A perfect life. A perfect mind.

Okay, I was reading something about someone having to apologize after describing something as "gay". And then, someone in the comments described his apology as "lame", at which point the commenter was lambasted for using a euphemism for, oh God, I don't even know how it was phrased, but it was along the lines of "lame" equates to "crippled", which is making fun of the differently abled. Something like that.

And I just ... sometimes I want to give up. Sometimes there are things I would like to talk about here, that I don't even know how to start the conversation, because I know somebody's gonna jump on my stuff. (Want to know an example? Fine. I hesitated to post pics of my cats outside, because I worried that it was just gonna start a shitstorm of "How DARE you let your animals outside?" And if I had more readers (ha), if I was a Dooce, it probably would have.)

So ... here's a question: Is free speech dead? Are we now supposed to self-monitor to the point where we can't even mention certain terms ("lame") anymore without the shit hitting the fan? If someone calls someone else a "dumb blonde", should they then be expected to make a public apology? If someone gets their feelings hurt because someone else referred to someone ELSE as a "retard", is it the end of the damn world for everybody? And is this the way it should be?

Because I'm starting to worry that if that's the case, there won't be any good insults LEFT.

Grazin' in the grass is a gas, baby, can you dig it?

I can dig it he can dig it she can dig it we can dig it they can dig it you can dig it

Oh, let's dig it - can you dig it, baby?

Oh, let's dig it - can you dig it, baby?

Everything here is so clear, you can see it

And everything here is so real, you can feel it

And it's real, so real, so real, so real, so real, so real

Can you dig it?

Can you dig it, baby?

Youth in Asia

This post was originally written back in March. I just found it in my drafts folder, and I don't know why it never made it to the blog (probably because I NEVER STOP TALKING), but I thought it was worth putting up. (and NO, I'm not out of posts, do I EVER run out of posts? I just thought this one was interesting. So there.)



So, anyway, last Saturday (Ed: Three months ago) I drove out to East Jeezus, where I ended up adopting two cats, and how the hell did THAT happen, anyway?

And the house where I went, it belonged to the woman who was rescuing all of the trailer cats. She volunteers for a small rescue group, which suddenly found itself completely overwhelmed when a call to come and get "a couple of pregnant cats" turned out instead to be, at last count, fifteen cats of varying ages and feralosity, with another five or so still to be caught.

And oh, what a story I got! About how the woman who owned the cats was living in the unheated trailer along with them. About how the dining room alone had about three inches of cat shit on the floor. About how, when the rescue worker was talking with the woman, one of the woman's dogs lifted up a leg and nonchalantly PEED on a basket full of laundry, and the woman said nothing. About how at one point the cops were called ...

But ANYWAY. So I go to the rescue lady's house, and of course the first thing that hits you when you walk in the door is eau de dirty litterbox. Maaannnn, that is one smell I do not like. But when you suddenly find yourself caring for a bunch of random cats, I guess it's kind of unavoidable. The healthy cats were upstairs in the living room, and the cats with respiratory viruses were down in the basement. The unfinished, gloomy basement. In cages. And I swear, for a minute I wondered if they wouldn't have been better off back in the trailer. But the rescue woman explained that they would be brought upstairs as they recovered; she couldn't risk infecting the entire group with respiratory disease. It was just ... sad.

Also sad? The rescue woman was sad. Because, as it turns out, that very morning, she had to make an emergency trip to the vet. To have her pet mouse euthanized. The mouse had been very sick, you see, and the day before it had taken a turn for the worse, and she couldn't just let it suffer ...

I ... I ... I kept a straight face. Here she was, in a house full of feral CATS, and she took a MOUSE to the vet to have it euthanized?

hahahahahahahaha oh she's a better woman than I am, that's for sure.

hahaha oh wait, it gets better - NOW WITH AN UPDATE!

Okay, so the FC wanted me to do a solo meet-and-greet, which I declined. But this afternoon, I went the extra mile, lined up another volunteer to go with me, called the potential adopter, and rearranged my Saturday so I could take two kittens to the potential adopter for a meet-and-greet tomorrow morning.

Twenty minutes ago? I get an email. The potential adopter's landlord allows adult cats, but not kittens. REALLY? You've been contacting our rescue group, wanting to adopt a kitten ASAP HURRY HURRY RIGHT AWAY, and just now you've checked with your landlord to see he'll even allow it?

Oh man. This shit makes me tired.

UPDATED! I just got an email from the FC - would I like to go to a meet-and-greet on Sunday night with one of my fosters and three of hers? You know what I wanted to respond? "Are you high?"

I just ... I like helping out. I do. But this not my whole life. Gah.

Am I crazy?

I got an email from the FC (foster coordinator) tonight. Someone had seen the kittens I am fostering on a pet adoption website and was interested in meeting two of them (the person was looking for a specific gender and color). The FC asked if I could contact this person, and take the kittens to the person's house for a meet-and-greet.

Ummmmm ... no.

I emailed back, explaining to the FC that I did not feel comfortable going alone to the home of someone I did not know. I offered several options for a meet-and-greet, including having someone else from the rescue group come with me; meeting in public; or meeting at my place of work.

So, am I just paranoid? I've been on meet-and-greets before, but always with another person along. I did offer to go to a meet-and-greet alone last week, but that was with a person who had already adopted from us and was familiar to the FC.

I mean, regardless, I'm not budging on this one. I am too familiar with the weirdity of the internet to do anything like this. But I'm curious - what would YOU do?

Movie Review: "The Fighter"

"The Fighter" stars Mark Wahlberg and Christian Bale. Mark plays a boxer on his (sort-of) way up, and Christian plays his brother, who used to be a contenda but is now a drugged-up mess. It's kind of hard to like Mark Wahlberg after his dick-shittish comments about 9/11. I mean, he's always been kind of a toad, but that just pushed it over the edge. A day after watching The Fighter, I didn't remember how it ended, so meh. Unexpectedly funny in spots. Christian Bale was amazing.

My Nexflix queue is nearing bottom - up next, I've got a doc about Irish jig competitors. Anybody seen anything good lately?

Gratuitous Cute Kitten Pics

Princess says, "Meh. I'm so TIRED of the paparazzi":

Tabby Girl says, "What IS this fascinating device?":

And all five chow down:

There. You're welcome.

Here I go, being all inSENsitive again

Pic from a recent local obit:



So, who died?

I'm sorry, but I can't go along with this shit. Not unless they did some kind of whack-ass sacrificial pyre in the backyard, and the dogs went with him.

Oh, there are LOTS of things that bother me about obit photos. The ones where the subject has been cropped out of a larger picture; you can tell because he's got a phantom hand on his shoulder. The ones that are out-of-focus, or were taken several years ago., or were obviously the only photo anybody could find of the dude.

You know what? If nobody gave enough of a shit about the dude to snap a decent photo of him in the last twenty years, chances are nobody's mourning him too awful hard. Just skip the photo.

And oh, man, I was was reading one the other day that read, "He passed (passed what? Gas? Final exams?) at his home ... while playing hymns on his piano." My, my, my. Aren't WE a tad bit holier-than-thou? They shoulda added, "And then he went STRAIGHT to heaven, where God loves him BEST." Jeez.

Oh boy, and one more thing. A line like this - " In lieu of flowers, donations may be made to a charity of your choice in Marion's name." - is tasteful. A line like this - "Donations are being collected to help defray the financial needs of the family." - is AWFUL. DO NOT GET ME STARTED. THROW A SMALLER FUNERAL, PEOPLE.

Look. I get it. Dying people are expensive. Funerals are expensive. And maybe the family is poor. But begging for money in the obit? NO. WRONG. I am also not a big fan of, "Donations may be made to a trust fund for the children." ALSO WRONG. For one thing, how much money do these people think they're gonna get? A couple grand, tops? And that's worth whoring out your family in an obit? "We're so damn poor, we gotta beg for money in Dad's death notice"? I don't THINK so. GOD.

Have a little dignity, people. It's the last damn thing you can do for the deceased.

and just to cap it off ...

... I got poison ivy on my neck. No place else, just my neck.

and it looks like a big ol' hickey.

*sigh*

... and then I forgot about my ceiling fans

First off, scroll down to view my latest adventure in stupidity.

So! After illustrating yet again what a Village Idiot I am, I got the new AC unit home before my friends came over to help with the install, i.e., do all the work while I stood around helplessly.

And at one point one of my friends mentioned how they have a ceiling fan that helps on hot days. And a little something *clicked over* in my mind, and I thought, "oh yeah ... I have ceiling fans."

Because I do. I have one in the living room, and one in each of the bedrooms. Which I had totally forgotten about.

In my defense (and I wish I had a buck for every time I've used that phrase - I shoulda just named this thing "In my defense"), I actually TRIED to use the ceiling fans, back when I first moved in, and The Runt and Little Girl FREAKED. They acted like they were being strafed by enemy aircraft every time I turned the fans on. So I just ... forgot about the fans.

Oh! And let's not forget that the ceilings in my house are disgusting old ugly-ass acoustic tile which I cannot afford to replace, so I try not to look up, which may have contributed to my forgetting about the ceiling fans. Hmmm ... the ceiling fans which also have LIGHTS in them which I turn on and off EVERY DAY ... okay, forget that argument.

So! I had been reminded that I have ceiling fans. And I decided to do a little experiment. Waiting until all three cats were in the same room, I turned on one of the fans, staying clear of the exit in case they were going to go mental. And ... nothing. As the fan started to turn, the cats glanced up once, and then ... no reaction. Evidently the "freak out at the ceiling fan" reaction was limited to The Runt and Little Girl's family gene pool.

Yay for ceiling fans! I'll bet I'll be using them a lot this summer. Now that I've remembered that I have them.

Stupid is as stupid does

Last Monday it was time for the big window air-conditioner install. I had purchased the unit a few days before, and some friends were coming over to help me put it in the foster room.

That morning, I decided to unpack it and browse through the instructions, just to get a heads-up, although as possibly the least-mechanically-inclined person on the planet, I'm not sure what good I thought this was gonna do.

I pulled out the manual, started to unpack the unit, and saw that the instructions kept mentioning a "top rail" that had to be installed first. The top rail was supposed to have been shipped on the side of the unit, and there was even a handy little diagram showing where the top rail would be.

There was no top rail.

I looked, and looked, and checked the instructions again, and poked around some more, and ... no top rail.

Well.

I looked at my watch. I had an hour before my friends, who were traveling a little distance to get to me, were supposed to be there.

I put the foam stuff back in the box around the AC, threw all the parts in on top, hoisted it into the car, and headed back to the store.

I got to Returns, explained the situation, and they asked me to take the unit over to the Service area. I got to Service, explained the situation again, and the guy started looking through the box. "Hmmmm," he said. "I don't see the top rail. Let's open up another one." So he got another AC unit, opened up the box, and started looking. "There's no top rail in this one, either," he said. "Maybe we got a bad shipment ... let me just lift up the unit. Maybe ..."

You know where this is going, right? He lifted the unit up, and there, in the bottom of the box, was - ta-da! - the top rail.

Lesson learned?

Take the damn thing OUT OF THE BOX before you conclude that parts are missing.

I'm like the village idiot or something. I do all the stupid crap so you don't have to. You're welcome!

Nobody likes the moles

Last night I was in the kitten room, aka The World's Biggest Time-Suck, when I heard frantic meowing out in the hallway. I rushed out to discover Sodapop and a giant mole.

Yuck.

Thankfully, he had already killed it, and he just wanted to show me his catch.

This is the problem with pet doors.

I was actually kind of proud of the dude. He's the first of the three to catch anything since I've started letting them outside, or at least the first to bring anything in the house.

Note to cats: Keep the critters outside, okay?

So! Mole was duly noted, Sodapop was praised, and Mole went to the great mole place in the sky, aka, the brushy area off the side yard.

And I woke up this morning to find Mr. Mole, now considerably less flexible, deposited neatly on the rug in my bedroom.

Soda! Stay out of the animal graveyard!

I kind of doubt there will be many more moles. No cat I've ever had will eat them. Somebody told me once that they taste bad. I'll have to take his word for it.

But I am wondering what other critters may be carried through my pet door. Little Girl was a ferocious hunter, and I was always discovering mice and birds and frogs and all kinds of stuff that had been proudly deposited for me to find.

Maybe I should keep a running tally. I could do a chart! The names of the cats, and the species they caught, and ... naw. That's just weird, even for me.

Oh my goodness that TAIL

The FC's best guess is that he's part Siamese and part Maine Coon. I guess the "Coon" part stands for RAC-coon.

He sure is a pretty boy.

Craigslist strikes again!

Ad in yesterday's Pets section of the local Craigslist:

"As fate would have it my van broke down Saturday evening. As my husband was evaluating the damage my 3 year old son found 3 little kittens that someone had so cruely abandoned (box and all) in the woods away from any shelter or food. We couldnt leave them there regardless of whether or not we were walking or not. So now I have 3 little kittens (not sure of their genders) that need GOOD loving homes. These kittens were given a second chance and we are looking for their perfect "forever" families."

The ad goes on, but you get the idea. Unfortunately, two of the several pictures that were included in the ad were clearly date-stamped 05/11/12, two weeks BEFORE these poor little waifs were supposedly found in the woods. Oooops!

You know, I can appreciate a good con as much as the next person. But the blatant stupidity of the scammers on Craigslist is just ... disheartening, somehow. Buck up your game, liars! Yeesh.

More stuff bugging me.

So, I'm back to work after an awesome four-day weekend, and I'm feeling a little cranky, so here's what's bugging me lately:

Clients whose companies have long-ass addresses. I'm, like, "Hey, Bob, I'll need your mailing address for my records," and he's, all, "Sure! It's Robert J.Q. Altermain, and my company is Peterson Qualiata Sheldon and Napolitano LLC, 75 Preston Square Tower, Fifth Floor, Suite 201, 84657 South Beaufort Springs Street, Poughkeepsie, New York. Oh, and the zip is 13250-6732." Sheesh. Whatever happened to 75 Oak St.?

See also: People who get all cutesy when giving out their phone number. Instead of saying, "It's 591 (pause) 4322, they'll say, "It's 59 (pause) 143 (pause) 22." I want to PUNCH these assholes. Get with the RHYTHM, dammit.

People who call their pets their "fur babies." I'm sorry, I don't like it.

People who stand too close behind me in line. Jeezus Christ, standing two inches off my back will not make the line go any faster. What part of that do they not understand? Oh and for the love of Pete, take a damn bath.

Bloggers who usually post every day, but then put up a "very special post" and leave it hanging there for weeks. It ain't that special, honey.

See also: Bloggers who refer to themselves in the third person. Yuck.

Weed-n-Feed. I want my grass to grow slower, not faster. The LAST thing I wanna do is FEED it. That's just counterproductive.

How about you? Anything bugging you?

Where you beeeeeeeeeeeeen?!

Busy weekend. Beautiful weather, lots of hiking, installation of an AC unit in the foster room to keep the babies comfy, one shift at the adoption center, gardening, let's not leave plenty of sleeping out of the picture, and, of course, kitten-sittin'.

How about you?

Wait ... he's got WHAT?!?! Part 2

Ah, PonyBoy. The cat of many surprises had yet another one up his sleeve last night.

We went back to the vet for a re-check. Eye? Looks good. Just continue with the sixty-dollars-a-month eyedrops, thankyouverymuch. Ears? Free of infection, if still gunky and in need of once-a-week cleanings, which should be entertaining. Temperature?

Well, the vet tech went to take his temperature and discovered he has ...







a tapeworm.

Oh sweet Mary Mother of God, the cat has a TAPEWORM.

Just KILL ME NOW.

You know what? At this point, I'm half expecting him to sprout rainbows out of his nose, because God knows HE'S GOT EVERYTHING ELSE.

F*ck.

How to beg

One of the things I do for the animal rescue group for which I volunteer is go around to local businesses and ask them to let us hold fundraising or adoption events at their stores.

While I am fairly outgoing, I am not really fond of sales, so it took me a little trial-and-error to find the best approach. Here is what I've learned about how to ask someone to help you:

1. Be brief. I go into a store, go to a register (standing in line if necessary) if there is no customer-service area, and ask to speak with a manager. Once I meet the manager, I can tell him/her who I am, who I represent, and what we would like from their store, all in under 20 seconds. I do not call or email first, because that just enables the manager to stall. Face-to-face, BAM, is the best way to go. And shake hands first.

2. Take materials. As I am doing my initial who-we-are, I hand the manager a rescue group flyer. This gives him something to look at while I am talking and prevents an immediate brush-off. Once I finish up that initial 20-second intro, I give him a picture of one of our previous events, explaining our space requirements. While he's looking at the photo, it buys me a little more time to explain further who we are and what we're asking for. But I don't go on all day. Managers are busy dudes.

3. Be friendly and casual. THIS IS CRUCIAL. If you are nervous and jerky, it stiffs the whole thing. I walk into a store like I don't give a shit if they help us or not (which is true; if they don't, someone else will), and it helps.

4. Explain how helping you will help the store. In my case, I talk about how we bring extra customers into the store, how it's good public relations to help out a charity, and how people always fondly remember the store where they first saw their new pet.

5. Know your shit. If the manager wants some details (How long has your group been around? Who's in charge? How many animals do you adopt out each year? What's your non-profit status?), you'd damn well better have the answers or you're gonna look like a clown.

6. Be polite and follow up. If after the initial pitch I get a brush-off (I'd have to check with my supervisor; we're too busy this time of year to do anything like that; I'd have to clear it through corporate), I ask when I may check back. "If I stop back in a few days/a week/a month, would that be all right?" Because you almost never get an immediate "yes", as it seems NO ONE WANTS TO MAKE A DAMN DECISION, it's important to follow up. That said, if you get an immediate "no way", you need to respect that and not keep pestering. I keep going until I get the "no." Until I get the "no", I'll keep following up. And not by email or phone. IN PERSON. And SMILING.

7. Oh, and for the love of Pete, DRESS NICELY. I always wear either a skirt or a dress, and if I was a guy, I'd damn sure wear a dress shirt and a tie. Show some respect. It matters.

Okay, I think I've about covered it. Dress nicely, be casual, be brief, and follow up. The follow-up part is really important. Last night, I had a store tell me "yes" right off the bat, and that's the FIRST TIME that has ever happened, so remember to follow up!

There ya go. How to beg.

*gulp*

Okay, first of all, scroll down, because I put a post up this morning before BIG! NEWS! came my way.

Now. Are you ready for my BIG! NEWS!?

As some of you may know, I let my cats outside. *ducks* And that is why I had to adopt Pony and Soda from a rescue group quite a ways away - all of the local rescue groups insist that you keep adopted pets inside. Pony and Soda were already indoor/outdoor cats when they came into the care of the far-away rescue, and so that rescue group was willing to allow me to adopt them.

Actually, I HAVE been keeping Soda and Pony inside - I wanted to get the situation with Pony's eye cleared up before letting them out. But tomorrow is (hopefully) his last vet checkup, and if all is well, this weekend I will start letting them out.

But I had a dilemma. I have a foster, Tinks, who, due to belonging to a local rescue group, must remain inside. And I knew that, realistically, there was really no way to keep him in while letting my two out. I mean, Tinks is already scratching at the doors, along with my guys, trying to get out. And Tinks was an outdoor cat before he came into rescue care. It's inevitable that he would slip out while I was letting the other two in or out.

So I emailed the FC, explaining that as far as I could see, there were three options.

1. They could move Tinks to another foster home, so as not to risk him getting outside.

2. I could keep him as a foster, with the understanding that he may get outside.

3. I could adopt him myself, with the understanding that he would be an indoor/outdoor cat (if he so chose).

I explained that I would be perfectly fine with whatever they decided. The FC asked for a few days to think about what would be best for Tinks.

And guess what they decided?



... drum roll please ...



Option 3!

Welcome to the family, Tinks.

Ha. As it turns out, rules (adopted cats must be kept inside at all times) are evidently bendable when they've got a cat who is no longer a kitten, has been up for adoption for months, is extremely shy, and who did not work out at his one attempt at a home placement.



Can you believe nobody wanted this guy? Me neither.

Dedication

A man who lives a few houses up from me walks for over two hours every evening. The only reason I know this is because my living room picture window faces the street, and there are some nights when I happen to see him on his way out of the neighborhood, and then again on his way back. Sometimes when he's on his way out, I'm doing my Jillian workout, which makes me feel like, "Hey, kindred exercisers!", and sometimes when he's on his way back I'm watching crap TV and drinking beer, which makes me feel like crud. And actually, now that I think about it, Jillian has pretty much been put on the back burner lately, what with mowing and gardening and kitten-ing and all, so ... yeah. I fail at Jillian.

I'm not sure if he does a set route or if he mixes it up. I know that at least some of the time he walks West Hill, because sometimes I see him there if I happen to be out walking.

I just ... I can't really imagine doing two hours of walking every. single. night. There are lots of weekends when I do lots and lots of walking, but there are lots of days when I don't walk at all.

And, well, it's not like he needs the exercise. He's a slim guy. But you know what? For all I know, he started out at, like, four hundred pounds and lost the weight by walking.

Walk on, walking dude. You put me to shame.