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.