not much to write but so much to say

I have had too much to write lately but so much of it personal that it would have blown your mind or hurt your widdle-feewings so you didn't get none.

instead I'll give you an exerpt of a chat today.

he says, "cuz god gave us this big apple and said don't touch,don't think about touching it,don't sing bout touching it, don't sing about thinking a bout touching he said don't touch it"

I reply, "I'm going to eat the apple. First off ,I'm going to touch it, rub it, lick it, then chomp into it and make a lot of noise about it.

I might even wave it around a little bit and let all the juice roll down my wrist while it's in the air before bringing it back down to my mouth and taking another bite.

If God is real, he'll forgive my sins

ta da!"

edumakated - I wuz skooled

Welcome to the Wonderful World of Books!
This is how Kimberly the plump pallid pigtailed girl behind the desk pitched librarian speak to me today when she handed over my shiny new card.

It has been 22 years since I've entered the musty tomes of a library and why would I return after all of these years? There are all sorts of reasons but one stands front and center in my mind.

This is probably very silly to you, my fond readers  (1 of you in particular) but after reading a "NOTES" (on Facebook) challenge that said the BBC believes most people will have only read 6 of these 100 noted books, I thought, "WHAT THE FUCK - is someone indicating that we are all illiterates?". By the way you 2 knuckle fucks, I had 31 of them fully read and quite a few more partially accomplished.

This has been bugging the shit out of me for a couple of days now so I took the initiative, went to my local book peddler and plucked my first 2 unread classics off the shelves to get started. Let me tell you something.
First off, the customers of a library haven't changed all that much.

There are the students with noses tucked deep into books and spiral bound notebooks on tables beside them with post-it note flags sailing at varying levels within the books.

Mothers flipping through periodicals while the children happily read large colorful hard backed books and then the strange ones that are pecking away at the computer pods, trying to turn their body and shield the screen from prying eyes - we all know they have some naughty bits they are looking at even though it's not allowed. 

footsteps are muffled by the carpet, sunlight streaming through the sky lights and slight murmur of the librarians as they assist people checking out.

This 100 book this was really on my mind so I DID research to find that the first Google hit was actually a meme.

After it's all said and done - between the 100 books listed there are really only 67 "shared" between the BBC list and the facebook community created list.
I'm going to challenge myself to read the list, EXCEPT those fucking Harry Potter books over the next year. Perhaps I'll even blog about them something akin to Julie & Julia movie.

I'm a bright gal and can devote a few minutes a day to my classics AND my porn! shesh, multi-tasking isn't that difficult.

you want more

I'm working on it people - hold your horses.

No Poo in this story!

At 4 a.m. I was finally trying to go to bed. Much too tired to shut off the bedside lamp, I rolled to one side and squeezed my eyes shut. My efforts were made impossible because of the cat that was acting tortured on the other side of the bedroom door.

Thanks to the husband, he ruined our cohabitation situation when we moved to the new place. There is no privacy in the bedroom anymore!

Sort of hoping to experience for the first time in all of the years of pussycat ownership a feline-free sleeping environment I'd opted to not invite any of them into my boudoir. It was a little experiment of sorts and then one afternoon he thought, oh my my wife looks like she could use her baby-girls company.

The door opens and in comes..LUNA!

Holy Smokes!

I LOVE THAT CAT. Don't get me wrong. That cat is my heart. She's tattooed just above my heart, I've had her for nearly 12 years now and I can't imagine her gone. I want to clone her. I don't ever want her to go, don't even speak of it!
She's the reason I fell madly deeply in love with the breed and she's the reason that I worked so hard for so many years in attempt to better it.

Luna knows this and uses it to her advantage.

Do you know the old wives tale about how a cat will creep into a baby crib and snatch the breath of a baby, murdering it.

I'm the baby and Luna is out to kill me - but only because she loves me.
She wants to crawl inside of me and share the same heartbeat, she wants to taste the food I'm eating using my mouth and tongue. She wants to speak with my vocal cords, and if she could...she would try to make love to my husband. She wants to receive his attention because she's extremely jealous when he touches me, will push her way between us.
Let's just say she's a demanding cat.

All of my years alive I've been a poor sleeper and when I added her to my life I soon started getting even less. She's a comfort to have in the beginning, holding her soft sweet body and feeling the gently rumble of her purrs but soon she creeps and slithers out of your grasp.

Inching up your body, hugging close to you but using her nails to make sure she has a tight purchase..she wouldn't want to lose touch or have someone remove her from the one thing she values the very most in the world!

Oh NO, and if anyone DOES try to take her away from me or the bed she SCREAMS at them.

MEH MEH - she miaows in a way that is comical. mouth wide open, lips curled back a touch to expose those razor sharp teeth and then she flattens her tongue and sticks it out partially...MEH MEH

For the first 2.5 weeks I slept. Not a lot because I just don't sleep a lot, but it was without a cat on my face, without a foot in my mouth, without a tail slapping me in the eyes, without cat litter in the sheets or a smear of crap sometimes finding its way on your pillowcase in the middle of the night and you are surprised by the odor when you roll your face right into it.

Yup, 2.5 weeks I felt like I had a good thing going and then, well, then Luna found her way back into the comfort zone. She forgot she was a 'cat' and she became the bedroom queen again. She comes in and becomes a demanding diva, hogging up space, wanting to be on the best pillow and she'll somehow roll herself up like some sort of kitty chimmichanga in my fleece blanket.

I never know how to unravel her, there doesn't seem to be an opening to where you can safely yank her out and I wonder how the fuck did she get in there to start with?

If I don't open that bedroom door for her she will sit outside of it and start scratching like a dog does to go out to shit. Those 10 claws grating on your nerves and she's persistent and knows that eventually you'll just give in.
I'll tell her "NO" ..."Go Away"...maybe I'll even toss a few things at the door and hope it'll chase her off.

No such luck, because then she'll put her paws under the door with wrists turned so she can get a purchase and then start shimmying the whole thing.

How in the Hell does this tiny old cat that looks like a vanilla bat-Gremlin managed to jiggle a solid core wooden door until I can feel the whole house shaking? Maybe its just my imagination because my nerves are frayed and I'm about to go straight out of my mind.

Grumbling to myself now..swearing..'fucking husband,letting her in and now I have to deal with this shit all of the time... while you sleep through it...'

I get up and open the door just a crack and she comes running in like she's got the Grim Reaper on her tail. Zips passed me before I can even lean over and snatch her up and while I'm trying to get her another one comes in.
FUCK.
While she's running by me she's yelling. MEH MEH MEH. Her announcement that she's in and she's won the battle. Ha Ha Ha human, I'm in and now you can't get rid of me.

Prepare the bed, I'm ready for my slumber. I want a massage as well. Rub my back, stroke my head and ears until I close my eyes and fall asleep. No, not until YOU fall asleep.

Both leap into the bed and get between where the husband and I sleep. This is where the blankets have been jammed into a heap its where I've flung them off of me to go and open the door. Perfect, I can already see the tiny gears working in her head and she's thinking, "my very own dream mountain".

She pile drives into it and somehow is immediately gone, her disappearing act performed before my very eyes and she becomes the kitty-chimmi just like that.

I lay down, curl up and shiver because I've lost my bedding and stare at the wall listening to the snores around me until I fall asleep.
When I wake up I can't see anything because my face is being smothered by Luna tummy.

Did I wake up because I heard something, had to pee or because I was gasping for air?

the glass slipper

It's cleaning day.

The bleach is murder on my lungs but it is a necessary evil when one has cats and dogs.

One of the cats is a real shitter. We call her poopfoot. It never fails, she must hop into the box take a healthy steamer & get a schmear onto her tail.
She will back up over the heap, bounding out of the sandbox with a mighty leap and zoom throughout the house flinging fecal matter this way and that.

Before you know it she has managed to decorate and leave a trail of dookie here there and everywhere. You will see her 4 toed rear footprints in the most surprising locations, such as: the top of refrigerator or ledges of doors. Mind you, this is a 12.5 lb cat.

Sphynx cats have unnaturally long toes that remind one of gnarled gnomish phalanges. They are also quite adept with them, using them to pick up toys, bring food to their mouth and pawing their owners faces.
Because of these tootsies they also have the ability to climb into their kitty toilets, stand about doing some business and when they have a handful of pebbles to cover up any doodie they usually have a bit extra trapped between the webbing..taking it with them on the trip back out while scattering it all over the house!

Lucky owners that we are, we are left to sweep and mop up the remains constantly. Slaves to the cats. Long ago I gave up the Hoover for a ShopVac.

Dragging along one of those canisters, the powerful motor running and humming reliably and promising to suction up every granule.
Never missing a thing, making my chore easier..never any harder than necessary.
One trip through with that honey and then I can get right to work with my bucket of water, that's where the real work starts no thanks to my effing' mother and her training.

Why did I have to learn this habit from her?
Onto my hands and knees I crawl with a scrub brush in 1 hand, a rag in the other. My assault like Cinderella minus the glass slipper but I can feel the hot breath of an evil step-mother haunting me.

I think that perhaps it might be one of my old cats with halitosis, they come to assist me with all of the chores, breathing down my neck. Shoo them away all you want but they come back just like a bad penny.

Dunking my brush into the bucket saturate the tiles, I scrub and swirl, scrub and swirl feeling my underarm flab sway with the motion. I think to myself that if I did this every day maybe I wouldn't have underarm flab!

Nope, I'm not going to do that!

I work a 4 foot section, dunking my rag in and giving it a good wipe down, ringing it out, rinse and..
Repeat.

The water turns gunky and I know its time to switch it out. Is it because of the color? Or my hands have turned prune-like?
Maybe its the fact that I've tie-dyed yet another wife-heater with bleach, good thing I buy stock in these just for cleaning days.

My face is beet red, knees have dirt and litter ground into them and I have a line of sweat rolling down my butt crack.
Dead sexy!

Dragging the bucket to the basin because I'm not supposed to lift heavy stud yet, I scootch it all the way there until I reach my destination then steel myself for the heave-Ho.
Lift-grunt-pour.

Naturally (like an idiot) I splash myself, refill and start the next section of the house.

When I'm all finished with hand scrubbing the whole house I will go back through with a mop of citrus scented soap, this way the house won't reek of bleach. I had the windows flung open but it didn't help much because I had my nose jammed into the pail sniffing fumes the entire time.

Not even close to being unpacked, the Rubbermaid boxes are now landmines throughout the joint. Most are stacked into corners but some ate Willy nilly and have become cat jungle gyms, they need to be swept around and are just one more surface to clean.

Tomorrow I am having company over, the mortification begins.
I really can't stand seeing the place in such disrepair but what can I do? There isn't a magic wand to wave and then have it all miraculously put itself away.
The good news is (for everyone)....
My visitor is coming to install the internet!

Hot diggity damn! I will finally be back amongst my little world of social networking. Connected again to 'friends', able to upload my blogs, chat with total strangers, look at porn, play online games, Google stuff, (or myself..wait that's looking at porn) also forget about cleaning the house for awhile!

So I'd better make sure that the housework is attended to for the time being. After this fella gets his job done..its all going to Hell in a hand basket for a few days.
I'm going to be attached to the keyboard and screen for 24/7 until my eyes dry out and my fingers fall off.

Unloading a batch of cigars

Nearly every morning starts off the same way.
I roll out of bed with a groan and feel Helen’s tail start whapping away at my ankles. She’s excited to start her day and heads straight for the bedroom door to wait patiently for me to get my bearings.

This is how we attack our first hour of the morning.

Me, bathroom to relieve self and make sure I haven’t lost all of my hair or grown a wart. Helen sits patiently in the doorway watching me as I sit on the commode, her tail still swishing back and forth.

I wash my hands, brush my teeth and then tell her it’s time to go downstairs.
She then heads down in a rush, zooming and trying her best not to brush against or knock over the cats that are littering the thoroughfare.

Through the living room, through the dining room, zipping through the kitchen and ending up at the glass doors that go out onto the backyard patio.
Poncho and Jake are downstairs waiting for her, hyper as little dogs are – prancing and scrabbling around in their doggy palace (i.e. crate trained for bedtime).

Everyone touches noses, discuss what they dreamt about the night before and bound outside onto the grass to tumble and roughhouse for a few minutes. I sit down into one of the patio chairs, take a deep breath and enjoy the cool morning air and enjoy watching my threesome play.

I let them goof for a minute, watching as Jake and Poncho have a field day pissing on everything in a 20 foot radius. If I’m not careful, Poncho will come over and give my ankle or the chair I’m in a good whizzing.

The world must know “She’s Mine”!

After I feel they have satisfactorily emptied their doggy bladders it’s time to remind Helen to do the same. She’s a good dog, smart really but when it comes to her hygiene she’s a bit of an idiot. Quite literally she’d hold her pee all day long (poop too) until she was busting her britches. You have to tell her to go or she’ll just run and play, goof around and then come back inside and realize..OH NO I DIDN’T PEE!

That said, I give her the command, “Helen- Go PeePee”

The neighbors probably think I’m a raving lunatic by now, hearing that a few times a day.
She waddles about until she finds just the right spot; she has already dedicated a 6x6 area as the toilet and doesn’t like to stray far from it.

Squats and then runs back to me when I praise her with a “Good Girl”.
Those “Good Girls” will get me doggy wiggles, tail wags, tongue licks and lying on her back to have her tummy rubbed. She will do just about anything for a “Good Girl”

Now I will attempt the more difficult command…in a moment.

Let’s let her run it out a little bit more.
Play, play..and play.
”Get her Poncho”

This is a great activity though I think that some people would frown upon it. Tough shit I say. This command sets the dogs into a spin, ‘round they go about the yard weaving this way and that through the obstacles. 2 BBQ grills, stack of lumber, chain-link dog kennel that wasn’t set up.

I would have thought it impossible because of Poncho’s age (10) but that little stinker runs at Roadrunner speeds, tackles Helen, pulling her down and she lovingly falls onto her back to expose her throat as he mock-kills her. She absolutely WANTS him to maul her throat and face.

While he’s going to town on her, nipping and pulling at her ears and wrapping his needle shaped muzzle around her thick neck, Jake is bouncing around the 2 of them and pawing like a kitten with a giant ball of yarn.

He’s so tiny compared to Helen and he’s quite small even compared to Poncho but the 2 of those bigger dogs let him in to play and are forever gentle with him. It’s as if they know they could damage him but they do want him to be involved.

Sometimes Poncho will let Jake do all of the attacking, the racing around the yard is a lot slower, seeing how Jake’s legs are about as long as my thumbs. Once he gets the chance to pounce on Helen he is a vicious little shit, much rougher than Poncho ever is but I suspect that his bite feels like mosquito’s to her.

If Helen makes any move to toss him or be a little too aggressive while Jake’s doing his business Poncho sounds his alarm and starts barking at her.
I’m quite the lucky little dog owner, all 3 of these dogs are quiet.

QUIET! Not toy breed yappers that go berserk when they hear a mouse fart. They are nice and quiet and only bark when it’s necessary. A finger to my lips and a shush will quiet them in moments.
It’s come in handy when a few wankers have been at the door knocking.
Go away Jehovah, I don’t want any!

The few minutes of rowdiness is allowed and then I give the poop command. Helen gives me a look of “awww Mom I’m still playing” but stops, wanders over to toilet square and squats.
If she can’t muster a turd, she’ll look guilty and scuttle around working her way back to my seat waiting for the praise she knows isn’t coming. I will still pet her but not reward her with the G.G.
She also knows that it’s time for the best reward of all, time for a run.

You know damn well that I’M NOT RUNNING! Holy shit, the very idea of me running, arms pumping up and down and chest heaving, air rasping through my tight lungs is just giving me a fit thinking about it.

We walk back inside and go back through the kitchen towards the treadmill which I have set up facing the flatscreen in the living room.
Yes, this is an excellent motivator. I can put in a movie that is 1.5-2 hours long and sweat it out a few times a week.

“Helen, On!”
She willingly steps onto the belt and sits waiting for me to reach up to the keypad and start punching in the numbers and time for her workout.
Helen is a working dog mixed breed, I figured out the hard way that if she didn’t get worn out daily she would take up to being destructive around the house. Since I don’t have 10 acres for her to run and plan on, which would be best suited for a dog like her – she will have to settle for the NordicTrack.

The belt starts moving, her grin widens even more and she starts trotting along looking this way and that. The cats come up and sit on the deck to watch her sometimes, not sure if it bugs her but she seems to tolerate everything and takes it in stride.

Here’s the deal, if you go back to a past blog you’ll know that we’ve had an issue about flying objects from the treadmill. I have now resorted to placing paper towels at the foot of the machine each day of her run.
Now if she’s dropped her dung, pinched her loaf and blasted a dookie outside I feel 100% safe that the house will be deuce free. But, even that 100% can be destroyed if she’s been withholding and the next thing you know she’s makin’ gravy and her audience will come a’running to see what the stink is all about!

She never breaks stride though – a true athlete.

On the cover of a magazine..just Vogue

If I go out I’m perfectly happy to toss on one of my many graphic tee-shirts & some denim pants but back in the late 80s and early 90s I considered myself one tough little shit.
My hair was dyed black (and then purple, blue, shades of blonde that turned green from chlorine at the school sanctioned mandatory swimming), wearing my dad’s WWII trench coat and had some Doc Martin’s.
I had my hair cut super short all around except for my bangs which hung long and heavy over my eyes, leaving my face in mystery and I could give everyone this angry brooding attitude.

“No one understands me, no one loves me”

Locking myself in my room I’d play The Smiths, Cure and R.E.M and feel sorry for myself.

Funny how back in the day when “The Breakfast Club” was released, girls like me could SO relate to Ally Sheedy’s character Allison Reynolds but today in my prime I look down on the same PUNK kids.

C’mon, they aren’t trying to be INDIVIDUALS speaking out, trying to impact the world by being unique. You can’t be unique if you run in packs, like rabid dogs, snarling and jostling everywhere you go in order to gain attention.

Last week while in my daily search for free WiFi I found a comfortable seat in the center of one of the shopping malls. Right outside of the MajorNameBrandComputerGiantandIconographicImage there was a quadrant of pleather settees in fall colors, they were very inviting and I found my tush fit perfectly.

A few seats away from me sat a good looking gentleman probably 10-12 years older than myself. He was very sharply dressed in camel coloured light weight pleated wool slacks, a button down long sleeved dress shirt and gorgeous square toe snakeskin boots.

He was a real put together package; he managed it without excessive man-bling and looked great.

We nod to one another with a polite smile and then return our attention to the electronic devices exiting briefcases only looking up now and then to see the parade pass by.

The punk & goth kids noisily colliding into one another as they skitter about the aisles, pushing each other and making a racket. Definitely they are trying to get as much attention as possible, considering themselves anarchists, distinctive because they express themselves through the black hair and gothic clothes yet they were all mirrors of one another.

Little do they realize that they are a cliché unto themselves, a parody of what used to be real expression? Instead they are little more than angry, confused Emo without any real imagination.

Good Looking and I see these kids and both purse our lips in distaste but say nothing.
Return to the tapping of keys.

All sorts of people are streaming by and I’m getting an eyeful and it occurs to me, this is the perfect fodder for one of my rants. Just how much I want to blather on about it remains to be seen.

The muscle-heads with hulking shoulders and tiny waists and itty bitty asses ((we all know that their repeated use of synthetic enhancers have grown the wrong muscles “if you ask me”)) are sauntering around, throwing poses now and then if they catch the eye of a pretty girl (OR GUY!)
I’d rather have a slightly flabby man with a rock-hard cock than a beefy brute.
HA! I just heard you gasp!

You know who really cracks me up the most though?

Bitches. Bitches that just don’t realize that they are so fake that they deserve a good slap upside the head to help them shake the shit off their faces and the bullshit ideas out of their heads.

You are not better than the rest of us bitches.
Not long ago when I was in the cat exhibition hobby I had a saying about uppity bitches involved in the upper echelons of the fancy, “at the end of the day we all go home and have to scoop shit, you aren’t any better than me – we all have shit on our hands.”

Same goes for fake ass bitches you see in shopping malls, restaurants, driving over-priced cars with sunglasses that cost more than my monthly grocery bills.
You are still human like the rest of us. You get up, have smelly breath, get ingrown toenails, your nose-hair grows long and needs trimming and no one is going to wipe your ass if you get the shits.
If they do AND you want them to, then you are one sick fucker.

Fashion is funny, it’s wonderful to see the creativity involved but let’s face it, it isn’t for Joe Blow or Mary Smith-Jones either.

Ya’ll look as out of place wearing high fashion to the department stores as I would wearing a wetsuit and snorkel to play on a Slip N Slide.

My companion and I look up to witness a pair of young ladies strolling, arms laden down with bags and you could hear peals of laughter and tittering coming from them.

The temperature that day was 90F without a cloud in the sky and the mall has wide open ceilings of glass letting in the days sunlight come pouring in.
These girls were dressed all in body hugging black. Off the shoulder blouses with glints of faux jewels, big fat gold chains dripping from their scrawny necks and leather skinny leggings that squeezed every inch of their emaciated body.

If they had any body fat, it would have been puckered up and dimpled through the fabric. They had to have greased their asses and made a running leap into these in order to get into on.
Without help from the Jaws of Life I couldn’t see how they’d get back out of those.

Both had hair that had been teased, combed, teased, sprayed, flat ironed, curled and then sprayed into gigantic nests which were too perfectly messy to have been by accident.

What really brought our attention to this particular pair of dingdongs was the footwear.
Black hair, black shirts, black belts cinching waspish waists, black pants gripping skinny buns and the leggings ending abruptly to these enormous pristine snow white furry-wooly boots.

I think they call them UUGs which is exactly my response (and his) when we got a gander of this pair of bitches. It was as if they’d been on a hunting expedition in a cryptozoological reserve and bagged a couple of Yeti.

Maybe they went to the Himalayas and came face to face with the Abominable Snowmen and instead of showing fear; they yanked out of their Prada backpacks some blinged out scimitars and cleanly beheaded them.

After ceremoniously dancing around the bleeding carcasses, dropping it like it’s hot (‘cuz it’s cold as a mother there), they gutted the poor creatures and took the pelts off to a cave where a rogue Sherpa awaited them in order to sew them this awful footwear.

Maybe I can roll up my Levi’s to expose my calves and ankles (that I haven’t shaved in a very long time) and it would it pass for fashion?

They sing, "I Will Survive"

This has been quite a few interesting weeks for me.

I'm finally into the house at long last, which is a great relief. Seriously, I feel like I'm taking a breath of fresh air. The stifling weight of Hillbillyville was absolutely murdering me one cell at a time.
Sort of like smoking a fatty except I didn't get high, it was harshing my mellow. Every day I woke up a little more angry, some days I had bouts of absolute depression and complete rage at the same time.

Initially when the man moved out to start the project I stayed behind in our other house and commuted a few times a month to visit, get some good lovin' and prepare meals. It worked out for a while but after a bit we both started to feel lonely, it was putting pressure on our friendship and I didn't like maintaining a house by myself.

It was easier to close up and move in with him and enjoy sharing the same bed even if he does snore like a chainsaw that has lodged into a 200 year old Sequoia.

Even though I highly doubt the tubs are ever going to have the lids removed or the goodies scattered about (making it homey) we will settle in for the long haul and I feel at 'home' at long last.

The other house is vacant still, gathering cobwebs and those pesky wood-roaches local to the area. They like sneaking into houses using every tiny crack to escape the looming winter and find a cozy place inside.

You would not believe the size of those sons of bitches! Quite literally if a nuclear event were to happen and we did persevere this would have to be our main source of food. Don't worry, a handful of these black revolting creepers would satisfy any hunger pangs.

One of the man's previous projects had us living in central Mississippi. Wow, what a culture shock that was after being from the Midwest all of my life. I remember when he telephoned to tell me about some of the rental properties he was looking at prior to my arrival.

One particular home he visited in the early dusk hours, he said that he saw one exterior wall that looked to be an entirely different color of brick & mortar. Once he closed in, turned on a flash light the wall started to scramble about and hundreds of these gruesome crawlies ran for the roof, the other side of the house and zipped down to the ground to disappear in the grass.

He said, NO way on this one and eventually found a really nice property which didn't appear to be infested but sure enough, on colder rainy days they would come in..strolling as if they owned the place. Shoulders squared and they'd sidle up to the bar and demand a beer and a shot of whiskey.

I can't say that I'd scream (all of the time). Every now then however, just when you are sitting quietly on the sofa a buzzing sound would swoop past your ear and that's when the shrieking would happen.

Arms would be flying around above head something akin to the Robot on "Lost in Space"

It didn't take me long to get on the phone, nearly breathless with wonder and worry to ask the exterminators in town the following question: How do I get rid of them?
Several of the companies just said that it was impossible.

One though, one of them thought they'd be smart-asses (which I can fully relate to) and a fellow said to me, "Ma'am, go on down to the pet-store and find some leashes because you've just adopted new pets. These things are here to stay. If you have German roaches I can kill those, if you have silverfish I can kill those too - Hell I can pretty much kill anything except those...so just get used to it."

I accepted my company after that conversation, sure didn't like it but I had to take the bad with the good.

The good? What could be good about wood roaches prancing into the house on any given day?

The entertainment value it added when the cat's would go scurrying after them all the while chattering and alerting me that there were intruders. This way I could snatch up my trusty swatter and give chase to demolish them - if they didn't splat with my thunderous wallop I would crush them under my feet.

The sound of this is a surprising snap and a pop, I would even get a disturbing satisfaction like one does when they pop bubble wrap.

Final act: squish and pivot. The results are their whitish guts splattering on the floor and sticking to your sole.

Disappointment for the cats, the spoils were mine and I am trigger fast with a paper towel to swipe up the goo and flush.

For me.

VICTORY!

Better living through Chemistry

I have an extraordinary amount of prescription medication that would make most junkies eyes gleam with joy.

For years I went without diagnosis simply because I didn’t have the resources to visit doctors and then when I did, there were doctors that were stumped or refused to accept that unseen ailments could actually cause disturbances of the body.

These days though, we see on the television all sorts of commercials for pain medications and antidepressants, counseling centers and hospitals that are completely focused on these issues.
I figure that someone finally pushed through their own discomfort or had a loved one that was suffering and it caused them to seek answers, to try and help others that were in their own little Hell every day. Unfortunately pills don’t solve a damn thing, they just ease some discomfort for the time being.

On one particular day when I was down again with pain, with the flu and my COPD flared up I gave up and went in to see the physician. When I get the triple whammy like this it means bending over for a steroid injection in the ass, an X-ray to check how full my lungs are and then a trip to the local pharmacy to fill up a prescription of antibiotics and cough suppressant.
My nights would be filled with wheezing and hacking for at least another week before these medications hit home, nothing ever works quickly on me – I suppose I am to suffer.

This particular doctors office requires you to bring in your medications each time you come in, don’t ask me why – I think it’s stupid as shit. You’d think that if THEY are the one’s giving you prescriptions all of the time they’d keep a list of them? They don’t keep very accurate records I suppose and you have to trot these down every single time.

I get a knapsack and haul the lot with me, each time the bag bumps against my hip when I walk you can hear pills and capsules clink and clack against each other. Step, jiggle, clink, clack, shuffle, click, step (grunt).

“How are you doing today?”
I always follow that with, “what do you think? I’m here, in the doctor’s office…so I must be doing poorly.” Or something to that affect.

Stethoscope to chest, breathe in and out for them and end up coughing. Look into my ears and throat, scribble a few things down and then look at me seriously and say, “It looks like you have pneumonia. I’m going to prescribe…and let’s go ahead and get you a steroid shot today”

It’s always the same; I can do the visits in my sleep only the paint in the waiting room and the actors change.

Prescription in hand, out to the car I go and make my way around the corner and down the street to the MajorNameBrandRxStore which just so happens to be 1.1 miles down the road from my house on the very same road (though it changes names when you cross an intersection).
Stupid me, I should have just stopped at the house and dropped off my bag with all of those goodies in it but NOOOO I didn’t. Instead I scrunched it deep inside of my smelly gym bag along with my wallet (WHAT?).

Parked right at the front door in the handicap spot, locked the doors and headed inside to drop off the Rx. I did not pass Go and Collect $200, I did not stop to talk to people or grab a Snickers bar, I did not goof around at the cosmetics counter – I only went to the counter, laid my Rx down and walked back out. I was there for less than 2 minutes and when I returned to my car I was greeted with a rear window smashed in.

Glass everywhere and the gym bag rifled through, guess what?
Drugs and wallet missing – imagine that!

I consider myself a bright individual but sometimes I’m just plain stupid. A few cards shy of a deck, the light is on but no one is home.

Who in their right mind would bother with the car? Let alone a car like mine which is a total mess. It’s never washed, interior a wreck of receipt scraps, drive through wrappers and the scent of pussycats from extended hours on the road to cat-shows past.
Of course I was thinking that it since it was broad daylight, 11:30 in the morning and right in front of the entrance of the store everything was safe.
What a joke.

As if I didn’t feel well already, now the trouble begins. Must telephone the police to register the theft, cancel the credit/debt cards, call insurance, etc. etc. Plus, mother fucker’s too my medications and wouldn’t you know that most of them were recently refilled so they really hit the jackpot.
I’m talking Hydrocodone, Vicodin, Xanax, Darvocet, oxy, Ambian plus a variety of other meds that I take for seizures and COPD.

My very first thought was – these fuckers are going to know exactly where I live and that I am now going to be a hot spot to hit, pharmacy for later – That’s all I could think of and I steeled myself for the trouble that was surely to come.

While I waited for the police, who never came, I went in and alerted the store of the theft and they informed me that the cameras were dummies and they wouldn’t be held responsible. Oh ho ho ho I say, you WILL be held responsible. In fact, I would not be victimized 2 times in the same day.

The pharmacist is happy to try and refill my meds that were stolen but I would have to pay all of the co-pays again. No fucking way sir, you can take that right out of MajorNameBrandRxStore’s pocket for your poor security and in fact I’ll want a store credit for the problems I’ve incurred today.
“Sorry ma’am, we’ll have to get a manager to approve that. She will be in tomorrow afternoon. I can take your name and number and have her call you.”

“Okay,” I respond “I’ll be back and expect an answer”….and I walk outside and sit in my violated car – she stinks of rape and I telephone the corporate offices and leave a nasty message that I will be inviting the local television news crew down to this store to interview me about my crime as well as my victimization by this store. How they would bend over a handicapped local woman in need at the very moment she has been traumatized. When I get through with this the store is going to be called Rx-ebekah’s”

I tell you this – only moments after I hang up from my recording I am immediately called and guess who? It’s a representative from … MajorNameBrandRxStore corporate.

“Ms. Lewis? Please, we understand there are some problems that you had today at the store. If you would go back to visit they would be happy to assist you in any fashion that you need.”

That’s right mother-fuckers. I’m not messing around one damn bit. I won’t wait 30 days to get refills and pay again out of my own pocket PLUS go without my shit.

”Thank you, I just happen to be near the store right now and will pop in. I appreciate your return call”

It’s nice when people stand up and take notice but it definitely takes a kick in the ass with my size 11 to get action.
This world is full of chicken-shit-I-don’t-want-to-be-the-one-to-be-held-accountable.
That’s why nothing gets done unless you shove them into a corner and yell at them with the best garlic and onion saturated stank-ass breath you can muster, get up in their shit and make them feel as big as a zit on the ass of society until the cower and do your bidding.

I’d like a glass of water please; it’s time for my pills.

Mountain Doo

It’s basically done, I am feeling pretty well whipped and I barely lifted a finger. The exhaustion comes from the overwhelming task of having all of it packed, labeled and then watch as it’s pushed up onto a truck only to be delivered at the next residence.

The task to go through each of those boxes that you’ve only just put your efforts into over the last several weeks and find a new home for everything is daunting.
While doing that chore you come to the realization that you have accumulated far too much shit but each piece holds some sort of memory or invokes a feeling.

This is when any educated individual will come to terms with the fact that they are a hoarder.
What an awful word hoarder is. It evokes disgust and sympathy at the same time, we don’t really understand what causes such behavior yet every single one of us has a touch of the disease trapped within us.

You don’t believe it?

Ask yourself this, why do you buy art, knickknacks, keep greeting cards sent to you each year during the holidays/birthdays/anniversaries? Are these items really so essential in your daily life that you can’t bear to live without them?
No, the answer is no – just face it and we’ll agree that you too are a hoarder.

Some people call themselves ‘collectors’ and amass great volumes of garbage, useless drivel that only has value to them or other collectors but when a larger group of people look at it they only see crap.

Purging is difficult to say in the least. You touch that ‘thing’ that made you smile when you first got it but after some time its just because a shadow in the background of your daily life, forgotten but there.

For years I ‘collected’ this and that but nothing of extraordinary value or size, but in the hopes that we would settle down at long last and I could display these things that caught my eye.

The problem is that we’ve never settled down and our vagabond lifestyle doesn’t fit with the heaps of crap we own. When you finally come to terms, decide to let items go you are then faced with the dilemma to place a ‘value’ on said shit.

More often than not we’re going to head straight towards the resale of our precious mementos and there is insult to injury when you have folks come to offer pennies to your dollars spent.

Don’t forget, you do the same damn thing when you are searching for something out of the advertisements, at yard sales and estate sales but when it’s our turn we turn into defensive wild cats ready to throw out our claws and spat at anyone that offers us anything less than the value we’ve put on the sticker.

This past week I thought I’d try my hand at the pawn shop to see what a few of my high-end handbags were worth. Not using them and they are prized by glitter-happy Texas-big-hair broads and I’m too impatient to put them online for sale.

My impatience is definitely my downfall because the slap to my forehead and the pittance offered for said fashionable baggage had me walking back out the door.

Back into storage for now but first some digital snaps, advertisement on the local classifieds and then sit back and wait while the offers trickle through my email.

Guess in the meantime I get to stare blankly at my mountain of priceless goodies.
One man’s treasure is another man’s heap of horse puckie.

ummmm..thanks?

I will try to assist people at every opportunity. Whether it be opening a door, answering a question or fetching something that is on a high shelf and they are diminutive.
Sometimes though, I'm over enthusiastic in my desire to help and it probably makes me appear as a crazy person. Sadly, I am, and then it's just public knowledge.

A few days ago the husband came home for the weekend to help me around the house. The doctor told me no lifting, no exertion and no funny stuff (hubba hubba) for upwards of 12 weeks.
This is absolutely maddening, I'm the most hyperactive fat girl you will meet. I'm bouncy, suffer from anxiety and probably suffer from adult AD/HD.

He's moved out, taken the majority of our belongings (oh boy I have a mattress on the floor and a 10 year old t.v. without a DVD player) AND my car has broken down.
Yeah the car that was sitting for 15 months (busted) until I took in in 2 weeks ago to get fixed at long last.

.....(they kept it for a week, diagnose this - diagnose that. Oh we need a part that won't be in until...)

When at last the announcement that the hooptie was done I really was joyous. At long last there would be no sharing of the Ford, I could be free at last. The windows down and the wind blowing through my hair.

Why is it in the movies and on commercials beautiful women with long hair never seem to have their hair slapping them back in the face and getting tangled like mine does?

I pay the bill which is fair really though a huge crushing blow to the wallet. We do not use credit cards, in fact we do not own one between us. If we can't afford it we do without. It's been an interesting way to live and we do without a lot. I mean, 15 months the car sat!
Then again we always seemed to have a few dollars and then find cooler ways to spend it instead of fixing the car.

I get in, we drive a couple of miles and celebrate with a quick bite to eat and then part our separate ways, he to a doctor appointment and me back towards the house.

Uh oh, as I goose the gas a little bit to try to make it through an intersection the RPMs do not seem to have the get-up-and-go and the car is very sluggish, bogging down. Did I hear it stutter too?

Okay, well this IS understandable - the gas is very old and there is a little less than a quarter tank in there so maybe she's just thirsty and could use a bit of higher octane to clean out the pipes.

Making a left turn that leads back to our place and almost all the way through the turn she DOES stutter and at the completion of the turn the check engine light turns on and blugh blugh...poof the car shuts off and I have absolutely no power stearing and I'm trying to coast into a parking lot that happens to be right there.

Now this day, just like every day for the last 17, is over 100F.

SON OF A BITCH! I'm yanking the wheel and really trying to get it closer to the curb so that I'm not in the very center of this thoroughfare all the while swearing and beginning to sweat because there is no air passing through the vents any longer.

Let's remember I have a fragile constitution, I'm delicate so to speak. I don't panic (well...) but I am instantly mad as a hornet. This is just bullshit plus it would be a massive pain to telephone the husband because he was in a conference call on his way to the appointment and already several miles in the opposite direction.

It's the middle of the day, the couple of people I do know locally would never be able to get to me in time before I melted into a puddle of fat, hair and cotton t-shirt/jeans.

I have to call him anyhow.

Ring 1. Ring 2. Ring 3.
I don't expect him to answer while on a business call, but it will let him see the caller ID. Then I hang up to wait about 30 seconds to dial again.
This HOPEFULLY indicates an emergency!

1st message.
" The fucking car is dead. I broke down at ....It's something like 2 billion degrees out, just turn around and come get me! "

While I wait out the 30 seconds I'm slapping in the reflective sunshade and hoping it reduces the temp inside the car to 1 billion. There's no way I want to step outside, I didn't put sunscreen on that day and the parking lot has a lot of blacktop.

The phone rings and I nearly jump out of my skin, it's him and I rapidly explain what has happened and demand his return. He complies and heads over, we drive to the house (FOR ONCE HE DID NOT GO TO THE STORE AND BUY ANOTHER GAS CAN. I think we have a dozen) and pick up the 2 gallon container that's in the garage.

Off to the gas station, oh by the way it was 1.25 miles away when this disaster happened.

I sit comfortably in the running Ford, blasting the radio which happens to be playing "Sweet Child of Mine". This is possibly one of the husband's most hated songs and I do a wicked impression of Axl Rose.
He nearly always lets me listen to it and then I sing and do the little funky snake dance he did in the video. I'm not a true fan of the band but who can forget a certain era of our youth and not want to boogie a bit?
Plus I could really use a stress reliever! (the Xanax is for later!)

After he's dumped the precious fuel into the tank I then wave at him and indicate there's no way in Hell I'm driving that car until it's properly fueled. He pulls it round and heads for the Shell station and he fills er' up with gas.

Glug glug glug it drinks it down and I tell him he can have it because I don't want to get half way home and have this happen to me again. Men can deal with this shit better than delicate flowers like me.

He spent the better part of the day with the car and returned home in the evening to say that everything was back to normal. However, he is not in tune with that bitch and I figured out within a weeks time that all was not well.

She's dead again and there is another fortune to spend but I can best leave that story for another day.

Sometimes you have to wonder how I get off on these tangents but I think I just explained that in paragraph 2.

Hubby is home and I need a few groceries to get me by until the next weekend he returns to visit. While he is home on these non-conjugal weekends I also make an effort to cook for him and his coming week. Bag it up and send him with a cooler.
He saves time and money eating home cooked food and not taking a short cut in the drive through.

We head over to the market on the other side of town because they carry a better selection of proteins. This is pretty important if you ask me, but if you only like hamburger and chicken breast then by all means the closer store would be the one for you.
The store that's farther away tends to be geared towards a culturally diverse neighborhood.

Up and down the aisles we are travel, pushing our buggy and eyeballing this and that. I don't use lists instead I decide the menu on the fly, it makes for more interesting meals and there isn't any rut.

This particular chain of stores runs pretty fantastic sales at times and this week they had a coupon that stated if you bought a particular brand of luncheon meat and cheese (slices) you would also get FOR FREE: mayonnaise, a loaf of bread, a lunch portion of microwavable macaroni and cheese AND an 8 oz box of Oreos.

SHIT FIRE, sign me up!

Mayo: $1.89, bread, $2.29, macNcheese, $0.89, Oreo's $1.69. You tell me, are you going to skip a deal like this just because this brand of lunch meat isn't your particular favorite?
Not I. Even though I usually go for the high end brand in the deli the lines were long and my wallet is short.

The only thing about this coupon is that you would have to hunt to find everything.

Up and down the aisles we go in search of our prizes. I am having a good time, laughing because we couldn't find the right size cookies. This is very important.

The only size they had on the shelf was 5 oz and that seemed like false advertising since the coupon even had a picture of the product (in a box) and the only type on the shelf were the mini grab bags.

We must have spent a good 5 or 6 minutes searching for the remaining items, husband's frustration was mounting because he really doesn't like the supermarket. I reckon that he thinks our kitchen is like the instant food machine from the Jetson's.
I open a door and Zing, out of thin air all of the goods come out for me to use.
If ONLY!

Since he was starting to get petulant I pulled alongside a central area where they have cooks prepare little sample meals from recipes available to share with the public using store brands.
I inquire, "where in the heck do we find certain items because they don't seem to be on the shelves? maybe this sale is so good that all of them are sold out"

He looks at us like we are the dumbest shits left on Earth, turns his head casually to right and indicates the large refrigerated section (not but 8 feet from him).
Right there before our eyes. Cookies, bread, cheese, deli meat, mayo!!!The only thing missing was that damn macNcheese cup and I wasn't going to leave without it.
That's part of an entire meal for the husband, plus it's right down his alley for cooking technique. (boil 1/2 cup water, pour in cup, stir and eat)

We have our delectable prizes and begin our trip back down the lanes towards the check out registers when I pass by an older gal, she's loitering with her buggy a foot away from the macaroni and I spy in her basket....

BREAD, MAYO, CHEESE!
They weren't the same brands but I have to do something, I have to be helpful I have to alert her to the wonderful deal the market was offering this week.
There was enough extras there to satisfy any tightwad like me.

I snatch up the coupon which just so happens to be affixed to the shelving unit next to the pasta and approach her in my skipping bubbly way and place my hand upon the handle and say in a conspiratorial way...

"Did you know that there's this great coupon for all of the same things you have in your buggy? I mean, c'mon you could save so much money AND get free stuff. Heck all you have to do is buy this deli meat and even though its kind of a crappy brand (the husband bursts out laughing now) you could always make a sandwich for your husband or son. Heck, men don't care what they are eating! You REALLY need to use this coupon, don't pass up this great deal!"

This lady looks at me like I've gone out of my mind and protectively, white knuckled grasps the handle but listens intently. All the while you know who is laughing and he says, "you should get a commission for trying to sell this stuff"

She agrees and says, "I bet they'd give you a job"

I can tell this is going to be a battle I'll never win and I bid her a good day with a chuckle and tell her goodbye.

with a little wave she says, "Ummmm thanks."

I've got a 100lbs on you bitch

So dinner in style I demanded and then our song and dance started...'where do you wanna eat, I don't know where do you wanna eat?'

I wasn't going to play that game tonight I knew exactly what I wanted and said it right after his "I don't know.."
Japanese steakhouse!
Teppanyaki

Going to those goofy shows for a cheap steak and chicken meal cooked on the same grill top that you'd get at the Waffle house at 5x the price seems like a real waste of cash really, but there is really something about having a honest to goodness Asian-American prepare a watered down version of their cuisine all the while cheesing up to you ...it can't be compared.

Dinner and a movie plus you don't have to drive to 2 different places and best of all; it's interactive. Sort of like getting the opportunity to heckle the comedian and have him harass you right back but not have to fear that he's going to spit in your meal because your witnessing the entire performance.
The food always tastes the same, the act is always the same the only difference is your company if you don't already come with a group of nimrods that you already know.

Now in this shit-bowl of a town there were only 2 Japanese style restaurants to be found until just recently when a new one opened up and I figured, before we bust ass out of here let's give it a go. I already complain about every other place we've eaten at why not add one more to the list!

The exterior of the building is well kept even though the location is not that desirable as it is in a frontage out-lot on a busy merge from the highway. The parking was not very full but it also wasn't empty so this boded well because it meant it wasn't terrible and gathered enough interest from the locals.
Japanese steakhouses/sushi joints aren't cheap by any means and are kind of a treat especially in a Podunk city like this.

Sushi isn't exactly filling, you have to eat an awful lot of goldfish to get full.

We park along side a banana yellow cock raising 2011 Chevy Camaro, I don't care what anyone else says but those are leaps and bounds better looking that the new Mustangs. I've long since lost my love of Chevy's but if you gave me the choice between the Camaro, Mustang and the Challenger RT I'm going to rocket into a MOPAR.

Hobbling my slow, hot and sweaty butt up the handicap ramp and still eyeballing the motor eye-candy we go inside and are met by a skinny little thing that's fumbling through great big menu's that dwarf not only her hands but half of her torso. She greets us nicely and assesses our attire in that way only a snooty little spoon fed brat can.

Of course I didn't take a moment with my look because I hurt, I don't give a shit and I just want to eat. When I decided it was time to feed my maw I rolled off that bed along with moans and grunts, pulled on a silly t-shirt and those delightful track pants (watch those eyes or my finger is going to aim right for them) and yanked my long hair into a severe ponytail.

Look nearly complete I swiped the toothbrush back into my mouth, splashed some water on my sleep wrinkled face and rubbed a little bit of lotion on to combat the wrinkles that are threatening in the near future.

We are led over to the hibachi after announcing our decision to be entertained. Man wouldn't it be even more awesome if there were fire jugglers and clowns? NOOOO I hate clowns, Damn It! I've just given myself fuel for nightmares. Shit on a stick.
That's what I get for free writing.

There are no other people at our table and I think to myself, too good to be true. It won't be long before a band of idiots come in and they fill the rest of the table because it isn't cost efficient to do a show for only 2 people even if they are heffers and likely to order from both menus.
We order a couple of drinks and pre-order our entrees and set to goofing around on our cell phones just like any good American does, completely ignoring each other for the most part except to butt in long enough to show one another some interesting app or picture or snippet of an email rather than converse in normal banter.

Only a few minutes pass and in come another couple, the waitress attempts to sit them in the center where there are 3 seats instead of across from us where there are only 2. The gentleman says no, he would like to be across from us so that he can see who he was talking to while dining with them.
They kept on walking over and sat down, the man opposite my husband and his wife opposing me. They said hello and went to reading their menu's and order their beverages and we went back nose deep into our telephones - neither of us feeling very chummy.
Who wants to make new friends right before you leave town? Nothing but the chance of a broken heart.

Our dinner salads and soup come out and to the husbands disappointment his pathetic iceburg lettuce is swimming in the house dressing. I've offered to trade him with mine but he declines. He declares the soup delicious, the waitress has promised that there will be no mushrooms in mine since I don't like to eat fungus and most soups come out with with those nasty floaters in there.
She took the liberty to make sure his had none in there also, poor guy he LOVES to eat grody ground turds.

With a slurp I then declare the soup disgusting because it has a fish base and slide it over to him and start to pick out the remaining lettuce from his plate, but it was nearly a lost cause because it was indeed drowning.

If the greens had a voice they'd be crying, no, they'd be burbling.."blub..help...blub..gulp..can't...swim..blub."

and then..the worst thing could happen. I could handle this so far, its an evil you have to deal with when you go out...sharing the table in a family style restaurant but this is by far the worst.

A couple came in with a kid, clutching a filthy baby blue care bear with a rainbow on it swaddled in an equally nasty baby blanket.

I lean to my man and say, "I shall now get drunk" and I motion to the waitress to bring me another glass of wine. Certainly the mom has heard me and maybe she needed a little peace because she quickly orders herself a Budweiser, the King of Piss and a soda for her child and man.

We all settle in and wait for more drinks, dinner salads and soups to come out to the other 2 couples. The not so quiet announcement of the evening comes when a shiny stainless steel cart is wheeled out from the kitchen area, a heavy velvet curtain parting and a petite Asian man in his 20s pushing it heads our way.
The table is laden with all of the typical accouterments, squeeze bottles with soy sauce, rice wine vinegar, water, eggs, the huge pizza tray of rice with vegetables (peas and carrots that you know damn well came straight out of a Green Giant freezer bag) as well as another tray heavy with the meat each of us has ordered.

Meat..yum. Glorious meat.

I just love to devour the flesh of chickens, cows and swine. There's really nothing better than a rare to medium rare steak that's swimming in it's own juices and blood and seasoned with salt & pepper and a touch of garlic butter.
Everyone else usually orders crustaceans but not me, I don't want anything to do with that yuck-poo.

Our 'chef' for the night steps behind the now hot cooking griddle and with a long handled spatula he begins motioning from his right to left beginning with my husband.
"Steak and Scallop".."Filet Mignon".."Steak and Shrimp"...and then my husband interjects.
"ummm No, that would be shrimp and scallop"
Chef-my-hat-is-nearly-taller-than-I am says, "you are making joke, right?"
"no, I ordered shrimp and scallop"

the rest of the table groans when they see that our cook leans down to the buggy and picks up the entire tray of meat, mind you, this tray is like a 24" metal pizza-pie sized tray, and he exits from behind the table and heads back towards the kitchen!

What the Hell? You mean to tell me that he couldn't get someone to just bring out an order of shrimp to him and return the steak at the same time instead of making the walk all the way back to the kitchen? I don't get the thought process sometimes. His time and effort conservation would seem the most logical step when you have a table of 7 waiting for their meal to begin.
oh well, I digress.

Upon his return he begins the usual slinging of the spatula and long handled fork, twirling and clanging it on the edge of the metal griddle. The tings and clangs gathering everyone's attention.
He does a few flips of his wrists and it appears he has lost his dexterity and suddenly the fork goes flying at a wicked speed zipping right past the guy across from my husband and nearly zings him!
To his credit, the gentleman (we'll call him Mike) doesn't even blink and eye and continues to enjoy his soup. (which he's declared a loss since there are no mushrooms in! hahahaha)

Our attention still on Chef "King" which he calls himself, he starts back to flipping and twirling, soon he has out the eggs to begin the base of the fried rice (NOM NOM NOM) he bounces one a few times, we are enthralled as usual.
He then motions to my husband, "you try, yes?"

This is where it starts getting good because the broad next to me that ordered the Bud and has the kid flips out. She says, "umm no way..no..I don't think that's a good idea..that can't be sanitary"
He comes around the grill, which I think is a secret desire of his for a very long time and takes the spatula and begins his attempt...with absolute success. I'm staring in almost absolute disbelief because this is a man that cooks next to nothing at home.
Macaroni & cheese, deli sandwiches, ramen noodle soup, grilled cheese and drive-thru have been his specialties for more years than I can remember.
The egg is bouncing steadily on the utensil and then he does a final flip to crack it, and he does it without breaking the yolk! HOLY SHIT...even the "King" is impressed and starts to shoo him away.
He says, "okay, you go now --- you must work at IHOP"
Husband returns to his seat holding his spatula sort of as a prize I guess and "King" draws out a new one.

All of us are laughing, except for the mom. Her eyes are bulging out of her face and her hands have come up, almost like claws and are covering her mouth in shock.
This makes it even better for the two of us because that means she's miserable and is payment for our discomfort for putting up with having a child at our dinner table.
I strongly believe that you do not bring your children out to this type of a restaurant suited for adults, unless you are in a HUGE party and then there is no way that they can be seated with you because you have already filled the maximum seating at that table.

King is back to cooking those eggs and starts adding in the rice and vegetables, making a real mess but it smells so good who cares. He goes about grabbing his squeeze bottles and doles up soy and oil and then some rice wine..or WAS IT?
that's when he approached my man and indicates for him to open up his mouth for a squirt.

OH THE HORROR ...a shocked GASP comes from the lady next to me. EWWWWWWW
He opens up and out comes a stream from 2+ feet away arcing over the table into his mouth. He's trying to gulp as fast as this stuff is hitting his mouth but King doesn't give up too easily.
He puts the bottle down and then starts to serve up the rice to everyone and that's when my husband pulls out his trusty spatula and uses it as a gigantic server of sorts and spoons himself a bite.

"Oh Gross..oh that's gross. Unsanitary.. I'm a germaphobe and I can't handle this.."

ahhahahaha I am loving every minute of this now, no longer cranky because my husband is being a total nut and he's found someone that is such a fake piece of work that he's going to make her squirm.
He then takes it and slides it under his butt and says, "There, all clean" and hands it back to King... who apparently was ready for the switch like they both knew what they were doing..
He had another one within reach and starts to do a little twirling (but no touching of food) and this woman is seriously about to have a coronary!

After a few seconds of his act he then says ..I just kidding, and then puts the used utensil back on the very bottom of the buggy. How great, how classic was it though to see this total freak out?!?

I say to her during this little episode, "you can't be much of a germaphobe if you come out into public and eat in restaurants...get over it"

King goes back for the squirt bottle and then drills "Mike" who is holding his hand up in the air motioning for him to quit and doesn't get a successful response - so he ends up with wine all over the front of his t-shirt. We are in a fit of laughter and I suspect that both of the guys have a little bit of a drunk going on.
Asking them, what's in there and the response is 'cheap chardonnay'.
"Mike" says that when he gets pulled over by the cops he's going to just tell the truth how this little Asian guy forced it down his throat with a ketchup squirt-bottle and he kept telling him no-more with sign language but he wouldn't stop.

Cooking has winded down and each of us now have our meals in front of us, we say our goodbyes to King for the moment and I even take his picture with the kid so that he can post it on his Facebook page.
The 2 other couples are being very chatty with each other considering that everyone knows everyone in this place. We sit and only chip in a little bit but mostly we just want to eat and leave.

The mom decides she wants to turn my way now...and be my buddy. This isn't going to end pretty.
She starts with, "so do you 2 have children?"
well first off I think to myself..Well DUH bitch, if I were like any other dumb shit in this town I would have drug them in here to annoy you. However, since I don't have any with me it's deductive reasoning to think that I do not.
Besides I can't look THAT old to think that I have grown children.

"No and we don't want any"
....."Oh you make that sound like you don't like kids"
and I just look at her. I don't say a thing, I just look at her.
She gets antsy and has to look away and says, "ummm ohh..okay so we'll talk about something else"

So Mike is talking about how he thinks he got shorted on his amount of rice and that he's a big guy and likes his food. That's when she says, "Oh I like my men big" and she says this while turning in our direction and looking at my husband.

OH HELL NO

I said, "I've got a 100lbs on you bitch don't be messing around with my man."

20 minutes or it's free

This week I'm not cooking.

My back hurts and it hurts enough to have me telephone the chiropractor out of the blue at 1 in the afternoon on a Friday. I know that the man isn't there but I was hoping against the odds he'd pick up the phone and say, "Sure come on in and I'll fix you right up".
I start dialing his number and his recorded answering service picks up, "Hello you've reached Dr....and I'm either with a client or unavailable at this time. My hours are M-Thursday...please leave your name and number and I'll return your call at my earliest convenience"

The blinds are drawn tight, I'm laying in the darkness stretched halfway across the bed while on my stomach and my legs hang over the edge. Only a shirt on, my bare ass out and my face smashed into one arm that's curled into a makeshift pillow, tears streaking the sheets that are below my fisted hand and I hiccup a sad 'oh well' and click 'End' after leaving my message to him.

"This is Rebekah, if there's any chance that you are in the office today and have a moment to fit me in ...you would possibly save my life!"
leaving a message is basically fruitless if you ask me, but I'm going to do it because I think that something positive has to come out of the day.

There is something about me that drives my husband bonkers; I won't get medical assistance until I'm an ounce away from death or suicide. The moment I do telephone the chiropractor, the massage therapist, the physician or go to the E.R for something it means I've finally allowed myself to accept help and stop suffering needlessly (some sick part of me thinks I deserve it I suppose).

Massage therapy and chiropractic work are excruciatingly painful to me but they result in removing toxins, poor alignment and give me a little bit of relief even if it's short term.
I sure would like to enjoy a massage like other people do instead of laying there and feeling like someone is gouging/drilling me with burning hot screws/nails and hammers. Isn't it supposed to be relaxing?

The call ended and I lay sobbing quietly on the bed. The husband was still home for lunch and getting ready to return to work when the phone rang...it's the CHIROPRACTOR!
I love you I love you I love you
He said that my call was cut off and my message didn't even come through past me saying hello but he has caller I.D He had stopped in to get some paperwork finished before starting his weekend, was curious who was calling with the out of area phone number - WOOHOO lucky me!

How soon could I get there?
20 minutes I practically sing, he said that worked fine for him.

I popped off that bed as fast as I could, a streak of white skin flashing past the bed as I yanked my nightgown off. Into the shower I jump holding my toothbrush and tube of paste in my hands, while cold water is gushing out of the fixture I twirl daintily in a circle to wet myself all the while scrubbing away at my teeth.

Difficult to brush when you are also gritting your teeth against the cold but I had to do double duty in order to actually get there in 20 minutes, I don't know why I said 20 when it takes 20 to get there not counting the time to pull on shoes and lock the house up!?!

My husband says, "what are you doing!?" I said, "I gotta wash my stank-crack." It's bad enough that I continually go in to see this poor guy with hairy legs and scaly feet every visit, the least I could do is make sure I don't have a crusty butt-crack.

I've squeezed a blob of pleasantly scented body wash into one paw (tossed the toothbrush up onto the soap rack) and start lathering away making sure to get into all of my naughty spots. Twirl, rub, rinse and twirl. It doesn't take but 5 minutes to be fully washed and I'm out and yanking on track pants and a t-shirt.

Shut up about the track pants or I'll poke your eye out.

There's no way in Hell I can get a bra on because the reach around is making my entire back go into spasms. I never wear drawers so this makes for an instantly dressed situation.
Sunglasses & sandals on and a bottled water tossed into my bag, I practically skip (now when I say twirl, dance and skip - You know I'm talking about moves you'd see a newborn baby colt trying to make) to the door and am met at the curb by the husband with the car running and air conditioning blasting. (freaking 100 degree Texas day)

We race to the office where the Dr. is waiting for me, looking patient but I can tell he is wondering what happened to 'be there in 20 minutes' (its almost been 30!).
He guides me into the procedure room and the crazy contraption 'bump table' that he uses. This this see-saws you up and down, pulling you this way and that. I feel like a fat wad of taffy laying on there face down, huffing and puffing with exertion as it yanks me farther than I want to stretch.

While I'm bouncing around he runs his hands along my back, down my thighs and down to my feet and takes measure of how far 'off' I am. This is the first guy I've ever met that is so thorough and he actually makes a difference (even if I think the table is whack).
He returns to my side and starts manipulating me, POW....BANG and little explosions go off in my body as each vertebrae are realigned. He can't take care of the muscle spasms but at least I'm not crooked over like Old Mother Hubbard.

After flipping me onto my back and then doing this interesting move where he has me fold my arms over and hug myself, he leans in on me, rolls me slightly towards him and gives me a bear squeeze.

I told him that I felt like I was a bag of dry pasta being smashed.

He said that he's never heard that description before!

At the finality of this visit I wonder to myself...why didn't I go earlier? I don't have an answer to that. I tell him that I'll call early next week and reschedule but I know that I probably won't.
Who knows, maybe I will...who knows.

My consort taxied me back home where I fell back into the bed, closed my eyes and slept heavily for a couple of hours nearly pain free. lights off, windows shut, sound machine running on 'Summer Night'..I am oblivious to everything and resting which is so rare for me.

When I awoke ...I was HUNGRY and I decided that I was not going to cook and I demanded that I be taken out to dinner in style. . .

to be continued

Hot snot sundae with a booger on top

Not one to give a real rat's ass about my appearance I really don't spend a lot of time primping in the mirror. If all of them were covered with newspaper it would probably take me a few days before I decided to have a peek.

I own 1 tube of mascara, maybe will put it on a half dozen times before the year is up and then toss it out. There are some other miscellaneous beauty supplies but I find them troublesome and not worth a lot of effort.

Long ago there was a boy that I had a super monstrous crush on. My older brother unwittingly introduced us when I was a tender age of 12-13 years old.

He was a unique young man (you might say a nerd) a few years older than I was. The fact that he'd have anything to do with me was simply an astonishing, I felt gifted.
We would get together and hang out with his friends. Most of the time I'd just sit in awe as they tapped away on keyboards, using false steering wheels and bopping about joysticks while playing games and whatnot on their computers (can you imagine those dinosaurs from the mid-80s!?)

I came up with super romantic scenarios about how he would find a reason to stay alone with me for a little while and then ...brush his hand over hair to expose my green eyes and then lean in and kiss me tenderly on the lips.

(sigh)

Instead,he set me up with his friend who was a real fox, a real cocky punk that I soon fell head over heals with. Funny thing though, physically when I look back he still was never my type and I imagined him more like my 1st crush.

While dating Mr. Hottie I continued to think about that little wish, that secret kiss but he burst my balloon one weekend afternoon while we were loitering.

So many years later I'm not certain exactly how the conversation began but something that devastates us will stick in the farthest reaches of our psyche like glue. It is with us for a very long time, if not forever.

Just the 3 of us talking about nothing in particular when he leans in very close and we're just inches away from one another. (my mind is screaming KISS ME KISS ME KISS ME) His mouth so close to mine and then he looks me in the eyes and announces, "You know, you have beady little eyes that are close together - like a rat"!

My heart had been pounding in anticipation, my lips tingling and waiting for that touch and instead my insides turned into hot Jello and I wanted to run away in disappointment.

OH THE HORROR.

I was mortified that he likened me to a rodent, not just a rodent but a bubonic carrying vermin that was atrocious to look at! From that moment on I developed a self consciousness about certain parts of my appearance, not enough to make myself up like a clown to hide the ugly rather I've forced myself to accept what I've been given and believe that we all have a little beauty (even if it's not on the surface).

Ever since that day I've always thought my nose was too big, my eyes too small and my hair ...well, mousy.
My husband says to me frequently, "you have a cute nose" which only aggravates me because CUTE by definition is 'attractive, esp. in a dainty way; pleasingly pretty.'
Nothing 'dainty' about me.

Girls want to be told they are beautiful.
If you find us attractive, good - tell us we are beautiful but not cute. Cute is for puppies, toddlers and Pixar animation.

Now on to the thing that I do like about myself, I have great hair. Or, in certain neighborhood vernacular - Gurl, you's got gud hair.

Medium brown with highlights of red and gold, he (husband) once told me very early on in our dating ritual that it looked like it was touched by the sunset. It has a natural wave and I even get ridiculous Shirley Temple curls (in the right amount of humidity). It's abundant and grows like a weed and because of that I've always been able to do nutty things to express my personality and my rebellious nature.

You name the cut, the color, the length and even the type of braid style and I have tried it at least once.
I've kept it shoulder length or longer overall which receives accolades to it's loveliness.

Never occurred to me how lucky I was until a few years ago. After starting a new medication and then watching long clumps sticking to my fingers when combing conditioner through it in the shower I realized that the days of radical haircuts were long passed.

Before this thinning change I'd gone to stylists times and time over to chop it off from a pony tail then send it to the charity LOCKS OF LOVE.

3 years ago I spent time with my mother as she was losing her battle to cancer, during that visit with her I had an awful version of a faux-hawk. It was poorly received by friends and an agreement was made that I'd look like a 'girl' again and grow it out.
At the same time the husband was still shaving his own head completely bald. He would have to do the same for me!
He'd been shaving his head to resemble a cue-ball for too many years and I was tired of seeing my reflection off of his forehead.

It doesn't take long for the 'do to start growing. Like Jack watering the beanstalk it's started on an adventure of growth, quickly sprouting over my ears, to my throat, to my shoulders and now even after a haircut of an inch or so every 6-8 weeks it is midway down my back.

There are only a couple of luxuries I allow myself, going in for a wash and cut is one of them.
Not only are you getting the stress reducing friction of firm fingers scrubbing through your scalp, the warm water sluicing away the foamy suds but you get to have a few minutes with someone that spends that hour with you saying nice things to buoy your mood.

One other item I like to do while I'm there is reduce my resemblance to Fred Flintstone by having my eyebrows waxed. Torture really, not necessary if I were to just accept the way I look but when cleaned up (smiles) my eyes aren't so obviously ratty.
If someone else is doing it then that further reduces my need to look at myself in a mirror. The stylist cleans me up, jams a small mirror in my hands to which I only focus on my eyes and proclaim success or if further attention necessary.

Last month I decided I was tired of trimming other facial hair, oh man I'm definitely going there...nose hair. It's gross, right?
When it gets too long you look like you have a family of Daddy Long Legs trying to creep out of your nostrils.
Using tiny scissors and snipping away but never fully getting the results I want I finally decided that someone else was going to do this.
Guys do it at the barber why not me?

Asking the gal that takes care of me (whom by the way is a real doll!) if she's ever done nostrils? ...she takes on the challenge!

So here I am, pivoted back in the hair washing chair staring up into the ceiling while she readies her wee pot of hot wax. With a stick akin to a Popsicle, she pulls a glob of the goo up and twists it, rolls it into a workable ball and approaches my face like a sinister Tootsie Pop toting maniacal murderer.

(she's actually very serious and trying not to giggle because I'm stirring her up in my own nervous anticipation)

"Oh your nose is smaller than I thought", she says a breath after she's crammed this warm ball of wax into my booger shooter. The stick is hanging out, limp and half mast - laying fully on my pouting lip.

Here I am with a salon full of strangers, me kicked back into a less than comfortable position and a 4" wooden pick is lodged up my schnozz. She asks me to hold it steady so that it can dry while she finishes cleaning up the sticky from my caterpillar removal.

If it isn't dry when she tries to yank it out, none of the shorties are going to stick for immediate removal.

This wax feels like I've got a toddler's finger crammed all the way up my sinus! Lucky for me, I'm not a nose-breather and I can still inhale with my mouth - so far I'm not showing any real fear but reconsidering doing this stunt ever again.

A few moments pass into what feels like a short eternity, the wax has been proclaimed dry enough and with a count down of 3, 2, 1 (or shit was it 1..2...3) she gives a good yank!
I swear this is a stylists reaction each and every time - eyeballing and scrutinizing how much has actually STUCK to the wax and then peering back at the subject to re-address the new plan of attack.

When that ball of goop came popping out of my nose I almost felt like my head popped. A balloon had been pricked with a needle. PING! BAM!
Eyes welled up, watered..tears and I am pretty I swore like a sailor. She is apologetic and ready to clean up the rest and stop where she is but I say NO, finish it up.

Did I happen to mention that at least one young man/friend of hers came in to say hi to her while I was laying there? Tell you what, if I was self conscious I'd have been really disturbed but instead I just laughed and we went on to the next one.

Both caverns were picked at, mild success was had and I left pretty much pleased that I gave it a try.
It took me a little over a month to return and would you believe that today I had her try again?!
We had to stop with only half success on one side - my body temperature was proclaimed to be too damn hot and the wax wouldn't dry. The hot furnace of mucus kept melting the wax and made it impossible to complete the mission.

some people just never learn from their mistakes.

Adios to the porcelain chamber of misery

So we're getting ready to move out of Texas and head into the hurricane-zone of southern Louisiana.

Most would imagine that this is not a change that I look forward to, especially in light of my health conditions being exasperated by weather. The humidity alone might do me in!
Today we are expecting rain in central Texas and I woke up so stiff and in so much pain that I have been begging for relief to non-entities with higher powers, or to just strike me down and end the discomfort.

Neither has happened and I've been up and about for 3 hours, so I suppose it'll be a mega-dose Ibuprofen sort of day.

Step 1 was to empty our 'South' house (as we reference it) and gather everything we need for the mobilization onward! When you've been married for so many years and have had a hobby that gobbled up all of your income, you would be amazed at the amount of shit you can amass.

How is it that I suddenly have dozens of 'cat' related items that have been in boxes and bags and on shelves for all of this time and never truly put out for enjoyment?

I suspect part of it stems from the fact that the cats are absolute terrorists and everything and anything belongs to them as a plaything. 'Oh lookie, let me just bat that for a moment with my sweet little paw...' KABLAM SMASH CLANG
There goes that memento! So I suspect I bought, was given or acquired items along the way and just stored them for the future when we are finally settled in our forever (no more moving) home and I could put these articles into shadow boxes, curios and the like.

What happens after so much time being unseen is that the heart grows less fond and your tastes change with time. Therefore I found it necessary to purge myself of a great many of these items, if for anything to rid myself of the bad taste left from my separation from the hobby.
No one can remove my love of felines great and small but the riff-raff involved has definitely tainted my perspective.

Step 2 involved itemizing all of the items for a yard sale (see last blog) and what could be donated to needy causes. The cat trinkets can all be sold as far as I see it, homeless people don't need feline figures that double as coin banks.
Can you imagine that? Aimlessly wandering the streets while clutching a pink and blue paisley patterned pussycat while they stand on the corner with signage saying "Lost Job - need help", "I will work for food", "my cat is hungry, feed the kitty".

Now that the sale has come and gone I should be breathing a big sigh of relief, right? NO! Since we move so frequently we do not use cardboard boxes to pack. Nope, we have what appears to be a Container Store right here in our home.
If I went through and counted every single Rubbermaid storage box in the house I am not sure if I would be surprised or just overwhelmed. Blue, red, grey and even neon green...different colors for different types of items.

The sheer magnitude of kitchen items alone would shock most, but hey! I like to cook and to be fully covered no matter what direction my culinary skills might take me.
Sure, I know..I don't need 2 sets of pots and pans, but MAYBE..maybe I do. Of course I need 6 crockpots, don't you go and argue with me about this. They've come in handy and I've had as many as 4 going at once just this year alone. You just never know when a small party of hungry men from the husband's office need to be fed, crockpots make simple man-pleasing meals and keep them hot without using a nasty microwave. (sure to give you cancer!)

Now, I do intend to start tossing out all of the old beat up ladles, spoons and spatulas and I even intend on getting new flatware. The mishmosh of unmatched spoons, forks and butterknives can be aggravating when you are trying to lay out a table service for company.
Its just too bad that they can't be melted down and made into something amazing. (like a new crown to celebrate my majesty!)

So here we have it, boxes are getting stacked all the way up to my chin. While trying to maintain normal living conditions, this is definitely a chore. Not only does it look like a game of Tetris it has also become a jungle gym for the felines.

The sound of paws slamming down as they leap from stack to stack and then fly over to cat trees and scramble up onto the mantle is a bit deafening. These cats, bare as a baby's newborn bottom, are fearless and at times it sounds like we have a pack of mountain goats clomping around.
One of the worst noisemakers is a tiny 6.5 pound girl that announces her arrival, her departure and well..everything she's doing. She bays like a baby goat as well, meeeaaahhhhhooowww meeaaahhhoowww. Tossing her tiny body at you and rolling like a 'gator for headbutts and snuggles.

Part 3 is coming and I'm not quite looking forward to it but we'll eventually have to put all of this stuff onto a truck, drive 10 hours (yeah, its 8 by car and longer in a truck where you have to drive at lower rate of speed) and then try to figure out where all of it goes.
I know that a large portion is actually going right into storage because the house really isn't big enough for everything we own and the new house has all of the appliances! (SQWEEE!!)
That means that my 2 refrigerators will be taking a nap for 2 years in storage. We also have 2 sofas, 1 love seat and 1 recliner and the living space isn't going to allow for that.
We would be knocking ankles on every corner daily trying to maneuver around like an overcrowded chessboard all the while you shuffle your feet so as not to step on a cat(tail).

I'm imagining the mayhem of settling in with several cats, 3 dogs and a boatload of goodies into the new house.
Trying to make everything just-so, to make it 'home' is going to be fun, frustrating and a challenge all at the same time.

Wish me well because this is a difficult journey; one I look forward to. Getting out of this town, that I refer to as the 'toilet bowl of Texas' is going to help me regain my sanity.