The Weekend

Ah, the weekend. Passed already & not long enough. Isn't that always the story?

Saturday was Mom & I's day of bonding. We opted for a change of pace from the rut we've been exploring & headed north to a little town that has done much to clean itself up into a cute little touristy spot. Brick sidewalks, little shops offering almost the same thing from store to store, a quaint little eating hole called The Gathering Place. Our original plan was to tour the Ohio Caverns in an effort to escape the heat, but we made it into the town, ate lunch & then, since it was deemed "a slow day" by all the shopkeepers, we took up chitty chatting with several of these folks. What a grand, friendly atmosphere! I'm never sure what to expect from some of these little farm towns, but the women (as they all seemed to be women) were delightful. I ended up getting a free Tom Wolfe book at the thrift store, so I compensated by donating a buck, and I got two cute little crows that I couldn't pass up as well as a small supply of cashew turtles from a great chocolate shop. We ate ourselves sick on ice cream before entering the chocolate shop, and were immediately accosted by a cheery woman bearing a platter of samples. My stomach said NO! but my brain said YES! I groaned as I chose a small chocolate treat from the array & popped it into my mouth. It's hell being a hog.

On Sunday S & I woke up bright & early to get ready for an early matinee of Pirates of the Caribbean. I had already seen it with Mom in order to give me the guiltless opportunity to drool over Depp, but had promised S we'd see it as well since he really wanted to. We enjoyed it thoroughly as well as enjoying the A/C - I don't care WHAT the woman at the grocery said the other night about temps out west, but it's bloody HOT & I don't much care for it. After that, we did a late lunch at our former favorite Mexican restaurant. I say former because the place has changed locations - it was at one time housed in the bottom of a cheap hotel in a dirty cantina-style bar, and now it has moved over to the new Super Walmart (I hate Walmart) plaza & is now essentially an aquarium. By aquarium, I mean a large, well-lit glass cube where the passersby ogle your plate as they walk. S & I both preferred the dirty, dark corners of the cantina where we could examine the other diners & drink ourselves silly without being noticed. However, we figured in the daylight it wouldn't be so bad & I had a serious yearning for their delicious Chili Verde, which was just as tasty as I remembered. After sucking down a pair of beers each, we cruised home, contented & fat, and set to tidying the house. Then, as if it wasn't hot enough, we decided to make a lasagna & turn the house into an oven. Fortunately, the garage is air-conditioned as well so we played darts before returning to the sweltering kitchen.

This morning, I awoke at 4am & tried to convince myself that I didn't feel nauseous, that it was just the usual "Case of Mondays" - the dread of going into work that makes me sick to my stomach (sad, isn't it?), but an hour later found me running to the bathroom to puke my guts out. Hell, it could've STILL been the Mondays rather than morning sickness as Stace & Co-Worker have opined. That's all I need. After resting my head on the faucet & alternately drooling & splashing, I felt much better & cleaned up & went back to bed. I didn't sleep well, I considered calling in, but I couldn't convince S to do the same since we played hooky a couple weeks ago, so I opted to come in. What a way to start the week!

I can only hope it gets better from here.....

Faux Pas

I just made one of the biggest social faux pas that one is never ever supposed to do and that I swore I never would do. There's this pretty little girl that works downstairs at the Winds. She's the sister of one of our clients & the sis-in-law of our newspaper ad guy, Bob. At some point, I recall someone saying she was pregnant. I even thought it might've been her herself. SOOOoooooo I went downstairs to the restaurant to fetch the butter that they had forgot to put in with our lunch order, spotted her protruding tummy, was reminded that she "was" pregnant. I'm not an especial fan of babies, but I was trying to be polite, so, I made mention of her upcoming babydom. Big mistake. She looked aghast & said, "nooo, no no no no no, that's not me, that's Jen. She's pregnant." And I said, "Oh? For some reason I thought you were pregnant." And then, because I was flustered & my face was flaming, I added salt to this wide open wound by saying as I patted my own, less extended gut (even tho' she is much smaller than me), "Well, it must be from all this good food here. I have that problem, too." Egad. As if that was the right thing to say. I mean, she has a perfect baby lump! She's not chubbed up anywhere else, just in her belly. My co-worker was surprised as well - "She's not pregnant??? I could've swore she was!" So, it wasn't just me that thought it, it was just me who said something about it. I'm never saying anything to anybody again. Just keepin' my trap shut like I usually do. But noooooooooooo I had to open my mouth this one time. She probably spit in the butter. I feel like a heel. I'm mortified. Ah well. What to do? I should've pooched my belly out in potbellied sympathy.

And, on top of all that, I'd parked the Goat right out front in a 2 hour spot rather than the usual block & a half away to avoid getting soaked by the storm this morning. It's not that I mind getting rained on AFTER work, I enjoy it in fact, but since my umbrella just disintegrated & I've yet to replace it, I chose to avoid the scene of a week ago when I raced thru a downpour & returned to the office looking like a large drowned rat. Nothing like trying to look somewhat professional with your hair matted to your head & your shirt clinging to.. well... everything. Anyway. I moved the Goat to the usual spot & had to RUN back to the office, thru a sudden gush of rain, and ended up looking like a slightly less drowned rat, my whole purpose defeated. Needless to say, I was greeted with gales of laughter from my very amused boss & co-worker who had seen the rain start.

Karma. At least the lunch was delicious, spitty butter & all. And, I didn't get a parking ticket!

Music!

The Temptress of the Disappearing Blog had this on her site, and since I can't resist anything music-related, I felt it necessary to put it here, too! So, thanks, Temptress!

Name ten bands/performers off the top of your head! Then answer the questions.

1. Jack Johnson
2. Elvis
3. Sting
4. CCR
5. Jimmy Buffett
6. The Doors
7. Beastie Boys
8. Primus
9. Bob Dylan
10. G. Love & Special Sauce

Now apply these questions to your list:

1. What was the first song you ever heard by 6? Hmmm... Hard to say - I'd bet almost anything it was "People are Strange" courtesy of the movie The Lost Boys.



2. What is your favorite album of 8? I'll go with Sailing the Seas of Cheese since it was my intro, but Frizzle Fry is an extremely close second.

3. What is your favorite lyric of 5? Tough call - first thing that comes to mind is "As a dreamer of dreams & a travelin' man I have chalked up many a mile..."

4. How many times have you seen 4 live? Never - don't think it'll happen.

5. What is your favorite song by 7? This is a toughy! I'll go with "High Plains Drifter"

6. Is there a song of 3 that makes you sad? "Why Should I Cry for You?"

7. What is your favorite lyric of 9? "To dance beneath the diamond sky with one hand waving free/Silhouetted by the sea..." and pretty much the rest of the song.

8. What is your favorite song by 1? Ugh - Impossible... Okay - "Breakdown", "Flake","Fall Line"... I could go on.

9. How did you get into 8? The husband kept saying, "You really need to check out Primus. I think you'd dig them." And he kept on my ass until I picked up Sailing the Seas &, well, he was absolutely right. What concerns me is WHY he was so adamant I'd enjoy such a whacked-out, cartoon of a band. Is he trying to tell me something?

10. What is your favorite song by 4? "Born on the Bayou" & "Tombstone Blues"

11. How many times have you seen 1 live? *sigh* never - but I will!

12. What is a good memory concerning 2? My dad LOVED Elvis. There were many mornings of crack o'dawn fishing trips listening to Elvis. And that's all I need.

13. Is there a song by 2 that makes you sad? "Are you Lonesome Tonight?" & "Marie's the Name"

14. What is your favorite song of 6? "Roadhouse Blues"

15. How did you become a fan of 10? By way of my man Jack Johnson

So much music... so little time.... wish the list were longer!

Toilet Paper

This rant is inspired by beelers.

Coarse, cheap toilet paper has been a menace to me from an early age. I can recall heading to the bar where my mom worked after school, which is where I hung out until she got off work, and going to the bathroom only to be appalled, once again, at the tinfoil-like consistency of the paper goods.

One time I came in, my mom & her good-natured boss were standing behind the bar, and Mom grinned evilly & offered me a sheet of aluminum foil. I should've taken it - it might've been slightly less absorbent, but at least it wouldn't turn to mush in my hand.

Another time, shortly after the husband & I started dating, we visited a good friend of mine in Washington D.C., Toni Tony (there's a reason for the nick, I'm just not at liberty to disclose it at this time), who, at that time, was a Marine working in the White House. He managed to secure us a now unheard of private tour of the restricted areas, like the Oval Office & the rose garden. We followed after the SS guys who greeted us at the gate, ran our criminal record which was slightly nerve-wracking for S, & then escorted us thru whatever the cavernous room is with the long table where Congress or someone convenes. I eyeballed the Nobel Peace Prize perched on the fireplace & briefly sat on one of the regal chairs, and then we entered the office where a large man sat beneath the painting of Washington crossing the Potomac & he shooed us on our way towards the Oval Office.

We were very excited about the Oval Office. I stuck a tentative foot thru the doorway & tapped it on the rug, marvelled at the ornate, antique desk & the bad taste of the decorator, then announced I had to pee. The large man was summoned to direct me to the bathroom, which turned out to be right around the corner.

Now. I don't know where the president (it was Clinton at the time) relieves himself, and maybe the men's bathroom was outfitted with premium products, maybe he has his own private loo off the office, but I expected better toilet paper.

Not so! Much to my disbelief, it was that same crap sandpaper I remembered from my childhood spent in a cheap bar. I came out of there bellowing about protecting the pres's undercarriage & the lack of anything resembling "soft & absorbent".

So, let this be a lesson - bring your own roll because it doesn't matter where you go, the toilet paper will be shitty.

*makes mental note to stock closet with Charmin Ultra when D & E visit*

Inedible

On my way to work the other day I passed by a familiar ice cream stand with the obligatory dumpster & barrels behind it. What I want to know is, is it truly necessary to label these metal barrels "inedible"? Is this really a problem? Do people really crack the top of it, peer in & think, "Yum! There's good stuff in there!" and dip their ladle in for a taste of old grease or whatever biohazard may lurk in there? I can barely go near the dumpsters behind the four-star restaurant below our office without gagging, much less ponder a treat from a baked-in-the-sun, oversized grease jar.

Antisocial

Ah, so the Husband & I had a tremendous row last week. It's all fixed up now, FOR now, we'll see, but basically it amounted my dismay over his issue of being extremely antisocial & never ever wanting to do a damn thing. He's a homebody, safe in his element, content to have me & the beasts as his entire social life. However, he works with quite a few characters that probably ease his social needs while the extent of my social activities is the emails I exchange with a couple different people, my friends Stace & Toni Tony (who lives in NYC), my mom, my two co-workers & my husband. I could never be mistaken for a social butterfly like Stace, and I do admit to being fairly antisocial, but I think humans require interaction from time to time to keep them from turning into backwards Crazy Ass Cat Ladies (see previous posts haha!) or from going nuts. I think I'm working on both.

The last time we went to a party was a gathering of four with - you guessed it, Stace, Scott, another good guy friend, Noel, & two dogs, in May, and before that it was LAST AUGUST. And the folks who's party it was last August, well, I haven't seen them since. Now it's July, almost a year later, & that's a little ridiculous for people I've been friends with for nearly a decade. These good friends stick with us tho', and I've explained the issue to the male half & he understands & continues to invite us to things. I told S I'd be damned if I'd grow old & friendless, which he seems perfectly content to do, and that things HAD to change. As the late great Hunter S. Thompson said, "Be sure to pick up a few good friends along the way because they can really dress up your life later on." I tend to think this is a good philosophy. All I really want is the occasional get-together, a movie once in a while, and a road trip south to visit some new friends. I don't want to go out every weekend, I don't need to be taken out to fine restaurants & spoiled (for fuck's sake NO), I don't need to attend every function of everybody, just occasional exposure to people I want to be around. I need input. Writers do. It's just that way.

The subject has been broached before, but never with such fury & satisfactory outcome. This particular instance started with Stace & I exchanging emails in which I vented my frustration about his lack of desire to do anything & Stace's wise responses, and then I printed this discussion & handed it to him since I'm much better at writing calmly than speaking calmly & I thought it was the best way to go. However, since he automatically assumes everything is his fault, which is NOT what I was saying - hell, it's my fault for putting up with it this long, but it HAD to be addressed, and, him being the drama queen, hurled one of my favorite cooking pots to the floor & dented it, which earned him an absolutely livid attack on his arm from me as well as a thorough ear-crushing banshee shriek & ensuing lecture, which nearly resulted in him leaving shoeless (the said shoes being beaten solidly against the wall by me to emphasize my point & childishness & he wasn't about to try to take them from me) to do whatever it is that angry people do when they leave. The pot was dented, he regretted it because he likes the pot, too (did we ever think we'd feel this way about a cooking implement? No.), and he apologized. I said I was sorry for being a psycho, but I told him I absolutely refused to apologize for saying the things I said (which were all true, just a little heated & possibly mildly exaggerated) to make him see my point, which he eventually got after we both managed to calm down.

Why does it have to be that way? We don't fight that often - the last time was over a bottle of Worcestershire sauce which ended with a pot of browned beef being dumped in the sink (by me, lest you think he's the only one capable of such immature actions) and then us making up & eating the meat after it was carefully spooned back out, and that may've been over two years ago, but when we do - hooooo boy it's nasty. And fights are funny, all that screaming & eyes flashing & pissed-off regrettable comments, then it dissolves into sniffling apologies & hugs & trembling, adrenalized limbs. But why do I have to raise such a fuss just to get him to see my point? Granted, it works, but I'd much prefer to talk & keep the pots & pans safe. I don't think I'll need to cause such a commotion again. He seems to understand my very real wish for people & interaction now, and I accept many things about him just as he does about me so there's no need to fight about them. Yet.

On Sunday he obliged me by going to a matinee & eating Mexican afterwards, and he's agreed to try very hard to do things without being a wretch about it. Like I told Stace, after the fight we made a cheesecake & lived happily ever after. The cheesecake was pretty damned good, too.

So, with that in mind, watch out, D & E! A meeting is nigh!

Sooner than I thought!

In my last post I mentioned that I might well get another fighting fish if I didn't kill the first. It happened sooner than I thought.

When I went in to get the first fish, there was another, not quite the color I wanted, but he was fairly friendly for a fish - coming up to the top expecting me to feed him something while the one I ended up taking home just swam wildly around his cup, which made me think he was at least healthy. Also, I wanted a cobalt one.

However, I went back to the petshop on Friday under the pretense of purchasing a net, and Lo! the other little fish was still there, spritely & attentive. I stared at him for a minute, drawing my finger up & down his cup to watch him follow it - I'm sure anybody walking by thought I was either a Fish Whisperer or a nut. I'm thinking the latter is more probable. Then, I grabbed the net & a bag of cat litter, came back & looked at the fish again. And put him in my cart.

We have a hurricane lamp at home, one of those glass domes with a candle inside sitting atop a stoneware base. Quite honestly, the thing is a bitch to light unless you have one of those long-stemmed lighter thingies that I never ever think to buy. S had mentioned that the first fish would look rather pretty in it, and since I had already got the bowl for it, I just figured I could stick a second fish in the lamp. Which is what I did. Since the newest fish is turquoise, orange & green, I put turquoise & green glass rocks in the bottom - conveniently enough, they were in a mixed bag with the others that I had bought for the first fish. This time at the petstore I also picked up a pair of fake plants. I stuck one in the bottom of the lamp, and after treating the water, poured Fishy in. I set the lamp in its usual spot in the hall on top of the CD shelves, thinking since the cats never bother it, it would be safe.

WRONG.

As I sat watching from my vantage point at the coffee table, I saw the wild-eyed Pickle cat eyeballing the fluttering fish from atop the speaker. Then, my psychotic deaf white fluffball spotted it - he got spanked for his efforts. Then, Winston, the good-natured brawler, was at the foot of the case staring upwards. I cursed them all & packed the fish, both of them, off to the closed off spare room. It went like this for several days. The cats didn't really seem as interested as they were that very first day, but I wasn't taking any chances. If I came inside, the fish came out. When I went out, they went back to the room.

Now. I hadn't told Scott about the second fish. I knew he wouldn't care, but I just wanted to see how observant he was. He went into the bathroom, I'd put the fish back in the hallway. He walked by it for 2 whole days (and the fish was out when we were home) without noticing it! Then last night, I hear a confused voice, "Did you put the... what the... is that the same...?" And I started laughing because he'd been standing right next to it earlier in the day when I stepped out of the library/office & stared at him for a second, fish less than a foot from his shoulder, when he looked at me and said, "What?" "Oh, you're pretty funny," I said cryptically.

Mainly I did this to test his much-flaunted skills of observation. Many things escape my eye, not surprisingly, and he'll notice and say, "It's just because I'm so observant." And here is a moving thing right under his nose & he doesn't notice it for two whole days. Yeesh.

Nonetheless, he thought the fish was quite nice in the lamp, too, but also had to point out.... "A big dog. A snake. Eight cats. Two fish. Something is wrong there. And it's weird that we only have to worry about three of those eight cats." So, maybe bringing fish into a house of cats isn't the best idea, but dammit, I wanted them! Just like I wanted my orchids which have been relegated to the closed-off room, and my violets which get juggled between the spare room & the garage (to be fair, the violets were brought home after my grandma died & my mom tried to kill them even tho' she is otherwise a talented greenthumb whereas I'm NOT), and the python, which also resides in the spare room.

Damn cats. They're ruiners.

And, no, I haven't named the fish yet. Is there really much point? It's not like they're going to come when I call them or anything. Okay okay - I will. I'm thinking something along the lines of Guido or Gomez or Arturo. I had considered doing something like Gonzo & Raoul, but I'm not sure yet. I'm mainly waiting a little bit to make sure they don't go belly up in the next few days. T'would be a shame to waste a couple good names. Not that I don't think they'll live, because they're healthy & love the food, but just in case.....

On the other hand...

I just, after much deliberation & contemplation, purchased a Siamese fighting fish, the banty rooster of the fish world. He's a handsome creature, cobalt blue with some red on his fins, and I'm quite pleased with him. I've never really had much luck with fish. Sure, there were the odd goldfish here & there that didn't die as promptly as expected, and a guppy that had been given to me by a neighbor, saved from the jaws of his Oscar fish, because I was a little kid & apparently looked like I needed a fish. That little guppy lived for 2 years in a marshmallow fluff jar on my dresser. With this new fish, I hope I can do as well - if he goes belly up, I'll be very sad indeed.

The first night I brought him home in his tiny cup of water & put him on a shelf in the kitchen. I kept going out to admire him & watch him flutter his dainty little pectoral fins & fluff up his big showy fins. He was more than happy to eat what I was offering, fish kibble & bloodworms, and thrilled me by coming to the surface to breathe air & roll his little eyes around at his surroundings. Did you know that these fish are equipped with a lung that enables them to breathe air? I didn't either. But, they do, and if this organ is removed, the fish will die from asphyxiation because they can't live on oxygen derived from the water alone. Makes me wonder how long til the things creep up out of the water & start walking.

Now. We have eight cats. So far, they haven't bothered the new arrival, but I think this is just because they haven't noticed him yet. When they do, they most certainly will launch a mission to remove him from whereever he is placed. Last night I moved him into his new home, a plain, one gallon fish bowl complete with matching cobalt glass "rocks". A fake plant is in the future. My thinking is that there's no way these cats, even if they combine their brains, will work out a way to knock a one gallon jug off a counter, so I'm going to try it. After I get a piece of mesh-style fabric & tie it over the top so they can't dip their deft little paws in & scoop him out. Hopefully the worst that will happen is a little fish trauma.

I really hope I don't kill the poor thing. He's so beautiful & active, it would be a great shame if he ended up as plant fertilizer. And, who knows! If he works out, I might even end up with another! And then I'll have to ponder where to put that one....

Fish On

Last night S & I went out to the pond for an idle evening of fishing & drinking. We both were catching a few little bluegills here & there and I had managed to pull in a little bass. Pete came down to chat us up & offer his fishing wisdom. I was angling amongst some cattails while Pete & S stood about 20 feet down the bank from me when S cast his line & IMMEDIATELY something big struck it. Rather than the dolphin-like dive of a bass, the fish rolled up out of the water, revealing a soft white underbelly.

"Why, I believe you've hooked a catfish!" Pete exclaimed. I had come to the same conclusion & was already off my precarious perch on a concrete run-off & down the bank to watch S battle the big fish. He only started fishing when we got together, and had never landed a catfish, so it was very exciting. It was also very exciting for Pete because he'd never seen a catfish caught in his pond before.

S let his drag out ever so slightly at Pete's direction - our poles are not rigged to deal with big fish, but the usual small bass & panfish that we normally get into. He managed to reel the cat all the way up to the edge of the bank when *snap* the line broke. All four of us, including the catfish, were quite stunned. The cat just sort of lay in the moss against the bank. A split second later, I had leapt on top of it, beating Pete to the punch, and wrestled it up on the bank. I couldn't let S's first catfish swim back out without being officially caught! The fish was a good size beast in the 3 to 4 pound range & easily a foot and a half long with a big fat belly. And it was a slimy bastard, too. Catfish have notoriously tough mouths - I tried to yank the hook out, but then I had a better idea.

"S, I'll hold him. YOU take the hook out." He looked a little nervous for a second - his fear of the big spines on the fish were combatting with his machismo. I think the whiskers might've weirded him out a bit, too. Then, he must've decided that I had a good enough grip on the thing & knelt down to attempt the hook removal. He ended up snapping the hook, but that's okay - he needed a few minutes to recover from the shock of such a catch, especially at this little pond. We admired the ugly, magnificent, grumping fish for a few minutes longer & then I wrapped both hands behind his pectoral fins, locking them behind those perilous spines & put him back down in the water where he thrashed away with a powerful wave of his tail.

Pete was congratulatory to both of us - I think he views us as his "kids" & loves that we put into action all the advice he gives us. He warned me about the spines, to which I had to relate that I'd been dealing with catfish since I could walk, if not before, as well as snapping turtles & snakes. And, (knock on wood) I've never been jabbed or bitten by any of these creatures. Well, snakes, but fortunately no poisonous ones. Pete looked at us admiringly & said, "You two are a good team. A very good team."

And, a compliment for me: "Sure isn't any fear in that girl's eyes!" Which I hope redeems me from all my girly cringing over waxworms & grubs.