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.