And Then There Were Pictures...

Mom wants pictures. Who can blame her? I'd tell her to join facebook to see this crap, but we tried that before. She logged on when she first got facebook... Then she hopped on one more time, six months later, and then only to delete her facebook account...

Such is the life of a woman old enough to get a senior citizens discount, I suppose. :)

So let's start with the newest addition to our little family, Brunhilda:

Brunhilda's, from what the vet tells us, part labrador, part pointer, and ab one year old. She's the one that went Cujo on the visiting doggie earlier in the week, and thanks to Google and a few facebook friends, we're learning ways to rehabilitate her so that she can be a productive member of the canine family AND be able to join us on visits to the dog beach... Sheme to us with severely lacerated legs and scars and at first it was thought she would have to lose the leg:

This picture doesn't even show the half of it, but no one needs to see how awfully she was treated by her former masters. Suffice it to say most ofthe scars are now fully healed and even growing some fur back. The worst gash still has a one-inch by two-inch gash that gets wrapped twice daily and is slowly but surely healing and beginning to look healthy.

Here's the rest of the canine bambino's:

From closest to furthest away: Kylie (tea cup chihuahua, mother of the next two); Gizmo (three-quarters teacup chihuahua, one-quarter pomeranian); his sister Chloe; Hawthorne; and on the other end of the futon is Mysti, whom Hawthorne is fatally attracted to in the same way he used to be about my brother's dog, Mary...

As soon as all six dogs decide they can all fit on the futon together, I'll snap that shot.

Then there's the two cats, Beaux and Mika:

And yes, that's pretty much all they do. Well, Beaux likes to add "Gecko Killer" in addition to sleeping, but some folks don't like the fact that he's an apex predator around here (if you ignore the fact that alligator's live in this here state), but as alligator's have yet to be found within the confines of my apartment, we should be a-okay...

That's it for now.

Hope all is well in your worlds. Mine, for the moment, is quite hunky-dory...

One Month and One Week Later...

One month and one week later, and I still fucking love Florida more than I even conceived possible.

That’s not to say there isn’t a fair share of idiocy down here. That seems to be a country-wide problem from this perspective…

For example, Craigslist: Three times now I have been on my way to pick something up that someone notified me that I could come pick up. Three times now I have arrived to find out that, “Oh, someone else came before you,” or “Oh, sorry, I ended up giving it to my neighbor.” The all-time pissed-me-off-to-all-high-heaven clincher? “Oh, it was right here. I guess it’s gone now. I don’t know what happened.”

Seriously? What the flying fuck?!?!

Regardless, I have made myself quite a humble home, sans a few comforts I’m dying to have and cannot yet afford (i.e, area rug in the living room, bookcases for my books, internet…) But all in all, it’s not a bad life. I’m tanner than I’ve ever been this early in the summer, I have a job and a roof over my head, and there’s always something to do less than ten minutes away (and is usually very cheap or free). Ergo, I’m not complaining…

Much…

One item of idiocy that does seem in greater supply here than back home is Jehovah’s Witnesses. Granted, the flyers and pamphlets make for great puppy-training materials, but to be disturbed at least once a week by this watch tower magazine, that church service… It’s enough to make one want to claim devil worship as soon as you hear a knock at the door!

Speaking of puppy training material, I know that not all of you, dear reader’s, are friends with me on Facebook, ergo you haven’t met the newest member of my family:

This, dear friends, is Gizmo. All of one pound, two ounces at nine weeks old, he’s the calmest, quietest, sweetest little teacup Chihuahua I think I’ve ever had the pleasure of owning—of course, he’s the first AND last Chihuahua I ever plan on owning. Not that I plan on using him in one of my devil worshiping ceremonies or anything—perish the thought! But when you fall in love with a runt, well, you just kinda have to accept it, adopt him, and move on (proving, in a weird way, that you can fall in love with even the least-likely candidates…). Hawthorne is adapting better to this than Beaux, who still can’t seem to decide whether Gizmo is:

1. something to play with,
   
2. something to eat, or
   
3. something to avoid,

and thus sticks with an “avoid this” philosophy by staying off the ground at all times, hopping from fridge to counter to futon to end table, all in an effort to stay beyond Gizmo’s curious prancing about… Which is probably for the best, at least until Gizmo comes in at a good solid three pounds—the top weight the vet thinks he may achieve… Oy… Three pounds!?!? Gayest dog I’ve ever owned, hands down. In fact, he may replace the way I hold my cigarette as my OGT (Obviously Gay Trait). Let’s face it—we all have an OGT, it’s just that some of us have made more peace with it than others… ☺ (I’m still unsure whether to take the “But you don’t look gay!” comment I’ve had at least three times as an insult or a compliment…) Dumpster diving has also taken on all-new, never-before-attained heights of ecstasy: from the entertainment center (auction value $350 per the masking tape on the inside), the cute little construction table that makes a perfect patio end table, to the two perfectly good pieces of 1x6 that are now being utilized as an indoor shelf… My, my, my, what people don’t throw away! I can only assume brain damage or sun stroke is the culprit for such wastefulness… Hurricane season also starts in TWO WEEKS! While my area of Florida apparently hasn’t had a decent hurricane since 2003 (and many of the locals seem to be of the opinion that we are way past due!), I am looking forward to that niggling feeling of fear as those storm clouds grace the horizon over the ocean, the waves crashing upon the beach in anger, the hustle and bustle that is usually reserved in the northeast for a snowstorm calling for more than an inch… (and yes, I meant “over an inch”… I never said my old home state didn’t have its fair share of imbeciles…). Be that as it may, I’m sure that first hurricane I’ll be all “Oh my god!”—at least, until I get my hurricane legs. And it may be that naive part of myself that thinks a good ol’ hurricane will be great fun, but you know what? I’m still a bit giddy at the thought… Hell, it’s new, ain’t it? And I didn’t move all the way down the east coast for shits and giggles… New and exciting are the order of the week! The month! Hell, for at least the next three years! Anyway, I suppose that’s it for the time being… I’m budgeting to have internet sometime near the end of June, and until then I will continue to type these up on my borrowed computer, flash-drive it, and upload it to the blog from work. I miss being on facebook for a few hours in the afternoon more than anything (as that was my hugest coping mechanism for the loneliness during the end months of my last relationship), and made a great many friends that are hard to stay in touch with from 7 to 3 during the work day—mostly due to the fact that I do work at work, but partially because they are also at work. But not having internet is a small price to pay for the moment, one month and one week out into my new life…

A Hint of Color...

It’s gonna be a while til I own something pretty again. Not that I’m a materialist or anything—not in the true sense of the word in that I think material possessions are the end-all be-all of our existence on this planet. However, theres a part of me that just… Appreciates the finer things in life.

As one of my dear friends put it, I should have been born wealthy.

Pair that statement up with my penchant for dumpster diving, and it’s just one of those things that has most shaking their heads in wonder.

But hell, if it’s free, I’ll gladly take two. Three, if they are available.

I didn’t bring much with me, although I had that trailer packed so tight, you’d think I did. I come from a long, long line of pack rats, however. So for me to give up 2/3s to 3/4s of my material possessions, knowing that my mental and emotional well-being were at stake, well, that’s a small price to pay in the grand scheme of things.

As I sit here in my uber-white living room, within easy view of my uber-white kitchen, uber-white bathroom, backed by my uber-white bedroom, I can’t help but think of Nathan Lane’s line from The Birdcage: “Well, one does want a hint of color.”

And this, my friends, family, and other reader’s who are unknown to me, is why I find myself 1732 miles from my former life: A hint of color. Read that as year-round sun tan, read that as “life in Pennsylvania was boring,” read it however you wish. That statement in poetic that way, in that color to one is listless and dull to another.

I am gonna paint at least one of these rooms, however. I can’t live in a white world anymore than I can live in a black world. Trading the emotional black for the literal white just ain’t my cup of tea—and, since we’re on the subject, Orange Peoke isn’t my cup either. But then again, there ain’t no Turkey Hill or Icey Tea to be had ‘round these parts, and I am loathe to try the local brands, as I remember the last time I had tea in the south. Let’s just say, one does want a hint of lemon and an understatement of sugar at times…

I am managing to scrape by, just to put you at ease. And when I say “scrape,” well, I wish that were hyberbole. I never knew pennies had such value when Friday is approaching but not quite here yet and that paycheck is needed to keep food on the table, or electricity in the apartment, or to make sure you keep that car you had to buy in your own possession. Truth.

But strangely enough… No, scratch that. I don’t feel it’s strange at all. Also Truth. I am happier. Contenter (if you will allow the creative wordsmith to create words, that is…). Calmer. Not only because I am now in control of all money coming and going within my world, I don’t have to listen to anyone else bitching about it. Being depressed about it. Being morose about it.

Yes, you could say I’m still a bit bitter about the way the last relationship ended, but you could also say I’m simply processing yet, and move on as I am trying to do. It is funny that, even though I’m poorer than I ever have been in my life, I’m doing more in life than I’ve ever done. Part of that is not living in the country, surrounded by the woods and fields and solitude I love and miss. Part of that, though, is I don’t have to argue over spending $5 here or $2 there. Part of it is also there are more free things to do in Florida than there ever was in Pennsylvania—be that because of the beach, the tourism centered economy, what-have-you.

But I refuse to be defined by how much money I do or don’t have. Do I miss pretty things? Yes, of course. Who wouldn’t just die to have the money to buy every single shiny thing that caught their eye? (Well, perhaps not die to have money… A bit self-defeating upon reflection…) But you catch my drift. Now if I owned a cat that had an ounce of common sense, that would be of immense help in keeping the (shrinking) number of pretty things I already (used to) own! He’s just lucky he’s a good mouse/bug/lizard killer…

I do finally own a bed, after what—3, 4 months?—of futon sleeping. A luxury I will never ever take for granted again… That is, bed sleeping, not futon sleeping. Ugh! But now that the futon can stay a permanent couch, well, things are feeling a bit more homey around here. It’s amazing the psychological and mental implications of not sleeping in your living room… But again, that could just be me…

I realize I’m rambling and that most of the paragraphs above don’t stay on topic, but hey! Them’s the breaks…

I’d also like to point out that, despite what Animal Planet or Discovery Channel would have you believe with all their shows about Florida, it is not rampant down here with alligators or pythons. Nary a one has darkened my doorway, let alone my postage-stamp-sized yard or pool. Talk about disappointment! On the bright side, I’m not worried nearly as much as I was previously about coming home and finding Beaux trapped atop the kitchen cabinets while watching Hawthorne be devoured my an albino python…

But that is part of having an over-active imagination, too, I suppose…

Other not-so-interesting items of interest:

1. Floridians also drive slowly in the passing lane, and you must pass them in the non-passing lane;
2. Craigslisters for the "free" section are much more numerous than in PA, and it's much harder to get the things you desire;
3. The weather is GORGEOUS all the TIME!;
4. I like the beach much better than I thought I ever would...

I just wish the circumstances leading to my new life would have been not-so-dramatic... Then again, one does want a hint of color in one’s life… Til next time, my friends…

My First Florida Blog Post... From My Cell Phone...

okay so we're gonna see how this goes...

I'm certainly much busier than I imagined I would be. from the dog beach to zumba to free food at gay bars... then there is the blue eyed devil, a lot of puppies, working in a new office, decorating a new apartment... These are a few of my time-consuming things...

I have yet to acquire Internet at the new place--my dream that free wi-fi would exist nearby is out the window, but then again, I'm using the beach and the pool a lot more than I thought I would too, so I guess it all evens out in the grand scheme of things...

I do need to get Internet soon, however, because doing everything you need to do on this teeny-tiny "smart" phone screen (and I use the term smart loosely...) is definitely for the birds. Hence, I do hope you, dear reader, will forgive all grammatical and spelling errors until Internet-capability is reached...

All is going well, however, and I am beginning to get a semblance of a routine despite only having recently started work in the new-to-me office. I must say, it is a pleasure working in a place that values quality work over stress... It's either the enormous amounts if gorgeous weather, or the lack of a certain supervisor... Probably both, truth be told...

Be that as it may, hopefully soon I can take the time to write a detailed post if my, Gawthorne's, and Beaux's great adventures thus far... Some of it annoying (assholes at D.C. gas stations), some of it awesome (blue-eyed devils and awesome sex), some of it just so-so (the lack of alligator and python sightings is a great disappiitment itself...)...

So until next time, my friends... I'll see you at the beach!

Moving On Up (Moving On Up!)To the East Side...

Okay, okay, OKAY! More like the south side. I get it, jeez...

So, honestly, where do these moneyless homeless people get the markers? Do they hold up blank pieces of cardboard until someone donates a marker, and then they get to come up with whatever it is they're begging for? Don't get me wrong--I know they aren't homeless because they're lazy, or stupid, or what-have-you. It sometimes happens to the best of people! But seriously--where are they getting the markers? Is there a "Place a Marker/Take a Marker" bin near homeless alleys? Do they save up that first donation just to buy a pack at the dollar store? What's the deal there? Maybe Sharpie has some type of tax-write-off deal for donating markers to the needy? Who knows...

Anybody? Anybody? Bueller? Bueller?

Then there are the shitheads that pull out in front of you just to slam on the brakes twenty-five feet further down the road and make you slam on the brakes again while they wait to make that all-important left turn into the adult bookstore... Do they charge late fees at adult bookstores? Is it imperative you not wait for an actual break in traffic because those extra five minutes will mean Debbie Does Dallas won't be rented by someone in a desperate way because you were that late in returning it? And why are they called adult bookstores when really they are adult video stores? Is that just a PA thing?

Anybody? Anybody? Bueller? Bueller?

And, I'm not sure why this crosses my mind at this moment, but I betcha there's a whole subculture of turtles that just don't get that turtlenecks are not made from actual turtle necks, and thus their protests are more than just a tad useless... But it does beg the question as to where the turtles are getting their markers for their protest signs...

Irregardless (which is just a fancy way of saying "Regardless"...), in five more days I blow this popsicle stand (which is a "I'm hiding my true emotions" way of saying "Sweet Jesus I'm gonna miss these people, but not the weather"...), and I still have so much to do that I honestly shouldn't be blogging at this moment, but I find it easier to deal with emotion by spewing the written word... Which is odd as I was told just a few short days ago that communication is my "biggest issue."

Figures... I may actually have to stop a homeless guy and ask him where he gets the markers. I may take up cardboard signage instead of blogging... THEN we'll see who can't communicate...

Be that as it may, as I look forward to my new life, my new beau (not to be confused with an old beau named Beaux who is coming to Florida with me--also known to the current roomie as that black-headed step child...), my new digs, and my new office, I can't help but grin ear to ear, while simultaneously shedding a tear...

Damn, I'm gonna miss these people...

I'm moving on south...

Another Day in the Life...

My dog continues to astound with his twelve-year-old prowess. You wouldn't think a 50-pound oldie like him would be into jumping up onto a 36-inch high dining room table just to watch me drive away from the house, would you?

You also wouldn't think that a dog's claws could leave such deep grooves in the wood of said dining room table...

Regardless, I have a most gracious host, and I have already found her a replacement dining room table that I will be picking up next Friday. Needless to say, I will not be putting said table together until I hand her back her house keys on March 30th as I migrate south for the duration of the next foreseeable stage of my life.

I've decided to bring the dog with me anyway. (Who am I kidding? Like it was ever a question!) On the bright side, I won't have any furniture for him to clamber and climb and leap onto for at least the first week of living in my new digs--besides my bedroom set, that is, and that, at least, should make him feel at home 1,500 miles away from any other home he's ever known. I'm hoping that same amount of comfort will be transferred to myself...

Beaux, on the other hand, seems to handle everything in stride. He could care less as I drive away in the morning, as long as he has food. You have to love the love of a cat. That UN-neediness is sometimes preferable.

For those who haven't yet seen, here are some pics of my new place (that I have yet to see in person):

Zee building...

Zee pool...

Zee door on zee left back corner, ground floor, is mine...

Zee living room, looking toward zee kitchen (left) and bathroom (right) and bedroom door (extreme right)...

Zee purple tub of wonder...

Standing in zee kitchen, looking toward front of living room...

Zee backyard with funny-looking wind chime holder...

Right side of zee kitchen, awaiting my culinary expertise...

Left side of zee kitchen, awaiting my dishpan hands...

I know, I know--you're all kinds of gaga over the tub, right? As one of my friends put it, that's "lavender," not "purple."

Tomato, to-mah-to. :) Truth be told, I'm just happy to have that tiny back yard complete with funky tree to hang my wind chimes on. I've been missing them like I never thought I would. (Here's hoping the new neighbor's like them just as much!)

Be that as it may, we are now at the 5 week countdown. In 5 weeks I leave for the south, no one knowing if ever to return (excepting major family events and holidays, of course!)

I'm just hoping I like it. I want to like it there. I want this to be a lovely new chapter, filled with... Well, not puppies, kittens, and rainbows--I have those in spades! But contentment. Perhaps some comfort. A bit of joy. And a killer tan. (Please spare me the skin cancer talk... Thanks!)

I am working out again, once again reaching for the never-having-before-attained-killer-six-pack (which I know I might not have in time for beach season), and I've got a pretty general new routine down living here with the roomie. But there's a short list (and growing) of other things, other hobbies, I will gradually incorporate into my daily routine (fingers crossed) including jogging, walking the dog, and a promise to myself to hit the beach once a month now that I'll be living within spitting distance (if by spitting distance we mean a five-minute drive or hurricane-force winds at my back at the time of expectoration).

In the meantime? I'll just be happy if my dog stays off the furniture...

Just Two More Pussies...

For all you folks who are not on Facebook--you know who you are (Mom!)--the people that get a Facebook account, say "Hi!" twice in six months, delete your account, and then wonder what's going on in people's lives...?

Uh-huh. Don't deny it.

Anyway, we've recently become father's again:



Rio and Puck, brothers by birth and by havoc wreaked, came to us after their previous owner's dog tore through a basement door in an attempt to kill them (no one ever claimed dogs were a cat's best friend--I suppose now we know why...). And while they have managed to get into both Beaux's and Hawthorne's good graces with much less effort than I thought it would require, given their history with other animals, their capacity for all things destruction-oriented makes me think it's just my calling in life.

Having a calm, quiet, content animal, that is. But then again, I hear pet's do tend to take after their owners, and in that, I have no defense. (I can't help but wonder, though, if owner's just tend to pick animals with personalities much like their own...?)

While Rich likes to think I agreed to the name "Rio" for the long-haired orange cat in due respect and reverence for the dearly-departed River Phoenix (as if...), I mainly agreed because Rio is just like a river, with his rippling waves of fur, his rapid switches from calm and serene to all-out attack. It's a fitting yet cursed name, yes?

And then there's Puck, the medium-haired, cross-eyed, frock-wearing-wanna-be-Catholic scaredy cat. You breathe to hard and he leaps up like a deer and dashes off like a cheetah. He's loves-loves-LOVES to cuddle (until you breath...), so I thought a proper fairy-tale name was more suitable--you know, easily frightened yet full of love? Regardless of the fact that I completely forgot what a trouble-maker Puck was in literature, I certainly didn't expect Puck to know that. However, he can't seem to help himself, and thus he is aptly named after all. Climbing window screens, leaping on his brother, attacking Beaux, having stand-offs with the 60-pound half-pit Hawthorne... One can't help but wonder if it's the crossed eyes or just his attitude...

Be that as it may, we are now a 3-pussy household consisting only of dicks...

Go figure, as my father would say...

And in my defense, all I can say is at least this time, I wasn't expecting any girl cats...




Just two more pussies...

It's the Little Things...

It's like... Well, you know that old antique mantel clock your great-grandmother always had sitting out? And you have hundreds of fond memories of just staring at that clock...? And when she died, you somehow ended up with said clock, and have had it sitting on your mantel so that you can relive those fond memories of your great-grandmother... And life is wonderful and happy and full of fond memories and the sound of a ticking clock...

Then something happens that calls into question the placement of the clock... Say, for example, a psychotic kitten who you are convinced was actually Jeffrey Dahmer in his last life... (So much for karma...) It may be the way he stares intently at the radio perched on the windowsill near the tub... Or that he just happens to find that steak knife too much fun for words as he bats it around the house... Or that he even knows where to find another steak knife once you've picked the first one up and locked it in the dishwasher...

I think the clincher, what finally made me realize Little Wet Paws (his Native American name due to his endless fascination with anything H2O related) was in fact a reincarnated serial killer was the methodical way he hunted... Now, I've had cats before. I've seen them hunt. Pavement was an excellent hunter/killer; Spot couldn't kill a fly to save his life. Cleo? She went in fits and spurts depending on what I filled her food bowl with...

But Beaux? It's insatiable joy. Nothing is sacred. Nothing is safe. Nothing, I dare say, will survive. It's almost like that Chucky doll--you know, the one everyone thought was too adorable for words even as he slashed into your face with that giant carving knife? "My buddy and me like to climb up a tree, my buddy and me... We're the best friends there could be!" Slash, slash, clunk! "Whoops! Sorry buddy!"

Uh-huh... It's... The little things...

Learning to Lean...

He stood from the recliner and grasped the rails of the walker and began the slow process of moving toward the bathroom. More from fear of pain than actual pain--clunk, swoosh, hop; clunk, swoosh, hop--across the tiles to where the wall paper was too flowery and too cheerful, the commode that awful shade of seventies marble, the decor screaming for an update. As he did his business, he looked toward me in the hallway and said "Thank you" with his eyes...

I simply nodded in return, knowing spoken word would ruin--not the moment, but the depth of it. Words fail even in the best of times. As I helped him up and followed him back on that slow march, he eased himself back down into the plush fabric. A sigh escaped, and the sweat beaded faintly on the forehead. I patted his arm and he gripped my wrist. I squeezed back.

---

As the undecided weather fell in various forms of liquid, we walked down the long drive, rutted and puddle-ridden. The cold wind bit through all of our jackets and the crunching snow tried to give away the quiet, somber-mixed-with-camaraderie air we exuded.

As we left what was once a decent driveway and started through the fields, our eyes drifted toward the once-familiar landscape: the creek, certain trees, where there once was a bank... Not that the battered white pick-up near the beginning was new (only in the sense of not having been there when we last were), there was a mixture of peace and apprehension in this midnight excursion. When we did come upon the old tree, half dead and mostly withered, surrounded by a field that had been as forgotten as the vows which brought us here, we began digging.

Into the hole went a box of mementos, treasures, keepsakes and memories. The paper which was supposed to have kept the promises; the photos which kept testimony to the better times; a few scraps of this and that which were private now only for the company of one box. Solemn silence interspersed with jokes only the Hughes boys could truly appreciate on such an occasion. (Yes, we are the ones who find joy even at the funeral...) As we joined hands under the snowy drizzle ("Is it gay to hold hands?" "No, it isn't..." "Dude, your hands are warm!" "Um, okay, that was kind of gay...") and held a moment of peace, of prayer, of sharing, it was more than a box that will forever be embraced under the dying roots. The passage of time here had stayed its hand for the most part, and perhaps the hope was that this place would also heal, or freeze even, the changing aspects of life that were at the very least uncomfortable... Only time will tell if childhood places can heal adult wounds, but there was the faith, buried with the box, and hope would spring forth...

---

As I slid beneath the blankets and breathed deeply the still air only a lived-in house can share, Beaux curled up onto the small of my back and Hawthorne gently sidled up beside my legs. They sang to me a lullaby of purrs and whimpers, their very happiness at my presence a gift. The weeks have been long, some of the nights too short, some of the days too dreary. A rough pink tongue lapped at my fingers, and two tiny paws began to knead. As I drifted off into that dreamless sleep, content that things were taking a positive direction in quite a few lives despite the obvious hurts--physical, mental, and emotional--I vowed to remember this moment. Things had changed for a lot of people lately, but there was also peace to be found in the midst of the turbulence.

We are learning to lean. And it was still good...

Barely Breathing...

I long for bright green blades of grass squished between my toes; desire once again to see the lillies waving on long stalks on a cool spring breeze; to gaze once more upon the Japanese cherry in full blossom...

I'm sure if I were into snow tubing or ice fishing or skiing (or some other type of celebrity-killing past time) I would be a much happier camper in 8 degree temperatures at 10:30 pm in the middle of January... But as I stare out the kitchen window upon a yard as barren and lifeless as Mother Theresa's uterus ever was, I can't help but wish I could attract a little more life to the garden than the occasional cardinal or tit mouse...

To make things worse, my gardening catalogs have started arriving in droves, their annual migration to my mailbox usually a well-spring of joy. It is emptier this year, knowing I will not be ordering anything. And while that knowledge is slightly tempered by the fact that once we're in Florida I'll be able to garden for longer months at a time and grow an ever-more tropical range of plants, as I gaze upon pictures of peonies and other such plants I must say goodbye to, heirloom staples from generations of my ancestors here in Pennsylvania...

Sigh. It's going to be bitter-sweet, make no mistake.

Beaux and Hawthorne lay side-by-side before the coal stove, moving only when forced away from the flames, and I pull my mother's hand-made afghan tighter around my shoulders and lean further into Rich, the original human torch. (Seriously, if I could can just a bit of the heat he lets off, I'd be a millionaire in Alaska...)

This is going to be the longest winter ever...

Dick--I Mean Deck--the Halls...

---

Me: No, I have to... It just wouldn't seem right!
Rich: But it defeats the whole purpose! We're trying to get the house ready to sell, not enter it into a decorating contest!
Me: You know what my grandfather used to say about the undecorated houses?
Rich: Uh...
Me: "Oh, they must be Jewish!" Not that there's anything wrong with that, but you know how I love the holidays and decorating!
Rich: But--
Me: I have to decorate something!
Rich: But--
Me: I've already agreed not to put up a tree so we can sell it on eBay, and that's a huge part of decorating.
Rich: But, babe--
Me: And I'm not putting up the icicles around the edge of the roof!
Rich: Yes, but--
Me: But I am decorating in a "tastefully simple" kind of way.
Rich: (Quizzical eyebrow raise.) Huh?
Me: You know, a little here, a little there. The Christmas plates, stockings on the mantel, a few bubble lights.
Rich: I suppose...

---

I had already started, you see. With the stockings and the nut cracker soldiers on the mantel, the ancient Santa and reindeer that Mom always had placed in the corner hutch. About seven boxes were strewn across the living room floor with Beaux hopping from box to box to sniff and toy with some of the precious treasures.

---

Rich: I just thought that--
Me: The upstairs is still being worked on, I need to rerun the wiring, but it will get done--we have all winter to finish the upstairs.
Rich: Yes, but--
Me: And I'm not putting up the village or the train set, so that also saves time and space. (I was really quite proud of this sacrifice I was making!)
Rich: Can I just--
Me: And we'll even, if you don't want to, not set up the Island of Misfit Toys display, just in case that one (jerked finger toward Lil Wet Paws as he discovered stringed lights and Hawthorne stared at him with utter boredom mingled with contempt) gets a little to mountain-climby.
Rich: I just--
Me: It's just a few lights and some of the smaller decorations!

---

How the hell am I supposed to enjoy my last Christmas in Pennsylvania if I can't decorate?! It would go against all the fuzzy-warm memories of childhood, the sense of tradition, the only bright and shiny time in a long and gloomy winter! I was now on the war path...

---

Me: I'm decorating, and that's all there is to it! I'm tired of feeling like Scrooge! Thanksgiving was already five days ago! This house is usually decorated FOUR days ago! All the neighbors have their lights up already! I feel like... like...
Rich: I just wanted to ask if I can put up the nativity?
Me: Oh... Why wouldn't you be able to?
Rich: Well, I know it's not exactly your thing...
Me: So? It's your thing! And you have just as much right to put it up as anyone else! I've never stopped you before... Why are you asking now?
Rich: Well, since I was the one who said we wouldn't decorate, but now it seems we are decorating, I just thought... I dunno...
Me: Quit being such a dick and start decking!
Rich: Decking?
Me: The halls? "Deck the halls with boughs of holly, fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la?" Ever heard of it?
Rich: Okay, okay, I'll start decking!

---

Ahh... Now it's starting to look a lot like Christmas...

"Mammas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys..."

As I sip on my morning cup of coffee, I breathe in the fresh country air and watch the horses graze peacefully in the pasture behind my house. The frost lays heavy on the fields, and not a bird breaks the silence as the sun peaks above the Appalachian mountains--more foothills than mountains in this part of the state, if truth be told.

These are the mornings that should last an eternity. Alas, eternity isn't nearly as long as most people think it should be. As the steam rises from the mug and Hawthorne looks for that spot that's just right, I know these moments are numbered, and somehow it makes me appreciate them all the more.

When I used to dream of home ownership and adulthood, I pictured myself reading the paper on a sunny spring morning wearing nothing but a white terry cloth robe, sipping a mug of coffee at a bistro table on a flagstone patio surrounded by plants and flowers; a neighbor would wave cheerfully as he gardened in his own yard; children would be heard in the distance as they boarded the bus for school; a bird would sing happy little notes and tunes. I would reach my hand across to my husband, wearing a black terry cloth robe and drinking tea, his chest hair catching the morning light enticingly, and we would know what contentment truly was. It was sickeningly sweet, this daydream of what it would be like to be an adult living my life filled with Brim, Calgon, and Kodak moments...

The reality is even more beautiful, however, albeit in a by-way-of-Siberia type of way. As I lift the Folgers once again to my lips, I hear through the window the soft sounds of Rich's snoring. A crow caws loudly, sending Hawthorne on a quest to see if he's low enough to be worth chasing. Beaux claws at the screen door, making a paw-print mosaic on the storm windows recently installed to ward off the winter chill which comes regularly now. Having worked for the money that paid for this coffee, the mug it's in, the deck I'm standing on, the animals which depend on me for food and water, the food and water itself... It's not "peaceful," this moment of the morning, but I cherish it nonetheless. So much more alive than I ever dreamed, so much harder to attain than my childish mind could ever have imagined...

A song from my childhood drifts into my ears, something about this train of thought triggering a memory, and I find myself quietly singing, "Mamma's, don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys... Don't let 'em pick guitars or drive them old trucks... Let 'em be doctors and lawyers and such!" And then the words of the song fade away from my lips. I know my parents had dreams of a better life for us kids, and while I can't presume to know exactly what those dreams entailed, I know the myriad of things we kids put them through--what we put ourselves through--were never in their wildest imaginations as they greeted each of us into the world one at a time. As I think of the current struggles we all face--uncertainty in where Mom and Dad will live, if I will still have a job in another month or two, if my sister will live long enough to see her daughter grow up and get married, if my brother will ever get back together with his wife, if my other brother will have his dream of fatherhood, if my other sister will find the peace she seems to constantly seek...

None of us grew up to be cowboys, but none of us quite made it to doctor and lawyer status either. Nothing seems certain these days, and I am past the times when I could dream without reservation, if only because I've lived enough years to know that reservations can sometimes make dreams more attainable--when its not crushing them out of existence, that is. Reality has a way of teaching you what works, what doesn't, and that ultimately there are just some things you can't control--you can only hope for the best while preparing for the worst.

And while there are certainly jobs I can think of that would be much worse than growing up to be a cowboy (how many kids you know want to grow up to be a barnacle-cleaning scrubber?), I still nurse quite a few dreams which I'll most likely never attain (not least of which would be sleeping with Keanu Reeves!), but there are a few as well on that "doable" list. I may have that bistro set on that flagstone patio yet! Have that perfect cup of coffee while wearing a white terry cloth robe. Heck, I still have time, if I so desire, to diversify my ab into abs! I'm not sure there'll be six of 'em down there when I finally get around to working on that one, but I can still dream...

I call the dog into the house, catch Beaux as he makes his routine morning escape dash through the open storm door, and finish up the last bit of coffee resting at the bottom of my mug. As I plant a soft kiss on Rich's cheek and leave for work, the song once more plays through my head and out my lips, but this time...

It seems a bit more optimistic...:

---

Cowboys ain't easy to love and they're harder to hold,
They'd rather give you a song than diamonds or gold,
Lonestar belt buckles and old faded Levi's,
And each night begins a new day,
If you don't understand him, and he don't die young
He'll probably just ride away

Mamas, don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys...

---

Some dreams can still be made reality... It'll just take a bit more work... And time... And holding on to those dreams...

Having Keanu Reeve's phone number probably couldn't hurt either...

This is Why Mom Stopped Buying Me Lunch Boxes...

---

Mom: Well, when did you see it last?
Me: (shrug) I dunno... (shuffle my feet, stare at the ground)
Mom: Did you have it at lunch time?
Me: Yeeeeess....
Mom: And then what did you do with it?
Me: I dunno... (more shuffling...)
Mom: Did you ask your teacher if it had been turned in to the lost and found?
Me: Yeeeeess....
Mom: I don't know what I'm going to do with you...

---

Lunch boxes, coats, gloves, scarves, hats... I still lose these things, a little too regularly for my ease of mind... I still haven't seen my Rehobeth Beach baseball cap since about mid-summer... I'm no longer seven but I lose things just as quickly, if not more so as I no longer have other adults reminding me about such things!

Like today, at lunch time, I was supposed to call this guy about a sink and toilet I had purchased through Craigslist. But what was I doing? Who knows! It completely left my mind that this was something that needed to be done. I just left the guy a message on his cell profusely apologizing for my forgetfulness. Even as I type this, I've sent an email to my work email to remind me to call him and had Rich place a Post-It on the front door where I can't miss it tomorrow morning when I leave for work.

At work alone, I have several dozen Post-Its at various places around my work station to remind me of the stupidest things, and why? I have the attention span of a kitten on crack, that's why.

Granted, over the years I've learned some tricks: whenever I'm working on a project, I keep all tools directly at my feet--not on the nearest surface, not in my pockets, not generally tossed about the nether regions of my immediate area; when I come home from work, keys and wallet and jacket go directly on the left-hand corner of the coffee table and remain there (well, until Beaux arrived they stayed there...); when I am making a meal, all utensils and pots and pans and ingredients stay on the dishwasher surface until all cooking is completed (lest I run out of spoons and forks before the meal is even ready to be eaten!); I only buy bright-orange lighters so they are easily seen when lying on any given surface; and so on and so forth.

But I still lose things. I haven't seen a flat-head screw driver in this house in at least a year, even though I had a whole matching blue-handled set two Christmas's ago. My copy of For the Bible Tells Me So has been missing for at least three years. And my copy of Extreme's Pornograffiti? I just replaced it at a Yard Sale to replace the copy I'd lost eons ago for $1, begged from the same mother who banished me from ever owning a lunch box after first grade...

I learned to make do with the brown bagged lunches (although truth be told some days I starved as I sometimes managed to lose even those before lunch even started!), to stick my hands deep deep deep into my denim pockets every time a pair of my gloves went off globe-trotting without my consent, to pretend I didn't want to mess up my hair when the real reason was I had no idea where my hat had gotten to...

I can only hope the gentlemen who sold me the toilet and sink didn't get pissed off at my forgetfulness and resell them...

But this is exactly why my mother stopped buying me lunch boxes...

My apologies...

... to those of you who subscribe by email and got two comics early by mistake... It seems Beaux has taken up doing the moonwalk on my keyboard for shits and giggles... #5 had the right comic but the wrong title, and #6? Well, consider it your sneak peak...

The rest of you will see #5 tomorrow at noon and #6 next Saturday at noon... (Stop drooling with anticipation... It'll come soon enough...) :)

Time, the Illusion...

It's like a slow moving death-knell... The sun sets just a little bit sooner; the trees are just a tad yellow around the edges; the air just a teeny bit cooler in the evening...

Can you feel it? The impending doom? Winter?

I grip my cup of coffee a bit tighter as I sit on the deck and look over my 3/4 of an acre. Hawthorne lays at my feet, tongue lolling, tail lazily wagging every time my eyes happen to drift his direction.

The deck needs a good staining. The vegetable gardening could use another weeding or two before the summer's end. Still need to move those rocks out from under the maple and place them in a more orderly fashion around a flower bed...

But the days are getting shorter. My knees have been sore for three days in a row now, feeling the subconscious signals from my brain to prepare for the cold... My hand drifts down to meet the soft tan-and-white fur of my friend. Beaux meows piteously from the kitchen window as a bird lands upon the feeder, the evening show beginning from his front-row screened-in seat.

A leaf falls from the mystery tree in the center of the yard to land on the grass/dandelion mixture that passes for a lawn. An owl hoots from the deeper shadows as the sun dips lower, spreading a fire-like glow behind the mountains. As the north star makes its nightly appearance directly overhead and the bats begin to pirouette on the evening breeze, I once again reflect that, probably sooner than I would like, the house will be for sale and we will begin the process of migrating south.

I wonder if the sun sets will be as spectacular without a mountain to fall behind? Will the nighttime sounds of my childhood (tree frogs; crickets) and nighttime sights (lightning bugs) also reside in the so-called Sunshine State? Will they sing their symphony in the same rhythms and harmonies? Will my knees ache less? Will I drink less coffee?

The sun disappears, although its glow remains a while longer, the long shadows covering the entire yard. The bats blend in almost seamlessly now, shadows riding shadows. Hawthorne stretches, yawns, and clicks over toward the screen door, ready to lay on the couch as is his nightly routine. I put out my cigarette and glance once more at the almost-black yard, glad for the chores being hidden, but unhappy that tomorrow's light will bring them to the fore of my mind once more and remind me again of how little time remains before the grave-blanket of snow covers the sins of a lazily-spent summer...

'Twas Brillig, and the Slithy Toves...

THUMP! Shhhh.... Shhh...

---

Me: (whispering) Hey! Hey, wake up! Did you hear that?
Rich: Hmm...? Wha...? Huh...?
Me: Did you hear that!?
Rich: No...
Me: Shh!

---

Goose bumps dance up and down my arms. I glance around quickly, spotting Hawthorne at the foot of the bed and Beaux sound asleep in his house (Yes, oddly enough, my cat is crate trained...)

THUMP! Shhhh.... Shhh...

---

Me: There it was again! Did you hear it?
Rich: Huh? Wha...?
Me: Did you hear it that time? What was that?
Rich: Will you stop waking me up!
Me: But--
Rich: I am never watching a horror movie with you again!
Me: I told you, but--
Rich: Go. To. Sleep!

---

I give his back a disdainful glance. On some levels, I know he is right. Horror movies get the subconscious started in ways Alfred Hitchcock would die for, but that's neither here nor there at 3 a.m. on a dark and stormy night! Well, maybe not stormy. That was over before we even hit the hay. But still...!

THUMP! Shhhh.... Shhh...

I stop myself from slapping Rich on the back--after all, that was getting me nowhere faster than a snail on the Audubon. I peek over the edge of the bed into the semi-darkness. Neither of the animals have stirred, giving me hope that there's at least nothing in the bedroom! Slowly, ever so slowly I lower my feet to the floor, the cold (cold like the dead!) hardwood floors. I gently reach over and grab a book from the nightstand, the only not-a-weapon-but-could-be-a-weapon-in-desperate-times thing within reach, hard cover, of course. I see in the dim light of the alarm clock that Hawthorne has raised his head with irritated interest, as if to say "Dude! Even I don't get up at this time of night! What gives?"

I motion for him to stay, but then think better of that--after all, what's the purpose of having a dog if I don't use him to scare the intruder/monster/creature from the Black Lagoon away?

THUMP! Shhhh.... Shhh...

I freeze. Hawthorne whips his head around and stares out into the blacker than black hallway. Feeling slightly vindicated but still not convinced this is anything to fear (Remember the great Tea-Kettle Demon of West Bowmans incident? I haven't...), I pull the curtain aside that keeps the air conditioning within and the heat and humidity without...

THUMP! Shhhh.... Shhh...

Definitely louder than it was... Hawthorne hops onto the bed where I had just been lying, ever the faithful grave-hopper ("Don't say 'grave'!" my Subconscious shouts) and joins Rich in a symphony of snores and warbles. I roll my eyes (a waste of energy in the darkness when no one is around to witness it) and turn my attentions back toward the hallway. If Hawthorne's not worried, I really shouldn't be either, I suppose...

THUMP! Shhhh.... Shhh...

("Sounds like a dead body being kicked around," Subconscious whispers in my ear...) I stretch, stretch and take three steps to switch on the hall light and am instantly surrounded by the dim glow of it's full-strength 25 watts (Note to self: Buy 60-watt bulbs tomorrow) and am instantly reminded of the sickly glow usually reserved for death wards in hospitals and prisoners on death row. Steeling myself while simultaneously silencing Subconscious, I inch my way around the corner and peer into the dark dining room...

THUMP! Shhhh.... Shhh...

I whip around and stare at the spare bedroom door--this is where the noise is coming from, behind the wooden bedroom door. ("This is how people die," the back of my mind whispers. "They open doors like these in the dead of the night..." "SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!" I scream back into its recesses) I start to reach for the door knob, but pause. After all, Subconscious does have a point. I can almost hear the audience in the theater screaming at me, "Don't open it! Run for your life now! Why do they never run!" ("Famous last words," Subconscious whispers.)

I steal my nerves and grip the knob. I take a deep breath before turning it, sure that one of two things is about to happen:

1. I am about to die, or
2. I'm about to feel very foolish.

I'm pretty sure it's number two, but if it does turn out it's number one? I'll feel foolish lying there in my own pool of blood...

Either way, it seems feeling foolish is inevitable... (I love irony!)

Once the door creaks open to about two inches wide, I slip my hand in and switch on the light, bathing the room in a slightly brighter, slightly less sickly glow. (I really do need to stop purchasing generic light bulbs...) After I pull my hand back out and count the digits (You always hear about how razor sharp teeth aren't felt until it's too late!) I push the door open the rest of the way, listening to it complain about its need for WD-40...

THUMP! Shhhh.... Shhh...

It seems so loud that I jump and emit a sound not too different from that which would come from a little school girl. I squint in my new found light at the various corners of the room, also making it a point to look up! (Another thing people in the movies never do... Which is why they die...)

THUMP! Shhhh.... Shhh...

I jump again, minus the prepubescent noises and focus in on the open window. ("It's in the HOUSE! It's in the HOUSE!" Subconscious screams.) Conscious notes that we have left them open to air out the room. ("RUN! RUN!" Subconscious screams, nearly hysterical.) I step past the dusty treadmill, around the piles of yet-to-be-sold yard sale items, and make my way toward the window...

THUMP! Shhhh.... Shhh...

A branch. Specifically, the branch from my butterfly bush. The wind was causing it to thump against the window frame and then rub its leaves along the screen...

Somewhat regularly, I might add...

THUMP! Shhhh.... Shhh...

More than just a tad relieved, I lift up the screen and break off the offending branch. I listen. I feel slightly foolish.

But better. Mostly because I'm not dead, but partially because I have once again conquered Subconscious (the bastard...). I close the screen ("One day I'll save your life, ingrate," Subconscious replies in a sulk) and toss the branch, covered in pretty purple blooms, into the trash can by the door.

After kicking Hawthorne out of my grave ("There's that word again!") I snuggle back deep in the sheets, a light breeze from the air conditioner brushing my cheek.

---

Rich: Huh? Wha? Go to sleep!
Me: Yes, dear.

---

'Twas Brillig in the Slithy Toves indeed... (FYI, don't watch A Haunting in Connecticut if you're anything like me... Or Subconscious...)

Three Years, Three Months, and Three Hours...

It was the first weekend in what seems like forever since I didn't have to be anywhere or do anything...

So I started on The List.

You see, The List is a two-sided, two-columned sheet of notebook paper filled with the things we need to accomplish around here before I feel that we can list our house and proceed with The Move. At the top of my list, of course, was to ultimately and permanently solve the problem of The Basemantic Ocean. It's been three years since this dirty, unnatural wonder appeared in our home, and through various "make-do" solutions and various jerry-rigging of pumps, buckets, and bins, this needs to Be Solved. Today. Now or never...

I put it off for about three hours. Three Years, Three Months, and Three Hours, to be exact. I fiddled with this, thought about that, slept in until Beaux and Hawthorne couldn't stand it anymore... You know, "procrastination" is a very under-appreciated gift...

Knowing that this is going to be a dirty, smelly, disgusting job, I wrap four plastic bags around each sneaker. Two sets of plastic gloves on each hand. Three differing sizes of pipe cap, pipe cement. One can of gunky sealant.

And the will of a god. A procrastinating god, mind you, but just as all-powerful when it comes to destroying Pipenagra Falls. All-powerful and just as ignorant as to what I was actually going to do...

I took the flashlight and peered deeply into the Dark Cave of Eternal Dripping. I stared at the mountain of duct tape connecting the old rusted pipe to the black plastic pipe which ran up to a tub, which in turn led to a sump pump, which in turn led to another small pipe, which led out the basement window, down underground and eventually reunited with the septic pipes outside which led to our drainfield. This last brainstorm of a fix had lasted the previous two years, working wonderfully to keep our basement relatively dry and free from various bodily waste and shower drippings from the floor above. But now surgery had to be performed. Sump pumps unplugged, pipes removed, duct tape ripped asunder, and a brand new shiny steel pipe cap was to be placed in all its pristine glory upon the rusted, 1940s pipe which ran along the floor with all the grace and beauty of an elephants ass.

I propped the flashlight on an up-side-down bucket and proceeded. I started by first turning on the pump and emptying the bin entirely, then removed it to the relative safety of the backyard. I grabbed my knife ("You call that a knife? This--this is a knife!") and proceeded to cut away at the duct tape. The Dark Cave of Eternal Dripping proceeded to drip in a more steady fashion. I steeled my nerve and continued with the operation. Sweat poured from my forehead as I held my body in the strange configuration that was required--slightly crouched, upper body thrust forward under the plastic sink, one hand holding the knife while the other wrapped around one of the sinks legs to around the side to the other end of Duct Tape Mountain, the light from the flashlight just peeking above my left shoulder casting my shadow upon most of the areas I needed to see...

Fun-fun-fun!

I could barely hear my Toad the Wet Sprocket album from the other end of the house on the first floor where it blasted at full volume (makes for happy neighbors!) and grasped the knife more tightly in my right hand, determined to complete my task. I could hear Hawthorne pacing back and forth in the bedroom above my head, wondering where I was, wondering why he couldn't be at my side. Getting frustrated, I reached down and grabbed the black plastic pipe and yanked!!

And landed on my ass, the pipe still intact...

Fun-fun-fun!

A steady stream now ran from the Dark Cave of Eternal Dripping, once again forming that in-door pool that is decidedly not in most people's fantasies...

With renewed determination, I attacked! I thrust the knife left-right-left, the water gushed faster. I stabbed, parried, jabbed and thrust! Water spurted out like the wound of a dying beast! I Zoro'd across the last bit of duct tape, landing a killing blow! The black pipe separated and fell to the floor, and the steel pipe... gave one little spurt of water and fell silent.

Victoriously elated, I went to stand up and celebrate my victory--and slammed my head against the top of the sink...

Feeling a bit more humble, I grab the gooey stuff, fill the cavity, lay down some pipe glue, place the cap in place, screw the collar tight...

And wait...

I went up and turned on the shower, then ran downstairs again to stare at the sutured wound...

And wait...

I run up and, with the shower still running, flush the toilet. I race back down the stairs, flash light in hand...

And wait...

Still no leakage.

I go back up, and with the shower still running, flush the toilet again, turn on the bathroom faucet, rush out, turn on the kitchen faucet, clutter back down the stairs...

And wait...

For a half an hour, smoking a cigarette to fill the empty silence in the darkness, waiting for something to happen...

Nothing was happening... (How often does that make for a happy ending? "And they lived happily ever after, with nothing happening...")

Feeling victorious once again, I go back up, turn off all the water sources except for the shower, and step under its flowing drops, free in the knowledge that I had just accomplished numero uno on my list...

Only seventy-two more things to go. And while that one was by far the biggest thing on The List and only took four hours to accomplish, I'm hoping it doesn't take another Three Years, Three Months, and Three Hours to get it all done... Otherwise, we may never see the sandy beaches of the Sunshine State...

Of course, procrastination may be under appreciated, but it does have a down side... Mostly consisting of a list that now only has seventy-two more things to do... And a lot less time to do it in...

Who Knew There'd be Bitches at the Vet's?

Beaux is healthy now. Infection is gone, his white blood cell count is down, and he's attacking even the invisible things I didn't know I had laying all over my house, not to mention the dog, my feet, the curtains, the bookcase... Hawthorne also had his check-up today, and Hawthorne is also healthy as a horse. Always has been, hopefully always will be.

But there's nothing like a trip to the vet with your healthy pets to make you feel like you are the single-most horrible owner on the face of this green earth. I usually get to see Dr. Mike, but apparently he's on vacation--I got his "understudy," a young lady with the bedside manner of Mr. Scrooge before he started seeing ghosts...

Case in point is a discussion about Hawthorne's "junk":

---

Vet: Have you ever considered getting him fixed?
Me: What? He's nine years old! Why would I do that to him now?
Vet: I've personally already seen three cases this week of dog's with prostate problems...
Me: ... And?
Vet: And they could have been avoided if they had simply gotten their dogs fixed.
Me: Yeah, well, he's nine. He's healthy. He does not at this point have prostate problems, and if he had problems, then we would consider our options.
Vet: Hmm...

---

"Hmm" all you want there, but I am not spending money to take away something that's not an issue. I'm all about preventative care, don't get me wrong. And if I would have had the dough back when I got Hawthorne, he may have gotten fixed then (of course, the guilt trip back then was not about his prostate, it was about the potential for more puppies in this lonely, cruel world... but I digress...), but he didn't. He's not a humper. When he does get the opportunity to see a female dog, all he does is lick her face anyway (talk about your lack of a sex drive!), and you think now I should take them away? Should I have my balls removed just in case I have prostate problems in the future?

And then there was this doozy:

---

Vet: He has some plaque build up, you see?
Me: (I peer at the tooth in question) Hmm...
Vet: He should really be scheduled for a prothy.
Me: A what?
Vet: A good dental cleaning.
Me: Oh, he's fine. They don't hurt him, see? (I knock on his tooth)
Vet: Yes, but in time that plaque could leave him with quite the sore tooth.
Me: I have a toothbrush for him. I'll just make sure to hit those back teeth a little better.
Vet: That's not going to cut it, sir.
Me: And why not, ma'am. (Yes, I'm copping an attitude. I want to see Dr. Mike, not this sanctimonious snoot...)
Vet: Because he needs a good cleaning.
Me: And how much does a "good cleaning" cost?
Vet: Only around $500.
Me: Are you nuts?! I don't even spend $20 go to a dentist, and you want me to pop $500 so he can have "pearly whites"? I don't think so.
Vet: Well, we put him down with anesthetic, and keep in mind some of those teeth may need pulled due to cavities, there's the IV to keep him hydrated while he's under--
Me: No. Absolutely not. I'm sorry, and you can think I'm a terrible owner all you want, but there's no way in hell my healthy playful active nine-year-old dog is "going under" for any reason other than life-saving surgery--and maybe not even then depending on the scenario. Am I clear?
Vet: Sir, why do you even have the dog if you don't feel you need to take proper care of him? (Yes, she is now getting snooty with me...)
Me: He gets fed, he gets love, he gets played with, he gets a bed, three balls, an acre to call his own play ground, he barks when strangers arrive, and is great with nieces and nephews. He's nine years old and, except for that brief moment in time when he was stolen from my yard while I lived in Allentown and was missing for a week and I had to spend close to $3,000 to save his life due to some cruel and negligent morons, I am an excellent owner to this dog, just as I will be an excellent owner to this cat. All I need you to do is give him his rabies shot, his heart worm shot, worry less about his balls and more about his general health, okay? Dr. Mike has never once implied anything of this nature and I resent you doing so.
Vet: ... Nurse, make sure he gets to see Dr. Mike next time, alright?
Nurse: Yes, Doctor.
Me: Thank you.
Vet: Thank you.

---

Bitch.

Granted, I copped attitude first, but that's neither here nor there.

Needless to say, I will not be seeing this vet again... I made the receptionist put it in Beaux's and Hawthorne's charts that they only ever get scheduled for Dr. Mike in the future, just in case... Not that I begrudge him time off, you see. Just his newest trainee...

Getting Worked Up over Pussy on Our Tenth Anniversary...

Those of you who know us personally know one thing for certain: Our relationship started with kittens. Five kittens to be exact. After three months of eye-tag and smiles, I turned to Richard one night, looking devilishly cut and ripped in a neon-orange tank-top with khaki shorts, and said, "Would you like to come home and see my kittens?" (I later find out he could have cared less about the kittens, but if I'm completely honest with myself, at that moment, I also could have cared less...)

Along the way, Spot, Pavement, and Cleopatra all bit the dust in various ways and we remained catless until just about a week ago, when we adopted a "female" kitten named Beaux. True to form (as Spot came into my life under the very same false pretenses...), at the vet they ask, "Where's the girl kitten, Beaux?" I gestured toward the kitten being held in the arms of the nurse and said, "You mean Beaux isn't as girl?"

So Beaux is a boy. Irregardless, the reason for the sudden impromptu trip to the vet was the fact that Beaux, playing with her--his toy mouse suddenly went stiff, tipped over, vomited, and then lay lifeless. While purring. My first thought was, "Holy shit! I have a narcoleptic cat!" Then other bad signs happened. Wouldn't wake up, but continued to vomit. Spasms. More vomiting. I'm sobbing, beside myself. A kitten I've had for less than a week was suddenly dying before my eyes! A few quick calls and some google searches had me at the door of the vet's, tears streaming down my face with a kitten who suddenly changed sexes...

He has an infection somewhere in his bowels, and another day and he could have ended up a brain-damaged to dead kitty. Sigh. Of course, my third heart-attack happened when I got the emergency bill! A kitten I've had less than a week has already cost me nearly $400!

But as I watch him playing now, fighting with Hawthorne over the newest "life-like" mouse toy, I know it was worth it. Beaux is already so ingrained in Hawthorne's--and our--lives, I already have a hard time imagining how I wasn't looking where I was stepping before he arrived. I've realized how much I've missed the sound of a soft purr just over my shoulder. The pitter-patter of wobbly paws racing out from behind the corner as I walked by to attack my feet.

So our Saturday evening plans to celebrate our tenth anniversary were axed due to the extraordinary vet bill we weren't expecting...

But really, it all just makes sense. Full circle and all that. What started with kittens continues with kittens, and as we sat there Saturday evening watching a film, Hawthorne between us and Beaux taking flying leaps over his body to take turns on our laps, it all just seemed wonderfully perfect.

Or perhaps puur-fect would be more appropriate. Of course, it would take my gay relationship to be built on pussy, wouldn't it? Of course, even my pussy lacks a pussy...

Simply, wonderfully purr-fect...

The Price of Beaux...

I want to kill people. I want to strangle their necks. Of course, how is this different from every day life? It's not so much, really. But when it's been 24 hours since your last cigarette...

Well, you're just more likely to kill them, that's all...

Beaux is the reason, just so you are caught up, dear reader. The price of Beaux is the cessation of cigarettes in my life. While the trade off IS a good thing, and while it WAS my idea...

Well, sometimes I don't think these things through...

Who is Beaux? Technically, her name is "Face of Beaux," named after the "Face of Boe" from Dr. Who, the FANTASTIC television series! Of course, the real face of Boe and our face of Beaux look nothing alike. After all, who would want a kitty that was just a head floating in a glass canister of smoke? Okay, well, maybe you would, but I certainly don't.

Oh, how rude of me... This is Beaux:


This is the Boe she was named after:


I'm just glad Beaux ended up being cuter than Boe!! Who needs an ugly cat?

Regardless, people need to die... I need a cigarette...

What the worst part is, I know I will not die from wanting a cigarette. No one has ever died from wanting a cigarette. Gone mad, perhaps, a bit nutsy, but died? It's the smoking that'll kill me!! And as the one half of my brain tries to explain this to the other half of my brain... Well, it's not pretty what's going on between my ears... A very nasty, very ugly fight is going on...

I've already won... Now it's just a matter of convincing my brain that we're not doing this anymore...

Sigh. Stupid habit. Even stupider for my brain thinking it needs it so...