general busy-ness

Yesterday, when I was driving to Petaluma, I drove by a wildfire. It had obviously just started, in the dry hills of North Marin, as there were no firefighters there yet. I'm sure it was put out soon thereafter, since it wasn't in the paper this morning (there are currently some huge wildfires raging elsewhere in the state). I was on a tight time schedule (take Lucy to Joyce's! Drive to Petaluma! Get rats! Drive to Vacaville! Drive home!), so I couldn't stop. I didn't call 911, as I didn't feel safe dialing out while driving 70 m.p.h., and I rationalized that surely one of the other drivers in our heavy traffic had already called 911. I wanted to stop and see the fire, from a little distance, because it was so beautiful and strange, the largest fire I've ever seen personally. It was the most interesting thing which happened in a day where I spent nearly six hours on my rat errands.

Today I have to pick up some neutered lady rats at a vet in Pacifica (let us all take a moment and think well of Dr. Hurlbut, DVM, who does huge amounts of reduced-cost veterinary work for animal rescues, and whose name never fails to amuse my three year-old, as it sounds like "butt"). I'll be holding them for a fosterer who will come by after protesting at Neiman Marcus in an anti-fur demonstration (I should be in that demonstration myself, but it's a crazy day). The Baby Violet will be dropped off so I can repay some of the babysitting I owe and so her parents can go see a movie. I will in theory clean my entire house and do all the laundry, because my incredibly tidy, uberhousecleaner friend from high school is arriving in the morning to be horrified at my gross untidiness. "Just don't get a tattoo" was Anton's plea when I told him she was coming (we got matching tattoos for her birthday last year).

So why am I sitting about on my voluptuous rump with so much to do? I'm touching up my roots as we speak, waiting for it to be time to go shower, and waiting for my tired Iris to get up. Lucy is at ballet, driven by the anti-ballet Anton (he's got second child burnout, being sick of watching adorable three year-olds dance and also sick unto death of parent-child woodworking and parent-child swimming classes).