A Different Kind of Break-up

I lost a friend at the end of 2012.  She didn’t die – she basically broke up with me.  It’s a friend I’ve known for literally decades, but as someone pointed out to me recently an old friend isn’t always the same thing as a close friend.  She has been both at various times, and though she’d kept the “old friend” status all along, in the last few years we’d definitely grown further and further apart. 

The petty, small part that we all have had been tempted to use this, my own personal sandbox, as a place to hash out the whole damned situation.  And if I said I don’t still have that temptation I’d be denying all of the sentences I’ve already typed and deleted in what is only two paragraphs of writing.  Because I’m frustrated.  Because the end of this long, and once important, friendship came in the form of an angry, accusatory, vitriolic email to which I chose not to retaliate.  I took what I had decided was the ‘high road.’  I honored the demand that she made for our relationship to be ‘done.’  I let her have her say and didn’t lash out and carve her down to a sad, quivering, humiliated lump, and I’ll be bold (ok, smug.  Cocky even.) and tell you that I could have.  Instead I just said “ok.”

The thing that most frustrates me about all of it, and which makes this post really hard to write the right way (by which I mean the fair and correct and not evil way) is that I didn’t do anything wrong.  I protected people who were important to me, and kept confidences that were entrusted to me and let my own happiness be at least as important as the happiness of others and for all of this I’ve got more than one person out there considering me evil.  I know the truth of it, and the people who see me through this kaleidoscopic view are not the people who matter to me.  So why does this still occasionally pop up in my peripheral vision and eat at me? 

I’m sad to say I think it’s pride.  It’s years of “she dids” and “I nevers” that I didn’t get to play in this terrifically stupid game.  It’s this final “high road” I took after what I see as years and years of high roads bringing me to the point where I’m on the frickin’ Mt. Everest of damned high roads but which I don’t get to flaunt.  And, most lame of all, it’s this really inherent sense of what should be “right” and “wrong” in the world but which isn’t being those things.  And my need to get them there.  To make the world line up with my view of it.  And to be able to see my actions as being exactly what they should have been, and noble to boot. 

In the last year before this friend stormed off she and I connected with each other maybe half a dozen times.  Certainly no more than a dozen.  So we’re talking one chat or email or “ships passing in the night” encounter a month at best.  I’ve got people that I actually DON’T like that I interact with more.  As far as things I can live without go this friendship is a doozy.  And yet I have stopped and walked through the conversation that I didn’t get to have with her a few damned times since she proclaimed herself “done.”  So, in the end, what this whole thing did more than anything was force me to face some things about myself that I need to keep working on.  Ironically none of them were things with which she took issue, but as it always is it’s not the things that others tell me I should care about that matter.  It’s the things I know I want to improve.

So if my ex-friend were to stumble back on this blog I’d want her to know that I’m working on the stuff I think I need to improve, and thank her for giving me this annoying, niggling view once again on my imperfections. 

Damn her.

Biking with One Eye Open.

CURRENT DAY POST.

I think my bicycle is trying to kill me.

It started out as a simple wipe-out – the amount of time I spend on my bike the law of averages really demanded that eventually I’d have a collision of gravity, inertia, idiots and pain.  In this actual instance I came around a corner after a super-steep hill going about mach 4 to find a pack of wild morons had taken refuge in the mouth of the tunnel into which I was barreling because of 3 minutes of sprinkles.  Not so many sprinkles as to really require the seeking of refuge, no matter how much beer one has apparently soaked one’s clothing in, but just enough to make the ground at the near-end mouth of the tunnel slightly slick.  The kind of slick that, when breaks are applied in a panic, makes your rear wheel swing around to be parallel with the tunnel and then, since the wheels are no longer pointed in the direction of movement, start flipping ass over tea kettle.*

In short, I got surprised, skidded, slid around and then went flying. 

When things stopped going “crash!” and “Oof!” and “Holy…!” and “screech!!!” the bike lay on the ground and I lay on top of it.  On top of the front wheel to be specific.  It was ground, then bike, then my ass.  I took the first few seconds to do that body parts inventory – you know the one.  “Are my body parts all still there?” followed immediately by “Do they all still move?”  Somewhere in there the silence was broken by a voice from the pack of morons at the other end of the tunnel.

“You ok?”

When I told the story later I really wanted to be critical of what seemed like the most stupid of all possible responses, but honestly what else do you say?  You just watched someone come screaming around the corner and then explode.  They’re now just lying there, possibly dead or dying or hoping for death.  You’re kind of worried that if they DON’T die they’re gonna get up and kill you.  It was really the only proper thing to say. 

My response was, at the time and in my judgment, also the only right one.  I said, with growing volume and intensity, “yes, but it’s YOUR FUCKING FAULT THAT I CRASHED!!!!!”  I was actually really pleased with the echo that followed my response down the tunnel – I was rocking the evil villain voice right then.  It would have been much more impressive if I’d been able to get up off my totally prone position, but I did what I could with what I had.

One guy – the big one, and also the stupid one.  The big, stupid one, that guy, got defensive and started in with “oh sure, it’s OUR fault…” and I’m sure he had compelling evidence to back his theory, but he was cut off by the other guy – the cooler one who was much cooler than his social group and his “Coors” cologne gave you reason to expect – who went right into ‘hero’ mode.  He was through the tunnel to my end and helping pick me up off the ground in a flash.  He dusted me off (which was nice but ineffectual) and then gave me a hug (which was nice and… well, weird.  But the nice overwhelmed the weird in the moment) and I kind of teared up. 

Oh, important clarification here:  This was about week 2 or 3 after T.E. left me.  I was still sad and emotionally bare and the dumbest little thing, like accidentally killing a spider in the shower, could set off the water works.  I’d also had a very sucky day that day and was in the process of trying to bike away from that day, but it had very clearly dashed ahead on my bike path and crouched down to leap out and attack me.  So there were tears.  I hated them so much, especially in front of The Big, Stupid guy and the Cooler Than You’d Expect guy, but I knew there wasn’t anything that was gonna stop them.  So.  Tears.

The Cooler Guy checked me over and fixed my bike chain and gave me another hug, all while The Big, Stupid one lectured me on why it was actually my fault due to my biking on the wrong side of the path and this one time somebody gave him a ticket for walking on the wrong side of the path and it was so wrong but what are you going to do, right?...  I was eager to get away from the whole beer-stinking group once the bike was working and my tears were bottled back up and so I hopped on the seat and dashed away. 

About 30 seconds in the saddle and I knew my knee was waiting to have words with me about a paradigm shift that it had experienced when I smashed it into the ground and slid it along.  I explained to the knee that it would have to hold that thought until we got home.  Oh, and here I should also mention that we were exactly as far away from home as was possible on this route.  So home we went…

The days and actually weeks after (up to now in fact) had lots of bruises and one purple, skinless knee approximately 60% larger than it’s neighbor and general pain.  But again, this was a rare event, one that I literally walked away from and I was basically due, so…

Today I was barreling down the path at my normal 15 mph.  The weather was beautiful with sun AND blue skies (a great combination – I highly recommend) and I was almost 2/3 of the way done with the run, so… you know, it was good.  I went to pass this pair also on their bikes and giving definition to the concept of “strolling by bike” especially compared to my speed.  Then they decided that, given the person coming at them from the front (and yeah, I saw her coming, but I had the window to pass) and the voice they’d just heard from behind them calling out “passing on your left!” (that was me), the appropriate course of action was to turn suddenly left, closing up my passing hole. 

I jumped all over the breaks and some stuff happened.  These things are extremely mysterious.  I know that the top of the toes on my right foot scraped the ground in some fashion; that the breaks were so effective that all wheels stopped rolling but did not stop moving; that I did go over the handlebars, but not because I was vaulted into the air but instead because the bike disappeared under me somehow.  Once I was no longer riding the bike I managed to stay on my feet and ended the performance running down the bike path away from my bike who was now dead and lying on the ground behind me. 

You heard me:  I wrecked but somehow ended up on my feet and running down the path.  I went from biking to running in mid-work-out.  I.  Am.  Awesome.

The damage this time, as you could imagine, was far less severe.  Basically the left peddle went all gangsta on my left foot/ankle/shin/calf/make it stop…  But I had the time during the rest of the ride to consider how it was that I’ve had two wreck-like-instances in a month and in the end the answer seemed clear:  my bike, tired of all the work I just keep putting it through and resentful of the shameful lack of washing that it’s had, is finally rising up and seeking appropriate and reasonable revenge. 

What to do about it.  Stop biking?  Oh please.  Wash the bike?  Sure, but I’m tired and that’s hard.  Open up a dialogue with the bike to work out the issues and find a compromise?  Clearly you, my friend, are a communist.  No, I’m going with the only reasonable course of action:  keep doing what I’ve been doing but be generally suspicious of my once-trusty-steed. 

I’ve got my eye on you, Blue Thunder.

Until I can sling webs...

Guess who has rock climbed?  That would be me!

I know, you’re thinking “but hey, don’t you really hate heights?  And isn’t the general goal of rock climbing to climb these rocks up a wall?  Generally into the air?  Higher and Higher?  Until, eventually, you are very high up?  At a point many might describe as a height?  And shouldn’t you hate that?”  And these are smart thoughts you’re having right now.  Good you.

But as it turns out no!  There’s a whole long story about medicated head and floaty dreams and bright sounds and loud colors (and I know that it’s long because I originally started this blog post with this story before I realized that it was so long and REALLY not the point) which ends with me dreaming about rock climbing and, in the dream, loving it.  And you know how some dreams just haunt you for a while?  The rock climbing dream – it haunted.  It kept whispering to me “go.  Climb the rocks.  Touch the ceiling.  Find out if these crazy dreams you’re having are truly crazy, or if you were meant to be a climber of rocks.”

Stupid talking dream.

But I couldn’t shake it!  The talking dream wouldn’t shut the hell up!  So I forced poor, supportive, ever-eager Queen to go with me and we went to the local rock climbing gym’s ‘ladies night.’ 

‘Ladies night’ at the rock climbing gym is just like all the other nights at the rock climbing gym EXCEPT the rates are a little lower and the place is chock-a-block full of chicks.  But strong, nimble, super-confident chicks who are climbing the walls but in a good way!  We got there and put on the special equipment, which consists of special shoes and a harness.  The point of the shoes are to cover your feet so tightly with shoeness as to practically be bare of feet.  Your toes are wedged right up into the tippy-toe part and the shoes lace around your foot like a strong shoe hug. 

The harness, on the other hand, is not sexy.  And not hot.  And not lovely.  The harness is all about “how to be ok with hanging twenty feet in the air by one lone rope, held there by some person down on the ground who is also just holding on to that one lone rope.”  The way to be ok is to have your ass-parts wrapped up with this totally safe harness.  It cuddles the buttcheeks and snuggles the thighs and shows serious lovin’ to the waist.  And not the place that all the jeans keep telling us are our waist, but our ACTUAL waist.  The equator between tummy and chest.  The harness is strictly your proof of safety for that moment you have to hang back and let somebody lower your big, old bones to the ground.

So we spent the night with the climbing chicks and we climbed.  We scrambled our bodies up the walls over and over, going higher and higher.  I touched ceiling several times, and this is a ceiling that is at least 2 stories tall.  I figured out some tricks and had some others given to me by the tremendously experienced ladies who literally showed us the ropes.  (oh, and can I just marvel at these women, who were somewhere in their older years, probably their 50’s, with handsome grey-streaked hair and creased faces, but rock-hard abs and arms made from cabled steel???  Holy CRAP do I want to be them when I grow up!!!)

At the end of the night my arms and legs were all jiggly-muscles, but I definitely loved it.  I’ll be going back.  Not right away, because the last two days after the climbing my shoulders and hips reminded me every second of the day that I am old and crumbling like an elegant but ancient coliseum, as well as OW, OW, EVERYTHING HURTS ALL THE TIME OW!  But I’m definitely going back.  After all, this is one of the last pieces of the “becoming a super hero” puzzle, right?  This, leaping tall buildings in a single bound and the invisible jet.  I’m so close…  

This is new and different

Change is… well, it's just change.

So I started this excellent new job (yes, yay!) and I’m doing training. God, do I hate training. The only thing I hate more then being trained is training others – it’s EXHAUSTING and takes FOREVER and can never really be ORGANIZED and makes me put things into ALL CAPITAL LETTERS… But hey, at least when you’re the doof being trained (me=doof) you’ve got a couple of weeks where you can keep falling back on the classic excuse: “I’m new. I don’t know nuthin.”

The old job was in the finance area. This new one is in a hospital.

CAVEAT: I’m not a doctor, nor am I playing one on TV. Or here at this job. Nor am I a nurse, or a therapist or ANYTHING ELSE THAT REALLY MATTERS. So please, don’t bother asking any questions about “what does it mean when…” or “is it bad if…” or even the classic “it hurts when I do this.” (seriously, why do these people keep doing that?) I don’t have any answers for you. My position is administrative, and not the impressive “I’m in charge of this area – I’m the administrator!” (which is heard in a big, awesome, booming voice) kind of way. I’m administrative in the “Jean, take a memo.” kind of way. If you want help with formatting your letter or creating an Excel spreadsheet or ordering office supplies, I’m your girl. Otherwise ask Dr. Spock. He knows everything. (ok, so just there? My geek was totally showing.)

This new job is in a hospital. And here are some interesting differences between any other office job I’ve ever had and one in a hospital:

1. Everyone pays attention to how often you wash your hands. To an almost obsessive degree. Now if I were working with patients or other sick people I’d understand that. Or even if I were serving food! But I’m mostly typing and making copies, so who cares if I scrubbed my digits for a full 30 seconds or not? It’s strange.

2. You really need to know when you’re addressing a doctor and when you aren’t. Because if you call someone “Mr. Amazo” and he’s really “DOCTOR Amazo”? Yeah, he will remove your spleen. Right there. With his eyes of death. On the one hand I want to reply with a well-phrased “paging Doctor Massive, Earth-Dwarfing Ego!!” but I guess I’d want the kudos too if I went to school forever, ever, ever. Or if I held the power of life and death in my bare hands. Whatever.

3. Every writing implement in the joint has the name of a pharmacy on it. And pharmacy pens are fascinating: they’re always ball-of-point, always, and they’re brightly colored, and always a combination of these bright colors. Like the pen on my keyboard is orange and pink and sports a word that is at once both hip and trendy sounding while also sounding vaguely latinesque. Also? They run out of ink in about 4 seconds. In the time it would take me to write the full name of the drug they’re promoting I’d be out of ink. So every meeting I've been to so far has a constant stream of "do you have a pen I could borrow?" running through it.

4. Your friends' medical lives are no longer private, because you keep running into them in the halls. "Hey, I didn't know you were pregnant! Or have mono! Or filling out that perscription for penicilin!" Awkward...

5. The other things you see in the halls are sometimes bleeding and sometimes crying and sometimes about to share their tummy-insideness... These and many more things are things that you just don't see at the bank/realtor/library/marketing firm, etc. I'm perfecting my "I'm looking you generally in the face so as to not be rude but not looking you actually in the eye because if I do that I'll have to look at where you used to have 2 eyes but now have a number less then 2. In the eye department. And then not stare. but not look away. Wow, how are we still not to your floor???" mojo. because I don't want to be cold or mean, but I also don't want to be rude. and I think they still consider it rude to stare-stare-STARE with your mouth open and a horified-yet-fascinated expression on your face. Right? Miss Manners? Anyone?

Many things are the same for this office job as most others. However, the different things are pretty different. and be so proud of me: I haven't once told any of the doctors with whom I work that "it hurts when I do that." Not once! I'm so VERY strong!

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..."

SIGH.

...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!

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 www.fasterthankudzu.com 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.

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!

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.

SHE'S BUMMED ABOUT A NEW JOB, PEOPLE! FEEL FREE TO STONE HER TO DEATH WITH NO PITY!

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!

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.

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 Yenta.com 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.

Check me, I'm Ginger Friggin' Rogers!

Because I think I'll meet some guys there. That's why. (can't breathe. Laughing. too. hard...)

No, I can't REALLY make a direct argument for my decision to sign up for tap dancing class being "on mission." Well, I can SORT OF make an argument. It goes something like this:

1: I'm currently a chunky girl who is also so much out of shape
2: As we all know, chunky girls (people) don't deserve wove.
3: Tap dancing could un-chunk me a bit
4: If I were less chunky I could maybe deserve some wovin'.
5: And then I'd have to come up with something else to write about. (well crap.)

...ok, so let's forget the item number 5. But the other four -- they work, right?

I'd be lying if I said that was the driving force behind this decision. Really it's just this: I love to watch people tap dance. I love how it feels walking around in tap shoes. That click, click, click sounds cool, no matter what you're doing. You don't have to be really tappity-tapping. You can be trotting through the kitchen, or washing the toilet (gotta be somewhere w/out carpets of course) but that tippy-tappy sound is cool! (oh, and in case the people who own the tap shoes store read this blog, I was never actually cleaning the toilet while wearing the shoes. If the kitties tell you otherwise they're just being troublemakers. And, therefore, kitties.)

Tapping around in tap shoes is like playing pool or shuffling cards or ???. You don't have to be good at it to enjoy that satisfying rush when you make the right noise. (hmmm. Mayhaps I should add "or sex" to that list?) You can spend an hour slamming a white ball into all sorts of other balls and never once go into a pocket, and yet enjoy that sound each dang time. I know you can do this. I have often done this! (It's funny, but I can't seem to make this whole paragraph stop sounding dirty. I'm trying!)

But still I'm very excited about the first class, this Wednesday. I'll dress in my normal workout gear -- crappy sweat pants, crappy sports bra, awesome Atom.com t-shirt -- and I'll know not at all what I'm doing. But I'll make all the right noises!

Again: dirty.

Day after cranky, where now I am zen-cool

OK, the only good thing about a day of crankitude like yesterday is that the next day my irritation tank is pretty much empty. It will take me 2-3 days to charge it back up, so now I'm super cool. I'm Zen cool. You could poke me with a paperclip and I'd be like "cool. Look, there's a tiny spot on my arm now. cool." and maybe I'd even nap a little. (also I post things off-mission.)

I brought in to work cool music to listen to on my headphones. (that's how I can listen to any music that I want here at the office w/out worrying that someone else might not be in the mood for the Ramones or the Violent Femmes -- I have headphones on my head. It's my music, and my music alone.) So right now Prince is telling me all about the rosey-colored hat his sweety wore that one time it rained. Pretty soon he's going to explain to me what he does or doesn't need from a girlfriend. Rumor has it that being either rich or cool is not required. I'm cool anyway.

I decided to have a bagel and red delicious apple (the only kind of apple that tells you how good it's gonna taste in the name -- it's delicious, people!) for breakfast, which is different then yesterday or probably tomorrow, because usually I have a Pepsi and 3-4 handfuls of Cheddar Cheese Baby Goldfish crackers. But bagel plus apple equals coolness, so that was today's breakfast.

I took a little break this mornin' and wandered out to commune with nature. In this case the role of "nature" was being played by a duck couple that hangs out in the bushes by our office (they're the best version of love, people. Ducks should so be the international animal ambassador of love! Screw swans -- they're mean and have hidden secret bird teeth! However I'll cover the duck=romantic thing in some future post.) and a cat that I think wanders down the river bike path from a rich person's house to look for free-range critter snacks. They entertained my visit with much generosity. I think they could tell how cool I am.

There was this guy that I had to call because my boss said "hey, could you call this guy and ask for this thing?" and when I first called I talked to his assistant, who faxed the thing right over. But I had to call back because the thing she faxed looked like a draft copy and when I called back the actual guy answered. (with me so far?) So anyway I explained to him why I was calling and "gee, Mr. owner of the little local business-guy, could you have your assistant send the finished copy some time? No hurry." and he was totally ass-hatty and pissy and told me to have my boss (you remember him -- he's the guy that asked me to make this call in the first place?) call him back. And the reason why? "Because I told you to tell him to call me back." Because I told you to. Like I'm 5 years old and I've asked him "why?" 60 times in a row and all he's got left is "because I told you." SUPER jerky asshat.

Yesterday I would have excused myself for a quick errand, where I would have driven to his office and set fire to all the fancy cars in his parking lot. (because I don't know what car is his, but I know it's fancy and probably black with some kind of asshat ego plate like "culr thn u" so if I burn them all down I get him for sure.) But yesterday I was not cool or Zen at all. Today I'm cool. Today I feel sorry for him that he's so not cool and feel even more sorry for his family since I bet he's always an asshat and I was only super-not-cool for yesterday. (and just a little bit I hope that a duck craps on his head while flying over him today.)

So I'll try to finish that other post again today, because even if it does commit suicide for a second time I should be able to take it in stride. Because I have the reserves to absorb such annoyances today. Today I am keeping my lunch soda frosty in my armpit. Today I am Samuel L. Jackson's pen pal. Today I am friends to the animals and the Prince. Today? I am cool.

Things I hate about my J-O-B

To be clear, I have had worse jobs then the one I have now. MUCH, MUCH WORSE. I've had jobs that paid far less, jobs that required the touching of food or people's (almost) naked body parts, jobs where I had to stand or walk pretty much the entire time. I've worked for people who would cry when challenged, or people who felt it was good for the overall company if he occasionally screamed at someone until they evaporated completely. There was a fellow I worked for who seemed extremely nice on the face of things, but it turned out he enjoyed to lie, insult and finally go crazy. Which was even more disorienting because of how nice he seemed. On the face of things. See, nice guys aren't supposed to be all those evil things. It breaks the brain when they are.

What I'm saying is that the j-o-b that I currently have is not the worst there ever was, and I know this 100%. I have no confusion over this fact. It's the main reason that a job that was supposed to be temporary 2+ years ago has evolved into something a wee bit more constant -- because it was better then nothing and not too terrible a way to spend the day. And in terms of what I do it's not too hard and the expectations on me are usually not too unsurmountable.

But still I groan every weekday morning. Still I find myself repeating my morning mantra from 6th grade, when I had to get up for band practice BEFORE school: "I think I'm sick. Am I sick? I don't feel great, but am I actually sick? I should probably check my temperature, although I don't actually feel warm... I wish I could stay home." And here are the top three reasons why I'm coming down with the plague at 7am, 5 days a week:

Reason #1: I work for "The Man".
It's true, I do. And it's SO "The Man" too. It's this big corporation who's only goal is to make big money by helping other "the mans" make and keep and hoard and squeeze and bathe in big money. They're all about waste and using-up and "who cares?" and "I got mine, screw yours!" It's depressing. I feel like I need to shower and brush my teeth half-way through the day. Only half-way. There's no point in raising questions of "shouldn't we stop printing these 100-page reports every single week?" and "hey, why don't we have a recycling bin?" and "I sure do wish there was a safe place to put a bike in our parking lot so I didn't have to drive to work all the time..." because by saying these things you are a communist slacker hippy freak. And also wasting "The Man's" time. Which is someone's money. Big money. (showering now.)

Reason #2: THE MAN is notoriously stupid.
I cannot calculate how much of my sad, dirty time is spent trying to explain things to the robots working at the Home Office (nest of "The Man") things like "but if we mail this on day A, how can you expect it to be back, signed, and mailed to you and received by you all on day B? Do you know something about the magic of mail that I don't?" I actually had a conversation w/ someone at the Home Office (probably a lovely person, but one who has been very clearly trained that they follow the bouncing ball of the script and they do NOT THINK FOR THEMSELVES! EVER! ON PUNISHMENT OF BEING CRUSHED UNDER A MASSIVE PILE OF EXCUSES!!!) about how we'd sent in a form to update a client's existing bank information. H.O. drone was busy explaining to me that there WAS no existing bank information, and therefore what should she do with this replacement info? In an effort to keep making progress as I brought up the client's accounts on my end I asked her "couldn't you just set that bank information as their bank information?"

"Yeah, I could do that." silence. silence. Hey, is that a tumbleweed I hear rolling behind them on the other end of the line? Rolling by the silence?

"So, would you do that then?" I ask, feeling stupid for having to say it out loud.

"You want me to do that then?" she asks back, apparently not convinced by all that saying out loud that I stupidly did.

"Yeah, that would be --" and then I'm stuck with what to say next, because here I sit, staring at the great gobs and GOBS of existing bank information we have on file for these clients. These clients whom she called me about due to their complete lack of existing bank information. So do I say "great." so as to finish my thought and just hope she can set up bank info? Do I ask her to verify the client info again, just in case she magically pulled up clients with the same names but who live in Texas? Do I ask if I'm being punked? Candid Camera? "Hey," I finally finish up, "could I talk to a supervisor?" I figured it would be good if I freed up this person to catch all those errant tumbleweeds.

Reason #3: Red Tape, Red Tape, Red Tape...
Today, a very average, run-of-the-mill Tuesday, I processed (I kid you not) over 265 pages worth of forms, applications and other assorted paperwork. I had to call and ask some poor soul to send me an original death certificate for their late wife because WE won't take a copy, even though everyone else will. Now that is one hell of a fun conversation to have with a GRIEVING WIDOWER. "So sorry for your loss -- could you dig through your paperwork and mail me yet another piece of paper, which will look exactly like the one you already sent but be a lovely shade of blue? Thanks. Sorry. Crawling down the drain now..." And whenever I start to get the hang of how all this stuff is currently working they send word from on high (chief breeding grounds of "The Man") that they're about to change everything. Not COMPLETELY change it, but enough that nothing will be correct for about a month. This, they figure, will help to prevent any accidental progress that someone could be making.

The people I work with are lovely; bordering on spiffy. They're all good eggs who also want to do their job well. The people I work for are also lovely and seem to value me, which is a very nice feeling. But this job is burning out my inner hope and positivity. Much like boric acid. I think I need a change.

I don't FEEL any older...

Happy Birthday to me! (go ahead, have some cake on me. I'm a giver.)

Before I go on there are two things I should tell you. The first is a quickie: this one is almost certainly going off-mission. (but since it's my birthday I'm good with that.)

The second is an explanation of my philosophy of birthdays, which is this: I believe that everybody should think about everyone that they like and love more then they think of themselves, MUCH more then of themselves, for 364 days of each year. If we all think of others consistently then there will be many people thinking of us, and we'll all be ok. But for one day each year, on the day that you were born, you should think of yourself, yourself, and YOU SEF, BABY! I live this philosophy. It's a winner. Win-Ner.

37 years ago today my Mom was probably cursing my very existence, planning sweet revenge on my Dad and promising sexual favors to any doctor who could make this blessed hell STOP. These days we call this childbirth. But to my amazement she's forgiven me, and she and my Dad happily hang with me on my birthday pretty much every year. I give to all on April 28th; I give to all on April 30th. But April 29th is MY day. On April 29th I give to me.

Understand that up until last Thursday I was convinced that I was going to be spending my birthday at the bedside vigil of Granny. In fact, I was pretty sure that Granny's ironic sense of humor had her planning to pull the plug ON my birthday. It would have been a fabulous way for my life-long sparring partner (but with love, big love) to get in the very last word and with no way for me to get back at her! Oh I would have cursed her, but I also would have bowed to her brilliant strategy. She was the master.

But I guess she decided, at the last, to be generous and free the whole family Thursday afternoon. Suddenly I needed to decide how I wanted to spend my birthday, and I went with one of my favorite ways to spend any day: a day-trip to the pacific coast. Me, the parents and a family chum had one hell of a Mutual of Omaha day! We saw elk, we saw a bald eagle, there was also a golden eagle and frollicking harbor seals. In one day! I have a pained trigger finger from all the picture taking!

And we listened to excellent music and all sang along as we cruised down the road. And we ate snacks (because seriously, what is a road trip without snacks? Prison in a foodless car, that's what.) and then also amazing fish and chips as the sun sank in the west (same place it normally sinks, but it's much cooler when the west is all full of water, like a big, cosmic bathtub filling up with the sun) And I got to fall asleep in the back seat on the drive home, which is one of my favorite things since childhood but one I don't get to do much anymore because when you're the driver they really don't like for you to fall asleep in the car and when you're super-single you're pretty much always the driver...

Now it's the end of the day and I'm riding the high into the day after my birthday, also called the "oh crap, that's right: I'm not the center of the universe anymore. Sigh."-day. I'll think of others and give of myself and be generous and considerate and work my philosophy the other 364 days of the year. 364 days to go, baby. Happy Birthday to me.

Stinkin' cool way to do Earth Day

Off-topic, but very holiday-appropriate!

OK, so today I'm mowing the lawn. I'm doing it because I don't own a machete and fear things that lurk in tall, tall grass, and so I mow. I'm mowing, mowing, oh so mowing and I determine it's the right time for one of those dramatic pauses where one stretches their back, peers at the shiny sun (as if to say "good lord but that is a bright sun we have there!" like that could be a bad thing) and wipe one's brow with the butt of one's thumb. I stretch, peer and wipe and in that moment of quiet my internal voice was finally able to break through with this question:

"Say, what's with all the bug action over there by the trubs?"

Tangent: they're either trees that are the height and majesty of shrubs or shrubs with the depth and potency of shrubs. Since they are neither true tree nor sure shrub I dub them trubs.

Anyhoo, these trubs run along the north side of my yard between me and the northern neighbors. And sure enough, smack dab in the middle of the line of trubs, about 2 feet off the ground, there is much bug commotion. I stare, I stare, and then I see that the commotion actually the comings and goings of bees from a MASSIVE swarm hanging off a trub branch! Big! Large! Not at all teeny! Bees, baby!

There was a time I would have made a beeline (sorry) straight to the phonebook and looked up "killer of bees!" to solve my problem. But three things have changed: First, one of my favorite people became a beekeeper and blogged about it (so, SO cool. If you haven't read it you must. I'll wait...)






...Second, I've accumulated so much guilt about this planet and what we, the greatest villain from any Disney or Disney-like animated movie, have done to everything that I couldn't kill off any little critters like that. And third is this whole thing about how bees are dissappearing mysteriously and we're all doomed. So I got a bee-centric phone number from the phone book and discovered Groovy Bee Dude. (not his name, but he's innocent and you know what we do with the innocent. That's right, we protect them.)

And so suddenly I'm in the middle of this awesome Mr. Science episode! I called my sister's kids so that they could check this out (never waste a moment of natural wonder, I always say! Rest in peace, Marlin Perkins.) and took pictures and it was stinkin' cool. This Groovy Bee Dude brought a box and took this bunch of bees (looking all the world like golden, stripey grapes with wings and stingers and buzzing and flying and ok, hardly anything like grapes except for their being bunchy and hanging off of the branch.) and just shook them down into the box!

You know that if we'd done such a thing it would have gone something like this:

• Dress from head to tow in the bee-resistent suit and hood and gloves and still hate to get close enough to the buzzing branch to touch it.
• Take branch.
• Shake once over the box and run, run, run like a little girl with a little bit of squealing thrown in.
• Stand a safe distance away, cowering and watching the box to see if anything has moved down into the slots.
• After a while, creep back to the branch and shake remaining bees from the branch into box.
• More of the running and the squealing.

None of this for Groovy Bee Dude! He's wearing jeans and a shirt and nothing protective. He's grabbing the branch and shaking into the box. He's standing over the box, watching the bees do their bee-thing. He's cowering not a bit! I was seriously impressed with the whole thing.
After he had the branch de-beed he had to leave the bee box in the yard until night, at which point all the bees would gather up in the box for protection and such. At that point just about all the girls (the bees) would be calling the box their new home, looking after the queen (who was so dang cooperative and just went straight into the middle of the box first thing! thanks, your majesty!) and doing the most impossible headcount ever. And in the meantime Groovy Bee Dude went to dinner.

Leaving me with the bee box in my yard.

But not scary! I waited until the anxiety level around the hive had calmed down (how would you like it if someone shook your ground until you fell into a box!) and then I wandered over and sat and enjoyed this unique moment. Me and a tiny little universe of lives doing their thing. The whole box hummed. Within a few minutes the bees were settled into the new home and resumed their beely coming and going. They ignored me, minding their own beeswax (sorry) and I sat and watched them for a long time.

Happy Earth Day, folks. I hope everyone got to do something that made them feel like they've earned their corner of the globe, at least a little bit. Tomorrow: back to the mission.

a proper excuse for all this madness

I know it's been pretty list-o-rific around here lately, and I apologize for that. Here are all the ways that I'm sorry about the abundance of lists:

1) I'm just regular sorry, like when you scuff someones fancy shoes.
2) I'm more sorry because I really want you guys to like me, so imagine there's now the offer to buy you new, non-scuffed shoes? That much sorry.
3) You guys see where I'm going with this by now, right? I can stop the joke?

Anyway, the following might end up being off-mission, but I'm not sure that will be clear to me until I'm done. It's a meme that was sent out to the universe, but since I am the CENTER of the universe it automatically means that I have-to, have-to, have-to do it. Apologies to all, but I do think this one has a little depth. (at least the questions. The answers are coming from me, so we're talking bottom-of-the-bathtub-20-min.-after-your-shower deep for answers.)

The Top 5 Reasons Why I Blog:

1) Hi, my name is Femtastic and I suffer from Acute Verbosiaphya-a-a-a. This is a very little known (some would say practically imaginary) syndrome where in your mind over-produces words. Words, words, words. Oh the words! They build up as un-used phrases and sentences and paragraphs, subsequently blocking your ability to then produce sentences when needed. Imagine the heartbreak of being asked if you want fries with that, and when you open your mouth you find yourself describing your personal feelings on the resurgence of velour in our nation's department stores. FOR TWENTY MINUTES!! There is no cure right now for Acute Verbociaphya-a-a-a, but a successful treatment for me appears to be to type out these words in a public area and send them out for the universe to digest. This blog, my friends, is treatment. Therapy. An alternative to Thorazine. Pitty on the drive-thru guy.

2) Structure, thy name is blog! I have been thinking more and more that writing could be the key to my finally finding a career which does not make me hate every weekday, but before I could even think of such a thing I need to prove to myself that I can set goals and hit them. So my big goal for this blog is to try to post, on average, once every couple of days. Does this mean I actually do post every other day? Let me introduce you to my friend the weekend! (in other words, "No, but I have real good excuses!") But if by the end of March I've got 15-16 posts for the month I'll consider myself doing real good.

3) Building a community. Or something like that. (and hey, the membership roster for the Secret Bloggers Society is still wide open, people!) Honestly, an unforseen bonus to this process has been how exciting it is to me each time someone new starts coming through. (Courtney, you are so very pretty and vivacious! Never stop being you!) If I didn't start blogging for that reason it's sure one of the reasons I keep going.

4) To meet dudes! (actually if I meet dudes through this avenue it will mean two things: 1. I'm doing this totally wrong AND 2. that is the only dude that might actually be up for the challenge!) But the blog did provide me the excuse/reason/inspiration to at least try the online dating thing. Regardless of whether I make any significant connections online I can say I did it, I can say I know what all it entails and I can know if I should ever want to try it again. (or if I'd rather eat a yummy glass casserole -- or "glasserole" -- instead!)

5) Humiliation with a catharsis chaser. The cocktail of today. It helps to have somewhere to go to vent when my good friend, the Universe, feeds me a mouthful of foot (kicks me in the teeth, for anyone who is lost by my "masterful" imagery). Rejected by a guy? Write it out! Rejected by another guy? Write it out! Rejected by a whole bunch of guys? (it's coming, it's coming!) This helps me to check my response to it all and make sure I'm taking it just as seriously as I should, which would be not even a tiny bit at all, at all, at all!

So that, my loving and generous readers (and you know who you are), are the reasons why I will sit down at my computer at 12:45am on a Sunday and spend 40 minutes typilly vomitting my brain-stuff into these little forms. Because if I don't, I'll be alone, bitter and unstructured, sitting on the floor in the corner babbling. More then I already do.

And yeah, this is off-mission. Sorry about the scuffed shoes.

Trapped and cranky

OK, I must first acknowledge that this post is 100% off-mission. No mention of dudes or wove or online-hooking-up here, so I'd understand if folks skipped it. However I hope you'll take pity on me. See, I'm in a mood best described as "Pooperific" (although I think both "Grumble-tastic" and/or "potentially homicidal" might also apply) and I'm trapped here at my office desk job, or "rock the fake smile/use the phone voice/sport the uncomfy shoes-land." I can't unleash my inner tantrum here, so I'm hoping that the world out there might have some suggestions for how to "turn that frown upside down"? (and I'm really sorry that those words came out of my fingers.)

Here are the ideas that I've had so far:

• Listening to the right music. See, I put on headphones and listen to music in one ear while I'm working, so the choice of my music is all mine. I went with Beatles, but it might be a bridge too far for them?
• Stopping by websites with whimsy. So far I hit dailymonster.com, homestarrunner.com and puppetup.com.
• Grover's Health Minute. 'nuff said. (there are many fabulous Sesame Street and Muppet Show clips on YouTube and the like, but this one was the cause of one of my worst giggle-fits ever. Ever.)
• Indescriminately wiggling my butt when I think no one is looking
• Descriminately wiggling my butt when I suspect folks are looking, because I'm all about sharing.
• Kicking the chair of the receptionist when I walk through her space on the way to the cookies.
• Eating cookies.

...but believe it or not, none of these things have worked. Not even the cookies, or the cookie-route-chair-kicking! (plus now the receptionist is ticked at me, which would be worth it if my mood had improved.) Help, help, help!

You know how I feel about going off-mission, so you know this is serious. I hope there are people out there with advise to offer. Consider it a community service!

Femtastic vs. the Crazies, act 1

So I'm at the store. Actually I'm leaving the store -- I've got a full cart and an empty pocket, so mission all accomplishy. I've moved the cart contents into the car, and now I'm being a good shopping citizen and taking my cart back to the little cart corral. Yes, I am the one who does that. It's me. The truth is out.

To get to the cart corral I gotta walk around this big old SUV parked in the end slot. Now you guys know the end slot, right? It's recognizable by a few things. The location at the end of the row, the close proximity to the store, the big, yellow-lined area between the row and the store that says (in parking lot language) "don't park in this area because if you do then folks who turn around the row in their big, old cars will shave off your ass. Your car ass. So don't."

But on this day someone has parked in the end space, and this someone apparently doesn't understand parking lot language. This SUV is parked almost 2 feet into this "don't park here" area and, therefore, almost 2 feet away from the other side of the space. And I'm sorry, but I am fairly gobsmacked by the craptitude of the parking job. Enough so that I stare. As I walk around the car I stare at the parking job, the wheels, the encroachment into the "don't park here" space... I stare. I don't really think about it, but I stare. I get around to the corral at the nose of the SUV and push the cart in with the rest of it's herd, and I look up.

Right into the eyes of the driver of the SUV.

Apparently she's noticed my gobsmackery. She smiles at me, and I smile back. Sort of. I give her that crooked smile that says "so, that parking job: blind or drunk?" Because come on, it was a TERRIBLE parking job, and she was still in the car so she could take a minute and fix it right then. And I head back to my car.

That's when she starts screeching out her window.

"Oh my god, is it so very terrible?!?" she screams out her driver-side window, the other side from where I was parked. (this forces her to yell VERY loud so that I can hear her on the other side of her gynormous vehicle, not to mention over her eco-guilt.) "Did I kill someone? Is it that big of a problem, are you that bothered by it? Good god, I must be a terrible, terrible person I guess, huh?!?" and on and on and on.

At first I'm gonna ignore it, but I'm so amazed that she is still going by the time I get to my car, not to mention how righteous her indignation, that I just have to come face to face with this wailing wackadoo. I wander back around the ass of her (poorly parked) gas-guzzler and as I round the corner she (get this):

1) rolls up her window AND
2) locks her door.

LOCKS HER DOOR!!! Like I'm some 11-foot tall, musclebound hunchback covered in tattoos and fresh scars! It's so funny to me that by the time I reach her door I'm already laughing. I'm laughing and she's calling out "No, no, no, no, no..." and I'm laughing even more. In hindsight I should probably feel kind of bad because if she was scared enough to lock her door and start chanting I guess I shouldn't have laughed. Anyway, the next thing I make out from her is something about "I just can't believe that you would make a comment like that!" (oh, and she apparently showed fear by YELLING because her volume was unstoppable.)

"I didn't make any comment." I corrected her (still a little bit laughing -- she locked her door!) "The only one talking is you."

"I'm just amazed at your behavior!" she adds, and I'm FLOORED.

"I'm sorry," I stammer out, "you're amazed at my behavior?" She stops short when I say "I'm sorry" -- probably thinks I'm actually gonna apologize for something -- but when I get the question out she just nodds and verifies that I'm not confused. And so I honestly reply to her "Well that's the most hilarious thing I've ever heard of in my life. Seriously, just hilarious. Truly hysterical!" and that was the sentiment I kept repeating as I headed back to my little car. (And the laughing was pretty bad at this point.)

As I back out of my space what is crazy lady doing?

She's re-parking her car.

Now seriously, what dude could wrangle this force of absurd nature? What dude?