Tuesday, September 26, 2017 18:02

Archive for the ‘Random Ramblings’ Category

despite all my rage

Saturday, May 13th, 2017

As we prepare to move across half the country, it’s a good opportunity to let go of things we don’t need or want. Some things go to Goodwill, others get listed online to find a new home.

Today, I sold Billy Corgan‘s cage. She’s been gone almost two years. I know I’m a one rat kind of lady. I think they’re cute. I think they’re good pets. But Billy was special, and magical, and I’ll never again find such a perfect rat lady.

Yet, it took two years to give up her cage and accessories. At first, it was because I was mourning her. After a while, I scrubbed her cage and decided I was going to sell it. Yet, I always had reasons to procrastinate. When my sister collapsed the cage to take up less space, that prevented me from taking photos to sell it. I couldn’t find the instructions. It did get reassembled, but was all dusty. So on. So forth.

Moving gave me a bit more motivation. Yet, I was dragging my feet. I finally took a deep breath, cleaned up everything, and took photos. It was hard. It was just like all the times I cleaned the cage for her. As I assembled her carrier, I remembered when we bought it because she’d figured out how to open the first one we had. I remembered the final time I put her in, when she let me know she was ready to move on. Bringing it home, empty. I set the food dish on one platform to show how it fit in place and recalled her “remodeling.” She liked to rearrange her home, usually at night. Sometimes, this meant picking up her dish and moving it to a different platform. She was so talented, she rarely spilled her precious nuggets. I checked the fleece scraps, pulled from my fabric stash to make blankets. I unfurled a scarf-like strip of dinosaur patterned  fleece, one end thoroughly marked by her teeth. I chuckled quietly, thinking of how I found the strip in her cage. It had been neatly folded on the shelf of her supplies. Somehow, she managed to grab an end of it, and pull it through the narrow bars of her cage. It was pretty impressive.

She was smart, and feisty. She would snuggle with me on the sofa, but let me know when she was ready for alone time. She had beautiful, delicate fingers. When given a treat, it was like watching any refined lady enjoy a meal. I realized the true source of my procrastination. I still missed her. But, I was ready for someone else to enjoy her things.

Once listed, I quickly had to file an appeal to Facebook. Despite being posted in the “pet supplies” category, their algorithm thought I was selling a pet and flagged it. Once resolved, emails and messages trickled in. Folks wanted me to split the lot of items or make low-ball offers. I turned them down. One guy got me to agree to knock a few bucks off, so long as he came that evening, then I didn’t hear from him again. Then, I received a polite message from a woman with an offer. She was looking for a new cage for her ratties, and mine looked ideal. I asked when she could pick up, she said in the morning. I had a good feeling in my gut about her. I accepted her offer, and made arrangements.

This morning, as I wheeled the cage to the elevator, still more memories of Billy came back. As I exchanged the cage for dollars, I pointed out some good things to know about it. I wanted to tell them about how she loved to climb. How the few dings on the finish were from when she felt anxious, and would slide her teeth on the bars. About her remodeling adventures. Instead I told them that I hoped her rats would enjoy the cage, and the extras. 

It was far more bittersweet than I expected. I can only hope that she and her pets make even half of the wonderful memories Billy made for me.

xoxo

clean slate

Wednesday, January 7th, 2015

I think I got through the cobwebs, the branches that broke through the roof, and shooed away the nest of raccoons. I let this blog become a shambles! I didn’t intend to let it happen but, much like every person ever featured on Hoarders, I had the best of intentions and let time and expectations and anxiety and all sorts of mind junk get in the way and the next thing I knew, months had passed and ideas were stacking up like a newspaper maze. I would have things I wanted to share, or stuff that happened that I wanted to write about, or general feelings* but I would remember that it’s been months, and then figure I should write some explanation. However, I couldn’t bring myself to write the explanation, and felt like I couldn’t ignore the fact that I hadn’t posted in roughly a billionty years, then I would doze off, or do some WoW quests, or think about all the things on my to do list that weren’t getting done and the next thing you know it’s 2015.

Which, does anyone know how that happened? I know I must have missed some parts of 2014, a lot of 2013, and if I’m being honest, I’m not really sure every year of the double-aughtsactually happened. So, if anyone wants to fill me in on what’s happened to the last decade or so of my life, that would be super-fantastic. Thanks.

Moving on.

If I’m being honest, among the things I want to be when I grow up** is an internet sensation. I don’t really need to be a sensation, per se, but at least some level of internet famous. Enough to pay my bills, at least, so I can fulfill my real dream of being a performer-taxidermist-fashion designer-artist. We live in a world where there are lots of folks doing just that. The internet famous part, not so much the performer-taxidermist-fashion designer-artist part. Bloggers, vloggers, cosplayers, photographers, comic artists, and a bunch of other stuff that would make a list that’s days long. I’ve had this blog for roughly a decade, and an online journal thinger before that. It was mostly because I was just doing it because I liked doing it. It’s been a good way for me to keep the writing skills I acquired during high school and college reasonably honed. I like reading blogs of all stripes, as well. Over the years, I couldn’t help but notice the popularity of some of those blogs. Many were just random people practicing hobbies, or people who were looking for something to fill 40-some hours a week while unemployed when they started. Then, they would get deals for articles, books, invites to New York fashion week, Europe, guests spots on televisions shows. They would quit their day jobs, or not get new day jobs. I kind of like that idea.

But, I’m all sorts of crazy. I would question what I wanted to post. I would over analyze every photo I took. I would come up with reasons why people weren’t reading. So, I looked at the successful bloggers et al for things I should do to make my blog better. I read posts, and tips, and articles. I’ve got bookmarks up the wazoo. The biggest thing I tried was putting together a schedule. Based on what all the cool kids were saying, it would make blogging easier. I could plan things ahead, not have to overthink them. It kicked my ass. Just finding a squirrel to post once a week, and keep all the links straight that I wanted to share one other day consumed way more time, energy, and effort than I ever thought. While I had subjects I wanted to tackle on the remaining days, I struggled to come up with anything more than the two days I had covered. I managed to get some things up here and there beyond the other two, but overall there were five days of crickets. Then, I fell behind on those two days. I stopped reading at least 75% of anything I would have before.

I started freaking out. According to all these bloggers I perceived as successful, I needed to fill a need. I needed to look at what I had to offer, what people wanted from my blog. I was winding up with a big fat list of items I needed to check off if I wanted to gain an audience. I already have anxiety, OCD, narcolepsy, and am a bit of a bipolar bear. Instead of making things easier and blogging my way to the top, that list gave me a big fat list of things to obsess over. If I did manage to put something together, I would just rip it apart mentally before I even allowed anyone else to have a chance at it. The more time that passed, the worse it became.

It didn’t help that when I switched platforms for my blog, I chose a generic template to tide me over until a custom one could be created. The plan I had for a custom page fell through. So, I had one more item on my list to use against myself. Being an artsy person, I was sure that everyone who looked at my page just couldn’t take it seriously.

Granted, the blog wasn’t the only thing aggravating my health issues. However, when one’s mental health is already not in peak condition, a big fat list of epic failures*** does not help.

Recently, I discovered a couple of new blogs by chance. From one of them, I discovered a site mainly dedicated to blogs people “hate read” or are annoyed by. Talk about a weird thing to kick me in the ass. I discovered a local blog that I once read, but lost interest in, had one of the largest threads in the forum. I discovered that there were scads of people articulating why I stopped reading this blog, but hadn’t put my finger on. I started thinking about why I like the blogs I read, why I stopped reading so many, and what I sought from them.

Most of the blogs I stopped reading, I quit because I became bored. They regurgitated a lot of the same posts, either by linking directly to them, copying all the text directly, or tweaking the text and hoping no one would notice it was a repeat. Instead of sharing true insights into their life, they began doing things specifically so they could post about it. Instead of sharing something they thought was cool, they had to present themselves as experts whether they were or not. Yet, many of them would have disclaimers saying they weren’t actually experts, legal mumbo jumbo, yada, yada, yada. Instead of regular people being featured in a post, it would have to be a model, or expert, or famous something-or-other that we weren’t necessarily supposed to know was somebody so it still seemed organic, or that we were totally supposed to know and OMG-FANGIRL (or BOY) all over ourselves.

I realized that I didn’t start reading these blogs because I expected them to know all the answers or change my life. I read them because they seemed like cool people. People I could see hanging out with. People I related to. People who were totally cooler than I but by reading their blog, I could feel like I was a cool kid too. People that had something that I aspired to or that inspired me. Not because they were trying to inspire anyone or because they knew they were better/stronger/faster/smarter. Just because they were brave enough to share insight into their lives. Because they maybe started their blog because of friends or families being far away, and by reading it, I felt like I was a friend, too.

All reasons that I started my blog. I have that I adore that are far away. I like to let them know what I’m up to. While I’ve managed to convince a lot of people otherwise, I am actually an introvert. I get exhausted when I’m around a lot of people or I feel like I have to be “on.” But on my blog, I can share away, and not feel like I need to lock myself down in my PJs for roughly a decade to recover. I can share something, and maybe someone will read it and relate and not feel so alone. They can roll their eyes at what a nerd I am. They can do whatever they want with it. I can boast about a challenge I completed that made me feel awesome, or one that was a fail and just get it out of my system. I can share whatever super-cool-to-me thing I am excited about, and maybe someone who wouldn’t have heard of it will now know about it, or maybe they totally heard about it like three years ago and are totally over it. But, if I don’t worry about any of that part, I can just be genuine, and me, and if people like it, that’s awesome. But it’s totally the opposite of the point if I’m just doing this because I am planning on a very specific reaction and perception, and planning my whole life to revolve around this one thing.

I mean, even a day job doesn’t require that, and why wouldn’t I just aspire to a day job that I could punch a clock in that case?

Exactly.

So, in this (almost brand) new year, in addition to my usual resolution of being more fabulous, I resolve to blog like I did in years gone by. To put myself out there, and give zero fucks as the kids say on the internet. To not worry about whether this thing makes me internet famous, but let things happen the way they are meant to. The way I live the rest of my life.

If you’ve already been with me through all of this, thank you for sticking this out with me. If you are a newcomer, just pretend you didn’t read any of that, and be prepared to be OMG dazzled by my mad blogging skillz. Or not. I guess that part’s up to you.

xoxox

*I almost wrote “feels” but I just can’t. My fingers will not type it. Or my keyboard won’t let it appear. Either way, I chalk it up to a guardian angel making sure I don’t do something totally stupid I’ll regret later.

**If I’m being really honest, I’m not growing up. I’m older. I’m old enough to do just about anything I want to outside of join AARP, and too old for some things, yet I am most definitely not a grown up. I’m totally fine with this, but would like to eventually be one of the things I aspire to as a grown up.

***Yeah, I know they aren’t true epic failures, but my brain is not fully convinced.

squirrely sunday: pet edition!

Sunday, April 20th, 2014

Sorry! Nary a squirrel today! Since it’s Easter, I got the idea to put ears on the critters. Not having cat or rodent sized bunny ears, I set out to make them. I pulled some felt out of the old fabric stash, some wire out of the jewelry stash, and sat with scissors, needle, and thread to put them together. I don’t own hot glue, because I feel like it’s such a temporary solution. I cringe when DIY shows pull out a hot glue gun for a project! However, this would have been an ideal project for that. Oh well, needle and thread to the rescue! I attached a wee snap clip to the underside of the ears to attach them to the cats. For the rodents, I made ears from a cardboard TP tube. I made a paste of sugar, flour, and water to attach those. I figured that way, if the girls got ahold of the ears, it would be okay.

First, were the kitties. They were surprisingly cooperative! Then the rodents. They were surprisingly un-cooperative! I had visions of quickly sticking the bunny ears between their ears and snapping away. Alas,the ladies were not to be fooled. Even trying to give them treats only caused them to be even more crafty in getting away from the ears! Boo.

Here are the highlights!

McGinty bunny!
Alonzo Bunny!                                                    Lucibunny!Imagine Billy is a bunny!

See the full set here!

The Tale of Sir Alonzo Bigglesworth of the Saint Paul Bigglesworths

Tuesday, March 18th, 2014

Six years ago, last week, I got one of those phone calls that falls into the category of dreaded phone calls. It was my parents calling to tell me that my grandfather was dying. As in, his time had come and it would happen any day. Despite that he was 98 years old, it was quite a surprise. He didn’t look like he was 98. He was in good health, and while we finally had to stop him from driving, he still managed to go to mass every day (except Saturday, because there was only evening mass and that was just wrong) and to visit with his friends afterwards. He still called my mother every day to check in, and he still lived on his own. However, one day he wasn’t feeling well, and my uncle took him to the hospital, and things went downhill from there.

So, I told my manager at work that while I was waiting for the call, I would need to go back home for the funeral and thus would need them to plan for me missing a day or two of work, depending. Other than that, we were just going about our business as usual, waiting for the final call. Among our business as usual was running errands. It was a Saturday, and we went to a neighboring suburb for me to pick up some sewing supplies. We were in one of those “lifestyle” sort of shopping centers where most things aren’t actually connected to each other, but walking between places can be treacherous, so you are still expected to move your car periodically and re-park, despite that it’s all one shopping center. Whoever invented these things should be inflicted with some sort of Karmic retribution, as they are terrible. That’s beside the point. The point is, that the fabric store was in close proximity to the pet supply store. A pet supply store that also has pets for adoption on many occasions. We popped in to grab some cat food, and peruse the adorable animals (which can be dangerous, as that’s how we wound up with two of the cats we had at home). Of course, since it was a Saturday, there was an adoption event to take advantage of the influx of weekend shoppers. A local cat shelter/foster had brought in many, many kitties. Some kittens, some adult cats. We checked them out, and while there was nothing wrong with any of them, we could live without them. We would indeed make it out with only cat food!

Then, we saw the flyer. A flyer with a gingery smush face. G and I had conversations over the years that he would like to one day have a Himalayan cat again, and I agreed but said it should be a flame point. This was a red Persian, which was pretty close (I mean, a Himalayan is a *Persian* bred with Siamese). We could even use the name for him we had discussed for said flame point Himalayan. We started to read the flyer, and one of the women from the cat rescue came over to us. Despite the adorable face on the flyer, we weren’t really in the market for another kitty. While we’d lost one within that last year, we were still a three cat household. Really, that is plenty. However, this woman started talking to us about the kitty, whose given name was Farley. His owner lost her vision due to complications from Diabetes, and felt she couldn’t give him the care he needed. With him being a Persian, they were hoping to find him a home with someone who had experience with Persians. We told her that G had a Himalayan when he was younger, and my sister had a Persian for a time that I helped take care of. The next thing we knew, she was taking down the flyer and putting it in our hands. We tried to protest, but it was futile. The petite woman was determined, and in her mind we were calling the cat’s owner up and making arrangements.

An approximation of the photo on the flyer in question.

An approximation of the photo on the flyer in question.

We got out to the car, and since the flyer was no longer posted, we felt a bit like we had to call and at least meet this cat, so maybe the flyer could go back up for someone who was in the market for a cat. We called the number and found out it was for the sister of the cat’s owner. She had been tasked with helping find Farley a new home. She gave us the number for Farley’s owner. So, we called the actual owner of the cat. We could tell immediately that there was an interesting story. When we told her about the flyer, and that we spoke with her sister who put us in touch with her, she said, “Wow. She finally actually did something I asked her to do.” We had some worry that we might be getting in the middle of some family drama, but still arranged to meet the beautiful kitty from the flyer.

We went to the apartment of the owner, which was in a sort of assisted living complex. While she was not elderly, she did have some special needs due to her lack of vision. We went to her door, she let us in, and we saw Farley. We were rendered speechless. He was adorable. Also, beautiful. He was clearly shy, and she had closed the doors to the bedroom and bathroom so he wouldn’t be able to hide and prevent us from seeing him. He tried to make himself small, and was looking for a possible out, but we still were able to take in his beauty. While we admired, the owner gave us his back story.

As a kitten, he wound up with a very elderly woman. Very. Elderly. She was unable to care for him, and thus he was basically neglected for the first nine months of his life. He made his way to the rescue, where it took them three rounds with clippers to get his solidly matted fur off. Due to lack of socialization, he was extremely shy, and he also was not great with being groomed as it was a foreign concept to him. However, he was a young, attractive cat. So, the sister that we spoke to first came to meet him, as she worked with the rescue and was a veterinary tech by trade. She thought he would make the perfect companion for her sister, who lived alone and was legally blind. She called her sister, and told her about the kitty. The potential kitty mama had some concerns, however. Because of her lack of vision, she would have a difficult time caring for him. She definitely couldn’t trim his nails, and brushing him would also be difficult. Also, because she couldn’t drive, she would need help getting him in for check-ups and such. The vet tech sister assured her that she would help take care of everything. She could come by regularly and trim his nails and make sure he stayed brushed. Plus, if homing him with the blind sister didn’t work out, vet tech sister would gladly take him in.

So, at about a year old, he came to live in the apartment we were standing in. Things started off well. Then, as the months went by, vet tech sister was unable to come by as she had originally promised. It proved to be difficult to get her to come by to do the necessary grooming for a Persian kitty with claws. Also, because of his history and shyness, his owner sort of just let him be. She was a bit worried that he might be lonely, since she didn’t make him cuddle and hang out with her. She wanted to get him a kitty friend, but her apartment only allowed her one cat. She felt that he wasn’t in the home he deserved, and that he should be somewhere that he could get the regular grooming and attention that someone sighted could provide. So, his owner called her sister and mentioned this, and also mentioned the agreement that she would take him if the situation wasn’t working out. However (and I don’t remember the exact numbers), vet tech sister had a number of cats and dogs at this point, and couldn’t take in another despite her promise. So, the blind woman told her sister that a suitable home needed to be found, and the sister said she would look into it.

Hence the flyer. Which turned out to be a generic Persian picture, as she had the only two photos of him and they were from when he was still shorn. We were told all about Farley’s life. She kept food and water in dishes on the floor for him, and a small dish of treats on the counter for him to help himself to. He had a special blanket that was made for him by a friend, and a scratching post and basket of toys. She mentioned that he also scratched her chair, and that it was entirely her fault. She never stopped him from the bad scratching, so we would need to keep an eye on him. However, the behavior wasn’t his fault, he didn’t learn differently, and she wanted us to know. She reminded us of his shyness, and that while he would often lay near her, he wasn’t a lap cat. She told us that every night, when they were done watching Paul Douglas on the news, they would go for a walk together down the hallway and back to the apartment before hitting the hay.

Admittedly, we were smitten. G reminded me that it wasn’t a good idea necessarily to bring home another kitty. We already had three, and while that was down from four, we shouldn’t necessarily have four cats. So, we told her we would have to think about it. We mentioned that we would love to take him for a trial for a weekend or even for a week to see if he would even get along with our other cats, since he was used to being the only guy. She was amenable to that. The problem was, that we would have to go out of town at any moment for my grandfather’s funeral. We didn’t want to take him home when we wouldn’t be around to see how things were going, and we definitely didn’t think that his first go with us should be a road trip. So, we agreed that we would think on it, and call her when we knew what the funeral arrangements would be and when we could pick him up. We then left with the image of his crazy adorable smush face, and his stocky, fluffy body slinking around. I was in the “we must bring him home!” camp, and G was in the responsible, “it might not be a good idea” camp.

The next day, my grandfather passed. March 9, 2008. We worked out with my parents when the funeral would be, so G and I could be there. We worked out a potential day to come by and get Farley for a trial with our kitties. So, just over a week after we met him on March 18, 2008, G went to pick him up. He called when he was on his way home, to tell me there was a grumpy kitty on the seat next to him. I asked how long we were going to have him to see how it would go.

Pause.

“Well…here’s the thing.”

It turned out that his owner called her sister to tell her that we wanted to take him for a trial, and the sister contacted the rescue. The rescue told her that since we would be his third owners, if it didn’t work out, they would have to put him down. As though something was wrong with him. Which, it was not at all his fault that it didn’t work out with the current owner. So, his owner told G that she was not going through the rescue to get him to us. She would just give him to us, with all of his things. She told us that if it didn’t work out with us for any reason, to call her and she would find him a new home. We were much more determined to make it work with him, as we didn’t want any risk of killer rescue getting him back! (Not that his owner would let that happen…but still.)

In his first hideout.

In his first hideout.

So, he came into our home. We immediately christened him Alonzo, because of the Dr. Who episode where the doctor really wants to meet someone named Alonzo. (Later, as such a character popped up, we found out they spelled it “Alonso” but it was too late.) He spent the first day or so in the covered litter box that was given to us. Eventually, he felt comfortable enough to come out, and moved to sitting behind the toilet for a few days. Finally, he made his way into the rest of the house, and staked claim on the space under the dining table. He pretty much stayed there unless his hunger forced him to get something to eat, or his bladder necessitated a trip to the litter box. Otherwise, if you wondered where Alonzo was, he was under the table.

Holding court under the dining table

Holding court under the dining table

After a while, he was hanging out and about in our condo. For a long while, whenever anyone came over, he would go back to his safety zone, under the dining table. Eventually, even large gatherings didn’t phase him, and he would hang out on his perch watching the happenings. The first birthday party I had where he was comfortable on his perch, he was seemingly enjoying things. We were playing Rock Band, chatting, eating, etc. Then, my brother-in-law took over the Rock Band drums. Apparently, his drumming style was too much for Alonzo. Alonzo tore down the hall, and a few moments later, a friend told me she came out of the bathroom to see Alonzo there in a panic. Apparently, he wanted to go to his trusty covered litter box in the bathroom, but the door was closed. So, he was at the end of the hall, panicking, with no idea what to do. So, he went into our bedroom for the rest of the evening, safe and sound.

These days, you would not know that he was ever that shy. The only thing that seems to phase him is a fire drill in our apartment building. (We are still trying to work on our boys’ emergency preparedness. It’s slow going.) He will happily allow for guests to admire him, and will even put up with the most strenuous drum players. He is BFF with our Lucifer. In fact, they look like the feline versions of Pinky and the Brain, though their roles are reversed. Lu is long and slender, but he is the plotter. Alonzo, with his large, face, and protruding forehead, just follows along. Lu is great at opening doors for Alonzo to go through. We often find doors that should be closed, open, and Alonzo has hunkered down and made himself at home. When Lu gets the crazies, Alonzo will bound after him to find out what the plan is. We often wonder if the smush faced fluff ball in our apartment is the same one we brought home back then. It’s like he’s a different cat! Though, he still doesn’t like to be brushed, he will put up with it. He also isn’t always keen on when we want to pick him up and give him all the loving, but he does occasionally climb into our laps or onto us while we’re sleeping and purr at the loudest possible volume. While his purrs are loud, his meows are not. We know that if he does meow, the situation must be dire.

The trouble brigade on patrol at the condo.

The trouble brigade on patrol at the condo.

I don’t remember when it was exactly, but we realized he was a British spy, knighted by the queen for his efforts. Hence, he is Sir Alonzo Bigglesworth. With all the Bigglesworths out there of questionable breeding, we must clarify that he is from the very fine, upstanding, Saint Paul Bigglesworths. He has many aliases, because of all of his missions over the years. We are working on getting together passport photos of him in these various disguises.

Even though we weren’t sure if it was a good idea to bring him home back then, we can’t imagine life without our big fluffball. He is mesmerizing in his adorableness, and while we fully expect that one day we will look at him and think, “Yeah, he’s just a regular amount of cute,” it hasn’t happened yet. We still get distracted by his intense level of cuteness, and laugh at just how insanely adorable he is. We regularly get distracted by his looks, and even when he’s naughty, we still love him with all our hearts. It’s hard to believe we’ve had him for six years, and he helped make a sad time in our lives much happier.

why be a princess when i can be a queen?

Tuesday, November 19th, 2013

The Queen of Procrastination, that is! I am pretty jam packed this week, and for everything I get done, I am putting off roughly 142 other things. Today for instance, I managed to make a couple of stops to pick some things up for a party I am throwing this weekend. I called my mother. I got home to very many other things I need to do. Little things like put the dishes away and take a couple of things down to our storage unit. Bigger things like laundry wrangling and cutting up/cleaning/baking/pureeing pumpkins to freeze for doing fancy things later. In between things like wrapping up stuff for the party on Saturday and making decorations. However, after running some errands, and a long day of work, I crash in front of the computer, get as many rat snuggles as Ms. Billy Corgan will allow, and distract myself with puzzle games and messaging and Person of Interest.

I realize that somewhere in there, I need to get my blog post up today so I don’t fall any more behind and have a chance to maybe catch up on those posts from when I had not internets or my narcolepsy took over. The problem? I don’t know what to write about! I don’t have a finished piece in the pipeline! I need to catch up so I can get ahead and post pieces that are fully formed and well edited. I’m not there yet, so I need inspiration! Stat! Where? Where can I find this inspiration? So, I had to spend more time on the internets. I hit the Googles and my bookmarks that I stash away for days like today. If I’m honest, I also did a few more rounds of puzzle games. Nothing.

More Googling. More Person of Interest. More puzzles. Here we are.

But, I found something! A meme with a Disney princess. That got me noodling, and the next thing I know, BAM! My idea. Just a little one, but enough to get me through.

It all boils down to a Disney princess. A very specific, much beloved, Disney Princess. Many years ago (like two-thirds of my life…I’ll let you sort out the math), Disney released a little animated feature The Little Mermaid. There were so many things to be excited about. For one, I loved the story. It was poignant, and powerful, and the thought of the mermaid lapping the shore as sea foam was a little eerie. Seeing a new version of it, told with all the power Disney could put behind it. Second, this princess would be a redhead. I know many reading this blog might speculate as to what my natural hair color is, since I have been all the natural shades and many that might be natural if I were a fairy or a sprite. Unless you’ve known me since I was a young married lady or longer, it’s a tough call. However, I am a ginger. I love being a redhead, but I also like to experiment and have fun, and it’s only hair. So, the wee me was very excited to see a princess that wasn’t the usual brunette or the ideal blonde. Pins and needles, my friends.

Then, the movie came out.

I saw it.

I. Was. Angry. Angry like only a redhead can be. I could let the fact that it was a musical slide, since cartoons are allowed to be a little less grounded in reality. Maybe a cheesy song would be allowed. However, Disney done crossed a line with Ariel. She is not supposed to get the prince. SHE IS SUPPOSED TO TURN INTO SEA FOAM!!!! It’s supposed to be a harsh life lesson. To this day, the very mention of Ariel makes me shake. A friend was Ariel for Halloween, and it took all of my restraint not to shout, “SEEEEEAAAAA FOOOOAAAAAAAAMMMMMM!!!!!!” when she arrived at my costume party.

Seriously, I finally get a redheaded princess and she has to pretend she is something she isn’t just to land a man, and get rewarded for it. Get. Real. Sister.

So, now you know how I feel about The Little Mermaid as told by Disney.

…and scene.

like father…

Saturday, November 9th, 2013

Most people who know me know that I rarely forgive, and I never forget. I don’t take kindly to being wronged, whether it be by a friend, a family member, a business, or an organization. If the offender atones appropriately, I might accept the apology. However, I will be on guard from then on out. I know that according to The Secret and Oprah and Dr. Phil I should forgive and move on and that’s the key to happiness or something. I’m just not wired that way. I could blame it on the fact that I’m a Scorpio. That might be partially right. I think more of it has to do with genetics.

Look at that handsome youngster!

Look at that handsome youngster!

Look at that handsome youngster...oh..wait.

Look at that handsome youngster…oh..wait.

Most people who know me also know that I’m just like my dad. I look just like him, I have the same temper, the same weird sense of humor, and the same ability to hold a grudge. When I lived at home, we would often butt heads. We are so much alike, that when an argument started, neither of us would back down. Now that I’ve moved away, we get along pretty well. Much less opportunity for our too alike personalities to come to a head.

My parents are about to remodel their kitchen. It’s been a long time coming, but the age of the kitchen has more or less forced the issue. There has been much discussion between my folks about what they want to do to the room. I’ve tried to weigh in with my professional interior design opinion, to some avail. My mom found a set up with many options she liked at a local cabinet shop. She asked my dad if he would go to look at the cabinets, and he refused. You might wonder why.

Well, the guy that owns the cabinet shop took over his father’s business. His father, too, was a cabinet maker. It seems that back in the day this guy’s father had an altercation with my father’s father (my grandfather). So, my family can never purchase cabinets from this guy’s family. Makes perfect sense, right? Well, my mother doesn’t seem to understand. Every time I talk to her she tells me how she wishes that my father would just go to the cabinet place. I explained to her that it’s essentially a feud. They can’t buy the cabinets there, I can’t buy cabinets there, if I were to have children, they couldn’t buy cabinets there. It’s a thing. She said she understood, but I think she’s gonna keep trying to get my dad to go to this cabinet place. If I know my father, and I’m pretty sure that I do, he is not gonna give in. She needs to pick some different cabinets.

So, when I mention that something or someone is on my blacklist, at least you know I come by it honestly.

35

Thursday, November 7th, 2013

I haven’t always been in the anti-child camp. When I was younger, I assumed I would eventually have a family that included children. There was a brief time, before I met my husband, where I thought I wouldn’t get married and instead have “gentlemen friends.” During that time, children didn’t factor in because it’s a lot harder to have “gentlemen friends” when you are a single lady with babies. However, when I met G, I knew we were gonna get married and that idea went out the window. Like having babies, having a husband makes the whole “gentlemen friends” situation difficult if not impossible. I was fine with that, though. I was sure we would have plenty of adventures together.

When we got married, we both wanted kids. However, not immediately. I said ten years, and G said before he was thirty. My quote of ten years held strong, even though the years would advance and I wouldn’t subtract them from my timeline. G would still say, “before I’m thirty.” However, when thirty was approaching for him, he wasn’t quite ready and was willing to wait a little longer. I was totally okay with that, since my original ten year quote still put me in my thirties before we would be considering a bun in the oven.

Then a curious thing happened. I’m sure you’ve heard of the “biological clock,” a so-called phenomenon in which a woman’s body starts desiring a fetus because it senses the expiration date approaching on her eggs. The thing is, mine started working in reverse. As the years ticked by, and my age advance, I wanted a little rugrat less and less. Those tiny onesies and booties in all the shops stopped looking appealing and looked more like a sentence. As my friends and family around me popped out more and more little ones, it became harder to be happier for them because I knew that it would become more of a barrier between us. Now, it is easier for me to keep track of the few of my friends who don’t have children, than keep track of all the babies.

As those around me have built families of the two legged variety, I thought maybe I was going through a phase. Like, babies are gross right now, but I would change my mind. Certainly our society, that deems that women should pop out all the babies since they have the right equipment, likes to tell me so. If I had a nickel for every time I heard, “It’s different when it’s yours,” or, “You’ll change your mind,” I would never have to worry about money again. Hmmm, maybe I should start asking for nickels from those who say that to me. I could definitely take nicer vacations. Anyway, I thought maybe it was a phase. While having the old lady business shut down seemed appealing, it seemed like a very final choice if I was just going through a phase. It would kind of suck if it turned out that all those people were right, and there was nothing I could do about it.

In fact, I thought perhaps that once I turned 35, the urge would hit me. Not that there is a magic number, but I’ve always thought that 35-38 would be a great age to have kids. Old enough to have been able to have adventures, young enough to still have the ingredients on hand. I thought that maybe my biological clock would kick in, and some baby-making would commence. I figured it would shock the hell out of everyone around me should I have an announcement to make, and I knew for sure there would be some, “I told you so”s. I figured that wouldn’t be that big of a deal. I’d figured out that while it is a genetic crapshoot, I could probably manage to parent such that ours wouldn’t be one of the demon spawn that I constantly see that make me rage and shoot laser daggers from my eyes. If the kid was ugly, we could figure something out. After all, not everyone can be pretty. We could just dress it in costumes and tell strangers it’s a mask, and admit to our friends that we lost the genetic crapshoot. We could probably still love it? Right?

The thing is, there isn’t a guarantee. We were on vacation for the last week, spending one day in a very well known, family friendly, theme park. All the parents and the children made me stabby. It made me think about our vacation and how having one of those little poop monsters would effect it. We wouldn’t be able to ride Space Mountain together, unless one of the park employees, excuse me, cast members would hold our little spawn while we did so. Or if there was some sort of stroller with baby parking area outside, kind of like some places in Europe have. There would be passing off. We couldn’t stay until they kicked us out, unless we wanted to be “those people” who are still pushing their over tired toddler around the park, while the child practices for becoming a banshee later in life. It would be more difficult to go for a late night cocktail, or have a cheesy pretzel for dinner. For the other parts of our vacation, we might not get to sit and listen about developments of our favorite game or learn how to build an insane costume replicating a character from said game. Even if we could, I suspect building said costume would be problematic. Tiny thermoplastic pellets and a heat gun aren’t exactly child-friendly.

Thinking about all of this, I thought to myself, “Maybe it will change when I’m 35.” Then, I realized that I already am 35. It’s already hit, even though the reality hadn’t set in. It seems that the desire to have a baby is still not there. I don’t feel any softer toward the little beasties I see running about.

Instead, I feel more content with my lifestyle. I feel more desire to put my energy and focus on me and my dreams. I still have a lot of years ahead of me, and I haven’t really cracked what I, personally, am capable of. I’ve only just figured out what I want to be when I grow up, and what I want to accomplish. I don’t want anything to get in the way of that, or to feel guilty for being selfish. I’m only finally getting to be remotely “grown up.” I would rather just enjoy that, with my husband, and our cats and rat. Focus our time and energy on being more awesome. Most of all, when we hear that kid start their banshee howl, we can just continue to walk away.

NaBloWriMo

Saturday, November 2nd, 2013

It’s November! I’m still not sure how that’s possible, I think I must’ve missed a couple of months this year. However, October is always crazytown for me, so despite my birthday month being over I’m happy for November and some down time. In fact, October being so cray-cray was partly to blame for last month’s blog-a-day fail. That, and the internets being against me for part of it, and blah blah blah, only partial blogging.

Lucky for me, November is a perfect time for a do-over! One of the big events of November is National Novel Writing Month, known as NaNoWriMo. I’ve tried my hand at NaNoWriMo a couple of times, and it’s just not for me. Fortunately, November is also National Blog Writing Month or NaBloWriMo! I can handle blogging much better than I can handle writing a novel. So, here’s my do over! There will be my usual features, plus some random ramblings and observations, BlizzCon recaps, and moar!!

Hope you enjoy the ride!

fabulous friday: it’s my birthday!

Friday, October 25th, 2013

I know that it being my birthday isn’t necessarily helpful to your fabulousness…or is it? My advice for today is to embrace your birthday, and celebrate the hell out of another year of being awesome, and look forward to another year that will be even more awesome!!!

I’m basking in the birthday love, friends. xoxox

the fun in funeral

Wednesday, October 16th, 2013

Laughter is so important. These days, with being exhausted, and hurting, and feeling so, so whiny, I will take any chance to laugh out loud.

A coworker shared this video with me the other day. I didn’t know what I was in for, but I knew something was coming. Simple, yet hilarious. I hope this makes you laugh, too.

xoxox