My Wake-Up Call

Full size spare ... yay!

Broke the rim seal ... boo! hiss!

Thinks for which I thank God today:

• I didn’t kill anyone.
• I didn’t hurt anyone.
• I didn’t kill myself.
• I didn’t hurt myself.
• I didn’t total my truck.
• My cell battery wasn’t quite dead.
• I have a full size spare.
• I have AAA.
• My AAA guy didn’t get killed changing my tire.
• That Bastard RA responds quickly and well to NSAIDs
  

Things I learned today:

• It only takes one lapse in attention to really screw the pooch.
• SLOW DOWN!
• Even a non-impact auto mash-up hurts when that Bastard RA is around.
• AAA Field Service Technician Rob S. rocks with the big giant awesomeness.
  

So I’m be-bopping along to work this morning … not paying the closest of attention on this dreary drizzling dawn. Had my 4WD on for the slickish road conditions. Had just been disconnected from a cell call, only to be cut off by some jagoff who simply had to change lanes in front of me, forcing me to slam on my brakes. Soon as idiot was out of my lane I sped up to get out of the way of the guy bearing down on me from behind, and just kept steaming along into the cloverleaf to go from the northbound freeway I was on to the westbound freeway I needed to be on.

And completely lost control of the truck. Probably happened fairly quickly, but that madrush of adrenaline sure made it seem like it took awhile. First I’m scrambling to steer out of a right skid, then the resultant left skid, back to the right, left again, then finally lost it on the final right skid when my rear end succeeded in swinging out in front of my front end.

It was quite the slalom, bumping up against and over the curb (and who the heck puts a curb on a cloverleaf?!?) hard enough to break the seal on my driver’s side rear tire. So now I’m in the grass of the cloverleaf, looking back at oncoming traffic. Engine never stopped, so I dropped into reverse and swung around in a big ole circle ‘til I was facing the right way then, in a break in traffic, I upped back onto the tarmac. And flub-flubbed a couple yards.

Dang; flat tire. And here’s how discombobulated I was; I called AAA for a tow and she asked if I wouldn’t rather just have the driver change the tire? Well, duh! Yes, yes that’s a grand idea! Sometimes I am a marone. Then she prioritized me because of the danger to traffic a disabled vehicle is in that location.

So, my AAA guy arrives within 20 minutes … fantastic! He can see I’m still weirded out a little, so he proceeded to calmly and clearly talk me through everything he was doing. I got his card so I could give him a commendation (I'm still self-irritated that I had no cash on me, as he certainly deserved a tip); I hope AAA gives their employees something special when they get customer commendations.

Rob S. pulls the spare (one of those under-the-carraige jobs), jacks up the truck (yes, Bill-I am well aware it’s actually an suv, but I call it a truck, ‘k?), pulls the old, places the spare, checks the air level, tops it off, drops the truck, and voila! Good to go. Then, he makes sure I can get back into the flow of traffic without further mishap. A-plus, people! A-plus! (Or should I say AAA-Plus?) With any luck the rim won’t be damaged enough to have to be replaced (it’s just that little strip that’s gone … I think), and the tire will be sound. Fingers crossed!

But I’ll tell you, thanks to that Bastard RA I have aches tonight that I haven’t experienced in quite awhile. Prolly from gripping the wheel so and tensing up while slithering all over the road … I feel positively wiped out. The further into the day I’ve gotten, the more I’ve wanted to crawl into bed with a heating pad and a mug of hot cocoa (to wrap my hands around). I’m about to go Advil it up.

Today was an all's well that ends well endeavor.

Ha! There’s Stupid and Then There’s … Me

Every year my mortgage payment changes a little … not because it’s an ARM or anything like that, but rather because I have my taxes and insurance come out of my escrow each month. So. After six years I realize it’s actually gone up a whole heck of a lot and I’m not happy.

I call Chase (not my original mortgage lender … hey! did you know your mortgage lender can just sell your mortgage to somebody else? hunh. not me … didn’t know until it happened. no biggie, it’s just that i went with a little local place because i liked the idea of it, and they went and foisted me off on a big ole’ national playa first chance they got … so now i’m on hold 8 to10 minutes whenever i call, but i can also look at everything on that there interwebby thang whenever i want … not that i can understand most of it … so its actually a fairly even trade-off, now that i think on it) and they explain that it’s not the actual mortgage that’s changing, but rather my homeowners insurance.

The poor Chase kid actually told me to look into my insurance because it was ‘ridiculously high’. His words, nit mine. Can you believe that?! Dude.

Turns out, after much investigation, that my assbucket insurance agent raised my insurance premium about … wait for it … 56% over the past six years. Fifty-six percent, people!!!

Fifty

Six

Percent

!!

When I called him out on it he says, “I was just going to call you within the next couple months to go over that with you.” Really? Next. Couple. Months? Mer.

Anyway, I get the policy corrected, and assbucket has a check cut to me for the difference. All set, right?

Wrong.

Couple weeks later I get another check directly from the insurance company (this, by the way, is a major insurance company … MAJOR) for the rest of the balance. Wait a minute! If my original (bad) policy was $A, and the new one is $B, and $A minus $B equals $C, then I totally understand getting the check for $C … but now also getting a check for $B within a couple weeks? Um, doesn’t that kind of mean I no longer have insurance? Oh, shit!

So I call Chase again and explain the sitch … they have me send them the check for $C, because major insurance company has issued another bill for my 2009 homeowners and Chase has paid it out of my escrow account and this check for $C will ensure I don’t end up with a negative balance in escrow (which would just increase my overall mortgage payment, which would be pretty much the exact opposite result of what I was going for in the first place!).

I check every day for a couple weeks and finally confirm check has been applied to escrow. The end.

Nope (and here’s where the stupid comes into play). All this played out at the beginning of 2009. Chase advised me that I wouldn’t see the decrease in my monthly mortgage payment until 2010, because they use the annual homeowners & tax payout to determine increase/decrease in that years escrow, and they had already done it for 2009. Whatever, I can live with that.

So, I go to pay my October mortgage and realize it is 8.7% higher than it should be. WTF?!? Then, because I am nothing if not observant (you’ll feel the sarcasm in a sec), I check back and realize I’ve been paying 8.7% more for four months. Four. Months.

Four.

Sigh. Yes. I know. I know! But still. Just because I totally brain-farted that for four months doesn’t mean I’m at fault. No. It does not! I’ve had a lot going on. Oh, shut up. In Opposite Land this would have been a total score.

Anyway, called Chase, and Cassandra (such a lovely name!) confirmed right quick that it was a booboo of the we-counted-both-payouts-to-major-insurance-company-as-your-combined-new-yearly-insurance-amount-even-though-you-sent-their-reimbursement-check-right-to-us-to-be-applied-to-your-escrow-like-we-told-you-to-and-so-it-increased-your-escrow-requirements-blah-blah-blah and recalculated it so for the rest of the year I’ll go back to just a smidge below the amount I was paying up ‘til four months ago.

Then, next year I’ll actually see that decrease in monthly payment because the huge decrease in my homeowners will post. And don’t think major insurance company is getting away with this, either. Hah! I’m switching to another carrier who is half (HALF) their price! WOO to the HOO!

Wicked Awesome Poem Wednesday

Song

the littlest bird
sang all for me
its song was love
it set me free

sang at my birth
and at my death
it sang its song
with my last breath

the littlest bird
sang in my soul
its song was joy
it made me whole

it made me whole
it set me free
it sang its song
its song was me

-Alan Spence

Word Jumble

Spanakopita

I don’t know what it is, but it sure as heck sounds good. So now I’m looking for a really good local Greek restaurant. If this stuff is half as good as a Gyro? Well then, I’m set for life. And Dave, if you want to point me to a recipe I’m all “yay, goodness!” about the idea.

Stolen from Sundry (take that, internet mores!)

She had questions around the H1N1 vaccine yesterday (speaking from the perspective of someone with a pesky compromised immune system, I am all for it), and one of her respondents gave her a terrific decision-making tool I plan to add to my how-will-i-feel-about-this-in-10 rule (so I guess I’m actually performing a double-steal … good in baseball, prolly not so good in industrial espionage):

1 - What’s the worst that could happen?
2 - What’s the best that could happen?
3 - How often does #1 happen?
4 - How often does #2 happen (get your mind out the potty!)?
5 - How do I feel about that?

Bank of Mom&Dad

Wednesdays on Soapnet: a new television program where each week the parents of a woman who’s sure money grows on trees move in and teach her that, nope, those are just leaves … as soon as my folks see this they’ll be all, “What?!? Someone got paid for that idea? Where were these brainiac t.v. programmers three years ago when we pretty much developed it? Somebody better spell our name right on the fat royalty check that better be on the way.” And all I have to say is, “Thank you, Mom and Dad … you ROCK!”

Regarding Make-Up

When I wear foundation I feel like I think I would feel if my face were spackled. I believe I may be doing it wrong. I’m not interested in learning the ‘correct’ technique for applying make-up (but knowing how to spackle may come in handy).

Roman Polanski

On the one hand there has to be a statute of limitations, right? And do I really want my legal system to spend the money?
On the other hand, the tool drugged and raped a thirteen year old child. A child.
Book him, Danno.

Garbage In / Garbage Out

Seriously handsome tech came out and installed our new garbage disposal this afternoon. Quite the eye candy treat (I refuse to dwell on the fact that I may well be old enough to be his … aunt). So of course what happens? He asks to use the loo. Which I did not have time to give a quick run-through, seeing as The Hotness pulled into the driveway rightbehind me when I got home. Sigh. I can’t win. Even my fantasies engage in the suckage.

The “L” That Flew Away

When I was a kid I asked my Mom two (un)related questions:
“Why do they call it a Health Bar when it’s candy?”
“How come they call it public hair when you don’t want anyone to see it?”

I Harbor Mad-Love for Spike Jonze

(And I have since, oh … a little “Praise You” dance number featuring the Torrance Community Dance Group … or maybe it was poor sweet Conrad Vig “we three kings be stealin’ the gold …”). There. I said it. Aaaaaand … I can’t wait for Where the Wild Things Are. Can. Not. Wait.

So Much Better than Moore

I’m told that if I plan to see just one documentary about the state of the economy I should skip Moore’s ‘Capitalism’ and check out Chris Smith’s ‘Collapse’, which features Michael Ruppert’s POV. You remember Ruppert, don’t you? No? Think hard; anything coming to mind about that dude who foretold this ‘economic downturn’ (e.g., downward-spiraling-recession … um, just where does a recession go when it’s going down, anyway?). Still no? Check out his book ‘Crossing The Rubicon: The Decline of the American Empire at the End of the Age of Oil' … and then scream in frustration that you didn’t know about it when it came out in 2004.

Still Annoyed with NBC

Okay, I freely admit to being a watchaholic (…must … have … television…). No, I will not be joining any 12-step programs. Yes, still mighty annoyed at NBC (and Jay Leno, for that matter). In what world is it better to shut down production (and employment) for five programs and replace them with lame banter? Apparently in NBCLand. So now? If I have to choose twixt watch and DVR and do without? NBC ranks ‘do without’ every time, regardless. That’ll learn ‘em for betraying my vice. Pbbbt!

Wicked Awesome Poem Wednesday

The Wind

I saw you toss the kites on high
And blow the birds about the sky
And all around I heard you pass
Like ladies' skirts across the grass.

Oh wind, a-blowing all day long;
Oh wind, that sings so loud a song!

I saw the different things you did
But always you yourself you hid.
I felt you push, I heard you call,
I could not see yourself at all.

Oh wind, a-blowing all day long;
Oh wind, that sings so loud a song!

Oh, you that are so strong and cold.
Oh, blower, are you young or old?
Are you a beast of field and tree,
Or just a stronger child than me?

Oh wind, a-blowing all day long;
Oh wind, that sings so loud a song!

-Robert Louis Stevenson

Wicked Awesome Poem Wednesday

The Arrow and the Song

I shot an arrow into the air,
It fell to Earth, I knew not where;
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow it in its flight.

I breathed a song into the air,
It fell to Earth, I knew not where;
For who has sight so keen and strong,
That it can follow the flight of song?

Long, long afterward, in an oak
I found the arrow, still unbroke;
And the song, from beginning to end,
I found again in the heart of a friend.

-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

RIP Joseph William, 1992-2009

Seven is usually my favorite number. But not today, because it’s been seven years since I’ve had a day like today, which is the fifth of its kind, and I could have gone the rest of my life without it, really. But there you go.

I had my Joey euthanized today. Such a nebulous way to say I killed my cat. My little man, who’d been with me through thick and thin these last seventeen-plus years. Oh, my God … this hurts. I can’t breath. Drove home in tears, pulled into the garage, shut the door, and fell apart. Cried that cry where no sound comes out. Soaked my shirt. Blew snot.

Cried like an abandoned child. Wailed. Sobbed. Howled. Begged his forgiveness. Told him to go find Benny, the last recipient of this toughest of loves from me, seven years ago.

But that time I had my Joey to snuggle, to ease my conscience, to ‘share’ my loss.

I remember the Spring evening I got Ben & Joey; May of 1992 … I picked up my younger cousin Melissa and one of her little friends to come spend the night, and on the interstate drive from my Aunt’s home in MA to mine in RI, we made a stop to pick out a new kitten for me, as my Sammy had just recently passed.

We got there, and of the four kittens available, two were male, black, polydactyls (double-pawed) … we couldn’t choose between them, so ended up taking both. I knew Benny was a ‘Benny’ right away, but we pondered on a name for Joey … he almost ended up a ‘Petey’, but by the time we made it back to my house his innate joeyness had made itself known.

That was the night we were stuck on the interstate in such a horrific storm that it literally brought all traffic to an absolute halt. You could hardly see the taillights of the car in front. I’d never experienced the like before, nor have I since. Dead stop. Due to rain. Rain, people.

Melissa and her little friend sat in the backseat and snuggled those kittens the entire time, not a care in the world, completely oblivious to the eminent death we were courting. I was terrified … and what was I going to tell my Aunt if anything happened to my cousin? Auntie Sue would kill me!

Joey moved with me from New England (a fairly HUGE event, as we New Englanders tend to stay in New England), then halfway across the country (a 22 hour drive he did not enjoy, with his three ‘siblings’ Benny, Maddie, and Annie). Joey was with me when we lost Benny. And Annie. When I bought my first home, and first became acquainted with that Bastard RA, and got laid off after almost 16 years with Ma Bell, and paid off my credit card debt, and finished my college degree, and started a whole new career.

I don’t remember not having my Joey around. He’d play the feline version of Marco Polo almost daily …. mrrowling at me from somewhere in the house, repeatedly, until I called him to me and put the pats on him for awhile. He sprawled in complete ownership across whatever perch he deigned to use, whether it be me, my bed, the desk, the windowsill, or the top of the stairs … the rest of us could just work around him, thank-you-very-much.

Joey has been noticeably winding down this past week, and completely stopped eating yesterday. I spent all day today filming him … mostly sleeping, occasionally talking to me (tried to upload one here, but blogger is not cooperating). Wherever I went in the house today, he followed, then lay down, then fell asleep. I’d try to quietly tiptoe out to another location for whatever reason, but he always followed. I don’t know how you’d interpret that behavior, but I believe he knew, and was saying goodbye in his own Joey way.

I popped him into his crate for the trip to Awesome Doc, and that little shit yelled at me the entire drive, then continued to grumble in my direction at the animal hospital, as I sat next to him with my arm stuck to the elbow through the top of the crate, rubbing his ears, chin, nose, cheeks, head, back, legs, etc … every part if him he exposed to me. And my Joey obliged, practically rolling around to ensure I hit all his ‘ooh yeah’ spots.

We waited 20 minutes for an open room (so much for scheduling a personal heart-rending during a slow part of the day, best laid plans and all), then Awesome Doc gave Joey a sedative, and he snuggled up into my chest and fell asleep with his big ole noggin in the palm of my hand. I thought he was gone then, after awhile, and lay my head on him, but he was simply deeply asleep (to be honest, I don’t think he could have recovered from that point, due to oxygen-starvation, if his blueing tongue was any indication). Then Awesome Doc came back in and gave him *the* shot.

She said not to worry if he spread out, because that tends to happen … but not my little man. Nope. He curled right up in a little ball, gasped a couple times for breath, and then relaxed. Noggin still in my hand. My Joey, my little man, my Joseph William, my Joe Willy Punkaliscious, my Guiseppe Guillermo, my Jobijo, my Bubbaloo, my Boo, my buddy … he was gone.

So now I sit here at my computer, telling you about my boy. And Maddie, my sweet little girl, is ey-yow, ey-yowing her way through the house, looking for someone who’s no longer here.

Oh damn, here I go again with the waterworks. Know what I’m going to miss the most? He’s never going to aggravate the living shit out of me, ever again, by sitting on the floor next to me when I’m on the computer and mrrowling at the top of his furry little lungs with the repetitiveness of a metronome until I give in and follow him out to bear witness to his next goofy adventure somewhere in the house.

I am really going to miss that.

Impact

I spent my morning drive in tears, listening to Johnny Dare and his crew discuss 9/11 and re-broadcast reports from NYC that morning. One was a re-broadcast of a local NYC radio station interviewing a woman, who lived in the city, after the first plane hit (before there was even an idea it was other than a horrible accident), and during that interview the second plane hit. Over the terrified sounds of this woman's screams you could hear the explosions and the multitude of sirens and emergency vehicles.

They also spoke with a man who told his story of being in the WTC when it was hit, and the 50+ minutes it took to descend the stairs to get out: how at the bottom the police lined up to cordon off from view the bodies of people who had jumped or fallen out the windows and splashed across the grounds below.

September 11, 2001 and the days immediately following it were the most harrowing, soul-destroying, and in one way uplifting (simply seeing how this country, and the world as a whole, came together immediately following this abomination) of my life to date, and I hope never to surpass them.

I learned that day that I am capable of feeling hatred, actual hatred, for a fellow human being ... which has been a sobering experience for me, but which also hasn't changed all that much in the subsequent years.

Maybe someday I'll be a better person, but I am still so bitter that I just can't forgive. Yet I do hold out hope.

I flew out of NJ, directly over ground zero, two years ago on a trip back home, and the fact that it was still a gaping hole in the landscape just about dropped the bottom out of my heart. I was glued to the window of my plane, tears streaming, inarticulate with grief.

I simply do not understand how anyone can take the gift of Free Will to such an extreme.

Getting Busy

Spoke with Awesome Doc for awhile this afternoon. All Joey's bloodwork is complete and it isn't good. Not only does he have CRF, but also Hyperthyroidism. Really no treatment for a fellow of his advanced age, as a major side effect of the meds is loss of appetite, which he simply cannot afford. And any surgical intervention (aside from being entirely too expensive ... yes, I love my little man, but it is simply out of the question) has the very potential side effect of death due to anesthesia problems (e.g., he'd never wake up).

The Hyperthyroidism also rules out the Lactated Ringer's subq, as it won't do him any good. Awesome Doc says that's actually not so bad, as it would have put a lot of stress on his heart, which she's not entirely sure he could have handled all that well anyway (this being the kitty with a heart rate so fast she was unable to count it).

Bottom line is that as long as he remains comfortable and continues to eat, drink, and evacuate with no problems, Joey's good. Right now he's at 12.5 lbs. Awesome Doc assures me this is not terrifically underweight, especially for a 17+ year old, but he can't support healthy body functions below 11 lbs either. It's such a small amount that I'm all "What?!? Seriously? That's a glass of milk!" Completely forgetting the whole percentage deal ... you know, where 1.5 lbs is actually 12% of his body weight, which is significant, especially since it wasn't that long ago he was once a muscular 20 lbs.

So anyway ... best case scenario is Joey falls asleep one day while he's still in this condition (no pain, stable medically) and simply slips away to visit Ben. Worst case scenario is Joey develops some other problem or drops below the 11 lb line-in-the-sand, in which case I'll bring him in and Awesome Doc will euthanize him.

I'm surprisingly okay with all of this. Knowing what's happening has taken a load off my mind. My top priority is to ensure Joey's last days are lovely, and to let him go comfortably and with dignity, no matter what. I owe him.

Wicked Awesome Poem Wednesday

The Catsup Bottle

First a little.

Then a lottle.

-Ogden Nash

Awesome Doc Checks In

Got the call ... Most of Joey's bloodwork is complete; just the thyroid left to go, and those results won't be in 'til next week.

No diabetes (yay!) but he is in the early stages of kidney disease, or Chronic Renal Failure (boo!), so I'll be taking him back in next week and Awesome Doc will show me how to administer Lactated Ringers subcutaneously, which he'll prolly need twice a week. I'm not too worried, since I already give myself a subq injection every other week, so it's not like I'm a stranger to needles.

This should make a big difference in a few of Joeys problem areas, as it should result in increased appetite and alertness, weight gain, decreased water consumption and urination, elimination of foamy vomitus, and he may regain some of those wasted muscles! P'AWESOME!!

The main problem will still be diet, seeing as I had him on the k/d prescription diet until he refused to eat it anymore ... we'll try IAMS for kidney disease to see if that may ne a better match.

Anyway ... things are looking up.

Little Man and Awesome Doc

Just got back from the vet (aka Awesome Doc) with Joey, also known as Little Man. I've been having the creeping crazies well over six months regarding my guy ... but who wouldn't? He's been by my side over 17 years.

YEARS, people.

Seventeen of them.

In his prime he weighed in at 22 lbs. Mostly muscle. You may recall he was one of two giant polydactyl littermates (we lost his brother to a failed thyroid seven years ago). Joseph William (his official name) has been the pet constant most of my adult life. He's lived with me in RI, then NJ, then back up in RI again, and now out here in MO.

He's been here through Benny (his brother), Tia (our rescued Persian we had for three years 'til she succumbed to a nasty viral infection), Maddie (our rescued 'feral' who's been with us the last 13 years ... and if she was ever feral then I'm a monkey's uncle), Annie (our rescued barn cat we had for five years until a venomous spider did her in ... and if you don't think I kill every spider I've come into contact with since, you didn't pay close enough attention to Annie's COD), Lily (our elderly rescued Lhasa Apso we had for two years), Boogie and Kaia (our two six year old Labs), and Briggs & Stratton (our 'houseguest' littermates we hand-raised three years ago who think they're some form of catdog hybrid, seeing as it was Boogie who adored them and slobbered all over them like they were her puppies).

Joey went and got very thin very quickly, and I got very freaked, thinking he had the same hyperthyroidism-caused-by-cancer as Benny, and remembering how much that sucked. So I've been watching Joey and feeding him and basically making him cuh-razy with the constant eyeballing his every move (not really ... he totally looooves the attention).

Anyway, it got bad ... he's drinking tremendous amounts of water, eating very little (but fairly often), he's mostly skin and bones, his musculature has taken a serious hit, his rear end goes right out from under him sometimes, and he sleeps about 22 out of every 24 hours. I'm now on deathwatch, and am absolutely paranoid I will err on the side of anthropomorphism and force Joey to stick around longer than is fair to him. The absolute last thing I want to do is make him suffer. Or starve. To death.

I've talked with my vet about him. By the way, I have the absolute best vet ever ... if you're in the area I highly recommend Dr. Laura Williams of the Southport Animal Hospital ... she's the most dedicated animal doc I've ever, ever, met ... and with my brood (past and present) that's saying something, seeing as I've experienced a few (those two in RI the first time, the three in NJ, the other one in RI, and the three out here).

Here I was all doom and gloom, and Awesome Doc says, at least on the preliminary results, that other than a ridiculously high heart rate he looks terrific (her word). We discussed all his little habits and whatnot, and she totally put my mind at ease: he’s the equivalent of an 86 year old man; of course he’s not going to eat much!

The heart rate does give her pause, as well as his water consumption, so she’s checking him for diabetes, thyroid, and kidney disease. All three are somewhat treatable for a kitty of his age. Or it could be nothing and he could simply be winding down.

I'll hear from Dr. Laura within an hour or so, and we'll go from there.

Bleh ... Stupid Stuff

Man, I cannot seem to drag myself out of the end-of-Summer doldrums.

• I want the new Fall television season to start. Right now. Tired of waiting. No need to have a 'break' between end of Summer programming and start of Fall programming. Stupid network programmers and their stupid limited budgets.
• I want the local stations to broadcast every Patriots game this season. In MO. Stupid living halfway across the country from my home team.
• I want those lame extra-tall paperbacks to go away. All they do is add a year onto how long I have to wait for the 'right' size paperback to come out. Refuse to read them. That'll learn ya, stupid diabolical publishing house plot with your stupid money-making schemes. The world is on a budget, people!
• I want to know why it's such a bad thing for the dooce to complain about barely-there customer service when its quite all right thank you very much for her to sing the praises of good customer service. Stupid customer disservice.
• I want to know that all dogs, and cats, really do go to Heaven. Stupid old age.
• I want Dr. Laura to make the decision for me Saturday. Stupid running away from my responsibilies.
• I want Joey to get well, and younger while I'm at it. Stupid death and grief and sadness. Stupid snuffling every night while putting the pats on him. Stupid in love with my 17 year old little man. Stupid can't remember life without him. Stupid indecision.
• I want to leave this funk behind and never look back. Stupid.

Wicked Awesome Poem Wednesday

Sonnet 73

That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold
Bare ruined choirs where late the sweet birds sang.

In me thou seest the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west,
Which by and by black night doth steal away,
Death's second self, which seals up all in rest.

In me thou seest the glowing of such fire
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the deathbed whereon it must expire,
Consumed with that which it was nourished by.

This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

-William Shakespeare

Wicked Awesome Poem Wednesday

Ein Yahav

A night drive to Ein Yahav in the Arava Desert,
a drive in the rain. Yes, in the rain.
There I met people who grow date palms,
there I saw tamarisk trees and risk trees,
there I saw hope barbed as barbed wire.
And I said to myself, "That's true,

hope needs to be like barbed wire to keep out despair,

hope must be a mine field."

Yehuda Amichai

Wicked Awesome Poem Wednesday

Bird

It was passed from one bird to another,
the whole gift of the day.
The day went from flute to flute,
went dressed in vegetation,
in flights which opened a tunnel
through the wind would pass
to where birds were breaking open
the dense blue air -
and there, night came in.

When I returned from so many journeys,
I stayed suspended and green
between sun and geography -
I saw how wings worked,
how perfumes are transmitted
by feathery telegraph,
and from above I saw the path,
the springs and the roof tiles,
the fishermen at their trades,
the trousers of the foam;
I saw it all from my green sky.
I had no more alphabet
than the swallows in their courses,
the tiny, shining water
of the small bird on fire
which dances out of the pollen.

-Pablo Neruda

One Thing I Know

One of the people I have loved most was ignorant. He was also sharp as a skinning blade. He had a heart as big as the wide open sea and would (and did) do absolutely anything for his loved ones. He rarely met a racist joke he didn’t like. He never let a family member down. He laughed so hard and so long over the things that tickled him that he frequently lost his breath and had to wheeze it out. He saw humor in almost everything. He was frequently politically incorrect.

He worked incredibly long hours, very hard, with his hands … a carpenter year-round, and a tuna fisherman during season; he also plowed and sanded the streets of MA in the Winter. He could do almost anything, even when he had to fake it until he knew how to get it right. His home was always open, and you were welcome. If you stepped within his first action was an attempt to feed you. He was a great lover of animals, and was surrounded by them. He was one to leer at the ladies. He adored his wife, and was startled by the affection he felt for his children. He was a great, big, blustery man who would have put you in mind of a young Santa during the off season.

He was game for anything. He could be silent and still as the dawn. He was my very first real-life example of “work hard, play harder”. He enjoyed life to the fullest and never thought the party would end. Could end. He seldom met a man he didn’t like. He was as bewildered by folk who didn’t care for him as he was by unforeseen catastrophe.

He was very much a product of his environment; raised by a quiet man and a stubborn woman who had survived the turmoil of the Great Depression and worked side-by-side at the businesses they owned.

When I say he was ignorant I do not mean in the barbarian way … I mean in the uneducated way. And by uneducated I mean inexperienced in life or lifestyles outside his social class (for lack of a better phrase), not book-learning. Although he’d be the first to admit he was no Rhodes Scholar. When life gave him lemons he made a lemon smorgasbord and invited everyone he knew to share in the meal: lemonade, lemon chicken, lemon brioche, chilled lemon soup, lemon scones with lemon curd, lemon custard, lemon meringue pie, lemon drops, lemon relish … you get the picture. He didn’t let the bastards get him down.

So, why am I telling you this?

I want to talk about Michael Vick. And how he’s been picked up by the Eagles. And how half the world is having a field day. I say leave him be. He truly seems appalled at his participation in what many, myself included, consider a barbarous crime. He appears to ‘get it’. He also grew up in an environment where that behavior was the norm; where the dogs were considered a commodity, not pets. I, who slobber all kinds of love and affection (and treats, and cookies, and catnip, and toys, etc.) on my four legged friends, view them individually not really as ‘pets’, but rather as family members. Always have, always will. I know their personality quirks. I can tell when something is wrong (witness our current Froggy Bop dilemma). I get a kick out of having them around. I also grew up in a household, family, and community that considered pets members of the family, albeit slightly dim yet highly lovable members.

And guess what? Where Vick grew up? That was right here in the good old U. S. of A. Where were our tantrums and holier-than-thou attitudes then? Its one thing when a man hides behind his job and refuses to accept responsibility for the results of his actions … I’m talking to you, Jack Tatum … and quite another when a man steps up to the plate and lays it all out there, trying to make amends and to educate the next generation. Bravo! Bravo to you, sir. And keep up the good work.

The art of forgiveness is difficult, sometimes brutal, but necessary to a healthy soul. Do you think if Michael Vick knew three years ago what he knows now that he’d have made the same choices? I don’t.

After knowing my ‘ignoramus’, a great man who’d give you the shirt off his back in a raging blizzard yet spout racial obscenities about a minority who angered him (and no, he wouldn't have been angered by the fact that the person was a minority; it's that if they were a minoruty he would 'go there'), I simply cannot justify a knee-jerk black-&-white response to Vick. I’d not be able to tolerate it in those responding to the words or actions of my own taught-by-life ignorant. What are we, twelve? It may not be fair, but then again neither is life. Vick made a mistake. He’s sorry. He’s trying to make a positive out of it. He’s lost much of what he had built. He’s got every right to live his life, and to utilize his skills to do so.

I say leave him be.

ALERT: Froggy Bop is Missing!!

We are on Froggy Bop alert. OMGoodness, Froggy Bop is MISSING!!!! What to do? What to do!

I am shamed to say it took me most of this evening to figure out just exactly why the Bear is behaving so oddly (you can rest assured her behavior impacts the rest of the four-leggeds).

Finally noticed a distinct lack of bright green/yellow in her general vicinity.

Spent next 20 minutes searching house. Nada.

Next 10 searching backyard. In the dark. With a flashlight. Zilch

So a certain someone is now draped across the bed in an agony of anticipation ... and I've got nothing for her.

This ought to be fun.

Where the heck do they even sell "Beanie Buddies" anymore???

These Days It’s Really Just the Chronic Fatigue

Weekends are pretty important for me; they’re when I catch up on all that sleep I don’t get during the week. In every 24 hour day, mine is filled with 7 or 8 hours sleep, 2 hours to get ready for work, then an hour drive to work, then work itself (a minimum of 8 hours … I don’t take breaks or lunch so I can leave sooner), then an hour drive home from work, then another hour taking care of the menagerie … plus, at end-of-day there’s an additional half hour involved with getting ready for bed. So, let’s see, that adds up to approximately 21 hours, leaving 3 hours daily for everything else. Everything else.

Which normally wouldn’t be a problem, except for that Bastard RA, who makes me tired. All. The. Time. Having 3 hours a day to do the laundry, housecleaning, food prep, shopping, bill paying, car servicing, doctor, dentist, vet, etc. may seem like plenty of time … but trust me, it’s not. In any person’s given day, there needs to be some down time. What I’m generally forced to do is to postpone some of the necessities to allow for some decompression time.

I love to read, and watch certain television programs, and movies … but these days I really only read in the loo (I know, gross!), and out of 140 allowable hours on DVR, I’m sitting on 97 hours of taped programs waiting to be watched (and every weekend I delete a few of the oldest unwatched to make room for the new ones I’ve recorded), and I haven’t returned (or watched, for that matter) the three Netflix CDs I have since I received them two, no wait, three months ago (and the three before that I ended up returning without watching them). Sheesh.

While I don’t tend to dwell on the negative ways that Bastard RA has impacted my life, I dwell quite a lot on the sleep I wish I was getting. I sort of remember how bad it was before I was diagnosed and the meds kicked in, but only in an oh-yeah-that-sucked kind of way … I think Mom and Dad have much clearer recall of that time, seeing as they lived the 6-month snapshot: when I came back home for Summer vacation I was fine, then when they next saw me in person 6 months later for the holidays I was absolutely crippled. I’m pretty sure they’re scarred, in the way only parents with a sick child can be, to this day.

But if I sit very still and think very hard (the memories are not fun), I can certainly recall the myriad painful rheumatoid nodules all over my elbows, knuckles, and gum lines; how I could stand up straight … if given 15 minutes to un-kink my joints; how I could walk 50 feet … at the pace of an elderly person using a walker; how I drank nothing during the day so I wouldn't have to get up and walk to the Ladies Room at work and how I cried every day walking out to my truck to drive home from working that job (located in a sprawling facility with football field-sized parking lots); how swollen my joints were; how hard it was to get in and out of cars (hence the necessity of a truck for yours truly); how only certain pieces of furniture (mostly straight-backed chairs) didn't cause pain; the trigger-fingers and how I’d have to use the fingers of one hand to sloooooowly manually un-bend the fingers of the other hand; how I’d wake up stiff with various owies; how it took a couple hours to get going every. Single. Morning. Regardless of what I was doing that day.

I had to psych myself up to do laundry, because the washer/dryer is in the basement, and that’s 16 steps. I didn't cook; seldom cleaned. I kept everything heavy in the garage, and if I didn’t bring up whatever I needed on my trip into the house after work, then I went without. I didn’t step foot in the dog run (fenced-in portion of my backyard) for almost three years, because it was downstairs. Never took the dogs for walks. And the pain of everything; the swollen elbows, wrists, knuckles, knees, ankles, and feet … ouch! I had no grip, so had to come up with different ways to do everything “normal” people do with their hands. It suh-hucked!

Sound not so bad? Try going one full day without using your hands, for anything, then get back to me.

Nowadays about the only real problem I have is with the chronic fatigue, and that’s a regular thing. By weeks end I am so overtired that I need sleep, and a lot of it. I get incredibly punchy when tired – almost like a whole other person. From a blog perspective, sometimes I read what I’ve written when tired and am embarrassed. In real life I can generally tell I’m overtired when I simply cannot shut up. They laugh at work (they don’t know about that Bastard RA, and just think I get goofy for the weekend). Mom has to tell me to pipe down and let her talk sometimes. My friends just giggle at me, “Lisa’s on a rant again.” I guess I should be happy it isn’t too bad, but from my perspective it sucks.

It’s like the real me is hidden behind the tired me, and the tired me is dressed in one of those inflatable samurai suits, repeatedly knocking the real me on my ass as I try to sneak past. Sigh. Stupid inflatable-samurai-suited tired me and it’s almost impassible inflatable-samurai-suited self.

Tired me pretty much forces real me to recharge on weekends, specifically Saturdays; I tend to miss out on a lot of our get-togethers because of it. Most people, when they plan to do friend & family things, plan them for Saturdays … but I have to beg off, because no matter how much I may want to join in, I know I won’t. So, after a couple years of not showing up, I’ve learned not to R.S.V.P. “yes”, but rather “maybe, but most likely not” or flat-out “no”.

I rarely get out of bed on Saturdays, seldom shower, and actually get dressed less often (having Lonnie over a few weeks back just about KO'd me). In the last five years I’ve probably only been out of the house on a Saturday a couple dozen times … and many of those were just to walk to the end of the driveway to get the mail (and maybe to fill the birdfeeders). I’m certain there are quite a few of my neighbors who considered me antisocial until they got to know me because prior to this Spring I was, literally, rarely seen outside my home if I wasn’t in the truck, coming or going.

My Bastard RA doc is wonderful, and my regimen is working (I’m not quite in remission yet, but seem to be getting closer all the time): I take four prescription meds (methotrexate, folic acid, vitamin d, and Humira ... that's the needle) and five non-scrips (multi-vitamin, calcium, ginger, turmeric, and selenium), and together they’ve enabled me to look, act, and for the most part be “normal” … it’s just that my “new normal” also includes mandatory sleep-in Saturdays.

On the one hand, kinda cool ... who doesn't want an ironclad bonafide excuse to sleep late?

It Seems Oh, So Reasonable

I'm sure I'll be in the minority on this one, but here goes ...

I was watching the Today Show this morning, when Meredith Vieira interviewed Audra Harmon and her attorney, Terrance Hoffman ... this interview was about a traffic stop made by Deputy Sean Andrews back in January, in which he ended up tasering Ms. Harmon ... twice.

Ms. Harmon, needless to say, has filed a lawsuit. Ostensibly "to bring awareness not only that anybody can be a potential victim, but also awareness to the police officers who have the Tasers to be a little more judicious and think it out a little more before they use this kind of device. Then the overall picture is whether or not Tasers should be used in law enforcement." But also, you know, to make them pay for the police brutality.

Having watched the interview, then the dashboard cam (sans actual sound, but with added voiceover by Ms. Harmon), I have to say ... were I a juror in this case, I would not side with the plaintiff.

Go ahead, get it out ... you know you want to.

Until such time as I see the actual dashboard cam footage with the original sound (been looking, haven't found, but it may be the department in question doesn't have sound, or simply hasn't released it), I see no reason to merrily jump on the police brutality bandwagon ... here's why:

• Ms. Harmon took it upon herself to step out of her vehicle. Why? Even I know you never step out of the vehicle unless told to. This is seen as a clear act of aggression by many police.
• Her reasoning, in her own words, "because I wanted to see the tape" (e.g., prove it, bub). What?!? No. Not even remotely a good enough reason. You want to see the tape, you go to court and see it like everyone else, you're nothing special.
• Then, again in her own words, "I get back in my car and it should have been over right there." Um, why? Far as I know, it is not okay to start a pissing contest with the authorities and then feel you have the right to decide when it's over. Honey, you started it, now own your decision. Not only that, although Ms. Harmon repeatedly claims not to have waived her arms, etc., she is clearly confrontational by body language.
• Then, "he asked me to get back in the car" ... to which she replied, "show me the tape." Really? So, instead of immediately doing as asked, she once again confronts an authority figure. 'Kay.

Elsewhere in the interview Ms. Harmon mentions she gave the officer the opportunity to search her bag and her vehicle for the cell phone (oh, yeah ... forgot to tell you he originally pulled her over for talking on a cell, an act which she is disputing - says she was leaning her chin on her fist and that may have confused him).

My first thought (and yes, admittedly I already am not taking her word at face value), is she passed the cell phone to her 15 year old son, who was in the vehicle with her. Were I the police department reviewing this case, I'd investigate all cell phones this family has, and check the records to see if any were in use by a nearby tower during the time of this traffic stop. I'm just saying.

So anyway, then she's upset that she was in the back of the Deputy's unit for almost 40 minutes while her 15 year old son and 5 year old daughter remained supposedly unattended. Um, no ... don't think so. What, the officer drove off with her in the car and left the kids by the side of the road? And double what, you seriously expect me to believe said 15 year old hasn't babysat said 5 year old about a zillion times? C'mon, people.

Besides, if she was so worried about them, why did she take the EMT up on the offer to go the the hospital? Now, some people have questioned why an EMT had to come to remove the taser barbs, but think about it: the deputy isn't going near her with a 10-foot pole, and she's cuffed behind her back. Somebody has to come and do it, and who better than the folk who can then give the tased a once-over to ensure no imminent heart-attack?

You notice the EMT didn't make the decision, but rather asked Ms. Harmon if she wanted to go. And she, horribly concerned for the safety and welfare of her two young (unattended) children, went; "and that's where they, um, did it. Made sure that my heart was beating and everything."

Oh, I'm pretty sure all involved were clear that Ms. Harmon's heart was, indeed, beating. Just saying.

This entire scenario smacks to me of entitlement, and it's that, more than anything else, which drives me up the wall (enough so that I freely admit a bias of epic proportions against the plaintiff in the first place).

Anyway, the Deputy Andrews charged Ms. Harmon with speeding, talking on a cell phone, resisting arrest, and disorderly conduct ... and yes, all charges have since been dropped.

My 'Veloci'-Raptor is da Bomb!

Haven't seen any hawks by the bird feeders in awhile, and just kind of thought they'd been taking a bird-breakfast break and must be getting plenty of mice in the nearby fields or something.

Then this morning on the way to work I happened to look into the backyard from the driveway, and saw a lovely Cooper's Hawk sitting atop the neighbor's fence. Staring fixedly at my deck. Which had no dogs on it (too hot, so they spent the day inside). But did have a full bowl of dog food.

Otherwise known as 'extra' birdfood, since the little wildbirds eat out of it like it's a giant birdfeeder when the dogs aren't around.

So, basically the hawk is staking out the backyard 'bird feeder' and nabbing the sweet little wildbirds from there! So smart. The little birdies can't tell the hawk is coming because it practically swoops up from under them.

I'm kind of surprised I get almost as much enjoyment 'feeding' the hawk as I do the rest of the crew. But they are so fiercely beautiful, you know?

Fond Memories of Chat Rooms

Finally put my finger on why Twitter seems so fun: because it reminds me of the free MicroSoft Chat rooms we used to spend soooo much time in about 8 years ago or so.

Every night for hours, hanging out with webfriends ( ... real-live web "kin"? ... ) and building these whole communities where people would plan vacations together and web-reunions where everyone would meet at some central location for a few days ... very informal, just the plans that particular chat room "regulars" put together. Which became annual.

There were nicknames and emoticons and characters and hosts and passing the hammer (and dropping the hammer) and all sorts of goofy stuff. And all of it was free, and came pretty much to a crashing halt when they decided to convert it to a subscription service.

Because if it ain't broke, then by all means fix it. Pretty please.

Anyway, it was particularly shocking to me because my home computer had crashed and it took a few months to get it up and running again and I was so looking forward to reconnecting with my chatroom "friends" when lo and behold! The freaking thing wants me to pay!?!

Are you kidding?!? I will never pay for something I once got free (unless I really want it and there's absolutely no other way to go ... don't look at me like that, surely you've heard of "grandfathering"?).

So. After many long years of no chat rooms, along comes blogging ... great fun, but not real-time communication. And facebook with its various applications ... fun again, but not (oh, you know). And now Twitter. As close to real-time as possible without being a chatroom, no?

Not to jinx anything, but when do you think they're going to get around to chargin ... er, nevermind.

Urgh! Don't DO That!

So you know that strange feeling you get when your cat stops everything and stares? At a blank wall? For awhile? Then snaps out of it and goes back to real life? As though nothing strange had happened at all?

Yeah, that? Freaks me right out! I chalk it up to everything from a massive termite colony in the wall (encompassing the entire length of the house, 'cuz if you're gonna dream, may as well dream big, right?) to oh! He can see ghosts! Or angels! Or my imaginary childhood friend, Billy! Or, you know, whatever.

But if it is Billy, he's got some splainin' to do!

And it's not like this happens only occasionally. It's pretty much every few days, while the household is winding down and we're all getting ready for bed. Isn't that when the creepy-crawlies are supposed to come out?

So I get a good dose of the what-the's, and have to turn on every light in the room to perform a spider patrol (because said cat could be hearing the pitter-pat of thousands of tiny spider feet gearing up to overthrow the humans. Tonight. While they're sleeping. BWAH HAH HAH HAH!).

Yes. I know. Lame.

So tell me something I don't know.

Wicked Awesome Poem Wednesday

Your Kiss

Your kiss, beloved, was to me

As if all flowers of Araby,

And every fresh and fragrant rose

That ever blew, shall blow, or blows

Had all her sweetness taken up

And poured into one perfect cup

For me to drain ...

Kiss me again!

-Jack London

If He's Involved, I am SO There

I want to see District 9, like right now. All the hype has done it's job with me, and I'll be waiting in line to pony up the ten bucks, as opposed to waiting on the Netflix arrival. Few filmakers get to me this way, but Peter Jackson is definitely one of them. It's a fairly short list: Jackson, Spielberg (absolutely!), Shyamalan (what is the deal with haters?), Hughes (sigh, gonna miss him), and Whedon (got you with that one, didn't I?).

Don't get me wrong, there are tons of movies out there I really want to see, but they pretty much fall into the category of "will watch in living room on small screen". These include, but are not limited to:

• The Hangover (Bradley Cooper all the way)
• The latest Harry Potter movies (love this series)
• The Hurt Locker (Jeremy Renner-phile right here)
• Julie & Julia (Meryl Streep is astonishing)
• Up (c'mon, how could I not?)

Well, you get the picture (no pun intended). I love me some movies, but in the comfort of my own home, where I don't have to pay through the nose, where I can pause to go to the loo, where I can drink a pop and have a snack without (further) breaking the bank, and where I and the occasional houseguest will be the only ones voicing comments at the screen.

I think the main reason "regular" television takes a break during the Summer (although those cable channels have some preeeetty nifty Summer fare these days) is to drum up movie business. Boy, Netflix really messed that up for them, huh?

But it's a BAD Vampire "Story"

I kept hearing about it, over and over, "Have you read Twilight?", "You have to read Twilight!", and "Oh, Edward is sooo yummy!"

And since I am all over my fair share of monster fare and romance, I was game. I mean, I've read most of the early Stephen King (and even some Bachman) works, everything Dresden, all about the Leandros brothers, Ward of Hurog, the Retrievers, and the Argeneau clan, and started up with Connor Grey, Mason & Louie, Cassiel the Outcast, and young Miss Reaper-Jones. I've got the DVD series for all of Buffy, Angel, Firefly (and Serenity), and Harry Dresden. I'm no stranger to the fun fantasy works. And I like series ... I like being able to revisit the same characters over and over (why I keep going back to the Argeneau well, even though it is a mite dry). And, of course, I still have mad love for the Lost Boys.

So, knowing of the potential for yet another set of characters to love, I finally broke down and picked up the first in Ms. Meyer's series, figuring I'd give it a try. And I knew not to expect too much simply based on the hype, because that's a surefire way to be let down.

But I was. Let down. And I can't quite put my finger on why. Maybe because none of it seems all that new. Or maybe because the characters are either bland, pointless, or incongruent. I don't know why, really ... but I know that I just don't care to read any further ... at all.

It's not that I'm put off by the differences the vampires in this book embody; it matters not that they can go outside in daylight, or that they *sparkle*. Big whoop ... it's fiction, people, do with it what you will. So I gave it away and don't plan to read any further (or see any of the movies, for that matter ... Cedric Diggory will remain Cedric Diggory for me).

But now Shelfari pokes me in the arm, with folk asking if I think they should read it. I wonder why they ask, when I gave it the rating I did? At first I just told them all "no, don't read it - waste of time". But then I talked to a few people of varying ages and chromosomes who really, really, like the entire series, and it turns out I'm in the minority (go figure, huh?). Maybe I should to put a little more thought into my response (which is still "no", but maybe I could be more circumspect), or just not reply.

On second thought, nah. You asked.

When I think of all the other vampire stories I love, these (yawn) twerps ... er, characters ... just don't hold a candle. You know?

Okay, Well Now I'm Just Pathetic

Heard of Twitter? Me too. Had no interest 'til I noticed some blogs I follow use it. Then got all up in Twitter's face, wondering why wasn't I invited to the party?

So, I've been on Twitter for the last hour ... got to the point where I was "following" about 420 twitterers. You say, "What?!?"

Yeah, me too. Had to take a break.

But not until after I dumped the bunch and am down to a more reasonable number (methinks) ... but that'll no doubt change as I continue to add in the rest of the blogs I follow, der.

And I went in and changed the "look" of my main page about (insert ridiculous number here)times ... I am unbelievable when it comes to something new (for me) on the internet. It's like my birthday, extra payday, and the last day of school all wrapped up in one!

Yes, I Am a Friend of Otis

We have three elevators at the plant: a passenger elevator (the absolute slowest elevator ride I have ever been subjected to), a large freight elevator (the most frightening elevator on Earth), and a small freight elevator. That small freight elevator (similar to the one pictured above) is my all time favorite elevator, ever (insofar as it's possible to actually have a favorite elevator, for crying out loud).

Anyway, the small freight elevator. You know the kind: steel car about three feet deep and six feet wide, with an open top and a pull-down wooden-slatted inner gate, all in an open elevator shaft, where each floor also has a pull-down metal-grill gate as a double redundancy. The kind of elevator with an up/down lever the rider has to hold down throughout the entire run, otherwise the car will deadstop once the connection is interrupted.

Same thing with the call buttons on each floor; one to call the car "up" to you, and the other to call the car "down" ... if you want that car to come, you need to look up and down the shaft to ascertain where it is (and whether it's already in use) then push the approprate call button, holding it down until the car arrives.

Since there are so many people on-site during the day (e.g., first shift), freight elevator etiquette is de rigueur. If you step on hijack someone else when the elevator is in-use you'll hear it up and down the shaft, same happens if you're in the car and "drive by" someone who is calling the elevator. And once you get a bad elevator rep, that's it, you're stuck with it.

I like that elevator so much I go out of my way to use it ... doesn't matter that I'm at the South end of the building and it's at the North (long building, looooong building), or that I have to "gear up" (e.g., change into my steel-toe shoes and don a hairnet and hard hat), or that it isn't at all temperature controlled ... whatever it takes, whatever the season, that small freight elevator is my preference.

The only time I can't use it is first/last ride of the day, as all my safety gear resides in my fifth floor office, which is why certain previous posts have lamented days of passenger-elevator-breakdown-so-walk-up-a-bazillion-steps-to-the-fifth-floor with no mention of "so I walked down the other end of the plant and took the small freight elevator instead" ... if I'm going to make everyone else wear safety gear, I can't cop out just because I'm fat and don't want to take the stairs!) .

But this past week my elevator ... my favorite elevator! ... has been toying with me. I get on, close the gates, press the lever and ... presto! Nothing happens.

What?!? Are you kidding me? My elevator doesn't work? So I try, repeatedly, muttering under my breath that I must not have the gate situated just so, and becominging increasingly frustrated with my anthropomorphised friend, the small elevator. I open and close both gates, jiggle them back and forth, press on the lever with varying degrees of pressure (because if simply applying a couple pounds of pressure won't do it, surely leaning my full body weight against the silly thing will make it work!). Not.

Then it moves, but not because I'm doing anything right, oh no! Merely because someone else, somewhere else, is calling my car. So I'm along for the ride. Sigh. I exit as soon as possible and takes the stairs (which happen to wrap around the elevator shaft).

This has gone on all week, with everyone laughing at me: the maintainance techs, who repeatedly make me show them my epic elevator fail, which they then turn into an abbreviated small freight elevator driving lesson (until I remind them that I've been driving this puppy three years now and I've got it, thankyouverymuch) ... and the operators, who pretty much do the same ... and the rest of the staff, ditto ... all while smiling maddeningly at my endearing little elevator foibles. I am the only person who cannot get this thing to work. Sheesh!

But today? Today ... finally ... the stars aligned and my small freight elevator is no longer putting me through my paces. Until.

Until last run of the day. I hop on and push the UP lever. And go nowhere. Expletive deleted! I try again. And again.

Fourth time is a charm, and away we go! All the way up to the fifth floor, where one of the maintenance techs awaits, arm extended, hand over the control, finger on the button, bringing me home. But.

But as soon as he lets up on the button, and before either of us can open the inner/outer gates, some yahoo on the first floor calls the elevator back down! Again!

I could have handled it better.

Instead ... I shrieked like a bansidhe, grieving the loss of my fifth floor. Not really, but I was not a happy camper, and may have poured my pent-up elevator frustrations just about all over the head of the poor lab tech who dared continue calling that elevator all the way to the first floor when he knew ... knew ... the person trapped within was less than pleased with being stepped on hijacked in such a fashion.

But Lisa, you ask, how could he know? Hunh. 'Parently you've never heard me bellow down an elevator shaft before.

I Probably Shouldn't Laugh

But they're just so funny. I picked up a couple Kongs while Lonnie was here, to give to the girls after he left as a reward for being such good doggie hostesses. Last time I tried was with the "regular" red ones, and the girls promptly ate them (then poo'd them out in chunks of red rubber for a couple days), so I was happy to find the "super-chewer" black ones.

I brought them home and filled the bottoms with broken cookies (e.g., doggie biscuits), then plugged the rest up with four heaping tablespoons of creamy smooth peanutbutter ... then froze them solid. I highly recommend freezing them ... it cools the girls down on a hot day, is far less messy (melted peanutbutter all over the deck is nobody's idea of wonderful), and ... best of all ... takes the girls much longer to empty.

First time I gave them to the girls was Sunday afternoon, right after Lonnie and crew went home. They did not know what to do with them ... Kaia took hers down in the yard and lovingly cradled it in a positively fierce Horton imitation, slobbering all over her new baby Who without quite getting that it was filled with yummy goodness, while Boogie ran from hers like it was chasing her with guns blazing (sigh, I should have known ...). That first time it took each about three hours to clean the Kongs out.

Today was the fourth time the girls have had them ... and the love is totally there! They doggie laugh! They doggie chortle! They doggie giggle and show & tell! They do everything but doggie kiss (with which I am totally cool, seeing as I'm not all that big into a face full of doggie slobber). These things are the perfect shape for being able to grip well enough to carry around, but not quite well enough to bite through. P'awesome!

Bear figured it out right quick and, after running all over the yard showing her prize off to every blade of grass, bird flying overhead, cloud in the sky, tree in the yard, and the next door neighbors, she lumbered back up on the deck and had a lie-down to get. every. last. bit. out. She is the living embodiment of the slow glean.

Kaia, on the other hand, after also parading her prize to all and sundry (real and imaginary), gave it her all to chew the thing apart for the goodies, "got to get to the nom-nom" ... "someone help me out here" ... "there's peanutbutter, can't you smell the luscious peanutbutter, someone HELP ME GET TO THE PEANUTBUTTER!!!!"

OMGoodness, I laugh out loud! I sit on the deck and guffaw ... actual belly rolls! These silly dogs, I love them to bits.

Boogie here, exhausted by her Kong ... too tired even to get that last cookie bit. No worries, though ... Kaia got it right after I snapped these two shots.

Kaia, completely done with hers, just before she snooped and saw Bear's still had a morsel for the taking.

AND ... I Have Math-Catletes (Cat-Mathletes?)

I've pulled out my 2nd edition Elementary and Intermediate Algebra from MTH208, just to see if there actually is any hope left for this lump I call a brain.

I opened it to chapter 1: Real Numbers and Their Properties.

Sigh. Lost already.

NEXT LITTLE BIT LATER:

So, I've pulled out my notes from MTH208, blah, blah, blah, blibbity blah (good thing I kept them).

Now, I'm off to relearn math, my all time favorite pita (for reals ... nothing else gives me such agita working it out, then such satisfaction once I've done it).

Wicked Awesome Poem Wednesday

Chocolate Math

Let's sum it up: I cannot add.
Finding a difference drives me mad.
I hate remainders and it's true,
Multiplication makes me blue.

Those plastic sticks just don't do it.
Who thought that up really blew it.
We'll do well with a new device,
These M&Ms will be real nice.

This subject now will be a treat
As Chocolate Math is really sweet!
I'll be an adder who never misses
While adding piles of chocolate kisses.

Here's a device found at the store:
Ten Tootsie Rolls, and I'll eat four.
Then I'll say, "I still have six."
With Chocolate Subtraction Tricks.

Now division can be done in haste
When it's done with a little taste.
With remainders I'll have a ball,
I'll pick them up and eat them all.

To multiply we will be able
To put some chocolate on the table.
Two candy bars times four are eight. (ate)
That product we'll assimilate.

If teachers would not preach and nag
But assign our homework from a bag,
All students could be math fanatics
By using Chocolate Mathematics.

-Bob “Grandpa” Tucker

I'm Greedy, Pleased to Meet You

Sunday afternoon AC and crew came to pick up Lonnie on their way home from the airport, after having been in-transit a bit more than 23 hours.

They. Were. Exhausted!

So much so that I rushed them out of my house to get back to their house (yet another hour of driving) for some much-needed rest before work the next morning.

In the rush to get them out, I took the gift bag AC proffered and set it on the stove, her explanation of, "I didn't know what to get so I brought them all" barely registering with me (other than my lame, "oh, such a neat bag" exclamation, because I truly do think the bag is kind of cool, being from halfway 'round the planet and all).

AC sort of blinked at me, then we got on with the rush of packing Lonnie up and trekking everything out to the car and taking leave. Then I went back inside and after awhile opened up the bag and took stock of these treasures. And was frankly appalled at my behavior! Among the items in that bag were:

This double set of handmade ebony sandalwood chopsticks from Taiwan. Gorgeous!

And these engraved wooden cup & bowl sets from China. Beautiful!

As well as this elegant handmade glass dragon head from Taiwan. Magnificent!

So I'm looking at this bonanza of loot from Asia and I realize ... I took all the gifts AC had brought back!

All! The! Gifts!

For everyone! OMGoodness, how rude! How embarrassing!!

And AC was so exhausted when I did it that she was at a complete loss as to how to tell me they weren't all for my greedy guts, so she just left them with me. I was horrified at my behavior and the (unintended) insult. Just like me, trying to help out and coming off like a horse's ass.

So I e-mailed AC right away (told myself I didn't want to interrupt their homecoming and tiny bit of R&R before work, but really just because I was too embarrassed to talk to her right then):

I really wish I'd had the presence of mind to look in the gift bag before I let you leave, as there is no way on Earth you could possibly have meant all those beautiful items for me. I was just supposed to pick one, wasn't I? I am so embarrassed! My apologies.

Why didn't you say something ... you were exhausted from the billion-hour flight, weren't you? Anyway, I'm bringing the bag into work in the morning so you can have all the gifts for everyone else back. Also you can tell me the story behind them all, because they're gorgeous!

So what happens at work? AC sits in my office and laughs at me. Giggles, even. There were a couple guffaws, and a chortle or two. Apparently my e-mail was found amusing: the entire bag, it turns out, was for me. A bag of swag. A bag of international swag. All for me. Wow.

That is so cool.

I am still too flipping greedy, though.

What About the "Off" Season?

Think they can make a "Not So Deadliest Catch"?

I'm going through withdrawal, people, and it ain't pretty! I've resorted to searching facebook and twitter for some f/v action.

My life is so pathetic at times like this ...

Color Me Sheepish

OMG am I a nitwit!

For weeks (weeks!) now I have been unable to get a volume on anything having to do with youtube, which has kinda stunk, because most video these days seems to originate there.

Anyway, went through the various diagnostics ... repeatedly ... no luck.

Talking to a colleague at work about it couple days ago, and he says something along the line of "have you checked to see if you need to un-mute the application volume?"

And I'm all like, "you can do that?"

... let me admit right here that most things I learn having to do with a computer are because I went and accidentally hit some key (or sequence of keys) at some time that impacted something behind the scenes the results of which I was completely unaware ...

So I took a close look at the next youtube link I came upon (this time from http://ambulancedriverfiles.blogspot.com/ link from today's entry) and there it is.

A bright red megaphone icon with an X next to it.

I click on it, and suddenly all is well in my youtube viewing universe!