As if I needed another reason to avoid this place

So a while back a cat adopted our family.  An indoor, outdoor long haired, white cat.  He is sweet and gentle and perfectly odd.  He sleeps in the keyboard or the dinner table, or on my husband’s shoe.  He fits in well with our family.  And we love him.  Lately though he has been looking a little mangy.  Okay, well a lot mangy.  Kind of more orange than white, with bits of bark hanging off him.  So into the tub he goes.  He lays in the water, rolls around, sticks his face under the running faucet.  He’s really laid back.  Kind of hippie-ish.  In fact I find that he has dread locks on his belly.  Great.  I discover that he has fleas. . . in the freaking winter. FUCK.
 
Between the dreadlocks and the fleas I figure I only have two options.  Either teach him how to do bong hits and play Frisbee, or take him to a professional groomer.  Since I don’t know where to buy tiny cat Frisbees, I booked him an appointment to a vet/groomer that has been in the area since my mom was a young woman taking in random stray cats.

The lady on the phone was very nice.  There might be an extra charge to de-Rasta the kitty, he’d need a rabies booster, and he’d have to be there by 9.  I didn’t need a cat carrier; bring him in a pillowcase if I wanted too.  Of course they understood that because he was a stray I wouldn’t have much of a history for him. 

Because of the fleas the kitty has been banned from the house, so this morning I had to track him down.  This is normally easy.  I open the door and there he is.  But this morning it was raining, and he’s no where to be seen.  I circle the block, shaking a bowl of food and calling for him in the rain.  Surprisingly, I was not the weirdest person wondering around my neighborhood at 8:45 this morning..  After a 20 minute search the stupid cat comes running from under the house, which was btw, the 1^st, 5^th and 12^th place I looked.

I put him in a wicker basket, on top of the pillowcase.  It seemed a bad idea to put him in the case, I mean we’re going to the vets, not a river.  He sat nicely, he looked out the window, he batted at the windshield wipers.  He flirted with the drive through coffee shop lady.  He’s a charmer.

We get to the vets both of us in pretty good moods.  Apparently the gorgon behind the counter did not get the Happy Friday memo.  As I’m filling out the paperwork she starts in.

You don’t have a carrier?

I do, but the wicker basket matched my outfit. “No, and I was told I didn’t have to have one.” 

*Frown*  “All cats must be in a carrier”

“I was told I could bring him in a pillowcase. . . .it’s in the basket with him.”

“We called your number; you are 15 minutes late for your appointment”

“Have you ever tried to catch an outdoor cat in the rain?  It takes longer than you might think.”

“No, Are his vaccines current?

“I have no idea, he’s a stray.”

“Is he neutered?”

“Don’t know, he’s a stray. He might not even be a he”

“You’re not sure?”

“Not a high priority in my life”

*Sigh*, deeper frown. . “Well how old is he?”

“See that’s something I would know if he wasn’t a stray.  But he is, so I don’t know.”

“I’m just trying to get the most complete profile here, ma’am.”

I understand, but before you ask me another question, ask yourself if that something a stranger would no about him. If not, then I won’t know the answer.  Bitch.

A few hours later a perfectly pleasant woman calls to tell me that the kitty is ready, and that she can be picked up any time.  The lady says she was a pleasure to groom and that even though she had to be shaved bald, that she didn’t complain a bit.  That’s right.  SHE.  Not only does that vet render bitches pleasant via some odd telephone technology, but it also turns boy strays into girl strays. Hmm.

So I've been thinking . . . .

Jesus hung out with lepers and hookers. I doubt he gives a shit if I fool around with the odd girl or two. I’d fool around with non-odd girls but they just don’t appeal to me, or I to them for that matter. All I’m saying is that I can’t see why he’d care who I loved or lusted for. I mean I can’t really speak for him, but then again, either can you.

In celebration. . . .

Falling in love again

We looked at 20-something houses before we bought ours.  It was too small, kinda' run down and not at all what we had in mind.  But we saw it in the spring.  The yard looked like this:

and I fell in love.  Every spring, no matter how much I've hated the house all winter, the tree does this and I fall in love again.

What I learned on the walk home today

You can be a fairy even if you don’t have a wand.

Migrating birds look like a letter V, or an A if some get lost.

The moon is shaped like the Cheshire cats teeth when he disappears.

Running is he best way to cross a driveway. That way a car won’t hit you.

If you run and your pants fall down you need smaller pants. Unless they are your favorite pants. Then you need a bigger booty.

You get a bigger booty by eating mashed potatoes.

You shouldn’t walk on people’s grass. Unless they are not home ‘cause then they won’t know.

Even if you skip and run most of the way home, you can still get cold.

Holding mommy’s hand makes walking in the darkish-ness better.

Stupid, stupid woman.

If you have twins, and one is really sick, like with cancer, and the one who is not sick, the one who is NOT getting all the attention and support falls in love with a treat at my shop, please do not tell her you are going to buy it for her sick sister. That is why she cried, that is why she was so angry and said she didn’t want to take it home at all. You have TWO children. Please remember that. Thank you.

Oh, and also, please do not tell me you are going to get a tutor for them. They are 3. Get them a play therapist instead. Thanks again.

And now for something completely different

I own my own business. Lets call it Sweets Shop. ‘Cause if I told you its REAL name you wouldn’t shop there, that’s why. We are family friendly, even though sometimes I myself am not. I could run for office. . . . kiss the baby, shake the hand.
Honestly though, I love it. Even though it’s a lot of work and causes untold stress (please see post below for the told stresses), it makes me happier than any job I have ever had. It’s me, from corner to corner, and I get out of it more or less what I put into it. There isn’t some other sweets shop doing better than mine even though they are lazy and poorly trained for the job. If I work hard, it shows. I make more money, have happier customers and usually have more fun. How many people with bosses and co-workers can say that?

Still, I know it isn’t what I want to do for the rest of my life. I work 6 days a week for one thing. I don’t have to but remember I get what I put into it? And I want more time for other things, like travel and seeing my extended family and not being charming on the weekends. And I basically have the same 10 conversations every day, because people are not as unique as we seem to think.

Mostly though, it comes down to this incident. The husband, who works about 20-30 hours at the sweets shop, in addition to his own good paying part time job, was working in the back kitchen. He came out, eyes downcast, body slumped. And I ached. A guy he used to work with, a guy he’s better than, called to say he’d gotten a job my husband would give his eye teeth for. Why didn’t my husband get it you may well ask? Well two reasons really. One I cannot control, one I can.

The one I can’t relates to him not doing a god damn thing to actually get a job in his field. Well that’s not true, he bitches and putters and searches the web, but that’s about it really. I think its part fear, fear of the unknown, the fear of rejection. His field is almost all contract work, we’d have to live in an expensive city, and if I don’t own the sweets shop, my chances of making decent money are pretty slim. Here life is easy, big fish small pond easy. Out there is big and we are small. On to the things I can control.

I can sell my shop, bank some money and give him time to follow his dream. He is educated and talented. He deserves a chance to be happy, to find a career where it shows when he works hard. I’m scared because I have to give up my security, my control to do it. And in this economy, what if no one wants the sweets shop. What about our house? What if he can’t get enough contracts to support us? It’s like selling a child so you have money to join the circus.

Okay so maybe that last bit doesn’t make sense to you, but it does to me. How does one decide where to place their bets in life

A message to you, dear customer:

If you see me running up to the locked door, of the darkened shop, please do not ask if I am open. You really want to know if you can come in, even though I am obviously not open. Just ask that instead. I’ll let you in either way because you have money and I want it. I just won’t want to stab you while I’m doing it if you say what you really want.

Likewise, do not come in at closing and tell me you only need a minute and then languidly browse for 30 minutes to make a 2 dollar purchase. Lets assume I’m on overtime at this point and spend at least a dollar for every minute you keep me from my family.  Either that, or entertain me.

I actually do wish I could have everything everyone wanted. I would make tons of money that way. But more importantly, I wouldn’t have to listen to you complain that I don’t have exactly what your looking for. But since I am limited in both space and money, I have to stock my shop according to needs of the majority. Think of it like a bell curve. Please see the handy diagram thingy for visual reference.

See, that is why I do not have pineapple ice cream in January, or peppermint in June. Sorry.

While you are in my shop, please keep in mind that it is, in fact a shop. The ceiling and lack of tan bark on the floor should be your cue to exercise at least a modicum of control on your offspring. Strangely enough I do mind if they rearrange the displays, climb into the shelves and take things out of the containers. Likewise, I don’t not think the space is appropriately set up for hide and seek or chase. Don’t get me wrong, I love kids. Just not yours.

When you have made your selection it is customary to pay for it. Stealing is bad, just in case your parents never taught you that. Also annoying is asking me to hold items for you while you go see what my competition has. Let’s think of the other customers as your competition. How bad do you want it? So from now you can either buy it, or leave it and hope it is still here when you have driven around for hours only to realize that you should had just bought it from me in the first place.

Please do not ask me if I really want 40 for the item in question. I obviously do, otherwise I’d have marked it for say, 35. If you want to know if I’ll take 35, tell me you have cash and don’t want a receipt. Otherwise either recognize it for the good deal it is and either buy it, or keep your mouth shut.

Do not tell me you think it must be so fun to own my own business and to not have to have a real job. I work 60 hours a week, in case your math is off, that’s like one and a half real jobs. With no overtime, no medical, no time off, no scapegoat. Just me and you, and frankly sometimes that just sucks.

Please do not insult my merchandise. If you think it is too sweet or not sweet enough, or impractical or just plain weird, either phrase it nicely or again, keep your mouth shut. I think the shirt you have on is hideous but I keep that to myself.

Please do not insult me. I know it should go without saying but since you keep forgetting, I am a real person, not a walking cash register. I have feelings. I am also aware that I need to lose weight, that my boobs are huge, that I am outspoken, that my husband is better looking than me. I do not need you to tell me these things. I’m sure you can’t understand how an overweight, loudmouthed non-descript nothing of a person has my life, but I do. So again, SHUT IT.

Thanks to and because of people like you I regularly get massages and bottles of wine. Sort of a catch 22 thingy.

* If you are my friend, I mean my REAL friend, like you’ve seen the inside of my house and stuff, than you can go ahead and assume the preceding rant does not apply to you. *

Just like Julia Child.

Fact 1: I love good food.
Fact 2: I loved to cook in my other life, the life before 60 hour work weeks.
Fact 3: You can cook and eat well by cooking a HUGE meal once and freezing it in portions so you can eat it when your short on time, you know like every night.

I thought I’d share a favorite cook ahead recipe of mine. There’s not a lot of measurements, ‘cause we’re going for simple, and stuffing cut up onions into a measuring cup is not simple. So here’s Coq au Vin, for people with one free night a week.

You Need:
Bacon
Onions
Mushrooms
Butter/oil
Garlic
Beef stock
Thyme
Bay Leaf

Cook some bacon. I used 2 packets. We’re making 5 three person portions. You can cut it before or after you cook it, depending on when you’d rather touch it. I always choose after. After its cut and cooked, put it in a large bowl or pot. Why, yes, I am drinking the beer in that picture, thanks for asking.

Cut onions. I used 2.5. Why? ‘Cause that’s what I had left. Cook them, in the bacon grease or oil, or butter. I used butter, ‘cause used bacon grease makes me ill. Put them in the bowl/pot.

Cut mushrooms. OR give your 4 year old a dangerously sharp knife and have her do it. Cook them. I used 2-3(ish) pounds. You are faced with the butter/bacon grease/oil choice again. I went for a tablespoon of water. There’s far too much fat in this already. Bowl/pot please.

Put a few tablespoons of butter or bacon grease in your pan. (really one of those, but you can use non hydrogenated soybean oil, ‘cause I often do). Brown a few tablespoons of flour in it. I used brown flour, works just fine. Add garlic. I used 4-ish tablespoons of garlic paste. Add beef bouillon. I like a paste called Better than Bouillon, ‘cause it is. Add a few cups of wine. 2-6 to be exact. Merlot or Cabernet is recommended, but I usually use whatever red is decent enough to cook with but not great enough to drink. And thyme and a few bay leaves if you have them. Cook until it’s thicker. Taste it. It should be a very condensed version of the flavor you want at the end. Add seasoning until it is. Mix into the pot bowl.

Portion out into meals and freeze. The morning of the evening you want to eat it, put a whole chicken, or chicken bits, into a crock pot with the sauce and a few cups of water. Set the chicken to be done when you get home. What’s that? Don’t have a crock pot? Get one. No, right now.

I’ll wait.

Unless it’s 11 pm and Target is closed. Don’t go to Wal-Mart. You may not cook this in a Wal-Mart crock pot. It will taste like rape.

Instead defrost the sauce, add the water and pour over your chicken bits to cook in the oven. I don’t know how long. I have a crock pot.

Today I . . .

accomplished work.
took time to play.
tried a new coffee shop.
listened to silly music.
laughed.

registered my daughter for kindergarten.

cried.

They'll put anything in a kids movie these days.

So I have two reoccurring sexual fantasies. Well, I have many more than that, but these two are the ones that are least likely to get me arrested; besides they resonate the most with me. The first will, I am sure, be adopted by any woman who reads this blog.

All of these elements must be in place for it to work. A summer night, a heavy thunderstorm, occasional lightening, gentle rain and a hammock. It will be warm, with cool droplets hitting our skin, the loud clash of thunder drowning out any sounds, the occasional flash of lightening illuminating our bodies suspended in air. . . . uh, sorry, what were we talking about?

Oh yes, the second, well it’s a bit more specialized. It involves a large sunken bathtub and a few hundred packets of sparkling white grape Jell-O. Don’t ask me why. I don’t even really like the taste of Jell-O. Or the feel of slimy sticky grossness on my skin. Yet, there it is. . . . sigh.

So imagine my discomfort the last time we sat down to watch an allegedly wholesome kids movie and this part came on


 
I know, right?
 
No?
 
Fine.
 
Unfortunately Jell-O has discontinued sparkling white grape, and peach just doesn’t resonate the same way. So if any of you have a couple of hundred boxes lying around, oh and an industrial refrigerator, I promise to think of you while I’m cooking it all up.
 
Thank you.