Hypocrite

Okay, so today, let's talk about Facebook phonies.

You know who I'm talking about - those annoying friends of friends who somehow start showing up in your Facebook feed every five minutes, all, "Now I'm enjoying a pumpkin spice latte!"  "Now it's time to go work out!" "Now it's off to the post office!"

And you're all, like, ummmmmmmm, okaaaaaaaay, why is this person broadcasting her every breath?  And why doesn't she understand that pumpkin is so YESTERDAY?

Normally, once I get the gist of what the person is laying down, i.e., the endless minutiae of a bullsh*ttedly perfect life, I just block their feed.

But sometimes I can't, due to work or volunteer obligations, and so I just skim over the entries.  And it's always fun when you catch them in random acts of hypocrisy.

This one facebook acquaintance, for example, is a big wheel in one of the local animal rescues. She's always plastering her feed with all the do-good stuff she's accomplished that day.

And then a random "I heart Michael Vick!" pops up.

This same person wants EVERYONE to know that she SUPPORTS GAY RIGHTS, and GO RAINBOW, and IT GETS BETTER.

And then out pops a "Can't wait for the new season of Duck Dynasty!" slips out.

The truth will out, if you're bored enough to wade through five thousand pumpkin latte status updates.

I got bored, so I started a flame war on Craigslist

Yeah, so as I've explained, I've not been in the most charitable mindset lately.

Things got a little slow at work the other afternoon, so I decided to peruse the "Pets" section of the local Craigslist, as one does when you want to get all rage-y about the stupidity of the human race.

Craigslist never disappoints.  On this particular day, some people were ranting about how they were denied adoption by local rescue groups.

A few random samples:

"Now keep in mind that we had a kitty that was dropped off when we own a place out in the country. He (the kitty) adopted us. After a few months went by, we took him and had him fixed and de clawed seeing how we wanted to make him a totally indoor furr ever family member. 16+ years he was with us, going to the vet only twice in his whole life."

and this:

 "I was so glad to see this posting. I am in total agreement--there are so many animal "rescues" with their judgmental, holier than thou attitudes that hurt more than help by denying perfectly good singles/families pet adoptions. Some, not all, probably make money off of their so called rescue groups."

and this:

"We could not agree more with the poster. S.P.E.A.K. has they're (sic) nose so far up in the air, they would not allow a pet to be adopted by a completely professional couple with no children and no other pets, just because we had to travel and would be gone a week every month. What kind of crap is that anyway?"

Well.  You know me.  I just had to chime in:

"Declawing a cat is inhumane and flat-out cruel. How would you like your doctor to remove all of your fingers at the first knuckle? Declawing is illegal in most civilized countries. Not taking a pet to the vet for recommended vaccinations puts that pet at risk of easily preventable diseases. Leaving a cat at home for a week while you're out of town is insane.

The rescue groups are trying to prevent these kinds of situations. That is why they ask lots of questions. If you think declawing a cat, neglecting vaccinations, and leaving a pet alone for days at a time is okay, THE RESCUE GROUPS DON'T WANT YOU ADOPTING.

End of story."

Holy Mary Mother of F*ck, these people burn my ass.

Thankfully, other people started chiming in:

"It is also illegal in NY to have a cat (or dog, or ferret) indoors or out that is not up to date on its rabies vaccination. That would be one reason rescues will not adopt to someone who cannot keep up with a pets vaccinations."

Sadly, the wingnuts outnumber the rationals by about ten-to-one on Craigslist.  But hell, I'll go down swinging.

Full speed ahead

I am going to get this off my chest, and then I am going to let it go.  This involves family drama, so feel free to skip right over this whole thing.  I am quite aware that publishing this may mean that some see me as a lesser person; frankly, I don't give a sh*t.  Herewith is the contents of an email I sent to a family member, a few days after Mom passed away, when I was taking crap from all sides.  I decided to damn the torpedoes.

"Just in case anyone is wondering why I am so furious with Shirley and Dale*:

Shirley took hundreds of thousands of dollars from Mom  over the years. Forty thousand a year for providing a spare room for your still-active mother is considered reasonable? Shirley got an $800 monthly stipend, plus she took another thousand in cash out of mom's checking account every month. Some months it was more than a thousand. Plus mom paid the utility bill, and the cable bill, and the phone bill. PLUS “mom” often bought groceries at Wegman's.  A check was written on her account for $177.00 in groceries at Wegman's on the day before Thanksgiving; in essence, mom bought Thanksgiving dinner for Shirley and her family. A dinner that mom was unable to eat because she was struggling for her life with undiagnosed pneumonia.  (I was told only that mom had  "a cold".  If I had had any idea how serious the situation was, I would have taken mom to the ER.)

And in all the years that mom spent with Shirley, I never once saw Shirley give her a kiss, or a hug, or a shoulder rub. Mom got much more person-to-person contact from the aides in the nursing home than she ever got from Shirley.

Shirley and Dale berated Chris and Karen (my sister and her boyfriend) repeatedly, loudly and IN FRONT OF MOM, for feeding her. (Priceless comments were also made about "a choking cat will swallow if you shove food down its throat" and "Look at her!  What kind of life is this?", again, all in front of my conscious and aware mother.)  In reality, it was the lack of timely medical care that ultimately resulted in mom's death. If Shirley had not waited until mom was half-dead before finally taking her to a doctor, the outcome may have been different. And if Shirley and Dale had spent any time at all at the hospital or at the nursing home, they would have known that feeding mom was also being done by myself, the nurses, and the aides, because there was a very real possibility that mom would recover.  She was placed in a rehab facility and not in hospice because she was EXPECTED TO SURVIVE.  If at any time the medical staff felt that feeding mom was detrimental, they would have issued an NPO order, and the feeding would have stopped per mom's wishes via her Living Will. Again, if Shirley and Dale had chosen to be involved in her care, they would have known this.  Instead, they washed their hands of the whole thing, stopping by only to bitch at the people who were actively working to get mom back to health.  It is my understanding that Dale has been telling people that he spent hours with mom in the hospital and nursing home every day; that is a flat-out lie. He would fly in, toss a rosary over something, and go right back out the door.  

And on the Friday before mom's death, he declared to Chris that it was “all our fault that he couldn't go on vacation”, meaning, I guess, that Karen, Chris and I should have made mom die quicker so that his plans wouldn't be ruined. And then Dale and Shirley left for vacation anyway.

And, of course, the reason they washed their hands of mom's  care was because they were furious that mom was in a nursing home. Why? Because that meant the nursing home was getting a chunk of mom's trust fund, a trust fund that Shirley and Dale would be getting a portion of. More money for mom's care meant less money for them.

And then, with mom literally at death's door, they chose to go on vacation.

As far as I am concerned, Shirley and Dale are nothing less than monsters.  Who you choose to associate with is your decision; however, I am baffled that you would continue to support such despicable people."

I will tell you, I felt a lot better after I let that sucker fly.

*their real names, not the pseudonyms I usually use for them here.  F*ck it.

They oughta let me teach at BITCH SCHOOL

I'm getting back into the swing of things, at work, and at home, and I've gotta tell you, I'm really in a pretty piss-poor frame of mind.

I've fought so many battles over the past month and a half that I'm having a hard time re-adjusting my mindset back to "calm". 

So, get ready for some snark.  I can't suppress it right now, and I'm not sure that it's healthy to try, so I'm going to use this blog as my little venting outlet for the next few days. 

Bear with me while I bitch.  Or, you know, just come back in a week or two, when I'm back to my mild-mannered self.

Buckle your seatbelts!  It's going to be a bumpy flight.

I don't mean to brag, but ... FIVE

We had an adoption event on Saturday.  We took ten cats.  We adopted out FIVE.

First to go was pretty Willow:

Next was Cookie:  (no, we don't cram them in cages; they tend to all bunch up in one corner:

Don't you just love how Cookie's giving us the ol' stinkeye, there?  Cookie almost missed the event; she had to be pulled out from under a couch, TWICE, in order to catch her ride.  But she got there, and she found her family!

and Cookie's sister,  Darling: (She's the one in the back on the left)

Cookie and Darling were adopted together, as sisters should be.  (Well, as long as you're not in MY family, at least.)  Oh, and in that pic above, you can see Angel, the orange-and-white next to Darling.  Angel took a chunk out of my palm on Saturday.  Angel will be excused from future adoption events until he gets over himself.

Next up it was Clancy's turn:

Clancy is a BIG BOY, and he can be a bit of a bully, so we were thrilled to find him a home where he will be an only cat.  He will be much happier without a bunch of other cats annoying him.  I had the privilege of chauffeuring him to his new home yesterday; it is a beautiful house, on lots of land, with doting people and a basset hound named Elvis, and Clancy was purring up a storm when I left.

Finally?  Pretty Aggie, also known as Ms. Mustache:

In an effort to gain Miss Aggie more exposure, we wheeled her around the store in a shopping cart all afternoon.  She loved it, and she loved the attention, and she found her people. 

Five cats in one day.  Five ADULT cats in one day.  For a rescue the size of ours, that is HUGE.

And they are all going to good, quality homes. 

Man, this stuff can be fun.

Relief

I hate to say it, but it was almost a relief to get back to work on Wednesday. 

After the chaos surrounding Mom's illness and death, and then the subsequent funeral planning, and family flying in and out, and the funeral itself (I managed not to punch anyone.  Am proud.), and my sister Texas staying with me (Texas, if you're reading this, I love you dearly but oh my god the CIGARETTE SMOKE), and the weather going up and down like a ping-pong ball,

it felt, well, good, to pull into the office parking lot on Wednesday morning.

Oh, sure, my desk was covered in snowdrifts of paperwork, and I'm still feeling sad, and there are still details to take care of for Mom (I'm an executor of the estate), but things are getting back to normal.

And one of the biggest reliefs of this whole thing?  Is the knowledge that I will never, ever, EVER again have to see or speak to my sister TIB.  For years, I was civil to her, as being nice to her was the only way to gain access to Mom (Mom lived with TIB), but now?

Done.  donedonedonedonedone.


And life marches on, yes it does, and I've got an adoption event tomorrow, and I've got to (finally) take the tree down on Sunday,  and I've got an appointment to get my hair cut and dye it RED a week from now,  and right now I'm just enjoying the mundane.

Well, except for cleaning the litterboxes, of course.  I don't think I'm EVER going to enjoy THAT.

It's not a BUS, for Christ's sake

My family is all kinds of messed up, which I guess is inevitable when there's a ton of kids, but I think the WTF award, funeral division, has to go to my sister Ditzy, who, when learning that her son was running late on his way to the funeral service, asked the minister to hold the funeral until he got there.
Ooooooookay.

WTF award Number Two goes to her son, who could not manage to make it to his grandmother's funeral on time.  There was even a visitation beforehand, meaning he had a built-in cushion, and he still managed to display an utter lack of respect by showing up late.

WTF award Number Three goes to the minister, who was asked to pick the hymns, and proceeded to choose hymns that no one had ever heard of.

And the final WTF award goes to certain members of the family, who called dibs on which of the flower arrangements they wanted to take home with them.  I just ... can't with these people.  Really?
 
And then there was all the fun of  family members trying to get here and then get back to Florida, Georgia, Texas and Washington state during the worst stretch of air travel in recent memory. 

Yep, that's my family.  They can even f*ck up a funeral.




 

Mom

Marjorie Grace (Barnes) Clark, 89, born June 14, 1924 passed away on December 30, 2013. She left this world surrounded by love. Marjorie was predeceased by her husband Burt, whom she was married to for nearly 60 years, and a brother, Leonard. She is survived by six children, Alan Clark, Arline Clark, Meryl Kovac, Shirley Crotsley, Karen Wells and Wendy Walter; nine grandchildren, Sarah Wells, Jesse D'Onofrio, Anne Marie Lay, Guy Crotsley, Lugene Crotsley, Eric Crotsley, Addy Trussell, Michael VanWagenen and Vincent VanWagenen; eleven great grandchildren, Jackson and Matthew Crotsley, Henry and Owen Lay, Charlotte Trussell, Alex Crotsley, Michael VanWagenen Jr, Blake VanWagenen, Amber, Ciarra and Skye VanWagenen; one great-great grandchild, Kyleigh VanWagenen; and brother, Raymond Barnes. Marjorie was blessed with a sweet, gentle nature and wonderful sense of humor that shone through even though the last 13 years of her life bore the stamp of Alzheimer's. Daughters, Karen and Wendy and Karen's fiancé, Chris Mayville would especially like to thank Kim Carter and the staff of Elizabeth Church Manor for their compassionate care of mom during her final weeks, and their warm support and concern during her final hours. You touched our lives, and certainly touched hers, and we will never forget it.

Memorial Services will be held Monday 11 a.m. at the Allen Memorial Home, 511-513 East Main Street, Endicott, with the Reverend Nancy Krembs officiating. The family will receive friends at the Allen Memorial Home, Monday 10:30 a.m. until service time at 11 a.m.

Notes from the nursing home

I wish I had something profound to say, but I'm not that deep.  Mom lived for 89 years; the first 75 were pretty damn good, and the last 14, not so much, but still, she had a good run.

And the one saving grace about dementia is that even as it is taking you away, piece by piece, it also erases your ability to realize what is happening.

I will tell you what, people talk smack about nursing homes all. the. time., but the facility mom was in was excellent.  Everyone, from the nurses to the aides to the janitors, cared about the residents.  All of the residents were clean, and well-fed, and entertained, and genuinely loved by the staff.

And that's saying something, when you're talking about patients with advanced dementia.

There was the woman who was constantly angry.  "Stop looking at me!," she'd mutter.  "I'll come over there and knock your lights out, I swear to God.  It's a conspiracy, I tell ya!  A conspiracy!"  That went on 24-7.  I never did see her sleep, although I supposed she must have, some time.

Then there was the Cookie Monster.  Starting on Friday morning, there was a hospitality cart in the hall outside mom's room at all times.  In the mornings it would have coffee and hot tea and juice and muffins, and in the afternoons and evenings it would have bottled water and soda and cookies and snack crackers.  It was meant for the guests visiting mom, but one of the residents would make raids on the cart.  She'd wheel up furtively in her wheelchair, grab a package of cookies or a muffin, rip the wrapping off with her teeth like she was pulling the pin out of a grenade, and then tear off down the hall, eating as she went.  Sometimes she'd stash her prize in an empty tissue box she carried around, and sometimes she'd hide stuff in the aides' carts.  The woman liked her sweets, is what I'm saying.

And then there was the one staff member who gave me pause.  After mom died, my sister Ditzy and Ditzy's boyfriend and I spent some more time with her, and then Ditzy's boyfriend went to alert the staff, who did a final check and then called the funeral home and started making arrangements.  They sent up a pair of aides to prepare mom for the funeral home, and the one aide, well ...

Let's put it this way.  I spent a lot, a lot of time in that nursing home over the last two weeks, at all hours of the day and night, and I was pretty sure I knew all of the staff.   But this dude ... anybody see the movie "Phantasm"?  And in the movie, there's that creepy dude in the funeral home? The Tall Man?

This aide looked just like that guy.  I'm not even kidding.  I had never seen him in the home before the night that mom died.  I'm really, really glad they sent another aide along with him, one who I did know, because I would not have felt comfortable having that creepster alone in the room with my mom.

But even he provided a bit of macabre comic relief.  Many jokes about zombies and basements were made, courtesy of creepy aide dude.

In the end, the room was nice and quiet.  Per her wishes, mom was not hooked up to any monitors or devices.  The room was dark, and it was just my sister, my sister's boyfriend, me, and my mom.  Her breathing became somewhat labored and rapid toward the end, and then her breathing quieted, and her breaths came less often, and then her breathing stopped and she was gone.  Just ... gone.

And I'll tell you what, it may seem kind of odd, but I don't fear death anymore.  I've seen it, it's been in the room with me, and I'm not afraid of it.  Her passing was beautiful.

Rest in peace, mom.

Mom

My mom died at three-thirty this morning, of complications from dementia.

Her passing was peaceful, and I was there with her.  It was truly a beautiful thing.

Please send kind thoughts to Marjorie Grace Clark, born June 14, 1924, died December 30, 2013.

I love you, mom.

On the day after Christmas, my dear cats gave to meeeee ...

One cat a-limpin' (AND with chunks of fur missing.  Stop FIGHTING, Tinks!)

One cat with tinsel hanging out of his butt (Festive, Pony!)

One cat who had diarrhea-pooped all over a dressing gown which had mysteriously fallen into a litter box in the foster room

and a disembodied mouse head in the bathroom!



Where's the five gooooooolden rings, is what I want to know.

It's a Christmas miracle!

This time of year, whenever something good happens, even something stupid like winning a hand of computer solitaire, I like to think to myself, "It's a Christmas miracle!"

I dunno why; it just tickles me.  It seems like the word "miracle" is thrown around so freely, and this time of year it gets all connected with Christmas somehow, and voila.  Christmas miracle! hee.

I don't really believe in miracles, per se.  Serendipity, sure; but true miracles?  Nah.  Maybe because miracles get tied up with God, whom I believe in about as much as I do Santa, so not so much.  Even if someone is "miraculously" cured of cancer, I don't think it's a miracle so much as it is dumb luck.  The cancer came and nobody knows why; the cancer went and nobody knows why; why is one a terrible thing and the other one a miracle?

And I was trying to think if I'd ever experienced a "miracle", and I guess the closest I ever came is back when I was young and poor and working fast food, and a week came when I had lots of bills due and I'd had a short week the week before, so I knew that my paycheck was going to be crap and I had no idea how I'd be able to eat, let along pay the bills that were due, and then my paycheck came and due to reasons I do not remember, it was a normal paycheck instead of a short one and the day was saved and tada!  Miracle!  Or just happy event, either way.

How about you?  Ever had a miracle happen?

So then I told my sister TIB,

"Go f*ck yourself, b*tch,"  and I hung up the phone.

Oh yes I did.

My sister TIB has always gotten her way in the family via bully tactics and intimidation.  And if you've never seen a sixty-three-year-old woman pitch a full-on temper tantrum, I can tell you, it's not a pretty sight.

So her latest episode, on Sunday in the nursing home in front of my mother and assorted others, was the last straw.

And last night, at quarter after eight, when I was FINALLY sitting down to some dinner and the phone started ringing and caller ID revealed TIB's number, I could have taken the high road and let it go to voice mail.

But I didn't.

I picked up that phone and let fly.  Both barrels.  I told TIB exactly what I thought of what she was doing, and I made it clear that the sh*t stopped NOW or she WOULD be dealing with me.  I am normally the most mild-mannered of nerds, but all I can say is, sometimes when you mess with the bear, you get the claws.

I let her have it.  When I burn a bridge, it's to the ground, baby.  And then I told her to f*ck off.

And it felt GREAT.  My only regret is that I didn't do it YEARS ago. 

Ahhhhh.  There's nothing like family for the holidays.

Treating themselves to an early Christmas

So, I got home from running errands yesterday to discover that somebody had managed to pop open the lid to the giant plastic storage bin full of adoption event stuff that I keep out in the garage, climb into the bin, drag out the double-ziplocked-bag full of catnip toys that was in the bin, claw and chew through BOTH bags, and strew catnip toys from one end of the garage to the other.  Somebody also managed to claw/chew/slobber over ninety percent of the toys, thus rendering them unusable for sale at adoption events and thereby instantly turning them into gifts to my cats.

Way to go, somebody.  Enjoy the fruits of your success.  I admire your tenacity.

And the caper made me laugh out loud.  Thanks!

Decorated

My tree is having a party.

Recently Read

Okay, first off, I went into the library the other day and a book I'd been wanting to read (The Maid's Version by Daniel Woodrell) was there on the new books display, and I was so! excited!  Because usually any new book worth reading is checked out for, like, the first YEAR or so that it's at my library, so to have first dibs on a good book is a big! deal!  And please tell me that I'm not the only one who gets excited at the sight of a wanted book.

So I haven't read that one yet, but here's what I HAVE read:

 1.  The Grail Bird - Hot on the Trail of the Ivory-billed Woodpecker by Tim Gallagher.  Everybody's got to have a hobby, I guess.  I was actually really excited to read this, until I discovered that Ivory-Bills (possibly extinct) are almost identical to Pileateds (common).  Did they find the bird?  Read it and find out. 

2.  Movie Review!  "Little Birds" is about two teen girls living in a trailer park by the Salton Sea who decide to head for L.A.  Classic indie, including the obligatory opening scene featuring a nubile young actress's tits.  Includes lots of artsy lighting shots, etc.   I dunno.  My first exposure to filmed teen angst came via "Over the Edge" with Matt Damon. Another example is "Where The Day Takes You", with Lara Flynn Boyle.  This kind of movie can really clobber you, or leave you saying "eh", depending, I guess, on where you are emotionally on any given day with memories of your own adolescence.

3.  Music Review!  The eponymous debut CD by The Band Perry is a bright, country-pop mix of songs.  Think Dixie Chicks, but skewed toward a younger demographic.  I am sure that millions of tween girls all over the country sobbed into their pillows listening to "If I Die Young", which admittedly is a touching song. "Miss You Being Gone" and "Double Heart" are fun breakup songs, and what young girl couldn't relate to "Walk Me Down the Middle",  about a girl wanting to show off her new boyfriend?
        Yes, the CD skews young, but it's very enjoyable, and since the Dixie Chicks are evidently not coming back any time soon, these guys fill the bill just fine.  I know that they've put out another CD since this one, and I'll probably give that one a listen, too.

4.  Haunted Southern Tier by Elizabeth Tucker - Local ghost stories.  Okay.

5.  Call the Midwife by Jennifer Worth - Memoir about a midwife in post-WWII London, now a miniseries on PBS.  Interesting, if a little more graphic in its childbirth descriptions than I expected.  Still,  an entertaining read.

6.  How about another movie review?  "Mama" is a spooky movie about a young couple who are tasked with raising the man's feral nieces.  I usually stay away from horror movies, but this one got (fairly)  good reviews, and Guillermo del Toro (sp?), who I like, produced, so I Netflixed it.  The premise is good, and despite gaping plot holes, it truly is scary.  I actually had to stop watching at one point, go do something else for a while as a little palate cleanser, and then come back to it.  Hopefully I'll be able to sleep again someday.

7.  Back to books.  "The Enchanted Life of Adam Hope" by Rhonda Riley.  It's kind of tough to review this without giving too much away,  but suffice it to say that it's about a young woman who finds a mysterious stranger on her farm, and their life together.  Mystical in a good way, and an entertaining read.

8.  The Ocean at the End of the Lane by Neil Gaiman - I understand that Mr. Gaiman has something approaching a cult following,  and my brother recommended this book  to me.  It's a novel about a little boy and his young neighbor facing a supernatural challenge.  It's really short - Folks who think the articles in People magazine are too long would probably like this one, as well as people who aren't really "readers".  It's certainly good - Think if Stephen King's editor told him that he had to cut a book by ninety percent.  I liked  it!

9.  Enemy Women by Paulette Jiles - Think, The Road (Cormac McCarthy) meets Gone with the Wind.  Considerably grimmer than her book Stormy Weather, but still a good read.

10. A Midwife's Story by Penny Armstrong and Sheryl Feldman - Memoir by a midwife to the Amish - interesting.

Okay, so that's what I've been reading lately. How about you?

Nothing's changed, except for hope, maybe

Despite the fact that my mother has a pretty crystal-clear Living Will, the social worker at the nursing home is pushing my sister Ditzy and I, mom's health care proxies, for more clarification, as it is becoming apparent that mom is not eating and drinking enough to keep her alive.

Her Living Will specifies no tube feeding, no artificial hydration, no extraordinary measures, no resuscitation, and maximum pain relief.

I dunno, I think that's pretty understandable, personally, but if the social worker needs me to skywrite it for her, I certainly will if it will make her feel better.

"Dope her up and let her go," I'm tempted to say, but I guess that would make me some kind of monster, wouldn't it?  Then again, if I can think it, I already am one.

I will move heaven and earth, if I can, to ensure that she has a peaceful passing.

That's all we can wish for,  in the end,  isn't it?

So am I supposed to take them or not?!

Vitamins, that is.

I was in the foster room the other morning,  watching the morning news to postpone the inevitable ride into the office, when a report came on stating that vitamins are actually BAD for you.

Well,  sh*t.  I've been taking vitamins for at least thirty years. A multi-vitamin, and extra Vitamin C, and Calcium plus D, and let's see, recently I've started taking cranberry extract and probiotics for my guts, which, those last two might be okay, because technically they're not vitamins, but the rest of 'em?

Crap.

I mean, I'd just as soon not spend the money, especially seeing as how evidently I've been spending that money on something that is actually BAD for me, but I really wish they could've told me a little sooner.

Oh, and apropos of nothing, what the heck is A&E going to fill their schedule with, now that the Duck Dynasty dude has let it be known that God doesn't like gay people, and blacks were actually HAPPY in the old south?  (Who knew?)

You know, I've been hearing rumors for quite a while now that one of the Duck Dynasty dudes is gay.  And now I really, really hope it's true.

"Ship it UPS!," she said. 'It'll get here on time!," she said

Not sure if any of you remember the shipping fiasco I went through last December, when I entrusted a Christmas package to the United States Postal Service, who managed to get it to within fifteen miles of my sister's Fort Worth home before inexplicably sending it to Atlanta and then losing it forever.

Way to go, post office!  F*ck you very much.

Lesson learned, this year I used UPS.

UPS managed to get this year's Christmas package to Mesquite, Texas, approximately 44 miles away from my sister's house, before losing it.

Advantage?  USPS, since they got within 15 miles of the intended target as opposed to UPS's forty-four, although some day it would be nice if a delivery service was actually capable of getting the package to her doorstep.

I guess that's just too much to wish for.

They were almost bigger than the cats

So!  Saturday brought another adoption event, smack in the middle of a snowstorm.  Despite the crappy roads, intrepid shoppers came out anyway.  One cat, Farah*, a beautiful young black kitty, found her new home, and we had inquiries for some of the other cats, so a good time was had by all.

And no one, NO ONE, could resist the kitty in the cradle.

That's Angel in the cradle, with Charlie behind him.  Angel hopped in that cradle as soon as we set it up, and he stayed there the entire time.  Farah is the one UNDER the cradle.  It was kind of amazing that she found her new home, considering she spent the entire event pretending she wasn't there.

(In case you are worried:  The ONLY time these guys are in cages are at adoption events.  The rest of the time, they are in foster homes, stirring up all kinds of mischief.)


There were other rescue groups there - a horse rescue had miniature ponies dressed up as elves.  But the indisputable stars of the show were these guys:

 

Dude.  DUUUUUDES.  Giant BIRDS.  And they TALKED.  It was AWESOME.

You get to see all kinds of stuff at adoption events.  It's kind of amazing that I didn't come home with a bird.  Or a pony.

 

* I do not name these cats.

 

Half past exhausted

I will tell you what, this "family" stuff will wear you right out.

Meetings were held and discussions were had and tempers were mostly kept in check; at one point I got a glimpse of myself in a mirror and I looked alarmingly like that angry Eagle dude on the Muppet Show, but that wasn't necessarily a bad thing, given the level of negotiations I was navigating, and in the end, Mom is safe and warm and where she needs to be right now.

And the dementia unit of a skilled nursing facility is an ... interesting place.  

I don't know what the future holds, all I know is that for right now, things are stable, and tree lots are alarmingly devoid of trees by the fifteenth of December.

But!  I got a tree; the selecting goes really fast when there aren't many to choose from.  And the tree is up!  And the lights are on!  And that might be as far as I get this year, but that's okay.  I kind of like it with just the tree and the lights, anyway.

And I did manage to get to an adoption event Saturday, driving through Snowmaggedon to get there, and I'll have pics up soon of the special visitors who stopped by.

Sleep is overrated, am I right?  *yawn*

So then I pulled out the big guns.

Mom's still in the hospital, still not much change.  The hospital is waiting for space to open in a skilled nursing facility before they release her.

My sister TIB and her contingent were strongly pushing for her to go back to the no-skilled home where she had been staying, which MY contingent strongly opposes.  She needs to be someplace with 24-hour care and actual, like, medical professionals, as opposed to the minimum-wage dipshits at the no-skilled home who waited until she was almost dead to call a damn doctor.

Yeah, I'm a little bitter.  And I was prepared to wage war.

But.  Way back in 2003, when mom's dementia was starting to progress, I insisted that she lawyer up.  She needed an updated will, and someone with Power of Attorney, and a living will and a Health Care Proxy.

Guess whose name is on the Health Care Proxy?

MINE.

She WILL be going to a skilled facility, where she WILL get the supervision she needs, and my sister TIB and her crazy-ass buddies (who, sadly, include my sister Alabama and my brother) can go pound sand.

Suck it, TIB and crew.  Just suck it.



(My family makes me crazy.  Can you tell?)

Seriously? A loaf of bread?

So,  with all of the drama that is coming with my mom's hospitalization and continuing family drama, I'm finding myself a little ... frazzled.  I'm usually pretty good at holding it all together, but I stopped at a dollar store on my way back to the office from the hospital this afternoon, and standing in line, I realized I was so tired I was dizzy.

And then, tonight, I went to make a sandwich, and  I ate it, and now, a couple of hours later, I realize that the remainder of the loaf of bread has ... vanished.  It's ... not  in the fridge, which is where I usually keep the bread, and it's not in the cupboards, and I even checked the garbage to see if I mindlessly threw it out, and ... nope.  I lost a loaf of bread.

So tell me, friends, what's the oddest thing you ever lost?  And where did it eventually show up?

and in brighter news ...

... Saturday was another big! adoption! event! day!

First, we suck in the little kids ...

... and then we get the parents.

We had two "hard-to-place" (i.e, adult, long-haired, male, BIG cats) get adopted!  Congrats, Muffin and Snugglebunny!  (I DO NOT NAME THESE CATS.) Woot!

And we're gonna do it all over again this weekend. I'll get my tree up ... someday.

Battle lines are bein' drawn

Well, it took all of three days for my sister TIB to fly into a blind rage over something my sister Ditzy is doing regarding the care of my mother.

I swear I must be a foundling.  The alternative, that I am actually related to these a**holes, is too sobering to consider.

Dropping the old bombshell

So, I was reading a book the other day, and I came to the end of a chapter, and here's the last line:

"My father was your father, Lucy.  I'm your half brother."

ahahahahahahahaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!

I'm sorry, but every time I come across a bombshell announcement, all  I can think of is that scene in Tootsie, where Dustin Hoffman's soap character finally owns up to his own little surprise:

"For I am NOT Emily Kimberly, the daughter of Dwayne and Alma Kimberly! No, I'm not! I'm Edward Kimberly, the recluse brother of my sister Anthea! Edward Kimberly, who has finally vindicated his sister's good name! I am Edward Kimberly! Edward Kimberly!

Oh my God, now I wanna go watch Tootsie again.

Take the Long Way Home

Okay, so, my mom's in the hospital.

She's eighty-nine, and she was diagnosed with dementia/Alzheimer's shortly after my dad died in 1999, and  now she's sick.  She has pneumonia (yes she DID get a pneumonia shot this fall, fat lot of good it did her), and a blood clot in her leg.

And various family members are sh*tting bricks, and dusting off the ol' Health Care Proxies, and trying to figure out when to alert the plane-flight contingent, and I'm all,

whoa whoa whoa

Because my mom is going to take the long way home. She ain't in no hurry, here.

This is her first hospitalization since her dementia diagnosis, and it won't be her last.  I used to joke, back in the day,  about how she was going to outlive all of us, and then she outlived my sister-in-law, and she came damn close to outliving  me this past summer, and all of a sudden that joke? well, I stopped making that one.

My mom?  She's gonna take the scenic route, bless her.

These are a few of my favorite ...

... books!

First of all, are any of you going to watch the live! Sound of Music special?  I am going to watch the SH*T out of that.   I loved that movie as a kid, and I cannot wait to see the new staged version.  Singing! Dancing! That pretty blond country singer! Let me at it! 

Now.  I was clearing out a dresser in the foster room the other night when I came upon a book stash.  Books that  I had forgotten I even had - how does that happen?  They were actually duplicates of some of my all-time favorites.  Am I the only one who does that?  Buys copies of favorite books to give away to friends?  I guess maybe it's a book nerd thing, wanting to give away favorites. An, "I loved this book, so you will, too" kind of thing.  But, you know, you never give away the ONLY COPY you have of a favorite, because that would be crazy.  You have to save one copy, for when you need to read it again.

Here's the books I uncovered:

The Story of Edgar Sawtelle by David Wroblewski (two duplicates)

Growing up by Russell Baker

All Over But the Shoutin' by Rick Bragg

Boy's Life by Robert McCammon

Different Seasons by Stephen King

Fanny and Sue by Karen Stoltz

When Angels Rest by Donald Harington (I have three! duplicates of this one)

You know what's funny?  Looking at that list, it's almost all male authors.  And I would say that probably ninety-five percent of the books I read are written by women.  Hmmmm.

And the crazy thing is, I keep buying new (used) books - just picked up eleven more at a Better World Books sale yesterday - and taking books out of the library - and I will never, ever have time to go back and read my favorites over again if I keep getting more books, dammit.  I'm like that dude in the ruined library in the Twilight Zone episode, except minus all the time in the world and the busted glasses.

How about you?  Any favorites, the books that you'd read over and over again?  Do you save them?  Or am I the only crazy crackpot who stockpiles great books?




  p.s.  Not too late to get a Christmas card! Email me!

It's that time of year again ...

... Oktoberfest is here again!

Whoops, wrong holiday.

First off,  I  hope everyone had a happy Thanksgiving.  Go ahead and eat that last leftover piece of pie - you deserve it for not strangling any of your relatives over the Thanksgiving table.

Now!  It's time for Christmas cards!  I've got all my crap, er, arty stuff  strewed all over the living room floor.  Tinks the Destroyer just strolled into the house, and I predict imminent card disaster, so quick!  Here's your chance!

If you want a Christmas card, let me know!  Just email me your name and address, using an alias if the Feds are on your tail, and I'll send you a card!  If  you got a card last year, relax, you'll get another one this year.  If you got a card last year and would prefer NOT to get one this year *cough*, just let me know.  But if you've never gotten a faaaaaaabulous Rockycat Christmas card, and you'd like one this year, give me a shout at rockycat24 AT yahoo DOT com. You'll get a card. 

Oh, and Kate?  I never did get a new mailing address from you last year, so let me know if you want a card.  I mean, I know you're busy with the new hubs and all (yay!), but I need your new address.

Oh! And one more thing!  I grabbed a roll of paper towels off the counter this morning (Bindi, must you puke, dear soul?), and there was a gigantic SPIDER on top of the roll.  That's it.  I am never using paper towels again.

But I AM doing Christmas cards, so let me know if you want a card!

Have a happy, happy Thanksgiving.

I was gonna do a post all about the things I am thankful for, but meh.  Everybody's doing that.  So here.  Have some adorable kittens:

These are all former fosters of mine.  All of these guys were at one time homeless, looking for a place to call their own.

If you ever take a look around and think maybe your life is kind of blah, maybe a little ... empty ...

Or if you feel really blessed, and think maybe it's time you gave a little back ...Become a foster parent.

Your life will be fuller than you can even believe.

Happy Thanksgiving, everybody!

Criminal

So, I was at the dentist the other day for my six-month cleaning and some x-rays, and Look Ma!  No cavities!

While I was there I asked her to write me another prescription for Flexeril for my jaw pain.  I have TMJD, and while it is much, much better than it was ten years ago, it still flares up occasionally, and I've found that if I take a Flexeril before bed when my jaw first starts to act up, I can usually nip the episode in the bud.

What is Flexeril?  It's a muscle relaxer, often used by sufferers of back pain.  It helps my jaw unclench before things get all wound up and I'm in awful pain.  So every six months, my dentist writes me a prescription for a whopping ten Flexeril pills, which get me through to the next appointment, usually with a couple of pills to spare.

And as I found out the other day at the dentist's, Flexeril is now on the list of prescribed medications that get very careful scrutiny from the Feds.  My dentist now has to fill out extra paperwork and send it along to the pharmacy with my prescription, evidently so that my medical records can be flagged in case I ever decide to GO WILD with the Flexeril or doctor-shop or whatever else it is that addicts do.

And you know what?  I don't like being made to feel like an addict or a criminal just because I'm in pain and am seeking relief.  I'm not doing anything wrong, or anything illegal, and yet my records are getting flagged because I'm taking a ... muscle relaxer.

I dunno.  It just doesn't seem right, somehow. 

If I'm gonna get flagged on a watch list, it should at least be for some GOOD drugs, dammit.

Most ridiculous use of flannel

I was at Jo-Ann Fabrics the other night, picking up materials for the catnip toys I make for the rescue.  And as usual, when I got to the cutting table to have the fabric measured, the nice lady with the scissors asked me, "So!  What are you making?"

And I gave my standard answer of, "Well, I volunteer for an animal rescue, and I make catnip toys to sell at adoption events ... " and as usual, I started to redden up and kind of rub at my face as I realized how lame I sounded, like, this is what my life has become, an old lady making freaking catnip toys, and I vowed then and there that the next time I go to the fabric store and the nice lady chirps, "So!  What are you making?", I'll have a more ... interesting answer.

Something along the lines of, "bondage blindfolds".  Or, "a blanket for my time-travel machine.  It gets cold at night."

Whaddaya think, guys?  Let's toss some ideas around.

I'm not sure, but I think Fall may be their favorite time of year

How many cats in this picture?:

How about this one?:

They do love the leaves.

"Pretend like you're swimmin'! Stroke, stroke, breathe, stroke, stroke, breathe ..."

Okay, I just accidentally stumbled on a show called Key & Peele,  on Comedy Central, and all I can say is, watch it.

You WILL laugh until you cry.  And/or scare the cats.

Thoughts on Doctor Sleep

First off, okay, I'm gonna talk about Doctor Sleep, and that INCLUDES the ending, so if you haven't read the book and plan on doing so, stop reading this RIGHT NOW.

Okay.  Doctor Sleep by Stephen King.  First thought, reading Stephen King books is kind of like listening to ZZ Top songs - they're all pretty much the same.  Some are more epic than others, some run to a thousand pages instead of five or six hundred, but still, pretty much the same.

That said, I enjoy his books at lot.  He really is a good writer, and unlike with a lot of books I read, I don't think I've ever winced over an awkward turn of phrase while reading one of his.  He makes it look effortless, which I am sure it is not, even for him. 

What I enjoy most about King is the plot setup and the character development.  Once the story gets to the last few chapters, where it's good vs. evil and good wins and at least a few of the bad guys meet horrible, grisly, graphic deaths (King is very fond of splattered brains, and intestines are always good, as well), I kind of lose interest.  Because you know the good guys are gonna win (with maybe a minor good character or two killed off just to keep it real), the bad guys are gonna lose, and Amen.

And there is ALWAYS a big showdown. The shootout at the O.K. Corral, so to speak.  Even in a book like Doctor Sleep, where everybody's psychic and technically they could have just phoned the whole thing in, the good guys have to do a road trip halfway across the damn country just so everybody can meet-and-greet in person.

One other thing that stuck with me is how Dan pulled the dude out of his mental lockbox so he could kill the gal in the shed.  It was a deus ex machina, like Indiana Jones pulling the gun out of his belt and shooting the saber-wielding bad guy dead.  I mean, it was cute, but I was kinda like, "Whoa ... THAT'S convenient".

But then again, if you can keep people locked in boxes in your mind ... the whole premise is just fantasy, of course.  The True Knot doesn't really exist, although it WOULD explain some of those spooky old f*cks I see in Walmart.

Final thoughts?  I liked it.  I like most King books.  It only took me a week or so to tear through Doctor Sleep, even thought it's right around five hundred pages, because he really does know how to write a page-turner.  It's just, I never seem to get a chance to go revisit his older stuff that I REALLY liked, like The Stand and Carrie and The Long Walk, because he churns out the new stuff so fast.  Which isn't a bad thing, really.

I tell you what, Mr. King.  You keep writin' em and I'll keep readin' em.  How's that?

Meet the neighbor

Yeah, that's B., the crazy f*ck who lives next door.  On Sunday, he was out wandering the neighborhood in the rain.  (I don't know what he's got in his hand; his diary, maybe.  Before the sh*t hit the fan last week,  his wife told me that he's now writing down every. single. thing. that he does, every day.)  I kind of half-hoped he'd wander over to the creek and drown, which just goes to show how upset this whole fiasco has made me.   I'm seriously considering a fence at this point.  I have had it with ol' crazy-a**.

Isn't it terrible that instead of feeling sorry for this obviously disturbed man, instead I feel anger?   I just ... I have no compassion for him.  None.  I just want him to stay the f*ck away from me.  That's awful, I know it.  It's just ... he refuses to take his meds, he refuses to stop drinking, he kept drinking and DRIVING until a judge finally pulled his license, then he barged into MY house last week to spew his crazy all over MY place, and it's just ...gah.  Just ... go get help, dude.  YOU NEED IT.

And in proof that crazy does not, in fact, skip generations, his son was over at B.'s house last night, mowing the lawn.  On the riding mower, with no headlight, in the dark.  Mowing.  For over an hour.

Did I mention it was dark out?  And that it's November, meaning that no mowing needs to be done?  AND IT WAS DARK OUT?

I want my old, quiet neighborhood back.  That's all.

Back in the saddle again

Wanna be irresistible?

Provide kittens and stand back.

We had a bunch of teenager cats on Saturday, and also three, nine-week-old kittens.  People lose their SH*T when they see teeny-tiny kittens.   One weeny went home with his new parents on Saturday, and the rescue leader is trying to decide between several good applications for the other two. 

The response was really incredible - we had people waiting for us when we got to the store, and we were busy all day long.  We'll be going back for two dates next month. 

Man, I have missed this.  It felt good to be back at it again.

Let's change the subject, shall we?

The other morning, I woke up to a herd of deer grazing in my front yard, about ten feet away from the house.  When I rapped on a window, they just looked up quizzically, like, "derrrrrrr?", and went back to grazing.  This morning, there were deer SLEEPING in my backyard.  What does my place look like, some kind of damn hobo camp for deer? 

On the other hand, hunting (gun) season starts tomorrow.  I predict less deer grazing in my yard very shortly.

Hunting season also means I need to stay out of the woods for a few weeks.  Oh, sure. blaze orange is fine, but those dipsh*ts who come up from Jersey will shoot anything that moves, no matter what color it is.  Cows, look out.

Last night I made cookies for an adoption event coming up tomorrow.  I'm really not a baker, but I remember making snickerdoodles as a teen (and I remember my mom being furious because I was making them for the high school band director, whom she was convinced I had an inappropriate crush on, which I totally did, only going to prove that teenage girls are the stupidest creatures on the planet), so I pulled up a recipe on line, dusted off the decade-old containers of flour and cream of tartar and shortening, which, what is that stuff even MADE of, (and I had to go buy more because while the flour and cream of tartar seemed to be just fine, the ten-year-old shortening was decidedly less so) and baked some cookies.

And I pulled them out of the oven, and let them cool a little, and then took a bite, said "meh", and proceeded to eat a HALF-FREAKING-DOZEN, what the hell?

But yeah, adoption event this Saturday!  This will be the first one I've done since I got sick back in May.  Dammit, intestines, you can't hold me down!  Okay, that sounded kind of gross.

Anybody got any big weekend plans?

Wolf

Last night, I pulled in the driveway, got the car in the garage, went in the house, and started closing all of the curtains.  If they ring the doorbell, I thought, I'm just gonna ignore it.

Yeah.  Good times.

And I got to thinking, you know, I like to think that if a neighbor was truly in need, if a neighbor was frightened, or hungry, or needed a ride to a doctor's appointment and came to me for help, I would help them and be glad to do it.

But these two?  One of these guys could come over to my house ON FIRE at this point and I'd turn away.

And that, I guess, is the problem when you constantly stir up drama in your life.  When you constantly manufacture crises just to get the old adrenaline pumping, at some point, the crisis is going to be real.  And everybody you run to for help is going to shrug and keep walking.

Then again, these two have made it into their SEVENTIES without learning that particular lesson, so who knows?  All I know is that if they knock, I'm not answering.

Let's hope for a peaceful weekend, shall we?

How to break up with the neighbors

Okay, so, yeah, B. comes barging over last night, and at first he just wanted to plop himself on my couch and b*tch about L., but then he started not making any sense, and he started ORDERING me to look up phone numbers for him so he could dial his buddies, and I'm all, like, "Dude, you do NOT order me around.  I WILL tell you to leave," and so then he took my landline phone and threw it on the FLOOR when he couldn't dial a number right

and it was then that I told him I had to go check on my laundry and I grabbed my cell and ducked into the garage and called 911, which, holy sh*t, is there anything worse than having to call 911?

and yeah, you guys can probably tell that I'm still a little worked up over this whole clustermess.

So the cops come, and by this time B. had gone outside so he could have a smoke (thank GOD), and they talked to B. and L., and L. left to go stay at her son's house, and B. agreed to stay home and not cause any more trouble (HA), and I DID find out that they yanked B.'s driver's license on Monday, which is a good, good thing because driving drunk is NOT FUNNY and

and now I have to figure out how to break up with my neighbors.

"It's not you, it's me"?

Okay, no, no, that's complete bullsh*t.

"It's not me, it's you"?

Much closer.

How about, "I have had it with your crazy*ss antics, and I am TIRED of listening to the two of you b*tch about each other, and obviously you've had this kind of dynamic going for the last, oh, FIFTY F*CKING YEARS or so, but LEAVE ME OUT OF IT!"

Yeah, I think that might do it.

Christ on a cracker, why did I have to end up living next to these people?

Holy Mary Mother of F*CK

Dudes.  Duuuuuudes.  I just had to call the COPS on my neighbor B.

I am TOO OLD for this crap.

Why not just shoot 'em up with crank and be done with it?

I was watching The Biggest Loser last night in the foster room, as I often do, at least until they get to the weigh-in part, because that part is ridiculously drawn out and boring.

So I was reading my book while they were doing the weigh-in, and then I heard something about a disqualification and I looked up to see Jillian Michaels with that smirky, constipated look on her face.  Turns out she's been feeding her team caffeine pills, i.e., legal speed.

From an article on Huffpost about the episode:

"When Jillian was asked if she had anything to say, she defended her decision. "I stand by my opinion. A caffeine supplement is significantly healthier than unlimited amounts of coffee. My only regret is that my team, they are the ones suffering the consequences of my professional opinion.""

 Oh, man, I KNEW those trainers had to be juicing the contestants.  There is NO WAY you can lose the amount of weight in the amount of time portrayed on that show unless you are doping.  The only surprise is that it was just caffeine pills; I'm surprised those guys aren't  handed bottles of Benzedrine and cartons of meth-laced smokes when they show up at the "ranch".

And this is what's wrong with The Biggest Loser:  It is giving millions of overweight people the false hope that they can lose a sh*t-ton of weight in a very short amount of time, if they just work out enough and stop overeating.  IT'S NOT POSSIBLE.

I actually kind of liked that "Extreme Makeover:  Fatass Edition" show, or whatever it was called, because it did show a more realistic portrayal of weight loss:  It takes TIME.  Weeks, months, years.  TIME.

And I'll bet you that all the MLMers who are pushing Xying and all those other crackpot drugs were standing up and CHEERING in their living rooms last night, in anticipation of all the sales they'll have to desperate overweight people who just heard Jillian Michaels say, on national TV, that it's okay to take potentially dangerous supplements to help you lose weight.

Jillian, Jillian, Jillian.  What were you THINKING?

It was like "Harold and Kumar Go To White Castle", except without the weed

So I'm at  work yesterday afternoon,  cleaning up my desk because it's almost quitting time,  when the phone rings,  and the Caller ID says it's my neighbor,  L.

Please forgive me,  but my first thought was, "What NOW?"

But!  L. just wanted to take me out to dinner, because I'd done her and her husband B. some favors lately.

Awwww.  How nice.

Except, as I was to learn, I'd have to drive, because, as it turned out, B. had taken their car to do a little bar hopping, so L. was all pissed off and wanted to teach him a lesson by being out when he finally wandered home and

these people are in their SEVENTIES.  What. the. f*ck.

So we started for dinner, me driving, except L., after asking me where I'd like to eat, turned down the places I suggested because they don't serve alcohol and L. wanted a drink with dinner (oh, honey, maybe learn a lesson from the hubs, here) and the first other place didn't have enough cars in the parking lot, never a good  sign, and the second other place was packed, and then L. remembered that she had to stop at an ATM, and right after THAT her phone rang and it was her son who reported that B., her husband, was at a local Legion and had lost his keys and could I give her a ride back home to pick up the spare keys and then take her to go pick up B. at the Legion, twenty miles away, and

you know what?

I used to live with an alcoholic.  I've DONE my time in enabler land.  I have PAID my flipping dues.

Yes, I took her to the Legion, because I did not want that old f*ck of a husband of hers to drive drunk and possibly kill someone on the way home.  I will tell you what,  I don't know why, but for whatever reason, drunks would rather slit their wrists then call a damn cab. It's like admitting that hello, I have a problem here, and that is ONE thing that a drunk will not admit.  So I took her to the Legion.   NO, I did not go inside.  I told her that what went on between her and B. was their business, and I was not going to get in the middle, and that she should leave with the car (she had not been drinking before I picked her up, so I knew she was good to drive) and tell B. he'd have to call a cab whether he liked it or not if he refused to come along. 

I just ... you know, I'm all for helping neighbors, you know?  And it wasn't like I had any big plans for last night, so dinner with L. sounded good to me, except for the clusterf*ck it turned into. And when I got home,  I discovered that she had tucked a twenty into the car console, evidently for gas money.  But this whole thing just makes me uncomfortable.  I am NOT going to start being drunk B.'s car service, and I am NOT gonna get swept up into alcohol drama. And I never did get any damn dinner. And why can't I have normal neighbors?!

Sheesh.

Remember Petey?

Petey, the cat who tried to kill me?

I have often wondered about Petey over the past six months.  Through the puncture wounds, and the nerve damage, and the c-diff, and the ensuing intestinal disasters, I kept thinking about Petey.  Wondering how he was doing and hoping that he'd come out of his shell in his new home.  Hoping that the whole ordeal wasn't some terrible, useless mistake.

Well.  I got a notification on Facebook the other day, from the woman who ran the now-defunct rescue that took in Petey:

 "this is especially for you. I saw Petey's owner today.    Petey is doing amazing. He is Heidi's best buddy and follows her everywhere. He is the most loving cat, and now has a new playmate (a retriever). They are still getting used to each other. He promises to send pictures soon. They love him dearly. He said to tell all of us THANK YOU! Rocky, they hope you have recovered from your ordeal. It took a while to break him, but he said it was worth the wait. Thank you all for your hard work and dedication."

Man oh man, I SWEAR it was all worth it.

Because  I'm crazy.

That word. I do not think it means what you think it means.

Entitlement, that is.  As in, "entitlement society".

Oh, the tea-partiers and the Republicans are fond of throwing it around, of reminding us just how many Americans are deadbeat losers who would rather slit their wrists than go out and work for a living.

But when *I* think of "entitlement", I think of Rich David.

Rich David, a Republican and business owner,  just won the mayoral election in the city in which I work.

Rich David was caught out several times violating campaign laws during the course of the campaign.  Each time it was pointed out to him, he shrugged, called it an "oversight", and coughed up the fines.

A couple of weeks ago, Rich David illegally parked his Caddy outside his place of business IN A HANDICAPPED SPOT (actually, in TWO handicapped spots - he straddled the line) and left it there overnight.  I don't know if anybody called him out on it or not, but if they had, I'm sure he would have shrugged, paid the fine, and gone on his merry way.

THAT, to me, is the epitome of "entitlement".  A rich white guy who decides that laws are for the little people.  A rich white guy who, when caught breaking the rules, just shrugs and pays the fines, because who cares?  Rules don't apply to people like him, after all.

Did I mention that he won the election?

Okay, one more example.  My boss, who is a fair employer and an intelligent person, is also rich and white and Republican.  I had to run some errands on my lunch break the other day, and when I pulled back into the office parking lot, I noticed my boss pulling the ashtray out of his car, walking it over to one of the recycle bins, and dumping it in.  For the record, if he had gone another fifteen feet, he could have dumped it into an office garbage can.

Oh, man, I could NOT keep quiet.  When he came back into the office, I said, "Just so you know, cigarette butts are not recyclable."

"What," he said, straight-faced.

"I SAW you dump your ashtray into the recycle bin," I said, laughing, because I would like to keep my job, and laughter is a leveler. 

"That wasn't a garbage can?," he asked, still straight-faced.

"Oh, come ON.  Bright yellow, with the recycling logo on the side?  No, boss.  That's not a garbage can."

"Hmpf," he said.  "Oh."  And he continued on his way.



No, to me, "entitlement" is not some lazyass welfare mom spitting out kids so her benefits will go up, so that maybe she'll get a princely five hundred bucks a month in food stamps instead of four.  "Entitlement" is people breaking campaign laws and parking illegally and dumping their shitty cigarette butts into a recycling bin.  Because the rules are for the downtrodden and the little people, not for the ones who rule.

And that's all I'm gonna say about that.

Do you know Joey Williams and Gwen English?

Do you?

Do you know Joey Williams and Gwen English?

Facebook has been sending me an email, almost every day, for the last few YEARS, asking me if I know Joey Williams and Gwen English.

Oh, every once in a while, they'll mix it up and throw a few other names at me, but most of the time, it's good ol' Joey and Gwen.

Do YOU know Joey Williams and Gwen English?

Because I sure don't.

And at this point, a couple of years down the damn road, I kind of wish Facebook would stop asking.

I DON'T KNOW THEM!

sheesh.

Nitrites and leukocytes and blood, oh my!

Yep, it's a bouncing baby bladder infection.

What  the F*CK, you guys?  I hit fifty last year, and all of a sudden my intestines went to sh*t.  Is this common?  Is this  what I have to look forward to?  A lifetime of colonoscopies (upcoming on the twentieth, thankyouverymuch), and antibiotics, and  flipping  PEEING IN CUPS?!

Old age, so far I am not a fan.

So I have to go pick up my prescription for bladder-specific antibiotics this morning, and I have to call the doctor on Wednesday to find out what exact blend of bacteria is cooking in my bladder, and oh!

on my lunch break today, I get to go try to gender-determine a litter of kittens, which ... okay, I'll give it my best shot, but man oh man nothing is guaranteed.

Is anything guaranteed right now? Sometimes I wonder.

Bah humbug.

A master of military strategy, living right next door

On Saturday morning, I was outside taking down the giant halloween bats, when I saw my neighbor B. heading out to his mailbox.

"Rocky!", he called.  "I've got a secret!  I'm comin' over."

Oh boy, I thought.  What now?

He shuffled his way over, still in his bathrobe, although without the cigar and giant glass of scotch that usually accompany him, probably because it WAS only ten-thirty.

"Guess what I did on Halloween?," he said.  "I tricked the whole neighborhood!  Oh, I got you guys GOOD!"

ummmmmm...

"You did?," I asked.  "What did you do?"

And then he went into this long story about taking dishwashing liquid and something else which I can't remember and making fake blood and getting someone to write notes and smear the blood all over the neighbor's CARS and

"Waaaaaait a minute," I said.  "That ... baggie?  In front of my garage? That was YOU?"

The day after Halloween, when I left for work,  I noticed a little zip-lock baggie with what looked like liquefied coffee grounds in it on my driveway.  I really didn't think much of it, just picked it up and put it in the trash, thinking maybe it was some weird Halloween kid thing.  Little did I know, it was my pushing-eighty NEIGHBOR.

"It was ME!," he chuckled.  "I got you, and J. next to me, and ooooooh, there was blood all OVER that Corvette across the street!  It washes right off, you know!"

And now I'm thinking that this guy is lucky he's still breathing, if he or whoever wrote the notes for him was going around marking up people's cars.  Hahahaha that's not funny.

And THEN he goes into this big long story about going to see Captain Phillips and he's telling me the whole story line, so now I guess I don't have to bother to get it on Netflix, and he's telling me about how he STOOD UP in the theater and told the people on the screen how they're doing it wrong because everybody KNOWS that when you call in a naval military strike you need air support and

I'll bet he's a real scream to go to the movies with.

He then proceeded to give me a blow-by-blow on Gravity, so now I guess I don't want to rent that one EITHER.

*sigh*

I think the dude needs a hobby or something.  Or something.

Because pissing blood can't possibly be a good sign

Ladies. And gents.   I have a question.

I'm pretty sure I've got a urinary tract infection (my first one ever ... yaaaaay!)

From what Dr. Google is telling me, the standard treatment is antibiotics.

But ... antibiotics give me c-diff.

Houston, we have a problem.

I've been chugging cranberry juice all day and upped the probiotics and even bought some cranberry extract capsules, which are probably snake oil but hell, any port in a storm.

Anybody got any other suggestions?  I'm at a bit of a loss, here.