Finger prick

The last place someone like me (a rage-filled, man-hating shrew) needed to be was the town piss-scented police station, but there I was, getting my fingerprints taken for the third time this year because the powers that be at the Department of Defense judged me unworthy of current security status, and I have a new job and have to go through the rigamarole again, don't you know.

I was minding my own business, paying my fee, as some crackhead detoxed down the hall ("I need a bologna sandwich, fuck, that's all!") and a woman sobbed in the chair next to me.

He: you should have known better. What were you thinking? If I hadn't gotten there...

She: I'm so sorry, I know, I love you, I..I....(her words trailed off into snot-muffled sobs so I couldn't tell exactly what else she was saying, plus I was trying very hard not to eavesdrop. As if).

He: well, I guess you didn't try hard enough, and I can't even touch you because I'll contaminate the evidence and what were you thinking?

The man continued to nag and berate his too-young-looking girlfriend until the receptionist finally butted in, "Shut the hell up and stop discussing the case. Can't you just show a little compassion? Jeez."

Joy to the World.

Solo Etoh

I have this rule against drinking alone. Fuck my stupid rules.

Blah, blah, oink: my new job is sort of a diagonal move up - I'm overseeing much of my old responsibilities, even though I work for a different company. At first, I tried being laid back - "Oh, hey, when you get the chance, this needs to be done". My ex-boss, though, seems to be caught up in semantics: "this scope of work says it will affect a few machines, but 4 is more than a few. What you're asking is labor intensive and we won't be able to do it."

Uh-huh, uh-huh, I hear what you're saying, but...DO IT ANYWAY!! My jugular has been bulging and twitching for 48 hours and for all the time we've spent disagreeing, the fucking work could already have been done. I'm frustrated, annoyed, pissed off and wondering if men like to fight, just for the sake of fighting!

B & E

Every morning, including weekends, I stop by my old place of employment to feed the feral cats before going into my new office. On Saturday, when I tried to get in, I noticed my key was missing. Not wasting one impulsive second, I called my ex-boss.

Me, indignant and slightly foamy: What? You couldn't just ask for my key back? You had to be sneaky and take it behind my back? You don't trust me enough to have access...

Him: What?

Me: I know I wasn't supposed to have it, and that's not the point...the cats should suffer because I no longer work there?

Him: What key?

Me: MY key!

Him: I thought your key broke?

Me: I said it broke, thinking you understood, so I could keep it in order to let myself in during the weekends to feed the cats, but someone stole it from my ring last week!

Him: Of course I trust you...I would never take your key. It bothers me that someone else did, and didn't turn it in to me, since I'm responsible for the warehouse, but I'll get to the bottom of this and give you another one, don't worry.

Me: Okay, fine. Thanks.

It has occured to me that the more you act like a raving lunatic, the more people do what you want.

Novem-blur

I'm not sure how I lost an entire month, but, yep, I did. I'm blaming the new job. Or on too much company. Or the fact that my sister and I are regulars at our favorite bar (finally!) because the bouncers don't make us pay cover and the bartender doesn't ask what we're drinking (yes!). How proud my parents must be.

On my last day at the OLD job, my boss surprised me with a 4-leaf clover front license plate. He took a photo of my tattoo to a screenprinter in an attempt to duplicate my Q, which was a wonderful gesture, but as far as hanging out in the parking lot showing strangers my matching tattoo and car...eh, not so much.

All my co-workers gave me a sappy sentimental card filled with "it's been wonderful working with you" and "I hope you take over the world", but Jessicunt? Wrote "See ya", followed by her initials. Can you feel the love?

Someone once told me I would never find a man as long as I lived in Alabama, which is some sort of back-handed compliment, I suppose, because I'm too independent and intelligent-ish (I'm assuming). Turns out there are great men in Alabama, but only temporarily visiting.

I decided to bake pumpkin bread to take to my ex-stepmother's house for Thanksgiving dinner, but used baking powder instead of baking soda and burned all unrisen four mini loaves instead. Frazzled, but remembering a new recipe for apple-cranberry pie I wanted to try, I peeled some apples and attempted project #2. The oven timer must have gone off some time during my shower, as the crust and crumbly top goodness were burnt to a crisp by the time I checked on the damn thing. I arrived at her house with two bottles of wine and a grocery bag with canned goods - mushroom soup, green beans and French onion pieces.

My son & I had driven separately because I had to drive to the airport in Tallahassee to pick up my best friend that evening, and he would go back home afterwards. While showing off his car and stereo, he somehow managed to lock his keys inside the car. My sister agreed to drive him back to our house, but he grabbed the wrong key ring and had to call a locksmith in the end.

My friend Holly has missed her last three flights, but this time she was only delayed while they waited for a crew member. We spent five wonderful days catching up, which I'll write about...by the end of December, anyway, I'm sure.

Pluck me

Insomnia and the spotless mind

Joel: Is there any risk of brain damage?

Howard: Well, technically speaking, the operation is brain damage, but on a par with a night of heavy drinking. Nothing you'll miss.

Not that I keep a running list of favorite top 10 movies in my head, but if I did, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind would be holding steady at the #7 slot. The premise is fascinating: erase a person and all associated events from your memory.

If you received a card in the mail that stated you had been erased from someone's memory and not to contact them, would you? Just to mess with them? Would you be destined to meet again? Will I ever stop obsessing about this movie?

Where's my magic 8 ball?

After putting in my two week's notice, I discovered I would lose 48 hours (!!) of PTO, personal time off, without monetary compensation. My boss refused to let me take the time off because I needed to train my replacement, so we compromised - I bitched and moaned, and he agreed to let me have Friday off.

The big question for today, then: margaritas or beer for lunch?

Easy Access

I don't know which one of us was more surprised this morning when, after fumbling and blindly digging through my purse, I handed the guard at the gate a Victoria's Secret "Free Panties" card instead of my ID card. What kind of encore follows that?

In the queue

My sister and I share an unusual (morbid?) habit of saving the most recent voicemails from people we care about, in case something horrible should happen and we never hear from them again.

Currently, from our dad: "Just wondered if you had daylight saving's down there. We're really enjoying ours up here. Talk to ya' later."

From me, in the parking lot of a bar, playing undercover agent/matchmaker last weekend: "Yeah. You know the guy with that baby*? Well, he said that when he dates girls your age (24-25), they tend to get freaked out because he has a baby, and he asked if you would. I told him I didn't think so, but on second thought, I bet you would, so maybe you could sneak out to the parking lot and let me know so...god, I'm drunk. Nevermind."

*that baby is the one we saw on a Razr phone that a stranger had left on our table, not an actual baby in the bar. Everyone knows you can't take your kids to the bar until they're at least ten, unless a few of their cousins and/or pinball machines are there, or that would just be weird.

Rhymes of an Hour

Apalachicola, Florida

New Orleans, Louisiana

Eufala, Alabama

Casting call for "Jackass"

My son: Have you ever had a habanero pepper before? I ate an entire one at work tonight - it was orange so I thought it wouldn't be as hot as a jalepeno. You know how your leg falls asleep? That happened to my entire body, my face turned white, and my ears literally felt pressurized for at least fifteen minutes.

Me: Let me guess - this was for money?

He: Yep. $3.00.

I raised my eyebrow at him, giving him a little "I'm-so-glad-I'm-not-a-boy" look.

He: ...in quarters.

Sisterly advice

Next time you mouthe the words "he's going home with me tonight" about the lead singer of a band, make sure his sister isn't deaf and he can't read lips...

Yes, he did...and yes, they did - twice. Ah, to be twenty-four again. My post-bar action consisted of a near heart attack when I awoke the next morning to find a long-haired guitarist asleep on my couch.

Yo. Yo.

In two weeks...I'll start my new job!

My negotiating skills? Suck. Auto dealers, salesmen, real estate agents and flea market vendors love me because I never try to get the price down. If it seems fair, I pay it. Last time another company took over our contract and I was offered a smaller salary than expected, I cried and decided to quit because 'counter offer' was a foreign concept.

This time? I asked for 25% more money than I currently make, never realistically expecting them to offer it. They did. And when the woman from HR explained some of the benefits package, I asked if vacation time was negotiable, to which she replied "sure" and added another week. Just like that. She probably pays too much for new cars, too, I'll bet. Suckah!

In two weeks....Crunchy Black's blood will have to be sent again to the lab for FIV (the equivalent of hiv in humans). The results were questionable, so he'll have to be fed separately and sequestered as much as possible while waiting for a retest. There are multiple scenarios, but I'm trying not to obsess until I know something concrete. Who am I kidding?

Don't call me Bubba

I have, apparently, wiggled my way into the professional good ole boy network of southern Alabama.

I had just started my current job when some sort of incident involving a vacuum pump device, a faulty hose, and a few gallons of oil took place. On me. I had showered that morning, but it turned into a really bad hair, with lots of advice from co-workers on the best way to get oil out of clothes. Dawn dishwashing detergent is not the magic elixir they claim, by the way.

I couldn't go home (which was my plan A) because Sam, a computer/environmental scientist/geek from Louisiana, arrived to install a new program for me to learn. We became friends, though he later told me the image of me covered in oil was stuck in his mind forever (what is wrong with men?) .

His company is hiring a few people on my base, and, since he's helping in the hiring process, asked me to send my resume so he could write a job description using MY skills and certifications. I asked if he wanted my height, weight, and a photo to attach to eliminate the prospect of someone else applying.

His human resource department started the background check on me this week, and when my current company found out I was leaving, chaos ensued. Who knew I was such a hot commodity? I've always been tragically underpaid in this field, but it appears we're about to have an all out bidding war...for ME!*

*I'm almost afraid to post this entry, in case I somehow jinx myself and both companies wind up saying, "Nah, you can have her."

Quarantine: do not enter

Bowie:
5/06 - 10/22/06

While it's not my intention to start an online cat obituary log (catobitog?), I have to mention the frail, sweet Bowie, who entered my life, and heart, this summer. She was the runt of my foster cats, surviving every possible illness and recent death of her brother, with an adorable one-eyed sense of sweetness.

When my sister's boyfriend offered to take Bowie in July, I lied and said she had an appointment the following week, so he couldn't have her (I believe I might have some sort of underlying pathological issue. Or two).

My personal veterinarian (ha!) has no clue what's causing the quick, successive deaths of my cats, but sent a blood sample for full screening when I showed up with Crunchy Black (always worth a few snickers when they call out his name in the waiting room and I mumble, "my son named him" as we walk back). He told me he'd like to perform an autopsy on the next one to die, which made for a rather awkward silence. I told him the previous two had died on the weekend and wondered if rigor mortis might affect the body. He told me that I could wrap the body in a plastic bag and put it in my freezer until Monday, when I could bring in the body.

What does one say to that? I feel like I'm stuck in a morbidly bad b-movie written by Stephen King.

Venezia

Pssst, Boy! There's a pigeon on your head!
[Piazza of San Marco, Venice]

Rigidity

Don't EVER take 4-week old kittens to a veterinarian on a military installation, even if you think one's dying because they're so stuck on their regulations and policies and couldn't possibly bend their "you can't have these kittens back for at least three days" rule and "we'll have to euthanize this one because he has fluid in his lungs." And forget about suggesting bringing the wild mother-cat in, because she'll have to go in a different cage, then be euthanized in three days, anyway, unless you want to re-adopt it for the small handling fee of $72. And crying and hyperventilating in the office? Gets nada. Fuck me.

Ace's wild

Our weekend at the beach was a-ma-zing. Who knew beer and sun could be so therapeutic? Beer + sun = world peace. I'm sure of it.

I was always under the impression that I had inherited my (no) sense of direction from my mother, who had to call mall security several times when I was a child because she couldn't find the car. Turns out my sister's inner compass is just as faulty, even with a different mother. The drive through small-town Alabama to Florida should have taken an hour and a half, not four, but even Mapquest can have a bad day, I suppose.

One interesting fact about taking road trips with my sister: she plays strip poker in her mind. Every so often, clothing comes off ("I'm so over these shorts") until she's down to the minimum, comfortably driving along. Maybe you have to be there.

I stayed up all night playing poker with tarot cards. I got a full house and four people died.
- Stephen Wright

Solve for z

(x - y) / 2 = z

x = age, in years, of old, decrepit crone with the failing liver;
y = age, in years, of her college party-girl sister;
z = number of times x will vomit after a night on the town trying to keep up with y

You're blocking my sun

When my sister moved down here to Alabama in May, we/I had grand plans of spending weekends at the beach, bikini-deep in Budlight, but life/her boyfriend got in the way. They broke up in August when he took her away for the weekend, then started making out with a random girl in the pool when my sister went up to the room to change her clothes. She monitors all her ex-boyfriends relationships on their MySpace's and told me random pool girl is driving down from New York to be with him again this weekend (and I thought I had a propensity for stalking!).

While I don't know how altruistic her intentions are, my sister is whisking me away to the beach in Destin this weekend. I've already laid down the ground rules: no booze, boys or new tattoos. Er, maybe just this once.

Highways and byways

My ex- starts his new job today with training in Orlando (I'm letting my emotions fester for a while before I talk about that), so he had our son for the weekend, then flew him back to Tallahassee for me to get Sunday night. Post-party pick-up mom.

Most of my life, people have told me to slow down when driving, but my son? Nagged the entire way because I was only going 80. He missed his car and could not possibly wait another minute for the reunion, even going so far as to tell me that he could claim youthful offender and his car insurance could cover it if I got a speeding ticket (which I pay, incidentally).

We arrived home (finally!), and he took his poor car with cat-prints on the hood out for a spin. Just like a neglected girlfriend, she paid him back for his weekend getaway, stranding him on the side of the road about ten minutes from our house.

My son, who knows next to nothing about cars, had the hood open, peering inside, as I pulled up.

"It sounds electronical, don't you think?"

Rule #1: if you know nothing about cars, make up words.

For those running at half speed

Once there was a woman who stopped visiting my blog when she realized I was ONE person with TWO blogs (oh, God, the horror!). I use this space for myself, while I keep another for my parents/not-so-interested family members, which means I can bitch about my sister, showcase my boobs or talk about threesomes, all in the privacy of my Indigo blog.

Seriously, it's not a diabolical plot twist.

Yes, we're going to a party party...

For birthdays during my obsessive, all-things-Beatles phase (which later evolved into one of all-things-George Harrison), my dad would take me shopping at Harmony House, where I would select the perfect album and we would try to answer the age old question: Beatles vs. Rolling Stones. We shared this interest in music, so browsing together was like being in a candy factory with a chocoholic.

I don't recall a special tradition for his birthday, which is today, though I do remember buying many ties and candles over the years. 2003 stands out for the best surprise, when my mom & I painted his kitchen while he was at work.

For something different, I thought it might be nice if complete strangers on the internet could wish him a good one... (GO!)

You say it's your birthday
Well it's my birthday too--yeah
You say it's your birthday
We're gonna have a good time
I'm glad it's your birthday
Happy birthday to you.

"I called you and it went straight to voicemail." Yep.

My cell phone, which is also my home phone, has been dead since Wednesday and I'm in no rush to recharge it.

I get like this sometimes, when I'm not able to articulate thoughts, let alone share them with others. It seems much easier to turn inward and avoid people (I wonder if this is what autistic feels like.) If brains are prisons, mine is solitary confinement.

My dad struggles with this, as well, although I always found it a quirky and endearing trait in him. He drove three hours to his neice's wedding reception a few years ago, because he knew he should be there, but he couldn't tolerate the crowd (which was mostly family). He entered the front door, marched though the entire hall, then exited out the back door and returned home. Odd, now, that I should so completely understand.

My ex- used to say to me, "You're going to grow up just like your dad* - alone in a cabin in the woods somewhere, drinking beer."

And? What's so wrong with that?

*he recently got married, moved out of the woods, and switched to whiskey (just kidding).

Addison was here.

Parents with many kids always say they love them equally, though perhaps in different ways. I don't buy the Party Line. Of my ten cats, Crackhead Kennedy and four month old Addison have always been more gentle and affectionate. They slept with me, greeted me at the door with a cold beer (not really), and consequently gained exalted "favorite" status.

Addison was lethargic Saturday, but I didn't really notice...he's a cat. Around midnight he started wailing, and when I got closer I could hear his shallow, pained breathing. His eyes were open, staring blankly and I knew there was nothing I could do. He continued having convulsions and crying loudly, as I helplessly held him. The other cats gathered around, equally confused and concerned.

I laid down on the floor beside him, holding his head tenderly in one hand, and petting him with the other, as he passed away. He still twitched, so I kept holding and petting for probably another half hour. To stop would mean giving up, I suppose, and I was clinging to some desperate hope that he would be alright. He wasn't.

I wrapped him tenderly in one of my favorite, softest hand towels and placed him in an empty box, with a lavender rose from my garden and a catnip toy mouse. My son dug the hole next to the pink Camilla bush that's starting to bloom, and we buried him together.

His brother has spent the past two days wandering around the house, crying. I'm equally as subtle, walking around with my puffy eyelids and sobbing whenever I think of him.

The most frightening part is that his death is eerily similar to whatever-still-undiagnosed disease ended Jock's five kittens lives. Another of my cats has similar symptoms and I'm scared to death I'll lose them all.

Addison used to sit on my laptop keyboard when I left for a moment, surprising me with gibberish, pop-up windows and odd searches. This one's for you, sweetie. MMMDHGEHEKLJK. Rest in Peace.

How does my week suck ass? Let me count the ways.

I have no toilet. Wait, I have a toilet, but it's sitting in the middle of my bathroom floor, leaving a dark, gaping hole to sewer hell. While I wondered where wads of toilet paper and used tampons went, I didn't really need to know.

Cold-blooded by nature, I have my air conditioner set at 76 (cold-blooded, cheap, whatever). My son gets home from work, turns the thermostat down to 72 degrees, goes to bed, then turns the heat up to 80 degrees in the morning. I believe hotflashes are actually caused by teenage boys.

I took back my rental car (and driver, ha), paid my deductible ($300) and picked up my car. It looks like...deep fried roadkill on a stick. Oh, it's not that bad, as long as you're Jolly Green Giant tall and don't look closely at the piece under the rear bumper hanging lower than everything else. After driving to the gas station on fumes today, I discovered what else isn't fixed: the push-button gas tank opening. Technology's great - except when IT DOESN'T WORK!

My subordinate has consistently been showing up for work late, leaving early, and taking longer lunches (which everyone knows is behaviour reserved for supervisors). I rationally and calmly sat him down to discuss his attendance after he arrived half an hour late this morning. Okay, I probably used sarcasm to make my point, but he flipped out on me, swearing and yelling about how much he hated his "motherfucking job". He's never said a word before now, preferring the strategy of keeping his anger and frustration bottled up so it could fester. I only wanted to talk about the situation, but ended up writing him up because he acted so inappropriately (and hurt my feelings. This is why I don't WANT people under me. Stop venting at me!)

Because of specifics in our contract, our employer is required to pay us the average wage for the corresponding job title in our Alabama region. Not only was my employee completely out of line, but I had to reward him with a $2/hour pay hike at the end of the day because his had changed. Oh, mine went up, too. BY FOUR CENTS!

Fava beans and a nice chianti

"Man, unlike any other thing organic or inorganic in the universe, grows beyond his work, walks up the stairs of his concepts, emerges ahead of his accomplishments."

The Grapes of Wrath - John Steinbeck

No, I'm not starting a meth lab

You know sometimes you feel like bursting with incredible, life-changing news on the employment front, but because one of your favorite people reads your blog from your mutually shared corporate office, you hesitate to say anything? And you're not sure if your company monitors internet use, but you remember when they installed a ghost program on the computer of a co-worker who was later indicted by the F.B.I., so you think maybe it would be safer not to say anything, and hope that your secret smirk doesn't give you away?

Yeah, me too.

Tell me what you don't like about yourself...

Netflix should change its name to "does-this-couch-make-my-ass-look-huge" movie rental service.

Simple premise: watch a movie, mail it back, get another.

Not only do I get to watch the current season of my favorite lothario, scalpel-wielding Dr. Christian Troy of Nip/Tuck on tv, I get to watch all past seasons simply by walking* to the mailbox.

*Fine. By skipping to the mailbox. Happy?

A consummate bargain shopper, I'll buy anything on sale...turkey flavored protein shake, buy 1 get 1 free? Sign me up! I figured out that if I watch one DVD per week, I'll break even (although this logic is slightly flawed since I rarely rent movies, and it's not so much that I don't want to, it's that I forget to return them and can't afford the excessive late fees to get another).

On another flabby note: kudos to Madrid for making 18 the minimum Body Mass Index (BMI) for fashion week, which means a 6'0" model would have to weigh 135 lbs. to be in the show. Oversized heads on scrawny necks are so...yesterday.

Dial A for Accessory

I cleaned out the storage shed at work today and had two half-full containers of antifreeze (or two half-empty, depending on which metaphorical glass from which you drink) on my desk. Jessicunt, who intermittently breaks her silent treatment to me when she needs something, asked if she could take them.

I happen to know, from eavesdropping on her phone conversation last week, that a neighbor's pitbull attacked and killed their dog. Her dad went to confront the neighbor, who wasn't home, and fired his rifle at the beast as he was leaving. Apparently the gun had turkey pellets instead of bullets, which didn't kill the dog (because the ammo sprays out), so she needs the antifreeze to poison it.

Seriously...is it me? What the HELL is wrong with rednecks?!

Cheap man walking

I ran into a guy (almost literally - he was walking towards the post office as I was backing my car out) I dated after my divorce. He's another helicopter pilot, since apparently I have a weakness for the cocky and arrogant, which later only incites me into throwing hard boiled eggs at their heads. I knew he wasn't for me the day he decided to spend $500 upgrading his ancient piece o'crap computer circa 1990 rather than a tiny bit more to get a decent new system.

We made small talk while catching up for a few minutes, and I asked him if he was still living in the same place.

"No," he said, "We bought some...I bought some...property in the country."

Awwww, I love the pronoun game: we're very happy for you. You go, Jim.

Okay, Steph...

...the cats are packed up and ready to go, but I'M keeping Crackhead Kennedy.

Adventures in geography

Go on - name the state, and win...stuff.

[Fine print: by "stuff", I mean a cat. Or two.]

(Beyond the) Pale green Athena

Other people drive inanimate objects on the highways and byways. Cars. Trucks. Motorcycles. I am transported by a pronoun worthy pale-green goddess -- the first vehicle I ever bought myself, without the assistance of a cheap, bad-ass negotiating spouse.

I took her to the body shop and was told she needs a little work on her rear end (hey, it happens). $5000 and three weeks is the estimation, then she should be back to bouncing quarters and cracking walnuts.

My auto insurance will pay the car rental for thirty days, so I handed over my driver's license to the woman at the customer service desk, who asked if all the information was correct.

"Well, no..." I said, "that's my married name there, which I'm not. And the address was three moves ago."

"Not a problem...except that your driver's license expired in July. I can't rent this car to you."

Well, of course not (to quote an old Steve Martin act, it's all about the timing. Ti-MING).

She told me that Tim would drive me home to get my relevant paperwork (name change, divorce decree), then to the courthouse to get my license. Tim is retired from the Navy, saw combat in Vietnam, and grew up in this area so I got the full tour: the house he grew up in, the creek he fished in, and all the schools in the area. I'm going to suggest to my insurance company that they cover the rental and driver for the next three weeks.

No-fault

The judge asked, "What do you plead?"

I said, "Insanity, your honour. Who in their right mind would park in the passing lane?"
- Stephen Wright

Same location (near my old house) on the same road (84-E), with the same weather (crappy late afternoon rain storm) as last year when the Bronco flipped over the median. Welcome to my déjà vu.

Not much on my mind, other than hypocrites and puritanical sensibilities, as I cruised along, hoping I wouldn't be too late for my dentist appointment. I played with my sunglass a bit, unable to decide if the clouds looked better darker. Lighter. Darker. Lighter. I noticed the car in front of me stopping suddenly, and quickly pressed down my own brake pedal as hard as I could. The anti-lock brakes worked like a charm as I skipped along the wet pavement, stopping approximately one inch from the car in front of me. PHEW!

My relief, however, was short-lived, as I glanced in my rear-view mirror and noticed the truck behind me, a Ford Ranger, was not having such an easy, stop-on-a-dime time with her brakes. She collided into my back end, pushing me into the car in front of me. Then again, with a jolt of the car forward and back, as another truck hit HER from behind. Domino Dancing in a six-cylinder.

The officer on a Harley eventually arrived, and we drove under the canopy at the Shell gas station so he wouldn't get wet (think Eric Estrada...plus 80 pounds). No one was hurt, fortunately, so he took the reports, while we joked and laughed and talked about how crazy hydroplaning was. I told them next time I was in a four car pile-up, I wanted to be at the front, in a truck, because my car was the vehicle that sustained the most damage.

What struck me most was that there didn't seem to be any anger or flying accusations. I don't know how the police report will read or fingers will be pointed, or if it really matters, but the woman that hit me apologized profusely. Repeatedly.

I'm from a no-fault insurance state (Michigan) so it's relatively simple: my insurance pays my damage, yours pays for you. Here? I'm not exactly sure how it works, and it all seemed to be rather hush-hush when I talked to my insurance agent on the phone, "Oh, I can't legally tell you who will pay the deductible, or if it falls under the collision portion of the policy."

This was the first accident I've had in over twenty years, so now I feel like I'm in a fancy restraurant with lots of people, waiting to see who picks up the bill.

Raining cats and...broncos.

From July 8th of last year. I thought some foreshadowing might be nice before my next entry. Dammit.
-------
Last Wednesday, storm clouds started moving in while I was at work, so I decided to leave 15 minutes early to get home and let my dog in the house. She's sensitive (read "wuss") and thunder sends her to the closet to shiver. I'm not crazy about all that dog fur on my clothes, but I didn't want her stuck outside.

I turned east on I-84, hauling ass as I'm prone to do, when the sky fell open. I was listening to Sinead O'Connor's The Lion and The Cobra cd, an old favorite from '87. She may be a bit controversial, but damn that woman can sing! I always wail along with her, covering my complete vocal range from out-of-tune to downright painful. I turned the volume up, wayyyy up.

I want your hands on me - what I want, give me
You know I wanna please you - what I wanna do to you

I'm not overly observant when it comes to other vehicles and actually drove past my ex-husband one time stranded on the side of the road. He had hit a deer and I was the only other car (sorry about your luck). This particular rainy afternoon, however, I saw a Bronco-type vehicle driving on the opposite side of the highway. Everything was in such slow motion, it seemed as though the SUV was practicing for a fire emergency: it stopped, dropped and rolled. It flipped across the grassy median, finally landing on the driver's side a few feet away from me.

You don't waste no time, do you?
You know I'm looking through you

I slammed on the brakes and pulled over to the shoulder, jumping out to make sure no one was hurt. I peeked in the windows and saw two elderly women together on the driver's seat, as if somehow they had both been driving. By this time, two other men had pulled over and were attemptimg to get the passenger side door open (which was now located on top of the vehicle) - we couldn't get it to budge. Instead, we managed to get the rear hatch door open, to make sure the women were okay (sorry for the muddy size 8 footprints on the upholstery) and waited for an ambulance to arrive.

Why you wanna tease me - I want you to come and please me

They both seemed fine, physically, just shaken as we waited for the ambulance. The driver was at least sixty years old, her passenger mother far gone into Alzheimer territory. She never said a word, didn't seem to comprehend what anyone said or where she was. Her dark eyes kept searching mine for...something, while her tiny, frail hands reached out...scratching, some sort of physical attempt to get answers. I will never, as long as I live, forget those birdlike hands and intense eyes staring up at me.

Put'em on, put'em on, put'em on me
Put'em on, put'em on, put'em on me

Methyl Ethyl Assholes

You know what really burns my bra? Hoighty toighty, whitey-tighty, butt-plug wearing writerly types with God complexes. I ran across a troll-blog this weekend, whose sole raison d'être (French for "excuse to be mean") is to point out, ridicule, and leave hurtful comments on blogs he doesn't like. Most people already know if they don't like reading housewives, commentary-writing dogs, cock-sharers or teenagers posting song lyrics without a third party pointing it out, so who the hell are you? I may be a simpleton* but if you don't like it, don't read it.

*One of these holier-than-thou types sneered, jeered, talked down to and basically called me stupid a few days ago, which wasn't the first time, and probably won't be the last, but it did sting my hypersensitive ego. I try to limit my insecurities, if at all possible, to ones that have validity, and just because I can't turn a phrase (or a trick, for that matter) as well as this professional writer, does not make me stupid or my thoughts less worthy. Puh-leeze.

Not to pull a Pee-Wee Herman and stroke myself in public, but I graduated magna cum laude with a B.S. in Chemistry and was named Chemistry student of the year in college, for heaven's sake (which is really funny and irrelevant to me, but it's the way my friend in Milwaukee always introduces me) and I know EVERY PROPERTY RENT IN MONOPOLY! Granted, it doesn't translate into a successful career, lots of money or even writing ability, but I have just as much right to be here. Fuck 'ya.

I prefer blogs belonging to genuine people. Cat lovers, grammar queens, teachers, computer geeks, jet-setters, photographers, parents, chefs, dancers, musicians, poets, and earth-bound writers. I'm limited in the types of people that cross my path in southern Alabama and would surely wither away from exposure to rednecks if it wasn't for the variety of people I read on the internet.

Say what you will about me, but don't be rude to people I care about. Mean people suck (often sloppily, with too much saliva so there's not enough friction and who needs that?).

Thought for a Sunday

Smart girls don't dance with sociopaths.

See? I can play well with others.

Our IT guy, AmesJay, left a few months ago, suddenly without notice, which I've heard had something to do with his wife catching him with some stripper in Montgomery. He fled the state, and we were fortunate that the woman who previously held his position was looking for a job.

EllyKay. This may be difficult to believe, but I have nothing negative to say about her. Well...she doesn't drink, but that's pretty minor - I can overlook it. She did have sex in our bathroom at work with a cheating-on-his-wife bottom feeder, but that was probably because she had taken too much demerol for her migraine. We get along, occasionally go to lunch together, and she feeds the feral cats when I'm not there.

Yesterday, she won lunch from a local radio station for answering these questions:

1) if the vice president dies, who's the president?
2) if you have a dozen three-cent stamps, how many do you have?

LUNCH! She won lunch!

Home Alone

I've come to the conclusion that fellow student, Botox woman, is completely clueless, carrying around her aging and insecurity issues to share with those around her, free of charge. She asked, all in one breath, about when my ex-husband would be back from Iraq, were we going to get remarried, was I moving to Savannah and how much longer would I be staying there, where I currently work?

Inappropriate questions don't bother me (much), so I told her things hadn't worked out with him, and I'd probably stay where I was for two more years until my son graduated high school.

"Oh my God," she said, "aren't you afraid of growing old alone?"

Whoaaaaa. What is this crap assumption that single people are somehow missing out and that one day, if I could only "find someone", my life would be complete and better? Isn't it possible to be singularly self-contained and satisfied? Why would I want to settle, just because I'm afraid of being alone?

If I had the choice, and fortunately I do, I'd rather be alone than lonely (although I wouldn't say no if some guy wanted to sign over his retirement to me). I've done my time - I'm on parole.

M.E.O.W.R.

I'm attending forty hours of not-so-interesting training this week involving the Department of Transportation (DOT) regulations for Department of Defense (DoD) employees, which means my brain is slam full of acronymns AND all the things I have to get done at work will have to wait until the weekend.

An older woman from Florida with her botoxed forehead and lifted eyes, whom I haven't seen in over a year, is attending the class also. During our catching up, she said, "You've gained some weight."
"Yes, thank you for pointing that out."
"No," she said, "I just meant your face is fuller now and you look more healthy.

My sister is another shoo-in for the Tactless Olympics. Before I helped her set up her blog (read: plowed through over 500 photos of her drinking with her friends for the right profile photo), she told me that her friend no longer reads my blog because it's too boring, with too many cat and flower photos.

Even if it's true, why would you TELL someone that? I'll have to remember to put up some drunken, semi-naked photos to accompany several girl-on-girl bar stories tomorrow. Or maybe I should sit on and squash her with my giant, fat ass.

Pay it forward

My dad has this game he likes to play called "I-got-in-my-car-16-hours-ago-and-now-I'm-at-your-house...SURPRISE!"

1990. He had never been to my house in Alabama, 1050 miles away, since I had only been there a few months. In between napping/eating/wondering when I'd be able to stop wearing maternity clothes, the phone rang. He told me he was on the corner at the gas station, how would he find my house from there? It was a fantastic visit, but I don't believe I've ever been more caught off guard in my life.

2006. He and his "child bride" (she's 51) were supposed to be at my house Friday afternoon. I had a detailed, Martha Stewart type, I'm-kind-of-anal list to follow to complete everything before their arrival: cut the grass, trim the hedges, mop the floors, wash sheets, grocery shop, bake pies, etc. Thursday afternoon he called to say they were going to drive straight through rather than stop in a hotel, because they were just north of Montgomery. ACK! I do love surprises, but I prefer to be freshly showered with my to-do list completed first.

Because my sister has been depressed lately, we decided we wouldn't tell her that they would be visiting. Her mother & I synchronized our watches and met at the same restaurant for dinner Friday night. She was so shocked, she didn't even hug him initially, just stood there crying from happiness. I have an interesting photo of her veins bulging as she first realized it and lunged forward, but I promised not to post it. I definitely prefer to be the surpriser instead of the surprisee.

Job's kittens

[top to bottom: Addison, Chase, Bowie]

When it comes to kittens, don't ever say, "What next?!" (or "No, I coudln't possibly take another", for that matter).

It turns out Addison, one-eyed Bowie's "sister", was packing balls in that long grey fur of his. When I noticed his eye getting cloudy, as in a creepy episode of X-Files, I took him to the vet, who informed me that he has a juvenile cataract and is most probably blind in his left eye. There is no link between his cataract and Bowie's corneal ulcer - different mechanism, same result - although at least he'll get to keep the visionless eye.

Over the past six weeks, I've sent three of my veterinarian's children to college with the following kitten maladies:

ulcerated cornea
eyeball enucleation (removal)
staph infection
ringworm
fleas
worms
juvenile cataract
assorted vaccinations

My cousin used to tell me that she wasn't going to the casino in the future - she would just slow down when she drove by and throw money out the window. I suppose it would be littering if I threw pieces of plastic credit cards at Westgate Animal Hospital while cruising past.

7% solution

Two facts about my father:
1. He rarely (as in never) goes to the doctor. Once when I was seven, during a family meeting with his 10 siblings, he turned grey and blood started squirting out of his nose from his high blood pressure. And then? I'm not sure he did more than grab a towel and tilt his head back.

2. He doesn't buy new vehicles, preferring instead to trade used trucks with his brothers when they're drinking. He did buy a Chevy Citation in 1980 that had no air conditioning, power steering, or brakes (well, it might have had brakes, but he taught me how to drive with it, and I'm quite sure I never used them).

If it's possible to have a complete personality overhaul at age 60, he has, and it started close to two years ago when he married his 3rd wife.

He recently told me he was having surgery on his neck because of a nonspecific lump that didn't cause any pain. I expressed surprise, asking if he thought of getting a second opinion. "I did. The second doctor said, 'sure enough, you have a lump on your neck. That'll be $100.' He is also taking medication for his high blood pressure and has been to the dentist twice this month.

A chronic, lifetime procrastinator, he finished several courses he needed to continue teaching - and the deadline isn't until NEXT SUMMER! He's also put up a few entries in his blog, which is a few more than ever before.

He bought a new fully loaded SUV. A bit too much for him, with it's fancy features and leather interior, but he went a little upscale for his wife, who managed to sideswipe another truck the first week and caused $5,000 worth of damage. The good news is it's fixed in time for them to drive to Alabama to visit me this weekend!

When I asked him if he discovered a new vitamin, he told me that he estimated marriage has made him 7% more productive because now there is a witness whenever he feels like slacking. I have to clean out my spare bedroom before they get here, since it's quite obvious by the piles of clothes, books stuffed in every crevice and assorted mounds of potting soil that I haven't had a witness in years (and no, Monty, that's not a euphemism for anything).

Oops, I think you dropped your conscience...

For anyone who wondered, along with myself, how Monday morning with the boss would go...it was oddly anti-climatic. He apparently accepted my "apology" (yes, I know: my un-apology) and emailed the lamest bunch of excuses in return. Do me a favor and don't complain about our schools if you can't be bothered to pay what you owe.

His email:

Cheating on your taxes can't be that bad of a sin, since 78% of the folks polled do it. Here's some reason why, according to it;

- Everyone does it.
- I overpaid last year, and I'm evening it out.
- I need the money more than the bureaucrats do.
- I refuse to give money to a government that wastes so much money on bureaucracy
- Cheating on taxes is a subversive act. You deprive the government of the funds to finance repression, and you do it anonymously, so you don't become a target.
- Cheating on taxes is part of my ethnic heritage. Everyone in my home country does it. I must be true to my roots.
- Richard Nixon cheated, why shouldn't I?
- We all cheat in different ways. Some buy politicians and have them create loopholes. I'm just taking a more direct route

Couple of those I agree with. When forced to lower my integrity I generally take the route that hurts the least to me or them. I believe you overreacted also with your comment. It's the gov't I've lied to not you!

Drama Queen Central

We were all sitting around/goofing off in the office Friday morning when my boss said he'd like to start a photo journal of run-down schools standing next to elaborate churches to show how our priorities, as a society, are backwards and that religious organizations should have to pay taxes like everyone else. A co-worker chimed in that she didn't think people without children should have to pay taxes (children are our future, who cares if you birthed them? Do you really want our country run by a bunch of ignorant twats?), though she suggested a flat tax of 10% on every purchase so illegal aliens would have to contribute to our social programs.

Belated note to self: avoid conversations about religion, politics, and especially BOTH.

We're both liberal, so I generally agree with him, but when my boss said he cheated on his taxes every year because everyone else did, I was stunned (and for the record, no one I know cheats on their taxes). I wasn't trying to be rude, judgemental or even snotty, but I said, "Hm. That surprises me. I thought you had more integrity than that." Try saying that if you ever want to end a conversation immediately, because it came to a screeching halt as he stomped out of the office.

I walked outside to call my sister, and was leaving a voice message as he walked past, "Mumble, mumble...integrity. Try looking in a fucking mirror!"

Since I wasn't exactly sure what he said, or if he was even talking to me, I said, "Excuse me?" but he didn't reply. He just got in his car and peeled out.

I try to be a bigger person (sometimes), I really do, but my fingers on a keyboard don't always have a filter. I decided I should email him an apology, and told him I was sorry that he felt the need to overreact, which a friend pointed out was arrogant and snarky. Now I need to apologize for my apology when I should have just left it. Sigh. Two co-workers down, seven to go.

Wireless recruit

My son's friend graduated high school and joined the Army in June. From Basic Training in Ft. Sam Houston, Texas, during his one hour of personal time on Sunday, he called my son to see if he had any comments or photos on his MySpace. My son dutifully read the remarks for him and told him about updated profile pictures.

I sure hope they put some internet cafes in those barracks and on the war front soon...(yes, I realize I would be doing the exact same thing).

Mona Lisa Summer

One of the last photos I took of my cat Summer before she ran away/got lost/stumbled into a mole-filled heaven nine months ago alternately fascinates and gives me shivers. The background around her is crisp, while she is an ethereal beauty - glowing and planning other-worldly adventures (I'm sure it has something to do with the light or the aperture or something else technical, but that's irrelevant):

My aunt Susie is an artist - an incredibly talented, Belgian chocolate-loving personality whose work turns me a lovely shade of green-with-envy. She and my mom have been best friends longer than I've been alive (they married brothers, but their friendship bond stuck even after their divorces), so she's always been a part of my life. The running joke is the time I babysat for her three kids (my cousins), but didn't pay attention as the toilet leaked and flooded their entire house with a foot of water. Hey, I was only twelve - you get what you pay for!

For my birthday this year, my mom sent a Summer portrait, painted by my Aunt Susie, who, fortunately, doesn't hold grudges:

I couldn't ask for a more wonderful gift.

Purple Haze

Purple haze all in my brain
Lately things just don't seem the same

- Jimi Hendrix

High on a riverbed

My sister shared a mutual crush with my co-worker, Thad, when she visited at Christmas. He bought a plane ticket to see her in Michigan during spring break, but she changed her mind. He tried to buy her a cell phone when hers drowned in an alcohol-induced incident, but she refused because she didn't want to feel obligated. And when he dropped off roses and a (weird) card for her at my house after she moved here, she decided she was over him.

I sort of know this guy whose Navy Guard unit has been activated to go to Afghanistan in a few weeks (I may be geographically challenged but don't boats need water?). I asked if he had gotten all the loose ends of life wrapped up, because I know he's a single guy and I'm nosy like that. He mentioned that he decided to keep his apartment by having the rent drafted out of his pay automatically, but he needed someone to stay in it (for free) and take care of his dog.

I told Navy Guy about my sister, who is starting classes soon* and REALLY needs a place to live that's closer to the college. He told me that he possibly had a guy willing to stay there for him, but he hadn't gotten a definite answer yet, and she could probably move in if he didn't hear from him soon.

*When I asked her if she was registered yet, she said yes, so I asked what courses she was taking and she told me she didn't know, and to quit interrogating and looking at her(?). I find this odd.

I talked to Navy guy, who told me the family friend IS moving into his apartment for him while he's away. Family friend? Thad, of course. He's the kind of guy that would have bowed out and let my sister stay in the apartment instead, but she never thanked him for the flowers. Dumbass.

And rudeness reared her butt-ugly head

Yesterday, Jessicunt had her mommy call to say she was sick and wouldn't be coming in to work, because obviously a twenty-seven year old with an upset tummy should be resting . Too bad it wasn't an old-fashioned, blistering case of ebola.

The first thing I do when I get to work each morning is feed my 15 stray cats with a wet/dry cat food mixture in plastic containers. I had the bowls balanced in my left hand, the water dish in the right, as I turned to walk outside. Jessicunt was coming from the opposite direction, but rather than wait for me to pass through the narrow aisleway, she kept approaching. Obviously at an impasse, I turned sideways to continue on my way, thinking how stupid it would be to stand in the break room holding cat food all day.
She snottily said, "Excuse you."
"Since I had my hands full, common sense would suggest you'd wait for me to get through," I replied.
"That's not important to me."
"Of course not."

I'm trying to ignore her childish behavior, but I need to let her stop pushing my buttons. I've decided to try laughing at her during her full throttle extravaganza bitchfests because nothing sucks venom out of sails like not being taken seriously. She's infuriating, unprofessional, negative and immature. Seriously. One of us has got to go, and it will be her.

Take me to the theater?

What Famous Leader Are You?
personality tests by similarminds.com

Must...get...water!

I started physical therapy for scoliosis after my pre-teen growth spurt. One of the exercises was to crouch down on all fours, then stretch out with my arms as far as possible. The therapist would say, "Keep reaching, stretch, stretch. Pretend there's a million dollars within your grasp."

My cats own the laundry room, with their water and food bowls, assorted toys and scratching goodies, but they prefer the dog's dishes. Keep reaching, stretch, stretch...

I SAID super size

As I was dragging my hungover ass to McDonald's for my MUST HAVE post-drinking lunch*, I stopped at the first window to pay/rummage through my pockets/try to remember what the hell I did with my debit card, when I heard music coming from the car in front of me. Correction: it was so loud, I actually felt the music, throbbing somewhere behind my right temple.

*filet of fish, large fries and a strawberry shake. I don't know if it's the salt, the vegetable lard or the reconstituted strawberries in fake dairy goodness that helps, but it always settles my beer stomach.

The seventeenish year old drive-thru teller nodded her head in the car's direction and told me that the driver was playing that song for her.
I said, "Aw, that's sweet, right?"
She replied, "Very. We hooked up last night, and that's our song."

Romance isn't dead, but you might have to buy a happy-meal to find it.

Hibisci

Each year, I'm drawn to the big, bold blooms of the hibiscus. I inevitably buy one, plant it, then say my goodbyes in the fall when the cold weather kills it.

Flies on the windscreen

I'm thinking of becoming a professional flight-misser. Yes, this makes the FOURTH flight in a row that I have missed (by ten lousy minutes). When I called my friend to let her know I'd be a few hours late, she told me that she, too, has missed her last four flights! Serendipity, baby.

My slightly gross but perfectly legitimate excuse: I took the kittens outside to play before I left for Tallahassee, when I watched one of the them pooping in my flower garden, like he always does. As I grabbed the scooper, I noticed he had a butt full of long, white worms, squirming and making a break from his Alcatraz (Alcatr-ass?). I had to take him up to the vet, or I figured all nine cats would have them when I returned and that would be far worse to deal with. I was able to catch a later flight, for a slight fee of course.

There was no actual funeral while I was there - there had to be an autopsy since my friend's father fell while in a nursing home and the body hasn't been released yet. Apparently when you go to a nursing home, you sign over your assets, income, pension and everything you own to the blood-sucking bastards. He was there only one week before he died, but they now have everything of monetary value. And? If you don't have life insurance, think about getting some. It's an awful burden to leave on your family if you don't. While I can't say I'm "happy" I went, I feel relieved that I was able to go, mend our friendship and offer some support. It was one of the better decisions I've made.

My friend's entire family welcomed me, even in the midst of their mourning. Death's in German families seem to be similar to those in Irish families, with the addition of Mimosas for breakfast before the beer starts flowing at noon.

Hip Hip Hoorah?

How did my 9 feline anarchists celebrate/protest my return home from Milwaukee? With dirt, of course. Lots and lots of dirt.

Follow your heart

If you’re lucky, you find people who change (for the better) the way you view yourself, others and the world. Besides family, I have found three such people, two of whom are in a tremendous amount of emotional pain right now.

A few of you left comments regarding the strength of connections they feel to people they've met only through the internet and I couldn't agree more. Jock could be a modern-day St. Francis of Assisi, protector of animals (okay, the sainthood might be pushing it a bit unless whiskey is allowed these days, but still...). Last week, he was caring for twenty-one cats, and would rather skip meals himself than see one go hungry. I can't express how much I admire his devotion and dedication. He has buried four kittens in one week and the trend doesn't seem to be stopping. I don’t know if there is something a vet can do or a medication that will help, but I can’t live with myself if I sit idly by and do nothing as they continue to die from this "one day they're fine, the next day they're being buried" illness.

I was actually moved to tears when a group of strangers on the internet helped pay the surgery bill of a kitten that had been run over - there is so much good in the world sometimes, it amazes and astounds me. Though he would never in a million years ask for help, I will. The cat photo to the right will take you directly to Paypal to donate if you’d like to help.

For my disappearing act: I booked a ticket to Milwaukee, leaving this morning from Tallahassee (figuring I’d bypass the whole “speeding ticket/missed flight/get a hotel room” process I endure when I fly out of Atlanta). I may be able to do nothing more than cry with my friend as she mourns the loss of her father, but offering my shoulder from nine-hundred miles away and sending flowers hardly felt supportive enough.

Intermission

I was wondering why I hadn't heard from my sister for the past month. Turns out she met a guy on that child-predator/malicious-ware/superficial meat market MySpace, who lives in my town, and they've become semi-serious. I certainly hope it wasn't that guy with the video of himself shaving, because that seems a bit self-absorbed and he's going to need to focus 110% of his attention on her.

I know a wonderful man on the internet who is losing kittens left and right to some lethal, extremely contagious virus and my heart is aching for him as he holds his dying darlings. He deserves more than what little I offer and give.

My bipolar, somewhat crazy, sometimes soulmate, friend that I met in Basic Training (in 1987, 'cause I'm old like that), lost her father this morning. We had a falling out about six months ago so I haven't been there for her, but I know she must be devastated.

I feel helpless, isolated, and frustrated. I have no words, can offer no solace, feel this overwhelming sense of loss for my friends, yet know it's nothing compared to what they're going through (turns out I don't care about ending sentences with prepostions, either, so there).

This might possibly be the most embarrassing thing I've ever admitted...

I know she's as dumb as a box of rocks with an extremely limited vocabulary. A bleached blonde spoiled princess party animal who hasn't worked a day in her life. I do. Still...I can't help being fascinated by Paris Hilton. What is wrong with me?! (Answer at your own risk).

Her new single - that I might have already listened to (twice). That's hot.

St. George Island, Florida

A tiny island with not a lot of fanfare. Another perk? Dogs are welcome.

Dell's Bells

When my HP desktop crashed THREE TIMES for no explicable reason other than the possible alignment of Saturn and Venus, their not-so-English-speaking-customer service department sent me a box so I could fed-ex the computer that time forgot to them in California. They replaced the hard drive and eventually mailed it back to me - a week and a half later.

My current soulmate, a Dell laptop that's still under warranty, lost/misplaced two letters off the keyboard (completely cat-related, of course, as one was trying to jump on my lap, his claw gripped the keyboard and pulled as he tried desperately to stay attached, but gravity won instead*), so I was thinking they could send a few letters? P and 0? Nah, they sent a whole new keyboard PLUS a cute, tiny screwdriver.

*this reminds me of my boss, who insists that if you throw dice, the number three will come up most often and believes that he knows, from research, the luckiest numbers for the Florida state lottery to eventually win. I keep telling him statistically, the odds of each number is the same. He can refuse to believe in statistics and gravity, but they're still there, regardless.

My laptop screen occasionally blinks, so I thought I could find out if it was covered under the warranty, which it is. A technician came to my house, cleaned the connections and replaced the video card. Two months later, it did it a few times again, so another technician arrived the next day with a brand new screen.

I can't get over this customer service...Budweiser needs something similar.

Not again

At the risk of having cats completly take over my blog, meet Addison, the sister of one-eyed Bowie:
When I got home from work yesterday, I noticed her eyes were barely open and she seemed to be sick. Please let it be a sympathy reaction to her sister losing an eye and nothing more.

Uncle.

Men. I'd rather use an epilady on my entire body. At least you know beforehand it's gonna hurt like hell.

It's so quiet, oh so quiet

My co-worker Jessicunt returned to work after her week-long vacation attired in a new, so-tight-I-could-see-the-34b-tag-with-her-bra-size-on-it Tinkerbell* t-shirt that said "I'm so done with you". She's choosing to embark along the path of the silent treatment, which works for me since her shrew-like voice and bitchy attitude annoy me, anyway.

*obviously a reference to my short blonde hair

The paranoid one also tried to enlist our boss to look on my computer to find my blog link so she could make sure I wasn't writing about her, but she's shit out of luck since I never access it from work. Now that I know this, though, I will make it a point to write about her weekly. One thing I would tell her: remember the two weeks you didn't talk to me after your dad flirted with me at the bar? Well, honey, he did much more than flirt (not very well, bless his tiny boner, but he did try).

One window to the soul

I started a pharmacy department in my bathroom for Bowie, the sevenish-week old kitten I took in last Saturday. I gave her eyedrops four times a day, general antibiotics, ointment and spray twice a day, but in the end, there was nothing they could do to save her eye (I might possibly have blacked out once the words "burst" and "eye" were used together so I'm not sure what the technical details are).

Weighing only 1 lb. 2 oz.*, I had to leave her at the vet's office today to have her eye removed.

*less than two cans of Campbell's tomato soup

Laying the almighty purple smackdown

I generally avoid heated discussions about politics or religion, because it seems sort of pointless. My beliefs work for me, as yours do for you, and I don't mind listening but please don't try to convert me. Well, unless you're a close-minded, hypocritical, right-wing Conversative Baptist trying to save my soul, then I'm just pretending to listen, while hearing the Brady Bunch theme song in my head and willing you to shut up. Quickly.

When I went to the gas station to fill up today, I had to walk inside to pay because the credit card option at the pump wasn't working (hey, it's 98 degrees with 99% humidity - I am not walking further than I have to). I heard the customer in front of me asking why the pumps no longer took the plastic, and the clerk told him it was a temporary glitch and he wished people would stop cussing him about it.
The customer said, "Guess you'll have to start cussing them back."
"Oh, I could never do that", the clerk replied. (I assumed he was going to say something about the customer always being right. Silly me). "God would never forgive me."

Huh? Guess that lands me right in the center of hell's shit creek. Who could get through this life believing that any cussing, flaws or errors in judgement are unacceptable? No, thank you. If (I mean WHEN), I screw up in the future, I know the people in my life, as well as a higher being, will be there to accept my apology. In fact, the people I respect the most have the ability to forgive the best (coincidence? hmmmm). Perhaps it's because I was raised Catholic, but forgiveness is generally a confession and a wafer away.

The rest of the day was spent burning through my full tank of gas by picking up my son after his piece o'shit car (the Patri-Camaro) stranded him twice and hydroplaned him into the ditch once. AND, if you ever sell a car, buy a car, ride in a car or think of stealing one in the state of Alabama, make sure you sign your complete middle name and not only the initial on the title because if you don't, we'll have to redo paperwork in triplicate and get it notarized before we can register it. And, I will personally cuss you out.

Kiss it

My boss: you know what your biggest problem is? Your impulsive Irish temper. Is it really worth losing your job over feeding some cats?

Me: that is hardly my biggest problem. And? I dare anyone to fire me...over fucking cat food. Kiss my impulsive Irish ass.*

*objects in blog are smaller than they appear. No, really.

They're poisoning cats on Fort Rucker, Alabama...

...and I feel sick.

I mentioned the other day my feral crew of approximately twenty cats at work (well, seventeen, since I took three kittens home. One with a bad eye needed antibiotics, but she was lonely so I grabbed her sister, then yesterday I took them up to visit their mom, who missed them not at all, though their brother was ecstatic to see them so I took him back with me).

Yesterday, there were only ten waiting for breakfast, then today, only six. Someone at work mentioned that they poison the feral cats on base about once a year, to keep the population down, and they had posted the "DO NOT FEED THE CATS" signs just last week, so he figured it was time again. What the hell? Is there a time warp tunnel from the Dark Ages around here?

Military bases are historically chock full of abandoned pets, with soldiers not wanting to go through the trouble or expense to take them once they move, especially overseas. I contacted the Veterinary office on post last week about a feral release program and they told me they would take the cats in, put them up for adoption, then put down the cats that didn't get taken. What part of FERAL do they not understand? No one will adopt these cats. I've fed them every day since November, some of them trust me enough that I could catch them, but I can't live with their blood on my hands if I take them in.

I decided to talk to my Veterinarian, to see if he would give me a discount so I could get the females spayed then return them back to their homebase to roam and hunt rodents, but I never got the chance. They're being murdered by thirds. every. single. day. My boss suggested I verify the information before I continue my obsession. Like our government won't LIE to me?

I'm tired of explaining to rednecks that have shot at birds and squirrels their entire lives with BB guns that this is CRUEL. I'm tired of expecting co-workers to have compassion. I'm tired of not having enough money or space to save them all. I'm just...tired.

You say "to-may-to", I say "killer to-mah-to"

Tired of auctioning out my liver to the highest bidder (ha!) in order to afford fresh produce, I decided to start on a small scale with two slightly-wilted tomato plants in my back yard, inconspicuously hidden behind the gardenia and plumbago. Psyched to pluck the first fresh fruit of my labor, I tugged and noticed a gooey, sticky mess.* With her distinguishable eight legs and red hourglass, was a Black Widow Spider living between two tomatoes!! ACK!! That big white blob? Some sort of nest with many widow orphans.

*tomato wet dreams of sticking it to the zuchini?


Looks like it's back to the Lucky Charms.

Raindrops on roses and eyedrops in kittens

I take my "stupid" pills daily, like a good multivitamin, but this weekend I threw caution to the wind and consumed the entire bottle.

A major SUCKAH for cats, I accidentally ended up with six at home after one disappeared (read here). And at work? I've been feeding an average of ten cats since around October, when we discovered abandoned kittens under one of our storage units. That number has steadily increased, and with the birth of a few more batches, it's up to around twenty. About two weeks ago, I saw a cute little kitten with one brown eye, one blue, and named her Bowie. She was one of the more tame ones, occasionally allowing me to pet her.

When I went in Saturday morning, I noticed her brown eye was closed, with pus and drainage making it impossible for her to open it, so I drove her over to my veternarian, who said it could be a viral or bacterial infection that's caused such a deep lesion. He gave me antibiotics for the eye, antifungal for her ringworm, told me to keep her separated from my animals if I was taking her home, then bring her back Tuesday to see if she's improving.

She looked so lost and pathetic, sitting in the cat carrier in my bathroom by herself, but I didn't want to take her back to work since I have to give her medicine four times a day. I did the only logical thing: went back to work and nabbed her sister. The two of them are living like fat cats.

Captive audience:

Okay, I took a deep breath, counted to ten, slept on it and I'm STILL pissed off!

I guess if you go to bed with brain rage, nothing miraculous happens during the night to soothe hyper neurons, and you wake up in the same state the following morning. Perhaps it's even worse because the storm has been brewing and thoughts have been racing for a few additional hours. Who wants a piece of me? Huh? HUH?! BRING IT!

This will be the shortest (hopefully) recap possible: a couple of months ago, my boss took a few of us out to celebrate the end of a stressful week. We're both prior military and work well together, but festive beer night took a nasty turn when he told me, "I would divorce my wife and marry you tomorrow if you'd have me." Gulp.

As far as lines go? That's about a negative two on the "gonna-get-in-my-pants" scale. A real beer-buzz killer. It freaked me out, even more so when he started making divorce plans from his wife of TWENTY-SIX years. I understand midlife crises and all, but don't put me at the top of your To-Do list.

When he started writing poems and emailing them to me, I knew I had to put distance between us and become more aloof. I told my coworker/supposed friend J. (of "subservient wipe-him-after-sex" fame) that I was concerned because we were obviously on different pages. Hell, we were on different books.

Apparently, she told him everything I'd said and added her own twist by saying I thought his poetry sucked. I would never ridicule someone's creative attempts, but who the hell does she think she is by saying anything in the first place? I thought we were friends (sometimes, sort of) and thought she was loyal (in her own way).

She's on vacation all next week, so I thought I'd help kick off her absence from work by emailing her three little words:

Fucking. Lying. Cunt.

From the Barney summer collection

I don't "get" fireworks: they're loud, look the same every year, my pets are terrified and we're in a drought, for god's sake! Besides, I'm the anti-celebrator during holidays. It's what I do.

While everyone else was pigging out on hotdogs and rancid cole slaw, I spent my weekend refinishing the little desk in my kitchen. What I envisioned as a sleek, dark eggplant surfing-stand turned out to be more of a grape kool-aid disaster. I should have just gone to Lowe's, bought some black glossy paint and been finished with it, but I've learned the hard way to avoid that evil, paycheck-sucking chain store.

I rummaged through my storage shed and found some limewash, which I painted on the desk with my random criss cross brush strokes. Nope. I dug deeper and found some crackle buried beneath some ancient pesticide, slopped some of that over the "raisin" base coat, then covered with a layer of white.


Before: old, dark brown, ragged desk. Dated.




Midproject: grape monstrosity.



After: old, purple, crackled, one-of-a-kind desk. Never been kissed.






I'm still not quite sure what I'll do to help this ugly stepchild of a desk, but I'm guessing some sort of stripping will be involved (oh la la!). For now, I giggle whenever I look at it, and shouldn't home decorating involve laughter? Or is that just me?

'Twas 71

My parents both use the internet phone plan Vonage, so sometimes our conversations are a series of clicks and echos. Sunday's conversation with my dad was particularly crowded with my ghost menagerie, which led him to tell me this:

When my aunt Denise told her son Travis about taking her first trip to Ireland this summer with her four sisters, he told her, "don't go with them, go with me instead." My twenty-seven year old cousin passed away at the end of February, so in the end, aunt Denise would make the journey with her sisters.

They stayed in a room with the skeleton key inside the lock, but the door would rattle and shake every night regardless. "Leave us alone, Travis...we're old women trying to sleep" became part of the nightly ritual.

On the return flight home, my aunt Denise would have to take a different plane home. Flight 71, which was also Travis' jersey number. Coincidence? Or did he perhaps make the trip to Ireland with his mom, afterall?

Calla in the sun

Have suitcase, will travel

The states in which I've lived, driven through, and/or gotten speeding tickets in red (yeah, maybe I really do get around):

create your own visited states map
or check out these Google Hacks.

Giza

"From atop these pyramids, forty centuries look down upon you."
-- Napoleon Bonaparte