Monday, July 30, 2007

Getting every bit of what I paid for.

So I decided to sit down and complete my profile. Everything. My likes, my dislikes, religious beliefs, political stance, favorite food, biggest fear, place I'd least like to be kicked (Barcelona)... the whole she-bang! This, I figured, was the key to finding my true wove! If I don't let them know who I really am and what I really want, I reasoned, then how could I expect them to help me? It took some time, but I got it done, and with my newly specific search parameters I called for a match.

And this is what I got:
"polyamorous, looking for another new relationship"
Apparently my Mr. Right is shacked up with a Mrs. Right and a couple of little Rightlings, but they have an understanding. And a corral of "friends" on the side. And an opening for a new "friend." And probably hot-and-cold running cable-porn. And an uncanny ability to give me the fuzzy, leaping, sideways-hinged and double-barrelled heebie-jeebies! (brief pause for shudder dance of a thousand great googly-mooglies!)

And in case you need more excellent information I should mention that Fabio here looks to be about 5 and a half feet tall. And 3 and a half feet wide. With kind of a dirty Teddy Ruxpin thing goin' on. And did I mention he's looking not for a special lady, but more for an additional, or "spare" if you will, special lady. A sparecial lady. He apparently is so overflowing, so bubbling over with masculine machismo magic that just one, or possibly two, or maybe even three to five women just can't satiate him. Nor, apparently, can two to five daily donuts. But really, who could resist such animal magnetism? (cough, gag, pinch of vomit into my mouth...)

Not only was this the first match that my newly specific search brought me, but it was the ONLY MATCH. The ONLY ONE. This is IT. If I am to go to the person with which I am meant to be I will have to dig deep, deep into my Mr. Rogers training and really rock my sharing skills. Please Mr. Polyamorous (which is, I believe, Latin for uber-randy, which is German for mucho-horny, which is Spanish for "I actually think I can get a bunch of women to come have loose sex with me despite my personal appearance and wife plus kids."), won't you be my neighbor?

I will admit, people, that this response to such specificity is disappointing. It's sure a good thing I didn't pay for this one!

Thursday, July 26, 2007

I don't need a man, I need an accountant...

Today I started my day with all those wonderful morning things. Birds chirping. sunlight pouring in the window. Little kitty faces nuzzling me to "get the hell up already!" An email from my bank gentling letting me know that if I was hoping to overdraw my bank account by about $100 then Mission Accomplished!

Oh crap.

See, here's the deal: I don't balance my checking account. I never have. Or more to say I've tried a couple of times, but it doesn't work w/ my sad little brain.

But I also just about NEVER write checks, and this is exactly why: the time delay thing. That's what got me here. Checks I wrote a couple of weeks ago just finally, yesterday, hit my bank. Why? I have no idea. Either the businesses that I wrote these checks to don't really need the money or they are as bad at managing their funds as I am, but whatever. It doesn't matter why. They get to do that, because I'm supposed to remember that I wrote these checks and until they come out of the bank I'm supposed to remember that they're out there. That's what I'm supposed to do.

That's clearly, though, not what I do. Or did. For me it's much more "once spent, it's gone." I'd written these checks weeks ago and I'd mentally called them "done" and so when I paid my bills online the other night I failed to say to myself "oh yeah, and remember that the balance you're seeing here now is actually $200 LESS then that. Even though it doesn't look like it now. But remember that. Because it is."

The other funny part (funny like "god, what the HELL is wrong with me really?" funny) is that I have a check for $250 in my purse. With a deposit slip clipped jauntily to it. All ready for depositing and enjoying in all it's monetary goodness. This has been there for a while, but I keep forgetting to GO to the bank. Because not only do I hate to write checks, but I hate to get them too. In my perfect world we'd get rid of actual cash and little paper slips that pretend to be cash and we'd all just have the little magic chip in our thumb that we stick on the magic thumbchip reader and it KNOWS how much money we have and moves it from person's bank acct A to retail person's acct B. Right then. Done and done.

The only reason that I wrote a bunch of checks in the first place, thereby confusing my normal money management system, is because the purse got stolen. So here's the big punchline to that story: Though the DoucheBage who stole my purse got only $3 in cash, he has since cost me (figuring in my head, carry the 2, picture me w/ tongue sticking out corner of mouth while I have to think about numbers...) about $400. Ha. ha. ha...

The Queen has told me many times about how in her relationship with the King it's very clear who manages the money: he does. Not because she can't (she can do math. She's smart and also hot.) but because she's like me: she doesn't WANT to manage the money. She knows that they have different strengths and weaknesses, and one of his strengths is being really good at keeping their money situation copasetic, and one of her strengths is buying super-cool shoes. And as long as he does his part, and then tells her how much money there is in the super-cool shoe budget, she can do her part.

So as I build my idea of the perfect dude here's absolutely one of my requirements: money-management-man. I'd be happy making that money, putting it into the bank (via direct deposit of course), fixing the car, wiring the stereo and disposing of the cat poop and dead snakes. If he'll make dinner, clean the bathroom and manage the money. Anybody know someone like that? Anybody? Anybody?

Monday, July 23, 2007

Looking for Lawrence of Arabia, getting Larry the Cable Guy

Ya know how 2 weeks ago I said I was gonna take a break from the manhunt? Yeah, well as I feared no sooner did I decide that then the free and local online dating site spit out several "hey baby!" connections. Because irony has such a messed up sense of humor. And so I went to check them out, because if they're coming to me the LEAST I can do is meet them half way!

Apparently the type that I attract is something like this:
  • Cowboy hat
  • moustache, no beard
  • wears cammo. In the city.
  • enjoys hunting/fishing/other death-oriented hobbies
  • wants to treat someone like a queen/goddess/right purty filly
  • has 2-6 kids that just might need a new baby mama
  • bears a striking resemblence to someone who just might have an interest in gettin' er done.


I'm not trying to be picky, although I'm sure that's how I sound. And I'm not expecting Brad Pitt or Robert Redford or even Robert DeNiro or even Robert Wagner! But how 'bout not Robert the unemployed manure salesman? How 'bout not Bobby the trophy snipe hunter? How 'bout not Bobbo the trained monkey? 'kay? Really? How 'bout?

I'm gonna work with the idea that I should take the time to fill in more of my blanks on the freebie matchmaking site. Really all they know about me is girl, age, location, not dead, likes boys, homo sapien. Doesn't give them too much to work with. And who knows, maybe there's a box I can check that say's things like "no dudes who enjoy gutting anything." or "not interested in learning to appreciate "chawin' tabacki" or "anyone who says grace over a bag of Cheetos need not apply." (although to be clear: Cheeto enthusiasts are very welcome! Yeah, wipe me all over with that fake, neon-orange powder-o-wove, baby! ...sorry, too much?)

The other trend that just keeps being true is that if they're cute they're also looking for someone who can "keep up with them" as they bike the Rocky Mountains or free-climb the Space Needle. I don't think the right person for me would consider teaching a turbo-spinning class a reasonable hobby. I'm more looking for someone who thinks that learning to pick up socks with your toes is a reasonable hobby. I'd just like them to be kinda cute while they're walking off that foot cramp. (be a man!)

So as of tonight I return to the hunt by fleshing out my profile with (hmmph. Fleshing out. Dirty.) I'll tell them what I want and don't want and then I'm sure they'll come knocking on my (email) door and say "what ho, we have foundeth for you yon stallion of beautiest brow and galliant heart! He doth profess much wove for you and asks do you feel the same?" And I will reply forsooth:

"I'm sorry, did you call me a ho?"

I don't hear you calling anymore!

A quick update to report that my family of strays are now with new families. I spent most of Saturday with a sad little box of "Aww, look at the kittens!" and both of the wee cat children found new homes. Just about the time that I had given up hope some lovely, magical, fabulous, perfect and also my favorite person EVER lady dropped out of the sky and said "low, I will give this small and sweet grey kitty mama a home!" And once I'd deposited her to her new home, and also promised to grant any wish this woman might ever make including donation of my first born child (shut up, it could happen!), I breathed my first solid sigh of relief in about a week. I'm so glad those kitties have real, honest-to-goodness homes! And they're not my home!

Friday, July 20, 2007

It's not a decision, it's a calling. A very bad calling.

I know the goal for this blog was the pursuit of wove, but now I realize that's not my destiny. No, I'm going to be a crazy cat lady instead! I'm already well on my way, and the way it's just kind of falling in my lap makes me realize the ugly truth of crazy cat ladies: nobody chooses to become a crazy cat lady. The cats choose you.

I have 2 kitties that I picked out. I went and met and loved and bonded and brought them home and now they're my bestest little kitty roomates who I love tons and tons. I didn't think 2 cats was excessive!

Then there was Junebug the Wonder Kitty, who came prancing out of the wilds right to me and said "I am for you James Kir- er, Femtastic!" I found her another home and thought "whew!, glad that worked out!" and figured that was a bullet well-dodged! Sure, there was this other stray cat that had come around my house a couple of times, but I didn't know for SURE that it was homeless! Besides, my neighborhood has a ton of houses with all sorts of lovely people who I know will give this sweet little grey kitty a home. I did my part w/ Junebug already, so I'm off the hook. Seriously, off the hook. See that hook there? I'm totally off of it!

I kept saying this over and over, even as the little grey kitty came around more and more. Even as I caught her in the house once eating my kitty's food. Even as I started to put kibble out for her (as I finally determined) on the corner. (I put the food on the corner so as to try to create a difference between my house, and the kitties who should be there, vs. the food that magically arrives on the corner. Except that even the brain of a kitty figured out that the food came from the house closest to the corner.)

I talked to my local shelter to find out how I could bring Grey Kitty to them, since I knew she'd get snapped up in a heartbeat since she's cute and small and sweet and oh so endearing, and I had to care for her for 3 months before they could take her. (It's this whole jurisdiction thing, very complicated and stupid but oh well.) So I kept feeding her for the last 2+ months and I was gonna go ahead and take her in because having her camped in my carport was very stressful and confusing for the kitties who felt like they should be defending their territory. "Hey you, other kitty, get the heck away from my- is that my person bringing you food? What the?" and like that.

Yeah, I was all set to take Grey Kitty to the shelter last week, but things were too dang busy. No problem, though, because I'll take her this week! Sure! I'll take her, and hey what's that coming out of the bushes after her? Well crapville, there's a little grey kitten! And look, it has a sibling! Grey Kitty has been hiding a couple of kittens this whole time, and now I have ALL THREE of them camped out in my carport!

I can be strict and heartless with a stray cat and set rules about "you go out of my yard now, kitty, because you are not my kitty and my kitties live here and see how I show them with my actions that I love them the mostest and that I'm just not wanting you to starve to death? Because you are NOT my kitty!" But you can't do that to kittens!

So as of right now I am feeding and caring for, at least in some way, a total of 5 cats. FIVE CATS. From two to five in a week. Because the universe has a very sick sense of humor and also because I am a spinster and we're where the cats go. We have some sort of subsonic hum that can only be heard by single men (very off-putting; sends them screaming in the other direction) and stray cats. They'll be coming out of the bushes in packs soon.

I must confess that I had a hint of my destiny before. Back when I first posted about my new kitties I got an email from some folks inviting me to become a cat blogger. Apparently there is a whole culture of people who spend their creative energy writing only about felis domestica. And they saw me as a future crazy cat lady, who would eventually need somewhere to channel her crazy cat lady energy. Why not a blog where I talk about all of my cats? I think it will go something like this:

June 12, 2013:

"Today Junebug the third made her first dooky in the new litter pan. We were all so excited and proud of her!

We threw the traditional dooky party with Fancy Feast cake and mouse-shaped liver snaps (for the kitties) and puffy Cheetos and Vodka (for me), and after we'd all sung the dooky-dooky song to her I turned on a Top Cat DVD and napped while they watched. Except for Sturgeon, of course, who is still grounded and not allowed any tv while he's thinking about why it's not ok to sharpen your claws on the waterbed.

Tomorrow Sarabell, Winkerswise, Big Sue, Little Sue, Steven and I are all having our monthly tea party. I'm baking fish-shaped nip cookies as a special treat, and it's Steven's turn to pick what style of hats we wear. I'm looking forward to it, because he really does have excellent taste in hats.

We also have to vote on EstherKay's application to join the Tea Party club. I know she's fun, but sometimes she has impulse-control issues..."

...I guess this weekend I'll need to shop for a large plot of land, a double-wide trailer to move to the land, a bulk-deal on litter pans and some teeny-tiny fancy hats... help!

Thursday, July 19, 2007



Jumpin on the curseword band wagon officially

Since we're off-mission right now anyway I'm going to indulge myself. But first? The backstory:

I read (and, by the way, LOVE!) the blog on a daily basis. You can see it over there, on the left with my other links, looking so shiny and clever. And it is. And the recent post was about using curse words in one's blog vs. in one's books. I commented initially but realized that it was a juicy enough topic I wanted to steal it for my own!

Now, I have no books. Or I should say more accurately, I have written no books and had none published, so I don't have to worry about how much I curse in my books. However I do talk. Man oh man do I talk! And I also curse sometimes. And so for me the question is more about cursing in this blog vs. cursing in life.

Those who have been before (and are by definition my favorites. Get you some chocolate or a pillow?) know that when the time comes to use the nasty words I tend to diffuse them by not using ALL the required letters. I go the old fashioned "f*ck" or "sh*t" route, which either indicates that I don't want to actually swear OR that I'm punishing the vowels involved. You who already know the word I'm alluding to also know what I'm going for, but some newbie or young innocent who breezes through won't be smacked in the puss w/ something they weren't expecting. And if you don't know me in real life this may have given you the idea that I'm not a user of the words oh-so dirty.

F*ck no! Oh my friends I do curse. I was taught by my father, the master, and I'm GOOD! A swearing savant, if you will! I've been known to make dock workers blush! I can pull out THE nastiest, grittiest, most costic and evil words when the situation merits it! But in my own life, when choosing the words to shoot out my gobb (and yes I DO choose my words carefully, despite how lightening-fast they come flying out!) I try to limit my use of the nasties to only occasionally. Not because I think using them is in any way BAD, but more because I appreciate the weight and power that they continue to have from me simply because I don't use them so much. In other words, when folks hear me really let loose a blue streak they tend to prick up their ears and come to see what's happening. "Oooh, Femtastic is a-swearin', let's go see what she smacked w/ a hammer!"

So why don't I let loose with the potty-mouth here? Because I don't know you guys like that. Actually I don't know most of you guys at ALL! I love that you come to see what craziness has most recently tumbled from my fingers in the form of words, but you don't know me and I don't know you, and it's just plain rude to slap you in the face w/ something you may find offensive when I don't even know you! In my real life the cursing would either happen in front of those who know me, and who also swear plenty so can't get offended, or in a situation where I've decided I don't give a rat's ass who I'm offending. Guy hits my car in the parking lot and I'm gonna let it fly! Kid starts picking on a smaller kid and watch the ears burst into flames! I hit with a and no sweet, innocent ears will be safe!

But not here. This is a safe place.

Last question from the initial post that started this whole thing was about whether there were words that nobody should ever use. Because I guess there are folks out there who consider specific words to be evil or full of poison and therefore outlawable. To that I answer with this story:

I was a grown-up in a Community College Humanities course some several years ago. For the most part I enjoyed sitting at the back of the class and trying to remember when I had EVER been so fresh-faced and innocent as all the 'just out of highschool' kids in the class. They were so cute with their "I would never compromise my morals ever, no matter how much money!" or their "you mean sometimes people will tell you to do something even when they know it might be wrong? It can't be!!!" I didn't want to be the one to shatter their rosey-colored glasses so I mostly kept my big, jaded, bitter mouth shut.

But one day when the class wandered in we were greeted with a chalk board on which had been written about 45 different words that were used as insults or degrading terms to certain groups. It was a nice collection of words really -- the teacher had sat around w/ his colleagues for a couple hours to get as varied a selection as possible, from "Uncle Tom" to "Yellow" to "Wop" or "Spic" and even the infamous "N Word." and everything in between. And the question he posed to the class was this: are there words that are so terrible they should be banned from use forever more?

I saw this question as a no-brainer and was actually amazed at how many kids attempted to make the argument that there were words that were that terrible and should be banned. They debated the "N word" in the classic "you can't use it because you're white, but me and my black friends use it in a different way and should be allowed to." form. There was discussion about why all of the words shouldn't be banned. (Um, 'scuse me but if we ban "Uncle Tom" then what do I call my Dad's brother, Tom? Also, isn't "yellow" a color too? What? Oh, we can't say "colored" anyway? Ok...) There was discussion about how to decide which words would be banned and how to even enforce it! I kept waiting for someone to take the stand of "no words should ever be banned" but it didn't come and didn't come. So I finally had to step up. And this is what I said:

"Words are tools. They have no power on their own, but only what people give them. What matters is not the word, but the way that someone uses it. You can kill someone with a hammer, but we're not going to ban all hammers, right? You cannot ever ban any word."

Now I am NOT a particularly wise person, and so I was flabber-boggled at the response in the room. It was like someone had just invented fire! Heated debate, raised voices, the occasional "oh, snap!" or "you buggin!" (mostly from the lame white kids) and I don't remember what the final outcome was. I just know that to this day I still think that's one of the smartest things I've ever said (never had much competition) and I think it's still true. What do you guys think? Keep the discussion going!

Word to Big Bird.

Tuesday, July 17, 2007

Change is hard. Even good change.

In two weeks I can't complain about my J-O-B anymore. Well, I can, but it won't be my J-O-B. I took the new, most excellent job offer and gave notice and now for the next 2 weeks I'll be that girl who's leaving. I know I can expect all of the following:

  • Spontaneous gushing about how much people will miss me. Not because I'm awesome (though some may actually think I am. A sad, sheltered some who have not experienced true awesomeness.) but because when someone gives notice and you're nice people you tell them often that you will miss them. It is what you do and if you do not then you are not nice people. Simple as that. And I've been working with some very, very nice people! Gush away!
  • Subtle, mostly-joking digs from the co-workers I'm leaving behind about the level of hassle I'm leaving them with. When you leave a job (voluntarily) you are expected to feel guilty about it up to the day you leave. Sometimes this expected guilt will actually bleed into weeks after the job, if you keep in touch with folks. This is a small price to pay for getting a new and excellent job, and I'm prepared to pay it. (And also I really don't do guilt. But I'll pretend. cue basset hound eyes...)
  • Panicky realizations by either boss of something that they need me to be sure and do/fix/document/set fire to/cover in chocolate or mock-hump. (I'm very good at the mock humping.) For just such instances have I been practicing my reassuring nod and hand pat-pat. "There, there, it's gonna be ok." I'll say, and pat-pat and nod, nod, nod. And then hope they'll forget about it for the next 3 or so weeks.
  • Questions about the new job that I won't really know the answer to. Actually I'm already getting those and beginning to realize that I don't know a BUNCH of stuff about the new job. What I do know? Dental! I'll have DENTAL! I will continue to eat me both Jolly Ranchers and also nummy corn on the cob thanks to the new job!

I'm trying to figure out what projects I started that I should finish and what stuff I do that I've never written down and other ways that I can help the transition. But 'tween you and me? The second I dropped the bomb I was already 50% out the door. I keep hearing my own voice saying "not my problem anymore!" in the back of my head. I'm not especially proud of this, and whenever I hear it I'm inspired to do something helpful to compensate. And I also think this is true of just about anyone who decides to leave a job for a new one, and especially a better one.

But still, change is hard. So I'm sure the next two weeks will be a crusher! Just gotta keep the new job (we'll call the new employer SnazzyCo., because many of the things that they do for their employees are very snazzy!) out there as the goal. Here I come, SnazzyCo!

Friday, July 13, 2007

It's too late for me -- save yourself.

I'm officially encouraging everyone to wash their hands of me. Seriously, its time, because my Lord what a mess am I! And I'm not talking about your everyday, run-of-the-mill mess, because I can normally bang that out in a couple of days (and maintain that level of mess for weeks!). For instance, the last time that my kitchen counter was less covered with dirty dishes then not was some time in May. (one word in my defense: I have no dishwasher, so it's all "fill the sink and wash by hand." And also I hate to do dishes very, very much. I should own stock in paper plates, ok?)

In terms of day-to-day train wreck I'm well versed. My vacuum cleaner could be resold as "almost new -- hardly ever been used!" The cobwebs in the upper reaches of my house are waiting for a 3rd callback to be in the next Indiana Jones movie. The other day I apparently got distracted 1/2-way through cleaning the cat box. I know this because the next day I found a little paper turd bag sitting 1/2-full right in front of the box, the scooper still leaning up against the edge. And the scoop full of fresh poop. Like the cat said "get this thing out of here! If you've forgotten what it's for, let me remind you!"

Still, it's refreshing to know that as much of a caricature of the absurd as I am normally can still be improved on, and here's my latest lameness: I'm 99% sure I'm going to be offered a new job and I'm a little bummed about it.


I have a job right now that is ok. It pays enough to cover the necessary and allow me a little fun. It's well within my skills and doesn't stress me out very often. The people are not evil. None of them. And I've worked with the evil, so I know of what I speak. The guys who are my bosses are very nice, seem to honestly want good things for me and ask me how I am with SO much sincerity that I feel great pressure to answer with details. But I'm sad most mornings when I have to get up to come here because it's not a great job. It's the big mondo-corporation that I work for which bums me out, and the lack of accomplishing anything that might make a real difference and the lack of people here who are my people. (they're not evil -- they're just not my people.) It's the dirth of anything to shoot for, the limitations on pay and benefits (especially the benefits) and the general not caring so much. And so I've been keeping my eyes open for a better job.

So about a month ago my aunt, who is so much like me that when we're at family gatherings and having a conversation together I think my brother in law wants to bury his head in the dip (we're loud, boistrous, over the top. Shocking, I know -- I seem SO shy here.), gets a promotion at the hospital where she works (administrative stuff) and suggests that I apply for her old job. Her old job is with one of the best employers in Hippyville, would pay a smidge better, has excellent benefits, including dental (swoon!) and many opportunities to move up and on, and has people that I would probably really mesh with. Such as my aunt. And did I mention dental? mention it through the teeth that are wanting to fall completely out of my mouth?

So apply I do, and they like me (because SO much like the person who had the job who they already like) and I get good feelings that an offer may be coming soon. (after all, people don't ask you to pee in a cup in a secure bathroom on a whim, right? Oh, and the pee story will come in a future post.)

So, to recap: not so happy at ok job, new job w/ better pay and bennies and such drops into lap, looks like I'll get hired and this makes me sad. SAD!

I don't really get it myself. But I have a theory. I blame the dream job from a few months ago.

See, after having had jobs a-plenty over the last 20 years I was really resolved to the idea that if I don't want to be abysmally poor all the time I'll have to work a job that isn't what I really want to do. What I really want to do, frankly, is THIS, but get paid well with benefits and vacation and occasional spontaneous gifties. But the people who do this will tell you that there's a one in a chance of actually striking "solid employment" gold at it. Most folks who get to be creative in their work also get to be creative at which bills get paid this month or making a meal with a can of beans and couch lint.

I've been there before. All Scarlet O'Hara like I pledged that once I was out I wasn't going back. And so I rock the corporate, uninspiring but dependable job.

But then all of the sudden someone says to me "hey, there's a chance that you could actually be creative and challenged by a job and look forward to going to work and also work where you want and (big finish!) get paid a more-then-livable wage for it. Interested?" which broke my candy-coating. I tried, oh I so tried, to not get too excited, since I knew it was a long shot and I didn't have professional experience as a writer and I'd wasted years of my life not playing enough online video games (what the hell was I thinking anyway?). But just because you know you shouldn't get your hopes set on something doesn't mean hopes don't get set.

The job was not to be, and I thought I was ok with it. But here I am awaiting the call that says "how would you like us to improve many areas of your life just by asking you to do very similar things as you're doing now but for us instead?" and part of me is actually sad. And, therefore, lame.

I'm hoping that by voicing my lameness to those who love me either in spite of, or perhaps because of, my massive character and personality flaws (that would be you guys, and by the way look how smart and yet attractive you all are!) it will exercise the demons and set my brain free. This job is a good thing and could lead to many other good things. And hell, I haven't even been offered the job yet! And also there are people who have NO job, which is who I was only 2.5 years ago and man did THAT suck. So enough with the sad. If you want to write so badly then shut up and do it. And in the meantime get your goddamn teeth fixed!

Wednesday, July 11, 2007

Hook Dude is real!

I got corroboration this weekend that Scary Biker Pirate Dude is not a figment of my imagination. (you guys remember him, right? The guy who is part biker, part pirate? The one who sports a big, sharpened steel hook for a left hand? Remember?) Given how striking he is as a visual I was sure that everyone would know who I meant when I mentioned him in passing.

But oh no! The fact is that nobody, NOBODY (NO-FRIGGIN-BODY!!!) I know has ever seen him. How is this possible? Many members of my family live within a reasonable walk from my house. They frequent many of the same neighborhood locations that I do. The drive many of the same streets, upon which I'm constantly seeing him stroll. But when I say "oh you know, the guy with the steel hook for a hand? You know? Right?" I mostly get back 'blink, blink, blink...' and then a quick change of topic. To anything that won't make them wonder if I'm starting to lose it. And honestly I, too, really started to worry that he was a first symptom of something I'd later be calling "the dark and scary days of me being wackadoo." (Also gonna be the title of the book, and I'm taking submissions for cover art currently.)

Ah, but what ho! Yes, people, I got me some corrobo-rockin'-ration!

Here's the scene: I'm standing in the self-check aisle at my neighborhood grocery store. I'm waiting for all of these people who, for some reason, decided to do their own checking-out, even though to do so apparently requires them to examine EVERY SINGLE INCH of each bit of packaging. I guess they're looking for the magical barcode, but it's all I can do to not scream "just swish it, people! Swish it over the reader! It will find the code, it always does! Swish, damn you all, SWISH!!!!" I'm standing there reminding myself that if I did that, and then mentioned the SBPD I've been seeing wandering the streets, that there would be a snappy new white jacket in my future, with bonus crotch straps and everything.

And then I look up and Holy Crap, my hallucination is standing right there! Hook dude! Right there! Getting change! Hook dude needs change, people! Only non-figments need change, right? If you're imaginary what would you need $3 worth of quarters for? To do your imaginary laundry?

I'm so struck by having my hallucination in such a very pedestrian setting that I have to be nudged by the folks behind me when a space cleared up. Which is very not me. I'm a nudger, not a nudgee. But I'm absolutely fascinated by this incredibly mundane transaction taking place before me. "Why does he need change?" I'm wondering. "What pocket will he put the change into? Does he ever use the left pocket for anything? I wonder if there's a hole in the left pocket from one time he forgot and tried to put something in there?" Never has anyone been so transfixed by one person handing another person a small smattering of silver coinage. Never.

I step up and do my swishing (and never once search for the barcode, because for the love of God people it is magic and will beep! Just swish and trust!) and bagging and paying and try really hard to not stare at the last few minutes of the 1-act play I am calling "hook dude gets change on a Saturday." Staring is pretty tricky anyway, since it's all happening almost exactly behind me. But once the machine is munching up my cash and I can casually peek around hook dude and his change have disappeared.

I can't just leave it at that, so as I'm stepping out I stop and say to sassy check-out lady (my favorite one -- she totally agrees with me about the faith-based swishing) "So, you saw him too, right?"

"What? Saw who?"

"The guy w/ the hook? Hook dude? Scary Biker Pirate Dude? You saw him, right?"

"Oh sure, he comes in here to shop all the time!"

...and so now here is the visual that plagues my mind: Scary Biker Pirate Dude, wandering the aisles of Groceries-R-Us, a basket hanging from his hook as he decides between lilac or mountain breeze scents for his dryer sheets.

It's totally ruined him for me.

Monday, July 09, 2007

Are we there yet?

Or "Do I gotta?"

Or "She's not just a pretty monarch. She's smart too!"

...I had an epiphany tonight. Now, don't get too excited because traditionally my epiphanies are neither earth-shattering nor long-term, but here mine was:

The idea of checking either of the online dating services felt like a chore. A chore. Like "oh crap, before I go to bed I'd better check and the other one." And then kind of a "poopsters." feeling, like you get when you're almost ready for bed and you realize tomorrow is garbage day. Or when you fall asleep on the couch and crawl from sofa to bed and are just drifting off as you register that your teeth are unbrushed. You know what I'm talking about, right? That "dang, I was almost scott free!" sensation.

But instead of garbage or plaque-defense it's "finding wove."

Its not that I don't want to have wove. I like the idea of being in wove, all mooney-eyed and giggley-pussed and such. And I have some fond memories of when I think I might have been in wove in the past. That time. Assuming that I was in wove, which is something I won't ever know for sure until I get to do it at least once more and then compare sensations.

But I realized today that the concept of pursuing wove, seeking it out, hunting it down... WHAT A HASSLE!!! It sucks, and the older I get the more it will suck. And the more lame I will feel doing it. And I don't like feeling lame.

The Queen has said in the past that my lack of partner was due mostly to my lack of making it a priority, or really going after it, or possibly "not working hard enough." I don't know if that was true in the past -- there was this 6-month stretch where I was positively chasing a dude from my office, and as exhausting as that was I'm sure I was working hard! -- but I'm pretty sure it's about to be true. Maybe I just need a break? Maybe I need a change of perspective? But for the next week or two I may not do much in pursuit of wove.

Not that I won't write -- I promise I will write. But maybe a bit more about the life of a single gal and less about the ways to be a double. A plural? A plenty? A couple.

But before I shift focus, here's a picture of the cute guy that lives across the street from my uncle and came over on the fourth w/ a 75-yr old copy of Colliers to show to the rest of the men. Enjoy.

Thursday, July 05, 2007

Some say now that I need either a dude or a dog.

Wednesday, July 4th at Midnight:o'clock I had a purse, containing all the pursy things that purses are supposed to have (plus also a new CD and the rockinest cool set of pens in an assortment of colors).

Wednesday, July 4th at 2:15am I had one no longer.

Who knew such a thing could change so quickly and so suddenly and all while you were accidentally asleep on your couch, the purse hanging 8 feet away on your coat tree?

Yeah, I was the (I'm not going to say victim. Not just not this time but not EVER. I've never been a victim and I'm not gonna change that now!) unlucky recipient of a visit from some nefarious individual w/ very quiet shoes and sticky fingers. As far as I can tell (and the cops think I've got a pretty good handle on the events) I dozed off in my hot living room watching the tv some time just after midnight just sitting on my couch. Sometime between then and when I woke up again (with a jaunty "oh crap, I was going to do things before I fell asleep!!" tripping off my lips) at 2:15am somebody wandered off the sidewalk to my front door, determined that my impromptu nap was a hearty one and that they could get inside, grab my purse and book it without waking me. And they were right! (and they were also great bastards.)

Was my front door closed and locked? No. It wasn't locked because I don't lock my doors until I go to sleep (and sometimes not even then, in which case whoopsie!) and it wasn't closed because the only way to cool off my house in these dog days of summer is to push the cool air from the back of the house through the front door of the living room. (I use an elaborate series of fans because the waving of my arms wasn't so effective. Stupid arms...) I have no windows that can be opened in my living room. My screen door was closed and my drapes closed and there's no question that it wasn't the most secure situation in the world. But I don't live in the hood, people. My neighborhood isn't wrought with gang wars and rapes and slashers and such. And I wasn't planning the nap.

The cop told me that he was pretty amazed that someone would actually enter a house with me 10 feet from the door, let alone at night (since the massive majority of the crime in our area is by tweakers looking for quick cash with which to score another hit, and mostly done during the day when there's nobody home)

All in all it's not such a big deal. The only significant inconvenience left to tackle is getting a key for my car, since both my regular one and the spare were in my purse. (Seriously, it made sense at the time!) I've re-keyed the house, shut off all the cards and such, secured my bank info and called (almost) all of the identity theft people I need to call. Right now the biggest bummer for me is the impact this has had on how all of my people see me.

See, before that moment on 7/4/07 I was a self-sufficient single woman who had lived alone for years and never had much damage to show for it. I was able to say "I can take care of myself" and nobody dared challenge the assertion because I was so ornery (or "awnry" as I like to say it!) and because there was no evidence to the contrary. But since 2am Wednesday I've got people questioning my choices and my decisions and feeling bad for me and I hate it all. I honestly considered keeping the whole thing to myself, but since I needed some help I called The Parents, and I knew I couldn't ask them to keep it quiet. It's just not the way of my people.

And I know that my people are all coming from a place of love! That's our place -- the place of love! It sounds like a sixties hash house-slash-coffee shop, with excellent pie (except the strawberry rhubarb - skip that) and service with a very dreamy smile, but really it's the key to our people. So I can't really get pissy about how they are showing their concern. What's going through their heads are "oh my god, what if that guy (yes, we've decided it was a guy. And by "we" I mean me. And by "decided it was a guy" I mean it just was a guy. It just was. A guy.) had done something worse? Thank diety-of-choice she's ok! How scary!" while through my head goes the constant mantra "I just wish I'd have woken up. I'd have killed him dead. So very, very dead his ancestors wouldn't have recognized him."

But I hate that for at least a while I've lost a large chunk of my credibility as a grown-up. I just don't get to be self-sufficient until someone else has a bizarre and crappy twist of fate, allowing me and all of my people to fixate on them and their life. Sigh.

In the meantime, Her Highness thinks if I can't get a guy I should get a dog. I think those who run my house would not agree...

Wednesday, July 04, 2007

Ladies and Gentlemen: Mr. Right

This is the man of my dreams. If only I had a ticket to Japan:

Things I love about this dude, based on this display:
1) he's a snappy dresser! Notice that he planned this excursion before September 3rd, so as to not be caught wearing white (or plastic) after Labor Day.
2) he has excellent taste in music. Who don't love them some Earth, Wind and Fire?
3) finally, a guy who likes to go dancing!
4) attention to detail: he smartly moves his booty out of the street when he senses approaching cars.
5) check out the package people! And wisely protected by a plastic candy coating...

BONUS: check out the dude to his left (our right) when he's on the subway car. Seriously? Should you try to act like you DON'T NOTICE the Stormtrooper boogying next to you? Is that the way to go here? Maybe he was just thinking "well there goes my weekend plans -- I can't go out dancing in my Darth Vader costume NOW. It will look stupid!"

Thanks to Kelly from MamaPop, who thanks Missy, for this link and love.

Sunday, July 01, 2007

If at first you don't succeed, try the free one.

There's this local version of E-Wove that is also free, and I'm sure you're thinking what I'm thinking: "small-down made and free == scary..." But actually? Not so bad! In fact in some ways this is the dream option for me
  • My second favorite price -- free! (my favorite price is one where I get the thing and also a wad of cash. "here, have wove and also a complimentary toaster oven!" But free is also good.)
  • Just about everybody seems to have a picture. Not a shy crowd!
  • I can't send any emails if I don't shell out any cash. And you know what? I don't WANT to send emails. I can send out a little E-flirt, like those winks or nudges or online footsies, but then I want the other guy to make the first real contact. And I can use my membership status as the excuse for not emailing. Yay for built-in excuses!
I've done a little looking around and so far it actually seems like it could be encouraging. But that doesn't mean there are no turds among the roses. And the roses should take more time to review, so let's take a quick look at the turds I've found so far, shall we?

Mr. Curious: just one picture, but it's excellent! It's of Curious (his tagline, not my idea) getting into his car, sportin' the "rock on!" hand gesture (come on, you all know what I'm talking about. first finger and pinky finger at attention, with the other three at ease. Rock on!) and his arms just FULL of bottles of booze. And not regular sized bottles -- these are Costco-level bottles, like you could use to stand in for barbells! "Rock on, single babes, while I enjoy a little drinking and driving!"

Fashion Icon: Seems like a possibly nice guy, but every single picture (EVERY. SINGLE. ONE.) has him sporting a different Cosby sweater. Every single color of the rainbow appears in each one of them! The pictures themselves seem to strobe on the screen, and I'm concerned that an evening spent across from such sweaters could result in some kind of seizure!

Road Warrior: His picture has him rocking full leathers ala Mad Max, with the shaved head and the futuristic sunglasses. So VERY receptive and inviting! And then his tag line says this: "Spankills." I don't know what it means, but it magically seems to contain both the words "spank" and "kill" So it can't be a good thing.

Puppy Love: You know that I'm a big animal fan, so at first the picture of a guy with his dog seemed cute. Endearing even! But I made the mistake of looking at the rest of the pictures. Each one is a lovely pairing of man and dog. Man and dog. And then my favorite: man letting the dog drive. I really wouldn't feel right about getting between them. They have a love that men and dogs don't find every day!

Unibrow: Need I say more?

...OK, so that would be the "bad news" part. But it also looks like there could be some good news, and frankly I'd just like a new pile of faces to look through! What shall we call this new online source of wove? I dub it ""!