Unexpected Joy via Wikipedia and Memory Loss

I'd been missing the writing of a certain author and I couldn't remember her name. It's one of those things that starts driving you crazy the longer you think about it. It had been years since I read her books. I couldn't remember the names of the characters or the books. Nothing. I just knew I loved her work and needed to reconnect.  I kept in my mind, trying to poor over the details I could remember.

Yesterday, it hit me. Katherine Kerr. Yay! I looked her up on Wikipedia and confirmed it.  I was so happy that I decided to see if one of my other favorite authors had anything about her on Wikipedia. And . . . she did. In fact, I found out the best news ever.

In the years since her first two books, she'd written several more in the series. This series is something I love with all my heart.  It is, truly, my favorite series of all time and it's shaped so much of how I view fiction and what makes it great.  I can not even begin to tell you what a great moment this was for me.  It was like finding hidden treasure or a sibling you didn't know you had. My heart just literally burst with joy . . . and not from the potential heart attach we all know I'll have some day!

I know this is so cliche, but there truly is nothing like loving a book and its characters.  There is nothing like reading something time and time again and discovering new, hidden layers you never saw before.  It's one of the best things about being alive. I read these books when I was in middle school and they've been part of me ever since.

So this is what February gave to me at the end. Love. Surprise and renewed love for something that has made me happy for most of my life. And it had nothing to do with chocolate, flowers, or stickiness.

Humbling Reminders

I'm seriously a spoiled person.  I'm sitting here clicking on Logo's site, angry because it's down for maintenance and I can't watch Drag Race.  This is silly because, let's face it, the fact that I get to see this is a nice thing, but not something necessary in my life.

What is necessary in my life is electricity. Mine was out for about three hours last night. As I have the power outage number on my phone, I was able to call it in quickly. I also had some light provided by flashlights and my Kindle. However, this didn't help all the rest of the stuff that I need electricity for . . . such as my oxygen and my CPAP.

See, when you have a problem solved via a machine, you begin to mistakenly think it's truly solved. Oh, I can sleep now, all through the night with no problems and no issues.  It's so easy to deceive yourself. With no power, I went to bed early, as I really had nothing to do without my internetz, and thought I could just catch up on a few hours of sleep.

How wrong I was.  No power means no CPAP, so all of my sleep issues were in full swing.  I choked. I kept waking up.  I never could get anything close to real sleep. The nightmare that was my life before my machine was suddenly my reality. And, actually, it's my reality all the time. I just have something that keeps me from it.

It was really humbling to remember how bad my life had been.  As I laid there, after I finally gave up on sleeping, I thought about my grandfather and how he'd just fall asleep at the drop of a hat, how he had cup after cup of coffee to try and keep himself awake enough to function.  I thought about my mom and how she died in her sleep, her body so exhausted it finally just stopped.

I think mostly, I just thought about all the years of hell I went through because of this. I would leave for my college classes two hours early so I could stop in the middle of the drive and sleep for a while.  If I didn't do that, I would literally have to fight to stay awake. I think I literally missed most of my 20s because I was trying to catch up on my sleep. I was so exhausted all the time.

And now everything is different.  I sleep. I have days where I stay awake all day.  Mind you, most of the time, I still nap, but from what I've been told, that's because my body is in sleep debt and it may take a long time to right my system.   However,  the rest of the time, I'm alert. I know what's happening. I'm not craving sleep or fighting to keep myself awake. It's nice.

Of course, the reality is, the difference is only made possible by a machine. Losing weight helps, but given my family's history, it won't help completely. Even the skinny people have this disorder. The machine keeps me sleeping and, really, is helping me to have a life now.

So, I am grateful for the technology that developed my CPAP. I am grateful for the electricity that allows the machine to run. I am grateful to the doctors who helped me to get this and grateful to the medical supply company who is very good to me and helps me keep my machine running. I am so thankful for all of this because last night I was reminded of how bad things could be for me. I'm a lucky girl . . . even if Logo IS still down.

Thank God for Separation of Church and State

To Santorum and anyone else who thinks everything in the US would be just nifty if we got rid of that pesky separation of church and state thing, I would like to talk to you for a moment. Don't be scared. I'm not going to call you an evil theocrat or try and  make you take down your sign or whatever. It seems like you believe everyone who doesn't want our country ran by religion is out to get you, but we're really not.  In fact, all I am going to do is ask you to consider a couple of things.

First of all, I want you to think about the religion that scares you the most.  I know you have one. Everyone has one. You know, that religion that people follow and you have no idea why? The one that seems illogical to the point of depravity to you? The one that not only seems wrong but also diabolical, inhumane, and evil? Yeah, you know the one. It's probably different for all of us .  . . even if you don't think it is.

Got that religion in your head? Okay, now I want you to think about the most radical members of it.  The leaders who command their misguided followers and con them into doing horrible things.  The radicals who do scary things and make it quite clear that they hate the rest of us.  Think about the people who follow this religion who make it very clear that they are out for blood. They don't believe in tolerance for fellowship. They only believe in destroying everyone who is different than they are.

Now . . . imagine that the crazy radicals of this religion that scares you are the people who get to decide what happens in this country.  They get to decide what happens to you, who you marry, what jobs you can hold, how much freedom you will be allowed to have. They get to make decisions about what is taught in schools, what medical practices will be allowed, what rights you get to retain.  If you are a woman, imagine what it will be like when these people get to make decisions about you and how much freedom you get to have, what you can wear, if you get to make decisions about your marriage choices or your children.

What would your life be like if the radical members of the religion that scares you were getting to make all the decisions?

I realize this is slippery slope logic. I know that you will say that it won't be this way.  The crazies won't get power here and everything will be okay because the people who believe like you and think like you will be in charge.  You might also tell me that no religion being followed is just as bad as radical religions.  The government that makes secular decisions is still using your money and doing things with which you don't agree.

We have a long history of people who have felt that way in the US.  Many groups have separated out from the rest of society to live quietly and in a nonparticipating way with the rest of us.  It's not perfect and sometimes there is still violence, but it's rare enough that it always shocks us.

From my perspective, separation of church and state is probably the thing that makes the US the strongest.  We can have people who are very religious of many many faiths living together without so much violence that we stop functioning because, at the end of the day, there is the basic idea that no one religion will be favored over the other.  It doesn't always work that way, but the idea is there.

Because of this, we're not in some constant war for religious dominance. We're not shooting each other in the streets or displacing groups of people because they happen to see their imaginary friends in a different way than we see ours.  This isn't something we should abandon. This is something we should promote. This is something we should make stronger.  If we continue to push the idea that government and religion should be separated, then we also promote the idea that everyone is free to believe how they wish . . . provided they're not hurting other people in the process.

As an American, I have to say nothing makes me more uncomfortable than when a politician starts saying that he or she is putting religion before everything else. To me, this violates the basic concept of a republic. As a representative, you are there to put the will of the people first.  This is not about you and your beliefs. This is about what is best for the people you represent. You are a voice for your community, not a voice for some deity or religious figures.

I think for some politicians, this concept has been lost.

The Four Mice of the Apocalypse

In some kind of cruel assault on my psyche, the mouse trap that is in my closet caught not one, not two, not three, but FOUR mice. FOUR. Four motherfucking mice were inside my closet, sitting on my old cd player and trying to use my hair straightener. FOUR!

You have just no idea how squicked out I am by this. Four fucking mice were in my closet. Oh, and also, I'm deeply saddened that they died. I'm serious about that too. I didn't want them to die. I just wanted them to be, you know, never in my house.  But if they come in. Snap.  You'd think they'd learn.

It seems the first one was in the trap last night. Great. Just....wonderful. That means its evil little mouse ghost floated out of the closet and haunted me in my sleep. Oh my god, why did I just type that? Now I'll never be able to sleep again.  Fucking mice!  My roommate removed it this afternoon and within ten minutes, another one snapped the trap.  I was in shock. When there was just one mouse, I could pretend it was an isolated event and keep my mind from filling with horrific images of the whole fucking closet just being a giant mouse orgy.  Once there were two though . . .

Actually, two wasn't so bad.  A fluke. But then.....within an hour, the trap snapped closed again.  Three.  And the last one was caught soon after. Four mice. FOUR MICE!!!

Now I'm living in some kind of HP Lovecraft horror story. Mice in my walls, darting around. Breeding. Plotting against me.  Their ghosts urging the others to dig out past the barriers I have blocking my closet and and scurry up to my bed and rip me to pieces.  I'll wake up covered in mice and mouse bites. I'll wake up with little eyes staring into mine, fully prepares to remove my soul and rip it into millions of little mouse-sized bits, preventing me from ever feeling whole for the rest of eternity!

Okay. Okay. Breath. Breath, damn you.  The mice won't tear up your soul.  Probably. Maybe.

Dammit, why couldn't it just be Cthulhu in my closet?

Subtle Kindness

Like many women of her time (and many of those who came before her), my grandmother could sew.  She wasn't the best seamstress in the world, but she quite a lot of skill. In fact, she made my senior prom dress . . . a kindness on her part, as it's not that easy to find fat girl prom dresses. It was quite lovely, I might add.

She made quite a lot of clothes for me over the years.  I couldn't sew, but I loved finding patterns with her and discussing what material to use.  It's not something I thought much about at the time, but when I consider the long list of things about my grandmother that I miss, it's one of them. I was thinking about her sewing today and it reminded me of something she used to do, something I'd not really considered until just then.

One of Gran's GO TO patterns was a simple house dress. I've included a picture of how it worked so you understand the basic idea. Three arm holes, you wrap it around and get full coverage.

Gran had like dozens of these in just about every color and print you can imagine. She would wear them almost all Spring and Summer, and even sometimes into the Fall.  The house dress had a lot of advantages to it. It was comfortable but quite fashionable at the same time.  It felt like a nightgown, but served as a public outfit. It could look quite chic depending on the material, but was so easy that if something happened to it, you didn't worry too much.

But there was more to it than that, and I didn't really connect all the dots until just this morning when I was thinking about something Gran would do with this pattern.  Whenever any woman around her had surgery or had a baby or any other situation where they were going to be in a kind of long recovery process, Gran would always make one of these dresses for them. The pattern, as I said, was a Go To for her, and she could make them very quickly.

See, the dress isn't just comfortable and easy to wear, it's really easy to get into.  No lifting your arm, no difficult movements, no need for anyone go help you. You just slip it on and pull it around, boom. You're covered. You can handle guests.  And whenever you're in a state of recovering from something, you always have guests.  People stop by to check on you. They bring you stuff. They want to look at the new baby or make sure you're okay.  Even in the midst of being in maybe the most pain you've been in during your whole life, you still have to play hostess.

Making one of these little wrap dresses was incredibly kind of her. It was a very practical gift that allowed the women to look presentable while dealing with their guests. And no, the guests probably did not care how they looked, but to the women themselves, even in the middle of the pain, it probably did matter. This was a gift of practicality, convenience, and dignity.

As I have mentioned before, Gran had a mastectomy when she was 42.  I think a lot of the things she had to deal with during that time helped to shape the decision to give the gift of the dress.  I know it was a really rough time for her and she was always grateful for all the kindness that the women of the neighborhood showed her. It really touched her that people could be so generous and loving to those around them.  She knew she didn't cook well, but she could make the dress for others.

I'm really overwhelmed by this.  I think the most beautiful thing about it is that she never really talked about it. She never sat around and said, "Oh look, I make these dresses for people. I'm so cool."  I think maybe her Belle kicked in and she felt it wasn't appropriate to do so, either because it wasn't polite to brag about your good deeds or just because it wasn't nice to talk about what other people were going through.

Whatever the case, I am supremely proud of my grandmother for doing this.  I think it's one of the most beautiful things she ever did and whenever I think about her accomplishments, making these dresses for women in need will always be on the list. 

Fashion As Business and Philosophy

Tonight, the age old question about art was posed on After the Runway. Which is better . . . to do work that you would wear or to do work that you believe appeals to the most people? There was a kind of gender bias to this question, as the person who asked it was discussing how female designers often design things they, themselves would wear and male designers create things for a kind of generalized woman.

The practical answer is that you do not design for yourself.  Designing to your own tastes limits the appeal and the market. Moreover, as your tastes change, your design would change, meaning how people viewed you would also change. In a basic way, it makes sense.

However, I believe that designing for yourself and your own tastes has some very strong advantages.

• Designing things you would wear keeps your aesthetic pure.  If you are creating things to your taste and you have a very clear vision of what that is, you never have to second guess what you're doing.  You never have to worry if your work is following a trend or outdated or something that you copied from someone else.  You never have to worry if the work is genuine.  You know it is because it's what you wanted.  Even if no one else likes it, you do.  And, unless you're deeply socially maladjusted, others will like it as well. Hell, maybe even more because of that.
  
• Designing things you would wear keeps you inspired. If you are relying on what others are wanting or what will make you the most money, design can begin to get tiring.  Maybe you don't want to design jumpsuits (In fact, please don't do them. They're ugly. They are always ugly.), but feel you should.  Maybe the current looks leave you flat.  It will become very difficult to muster up the creativity to keep going.  However, if you are designing for yourself, what you want to wear serves to inspire you.
   
• Designing things for yourself insures that you'll have things to wear.  To me, this is the best and biggest advantage to being this kind of designer.  You never have to worry about finding things for yourself.  You can create your own clothing, accessories, and everything else.  I think this applies a lot to people wear clothing based in less populated genres of fashion. There are people out there who design amazing steampunk looks or goth corsets for big girls or Jedi robes. They make these things because, while it is a niche market, it is the niche they love.  The one where they, personally, need things made.
  
• Designing things you would wear gives you the chance to build a smaller, but more loyal client base. Will everyone in the world want your Cthulhu hat? No.  But the people who, like you, adore the idea of said, hat, will squeal with delight at the idea of it and buy the shit out of that thing.  They'll show it to their friends, who will want one. You'll make a decent amount of money and everyone gets an evil hat. Win win.

Keep in mind, designing things you would wear yourself needs to be the true thing you're doing, not just the excuse you're using for why your lameass shit looks the way it does. You have to mean it. You have to have an understanding of who you are and what you really do want to wear. You also have to accept that it does limit the appeal.  However, if you can do all of this, designing things you would wear every day of your life could make you a very happy person. Maybe even a successful one!

Lent Revisited

I did a post over Lent last year, about things that, were I the kind of person who gives things up, I would consider actually giving up for Lent. This year, I'm going to make suggestions to others who claim to be Christians on things that I would really really like for them to give up.

• For Lent, I would really like it if you gave up trying to control my body.  You don't like abortion? Fine.  You think birth control pills are evil? Crazy .  . . but whatever. How about this . . . instead of trying to ban things and end things and make things illegal, how about you concentrate all this energy and effort into removing the reasons that lead people to seek birth control in the first place.
  
  Fund research to make giving birth safer.  Help to change laws to create a smoother path to adoption. Poor all your "Let's Bomb the Abortion Clinic" money into a charitable fund to support women during their pregnancies.  Find ways to make the world a place worth bringing a child into. Fund research into safer birth control. Fund vasectomies. Do positive things instead of just making laws to limit people's choices.
  
• For Lent, I would really like for you to focus on YOUR relationship with Christ and not worry about other people.  According to the Bible, Christ loves you and wants a relationship with you.  Now, how would you feel if you loved someone and whenever you talked to them, all they could do was be angry about how no one else loves you?  They just bitched and complained because no one was on your side.  It would get old.  After a while, you'd start to feel really lonely because you don't want to hear about everyone else.  You just want this one person to love you.
  
  So instead of spending all your time thinking about "Jesus's enemies," spend your time thinking about Jesus.  Talk to him. Sing to him. And better yet, listen to him.  Read what he had to say about how to live and how to treat people.  And don't just think about how it applies to others.  Christianity is founded on the idea that everyone can have a personal relationship with their savior. Focus on that. On YOUR relationship.
  
• For Lent, I would really like it if you stopped excluding people. When Jesus was on the cross, he wasn't just dying for your sins and the socially acceptable sins of others.  He was dying for everyone because he loved everyone. Everyone.  You, the homosexuals, the people of other faiths, the rapists, the child molesters, the commies, the liberals, the conservatives, the rich, the poor, the lazy, the driven, the greedy, the drug addicts, the whores, everyone. All of us.
  
  The message that you are supposed to be giving to people is one of love and hope.  Jesus loves them. He has open arms for them.  Many churches have a call to alter song called "Just as I am."  Not "when I am better" or "when I'm someone worthy." Everyone is worthy. Everyone is wanted. No matter what you see as a sin, you have to keep in mind that you are a sinner as well. Not less of a sinner than others. There is no distinction. All are loved.

So really, what I would like for you to give up for Lent is your negatives.  It's not easy.  It's something I've been trying to do for a while now and it's hard as hell. Everyday, I see stuff that makes me so angry and, for a while, I let myself just boil over in that rage.

I shouldn't though. It does me no good.  It just wastes energy I could be using on other things, positive things that could give me positive results. People like to throw around the "you reap what you sow" bit.  Most of the time when we say that, it seems to be with a little bit of delighted, self-righteous spite . . . because we're always thinking of other people . . . people we see as horrible . . . when we say it.

Just for a second though, apply it to yourself.  You reap what you sow.  What are you sowing?  Are you sowing positive things? Are you sowing love and hope?  Are you sowing friendship and trust? Or are you sowing anger and bitterness and intolerance?

For Lent, if you must make a change in your life, sow some love.  Sow some love.  It could yield you some amazing results. 

Happy with Tuesdays

It's been three weeks since the switch on therapy day and I am still very pleased with the change.  In both terms of day and time, it's made a huge difference in how I feel and respond to my session.  For one thing, having it on Tuesday means the beginning of my week is fuller, but the rest of the week is pretty smooth.  This is very nice for me.

Changing from ten to eleven is even better. It gives me some time to relax in the morning. I'm not rushed about my shower or hair and makeup . . . such as it is. I have time to eat some breakfast and get some caffeine in my system. And I likes me some caffeine!  Seriously, I do. I really dread the day the health Nazis try to take away our caffeine.  Joykilling bastards.

Anyway, not only am I more relaxed, my therapist seems to be as well. Then again, this is an hour later for her too. She's had more time to get her day started and be ready for whatever level of nutso I bring to the party.  It seems to be changing the nature of how we approach things.  I've noticed we've been more task-oriented, which I think is working well for me.

The only downside seems to be the heavy traffic I have to deal with when I leave. It's noon so everyone is out trying to get something to eat . . . and get it fast. Even this isn't such a problem though, as there are any number of routes I can take from therapy to home. If one is busy, I just switch directions.

When I get home, I usually have a couple of hours to reflect on the session before getting social with others. This is proving to be helpful as well, because I think I need the absorption time. Too often, it seems like I walk out of therapy and just don't think about what we did for a few days.  Reflection only an hour or so later is probably a good thing.

And if you're reading this and thinking that it's a waste of a post and why should BHB care about something so simple as a change in schedule, allow me to explain.  You see, for people who have spent most of their lives thinking they make bad decisions or stupid decisions or, worse, no decisions at all, trusting one's own judgement is difficult.

If you're someone who is in that position, take the time to really be proud of yourself when you make changes to your life or make decisions that are the RIGHT ones. Applaud yourself for looking at your problems and coming up with good plans for how to solve them. Once you get into the habit of acknowledging your excellent choices, you will begin to trust yourself again.

And isn't that a glorious idea?

Partying Maturely . . . to a Point

I went to a party today.  I'm glad I went, as it was planned by my best friend and she wanted me there.  I really wish it was just a simple matter of "she has party and I go over." However, with my physical issues and the distance, there is always a lot of apprehension involved whenever I do the party thing. I did go though, and I managed to avoid some of the issues I sometimes have when going to parties.

• I'm a total lightweight when it comes to drinking. Give me a few and I'm buzzed and silly . . . and just silly enough to keep drinking more. I hate the feeling of being anywhere past buzzed, so I told myself I would have three drinks and no more. I would drink them slowly and enjoy how they complimented the food. And you know what? I managed to do just that.
  
• One of the other side issues for parties is that I tend to not drink enough water.    I hate the feeling of being all dehydrated and, as I've been a bit sickish lately, knew I was teetering close to that. So I brought a bottle of water and drank it as I ate. I made sure to have it refilled whenever I was finished with it, and drank as much as I wanted from the bottle. Thankfully, this kept me from feeling all wonky when I left.
  
• I also tend to eat too much at parties. Besides just the issue with calories, I also didn't want to feel all bloated and horrible. I ate, but only until I was full. I reminded myself I could try other stuff later, there was plenty to be had. Actually, I think there was about enough food for 30 people. My friend is really a great hostess.  I probably didn't do as well with this one as I should have.  I still ate too much, but no where near to the point of discomfort.
  
• I never take pictures.  I know people who have millions of pictures of their events and activities. I have . . . almost none. I don't document.  I took my camera and while I was accused of taking so many pictures I was trying to make a scrapbook from the party, I still feel it was worth it.  I documented my fun night. And it was fun.

It's funny how if someone was telling me to do these things, especially when I was younger, I would have rolled my eyes and made myself miserable anyway. You know, one of those "I'm hurting myself just to spite YOU" kind of logical fuck ups. Honestly, I bet a lot of people would read this and think it was lame. Oh golly gosh. You were all good. How boring.

You know, I would never tell someone else how to handle these situations.  Everyone is different and we all have to know and trust our own bodies about what our limits are and how we should respond to them. Sometimes, the excess is totally worth it.

Most of the time though, you just end up puking.

Nights of Dread and Folding

The other night I dreamed that flags in the US would, on occasion, also flash your home address and vital information about your life.  My grandmother, who was still alive in this dream, freaked out about it and told me to start removing the flags.  And I, thinner and in high school (high school, always a bad sign in dreams) did as she asked.

In dreams, of course, you never do things in a logical way. Instead of just using the ropes to pull the flags down, I would knock down the flagpoles. I would get them to fall and then I would drag them down the street as they made loud grinding noises and shot off sparks.  They would leave gashes in the pavement and I knew the police would be able to trace them to me. I knew this, but I kept doing it, because Gran wanted the flags down.

As I continued to take more and more poles down, my fear of being caught began to consume me.  My hands would shake as I'd remove the flags from the broken poles.  I would take them to an abandoned warehouse and fold them.

Folding the flags became this whole obsessive sequence in the dream. I would fold them and refold them and refold them until everything was perfect, everything was smoothed.  I remembered considering ironing them, but instead opted to just smooth them with my hands, pressing and smoothing until they lay flat and free of wrinkles. Sometimes I knew it would take days for this to happen.

When I wasn't folding flags or stealing them, I spent my time in the dream dreading the moment when the authorities would realize it was me.  Dread is like the worst damned thing ever to feel in a dream.  Dread doesn't go away. Even after you wake up, the dread will stay with you. It's this horrible carryover from your dreamtime.  I always feel really betrayed when that happens. I go to sleep to rest, dammit, not to be tortured.

I'm sure part of the problem is that I woke up before I was caught.  The dread kept building and building and I never had that moment where it could melt away because everyone knew.   No, I had to keep this secret that I was the one stealing the flags.  No one ever knew.

Of course, there are so many things about this dream that would never happen in my waking life.  Okay, I could very well see the government being that invasive and I know my grandmother would freak out about it.  However, I don't think I would have this sense of duty to honor her crazy and take down the flags.  And even if I did, I think my laziness and common sense would override the sense of duty.  Plus, I'd never get away with it.

Although, I can get very very obsessed with folding . . .

Comments from the Front Line

In a whole house of places for a cat to park its butt, for some reason, mine always want the exact same spot.  I just watched two of them fighting over the arm of the couch. What started out as a simple moment of territory has led to an all out declaration of war . . . soon to be ended by the spraying of the water bottle. 

This arm has some damage on it, so my roommate covered it with an old table cloth that is about the same color as said couch. Because the arm now has a different texture than the rest of the couch, the cats have decided it's the SUPER SPECIAL PLACE to sit/lay/sleep and covet it with all they are.

For anyone who doesn't own animals and believes them to be too simple to covet things, you're mistaken. Cats can covet. They can also lie. I doubt they honor their mother, have no concept of a father, and tend to worship the sun or themselves.  Really, I don't think there isn't a Commandment cats don't break.

Anyway, Sour Old Neenee Cat* was sitting in the special spot.  She'd been gunning for it all day, watching for it to open up.  For hours and hours, Stupid Boy Cat claimed it as his, sleeping there, basking there, and, to the mind of Sour Old NeeNee, being quite smug about it.  However, as all cats are wont to do, he had to leave to use the litter box.  NeeNee saw this as her chance and settled into the special place.

Once Stupid Boy Cat returned, he tried to jump back into what he believed to be HIS spot.  Imagine his dismay to see NeeNee there. She hissed and he backed away, but not far away. It was then that she began to understand her predicament.  The bed was now hers, but she could not rest.  Everyone else wanted her place. She eyed the boy cat and showed him her fangs as she offered him a low, challenging growl.

The problem with being a sour cat is that one tends to growl a lot. When one growls a lot, one's growls cease to be taken seriously. This was certainly the case with the pisspot known as NeeNee Cat. Boy Cat ignored her and began to bat at her face, hoping to make her leave.  This caused more growling and more hissing.  He rubbed against the couch, which served to only fuel her anger. Her growling increased in volume, less of a warning now, more of declaration of war.

They sprang at the same time.  He jumped to battle her, she dove to destroy him.  Paws and fur and fangs and claws.  In sinuous union, they circled, each trying to do the other the most harm. Boy Cat had the reach and size in his favor. Neenee had . . . well, at least more brains than he did, and her pure and unending supply of bitterness. He bit at her tail and she, for the moment forgetting to guard the coveted spot, ran into my bedroom.

As he is not smart, Boy Cat gave chase, cornering her in one of her other favorite spots.  One would think he'd just settle into the special place, now that it had been vacated, but . . . well, like I said, he's not smart. Instead, he continued his battle. Batting at her, making her howl and hiss and begin a series of noises so ungodly they could only be cat curse words.

The battle ended soon after, as I'd had enough with telling them to stop it and now found it necessary to end the battle with one of my special human powers . . . the spray bottle full of water. This ended the war as both combatants suddenly realized they had other things to do besides beat each other.  Sour Old NeeNee cat stayed in my room.  Stupid Boy Cat wondered around aimlessly for a while . . . and then settled back into the Special Spot as it was empty again.

The war has ended.  Blessed be the day.


*Cat names changed to protect from litigation.

The Dull Tipped #2 Blues

In all of our lives, we have wars.  Sometimes these wars are the kind with other people and there is blood and killing and death. Other times, the wars are metaphorical, with metaphorical blood and killing and death. . .usually. The metaphorical wars are more common, but no less frustrating while happening and sweet when won.

One of my lifelong wars has been with pencil sharpeners. For many, many years, my art happened due to pencils of both the #2 and colored variety. Because of this, homework, and just the general life of someone who lived before computers were common, I tended to dull a lot of tips.

Because of this, pencil sharpeners became the bane of my existence. They were never sharp enough or they were the wrong size or just had some other kind of general fuckuppery about them. And when I would find a good one, somehow they would always disappear.

The main sharpener in my life as a child was a standard manual one my grandparents had screwed to the wall. It looks a lot like the one found here. I hated this thing. It was constantly dull and constantly wonky . . . as in, it would sharpen half the pencil, but somehow the other side would be all screwed up. Wall mounted sharpeners at school always bothered me as well.  No fat child wants to get up and sharpen a pencil, a motion that will cause them to twist and jiggle.  Any attempt to handle a dulled pencil was met by snickering laughter. Fuckers.

The little handheld ones weren't a lot better. As an artist, I've gone through millions of these. Half the time, the size was just slightly off, causing the pencils to sharpen in this kind of skewed way.  The other half of the time, the body of the thing wan't stable, so after only a couple of weeks, it would break . . . usually in some way that led to me getting cut. Sometimes the blood wasn't so metaphorical.

The worst handheld ones were the little bastards used for sharpening eyeliner pencils. Oh my god, the horror.  I could never get those damned things to work. I probably wasted half the pencil of liner just on trying to sharpen the damned thing. It would always end up with a jagged edge . . . not something you really want to put into your eye.  The day I found eyeliner you never have to sharpen was one of the best days of my life. And I don't mean that stuff that you just liquid onto your eyelid.  Until I was 30, all I could do with that shit was flood my eyeball with it, which really hurts.

From about the time I was ten, I started requesting an electric pencil sharpener for Christmas/birthday. No one took me seriously because they thought it was a stupid gift.  I would try and point out to them that no, it wasn't, because I draw and have tons of pencils . . . well, you know. Still, they never listened, not for many, many years. Finally, and I'm guessing here she just couldn't think of anything else and happened to be in the office supply part of the store, my mom bought me one for Christmas/birthday.

!!!!!!

You know, my mom was never great on gifts, but I will never see that because she bought me an electric pencil sharpener. It was what I wanted. It was what I wanted for years, and it truly changed my life!

I loved everything about that sharpener. I found its putty colored plastic exterior to be dashing. I found it's loudass grinding sound to be poetic. I loved the smell of the shavings from its little dumping box. Best of all, so much the best part of all, I loved the beautiful, perfectly sharp pencils that would come from it. I loved how whenever that tip was no longer perfect, I could just stick it back into the machine and without any hassle or fuss, I got my sharp pencil back. It was so easy, so wonderful.

You know, there is some kind of sexual innuendo fueled Blues song in all of this.

Now I got me a pencil.
Need a place to sharpen the tip.
I say I got me a pencil
And I need a place to sharpen the tip.
But all my sharpeners now now now,
They can't manage to sharpen it.

I got me one mounted on the wall.
But it just left me all sideways and dull.
I got one I hold in my hand
But the results are crooked and bland.
I need me some electric power
To make my tip sharp, straight and grand.

Wow, it writes itself.  Anyway, long story short, the electric pencil sharpener made my life better and now no one uses it because computers and pens. But still, I will always love it to the depths of my soul.

The Greatest Love of All

I have to confess, I never liked Whitney Houston's music. I found it to be cheesy and rather mundane and the kind of stuff I would never listen to ever unless subject to it on the radio. Even then, I'd usually change it.  I just wasn't a fan.  As far as I am concerned, the best thing the woman ever did musically was set up a situation where Dolly Parton would get more money.  Dolly wrote "I Will Always Love You" and did it far better.

So it isn't as a fan that I say I find the woman's death and the circumstances leading to her death to be very tragic. In the song "The Greatest Love of All," she sang the lines "no matter what they take from me/they can't take away my dignity." As I think about her death, it pains me to think those lines proved to be false.  Due to drug use, a very public life, and some bad choices, it seems that Houston did lose her dignity.  In the public eye, she became, as so many other female pop singers do, a joke.

Even now, it seems that on Facebook, I see as many people writing horrible things about her as sad and respectful things. Lots of people are making crack whore comments, some of them even questioning why her family would be shocked by the situation. On a personal note, that last part offended me the most.  I knew my grandmother was about to die when she did, but even still, her death was very shocking to me.

I feel no personal connection to her, but I do wish her life could have continued. As much as "The Greatest Love of All" gets on my nerves, I wish the song could have been true for her. I wish she could have decided to love herself and embrace who she was, live with dignity, and be whole and happy. It kind of kills me to think of how she felt about that song as the years passed. I hope she didn't cringe when she considered how far her life was from it.  I hope she just promised herself she'd try harder . . . even if part of her knew she wouldn't.

She didn't do music I liked, but even I can't deny her voice.  For the type of ballad stuff she did, it was powerful, beautiful. I know that a lot of people loved her work and she influenced a lot of the female artists who came after her. And she was loved . . . by her family, her friends, and her fans.  She was loved. Goodbye, Whitney, if they let you read social media in the next life, try to ignore all the snide comments. Haters gonna hate, girlfriend. Let it slide.

Snow Monday and Stuff

It snowed today and of course I ended up outside.  The roads were clear though, so it wasn't so bad. Just all wet and nasty and cold.  In a strange way though, it was also nice. Winter should be winter, dammit.

Actually, it was nice in a lot of ways.  The sky stayed overcast, and I love that. I always feel more protected and safe when the sky is full of clouds.  The house was warm(ish) and the cats stayed near us and cuddled.  They were also extra floofed because that helps to keep them warm.

I took a long, happy nap and one of the cats slept on me.  She purred almost the whole time. It was so sweet that I actually forgave her for puking on my medical equipment.  Maybe "forgive" is the wrong word. I wasn't mad at her. I knew she didn't do it on purpose.  I was still annoyed though. It was gross.

The day had it's moments of other annoyances. I read where a lot of ignorant Twitter users had no idea who Paul McCartney is. Ugh. You know, even if you don't know who he is (bad) tweeting about it (worse) before taking three seconds to look it up on Wikipedia is unforgivable. Why do people have to broadcast their ignorance?

I also had to see the Duggars on some commercial. They always annoy me too. Vain fuckers making tons of little copies of themselves. Adopt, dammit.

Anyway, aside from that, it was a good Monday. Hopefully, the rest of the week will be nice as well.

True and Lasting Affection

Ahh, love.  This is the time of year when we celebrate love. Wait, no. This is the time of year when almost everyone gets kind of twisty about love and relationships and chocolate and materialism an all of that. Somehow, we tend to forget the LOVE part of it all. I won't though. I'm gonna talk about the things I love. Yes, I do mean things. Last year, one of my bestest friends wrote a blog post about showing love to the things that make your life happy.  That post inspired this one.

I love Netflix.  I know a lot of people have issues with it, but I think they maybe have some short term memory issues.  I don't think they remember the soulsucking hours spent in video stores, looking hopelessly through the same selections as some snarky, bitter employee eyed you with sarcastic detachment and explained, yet again, that the movie about the gay rock star you wanted would not be in this week. Or ever. I think people also forget the hell of having things due by the next morning, the pain of late fees.

Netflix took all of that away! No more bad selection. No more late fees. No more human contact with assholes who work in video stores.  No more having to be selective about what you rent. Actually, to me that last part is the best thing about Netflix. You've already PAID for the service. You might as well rent every last damned thing you've even remotely wanted to see . . .even that documentary about frogs.

I love my CPAP. My CPAP keeps me breathing at night, which means not only do I get truly rested, but I also am safer from death.  See, people with sleep apnea have a tendency to just...well, suffocate in their sleep.  Mind you, I DO wish to die in my sleep some day, just not any time soon.

The best part of having the CPAP though, as I have mentioned before, is that I got so much of my life back.  When you're sleep deprived, you have so much trouble staying awake. I would fall asleep every day for hours and hours. Of course, it was never a deep or restful sleep, which just made it all the most frustrating.  To me, sleep was like a hunger. I needed it. I craved it like I was starving. I would fantasize about being able to sleep.

Once I got the CPAP, that fantasy became my everyday.  I could sleep again. I actually entered deep sleep and rested and was able to wake up the next day and function suddenly falling asleep. It was glorious.  It's been about four years now, but I still feel so grateful that this change has happened in my life.

You know, it occurs to me that I've somewhat matured about what I love and feel happiness toward. I realize I just discussed THINGS, however, the qualities I love about these things are quite positive and could translate very well to what I would romantically love about someone.

I love things that improve my life. I love things that solve problems rather than creating new ones. I love things that make major impacts on the quality of the life I have. I love things that aid in my life being better than it once was.  Hmm . . . how very healthy of me.

To Have Such People In It

Most of the time, I'm rather disenchanted with the world. I think a lot of this has to do with how I let myself pay attention to other people, a thing I should be more selective about doing.  Quite often, I find myself dealing with ignorance, pettiness, disinformation, and just downright bullshit.  I try to let it slide.  I try to find irony in it. I try to remember that one should pay no attention to those who are just trolling for attention.

It gets disheartening though.  The hateful bullshit gets to me, as much as I don't want it to.  I try to forgive and remember everyone's just on their own path . . . but I really wish those paths were farther away from me. Yeah, even farther than that.  I fall into the ennui. I fall into the despair of it all.

But then . . .

There are moments in my life when I see things other people have done and it just fills me with giddy pleasure at the creativity of humans. These moments are, I truly believe, the reason why I don't go around finding ways to poison others.  Oh, I keep forgetting the authorities read my blog. Hey, feds. S'up? *wink*

Certain songs do this to me and I don't even mean the deep ones.  My best friend and I were listening to The Buzzcocks the other day and I was shithappy as hell about how amazingly creative people can be.  I love wit. I love a good turn of phrase. I love a jolting, perfect guitar riff.

Tonight, one of those moment happened again. I was watching RuPaul's Drag Race and there is a goth queen on there.  Her drag name is Sharon Needles. HOLY FUCK! That's just glorious!  It's the best goth drag queen name ever.  I love it to pieces and I want her to win and I'm so happy she shared her wit with the world.

Thanks, Sharon Needles. That was really damned sharp of you!

Get it?

Sims Geekery: The Starbling Family

After a long hiatus, I've started playing Sims 3 again. So far, I'm four generations into a family and it's not imploded on me yet. We'll see how it goes. I'm trying to keep the custom content to a minimum. Maybe that will help.  I'm honestly not sure.

Still, despite the fear that everything will screw up on me, I'm enjoying it again. That the gaming gods for that. I'd hate to think I (and others) have spent this much money on something that, in the end, just annoyed me and I walked away from it in horror. Actually, that would seriously piss me off.

Anyway, the above picture is of my current heir.  His name is Knox Starbling.  As I said, he's the fourth generation in, and I'm very much enjoying him and his family. His great-grandfather, another Knox, started out as homeless. Well, he had a home lot, but I didn't give him anything beyond just a sleeping bag.  He had to eat off the land and use public bathrooms. Eventually, he got a job as an actor and met a nice woman to marry. They had a son that I named Thorn.

Sadly, the first Knox didn't want to stay faithful, so he and his wife ended their marriage. He even left the house for a while. She raised Thorn and became a mad scientist.  Thorn buried his daddy issues into art and grew close to a girl from his school. Renella, who would eventually become his wife, was a great sim.  She went to their prom in her bright orange swim suit.

By the time he was a teenager, Thorn fulfilled his life time wish and reached the top of the art world.  His mother was getting really close to death though, so I managed to move Knox back in so that Thorn wouldn't get picked up by social workers for being on his own. I think the sight of him drove his first wife to her grave.

Thorn was happy to have his father home, but it didn't last long.  The very night Thorn became an adult, his father moved out and married one of his floosy girlfriends. Thorn married his high school sweetheart and they had a daughter that I named Blair. Thorn and his wife were insanely happy.  The only time I had any issue with him at all was during his midlife crisis. When his wife became an elder, he suddenly wanted to divorce her. I knew it was just the crisis talking though.

Thorn  was a very successful artist and pushed the family from moderately wealthy into the rich levels. His world revolved around his wife and child, probably because his own father had been so neglectful. Sadly, his wife died way before he did.  He encouraged Blair to find happiness and continued his art.  He even took in the half-brother his father left alone (after he finally died) and allowed him to stay with the family until he married and moved out.

Interestingly, Reese (the half-brother) proved to be far more like his father than Thorn was. Reese broke up a marriage in order to be with the woman he loved and    even let her turn him into a vampire. I don't think he ever got a job. They have a daughter, Gwendolyn, who was born a vampire.

Like her father, Blair has spent her life dedicated to family and her creative goals. She's a writer, a very, very prolific writer. I think at the moment we're working on book #72. I love Blair, but she has some annoying habits. For one thing, she's a Neat Sim. If I don't keep her busy, she'll be off cleaning up anything and everything.  I've never seen a sim so happy to be making beds.  She's also a lot of fun though. Now that she's an Elder, she constantly harasses the world and complains about young people.  It's awesome.

She married her bookish high school sweetheart Matthew. Interestingly, I didn't even have to work on their relationship. They became friends at school.  He asked her to prom and then asked to go steady while they were AT the prom.  It's like she just fell into the relationship. They married shortly before Thorn's death and had our current boy Knox.

What's in store for Knox? Well, he's continuing the family tradition of art.  He's also dating a girl he's known since grade school. And who is this girl? Why . . . it's Gwendolyn!  Sim family ties only go back three generations.  He has no idea they're related through his great-grandslut of a grandfather.

To be continued . . . unless the game implodes.

In Which She Reveals even MORE Crazy Paranoia Stuffs

The second episode of The River brought up some nasty memories I'd tried to repress.  You know, some people believe repression is always bad. I'm not so sure about that.  There really are some things that are best buried. In this case, that's a literal thing.

This happened when I was about six years old. In the bedroom I shared with my brother in the second of Mom's houses (of the many that have burned), I once found a doll inside the wall. I can't really remember why the wall had been opened.  It wasn't the whole wall, just a small part of it, maybe where a vent had been or something.  I do remember reaching inside the hole and digging around. I found some material, and bits of newspaper, and a small doll.

The doll was naked and completely plastic.  It was dirty and clearly neglected for a long while. Its blonde hair stood out in all directions and its eyes were brown. In terms of size, it looked like it would fit in nicely as some preteen Barbie was babysitting.  This is the function I decided the doll would serve.

Normally, I would have been thrilled at this find.  I always was with things like that. I loved treasure, I loved mysterious things that came into my life unexpectedly. But this doll gave me pause.  No, not pause. I thought the doll was evil.

I'm not saying I believe in possessed dolls. And, I'm sure you're rolling your eyes at me, thinking this is just a child's imagination running away with her. Perhaps you're right. Hopefully, you're right. But I'm not so sure.  The doll just set something off in me.  We also have to remember it had been put inside a wall, away from everyone in the world.

Past finding the doll, things got really bad for me.  It's like any protections I had as a kid were gone. My step-father was horribly abusive. People shot at our house. My mother's insanity escalated and seemed to have no upper limit. I was routinely bleeding, crying, starving. One time I was put out in the cold and left for hours.

I understand the faulty logic of assuming the doll had anything to do with this. It doesn't work in my rational perspective of the world. Of course, as you so well know, with my mind, there are always the darker recesses that sometimes hold on to bitter secrets and horrible truths. I don't want to believe that doll was cursed and somehow harmed my by its influence. I really do not want to believe that at all.

However, I did put the doll back inside the wall. Normally when I put aside a toy or any object I have had contact with, I feel some level of remorse.  Not this time. When I placed that doll back inside it's tomb, I felt only relief.  I felt like some kind of dark line had been removed from my life.  Almost instantly.

I stopped thinking about the doll. I knew it was still there, in the dark, waiting, but whenever thoughts of it would enter my mind, I'd push them away. After a while, I forgot about the doll, or at least told myself I had.

After watching the episode about the doll tree, the little cursed doll came back into my head.  I thought about must have happened to it when the house burned, thought about it melting and distorting, as whatever spirit inside it lifted out and moved away forever. Finally, it was just a little mass of nothing plastic, harmless to everyone.  Harmless to me.

The Results of Changing The Schedule

A while back, my therapist and I went through a space of several weeks where we kept missing each other.  The end result was her . . . well, I'm not sure what happened to her after not seeing me. I, however, got really freaked out and paranoid.

We talked it over and decided it would be best to change the day we see each other. I'm sure you've deduced by now that I'm not really much of a fan of changes to my schedule, but in this case, it's prove to be a welcome one.  Aside from the obvious results, changing when I see her has some added benefits as well.

The best part about seeing her on Tuesdays as opposed to Wednesdays the lack of conflict.  She has a more stable and dependable babysitter on those days. She has less outside and unexpected obligations. Because of this, it will be easier for us to keep our meetings.  Now, normally, I love getting out of things. My very nature delights when I don't have to leave the house. Therapy is needed though. It clears my mind, it helps me to regroup, and it gives me time to rant about all the things. Being able to do this on a regular basis is one of the reasons I'm less bonkers now that I was ten years ago.

The change has some nice unintended consequences as well. For one thing, I'm meeting her an hour later than I used to. This means I can eat breakfast before I go. Not only does this mean I'll have a more regulated blood sugar level when I see her, but, more importantly, I won't be tempted to go pick something up at McDonald's or something. More wholesome meals and less calories.  Once I'm there, I don't have to walk past men, because no men's group therapy sessions are going on. Yay!

Tuesdays are also better because it's not lined up with getting the trash out. Before, I had to come home from therapy, eat, and then deal with getting my part of the trash to the curb. And, yeah, I realize this really isn't a big deal, but it's one less hassle I have to deal with all on the same day now, which is most excellent. It also frees up the rest of the week for me to do whatever I need.

I realize most people can't change so easily change aspects of their schedule, but if you have something that is proving to be difficult and know you can find ways to change the day or time, do so. Not only will it solve that problem, but you may discover all manner of other issues that this change will fix for you as well. Sometimes making small adjustments to our lives can make all the difference.

The Tale of the Whonk Bird and Other Horrors

I've mentioned before how I love birds. I love their fat little crests and various colors. I love to watch them fly. I love how oddly ordered and measured their lives are. I think birds are so pretty when they perch on things. I think they're adorable when they hop around. I don't want to own a bird (they're either too much commitment or, well, I have cats), but I love that I have so many of them around me all the time. Well, usually, I love that. Sometimes birds can be total bitches.

For instance, this morning, as I was lounging in bed and listening to the morning song of the birds, things were disrupted by one of their rank.  Sing sing sing sing WHONK!  I know I made some face when I heard this last bit.  Maybe it was just a random car horn or something. Sing sing sing sing WHONK! I swear, this time, even the song birds stopped. I could just imagine them all outside, their eyes wide as they looked around to figure out which one of them was making that horrible noise. I didn't hear the whonk bird after that. I'm guessing they snobbed it off.

A few years back, some stupid bird laid its eggs in the parking lot of the place where I go for therapy. The office manager felt for the bird, and set up a barrier so no one would hit the eggs. Well and good. However, any time you walked to the building, the birds thought you were attacking the nest and would run at you, wings batting, making the most horrible noise ever. Just in case you're ever in the situation, it's quite impossible to explain to a pissed off bird that you're not going to harm its nest.  Just get away a quickly as possible.

However, no little bird can compare to the scary ass moment you realize you've pissed off a goose. I used to hang out at the park and watch the ducks swimming and doing their little duck stuff. It was calming and lovely and usually brought me a sense of peace and serenity.

Then the local geese had children, and everything went to hell. Every time someone would show up at the pond, the geese assumed they were there to destroy their children. I admire people who are committed to protecting their families, but this was rather overboard.

I didn't realize the geese had spawned until I pulled up to my usual spot and rolled down my window to get some air. Next thing I knew, I hear this loud HONK! right by my ear and turn to see the open and hissing mouth of a goose.  I managed not to pee on myself, but I'm not exactly sure how.

Like with the last bird situation, I knew I couldn't reason with the goose.  I just started the car and got the hell out of there as quickly as possible. The goose followed me, waddling all badass to drive me away. It was still hissing and flapping its wings. Well played, goose. You made your point.

Of course, with the exception of the snobbery against the whonk bird, the other instances were just a case of parents trying to protect their young. They weren't trying to harm me out of some kind of maliciousness. I still would have been harmed though, intent doesn't change the outcome. Still, even with some unpleasant bird experiences, I still love the befeathered things.  I just hope they don't bite me.

Horrible Sports Moments

Today was Super Bowl Sunday and I celebrated by chatting to friends, singing to my cats, and watching RuPaul's Drag Race Season 3. It was awesome.  I don't know who played, I don't know who won, and am content to remain blissfully ignorant of that. I really kind of hate sports.

Oh! The fat girl hates sports! Shocker!  No, really, it isn't because I'm lazy and disdain all things physical . . . well, not JUST that.  It's also because sports have pretty much always been a source of annoyance to horror for me. I thought, in honor of this sportful holiday, I would highlight some of these moments.

HORRIBLE MOMENTS OF SPORTS IN THE LIFE OF BHB

• When I was very young, I decided to play gymnast. I flipped over a swing and landed on the ground, neck first. I fractured my top two vertebra.
• When I was four, I tried to lift my father's barbells and smashed off the top of my finger.  Much blood and many stitches followed.
• At one point when I was five, my father was playing frisbee with me. It knocked me in the mouth and I lost a baby tooth. NOT one that was loose at the time.
• They forced me to play t-ball between my Kindergarten and 1st grade years. Ball busted me in the mouth. Not in a good way.
• I had to deal with smug, athletic children in grade school. Fuckers.
• Monkey bars.
• As a roundish child, people kept trying to make me do work out videos. 
• Elementary gym coaches, the male ones, who spoke no discernible language, just a series of grunts and yips, that everyone else seem to understand, but baffled the fuck out of me.  Goddamn those fuckers!  They could have been standing in front of me telling me I was lazy as hell, all I heard was "Yip hippa wohp woh wegh." 
• Elementary gym coaches, the female ones, who seem to have this personal hatred for little fat girls. You can try and tell me they were there to help all you want. It's bullshit. Those bitches wanted me to die. 
• Being forced to run laps, getting overheated and puking, then female coach claims I "faked it" and made me run more. I so should have puked on that bitch.
• Middle school gym lockers.
• In sixth grade, I fucked up my ankle, while in gym class, and the evil coach claimed I faked it. No, bitch, I did not fake it.  Bitch. 
• Dodge Ball.
• You know what? That deserves another entry. Dodge Ball.
• I think in almost everyone's life, one of the horror stories they have to connect to sports is dealing with high school jocks. Honestly, the last thing anyone needs at that point is a lumbering hoard of entitled date-rape-y fuckers who everyone caters to.  
• Stupidly not realizing that high school band means marching . . . at football games . . . and competitions. 
• High school coaches who try and teach classes.  Okay, some of them weren't so bad at this. Some of them were even great. However, the majority of them were still completely speaking some language I'd never heard. How the FUCK do you fill out a history exam when your notes over Coach Iteachhistory say, "Hibba wing wanv linga wazzla maz."

Wow, that's quite a list and I'm not even out of high school yet.  Anyway, you get the idea. When it comes to sports, I'm really one of these people way on the outskirts of the issue.

Actually, I'm the chick they drove out of the village. At least, I think that's what they were trying to say . . . 

Peeping Tom Cat

One of our outside cats is a stray tom cat we have named The Orange Ruffian.    Unlike the other outside cats who have a family that somewhat claimed them for a while, Ruffian is of unknown origins.

We do know at least one other family in the area claims him, because sometimes he is sporting a flea collar we didn't give to him.  This look he has on his face in the picture is his typical look.

Ruffian is very sweet, boardering on needy.  He has this total dependence on my roommate and sometimes cries for him to come and pay attention to him.  We've considered making him an indoor cat, but, as he is a fully grown tom, he sprays things. Even if you get toms fixed, they don't break the habit of pissing on everything. Ruffian is also fearful of being inside. We've tried a time or two to bring him in and he freaks out.  Of course, that isn't the worst problem.

Our girl cats hate him. Now, hate is a pretty extreme emotion for a cat.  Most of the time, cats either like you, are indifferent to you, or wish you harm (indifference being the most likely). Even when they wish you harm, it's usually because of something you did. Ruffian has done nothing to the girl cats, yet they wish him harm. In fact, they wish him more than harm.  They want to rip him to pieces.

Every day, usually several times a day, Ruffian will jump onto the window ledge to get my roommate's attention. If the indoor boy cat sees him, he'll make friendly noises at him. If Alice, the indoor/outdoor cat, sees him, she'll . . . usually do nothing. If the indoor girl kitties see him, it's war.

The white girl cat will hiss and jump at the window.  She hits with with both front paws out, sometimes hitting it so hard I worry it might break on her.  Mind you, the white cat is about the size of Ruffian's head  . . . but she thinks she has the goods to completely take him out.  Most of the time, he just ignores her.

The gray girl cat summons up demons and allows them to howl through her mouth as she spins curses at Ruffian . . . or maybe she's just growling. It's hard to tell the difference. The noise she makes is the very definition of ungodly. It's terrifying.  The demon summoning noise is usually followed by hissing and bouncing displays of protest.

Usually when she does this, Ruffian ignores her the way he does the white cat.  Sometimes, however, he'll turn around and spray the screen.  This outrages her even more and she adds demons to her tempest of protest, growing louder and more terrifying by the second.

The girls are completely misjudging him though. Ruffian is a darling kitty.  He's loving and fluffy and smells better than any outdoor cat has the right to smell. I really wish he could become an indoor cat, because I think he'd be a lot happier. Alas, circumstances and two angry bitches just won't allow for that. Typical.

The Culture of Women's Health

Unless you've been living under a rock, this week a big controversy happened when the Susan G. Komen Foundation said they would no longer give funding to Planned Parenthood so they could give screenings for breast cancer. The foundation claimed this was due to a new policy where they wouldn't help nonprofits that were under investigation.  However, most people felt it was due to political and cultural pressure from anti-choice advocates angry that Planned Parenthood provides abortions.

In the backlash of this, and only in a couple of days, Planned Parenthood raised around 3 million dollars and the Komen Foundation backtracked and apologized.  I'm guessing this isn't what the anti-choice people intended. They're probably wondering what happened.

For a moment, I'm going to give Komen the benefit of the doubt and assume they actually were just following their new policy of not giving to people under investigation. To be fair, it's not a bad policy. We all know there have been a rash of nonprofits that have been found to be nothing more than people's scams. There is nothing wrong with Komen using discretion about where they give their money.

However, discretion is the key word here. There is a difference between the Bernie Madoff Foundation for TaTas and Planned Parenthood.  Right now, Planned Parenthood is the political target for a lot of people who want to be loud and get attention. Not sending them money is kind of like not giving your kid lunch money because the bullies are just going to take it away anyhow.

On the other hand, if the foundation was bending to political and social pressure by certain groups to sever ties with Planned Parenthood because PP gives abortions, it was a deeply idiotic move.  For one thing, the number of abortions PP gives in no way equals the number of breast screenings. It makes about as much sense as shaving your head because some of your hair has split ends. It also sends the basic message that anti-choice people claim to not be making but so often are; women who have abortions are horrible people who deserve nothing but suffering in their lives.  They just added a nice dose of cancer to that for good measure.

Most of all, it just simply backfired. In the last few days, PP received millions.  Komen was told by quite a few people they would lose donations. People were angry.  See, the thing is, while there are a lot of people out there who don't support the concept of abortion, and even more who really don't care one way or the other, a vast majority of them understood that the Komen money wasn't going towards abortions. It was going to screen for breast cancer.

They also know that Komen, also a non-profit, is funded by all those people who buy the pink stuff and do those races. A lot of people put a good deal of time and effort into funding Komen. Planned Parenthood is a very direct and clear way in which they can see this time and effort being put into practice.

The Susan G. Komen Foundation handled this whole thing very poorly. Their PR people should have thought it through and really considered the consequences. It really sucks that this happened, because SGK does raise a lot of money for breast cancer research. I personally know dozens of people involved in their fundraising and it's sad that their set up a situation where they got entangled with a political issue that has nothing to do with what this foundation stands for.

It was a big mistake and they clearly need to hire some people who have a firmer grasp on public reaction. Any organization that is dependent on public donation needs that. Otherwise, they'll soon disappear.

Generational Mouse Problems

In almost all cases, when my grandmother was around people, she was the queen bee.     She was beautiful and socially charming and just meangirl enough to keep all the other women in line. However, as with any queen bee, there were exceptions to this. A couple of Gran's friends always got her to do whatever they wanted.  Quite often, this led to some odd moments for her.

In my grandmother's circle of friends, everyone became widows within a few years of each other. Suddenly they found themselves, instead of traveling in packs of several couples, a group of single women. From what I understand, many of their childhood patterns resumed, even some of their childhood habits. One of these habits led to possibly the most interesting night of my grandmother's life as an old lady.  It also proved that my rodent issue is a generational one.

When my grandparents moved to the town where I'm currently living, they didn't change churches as it's less than half an hour's drive away. Whenever the church would have social gatherings at night, like dinners or special singing programs, one of my grandmother's friends and fellow church-goer, would very generously offer to let Gran spend the night so she didn't have to drive home in the dark.

Gran never liked doing this. For one thing, she hated leaving the house empty overnight. She also tended to sleep better in her own bed.  The main reason she didn't want to stay with her friend, however, had to do with a couple of situations that can happen when one grows older. You see, my grandmother's friend's hearing was very, very bad and therefore, she couldn't hear the mice that infested her house.

As much as Gran didn't want to stay with her friend, as I said before, in this case, she was not the queen bee. In almost all cases, when her friend asked her to do something, she would. Grudgingly, of course, but she still did it.  Her status in the relationship also made her shy about explaining to her friend about the mice. I never got this part.  In fact, we had the conversation many times.

Actually, we had a lot of conversations many times. I get that repeating myself thing from her.

One night, after an evening of church festivities, Gran found herself, once again, sleeping in the home of her friend. The evening had been eventful (or as eventful as Southern Baptist dinners can be) so she was tired and soon fast asleep.  This didn't last long.  Around three in the morning, something startled her awake.  Something that was skittering along the top of her blanket.

Gran sat straight up and pulled her knees close to her body.  Normally, this is the proper reaction and the best way to keep one's self safe. Unfortunately in this case, drawing up her knees lifted her bedmate with it and she found herself eye to eye with the mouse sitting on her knees, separated from her skin only by two blankets and a sheet.

This is where we must pause to note my grandmother is clearly a braver woman than me. If I woke up and found a mouse in my bed, I would die. Heart failure. Fright. Both. They would find me with my mouth open in horror, my hair shocked white from the terror of being that close to a damned mouse.

All of this was running through my head when my grandmother was telling me the story the next day after returning to the safety of her own home.

"What did you DO?" I asked. I'm sure my voice was full of something close to hysteria.

She just shrugged. "Sat real still. Hoped it go away."

"What? Like if it was a bear?"

"Well what was I supposed to do? Finally it ran off and I moved to the couch. Didn't take the blanket though."

"No, the blanket needed to be burned. It touched MOUSE!" After that, I soothed my  damaged mind by imaging the purifying bliss of burning all blankets that mice had ever touched. Mice pee constantly, you know. Anything they touch is icky.

Seeing a mouse on the bed did change some things about the situation. Gran knew her politeness might be putting her friend at risk.  Gran spoke to their preacher and he found a way to tactfully talk to Gran's friend about the mouse problem. Soon after, one of her sons moved in with her and things got safer and less rodentfied.

In the most miraculous turn of events, at least to my mind, my grandmother was able to sleep after this.  She didn't become obsessed with waking up to see mice staring at her. I may have had a few nights of panic about that, but as she's not an irrational crazy person with musophobia, I guess that wasn't a problem.

Not that I know anyone like that . . . .

Mouse Noir

Sometimes when thunder rumbles through the sky, it's quick and loud. Abrupt.  Angry.  Other times, it's slow and quiet.  It broods and vibrated through everything. Through the walls. Through me. I like the quick thunder better.  It doesn't feel like it's settling in my soul.

Today was a day of slow and brooding thunder. It plagued me all morning, low rumbles followed by quick flashes and a steady, sad rain. I sat in my chair, fingers on my keyboard.  The sky, being overcast, caused the living room to be even darker than usual. I'd only been home from therapy for a few minutes when the world changed.

"So, I have something to tell you," my roommate said as he walked from the living room into the kitchen. "And it's probably going to upset you."  His words sank into my consciousness and my fingers, of their own volition, ceased typing.

"What is it?" I asked the question, but I knew. Instinctively, in the marrow of my very bones, I knew what it had to be. I felt my stomach growing hot as it always did during times of stress. My pulse raced. I knew what it was, but maybe the gods were merciful and I was wrong. So I asked him, silently pleading with him to tell me I was mistaken.

"Is it a mouse?" Panic.  My voice consisted only of panic.

For a moment, he said nothing. Perhaps, as he understood my reaction, he was consider his words and hoping not to distress me more.  Perhaps it was mercy, a moment of silence before he crushed my sense of well being. Perhaps he was merely petting a cat.  Though, it is more likely that none of these happened. His pause was brief, after all. It only felt like centuries to me.

"I got curious," he said. He returned to the room, though his eyes did not meet mine. "I needed to know why the cats are always near your closet."

"You couldn't see a mouse! There can't be a mouse!" I could hear my heart pounding in my head. No!  It couldn't be.  There could not be a nasty, hideous furry little disease-ridden monster in the place where I kept stuff I never used, never will, and probably should toss to the curb.  "Please tell me there is no mouse."

"Evidence of one." He sat on the couch, facing me now. "There is evidence. Enough for me to need to take action."

"NO!"

"Oh yes." Did he smile cruelly at me?  Surely I imagined that. His smile was meant for reassurance. It had to be. It had to be.

We grew quiet as I processed this. I tried not to, I didn't want to think about it. My mind focused on everything else. I looked at the cat meme on my monitor. I listened to the cats on the couch with him snoring. I listened to the thunder as it grumbled through the sky.

"What evidence?"

"You know what evidence."

I nodded.  The horrid little creatures soiled my ancient boombox and the Easter basket from ten years ago. DAMN THEM! "What will we do?"

"You know what must be done.  A trap is already set. If the mouse returns to your closet, it will find the trap. You'll hear it die."

I'll hear it die. Yes, oh yes. This is my future. This is my fate. Night after night of sleeplessness, as I listen for chittering, as I listen for scratching, as I listen for the fatal SNAP as the mouse meets its doom.

I may never sleep again.