You knew it wasn't just a hypothetical question, right? (Now with UPDATES!)

I didn't stop.

I ... if it had been a small dog, like a Pomeranian, would I have stopped? Absolutely. But this was a big dog, obviously not real well cared for (matted fur) and ... I was afraid. I was afraid of getting bitten. (And yes, a Pomeranian can bite just as easily as a big dog, but I feel like I'd have a fighting chance against a Pom. You know?)

All the way in to work, I thought about turning around and going back. And I didn't. I flippin' agonized all the way in to work about going back and helping that dog, and I didn't.

When I got to work, I checked Craigslist to see if there were any missing dogs matching that description in the area. Nope.

And then I called dog control for the town where I saw the dog. I explained the situation, and the dog control officer said he'd check into it.

And this is where FOR ONCE I am glad to pay taxes, because bless his heart, that dog control dude called me back not half an hour later, to let me know that he'd been out to the site. He hadn't seen the dog, but he'd talked to a homeowner near the spot where I'd seen the dog. The homeowner hadn't seen the dog either, but he suggested it might be a coydog, which ... no. Coydogs are all one color, and this was a multi-color dog.

ANYway, the dog control guy said he'd check with some more neighbors, and visit the area periodically to see if the dog was around. He said he'd call me if he found anything out. Thanks, dog control dude!

So. This morning. I am on my way to work. I get near the spot where I saw the dog yesterday, and my eyes are on superpower-scan, searching for the dog. Looking ... looking ...

BINGO. The dog came out of the brush by the side of the road and made a half-hearted run for my car. But! This time, he circled back to a camper parked by the side of the road.

Ah-ha! That camper had been parked there for about a week, and I knew there were people staying in there because I had seen them. Obviously, the dog belonged to the camper-people. Problem solved! Well, except for the fact that the dog was running loose and chasing cars.

So I got to work this morning and called dog control again, all ready to spread the good news that I had found the owners of the dog.

Except! It turns out that after I talked to dog control dude yesterday, he had gotten MORE calls about the dog running loose. More people were concerned about the dog. So he went BACK out to the site, and found the dog! and the camper! The dog ran away when he tried to get near it, but there were food bowls outside of the camper, so he figured that was the owners. Except no one was there at the time, and he still needed to address the issue of the dog running loose (the town has leash laws), so he actually went back through the tax records and tracked down who owned the property the camper was parked on. He contacted the owner of the land, who explained that he was letting friends camp on his property. Friends with dogs.

Is this War and Peace yet? We're getting close ...

Okay. So. Dog control dude finally gets in touch with camper people, who explain that while they do HAVE dogs, THAT particular dog is not theirs. It just started hanging around while they were camping there, and they felt sorry for it, so they started to feed it. But they are leaving at the end of the weekend, and no, they don't really want ANOTHER dog.

Shit!

So. This morning, Dog control dude is going back out to the site. He is going to make one more attempt to catch the dog, and then he is going to set a Havahart (live) trap. He explained that sometimes it takes just a day and sometimes it takes weeks to get a dog in the trap, but eventually the dog will get hungry and go into the trap, and he will get the dog, and then they can get the dog any necessary medical care and start trying to track down the owner.

Bottom line? There are a whole bunch of people who are concerned about this dog and want to see it find its owner, or at the least a loving home. Hmmm ... I wonder how my cats would feel about a dog ...

ahahahahahaha KIDDING I am KIDDING. I don't DO dogs. Although if there's anybody out there who would like a medium-sized, multi-color dog, let me know ...

And I still feel kind of bad that I didn't stop, and I think from now on if something like that happens again I WILL stop, but as it turns out, I wouldn't have been able to get ahold of the dog anyway. Have I rationalized enough yet? ...

And I have asked the dog control dude to keep me posted, so I'll let you know what happens! Aren't you glad? :)

UPDATED TO ADD: They got the dog! The dog control dude just called - He went back out there this morning, and managed to approach the dog and get a leash on it! It's an Australian Shepherd. It's an intact male, and the camper people have a female basset hound, so that's probably why it started hanging around. I asked what would happen to the dog now, and the dog dude said it will be kept at a local animal hospital/boarding facility while they try to find the owner. Unfortunately, the dog had no collar or microchip, but they will put ads in the paper and on line, looking for an owner. If no owner steps forward, they will then ask around (don't laugh - this can be highly effective!) to see if anyone wants the dog. If that doesn't work, they'll put him on Petfinder and other sites. Dog dude reassured me that the dog will not be put down, and that they will find him a home.

Anybody want an Australian Shepherd? I've got a lead ...

Pop Quiz

You are heading to work on a back road. You see a border-collie-sized dog dart into the road, chasing cars. At first you think it belongs to one of the several houses in the area, but you don't see anyone chasing it, and the dog is going after the cars in a way that almost seems like the dog's been dumped there and thinks that each passing car is its owner, coming back to get him. The dog is not particularly thin, but its fur is matted, like it hasn't been brushed in a while. You have never seen this particular dog on this particular stretch of road before.

Do you:

A. Stop.

B. Keep going.

Enquiring minds want to know.

Things that go bump in the night

About a week ago, a couple of days before Texas arrived, I was awakened by the sound of pots crashing to the kitchen floor.

"Oh, God, raccoon again," I thought, but then I remembered that the pet door was closed, and I went back to sleep. I briefly considered the fact that all of my pots and pans are kept in cupboards and therefore could not have crashed to the floor, but ... meh. It was the middle of the night. Back to sleep.

The next morning I went out to the kitchen to find that something had upended the dish drainer, full of dishes, onto the floor.

Okay, so the way I see it, we've got two possible scenarios, here:

a. One of the cats, for whatever odd reason, hopped up onto the counter and shoved the dish drainer onto the floor. Was there ... a mouse in the dish drainer? Because given what happened when Texas was here, that's plausible. And I can think of no other reason for a cat to suddenly decide to trash the kitchen in the middle of the night.

b. I've got a poltergeist.

I'm telling you right now, it had BETTER be option (a), because I've LIVED in a haunted house before, and I'm NOT going through that again.

So. THAT happened.

Texas is now safely back in Texas, after uneventful flights yesterday. I hope she wasn't traumatized too badly by her visit to the Wild Kingdom that is my house. And she left just in time, because it was thirty-eight degrees outside this morning, which ... I'm sorry, but that sh*t ain't right.

Let's see. The weekend. There was the afternoon I left some cat food cans in the dishwater to soak. Later that day, I was rinsing the cans and chatting with Texas when I made that final sweep through the dishwater with my hand, as you do, to check and see if there's anything you missed. And I came up with ... a dead mouse.

"Oh!" I gasped. And Texas, who was in the living room behind me, said, "Rocky! What's wrong?"
"Oh ... nothing," I replied, grabbing a bowl to put the mouse in until I could toss it outside. Successful recovery! Although later that night, I did confess to her what had happened. Because that's what sisters do. We share. Ha.

And then there was the morning when Texas bent over to pick up what she thought was a clump of leaves on the floor, which turned out to be ... a dead bird.

*sigh* Those cats!

And I guess we don't need to talk about the baby snakes in the garage.

And continuing with the domestic mishaps, there was a rather ... unfortunate chicken dinner one night, when I tried to substitute onion soup mix for italian salad dressing mix in a recipe, with predictably odd results.

And I made sure to explain that the syringes in the kitchen drawer were for treating sick foster kittens, not because I had become a heroin addict.

And my jaw kicked up at one point so strongly that I was fairly certain I'd be spending at least part of Monday in the dentist's chair, but thankfully that little problem seemed to resolve itself.
Although now my lower front teeth ache whenever I drink hot coffee, which ... yeah. I have no idea.

So! It was an eventful weekend, saddened by the fact that the family had gathered together due to the death of a loved one. The last time all of us were together was at my father's memorial service, thirteen years ago. We've got to stop meeting like this.

My family - Five daughters, one son, one mom.




As you can see, Texas is not the only shorty petite person in the family.

The Cat Whisperer

As you may recall, I was wondering how the cats would do with a strange person in the house.



Yeah.


Ponyboy was fine, greeting Texas at the door when we got back from the airport. (Finally - her travel day last Thursday started with a bomb scare and ended with a four-hour delay in Detroit. Poor Texas!)

Sodapop was the next to come around, even sleeping on her bed the first night she was here. And Tinks? Well, by this morning, Tinks was rubbing against her and letting her pet him.








My sister, The Cat Whisperer.

Guess who's coming to dinner?

TEXAS!! My sister Texas, that's who!

She's jetting across the country as we speak, and will be here in time for supper tonight.

Granted, it's for a sad reason - the memorial service for our sister-in-law - but gosh, it'll be good to see her. I haven't seen her in four years - not since 2008, when I went down to visit her.

And I am fascinated to see how the cats react to another person in the house. I'm pretty sure that Ponyboy and Sodapop will be okay, because they grew up in a hectic household, and they are pretty good with my neighbors. Well, they're not exactly friendly, they're more like cautious, but I'm sure they'll be down with Texas.

Tinks, on the other hand? Tinks, who runs in abject terror from anyone who tries to get near him (except for me, and sometimes including me)? Tinks ... is gonna be an experience. But you know what? He needs to get exposed to other people. He needs to learn that not everyone is out to get him. Because if anything ever happens to me, and the cats need to find new homes (yes, this situation has been provided for, but still - you never know what could happen after you're gone) - a cat like him, a cat who is afraid of people, is not easy to find a home for. So I'm hoping to use this experience of Texas' visit as a leetle learning experience for Mr. Tinks.

So! Welcome, Texas! We can't wait to see you!

Ah, sweet mystery of Lowe's.

So! I lost the gas cap for the lawn mower last week. Don't ask how ... it just happened. Because I'm an idiot.

I went on line and started looking for replacement caps and found one at Lowe's that looked like it would work. And it was in stock at my local store! So I trucked over to Lowe's and ... no gas cap. I mean, they HAD gas caps, but not the one shown on line that would work for my mower. And, being Lowe's, OF COURSE there was no one available to help me.

You know, Lowe's always had pretty sh*tty customer service. But once Home Depot came to town, several years ago, Lowe's seemed to step up their game. Lately, however, they've been backsliding. You could grow OLD in that store trying to find someone to help you.

ANYway, I grabbed a "universal" gas cap and took it home and of course it didn't fit. So I went back on line, just to prove to myself that the gas cap I had seen earlier was not an illusion.

Nope. Not an illusion. On line and in stock at my local store. So, desperate times (I had a baggie rubber-banded over the top of the gas tank) (NOT the best option when you store your mower in the same general vicinity as your pilot-lit gas furnace) calling for desperate measures, I got tricky. I ordered the part on line and chose the "local store pickup" option.

Ding-ding-ding give the lady a cigar! Twenty minutes later, the local Lowe's was calling me telling me that my part was available for pickup.

Back to Lowe's. I returned the old cap, picked up the new cap, and asked the gal at the customer service desk WHERE, exactly, that particular gas cap was located in the store.

"Aisle 24!" she chirped. So I headed for Aisle 24, determined to find out how I had missed seeing that gas cap when I was there the FIRST time.

Bottom line? That gas cap is obviously stocked somewhere in the store, because they pulled it off the shelf when I ordered it on line, but it was NOT in Aisle 24. And it was not in any aisle that I could find, because I SEARCHED that goddam store. With no help from store employees, of course, because as usual they were nowhere to be found.

But! I took the new cap home and ... it fit! Yay! And someday, I will discover the elusive Aisle of Mystery in Lowe's, the aisle where they stock all the stuff YOU CAN'T FIND.

Eccentric, also known as "asshole"

Do you ever read an obit and are not sure if the person/people who wrote it liked the person who died or not?

"(Insert name here) decided to end his life in the place he loved best: his home and sanctuary in the (insert town name) wood. Born in the Bronx, he spent his early years negotiating difficult circumstances with defiance, energy, and determination: jumping off the docks into the river, visiting Edgewater and smelling the vibrant life there, catching trains and riding the length of Manhattan Island, sleeping on rooftops and trying to find ways to survive. He was always proud to be a Bronx native; one of the family residences on Bruckner Boulevard was razed to make way for the Triboro Bridge. He spent too many of his teen and young adult years bouncing from institution to institution, struggling with his addictions and mental health issues. Sometime in the 1970s, his brother Frank convinced him to try living in (town name). After many therapeutic interventions and 12-step meetings, Dennis found life-long sobriety in August 1980. In 1982, he moved to a remarkable retreat and safe place in the woods overlooking the (name) River. He loved living there; he could listen to and feed the birds, cut firewood with an old-fashioned handsaw, try to find ways to live with his many ghosts, demons, hopes, and his firm moral and spiritual code. Dennis was a bundle of complexity and contradictions: incredibly smart yet often irrational, he was a charming and charismatic child-like spirit who could quickly turn angry and afraid. He possessed a searing intensity and determination yet often couldn't complete the simplest tasks. He felt that he had a very limited capacity to "be in the world," as he would say; he characterized himself as a hermit, a cowboy, a spiritual seeker, a rebel, a recluse—but never as a comfortable member of society. No amount of rational conversation or pleas could change his beliefs. He was doggedly determined to live his life on his own terms in the best ways that he could. He lived alone since 1996, although he had a close, long-time friend who tried to help him and care for him, as well as relatives, neighbors, and others with whom he developed superficial but deeply important relationships. Although he depended on minimal social services for his very basic needs, he never wanted to feel indebted to any person, agency, or government. So despite his meager resources, he paid enormous interest to clear an old loan for an aborted semester at college circa 1980. Because he knew that cigarettes were destroying his health, he quit smoking forever in 1997. In fact, other than a very rare round of antibiotics and occasional OTC pain-relievers, he shunned all medications. If he had accepted help and used prescription anti-depressants or other medications to help him cope with his mental and emotional illnesses, he might still be alive. But he chose his path carefully and deliberately. He saved enough money to pre-pay for his final arrangements because he did not want to burden us with those details of his death. Dennis loved so much about his life: the full moon, the changing seasons, the river, the birds and rabbits and deer and hawks. Yet he carried on a relentless battle against the flying squirrels who reside in the attic and the rodents who pilfer bird feed. Dennis adored 50s bebop and rock, classic cowboy movies and TV shows; he also venerated series such as The Sopranos and Deadwood. He tilted at too many windmills for too long, and he refused to concede a defeat that would have been enormous if he had lived to the point where he could no longer care for himself. Because he wanted a simple, unencumbered life and wanted to live as frugally as possible, he gave up car ownership many years ago; he rode his bicycle to the Forks—in all weather--for his newspapers, milk, bread, and his mail. For several years until shortly before his death, he depended on the EC County Rural service to take him to a grocery store so he could buy what he needed to survive. Dennis so appreciated the lifeline that the EC Country dispatchers and drivers provided. He came to see them as friends and he valued his interactions with them. When the powers that be decided that EC County routes would be almost eliminated (not "cost-efficient" to provide essential services to the most needy among us), Dennis was shaken and scared because one of his few safety nets had been severed. We will never know why he chose to end his life when he did; we know that a constellation of forces contributed. But he would want folks to know that he did all that he could to live and die on his terms. He often quoted the Bible - "let the dead bury the dead"— so he did not want us to mourn him or memorialize him publicly. We hope that he would understand why we are publishing this obituary as a way of honoring and remembering him. Special thanks and deep gratitude to Dennis' neighbors, and to the people who helped him survive as long and well as he did, especially the dispatchers and drivers of EC Country. Thanks to the first responders, especially the State Police investigators, and to Tim and Donna of the (Name) Funeral Home, who helped us through these horrible first days. In lieu of flowers, consider donating to the Independence Center, the EC Country bus service, or a mental health or suicide-prevention organization. If you cannot contribute, please take time to look up at a full-moon or take a walk in the woods or provide a helping hand to someone who needs it."


Okay, (a) way too long; (b) an obituary is not the place to bitch about bus service; (c) he SAID he did not want to be publicly memorialized. Way to go, buddies! You just couldn't resist getting in one last dig at the bus service, couldya?


Sounds like an eccentric (read: "pain in the ass") old dude who drove the people who tried to help him nuts. I've known a few of those.

Okay, so, about the statue ...

The rescue group rented out a VFW hall for our latest rummage sale/bake sale/kitten adoption event. Friday night, I cut out of work early to go help unpack items people had donated to us and get set up for Saturday's sale.

And I'm working away, unpacking flower vases and VHS tapes and old cameras and all of the stuff that gets donated to rummage sales, when I come across a little statue.

You know, one of those reproduction-of-a-famous-statue statues, about 8" high. The ones you run across in antiques stores all the time. Think Michelangelo's "Moses", writ small.

I took a closer look at it, because it wasn't immediately apparent to me which famous statue it was actually imitating, and saw that it was two men wrestling. Violently wrestling. Hmm? I thought ... I'm really not familiar with this piece ... and I looked a little closer, and ...

hahahahaha GAY P*RN! It was two men, well, doing what gay men do.

Somebody donated gay p*rn to a charity fundraiser. Classic!

So I'm debating whether or not to put it up for sale (there would be CHILDREN at the sale, dammit! Think about the CHILDREN!), when the VFW bartender came in to get a first shot at the sale. She was trying on halloween costumes and laughing about this and that and generally having a good ol' time, and when she paid for her purchases she gave us a donation.

"Thanks so much!," I said. "Why don't you pick out something else, on the house?"

"Well ...," she said. "I don't know what to pick ..."

And because she just seemed like a gal with a sense of humor, I was all, "You know, we DO have this statue that we don't know what to do with ..."

I showed her the statue, she burst out laughing saying she knew JUST the person to give it to, and left.

I hope that statue now has a happy home, wherever it is.

and I STILL can't believe somebody donated p*rn to a charity sale. Jeez.

and then I was on the evening news

oh you guys I'm not even kidding, a local news station came to our rummage sale/bake sale/adoption event this afternoon (must have been a REALLY slow news day), and I made it onto the six o'clock news.

Ah, sweet, sweet fame. :)

Bottom line? One kitten adoption, one new foster home volunteer family (SO hard to come by), and two hundred bucks from the rummage sale. We done good.

Oh! And ask me about the p*rnographic statue I sold to the VFW bartender. It's a good story.

Thanks for the suggestion

Now, if I ever get the damn car back (yes it's STILL at the garage), I'll be all set.

And in other news, I stumped those damn deer!





First, I tired mixing up some home-made deer repellent and spraying it on the plants. Which evidently was the equivalent of adding salad dressing, because it did not deter the deer.

They were all, like, "nom nom nom ..... mmmmMMMMMmmmmm ... what is that piquant little extra zing? It's deLIcious!" Dammit.

So I resorted to the less-picturesque but far more effective option:





Deer netting. From a few feet away, you can't even see it's there - you have to get right close up in order to see it. And it's keeping the flipping deer off of my hibiscus. Mission. Accomplished.

Time Suck Central

For some reason, tonight the song "Isn't It Time" by the Babys started running through my head. I haven't heard that song for about thirty years.

Yeah, I'm old.

And despite the fact that I have nine million things to do right now, and have already shoved a lot of stuff plumb off my to-do list because I simply DO NOT HAVE THE TIME (sorry, cookies for the bake sale - no can do), I just spent a chunk of time tracking down that song on Youtube.
Oh, that song.

"I just can't find the answers to the questions that keep running through my mind ... Baby - isn't it time?"

Yeah, time for me to get my ass in gear. Jeez.

Hoopty-doo

Look at my new ride, guys! I traded the Kia for a '92 Buick LeSabre!

hahahahahahahaNOT.

Oh. my. God. Talk about a grandma car. This? Is the kind of car you see on the evening news wedged into the lobby of a drugstore because Nana hit the gas instead of the brakes. The thing is twenty years old and only has eighty thousand miles on it. "Grandma! I've got your car!" I popped open the glovebox to find a bunch of cassettes (yes, cassettes) of big-band music from the forties. If this was a Stephen King book, I'd be waking up in a malt shop. (Whaaaa? Where am I? Why is there a jukebox? And why is Tommy Dorsey playing on it?!)

Oh, and like I mentioned, it doesn't have a registration sticker, so I'm probably going to jail. And the brake light is on, AND the check-oil light, and the paint is peeling off the roof and the quarterpanels are rusting AND it rides like a Buick, which is to say, like a piece of sh*t (so ... BOUNCY! wheeeee!), but your grandma would love it. Or maybe your great-grandma.

And it's FREE to drive while my car is in the shop. Shutting up now.

Three Days? THREE DAYS?!

It's going to take the garage THREE DAYS to get in the parts to fix my car?!

Goddam m*therf*cking c*cks*cking KIA. *kicks tires violently*

At least - at least! - I can keep the loaner. But taking a look at the calendar, three days means that the parts will get to the local dealership on Friday. What TIME on Friday, I do not know. And then the garage has to get the parts from the dealership, and INSTALL the parts, which ... it may not get done on Friday, especially considering it's the Friday of a holiday weekend. And - AND! - there is a big adoption event this weekend, and I was supposed to haul all kinds of crap to the venue Friday and Saturday using my roomy Kia, which currently sits at the garage, waiting for parts.

*sigh*

I know I need to calm down. It's just ... I can handle the car breaking down. I can handle paying a three-hundred-and-fifty dollar repair bill. *gulp* But to have to wait THREE DAYS for the flipping PARTS?

That shit ain't right.

And yes, I looked into it. Kia is as much of a dick about parts as Saturn was - you can't just run down to Advanced Auto and pick up some generic aftermarket stuff. You've gotta order the stuff FROM KIA, and of course, there is no Kia warehouse anywhere near here, so they've gotta ship it to the flippin' DEALER, and then the mechanic has to go pick it up from the goddam dealership, and

... stopping now.

The world will not end because my car is in the shop. All will be well, and I need to count my blessings and shut up.

grrrrrrrrrrrr

and then the f*cking CAR BROKE DOWN

Thankfully, it was in my driveway. You know when you notice a puddle under the car and you're all, like, "Oh PLEASE let that be rainwater Oh PLEASE let that be rainwater" ... yeah. It wasn't rainwater.

I managed to limp it in to the nearest garage this morning, and they agreed to squeeze me in and take a look at it, and they even gave me a loaner! Who DOES that?! It's a beatermobile, but still. I love going to a new garage - they treat first-time customers like royalty because they want you to keep coming back. The gouging doesn't usually start until the second or third visit, so I should be good. *fingers crossed*

Wish me luck!

Oh Hai. GET A JOB.

I got home the other day to find a flyer in my door for a bottle drive. Not unusual; the boy scouts come around a couple of times a year to raise money for their summer camp. And the mail carrier collects food for the local pantry a couple of times a year, also.

But this solicitation gave me pause, because it was for an individual. A local high school student who wants to go to a one-month art-school program and is raising money for expenses. She wanted everybody to leave cans at the end of their driveways on a certain date so she could take them and cash them in.

I ... don't know. I mean, if it was a fundraiser for a local kid who had cancer or something, OF COURSE. But a high school junior who wants to attend a special art-school program? Raising money door-to-door? Without, like, selling candy bars or something? Just, "Give me your cans! Because!"

Call me a curmudgeon, but it just seems wrong. For one thing, I live in a well-off school district. It's not like it's some kid from the projects or something. Maybe little princess should ask daddy to sell some stocks or something instead. Or go get a damn job at McDonald's. Yeah, how about you work for the money, honey? And second, this feels vaguely like the firemen with their damn BOOTS at the INTERSECTIONS, which I also despise. DO NOT SHOVE YOUR BOOT IN MY CAR WINDOW, FIREMAN. I WILL CUT YOU.


Holy crap, it sure is Monday, isn't it? Get off my lawn.

It was six years ago today

Six years ago today, I started this blog. Nineteen hundred posts ago.


Six years ago:

I was still on the low end of my forties, as opposed to the high end.

Rocky was still alive.

I lived in an apartment building.

I was driving a Saturn. Aye-yi-yi.

I smoked. A LOT.

I hadn't met any of you guys.



I wonder what my life will look like, six years from now? Hard tellin'. Stick around and let's find out.

In which I channel the Vintage Vixen

It's pretty rare that I find actual *vintage* in the local thrift stores, as opposed to the usual White Stag Walmart crap from five years ago, so when I found this seventies-era maxi dress, even though I know I'll probably never wear it, I gladly paid three bucks for it.

Because does this scream "Vintage Vixen", or does it not? And even though her personal style is not my personal style, she's reminded me that it's okay to HAVE a personal style, so this little number will make me smile every time I see it hanging in my closet.

Look at the fabulous detailing! (and not at the boobs. *cough* DO NOT STARE AT MY BOOBS IT'S CREEPY.)



And who knows? Maybe on one of my "oh-screw-the-world" days, I'll actually wear it.

Although I'll have to be careful to stay away from open flames, because that thing is pure synthetic (so ... slippery!), and I don't want to sacrifice my life for fashion. I'm not THAT dedicated.

Screw wearing purple when I get old. I'm wearing hippie.

Future-Me

Future-Me would like to tell Current-Me not to worry so much.

I wish Future-Me had told Then-Me not to marry that boy just because I was worried I'd end up alone.

I wish Future-Me had told Then-Me to go ahead and go to the community college, even if it wasn't as prestigious as the Ivy League schools my guidance counselor had told me I could get into. Dad wouldn't pay for Ivy League, but he would have paid for community college. I cut off my damn nose to spite my face, right there.

I wish Future-Me had told Then-Me to start The Runt on the heart meds.

I wish Future-Me had told Teenage-Me to be nicer to my parents. Jeezus Christ, I was Kid #6. I could've cut them a break.

I wish Future-Me would tell Current-Me to stop beating myself up over being snotty to my parents as a teenager. We all did it.

I wish Future-Me would tell all the Me-s that it will all work out, one way or another. It always does.





What do you wish your Future-Me would tell you?

Afterbath

Boys will be boys, and after the sweetness of bathtime comes the afterbath ...

They sure do like to wrassle.

Of course, Sodapop needs to get in on the act as well:

And sometimes props are used:

*biff* *bam* *ouch* "Mooooooooommmmm!":

Oh, boys.

"For the love of Christ will you leave those f*cking cats alone!?"

I swear, I am going to KILL the neighbors' granddaughters.

So! The weekend! I kind of thought I'd be in Florida, but my sister-in-law had been adamant in insisting she did not want a funeral service, and my brother was adamant that he didn't want anybody flying down, so ... I was home. I'm hopeful that at some point I will be spending time in Florida with my brother, but per his wishes, it's not going to be right how.

Saturday we had an adoption event, which ... oh lord, there's some entertainment value, right there. From the Russian immigrants who cannot understand why the cats are not free ("In Moscow, you just go out in the street and scoop one up! And then it's your cat!") to the woman who held kitten after kitten after kitten, wailing that "None of them love me!", to the woman who had her cats declawed "because I'm 74, and when I go, my son will be taking my cats, and he has leather sofas!" (OH PLEASE), and we couldn't figure out who she looked like, until I finally decided it was a cross between George C. Scott and Katherine Chancellor from The Young and The Restless ... well, it's never boring.

And then I had to go home and mow, which ... by this time of year, I am just OVER the whole mowing thing, you know? It's, like, grass, you can STOP GROWING NOW. YOU'VE GROWN ENOUGH THIS YEAR.

And Saturday night Soda brought in a bird, which appeared to be BRIGHT GREEN, and I'm all, Oh my God did he kill someone's PARAKEET?, until I realized that the bird actually had sprigs of leaves in its wings, which ... was it garnish? Was Soda auditioning for Master Chef? I have no idea.

And then! Sunday was Tinks' (approximate) birthday, so ham and chicken and catnip were enjoyed by all. And a good deal of time was spent in the backyard. And the neighbors' ten-year-old twin granddaughters WOULD NOT stop chasing the cats, until I finally yelled at them. No, I didn't use swear words, but yes, I yelled. Yeah, that's me, earning brownie points in the neighborhood.

And then, on one of those news shows on TV, a shocking expose revealing that ... carnival games are rigged! NO. I HAD NO IDEA.

So ... how was your weekend?

Yeah, I'd have to see the science on that one

Courtesy NBC News:

"A Republican Senate nominee found himself in hot water on Sunday for suggesting that instances of "legitimate rape" rarely results in pregnancy.

Rep. Todd Akin, a Republican who's locked in a hard-fought campaign in Missouri to unseat Democratic Sen. Claire McCaskill, was answering a question regarding his position on abortion rights in instances when a woman is a victim of rape.


"People always want to make it into one of those things — well, how do you slice this particularly tough ethical question," Akin said in an interview on KTVI-TV, video of which was circulated by the Democratic super PAC American Bridge.

“First of all, from what I understand from doctors, [pregnancy from rape] is really rare. If it’s a legitimate rape, the female body has ways to try to shut that whole thing down," Akin said. "

Yeah, that's right. My body can somehow differentiate between "legitimate rape" and other sex, and decide whether I get pregnant or not.

HAHAHAHAHAHAH oh wait that's not funny.

p.s. Thank you for your condolences. It means a lot.

and she was

My sister-in-law passed away yesterday.


She was a fine, funny woman who never had a bad word to say about anyone. After her mother got Alzheimer's, she brought her mother into her own home for several years, with all that entails, and never complained. She sure did enjoy a beer or two once in a while, and once she'd had a couple, oh lord, she could tell a story, but she was so soft-spoken you really had to lean in to listen. She had two different colored eyes - one blue and one green. She was always in a good mood - I never saw her angry or heard her raise her voice. She and my brother, her husband, raised a beautiful, caring daughter. My brother loved her dearly. I'm not sure how long they'd been married, but it must have been over forty years.

Good-bye, Diane. I will never be as fine a person as you were. And I'll miss you dearly and remember you fondly.

More bathtime

These pictures just slay me.

Tinks is a groomer. After he's done cleaning his own long, white fur, he'll grab whoever's closest for a little more bathtime.

Maybe it's because he's the youngest of the three. He'll be a year old this weekend. Sodapop was a year old in June, and Ponyboy was a year old in January.



Clean 'em up, Tinks.

Buttermilk Falls

Saturday, I snuck into Buttermilk Falls. I wasn't gonna pay seven bucks to see waterfalls with NO WATER IN THEM:

Happily, there WAS water further up the gorge:




You can see how the water has eroded the rocks over the centuries:

And Pinnacle Rock is always cool:

And then, as I was tooling around Ithaca, I spotted this:

Whaaaa? Let's take a closer look:

That is Ithaca, right there in a nutshell.

I know I can make this work

Okay, first off, scroll down, where I talk about my doughnut addiction and the junk jewelry I bought on Ebay.

Now, in an inexplicable turn, I am becoming a fashion blogger for a day. Here is what I'm wearing to work tomorrow:




Yes, I pick out my outfits the night before. It saves time when I am inevitably running late in the morning. Now, I know this outfit is a little ... out there, but I'm getting bored with my work clothes lately, and it's time to mix it up a little. I have to say, a recent find and absolute inspiration is Vintage Vixen, who cares not one whit what others think about her personal style.

So! Turquoise and mixed prints it is. Yee-haw.

Oh Danny Boy, the Doughnuts, the Doughnuts are calling ...

I had a doughnut Saturday morning. It was a Boston Creme, from Dunkin Donuts, and I ate it in the car on my way up to Ithaca. And that creme stuff that they fill them with, well ... it's sure not anything found in nature, and it's probably a hundred percent chemicals, but that doughnut sure tasted good. With the chocolate glaze on top ...

And now, all I can think about is doughnuts.

I had to run up to the grocery store and pick up a few things on my lunch break, and I actually stood in front of the doughnut case, staring, like a little kid in front of a toy store.

I didn't buy a doughnut. Oh, I thought about it. Hell, I thought about buying a DOZEN doughnuts. "For the office!" Yeah, right.

I mean, I could buy some doughnuts. It's not like it would break some cosmic rule if I ate a doughnut. After all, I had one on Saturday. But you know what? I'll bet you I could eat six doughnuts right now. One jelly-filled, one glazed, one creme-filled ... OH YUM. I'll bet I could give twelve doughnuts a run for their money right now. And again, so what? I could eat ten thousand calories worth of doughnuts RIGHT NOW and it wouldn't make a flip's worth of difference in the grand scheme of things.

It's just ... they're just empty food. Not much nutritional value. Pure sugar, practically. Sugar and fat and OH MY GOD THEY TASTE SO GOOD.

Hi. My name is RockyCat and I'm a doughnutaholic.

Stuff I bought on Ebay this week

Lizard ring $5.51 Bracelet $2.46 Bracelet $1.29

Antler ring $1.00 Flower ring $1.04 Seahorse necklace $1.29

Bow tie ring $.99

And all those prices INCLUDE shipping!

Yes, I'm aware that these are coming straight outta China. And yes, I should feel bad about that. All I can say is, if I want to buy overpriced crap from resellers, I can always go to Etsy. And this stuff is cheaper than the thrift store!

Ah, TLC ...

...Restoring Destroying my faith in humanity, one show at a time.

Lately they've been upping the ante. There was "Little Rabbit Foo-Foo", or whatever the hell it's called, about a Southern family so language-impaired they had to close-caption it.

Tonight we have "United Bates of America", which appears to be a clone of The Duggars. Now I will be the first to admit, I do love The Duggars, because they're a fascinating mix of sweet, wholesome and batshit insane. I'm afraid that the Bates will just be a pale imitation.

And! Following the Bates tonight, we have "Big Tiny", or whatever the hell IT'S called, about some dwarves little people. I'm pretty sure I fulfilled my little people viewing quota by watching countless reruns of Little People, Big World, which I finally soured on when Matt turned into pretty much a dick.

Good ol' TLC. Single-handedly providing me with all the abysmal crap TV I could ever want to watch.

hahaha you guys I am NOT EVEN KIDDING

So! One-thirty this morning. I'm sound asleep. Something - a sound, a motion, something, wakes me up. I see something moving by the bedroom door.

Is it a cat? That's a pretty good guess, around here. But no, no, it wasn't a cat ... at least it wasn't one of MY cats.

It's not really that unusual to have a cat visitor. I have a pet door, and it's not unheard of for neighborhood cats to pay a visit to my place from time to time, mostly to see how much food they can scarf out of my cats' bowls before I shoo them back out the pet door. So when I saw what looked like a cat, but not one of MY cats, at my bedroom door, it wasn't a huge surprise.

But no, it's not a cat. It's too big for a cat. And at this point, I'm desperately trying to struggle out of sleep, and fumbling for my glasses on the nightstand, and glad that I sleep with a nightlight (SHUT IT), because at least I can see a little bit.

Maybe it's a dog? Did one of the neighborhood dogs somehow get loose and get in the house? Geez, it doesn't really look like a dog ...

Okay, so I've got some of the fog cleared out of my head, and I've got my glasses on and at last I can finally see ...

HOLY SHIT IT'S A RACCOON.

Oh my God you guys, not just a RACCOON, but a GREAT BIG RACCOON, I'm guessing thirty pounds easy, and - TA-DA! I'M IN YOUR BEDROOM, LADY! OH HAI!

Oh shit.

There is a RACCOON in my BEDROOM and I have NO IDEA WHAT TO DO. Tinks was about ten feet away from the raccoon, crouched down uneasily, and at this point I'm trying to figure out how the hell I'm gonna get the GIANT RACCOON out of my house, and

the raccoon started shuffling toward the living room.

I cautiously got out of bed and started following it, keeping in mind that even a raccoon is a WILD ANIMAL and can do some damage to your ass if it so chooses. I actually passed up an opportunity to move a snapping turtle out of the road on Saturday, because a snapper will TAKE A FINGER OFF, NO QUESTION, if you screw around with one, and I could not see any way of that scenario ending well, so I left the snapper rescue for one of the many, many road bicyclists out on that road on Saturday, and ... where was I? Oh yeah ...

THERE IS A GIANT RACCOON. IN MY HOUSE.

And here is where I thank my lucky stars, because that raccoon shuffled through the living room, through the kitchen, and right back to the pet door.

Where there was a nervous moment because I swear, I was not sure that that raccoon was gonna FIT back through that pet door, but

out he went.

Dudes. DUDES. I had a GIANT RACCOON inside my house last night, and lived to tell the tale. Amen. And I swear to God, this shit only happens to me.

Yet another sign of old age

David Rakoff died yesterday.

Every time I read the obit of someone who was younger than me, and who obviously accomplished a lot more with their life than I have managed to do with mine to date, it gives me pause.

Like, "Jeezus Christ, what the hell I am DOING with my life?"

Ha.

Obviously I'm never gonna be Mother Teresa, and the odds of me finding a cure for cancer are not real good, but I would hate for my obit to read, " She ... drank a lot of beer. And she read lots of books! And she tried not to be overtly MEAN to anybody ..."

That's one of the reasons I started volunteering. To beef up my obit. Kind of like padding the old resume. And let's face it, I've got some work to do, because I spent most of my twenties and thirties and, hell, half of my forties pretty self-absorbed.

Time to get a move on!

I think I might've gotten hosed

But then again, maybe not.

A few weekends ago, I went to the local flea market. I know, I KNOW! I talk all the time about how cheap I am, and then I go blow money at the flea market. Go figure. At least I'm not betting it on the ponies.

But! I picked up a cat carrier for four bucks, and I really needed one, seeing as how I just recently came to the realization that I now had three cats and only two carriers. Yeah, I'm a little slow on the uptake. In my defense(!), the whole three-cat thing IS taking a while to sink in.

And! I got three CDs for five bucks. One of which is Celebrity Skin by Hole, which I'm pretty sure I already have, except you know how you're standing there in front of the used-CD booth, and suddenly you can't remember which CDs y0u already own? Yeah, that happens to me, too. But I needed a third CD to round out the three-for-five deal, so I may now own twice as much Courtney Love as anybody ought to have. Sue me.

And, let's see, I've been on a seahorse yen lately, so I picked up a tacky little seahorse statue for a dollar, which I guess everybody came out even on, 'cause when I took it home and flipped it over, it had a Dollar Tree sticker on it. Vintage! ha.

And then, and then, there was this little statue of Mary, at the booth of the dude who sells the animal pelts, and I circled around it a couple of times and picked it up and it weighed, like, twenty pounds, so I'm thinking, "doorstop!", and the dude says that it's bronze (sure it is) and he's asking thirty bucks. I said, "oh, that's nice, it's a pretty little statue," and started to move on, and the dude's, like, "make an offer!" and this is why I'm terrible at flea markets, because I said, "Nah, I can't offer anywhere near that," and the dude's, all, "come on, MAKE AN OFFER! Go ahead!" So I blurted out, "ten bucks," and he said, "Gimme the money" and that's how I came home with a bronze (Like I am so sure) Mary doorstop.

I kind of thought I got hosed on the deal, but a quick ebay search shows similar items going for anywhere between thirty and seventy bucks, so maybe not so much. Then again, that's what they're being OFFERED FOR on ebay, I have no idea if anybody's actually SELLING any at those prices, so who knows.



Such is the flea market. *sigh* I love that place.

Me and my bony ass

aka, "Baby got (no) back"

I think my butt is shrinking.

I've never been particularly well-endowed in the back end area, and as I get older, I find I need more and more padding in my chairs to sit comfortably.

Even if I've been sitting in a padded chair, it still feels like I've been sitting on a metal folding chair. Ouch! My butt aches!

Yet another consequence of aging that NO ONE TOLD ME ABOUT. What the hell else am I gonna find out as I get older? Are my toes going to fall off as I age? Are my eyes going to cross? I'D LIKE A LITTLE ADVANCE WARNING, DAMMIT.

Recently Read

yeahyeahyeah, skip it if you wanna.



1. The Story of Beautiful Girl by Rachel Simon. Novel by the author of "Riding the Bus with My Sister". It's about two mentally disabled people who fall in love - good.

2. Velva Jean Learns to Fly by Jennifer Niven - Novel about, well, a woman who learns to fly in the forties. Started out good but then bogged down. Didn't finish.

3. The Orchard by Adele Crockett Robertson - Memoir of a woman who tried to save a family farm during the Depression - good. She was one tough cookie.



4. We Thought You Would Be Prettier by Laurie Notaro - Humorous essays. Meh.

5. Land of a Hundred Wonders by Lesley Kagan - Novel about a mentally handicapped woman trying to solve a mystery. Oy. Did not finish.

6. The Big Rock Candy Mountain by Wallace Stegner - Semi-autobiographical novel about a family in the early 1900s - great big sprawler of a book. Interesting, but the lead character (the father) was pretty much a dick, and I didn't like the narrator (the son) much better.

7. All My Patient Have Tales by Jeff Wells - Memoir of a veterinarian - Lighthearted and interesting.

8. Oral History by Lee Smith - Novel about several generations of an Appalachian family - Interesting.

9. Mudbound by Hilary Jordan - Novel about a woman raising a family on a farm during the latter part of WWII. Okay.

10. Satan is Real - The Ballad of the Louvin Brothers by Charlie Louvin - I'd never even heard of the Louvin Brothers before I read this book, but the cover art drew me in. It's a memoir by a country-western/gospel singer who was big in the fifties - Really entertaining.



So! That's what I got. How about you - reading anything good?





Oh, and I broke down and bought 11/22/63, but all of the reviews are so good that I don't want to start it just yet - I might save it for my birthday IN NOVEMBER - ha - I am crazy.

The first rule of holes

This is a post in which I go all ranty-pantie about something that's bugging me. You've been warned!

I've been fostering a couple of kittens in my spare room, to give the FC (foster coordinator) a break while she prepared for and recovered from surgery. Some of the other volunteers have taken on extra fosters, too, to help out.

Last Wednesday was surgery day, so I checked facebook last Thursday morning to see how the FC made out, only to find an entry about three more kittens she had taken in that day.

And I really, really wanted to comment, "You're going the wrong way! You're supposed to adopt them OUT, not keep taking them IN!"

I then checked the website. The rescue group currently has seventeen kittens and nine adult cats we are trying to find homes for. Some of the kittens are starting to age out, meaning they are looking less like kittens and more like adult cats, and are thus much less likely to be adopted. Adoptions have been slow this summer, the group has taken in more cats than it can find homes for, and all of the shelters and rescues in the area are full.

And the FC just had surgery.

And she just took in three more kittens.

THIS is what makes me crazy about cat people. THIS is why rescues get overwhelmed and shut down operations, forcing other local groups to take on a sudden influx of cats when they are already full. THIS is what is wrong with rescue people: They don't know how to say no.

Look, I get it. What the hell are you SUPPOSED to do when somebody calls up and tells you they just found a box of two-week-old kittens by the side of the road? When you know that all of the other shelters and rescues are full? When you know that the kittens will probably be abandoned if you don't take them in? I get it. I do.

But I also know that a lot of the time when someone calls saying they "found" a litter of kittens, those kittens actually belong to them, because they never bothered to get their female cat spayed, and now they just want to unload the kittens. I know, too, that the FC currently has nine adult cats and several litters of kittens at her house. It's almost impossible to keep sick ones properly quarantined in that kind of situation, and when cats are overcrowded, Mother Nature has a way of taking care of that by sending down a nasty virus that kills off most of them.

That's horrifying, I know. I don't like to think about it, and I certainly don't wish it on anyone. But that's what happens when rescue situations get out of control. You don't hear about it, because it certainly isn't publicized, but it happens all the time, everywhere. Either disease sweeps through an overcrowded rescue, or the rescue head gets overwhelmed and closes up shop.

And it could happen here. Because the head of the rescue group doesn't know how to say no. And that makes me sad.

Women in bikinis

So, I've been kind of switching the TV over to the Olympics every once in a while, just to see if there's any equestrian events on (I KNOW), or maybe that young woman from Flint who is boxing, or heck, even some synchronized swimming.

Nope. Women's volleyball.

And I mean, I get it. Kind of. Women in bikinis.

I mean, obviously, NBC wouldn't be showing nine trillion hours of women's volleyball if it hadn't proven to be a money-maker. If it didn't bring in the ratings.

But ... really? When porn is available so readily on the internet, 24/7? Men are getting off on watching women's volleyball? It's like back in the day when the ladies' underwear section of the Sears catalog was stashed under Junior's bed.

I don't know. I just don't get it.

Leo and Lilly

Leo says, "Hey! Why hasn't anyone adopted us yet?!"

Lilly says, "We are the cutest kittens in the WORLD! Come adopt us!"

Yep, the kittens are still visiting while the FC recovers from her surgery. (And the day AFTER her surgery, she took in MORE KITTENS, which ... stay tuned for one pissed-off post, is what I'm sayin'.)

Leo and Lilly have made themselves right at home, and because they have had all their vaccinations, they are able to mingle with the other cats.

Ponyboy is CONVINCED that the food in the kitten room is the best food in the WORLD. (It's the exact same thing he gets in his own bowl, but he believes otherwise.)

And here's the kittens with that perennial favorite, the Undercover Mouse.

Anybody want a couple of adorable tabbies? The rescue group's running a buy-one-get-one-free special! Get 'em while they're cute!

Pancakes

We went out for lunch yesterday. Although usually, we have breakfast instead. When I was a little girl, sometimes she'd make breakfast for dinner - pancakes and eggs and bacon - and it seemed like a magical thing.

And also, frankly, at noon on Sunday, I'm more ready for breakfast than I am for lunch, and mom likes pancakes, so there ya go.

She speaks softly in a kind of stream-of-consciousness way these days, all, "... and there's a red one, and a blue one, and a yellow one! ... exit ... that sign says exit ... and there were birds! Big birds ... so then I told her, "No, YOU behave!," and we all laughed ... and there's another bird, over there ..."

And all the time, I'm cutting up her pancakes for her, 'cause she can't seem to grasp the mechanics of silverware anymore, and I'm putting the cream and sugar in her coffee and stirring it up, and I'm listening to her talk about birds and exit signs.

And I mean ... it is what it is. She once was one person, and now she's another person. And I am sure there are other people yet to come. I just hope that in the next phase, she can see the future or tell me some winning lottery numbers or something. Wouldn't that be cool?

Heck, the cats and I can share, right?

My neighbor L. knocked on my back door last night.

"I brought a treat over for your kitties!," she said.

"Oh, how nice!," I replied. "What is it?"

"Smoked salmon! I did some on the grill tonight, and B. and I couldn't eat it all, so I thought I'd bring the leftovers over for your kitties!"

And she handed me a foil-lined paper plate, with about a half a pound of grilled smoked salmon on it.

"Wow, L.," I said. "Are you sure you won't eat it for lunch tomorrow?"

"No, no," she said. " I want your kitties to have it!"

Man, I couldn't help myself. "Is it okay if the cats and I share?"

"Whaaaaat?," she asked. "It's just leftover salmon! But sure, sure, enjoy it with your kitties!"

Thankfully, the cats agreed to share with me. And that was some damn fine salmon.

Trying to put it politely

Okay, first off, I want to say thank you to ~~Silk, for standing up for me over at that Dooce post. You know, I wrote that (admittedly somewhat juvenile) post a long, long time ago and then moved on, and it amazes me that the nutjobs are STILL having a field day over there. Whatevs, you crazies. And thanks again, ~~Silk. You're a good person.

And in other news, my ankle STILL hurts. I've decided that I've been the victim of some kind of bizarre apian revenge plot, wherein this year's crop of yellowjackets saved up all of their venom for me, in retribution for killing their ancestors two years ago. Karma's a bitch.

Now. On to business. I usually drive a busy highway to work, but that road has been under construction all summer and will be for the foreseeable future, so I've been driving a quiet little two-lane rural road most of the way in. The speed limit on this road is 30 mph, and you really don't want to go much faster than that, because there's lots of curves and hills and deer standing in the middle of the road that you have to honk your horn at until they mosey off.

Oh, and it's double-solid-yellow-line all the way, meaning no passing. But the road's only a few miles long, meaning you're on it for, like, ten minutes, max, so no biggie, right?


Wrong. At least half of the time, there's some asshole in a giant pickup truck right off my back bumper, going apoplectic because I'm *only* doing 40, and he's got something important to get to GOD DAMMIT!

Whenever I can, I pull over to let Joe Asshole go get to his very important thing, which he then arrives at an entire THIRTY SECONDS SOONER because I got out of his way. But these f*cktards are giving me a headache, and the other day, when I was on my way home with some dipsh*t in a giant SUV so close behind me he was practically on top of me, I started thinking up possible bumperstickers, to give the assholes some reading material while they were right on my bumper. At first I thought of,


BACK OFF, ASSHOLE

But that seemed a little ... hostile. And not suitable for viewing by children. Maybe sweeten it up a little?

BACK OFF, BUTTERCUP

Hmmm ...

BACK OFF, SWEETIE-PIE

Maybe go the humorous route?

BACK OFF - I don't know you that well

BACK OFF - I'm just not that into you

BACK OFF - Don't make the nun get out her ruler

That last one's my personal favorite, but I don't know if Joe Neanderthal in his Dodge Denali would get the joke.

I don't know - what do you guys think? Any ideas?

Goddam motherf*cking c*cks*cking son-of-a-bitch BEES

The bees got me again.

Two summers ago, I mowed over a nest of yellowjackets. It hurt.

Last night? It happened again.

And I will tell you what, those stings HURT. I got nailed on the ankle last night, and it STILL hurts this morning. I slept with an ice pack on it last night. Call the waaaaaambulance. Sheesh.

Unlike last time, when I ninja-d up before attacking the nest, last night I just waited for dark, grabbed the can of napalm from the garage, and emptied that sucker into the hole.

Goddam motherf*ckers sting ME? I ANNIHILATE your asses.

F*cking bees.

Boy oh boy, how did I miss THAT anniversary?

It was three years ago yesterday that I closed on my house.

I went to the mortgage broker's office wearing my closing dress, signed a ton of paperwork, wrote a couple of gigantic-ass checks, and walked out with the keys to my home.

Before I started house hunting, I had heard that home-buying was one of the most stressful things a person can do, and I laughed. I laughed. Because this was gonna be FUN!

By the day of the closing, I wasn't laughing anymore.

By that time, I had:

Looked at more shitholes than you can even imagine. (I was shopping at the lower end of the price scale.) ("You're looking for the best of the worst!", my realtor cheerfully told me.)

Put in an offer on one house, only to find out that it had catastrophic mold issues.

Found out, a few days after that deal collapsed, that the apartment building I lived in was being sold, and I had eight weeks to find a new house, put in an offer, have the offer accepted, and go through closing.

Found another house, only to find out it was in a flood plain and would need massive amounts of flood insurance. "The best of the worst!" I then spent several frantic days researching FEMA flood insurance technical info, having flood vents installed, and wrangling with my useless insurance agent to get the flood insurance premiums down to a reasonable level. (The house has never flooded.) (By "reasonable", I mean that my flood insurance costs substantially more than my homeowner's insurance and covers the structure only and not the contents, but costs "only" five hundred bucks a year. By the time my mortgage is paid off, I will have paid FIFTEEN GRAND in flood insurance. Yeah.)

Almost ended up sneaking to the house with a can of paint in the middle of the night when peeling paint on a garage door threatened to hold up the home loan.

Spent an untold amount of time on the phone trying to convince various professionals to just do their jobs, for the love of Christ, so I can close on this house already.

Did I mention that I quit smoking in the middle of this? Oh yeah.

But! In the end, it all worked out, and in the words of the Pistol Annies:

"Some fine day I'll be drinkin a beer
in a big backyard
I own free and clear"





A-men, ladies. A-men.

Craigslist is making me lose my faith in humanity

Please note: I have copied these ads directly from Craigslist. All spelling errors are property of the original lister.


"i have 3 kittens about half growed dunno how old they are one is a female calico the other 2 are boys one is a lighter tigger stripped the other one is pure black they all like to play and very cuddly when they wanna be TEX OR E MAIL ONLY no calls dont want the kids to over hear me tlkiung about the kittens 607 279 9901 they are FREEEEEEEE"

Okay, so she has THREE cats whom she has decided she no longer wants. No reason ... evidently she's just sick of them. Even though they are her cats, she doesn't know how old they are, other than they're "half growed" ... and she doesn't want her kids to find out she's getting rid of them. You, madam, are a real sweetheart. That's why I included your phone number when I copied your ad. *cough*

And next:

"I own a 3 year old spayed female grey calico named Daisy who is very affectionate, sweet, loving, and good with children. She is used to living with one other cat and has lived with dogs in the past, however we recently brought in a new female cat and she is reacting badly. She won't eat and won't come downstairs to use the litter. We decided it would be best for her to find a new, calmer home. She is indoors and up to date with shots. We aren't asking a rehoming fee, but will reserve the right to say no, as we really want her to go to a good home. She would be fine with one male cat or one dog, or one of each, I'm sure. Please email with interest."

I don't even know where to start with that one. Suffice it to say, it drew the attention of some of the local rescue groups, and there is quite a lively conversation going on right now on both Craigslist and Facebook about this particular shining example of humanity, mainly speculating on whether she has kids, and if she got rid of the older ones when she had a baby.

Oh, Craigslist. *sigh*




Oh! And on another note, a local rescue group is trying to find a home for a nineteen-year-old cat. She is in good health. Her owner is elderly and can no longer care for her. If you know of anyone in the upstate New York area who has a quiet home for a cat to live out her years, please let me know.

Look who's coming to dinner

Meet Lilly (sp):

And Leo:

Sorry for the bluriosity - you know how it is with kittens.

The FC is having surgery on Tuesday, and when she asked if I could take some fosters for a couple of weeks ... well...

Welcome, Leo and Lilly! Enjoy your stay.

*panic* *panic* *panic*

So, we had some pretty severe thunderstorms move through here yesterday afternoon. There were even tornado warnings, which, in upstate New York? Oh PLEASE.

I beat the storm home by about two minutes, no lie, and the cats and I all kind of freaked as the wind blew and the lightening cracked and the rain came down like crazy, and the guy on TV said "shut off the TV and get in the basement!" as I sat in my living room in front of the picture window and watched him. Look, I'm not the sharpest tool in the shed, okay? I DID at least shut the pet door in the morning before I left for work so the cats couldn't get outside and get swept away in a tornado. Give me a little credit, here.

After things calmed down a little, I went out into the garage to find this:





Ignore the Mountain Dew and the five-thousand-year-old jug of bottled water and the rusty old washboard and the plant stands and the leaves all over the floor and just focus on the water on the floor, okay? Water. on the floor. Not good.

I looked up, and while there was no water pouring through the ceiling (good!), that damn water had to have come from someplace (bad!) Because I am Einstein (hahahahaHAAAAAA), I was assuming it had come down the chimney, visible behind the rusty washboard.

I went up into the attic (the garage is attached to the house, so the attic is all of a piece), and while there was a little dampness in the plywood around the chimney, there wasn't, like, a flood up there, or any mold, which would indicate a long-standing problem. Whew!

So then I went outside and looked up at the chimney, and ...




... yeah. Looks like there's a little work to do. Damn it.

I don't wanna be a life lesson for ANYBODY, dammit

Warning: Ranting ahead. Here we go!

*rant on*

Okay, so I've been reading this blogger (no, it's not one of you) who has been going through some difficult situations lately, and struggling, and wondering why she can't be more like some of her friends, who are all zen and new-agey and "everything happens for a reason" and "accept that you don't control the universe" and blah blah blah.

And, like everyone else these days, she brought up Aurora. The Batman movie slaughter. The funerals are this week. And I can practically HEAR the ministers, all, "We cannot begin to make sense of this tragedy. But we can use this opportunity to remember to appreciate each other more, to hug our children tighter, to take more time to look at the stars ..."

Puke.

I don't wanna die in some senseless bizarre tragedy so that somebody else remembers to stop and smell the roses. Frankly, I don't want to die AT ALL. Death is never fine. Death is death. I can't say I learned a damn thing from the passing of a loved one, other than that while time heals and blahblahblah, loss itself never dies.

And if I died, and some asshole said it happened for a reason? To teach others some f*cking life lesson? Screw that shit. Screw that. Death is never for a reason. Death is death. There is nothing redemptive about death. Nothing. It just is.

I mean, we all have to die, just to make room for the next generation. If we all lived forever, there'd be a hell of an overpopulation problem. Just don't make my death some weird kind of life lesson, please. I will come back from beyond the grave and haunt the SHIT out of anybody who tries that. I mean it.

*rant off*

Ah. I feel better now.

Holy shit that shit's exHAUSTing

Ponyboy had to go to the vet's tonight for an eye checkup. 'Nuff said.

I don't even know what the hell that MEANS

Sign on a local elementary school reader board:

"Your current safe boundaries were once unknown frontiers"

I ... what the hell? I guess it's supposed to be inspirational, like, dream big or something, but instead it just sounds like something Jerry Sandusky would have had printed on t-shirts.

What the hell is so DIFFICULT about this?

So, we had an employee give notice today that he is leaving.

Which is no big deal. He was kind of a dopey douchebag anyway, so no big loss.

But. As with every single employee who has ever left this company EVER, he came to me and wanted to know how much vacation time he was owed.

Ummm ... how about "none"? How does that sound to ya?

Here's the thing. The first year you work here, you get no paid vaca. The boss wants to make sure you're going to stick around before he starts handing out benefits. But. You ARE accruing hours TOWARD paid vacation, so the SECOND year you work here, you get one week's paid vacation, based on how many hours you averaged the previous year.

The THIRD year you work here, you get one week plus one day. FOURTH year? One week plus two days, etc. etc. etc. until you're up to two weeks paid vaca. If you want more than two weeks? Negotiate it with the boss the next time you're up for review.

Simple, right? Easy-peasy?

NO ONE GETS THIS. NO ONE.

And because I do payroll, they all come to me when they're getting ready to leave. And they want to know how much vaca they have coming. And they have always, ALWAYS, overestimated in their own minds how much time they've got coming. And then they can't understand why they don't have more time due. And then I have to SIT THEM DOWN, with SPREADSHEETS, and explain how basic math works. And then they walk away with this look on their faces that tells me that they STILL don't understand what I just explained to them.

This last dude? Was actually eleven hours in the hole. He hadn't worked here long enough to accrue much time, and he taken some "in advance" (which is bullshit but the boss allowed it), and then he decided to quit, so sorry buddy, you're outta luck. Actually, he owed US money. I graciously told him that I would not tell the boss that little factoid. Did he appreciate it? NO. Because he thought he had more time coming.



Jeezus Christ. I need a f*cking raise. And more vacation time.

Pic of the weekend

Bathtime.

Search words

"Deadwood did they really swear that much"

Yeah, I've finally gotten around to watching Deadwood.

And I just want to say, Nexflix is REALLY cheaping out by only putting two episodes on a disc. It's TV, Netflix! Come ON!

and right now I am listening to a newscaster say, "It could have happened anywhere." Yes, yes, it could. It happened here, three years ago. It just keeps happening, doesn't it? My thoughts are with the people in Colorado tonight.

Butterfly and tiger lily