Archive for the ‘Hair-pulling practice’ Category

Many years ago I pulled down half a tree with my bare hands in front of a couple of smart-alec witnesses. I have been “Tree Woman” ever since. It’s a mark of two things, I guess, stupid impulsivity and a do-it-myself attitude. Plus, it’s funny to some people. Go figure.

So yesterday I noticed that my newly-installed dishwasher was leaking. When I looked, it wasn’t so much a leak as a current that was running under the cabinets, soaking the flooring underneath. To make matters worse, the reason I asked for help installing it the first time was that I have short pudgy everything, and the cut-off valve is in a crappy, unreachable place. I had literally snatch the thing sideways in order to reach the valve, which turned the current into a fountain. Lying in a puddle with live electrical wires millimeters away and water spraying me in the face, I finally managed to close the valve. Since there was a load running at the time, I had to drain the machine before I could do anything else, but I finally got everything unhooked and unwired and out of the hole. It was… well, let’s just say I am glad the people buying this house do not read my blog. God willing, it will hold this time and everything will be fine for a while.

The culprit was spendthrift, the jerk. Cheap always causes problems. In an effort to save $5, my “helper” INSISTED all I needed was a ferrule and a nut for one end of the pipe. Nut, indeed. When he left, things were fine. After the washer moved a little (because I hadn’t bolted it in yet, because I was watching for leaks), the non-reworked end of the pipe came unseated, and the rest is history. I cannot tell you the effort it took to get that stupid pipe to hold the first time, just to get it ON the washer, even. The fix was a $5 hose and some teflon tape, a headache from being on my back for an hour, and very sore legs from hopping up and down to turn off/on power, hunt tools, get towels, etc. By golly, it works now!

Geez, I hate this house.

I know it’s not the house’s fault. It has suffered from the half-a$$ed work done on it many years ago, which is now failing on my watch. Unfortunately, I can’t make the repairs without an income that does more than pay for gas and cat food. That’s about as far as my money goes these days. Still, I wish my mom had stayed put a little longer, had never moved here. She loved it while she had it, though, so I can’t blame her for it, either. I should have moved when she died. I feel like I need her approval to leave. Isn’t that silly? Every time something goes wrong or breaks, I just beat the crap out of myself for still being here, for not fixing it when I had a career. I don’t feel like I deserve to own a house, actually. How can I go to a new town and start over if I am simply a destroyer of dwellings?

Oops! I didn’t mean for this to turn into a rant. I have so much to write, but I don’t want to bore you to tears! Remind me to talk to you about “Black Empowerment Theology,” or maybe reality tv. Bet I could stir up something ugly with either of those little conversation starters.

On a happier note, the babies are starting to recognize me. They turn their little faces up to be rubbed, and cry and crawl toward me when they hear my voice. I guess their hearing is getting better – I suppose they are learning my scent, too. So darned cute.

Sinatra Peeking

OK, later. Hope your Tuesday is marvelous and full of love.


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Ok, a few notes from the day.

1. If you try to carry 130 cd’s in a box that will only hold 40, do not be surprised when you drop them all one foot from your destination.
2. Also do not be surprised to hear God laughing while you are on your butt in the floor trying to pick them all up. If the word “moron” pops into your head at some point, just accept it and go on.
3. If you own a box of straight pins and a cat, invest in a bar magnet. It will be immensely useful for when said pins are scattered all over the bedroom floor when you dropped a box of 130 cds on them.
4. Straight pins will line up parallel on the magnet, making them oh so much easier to remove.
5. Not all straight pins are made of steel.
6. For those which are not, you will need a roll of tape or long fingernails.
7. If you own a box of non-steel straight pins and a cat you can trip over and a big honkin’ box of cds you would like to use to scatter the pins on the floor, you should take said tape straight to the garbage after use, as separating cat hair and lint and bits of grass from pins will likely cause a stroke before you get anywhere NEAR close to finished.
8. If you have a cat, be prepared to deal with it being in your lap and batting stuff around you while you are on the floor with straight pins, tape, hair, and cds, even tho said cat wouldn’t even look at you at dinner.
9. Wonder wth you are doing with so many cds when your freakin’ roof is leaking, and remember the “Sounds of the Century” collection and the pan flute series were actually bought by your mother. Sigh with relief, mostly, although you know you have to claim the “Best of Air Supply.”

If perchance there is an irritable someone in your midst *ahem* and you are perplexed as to why their panties are mightily wadded, ponder these.

1. Ask yourself how many times lately a conversation the two of you had started with the words, ‘I need you to do something for me…’
2. Has there been a time or twenty that you stopped in the middle of a conversation with the now-grouchy-one to start a new chat with someone else who happened to walk by? Did you bother to recognize you left the first person just standing there, feeling like a putz?
3. It COULD be that after talking about your life and work and family and whatever else for 20 minutes without breathing ONCE,  you said, “Well, ok, I guess I’ll let you go. I am on my way out the door to do something for my wife/child/parent/boss/dogs/neighbor/starving orphans in Thailand. So, how are you?”

OH! And the best?? If you, say, write me a bad check for your child’s piano lessons? Do NOT have the brass cohones to TEXT me when you STOOD ME UP YET AGAIN to say, “Oopsie.” Get your sorry good-for-nuthin’ piece of crap arse to me with cash in hand, and plenty of it. I’m not running to your bank to collect. I will, however, see you in court. THAT I will run to do.

Damn straight.

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Hey, if you have a sec? Click on the photos in the post below and vote for my babies. I wanna make it to the voting page at least. Click on the cheezburgers to rate them. Thanks.

So last Friday I was invited to lunch. Yeah, I know, my sparkling conversational skillz keep me busy. Anyway, this lunch was supposed to follow a noon choir performance for the local Kiwanis club. I showed up about 15 minutes before I thought it started, but the group was nowhere to be found. I saw the sound equipment, tho, so I figured they were all in a back room somewhere warming up. I sat down in the lobby to wait. And wait. And…wait. I finally asked somebody if she had seen the kids, and she told me, “Oh, their leader sent them off to lunch.”


I called, no answer. I called his daughter, no answer. Finally, my phone rang, and he said, “We’re over here at Wendy’s, about to walk back to the hotel. Where are you?” He had left his phone at home, and it “just didn’t cross (his) mind” to borrow his daughter’s phone and call me. It didn’t cross his mind…

*insert ‘Dear God, send me some new friends’ prayer here*

Now, see, for the last month I have been much, much better about not taking things personally, thanks to some righteously good happy pills, but alas, the spell was broken. I couldn’t really say anything when he walked up. He offered a half-hearted apology, like a husband who’s been nagged about putting his feet on the coffee table (I’m sorry you got confused you silly girl! Uh, really sorry!), and I just kinda shook my head and walked marched away (I’m nothing if not self-righteous!). 

I brought this on myself. We spent some great times together last week, and I let my guard down. I know better, really, I do. This is a friendship that blossoms when I am useful to have around, and pretty much withers when I’m not needed, but it’s so hard not to get lost in the fun when it’s good. When it’s good? It’s very, VERY good. Once I reminded myself of my role (patsy, driver-of-the-truck, chorus lap dog), I was able to get past it, but dude. I’m Just. So. Kewl. How is it so easy to forget me?

Oh, well. It’s done, and it will not be the last time I am not considered.  There’s still a week of school left. I just need a new supply of happy pills before it happens again, is all, so I don’t shoot up the post office. Or whatever. Oh, hello, nice homeland security man! What’s that? A threat? Me? Noooo…

I am aware that this sounds like a silly thing to let bother me, but it’s the predictability of it that really ruffles my skirt. Forgetting me was not a big deal. It was just lunch, after all, and he had a lot on his mind. Fries can be all-consuming like that. There’s a lot of this I have left out that would TOTALLY convince you to form a picket line outside his door, but really. Who cares except me? I’m sure you don’t want to know it ALL. This post is mostly for me to vent, to SAY out loud that I HAVE BEEN MISTREATED. PITY ME, dangit. Harumph.   

Tonight? I will be running sound for another concert, and Wednesday, I will be pulling the equipment trailer for his day tour of the elementary schools (with the truck, of course. My teeth aren’t that strong).

See? Told you it’s my own fault. “I’m just a girl who cain’t say no.”

Another thing that’s my fault is the sign that points the sick and wounded of the critter community to my door. “Give me your tired, your homeless, your inflamed uteri…” The wild kitten that eats here has become a woman. Uh…well, you know what I mean. The sick part is that I think the tom that is after her is her daddy. My own father once told me “a hard d*** has no conscience,” and that goes double for cats, apparently. Still. Ew.

I could be wrong about her parentage. There was a more likely candidate around about the time she was born, but I honestly couldn’t tell at the time if that one was really a boy. I’ll just catch whoever I can, and do my best to curb the population explosion. The least I can do is keep it out of my own danged house.

Now that you are thoroughly squicked, you may be on your way.  I am sure there will be more excessive info soon enough.


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YOU are the reason I don’t tell people anything!!

Funny, when YOU are having a conversation with somebody, I don’t interrupt. It never occurred to me to make faces behind YOUR back…(to a 52-yr-old man).

Dear GOD, can you SMELL yourself?

Did you know your perfume completely filled this 1800 sq. ft. room? Thanks. My Excedrin bottle thanks you, too.

Could you GET any more handsome??

That’s what you get for having children. You were warned.

Hey, can I tell you what the doctor said?


Another day in paradise. Tomorrow I get my newest toy, and I am stoked. I have to put it together, but I think that can be done. I’m fairly good with an allen wrench. What, I didn’t mention I’ve been shopping? Silly me.

See, it turns out that even the heartiest couch potato can rot if it just lies there long enough. Movement is key. I hate movement. There are only two physical activities I really enjoy: roller skating and cycling. Well, ok, there is one more I THINK I would enjoy, but it’s off the table, so to speak. So. Since my hands are my livelihood and I am the current reigning Miss Clumsy, skating isn’t the wiser option. Biking it is. Riding a bike isn’t without issues, tho. I have the inseam of a raccoon and the body of a pygmy hippoptamus, so finding a small enough frame that I can get on and off of easily is a trick. I hope I have found it. We will know tomorrow. I have a buddy who has promised to help me assemble the thing, but he’s rather easily distracted by shiny things and hard to catch, kinda like a rabbit. Come to think of it, if I had his metabolism, I wouldn’t need the darned bike in the first place. Why are we friends again…? Oh, yeah. He’s cute. At any rate, I won’t be holding my breath waiting for him. I’m just sayin’. 

I wore my helmet to church today to get a laugh. I succeeded. Cyndi called me “Special Zoe,” like I’m gonna bang my head against the floor or something.  I think I’m adorable, personally, but I accept that there could be other opinions.

I know word is bound to get around when I get out in the neighborhood, and I will really have to fight not being put off by that. I keep thinking when people encourage me that they really WANT to say, “it’s about danged time, freak,” and that’s a bit of a downer, really. I once went walking at a local track, and when somebody I knew told me to pick up the pace, I cut across the field and went home. My pace was what I could handle at the moment and not lose my cookies, and I was ashamed of that. The next day, a doctor in my church said he saw me walking and was really happy for it. I never went back. I don’t like that kind of attention, even though I know these people THINK they are helping. They are really just making me aware of my sloth. I get really defensive and take it out on myself, I really don’t need to do that anymore. What, they think I don’t KNOW? I do own a mirror or two, thanks. I know the potato needs to roll over occasionally.

Speaking of “fluffy” things, Cleo, the preggars kitty, is growing steadily. I hope she has her babies here, cuz they will be tamed and fixed when they’re old enough if I have a say so. I mean, really, I NEED more cats, because 12 is not enough, right? I’m gonna have to start selling body parts to feed them all if they keep coming. Need a kidney?  A pint of blood? No?

OH! It’s snake season again.

Rat Snake

OK. Back to the laundry. Maybe the dishes. Or the floors. Or a little light carpentry.


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First it was potato chips. Did you notice? The 6 oz. bag went to 5oz., but nobody really complained. Why would we? The price didn’t change, the size of the bag didn’t change, so why would we notice we were getting less for our money? Now that it has gone to 4 1/4 oz., I just don’t buy them anymore. Then ice cream people decided to downsize their packaging so that the half gallon we WERE buying became more like a third of a gallon, for the same price of course.

I personally never noticed when my favorite mayo company put a dimple in the bottom of their jars so they would hold less than a quart. THAT made me mad, cuz, by golly, I lurves me some mayo. Small children don’t taste as good with mustard alone. The mayo thing RILLY made me mad because I couldn’t see it without really paying attention. A smaller bag of chips or a smaller ice cream container is something I can see. A dimple-bottomed jar I cannot. Sad thing is, those are just a few examples. Downsizing is rampant now that a few companies got away with it.

Tonight, I made the mistake of reading labels before stocking my shopping cart. Every now and then some monstrous force will compel me to look at nutritional information, and it usually saves me from a pint of Cherry Garcia or Karamel Sutra. I generally don’t care about 5 cents or so here or there – I am blessed enough to not have to for now. Tonight I decided to compare pain medicines. I get some pretty bad headaches, and there’s really only one med that knocks them out: it’s the one that first came up with a migraine formula. I had a choice of a big bottle of migraine stuff for $14 or a big box of their regular extra strength formula for $12. Guess what?!? If you said, “they are the same formula,” you’d be right! You win the all-expense paid trip to enlightenment! Their regular formula is identical to their migraine stuff, only cheaper. At that point, my good will went hunting for another recipient. I got a BOGO pack for $6, which equalled the $14 bottle of migraine pills. Y’all. That’s what my Granny would call LYING. DECEPTION. Thieving buncha crooks – if I had another choice…

I COULD drink 6 or 7 cups of coffee while chewing on a strip of willow bark, but, well…. no.

Things are getting so expensive now, I will be forced to survive on 25-cent packs of crackers before long. Who can afford meat, or milk, or fresh veggies these days? It’s no wonder it’s so easy for me to stay fat. All I can afford is starch.

ARGH! So much whining! Sorry. *insert penitent puppy-dog eyes here*

OK, you guys know I have cats, right? My neighbor’s cat and two kittens found the secret entrance to the lair a few days ago, and the only way I can keep them from using it is to feed them outside. I don’t know what my neighbor doesn’t feed them, but they attack my food like they are starving. Along with the anonymus spraying tom that ventures in and tears up my trash in the kitchen (the daddy of the kits, actually), mama and babies bring the grand total to nine. NINE. CATS. I am considering moving into a tent in the yard and letting them just have the house. I am outnumbered and overrun, and my heart can’t take too many more rude awakenings at 5am, to the sound of blood-curdling screams on the other side of the wall at my head. That stuff can get ya dead.

Every now and then I trade up the secret entrances. My cats know where they are, but it usually takes the neighborhood mooches up to three weeks to catch on. That buys me a little break from feeding the neighborhood and smelling cat pee every morning. This momma cat took less than one afternoon to find her way in. She is smart, she is. My plan is to let her kits get a little older, then I am kidnapping her and getting her fixed. If her babies let me tame them, I’ll do them, too. The last thing we need is more cats around here. It’s bad enough that heartless (bad, BAD words here, people) throw kittens out like garbage here. We don’t need to manufacture more. Lily has been a joy to raise, I must admit, but still. Nine? Criminy. I have threatened to catch that tom and do him with a spoon when my nostrils wake me on fire at dark thirty, but he is crafty, and values his berries.

Hmm. I guess that’s it for now. I had other things to write, but they have slipped the surly bonds of my memory for the moment. Last night it took two people and half an hour to remind me why I was going to the store.

I think I need to start doing crosswords.

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I have been in a slump for a few weeks now, and the last couple of days have made my rage almost Hulk-ish. I fully expected gray matter to be leaking out of my ears today, and while that might have grossed out the girl at Dairy Queen, I bet it would have felt GOOOD. This mood started with being left out of a very fun activity some “friends” did back in early August, and has ended this evening with me inviting the world to find a very dark end of itself in which to play hide-and-seek. I am livid, even now, when I think of the 45 minutes I spent driving that should have been 30, but the kind, gentle person in front of me who was doing 10 below the limit on the highway decided he should STRADDLE THE CENTER LINE rather than let me pass. If he didn’t feel the burn on the back of his neck, it was because he was truly the freakin’ oblivious moron he showed himself to be. **pant pant** See? Slightly out of whack I am, Sam.

When I got back to the sticks, where my crumbling, leaky, filthy, cat-infested abode stands (don’t you want to come to dinner now?), I realized it was time for the dump to open, and I should probably clean out the fast food bags covering the floor of my truck. The dump, you say? Why yes, our little county has decided too many people were throwing their trash in it (we are a little blinker-light town with no city services), and they put up 8-foot fences and posted a guard during the 5 hours a day it is open. If the “trash nazi” sees something he doesn’t like in your garbage, he gets out of his little car and treats you badly.

I can barely get the truck in the fences when the gate IS open, and I have to play the “parallel parking back and forth game” just to turn around and escape. I can’t drive through any more. What, you want me to get out and WALK the 20 feet to the dumpster? Nay! When I got there today, though, justice had been WROUGHT – something, hopefully, please God, cuz that would REALLY be FUNNY, a TRASH TRUCK, had bashed the living daylights out of the gate. I wondered how the darned things got in there anyway, cuz I am GOOD with the backing, but the trash behemoths are twice as long as my Silverado. Oh, how I laughed. I left my window down when I passed the TN so that he KNEW I was laughing at his world, crushed and twisted. I am sweet like that.

If some local citizen did it, I would like to know what equipment he has that would allow him to do that kind of damage without messing up his own stuff. Cuz, you know, I’d like to weld it onto MY truck so we could keep up the fun later, when they repair the fence. I figure after a while they’d get the message and just leave it down. Yes, I know my taxes pay for the repairs.  It’s TOTALLY worth it to see their stupid plan thwarted.

So, a brief moment of LOL goodness at the end of a whole bunch of crappiness. There is still plenty of crap to deal with, not the least of which I have a woman who expects me, in a couple of weeks, to fix 4 years’ worth of somebody else’s bad instruction of her child. He’s quite content with being stupid, but I am supposed to break that contentment, make him learn to suck it up, give him a love for hard work, and fix him. I am angry that I know I SHOULD want to help him, but I just don’t. I don’t like him, and tired of hearing his mother’s voice, and would much rather her find somewhere else to get lessons (piano). But, the “right thing to do” is fix it. Do the work. DANGIT ALL TO HECK.  I am constantly trapped by a need to “do the right thing.” How I envy those without a god sometimes, for having no fear or reverence for the afterlife, for karma, for any of that moral goodness that demands unselfishness. To be unfettered by judgement… well, it must be nice.

OK, now that I’ve paved my road to Hell, I’m gonna go tackle another desperate problem I allowed somebody to put in my lap. What a martyr I am, huh?

Ignore the steam clouds coming from the general direction of my house. I’m just working, or driving, or maybe watching the news. Or boiling small children. You know.

O.M.G. CAT, WTH have you been EATING, and why MUST you POOP every time I come in the ROOM???

More crap, see?


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The worst part about being right all the time is being right all the time. Every now and then I’d really like the opportunity to be surprised by my own happiness. I’d love to have more of it, I mean, and suprise myself by not facing doom and despair. I live in the town of Melo Dra, MA, obviously.  

My loser designation proved to be true Wednesday when I totally made a fool out of myself in an online class. I lost my place, got flustered, read the wrong part of the report… it really could NOT have gone worse. It couldn’t have been the person who called me three times in the middle of my presentation that caused it, not at all, but it was truly a mess. If I could have screamed, “DO OVER,” I would have. Sometimes you just have to cut and run. I am such a perfectionist that I can. NOT. tolerate my own failure, especially if I know it could have been avoided, and this time it could have. I was given wrong information about what I needed to do… and that phone thing (although other people had trains go by during their stuff, they didn’t have THREE trains go by)… so, see, by it not being MY FAULT, I am even madder. No, I didn’t answer the phone. In retrospect, I should have, and could have simply unplugged my mic to do it, but I didn’t think quickly enough. So. I was left to cry half the night in embarrassment.

That brought up all sorts of issues, like, “Where’s the closest place I can get ice cream?” and  “Where can I get the most fried chicken for ten bucks?” and “Why can’t I BELONG to somebody? I just want to have somebody to help me through the frustration, to tell me it doesn’t matter.” I realize of course that the frustration is why I DON’T belong to anyone. Who would want a girl who gets so wigged out over NOTHING? Nobody, that’s who.

I know, I know. I’m smart and funny and all that crap, and I TOTALLY conquered my stalking issues without therapy, and I have great taste in meat. A hug would still be nice once in a while.

As I sat on my sofa, weeping at the ceiling, Harry, who has stopped the crying now that he’s fed and happy, hopped up on my chest and stared into my eyes. He likes the blinking, I guess, but he put his little paw up to my eye and patted… wiped, really, and brushed off the tears rolling down my cheeks. He was so earnest, so attentive, unblinking.

Maybe I do belong to somebody after all.

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Guess. Go on, guess. Besides the obvious “more corpses,” try to guess the one thing I do not need, and no cracks about my butt. Ha. If you said, “a man!” you’d be terribly, cruelly wrong. If, however, you said, “another hunter!” you, shiny pretty person, win the brass ring.

I stepped out to go to church yesterday and heard a MONSTROUS, pathetic, “OH DEAR LORD SAVE ME FROM THE HUNS” caterwauling from across the road. I think I heard it before I opened the door, but if I didn’t, it was just ‘cuz I was distracted. It was LOUD, louder than Fig. In fact, I wondered if Fig had returned to me, this kitten was such a talker. Check out the flickr box at the right for pics of this most beautiful, squirmy little boy. When I got back from church he was on my porch, so I knew I was doomed.

I’ve never had trouble determining gender on a cat, but this is a little fuzzbutt, so it took me a while to be sure. I am PRETTY sure… mostly. Sorta. His name will be Harry, because I’m original that way. (If you don’t get that, you should seriously consider getting out from under that rock. Dude.) If Harry turns out to be a Lily when he finally gets to the vet, that’s ok, too.

Harry is well-fed, loving, tame, flea-less, and litter trained. I went around the neighborhood to see if (please, God) he had wandered away from home, but had no luck finding an owner. He is a member of the Insane household now. I just don’t understand how somebody could go to the trouble of taking such good care of him and then just toss him out of a car into somebody’s yard. I thank them for not killing him or depriving him, but gosh. Get the mama fixed, for goodness’ sake.

Harry is a track star.  His specialty is the 36″ hurdle, where he starts on the sofa behind me and lands smack in the middle of the laptop while I’m working. It’s like sitting on the porch and having a tree frog land on your forehead: no warning, just having the living crap scared out of you, and all that hard work getting the skid marks out of your shorts gone to waste. He has a voice like a Doppler effect, or the back end of an air raid siren. His purr is that of a finely-tuned Harley, loud, steady, and window-rattling.

Harry is also studying to be a master pastry chef: he NEVER. STOPS. KNEADING.

The biggest challenge for me? He thinks my moles are nipples. Need I say more?

Oh, well. Motherhood is what I do, I guess. Just when I think the family is complete…

Happy Monday!


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Every now and then, a day comes along that leaves me bald. I’ve blogged several times bout how the people around me only hear what they want to hear, how my advice gets ignored, and about the wildlife within my walls.

Today… I… dang. I’ll just have to tell you.

I was sitting here this afternoon, watching “Dead Like Me” on sci-fi, and I heard several little “pops” outside, like somebody hitting a metal pie plate with a spatula. When it didn’t stop, I got up and looked, and found my neighbor shooting a small shotgun up into a tree.  I couldn’t see what he was shooting at, so I went out and looked… STILL didn’t see. Turns out, he was trying to SHOOT DOWN A DEAD TREE.  Apparently, everybody he called who had a bucket truck had them in the shop, so he came up with the bright idea to shoot the tree in half, then cut down the rest. Yes, I said “shoot.” The tree. There was a little shack in the bushes it would have fallen on if he had cut it down whole, so he was gonna “top” it, then cut down the rest with a saw when he had shortened it.

I swear. You can’t make this stuff up.

Now before you get all, “you live in the sticks!” on me, yes. I do live in the sticks. We stick-dwellers hafta stick together. Heh. This is not a stupid man, and I honestly think he felt he was out of options. The tree is very dead, very rotted, and leaning very much toward a very overgrown little shed. (Take that, you english grammaristas!) Poor guy was doing the best he could. If I had been in the mood to sweat, I might have gone over and offered to help him get a rope on it and pull it away from said shed with the truck, but I was not, so I did not. The tree is still there. He must have run out of shells.

On another front, I am absolutely done in with school work, most of which is due Monday. You would let out a collective OMG if I made a list, trust me. So why are you watching tv, you ask? Good question. The television is my symbiote. If I do not feed it, I will die. I’m just sayin’. So, I have this friend of sorts whom I reminded just this afternoon that I DO NOT HAVE TIME to play this week. Or until August, really, but this next week is crucial. My Thursday class ended at 6:30 tonight, and the phone rang at 6:36. He. Wanted. Dinner. Criminy. Like a PUPPY. I wanted to reach into his ears with a gigantic set of tweezers and clean the danged things out. He has this habit of interrupting LOUDLY, and continuing his chatter even if he’s finished the thought and someone else starts to talk. Tonight, I had enough. I slammed my fist on the car door. He jumped, but he also didn’t interrupt me again. I decided to keep my mouth shut for the rest of the evening, and I am pretty sure he was utterly confused as to what to do with that. He was like a little kid who ate all the cookies, and was trying to get back in mom’s good graces.

Somebody told me a while back I should be glad someone wants to be with me. I am sure he didn’t mean it the way it sounded, or maybe he did. I dunno. I DO know I would rather talk to the cats than be dismissed and stomped on conversationally. That attitude has ensured my multitude of options on holidays, I’m sure, but honestly, I don’t care.

We had chinese, did I mention? My fortune cookie said, “Soon you will receive pleasant news.” Uh…oh-kaaay. Generic, much? Not that I… oh, heck. It was a COOKIE. Anyway, when I was about to go back in the house after a most tedious ride home at the speed of slug, some guy pulled up in the yard and offered me a brand new bedliner for my truck. Free. All I had to do was go get it, about a 10 mile drive. How he came to stop at MY house is a long story, and not really important, but I HAD been wondering how I was going to deal with all the dents and touched-up spots in the truck bed. Anywho, as I was driving to the back of some distant trailer park, I had two thoughts: one, he had phoned friends who were now looting my house, knowing I wasn’t home, and two, I was going to be lured into the woods and shot, and THEN they’d loot my house, and no one would have a clue as to where to look for the body. I’m such a positive thinker. When somebody on the road stuck out an arm and waved at him, I felt better, and sure enough, I am now the proud owner of the bedliner. I guess those times that people came by the house and asked for things off my porch finally paid off. Karma caught up with me, not that I thought it was looking.

Hair Club for the Beleaguered! I’m not just a client… I’m the president!

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He: “Thanks for helping me out today. I want to buy you dinner tonight. I was thinking a steak.”

Me: “Ok. Where? ‘Cheap Steaks R Us’?”

He: “‘Cheap Steaks R Us’ or ‘We Got Great Ribs,’ either one.”

Me: “Ok, well, ‘Great Ribs’ will be busy on a Friday night, but I need to do some things in town anyway. I’ll meet you at ‘Great Ribs’ at 6:15.”

He: “Ok.”

Fast forward to 6:25. Tired of burning gas to keep cool in the parking lot, I went in to get a table for two. People stared. The waitress left me alone to wait. At 6:38 I called.

“Hey. You comin’?”

“Um, I’m sittin’ at ‘Great Steaks.”

“We said ‘Great Ribs.”


Since the two places are 30 miles apart and I had plans for later, there was no way to hook up. Man, did I feel stoopid! Fat girl, stood up. Criminy. I got take-out and went on to my next gig. Now, the REALLY stoopid part of this is that I was dreading the dinner. Yeah, um… he’s not the greatest conversationalist. He bores the snot right outta me, actually. So, what, I was disappointed? What’s up with that?? If a doc came in and told me he decided I didn’t need major surgery, I’d be HAPPY, right? I sure hope this doesn’t mean I actually LIKE the guy. Noooo. Not that… 

I swear, the boy is dumber than a sack of HAMMERS. No, I take that back. He just doesn’t listen. That’s the MAN in him. He sent me two text messages to apologize, to his credit. I am used to screw ups. Doesn’t mean I deal with them very well, I just expect them now. Unfortunately, that was not the last of a few big irritants disappointments for the day, so I am just kinda blue. Yeah,  know. I live in blue. Oh, well.

I never knew the color blue
Until I tangled words with you.
And Purple was the haze of summer skies, and not your lies:
Yellow was the springtime sun
Until you turned your tail to run.
Now I see your love is painted black, Jack…
Now I see your love is painted black.

I wanna be color blind so I can’t see
The pain these colors paint for me
I wanna be color blind, make it black and white
So all I see is shades of light.

Yeah. Kinda like that. Did you know doctors charge nearly double when a patient has insurance as when they are paid in cash? I had my first uninsured encounter with the medical profession today, and while I appreciated that the doc was trying to help me afford the service, I was a little…I dunno… not PEEVED, but maybe just… oh, I don’t know, maybe disappointed, to continue the theme. I have heard complaints about such things from medicare patients before, but thought, surely not.

WRONG.  Yet another A-HA moment. This country has major problems. I’m in love with indoor plumbing, tho, so I guess I’ll stay.

On the plus side, the end of the evening was fairly pleasant. I had cookies and milk. What’s not to like about that? Tomorrow I have to mow, and fix the washer. I am tired of walking around it. Ah, who am I kidding? I can go another week without washing clothes in hot water. I could claim the need to study instead of mowing, but the grass might eat me when I get back from next week’s road trip if I don’t cut it before I leave. So. Either mow tomorrow or break the Sabbath. Hmm.





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