The Cat Ate My Homework

Recently our cat Susie has been crazy hungry. She has a thyroid issue and extreme thirst and hunger are part of the symptoms, and she has been on medication for it quite a few years. But lately something has really gotten into her. She is cat, dog, and mouse all at the same time.

She begs for food while my husband and I are eating dinner. I thought it was fun at first, letting her sample from my plate after I was done, to see what she would eat - onions, broccoli, tomato vodka sauce. She ate it all. But now I push her away from my plate, regretting having started that bad habit.

There was a loaf of cranberry bread on our table, still in the pan and covered with aluminum foil. I had to chase her off the table after I caught her trying to scratch away the foil to see what was underneath. A few hours later I heard a crash and a tinny-sounding muffle. I came downstairs and there it was, loaf pan knocked to the floor, crumbs and nuts and cranberries skewed all over, Susie the cat munching away.

That next day I was taking a pumpkin pie out of the oven, and was just about to set it on the table to cool, but then there she was, hopping right up on the chair, her nose sniffing the cinnamon air, and I knew what was bound to happen were I to leave the pie there to cool. So, I lifted it high on the top of the refrigerator, almost spilling the hot mushy goodness in the process.

While food shopping Sunday morning I had picked up a loaf of “yoga bread” for a friend to try, and had it sitting on the landing by our front door so my husband would remember to drop it off to her. The next morning I awoke early and went downstairs to feed that hungry begging bugger of a cat, and what did I see? The plastic bread bag gnawed open, crusty crumbs all over the place.

Let me tell you, she’s damn lucky she’s cute.

Over the weekend my dashboard light for “check tire pressure” came on. Finally on Tuesday morning on my way to work I stopped at my trusted, tried, and true gas station to put air in my tires. I parked, grabbed a couple quarters from my console, got out into the brisk morning air and took the cap off the tire valve, grabbed and untangled the always-tangled dirty tubing and turned to put my money in the air machine and then I saw it. A tiny note taped to the machine – “out of order”.

Later that same day on my lunch hour I went to the ATM to deposit a check. I pulled up and the screen was black and guess what? Out of order. The whole bank was out of order, actually. They had a power failure for no apparent reason.

It reminded me of a show I used to watch – I think it was on ShowTime. The main character was played by Eric Stoltz and on each and every episode there was a point where he was trying to accomplish some task or errand and inevitably when he went to do it, there it was, a sign that read “out of order”. The show was actually called Out of Order. I thought it was a great show, but it only ran for one season.

Recently my life has been out of order, as much as everyone’s has been this past year or so to some extent or another. I am glad the year is coming to a close. Winter is the perfect excuse to hibernate from the world, curl up with a big book and mug of peppermint tea and dream of spring, and sun, and newness. Rebirth.

Rebirth. Like my irises. They are blooming in December. Even Mother Nature is out of order.


“The elevator to success is out of order. You'll have to use the stairs... one step at a time.” ~Joe Girard

Hi Honey, I'm Home!

What’s wrong in the world when the wife gets up in the morning and goes to work, while the husband and his friends go hang out at Starbucks?

This recession has really flip-flopped things. Women have become the breadwinners. Statistics show it, and I have seen it my own world.

Is it wrong of me to want to go back to the 1950s? Wearing a cotton dress each day with a cute frilly apron. Luncheons with the ladies. Game of pinochle anyone? Bridge, perhaps? Keeping house. Starching a shirt collar or two.  Bonbons at 3, only for me....

...Sweetly idling the day away until it came time to have the husband's cocktail ready in hand and kiss ass the minute he walks through the door after a hard day’s work?

“I have too many fantasies to be a housewife. I guess I am a fantasy.”
~Marilyn Monroe

Missing in Action

I have been amiss. Absolutely awry. Absent without leave. I have been utterly uninspired, desperately devoid of the wizardry of the written word. And I missed alliterating. I missed the clever coaptation, the busy bungled banter, the echo of the erstwhile esoteric etchings of pen on paper….

But I am back. Expect great things.

At least until the next case of writer’s block.

Ah, but I must confess. It hasn’t been so much writer’s block as it is just that I’ve been busy.

My brother recently bought a house, and a friend and I have been helping him decorate. Well, so far all we’ve actually done is bought and hung curtains in every room of his house, while waiting for him to paint all the rooms so we can begin the actual “decorating”. It has been well over a month. I would have had the whole house painted by now. He has only painted the dining room.

Don’t get me wrong. It’s a beautiful dining room - three coats of garnet on the walls, and two coats of deliciously creamy color on the trim and crown molding. But come on already! We want to design on a dime, shop for accessories, and hang wall art, and we can’t do that until the colors are in place and the mood is set.

Paint party, anyone?

"You get ideas from daydreaming. You get ideas from being bored. You get ideas all the time. The only difference between writers and other people is we notice when we're doing it.” ~Neil Gaiman

Help! I’ve Fallen and I Can’t Get Up

My husband was just approved by our insurance company to get a CPAP machine. Continuous Positive Airway Pressure. It’s for his sleep apnea, which causes a horrible snoring problem. Not so much a problem for him, but a problem for me. He sleeps right through it while I sneak off to the guest room in search of peace in the deep dark deluge of the night.

But soon I will be sleeping with a masked man. That could be exciting…? Or is it just the sign of the times - the beginning of the end. Doomsday is upon us. And it all starts with durable medical equipment in my bedroom.

Middle age.

But don’t worry; it will happen to you too - if it hasn’t already. The men in our lives will soon be buying thick gold chains and wearing their shirts half unbuttoned, with gabardine pants and orthopedic shoes. I am already praying for no comb-overs. (Please, God?) Before we know it, it will be time to put a down payment on a single level condo unit in a retirement community. Prunes will become a dietary staple. My friends and I will buy each other Life Alerts for birthday presents.

So, yes, I will be sleeping with a masked man, and although it is not the masked man of comic books and super hero marvels, at least it’s just in time for Halloween.

“The really frightening thing about middle age is the knowledge that you'll grow out of it.”
~Doris Day

We're Not in Kansas

Whenever I’m feeling low blue sad fat ugly….I just take a little trip to the local Wal-Mart store and do some people watching and then I don’t feel so bad.

Flat hair and grey teeth and spikes, oh my!

The person in front of me at the check-out was buying a cart full of sugar-coated cereal and cartons of cigarettes. One hundred and twenty-one dollars’ worth. That’ll keep the old heart ticking.

And I swear I saw a woman four feet wide.

"Well, we're not living in a trailer park, so we'll be all right."
~Dorothy

Baby Needs a New Pair of Shoes

Dear Lottery Gods:

I bought two tickets for tonight’s drawing. I am asking for your help to win. I am not greedy. I am not searching for mega-millions. Just a few hundred thousand will do. Or even a few thousand - just a little something to ease the pain. A little Jersey Cash, if you will.

Yes, I know, money can’t buy you love but I already have that. And I know money is the root of all evil but I am good. I am a hard worker who has just grown weary and tired. I have a husband who was laid off earlier this year. We have a small modest house with a big gigantic mortgage. Our attic needs insulation. Our kitchen needs a new ceiling, among other things. Our windows need new…windows. We have no fun money and therefore we have become…un-fun. We cancelled a trip to our nation’s capital. We never go out anymore. We sit at home and make faces at each other for entertainment. We watch The History Channel.

So….please?

Okay.
Thanks.
Bye.

"The only way not to think about money is to have a great deal of it."
~Edith Wharton

Doctor! Doctor!

I haven’t been to the doctor in a while, a few years at least. My husband has been bugging me to make an appointment. I have had the office number sitting on my desk for the past three to four weeks and still I have not called for an appointment. I should have my blood work done. I should have my heartbeat checked. I should have my body poked and prodded for irregular lumps and bumps.

But I don’t wanna go to the doctor!

I cannot even remember the last time I had a cold. My cholesterol levels have always been perfect. I don’t have any illnesses or diseases to speak of. I am not on any medications. I don’t get infections. I exercise. I eat right. I do not smoke.

I do get headaches. I have tightness in my shoulders. I have an aching in my left hip that occasionally flares up. But to me, these are just the normal everyday aches and pains of life that do not require a doctor’s visit. And I get PMS just like every other woman. Well, maybe I have PMS a little worse than other women. If I were on a trial jury where the accused was a woman who killed her husband, no matter what her defense was I would vote “not guilty by reason of PMS”. So, okay, maybe I have very bad PMS. Maybe I have PMDD – premenstrual dysphoric disorder, which is what I self-diagnosed two or three years ago. I have tried every natural remedy from St. John’s Wort to mega doses of calcium and organic mangosteen juice, all to no avail. It is probably time to go see a professional.

But I don’t wanna go to the doctor!


"The art of medicine consists in amusing the patient while nature cures the disease." ~Voltaire

I have PMS and a handgun, any questions?

Rollin’ Rollin’ Rollin’

Last night I was searching on the internet for the correct spelling of a drug (for those of you that don’t know, I moonlight as a medical transcriptionist) and I came across a message board with references to rolling, taking a bean, and pre- and post-loading with herbal supplements. Upon further reading, I realized it was a message board about taking ecstasy and how to get the most out of it. And there I sat, a 41-year-old female barefoot at my desk at home in New Jersey at 8:30 in the evening on a Thursday night suddenly wishing I had tried it just once. Rolling.

Never having really delved into the big bad world of drugs, other than the one or two non-inhaling Bill-Clinton-like experiences or popping the occasional Percocet that wasn’t prescribed to me, I wondered how my life would have been different if I had.  I know many people with a past history in that that big bad world, hardcore addicts and recreational users, and I see them now and their lives seem just fine - great, in fact. They live in lush tropical lands. They have children and wives and productive jobs. They are beautiful as supermodels.

And there I sat, a 41-year-old female barefoot at my desk at home in New Jersey at 8:30 in the evening on a Thursday night suddenly wondering.

I wondered if this was just another rite of passage I had missed out on, growing up in the small safe world that I did? Would I appreciate my life that much more, had I had that battle or another to overcome? If it is our experiences that form us, what happens when we lack those experiences? Or is it simply just that some people float and flitter through life, smelling the flowers, tasting the nectar, while others trudge through it like it is one big snow drift after another?

"Actually I don't remember being born, it must have happened during one of my black outs."
~Jim Morrison

(Note: I do not in any way advocate drug use nor am I attempting to glamorize it. I have seen first-hand the damage it can do.)

Down the Rabbit Hole

I’m late! I’m late! For a very important date! Okay, not a date. I haven’t had a date, important or otherwise, in years. I overslept. I was late for work. This morning there was peaceful sleepy slumber, which is quite unusual for me, with a snorer to the left of me and a loudly purring Cheshire to the right of me. I rarely oversleep. Even on weekends I am awake before seven. But it was hard to fall asleep last night. My husband was tossing and turning, and turning and tossing. His heart was pounding out of his chest. He was feeling electrical zaps in his brain.

Does your life ever feel like you’ve just stepped into Wonderland? Tim Burton’s version, no less?

My husband is the Mad Hatter. He has fallen down the rabbit hole. He is encountering strange ordeals and peculiar experiences. He ran out of his Paxil prescription on Sunday, and is beginning to feel the awful withdrawal effects. You are not supposed to stop taking it cold turkey; you are supposed to taper off it. But he had no choice. His prescription is with the mail order pharmacy, and it has been delayed. His doctor won’t give him another prescription in the meantime, and even if he did his local pharmacist won’t sell him anything less than another 30-day supply which insurance most likely wouldn’t cover. So he waits. He anxiously checks his bank account to see if the pharmacy has debited the co-pay. He calls the insurance company to see what the hold-up is. He calls the doctor’s office to see why they haven’t submitted their electronic signature to the pharmacy. They tell him they have done so. It is a crazy waiting situation, he a pawn in the Queen of Heart’s game of big healthcare nonsense.

The anxiety of wondering and worrying when he will get the Paxil adds to the anxiety he is already feeling from not having his regular doses of Paxil, this in addition to the everyday anxiety he feels, the reason he takes Paxil in the first place.

This is not easy for me either. And there is nothing I can do to help him. But I may steal some of his Paxil when it finally does arrive.

Goodbye. I'm late, I'm late, I'm late.

Caterpillar: Who... are... you?
Alice: Why, I hardly know, sir. I've changed so much since this morning, you see...
Caterpillar: No, I do not C, explain yourself.
Alice: I'm afraid I can't explain myself, you see, because I'm not myself, you know.
Caterpillar: I do not know.
Alice: I can't put it any more clearly, sir, because it isn't clear to me.
~Lewis Carroll                     

She Bang

The time has come to turn on the heat. The furnace is firing up, boiling happy and steaming mad. The radiators go bump in the night.

My husband and I bought our house just over three years ago. Prior to that, we had both been apartment dwellers and didn’t have to deal with furnaces, boilers, steam heat, and big heavy old-fashioned radiators. Of course, I had assumed my husband would know what to do with the big angry steel creature in our basement just because he is, well, a man. But I was never so wrong in my life. Once that first winter rolled round, he was turning dials and knobs, pushing buttons and levers. I asked what he was doing, and he said he didn’t know. He hadn’t a clue. So, wait…stop! There are flames and gas and gurgling boiling water! There are pressure gauges and hot steam! There are rusted and crusted pipes! There are asbestos-wrapped appendages strategically placed throughout our basement!

This was dangerous stuff.

So if our house were ever to be toasty and warm, I knew I would have to take it upon myself to learn about the boiling beast. I researched online. I bought a book. I found out our ancient heating system was one of the best there are, if it is functioning properly. I called the heating company for a serviceman to come out. I watched him as he poked and prodded and drained and refilled. I asked him question after question about our lean mean heating machine.

And now I know its secrets. I know how its steam is forced up through the pipes to heat the radiators, only to return again in its condensed form. I know the angle of its pipes have to be just so for this to happen. I know its pressure gauge should always remain on a very low setting. I know I have to purge it of its murky inky water every so often. I know that if the water in the indicator is rising and falling as if it were hurricane season, it is just not happy about one thing or another.

The radiators do still clang and bang, but I am no longer afraid.

“May you have warmth in your igloo, oil in your lamp, and peace in your heart” ~Eskimo Proverb

Slumpty Dumpty

So yesterday I wore a trash bag to work. Working in a large, somewhat upscale law firm, there are fashionistas to the left of me and fashionistas to the right of me, but with a husband out of work and a mortgage too big for my britches, I have become a recessionista. Hence, the trash bag dress.

Okay, so you probably guessed it wasn’t actually a trash bag. But it sure felt like it. It was a pretty silver gray color, and was meant to be a tunic type of dress, short and fitted on the lower half and then bloused out above the waist. And that’s how it was when I left home in the morning. By the time I had gotten to work, though, the bottom half must have stretched out from sitting in the car, and my outfit was now just a sloppy oversized mess of a dress. I swear there are garment gremlins in my car, determined to wreak havoc on my wardrobe and self-confidence as I drive to work every day. They hide under the floor mats and sit silently invisible in the back seat along with the hair frizz goblins and the mismatched shoe ghouls.

I must hold an exorcism.

Just around the corner in every woman's mind - is a lovely dress, a wonderful suit, or entire costume which will make an enchanting new creature of her. ~Wilhela Cushman

This is the dress that malfunctioned.

Cat Lady

Last night I was watching our cat GiGi trying to catch a bug that was flying around the bedroom. At one point, she stood completely upright on her hind legs and kept clasping her front paws together. She looked like she was clapping but in actuality she was trying to snatch up the bug between her paws. It was the damndest cutest thing ever.

It made me remember how back in my single days I was so afraid I would become the wretched neighborhood cat lady, hiding behind dark curtains, hoarding 78 cats, leaving the house only to buy Fancy Feast, school kids throwing eggs at my house on Halloween.

But what’s funny is when I was single I had no cats. Now that I am married I have two. And I hide behind dark curtains and school kids throw eggs at my house on Halloween.

Just kidding.

But have you seen that woman Jocelyn who has had so much plastic surgery her face actually looks like a wild cat? Seriously! I believe that was her intent, though I can’t say for sure.

Sometimes I wish I were a cat, so on bad days I could just hide in the dark under the bed. I could be snobby and prissy and nobody would think twice about it. I could sit on a warm breezy windowsill and observe the humans as if they were put on this earth just for my entertainment. I could literally walk all over my owners, waking them from their deep slumber, and get away with it unscathed, because I am just the damndest cutest thing ever.


Cats were put into the world to disprove the dogma that all things were created to serve man. ~ Paul Gray

Friday

And on the Seventh Day she rested.

Say Cheese!

I was sarcastically referred to by someone today as “Linda? You mean the shiny happy one?” - or something to that effect. So, okay, I will be the first to admit I don’t walk around with a smile plastered on my face. I can be moody, oftentimes cranky, and sometimes I am just plain sullen. Nothing irritates me more than a complete stranger walking by me in public saying “Hey, smile!” Who are they to tell me how to emote, how to project myself, and how to feel? They have no idea what is going on inside my head, in my life, or in the deep recesses of my psyche. The truth is, I am a quiet reflective person. Perhaps I feel the hurts of the world more than others. Perhaps I woke up on the wrong side of the bed after not sleeping quite so well, with a cat incessantly whining and screaming in my ear (literally), as it just so happens each and every single morning, day after day, week after week.   Or…perhaps…I…just…don’t…like you....

But not you, of course, dear reader of my blog.

I just wanted to say I appreciate you all taking the time to read my thoughts and words, and for all the positive feedback I’ve gotten. This is actually fun for me and something I’ve been meaning to do for a while and have finally gotten around to actually doing it. So, thanks for being part of it! Please take two minutes to watch the video clip below…because guess what? It made me smile.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ps6ck1ejoAw

My Girl

I just watched Kelly Osbourne’s dance performance online, from last night’s DWTS. She did a great job and received much applause. I actually had tears in my eyes, seeing how happy she looked that she pulled it off, one of the best dances of the night - tough tomboy rocker chick turned graceful and beautiful. Her parents were in the audience, and to see their reactions, tears streaming down their faces, at how proud they were of her -- say what you will about Ozzie, but that family has been through a lot (multiple drug rehabs for father, daughter, and son; cancer survival; near-fatal accident), and seeing them still come together and act like a close-knit family is amazing to me. You should find the video clip online and watch it.  It’s worth it to see Ozzie brought to tears over his daughter’s debut dance performance. It was sweet. And here you thought he was a hard-core heavy metal dude who didn’t give a damn about anything.

Also in today’s headlines, Mackenzie Phillips has just revealed she had a 10-year (consensual) incestuous relationship with her father (John Phillips of the Mamas & the Papas). She also claims he was the one who first shot her up with drugs. Nice. And guess what? He was an easy-breezy lite-FM folk singer.

Our mind is capable of passing beyond the dividing line we have drawn for it. Beyond the pairs of opposites of which the world consists, other, new insights begin. ~Hermann Hesse

Gee, Your Hair Smells Terrific

Remember that shampoo?  I don’t think they make it anymore. And I don’t think anybody uses the word “terrific” anymore either. I have the DVD box sets of That Girl, and Marlo Thomas’ character says it all the time: “Gee, Donald, wouldn’t that be terrific?” “Oh, Donald, that’s just terrific!” and “Yes, daddy, that sure is terrific!” I guess the word terrific has had many transformations throughout the years: groovy, cool, bad, sweet.

Back then we had That Girl. That Girl wouldn’t even sleep in the same hotel room as Donald when they were stranded during a snow storm, when the roads were impassable and there was nowhere else to go, even though he had been her gallant virtuous boyfriend for years, and even though he would have gladly and over-enthusiastically slept on the floor, without a pillow or blanket, even. But, if it wasn’t for That Girl we wouldn’t have had Sex & the City, which is just a terrific show.

See Dick Run.  Ha! A primary school book these days should read “Run, Joey, run! The homecoming queen’s got a gun!”

Entertainment in 1974:
Ohh Noo - It’s Mr. Bill!
Entertainment in 2004:
Kill Bill: Vol. 1.
Kill Bill: Vol. 2.
Kill Bill: Vol. 3.

In the 1980s, on every little girl’s wish list was a Cabbage Patch doll. This year I am sure Santa will be getting many requests for the Pole Dancer doll.  Have you seen that new little novelty?

All change is not growth, as all movement is not forward. ~Ellen Glasgow

It's All Smoke & Mirrors

I am troubled today. I have friends and a husband I trust. I trust in myself. I trust God’s green earth will continue to rotate on its axis. But however will I know which mirrors to trust? I always feel I look the best in my mirror at home. But maybe that’s just because I am used to the lighting and am comfortable in my surroundings? At home this morning I thought I looked great, my husband even told me so. But now here at work my make-up looks too dark, my eyes bloodshot, and my cheeks puffy. At work, the full-length mirror in our ladies’ room is warped. If you look in the left side, you are thin and beautiful and your clothes look great on you. But, if you step just a few inches to the right, you look bumpy, frumpy, and how-did-I-ever-go-to-work-looking-like-this? 

And what about fitting rooms, even at the most high-end stores? It never fails to shock me how nothing looks good. Is it the lighting? Are we too critical of ourselves, having to evaluate ourselves in such a small area with mirrors at all angles? Too much focus on the negative because there is nothing else for us to focus on? I am at a loss. They want you to look good in the clothes so you will buy them, so why aren’t fitting rooms more user-friendly? Put in mirrors that make us look skinny and we will buy, buy, and buy some more!

And who invented fluorescent lighting anyway?  Must have been a man.

“Vanity is so secure in the heart of man that everyone wants to be admired: even I who write this, and you who read this.” ~ Blaise Pascal

Fall Into It

Okay, so just hearing my husband’s grunts and groans from downstairs has given me my topic for today. Football season is here.  He is playing Madden 2010 on his PS3, shouting “run you little bastard!” (Actually, he shouts something that is not quite so politically correct which I will not repeat herein.) He is moaning as if he is in pain, and I imagine the stress and strain he is under is almost unbearable. If he doesn’t press the right button on the controller, he won’t make the field goal. If he covers his mouth when he coughs, he could miss an interception. Or horror of all horrors, if the cat crosses his path between his chair and the TV screen, he could make a fumble.

Football season to me means fall has finally arrived: inhaling cool crisp air, slipping on Ugg-like boots instead of flip-flops, and choosing between butternut or acorn squash at the supermarket. My cooking will soon switch from grilled meats with dry rubs to braised meats with Marsala wine. Just yesterday I switched out my summer clothes to wool and cotton sweaters. Shorter days and heating bills are on the horizon.

Any change of season is a good time for new goals and aspirations, a change of thought process, and a wake-up call that time is trudging along.  Fall is often a hard time to keep those goals as we know winter will soon be rearing its ugly head.  Already I am beginning to feel the urge to hibernate.  But I cannot wait to watch the leaves change color...

Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower.
~Albert Camus

Red Red Wine, Stay Close to Me

I’ve gotten into the habit of drinking red wine in the evenings, especially on a cozy winter weekend. I will carry my delicate bulbous glass from room to room, downstairs to upstairs, wherever I happen to be going or whatever I happen to be doing. I am not a drunk, I do not (usually) over-imbibe. Sipping it just calms me, eases the day away, helping to melt the tension ever-present in my shoulders.

I never had a security blanket as a kid, and I wonder why do I need this pacifier now? Are our lives as women totally overbooked, overrun, overexposed? I work too much, this I know, for what used to be extra cash but now it has become a necessity. And owning a home is more than double the work and upkeep than living in an apartment, and then add a husband and finances into the mix. And working women with children, I don’t know how you do it.

In the song Red Red Wine, the singer finds it helps him to get over a lost love. Me, I find it helps me relax and fall asleep easier. And I have to shallowly admit, it just makes me feel like a sophisticated grownup. Not to mention, the many health benefits are well-documented. Even Newsweek magazine has published articles on reasons to drink wine. So, enjoy a glass yourself, and as someone very close to me used to say “Cheers, big ears!”

“In water one sees one’s own face; but in wine one beholds the heart of another.”
~French proverb

A Bad Hair Day

I have waited too long to get a hair cut.  The weather and my hair are tumbling into fall, and scissors have not touched my strands since the spring time.  My hair is wild and unmanageable, tamed only by a pony tail, or perhaps a pig tail, too, I suppose.  I cannot stand it any longer.  Tomorrow is the day.  A new me.  A makeover.  Monday at work I will be a new person.  I will have new hair, new clothes, new high heel dress boots.  That's what comes with a new hair cut.  Inspiration! 

I have found this is something men will never understand - what a bad hair day does to a woman.  Well, how about a bad hair month?  Imagine the consequences of that - ha!  I have just lived it.  I feel frumpy, my face looks long and drawn out, I look older than my years.  If the hair isn't good, who cares about the shoes?  And since the shoes make the outfit, if you don't care about the shoes, then why care about the outfit?  So, I've been schlumping it up these past few weeks...dressing for comfort, eh, you might say?  And once you're dressing for comfort, it's all down hill from there....