seriously, it's no wonder i feel like a mushroom cap in my clothes these days. we are deep into the time of year, i affectionately refer to as the 12 days of potato.
my 12 days of potato may be very similar to your 12 days of christmas cookies, or 12 days of office party lunches but is in no way to be confused with 12 days of sobriety. 12 days of sobriety would enable me to fit in my pants without first crying a little bit and secondly, dodging buttons that burst off like little rockets these days. (someone at work was nice enough to find one of my buttons that took flight this week and oh-so-anonymously left it in the bathroom stall for its owner to claim. thank you kind soul, now mam can stitch the sucker back on for me.)
one of my friends left me a voicemail the other day while i was out of the office over christmas: "hey, just calling to bitch that my pants are so tight today, i can't breathe. oh well, just thought you would understand." this is my same friend who had a meltdown in the bread aisle at trader joe's when she undertook a serious 10-day fast to fit in bridesmaid's dress.
but the 12 days of potato is partially all my fault. the official start of the 12 days of potato begins on PMD (pierogie-making-day) and officially ends when i can no longer fit into anything that resembles clothing in my closet. my friends, that day is here.
for 12 days, no one holds a butterknife to my throat to demand i eat pierogies until i start to resemble the fat little doughy pillows myself. for 12 days, no italian mafia forces me to order bruschetta and gnocci (more potato) at not one, but two holiday dinners back-to-back. of course, gluttony is to blame for a lot of my squishiness around my belly. the other part i blame on a fcukin' microscopic blood clot that tried to take me out this summer and now forces my vegetarian-self to eschew green leafy vegetables.
(oh, the irony, my cholesterol levels were fine before the bloodclot. now, i'm afraid to have them checked to see how much damage my cheese-and-bread restricted diet has done.)
that's okay, with less than 36 hours left in the fcukin' horrible year known as 2006, i'm ready now to go all double-0-seven on my fat cells in the new year. cheers, baby.
Saturday, December 30, 2006
Friday, December 29, 2006
hang the gnomie
sometimes i think i give the impression that i teeter on the edge of being a half-crazed, angry lunatic bitch in my posts. this is only half-true. i can manage to get my shit together some of the time. but to truly understand how i came to be this angry, you gotta understand the genetics and nurturing behind what has created me -- you need to meet my family.
there's no better time to realize how they fcuked you up than during the holidays.
this year, the running family joke includes theft, a pimp, gnomes, threats of bodily harm, and a che guevera-like call for revolution. no, i'm not making this shit up, unfortunately. we're talkin' about pimpy, the stolen lawn gnome.
pimpy lived a happy life on someone's lawn until a few summers ago when my cousin decided he would like living with her at her house better. yup, she stole him. (as teenagers on a dare are wont to do.) pimpy didn't complain and grew to like his new digs. he even looked forward to heading off to live with my cousin in her new college dorm room when the time came.
my uncle, on the other hand, had a different idea. he decided the pimpy would stay home with him and live out his days in the garden with the other garden gnomes my uncle started collecting on his own that no one seemed to notice. it was like he was building a little army of them out back. in some weird instance of foreshadowing, i now think that's exactly what he was doing.
a great battle did indeed take place when pimpy tried to leave for college. my cousin painted his fingernails, and then, pimpy himself pink in efforts to dissuade her father from dissimilating him with the other gnomes. pimpy stood in the bedroom window staring out from his prison, watching the other gnomes at play in the garden, now painted pink and long forgotten how a gnomie should live his life.
knowing that all of this strife was happening in my family as members took sides in whether or not pimpy should go away to college, what do i do?
that's right. i buy my uncle, the rabble-rousin', free pimpy-yelling bastard that he is ... a garden gnome, holding a cigar. my uncle's two greatest loves (besides my cousins) - cigars and now, garden gnomes combined in one present. this was a gift would surely top the 42" plasma tv santa brought him. fashizzle.
true, he did love his new gnome, this one named "ga-no-mee", very much. he carried him around like a baby for a while. eventually, though he put him outside to experience christmas with the other gnomes, around the miniature christmas tree, tastefully decorated with garland and bows that stood atop the patio furniture in the back yard. ringed with icicle lights and red fuzzy stockings that read freedom, pimpy lives and other inspiring messages of the season, the true christmas wonder lay in the fact that 20 garden gnomes were arranged looking at the tree. (again, i swear i'm not making this shit up. how could i?)
it was sad thing we did next. my uncle pissed us off at some point on christmas day. it may have been when he threw a roll of toilet paper into the gift bag holding my grandmother's christmas gift from my brother and myself.
or it could have been when he tried to fcuk up our secret pollyanna* we hold each year.
it could have been the combination of the two. but there were evil giggles from what happened next. we decided ganomee would suffer for my uncle's sins against us.
each of us played a role in it: one person swiped ganomee from the outside christmas gnome display, one person swiped the christmas lassos my aunt had hanging in the living room, while yet another person grabbed a camera. (the guilty shall all remain nameless.) we looped the lasso over poor ganomee's feet, pulling it tightly until he was secure and then secured the other end of the rope around the hitch on my uncle's SAV.
yup, we lynched a garden gnome. i'm sure they've seen stranger things than garden gnomes swinging from the back of a car in pennsyltucky.
the best part was the look of panic on his face - my uncle's, not ganomee, when he realized what happened. (ganomee's made of resin, remember? i'm not going to jail for abuse of plastic lawn ornament.)
he checked bags, he checked boxes of presents and handbags and purses but still couldn't find poor ganomee who lay curbside in the muck, still swinging by his feet from the hitch.
he panicked until he went to pull my mother's car closer to the house so she wouldn't get soaked in the damp, dreary rain that fell christmas day.
there in between the raindrops that glistened in the glow from the highbeams, he saw ganomee, just swinging in the rain.
*secret pollyanna: our secret pollyanna is similar to how other's work a pollyanna except in our case, the name we pick is the person who wraps our present to give to us. he or she wraps the present we buy ourselves. don't laugh, it's great!
there's no better time to realize how they fcuked you up than during the holidays.
this year, the running family joke includes theft, a pimp, gnomes, threats of bodily harm, and a che guevera-like call for revolution. no, i'm not making this shit up, unfortunately. we're talkin' about pimpy, the stolen lawn gnome.
pimpy lived a happy life on someone's lawn until a few summers ago when my cousin decided he would like living with her at her house better. yup, she stole him. (as teenagers on a dare are wont to do.) pimpy didn't complain and grew to like his new digs. he even looked forward to heading off to live with my cousin in her new college dorm room when the time came.
my uncle, on the other hand, had a different idea. he decided the pimpy would stay home with him and live out his days in the garden with the other garden gnomes my uncle started collecting on his own that no one seemed to notice. it was like he was building a little army of them out back. in some weird instance of foreshadowing, i now think that's exactly what he was doing.
a great battle did indeed take place when pimpy tried to leave for college. my cousin painted his fingernails, and then, pimpy himself pink in efforts to dissuade her father from dissimilating him with the other gnomes. pimpy stood in the bedroom window staring out from his prison, watching the other gnomes at play in the garden, now painted pink and long forgotten how a gnomie should live his life.
knowing that all of this strife was happening in my family as members took sides in whether or not pimpy should go away to college, what do i do?
that's right. i buy my uncle, the rabble-rousin', free pimpy-yelling bastard that he is ... a garden gnome, holding a cigar. my uncle's two greatest loves (besides my cousins) - cigars and now, garden gnomes combined in one present. this was a gift would surely top the 42" plasma tv santa brought him. fashizzle.
true, he did love his new gnome, this one named "ga-no-mee", very much. he carried him around like a baby for a while. eventually, though he put him outside to experience christmas with the other gnomes, around the miniature christmas tree, tastefully decorated with garland and bows that stood atop the patio furniture in the back yard. ringed with icicle lights and red fuzzy stockings that read freedom, pimpy lives and other inspiring messages of the season, the true christmas wonder lay in the fact that 20 garden gnomes were arranged looking at the tree. (again, i swear i'm not making this shit up. how could i?)
it was sad thing we did next. my uncle pissed us off at some point on christmas day. it may have been when he threw a roll of toilet paper into the gift bag holding my grandmother's christmas gift from my brother and myself.
or it could have been when he tried to fcuk up our secret pollyanna* we hold each year.
it could have been the combination of the two. but there were evil giggles from what happened next. we decided ganomee would suffer for my uncle's sins against us.
each of us played a role in it: one person swiped ganomee from the outside christmas gnome display, one person swiped the christmas lassos my aunt had hanging in the living room, while yet another person grabbed a camera. (the guilty shall all remain nameless.) we looped the lasso over poor ganomee's feet, pulling it tightly until he was secure and then secured the other end of the rope around the hitch on my uncle's SAV.
yup, we lynched a garden gnome. i'm sure they've seen stranger things than garden gnomes swinging from the back of a car in pennsyltucky.
the best part was the look of panic on his face - my uncle's, not ganomee, when he realized what happened. (ganomee's made of resin, remember? i'm not going to jail for abuse of plastic lawn ornament.)
he checked bags, he checked boxes of presents and handbags and purses but still couldn't find poor ganomee who lay curbside in the muck, still swinging by his feet from the hitch.
he panicked until he went to pull my mother's car closer to the house so she wouldn't get soaked in the damp, dreary rain that fell christmas day.
there in between the raindrops that glistened in the glow from the highbeams, he saw ganomee, just swinging in the rain.
*secret pollyanna: our secret pollyanna is similar to how other's work a pollyanna except in our case, the name we pick is the person who wraps our present to give to us. he or she wraps the present we buy ourselves. don't laugh, it's great!
Sunday, December 24, 2006
new traditions
i am finished. last night around 12:30 am i wrapped the last present that i could, as some gifts were stashed at remote locations. shopping was wrapped up on friday, with only a small trip to the grocery store needed today.
the car needs gas but otherwise, we are all systems go for christmas.
our filet o'dinner starts at 4:30 today, requiring us to leave chez mc-clot-sky around 3pm to get there in time to have a drink before dinner. and possible clear the dining room table off enough to eat.
no one knows exactly what we are walking into today. it's been months since i set foot in my mother-in-law's house. normally my sister-in-law has in the inside scoop on what abnormalities exist there on a more intimate level than i could due to the fact that her belief in family is stronger than mine. i have often said where she reaches for hugs, i reach for drugs. this is not an overexaggeration.
but since her falling from grace as the golden daughter-in-law status (she being the one to bear grandchildren), my m-i-l has been left alone to dwell in her own fantasy world. it's not that we haven't seen her, we have seen her at least once a month since the summer ended, but we have not set foot in her house and all of us, are totally unprepared for what we may find there.
last year, i cleaned her house two days before christmas. it wasn't for her mind you, it was for my father-in-law, sick with cancer who after battling infection after infection from chemo, did not need to be living in a house so filled with germs. before you chastise me for pushing cleanliness over caring for an ill spouse, let me say this, her house can only be described as a frat house but without the beer. there is still a profound stickiness that pervades everything only it is not from beer, but from other fluids spilt and left behind to fester. she does not believe in trashcans, so trash overflows from brown paper bags strewn on the kitchen floor. the bathrooms reek of mildew and mustiness, born of the stained showerstall and nasty toilet. towels used and unused mingled together to lend even further proof of how little care was put into where they were living. this is where my husband and his brothers grew up, it was always like this. my father-in-law's illness was not the cause.
still, the house reeked of desolation, of illness and mold. it did not inspire a return to health and the living, in fact, the house, i feared hampered his health and that of those around him, with windows shut tightly to not let in any more grief and despair. of course, these same shut windows never let any of the desolation or illness out, either.
pierogie-making-day (PMD) was uneventful this year. held at my s-i-l's house which did not need to be cleaned beforehand, supplies were ready at the fingertips, there were none of the raised voices and flaring tempers that can only signal the agitation between a father and son. instead, our day was one of simple conversations and laughter in between stuffing 600 pillows of dough. my m-i-l quietly stood at the stove, speaking only when spoken to and even then, soliciting one word answers to our attempts at conversation.
"this year will be hard for her," my goddess girls and flugilicious tell me. common sense tells me that 7 months after losing your husband is not a long enough time to grieve the loss of your partner of 35 years.
in some ways, none of us are ready for today and what this means -- with its new challenges and new traditions that begin with it -- as mam dresses as santa for the first time for our young niece and nephew. my f-i-l would have been proud.
the car needs gas but otherwise, we are all systems go for christmas.
our filet o'dinner starts at 4:30 today, requiring us to leave chez mc-clot-sky around 3pm to get there in time to have a drink before dinner. and possible clear the dining room table off enough to eat.
no one knows exactly what we are walking into today. it's been months since i set foot in my mother-in-law's house. normally my sister-in-law has in the inside scoop on what abnormalities exist there on a more intimate level than i could due to the fact that her belief in family is stronger than mine. i have often said where she reaches for hugs, i reach for drugs. this is not an overexaggeration.
but since her falling from grace as the golden daughter-in-law status (she being the one to bear grandchildren), my m-i-l has been left alone to dwell in her own fantasy world. it's not that we haven't seen her, we have seen her at least once a month since the summer ended, but we have not set foot in her house and all of us, are totally unprepared for what we may find there.
last year, i cleaned her house two days before christmas. it wasn't for her mind you, it was for my father-in-law, sick with cancer who after battling infection after infection from chemo, did not need to be living in a house so filled with germs. before you chastise me for pushing cleanliness over caring for an ill spouse, let me say this, her house can only be described as a frat house but without the beer. there is still a profound stickiness that pervades everything only it is not from beer, but from other fluids spilt and left behind to fester. she does not believe in trashcans, so trash overflows from brown paper bags strewn on the kitchen floor. the bathrooms reek of mildew and mustiness, born of the stained showerstall and nasty toilet. towels used and unused mingled together to lend even further proof of how little care was put into where they were living. this is where my husband and his brothers grew up, it was always like this. my father-in-law's illness was not the cause.
still, the house reeked of desolation, of illness and mold. it did not inspire a return to health and the living, in fact, the house, i feared hampered his health and that of those around him, with windows shut tightly to not let in any more grief and despair. of course, these same shut windows never let any of the desolation or illness out, either.
pierogie-making-day (PMD) was uneventful this year. held at my s-i-l's house which did not need to be cleaned beforehand, supplies were ready at the fingertips, there were none of the raised voices and flaring tempers that can only signal the agitation between a father and son. instead, our day was one of simple conversations and laughter in between stuffing 600 pillows of dough. my m-i-l quietly stood at the stove, speaking only when spoken to and even then, soliciting one word answers to our attempts at conversation.
"this year will be hard for her," my goddess girls and flugilicious tell me. common sense tells me that 7 months after losing your husband is not a long enough time to grieve the loss of your partner of 35 years.
in some ways, none of us are ready for today and what this means -- with its new challenges and new traditions that begin with it -- as mam dresses as santa for the first time for our young niece and nephew. my f-i-l would have been proud.
Thursday, December 21, 2006
breathe, just breathe
it’s 10 am on the week before christmas and i just want to scream out loud. i don’t belong here right now, my to-do list is sitting here mocking me with things yet to buy, pick-up or complete by days end. instead i sit here and attempt to complete some insane, inane things at work and i am wondering why i am here and not there, and how i got this far behind?
my frustration is growing -- growing pissed at the season, at work, at my family – grrrr. and i still don’t understand why i am so grrrr lately.
breathe, just breathe.
the simplest things are setting me off – a coworkers glib “you’ll get it on friday” comment when he knows i won’t be in on friday caused me to seriously contemplate standing up, grabbing his neck in my hands and twisting it loose from his shoulders. allie mcbeal would have been proud of my dream sequence, it would have ranked with the best of hers on her television show. and the fact that he was referring to my christmas present, well, that just made me want to cry.
breathe, just breathe.
in fact, everything makes me want to cry this week. the charities that keep hitting me up for money, the abused animals in need, the families without heat or food or gifts. the world is a sad sad place and the fact charities play sucker bets with busy souls like myself who may not be totally insensitive, but are removed from knowing what is going on in the world, well, that just makes me want to cry to. here, just take my money, alright. you’re worse than a pick-pocket. i would slug a pick-pocket who attempts to mug me and take my money. a charity hits me up and i’m reaching for kleenex and my wallet.
breathe, just breathe.
i’m not a crier. grrr-like riot girl, yes. bitchy? hell ya. crier? not on your life. except when i’m pms-ing. oh sweet plastic jesus tucked in a dog-house manger left out on the front lawn! i’m pms-ing at christmas. family-togetherness has never been so frightening a concept except when i’m getting ready to rag as mam calls it.
breathe, just breathe.
now, another all-spirited-up-for-the-holiday-coworker approaches me with a tin of home-made baked cookies, peanut butter chip snickerdoodles with a hershey’s kiss on top. oh, wait, is that a peanut butter-filled hershey’s kiss? how the hell can i say no to a pms-blessing in disguise? chocolate and peanut-butter makes everything better. the bigger question is how can i keep my face out of the tin and save any for my other coworkers who pass and say they’ll wait until after lunch to take one. lunch is hours away right now. “gimme chocolate now!” screams the pms-bitch lurking inside me. “there may not be any left after lunch for you sniveling, i’ll-get-it-to-you-on-friday coworker. mwah-hah-ha-ha!” yes, sometimes pms-bitch scares me, too.
breathe, just breathe.
which is why this christmas season is killing me. i’m a scrooge under the best of circumstances, a fault i believe acquired while working in a mall in the christmas season. any addition of a hormonal imbalance and family dysfunction just adds more fuel to my growing fire.
i just gotta make it through the next few days alive. a thought i’m sure mam is praying for these days too. as long as i just breathe and only threatento jack anyone with chocolate and peanut butter in a 5-mile radius, i'll be alright.
drop the cookie, beeyatch.
my frustration is growing -- growing pissed at the season, at work, at my family – grrrr. and i still don’t understand why i am so grrrr lately.
breathe, just breathe.
the simplest things are setting me off – a coworkers glib “you’ll get it on friday” comment when he knows i won’t be in on friday caused me to seriously contemplate standing up, grabbing his neck in my hands and twisting it loose from his shoulders. allie mcbeal would have been proud of my dream sequence, it would have ranked with the best of hers on her television show. and the fact that he was referring to my christmas present, well, that just made me want to cry.
breathe, just breathe.
in fact, everything makes me want to cry this week. the charities that keep hitting me up for money, the abused animals in need, the families without heat or food or gifts. the world is a sad sad place and the fact charities play sucker bets with busy souls like myself who may not be totally insensitive, but are removed from knowing what is going on in the world, well, that just makes me want to cry to. here, just take my money, alright. you’re worse than a pick-pocket. i would slug a pick-pocket who attempts to mug me and take my money. a charity hits me up and i’m reaching for kleenex and my wallet.
breathe, just breathe.
i’m not a crier. grrr-like riot girl, yes. bitchy? hell ya. crier? not on your life. except when i’m pms-ing. oh sweet plastic jesus tucked in a dog-house manger left out on the front lawn! i’m pms-ing at christmas. family-togetherness has never been so frightening a concept except when i’m getting ready to rag as mam calls it.
breathe, just breathe.
now, another all-spirited-up-for-the-holiday-coworker approaches me with a tin of home-made baked cookies, peanut butter chip snickerdoodles with a hershey’s kiss on top. oh, wait, is that a peanut butter-filled hershey’s kiss? how the hell can i say no to a pms-blessing in disguise? chocolate and peanut-butter makes everything better. the bigger question is how can i keep my face out of the tin and save any for my other coworkers who pass and say they’ll wait until after lunch to take one. lunch is hours away right now. “gimme chocolate now!” screams the pms-bitch lurking inside me. “there may not be any left after lunch for you sniveling, i’ll-get-it-to-you-on-friday coworker. mwah-hah-ha-ha!” yes, sometimes pms-bitch scares me, too.
breathe, just breathe.
which is why this christmas season is killing me. i’m a scrooge under the best of circumstances, a fault i believe acquired while working in a mall in the christmas season. any addition of a hormonal imbalance and family dysfunction just adds more fuel to my growing fire.
i just gotta make it through the next few days alive. a thought i’m sure mam is praying for these days too. as long as i just breathe and only threatento jack anyone with chocolate and peanut butter in a 5-mile radius, i'll be alright.
drop the cookie, beeyatch.
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
faster, pussycat -- kill, kill
my apologies to russ myers on this title but i hope you find it a suitable one as you keep reading.
and no, this is not a tale about 3 strippers gone wild in the desert. this is a tail (pun intended) of another sort. the scritch, you see, is back.
the last few weeks, in the rest of my scuttle to wrap up a project at work and end a school semester, i had the lovely displeasure of waking up to poop. lots of little pellet poops, of the mousiest kind. argggh.
i do what any animal rights person in her right mind would do... i brought out the "mouse house" and humane traps to set around the kitchen where our newest boarder had taken to dining each evening.
"g'day, sir. may i seat you in the smoking or nonsmoking section?" i inquire as host.
"any seat by the fruitbowl would be suitable, thank you, miss. those apples you served last night, they're marvelous, simply marvelous."
"wonderful to hear, sir. our chef picked those apples especially to bake a pie but by you helping yourself to them, well, you really saved a lot of innocent folks from having to eat that apple pie. my compliments to you."
but if the mouse was as grateful and appreciative as that i wouldn't be asking him to leave, then, now would i? my goddess, he ate my cooking -- he should be worshipped! with nearly 200 lbs of wild monkeys dogs bumbling about the house, one would think something weighing only a few ounces would think twice about moving in. rightfully so, any person stupid enough to break into my house would be greeted by the drooling smile of my rottweiler -- why shouldn't a mouse feel the same the threat of impending doom?
because dogs are not cats. amazingly, this is a new discovery for me, too. the extreme difference in size sadly wasn't an earlier clue...
so when a mouse has settled in a "chez mc-clot-sky", the dogs i discovered will do no good as a deterrent. but a "mouse house" will. fittingly enough, the mouse also chose to move in when mam is away. for business -- that is -- not play, even if he is in vegas.
bleery-eyed that morning, i stumbled into the kitchen at 6:00 am looking to do just 3 simple things: make coffee, feed those 200 lbs of puppies, and pack my work bag for the day. that's it. so when i see the door on the "mouse house" closed with a no vacancy sign lit, well, i knew it was a monday. and i hate mondays.
the only thing that tops my hatred of mondays is my mother's hatred of mice. and guess who was coming over to feed those 200 lbs of puppies dinner while i was in class that evening? yup, the mouse-hater, my mother ... the chuckinator.
i struggled with full disclosure -- to mouse or not to mouse, that is the question. 'tis better to suffer the slings of punches as my chuckie fights her way out of the little tiny mouse's range of sight, or to lie, to lie perchance to deny, deny, deny the little mouse ever lived in the "mouse house" on the counter near the stove? aye, there's the rub.
i disclosed in true political fashion: i believed, there may or may not be a mouse in the house on the counter. potential for but no promise there was one, past performance is no guarantee, that sort of thing. i left this long-winded message on her voicemail at work. and then heard nothing.
the chuckinator had agreed to feed the puppies for me since mam was away for business and i had class. she had not agreed to come to my house when there was a possibility of a 3 ounce mouse trapped in my kitchen. her silence, i assumed, meant my puppies bladders would be just shy of erupting by the time i got home. or i'd be shampooing the carpets again.
what i didn't know is she called the next best thing to me -- my brother. in tears. i believe the conversation went something like:
my brother: "hello, company abc. oh, hey there chuckie. what's up w---"
chuckinator butts in before he can finish: "EEEKKWHATISYOURSISTERTRYINGTODOTOME? [gasp for air] SHECALLEDMEANDTOLDMESHEHASAMOUSEINHERHOUSE [gasp.] ANDSHEKNOWSIHATEMICE. [gasp for air one more time.] WAAAHHHH! [gasp.] WHATAMIGOINGTODO?IHATETHEMIHATETHEM. [another deep breath in. now release.] I'LLHAVEAHEARTACHEIFISEEIT,YOUHAVETOHELPMEPLEEEEAAASE!EEEK!" [the shrieking dies out to a sad, soft whimpering sound.]
needless to say, my brother wanted to bash my skull in for having to talk our mother down from crying in the middle of a workday for something i had caused. as if the mouse made reservations to stay at my place in advance.
she's a trooper though. she did arrive at my house, as she said she would but our normally, mild-manner mother turned a side i have never witnessed nor even would have thought she would have been capable of. there was bloodlust in heart when she walked through my door.
she wanted mickey dead in the worst way. when my brother arrived to escort mickey to his new home in the woods outback of chez mc-clot-sky, she shrieked in the background, "kill it, kill it". she stood fearlessly and chanted as he took the "mouse house" outdoors to release him and yelled through the doorway, "just kill it already for crissakes."
that is, until he unlocked the latch on the "mouse house" and tried to evict the tenant. only to have the tenant dart back towards the very door where she stood screaming for his head, that managed to shut her up real quickly.
and no, this is not a tale about 3 strippers gone wild in the desert. this is a tail (pun intended) of another sort. the scritch, you see, is back.
the last few weeks, in the rest of my scuttle to wrap up a project at work and end a school semester, i had the lovely displeasure of waking up to poop. lots of little pellet poops, of the mousiest kind. argggh.
i do what any animal rights person in her right mind would do... i brought out the "mouse house" and humane traps to set around the kitchen where our newest boarder had taken to dining each evening.
"g'day, sir. may i seat you in the smoking or nonsmoking section?" i inquire as host.
"any seat by the fruitbowl would be suitable, thank you, miss. those apples you served last night, they're marvelous, simply marvelous."
"wonderful to hear, sir. our chef picked those apples especially to bake a pie but by you helping yourself to them, well, you really saved a lot of innocent folks from having to eat that apple pie. my compliments to you."
but if the mouse was as grateful and appreciative as that i wouldn't be asking him to leave, then, now would i? my goddess, he ate my cooking -- he should be worshipped! with nearly 200 lbs of wild monkeys dogs bumbling about the house, one would think something weighing only a few ounces would think twice about moving in. rightfully so, any person stupid enough to break into my house would be greeted by the drooling smile of my rottweiler -- why shouldn't a mouse feel the same the threat of impending doom?
because dogs are not cats. amazingly, this is a new discovery for me, too. the extreme difference in size sadly wasn't an earlier clue...
so when a mouse has settled in a "chez mc-clot-sky", the dogs i discovered will do no good as a deterrent. but a "mouse house" will. fittingly enough, the mouse also chose to move in when mam is away. for business -- that is -- not play, even if he is in vegas.
bleery-eyed that morning, i stumbled into the kitchen at 6:00 am looking to do just 3 simple things: make coffee, feed those 200 lbs of puppies, and pack my work bag for the day. that's it. so when i see the door on the "mouse house" closed with a no vacancy sign lit, well, i knew it was a monday. and i hate mondays.
the only thing that tops my hatred of mondays is my mother's hatred of mice. and guess who was coming over to feed those 200 lbs of puppies dinner while i was in class that evening? yup, the mouse-hater, my mother ... the chuckinator.
i struggled with full disclosure -- to mouse or not to mouse, that is the question. 'tis better to suffer the slings of punches as my chuckie fights her way out of the little tiny mouse's range of sight, or to lie, to lie perchance to deny, deny, deny the little mouse ever lived in the "mouse house" on the counter near the stove? aye, there's the rub.
i disclosed in true political fashion: i believed, there may or may not be a mouse in the house on the counter. potential for but no promise there was one, past performance is no guarantee, that sort of thing. i left this long-winded message on her voicemail at work. and then heard nothing.
the chuckinator had agreed to feed the puppies for me since mam was away for business and i had class. she had not agreed to come to my house when there was a possibility of a 3 ounce mouse trapped in my kitchen. her silence, i assumed, meant my puppies bladders would be just shy of erupting by the time i got home. or i'd be shampooing the carpets again.
what i didn't know is she called the next best thing to me -- my brother. in tears. i believe the conversation went something like:
my brother: "hello, company abc. oh, hey there chuckie. what's up w---"
chuckinator butts in before he can finish: "EEEKKWHATISYOURSISTERTRYINGTODOTOME? [gasp for air] SHECALLEDMEANDTOLDMESHEHASAMOUSEINHERHOUSE [gasp.] ANDSHEKNOWSIHATEMICE. [gasp for air one more time.] WAAAHHHH! [gasp.] WHATAMIGOINGTODO?IHATETHEMIHATETHEM. [another deep breath in. now release.] I'LLHAVEAHEARTACHEIFISEEIT,YOUHAVETOHELPMEPLEEEEAAASE!EEEK!" [the shrieking dies out to a sad, soft whimpering sound.]
needless to say, my brother wanted to bash my skull in for having to talk our mother down from crying in the middle of a workday for something i had caused. as if the mouse made reservations to stay at my place in advance.
she's a trooper though. she did arrive at my house, as she said she would but our normally, mild-manner mother turned a side i have never witnessed nor even would have thought she would have been capable of. there was bloodlust in heart when she walked through my door.
she wanted mickey dead in the worst way. when my brother arrived to escort mickey to his new home in the woods outback of chez mc-clot-sky, she shrieked in the background, "kill it, kill it". she stood fearlessly and chanted as he took the "mouse house" outdoors to release him and yelled through the doorway, "just kill it already for crissakes."
that is, until he unlocked the latch on the "mouse house" and tried to evict the tenant. only to have the tenant dart back towards the very door where she stood screaming for his head, that managed to shut her up real quickly.
Saturday, December 09, 2006
coasting into PMD
the agitation that i feel right now is growing. with exactly one week until it arrives, my throat feels like closing up.
my final paper for class is due in less than 48 hours but i'm sitting writing posts here instead of writing about blah-ddey blah-blah in my research paper. the queen of procrastination, i am. flug-a-licious might also say the "queen of fellatio" but that's an entirely different post.
is my paper causing me stress? slightly, but not to the degree that others may face.
is it my work? to some degree everyone's workload is stretched but again, i can't relegate my current state of affliction to it.
no, my anxiety-stricken, panic attacks are coming -- signed, sealed and delivered with the same intended level of shock and awe g.w. promised to the iraqis way back in 2003. my bunker-buster bomb is my husband's family on pierogie-making-day (PMD).
welcome to my nightmare. seriously, i can't make this stuff up or else i would probably be writing episode guides for doctor phil if i could imagine the type of family dysfunction without first witnessing it in action.
this year will be different, perhaps even more fcuked up if possible. the ghost of christmas (and PMD) past will be joining us. this year the table will be set for nine but only eight will be there. an empty chair will be set out for my father-in-law who passed away this spring after a valiant fight with cancer.
i know that nothing we say or do this PMD or filet o'dinner will be the same. with arms holding tight to the past, i know this year will be the most difficult. so many changes have happened since last year's PMD -- the births, the deaths -- and the world in its own insulated and heartless way, decided to keep pushing forward, keep spinning, no matter how much we might have wanted the world to stop.
one of my favorite sayings come from tony kushner's angels in america play: "the world only spins forward. let the great work begin." and the only way to do that is to stop chewing on and finally swallow, the events of past.
my final paper for class is due in less than 48 hours but i'm sitting writing posts here instead of writing about blah-ddey blah-blah in my research paper. the queen of procrastination, i am. flug-a-licious might also say the "queen of fellatio" but that's an entirely different post.
is my paper causing me stress? slightly, but not to the degree that others may face.
is it my work? to some degree everyone's workload is stretched but again, i can't relegate my current state of affliction to it.
no, my anxiety-stricken, panic attacks are coming -- signed, sealed and delivered with the same intended level of shock and awe g.w. promised to the iraqis way back in 2003. my bunker-buster bomb is my husband's family on pierogie-making-day (PMD).
welcome to my nightmare. seriously, i can't make this stuff up or else i would probably be writing episode guides for doctor phil if i could imagine the type of family dysfunction without first witnessing it in action.
this year will be different, perhaps even more fcuked up if possible. the ghost of christmas (and PMD) past will be joining us. this year the table will be set for nine but only eight will be there. an empty chair will be set out for my father-in-law who passed away this spring after a valiant fight with cancer.
i know that nothing we say or do this PMD or filet o'dinner will be the same. with arms holding tight to the past, i know this year will be the most difficult. so many changes have happened since last year's PMD -- the births, the deaths -- and the world in its own insulated and heartless way, decided to keep pushing forward, keep spinning, no matter how much we might have wanted the world to stop.
one of my favorite sayings come from tony kushner's angels in america play: "the world only spins forward. let the great work begin." and the only way to do that is to stop chewing on and finally swallow, the events of past.
stun, stun
my self-esteem is slightly less than healthy. whether this is something symptomatic of just my own slightly neurotic self or a symbol of a larger defect among women in that we do not "see" that which others see in us is debatable. the goddess girls understand this.
the night after my company's holiday party (for those politically correct, non-exclusionary types), one of my brother's coworkers approached him the next morning. my brother and i do work for the same company though in very different roles. the fact that i use my husband's name and the fact my brother and i look nothing alike throws some people off when they find out we are related. still, the coworker who happens to be russian and had approached my brother knew we were related.
the russian coworker: "mischka(not his real name), i spoke with your sister last night. she is stun, stun."
my brother replied, quite quizzically to his statement: "she is what?" after all, this is the same guy who will tell you his knee is hurting when he has a headache. english-as-a-second-language instructors really should brush up on their anatomy lessons.
the russian answers: "she is, how you say -- pretty, pretty?" while waving a big bear-like paw in front of his face.
"you mean stunning?" at this point, i'm sure my brother is getting either a little skeeved out or getting angry. although whatever brotherly-exemption he would take at this other guy's interest in his sister would be waved considering his coworker could kill him with only his pinkie finger.
"yes, she is stunning, your sister," with wide eyes and a goofy grin spreading across his face, a look that belies his strength and size, and manages to reduce this bear-like man to an oversized version of one of the seven dwarfs fantasizing about snow white.
as the russian continued to stand there and grin as if in a daze, my brother grew increasingly aggitated. "keep it rated PG, mister," he said with a poke of his finger into the russian's chest. "that's my sister, you're thinking about."
when all of this was retold to me later that evening, i had to laugh. the same brother who let his friend get off licking the side of my face. . . err, maybe i should rephrase that last part. . . the same brother who did nothing to step in when his friend licked the side of my face [much better], this sudden act of big-brother protectionism was too much to take.
while my ego did force a little backflip and a giggle at the thought that someone thought i was "stun, stun", the fact that my brother still tries to protect me years after i spent our childhood protecting him was the best part of all.
the night after my company's holiday party (for those politically correct, non-exclusionary types), one of my brother's coworkers approached him the next morning. my brother and i do work for the same company though in very different roles. the fact that i use my husband's name and the fact my brother and i look nothing alike throws some people off when they find out we are related. still, the coworker who happens to be russian and had approached my brother knew we were related.
the russian coworker: "mischka(not his real name), i spoke with your sister last night. she is stun, stun."
my brother replied, quite quizzically to his statement: "she is what?" after all, this is the same guy who will tell you his knee is hurting when he has a headache. english-as-a-second-language instructors really should brush up on their anatomy lessons.
the russian answers: "she is, how you say -- pretty, pretty?" while waving a big bear-like paw in front of his face.
"you mean stunning?" at this point, i'm sure my brother is getting either a little skeeved out or getting angry. although whatever brotherly-exemption he would take at this other guy's interest in his sister would be waved considering his coworker could kill him with only his pinkie finger.
"yes, she is stunning, your sister," with wide eyes and a goofy grin spreading across his face, a look that belies his strength and size, and manages to reduce this bear-like man to an oversized version of one of the seven dwarfs fantasizing about snow white.
as the russian continued to stand there and grin as if in a daze, my brother grew increasingly aggitated. "keep it rated PG, mister," he said with a poke of his finger into the russian's chest. "that's my sister, you're thinking about."
when all of this was retold to me later that evening, i had to laugh. the same brother who let his friend get off licking the side of my face. . . err, maybe i should rephrase that last part. . . the same brother who did nothing to step in when his friend licked the side of my face [much better], this sudden act of big-brother protectionism was too much to take.
while my ego did force a little backflip and a giggle at the thought that someone thought i was "stun, stun", the fact that my brother still tries to protect me years after i spent our childhood protecting him was the best part of all.
Sunday, December 03, 2006
hair devil
i went in looking for a trim and to have my roots touched up.
i walked out looking like a friggin' soccer mom in a minivan. (no offense, wendy, i know you are considering a minivan to transport your growing brood these days.)
seriously, it was a miscommunication of the highest degree. salman rushdie had a fatwa, "a hit" put on him in soprano-speak, for lesser crimes that what this stylist did to me.
i think i said something like: "i like the length, just trim up my layers in the front."
she said: "you should probably take a little bit off the length to trim up the edges there, too."
i said: "okay."
now what she heard was something like: "yes, you can trim a half-inch from the back of my hair. but you must also cut back in all of those layers that i have diligently grown out the last four-months, suffering from bad roots and missed highlight appointments in order to put some distance between me and your scissors. because really, i have obviously not suffered enough for my decision to do something drastic to my hair last winter. yes, almighty hair dresser, you have fixed my color addiction to dying my blonde hair a deep red by helping me settle on a more natural shade that does not look like i dipped my head in kool-aid. and yes, i listened when you told me it would take months before i would grow my hair back to an acceptable length, but each hair cut is like taking two steps forward and three steps back, so yes, please cut off all of the growth i have managed to scrounge up. and do it RIGHT NOW!"
true, i do believe in taking chances with my hair which is miraculously healthy considering the hell i have put it through over the years. fuschia, purple, deep red, light red, blonde, blonder and blondest highlights and let's not forget last year's red highlights over blonde. in my defense, it looked cool until it begins to grow out and then there goes my new look because as much fun as it is do actually take on a new style, i have the worst track record for maintaining it once i get it.
last year's attempt at a quarter life crisis arrived 5 years too late. on the eve of my third decade i tried to tell myself that i was still cool. i was hip. i went to a trendy salon in the city, told the stylist and colorist i wanted a change and they had free rein. what i hadn't noticed was the sucker stamped on my forehead in the mirror. the cut and color looked fabulous - angled, assymetrical and red, just the amount of edginess that my ego needed.
until i walked into work the next day and realized how that is not entirely who i am any more. sure, i still think like a counterrevolutionary at times but in reality, my harder edges have or are in the process of being honed to an acceptable level.
which is why this latest hair snafu is so discouraging. in 12 months, my hair has done a 180 degree flip from hipster to this mom-ster. this whole easing into adulthood is rough enough on its own, it doesn't need any acceleration at the hands of edward scissor-stylist-hands.
i walked out looking like a friggin' soccer mom in a minivan. (no offense, wendy, i know you are considering a minivan to transport your growing brood these days.)
seriously, it was a miscommunication of the highest degree. salman rushdie had a fatwa, "a hit" put on him in soprano-speak, for lesser crimes that what this stylist did to me.
i think i said something like: "i like the length, just trim up my layers in the front."
she said: "you should probably take a little bit off the length to trim up the edges there, too."
i said: "okay."
now what she heard was something like: "yes, you can trim a half-inch from the back of my hair. but you must also cut back in all of those layers that i have diligently grown out the last four-months, suffering from bad roots and missed highlight appointments in order to put some distance between me and your scissors. because really, i have obviously not suffered enough for my decision to do something drastic to my hair last winter. yes, almighty hair dresser, you have fixed my color addiction to dying my blonde hair a deep red by helping me settle on a more natural shade that does not look like i dipped my head in kool-aid. and yes, i listened when you told me it would take months before i would grow my hair back to an acceptable length, but each hair cut is like taking two steps forward and three steps back, so yes, please cut off all of the growth i have managed to scrounge up. and do it RIGHT NOW!"
true, i do believe in taking chances with my hair which is miraculously healthy considering the hell i have put it through over the years. fuschia, purple, deep red, light red, blonde, blonder and blondest highlights and let's not forget last year's red highlights over blonde. in my defense, it looked cool until it begins to grow out and then there goes my new look because as much fun as it is do actually take on a new style, i have the worst track record for maintaining it once i get it.
last year's attempt at a quarter life crisis arrived 5 years too late. on the eve of my third decade i tried to tell myself that i was still cool. i was hip. i went to a trendy salon in the city, told the stylist and colorist i wanted a change and they had free rein. what i hadn't noticed was the sucker stamped on my forehead in the mirror. the cut and color looked fabulous - angled, assymetrical and red, just the amount of edginess that my ego needed.
until i walked into work the next day and realized how that is not entirely who i am any more. sure, i still think like a counterrevolutionary at times but in reality, my harder edges have or are in the process of being honed to an acceptable level.
which is why this latest hair snafu is so discouraging. in 12 months, my hair has done a 180 degree flip from hipster to this mom-ster. this whole easing into adulthood is rough enough on its own, it doesn't need any acceleration at the hands of edward scissor-stylist-hands.
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