Too Many Drugs in the 60s

A conversation between me and Mother Sparkles earlier today:

Me: I'm almost done setting up the account with your new ISP.
MS: What's an ISP?
Me: Internet service provider. The people who will let you get on your computer and play games.
MS: Oh! They're nice people.
Me: Yeah, ok. Anyway, I just need to know what you want your user id to be.
MS: Um, what's that?
Me: The name you'll use to login. It will also be your email address. Something like mydaughterissuperfantastic@blahblah.com. I think that has a nice little jingle to it, don't you?
MS: Uh huh. What are my other choices?
Me: Whatever you want, as long as it hasn't already been taken by someone else. But what's wrong with telling the world that I'm superfantastic?
MS: Nothing, dear. But I'd like an email address that reflects my personality.
Me: Oh, whatever.
MS: [looks skyward and twirls around a few times]
Me: [rolling eyes]
MS: I know! Rainbows flowers and trees!
Me: You want your email address to be rainbowsflowersandtrees@blahblah.com ?
MS: Yes! I do!

[silence]

Me: Oh my sweet lord.
MS: What? I think that reflects my personality!
Me: You took the brown acid, didn't you?

Introducing Miss Poops-A-Lot. Also, Ugly Dishes!

Up until a few months ago I could not stand cats. As far as I was concerned all they did was lay around, shit in a box, claw your furniture, and look bored. Once Gloria entered the picture I learned that, while the shitting in a box part is true, I had been very wrong about cats in general. She is full of personality and a source of constant entertainment. When she rolls onto her back, holds her bag of catnip between her front paws and paddles at it with her hind legs like she's riding an imaginary upside-down stationary bicycle I laugh so hard I give myself the hiccups. The Mister is as fond of her as I am, and not long ago he said that maybe we should consider getting another cat in the not-too-distant future.

When I found out there was a stray cat in Kathy T's neighborhood -- presumably dumped by someone who I will kick in the shins if I ever find them -- in need of a home I contacted her and said that if she was unable to find a good home to let me know before the cat ended up getting taken to the pound. She emailed me soon afterward and told me what a sweet, friendly cat she was and that she was desperately starved for attention and affection. Kathy had been unable to locate an owner and no one seemed able and/or willing to take care of the stray. Then she mentioned that one of the neighborhood kids had taken to kicking the cat. Add that punk to the list of people who I will be kicking in the shins. Anyway, when I read that I got a lump in my throat, called my husband, and asked if we could adopt her. I didn't expect too big a fight from him, but when he just said, "Sure!" I sat there for a minute and wondered how I'd gotten off so easy. That is reason #856 Why My Husband Is So Awesome.

So fast forward a few days and Maggie Survivor (middle name courtesy of Kathy T's very lovely and astute daughter) is settling in to the Sparkles household. She's eating a crap ton of food -- an unfortunate by-product being poo of Biblical proportions -- but at least you can no longer take one look at her and count her ribs.

Maggie and Gloria are two distinctly different cats. Gloria is the same type of girl I am. If she were a person she'd spend her time drinking beer, watching sports, and cussing. Maggie would be the type who would go shopping with her sorority sisters, have perfectly manicured and polished nails which match her cute purse and kicky sandals, and drink fruity blender drinks that tell all guys within a fifty foot radius that this chick cannot hold her liquor.

The differences between the two cats became even more apparent today when I took Maggie to the vet. When Gloria is forced to contend with needles and poking she lets out the occasional squeak but sits still and waits for the ordeal to end. When Maggie was faced with shots and examination there was howling and shrieking like I haven't heard since the last time I was unlucky enough to encounter a Joni Mitchell song on the radio.

I was hoping to learn that Maggie had already been spayed, but after her little belly was shaved and there was no sign of scarring or previous surgery my hopes were dashed. When Gloria was examined for the first time she sported a wicked scar that looked like a prison tattoo gone horribly wrong, leaving no doubt she'd already had her girlybits altered. Since Maggie had no such scar I assumed she was fully intact, but the vet said that there was a possibility she'd already been fixed even though there were no obvious scars. The only way to know for sure was to wait and see if Maggie went into heat. Ah, that's swell. If it sounds like there's a Joni Mitchell concert erupting in my kitchen I'll know for sure whether she's capable of having kittens. Until then I'll continue fashioning a cat-sized suit of castiron armor for her to wear any time she ventures outside.

Anyway, despite all the poo we are happy to welcome Maggie into the fold. She is a beautiful creature and I feel fortunate to have stumbled across her. She's had a hard life but is still trusting and full of love. I can learn a lot from her.

Now, on a completely unrelated note, in a previous post I referred to the hot pink family china. (No, that is not a euphemism.) Lynnster had a hard time visualizing the horror.

Oh, alright. The dishes are not as hideous as I probably made them sound. They are not antique Pepto-pink, which is good since I think I would find it difficult to eat Thanksgiving dinner off plates that only reminded me of diarrhea medication, although they are pinker than they appear in the photo.

The family china is one of the things belonging to my great-grandparents that I have inherited. The great-grands were, from what I understand, quite wealthy people who enjoyed buying a lot of expensive crap. Despite their Catholicism they only had one child -- my grandfather -- which may be attributable to the fact that my great-grandfather was in his 60s when he married my twenty-something great-grandmother. Woot! Rock on, Grampy!

Because of the small number of their descendants I have a lot of antiques in my possession. I wonder about their provenance, how they found their way into my family. And while I'd never sell any of these pieces the tightwad in me is very curious about their worth. This is why I sit transfixed and glassy-eyed, glued to the television every time an episode of Antiques Roadshow comes on. Well, either that or because I am a monumental dork. Take your pick.

Some Buttmonkey Tried To Break Into Our House

Today when I arrived home from work I was met by a rather distressed husband and a mildly agitated cat. Gloria was probably just disturbed because her filet mignon and Cristal were being delivered a bit later than usual, but The Mister directed my attention to an open screen door and a partially removed screen window. The screen door isn't technically a screen door, but a glass one that opens onto the deck from our bedroom. It hasn't been opened in a year and a half. There are plenty of windows in our bedroom so there's not much need for door-opening.

The window screen in question belongs on the window of the bathroom directly adjacent the shower. That's because there's no better way to increase the pleasure of a nice warm shower than knowing a random stranger could be hanging around watching you bathe your delicates. And since we've never replaced that totally transparent window apparently we are not opposed to the idea. Anyway, the screen had been pulled off the frame so that it dangled at a tidy 45-degree angle. Someone had clearly tried to jimmy the window lock so that they could enter through the window, tumble into the bathtub, and rob us blind. I have no idea what they'd planned on stealing, and I imagine they would have been in for a rude awakening upon entering our domicile and finding a whole lot of nothing. Sure we've got stuff, but our stuff isn't the kind that is easily burgled. It's not as though they could hide a sofa or 35-inch tv under their coat. And I doubt a robber would spot the family china and decide to go after it since there isn't a big demand for 100+ year-old hot pink table settings. Yes, I said hot pink. I wish I were joking.

My husband called the police to let them know there had been a burglary attempt. Despite his protestations they insisted on sending an officer over. After a while the officer arrived and looked around our house. She asked us a few questions, but semi-shrugged it off. We live in a typically low crime area and since nothing was stolen there really wasn't anything she could do. After giving our house the once-over, she went out to her squad car to write up her report. A few minutes later she informed us that she had just learned there had been a robbery a couple blocks away with the same MO. (Oh my lord, check out my CSI shit!) She said that someone would be over shortly to take fingerprints at the crime scene, also known as our deck.

Another officer showed up an hour or so later, complete with fingerprint kit. He had the powder and the fluffy brush and the whole deal. He dusted for prints (Oh my god I am so Law & Order!) along the bathroom window, but since it wasn't a clear, glossy surface he was a bit skeptical about the results. I directed his attention to the knob of the bedroom-to-deck door. He glanced at the "screen" door and said that the handle was too textured for him to get any good prints. I pointed out the glass doorknob of the bedroom door itself and suggested he might get a decent print off that if there were any to be had. (Yes, we have a glass doorknob on an outside door. It's been there since we moved in. And I thought I had no sense.) He managed to get a usable print from that, and I would just like to point out how lucky he was to have me there to direct his investigation.

So, as the police officer was searching for fingerprints he mentioned that my husband's and my prints would undoubtedly be found on the doorknob. For whatever reason I decided to pipe up and volunteer that my fingerprints were already on file with the FBI. The police officer stopped mid-brush to glance at me, and I hurriedly told him that I used to work in investment banking and as a result I'd been fingerprinted, profiled, poked, prodded, and subjected to things that other people would probably litigate over. He blinked a couple times, said "Ok," and went back to his business.

At that time my wiseass husband chirped that I needed to quit trying to cover up because my previous busts for prostitution, assault, and drug trafficking were only going to come out in time anyway so I needed to quit lying about it.

I hope he has the money to make my bail.

Nothing Gets By Me

Earlier today as The Mister and I headed home from the local farmers' market, I reflected on our purchases.

"We got so much stuff so cheap! I wish we'd picked up some of the jams and jellies the Amish people were selling though. I'll bet it's all really good."

"What Amish people?"

"The people we bought those herbs and peppers from."

"That nice couple with the three little girls?"

"Uh huh!"

"Do you think they're Amish?"

"Oh, I'm sure they are! Did you notice how they were dressed?"

"Uh, well now that you mention it their clothes were rather plain."

"And they had a little bit of an accent, too. A lot of Amish people speak with accents."

"I didn't notice, but if you say so."

[...]

"Also, there was a sign at their stand that said Amish Produce."

"Nice detecting, Watson."

I Would Change My Name Toot Sweet

I guess things are different in India.

I'm a Bozo With a Camera Phone

For years I waged a war against cell phone ownership. With my last job I had to carry a pager so The Man could keep me down on my days off, and that was as easily contactable as I was willing to become. Eventually everyone hopped on the cell phone train and informed me that I just had to have one too, but I wasn't falling for it. The way I saw it, the people who carried cell phones were wankers who wanted tangible proof that they were someone people wanted to talk to. These were the same people who used finger-guns when they talked, and there was no way in hell that was a club I was going to join.

With my current job a cell phone is part of the package. I guess that's just as well because the only people who still carry pagers are skate punks who want to look badass but whose parents won't pony up the dough for a phone. But while my employment contract stipulates that I carry a cell phone, it doesn't say anything about using it. Oh, I kid. If it rings, I answer it. Eventually. It usually takes me a several seconds of "What the hell is making that noise? Did I accidentally start the microwave again?" before I clue in that someone is calling me. I am a total moron where that phone is concerned. It beeps at me for no reason, takes pictures of the inside of my purse, and tries to sell me ringtones of Ludacris songs. (But if I can find Who Let These Hos In My Room I'm totally buying it.)

[On an unrelated note, I think the dude on Survivor just said, "If I'm dead at the finish line, precipitate me!" Does he want people to wee on him when he's dead? R. Kelly, is that you?]

Every once in a while I'll find myself in a situation where I wish I had a camera. After approximately five years, I remembered there's a camera in my cell phone. A few weeks ago I set out to learn how to use it. That did not go smoothly. It was like a two-year old trying to operate an electron microscope. I'm nothing if not stubborn though, so guess what you guys! Pictures!!!
I took this hard-hitting action photo in my office at work while I was waving the stupid phone in the air trying to figure out how the camera feature worked. Unfortunately you can't see the sweet downtown view out the window. I get such a good view of LP Field that I can see Pacman Jones assault hapless passersby on his way to work!



I took these tonight. It's hard to tell exactly what they are, because my skills at photography are on par with cell phone-ology. But that's Davey, back on our freaking roof. That little turd has returned despite all my friendly and loving attempts at relocation, and now I'm afraid we're going to have to resort to more drastic measures. Apparently he's found a different route to his crib. He's obviously quite fond of it, despite the condition of the gutters.

So there you have it. I have faced my camera phone, and it is now my bitch. As a result you have seen these provocative shots of my office and our roof. You may thank me later.