Halloween in the Holler

Halloween was always a big deal and we prepared for it a week in advance. Now some people were all into the rotten egg thing. We considered that pretty lightweight. Matter of fact, the folks running around egging houses and cars normally ran smack into one our roadblocks. Now, anyone who was anyone on the holler knew to stay off the damn road at Halloween. Most people knew how to avoid us, which was, take the “way-back-yonder road.” We switched around from year to year so folks never really knew where we were placing the roadblocks. Our roadblocks were made from just about everything but the kitchen sink and I think we even found an old one in the creek to use one year. Mainly brush, tree limbs and even trees themselves, cut just enough that all we had to do was put our backs into it and they would spread themselves all pretty on the road. And yeah, we put them in curves for the dumbass idiots going sixty drunker than shit. This did not endear us to two distinct groups of folks. 1) The county sheriff and 2) State Troopers. See, before you got to the 3rd holler, we always set a roadblock and had a squealer that would call or radio on a CB that the cops were at the first roadblock so we could hide or otherwise make ourselves scarce. Which normally amounted to hiding on the mountainside and telling everyone to shush. One year though, they got smart. The squealer radios up. No problem, we hit the brush. Ten minutes later the CB squawks again. “Guys, guys!! Hey!” We’re all groaning about that loud fucker and wish he would shut up until he says, “GUYS GODDAMN IT THEY JUST PASSED THE FORK AND ABOUT THREE OF THEM SUMBITCHES JUST GOT OUT AND THEY’RE GOING INTO THE MOUNTAIN!!!!” Can you say, “Oh Fuck!!” We sure did. It looked like a Chinese Fire Drill right there in downtown Appalachia. We popped out those mountains like a nest of rabbits in front of a brushhog. Escape plan B. The Big Mama, who was on our CB radio frequency, throws open the door and says, “Ya’ll better get yo asses in here!!!” So, yours truly and seven other camouflaged, faced-painted heroes are cowering like sissies behind Big Mama’s couch, looking at each other like, “what was I thinkin’”

Just a Journal Entry

My eyes close, as I picture your face, Your scent falls around me, I am lost in your essence, Floating, unstable, Breath escapes in sighs, I sacrifice myself to you, Your lips grazing the curve of my shoulder, I burn, turn in the darkness and miss you. I'd like to think the Beaufriend is withdrawing from me because of his overwhelming love but instead I stand in front of the mirror and ask, "Are you being an idiot?" "What compels you my dear to wade through this insanity?" "Because I don't trust him." "Who don't you trust?" "Him." "Who don't you trust?" "HIM." "Who don't you trust?" "Myself" Patience

"Hood Slidin' Like Bo Duke"

That’s a lyric from the Dierks Bentley song “What Was I Thinkin’.” I’m not a huge country music fan but that song brings back some great memories. The lyrics and the MP3 are here: www.hit-country-music-lyrics.com. If you click on Top 20 List Dierks is #9 on it. When you click it, it brings up the lyrics and the song starts playing, at least on my computer. My parents were pretty strict so naturally I had to find a way around that. Which was hanging out with much older folks. My 16 year old self would ride the school bus to C.J.’s who lived in a holler, off a holler, off a holler. I’d change out of those prissy, sissy clothes my mom bought for me into jeans with more holes than denim, a pink tank top, camouflage jacket and shit kickers a 100 years old, cuz you never knew “where the night might lead.” C.J. and D.E. would get home from work with a fifth of vodka and a gallon of orange juice. C.J. was 6 years older than me and D.E. was 8 or 9. He had kids, course that don’t mean much around these parts. Serious drinking would ensue. We played drinking games and when we ran out of orange juice the vodka bottle would be passed to me. I was the only one whose liver was young enough to handle it. I’d shoot the rest of the bottle, which normally consisted of 2-3 good chugs. It would be about 10-11 p.m. by now and time to hit the dives. No bar where I lived could be considered a honky-tonk. We weren’t that high on the food chain. Hell, I doubt that two were even considered dives as most people there appeared to have dove and hit the bottom. Bottom dwellers, shit eaters, scum suckers. People who had a record a mile long, a couple murderers, bikers with bad, bad attitudes and guns. We didn’t hang there, we just bought booze and left. C.J. took care of me. She was like a big sister but a lot more protective. Never fear though, I had an attitude, a death wish and the balls to prove it. When I got something in my mind, there was no stopping me, sorta. Like the night I took off with J.W. and D.L. J.W. was hot, hot, hot. Black hair and the bluest eyes. He played basketball with my brother. D.L. was a little pipsqueak who looked like a good wind could have blown him away who bragged about his massive cock. He musta been a grower. I jumped in the truck with them, three sheets to the wind with C.J. and D.E. in hot pursuit. Nothing like a drag race on a one and a half lane road. C.J. and D.E. both had Mustangs so we got a head start. We got to the turn off to the 3rd holler when I told J.W. to take the right fork, instead of the left. He slowed down and looked at me, “Goll damn it girl, C.J.’ll kill me if I don’t take you home.” “What? You scared?” He gave me that “you bitch” look but spun around into the right hand fork. D.L. freaks. “Do you know how much fucking trouble we’re gonna be in man?? Do you know?? Fuck.” We hightailed it up the holler with D.L. looking for headlights behind us, cussing a blue streak. When J.W. pulled it over on an old logging road, D.L. jumped out. “I want nothing to do with this!” I did. I wanted everything to do with that boy. The only light was from the dashboard but he had that look in his eye and ohhh, I know I did. I am ready to eat that boy alive. Then D.L. bangs on the bed of the truck. “Headlights comin’.” DAMN IT!! I swing the door open and D.L. hops in. C.J. pulls up, “Get ya asses down the holler.” C.J. was the kind of person you just didn’t argue with. I’m pissed, J.W.’s pissed and D.L. isn’t real happy either. So, J.W. gets a wild hair, starts fucking around and ditches the truck. Meaning, he fucked around enough to put it IN the ditch. D.L. slides against the door and I slide against him. This is why I wear shit-kickers. C.J. pulls up from the way we came and D.E. pulls up from the other direction. J.W. pulls me and D.L. out from the driver’s side since we’re kissing dirt on the other side. There’s no hope. Neither of the Mustangs can pull that bitch out and we’re not going to be able to push it either. We split up and that was the end of that. You may wonder why I let C.J. order me around. First, she was a big girl but second, I was wild as hell and damn ready to fuck my life up as completely and royally as I could in the shortest time possible. A few years after that, she and D.E. sat down and had a talk with me. They said I didn’t belong there and I needed to get out. To hit the road and never look back. I did. I still fucked up royally but it was at least in a time period that I could handle it. Next Time: Halloween in the Holler

Hi, My Name is Inanna...

And I am a Co-Dependent and an empath. Co-Dependency I hate that word. I hate it! I hate enabler worse. Co-dependency has led me down a path of self-destruction and self-destructive relationships with married men, alcoholics and sometimes, both. I trace this back to a childhood of emotional and physical abuse. Where I was made to feel responsible for someone else's happiness. Where nothing I did was ever good enough. Where I had to be the good child or risk the withdrawal of affection and attention, and still, it was never good enough. Nothing I did was ever good enough, ever. I became an over-achiever while wallowing in a world that seemed to have no place for me. I had super-intelligence which propelled me into the realms of gifted classes. I was the youngest editor of the yearbook, winner of a writing award in which I beat out 200 other students from 55 high schools, I was the first and only exchange student, to date, from my school after winning a scholarship from the United States and Germany's governments, Governor's Honor Academy, Honor Society, soloist on two instruments in the band. Yeah, I did all that. That's me. None of it ever fucking mattered. After the demise of my last relationship with the Drunk Boyfriend, a friend who is a recovering alcoholic gently asked me if perhaps I was co-dependent. I remember reading the characteristics of co-dependents with a sick, sinking feeling. An even deeper pit formed when I read the reasons behind co-dependency. In a nutshell, but far from an entire explanation, is the need to focus on everyone around you and their problems as opposed to facing your own. We make excuses for the people in our life, we anticipate other's needs then wonder why they don't anticipate ours, we say yes when we want to say no, we're afraid of anger, our own and everyone elses, we will do practically anything to avoid confrontation, and we will practically do anything to avoid abandonment. We're obsessing, controlling and manipulative because we constantly feel as though we know what is best for other people. That hurts. But not as much as it used to. First, I let my anger and hate towards my mother go. She was the root of the problem, my dad to a small extent, but mainly it was my mom. I love her and I feel sorry for her that she was raised in an environment that precipitated her feelings and her feelings towards me. I no longer allow her to manipulate me by her whining and crocodile tears. I turn her off. I do a check-up, as I am now, to make sure I'm not backsliding into my old ways. Am I taking on other people's problems instead of working on my own? Who am I saying yes to that I should say no? Am I obsessing? Have I asked for what I want instead of believing people should read my mind or pick up subtle clues as to what my needs are? Most importantly, how am I with Hyper-Boy? Am I allowing him enough freedom? Am I using him as an excuse to not take care of myself? Am I being a hermit? (I'm always a hermit.) Am I okay? Am I happy? What do I need to get there? I'm still getting there. Empathy "Empathic people...have the ability to translate energetic impulses into emotional awareness. They feel their way through life, through decisions, and through relationships in a deepening and life-affirming way." In other words, I can tell what your feeling, draw those feelings out, filter them through myself and send them back to you, supposedly for your betterment. Its hell on Earth when you don't know what you're doing. I've done this for years and never knew what it was. But instead of filtering, which may have helped when I was younger, I absorbed. I absorbed the emotions around me. I never let them go. I didn't know how. Until through chance I found a book that described what I was and how to deal with it. Funerals are absolute Hell. HELL!! So many emotions I can't stand it. And worse, people in pain, in emotional pain, are drawn to me. Empaths are highly sensitive people, in tune to people and animals, plants, hell, you name it. Of course, some empaths are more in tune to one or two things than all things. For me, its people and animals. And don't think you have to be standing in front of me. Empaths can sense your feelings over the phone, through e-mail, chat and personal letters. And don't ever let one of us touch your hand. We will see behind your cover. You can't hide from an empath unless...you know how. Co-Dependency & Empathy..OH MY! One of the characteristics of a co-dependent is believing you know how someone else is feeling. I was damned confused for a long time on that. Not surprisingly, an unhealthy empath, one who has not learned to filter emotions instead of accepting them, one who has not learned to turn it off for some peace, has some of the same characteristics of a co-dependent. It may be part of what leads some of us down that path. I don't know. I'm becoming a much better empath and a much worse co-dependent. I'm working on it. Enter the Beaufriend There's nothing better for an empath to have in a relationship than another empath. It didn't take me long to figure out that the Beaufriend was also an empath. And a damn good one too. But by also being an empath, I felt his emotional withdrawal from me at the beginning of our relationship and I called him on it. Literally, all is good and then WHAM! he's gone. I hated that. AAAGGHHHHHH!!! I HATED IT!!!! But I also understood why, but it didn't make me like it anymore. He controls his empathy better and gave me tips on how to "turn it off." I guess you could say I mirrored him when I felt like I needed to. I learned from his own withdrawal how to formulate my own. When my grandfather died, I learned from him how to filter other's feelings as he filtered mine. When I'm with the Beaufriend, I feel like I float. Its like two negative charges creating something positive. Literally, we can be in a crowded room full of drunk people, which are the absolute worlds worst to be around because their defenses are down and still find a moment of peace amongst them. But I'm still co-dependent. With that comes a whole host of problems with the Beaufriend. No wonder he turns me off sometimes. Right now, I'm getting itchy. In other words, the dreaded feeling of abandonment is popping up. And I don't think its just me. The Beaufriend is good at turning some feelings off around me but he sucks at it when we're not together. He has the same worries and fears that I do. Just call us Barbie and Q when it comes to past relationships. I try not to let it influence me but sometimes the dread is so intense I just cry because I can't do anything else. Then its back to the list. Am I telling him what I need? Am I keeping my mouth shut so as not to start a fight that I don't want? Am I standing up for myself? Am I expecting him to read my mind? Am I being used? I have faced down some intense moments in my time with the Beaufriend. I lived in absolute fear of telling him that he hurt my feelings. I lived in absolute fear of voiceing what I wanted. Everytime I said something, I waited for the mockery and the withdrawal of affection and the manipulation to start. I steeled myself to break it off if that happened. I REFUSE TO LET SOMEONE TREAT ME LIKE THAT AGAIN!!! Luckily, he hasn't. We discussed before how when you're treated like shit you do one of two things. One, you vow to never treat someone else like that yourself or two, you treat everyone as bad or worse than you've been treated. We made a pact, I guess that's what you call it, to be together because we want to be, not because we're living in fear of what might come after. The Beaufriend has a way of reassuring me without being patronizing. Self-esteem I'm running on half-full here. I worry a lot about things I probably shouldn't. I worry about me and the Beaufriend because I love him dearly. I'm constantly caught in a battle between empathy and co-dependency, questioning always, afraid to fall back into the abyss. Sometimes, its a daily struggle. Today, has been a bad day. I think he's frightened too. I feel it. We're battling against the abyss, against fear. I think we battle too, not to smother each other. Unfortunately, this puts us at odds in love. To love is to suffer in our book. So, its baby steps. Its looking in the mirror and asking, "Am I being an idiot?" I worry about Hyper-Boy too. He's one of the reasons I work so hard at this. While he may be screwed up, it won't be for lack of trying on my part to give him the best I got. His self-esteem sucks too. As I work with him, I work on myself. His father, doesn't help anything. I battle for Hyper-Boy on that front as well. Attempting to undo damage while not dissing his dad. Blogging... Good or Bad? Before anyone read my stuff, I wrote a lot but never posted it. Just like, well, the 5 diaries I keep. I don't write in them everyday and sometimes I write letters to people or to the Beaufriend and never send them, so I keep them as diaries too. Blogging is good. Its good because I've found people that I can relate to and hopefully can relate to me. I get lonesome sometimes, internally lonesome, emotionally lonesome because I tend to hermit (I am a hermit) emotionally and physically. At least emotionally, I don't feel so alone anymore. I'm starting to pick up people's vibes through their posts which is a little... scary. I'll keep those vibes to myself though but not in me. I think blogging helps me sort things out and makes room in my brain for something else. But blogging is addictive. I've felt myself sliding since I started participating in discussions etc. For someone used to puttering along in the Outer Rim, its frightening to be pulled into the galaxy, with so much to see, so much to learn, so much to feel. So much to distract me from me and my problems. But I love people. I love learning about people and reading about them because sometimes, it helps me understand me a little better. It also helps to know I'm not really alone. Perhaps blogging is an exercise in which to help me learn how to filter, but not accept, to care, but not to obsess. "The 7 Jewels of Co-Dependency" says "Its never wrong to love." I really believe that. I just have to remember that love starts within myself, for myself, before I love others. Damned, if that's not the hardest thing of all.

Gimme That Old Time Religion

I am a Wiccan. Click on the title above if you don't know what I'm talking about or want to learn more. Interestingly enough, today's topic on witchvox.com is not living life as a victim. I'll post about that later. I have a great love of religion and not just my own. I own 5 bibles, books on Judiasm and Jewish mysticism that is the "rage" in Hollywood, books on Buddhism, and just books on religion. I have yet to pick up a copy of the Koran but its on my list. Whoever hasn't heard something about Islamic extremists in the past 2 1/2 years has been under a rock in the desert hiding from deposed despot Saddam Hussein. I harbor no ill will towards Muslims, no more so than Baptists or Catholics or anyone else. I own an Abaya set. This is the traditional Muslim dress for women. Do not confuse it with a burka. A burka is the head to toe covering with even the eyes covered. An Abaya is like a long dress with long sleeves that uses buttons, clasps or velcro to stay in place. With it came a shayla which is a long oblong scarf not be confused with a hijab which is a HUGE scarf. Muslims believe a woman should be modest, hence all the covering. I see Muslims practically everyday in the city that I work. We have a Muslim population large enough that they have a beautiful Mosque in the town next to mine. One Muslim that I know is Jamal. He runs a cigarette store. I went in his store one day before 9/11 in a brilliant red dress I own. He looks at me, raises his eyebrows and in his soft voice says, "I love America!" (Smile) I worried about him after 9/11. Worried that people would come after him or his store. I did venture over to his store where he always watches cable news channels. He and I stood and watched the news from Ground Zero. I asked, "well, what do ya think?" He turned to me and pulled his mouth into a frown, "I think, there are crazy people all over the world." I think so too Jamal. My aunt is very prejudiced against people who are not Christian. Her daughter, also a Wiccan but firmly in the broom closet, reminds her that America gives us the right to be any religion we want. My aunt responds with, "Yes, the right to be a Christian." OY! I don't blame all Muslims for 9/11. Nor do I blame all Christians for witch burnings, nor believe all Catholic priests are pedophiles. Let's be honest, any religion can draw freaks. Waco anyone? Nor do I believe I have the right to try and convert anyone away from their religious beliefs. Extremism, yes, their religion, no. I worked at a portrait studio for three years, major chain. A few Muslim women would bring their children in. One in particular you would never know was Muslim. She obviously loved western culture. The other dressed in an Abaya and shayla. I was out the studio when this occurred so it is second hand. The typically dressed Muslim comes to the studio sans children and tells T.C. that she wants to get a portrait taken for her husband. She also tells T.C. that she cannot look at her while she takes off her scarf. T.C. is like, okay, no problem and directs her to the back of the studio for privacy. I believe she also told T.C. that no one, NO ONE, can see her with her scarf off, even T.C. If I'm remembering correctly, T.C. argued that she HAD to look at her to take the picture and warned her that at least ten other people would see the picture during developing etc. The Muslim woman appeared concerned and then decided to go ahead with it. T.C. left her alone and the Muslim woman called for her when she was ready. She had taken off the Abaya and Shayla. She had on an ornate long sleeved blouse and nothing else. T.C. freaked. She explained to the woman that she couldn't just traipse around in our studio half nude. Now, this is a woman who didn't want T.C. to see her without her head covering on but is now half-nude. OY!! Her rationale was that she just wanted the picture from the waist up. OY!! T.C. finally covered up her bottom with a drape and took the pictures. Naturally the pictures were flagged so when they came in we could see her. I didn't recognize her. She was gorgeous. A very naturally beautiful woman. Stunning. So, in that instant, I really understood Muslims a little more, at least the religion and the whole modesty thing. So, when I see Muslim women out and about, I think to myself, "I wonder what she's wearing under there?" Next Time: Hey Mom! Baptists are on the Porch!

I'M TRYING TO GET SOME SLEEP HERE....

I just read on Jay's blog, see links to the left if you haven't already checked it out and he stated in the comments section that "pussy is power and women have it all!!!!" Not sure if I got the number of exclamation points right, but I'm really, really tired. I want to thank Jay for that comment and the comments that Seeker and I have shared about why the Beaufriend acts the way he does. I told Seeker that sometimes I feel like the Beaufriend is waiting on me to go postal on him. Wow, this all makes so much more sense. Judging from the posts that I have read on a mulitude of blogs and "conversations" (i.e. running commentary on posts) that many women know that have that pussy power and choose to use it to get whatever they can. If you're a woman like that GET OFF MY PLANET!!! Take a note from Zelda and stop holding out to get your way. Using sex (or no sex) in a relationship is wrong. Its degrading, demeaning and a huge blow to anyones self-esteem. I know this because guys have done it to me. If you're a guy like that GET OFF MY PLANET!!! I love my guy. I don't care if he buys me a fucking Rolls Royce or picks a dandelion walking up the steps to my front door or shows up empty-handed, he's gonna get laid. Why? Because he treats me with respect, like a human being with my own thoughts and feelings, because he talks with me instead of at me and because he tries to understand where I'm coming from. He doesn't pay MY mortgage, take out MY garbage, take care of MY kid or mow MY lawn. I feel privileged to have someone in my life who doesn't steal the mortgage money from my checking account, then goes out and gets lap dances all night and comes home so drunk he pisses on me in the bed. YES, that happened to me! I feel privileged he's never broken my door in or felt up my friends. I feel privileged that he hasn't drunkenly tried to fuck me up the ass or called in the middle of the night to bail him out of jail. I feel privileged that he hasn't beat bruises on me or my child (otherwise he would be dead and I'd be writing this from prison.) So forgive me if I don't whine, piss and moan about the fact that I haven't seen him in 10 days because he's been working 16 hour shifts. I'm grateful he has a job and keeps it. Forgive me if I don't pout and stew because he hasn't been able to say more than, "I miss ya babe and I can't wait to see ya when I can keep my eyes open...snore." I'm grateful he's thinking about me. It means so much. So if ya got a decent guy then treat him like you want to keep him. Men, don't treat your women like shit. Am I idealistic? You're damn straight I am!! The Crazy Cat Woman from the Appalachians has had her say, now I'm going to bed. Good night.

Cats Are Like Potato Chips...You Can't Have Just One (Part IV)

This is going a lot longer than I intended but now that I've started, I'm not stopping. Everyone from my parents to the Beaufriend have mentioned that I just have way too many cats. I, at times, have wondered what the hell I'm doing and have thought about decreasing my population. But I can't. I feel same way about my cats as my dad does his trees. They all have different personalities. If the subject comes up again I will challange the one who asks me to rid myself of the emotional and yes, financial burden of my pets to pick one thing in their life that gives them solace, that makes them laugh, that they love and look foward to and then I want them to give it up. Forever. Financially, things are finally looking up (crosses fingers it stays that way.) I know within the next couple of weeks that I will be able to get M. & N. spayed. Then Napoleon, since he will be the only male left, will be neutered. In succession, his sisters will be spayed also. I do realize though, that I'm maxed out. No further cats or other creatures will be welcomed into my home. I say other creatures because the Drunk Boyfriend brought home an oppossum one time. That was interesting!!! Next time, I'll not be so long-winded and will be talking about my adventures with Baptists, Muslims and religion in general. That's gonna be FUN!!

Cats Are Like Potato Chips... You Can't Have Just One (Part III)

I wanted a black cat. Naturally, the nabes cat came up pregnant AGAIN... small wonder there as she's NOT FIXED! I said if she had a black kitten I would take it. NOT SO!! She had three, two were black and white. Awww shit...frig, okay. I was really hoping they would be a boy and a girl. I wanted to name them Boris and Natasha or Gomez and Morticia. Sorry, both girls. So, they're Natasha and Morticia. They are twins, except for the toe on Natasha's left foot and the fact that Morticia also has allergies and is practically bald at this point. OY! As things happen, my financial situation after the Drunk Boyfriend moved out, prevented me from getting M & N fixed like I had the rest. So, they became strictly housecats until I could get my feet back under me. N. has no interest in going outside, even while in heat because she's in love with Ozzy (and acts just like him.) M., unfortunately, made a beeline for any open door even when she wasn't in heat. It was also extremely difficult to tell when she was in heat because she wasn't a crier and whiner like her sister. Hyper-Boy and T.L.C. didn't shut the door after them and allowed M. outside. This is how we got Mongoya (rest his soul), Napoleon, Lola and Ireland. OYYYYY!!! Surprise, surprise. I always figured all the cats born of the calico (that's Hermione, M. & N.) had Siamese in them. Sleek, trim bodies and triangular faces. It wasn't until M. mated with her uncle, URG!, that it came out. Napoleon and Ireland look Siamese, except Ireland got her mom's white feet. Lola, hee hee, is black with a little bit of white on her belly. Mongoya, who is memorialized in an earlier post, was black and white. Since Mongoya's death I have fought for the lives of the other kittens as they all contracted what he had. The vet has no clue what it is, just knows its not parasitic in nature. Luckily, he gives me a discount because we've had carnal knowledge of each other. I think (crosses fingers) that they are all on the path to recovery. I also think I've given them a complex. I purposefully change the litterbox, the whole litterbox, not just scooping, when I have the time to stand around and watch them all come running to potty. Nothing draws cats like an entirely cleaned and disinfected litterbox. I stand and wait for each to take their turn so I can see how their bowels are functioning and if they need more meds or if its all good. I just laughed at myself for this (and I'm reminded of Seeker who has trouble with public restrooms and his own cat troubles. He's linked here so if anyone has made it this far check him out and make sure you go potty beforehand.) Next: Love, love, love

Cats Are Like Potato Chips...You Can't Have Just One (Part II)

So, Smokey has now survived Ollie, Hobbs and the birth of Hyper-Boy. Hyper-Boy was almost three when I bought my house. I digress. Our neighbors also had a cat that looked a lot like Smokey but he died within a couple of months of us moving here. Their next cat also died. Then they got two females. One was pregnant when they got her, and one became pregnant soon thereafter, despite being told both were fixed. Someone is still laughing about this. I told them I would take one. ONE! I picked out a tan/carmel colored male, brought him home and named his Oscar or Ozzy. He hates practically all people. He only likes being petted for a very short time and then he's gone. He doesn't lay on your lap or anything, Mr. Anti-Social. Right after his litter was born (May 13th), the other litter was born (May 31st). Their mother was a calico. I wasn't going to get one until T.L.C. came over with this kitten, reminded me of Smokey, nasty, just nasty, not to mention, downright UGLY. He said, "If we don't find a home for this one we'll have to take her to the pound." She purred, I was hooked. I thought about naming her Sharon or Harriet since I had an Ozzy but since I had just read Harry Potter, she was dubbed Hermione. Hee hee, can I just say that nasty kitten is gorgeous now? Its very hard to describe her... medium long hair, she's considered a calico since she has tri-colored fur but she's striped like a tabby and big green eyes. She also have frigging allergies. YUCK! But otherwise, she's Ms. Love. She loves everybody, even the people in cars as they have to slow down because she lays in the middle of the road. She looks like a squirrel on stilts. Next Up: The Twins

Cats Are Like Potato Chips... You Can't Have Just One (Part I)

People ask, "How did you get so many cats?" The story of the cats. When I moved out on my own, I had to get a cat. I left Alex, or Boo-Boo, with my parents, or rather they threatened my life if I took him. A lady at work had a cat that just had kittens. Wha-la. He was a freaky mauve color with mauve eyes. I named his Oliver, or Ollie. Two weeks later, I was back at the homestead, between the time that my parents moved deeper into the wooded abyss and they sold their house and heard a cat meowing. My friend and I found this tiny grey kitten under the azalea bush. He was pitiful. Flea-bitten, hair falling out, malnourished. UGH! I took this gray fuzz and got flea soap. ARGH! YUCK! NASTY! I washed him up good and when I poured water over him it looked like he peed blood. I combed what was left of his fur, he was one big flea, that's all. Fed him lamb and rice, he learned to lick water and then I wrapped him up in big beach towel and he slept for hours. That small gray fuzz is now cock of the walk here. (Ollie, even after being fixed, left, or was stolen, and never returned.) Smokey is a 15 lb. monster whose sole purpose in life is to rout my yard of any dog that dares to sniff a blade of our grass. He has medium long hair so he looks that much bigger. His first foray with my Lab, which I no longer own, was a scratched cornea and $200 in vet bills. When I moved from my Tornado-bait (yes, there are tornados in the Appalachians and they do gravitate toward trailers) I had sort of adopted the cat next door named Hobbs. Yes, he looked like Hobbs, duh. The neighbor didn't like him because she hadn't gotten him fixed and he sprayed everything. But she didn't feed him either, scraps off the table. She also said that he was her cat and I couldn't take him with me. Fine. Two days after they pull my trailer out, my other neighbor calls to say that Hobbs is still sitting on my porch meowing. (Sigh) I told him under the cover of darkness to stick him in a cat carrier and bring him down. I got his neutered and he and Smokey still sort of liked each other. I have say though, he had the worst kitty breath of any cat I've ever owned and never failed to want to stick his face in yours for love. By and by, he too left and never returned. This leaves me with one cat, again.

Inanna and the SUVs

There are several reasons why I do not drive an SUV. 1) I can't afford one. They cost almost as much as my house. At the current payment on my compact car it would take me 22 years to pay off a Ford Expedition. It would take me 9 1/4 years to pay it off at my current house payment. It would still take 6 1/2 years to pay it off combining my car and house payment. It better come loaded because I'd be living out of that bitch. 2) If I can't afford the payment I sure as hell can't afford the gas. 3) I simply should not be placed in control of such a monstrosity, like most people who drive them. I drive a Sunfire, 5 in the floor. I will not own a vehicle without a stick shift. Yes, I love the feel of the stick in my hand. I can't help it. Its as much an addiction as smoking and blogging. I love it. I love horsepower. Not so much speed, as power. However, my good friends in the NW allowed me to get behind the wheel of their brand new SUV. Why? Because I was the only sober one. I was left in charge of my friend's brand new husband (I was maid of honor while I was there) and two of her brothers. I'll call them Brother Z, Brother B and Brother T and that SUV. We were on the Columbia River, standing around the woodstove drinking, them beer, me water. (I had a run in with the best people and the best tequila I've ever been completely blasted on, but that's for another post.) When we got ready to leave I have to adjust everything as Brother B had been driving before. He's 6'5", I'm 5'3". I followed one of Brother Z's friends out to the secondary. When he popped up on the road he went into the oncoming lane. The Brothers are stoked, "He wants to race." SHIT!!! There's a fairly long straight stretch ending with a gentle rise blocking the view of oncoming traffic. I'm the type of person that when folks around me get stoked, fuck it, I'm stoked too. I now have three grown men egging me on. Fuck it. I punched that bitch. Brother Z is in shotgun and I see him go slamming backwards. I now have tunnel vision. I'm not looking at anything but the open road and am only conscious of my foot laying on the gas pedal like I'm squashing a bug the size of Washington itself. I lay that bitch wide-open and she's gaining that wild momentum like the crazy woman behind the wheel. We smoke that wannabee. Just one small problem and what I don't know, is... the onramp to the Interstate is right over that little rise. Brother B and Brother T don't know this either because, like me, are not from WA. Brother Z knows this though. He takes up the call first, "We gotta turn! Slow down!" Bitch is still wide open. Brother T and Brother B sensing impending danger also take up the call, "Shit! Slow down! Slow down! We gotta turn." I'm coming down from this massive power high and see the turn myself. In a split second I know I'm going to flip this bitch unless... I slam on the brakes, throwing the Brothers against their seatbelts (I think someone lost a filling) and the moment I execute the turn I punch it again, knowing if I don't I'll lose traction and... oh well, that didn't happen. I blend it with Portland/Vancouver traffic while the Brothers sit in shocked, stunned silence. Brother T, we call him Tweeker, also for another post, is the first to break the silence. "And you're the fucking sober one?!?" Muuahahahahahahhahaaa. This is why I don't drive an SUV. Be very glad.

Aiding and Abetting...

My Family and Jesse James I am the family's resident genealogist. I am aware of how many times I am my own cousin. Big deal. The royals did it, we did it, oh well. Appalachian Royalty has a certain twang and we don't have one eye in the middle of our forehead or hemophilia. There is a family story, passed on by my Great-Great-Grandmother Julie (Ma-Ma's side). Now G-G-Grandma Julie was about the same age as my Great-Grandmother on my Pa-Pa's side, so she wasn't really THAT old in relation to the rest. She did live to see great-great grandchildren born, just like my Pa-Pa. The story is that Julie lived with her mother in Pikeville, KY in the late 1800's. Supposedly, her mother ran a boardinghouse in the area, Jesse James stayed there, or rather they hid him while on the lam, and he tipped my g-g-grandmother $50 for bringing him a meal. Now, I'm inclined to believe it was $5 which probably seemed like $50 as she said she was 6 or 7 years old at the time. Other family genes have discounted this story because supposedly Jesse James was not in that area at the time. Julie was not the type to make up stories of that nature so I was leaning toward Julie. (Now, I never knew her personally, I'm only going on the character reference of my grandfather and grandmother) I dug around and dug around in archives and such looking for clues to Jesse James whereabouts during this time frame. Finally, I found what I was looking for. I was reading stories on www.crimelibrary.com. Its my thing. Yes, I read about serial killers and the mob and outlaws. It serves me well. They have a section on Jesse James which is fairly long and involved written by a Civil War buff and BOOYAH! There it is in black and white... he went through KY in August of 1876. Julie would have been 6 or 7 years old at the time as she was born in August 1869. My family were conferedate sympathizers, even though they all deserted, and in old stories were linked to Quantrill's Raiders. This doesn't prove that Jesse James and my g-g-grandmother ever crossed paths. But it doesn't disprove it either. I'm naturally more inclined to believe the family story, with a grain of salt, that we aided and abetted one of the most notorious outlaws ever. I'm so proud...sniff... does anyone have a tissue?

I RULE!!

I finally figured out how to post links. Although I'm too much of a squib to know how to put the actual title "Links" anywhere. I know I have lurkers out there so its really for them since, well, we all sorta know each other anyway. And if not, well, the links are there. Ummmm... now I linked all these folks and now I don't know if I should have. Do you ask someone if you can link them? Or do most people just asked to be linked? I noticed Zelda linked me, I'M SO PROUD!!!, and she didn't ask, but then, that is Zelda and Zelda is awesome. Here is it: If I linked you and you don't want to be linked to my site chances are you'll never know anyway since you don't read my blog. Problem solved. For all others, it is my pride and pleasure to present to the lurkers the opporunity to read your blogs and become addicted as I have. May you have calluses on your ass as I do!! CIAO!!

Top 10 Reasons...

The Beaufriend is on the road again. This time its an "alternative" shop... in other words a sex shop masquerading as a music store because they sell CDs. Here are the top 10 reasons that he should buy edible/flavored lubricant/massage oil: 10. I’ll go half on the price 9. It has less calories than Wesson oil 8. Its less expensive than Olive Oil 7. It will taste better than baby oil (hopefully) 6. Friction, friction, friction 5. A good reason to shower together afterwards 4. The slicker, the hotter, the better 3. The sweat will bead on our skin 2. The boss will slide between the upper frontal prizes easier AND, THE NUMBER ONE REASON IS.... 1. My ankles are more likely to make it to your earlobes... YEEEEEHAWWW!!!

Channeling Jim Morrison

I answer phones on roll-over at work. That means the receptionist is stuck with someone and the phone ring and rings. Its a chance you take picking it up, afraid it might be that client you've been dodging. I usually try and disguise my voice. Today, I got a guy who said, "I gotta sort of a wierd question." God, I love these. He says, "I was divorced in '98 in Florida," immediatley I'm thinking, "Good, I'll refer him back to Florida." Bad me. "Well, my ex-wife called to let me know her dad died and the estate is worth a couple million dollars." Ooooookaay. "Now, why would she do that? Her dad and I were always on good terms." Be damned if I know mister since you called a law firm instead of a psychic hotline, but I'd try like hell to get back in her good graces. "Well sir, perhaps you were named in the will." "I didn't think of that." Damn, but I did! "Me and him were always close. Just because I divorced her don't mean I divorced him." oooookaaay "Sir, did she just call and say, 'hey, my dad died, he's worth 2 million?'" That'll teach ya for divorcing me! "No, no, matter a fact, we talked for 4 hours and cried together. See, she never got along with her dad very well," So much for the inheritance, dump her! "And I broke on through to the other side," Whooaaaa, serious 60's drug use here causing him to channel Jim Morrison, "so it really patched things up with them." Awwwwww... "Sir, I think maybe since you and her dad were so close that she wanted to talk to someone who loved him as much as she did. She needed to make a connection with someone who would understand what she was feeling," I am SO good! "Yeah, yeah, I think that may have been it." Then why the fuck did you just waste 5 minutes of my time? "Thanks for clearing that up for me. I really appreciate it." Not a problem, Thursdays are always my most psychic days.

How does one be romantic without being cheezy? Or are they the same thing? Beaufriend's b-day is coming up. Wanna do something nice, laid back but not cheezy and schmoozy. I got him a 3 year subscription to Popular Photography magazine. Its the gift that keeps on giving. It also means if he dumps me he'll be reminded of me once a month. If that's not romance, I dunno what is.

I was hoping I would see the bitch that works at the law firm down the street from me this morning. I woke up with cramps and a headache. Somebody needs to pay. This woman is just like my mother. It appears she never steps out of the house without each flyaway hair lacquered into place. She walks like she's trying to keep a marble between her butt cheeks. She would drown if ever caught in rainstorm. Snotty hag. She has been the object of my ire since she made a racist comment about a good friend of mine. My friend is very small statured and this bitch didn't see her behind all the people over 5 feet tall in the elevator. I haven't liked her since and I'll never like her. I imagine that she only has sex in the missionary position and fakes orgasms a lot because she's so frigid no man could last long enough to defrost her twat. She probably has sex on a towel too, you know, to soak up the condensation. She's thin but hangs out with two fat women. I think this is to make her look good because after they get off the elevator she makes fun of them. I keep hoping she trips and falls face first into a parking meter. One day I'm going to help that along.

The Lonely Child (Part III)

We're huge Lord of the Rings fans around here. (I have the books in English and German.) I was sitting in the Control Room one day, one ear cocked to hear the conversations in the living room. T.L.C. was being a butt. A real butt. Hyper-Boy was putting up with this. (This was pre-"Fine go home then") I am boiling but stay in my room. Suddenly, a phrase from "The Two Towers" springs to mind. "Stupid, fat hobbit." And I repeat it over and over in my mind in Gollum's voice. I am ashamed. I am afraid something will happen to T.L.C. At this rate it will. Its called drugs and mischief. It may happen to mine too. No one is immune. But there's no reason to give it a head start. Its hard to impress upon someone that children need us MORE as they grow up, not less. Its just a different kind of need. They need supervision, guidance, rules, consequences and love. Love most of all. I wonder if something did happen, whether death or consequences of choices, that they would miss T.L.C. Would they miss the way freckles pop out on his nose during summer? Would they miss his white eyelashes against his sunburned face? Would they miss the silly songs that he sings? Would they miss the way the boys get excited and hyper when playing video games to the point where even I join them (and I hate video games) as T.L.C. shouts directions at Hyper-Boy... "no, no, right there! NO! Speed up, right through there!! That's it! That's it! YOWWWZAAA!!!" And they stand up and high five and shake their butts going "oh yeah, oh yeah, uh huh, oh yeah." Would they miss the way he sticks his tongue out while playing Gameboy? Do they notice enough to miss anything?

The Lonely Child (Part II)

I can't forget the month of the talent show. T.L.C. talked about it endlessly. Hyper-Boy has stage fright, unlike his mother. Every morning, every evening, T.L.C. talked about it. One morning I hear him coming across the lawn between our houses. I hear him because he is bawling, sobbing. I meet him at the door and ask what happened. His dad lost his permission slip for the talent show. He won't get up to take him to school to sign another one. T.L.C. is angry. I console him the best I can, wanting to go over and drag his father out of bed and tell him his child is worth more than a goddamn 1/2 hour of sleep. I reassure T.L.C. that I'm sure he can still be in the talent show. I almost go in and sign the damn permission slip myself but I know the school knows to call his dad at work and get verbal permission. This is a normal occurrence. When his parents go out at night, they don't really ask me to babysit. They call to let me know that he is home alone and will I be home in case he "needs" anything. There is no difference in this and asking me to watch him. I remind them that I put Hyper-Boy to bed at a certain time and T.L.C. cannot stay here. That's okay, they'll be home at 10. I said TEN. I stay up, afraid the house will burn or I won't hear him if he cries or calls. Most nights it is 11:00 or 12:00 or 1:00. This is neglect. I know this. I am ashamed that I do not turn them in. My other neighbor who watches Hyper-Boy is ashamed too. We are the worst sort of people in the world. We know everything and do nothing. We try to lead by example. What kind of example are we if we do nothing though? Who are we to dictate how another parent treats their child? He's fed. He's clothed. He has a roof over his head. He's not beaten nor abused. Or is he? Do not think I am a saint, for I am not. No matter how sorry I feel for him, sometimes he just downright gets on my last nerve.

The Lonely Child (Part I)

I have often heard my mother say, “She doesn’t love her children anymore than I love mine.” Is that true? How can one equate love? It is but an emotion. Is it self-righteous to assume that you can love more or better than someone else? What is love? Elusive definitions. The lonely child lives next door. T.L.C., ironic isn’t it? My home is very small, less than a 1000 square feet. When you walk in the front door you are in a living room. To the right is the kitchen. Straight ahead at the end of the house is Hyper-Boy’s room, to the left is the bathroom. To the right is my room. Before my room is the computer room/laundry room/3rd bedroom/junk room. The living room is large, which suits me. When T.L.C. comes over I stick my head out of the computer room (We really call it the Control Room because this is where the Woman in Charge hangs out) and I can smell him from across the room. He smells of male cat piss, crap and rottenness. He is 9 years old. He will be 10 in August. He’s cute although overweight. He’s very good at video games and loves to sing. He’s very selfish because he’s an only child and his mother believes that because he’s an only child he should be selfish. Its just how only children are. Bullshit. (Here come the comparisons) My son is not an only child. His father has two other children from his two marriages. His brother, S.W., is 16 and his sister, A.W., is 11. They live with their mothers. Hyper-Boy and A.W. see each other every other weekend and sometimes she and her mom come to visit us or we go visit them or I pick up A.W. at her grandparents house on the weekend when the kids are not together. (That’s a whole nother story) But, for the most part, Hyper-Boy is an only child. I do not allow him to be selfish. I do not allow him to blackmail other children to get his way. T.L.C. used to be good at this. He would tell Hyper-Boy he was going home unless X, Y or Z was not done. Hyper-Boy always gave in. Sometimes this worked, sometimes it didn’t and if didn’t Hyper-Boy would come crying to me. It broke my heart and I asked him again and again, “why do you let him do that to you?” “Because I want someone to play with.” Good answer, same answer, over and over. So, I finally shut up. One day I heard the same ole, same ole start. I heard T.L.C. say, “Fine, I’ll just go home then.” I heard Hyper-Boy say, “Fine, go home then.” I pumped my fist in the air in silent jubilation. Hyper-Boy comes into the Control Room and asks, “why does T.L.C. have to be such a butt?” How do I explain a child that receives no guidance nor attention? T.L.C.’s mother leaves very early for work so his dad wakes him up in the morning. T.L.C. gets dressed and ready for school. No one tells him to have a good day, kisses him goodbye or tells him that they love him. If he rides to school with me and Hyper-Boy I tell him to have a good day. He comes home to an empty house. Now that its summer, he stays home alone although he wants to go to his old babysitter’s. His parents say they can’t afford it. They can afford to drink and party but not hire a babysitter. They make roughly twice what I do and have roughly the same bills. I can afford it. His mom has told me she never wanted children. He was standing in front of her at the time. She equates this by saying, “but I love the one I got.” Okay, can we just stick to the “I love the one I got”? His grades are abysmal. I know this because he left his report card at my house. His mother complains because the school wants her to work with him at home. She says it is their job to teach him, not hers. Obviously. I interject as best as I can the importance of being involved and helping where we can. “Its not my job,” she says. T.L.C. gets angry because Hyper-Boy can read better than he can. He got angry (jealous?) because Hyper-Boy went on a special field trip because he had gotten his Accelerated Reader points. He told Hyper-Boy to stop bragging. “Its not nice to brag about stuff when other people don’t get to do it.” I told him, gently, that Hyper-Boy was not bragging, he was merely relating his day. Hyper-Boy was not saying, “Ha ha haha ha, I got to go and you didn’t.” I would have knocked out that loose tooth he has for that. He was just excited about what had happened. Later, I told Hyper-Boy, who has enough trouble at school that I’m thrilled when he gets kudos for his work, that he had every right to be proud because he had worked hard. He had every right to talk about his accomplishment.

The Quote

Here is the quote I mis-quoted in one of my posts. "We are well advised to keep on nodding terms with the people we used to be, whether we find them attractive company or not. Otherwise they turn up unannounced and surprise us, come hammering on the mind's door at 4am of a bad night and demand to know who deserted them, who betrayed them, who is going to make amends. We forget all too soon the things we thought we could never forget." --- Joan Didion

Irony

All my kitties had stinky butts, as in toxic farts, which the vet attributed to the food I was feeding them. They all seemed to have picked up a tad of what killed Mongoya. They have been pampered. I bought the Science Diet for Sensitive Stomachs. The good news is... they're not pooing as much and no toxic farts. Bad news is... its because they're upchucking. "That's whatcha call ironic." Kudos to whoever can tell me what movie that is from.

Hyper-Boy (Part III)

You might wonder what kind of relationship Hyper-Boy and Sperm Donor have now. Hyper-Boy has taught me the meaning of forgiveness and grace. I still have moments where I absolutely loathe the ground his father walks on. However, I will not say anything bad about his dad to him or around him, nor do I allow anyone else to. Even when Hyper-Boy asked me why his daddy was so mean. Hmmmm... Hyper-Boy was afraid of his dad and he didn't like him very well for a while. Stands to reason. Duh. Once his dad did what he had to do, got off most of the drugs and half the booze, took a few anger management classes and actually talked to me without calling me a bitch, they were allowed to see each other again, slowly. They both tried. Hyper-Boy loves his dad and tells him so. He hugs and kisses him. He wants to buy him gifts for Father's Day and Christmas. His love is big. His forgiveness is huge. Hyper-Boy has a gentle spirit encased in a blow-out body. He's sensitive, especially to suffering. I watch him grow and mature and I'm proud. He's worked so hard and accomplished so much. He's risen above many times. When he was born he came out pitching a fit. When they laid him in my arms I looked down and said, "Hi Baby." He immediately stopped crying and looked at me like, "Oh, Hi. So you're the Mommy, I'm so glad." When he awoke after his tonsillectomy he looked at me the same way but this time he said, "At least I didn't die." Talk about being reborn. I wrote this poem about him early last year while we were still manipulating his meds. It reminds me of how far he has come. Happy Birthday Hyper-Boy, Mama loves ya!!! Lonely Child Wandering Overwhelming light and sound cacophony, endless voices He looks from side to side trying to mend frayed ends of conversations to coherent thought Movement of lips of hands Of sneakers squeaking eyes following too many gestures He is frozen in confusion I touch his shoulder to guide to commiserate to give Field Trip money and the lonely child wandering looks out through my eyes

Hyper-Boy (Part II)

Hyper-Boy is the sweetest kid. I don't think he really has a mean bone in his body, ornery, oh hell yes. Mean, nope. He sometimes gets mouthy, not normally with me but lashes out verbally at other people at times. He's actually learning to stand up for himself now as before he would bend over backwards to have a friend and took all their crap along with it. He's learned when he's wrong to just shut up and take punishment like a little man. For those who have never dealt with an ADHD child, they are very impulsive. They don't recognize danger very well and if they do, they really don't care because they are always looking for stimulation. They also talk out of turn and say things they probably shouldn't. Most of this is kept under control with medication. I said most. He did call his dad a bitch once. (Sorry, I could not keep a straight face on that one.) I've learned as much as I can about ADHD and seizures. I know how the medicine he takes affects his body and his brain. Because I have educated myself, I also know when he's completely bullshitting me. I'll say, "Hyper-Boy, what is the deal man?" He'll say, "my medicine hasn't kicked in yet." I say, "Hyper-Boy quit bullshittin' boy." "Mommy, you shouldn't say the bs word." "Hyper-Boy shouldn't try to bs the Mommy." He'll laugh and quit whatever it is he's not supposed to be doing. He's still a kid and he still does kid stuff, normal kid stuff. What I've learned from Hyper-Boy probably exceeds what I've been able to teach him... by a long shot.

Hyper-Boy (Part I)

Its almost Hyper-Boy's birthday. He'll be 8. No, he's not going on 28 either. He's male, remember? I love this little fella. He's so proud because he weighs 55 lbs. now. Trouble is, he's 4 ft. 4 in. tall so this still makes him a beanpole. He's got the biggest blue eyes. Girls will swoon. Some of you have probably heard that in the last months of pregnancy babies don't move as much because they are too big. WELL, no one told Hyper-Boy that. His 14" head ground away in my pelvis for a month. He never slowed down, always rolling. He weighed 8lbs. 14oz. He wore 0-3 month clothes for about a week. He never could wear those cute little shoes that matched the outfit. Huge feet this guy. The great thing about this is that he was a very alert baby and ate more than say a 5 pounder would. He nursed 40 minutes, 20 on each side. Too bad he didn't sleep much though. We hated life together his first 3 months. He sensed my malcontent I'm sure. I realized a few things by the time he turned 3. One, he was really smart. Two, he was really hyper. This is a horrible combination. Kindergarten was hell. I mean hell. Double hell. His dad was so fed up with his hyperactivity and with his own life he took to beating Hyper-Boy finally to the point of leaving bruises on him, which I found. The dad's girlfriend finally clued me in to rest of the stuff going on behind my back when sperm donor couldn't watch him because he was too fucked up. Pills and booze, booze and pills. Then I'm the pariah because I filed for full custody. I cut off visitation. I told sperm donor to get his life together or get out of our lives completely. He yelled, threatened, got a real fancy bitch lawyer that I know bugged her husbands's office and had to resign the judgeship... she knew me too. And I got the Family Court judge I wanted, who also knew me. That's just the way it worked out. The God's smiled on me. I didn't have to do much anyway. Once his lawyer saw the pics I had taken which were the perfect outline of her client's hand bruised into my baby's bottom, I pretty much got what I wanted. Now, sperm donor is much, much better. He knows his limits in dealing with Hyper-Boy. They are very low. Hyper-Boy has had 14 doctors. He takes two medications, one for seizures and one for ADHD. They help. Unfortunately, the folks at his school believe these are miracle drugs that will turn him into the perfect robot. Nope. Now, I've been stuck between a rock and a hard place. I pretty much didn't spank Hyper-Boy for a long time. After what his dad did... well, what can you do? Therapy, therapy, therapy. For both of us. Hyper-Boy developed a roaring case of anxiety. He wet the bed until he was 6. He was angry and moody. School suffered, home life suffered. But little by little, he pulled it up. The worst part of this, is he knows he's not like other kids. He realizes he is different. His mind never, never stops. The school nurse, his teachers, day care providers etc. have told me at least once, "he's always thinking, you can see it in his eyes." Yep. His newest therapist, who is awesome and the best I've yet to meet, and I outta know, says this is why Hyper-Boy has such difficulty with drawing and writing. His mind cannot light on one subject, it flits and flits and flits and when he finally decides on what to write or draw then it has to be perfect, it has to fit a certain criteria. This is why we are practicing writing over the summer, not to mention the two E's which were made completely out of giving up and laziness. He dropped from A's to E's... this is not a medication/medical problem, this is laziness, this is giving up. This calls for desperate measures. No Harry Potter movie until he applies himself. Further complicating this is his learning capabilities. He learns very, very fast. And once he learns it, its learned, lets move on. He hates repetition. HE HATES REPETITION!! What do they do in 2nd grade, repeat, repeat, repeat. Hyper-Boy is one of the youngest in his class. He reads like an 11-year old and writes like a 5 year old. I understand his frustration.

This is from earlier... I GOTTA RANT!!!! "So, this client calls me bitching and complaining because his claim hasn't settled and the insurance company hasn't called back. I try to be understanding with these folks, I really do. But he is so offensive its hard to feel sorry for him. Its hard to tolerate him at all. I cringe when I hear his name on the intercom. I tried explaining that 1) Its vacation season, people are out of the office 2) They are under no obligation to give you money before they go on vacation 3) Even if they are not on vacation, their boss probably is 4) He/She is also under no obligation to give you money 5) the southernmost part of our State, which is 2-4 hours away, is under 2 feet of mud from recent flooding. This means people are living with friends, relatives or in unsanitary conditions and have lost everything they own. This sort of takes precedence over your complaning just because you hate this state and don't want live here anymore. (He's not from these here parts.) In short, they would rather give money to folks who continue to live here and deal with the environmental hazards left behind by the great coal companies after they have lobbed off entire tops of mountains than to you, a sniveling, whiny, belligerent fuck who only wants what's coming to him and to hell with the rest of us in this pathetic state. So, while I wish they would make it much worse on you, I'm inclined to pray they give you some dough so you will shut the fuck up and get the hell out of my state. And don't let the door hit ya where the good Lord split ya!!" And then I thought, because that's how I am, besides the fact that he said he never wanted to come back here again, that it may just be the tone of his voice. Some folks are born with nice voices, like Bing Crosby, Frank Sinatra and Gene Autry. And then some people aren't. I have a client whose always sounds mad, even when she's not. (Think Dirty Harry) Its her accent. She's not from these here parts. She probably thinks we all sound like a scene from Deliverance or Wrong Turn. I know a lot of people who do but they're uglier. But then, I'm just an inclined to admit he's a sniveling, whiny, belligerent fuck who doesn't meet the neighborhood criteria for wife beating, incest, junked cars in the driveway, and coonhounds under the porch. He just doesn't feel as though he can live up to the expectations of this great state so he's decided to hightail it on outta here before somebody really irritates him by inviting him to join the volunteer fire department. Those good folks slogging through two feet of mud, selfishly taking up all of your claim adjuster's time, will gladly wave good-bye.

The Trees in His Forest (Part II)

The reason I wanted to get that particular book for my dad is because of a conversation we had. I had gone morel hunting (this is type of edible fungus masquerading as a mushroom) and my dad had followed on his four-wheeler. Due to his numerous problems, the silicosis and asbestosis are only the tip of the iceberg, he doesn't walk the mountains much. We rode around together on the 70 acres they own. Those 70 acres are the reason my dad's body is worn out. Those 70 acres are his life-long dream. Its a working farm with 25 head of cattle, 6 cats and more wildlife than you can shake a stick at. There are gas roads all over the mountain so four-wheeling is easy. There's also timber, good timber, and lots of it. Estimates of its worth are six figures. A lot of the timber is veneer quality, that means there are no knots or limbs in the trees. The poplar canopy is 30-40 feet. That's where we stopped to look for morels, in one of the poplar groves, the canopy soaring above us. My dad, who probably has the first penny, nickel, dime, quarter and dollar that he ever made (don't spend your principal!), who worked like a dog his whole life to provide for us, who was the first in his family to graduate from college, who bought the farm not just to be a cattle farmer but also to harvest the timber, stood under those trees and said, "I just can't sell my trees. I just can't do it." I said, "Then don't Daddy." How can you sell something that owns you?

The Trees in His Forest (Part I)

The book I got my dad for Father's Day was called "The Trees in My Forest" by Bernd Heinrich. Okay, he actually doesn't have it yet because Books A Million I'd Never Buy didn't have it. I don't guess it mattered much because my dad was way under the weather yesterday. Way under. My dad, who I still call Daddy to his face and always will, whose father lived to the ripe age of 85, is probably not going to make it that far. Statistics state his life expectancy has dropped by 12 years. ]My dad has asbestosis overlayed by more severe silicosis. This is thanks to the time he spent in the shipyards for the Navy. It is also thanks to the major grocery store chain he worked for which exposed him to asbestos insulation in the warehouse and silica dust at the railyards. Thanks so much. My dad is old-school Republican. He wasn't around much when I was a kid. He worked, all the time. And when he wasn't working, he was a weekend warrior in the Navy Reserves. And when he wasn't working or playing soldier he was taking college classes. And when he wasn't doing any of that he was hunting, fishing, working with a civic organization, mowing grass... etc. etc. I got him two weeks a year when we went camping. My mom is not the kind of woman who could handle this. My mom is co-dependent and raised me that way, which I have fought against for the past 7 years. Because of her unhappiness, she talked frequently and poorly about my dad. And I resented him as much as she did. Naturally, we didn't see eye to eye. When I left for my year abroad in Germany, that all sort of changed. My dad wrote me one letter, one personal letter while I was there. My dad worked midnights at that time and he told me he would take Boo-Boo, my hateful black Manx, and go upstairs to my room to sleep (no phone up there) and would think of me and wonder how I was. I'll never forget that. When I came home, my mom started again, the complaining about my dad. After going a year without that experience it suddenly struck me full force. I took it about two weeks and I finally told her, bluntly, to shut up about my dad. She admitted much later that she knew that she had interfered in my relationship with my dad. I missed some years though. It really came to a head when I became pregnant. I was unmarried but my son's father was not. Yeah, big mistake. My mother had a field day. She worried about what everyone would think. I heard what a disappointment I was over and over again. She refused to come to my baby shower. I was left out of family photographs. Every dig she could dig, she dug. And dug and dug and dug. As hard as she could. The aftermath is another story. But although I know my dad was disappointed, he never said anything to me. I guess he figured my mom more than made up for his silence. When I would go to their house, he would meet me at my car. He would ask me if I was okay. He would ask me if I needed anything. Then he would go. He never did this in front of my mother less he suffer her wrath for showing compassion. Through all this, I don't take sides between my parents. I understand my dad in ways my mom completely and utterly misses. Must be those genes. They say that sons and mothers are more alike genetically, as are fathers and daughters. Don't I know it. When people see me with my mom, they think I look like her but then they meet my dad, and they say, "oh no, you look like your dad." Nah, not really. I just act like him and that's what makes us look alike.

I Almost Forgot...

In the wake of the death of our beloved kitty Mongoya, I almost forgot the day before. My son has a gazillion doc appts. (maybe that's an exaggeration but sometimes it feels that way). I, being Ms. Frugal, decided to have the Sperm Donor drop his off at my office so we could walk to the hospital which is 5 blocks down and 2 blocks over. Like the rest of the US past NV, we've been having some major thunderstorms. But, the sky was clear. So, we walk down in mid 80 temps to find the office had no A/C. Ugh. On the way back I notice the sky has that eerie-its-gonna-rain-like-hell look. We made it two blocks before the sky opened up. The wind was howling. I took my sandals off because they make my feet slide and not really made for running like hell. Hyper Boy is psyched. I'm worried about being struck by lightening. In two minutes we were soaked. We made it to the post office where we stood up against the wall and watched 60 mph winds whip between the buildings, which I have to admit was pretty kewl. The whole barrage lasted maybe 5-7 minutes. Then the after storm sprinkling started. Hyper Boy and I hit every puddle on the way to the pharmacy. Who cares? We were already wet and I had on a black dress so no one got a show. Hyper Boy was thrilled to see Mommy splashing in puddles while corporate kiss butts walked by in their posh suits, black umbrellas and hair-spray. I haven't used a worthy amount of hairspray since Mile-High Hair went out. The water was warm, my son gleeful. It was great.

The Beaufriend (Part III)

I just noticed that Part I posted between my other posts prior to these since it was a draft. Sigh... Anywho, he's tough to figure out sometimes. Like I said, not a sunshine blower. Definitely cautious. So, I'm stuck being dead honest about what I want in the hopes that if I'm going to scare him off it just happens and we move on. Like the Evanescence song "My Immortal" and if you have to leave I wish that you would just leave... these wounds won't seem to heal this pain is just too real there's just too much that time cannot erase As our time goes on, I begin to believe that although time cannot erase some of the pain we've endured, it makes it easier to bear. The painful reminders make us grateful for the things we do have. A painful past is just that, painful and the past. You can only learn from the past, but you can't live there. Its over, its done, gone, it can't be changed. Its the butterfly affect. Change one thing, you change everything. I wouldn't be the person I am today without it. He wouldn't either and I think he's finally realizing that. He hadn't come as far as I had. Do I think I've "healed" him? No. You can only heal yourself. He's still scared out of his wits. Me, I'm just scared. But I'm not afraid. Does that make any sense? I refuse to not give myself over to something simply because I'm afraid I might lose it. I think he's getting there. Its less of a toss up now. Before, it was. The hope vs. the fear. The chance of incredible love vs. the chance of incredible pain. There's a quote that I can't remember but here's the just of it: "I'm still on speaking terms with my past because I don't want it to come banging on the door of my subconscious at 2 a.m. demanding to know who's going to make it better, who's going to make amends." (Will post original quote later when I find it) That's him, that's me, that's us. We're not perfect, nor glamorous, we've got our problems, but we also have a lot going for us. I really like us.

The Beaufriend (Part II)

So, I don't recall if the beaufriend and I met in college or at a bar. Same difference. I knew him, he knew me. He had left the area for quite some time but I knew he was back around. I hadn't seen him though until December. I went to visit my friend A.Z. and he brought him over to my table so we could "babysit" each other. I was so excited to see him because, well, I'd always liked him. We talked about our travels (he lived in Ireland for a while, I lived in Germany), we discussed politics (anti-Bush), past relationships (they sucked), how long we had been single (him, about a year, me, about a year and a half). Then he asked me the question that raised my radar through the roof. "Do you think you'll ever get married?" Huh? I tripped over that question like a stuttering fool. Do I think? Who knows. Its not like I've had so many quality offers. I'm a difficult person. With the Brittany Spears and J-Los of the world, what does marriage really mean anymore? Obviously more to the homosexuals in Massachusetts than those ladies. If I ever walk down the aisle I want it to be understood that we're stuck forever. Realism not idealism. (Don't get me started) Anyway, we didn't talk for a month. I finally worked up the nerve to call him. Now, here we are. I'm not a happy camper this evening. He's working, which is fine, except this particular aspect of his job makes it necessary to work in a "gentlemen's club." (HI KEVIN!) Broadcasting live. Geez. Its unsettling. Do I think he's getting free lap dances and blow jobs? No. Do I think he's chatting up every abled naked body in the club? Absolutely. Do I think he's enjoying this? In some ways, no, but in some ways, yes, but he'd never admit it because he knows it would hurt my feelings. I know it all has to do with my own insecurities. My past and the fact that I love him. That I'm in love with him. The fact that no matter how hard I fight it, my mind turns to something permanent and I'm getting that slow vibe from him too. We've both been here before. When you begin to believe and trust that this is forever and you get the shit slapped out of you. But somehow we keep moving forward. The fact is, I don't want my man looking at bodies more perfect than mine. LOL! My body isn't what it used to be since Hyper Boy was born. I'm not Pamela Anderson Lee. Okay, maybe the boobs and the hair, or something close, or so I like to think!! Hahhahahhahha. And I know that he loves my brain as much as he loves my body. Its a balance. And I love his body too. He's not perfect in the eyes of society but he's perfect in my eyes. LOVE IS BLIND FOLKS!! He's got broad shoulders like a line-backer and I love football, not as much as him, but I do love it. (I also love hockey!) We don't like being bored therefore the bedroom action is intense, sweaty and a hell of a good time. I think his hair is longer than mine but I tend to forget that he even has long hair. Except for weekend before last when I came so hard I lost all sense of time and what fucking planet I was on and ended up with my hands tangled in it so bad I thought I was going to pull it out by the roots. Luckily he said I didn't hurt him. I've noticed too that he doesn't take much stock in what people say if they don't follow through. I told him that the folks I work with have been encouraging me to go to massage school. I have naturally strong hands I suppose and empathically know where it hurts and how to make it feel better so I offered him a massage. His response after a few minutes was, "wow, you are good at this." ??? YEAH! I guess he won't believe what a good dancer I am until I get one of those removable poles and show him. Hmmmmm....

I really don't like people sometimes. And its not the ones I deal with. Its the ones that people have dealt with before they get to me! I have a client who was an inmate at one of the fine correctional facilities in my state. He suddenly began suffering severe headaches for which they gave him Tylenol. He was sent back to the population 3 or 4 days in a row. On the 5th day or so, he was scheduled for a parole hearing. The parole board took one look at him and made the prison transport him to a hospital. He had suffered a subarachnoid hemorrhage and eventually a stroke. It happens. But when they eventually released him from prison, he was transported to our city, 2 hours away from his hometown, with no money, no transporation, no home, no job, no nothing. So, they want him to stay out of jail?? Ridiculous. Plus, he's disabled. The hemorrhage damaged his short and long term memory. He can no longer remember how to read or write. There are certain words that he simply cannot say or cannot remember. He also interjects the word "motherfucker" in every other sentence. When he becomes agitated it is more pronounced. Its not loud, more of a low mumble, but its there. He apologizes the first time he meets someone because he cannot control it. Finally I was able to irritate enough people to get him some benefits and his parole officer got him transferred so he could live with his sister. I just want to know how our great state thought this guy was going to make it? He admitted that he would steal before he went hungry, he would run drugs again, before he went hungry. One side of his body is paralyzed. What the fuck was our great state thinking? I also had a guy call me about Social Security benefits. He had questions. They all have questions. These particular questions were not in my area of "expertise" but I looked them up anyway and tried my best to explain the government fucocktomy (thanks A.Z. for the contraction) of Social Security. This particular question revolved around offsets due to permanent disability Workers Compensation benefits. This gentlemen received a small annuity payment from a Workers Comp injury. Yes, it would offset his SSDI. They called back three times with more questions and to update me on their case. They are not my clients. They are just people. The wife calls back today to tell me that SS said the annuity would not offset SSDI because it was a commerical annuity purchased by the coal company. Why didn't they say so to start with? No, it does not offset SSDI. She called to confirm this with me because she did not trust SS. People whine to me all the time about Social Security, Human Services and Workers Comp...news flash..they don't care!!! Yes, they are supposed to but mainly their job is to deny you benefits. The wife thanked me profusely. And then she said, "You are the only person who tried to help us. No one else would talk to us." I guess I should have felt good about that, I did in a way, but otherwise I was just sad that they ended up with a paralegal busier than a one-armed paperhanger in a bad mood as opposed to someone who is paid to help them. I can't help it though. I hate to see people get screwed. I'm reminded of a conversation I had many years ago with an acquaintance who is a police officer in the fine city I work in. They had launched a nationwide search for our most famous homeless person, aptly named after the song by Jethro Tull, Aqualung. I wondered aloud why they would put themselves out like that. After all, the man had a right to move if he wanted to. "We were worried", he responded, "is his life any less important to us because of his social standing, of where he lives, of how he lives? When we dehumanize others, we dehumanize ourselves." The city later rescued him from a mental hospital in another part of the state a few years back. "Hey, we want our most famous homeless person back!" We got him. I see him in the alley, going through the dumpster. I see him laying in the doorway of a closed establishment. I see him pushing his cart along the streets. If I want to give him something, I leave it in the dumpster at the end of the alley because he will take nothing from your hand. I know he likes Westerns. I also know he used to be a lawyer.

Interesting Day

Sissy and I went to lunch at the mall. I hardly ever go there. One, because I just hate to shop unless I want something specific, which I do. A really cool looking halter top which will make me look in the mirror and go "damn girl, you lookin' good." Sissy is addicted to the chicken teriyaki at the Japanese place so I tried it out with her. Really neat that they make it in front of you. I saw a girl that reminded me of Lindsay from Freaky Friday, the one everyone has been commenting on...did she or did she not have a boob job??? I guess she may be a late bloomer because I remember falling asleep an "A" and waking up a "C" but I was 12 or so. And they didn't stop there. Oh no, why would I ever have the joy of being able to wear a bikini that fit the top AND the bottom. If I had a J-Lo butt, everything would have been cool, but alas, I am all top and no bottom. I had quite a cute ass in '96, if you could overlook the rather bublous protrusion on the front of me. When my pregnancy ended, so did my ass. I had to deliver medical records in the afternoon about 40 miles away. The State Police were running radar on the Interstate. They were stationed about 2 miles apart on the way down. All in SUVs with antennae like octupus arms. Some were K-9 units, which are really sweet looking vehicles...my tax dollars at work. On the way home I passed a trooper at mile markers 26, 28, 32.5 (three were having a discussion beside the road in those really hot looking BDU type uniforms of the drug enforcement unit, yum!) and I passed another at mile marker 36 or so. The bummer was that the ones at 26 and 28 passed up a stranded motorist in the West bound lane who had been there when I went through. Its 87 degrees, with 63% humidity, so it feels like 95 and on the roadway it must have been 105 or so. None of them stopped to just let the guy sit in the air conditioned comfort of one of those fancy SUVs until a wrecker or the Welfare on Wheels came to his rescue. (WOW is the Welfare to Work program where people drive around and help stranded motorists) That pissed me off. SERVE and protect fellas. Now, don't get me wrong, I have a lot of respect for police officers. First, I went to college with a lot of folks who are now officers. One of them died in the line of duty about 5 years ago. He was a good guy. Hyper Boy's father was a cop. I watched it tear him apart, I watched his slow decent into hell. He's no longer a cop. Troopers around here have a bad rep though. Brutality, being assholes, but damn they look hot in those uniforms. I got home and found my lost cat. She has a bad cold or allergies. She's always sneezing but its much worse now. She's not eating so I went to the store and got canned food. If a cat can't smell, it won't eat and they lose weight fast. I've been wiping her nose like a kid. For some reason she's been giving me dirty looks. She didn't eat much but she ate a little. I'll try again in the morning. Maybe I'll wait until after she sneezes...YECH!!!

The Beaufriend (Part I)

I just want to say that I'm useless in relationships. I suck at them. Well, I used to suck but things have gotten better with the Beaufriend. I love this guy for all the right reasons. There's a lot of things I like about the Beaufriend. He's not stuck up my ass all the time for one. We have our thing and then we each have our own thing. This was freaky wierd at first but I like it. Not to say I wouldn't mind spending a little more time with him...but, whose to say that may not increase over time. I'll either deal with it or I won't. I also like the fact that he doesn't talk my ear off after sex. Kiss my back, snuggle your sweat-soaked body against mine (its not real sex until both of us are drenched) but don't talk my damn ear off. I got nothing to say, I said it all with my body bud. I get real jangly after sex, it gives me a high and if I don't just lay there and chill I'll be up and ready to run a marathon for hours. And what a sweetie, he's actually learned to wait out the 10 minute, 5 sec, 2 millisec rule for showering afterwards. And I didn't even have to say anything. He's not a sunshine-blower either. He's not constantly telling me how beautiful and hot and what a(fill in the boring blank) I am. So when he does say something I know he means it. He told me the other night "you look so beautiful and are incredibly hot." Then he went home because he was tired. Huh? He told one of my gal pals that I was "awesome." I can handle that. The last time he said anything like that was in January when he called me "adorable." I still have the e-mail. He didn't try to get me into bed the first, second or third date, nor the fourth, fifth or sixth. Took him three weeks to kiss me, three more weeks to kiss me with tongue and two more weeks after that to make "the move." We're into music, politics, travel and photography. He's very intelligent and passionate about the things he believes in. I'd like to think I'm one of those things he believes in. He's a Cancer, I'm a Scorpio, water signs and what he calls "emotionally complex." I know he perplexes me. He told one of my buds that he was "scared." Join the crowd. His history is as bad as mine. I think I'm incredibly lucky to have found him again. I say again because we've known each other for 10 or so years, or rather, known of each other. One thing he has told me is that back when, during our "early years" that he thought I was "cold." ME? Maybe I was. I thought he was adorably cute at the time and he intimidated me because of that. But that was a harsh, cold time in my life and I do not look back on it with fondness. (And wherever you are D.S., I hope you get necrotizing faciitis of your dick. I hope you rot in the your own hopeless, degrading hell. I hope if you ever set foot in prison they all know what a disgusting excuse for a human being you are. I hope they gouge your eyes out for ever looking at me. I hope they fuck every orifice of your body until you pray for death. I hope death is slow.)

Here in the legal business, it occurs that clients die. I don't have a bad track record. I've been a paralegal for 7 years and I've lost 4 clients. Two murders, one suicide and one from natural causes. Maybe those statistics are not so great. The first murder was a young woman 8 months pregnant who was on the wrong end of a drug deal. They killed her and her boyfriend execution style. The other paralegal I worked with at the time and I actually went to the funeral. The fetus/baby was in the casket with her and looked just a like a baby doll. This girl's son and my son were in pre-school together, although her mom had custody of the son. Small town Americana sucks sometimes. Someone in NYC probably wouldn't have this problem of knowing everyone's business. I also drive past the house where she was killed every day. The latest murder happened on Saturday. Our clients, who lived in a trailer up a muddy hollow, either cooked up some bad meth and fed it to each other, although we believe the wife offed him then tried to make it look like an accidental OD on her part. She lived. The deceased's mother called to tell us as the wife was still having her stomach pumped. They need money for the funeral. Sorry. The wife called yesterday to tell us she had walking pneumonia. Guess she didn't know the mother-in-law had already called to tell us the truth. Sissy, my boss's secretary, my partner in crime, her fiance is a mortician in the county where this happened. He called a buddy of his who is a friend of the daughter of the sister of the deceased to get the story. Nothing is sacred. Someone said he was knocked over the head, someone else said he had blue stuff coming out of his mouth and someone said, nah, he was just blue cuz he was dead. We believe it was murder. Our suicide was a lady who was despondent because her case wasn't going as well as she would have liked, became depressed, bought $4000 worth of Christmas presents and then shot herself in the head 3 days before Christmas. I went to high school with her daughter. She lingered but eventually died around the 26th or 27th. On the one year anniversary of her death, her husband, an alcoholic, tried to commit suicide by cop by shooting up the bar he frequents. No one was injured. Interestingly enough, the one who died of natural causes was a key witness in the above lady's case. He was in prison where she worked. She was a nurse and he was a partial parapalegic or something from a gunshot wound. He also had kidney problems, which is what killed him. He was a nice sorta fellow. He never gave me any problems. Next time I'll tell ya about the One-Brain Cell family that I've mentioned before. Thanks to all those who have read my blog.

IN MEMORIUM: MONGOYA

April 6, 2004 - June 12, 2004 Mongoya was the runt of the litter. He didn't know that though. The first time I picked him up, he meowed loudly. Anytime I tried to sneak the new kittens away from their mother he would meow and give us away. I called him "loud mouth" and swore I would give him away as soon as I could. HA! Hyper Boy fell in love with him because he was the only one that looked like Morticia, his mom, which before Goya was born, was Hyper Boy's favorite cat. Mongoya was the first to open his eyes. He never had any problems with his eyes like the other kittens. Anytime you looked at him you were greeted by these bright, bright eyes. He reminded me of Hyper Boy when he was a baby. Goya was the first to walk, the first to find a way onto the waterbed, the first to dive for the nip when Mommy laid down. He was the first to die. He developed diahrrea last Sunday. He lost complete control of his bowels. I began the force feeding of kitty Kaopectate. I researched feline diahrrea and found that most of the time, there is no known cause and no known cure. How disheartening. I fed him a bland diet of chicken and broccoli. This is how I found out that some cats love broccoli. He was well enough by Wednesday to scale the couch and dive feet and head first into my broccoli cheese omelet. He growled like he had never eaten before. This seemed to have restored his appetite and I monitored his food intake and made sure he was drinking. On Thursday though, he had backslid. I noticed his stool had become loose again. He followed me everywhere and wanted to sit on my lap or shoulder. Friday evening, he sat quietly on my lap and even on my shoulder. I had seen him eating and drinking earlier. But when he sat on my shoulder, his feet were cold. He was never a big kitty. Always the smallest of the bunch. He was now skin and bones. I watched his eyes for signs of dehydration. There were none. Saturday morning, about 1:30 a.m. I walked past the couch to turn off the lights for bed. He was dozing with his mother and his brother and sister. He raised his head to look at me. Later in the morning, I heard Hyper Boy go outside and I got up and followed him. He went in the house and brought out Goya's sisters. We talked to our neighbor and then went inside to fix breakfast. I was in the kitchen when I heard Hyper Boy. He said, "Mommy! I think Goya's dead." I turned to find my him holding Goya's limp body. I took Goya from him and the wailing commenced. My boy was devastated. I was too. I had seen the signs of impending death. I knew his body was too little. But I denied it. Had it been his older brother, Napoleon, he probably would have survived but he was just too little to start with. Now that I think about it, Goya never seemed satisfied. Although he ate as much, or more, than the other kittens, he never grew like they did. I don't believe he suffered. He was too vocal to have allowed that. I believe in the warmth of his family, his soul simply drifted away. For such a little fellow though, he had a large personality. He greeted not just myself and Hyper Boy at the door like dog, he also wagged his tail like a dog. He greeted my neighbor when she came to do laundry and demanded love. He followed us like a dog, always demanding love. And we gave him love. I miss his little body sitting on my shoulder as I sit at the computer. He was the first to purr. I remember dipping my hand down beside the bed and feeling his tiny two week old body purring. I was in wonder that something so small could be so content. He was spoiled and rotten. For me, I am amazed at how that little loudmouth that I swore I would give away the first chance I got, wormed his way into my heart and then broke it. I haven't lost a pet to death since 1994. I take that back, I have. Boo-Boo, my old black Manx that lived with my parents died a few years back. But he was old and had lived a good life. Ivy was my chocolate lab. I had to have her put to sleep at the tender age of 3 due to throat cancer. I haven't loved a pet like I loved her since...until Goya. Ivy was headstrong and hyper and tested my patience until I thought I would pull my hair out. When I had Hyper Boy and year and a half after her death, I was amazed at how much alike they were, especially as Hyper Boy grew older. He too has tested my patience again and again. She was good practice. I can only wonder if Goya wasn't practice too. A pre-cursor to what may come. A little loudmouth that drove me to distraction, but who only wanted love and attention. And when he got it, he was quiet and content, loving and peaceful. 66 days is not a long time to be upon this earth. For us, it might as well been 66 years. He was born with personality and spunk. He loved us and we loved him. He never wanted for anything while he lived. He shall never want for anything ever again. If he ever feels hunger, he'll eat broccoli and cheese. For their part, his mother has sulked all day. His siblings have stuck close to me and Hyper Boy, as though trying to fill his void. As though they grieve with us. Our dear Mongoya entered this life April 6, 2004 and departed over the Rainbow Bridge June 12, 2004. He is survived by his mother, Morticia, his brother, Napoleon, sisters, Lola and Ireland, his Aunts Natasha, Hermione, Kumba and Timbers, companion kitties, Smokey and Ozzy and by us, his human family. We love you.

Life takes interesting twists and turns. I went back to Point Pleasant after being snubbed by the beaufriend, which is fine, everyone needs their sleep. It was okay, took one of my friends with me. One that will listen to me whine and bitch about the beaufriend. One that won't let me get too discouraged, jaded and cynical about love. Otherwise, I have no choice but to be wary of marriage in general. I have watched the demise of too many of my friend's marriages. The latest victims are J.A. and her husband. There is nothing I hate more than to sit with a friend while they lament about the state of their union to the point where I'm almost certain for them separation, at a minimum, is inevitable. The culprit -- money. J.A. and her hubby make a little less than I do, each. Their bills are comparable to mine for the most part except they have one more adult in the household. They use my washer and dryer because the water backs up in the washer and the dryer is on the fritz. J.A. is using a car that will no longer be legal at the end of this month and won't pass inspection. Her other vehicle is broken down. The one that does run now has a flat tire. She refused my "fix-a-flat." J.A. is unhappy because she had $21 left from her last paycheck, and $16 from this one. She gets paid once a week. She gives $200 a week to her hubby and pays bills herself. You know as well as I that $20 won't give you a full tank of gas. Hubby spends about $1000 a month at the grocery store. They probably have 14 bottles of ketchup in the fridge because he buys a new one everytime he goes. He spends about $50 a day on groceries. I spent that for a week of groceries for me and Hyper-boy. She tried talking to hubby...he won't take her suggestions. I didn't want to tell her my suggestion, which was, my way or the highway buddy! So, I didn't. The only advice I gave was, Put your foot down and keep it down. I would boot his ass. I've lived without mate for too long. I try to remember this is her marriage, not just living together, a marriage. They have a child. I know there are two sides to every story but being privileged, an insider, I have two eyes, I can see. I know she is right. She feels controlled by poverty when there should be none. She realizes things should be much, much better. Frankly, they should. I've finally got my own finances balanced as much as possible and I'm praying I have the fortitude to keep them there. But, if I can have a little left over and I'm one...I see her point. She admitted...only she can change it. She's a Scorpio so change normally happens at the end of a long inner battle and the fallout is intense. There are no reinforcements to call in. It is what it is. On a better note, the beaufriend actually showed up to meet with me and a couple of friends, just for a few minutes but hey, progress not perfection!

Just want to say to Jenni in Alaska, you go girl!

Even the best laid plans...

Just when I thought I would get to work early... some numb nuts has to dump a load of metal on the Interstate. That was westbound, I'm going eastbound, so I think "no problem." This is a problem. Traffic is backed up for miles in all directions. I am the queen of backroads and normally that's where I head when traffic problems crop up. Alas, I was drawn into a sense of false security by mere directional analysis. I hate sitting in traffic. Its boring and tedious. I wore a callous on my finger from changing the radio stations, trying to find something that wasn't some talk show, in other words, wow, I wanted to listen to music. I finally flipped over to an older rock station in the extended area, which I can get on a clear day, with a full moon and Venus getting ready to eclipse the sun, and was rewarded with the tail end of the one of the greatest rock songs ever written, IMHO, "Jane" by Jefferson Starship (Airplane?). Which is right up there with Bob Seger's "Night Moves" and Billy Squire's "Stroke Me" although "Everybody Wants You" remains an absolute favorite. Then I'm reminded of "Man on the Silver Mountain" and "Stone Cold" by Rainbow and "Show Me the Way" and "I Don't Need No Doctor" by Peter Frampton, which reminds me of W.A.S.P...Live in the Raw, they do a cover of "I Don't Need..." Shuck me, suck me, eat me raw, this is "Harder, Faster!" If you haven't heard this CD it is well worth the money if you like that sort of balls to the walls rock n roll. Not AC/DC by any stretch of the imagination but the musical arrangements are quol and Blackie Lawless always made me want to take my underwear off and do the nasty. Speaking of musical arrangements, the Scorpions with the Berlin Philharmonic puts Metallica to shame. This is why I hate sitting in traffic and would rather drive 20 miles out of my way so as just to keep moving. My mind moves too quickly to just sit. It must be engaged. That's what I like about the Beaufriend. He's intelligent and passionate about his beliefs so he debates a lot. He's informed not just a rattle-trap. But most importantly, when he touches me, everything is still except the merest of breaths and the beating of our hearts. Its as though we float a foot off the ground and leave the chaos of life behind. And my mind is chaos.