And I promise you Ange, you're going to see the difference...okay?

New template.

Opinions, pleez.

I kinda liked the green one, but I don't wear the same clothes everyday even if they're my faves. I did not see a template that really looked Me-ish. And I am too stupid, busy, and stupidly busy (or busily stupid) to go do anything like make my own. If I could do that I'd have set up my own website by now, or something.

They should make a pretty template that looks more like Yahoo's (how to work the exclamation point in? How?) 360-thingy. Where the whole thing is a picture. That would be really pretty!

I may change this back, but...I don't know. We'll see.

And repeat after me: Very...beautiful...lips--errr--*template*! Okay?

:-)


Ok...I'm working...sigh.

The Next Big Dream

Okay, so I had a Lost Weekend.  :-)  So shoot me already.  This one was good enough that I just might go do it again sometime.  

I may talk about it later, but right now, I am supposed to be ::drum roll:: …working on something else.  What a shocker.

But I had an outrageously weird dream last night, and although I’m certain that I won’t forget it, I just wanted to record it for posterity and maybe change my blog template.  If I do not change my template now, I might later on.  I need a change.  Change is good.  

Not that I should be doing something else, or anything.

In my dream (and at the end, it should be obvious why I do not mind going months and months without remembering my dreams—if they’re not flat-out nightmares, they are *so* involved, and filled with these horrible intractable problems!), there was no Eviljob or Job II; I was hired by a company that makes new casino games as a consultant on the design of a multi-player strategy-based table game that they wanted to be the Next Big Thing.  The development group had decided that they wanted to take advantage of Human Nature in an elaborate game that had the appearance of having divided the players into specific teams, and augmented house odds by utilising a “Prisoner’s Dilemma”-type of interaction where it appeared that the players were pitted against each other as well as the dealer, when in reality the players would have to re-form their teams and take acceptable losses in order to come out ahead at the end, luck permitting (and luck could only factor in after the players first cooperated, and then willingly re-formed their teams, and even then there would be losers, so the concept of the “team” was exceedingly labile, and had to be seen as such for it all to work).  And goodness, aren’t I just paring this down to bare bones and leaving out scads?  Snicker.

Butsoanyway.

Unburdened as I was by any kind of regulatory oversight on my part of the project, and failing to have any luck with test groups (whom, I felt, were not taking it seriously ‘cos it was a game), I set off on my own to run some game-independent scenarios, and do a kind of top-down analysis.  It was a lot like Saw.  

Oh, I am not ever a sicko…I’m a scientist; there’s a difference.  Pfft.  

Plus, this was all a dream.

Butsoanyway.

So I hole myself up in one of those proverbial run-down abandoned warehouses, and set off on kidnapping people and placing them in situations where they have to cooperate and then defect in order to live, the idea being that if I can find the conditions suitable for this to happen, I can then start looking at those conditions to determine exactly what it is about the scenario that is successfully conveying the message to cooperate, defect, re-form, and so forth.  And I try everything—all kinds of elaborate traps, tricks, murderous accoutrements, even stooping to leaving hints of all kinds, thinking that perhaps the game might require a script.  And I try all kinds and combinations of people; different ages, races, genders, familiar, and strangers—two-player, four-player, six, eight, ten, twenty…

Have you any idea how hard it is to abduct twenty people, all within hours of each other so as not to confound the ‘speriment with things like holding time?  Especially when one is working by oneself?

Sigh.  Yes, even in my dreams, I have budgetary issues.

Butsoanyway.

So I have changed everything humanly possible to change about everything I am doing—more people, less people, hints, time limits (both strict and lenient)…*everything*.  And what do I have in the end?  A ginormous pile of dead bodies, that’s what I have.  They’re just not cooperating in the first place.  Drat!  Or if they are, they’re not open to re-forming at a later point.  Double-drat!

And so I think (as I am dragging bodies around and digging out in the woods in the middle of the night, which I did a *lot* in this dream—my arms were buff as hell—before I had to resort to just dumping the bodies all over the place ‘cos it took too long to dig night after night) that maybe I am going to change this, that, and the other for the next group (too involved to detail), and I go back to the warehouse to work the fifty-billionth iteration out on paper before I go round up some more people.  Sigh.

Then the phone rings, and it’s one of my professors.  How they knew I was at the warehouse is anybody’s guess, but in my dream it was totally normal and a bit annoying, ‘cos I was working.  This person told me that they had accepted a “damage-control” type of grant that on the surface was to study how to make the mines safer, but in reality was simply to offer suggestions on minimising human losses when an event like the Sago mine disaster happened again, to avoid bad press.  And this person wanted me to go do the work, ‘cos they thought that mines, disasters, and dead bodies were just totally yuck.  

I did not have a choice, so I said okay.  With things like that, if you’re asked, you go do.  Simple.  So I put what I was doing on hold and went over to Whereverinthehell to study their mines, training, safety protocols, and everything else.  That part of the dream I do not remember too much about.  But I do remember writing up this HUGE report that explained in detail how losses of this kind may not ever be minimised, because in such a situation the group that was trapped would have to immediately reformulate their conceptualisation of what was occurring independently of any instructions (because, things being as they are, you could never put this situation’s equivalent of “women and children first” into a safety training of any kind and not be completely skewered by Public Opinion on *some* level), assign acceptable losses, and pool their available resources, thereby reorganising themselves into two new groups—those that will die, and those that will (probably) live.  In other words, they’d not have to see things as “us” (company workers), but be open to reorganising into an “us” and “them”, then voluntarily figuring out who should live, and those that shouldn’t would hand over their supplies; after that reformulation, the survivors would have to look out for themselves in the event of an extended entrapment by being alert for those who were not (or should not based upon a new demarcation) going to make it out of their new group, and taking over *their* supplies.  The damn report was the size of a phone book, and I just knew that no one was ever going to read anything but the cutesy little table of recommendations I put at the end.  Very demoralising.  

And *then* it occurred to me (in my dream) that this was essentially the issue I had been working on with the Next Big Thing game, so I phoned them to tell them to forget it—it’s not going to work, ever.  At least not how they wanted it to work; I explained to them that the behaviour they were hoping to elicit just wasn’t going to ever manifest reliably with more than two people, and maybe not even with only two people.  Communication allowed, communication not allowed…doesn’t matter.  And they were really, really pissed off at me for not finding a way to make it work, especially since they’d shelled out all that money on Rohypnol, barbed wire, chains, power drills, and all kinds of other things.  And my salary.

Pfft.  Fuck you creeps.  Go clean out my warehouse.  

:-D

And this all made me wake up wondering…how in the hell did societies ever come about?  I mean, we’re cooperating, but we stop doing that sometimes when it is appropriate.  And then we re-affiliate with others.  And no one has handed us any cheat-sheets, payoff matrices, or anything.  And it doesn’t always work right, but the overall trend must be working, else we’d not be progressing.  Maybe we have enough people that avoid situations where this reasoning is necessary, and so it just *looks* like things are working out okay.  Not that I care, or anything.  :-)  So I stopped thinking about it.

Okay, well, I kinda care; I just don’t know.  

And no, I would not ever in reality go offing people.  DURR frowns upon that.  

And I am not trying to in any way belittle anything that anyone has ever gone through; it was just a dream.  I solve problems even in my dreams…it’s what I do.  Sheesh.

More fun

I had a dental appointment today that seemed to take forever...sigh.  It was this process that I thought my dentist said was a root planar scaling, but it's also called an SRP just to make things more confuzzling.  And I may even be spelling it wrong; I'm not going to bother looking it up.  Pfft.  I made Dr Toofies do my whole mouth instead of me coming back four damn times, which I am not going to do, so it took *ages*, it seemed.  Dentists don't bother me at all.  I know they freak some people the hell out, but I do not understand how or why, and although I respect their right to freak the fuck out, I am okay with dentists--what freaks me out are eye exams. 

See?  As *always*, I am in the Overlooked Minority.  You don't ever hear advertisements for "pain-free" opthamologists, do you? 

I do *not* like having things pushed into my eye.  Or *near* my eyes.  Or laid *around* my eyes.  Ohellno.  And that blue glowy thing they want to put ON your eyeball?  OHELLNO.  Gives me panic attacks.  Pity my opthamologist who had to rule out other things in order to diagnose me with ocular migraines (I have those sometimes as well as regular migraines) a few years ago.  Poor man.  But look at it this way--you only get TWO eyeballs.  What if the person doing your exam sneezed and poked your eye out with the blue glowy circle-thing?  Or what if the lightbulb of the blue glowy circle-thing got hot, and popped on your wet eyeball?  What then, huh? 

My point exactly.

Butsoanyway.

Since I took today off, I had nothing to do after, so I went shopping.  Only it was shopping for underwears, so that doesn't count as *real* shopping. 

But since I now have clean toofies and bras galore as well as today off, I think I am going to do something out of the ordinary.  I have been sitting here thinking that I should feel guilty about not coming home and going right back to work, but...it's not working.  I *don't* feel guilty. 

So I am not sure what I am going to do yet, but...I am going.

ttfn!

Wednesday is Test Card F Day!

Far Too Long Alternate Title: To save time, I’d look for it in Anne’s box; she’s a nutsy bitch like that, so why should I feign politeness?

:-D

But really, now…really…why else would the asker be doing the freaking asking? Clearly Anne has issues, and Sally probably knows that. Clearly. If you ask me, *both* of them have issues…I mean, look at what they do for a living; what the hell kind of career counsellor did they see to end up with *that*?

Sheesh. ;-)

Okay, okay…all kidding aside, the only truly correct answer is “I don’t know”; anything else relies on an assumption. Anything. It’s a stupid and pointless test. And it reeks of being a test; that fact alone precludes any answer from being “correct” except “I don’t know”, because anything else is speculation (and speculation from a potentially test-freaked and eager to please answeree). Well, except for listing out every possible option, but listing out options isn’t an *answer*, it’s a listing of options that means “I don’t know”.

Think of it this way to imagine a converse; just because you recognise that you would not know something, to attribute that same state of perception to another person is, ummm, well…an assumption. Now who is not feeling whom? Huh?

And that is exactly what I did not say. Sigh. I hate confrontation.

Well that and, after a certain point, I fail to care whether someone ever figures it out for themselves or not—usually about the time that the Other starts waving their arms around like windmills, and talking in an excited-yet-intolerant tone.

Yes, we had an interesting discussion today. Sort-of.

Butsoanyway.

I heard on NPR that Deus Caritas Est hit the stands today. I think I will wait for the movie. I hear Mary-Kate Olsen is auditioning for the part of the three-fold responsibility of The Church.

I just hope Alan Rickman’s in it—he’s such a cutie.

Sigh.

My Wednesdays are sucking. I cannot seem to get *ahead*! And since I am flitting from one obligation to the next, when I have to think creatively (har, har), I find that I *can’t*! I am still mentally stuck on whatever it was that I just finished. Pfft. And when I get like that, I am not good at polemical exchanges; I ask Rita, the Waitress in My Mind, to serve my critic with a heaping helping of WhatTheFuckEver, picture SMPTE bars, and punch up my favourite 1000 Hz song on the Stereo in My Brain.

Well, the lyrics are remarkably simple to learn.

G’night.

My Jewish Siamese-American Son

My brilliant son—Dr Romeo Detroit, COMS—seemed a bit sick yesterday, so I made an appointment for him at Dr Vet’s today.  I figured that it was yet *another* respiratory infection going on.  Dr Vet, however, disagreed.

Sigh.

$215 later, it’s official.  My eldest son, the brilliant inventor of “Fetch”, giver of cat-scans, intimidator of The Grim Reaper, and corrector of social faux pas, the luminous, dazzling, and highly intelligent Dr Romeo Detroit—a/k/a My Son The Doctor—is a certifiable Jew.  

He has asthma.  

Quit laughing.

So tonight is Dr Wheezy’s first night on Theo-Dur.  Hopefully it will work the way it is supposed to.  

Sigh.  Now I have to.  Pfft.

And I am still so totally taking applications for the steno pool over here…

Bwaah!

Gott in Himmel, *somebody* come over and write this shit for me! And fix dinner!

And I can do what Ancodias do best: Pace and dictate. With a sense of urgency. And possibly Impending Doom, if I'm feeling up to it.

:-D I'm telling you, I need an Administrative Assistant.

Bonus points for a French maid outfit. ;-)

Sigh.

O-KAY. I'm going to quit distracting myself now. Hmmph.


----------------

The Movie Of Your Life Is A Cult Classic

Quirky, offbeat, and even a little campy - your life appeals to a select few. But if someone's obsessed with you, look out! Your fans are downright freaky. Your best movie matches: Office Space, Showgirls, The Big Lebowski

If Your Life Was a Movie, What Genre Would It Be?

I have fans? ...ummm, fans? I need you to take dictation. Rilly. I was only kidding about the French maid outfit. *Swear*.

:-D

Unless that's your thing, in which case I might have one somewhere. Just come type this shit for me! Bwaah!

My Son, the Heterosexual

Okay!  Now I’m done watching Murder by Death, and trying to get something accomplished.  Yay, accomplishment.  

But I *had* to mention this one link…this is *SO* funny!

My Son Is A Heterosexual

It’s that MTV, you know…

It is a very *angry* cat, Sir...

I am watching Murder By Death instead of working, as I am supposed to be. I
cannot help it--it is one of my most favourite movies! This has to be
one of the most quoteable movies of all time. :-) Plus I identify
with Eileen Brennan's character. Sigh... Afterward, I will get to
work. Promise. No, rilly.

The $350 Manicure...

...set. Meg was given one when she was booted out of today's women's
tournament. Tomorrow is the WSOP ladies' tournament; I guess that I
don't pay good attention to Meg. Or all the poker crap she does all
melds into one after a while. She is doing both WPT and WSOP; they
are holding both at once, I guess. Meg's in heaven.

Odi et Amo ...constantly.

Geez…where to start?  I had started another post, but ran out of time to finish it (or even really write something substantive).  My relative who died has been (or is being, or will be…we’re not going to be told, ever) cremated, and his ashes given to the proverbial “old Army buddy” to scatter somewhere secret that they agreed upon ever ago.  He said many times that the thought of people crying and whining over him really pissed him off whether he was dead or not, so he saw to it that no one will have that opportunity.  :-)  He was a stubborn Bohunk in that respect.  His wife, who is a saint (and you’d have to be one to handle him!  :-) ), was asked to not go to the cremation (by him) and to go get on with her life.  

I know she loves him and will miss him; there is no question about that.  They were married when she was twenty-two and he twenty-six, and for fifty-two years she made house, bore children, prepared dinners, and loved him very much.  I should be so lucky.  And he took very good care of her both in life and after, so if it had to end—which it does, for all of us—I guess this was one preferable way.  Probably if he had his pick, it would have ended about four or five years ago.  So this was not bad, except for that personal-sense-of-loss thing and the suffering and discomfort he endured in-between.  

And my car will be ok.  Shortly.  Hitter’s insurance company accepted full responsibility for the damage (yay!), so it is out of Hitter’s hands.  My insurance company phoned me to take my statement (they recorded it over the phone), and then I talked with the adjuster (or whatever her title is) for a bit; we had a really nice conversation and at the end of it, she advised me to *not* phone back Hitter’s insurance, to let her phone them instead.  She rang me back about thirty minutes later, and told me that they had accepted full responsibility and would pay to have it un-hooptied, with me paying out nothing.  Woo-hoo!  You go, girl!  

And this was *after* Hitter had phoned me (in the middle of a class!) the day before to ask me how I intended to pay his deductible.  Ummm…yeah; I hung up on him.  I may get around to prettying up and posting what I’d written before later.  If I do, I’ll stick it as yesterday, or something (though Blogger seems to have taken away the date-changing feature).  Whatever.  If not, I’ll stick it wherever.  

Butsoanyway.

I am in trivia chat right now, and have accomplished damn close to everything I had to do this week.  I have even put child-proof clippy things on my kitchen and bathroom cabinet doors so that Squooshable can’t keep opening them and eating what is inside.  I just have to finish an exercise (that I am dreading!) for one class, keep on keeping on in another, and ready a presentation for MMM.  Argh.  :-)  

Speaking of Squooshable, he is adorable.  He has discovered mirrors.  In the past week or so, I have caught him on my bathroom counter, atop my dresser, and on the top of this bench in my foyer, gazing into the mirror as he prances back and forth.  You can almost *hear* him saying, “Who’s the pretty cat?  Me!  I’m such a pretty cat!”  I swear—it reminds me of that old song that I can’t remember the name of, but it has the chorus, “I am a glamour boy!”  What was it…The Glamour Boys?  I have no idea, ‘cos at the time it was completely not my style of music.  But now that I own a Glamour Squoosh, well…I wish I’d paid better attention, so I could sing it to him.  :-)  

Speaking of old songs, I have had another song stuck in my head that I cannot identify again—for two days.  Argh.  And I’ll never find it, ‘cos the only part of the lyrics I know is “Sweetheart”, in the chorus, and they repeat it tons of times.  Bwaah!  The one I was ruminating before this one I’d sworn to hunt down until my death, but it plooped back out of my head already, and I cannot recall any of it now.  Sometimes I annoy the hell out of myself; I will hear a song being piped in somewhere subconsciously, not be aware that I heard it, and then have it stuck in my head for a few days.  Or I will hear a note or three that make me think of some obscure song that I never really listened to in the first place, and then whatever pieces of the song I have floating around in my subconscious annoy me for days.  

Butsoanyway.

Mom’s been gone since…I don’t remember when; I think it has been almost a week at this point.  I quit phoning her the day I was hit, after I phoned her to see if she’d heard about the death and to whine at her about my accident (she’s a mommy; that’s what she’s for, right?), and she yelled at me for bothering her ‘cos her roll was coming up.  Sigh.  No, I am not kidding.

Oh, wait—it gets better.

So Meg left for her tournament Thursday afternoon.  This one I think is WPT.  Her plan is to play in something that I forgot what it is, and then play in the ladies’ tourney, which I personally think is a mistake.  Women play very differently from the way men do (usually), and at the lower levels of competence they are (IMHO) very random in their play, and do not attend to the betting the way that they should (and no, I am not just saying that because they seem to ignore my bluffs—I see them do it to everyone; they are just simply ignoring the implications of the bets that are being made in many cases—I have made some money off that style of play when I *wasn’t* bluffing, and felt fairly guilty about it afterwards).  Both Meg and I (we have both been told) play more like men (though I am nowhere near as good as Meg is; I have just gotten very lucky a few times whereas Meg focuses on tournaments when she is there anymore).  I generally do not like playing with women for those reasons (no, I am not being sexist; try sitting down at a table with $200 or more and two or three women—you will see what I mean).  Meg has someone covering her classes until she gets back, but since they are all Tuesday/Thursday classes, she’s not missing much.  She told them she was going to a conference.  

::cough, cough:: pathetic addict.  Butsoanyway.

Well, when I phoned Mom she was playing craps.  She only plays craps and slots, and the ONLY reason she plays craps is ‘cos she likes to roll.  Sigh.  I shudder to think of what she’s been up to all off on her lonesome.  

Some of which I am getting to, eventually.  

So Mummers fussed at me, and then told me her sister had already rung her and told her.  Then I tried to tell her about my accident, and she said she didn’t have time to talk to me and hung up.  I can *feel* the love, I tell you.

Mom phoned me back the next day, but I had my cell off and so she left a message all about how she loves me but she’d love me more if I didn’t phone her when she’s about to roll.  

Okay, she didn’t *actually* say that.  But it was implied.  

So of course I told Meg about all this, and Meg was positively *cringing* over what she was going to fly over and find.  So today I come home and check my email; Meg’s sent an email telling me that she’s holding her virtual office hours (where she’s available to students via email and chat) in the Gold Strike ‘cos they’ve just hooked up wireless from when we were there last.  I *wanted* to just copy-and-paste the email ‘cos it had me on the floor, but that might be unwise; I’ll just recap it.  The subject line reads, “Holding v. office hours in a casino in-between poker hands”, and the first line of the body is, “No, it is not pathetic.”

HAHAHAHA!  Ummm…yes, it is.  :-)

Meg reports that Mom was playing craps next to TJ Cloutier.  No, I am not kidding.  And no; it is doubtful that Mummers has any idea who that is.  Probably she’s already fussed at him several times over the past few days for crowding her, coming up to the table and butting her out of her roll, or asking her to mute her god damned cell.  Sigh.  Yeah…she’s civil like that.  

And Hoyt Corkins and Scotty Nguyen are still in the tourney.  In case you cared.  :-)  Meg’s a big fan of Scotty’s, so much so that when she was in Vegas she wouldn’t even talk to him, even though she was standing right next to him for a really long time at one point.  Pathetic chicken addict.

And I say that with love…rilly.

  But the good news is that Mom appears to have actually been doing well.  In a financial sense, I mean.  Health-wise, she’s probably in the toilet about now.  When left to her own devices, her blood sugar ranges anywhere from 45 to 500, often within the span of a few hours.  And no, I am not exaggerating; when Mom was diagnosed with diabetes, her blood sugar was over 700.  No, I did not mis-type.  Seven HUNDRED.  She has built up an amazing tolerance for highs and lows.  And she will either go without eating, or eat fried things and crap like that, ‘cos she’s “only having just a little bit” and that’s okay, ‘cos in her mind thin = healthy, and so therefore she’s healthy, QED.   Sigh.  Grr.  Argh.  Bwaah!

And there are a few facets of my mommy which make this extremely ironic, but I am iffy about going into them here ‘cos they’re known by people who know me, so I’ll leave them off for now, however much it may make the comedic aspects suffer.  :-)  

Psychomommy.

What’s *really* funny is that for some reason, every casino Mom has ever gone to simply loves her to death.  *I* can play for practically three days straight in their poker room, and they send me Not Crap.  At least eight times out of ten, *I* have to ask for comps.  Not Mummers.  That is why she went up early, Meg informed me—she had howevermany free days sent to her in the mail from Gold Strike or Horseshoe (they are basically joined together in Tunica), and those days overlapped somewhat with when Meg was going to be there, so she accepted them and left.

And Mom *constantly* gets mail from all these casinos (both regular and email), offering her scads of free nights, free shows, free dinners, discounts…you name it.  They phone her.  They remember her on her birthday.  When she does go, they are offering her comps right and left; one time when she went with us (year before last, maybe?), I interrupted her on one of those god damned slot machines (can you say “lab rat”, boys and girls?) to see if she wanted to get something to eat with me; she did, and as she picks up to leave, some SlotPerson comes over and hands her a chit for a meal.  As we’re walking away, she hands it to me; I tell her to use it herself, and she explains that she already has two others that other SlotPerson(s) had given her.  I asked her if it was the same guy, wondering if he had like, some quota to hand out before he could go on break or something, and she said that the first person she wasn’t sure on, ‘cos she was playing and didn’t want to stop to look at them, but the second one she is sure was from someone different, ‘cos she asked them to hold her machine when she went to the bathroom.  

Oh, whatever.

Now contrast that with me, or even Meg.  One of the tournaments we were at, they even thought we were dealers and gave us nothing the entire time.  Even when we *asked*, we were told we had to ask So-And-So (who it turned out was in charge of taking care of the dealers that were in from Elsewhere who knew that we *weren’t* dealers, but we didn’t know what he did until about two days before we left), and he kept telling us that he couldn’t give us anything, so we finally quit asking.  I found out everyone thought we were dealers when one of the dealers was trying to pick me up in the elevator as I went back to my room and started asking me REALLY weird questions (I thought at the time), like where I worked and stuff (and I was thinking, “Goodness…gold-dig much, do we?” lol…seriously, though; I don’t remember what-all he asked, but I honestly figured he either thought I was massively rich, or a hooker) until I finally put the brakes on the conversation and flat-out asked him what in the hell was going on here.  In fairness, early the next morning (or it might have been eight at night; it’s hard to tell in places like that) I went down and fussed; they comped the majority of our stay, discounted the rest, and gave us other things (left up to Meg, she would have said nothing and just grumped about it to me…sigh), and the rest of the stay was normal-er (all like, two days of it…hmmph).  But my point is that generally Meg and I have to ask.  Mom not only doesn’t have to ask, but she gets actively pursued.  I don’t get it.

Maybe when I am old and annoying they’ll want me there all the time, too.  :-)  

Goodnight.

After I had just started to get over the car thing, I received even worse news.

Someone in my family died tonight. No, it's no one I have ever mentioned here.

I am fine, and he has been very sick for a very long time. And I
really don't feel like writing about it right now; I just finished
writing up a load of stuff for tomorrow, so that I can drive to school
in my freaking hoopty-mobile with a clear conscience, 'cos god only
knows MMM waits for no man. Ev-er.

But I am still sad. With a regretful kind of sad. Which, were he
still alive, he would have popped me in the head for feeling. :-)
As per his wishes, there will be no funeral, no memorial service, no
burial...no anything. And no fucking crying like a god damned girl.
Which I will respect. It is his day, after all.

G'night.

Hit me shithead, one more time!

Augh. Leaving work today, some jackass (not looking where he was going as he zoomed the hell out of his parking space in reverse) plowed right into me.

ASSHOLE!

My car's bumper is destroyed, I have scratches on the body around the bumper, my right tire is wonky, and my car is making a weird noise. Oh, I am *so* angry! It was totally improper backing on his behalf, but he tried to make it sound as if I had been speeding up behind him...I just started screaming. I told him--verbatim--that that was a nice fucking try...HOWEVER, I had the right of way AND was going less than the posted speed, 'cos I am terrified of running over one of the parking lot cats (or, worse, kittens). I offered to show him my vet bills for the parking lot cats and my trap in the trunk (as well as the fishing net in my back seat). It's private property so the police wouldn't come out and write a ticket, so now I have to take the asshat to small claims court to get my deductable back, unless he has a fit of conscience tonight and offers to willingly pay it.

Ohhh...I am SOOOOOOOOO pissed! Until I get this fixed, I look like I am driving a fucking hoopty-mobile, albeit with an awesome wax job. And my stomach hurts from where the damn belt grabbed me as I slammed on the brakes too late to do any good. And my little finger hurts from where I popped it against my steering wheel.

I am PISSED, I tell you. Mad as hell.

Sorry; I just had to vent somewhere. :-) Now back to work.

Thought for the Day

"I don't know the key to success, but the key to failure is to try to please everyone."

-- Bill Cosby

Developing words that linger

Holy mary...fasten your seatbelts. Ready?

I am accomplishing something well in advance of the night before it is due!

Go figure.

In Other News, Satan broke his ankle ice skating on Lake Perdition today; as he was being treated at Gehenna General Hospital by Dr Harold Shipman, the Dark Lord was quoted as saying that he was simply unaccustomed to the weather...

:-D

All right; the real explanation is that I am attempting to start off this semester well; I need all the help I can get, and am trying my damndest to not be my own worst enemy. You know--kind of like usual. In short, I have fucked up again and taken on too much. You know--kind of like usual. :-) By Wednesday I must have completed five things (ack!), including in that count neither readings for class, nor readings required to complete those five things.

Well, I just finished two. Woo-hoo!

Okay, not *completely* finished. I have one finished (it turned out to not be as labour-intensive as I'd thought), and the second is three-quarters of the way done. But I am counting it. I need the encouragement. I have not yet figured out how I am going to make this all work out. Whee. :-)

And, standing in stark contrast to how well (most) everything else is going so far, one of the groups I have to meet with has decided to schedule themselves at a time when I cannot attend. Fine. Screw you guys, too. I *know* that I do not *have* to be there; I *know* that, technically, I am wasting my time because I am ahead of most of the others, but... It's just basic fricking politesse, you creeps.

Butsoanyway.

It is quite cold here, and I am hoping Mehitabel is doing ok. I have been leaving food for her and *someone* is eating it, but I haven't seen her in days. I know that the little kitty is not happy, and I feel horribly guilty for typing this, but I love this weather. If I could catch Mehitabel, I could love it with a clear (enough) conscience. :-
But it *is* gorgeous; windy, crisp, cold nights with a clear sky...I am almost in heaven. :-)

Well, except for all these farking assignments.

MMM was kind enough to copy to cd most of our .pdf overload. What a sweety. He has printed out hardcopies for himself and in an expandable file and delighted in showing us that, printed front-and-back, it is roughly the size of a mid-size town's phone book. Sigh. *But* (there is always a 'but' with MMM), he is saving us money on a text this way.

Doll-baby, I tell you.

This time last year, I was so wrapped up in everything that I literally could not justify the time to post (I felt). This year, Meg is going to her tournament without me (bitch), but that whole Divine Justice Thing being what it is, Mummers is leaving tomorrow to go with her 'cos she had so damn much fun when she went before. Ha, ha! Teach you, Meg!

And that is about all that is My Life. At least in the immediate sense. I want to try to get something else accomplished before I go to sleep, though. Yay. Accomplishment.

:-)

Let's Make Puerto Rico a Steak!

At least this thingy was interesting.  Yes…I am still not over the whole JT Leroy thing; I may never recover, especially seeing as how my *favourite* fake author—Feodor Larrovitch—is being covered by no one, anywhere.  How sad.  I even wrote a passive-aggressive paper on Larrovitch once, citing him as my favourite author of all time, and ascribing to him some truly miraculous feats.  It was an in-class final for a freshman English class, I was stuck for a topic, and we had to pick from a list.  Hated.  I saw the question which asked for a description of the works and accomplishments of our favourite author (or somesuch), and I immediately thought, “Larrovitch!”  So I am evil; what of it?

Butsoanyway.

I spent most of the day out-of-doors, hustling up…some things.  It was fun and everything went well, but halfway through the day I had to wonder why it seems that almost every girl I saw in the 17-22 age range delights in walking around with not just silly outfits (I am *SO* tired of this trashy “gangsta mamacita” look, or whatever it is called, that I could just PUKE!), but fake Louis Vuitton (or Prada, Coach, etc…) handbags and fake Chanel (or D&G, etc…) sunglasses.  What in the hell?  I really *have* moved to a foreign country; when I was 17-22, I had too much pride, for god’s sake.  I really wanted to go up to one of them and ask why they thought this was a Smart Fashion Move, but I (of course) did not.  I can completely understand liking the look, but…come on, now.  And they really *do* have knock-offs of the designer labelling; the fake Chanels have interlocking circles if I remember correctly, and the fake LVs have the right print (usually, with the exception of the multi-coloured ones), but other errors that are easy to spot (usually)—just like the fake D&Bs did a few years ago (and may still; I am not up on current Dooney counterfeiting.  I lost interest in D&B ‘cos I think their more recent lines are ridiculous-looking.  Did you hear me, Dooney & Bourke?  They look STUPID.  And I am angry about it.  Bring back the AWL lines, you shits!  And, since I am already going there, bring the duck fob back!  Your current fob looks DUMB, too; it looks like a knock-off of the GV swan, and I wouldn’t carry one of your vinyl—or whatever you are using that isn’t AWL—bags right now if *you* paid *me*; I *still* have my Tetons and Equestrienne; the plastic crap you put out today will *not* survive the test of time like the quality bags you used to make).

Butsoanyway.

You’d never guess that I am descended from former (Jewish) diamond merchants, eh?  I am not a fashionista by any means; these things just stick in my brain in exactly the same way that the rules of English don’t.  It is genetic.  I can spot shit jewellery from twenty paces as well, not counting pieces that were made for travelling, and so forth.  If you want to snag a bargain at a department store clearance (::cringe!::), take me—they typically sell trash to people who do not know any better.  There are exceptions, but I said typically.  And I am not saying that I am perfect (by any means; do not misunderstand), but I *am* saying that the sight of a 22-year old with ratty hair (or, worse yet, nasty extensions; *quality* extensions are fine, but bad ones look like shit—always) carrying what is supposed to be an $800 bag, with allegedly $300 sunglasses on, and a fake 10-carat diamond on her hand as she goes to work in the school bookstore is, well…a tad silly-looking.  Maybe I *am* getting old.

Butsoanyway.  

Noticing the superfluity of Fake Stuff today (I honestly had not taken note of how pervasive it has become before now!) reminded me of ages ago, when knock-offs started first turning up en masse; I and some of my friends at the time were in one store that was selling Hello Katty tchotchkes, and we put ourselves on the floor joking about deprived children growing up never knowing what Hello Kitty was.  

Sigh.  

Ladies, have pride; if you don’t, nobody else will.  Why decorate yourself with fake shit…at least fake shit that is faked so obviously?  

I *want* to interview them and ask!  I tell you, in another life I would have been a wonderful correspondent for something like The Daily Show, or Talking to Americans.  I rilly, rilly would have.  

And then, in talking with a friend, I was reminded of another laugh riot from my reckless youth tonight:  Robert Tilton.  Yes—Bobby, the Bible-Thumping Freakboy, purveyor of Jesus Dirt and Miracle God Leaves.  A core group of disaffected miscreants with whom I hung around used to often cut school, go get messed up in one way or another, and watch ol’ Bob.  He is nuts—I mean literally batshit; the man is in need of hospitalisation, though it is hard to actually feel sorry for him when he is pulling in eighty million a year.  I was going to sue him once for making me rupture my spleen laughing, but as it turned out, I was just fine.  :-)  And he makes the god damned *FUNNIEST* faces…  Someone like Peter Popov is Evil; Bobby The Bible-Thumping Freakboy is *insane*.  

Tilton came up ‘cos Mummers phoned me tonight to advise me that I should hate Pat Robertson (this is news?) because Robertson said that Ariel Sharon is being punished by god for giving away holy land, or somesuch; a friend of hers just told her about it.  As if I cared what Robertson said about *anything*; when his name comes up in the news, my Inner Censor dubs over it with the relaxing sounds of Mantovani; that way, no one gets hurt.  :-)  To calm her down before she began phoning in bomb threats to The 700 Club, I agreed with her that he was an asshole for saying that, if that was in fact what he had said.  She is so weird; she fussed at me for saying “asshole”, and then agreed with me that he was an asshole.  Go figure.  Maybe when you are a mother, you don’t have to “speak like a lady” (her words) anymore.  Whatever.  I am beyond trying to understand her reasoning.  I don’t get her; she generally cares about news and politics never, but when she does care she cares because she has become hopping mad about something (frequently something that she has misunderstood, à la Emily Litella, or at least an almost Litella-esque way, to give her fair credit, but the fact remains that considering her as my source, I have no clue what Robertson might really have said)—and then she does something psychotic.  Well, psychotic to me; if your mileage with her varies, I will be happy to wrap her up and ship her out.  Give me an address, if you dare.  Try me.









  

The stars at night are big and bright…

I have the most beautiful moon shining through my window!  It is simply amazing in its brightness!

Which is really pleasant, ‘cos I spent today drowning and feeling really inferior.  

I have two MAJORLY high-workload classes.  Plus a regular-workload class.  Plus Eviljob.  Plus Job II.  

Just shoot me now.  Please.

I took yet another class out-of-sequence, so I had to wade through the camaraderie of reminiscing about all the cool things we did last semester…which I didn’t do.  Geez.  I have to read and catch up (this is like taking #2 in a 3-part class before I take parts 1 and 3), but that isn’t what bothers me.  That class is run by this weird, intense, and highly intelligent man who is famous for his outrageous workload(s), and looks a lot like Max Maven.  Kinda.  With longish hair in back.  Only if *this* guy said “Boo”, I’d shriek like a little bitch; he’s scary.  So I’m calling him MMM, for Mad Max…Maven (Mary Miles Minter if I’m angry, which could happen), ‘cos if this class is like the last one I took with him, I’m probably going to be referring to him again.  A lot.  And I *so* held my tongue about him before.  Oh, just wait.  :-)

And so I sat for three hours and felt like an outcast retard who was about as interesting as vanilla pudding.  I love it when that happens.

Ok, not really.

And I triply hate it when I feel so very incredibly inferior to other people.  We have a “visiting” student from The Duchy of Grand Fenwick (ok, not really, but…) who comes to us fresh off an internship at one of those farking schools across the pond where the buildings predate god himself.  Plus she’s brilliant.  Plus she’s nice.  Plus she’s really pretty.  

God, I am such a fucking failure.  No, rilly—I am.  

And I have a ton of things to start reading and writing and whatevering.  But I feel good, actually.  I know it’s strange, but I do.  :-)  

I might have moonburn of the brain.  :-)  

Petri Dish of Perversion

I spent most of the day trying to get three signatures on one tiny piece of paper for a class.  Very dumb.  I think that most people who go into Administration have peer pressure issues.  It would have been easier to just forge the damn signatures, but they frown on that sort of thing.  :-)  Naturally, the easiest person to get a hold of is the last person I need to sign it, and they won’t sign until the others sign.  I tried to be reasonable about it—after all, they get the paper again after they sign it anyway—and suggest that we break Tradition for once, but no.  Fine.  Fine.

What—if all the other administrators were jumping off a bridge, would you jump, too?

Do you guys call each other every morning and coordinate your outfits too, like in Junior High?

Well, that was what I wanted to say.

So I spent most of the day waiting.  It was fun.  And of course I had to park *completely* on the other side of campus.  I am *so* tired of this parking bullshit, but I guess it is the same at almost every school.  I went to hear someone famous (in a certain field) speak once, and he was hilarious; he had an accompanying slide show, and he was talking about his career.  When he came to the part of why he selected the school he did for (I think) post-grad work, he prefaced it by saying, “And Crazy Go Nuts University was particularly convincing in their letter, so I went there”.  And then he changed the slide to a letter on Crazy Go Nuts U’s stationery which said only, “We guarantee you a parking space.  Signed, Dean Smith”.  :-)  

Ok, I thought that was hilarious.

I am *still* not over the whole JT Leroy thing, by the way.  :-\  Teach me to not be sceptical of everything, I guess.  But really, there was nothing about the books that was all that bad, at least not such that one would have to justify writing it by creating a fictional character to then claim the work’s veracity in an autobiographical sense.  Especially when one then claims that the “author” has…well, a host of problems that there is no real purpose in relating, other than to “flesh out” the personality of the (alleged) writer as an actual person.  Creating a character to justify writing about something morally shocking (defusing the shock by claiming the events, or something similar, had actually happened) I could understand.  But there just really isn’t anything that is *that* bad in Leroy’s work.  

Which makes me wonder about the relationship between personal experience, mores, and the double standard applied by (most) Americans, but that is more than I can go into now, ‘cos I have to get to sleep.  :-)  But I just wonder:  Why is it that if something bad were to have been personally endured, it is an acceptable topic for open discussion (almost regardless of the act committed)?  I am not one who is big on censoring others, especially opinions and works of art or literature, so I have to concentrate to put myself in the minds of these uber-moral people who will condemn something that is pure fiction as being “immoral” or “pornographic” when on the other hand, Suzie The Saved Prostitute can go on talk shows and discuss what position she was being nailed in when she found Jesus, and that is ok.  Why are True Crime magazines all right—simply because they actually happened?  Why is it wrong to write fiction about fourteen year-old prostitutes, but it is Right for some True Crime-style television shows to throw in gratuitous shots of a serial killer’s home-made snuff film?  

Oh, and don’t tell me that they do not do that—I saw it just tonight, before I left to play trivia.  I watch too many shows like that to disingenuously claim that none of them ever, ever attempt to appeal to “prurient interests” (I just love that phrase).  They do.  Sometimes grossly.  But that is just fine, it seems.  Go figure, I guess.  It is just feeding the “victim culture” we seem to be cultivating in this country, and it is disgusting.  

And I also believe that claiming the story to be real absolves the author of any responsibility, which is revolting as well.  We’re becoming habituated to some of the foulest offences imaginable, to the point where the public demands what should be personal details to justify their empathy and interest.  And it appears that many victims are willing to turn themselves into golliwogs to obtain the sympathy they feel they deserve.  

I just find it all repulsive, really.  

I have had time to think about it (as I was waiting and waiting today), and I have come to the conclusion that I personally (ymmv) would have enjoyed Leroy’s writings *more* if I had known that they were fiction from the outset.  Footnoting that No Terminators Were Harmed In The Making Of This Story would have made me worry less after the author.  I would not have marvelled so at the emotions and imagery in consideration of its origin, true, but…I’m a big girl; I do not need fairy tales or justifications.  If I want to read about lot lizards, I am capable of doing so without pretending it is something unpalatable that I am enduring just so I know what that poor child went through, or whatever.  What shit.  I guess it all comes back to America’s love/hate relationship with All Things Sexual.  Or maybe I just have perversion and sex on the brain.  Who the hell knows.  Maybe everyone else is right, and *I* am wrong.  

Well, I’m sure it could happen.  :-)  

Dragons, the policeman knew, were supposed to breathe fire, and occasionally get themselves slaughtered.

I hate bureaucracy. Especially when I have to do jump through its
hoops. I am waiting for a signature...so that I may then go get
another signature. I am so glad I reserved my whole day just for
this. No, rilly. And I'm doubly-ripped cos I forgot to bring the last
of my for-pleasure reading. Grr. I am going to NEVER finish that book.
And I've run out of things to do. And I'm bored. And whining, I know.
:-) Ok; back to slaying the dragon of bureaucracy. Yay.

Imaginary Author Update

Well, crap.  JT Leroy is a hoax.  You fricking bastiges.  

I mean, I like the writing.  I like the writing even though it is (apparently) total fiction, drawing upon nothing but imagination.  They are magnificent works on their own merit, but...

I hate being suckered.  

And yes, I would have read them anyway.  And yes, I would have thought they were wonderful anyway.

But…I felt for you, JT, you non-existent person fictional Ancodia-fooling weenie-boy.  You were one of my favourite celebrities.  You were one of my passwords at Eviljob.  You were the reason I switched stations as I drove through Minnesota and Wisconsin after Thanksgiving so that I could hear your interview on Fresh Air three times.  That’s three times, my imaginary friend—THREE.  

We had good times, JT.  I will still read your stuff, but…I feel gypped somehow.  

Oh! Me so sleepy...

Mr Squooshable appears to be fine; I am thinking that he footballed
the top of the hook somewhere. I have *tons* of crap to do tomorrow.
Pfft. Fed Mehitabel, she is fine. I have to get up early tomorrow and
finish something, and I would rather sleep for a week instead, the way
I feel right now. I have this phone posting thing down to a science.
At least something works. G'night.

It just occurred to me...

That, like any single (kitty) mom, I have responsibilities. I need to
marry a vet. ;-) preferably a stay-at-home dad vet. Who loves
Squooshable. And has an x-ray machine that would fit in the garage.
This is somewhat similar to single moms who marry
for money, sure, but the more I think about it, the better the idea
sounds. Especially when Squoosh eats weird things. Then it sounds
*really* good. :-D i could just say, "honey, I'll take out the
trash--you plumb Squooshable...again". And I'd have someone to help
me catch parking lot cats. Why didn't I think of
this before?!?

Bwaah!

I am *exhausted*; on Thursday (I think it was Thursday…life is speeding up again, and the days are already all melding into one), I went out to drug Mehitabel again, and she would not come near me—even more skittish than usual—so I just gave her tuna and left.  It is getting cold anyway, and so I figure that if she does have kittens, they are better off with Mehitabel than alone if I were to catch Mehitabel and then not be able to find them.  Then today I heard that someone else was trying to catch Mehitabel this past week (no—it was for sure not me).  So maybe that is why she was more hesitant than usual to even come near me.  

And Squooshable—just a few hours ago—jumped onto a towel I had hanging on a plastic hook (his latest thing is to c-l-i-m-b as h-i-g-h as possible, anywhere, anytime, on anything) and in hanging from it with his thick nine-pound self, broke the longest arm of the hook off…and now I cannot find it.  So now I have to wonder if he footballed it somewhere peculiar, or if that has made it into Squooshable, also.  

SIGH.

This next semester has *got* to be better than all of last year.  It just HAS to.  I hate, despise, deplore, and find extremely abhorrent the idea of spending one more semester like the past few have been.  I hate being busy practically every second of every day.  

And if Squooshable ate that hook-y thing, I do not know what I am going to do.  

Scream, maybe; screaming is definitely an option.  

Trivia Quote of the Night

Triviot1:  I saw Andy Gibb in concert

Ancodia:  Before he died?

Triviot1:  No--after.

Ancodia:  I'm being stupid again, aren't I?  :-D

Oh, for crying out loud...

As if i were born knowing that one needs a permit to own a tranq gun.
pfft. But i do have a fishing net! Chrissy lent me hers. We tried
today with no luck, and now i am getting sesame chicken. And i am
alone, discouraged, and bored. And running out of room in my phone's
text box. Laterz.

Chapter VIII: It’s My Own Invention

This morning as I got to Eviljob, Mehitabel came up to me and asked for food.  I gave her some, and she sniffed at my hand for just a second.  I think she likes me.  :-)  After all, I give her good drugs.

Butsoanyway.

I went by my Dr Vet’s today to seek his opinion.  He said that, if administration is to be oral, what I had is about the best we can do.  He did not think that doubling (or even increasing) the dose would be wise, either.  

Shit.  

I took a break from harassing Mehitabel today—I will try again either tomorrow or Thursday—because my semester is about to begin, and I have errand-stuffs to complete.  Having lunch with Meg, I had a couple of brilliant ideas:  

1)  Feral cats could be taken care of a lot easier if they had corporate sponsors to pay for their sterilisation, shots, and other odds-and-ends, like food, bowls, litter boxes, and carriers.  Think about it—volunteer groups could catch the cats, the vet then puts them under, spays or neuters them, and then the advertisement of whoever their sponsor is could be shaved into their fur.  It’s not permanent, and it is not like cats can read, so what would they care if they had “EAT AT MOM’S”, or “SHOP AT BASS PRO” on them?

2) What I really need here is a tranquiliser gun.  If I had one of those, I could then use the heavy-duty tranquiliser Dr Superhero has that has to be injected, but will knock Mehitabel on her ass in a few minutes.  I checked Amazon and eBay via my cell phone today at lunch, and they do not have any for sale.  In trying to think of where I could come up with a gun, I thought of Bass Pro—and hence the thought that they should give me the tranq gun for free (or lend it out to me) for ad space on Mehitabel, because the amount of money I am spending on these cats became outrageous several weeks ago.  Plus, what do I need with a tranq gun?  They probably would not let me bring it into meetings, which is the only other use I could think of for one.

And what a fine use that would be, too; not to sound too much like The Happy Bunny, but it makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside just thinking about it.  :-D

Butsoanyway.

These two ideas *then* led me to the thought that if we were to outlaw all political advertising—you know those annoying signs no one ever cleans up at the end of every election?—and instead insist that all political advertising be done on feral cats…well, we would have a lot less feral cats, ‘cos to advertise they’d have to be spayed or neutered, and all these political volunteers could prove how committed they are by doing non-glammy things such as, oh, chasing Mehitabel around a parking lot.  

Go ahead and laugh—Meg did—but I think I have a good angle here.  

Butsoanyway.

So I went over to Bass Pro to see if they sold tranq guns; they do not, but one person who works in the rifle department is a trapper, and the clerk suggested that I phone him tomorrow, because he was off today.  I am going to do this, and I am going to ask if either (1) I may borrow his tranq gun, or (2, my preferred choice) If I could pay him to help me come catch Mehitabel.  

I am also going to call a nearby-ish group tomorrow who works with wild animals to see if I could borrow one of their guns as well as this god-forsaken city’s zoo.  I am also going to see if Dr Superhero (Chrissy’s vet—I have been remiss in describing how awesome he is) has one he would lend out (he does all kinds of animals, whereas my Dr Vet mainly does cats and dogs).  If I can only get a borrowed gun, I could either try to peg Mehitabel myself (not my first choice), or call a guy who used to work at Eviljob and lives nearby (and was also an Army sniper) to see if *he* would be willing to come bust a cap in Mehitabel’s ass.

:-)  And I say that with love.

Regardless of what happens, I will save my remaining dose for probably Thursday.  Or, if I have outrageous luck tomorrow, I will save it to calm Mehitabel the hell down so that she can be removed from her cage for spaying with minimal lacerations for all involved.  

Or, after this is all over, I may just take it my god-damned self, with a shot of schnapps.

Ok, ok…I am only being facetious on that last one.

But to that point, if I use up my remaining dose without results, I will have only a few options:  convince Dr Superhero or Dr Vet that I am actually *not* a raving junkie (Dr Vet knows I am just a kooky cat-person, but in all reality, Dr Superhero knows Chrissy, not *me*; he may not feel comfortable providing me with more than he has (and I completely respect and expect that), since he already made the comment that he is not supposed to be giving it to me at all) and get another round, or I could go to my regular GP, explain what I am doing, and ask him for one and get my brother to write the other (if I cannot get both from my GP).  I was surprised to find out that they are both *human* sedatives (I called my brother and asked; what Dr Superhero gave me was Valium and ACP or whatever…I forget the letters; it is Ace-somethingsomething).  If Xanax would work on Mehitabel, I would be set for life; I still have this huge-ass bottle left over that I will never go through before it expires; I just don’t travel that often anymore, and that is the only time I really use it.  Perhaps I will also ask Dr Superhero tomorrow if I could throw in like, half a Xanax.

If he doesn’t have a tranq gun I may borrow, that is.  

Or I could just pay the cost of a house call and beg him to come shoot her himself…or whatever one does with Mehitabels that refuse to cooperate.  Maybe I will ask about that, also.  

Showdown at the O’Kitty Corral

I showed up at Eviljob today to dope Mehitabel and have the likkle slattern spayed by nightfall. I was well-prepared: I had the day off, I purchased a kitty carrier, went to a trendy pharmacist who offers pet prescriptions and got a splash of the fish flavouring they put in pet medication, had my tuna, and had crushed the pills into the finest powder imaginable. I took a small bit of the tuna, dumped my powder in there, mixed in the triple-fish flavouring, and presented it to Mehitabel, who ate it voraciously. Then I fed her plops of the left-over tuna (plops because I had to toss them towards her) whilst I waited for the kitty roofies to kick in. Dr Vet (the superhero one, not my regular Dr Vet) said they take approximately fifteen minutes to kick in, so I fed Mehitabel s-l-o-w-l-y. And since I had a long time to look at her, I couldn’t help but notice that she is looking pregnant again. But that is ok, I reasoned, because I am just a few short minutes away from having her ass aborted and spayed. It’s all good. Sigh.

Mehitabel started looking woozy almost half an hour later; I tried to approach her, and she walked away, so I backed off and waited to give it a little bit more time. As soon as Mehitabel had cleared a reasonable distance from me, she sat back down again and started blinking. So I waited.

I am the most patient person in the universe if it is for a good cause; you name the task, and I can perform it until further notice if need be, no food, no rest, no wishing-I-was-elsewhere. So I held off and watched her. And watched her. And watched her. A little bit later, she was still sitting, but now with her body slightly rocking back and forth, and she looked like she was about to fall over. I gave her a little bit longer to see if she would go ahead and fall over, but after about ten minutes she showed no signs of it, so I started over towards her again.

The moment I moved, her eyes snapped open but she still sat, so I slowly walked closer. When I got to about three to five feet away from her she walked away from me another foot or so, and sat. I took another step, and she walked another couple of steps, and sat. I took *another* step, and she walked another couple of steps, and sat.

It was pretty obvious that Mehitabel was swacked out of her mind, but was still intending to avoid me.

I tried rushing her, but she would get up and walk (by that time almost in a crouch) an equivalent distance away from me, and then sit--weaving, blinking, and yawning the whole time.

I figured that perhaps I had not been patient enough, so I backed off and watched her; she sat for about ten minutes, looking like she was getting sleepier, and then she finally staggered into a bush. I waited and looked, hoping she would *now* pass the fuck out like she is supposed to.

When I saw her head go down I slowly snuck over, but when I came close Mehitabel woke back up (if she had ever been asleep), looked at me, and meowed. I tried talking to her, but as soon as I put my hand on the bush she got up, exited the other side of the bush, and sat. And blinked. A lot.

So I slowly walked over there, and she walked a few steps away and sat. I tried rushing her again, but as soon as I moved she got up and stared crouch-running a few feet. I could *tell* she was woozy and sleepy, but the cat kept going by sheer force of will!

I tried getting another can of tuna and calling her over, but she was sitting in a tuxedo-haze and wouldn’t come. So I went over to her with it, hoping I could perhaps trick her into exercising bad judgement and coming close to me, or something. I tossed tuna (intending to get closer and closer with my throws until I could grab her), but she wasn’t interested. I walked over to her and she walked away (drunkenly) and sat. I tried again and again, each time figuring she has to give in any minute; I tried waiting out of her sight, hoping she would fall asleep, but no. Mehitabel of the Iron Will refused to go to sleep or stay still enough for me to get close—regardless of what I did, regardless of how bleary-eyed and staggering she got. All, seemingly, through her simple kitty will to survive.

And this went on for five hours. Mehitabel and I slowly walked all around the North lot of Eviljob, until I had to face the fact that she was back to walking normally, implying that the drugs were wearing off. I am sure it looked ridiculous; if only there had been some appropriate cat-chasing music (probably some kind of hoedown-style fiddle-playing), the scene would have been complete. I step; Mehitabel crouch-walks a few steps, and sits. I wait. I step; Mehitabel crouch-walks a few steps, and sits. Over and over. I could have sworn I heard her mumbling, “I am loyal to the parking lot…I am loyal to the parking lot…”

I am considering changing Mehitabel’s name to G. Gordon Kitty.

So tomorrow I guess it is back to the vet to get a double-order of kitty roofies. I still have one dose left, so I will either double it or get something to go along with it to knock her little furry butt out for certain.

Your ass is mine, Mehitabel; my will is stronger than yours, even if my brain isn’t as big. Give it up. I’m sending out my ‘Surrender, Mehitabel’ smoke, you wicked cat.

Here's the Dish ;-)

Argh!  :-)  I overslept and missed PHC locally, and so I am listening to it online.  I have to admit, when I do cave and get satellite radio, one of the deciding factors is going to be getting PHC.  So I guess that means Sirius, but XM has other shows I like.  Pfft.  I guess I have time to figure it out.  :-)

This morning, I got up and re-heated pizza for breakfast, and Meg barricaded herself in my spare bathroom for over an hour and then made Cheerios for herself…and Squooshable.  Yes, Squoosh likes Cheerios.  Go figure.  He likes them dry or with milk.  :-)  

Last weekend, I started getting a bunch of calls on my cell from a number I did not recognise.  I don’t ignore unknown callers, but I also will not drop everything if I am in the middle of something to pick up and talk to them because when I have in the past, a few times it has been sales calls and other annoying things.  What is doubly-irritating is that it is always places like my bank (wanting to sell me additional financial services crap), or my automotive insurance company (wanting to sell their additional tag-on services)—it is never some sleazeball wanting to sell me a timeshare condo, or anything I can easily identify and hang up on, it is some place that I have a relationship with, so it takes even longer to wade through what they are saying to determine that they are just calling to sell me shit.  

Butsoanyway.

When I get around to checking my voice mail (I do not rush on that either, if I do not know who you are), it was this guy I will call Cleve, calling from his cell phone (which is why I did not recognise the number).  Cleve is a little bit of a weirdo, albeit a highly intelligent weirdo; he has a few…issues, particularly in the social realm.  He started off as a former school cohort of Meg’s (when she first met him, he was obsessively stalking a girl-friend of Meg’s), then went into a type of financial advising, and Meg pushed me over to him when I had to set up some things like a Roth and stuff.  I appreciated it, and he is tons of help in that area, but then Cleve decided that we were friends, I guess…not that I (or Meg) knew anything about it.  He really has issues to where this is par for Cleve.  We have been over to his place quite a few times, in theory for (I assume) me to befriend his wife when he first got her, which sorta-kinda happened; then he started phoning me, and the first few times that it wasn’t wife-or-business-related, I figured that it was because my cell number is an easy one to remember (it seems to stick in one’s brain, I think; I get many people who phone me to get in touch with others just because they remembered my number without having to look—or worse, phone me to ask if *I* have another person’s number so that they don’t have to look); if Meg was with me when he called, I handed the phone to her; if she wasn’t, I would tell him that I would have her call him back.  

After a while, I finally figured out that he wanted to talk to me.  I am ok with that, ‘cos (1) it’s my cell; I can be doing other things and talk at the same time; (2) other people phone me when they are bored also, most notably my lawn guy; (3) Cleve is married (weirdly) and so I know that there is no ulterior motive.  

I say weirdly (and this is deserving of some explanation) because Cleve’s wife is an intentionally-acquired F.S.U. girl, and I am not saying that she is a Seminole.  Got it?  

Okay, then.  Let’s proceed.

So I accidentally answered on (I think) Tuesday, and it turns out that Cleve wants Meg, Me, and another couple whom I have not ever mentioned to join him and his wife Lyudmila at a New Year’s Eve party.  Meg was with me, so I handed her the phone; she knows the other couple better, anyway.  She said that the couple could not make it, ‘cos they were out of state for NYE, but the two of us might possibly be interested…until we heard the price of this party:  $100 (+ tax) ticket, $10 to park, and so on, and so on.  

Forget it.  I am just too cheap!  And so is Meg, thank god.  We said no.  Plus, I just made a large purchase that I hadn’t mentioned to Meg (or anyone) which was a totally self-indulgent thing, and by the time you factor in all of the expenses related to Cleve’s party-thing, that was just too much to up and decide to do.  Meg would rather save her money to blow it on gambling, and if I am going to do something like that, I am *not* going to do it at the spur of the moment; I am going to plan it out, look forward to it, and get the most out of it.  Plus, I could have gone to a few private-home parties for free that I declined.  So no.  

Plus, I do not think that I could take Cleve for that long.  He has a very sound financial/mathematical mind, but he yells when he talks (this has become *such* a pet peeve of mine!), and when he gets excited about something it comes off more as maniacal zeal, which is hard to take for more than an hour or so.  He is just very socially inept.  I don’t know how Lyudmila does it.  

Well, yes I do, but that is a story for another day.  

So we begged off, and then Saturday he phones Meg (not me, for once!) to ask if she will drive over to this party place and purchase two tickets for another couple he is bringing in from out of town (he does not live here), because La Place has stopped pre-selling tickets over the phone or online.  Then Meg or I can meet him when he gets into town, and give him the tickets and he will pay her back.

Well, good lord.  Sure.  Fine.  Fine.  So Meg drives out there and pays around $250 for the two tickets (with taxes and parking fees) and I go run some errands, visit some people, and feed some cats (Mehitabel).  :-)  Oh—and meet Son-Friend to determine that the Siamese he had caught in the trap was not Baby, a Siamese he acquired (allegedly) for me that he decided to keep and then let run off a year ago.  Son-Friend thinks that all Siamese look alike, I guess.  It wasn’t Baby, though.  

I am trying to pare down the details, ‘cos it has recently occurred to me that I could write a book on just about every person I know.  Plus PHC is over, and I have to get ready to go eat NYD chilli with Amelia.

Most of my shit accomplished, I meet up with Meg again and she is steaming.  She is pissed off over the money she was asked to spend, and she is incensed that Cleve would call her to be a step-n-fetchit, but seems to prefer to phone me over Meg for idle chat, which to her mind only emphasises a slight from another friend (who is a newer mother, and I think is starting to feel Baby Isolation and is grumpily resentful about it, but that is yet another story).  Plus, Cleve only mentioned about fifty-seven times to Meg (per Meg) that he was very sad that I wasn’t going, then when Meg offered to meet him for lunch later in the week, he accepted, but only if *I* would come.  And in the middle of emotion-dumping upon me, Meg roars, “I just wanted to ask him, ‘what—do you have some fucking crush on my sister, or something?!?’”

Ai yi yi…  And she has to mention this AS WE ARE DRIVING TO GIVE THEM THE TICKETS!  Augh.  

I asked Meg if she would just let me off around the corner from where we were meeting for the ticket hand-off, ‘cos now I was feeling really uncomfortable.  I am thick as a brick about a lot of things (this sort of thing being one of them), but now I have to admit that Meg’s is one possible explanation that would explain an awful lot, and it really leaves me…feeling weird.  To say the least.  One thing that is certainly explains is why I am getting called so much now that Lyudmila has sort-of moved out (this is SUCH a long story; it is ostensibly because she cannot find her normal employment in their city, but seeing as how it is occurring at a very…ironic time in the course of a relationship such as this, I am not sure that I buy that story completely, which is another reason why Lyudmila’s not numbered amongst my semi-friends, ‘cos I predicted this to Meg years ago, and do not want any part of it).  But Meg wouldn’t drop me off because we were practically there already and she would have had to turn around to drop me off unseen, and so we pulled in and I just decided to stay in the car.  Sigh.  

Since the other couple they were with was waiting also, we only had about thirty seconds of pleasantry-exchange then we all left.  And I did not get out and do the huggy-thing, ‘cos I would have been feeling too self-conscious.  Even though it was only a few minutes, it seemed like *ages*.  Lyudmila seemed happy to see me, and I her as well, and I wished her a Happy New Year (and Cleve—I wasn’t not talking to him, or anything), but I would not get out of the car to go hug Cleve.  Erm…not right now.  Perhaps later.  

Meg and I got to talk about it more fully as we left; I told her that I am so *very* predicting that Cleve is going to end up doing what the husband of one of Lyudmila’s friends has done; Lyudmila’s friend Irina is the *third* non-Seminole wife this dork has had.  Yes—I said THIRD.  And he is very old, and Irina is around 28-31, same age range as Lyudmila.  And Irina has a kid that she left over there.  Augh.  All this drama…not on NYE!!  Nooooo!

Meg didn’t know about Irina’s whole story (which Lyudmila told me but not Meg, I guess), so I filled her in (I think she has a hard time understanding Lyudmila; maybe Lyudmila *did* tell her).  She does not agree with me with respect to Cleve, but I would bet money on it.  

So that was mostly my New Years Eve day.  And with PHC over (and now TAL also), I have to go to Amelia’s for chilli.  Amelia has been eager to try out some recipe, and wants company on NYD.  Plus she has a new kitten who I want to meet.  :-)  At least Amelia is drama-free.  

Happy 2006!

Catty on 2006

You: Happy New Year, Cat!
Cat: HAppy BIRTHDAY M8 biggrin. gif Singh?

You: Right. Ummm...so anyway...
Cat: Anyway, welcome to the forums funkysih.

You: Did you watch the ball drop, Catty?
Cat: You know the number.

You: I think it was like, ABC--right?
Cat: Do you think the Tipperary football players were right to make themselves unavailable for selection?

You: Ohellyeah.
Cat: Who do you think was responsible for the Burti crash?

You: Prolly gravity.
Cat: Its huge gravity holds the planets in place.

You: It certainly does, just like...well, gravity.
Cat: And I certainly do not rush too much when I have sex or any sexual relations.

You: Me either, but how did we manage to go there? I didn't think you were subject to the same Laws of Conversational Degeneration as everyone else.
Cat: All content posted at Elfwood is subject to the Elfwood Rules.

You: I see.
Cat: Do you ever do commission work, could you take a photo and recreate that person in your art as a character?

You: Well, I could if you want it done as a stick-figure.
Cat: Do you want some milk?

You: No.
Cat: Could it be the bad acting?

You: That makes me not want milk?
Cat: TalkBack TalkBack 8 of 338: That makes no sense.

You: I agree.
Cat: Does anyone agree with me that it is downright gorgeous?

You: It is, whatever It may be. Everything is gorgeous.
Cat: Or is that the total tire height from the center?

You: gorgeousness, tire height...isn't it all really the same when it comes down to it?
Cat: It really is possible to get tons of replay out of the missions playing with a buddy, because so many different styles of play are possible when two guys are doing it together.

You: I have seen some videos that lead me to agree with you.
Cat: A national, non-profit organization that supports children and adults with learning disabilities, as well as parents and educators dealing with LD.

You: And I hope they all have a happy new year also!
Cat: I do so hope you were able to have a Terrific day...

You: I was! And you?
Cat: You looked out again and saw that the house you were in was an old house in the woods somewhere.

You: And it was pitch black, and then I was eaten by a grue. Yeah; I have had that dream.
Cat: Buat kamu makasih udah ngisi guestbook aku, uuumn.. whatever you write, whatever you say... i'll keep writing and what else i can say??

You: That was very...zen, Cat. Or pointless. Or both. But I applaud you; it took effort.
Cat: Does ANYBODY think that Willie's worth a roster spot any more?

You: Hell no. Let's free Willy.
Cat: Click here to win FREE pet food for a year and receive valuable information from Hill's Science Diet?, the #1 choice that vets give their own pets!

You: Okay. ::click::
Cat: Click 'View' } 'Toolbars' and verify that the 'Links' item is checked.

You: No.
Cat: Hijo, tú no entiendes de negocios, en realidad soy un hombre sin tiempo.

You: Okay, okay; I'll go check. Kee-rist.
Cat: Click Here to check it out.

You: OKAY, already!
Cat: In this combined context, we're already considering three overrides: one to cover the school district's operational needs; a second to pay for renovations at the high school; and a third to pay for construction costs proposed by the Yarmouth fire department.

You: Tell them I said happy new year!
Cat: I think if you find someone who makes you happy and you love them, does it really matter what race they are?

You: Naah. They could even be a defective chatterbot.
Cat: Could we have known?

You: I couldn't have; my Magic 8 Ball is in the shop.
Cat: Mamma couldn't bear it.

You: Bear what?
Cat: It'll kill me to do what _I_ want.

You: Never; go for it.
Cat: So what's the difference?

You: I don't know--what do you want?
Cat: What do you think of Club IIT?

You: I don't think of them. See? painless.
Cat: I don't think it's makeup.

You: Me either
Cat: So either way, it deserves further study.

You: Ummm...sure. Why don't you go do that, ok?
Cat: I don't think he could screw that up!

You: Who is he?
Cat: I doubt there's anyone in America who doesn't think Greenspan is the man for the job.

You: To study whether or not Club IIT is makeup?
Cat: My only hesitation here is whether I will do this or the Justice Department.

You: I say reach for the stars, Cat.
Cat: The stars, which were initially on different tracks, probably got funnelled into coherent streams when a spiral arm - dense with stars and gas - approached and deflected the stars in its path, say the researchers.

You: Let me rephrase that; I say reach for the Justice Department.
Cat: Department of Labor photos representing the workforce - digital imagery?

You: Who knows. There is Evil all around.
Cat: I put this out as a challenge: Is there no way to make the electron microscope more powerful?

You: Ask Greenspan.
Cat: Solution proposed by Greenspan's blue ribbon panel and implemented by our government?

You: Sounds like a plan.
Cat: That sounds like serious stuff, and if you've ever wanted to study for a degree, there's every chance that you thought your SpLD might be a problem.

You: Oh--good point. Should I buy a vowel for it, perhaps?
Cat: At that point, I decided the dolphins might as well take me for a ride.

You: As well you should. I am going to sleep now, Cat.
Cat: Should I call a doctor?

You: I don't think a doctor could help you, but give it a try.
Cat: Perhaps you can expand on your problem so that you can get some help finding the source of the issue?

You: My problem?
Cat: The system is bad, but can totter along for a while - until one considers the illegal immigration problem.

You: Good night, Cat.
Cat: By the end of the night Kevin, Nick, AJ and Howie had tried everything they could think of to bribe me and find out what we'd been laughing about but I wouldn't budge.

You: ...and happy new year.
Cat: Tomorrow I have my check-up with my nurse practioner, and I think she'll be happy with all the things I've accomplished so far.

You: Bwaah.
Cat: Happy Birthay smile. gif How old are you?

Sometimes I see how the brave new world arrives...

Happy New Year!

2005 could have sucked worse, I suppose. :-) I have not yet caught Mehitabel, but I am going to slip her some kitty roofies in the next few days, so she is as good as mine!

Mwahahaha!

I am a kitty-misleader extraordinaire. I will have to catch up on everything that has happened, but I am going to do it later, when I am not falling asleep. At least I had my fireworks, courtesy of the kids next door, and the obligatory New Year’s Eve poker marathon.

Butsoanyway.

This past year was difficult at times, but at least for me it was a slow (and sometimes painful) progression forward. That is what is important to remember; I am not the same person I was this time last year, and we all have another year to look forward to. May all our changes be for the betterment of ourselves and the world around us.

I hope that 2006 is a wonderful year for everyone. I really, truly do. Hugs all ‘round—we made it through another one! Yay!