Thursday, June 30, 2005

Never a Dull Ancodia...mostly.

My ability to have opinions on things I don't even really give a damn about never fails to amaze me. I have strong opinions on what Oprah should do or not do, yet I don't watch her silly show, and don't own stock in Hermes, either. However, certain things like what my favourite kind of cake is...well, that actually never rated a single neuron's attention until today.

Who would have thought people have opinions on cake? Go figure. It's cake, for crying out loud. I mean, I can understand picking a slice of Red Velvet over german chocolate when presented with the choice, but does everyone but me actually carry around as part of their personal list of Themstuffs a favourite type of cake?

Cake is just...cake. It either sucks (in which case you don't eat it), or it doesn't (in which case you do eat it).

And german chocolate cake sucks, by the way.

Wednesday, June 29, 2005

What is your major malfunction?

You know, there's a lot going on in the world. I mean really a lot. Especially my world; I've just found out that I'm going to be a lot more busy; business is booming, so to speak. This is actually good news--it means I may continue feeding Romeo and Squoosh in the manner to which they have become accustomed. :-) Weebie I'm not worried about; she'd steal my food. If she had thumbs, she'd give me a shiv and go straight for the chicken; I'm not naive.

You'd think that with all there is going on in the world, or even in this country, we wouldn't be at a loss for things to fret over. Obviously, I'm wrong. I'm not talking about Souter's home potentially being turned into a hotel--the Lost Liberty Inn, I believe--because that's just funny. I need humour in my life, and I'll take it where I can get it, especially when this country seems to be going to hell with itself. Might as well laugh, I figure.

But why are we wasting pixels on Oprah Winfrey's alleged snub at Hermes? Who in the hell cares? But as soon as I sign on, here it is--hot off the AP wire. Hermes is racist. Yep. Racist. They are racist because--and I'm condensing the article somewhat whilst still retaining central ideas--Oprah came to their store after hours without warning, and they would not let her in to shop. What Hermes says occurred is immaterial; the events that are agreed upon are that Oprah showed up after closing without warning, and she was denied admission to the establishment.

And now Hermes is racist.

This AP article claims that what Hermes did is able to be likened to a "Whites Only" drinking fountain. Along with claims by Monday-morning quarterbackers that insinuate that the Hermes employees felt perhaps that Oprah was potentially violent (of course because she is Black), and therefore refused to let her in. After hours.

Is everyone in the goddamned world on drugs?

I'm certain that Oprah is entitled to enjoy some privileges that are not open to many people as a result of the money she makes. Case in point is the fact that it wasn't just Oprah who was turned away from Hermes; she was not standing alone at their front door, making starving little orphan eyes at the scarves, scratching pitifully at the glass and crying. No, Oprah was with "three friends". And I get the feeling that "three friends" is what she was with only because it spins better than the term "entourage".


Oprah can do things that we can't, like call ahead and say, "Hello, I'm Oprah Freaking Winfrey, and I want private hours in your store. When's good for you?" I mean, get real--The Donald does it, Paris Hilton does it, Puff Daddy does it, even Jennifer Lopez does it, though no one cares what Jennifer does, 'cos word is that she's an obnoxious prat.

Again, butsoanyway.

I seriously doubt that this particular Hermes concerns itself much with crime. Not, at least, when crime is someone holding up the store; they're probably much more concerned that Winona Ryder might someday show up with a suspiciously large purse. And although I've not been to that Hermes, I'd wager that they have cameras, panic buttons, and probably an armed guard; they may well have plainclothes security-like personnel also. And odds are they're not in the rough part of town in the first place. So I highly question the speculation that this Hermes thought Oprah was there to rob them blind.

I happen to think that this Hermes thought that they were closed. It's really that simple. And I'm a little bit offended that someone--anyone--would liken a store enforcing their hours of operation to a "Whites Only" drinking fountain; that is a ludicrous appeal to emotion that *should* have never seen the light of print. It's reminiscent of Glenn Beck's calling his production manager "a Nazi", and likening him to Pol Pot...only Glenn Beck's kidding. I think just about everyone on the North American continent has been turned away from a place of business after hours; it's a common occurrence. And when it has happened to me, I've often seen patrons still inside eating, shopping, snickering at their Inherent Superiority for knowing the hours of operation beforehand and planning accordingly. Okay, just kidding on the last one. But just because there are people that are still in there doesn't mean that anything remotely resembling a store schedule has been shot to hell; they have to draw the line somewhere. Some restaurants will not seat anyone some fifteen to thirty minutes before they close; other restaurants will seat anyone up until closing time--but one minute past, and you're out of luck.

And according to this story, Oprah felt that the Hermes employees were aware of who she was. I also seriously doubt that. Historically, such places are more than accommodating to the wealthy, stars, and so on--I mean, we're talking about a place that will politely-but-firmly wrest the purse I've saved up for six months to buy from my sweaty paws and usher me out the door to provide private hours to Someone Who Matters. At that Someone's request. And then I get to stand outside alone at their front door, making starving little orphan eyes at the scarves, scratching pitifully at the glass and crying while Puff Daddy, Madonna, The Donald, and anyone else who planned ahead and had a member of the entourage give Hermes a ring and let them know to throw my peasant ass out goes shopping and buys my coveted purse on a whim.

Years ago, I (as well as the other customers) was thrown out of a high-end antiques store for close to the same reason; some local Special Someone wanted the store cleared out. Probably they'd come in and immediately pegged Ancodia as being likely to wander over and lick the Chesterfield they'd come to purchase, or something. But the point is that, whoever they were (to this day I don't know), they were able to do it quietly and tactfully. As tactful as something like that can be done, since what you're really doing is throwing the Unwashed Masses out. Or demanding that some poor shopgirl not pick up her kids on time because rules don't apply to you.

I've yet to see the explanation that Oprah did anything tasteful to lessen this slight, described by an OprahFriend as "one of the most humiliating moments of her life". Did she hold a business card up to the window? I'd bet a million dollars that one of the employees would have walked over to inspect it; I believe with all my heart that they're ready to handle such actions, because something like that is a tasteful way of alerting the employee(s) that you think you have reason to believe that the rules don't apply to you, and you're giving them the opportunity to concur. Again from my own experience, such an action might have opened the doors for Oprah regardless of who she was because my experience has taught me that 90% of the time, if you conduct yourself with class, people respond to that. Most upscale boutiques would probably at least personally enquire as to who you thought you were if they didn't recognise the name, if not take on faith that you must be Someone and let you in. So I just don't buy this story.

And I don't think it was "because she is Black". Consider what the story would be if Oprah had been wandering around the streets of Detroit with her friends, and had tried to go shopping in Bling-Bling Jewellers, right next door to Manny's Pawn Shop and Check Cashing.

Waitasec... Am I trying to insinuate that Bling-Bling Jewellers is a Black establishment? Ummm, yeah. If you have a sweet bippy, bet it. Our hypothetical store is Black-owned, Black-maintained, and set up to serve the Black community only. This is called a thought experiment, chirrin; work with me here.

So Oprah lands herself on the doorstep of Bling-Bling Jewellers, est. 2004, and tries to open the door to shop. But wait! It's locked! Oprah glances at her watch, and sees that it is 6:05 p.m.; the store hours on the door of Bling-Bling Jewellers state that Bling-Bling is open Monday through Friday, from 9 to 6. Oprah's #3 Friend, hoping someday to rate being called part of the entourage, takes it upon itself (I'm assuming no gender here) to knock on the door. After all, this *is* Oprah, right? And there's someone inside, still shopping--Oprah and the OprahFriends can see there's a patron in there.

So our question is this: If the store owner looks out the window long enough to ascertain that it looks like yet another customer who can't read the hours of operation, and then yells out, "We're closed! Come back tomorrow!", is that store owner racist, too? Or maybe they hate celebrities now? Or if the owner is a man, does he hate women? Or if she's female, has she been brainwashed by the beliefs of our male-dominated society, and is betraying her fellow women? Please--I need to know exactly why I should hate Bling-Bling Jewellers in this scenario!

Let's try another thought experiment: Let's suppose Hermes didn't know who in the hell Oprah was, but let her in anyway. And then someone else, and the next day someone else, ad infinitum. It's just Their Way; they're very accommodating. We'd never hear about it of course, but what if they did? Well, they'd not keep many--if any--quality employees, for one. Most employees wouldn't put up with that shit for very long at all. After all, if they don't close at 6, or 6:15, or 7:20, or 8:45...when *do* they close? Where is the line drawn? Or, since France has a 35-hour work week and so the employees *must* be allowed home after a certain period of time, perhaps the manager should take up residence above the store, and leave his phone number on the door in case Bianca Jagger and *her* three friends--Regine, Carmen, Diana, and The Dead Andy Warholwhodoesn'tcount'coshe'sdead--wander by at 3:18 in the morning, wanting to go shopping. I mean, we wouldn't want Hermes to get a reputation for discriminating against washed-up old jetsetters, now would we?

Or one last thought experiment: Hermes does recognise Oprah immediately. They let her in, and she takes her time pawing through the watches because (1) you don't just run in to Hermes and buy a watch like you pick up a $2.99 digital watch at Target on the way to work when yours breaks; (2) she can; she's Oprah; (3) since they let her in, of course they have nothing better to do than to wait; (4) she has to mull over her choices, as this obviously isn't anything she's oh, I don't know...planned out? I mean, if she'd planned it, she would have called ahead--but we'll not go there. So she holds up the shopgirls another thirty minutes or so. We'd of course never hear about it, but that's not our thought experiment. Our thought experiment is to hypothesize what is going through any one of the shopgirls' minds as they arrive late to pick up their child at day care; drive home dreading their teenager's accusations of "you just don't care!"; race to get to the other side of town to meet Pierre, this really hot guy that they think might be The One, but for whom they are now running an unanticipated thirty minutes late, with no notice; pay for an additional hour to get out of the parking garage; figure out what they can recycle to wear to work tomorrow, since they've missed the dry cleaner's (maybe Oprah will come with and persuade him to open up, too?)... And so on.

I think the general jist of their thoughts would be, I cannot believe zees beetch! Who een zee 'ell does she zeenk she ees? I swear--wheen I am reech and famouse, I weel not step on zee leetle ones! Feh!

Which of course we all know is racially motivated. Right?

It's that whole Do Unto Others Thing. Oprah, I don't give a fuck who you are--you don't have the right to insist that the rules do not apply to you, and then try to bully an apology out of a store that has done nothing for which they should apologise! And the very fact that you think what occurred in your little life is important enough to rate as a news story is only further proof of the depths of your self-absorbed oblivion. Anyone--like Oprah--who feels that they have the weight to throw around to get a store to open up after hours and throws a media temper tantrum when they feel no one is respecting their authoritaah is a small-minded, petty, shallow fool for whom I am embarrassed. That was crass, Oprah. Next time, be discreet and call ahead, or something. Or give others' time and shop hours the same respect I'm sure you demand be shown to you. Fuck being embarrassed over George Bush--I'm ashamed that you are representing America in this instance, because this is just one more example of why just about every other country thinks we Americans are a pack of solipsistic, dictatorial cowboy buffoons who are convinced that the entire goddamned universe--and store hours--revolve around us. And you could be Black, White, or Purple for all I care--the mere assumption that others exist only to wait upon you was selfish and rude, and your temper tantrum only makes you look like a spoilt child. Please go become a citizen of Belgium if you're going to keep acting like this; I had respect for you, but I've lost it.

Ok, I'm done now. I feel better.

Sunday, June 26, 2005

penguins of you

Cool...I've just figured out how to post photos. Ok, it's not like, a great feat or anything, but I've been meaning to get around to it. :-) So done!

Now I just have to take some pictures of Squoosh. :-) I'd better hurry up--he's already close to four times bigger than when I first got him! And I will get some good ones of Romeo (who *hates* having his picture taken), and Weebie.

I know that Romeo hates having his picture taken because one Christmas, Meg gave me some pictures of him, all elaborately staged. I'd been wondering why he'd stopped having any dealings with her for a week. :-) And knowing him as I do, I can see the anger and righteous indignation in every shot. They're hilarious!

But I have to be nice to him; the last dose of antibiotic I gave him was mis-aimed, and he snarfed some up his nose. Poor measle.

...thanks, I think.

You are a drumstick.

Absolutely insane. That is how most would describe you. You aren't afraid to take risks, and enjoy putting yourself in strange situations. Most people hang out with you because of your hilarious sense of humour. You light up any bad situation, and can help all of your friends with their problems, except for your own. Because of this, you enjoy being around people like you. Many shut you out for your very weird, random personality, but honestly, you shouldn't care.

Most compatible with: Guitar, and another drumstick.

Click here -- What Random Object Represents Your Inner Self?

Matin heureux!


I had planned to sleep in for a bit today; I'd even set things up such that I was coming in to Eviljob about three hours later than usual.

So much for that shit.

After I'd gone to sleep at about four a.m., my beloved lawnguy, Harley David, decides to call me at SIX FIFTY IN THE MORNING. That's six-fucking-fifty ayem, in case my Rabid Bitch needs translating. And not only does he call me at six-fucking-fifty ayem, but he then asks if he woke me up, and tries to claim that *his* clock says it's 7:45.

I asked him if he was aware that god sends people to hell for lying, and hung up on him.

So he calls back at six-fucking-fifty-three in the morning. He's totally sorry, but since I'm up...


He wants to come over early, and to make sure I don't have the back gate locked (Jesus...I forget one time, and I never hear the end of it!). So I tell him fine, come over whenever. I'm not going to be able to get back to sleep now anyway. Damnit, damnit, damnit. I'm torn between which pressing engagement necessitated that I get up so damn early; did he want to go surfing? Get laid? My personal guess is that he wanted to get me and whomever else done, get high, and watch whatever big fight was this afternoon, or whenever in the hell it was today.


Harley David has been my lawnguy for almost two years. I keep him because, well, he kinda is an okay person, generally, though he calls an awful lot. I think he gets lonely, or bored, or something. Also, his work is good, and he's cheaper than some of the other outfits roving throughout this subdivision. And he saves lizards. Don't ask. Sigh. And he also made really nice little flowerbed-like-clearing-things on either side of the garage for the teensy little plants with purple flowers that I think were once decorative, and are on their way back to being decorative. Plus, he understands what I'm talking about when I tell him I want him to make really nice little flowerbed-like-clearing-things on either side of the garage for the teensy little plants with purple flowers that I think were once decorative. Speaking Ancodia is a major Plus. And the more expensive people I was using before used to just mow over them, and were okay with letting the grass grow over the little clearing I think was once there.


So I was in a grumpy-ass mood all morning, even though I got to have coffee and got to Eviljob super-early. But now I've been up (it feels like) forever, and I'm no longer tired. And he didn't do the hedges in front.

Story of my life.

I'm not being frou-frou by not doing all of this myself; I would never get around to it, and my yard would quickly become the Jungle of Despair it so desperately wants to be. And then I'd feel even less like doing it. Plus, I don't own a lawnmower. Plus, then I'd have only son-friend to do extra things around the house when I get around to having it done. Which, okay, isn't often, but...whatever. My intentions are good. I want to be this great Suzy Homemaker-Martha Stewart woman. It's never, ever going to happen, but I occasionally half-start projects and get usually son-friend or Harley David to help out. Sometimes I make Meg do it. Not that Meg's any better than I am at attention span or follow-through when it comes to domestic stuff; we both inherited it from Mom. Only I'm a better cook; Meg can barely manage Pizza Rolls, and Mom cooks some very weird things. Mom is famous for making things like Pasta Primavera...with overcooked noodles, canned green beans, and catsup she's thrown some spices into.

Well, that's what it tastes like. Did I mention that Mom's divorced? The aforementioned pasta primavera might be accompanied by...oh, whatever she laid her hands on: baked potato, rice, black-eyed peas... You name it; anything in the kitchen is fair game to appear on a plate. Back when Dorkface was dating, requirement number one for any future Mrs Dorkface was that she cook. Well. And clean. Somewhat.

Well, he didn't want to end up in a doomed marriage for which he had to keep hiring housekeepers and cooks. I can't say I blame him.

Butsoanyway, this is the stock from which I come, so I hire someone to do my lawn. This is me, being realistic about my limitations. So I ended up with Harley David (needless to say, not his real name). And luckily for Harley David, I had left before he showed up. Grr.

So the day started off sucky, and from there couldn't do anything but get better. Romeo's doing fine; he likes the new bed I bought for him so that he has somewhere to go now since Weebie has commandeered his old bed (she did this a few months ago), and I bought a bed for Squoosh, too. I figured I should, since he's staying, and he shouldn't have to sleep inside or on top of his cat condo, or get Puff-Puff's hand-me-down bed. He might not think it smelled right, since it was another cat's, plus he deserves better than hand-me-downs, plus, it would be wrong to do that; that was Puff's property.

Unlike certain courts I could mention, I get the importance of owning property that is yours, only yours, and no one can take away from you. But whatever.

And if anyone ever reads this and has heard some girl kvetch at or about her beloved lawnguy, no--not me. Err...ummm... Her. Not her; she's somebody different.

I should take some Excedrin PM and get some sleep. Finally. For once.

Thursday, June 23, 2005

Measle Sniffles

Yes, we have the Measlesniffles. And we are a cranky beast. Who would have thought that it would be possible to pack so much anger and indignation into such a relatively tiny little cat body?

See, to Romeo, this is just one more Great Injustice heaped on top of Squoosh, and other changes. Romeo Detroit, for the record, says that change is bad.

He has an upper respiratory infection, and probably a sore throat. So now he's on antibiotics. Poor measle. He's lost his voice, and can't growl. He tried to growl at Dr Vet, and it just ended up sounding like a coffeemaker when it's running out of water to percolate. And that only pissed Romeo off more, 'cos he was trying to be intimidating.

Not many people are intimidated by coffeemakers.

This is one thing that I love about Siamese cats--they have such a solid sense of Self, their rights, and Entitlement. And righteous indignation. A *lot* of righteous indignation. In fact, pretty much everything that occurs in Life is just one more indignity to be suffered to a Siamese's way of thinking. It's kind of cute.

So Dr. Romeo Detroit, C.O.M.S. (that stands for Cream of Mushroom Soup) is ok. Sick and angry, but ok. They gave him a loading dose there, and I start his meds tonight.

Romeo was named Romeo because the person who bought him for me told me I should "name him something nice". Meaning of course, that other cats I've had (and have had since) were given weird names. Hmmph. I don't think there's anything wrong with Trurl, Klapaucius, Wee Beastie, and etc... But whatever. I loved him from the moment I saw him, and so I did name him something nice. Well, I think Romeo is nice. He likes it when I say it in a Siamese voice--high-pitched and twangy, with three inflections. :-) It makes him happy; I'm speaking his language. The "Detroit" I added after about the first six months, because he was sheer murder, and Detroit is like, the murder capital of the world. Well, just about.

Cream of Mushroom Soup is his colour. That got added to his name one of the first times I took him to the vet, for a checkup, or shots, or something. The receptionist behind the counter took the cat carrier I had him in behind the desk (that vet took your animal back for you, and called you back when they were ready for you), and was asking me questions for his file. She'd obviously had a bad day or something and was being very brusque with me, which made me just more nervous. I get into these "trying to make people happy" modes in those situations. Or used to, at least. We got through name, sex, age, and then got to colour. I paused.

Well, he's a Siamese; they aren't one whole colour! And "Siamese" isn't a colour! I didn't know what she wanted!

She sighed, loudly. "Honey, what colour is he?" I panicked, trying to think of something that was the same colour...and finally thought of Cream of Mushroom Soup. It actually *is* the same colour as a seal point Siamese, but it too is not an actual colour. "Ummm...I don't know," I said timidly, "Cream of Mushroom Soup-colour?" The space for colour, I saw, didn't look big enough to write Cream of Mushroom Soup in.

She threw her pen down, sighed again, and got up. "Fine. I'll look." I realised that she thought I was trying to be funny. I was ok with her looking because up 'til then, I'd not thought about what colour Romeo was, and I was curious. She opened his box, and said "Oh! A Siamese! Why didn't you say he was a Siamese?" Well, I told her, because that's not a colour. And I know that Cream of Mushroom Soup isn't a colour either, but it was the closest I could come. I think she realised at that point that she was being a little short, and she laughed and said that she thought Cream of Mushroom Soup was a very good description. And then she wrote "Siamese" in for colour.

With all of the things that have happened with Puff-Puff and Squoosh, I think I've been remiss in preserving all of the wonderful things about Romeo for posterity here. He's definitely my baby--my son. :-) My son is a grumpy Siameasle who invented Fetch, and loves lobster. And hates Interlopers. And I should do something nice for him. Like buy a heating pad for him, even if that means Meg will start calling him "Bubba".

I should have never told her about the Southern Sisters mystery series. Sigh.

Wednesday, June 22, 2005

Disease, the diamond blue, and the devil, too.

I had fun today, for a few hours.

Of course, that means that something bad has to happen. Things just work that way. It's not that it's some intelligence doing it to me; it's just strictly a numbers thing.

Well, statistically it has to be working out that way for someone, somewhere, at some time, doesn't it? Well, that person is me, here, this lifetime.

I get home and not only is Romeo now sick, but it was after seven, and his vet is closed. I think it's a respiratory infection; I think he can wait until morning. He ate some measle treats, and then coughed. And I can just tell he's not feeling well. But I'm afraid to take him to the emergency vet, because they aren't always like, top-of-their-class material. I mean, it was there that they suggested I put him to sleep for being a "behaviour problem", when he was just being a regular old Siamese.

I figure that if he's eating, that's a good sign. And he's sleeping. He's just swallowing, like his nose is draining into his throat, or he has a sore throat, or something. So bright and early at seven a.m., our asses will be at the vet's, and I'm kicking myself for having spent my afternoon selfishly. If I'd come home as normal from Eviljob, I'd have seen that he was droopy faster.

I *did* call the Emergency vet, and they said it was a "my-call" thing; that if he's eating, that's good but on the other hand, at his age I want to be careful.

No kidding.

It was son-friend who said a couple of years ago that when Romeo dies, he's going to move away and not give me his new address or phone number for a few years, until I calm down. Okay, okay; I don't think Romeo is going to die from this...I'm just a Kittymommy, and I worry. Plus I'm an Ancodia, and I worry. Those two compounded are enough to send most to the nuthouse.

Squished you, Peasanty!

Ok; I'm going to be self-indulgent. I've had a whole day chock-full of Stupid. First, at Eviljob: I had to go listen to someone talk about something. Being too descriptive about the Something would probably be way too identifiable, because it is something that is kind of like a final job interview--basically, this one person is about to go get sent off to Parts Unknown--maybe--and has to prove that she knows her shit. So a group of us have to go act like a class, basically. And that's like a final exam; after, we rate her and give feedback and The Powers That Be compile all of the ratings and feedback, decide if he or she (in this case a she) goes, and makes the ratings and feedback available for a coaching-type thing.

Usually, these go pretty ok. They're good because in theory, if you want to get loaded up in the slingshot we keep out back and hurled recklessly above the towering pines with your suitcase in one hand and handouts in the other, you'll learn your stuff, learn how to explain it well, figure out how to adhere to the outline and make it seem spontaneous, how to deal with glitches that will come up with no warning (we don't plan them, this isn't some Beat the Plebe exercise), and all of that. Of course, if you really don't want to go, then you can always just fuck this part up and you won't have to worry about it anymore. As far as I know, that has only happened one time, and it was pretty funny.


The lady who was doing it today I frankly am not fond of. She's ok. That's it. In my opinion, she talks out of her ass too much, seems to have a problem admitting when she doesn't know something, and misunderstands things that (in my world) should be crystal-clear in your mind because they're fundamental. In short, I think she's a little egotistical, and a sloppy, lazy thinker. That doesn't mean she's Evil, just that I think she's in the wrong job. When you are in charge of explaining something to someone else, you have to leave your ego out of it, and do your best to arm that person to go conquor the world. You're all they have in some cases, and if you let your little issues interfere, then you are not only making yourself look like shit, but you're betraying them. And that makes you Scum.


So I came in, and decided to sit by Gino rather than my manager, because my manager spends too much time watching the people around her, and it makes me self-conscious. Plus, Managerwoman was sitting up front, and Gino was sitting in back. Most of the other seats were taken, and the others that were available I thought might not work out. :-) I don't need to get busted passing notes or whispering. ;-) If Gino didn't have an image to maintain, he'd be the worst probably, but...anyhow...

Problem number one came up when Missykins tried to define one aspect of the Something. For whatever reason, she'd taken it upon herself to invent her own unique definition--not just personalise the provided definition in the leader's materials. Which is okay, as long as whatever you make up is *correct*.

We discovered that Missykins has a problem comprehending subsets. Sigh. Needless to say, because of this problem, Missykins has a much *bigger* problem explaining a subset relationship. It went something like this: "There are many different flavours of apples (yes, she decided to use "flavour"--not "type", "kind", or anything else that would be clearly understood). For example, a Granny Smith is not an apple. So if I ask you for an apple, you would have to ask me if I want a Granny Smith. [Ed. Note: HUH?!?!?] So it is important to know that of all the possible flavours of Granny Smiths (sic), I have to say Granny Smith because otherwise, I'm not just talking about apples."

Our example said nothing about "flavour", nothing about apples. And if you are compelled to offer up such an example, considering that an apple is something that can be tasted, you might want to steer clear of using "flavour". I mean, you're speaking to masses here. Think Lowest Common Denominator. Yes, there will be *someone* who misunderstands you, and thinks that (I don't know...something crazy...) we're only talking about things that can be tasted, or something. This is not a place for cute idiosyncrasies.

And yes, in my casual speaking, I will call something I like "Ancodia-flavoured", or for example, something that reminds me of (or is like) Squooshable as "Squoosh-flavoured", or something like that. I am capable of understanding flavour=type or kind. But not everyone is; this has to be accessible to the proverbial man on the street, and some of those men on the street are *very* literal-minded. Or think you're trying to act "cute". So that was my first problem.

Then, she messed up her example, and didn't even notice. And of course, she didn't correct it. Plus, she made the statement "...a Granny Smith is not an apple." Ummm...yes, it is. All day, even if it rains. You're only compounding the misunderstandings at this point, and we're not even ten minutes out of the gate. Subsets. Learn them. All Granny Smiths are apples, but not all apples are Granny Smiths. It's not *that* complicated.

I could detail everything else, but it would take too long. Gino kept me sane by letting me dig my nails into his arm when the urge to scream became too strong. What a waste of time. Of course I put this all into the review, and am sure enough others did, too. :-) I set my review on "burninate". She'll either clean it up, or they'll use someone else; someone else went this afternoon but I was gone by then, and there's at least one other someone else tomorrow.


And then, after I left Eviljob, I had another meeting about the RCMP stuff. That was just an exercise in stupid. Well, mostly. It had a few good parts. But some really dumb ones, too. I should probably not go into them, although I'm dying to. If I covered everything that happened, it'd be boring, I'd sound petty, and well... I'm still lying in wait to see what happens. Something's up there.

But I got to squish Sophie. :-D There. And richly-deserved, may I add. And then later, Doogie burninated her. Hee-hee. :-) This is the best job I ever played!

Tomorrow after Eviljob, I'm going to the mall with Nurse Betty. Nurse Betty's probably my best friend, at least in this state. I don't get to see Betty often, 'cos she lives almost two hours away from me. What's funny is that, in general, I'm not the biggest fan that nurses have ever had. But Nurse Betty's a good one; she knows her stuff, understands that Frustrating People Happen, and is intelligent enough to work independently and use her own judgement when appropriate. I keep telling her she should go into Admin. :-) Or teaching. She probably eventually will; I think it's just a matter of time until she figures out that she's as smart--if not smarter--than damn near every Supervisor and Admin person she runs into. Nurse Betty doesn't think enough of herself. I don't tell her all this as such, though; that would be rude. But it's also true.

So if I'm going to frolic in the mall all afternoon, I'd better get some sleep or I'll be testy. :-)

A squisha squisha!

Tuesday, June 21, 2005

Leprechauns in the Gym

No, really. There are leprechauns in this guy's health club. I know all about it 'cos I listen to Coast to Coast AM. I have an enquiring mind like that. He was at the health club and, well, I didn't get to hear all of it 'cos I was thinking and rather zoned out for a sec, but he was at the health club and saw a short person and I think asked him if he was a leprechaun, or the short guy told him he was a leprechaun. How cool.

Now I'm wondering if that's like, some successful new pickup line for short gay guys. "Oh, sure...I'll tell you where the pot o'gold is; just bend over that bench for the nice leprechaun..."

God, I love this program. I have even ordered UFO Phil's CD, 'cos it has the song, Listening to Coast to Coast; that's an awesome song. :-)

And the latest edition of Skeptical Inquirer came in the mail today, too. How ironic...or is it?!?!


I'm holding off of talking about work-things for a while. Things are weird. Or, they're going weirdly. We'll see how it all works out, I suppose. Well, at Stupidjob at least--I'm not as used to Stupidjob. Things are weird at Eviljob, but things are always weird in one way or another there. Eviljob is a constant. Constant upheaval and unpredicatableness, but at least they're distracted by shiny objects easily. And I'm accustomed to it there, so whatever's up I'm not too, too concerned about. Nine-point-five out of ten times, it never is Ancodia-affecting, anyway.

Isabella and Mistar are doing well; Momcat has vanished. I guess she has gone off to live her carefree, kittenless life. I will still look for her, put food out and make every effort to catch her, because I'd rather she not be flotsam and jetsam on the stormy seas, as it were, but for now she's off. I hope scampering happily through the forest around Eviljob. Probably at least half of the large complex Eviljob is in is forest. Maybe there was originally supposed to be a lot more buildings built and all of that was scrapped after the economy took a dump, or maybe this was their plan. I have no idea. But there are deer, rabbit (rabbits?), foxes (what in the hell is the plural of fox? Fox? Foxes? Foxen? I dunno, you know, who knows?), turtles, and all manner of beast. Probably even a Bigfoot or two. If anyone brings it up, I'm swearing that I've seen sick, hot yak in there also. Right next to The Eviljob Enterprises building, there are two lake-y like pond-y things. Bodies of water; I'm not up on water nomenclature. All I know is that they aren't saltwater, or marine, pond-y things. And I've wanted an office with a view of one of them for forever.

For one brief, shining moment, I had one. Then for whatever reason, it became urgently urgent that our little happy cluster move. I personally think it was a scheme by another workgroup to take some good offices, but then I'm a cynic. And then I changed positions, and kissed the hopes of having another nice view bye-bye. At least for a while, I thought at the time. Now, I and another person (who is actually My Invisible Coworker 'cos she left, but that's a long story) have exactly half of a no-window'd office that we share with someone else whom we never see. "We" being, of course, myself and my Invisible Coworker. My Invisible Coworker and I keep very different hours from him for the most part; I actually talk to his wife more than I do him. She calls and I answer, 'cos it would suck to get voicemail all of the time. She likes it when I take messages for him and stickynote them to his monitor if it's not urgent, and if it's urgent, she can call his cell. He designs things--think of something like how finished presentations will look--and he leaves stuff for me on Friday afternoons that I get on Saturdays; they're usually things like which font looks better, which colour looks better, which whatever looks better. All three-minute things, mostly. He then turns around and I'm sure says that he's sampled opinions in our facility. :-)

Oh, hell...I've done it, too.

But when I need a nice view, I go and theft a cubicle-office in a corner that's completely abandoned on the weekends. And so I get to see the lake. Or pond. Or whatever. I don't know why I'm thinking about this, because bright-and-early tomorrow, I'm back in the no-window'd office. It's probably just one of those weird longings I get sometimes.

One of the nice (?) things Eviljob does do is what I like to think of as an "outreach" program. :-) They hire on underprivileged children as slave labour...

Ok, ok...they hire recent high school grads, I think like twelve a year, to spend the summer interning, so that we have the opportunity to pervert their little minds before they go off to college. It's supposed to be all glamourous. Heh. They're often like, the only ones I get along with well. Well, not really. In truth, I more often than not don't or can't take the time to talk to them much, if at all, and they're rarely actually in our department (at least the one I'm currently in). But a few times, there've been a few that I get along with well; this year, there's a really nice girl who, in addition to Eviljob, is also working at a movie theatre part time. I told her she was one hard-working heifer. :-) She's saving the money up for college, I think; I try not to pry too much into the finances of others. But she was telling me about the first day Madagascar was showing--how the lobby of the theatre was filled with kids, all screaming, "I WANNA SEE THE HIPPOS!!!!!!!!!!!!" :-) I can empathise with that; I wanna see the hippos, too. I can also empathise with being in the "I hate kids" phase of your life, and being waist-deep in a horde of them. :-) Her facial expressions are hilarious.

I've seen enough previews for Madagascar that it's on my To-See List. But then again, others have been on that list, and I've failed miserably. But this movie has penguins! I love penguins. They are, beyond all doubt, my favourite animal. So I have to find the time to slink away and see Madagascar. Somehow.

And tomorrow I also have to find out what's become of the other professor--the one with whom I wrote in for the grant. Sigh. I hate feeling as if I'm tracking people down, but I had sent an email on I think Thursday or Friday requesting a meeting, and I've not heard anything yet. He's a stellar guy, definitely on the back of the frying pan, but he's overloaded and so am I; I hope we get the grant, and can make a good work of this whole thing. ::fingers crossed:: Here's to us both not being distracted by shiny, moving things.


Sunday, June 19, 2005

Goth Emo Punk! NIP! NR!


Why is it that everything on eBay is labelled "Goth," "Emo," or "Punk" anymore? Or worse yet, all three at once. Great Aunt Edna's selling her Goth Emo Punk hand-crocheted afghan--you know, the one with all of those goth emo punk daisies on it?


Or, better yet, a set of collectors' goth emo punk Mary Engelbreit teapots.

Or goth emo punk cookbooks from the Ladies' Auxiliary.

I tell you, some days I could go on a Foamy rant at the drop of a hat. It might be PMS. I want to put up my own auction, for a haunted painting of a goth emo punk grilled cheese sandwich with the face of the Virgin staring at a ghost in a jar that is looking at a cheeto.

Or maybe I could unload my last two bars of goth emo punk Asscheeks of Death. I think I'd get bidders if I put it that way.

I really want to know what goes on here--do people *actually* go on to eBay and type in the search term "Goth," "Emo," or "Punk"? Or all three? "Man...I'm such a gothemopunk, I'd better *only* search for things that are gothemopunk! Look! A gothemopunk teapot collection! It's MINE! Looky! A gothemopunk afghan! I am *so* THERE!!"

I just wonder about these things.

Isabella and Mistar (that's his name) are great; son-friend is feeding them a can of cat food a day, plus all the doggie treats they can handle (son-friend has two dogs, and a cat that thinks it's a dog). Mistar is called this because he is black, with two little wispy white four-point stars--one one his chest, and one on his tum; they're not full blocks of colour, just areas where some of his fur is black, and some white. :-) And he has white fur in his ears, not black. He's quite handsome. Isabella looks a lot like Squoosh--just no head tilt, and with a tail. They are going to a pet rescue group soon. This is a good thing; the PRG will sell them so that bad people don't get them. Or, that screens the bad people out at least as much as most anything would.

Well, *I* can't keep them...and it's better than growing up in a parking lot.

I'd better get to sleep. I'm getting cranky. I stayed up long after I'd started this post, reading this: Ad Graveyard

Saturday, June 18, 2005


I got the last kitten. He's a he, and is at son-friend's right now. I was unable to capture Momcat, though I'll try again tomorrow. And the day after that, if need be.

He's a nice little kitten. He hisses, but doesn't bite or strike. :-) A paper tiger.

I wish I could have caught the black-and-white one (of whom there has been no sign in several days), and the other black one (who disappeared a few days ago). I will continue looking, of course.

At least I got two. :-) Momcat followed me all the way to my car, but wouldn't let me within five feet of her. It reminded me of Romeo's mom, when I took him. But I fed her a huge amount.

More later; I have to eat...for the first time today. Sigh.

Wednesday, June 15, 2005

Asscheeks of Death

It's raining heavily now, so a few hours before it rained I just set out wet food for Momcat & Co., and a bowl full of water that I'm sure will become more full of rainwater. I guess that could be worse. Still no black-and-white kitten.

Stress gets the best of me sometimes, and so I do something small but fun usually. A few days ago, after I'd failed miserably at getting anyone but Isabella, withstood cracks at Eviljob, panicked over the grant proposal, and completely forgotten about a review of OPP (other people's papers) that I'd said I would do, I stopped on the way home to buy some fragranced soap.

I'd been thinking about getting this for a while--it's sold in this little bodega-type place that I've been in a few times. It's alleged to smell of sandalwood and patchouli, had some botanical stuff in it, and it sounded good (what I could read of it in Spanish, that is).

Did I mention that I don't know Spanish? I don't. I can muddle through a little bit. Occasionally. I'm all into multiculturalism, but most Hispanics strike me as being from a different planet. A very, very noisy one. I'm cool with it, as long as when I'm not in an ethnic store, I see mostly English around me. When I don't see that (which happens with increasing frequency), I get a little pissed off that my grandparents had to work so hard to learn English just to be employed in professions in which they excelled in any language, and were still made to feel self-conscious all of their lives. And had little of "home" to make them comfortable by way of purchaseables, yet never once complained. But I won't go there. For now, I'm in an ethnic store; I accept that's their turf, and I have to read Spanish, Chinese, Hindi, Arabic, or whatever the case may be.


So I bought it. It's called "Henio De Pravia", or somesuch. I have no idea what "Henio De Pravia" actually means, but I jokingly translated it to myself as "Depraved Heinie" soap.

I should have taken the hint.

I broke it out this morning, and immediately noticed that it didn't smell as pretty as it vaguely did through the packaging. Nevertheless, I gave it a try; I figured perhaps it was the concentrated smell of the bar that was causing me to gag. Of course, I reasoned, once I use it and spread it out, it will probably smell wonderful--I mean, sandalwood and patchouli are sexy-smelling, right?

Not the way the Depraved Heinie Soap Company does it.

My first clue should have been as I was getting out of the shower. To keep Squoosh company as much as possible, I shower in his bathroom now. Usually, Squoosh sits on the toilet (lid closed) or the stepstool near the other end of the shower and looks at me with his head cocked. Today, he was sitting in meatloaf-position on the floor--on the other side of the room.

I dried off, and opened the bathroom to air out the humidity, and Squoosh ran like hell. In retrospect, I don't blame him. I must have become enured to it by that point.

My second clue should have been when I went to pick Squoosh up from the living room. He usually cuddles my chest while I take him back, but today he just sniffed me a couple of times and tried to run again.

At that point, I *should* have jumped back into the shower and gone back to my old faithful Dove. Should have. Didn't.

So as I'm driving to Eviljob, every once in a while I catch a whiff of something that isn't very pretty. Something that brings to mind a slowly-decomposing yak, roasting in the summer sun. Considering that I've never seen a yak, much less a slowly-decomposing one, this is a testimony to the power of the smell. Other times, I can sort of smell sandalwood, so I figure that's the soap.

I look for signs of yak decomposing on the side of the road as I drive.

After I'd been at work for an hour or so, I went to the restroom; as I did my restroom thing, I again smelled yak. A very, very bad yak smell. If I were to own a yak that smelled like this, I would take it back to the dealership. Or to the vet. Or to the dry cleaners.

Filled with dread, I raise my arm to my nose.

Oh, shit. I smell like a very sick, hot yak. And sandalwood. Sick hot yak and sandalwood is a decidedly unsexy smell. Probably even to another sick, hot yak who hasn't gotten any in a while.

So I scamper meekly back to my desk and break out the Aromatics Elixir mini-spray. I coat myself in it, figuring that Aromatics Elixir is strong enough to cover up the sick, hot yak and sandalwood. I hope.

Crap, crap, crap.

I do my Thing and leave, avoiding everyone. I have a meeting up at the school, and I have no choice but to drive up there. So on the way, I coat myself in a Calgon mini-spray I keep in my car for just such yak emergencies.

The person I am meeting with makes a comment about the yak smell. Politely put, but still... "Ancodia, you...ummm...don't smell like you."

I 'fess up about the sick, hot yak. She smells my un-Aromatics Elixir'd shoulder, and says she thinks it smells like sweaty fat asscheeks. I told her I wasn't going to even ask how she knows what sweaty fat asscheeks smell like, but oddly enough the soap is called Depraved Heinie. I think.

She feels the name is appropriate.

I cancel everything else and go home. Romeo is avoiding me. I head to the bathroom. Squoosh is hiding in his cat condo. I don't blame them; they love me, but sick, hot yak that someone's rubbed their sweaty fat asscheeks all over is a tough smell to deal with, even when it's someone you love.

This is a smell that's bad enough that they have abandoned their source of food. It is an evil, bad, Bog of Eternal Stench smell. Avoiding me is probably some instinctive thing.

I jump into the shower and as I wash--several times--I consider whether or not I'm going to have to burn my clothes. As I get out of the shower, Squoosh pays no attention to me; he is staring at my pile of clothes with a wary look on his face. From a distance.

I throw the clothes in the washer, and am tempted to type the description on the back of the package into an online translator. I'm deathly curious at this point. But nothing that the Marketing Dep't at the Depraved Heinie Soap Company could have written could possibly truly do this product justice.

I am tempted to call them, to ask if they plan on expanding into a mainstream English market. I want to offer my services--gratis--as a translator. We need to change the name, first off; Depraved is not an everyday word, I'd suggest. Why don't we go with something more descriptive, like Asscheeks of Death?

Asscheeks of Death, for the discriminating hermit or recluse. Our exclusive formula contains nothing but the finest hand-milled soap, enriched with RYS (TM), Real Yak Scent! Our organic yaks are raised hormone-free in the streets of Compton, CA, where they are allowed to roam freely and graze after being infected with scabies and pellagra. During our summer yak harvest, we at the Depraved Heinie Soap Company hire underprivileged children to chase the yaks through the streets until they are manufacturing perspiration by the truckload, because studies have shown that nothing is better for your skin than sick yak sweat. After our yak are loaded into un-vented trucks and shipped to Guadalajara, they are gently slaughtered, and tossed into a boiling pot along with the finest waters from the Bog of Eternal Stench. We then add only the finest botanicals and sandalwood. Oh--and patchouli. Lots of patchouli. To this exclusive mixture, we then add scrapings from the dirty feet of barefoot orphans, genuine dog vomit, and sweat collected lovingly from the armpits and asscracks of real vagrants, prostitutes, and crackheads who have been roaming the streets of Compton along with our yaks. Asscheeks of Death has been clinically proven to reduce most communicable diseases by virtue of the fact that no man or animal can withstand the scent long enough to transmit anything. Similar clinical testing has proven that Asscheeks of Death may also be effective at reducing unwanted pregnancies, STDs, and friends. Remember--when you think of solitude, think of the Depraved Heinie Soap Company; comparable products may "take you away", but only Asscheeks of Death guarantees that *you* won't have to go anywhere. THEY will.

Yeppers, I think we have an angle.

As god is my witness, I'll never buy bodega soap again.


Son-friend has named the new kitten Isabella. Needless to say, Isabella is a girl. She was very hostile at first, but she's warmed up. Tuna has that effect. :-)

Now I just have to catch the rest.

Today, when I came out of Eviljob I left by the far door (where the kittens are, which is why I hadn't seen them), and they were out under a car with Momcat. I didn't see the black-and-white one, just the remaining two black ones. I didn't think they'd fall for the same trick that allowed me catch Isabella, so I just put food out for them and left. I will try again this weekend, I guess. Maybe sooner if they seem catchable. I'm not sure what I can do about Momcat--she's pretty hostile. Perhaps, if I put food out for them the next few days, they'll become accustomed to seeing me. Then I will try a trail of tuna into a large cat carrier on Saturday and see how that goes.

Also needless to say is the fact that everyone at Eviljob thinks I'm batshit.

This doesn't bother me very much. I think--my take, at least--is that I've had the reputation of a "weird egg" there for a while. It's because I'm not doing (career-wise) what I'm "supposed" to be doing for the most part. But a lot of the stuff I've done has earned "eccentricity points", I guess; I've gotten national recognition for a few things (this comes with cash, trips, and/or prezzies, depending on the circumstances). Regardless, I guess this is one more for the list. :-)

And I'd not meant to stay up so late, but I got busy reading something, and let time (and this post) slip away from me. Time to get some sleep, finally.

Tuesday, June 14, 2005

Typing, typing, typing...

What I sing to the tune of "Rawhide" as I peck away!

Yay; I'm finished typing. For the moment. I just typed up my very-ownest first grant proposal. That is definitely something that one puts off until the last possible second because it looks so positively horrid and daunting to one's self-esteem and knowledgebase, but after it's done, one wonders why it was put off for so long.

Well, if that one is Ancodia. :-)

It's not a proposal for me only; it's for me and Someone Over Me. I haven't decided what I'm naming him for purposes of obfuscation (I just love that word!) yet, but he's "Good People", as one woman I work with at Eviljob would say. :-) She just kills me with some of the things that come out of her mouth; the look on my face the first time she ever told me I looked as if I'd been "rode hard and put up wet" a few years ago was enough to send a whole room into gales of giggles.

Well, what in the hell do I know about this horse riding-metaphor vernacular stuff? :-) It sounded downright dirty.

And as always, I'm glad to entertain. :-\ I might as well be, 'cos I end up doing it so much.

So I have to have someone over me, 'cos I've never had a grant in my name only (yet!) and in my field this whole grant thing works kind of like credit does in the real world when you're like, eighteen; for big-ticket items, the first few you get, you'll probably have to have a cosigner who has real, actual, established credit. After you've paid a few of those well for a few years, you can take something out on your own; handle that well, and you can get something bigger, and so on and so on. That's pretty much how grants and such work in my field. Any other vocations or fields of study I don't know a damn thing about. So I have to have a co- or be a sub. But this Someone isn't a pooty-head. So that will be nice. :-) And I'm low-man as per usual, so I get to write everything up. I'm ok with that. He's currently doing something that is similar to being a HoD or Dean, and really actually can't be bothered (plus, I'd sub for him any day! Sigh...if there is a Hell, I'm going to it). Someday I'll be in the same position, plus this is my mini break for freedom. Sort of. I'm demonstrating that I don't need certain people who have proven themselves to be less-than-satisfactory in the past, demonstrating that I can forage for nuts and berries in the wilderness on my own, academically and employment-wise. Which is more than others ahead of me in a year-sense can claim (e.g., Fluffer, Sophie, and others). So I'm proud of myself. And indebted to this gentleman; I think he knows that the Denmark from whence I came has a slightly putrid odour, though I'd say nothing about it. No, really; I wouldn't. But it doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure it out; some parts are pretty obvious, and the only manifestations which I can really discuss are the RCMP examples, and my Octopus. Anything else would (1) be identifiable; (2) be not immediately Ancodia-related, and therefore immature to mention; (3) just take too god damned long to explain, and ultimately would need to be waded through only as anecdotal proof that I'm right, and they're fucked up. Just take my word for it--they're weird. That whole Octopus Escapade was *not* just me misreading a situation and not doing my part.

Speaking of my Octopus, I've received its papers. Just Friday. So I am the proud possessor of a Wholly Papered Octopus. :-) And eventually, I'll get around to buying a frame for it. Then later on, I'll get around to taking it out of the tube and putting it into the frame. And then down the line, I'll eventually hang it up. That's my long-range goal. :-) And then I shan't look like half the shiftless scoundrel that I currently seem. Right? Right! Validation is everything. So saith...well...everyone who has an Octopus of some sort dangling on their walls. Woof.

Son-friend says the bruvver-of-Squoosh is doing fine. He finally broke down and started eating when son-friend put tuna in with him. And son-friend's g-friend suggested putting a stuffed animal in with him, and he curled up with it and went to sleep.

Ok, that breaks my heart.

I guess he misses his littermates. I'll collect the others too, if I can. And the Momcat. I just have to find the time. I wanted to go out today, but I couldn't spare the time. If I let this eat me up, I'm going to become one of those crazy, bedraggled, wild-haired cat-ladies. It's at times like this that I really have to focus to keep from letting Everyday Life distract me because, if I didn't focus, all I'd think about would be those kittens.

At least I got one of them.


Sunday, June 12, 2005

Tiny Squooshables, all in a row

I found the rest of the litter. There are three more black kittens like Squooshable, and one black-and-white kitten. Well, they all have tails (whereas Squooshable has a stub), but otherwise, they look just like him. I saw them as I left Eviljob. I carry cat food in my car, so I tried to lure them and Momcat so that I could catch them.

I only got one.

I tried for two hours after I got off, until the sun set and I couldn't see them anymore. They're hiding in the thick shrubberies in the big parking lot outside of Eviljob, and they're faster than I am. One lady I work with who reminds me of Mrs Santa Claus wanted Squoosh, but I was already in love with him. Hopefully she'll take the one I just got today. I'll try to get the others, but I don't know how successful I'll be--they're very wild. I took the one I did get over to stay with son-friend and his roommate. He'll treat it well, and I didn't really have anywhere else to put it; I can't put it in my other bathroom, since I'd open that door too often, especially since I can't keep Squoosh company by showering and brushing my teeth in his bathroom any more. Well, I still shower in there most mornings so that we can have at least a modicum of foot MDK time each day, but I can't do my teeth in there, 'cos he eats the damn dental floss. And I couldn't put Squoosh and the new kitten together because I don't know for sure that the new kitten is disease-free.

So the second Squooshable (I'll let Mrs Claus name him or her) is ok. And my Squoosh is ok. Lonely, 'cos he wants me to play with him but I am waiting for Scooter to email corrections to me for a paper, but ok. I made sure son-friend gave the new kitten tons of food and water. It's not friendly yet, but it probably will get friendly; Squoosh is a people-person, and it's hard to imagine the others could be too different. I guess Dr Vet was right; he'd said that either Squoosh was a litter of one, or Momcat had voted him off of the island because of how infected his ear was (it really stank when I found him; I thought at first that he was just dirty and smelly). If where I saw the litter is where Squoosh came from, Momcat went out of her way to take him as far away as possible. :-(

"Your ear smells. You are the weakest link. Goodbye. Go sit on a tire."

And he did. What a good little Squooshable baby. :-( I'm so glad he's friendly, and that he said hi to me...

Saturday, June 11, 2005

The Squoosh of Success

It's official! Squooshable is cured! He's had his check-up today, and he is off of the Clavamox and Panalog drops (after a whole month!). Dr Vet says he looks wonderful and to not worry about his next ELISA. As usual, I misunderstood or misremembered and although Dr Vet *will* test him at twelve weeks if I must have it done, he'd prefer to wait until six months. But in the meantime, Squoosh is fine and will probably be fine at six months also, unless he keeps eating dental floss. :-) Dr Vet said that it's more likely (probability-wise) for Squoosh to have a false positive as his first test than a false negative. While that doesn't mean that Squoosh is 100% out of the woods, it does mean that the forest canopy is considerably more sparse than Ancodia likes to make up in her mind that it is. In short, he's probably negative and don't worry. That was the take-home message.

Squoosh is super-quick to pick up on patterns, and has already noticed the absence of nasty cherry-flavoured drops being shot down his throat as a prerequisite to his being fed. :-) He's one happy camper.

When I needed to take him to the vet, I begged Meg to come over and play with him so that I could clean his bathroom from stem-to-stern and then take him to Dr Vet. She agreed, and we got him out (waking him up, poor baby!). I spent about thirty minutes cleaning, and then as the floor was drying, I took him to the vet. We were gone for about an hour, and Squoosh was getting increasingly antsy and trying to get away from me. I thought he was just nervous, but as I was getting ready to leave the vet's, it occurred to me that he might have to use the bathroom; he's somehow managed to be completely litter-trained since I brought him home the first time. How he did that, I don't know. Dr Vet said some cats just naturally take to the litter box. Although he uses the litter box for other purposes (it's apparently a marvellous spot from which to pounce), he's never used anywhere else for the litter box purpose. So it occurred to me that he was probably holding it. I thought to ask if there was a spare litter box at Dr Vet's that he could borrow, but if I were to be wrong I didn't want to seem like one of those silly people that attributes sheer brilliance to their animal, so I figured I'd just test out my theory by taking him home and planting him immediately in the box.

Well, aren't I a stupidass.

On the way home, Squoosh let me know--in NO uncertain terms--that he was miserable. I drove as fast as I could, and kicked myself all the way; at this point, the poor baby had been holding it for probably over an hour and a half! I got home, ran him into the bathroom and put him in the litter box, where he immediately squatted and urinated half of his body weight, practically. I mean honestly, he had his eyes half-closed as he did it! As if he were saying, "Oh, thank god!" I felt *horrible*!

Next time I know--if he tries so hard to get away from me, it's 'cos he's looking for a place to bathroom himself. Sigh. I promise, Squoosh; next time, I'll ask if you may use their bathroom. Live and learn, I guess. I'm just amazed that at only nine weeks, his litter box habit is enough ingrained that he wouldn't even go in his carrier. He's a good cat. :-) And I can tell already that he likes rules, patterns, and things like that--he picks up on them very quickly.

So yay! Squoosh is cured! He still has his head-tilt, and Dr Vet said that he may have it for the rest of his life. :-( The infection was bad enough that it may have wrecked the balance system in his left ear--the little level-like mechanism that tells him when his head is upright. But there are some points that, if not exactly good, are at least ok: (1) He has a cute head-tilt. It's usually cocked in a way that makes him look quizzical, like a Pekingese, or something. And he sometimes holds it mostly upright; (2) Dr Vet says that, while this might be disastrous in an older cat (the loss of the "level" in his left ear making him lose balance, have problems walking, dizziness, etc...), since Squoosh is so young, his brain and perceptions will grow around the problem and he'll walk, run, climb--and pounce--just fine; he'll still see the world the same as if he were straight, and it shouldn't impede him at all. So I guess those are two as-good-as-it-gets things.

And I'll hopefully have time to take some pictures of him this week. :-)

Friday, June 10, 2005

Smile On You

Today didn't suck. :-) That's always welcome. Everything went mostly smoothly, I got to call Sophie a liar (albeit politely) to her face in a Most Public Manner (and gosh, don't I get the Chilly Shivs of Joy just thinking about it?), and we had a little Airing of The Truth today that I think did everyone a world of good. And the deadline for my *other* project was bumped-up to the 15th.

So that all rocks.

I got to call Sophie a liar because she is one. She said--no, promised--that she would do something so that she could be Ms Save-The-Day in public a few weeks ago, and then pulled a miniature disappearing act when it came time to actually come through on what she'd promised. The old, "I'm not going to answer my phone or email and hope you disappear" schtick. But I'd anticipated that and didn't count on her. :-) I guess the lack of negative feedback was rattling her cage and she just couldn't take the suspense of knowing whether she'd fucked me over for life or not by not doing her part, so she mentioned it today. I told her no, I was just peachy-keen, and was done with the one part she was supposed to contribute on. She started yapping about how she'd had a bunch of voicemail and email problems, so if I had tried to get her that way, that's why I had not been able to. Ummm...yeah. Sure. It was nervous talking, because I'd just politely smiled and answered her; I hadn't asked where she'd been, or why she'd not called me back. I just smiled *meaningfully* at her, and said, "Goodness; it sounds as if you have a lot of problems!" And gave her my Stellar Rapture Smile Of Beatific Bliss. You know--the one Mormons use when they're trying to convert you. Whether she caught the entendre or not is up for grabs but she did drop it, which makes me think yes.

tee hee.

And it was put on public record that I'm working alone, and that Octopi aren't normally paid for with taxpayers' money. Imagine that. And who told you the truth first? That would be me.

Along with a few other minor things that occurred, I was expecting to hear someone start screaming "Mercy!" :-) I hate myself when I find happiness in others' disappointments, but it's just so damn much fun. Especially when it's Sophie. And I'd said--long ago and politely--that I didn't think she could do something she was trying to do (as in Policy stopping her), but when I did try to intervene as the Voice of Reason, she just became so damn smug, with this attitude of I-know-something-or-someone-you-don't-and-the-rules-don't-apply-to-me shit that I just said ok and gave up. Well, guess what? She can't. And I tried to tell her damn close to a year ago. Loser.

This calls for a little Yello:

Thank you very very much ladies and gentlemen
You still are programmed
Of your local radio station
That's not just giving you another feature
We are presenting you the truth
The truth about human beings
The truth about human desire
The truth about human eyes
The truth about human faces
The truth about everybody
The truth about you

Ok... enough truth. :-) No one likes it anyway.

Squoosh has his final checkup tomorrow. Yay! I think he is better; the little Squooshnodes in his throat are no longer the size of lima beans. In addition to probably meaning he's better, that also means he makes less pig-noises when he eats. :-) But they were cute pig-noises.

I love that tiny almost-cat.

And I'm backed up again in everything over the weekend, but I don't mind. I'll wade through it all somehow. As always, I have a ton to type and read,'s okay. I'm fine with it. The deadline (that was the 10th) being pushed back to the 15th is wonderful. I'm just happy; these minor truths that came up have made me feel better. And all through it, RCG stayed quiet--as did I; I'll only languish in my victories here, not there--and I caught him looking at me a few times. It was too hard to tell if it was an "I can't believe you were right" look, or a "I can't believe you've manipulated this so that you win" look. But I didn't manipulate anything, although I'm sure Sophie would say differently. But hell--*I* didn't make up the Rules for everything. Anyone who is at all inclined towards reflection would arrive at this realisation; all the machinations I could possibly think up and set into motion wouldn't be half as bad as the plain old simple truth. So why should I bother? Exactly my point. And he'll either get it, or he won't.

But he's still damn cute.

I had better get some sleep, so that I can take Squooshable in on time tomorrow. And then type like a madwoman.

Tuesday, June 07, 2005

Make that *towel bars*, Acuras, Fire...

So I finish posting, go to dose Squoosh,and he's jetting around so that I grab a towel bar in the bathroom to try to steady myself as I dance around him; I guess I leaned on it too hard, and it came undone and fell on him!

I feel so horrible.

He seems okay, and he sure did scoot the hell away from it. I have to be more careful. I felt him and petted him all over, and he just purred. I think he's okay. The rod part that fell on him isn't heavy, but he's tiny.

Christ...every day a new stressor. It's like god's inventing new ones, just to get a rise out of me.

Acuras, Fire, and Dangerous Things

Someone I know had their car stolen! Eep! He counts as a "someone I know" because he's technically way-very over me, and can't be a friend (even a hyphenated one), or a drinking buddy, or anything like that. But we talk a lot on and off, and I've known him for years, so...I'm shocked for him. It was (sigh...was...I'm hoping he gets it back, but for now, it's a was) an Acura, and he asked me if I'm familiar with them, or something to that effect. I just *know* that a strange look came over my face.

Can't help it. I have fond memories of one particular Acura. And the guy who drove it. Sorry; can't even *think* about the car without...


Why'd I dump him again? Oh, yeah...he turned out to be married. He did get divorced shortly after, and kept calling me for months, but it was the not-telling-me-in-the-first-place thing that was a little...ummm...insurmountable. I'd never have done something like that otherwise.

No, really.

But damn, that was a fun few months. It's true--all the good ones actually *are* married or gay. It's also true that if they'll do it with you, they'll do it *to* you; Ancodia's not a dumb girl.

Well, not all the time.


And yes, he did give me a home phone number (to his friend's apartment, where he moved once he actually moved out of his house), and yes, he did take me over there and said he lived there. So I'm not *completely* stupid--I looked for the obvious stuff. He was just un-obviously sneaky.

I had to put Squoosh up 'cos he was going crazy...he gets in these total Murder Death Kill modes where I feel like I've stuck my hand, foot, or all of the above into a pool of piranha. It's like having a tiny little black tasmanian devil zipping around my extremities, all claws and sharp teeth. Augh.

On the up-side, I've learnt how to walk on one foot. It's useful to know for when the other one is busy being killed.

I swear...he's like a tiny little Squoosh landmine--take a step, and it's tasmanian piranha devil city. Bwaah!

P.S.: If you're out there reading this, give the damn car back, you creep. You took it from a really wonderful person, and that makes you Scum.

Monday, June 06, 2005


Well, I have just dosed Squoosh again--this is his third dosing since the barffest, and he's not barfed again, plus he's poopied a lot. I'm fairly convinced it was the dental floss.

He's doing great; he wants out. Every time I open the bathroom door, he tears out of there at the Speed of Squoosh (that's pretty fast, considering you're a tiny little cock-headed beast) and heads straight for the big cats' food bowl. He's not hard to catch. :-) He goes there, and puts as many pieces of the big cats' food into his mouth as he can manage before I come collect him (only one or two pieces--we have a tiny little Squooshmouth), and then he eats the pieces of food on my chest as I carry him back to the bathroom.

Silly Squooshable.

Contrary to what he thinks, I'm *not* starving him to death. When I found him, he weighed just under a pound; two weeks later, he weighed *two* pounds. That's one whole pound in two weeks! I mean, that's a walk in the park for me, but it's a huge growth spurt for a kitten! And one week later (yesterday), he weighed two pounds, five ounces. He just might hit three pounds by his checkup on Friday at this rate! He said he votes that I should feed him more, but I just told him that he doesn't get a vote, because he eats dental floss. People in this house who eat dental floss forfeit voting rights. Those are my rules.

He just looked at me with that owl-like little cocked head that he turns completely upside down as if it were nothing (yes--jaw almost pointing at the ceiling sometimes!) and told me that he's been reading about democracy, and I'm doing this wrong.

After he fulfills his six book obligation, I'm cancelling his membership in the book club.

Damn business reply cards.

Sunday, June 05, 2005

Things Tough Warriors Eat

Today I was stuck at Eviljob, so Meg came over to dose Squoosh. He's still on antibiotics, because his lymph nodes are still swollen; hopefully he'll get off them this Friday. Butsoanyway: I'm at Eviljob, carrying out my duties (okay, okay--I was outside smoking on a quick break) when Meg text messages to me the following:

cat thrown up food you gave, then threw up antibiotics am on phone w/ vet now don't call.

Ok, so of course I go into Major Freak Panic Mode. I don't like this--you can *kill* me with suspense. So I pace; I shout; I scream; I try to call, all the while saying, "omigod omigod omigod" until the people I stepped out with threaten to go get a bucket of water to throw on me. Finally I get Meg; she'd opened Squoosh's bathroom, and he'd puked up undigested food (she rightly assumed I'd laid it out for him before I left). She figured he'd probably overeaten, so she gave him his antibiotics and a little more food, and decided to wait and watch TV and see that he was ok. When she went back in about twenty to thirty minutes later, Squoosh'd thrown up again (she had cleaned up the first puke), and this tme it was only liquid--the antibiotic. He'd not touched the food she had put out. So she threw away the food in case it was bad (the can had been opened the night before and kept in the refigerator), cleaned up the new Squooshbarf, and called the vet. She said she saw a little piece of plastic in the new Squooshbarf, and wondered if that could be why he was sick and not eating. The vet's tech (I love them for being open on Saturdays, even if it is shortened hours!) said it was probably the Clavamox, and to take him off it and bring him in on Monday. After talking with Meg, I disagreed and told her to take him in today before they closed at four. I was concerned that (1) Squoosh doesn't need to be off the antibiotics with this infection still in his ear; (2) he might have eaten more plastic, or something else that is causing an intestinal blockage; (3) he might have a more serious problem, and this is just the first sign of it. After all, this vet only charges $35 for a base office visit, and if Squoosh takes a turn for the worse after-hours, the emergency vet charges a hell of a lot more. Plus, I love the little guy...errr...tough warrior.

So Meg takes Squoosh in. The tech, she says, is annoyed that his advice wasn't heeded. Sigh. The day I give a flying fuck what techs think of me, you'll be the first to know. Meg said she told him that it was her sister's cat, and if anything happened to the cat, she'd never hear the end of it and neither would he.

Giggle. S'true. Neither of you would.

So he saw a different vet than his normal weekday one, but Meg said she was very nice. She said his vitals were great, he's gained 5 oz., and she was 50/50 on whether he'd made himself sick by eating a piece of plastic, or if it was the Clavamox (it often makes cats throw up). But she said she didn't think it was an intestinal blockage, because she didn't feel anything obviously out of the ordinary. She offered to x-ray him to be certain, but said she didn't feel it was necessary. Meg called and asked if I wanted him x-rayed, and I sided with the vet; he did poopy between yesterday and today, and when Meg fed him again (fresh food) after he threw up the Clavamox, he didn't throw up again. So Squoosh came home, and we skipped the afternoon dose, and picked it up again tonight. The vet thought that three weeks on Clavamox might be too much for a tiny cat like Squoosh, and said to call Monday regardless of how well he is doing to give an update and possibly pick up a different antibiotic. I'm okay with that decision, because his regular vet had wanted for him to be on something other than Clavamox or Baytril anyway, but they hadn't had any of whatever it was in stock, and since Squoosh wasn't throwing up on Clavamox yet, Dr Vet said to try another two weeks. So this sounded reasonable.

I was worried anyway, so I cut out of Eviljob as soon as possible--three hours early. Eh. I'll make it up elsewhere in the week; this is a Family Emergency. :-)

When I got home, Meg was still there. Awww...thanks, Meg. She'd brought her papers to grade, and was grading whilst keeping an eye out for more Squooshbarf, but she'd put him back in the bathroom to rest (cats his age are supposed to sleep like, sixteen hours a day, but Squoosh won't sleep if he's out, or has company--he gets too excited). I went to visit him, and the first thing I see (besides a spunky Squoosh who tries to make a dash for Freedom) is Squooshbarf that is either new, or was missed by Meg; there's a pile of puke at the base of Squoosh's Mouse-go-Round, next to the wall. The Mouse-go-Round is almost knee-height, and looks kind of like a mushroom with a flat top; four mice dangle from the top of it, and the top turns. Squoosh loves it. And it was only $17 at Wal-Mart, proof positive that Petsmart is supporting an outrageous crack habit.

Okay, so I've bought some toys for him. :-) My hall bathroom looks like a cat gymnasium.

Well, I didn't want him to be bored.

So I pet Squoosh, and he's purring, and I pick up the Squooshbarf and inspect it. I'm not gross, I'm trying to be a good kitty mommy. And, lo and behold, this pile of Squooshbarf is actually...a big wad of dental floss!


So I go back to Meg, and ask her if this could possibly be new Squooshbarf. Oh, she says, no; it's not. She saw it, and meant to clean it up and just forgot after cleaning up the other barfs. So it was probably in there (she thinks) when she first came in, but maybe after the antibiotics.

It doesn't really matter; I think I've solved our mystery.

So I did what I should have done when I first put Squoosh in there--I Squoosh-proofed it. I picked everything up, removed the wastecan, pushed everything out of reach, and so on. I've lived with adult cats for too long; it had never occurred to me that a baby cat might eat stuff like a plastic wrapper (that I think was pulled off of a large jar of bath salts I kept on the floor--it looked fine there, though it sounds like it was a weird place, I know--but now store up high on the shelf), and dental floss (that he would have had to have pulled out of the wastecan).

wtf is up with eating dental floss, my love? I'm not convinced that all tough warriors eat dental floss.

So I think Squoosh is ok. I think he just ate dental floss and plastic this morning before I fed him, and it made him sick. And that maybe he didn't have enough to throw it all up with until Meg gave him the Clavamox. And he's poopied since, so I'm pretty certain that he probably doesn't have an intestinal blockage.

Sigh. Now I just have to convince him that real cats don't eat dental floss. Silly almost-cat.

Friday, June 03, 2005

Murder Death Kill!

Squoosh is adorable!

He graduated from playing Fingers a little bit ago. He says it's a goofy game now. If I really, *really* want to, he'll play it with me, though. If I must. Sometimes.

As he became tired of Fingers, he wanted to play Tai Chi. Don't ask--that's what my Mom named it. Tai Chi is like, full-contact Fingers. We want to wrestle. For hours. Tai Chi helps us hone our pouncing and wrestling skills to perfection.

In the past day or so, we've decided to take Tai Chi to the next level. We want to really *kill* that offending hand. Or foot. Or toy squeakymouse.

Enter the game of Murder Death Kill. And boy, we are in training to be one tough warrior. And we insist that tough warriors are not named "Squooshable". And tough warriors don't cuddle. And you don't go kissing on tough warriors.

I am *so* putting an end to his Arnold Schwarzenegger movie-watching.



First I was sent an email, then I guess he changed his mind and called. You've got to admire that. Most people are non-confrontational enough to have just let the email do. In-person is better, but in the Hierarchy of Cowardice, email beats phone out every time. But you lose points for "giving me time to calm down"; the problem isn't mine.

Why *am* I being "difficult"? Uhh...let me tell you why.

So I did.

Now we'll see what you do with that information. I hope for the best, but...we'll see.

If I were you, I'd go kick her ass; you've been lied to and misused. I'm just not perpetuating that by allowing this situation to then abuse me--don't blame me for that. I'm merely that inconvenient Force of Nature that swoops down and says the shit stops here, and you're going to run into People Like Me all of your life. Learn how to anticipate and deal with them, and you'll be ahead of the game.

Good luck to you.

Thursday, June 02, 2005



No, it is *not* my responsibility to think up things for you and to read things for you and submit a synopsis! Wrong, wrong, wrong! This means no! And if I have to get rude again, I *will*! And go soak your head! Bite me! Take a flying leap! NONONONONONONONONO!!!!!!!!

Sorry. Had to vent, or I'm going to start yelling again.

Yes. Ancodia yelled. There's only so far this girl will be pushed.

Guess who I've talked to today?


Urban Spelunking

It just goes to show you that it's always something; if it's not one thing, it's another. If you're not running your butt off to have Something for a morning meeting, then some drunk 'tard having a middle-age crisis wraps his Lexus around a power thingy and you're left being an Ancodia what is sitting in the dark.

No, really--I'm in the dark. Thank goodness I'd charged up the laptop. They hope to Jaws-of-Life what's left of him out of the car and restore power to 3/4 of my subdivision in a few hours. Ok, I'm exaggerating about the Jaws of Life; I actually have no idea what state the driver's in, and I only know it's a Lexus because Meg called about twenty minutes after the power went out and told me she saw it. I assume she meant on the news unless she was driving home late, but I'd taken a break from work and was in the middle of cleaning Squoosh's bathroom, dosing him, and feeding him (and 'tis my nature to do all of these at once, so they were all in varying stages of undoneness) when the power went off, leaving Squoosh and me in total darkness.

SFDPH. Fill in your favourite curse words here.

So I feel my way around and try to put as much back as possible, set his water and food down, litter box back...all by feel. I'm good, I tell you. And I didn't even once bash myself into all the shelving and crap Mom put in when she remodelled it for me (*not* at my request) last year. Miracle! I was figuring out how to negotiate leaving, yet not letting Squoosh out (black kittens are hard to find in the dark) when my cell rang. I knew it was family by the ring.


So I grab Squoosh, take him out with me, and work my way over to the kitchen bar counter, where I'd left my cell (at least I had that light to guide me!) and it's Meg. Did I know the power is off in my sub-d? No! Really? It is? Yes, she says; three-quarters of the place is without power! Oh, do tell! She tells me about the car, and asks am I sure I have power? No, dingbat; I *don't* have power. Why would you call me when I don't have power to tell me that I don't have power? Meg says to not get snippy. I tell her that I need to put Squoosh up, and will have to call her back, and she says to only call if it's an emergency, 'cos she's going to bed.

Figures. So I use the light from the cell phone to sorta see my way to a candle, and I get Squoosh put back up.

And so I have candles on. And I so very want a fire pit for my patio. This would be a great fire pit occasion. I'm buying one. And maybe a chimnea, too. I think that I need both.

Speaking of shopping...

I do love shopping. And I'm a *good* shopper; I do the comparison shopping thing, and I've too much Jew in me to not haggle whenever possible (and when appropriate). And I love shopping malls. I've been to *scads* of malls all over; everywhere I've travelled, I hit at least one mall. Minimum. It's the atmosphere that I love. First, mall air really does have healing properties. I think that they pump something into the air that's full of antidepressants, antibiotics, and everything--so that you feel good and shop longer.

Scoff if you want. My theory makes sense.

But what's coolest about them is the whole gestalt experience each mall has. They're all different, they all have unique architecture, furnishings, layout, and personalities. I'd argue with anyone who considers it "generica" that they say that because they don't know what they are looking at or for; these places all may be similar, but they are all different. And all of that comes from a number of things--the area in which the mall is located, the year it was built, the changes over time that have been made... All of these things and more give the place a personality--a life, almost.

I've stood in the middle of a mall and really, honestly felt this. Again, scoff if you want. I'm not saying it's literally alive, but...well, close to it. Alive in the way that a building can be alive and have a personality. And the Very Cool Thing about all of this is that we don't keep the same malls forever. Mall fads come and go, stores merge, close, and go bankrupt, peopleclusters change, all of that. And malls die. No, really.

If you've not ever seen one, it's an amazing thing. I've been in numerous malls that are in a terminal stage--second or third class malls where every storefront is boarded or papered up except for maybe one primary store, or a few mom-n-pop stores that would have never been in there under any other conditions. It's awesome. And that word gets misused a lot, but I mean it--it's awesome.

I'd always thought of it as Urban Spelunking because, well, what in the hell *should* it be called? Consumer and economic disaster trend analysis? I like Urban Spelunking better. It's like a perverted archaeological dig in a way, looking at What Went Wrong. And it's very cool when you can get some background--any background. The last time I was in Nashville, I spent almost an hour talking to a (as in the only) hair salon employee at Dillard's in the Bellevue mall to find out the whole story. And of course I went to Opry Mills too. But I wanted to see the coughing-ominously-and-limping-somewhat mall. :-)

So I'm a freak. Well, I found out a few years ago that I have company for once. I stumbled across Dead Malls, and now I have a whole *list* of places that I want to visit. This will at least make this upcoming trip a little more palatable, 'cos there's two dead malls reasonably close by, and more within a little drive.

And I've been waiting to go near Harvey, IL to visit the Dixie Square Mall for literally ages. I want to rent a car and drive through it like The Blues Brothers did. Although I think it might be better if I stole a car and did it. Well, there are a few benefits there. First off, although Jake and Elwood drove their own car, I firmly believe that if they'd been given the opportunity, they would have stolen one to drive through the mall. And second, I'd not be as traceable that way, and then there's the added benefit of not having to pay the rental car company for damages.

I've worked all of this out, I tell you. :-)

And there's a *very* cool write-up of a visit to Dixie Square at, and from this we've learnt that it is important to (1) avoid the police; (2) bring a mask for the mold smell; (3) bring doggie treats and/or mace. And probably a laser zappy gun, if you have one.

I still want one of those...

And has the most incredible pictures--a DS Musicland that closed in (I think they said) 1973! And a Jewel that I don't remember when it closed. And they're making a documentary about it. This is so cool! I am so completely prepared to own that documentary! Hurry up! Finish! Sell it! Sell it!!

And I'd also like to visit the Wonderland Mall in Livonia before it gets smooshed into the ground. I was there only when it was a real, working mall. It was closed in 2003. And I never would have known it were it not for, but the Wonderland Mall website is still up from 2000! Now how cool is that? Five years. Who'd have thunked it?

And yes, I do like "normal" malls. I'd *live* in West Ed or MoA if I could. And actually, I can. Or will be able to. I've heard that MoA is going to build condos. When they do, I am *so* there, even if it's like, a vacation home. :-) And they have Camp Snoopy. Yay! I want to go back and complete my Camp Snoopy smooshed penny collection!

Ok...I'm getting way too excited. :-) Time for bed. Hopefully, I'll wake up and have power again.

Wednesday, June 01, 2005

Bearinamug Attack!

Awww... I have a new Bearinamug from Eviljob. This makes like, sixty-three thousand and two. I'm going to start selling them on eBay. I have enough coffee mugs to keep a small third world country caffinated for the next ten years.

Squoosh just loved the balloon that came with the Bearinamug. Note the past tense. I had to give it to him, 'cos when he saw it, he wanted it so badly!

May whomever invented those things rot in hell for all eternity; they're just too easy to pick up and give when you don't know what else to give! Oh, yeah; I'm guilty too.

Eviljob could have sucked worse today. Well, for the most part. I was teased (again) today for getting teary-eyed, something I sometimes do over poems in The Writer's Almanac, which I receive by email in case I miss the broadcast. But it's a *good* kind of teary. This one was the 20 May poem which I probably don't have permission to reproduce, so I'll just link to it: To My Cat With An Eating Disorder.

What can I say? It reminded me of Squooshable. My god...he'll eat anything. As much of anything as possible, until he's the fat-tummed beast (as Meg calls him) once again. Then he'll keep going back to the food dish every few minutes to eat another bite. For this reason I can't let him have standing food. At least not right now. Butsoanyway, I read that and came up all tear-filled and oh, don't they just love that at Eviljob. Eh. I don't care; it's good for the soul.

I'm still not really dealing with this whole brother thing. I'm upset and angry at him, and I rarely go back and edit my previous posts (usually only if I for some weird reason reread one and see some god-awful typographical error, or something), and ever since I stopped trying to obfuscate my writing style (by typing it in Word first and running it through Word's checker, correcting things which I agreed were probably wrong), I pretty much just type and go. So if I say something horrible about him, the things he has done, or this country or anything, I would be tempted to go back and change it after I calmed down. This is one of the drawbacks of not just writing it in a journal; there's always the temptation to go back and change what you've done. I haven't done it yet (except for glaring mistakes, like typing "than" when I meant "then", which for some reason I do quite often), but the temptation's there, especially if it makes me look petty, or stupid, or hysterical, or neurotic, or retarded...

Hmmm... If I changed all that, this'd be one blank blog.

Oh, well; I live in this skin, so I guess one would hope that I've become accustomed to looking petty, stupid, hysterical, neurotic, retarded, and a bunch of other things. :-) Yeah, I have.

As I'm typing this, Squoosh has been given his evening meds and food, and put to bed. He's crying, and it's breaking my heart. I hope that he soon can be let out into General Population. :-) He does, also. Even though I want him out so that we can cuddle, play, and he can get to meet the other cats up close, he wants out so that he can have a go at the older cats' standing food bowls. I swear--Squoosh has food radar that is *unbelieveable*. I can carry him from one room to the other in my arms, and he'll eye all the food out in between the bathroom and our destination as if he were memorising its location so that he can find it later, when he escapes. We've been having storms, and I just hope that he's not scared. When I'm home, I'll go in there with him, or bring him out with me and try to keep my other cats away. But I know that's not fair to them, so I try not to take him out for more than an hour or two. I don't want to hurt their feelings.

See? Neurotic.

I'm putting the finishing touches on some "can I pleeeeease" paperwork and "gimme some money" paperwork for this semester's projects. I have until the tenth, but I feel as if it will never be done; I keep changing things and seeing imperfections and things I've forgotten to mention. Augh. I need to get used to the feeling that nothing will ever be accomplished. It all seems to be getting done, just slowly and imperfectly. Sigh.

And I have a "have to" travel coming up. Problem is, as usual, I don't *want* to. I love travelling, but the work-related travelling sucks; it's never at the right time, it's to places that I may want to see but not (a) at this time; (b) by force; (c) with commitments to do/say/see /think/perform hanging over my head. Plus I have to fly. Flying's icky enough without the body cavity searches that have to be undergone. I've gotten to where I hate it. Plus I'm afraid of crashing. I guess in some ways I'm a control freak, and I don't wholly trust whomever's doing the piloting; what if they become distracted? Or they graduated in the bottom of their class, or something? What if they have a nervous breakdown in the middle of the trip? Or a stroke? A nervous breakdown would be worse, because then they're still up and running, and you'd not be certain they needed someone to take over. And I don't know how to fly a plane, if I were to need to. And I'm not sure I could learn quickly enough; I'm slow at picking up some things. And I wouldn't trust anyone else who volunteered, 'cos hell...if they're such a great pilot, why aren't they flying their own selves to wherever? They may be a pilot that was fired for malpractice, or malfeasance, or whatever it is pilots are terminated over, and you've no way to know until they crash you into the ground.

Ok...I'm not thinking about this anymore, or I'll never get to sleep. I don't wanna go. That's all there is to say on that subject.