Ostara Blessings – And Eggs!

Lordy mercy. The Bad Witch has smeared a fertility spell from one end of her property to the other and it’s all come home to roost on the same weekend.

Without getting into too many details, The Bad Witch helped out with a fertility spell over Imbolc that seems to have taken a few steroids and bred with a Cerberus. Just saying. See “The Witch’s Duh” for how these things backfire.[1]

I had some funtastic [2] plans for this past weekend; but they all fell through under the weight of my fecundity, I suppose. I was disappointed at each turn when the plans gave way – but today, on Ostara, as Spring begins, I see the point I was missing at the time: I may be an old Witch, but I’m still fertile! (So to speak.) I have plenty of living to do.

To begin, I have to say that the intended subject of the spell has not been – how can I say? – unaffected. Not that I take credit; just that I know when to rejoice. Even if nothing comes of it – the “recognition” that the aether hears me is enough.

Nextly . . . .

Friday was the Bad Youngest’s birthday. We had hoped to celebrate menarche[3] and coming-of-age and, and, and. But she decided that not being adopted was the worst thing that ever happened in her life and she kicked me out of all of the plans for the day/week/ year/life.[4] To top it off, she was offered *as a gift* (get this, *free*) a breeder’s Pomeranian bitch. We have a breeder friend who found she had just one too many bitches. Ever get that feeling? I know I do. For this reason, The Bad Mommy said, “No.”

This led to runnings-away and threats of marriage by sixteen and such. Yeah, you were thirteen once too.

Saturday Night[5] was our community Ostara/Lady Day celebration (which rocked the house, btdubbs). After years of aloneness, not only did I get to hold ritual with loving community members, I got to worship with kin. Actual DNA and everything. It means more than mere words can express to be in a close-knit group – and then to add a favorite cousins from babyhood to the mix? Hot damn, I think somebody loves me.

After that, I visited a friend who lives in my nephew’s neighborhood. That was just straight-up intellectual fun and affirmation. With Guinness. Everyone needs good old fashioned intellectual affirmation (and Guinness) every once or so.

Meeting with my nephew and my two grand-nieces – both of whom I haven’t seen in three years (and both of whom are now taller than The Bad Great Auntie), I got some hugs I never thought I’d get again. Plus, I received 20-some (hopefully fertilized) eggs which had been transported by my nephew from The Bad Momma and The Bad Sister, artist / chicken breeder. (Just so you see – TBW is *sane* by genetic comparison.  -.-  )

But, as I’ve been told, everything about me is a story.

Here’s the story about them thar eggs.[6]

Every animal that we meet on or about The Bad Youngest’s bday meets a horrid demise. We are eight years running now. (Therefore it is a good thing I said “no” to the Pomeranian bitch, right?) Birds, puppies, more birds, you name it. Just a day or two before the eggs were sent to me, the mommas and the daddy of the clutch met with a pack of wild dogs. This means that (sadly/fortunately) the Bad Eggs will all hatch without a glitch on or about Easter Sunday. The horrible curse has been paid.[7]

I’m so glad I asked for them baybays. This breed is special. Ever have a chicken act like a little lap-dog? These do. They will hop in your lap and beg for bread, all big-eyed and lovable. The Bad Sister puts clothes on them and lets them walk around the Persian rugs and leather sofas. And they are beee-ooo-ti-full.

Also, without sharing the details of the event, I had the Adoptee come to stay at Casa de la Mala Bruja. It was so fun. Super fun. Loads of fun. If you don’t mind oscillating between adoration and homicidalness (the former, but not the latter, aimed at The Adoptee; no worries). It was lovey. It was vaguely magical. It was totally amusing. Are you convinced? I am. I’m sure she is too. No, really, we made raspberry lemonade out of – well, raspberries, sugar, water, lemons, and more cheesecake.[8] I learned to love “America’s Worst Cooks.” She allowed me to Cesar Milan her Jack Russell – ew, that sounds . . . At any rate, it was a good visit under shitty circumstances.

And, on Sunday, we went to Tractor Supply: TBW’s second fav store in America. And there were chickadees and duckies[9]. Bent under the weight of pressure from The Eldest and The Adoptee[10], I may or may not have purchased chicks.

Bantams –mini-chickens. Pullets –girlies. I have a new lexicon and a new skill set to match.

They will lay eggs the size of a quarter and I will say, “Squeee!”[11]

So – with this post – I introduce you to The Bad Chickens. Which everyone knows means, “The Fantastic Chickens.”

Eldest has a Silke named Sookie. She will look silly in a few months.

Together, she and I also planted everything that had been hanging out in my greenhouse: collards, asparagus, cucumbers, and tomatoes and peppers of every variety. (Yes, yes, it wasn’t a “planting day” but I was on a roll and one has to take one’s joy as it comes, no?) There’s more to do, obviously, but having gotten the first proverbial row plowed, it all seems downhill from here.

Then Monday came.

And you know what? It was the best day I had had in . . . forever. It was busy. It was full of loose ends. But it also had its share of solder. It was dirty. It involved actual chicken shit. And I loved every minute of it.

Today was . . . different (on account of it was my first day in the classroom after Spring Break – always interesting). But it was also lovely. I spent 20 minutes with a friend that I haven’t really talked to outside of my dissertation and annual reviews over the past few years. My students – in all my classes – hugged me simply because they missed me.

I’m not exactly convinced how tomorrow could possibly turn out bad.

Wishing you the most blessed Spring, the most abundant harvest, and a joyful 2012 – with full-frontal BB and 93,




[1] I once cast a fertility spell that I had to “recall.” That sucked – is all I’m saying.

[2] Also furtastic.

[3] Once she learns that word, she will be angry with me all over again for blogging about it.

[4] I’m told: “That’s how you know they’re yours.”

[5] I sing the Bay City Rollers every time.

[6] I “candled” the eggs this evening and have nine *confirmed* embryos. Not bad for a first-timer and a six hour car ride.

[7] The Bad Sister, like The Bestie who shares a bday, has a bit of a “bad historical events” birthday curse too.

[8] But we didn’t really use raspberries – coz she’s pregnant. We decided to substitute pepper vodka. (Sorry, V inside joke.)

[9] Not the John Hughes type.

[10] And her little dog too.

[11] The Bad Children – including The Adopted – named them all but left me one. This “one” hates me. I’m told: “That’s how you know it’s yours.”