killing season

the killing season is upon us. while work may be driving me crazy, it's not coworkers that i keep in my sights.

nope, it's time to play in the garden.

now that mam and i have stopped building that ark in our garage to ride out the recent rain (read: super storms that so muddied our yard i wasn't sure if i had dogs or pot-bellied pigs).

and now that the rain is gone, i can see clearly that my garden is gone, too.

all the fcuking money, time and effort i put out last year, hasn't come back. oh, two bleeding hearts did come back this year but they look like someone just stuck two stalks of celery into the mud. (there are no flowers on the celery stalks.) the creeping purple phlox which did survive last winter and are now becoming little mounds of dreadlocks with green highlights woven in.

mam tried to comfort me that mother nature isn't ready make her big showy display yet. it's too early in the season. when i pointed out our neighbors have azaleas in full bloom and ours still are a russian winter, he told me our time to bloom will come soon, too.

last weekend, i created a reason to go to lowe's, just in part i think so i could walk the outdoor flower-y section. (note: lowe's does not carry laundry detergent in its aisles.) i gingerly touched each green stem. i pulled back the label to read -- actually read the friggin' label -- to see if it would be a good fit in our patches of super-sunny and super-shady, desert dry, mudpit.

but it's no use. i put it in my earth and watch my garden not grow. i covet my neighbor's green thumb. each weekend he's out plucking out weeds more frequently than some people tweeze their eyebrows. when he's not playing the drums, he's out there digging a hole and planting a new tree or bush.

and i'm jealous.

any five-year-old with a beach bucket and a shovel can dig a hole in the sand and plant daddy's car keys hoping to grow a new car. however, i stand lesser chances of getting a mercedes to grow in my front yard than the kid does.

but still a girl can dream. and in the meantime, i will plot and scheme, dig and dream my way to a less ghetto fabulous landscape. and manage to wipe out an entire colony of plants while i do it.

bright lights, big ass

very psyched to hear jen lancaster read from her new book (see title of this post) coming out in exactly 8 days. very sad to hear she's ditching philly for nyc right after her reading so no time to take her out to vintage for a glass of wine. nyc is the "marsha, marsha, marsha" to philly's middle-sister jan self-esteem. way to pick at that scab, jen.

here's the details straight from jennyslvania:

"June 6 – Reading/signing at the Walnut Street Barnes & Noble in Philadelphia at 7:30 PM. Going straight to NY afterwards, so no drinks and I'm sorry."

still trying to talk alicia and alaina into sporting pink and green outfits or pearls that day. damn! i think i finally found a use for those mint green pearls i regifted at renee's holiday party.

anyone else want to join us (alicia and alaina and i) for wine before the reading? who are we kidding, like we need an excuse to drink?

ode to chocolate

o chocolate, how do i love thee? let me count the ways...


my developing addiction to chocolate is moving towards new heights. only a few days ago, i opened my purse and in my haste to pull out my wallet, i pulled out a giant-sized giardella chocolate bar.

we're not talking "snickers gets you going sized bar". nope, we're talking six servings sized bar of chocolate and almonds.

before someone stages an intervention to save my thighs whose cellulite is acquiring cellulite, the chocolate was a gift, i swear. i was holding it for a friend who brought it back for me from san francisco. i swear, officer, i was only holding it!

a hem. a goddess girl, actually. and it was my chocolate, alright. all mine.

* * *

seeing as chocolate is the one thing that can tame my savage soul at that time of the month, the one where it feels like i am being pelted in all directions by a thousand tiny grains of sand, irritating me to no end, until i feel as if i am ready to explode.

like how i freaked out on a poor unsuspecting boss, when i picked up the phone on friday. "which part of it?" i barked into the phone to answer her question as to whether i had made any progress on my ever-growing to-do list. it wasn't her fault. all she wanted was an update and i unleash an evil spirit of hades on her.

i didn't realize until i started to talking to her how stressed out i really was. i felt like i could cry. my head pounded. my tail twitched and i felt increasingly agitated. my claws lay extended, ready at a moment's notice. her question was the mouse that crossed my path. swat!

it was only once i got off the phone and realized what i had done did i realize my others symptoms. fatigue, exhaustion really. the pimple the size of mount helens erupting on my face. the mood swings that make sybill look even-keeled. yup, i was deep into the throes of the three scariest letters in the alphabet -- p. m. s.

or so mam tells me. and past co-workers who would track my cycle on the calendar in order to ascertain my normal bitchy from my psycho-insane-i-kill-you-bitchy. flug, you remember, you kept the calendar updated.

so which is why my emergency bar of chocolate, heaven sent by one of the goddess girls came to such a sweet end on friday when i tore into it the way a crocodile wraps its prey in its jaws, performing death rolls with my mouth as i swallow it last creamy goodness.

what? get your own damn chocolate bar.

closer i am to fine

i'm trying to tell you something about my life
what a difference seven days makes.

in seven days -- one short week -- i presented to a board of directors with only two hours notice, i received a great response from a literary agent that i contacted, i have been pulled in opposite directions on two major projects at work, and i introduced myself to our ceo after a few hours of drinking with coworkers.

wrap my fear around me like a blanket
i hate public speaking. there is something very naked about standing in front of a room and speaking to them as an expert. i'm not an expert in anything except maybe being bitchy. who the fcuk am i to pretend otherwise? why should these people listen to the words that fall from my lips?

the truth is, i'm not that bad at it. the surge of adrenaline that pumps through your veins seconds before you get up there is as strong as any drug i've ever experienced. actors and actresses know what i am talking about, the moment when the curtain pulls back or the camera pans in your direction and exposes you. for a split second, you consider bolting in the opposite direction. but instead, you puff your chest with one soulfully deep breath before you smile and step forward. i stepped forward in that meeting.

i spent four years prostrate to the higher mind
when i started my graduate degree program, i'm not sure i went in fully aware of where i was heading. on the surface, i looked for an easy masters degree in a program that i could at least justify as being related to my job in order to get my company to pay for it. and oh yeah, the program and school needed to not require gre or gmat scores. (i'm a smart cookie but i quickly crumble when it comes to standardized tests.)

now, two years later and halfway to completion, i know what i want out of this but am not sure i need to finish my degree to get there. if i can get attention from a publisher and agent without having my masters, do i really need it? or have i sucked the marrow from the bone already? my remaining classes are of the fluffy variety.

one of my core beliefs is there is a reason for everything and something to be learned from each experience. what i have yet to learn is how to determine when it's time to move on.

i stop by the bar at three a.m.
okay, it was more like four p.m. but i was definitely seeking solace in a bottle and a friend. in our office we work like dogs sometimes, but we absolutely take every chance we can to run wild from time to time. so with a few shots already in our system and the jukebox rotating between johnny cash and the killers, i look around at the great people i call my coworkers.

"they're good people" i hear someone say to another. and it's true. everyone gets along with each other, our wacked sense of humor feeds each other making what could be difficult days into something memorable for completely different reasons.

there is more than one answer to these questions pointing me in a crooked line
which leads me to back to exactly where i started and the reason for starting multiplicity in the first place. with so many dueling and competing energies in me, how do you give priority to one without sacrificing the other?

of course, if the ceo decides to strike up a conversation with me after another whiskey-soaked afternoon, the line to the unemployment office may not be so crooked.

less i seek more source for some definitive
i know any chance of getting my writing established is a long way off despite the positive news i've gotten recently, i know one day i'll be forced to choose.
until that day comes, as i look around at the faces of my friends and coworkers all belting out the words the lyrics of the indigo girls that inspired us in our college days, i know i will be closer to fine.

beware of owner

they know. i know that they know.

i trust my dogs to know instinctively when those times when i need a hug, when i need a nuzzle on my hand from them and a gentle lick to raise my spirits or just give me a neck to cry into. they soothe and relax me.

so when i choose to torture myself by watching animal planet's animal cops, chloe and sadie are right by my side. mam yells at me why do i continue to do this to myself, knowing how it gets me upset. "this is real life", i tell him. reminding him not every dog gets fed premium dog food. shit, some dogs have never gotten enough food, and our monkey dogs whine if i am late coming home and they eat their supper 20 minutes later than normal.

i sit here and cry over the abuse cases -- well-intentioned but mentally ill animal lovers who begin to harm their pets when they hoard and not help them. i cry over the abuse cases that are deliberate through man's directed cruelty. our creativity in dreaming up new ways to harm animals never fails to amaze me. we are truly capable of far worse than what the animal kingdom is capable of doing. from savage cruelty to dogs with open gashes and untreated wounds left to heal over to skin infection with simple solutions -- both are remedied if only someone would care.

and i cry at the noses which sniff the camera hesitantly at the humane society after taken in for treatment, with tails that wag innocently despite the abuse any they may have suffered at the hands of people like us.

then in cry at the happy endings, where these animals who were used as bait to train other dogs to kill and maim are restored in body and spirit and given a chance at a new life with others who promise to love and care for that battered dog. i cry at the dogs who experience sunshine, full bellies and people touching them lovingly for the first time in their lives.

with soft eyes to communicate as their tongue hangs loosely from the side of their mouth panting, they manage to say thank you without saying anything at all.

when my furkids look up from their nap to stem the tears from my face, they remind me that we are their voice. with a gentle lick, they thank us, too.

ironic chef

the recent rash of dog food recalls has me a bit panicked. how can i know what i am feeding my dogs is healthy and won't kill them? how can i distinguish chloe's pickiness with refusing to eat spoiled or rotten food? if my job is to protect the furkids, how can i do my duty if i feed them stuff made of plastic?

all of the doggy newslists i belong to, there have been people advocating a raw diet for dogs. not "raw" as in uncooked, but raw as in all natural origins and ingredients, not something that has been extruded (whatever the hell that means) into formulaic pellet-like shapes.

these are also women who can cook. my doggies are not so lucky to have a momma who can wield a spatula with ease. the great irony is they actually do eat what i cook for them unlike some 2-legged animals who are fearful of what i produce for them.

the puppies, on the other hand, are enthralled any time i am at the stove for them. normally, they get ground beef, cooked eggs, vanilla yogurt, cheese, chicken, pasta, or rice as a topping on their dry dog food. each time i top their bowls with one of these very lovely treats, they look at me adoringly.

as a strict vegetarian, i haven't eaten any meat, chicken or fish in more than 13 years, yet for the furkids, i'll cook ground beef and pull apart precooked chicken to feed them. mam complains that i'll cook for the dogs but not for him.

i'm quick to reply, "do you really want me to cook for you?" if he looked at me like how the dogs do, maybe i would try to cook for him. yeah, no. i still wouldn't do it.

running on empty

normally, my non-superhero life is very clark kent -- mild mannered, unassuming even. at work or at home when i seem to pull off my superhero routines of staying on top of this project, dodging that deadline, completing this task and jumping through hoops of fire to meet that one, i give the appearance of someone who is "one the ball".

if only appearances were exactly as they seem.

turns out this weekend revealed the bullets my wonder woman-like bracelets couldn't deflect. i paid the idiot tax because quite simply, that's what is required when you pull a bonehead of such magnitude.

i "kinda" knew i didn't have the new sticker for my license plate. it's not like i didn't remember to renew my vehicle registration -- i did, but what i forgot to do is remove the friggin' little sticker from the envelope to put it on my car. and this is where penndot has gone wrong -- big envelope, little card and even smaller sticker that isn't really even in the main part of the envelope, it sort of hovers in its own separate-but-equal slot in the envelope never sharing the larger space afforded to the actual registration card.

hence the reason why i have thrown the fcuking thing out in the trash. for the second time. arrggghhh.

but before you think it's a simple blonde moment -- and i have lots of those -- this goes deeper than simply being too rushed in filing the trash where it belongs. nope, this time i sinned far greater. i forgot to get my car inspected, too.

oy. when my subconscious finally broke through the clutter (that phrase is worth 5-points in buzz word bingo) to alert me, "hey shithead, you forgot sumthin' over here" i think i was ready to acknowledge my mistake.

the trouble was, it broke through at 4 am saturday (or was it sunday?) morning, creating another sleepless night for me. mentally, i trolled my internal calendar to see when in the last four months i would have taken my car into the shop for inspection. the giveaway for me that i hadn't was that i needed an oil change. and i have needed one for the last 6 months. (okay shut up, i take the train everyday and still have barely broken 10k miles on my car.) i am the queen of multitasking, had i gotten my car inspected, i would have surely gotten the oil changed at the same time. i am my own personal if-then statement.

what was even more troubling to me was the fact i couldn't remember when i had forgotten to do it. damn that new car! with my old little putt-putt car, i knew exactly when things were due -- when to change the oil, when to put on new tires, when to get it inspected. like clockwork, reliable and settled. i love my new car, but it's still different -- different buttons, different timetables, things i realize i should know but hadn't really given a damn about until i realized that i did need to give one.

so i do what wonder woman would do when digging out from the mess, i dig out one spoonful and fighting each boneheaded mistake at a time.

even when they are your own.