal button again for those who'd like to donate. Or, if you live in Anchorage, you can give the money directly to Angela and she'll make sure I get it.

As a special thank you gift for new and renewing members, Spenardo del Sur is offering these Scrubba Dubya bumpersticker removal kits with your donation of $20 or more. It's a brand new morning in America and it's time we scrape those unsightly reminders of the last eight years off bumpers everywhere. (Not only will it also work on Ted Stevens bumperstickers, I think you could use the scraper in a pinch to clear a frosty windshield.)

Generously donated by David and Priscilla

The chickens have started laying eggs again. Well, Cheepacabra has anyway. The others should be soon to follow. They stopped laying a couple months ago when they started molting. The addition of eggs once again to my kitchen is most welcome. Without eggs I can't make pasta, pies or hollandaise sauce. God, how I've missed hollandaise sauce!

Cheepa gets ready to lay the very first egg of 2009. Rather than drag grandma's old stove out of the house and figure out how to dispose of it, I gave it a new life as a nesting box. Until now, there hasn't been a chicken in that oven for over 15 years.

Last winter, most of the chickens were young and continued laying through the winter. Now, all my birds are over a year old - except for the two roosters born last spring, Sanchez and Babyman.

Sanchez is now officially the alpha male. After a couple days of agonizing over which of Frankencoop's three roosters would get the axe, I came to the decision that it had to be Corny. If I didn't kill him, Sanchez would.


So Corny went to that big farm in the sky. He also went into a big bowl of curried chicken salad, a pot of jambalya and a couple gallons of soup stock.


My first day of community service, I brought some of the curried chicken salad with me for lunch. The other woman cleaning the courthouse with me could not believe I had actually butchered the chicken myself. When we took our lunch break, she was relieved that it was chicken salad. She was half-expecting me to pull a whole roasted chicken out of my tote bag.


In community service, women generally clean the courthouse. The men get the outside duties like picking up roadside trash. Me and my janitorial partner were the only two women that day. Of the seven or eight men, the majority of those were black. As this is rural Alabama, I was not surprised.

Today, the day of Obama's inauguration, there were only about five or six of us that showed up and we were all white. I couldn't help but contemplate how often that happens here. I know that there are currently about 500 doing community service but have no idea what the demographics of that group are.



It's odd how invisible I feel as I work my way through the court house, even though I'm wearing a bright orange vest with reflective yellow stripes (really more designed for those working on the side of the road). I find it weird that I'm just tossed into the courthouse and allowed access to almost every office in the courthouse - many of them often empty when I'm there.

Sometimes, the women who work in the courthouse (lots of the offices are manned by mostly women) will not even make eye contact with me. Kinda like how some people won't even look at a homeless guy who asks them for change. One woman gives me the eagle eye as I empty her trash, as if I might steal something if she turned her back on me. I want to tell her "Don't worry, I'm just a drunk driver not a thief." As my janitorial partner told me "These white bitches think their shit don't stink!"

But there's some decent people too. Today, I was the only woman who showed up and I got to clean the 2-story courthouse and 3 annexes across the street by myself. As I said, the job is piece of cake. Not only did I finish with time to spare, I also restocked the utility closet and still snuck in extra smoke breaks and had a few conversations with court house employees.

Sometimes, I would pass through an empty breakroom with a TV showing inaugural festivities and I'd work extra slow so I could catch a couple minutes of the broadcast. I happened to walk into a woman's office as she watching Barack's speech. One of my community service supervisors, a middle-aged black man, was standing behind her watching it too. I asked him if it would be okay for me to hang out and watch the rest of the speech with them.

I don't know how long his speech was. I only caught the last five minutes. That was just enough to make me all teary-eyed. Damn, am I glad that douchebag Dubya is finally gone!

In another office, a younger black woman let me watch a little more of the festivities on her computer with her. We talked about how jealous we were of our friends who were there in person today.

Since the vote here in Randolph County pretty much followed racial lines, with McCain getting 70% of the vote, I avoided talking politics with white people. It's a good bet that any random white person here did not vote for Obama.

I only overheard one politically-themed conversation between white people today - two older ladies in an office who completely ignored me as I washed the windows.


I had no idea that Barney Frank was gay. Did you know Barney Frank was gay?

Who's Barney Frank?

Oh, you know...that big, fat slob in Washington D.C.

I don't know.

Oh...he's...that guy. You know...he's fat. He's...he's a liberal.

No, I don't know who he is.

Well, he's gay. I had no idea that he's gay.



Okay, on that note, let's wrap this post up with a couple random pictures:

Della has resigned herself to being outnumbered.



While playing archaeologist a couple days ago, I unearthed these tiny ceramic monkeys. They are only about an inch tall. They were made in Japan in either the 1930s or 1950s.

One of my hens, Miss Lillian, seems to be growing an extra claw out of the bottom of her foot. Not quite as cool as a three-legged chicken but I'll take what I can get.

The verdict is in

Photo from jimmywayne22's Flickr photostream, used under Creative Commons license

Today was my day to go in front of the judge. I cleaned all the chickenshit off me, put on a demure flowered skirt and my best sad face for the occasion.

Just the fact that I'm writing this should tell you that I didn't get thrown into the hoosegow. Thanks to my tribe back in Alaska, I did not walk into the courtroom empty handed. The fine and court costs came to $1036. I had $1040. Whew!

Sadly, there will still be more costs on top of that. I got 30 days community service. Can you believe I have to pay $5 everytime I show up for community service? So that's another $150. Plus, in two weeks I have to go to some "court referral" where I'll pee in a cup and then get evaluated so they can figure out which re-education program to stick me in. The evaluation is $50 and the cupful of pee will set me back another $20. I'm sure re-education camp ain't free either.

And then, when I get my driver's license back in three months, I'll find out just how much more my car insurance is going to cost me. But, until April, I have to beg rides off people to the above court-mandated shit because it's all 15 to 30 miles away. Remember, I live in the boonies and there is no such thing as cabs or buses out here. I wouldn't be surprised if I find myself dusting off the old thumb before this is all over.


But this all could've been so much worse. I could've been smacked with a much larger fine. The actual fine I paid was a little more than eight hundred - very much on the low end of the scale. I could also be wearing the orange jumpsuit and sleeping in the county pokey again. There were people ahead of me who didn't have the money to pay their fines and the judge sent them to jail. There but for the grace of my Alaskan tribe...

And the grace of being plugged into the good-old-boy network. I don't want to go into details here but let's just say southern justice has a lot to do with who you know. I believe that had a lot to do with why my fine was on the low end of the scale. Didn't hurt either that, up until now, my record was clean.


As if all this court crap wasn't enough, Frankencoop is in utter chaos. Two of the roosters (Sanchez and Babyman) have viciously turned on the the third (Cornelius). Yesterday, I found a bloody Cornelius cowering in the brush behind the coop.


He had been attacked by Sanchez who has now claimed the title of top dog. This was surprising to me since Corny outweighs Sanchez by about ten pounds.



At the end of the day, I had no choice but to put everybody back into the coop. Any other day, I probably would've taken Corny back up to the house and kept him in a cage overnight for observation but I had a date with the judge the next day and wasn't 100% sure I was coming home after court. I put the warring factions in the coop together and hoped for the best.

This morning I went down to feed the chickens. I wasn't going to let them out for the day since I wasn't positive I'd be back to lock them up. I threw a bunch of feed into the pen I built onto the back of Frankencoop. Everybody came out to eat except Corny.

I stepped inside the pen and went through the backdoor into the coop where I found Corny covered in mud. I imagine that he got the shit beat out of him in the pen. Much of the pen floor is incredibly mucky. Not only has there been a lot of rain recently but the pen is on the north side of Frankencoop and sees very little sun this time of year. I expect it will be March before it dries out completely.

While I was setting extra food and water inside the coop, Corny went outside to the pen to join the other birds. Sanchez and Babyman immediately went on the attack. Oh, this was the last thing I needed today!

I pushed Corny out the pen door into the yard and proceeded to give Sanchez and Babyman a stern talking to. I explained that if they didn't knock it off at least one of them would be visiting the chopping block and I would share their meat with the cats, make soup from their bones and stuff my mattress with their feathers. But I don't think they understand English.

Poor muddy bloody Corny

Frankencoop is built from the corpse of the house my great-grandparents built. It was once a very modest four-room house that, back in the '30s and '40s, was home to nine people. I often visited this house as a child when my grandmother and her brother still lived there. Now, sixteen chickens share the two rooms that are still standing.

I couldn't leave Corny outside or put him in a cage. I couldn't take him up to yard outside my house because that's the domain of my fourth rooster, Caleb, and his two lady friends, Murray & Lillian (I let them outside for the day in hopes that the dog would offer some nocturnal protection should I not be home that evening).

The only option left was to segregate him in what used to be my grandma's kitchen. I put enough food and water in there for a few days and blocked the passageway between the two rooms (which was just a big hole I'd cut through the drywall).

Sigh...

I have two cleaning jobs tomorrow so whatever solution I come up with will have to wait until Thursday. I think there will be chicken curry on the menu this weekend. The question is who will be the unlucky soul who gets voted off the farm?