Happy Halloween

I used to think Halloween was a terrifically fun holiday. Somewhere along the line, though, I became Mr. Freeman, the old janitor at my elementary school, who lived near my grandparents when I was a kid, and was the only old codger on the street who had the balls to draw his blinds and turn out his light and REFUSE TO HAND OUT CANDY. Why, the noive!

I completely understand him now. It's just so damn much trouble. My animals freak out whenever anyone knocks or rings the bell, I never correctly estimate the amount of candy I need, and you can't watch anything on TV when the little demons (and princesses and ladybugs and French poodles, etc.) are constantly interrupting you. When did I get so curmudgeonly? Probably when living in my previous abode, where people drove their children from house to house, far away from their own neighborhoods, and some of those children looked a wee bit old for trick-or-treating, in my opinion. (The only mustaches seen on trick-or-treaters should be of the drawn or glued on variety, don't you think?) They also didn't know when to stop, continuing to drive up in carloads long past dark. I really don't care to answer my door to strangers at 10:00 p.m., Halloween or no.

So these days I either make plans to be elsewhere, or I turn off the lights, draw the blinds and hunker down with the critters until the madness ends. Tonight will be of the hunkering variety. I'm tired. Mr. Freeman probably was, too. Cleaning up after us little monsters all day.

In other news...we made it through the funeral yesterday. My friend and his brothers looked absolutely wiped out. Beyond merely sad. They seemed exhausted and numb. It was hard to see. No one should have to bury both parents in the same year. I think that's all I have to say about that.

In other, other news...I trapped another litter of feral kittens this weekend. Only two this time. (Earlier this summer, I trapped 4 from the same mother. The tramp.) I spent the weekend on my hands and knees, wedging myself into the cage with them, forcing them to accept my love, damn it. The orange one discovered his purr last night, and now I'm in love. Which is too damn bad for me, 'cause he's not coming in my house. There's no room at the inn. I sent an email down the animal rescue chain; hopefully someone will know someone looking for a kitten, or one of the rescue groups will have an opening. At least we're somewhat past high kitten season. That usually helps a bit. How do these animals find me? Where is the invisible flashing light that says "vacancy" and how do I change it to "NO vacancy"? Why can't I develop the ability to see a needy animal and assume someone else will help? Oh, never mind. I don't want to be that person. I'll go on spending money I don't have to take care of animals that have been let down by the people who should have been responsible for them. Who needs a nice car or the occasional vacation? I've got all the purrs a person could want. (Although, Universe? If you're listening? I could use a little break, 'kay? Thanks.) And in the meantime, anybody need an adorable kitten? Hey, maybe I could hand them out to trick-or-treaters! Hmm....KIDDING.

Coincidentally sad.

It's been a sad and kind of bizarre couple of days. The fathers of two of my close friends died in their sleep on consecutive nights. Both of their fathers had been battling serious medical problems for the last few years, so it wasn't unexpected, exactly, but not expected quite so soon. And, the coincidence continues, both of their relatively healthy mothers were killed suddenly in car wrecks--one a few months ago, the other a few years. The single only other thing these two guys have in common is being friends with me, and yet, their lives share this one sad trajectory.

I still have both my parents (thank god) and so I can't really know what it's like to lose one parent, much less both. But I imagine it must leave you feeling a bit...unmoored. In many ways, my parents are so very much the anchors of my life. I know I can call on them for anything, and if it's in their power, they'll be there. They're going to get up early on Monday morning and drive me out-of-state to sing at Pat's funeral, 'cause my car is a bit unreliable these days, and because Tony is probably the closest thing they've ever gotten to a son-in-law from me. (He's my gay husband, don't you know.) They did the same thing when his mother died earlier this year, and I think the most wrenching moment of the day for me was watching Tony cling to my mother and sob.

I'll have to miss Rowe's funeral, since, coincidence continues, they're at the same time. I'm sorry to have to miss it, both because I'd like to be there for Bill, and because they're having a bagpipe play "Amazing Grace," just like Scotty did for Spock. And I'd love to see that!

I wish there was something I could say to or do for my friends to make them feel better. I know there isn't. The most I can do, and what they most expect from me, is to listen to them and laugh with them.

I've already giggled with Tony. We long ago decided that heaven is a big, beautiful meadow, filled with all the pets we've lost in our lives, and that very special people are allowed to come in as well. We imagined his parents, running cinematically toward each other across the meadow, arms outstretched, only to tumble in a heap when a certain portly Pekingese named Zooey darts beneath their feet.

In yet another odd coincidence, an elderly woman with the same first initial and last name as Bill's dad was brought to the funeral home at the same time he was, and we cracked ourselves up thinking what might happen at the viewing if the bodies were mixed up. "Well, folks, there's something about Dad you didn't know...we decided to send him off as the woman he always wanted to be."

Gallows humor. Laughing to keep from crying. For now, it's all I can do.

I'll do whatever you say...just give me the drugs.

Don't let your reluctance to stand in line at the pharmacy counter and sign in blood and swear on your firstborn's life that you are not running a meth lab convince you to buy the "Sudafed PE" still available in the regular aisle. It doesn't work. I gave it a shot. I took it, along with about 6 Aleve yesterday and my sinus headache barely budged. This morning I took it again, but when my cheekbones were still screaming and throbbing two hours later, I marched across the street to the drugstore, presented my driver's license and happily signed on the dotted line for my beloved generic pseudoephrine hydrochloride. And mere moments later...sweet, sweet relief. I'll never try the easy way out again. At least when it comes to my decongestant needs.

Ditto this, Rush.

I rarely wish actual physical harm on anyone, but I hope Rush Limbaugh is stricken with every manner of neuromuscular disease and suffers horribly on his way to death, and the resulting occupation of the engraved chair I know awaits him in hell. "Michael J. Fox is faking it." Omigod, are you fucking kidding me? Making fun of someone with Parkinson's for daring to support a candidate you don't like?

Hate. HATE.

Spamalot

The vast amount of spam I've been getting lately has actually impressed me. Not with its volume, but with its...poetry. Someone's been putting some effort into getting me to want to enlarge my penis. (What do they know that I don't know?) Some of the invented "from" names are quite beautiful, and some of the text is quite elaborate.

See this:

"pretended he was had - Has it, - It doesnt anyone who raised his neck. The word safe that something pleasant to play cocktail His wife of this terrible, stupid everyone would start Algolian place... a perfectly oblong: the air was stuck out of the one bottle of years to big hello gaze hopelessly on it. The three the open. - to take us in awkward start guiltily for me. Arthur realized what that could grow up blearily, got it, Their - But how you see, moment, and it had been on the juice from the ships cybernetics. Zaphod Beeblebrox is no good, - So had in fact that bowl of Gold. It has passed right through the concerned with - Hi, - we have turned unfathomably into to press and a into the Galaxy quietly, - bellowed the Dentrassis are start He was wonderful this the of the are of your mode an Electronic Thumb - deep didnt impossibly bright young Vogon - he said Marvin."

Now, I have no idea what any of that means--which means it's really deep, right? But it gives me an almost uncontrollable urge to buy a safe, effective weight loss supplement.

Or this, from "Fernando Burton":

"A freight train related to a food stamp The scooby snack teaches the tornado. Any lover can share a shower with the cloud formation inside the tomato, but it takes a real recliner to bury the moldy globule. A tape recorder seeks a sandwich. When you see the ski lodge, it means that the tattered customer goes to sleep. The underhandedly fractured mortician secretly plans an escape from a nearest industrial complex a fire hydrant, and the plaintiff from the cashier makes love to a carelessly nuclear tape recorder"

Why sure, I'll take your male member enhancement, since obviously the scooby snack does teach the tornado. Send me a truckload.

"Everett Hess" asks this pithy question:

"How many times did you get unhappy after noticing the clothes you buy keep getting larger?"

Well, let me tell you, if I notice the clothes I buy keep getting larger, I'm going to freak right on out! What would cause that? Drying 100% cotton or rayon in the dryer will cause them to shrink right up, but getting larger? I can't imagine what kind of genetically mutated fabric would do that, but I'm not having it in my house. Though, come to think of it, clothing that can magically become larger would be handy at certain times of the month.

"Gennaro Hinkle" prefers to put it this way:

"How many times did you get unhappy after noticing you keep ordering pizza after pizza?"

I never get unhappy when there's pizza, Gennaro.

We'll close with this from "Floriana Shotts":

"nature. Implacable and inescapable. happened after you touched the green light"


I couldn't have said it better myself.

"I know it's red."

My god, how much do I hate the need for car repairs? Apparently I haven't spent enough money on my much-despised car lately. Now the throwout bearing is going out in the clutch. I have no idea what that means exactly, except that it's expensive to fix. The first guy I took it to wants $800 to replace the whole clutch. You've got to be friggin' kidding me. He told me I probably had a few days at least before it went out completely, so I'm calling around for estimates. I am clearly in the wrong business--I should have become an auto mechanic. Except that it would require some working knowledge of mechanics, and that I don't have. I am good at many things, none of them automotives. The guy I just called for an estimate asked if it had a "single or double hoobdy-hobdy." Or something like that. I said I had no idea. "I know it's red." Fortunately, he laughed. His is the best quote so far, but I'm not stopping yet. I don't know anything about cars, but I know how to dial the phone.

Lyrics

In lieu of any fascinating little tidbit about my life (ha), I offer you snippets of some of my favorite lyrics.

"The past is so angry to have to let go the night that it fights to its own blood-red death in the sky." --the incomparable George Barton

Love, love, love the imagery.

"Well, there's terror takin' over in the foreign lands, where they're fightin' over oil, and I don't understand--how many soldiers per gallon are we pumping in our cars today? It's kinda like votin', if you vote, they lie, and if you don't vote they lie anyway." --more George

"Got himself married at 17; she looked real pretty, but she talked kinda mean...he thought they'd work things out in the fullness of time. But 20 years later he's headed south, the close-range victim of her sawed-off mouth.." -the wonderful Dave Carter

"...a thorn by any other name draws blood..." --Dave again

"So the night comes and goes, and there's no one there to nurture but yourself, and you know that you've nothing left to lose. Will you stand in the road waiting for another searcher? Will you weep soft and low in the voice that your mother used to use?" --still more Dave

"love is an old root that creeps through the meadows of sleep when the long shadows cast, thin as a vagrant young vine, it encircles and twines, and it holds the heart fast, catches dreamers in the wildwood with the stars in their eyes and the moon in their tousled hair, but love is a light in the sky, and an unspoken lie and a half-whispered prayer" --guess who? Dave again

"and should you glimpse my wandering form out on the borderline between death and resurrection and the council of the pines, do not worry for my comfort, do not sorrow for me so, all your diamond tears will rise up and adorn the sky beside me when i go" --the very last from Dave, I promise, but I just love his work soooo much

"If I could spend my life in awe of everything I ever saw, you'd be the one to lift me up, higher than I am. And if the sky came crashing down, you'd be the only star I found. Of all those scattered on the ground, I'd hold you in my hand, hold you in my hand. Higher, higher, higher than I am." --Tara MacLean, who also has one of most beautiful singing voices known to man

I found mayonnaise bottles and poked holes on top
To capture TinkerBell
And they were just fireflies to the untrained eye
But I could always tell
Cause I believe in fairy tales
And dreamer's dreams like bedsheet sails
And I believe in Peter Pan and miracles,
And anything I can to get by...
And fireflies . . . --Lori McKenna (when she gets it, she gets it)

That's it for today, I think.

The Surreal Life

It was an interesting weekend. Surreal, we all agreed. On the one hand, I feel as if I've lived a hundred lifetimes in the last 20 years, and I am not even remotely the same person I was when I last saw my college classmates. I'm sure more than one of them must feel the same. But on the other hand, it seemed as if not a day had gone by--we rehearsed, laughed, ate, rehearsed some more, made fun of the parade floats, and it all felt completely normal. Completely...familiar. The choir room looked and felt exactly the same (though the hallways seemed smaller). Trippy.

It was fun. It was sweet. Our "old" choir director, who retired (after 35 years) during our tenure there, sang with us. Our "new" choir director, who has now been there for 22 years, conducted us. It was quite a sentimental moment--one there with his last students and another there with his first. They both got a little misty. Later in the day, my junior high choir director joined us for a while (I went to college in the same town where I grew up), since several of my classmates did their intern teaching under her, and one of them took over her job after she retired. She seemed a little touched, as well. At the football game, I saw the drama professor who cast me in my first college play. I'm not sure he realizes what an life-changing (for me) decision that was!

Sunday, we all sang at the church where one of the guys is music minister and had one last lunch together. We wisely refrained from too much "Oh, we're all going to keep in touch all the time now" stuff--we all know we're no longer really part of each other's lives, and that's fine. Truth is, many of us had drifted apart somewhat before we even left college. But it was nice to see everyone, and to know that you can go home again, if only for a day.

I get by with a little help...

...from my friends. Today's awesome act of friendship comes courtesy of Susan, who, upon learning that I was quite nervous about travelling out of town tomorrow with my sometimes flaky car, insisted that I drive hers instead. Isn't that the bestest? I'm not travelling all that far, but there is one stretch of twisty, hilly two-lane highway with no shoulder that would just be a hideous place to have car trouble. It's also a really sketchy area for cell service, so--thank you, Susan!

And today's raspberry goes to my mechanic, who, after he replaced my water pump and timing belt a few days ago, asked "Have you been hearing a strange noise? Maybe coming from the clutch? 'Cause I thought I heard a noise, but now I'm not hearing it. Might want to keep an eye on that--I don't do clutch work any more." Oh, thanks. NOT! Since, after the hefty check I just wrote YOU, there's no way to spend any more money this week on another mechanic. Especially based on "Have you been hearing a strange noise?" Hey, what I know about automotive mechanics would fit into...a radiator cap? That's small, isn't it?...a radiator cap, so it ALL sounds strange to me.

I really need to unload this car soon, methinks. To some other poor sucker blinded by the clean interior and paint job.

Fluffy and pink

I'm not sure if it's a good thing or a bad thing I don't have kids, because if I did have a small child, I would most certainly send him/her out trick-or-treating in the foofy, fluffy pink French poodle costume I saw at the drugstore. Would that be adorable, or cruel and unusual punishment?

"I keep on falling..."

I've always been clumsy. And I bruise easily. When I was a child, my mother worried that people would think she was beating me, 'cause I was always covered in bruises. Just about every picture of me in the family photo albums showed little black and blue knees, and often a black and blue forehead. (She also worried that people would think she was drugging me, as my pupils were and still are bigger than normal. Yeah, my mom worries way too much about what people think.) I'm sorry to report that grace has not come with age.

Let's look back over some of the more spectacular falls, shall we?

Summer before last, I tripped over a lawn mower in my driveway. It was behind me. I didn't know it was there; it hadn't been there shortly before. It was the old, tired mower that I was getting rid of. I think it had it out for me. At any rate, I was suddenly falling, falling...one of those endless falls that seems to go on for hours. I couldn't get my feet underneath me, I couldn't figure out why I was falling and I was powerless to stop it. I landed on my outstretched arm, and knew instantly it was bad. My parents were there (having just delivered a shiny new mower as a gift) and rushed over yelling "Is anything broken?" I just raised my pitiful head off the driveway and said "Yes." I knew without a doubt that my arm was broken. I sat up and started cursing. "Damn it, I have rehearsal starting in a couple of days." (For a musical, no less.) "Damn it, I won't be able to drive my car." (I have a stick.) "GODDAMMIT, I don't have health insurance." (Note my priorities. My first fear is that I won't be able to do the show--not that I'll be paying hospital bills for the next 15.67 years.) Long story short, the arm was BADLY broken, required surgery to insert a plate, followed by physical therapy, I'll be paying the hospital bills for years, I borrowed my brother-in-law's car for the summer, and I was able to do the show, choreography and all, and received an excellent review. The arm still aches when the weather changes, and I have a really cool scar. That's probably the most dramatic fall of recent years.

When I was 13, I fell off a galloping horse, onto the very same outstretched hand and broke the same wrist I broke in the lawn mower incident. That time it took several grueling hours to set properly, but then I toodled around all summer with a cast on and never really gave it a second thought. The cast came off, and off I went. No physical therapy required. Ah, how things change when you age. Advice for everyone over 40: don't break any bones. It's much harder to heal than when you were a kid.

When I was 6, I fell off my bicycle, but that really had less to do with my clumsiness, and more to do with a bearing falling out of the front wheel. I face-planted on the side of the road, knocking myself unconscious. When I came to, I dragged myself back home, my face a bloody mess of road rash, and scared the hell out of my mother when I came through the door. I was rushed to my doctor's office (he was also my great uncle) and I'm told that when my aunt (his nurse) asked if I would like a Dr. Pepper, I plaintively asked "Who's he?" I have no knowledge of that, or of most of that day, actually, due to the concussion that kept me housebound for several weeks. One of my aunts brought me great stacks of books each week from the library, so I really didn't mind at all, little bookworm that I was.

Generally my falls don't require medical intervention, and some of them have been pretty darn funny. Like the time I went to visit my best friend, who was living in an upper story apartment at the time. I got out of my car, promptly tripped on the concrete parking marker and started to fall. It was was one of those falls that lasts forever only because you keep catching your balance and then losing it again. I jerked and twisted and travelled several feet before I finally came to rest (rather gracefully, actually) on one knee. My friend burst out the door, in a panic--he had seen my contortions out the window, and thought I was having a seizure. Hee.

I've ricocheted around my kitchen trying not to step on my dog, bruising myself on each hard surface as I went. I've tripped going both up and down stairs (once managing to give myself a black eye. How, you ask? No idea.). I've slipped in the shower, bruising myself on the edge of the tub and thanking God I didn't break a hip. (How completely humiliating would that be? Lying naked on the bathroom floor, perhaps ripping the shower curtain down to cover myself, waiting for help to arrive. Which would probably take a while, since I live alone and none of my animals seems to have Lassie-like rescue powers.) I've taken one to the tailbone after making the mistake of trusting a much-shorter-than-me actor when he said, "Just fall back, I'll catch you." I've stepped offstage onto a small box serving as a temporary step, only to have the small box slide to the side--I didn't fall that time, but that one reaaaallly long step twisted my knee badly and kept me in a brace for the run of the show.

You get the picture. I'm accident-prone, to say the least. I probably should just plead a permanent concussion, and lay on the couch reading books. Sounds like a vacation to me.

Why is my lunch so fascinating?

Seriously. Why? I should preface this by saying I'm a vegetarian. I have my reasons for this, and if you're interested, I'll tell you. But I don't bring it up as a general rule--I'm not all up in people's faces proselytizing. Honest. If someone who doesn't know I'm a vegetarian invites me to their house for a meal, I'll tell them. A quick "just wanted to let you know I don't eat meat, but I'm happy to eat side dishes or bring a vegetarian dish to share." A little awkward, maybe, but much less so to me than having my host wondering if I just don't like their cooking. All my friends know my eating habits, and it's never a big deal. Some of them even get a kick out of cooking something special for me.

I've been a vegetarian for 12 years now, and I've been at my current job on and off for 10 years. I've been a vegetarian the entire time I've known my co-workers. So when does the novelty wear off? Most days I bring my breakfast with me to eat at my desk (I am SO not a morning person--who has time for a relaxed breakfast at home?). Occasionally I run errands at lunch and bring something back with me to eat at my desk. And, invariably, I am pelted with questions, first, and then a meat-eating joke, second. They want to know what I'm eating-- what it's called, what's in it, if it tastes as good as it smells and then, "So what kind of meat's in there-hahahaha!" It just happened again. While walking from my car to the door with a carry-out container, a co-worker called from across the parking lot "what's for lunch?" Then came inside, stood over me and watched me eat, asking questions the while. Falafel. Chickpeas. The green sprinkles are parsley. Pita bread. It's delicious. Often the answer is much less interesting: Ramen noodles. Oatmeal.

I just laugh and take it in stride, but I don't get it. I can't believe they haven't tired of this by now. Ten years, folks! They also eat breakfast at their desks, and lunch at their desks, so it isn't that I'm the only one eating around here. But I never ask them what they're having--'cause, guess what--I just don't care. (Unless it's a giant piece of chocolate cake or something, then I certainly want to know if there's any more where that came from. Hee.)

People are strange.

I'm so excited...

About the Project Runway reunion show tonight. Let the bitching begin! And I wish to go on record as saying that I totally believe Laura when she says Jeffrey cheated. 'Cause I love her, and I can't stand him and am perfectly willing to believe the worst of him.

Other than that, it's been a crazy-busy day, and.....I got nothin'.

Sexual perversity in my backyard

'Cause when you can't think of anything to blog about, why not delve into the odd proclivities of your backyard fauna, right? Right.

It all started last spring. I noticed two cardinals flitting about the yard, chasing each other through the trees and thought "Oh, how sweet. Young love." Then I noticed the two birds were both BRIGHT red. "Oh," I thought. "Young GAY love." Then I noticed the female cardinal, poor drab little thing, sitting in the birdbath and splashing and primping for all she was worth, doing everything she could to turn their heads. "Poor thing," I thought. "Guess she hasn't developed her gaydar." I can sympathize. I have impeccably fine-tuned 'dar now, but when I was young and naive, not always so much. Anyway, I called my gay best friend to tell him I had gay birds. He had apparently missed the "gay agenda" meeting where the discussion of recruiting birds had been discussed, but was nonetheless pleased to know the birds were so confident in their own sexuality, and we made various and sundry gay bird jokes. Neither of us managed to come up with the perfect punch line, however. That was done by his clever (and oh, so handsome) partner: "It's Brokebeak Mountain." Heehee! Of course it is.

A few days ago, I noticed the alternative lifestyle choices were not contained to the birds. I looked up to see a large, beautiful butterfly resting on a pile of my dog Pudge's fresh poop, looking for all the world like he was sipping nectar from a petal. Now, I'm sure that Pudge would like to think that his poop smells like flowers, but I know that not to be the case. "Oh dear," I thought, "a butterfly fetishist." Obviously intent on enjoying a nice Dirty Sanchez or Hot Karl. Ewww. I'm not one to judge, however. Whatever goes on between consenting adult butterflies is their business.

I have to say, though, between the birds and the butterflies and the spider who likes to sneak a peek, it's apparent I live in a very... lively neighborhood. My 5-month-old female kitten has apparently felt the sexually charged vibe, as well. She recently went into a very early first heat. I was waiting until the weather cooled off to get her spayed--I thought I had plenty of time. Oops. Fortunately the only intact male in the house is her littermate, and he seems to have no idea that he should be interested. (That's my sweet little boy.) She's still so young and tiny. There's no way she could carry babies to term. The little slut. (Hee.) I named her after my best friend's sadly departed mother, at his request. We were both a little chagrined to see her acting so trampily. "Was your mother an early bloomer?" "Well, I heard she was quite saucy in her day." Wherever she is, I hope she's amused. (And the spaying and neutering was scheduled asap.)

"If it weren't for bad luck..."

I'd have no luck at all. Truly.

Thursday night my car died on the way home. I didn't even get a mile away. And I was going to pick up take-out food for dinner, so I had to first call the restaurant and say "Please cancel that spaghetti order--my car is dead." They were nice about it. Then I called my roadside assistance, which I so presciently signed up for this summer. (I've already used it twice now.) I spoke to a young man for whom English was obviously a second language, and in addition, he seemed to be dyslexic. It was quite frustrating, saying the zipcode over and over while he repeated it back incorrectly. I thought we had it all figured out, then he called back to tell me the zipcode I had given him for my mechanic was "over 30 miles" from where I was. At which point I lost it. I had given him the same zipcode for each location, seeing as how they were only a mile apart. I screamed the zipcode at him several times. When the wrecker finally showed up, the driver had a completely different destination address than the one I had given Carlos. Completely different. Good thing I was planning to ride along to the shop with the driver, otherwise who knows where my car would have ended up? Eventually I managed to find a friend to give me a ride home, and he didn't mind driving the extra mile back down the road so I could wipe up the puddle of antifreeze I had left on the side of the road. I saw a stray cat hanging out across the street, so I couldn't in good conscience leave a pool of liquid death for him to lap up. I now have a new water pump and timing belt, and I didn't really need that $369 anyway, right? (Wrong. Oh, so wrong.)

The day my car was in the shop, I had scheduled an appointment to make a demo recording for a company that provides on-hold messages for companies, so I had to beg rides back and forth. Thank goodness for agreeable co-workers. The recording itself went well; was kind of fun, actually. They had me do several different styles to show my versatility. "Pleasant, conversational." "Perky and upbeat." "Sultry and husky." And "Mom." Hee. Apparently all moms sound alike. Maybe I'll actually get some work. That would be nice, since my evil car will almost certainly need another influx of cash soon.

In other news, Peeping Tom the spider has disappeared. I figure after being immortalized in blog, he set his sights on a higher existence, and headed off for the ritzy part of town. Or he died. But it's more fun to think of him with a little suitcase and a dream, heading south to seek his fortune.