Lisa-tastrophies & other sh*t that happens to me

For Sarah ~ Who Never Stopped

2010-11-07T16:32:00.000-08:00

For the past five years I have been a part of the Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure. Which is to say, for the past five years I have done little more than paid my entry fee and ran 5 kilometers one Sunday morning each year. Each year I ran alone. I have mercifully never had breast cancer and I don't think I personally knew anyone who had it. I ran alone, most for the joy of running and a little for the cause. Last year changed all that.

Since I run with the lightening speed of a turtle, I usually queue up at the back of the pack. Somewhere between the slow runners and the sea of walkers. Last year was no different. I found my place among the throng of participants and next to a rather large group of walkers all decked out in hot pink and wearing a sense of purpose. Surrounded by this pepto-pink doused group was a women. The most incredible woman I have ever met.

Clad in pink fuzzy slipper, pink leopard print pajamas, a tiara baseball cap on a hairless head, and a feather boa that would have made Liberace proud was the shell of a woman. She sat in a silver and pink sequins wheelchair equipped with IV bag and rims. Her name was Sarah* and she had end stage triple negative breast cancer and was running her race for the last time.

As the race started and we began to slinky our way across the starting line, my desire to be a lone runner died. I walked along side her entourage talking to a woman who had been part of Sarah's care team at M. D. Anderson. I learned that Sarah had been a part of the Komen Race for a Cure for over 10 years. She had never missed a race. During chemotherapy, she walked. Weeks after a double mastectomy, she walked. During recovery, she walked. Now, with time racing against her and life showing it's last days, she would once again walk. This time in a tricked out wheelchair surrounded by friends, family, care takers and clergy; she would make one last stand against a disease that cares little about race, religion or ethnicity. She would show cancer that it may have claimed her body, but it would never kill her spirit.

I walked half that race with her and her team. Each step learning more about what it means to live, survive, fight and love. I don't know what happened to Sarah. I assume that cancer finally claimed her body. I doubt it ever got never her soul. This year, I ran with more purpose. I asked people to donate. I was no longer a lone runner. Despite a hip injury that sent shooting pain down my leg with every step, I refused to stop. I couldn't stop. Sarah never stopped. And if she could do it, so could I.

* In respect of her privacy, I have not used her real name; although, I somehow think she wouldn't have minded.

** "I walk for those who walked before me and those who walk beside me"

Are You a Good Witch or A Bad Witch?

2010-10-18T20:01:00.000-07:00

Apparently the women's movement has yet to overcome the one holiday where we get to express our inner alter egos.

Last week I was in search of some Wizard of Oz decorations for a bulletin board at school. During my search, I went to several party supply stores and a few costume outlets. Note: Wizard of Oz is apparently passe on the party circuit as I could not find ANY decorations remotely dealing with ruby slippers, gingham dresses or dogs named Toto. Ditto on the Good Witch. However, I did find several variations on the Wicked Witch of the West. Let's just say that having a bucket of water doing her in has done wonders for her night life.

What I also discovered on my Dorothy Hunt was that no matter how far the Equal Rights fight and Bra Burning movement has come, the costume makers of America apparently use October 31st as the day to break it all back down to the level of every porn fantasy ever thought of. Because, according to the costume choices given to women, we apparently want to make each one of our alter egos the same variation on one theme: SLUT.

So I am standing there in front of this HUGE wall of costume choices and I start to notice a pattern. See if you can find it:

Sexy Cop

Sexy Doctor

Sexy Lawyer

Nun

Sexy Teacher Sexy Bartender Sexy Witch Nun
Sexy Vampire Sexy Zombie Sexy Kitten Nun

Anyone seeing a pattern here? Apparently in my foolish believe that Halloween was a time to play dress up and, for me, homage to my shameless adoration of Scarlet O'Hara and her fine green velvet drapes, I missed the part where I was supposed to make Ms. Scarlet look more like Belle Whatley than a fine Southern Lady. How is it that this fun time of being fairies, witches and Minnie Mouse has turned into a live peep show for perverts? I don't remember seeing any male costumes that included fishnet stockings, 4 inch hooker heels and a thong. Apparently, we women really didn't go through that whole women's lib movement in order to be thought of as equals, but rather we suffered through it in order to fulfill some twisted guy fantasy one night out of every year. Go figure.

Now if you will excuse me, I have to go find a costume that can set the women's movement back into 2010. Anyone know where I can get a positive female role model costume that comes with dignity and respect?

Balls-y Move

2010-09-28T19:17:00.000-07:00

Yeah, that's me and my students.

It's tough to get 8th graders interested in chemistry & physics. Hell, it hard to get me interested in chemistry & physics. I'm more the life sciences teacher type, but that gets taught to my 7th grade class. For those of you who do not know, I teach in a "challenging" environment. My students are more into gangs, drugs, and sex than they are into elements, molecules and Newton's Laws of Motion.

In my attempts to bring it to the level of my "criminally gifted" audience, I have turned to my love of movies. (Little snippets to grab their attention, if it doesn't put them to sleep the minute the lights go out.) For this little lesson I turned to a certain film featuring a young hunky Ben Affleck and my Moonlighting crush Bruce Willis, called Armageddon.

We were studying the difference between weight and mass. One being the amount of matter an object has and the other having to do with the gravitational pull against that mass. Now you can imagine what kind of snooze-fest it was in my classroom. Seriously, the only thing my students want to know about weight and mass is how much does a dime bag really weigh and how many buds would that mass have in it. Anyway, I decided to use a clip from the movie that shows the oil-drillers training for their walk on the asteroid. In this clip, Bear (Michael Clark Duncan) is not paying attention to Astronaut Watts instructions. Being the good instructor that she is, Watts gets Bear's attention and tells him she is trying to teach him how to use his suit, so that if she were to kick him in the balls, he wouldn't go flying off into outer space.

Oh, don't get all uppity on me about the balls comments. If you worked in my classroom you would understand that saying "balls" is about as benign as saying "hoo-hoo". My kids can conjugate the F-bomb like nobody's business, so showing a movie clip where they say the word "balls" is nothing. Get over it.

Anyway, I used Bear's predicament as our scenario. First I ask "What would happen to Bear if Watts kicked him in the family jewels while Bear was still on earth?" After several comments about Bear kicking Watts' behind after he could walk again, and how they would kick someone's @$$ if a chick did that do them - we get to the point. The point being that the earth has gravity holding Bear to the ground. It's what makes Bear weigh so much. I then ask "Why would Bear fly into outer space if Watts kicked him in the family jewels?" The right answer is because the moon does not have gravity. It takes a few minutes for them to catch on.

Next we move on to the topic of mass. "Now did Bear change in size when he went to the moon?" I asked. No. He is still the same size. His mass does not change. It remains the same on the moon as it is on earth. This they seemed to grasp fairly quickly, so we return to the weight portion and start to review.

Again, I ask "Where would Bear go if he was kicked in the pants on earth?" Answers varied from falling on his knees and crying to beating the snot out of Watts. Eventually we get to the idea that he does not leave the earth's atmosphere because the earth has gravity and Bear has weight.

Then I make the fatal mistake. I ask "Where would Bear go if Watts kicked him in the pants while he was on the moon?" Silence. Then the lone voice from the back of the room shouts...............................WAIT FOR IT.............. "He'd go to Uranus!" The class erupts and students (OK, and teachers) spent the next 20 minutes trying to regain some composer. Yep, another fine teaching moment brought to you by Ms. Tastrophie's Criminally Gifted & Talented 8th Grade Class.

Where Ya Been, Ms. T?

2010-09-26T17:15:00.000-07:00

OK, folks. Apologizes for the lack of posts lately, but Ms. Tastrophie does have a VERY good - if not interesting - reason for being incognito. And once again, it has to do with men. As if every thing else in life that can and does get totally hosed to all hell doesn't include a man somewhere in the picture.

This last round of WHAT THE F****K? Was brought to us by her last and now very ex-boyfriend. Of which he will carry the dubious honor of being the VERY LAST of the boyfriends, as Ms. Tastrophie has decided to call it quits on the dating front due to her no longer trusting anything a man says. You've heard the old adage "How do you know a single guy is lying? - His lips are moving." Well, she is starting to believe that one.

Basically the run down on the low down boyfriend goes something like this: Ms. Tastrophie is informed that said boyfriend had been shooting heroin for two weeks and that this is not a new occurrence in his life. (To be fare to the ex-boyfriend, he had told her about a previous addiction but had said he had been sober for several years. She foolishly decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. - Everyone makes mistakes in life.) This information is imparted to her while walking into a college football game, in front of approx. 75,000 other people, so as to keep Ms. Tastrophie from going all holy ape shit nuts on him. Which worked, because not only was she in a stadium full of people, but in a completely different town, had no other way home and didn't have enough change for a 180 mile taxi ride. Thus she sat through the whole game coming to the decision that the soon to be said Ex really wasn't "The One" and going down that road is NOT what she had in her plans.

In all honesty, the whole thing would make one hell of a blog topic, but after careful consideration, Ms. T thinks that kicking someone while he is this far down is not the nicest of things to do. (Don't get me wrong folks, I wrote one hell of a blog entry about it, but just can't bring myself to publish it. You'll have to wait for the book.) And since Karma does like to kick Ms. T in the ass every time she does something slightly vengeful.... Let's just say we will let doped dogs lie and hope he gets the help he really needs so that Karma will stay off her bum for once.

So after a few weeks of calming down and taking care of business, Ms. Tastrophie is back to normal. Or at least as close to normal as one can get after having a bomb the size of Big John or Little Boy dropped into one's love life. She promises to be back to semi-regular blogs as soon as possible.

What Do You Make?

2010-09-08T17:13:00.000-07:00

Miss Tastrophie has been around. At least in the terms of her careers. In previous lives she has been a secretary - want to know who knows all the company dirt? The secretary. Trust me people, do not piss her off, because the secretary can turn your life to a living hell with the flip of a Rolodex. A waitress - where she learned that she really was not meant to serve the masses. You want your order right and not to get charged for drink refills? Be nice to the waitress. You want a watered down scotch & soda - piss her off. You want to afford oh so cute Coach handbag - get another job. A bartender, but that didn't last long - something about the vodka being for the patrons, not the bartender to suck down with her ho-ho's during her many "union" breaks...whatever. A personal assistant - ditto to the secretary thing here. And a health information systems analyst - yeah, it was as boring as it sounds, but the perks and pay made up for the "dork" factor. Plus, it put Ms. Tastrophie in too cute hand bags and shoes for several years. But for the past three years, Ms. Tastrophie has been living a different, sensible shoes and handbag life as a teacher...and I FREAKING LOVE IT!!!

Granted, the kids I teach are among some of the best "criminally gifted and talented" this town has to offer, the pay is somewhere below that of an indentured servant, and whoever told you that you get summers off was full of sh*t, but I love it. I work harder now than I ever did when I was a corporate drone. The one thing that I have noticed about teaching is that since I have become a teacher, people seem to think I have lost some I.Q. points. As if the brain I had when I was answering the phones, shuffling drinks, or telling people that their ERM was FUBAR had suddenly disappeared. But my favorite part of teaching has to be when people belittle what I do. And it is usually done by some pompous @$$ who thinks his job is soooooo much more important because he has a litany of initials behind his name. I especially love it when he/she equates my non-existent income with what I make.

So recently I was sent the following little tidbit of humor that I found slightly appropriate for dealing with those snug @$$ people who don't realize that if it wasn't for some poor teacher way back in their life; they wouldn't be so smug. I don't know who wrote it, but they are forever in the heart of Ms. Tastrophie - 'cause you know she loves a good comeback.

The dinner guests were sitting around the table discussing life. One man, a CEO, decided to explain the problem with education. He argued, "What's a kid going to learn from someone who decided his best option in life was to become a
teacher?" To stress his point he said to another guest; "You're a teacher, Bonnie .
Be honest. What do you make?"

Bonnie, who had a reputation for honesty and frankness replied, "You want to know what I make? (She paused for a second, then began...)

"Well, I make kids work harder than they ever thought they could.

I make a C+ student feel like the Congressional Medal of Honor winner.

I make kids sit through 40 minutes of class time when their parents can't make them sit for 5 without an I Pod, Game Cube or movie rental.

You want to know what I make? (She paused again and looked at each and every person at the table)

I make kids wonder.

I make them question.

I make them apologize and mean it.

I make them have respect and take responsibility for their actions.

I teach them how to write and then I make them write. Keyboarding isn't everything.

I make them read, read, read.

I make them show all their work in math. They use their God given brain, not the man-made calculator.

I make my students from other countries learn everything they need to know about English while preserving their unique cultural identity.

I make my classroom a place where all my students feel safe.

I make my students stand, placing their hand over their heart to say the Pledge of Allegiance to the Flag, One Nation Under God, because we live in the United States of America .

Finally, I make them understand that if they use the gifts they were given, work hard, and follow their hearts, they can succeed in life.

( Bonnie paused one last time and then continued.)

Then, when people try to judge me by what I make, with me knowing money isn't everything, I can hold my head up high and pay no attention because they are ignorant. You want to know what I make?

I MAKE A DIFFERENCE. What do you make Mr. CEO?

The Woman Lie Detector

2010-08-24T18:14:00.000-07:00

When the good LAWD all-mighty was making men I am sure when He was done, He had an entire bag of left over parts and no idea what to do with them. I know for a fact that one of the parts in that bag was the "Woman Lie Detector" part. Not the part that can tell when a woman is flat out lying about something. For example: "Honey, I have NO idea how that three foot scratch down the entire side of your beloved 1968 Shelby Mustang got there." LIAR!!! She knows. Hell, she probably put it there in retaliation for some trivial thing the guy did. But here's where that missing "Woman Lie Detector" part comes into play. Had the man had this missing part installed, he would have been able to safely navigate through the Man/Woman mine field therefore completely avoiding the possible destruction of his most precious automobile.

The scene possibly started like so: A conversation about plans. Plans with the guys. Plans without the woman.

Him: "Honey, I am going to (insert name of sports bar or best guy-pal's house) to watch the (insert sporting event name here) with the guys. I'll probably be gone all afternoon/evening, so don't wait for me."

Her: "Now?"

Him: "Uh, yeah now."

Her: (in a slightly pouty, but semi normal voice) "But I thought we were going to (insert some form of chick based activity - i.e. watching The Notebook for the 100th time)."

Him: "Honey, this is a really important game. If (insert name of fantasy football quarterback pick) gets 3 TD's my fantasy football team moves into the league championships and I could totally kick a$$ this year."

Her: (in a more pouty, but still normal tone) "So you would rather sit in a room with a bunch of guys, drinking beer and watching a game instead of spending the afternoon with me?"

*****DANGER****** Men, this is the most critical moment of your life! I guarantee you that every instinct in your body is going to be crying out for the beer, buds, and ball you so richly want. Don't do it! Those four hours are not worth what is coming next. And here is where that missing part could help save you hours of misery.

Him: "Baby, you know I love you. I'll be back right after the game and then we can spend all night together. (Insert promises of movie, roses, back rubs, whatever you think you will have to give, in order to get the h*ll out of the house in the next ten minutes)"

Her: "O.K. Fine."

DING!!! DING!!!! DING!!!! And men, with those two words, she has just sealed your fate in the world of payback-is-a-b*tch. Because everything is most definitely NOT fine and you are blissfully unaware that your fate has now been sealed. All this could have been avoided had you just had the "Woman Lie Detector" installed. She would have said "Fine" and you would have been beeping like a blinged out rap artist in a metal detector at that lie. Thereby allowing you the time to find a successful comeback that would have allowed you to watch the game and still make the little woman happy. As to what that comeback might be, heaven only knows.

Who Ya Gonna Call?--

2010-08-19T18:57:00.000-07:00

Once again it is back-to-school. And once again, teachers everywhere are schlepping back to the classroom with their dreams of summer vacation slowly fading from memory. OK, not so slowly fading as I found myself daydreaming about lounging by the pool, eating ho-ho's, drinking umbrella garnished vodka drinks, and a certain cabana boy named Paco who will forever hold a special place in my heart.... uhm, when I was supposed to be engaged in professional development training. By the way, teachers are WORSE than students when it comes to our behavior during "class".

During the back to school flurry of fun we teachers get to have, there are tons of forms, schedules, and spreadsheets to complete. My favorite form is the "Personal Information and Emergency Contact" form. What kills me about this form is that it is the EXACT same form I filled out when I was hired by the district years ago. And the same form I completed last year, and the year before, and the year before, and the year before....... Why they just don't keep the form I completed last year and tell me to let them know if anything changes, I don't know. Maybe they just enjoy seeing me realize how pathetic my life really is as I answer questions about my marital status and interests. "Single, two cats, knits." Yep, it's pretty pathetic.

Since we all know I don't do well with things I find to be slightly irritating, I like to have a little fun with the form. (Not to mention slightly redundant.) I like to express myself and answer with the truest of all Ms. Tastrophie answers. Things like when it asks me for my name and what I want to be called, I answer: Well, I want to be addressed as "The High Empress of All Things Chocolate, Princess of the Starbucks and Masterful Queen of the Sarcasm" but if that's too much you can just call me Ms. Tastrophie. The form asks me for my address - which I give. You never know when someone would want to send moi flowers or shower me with gifts and I would hate for them not to be able to send them to the right place. My phone number - again I give it. Just in case they need to call and tell me to take the next week off with pay and not to worry about a sub because they have it all covered. And my date of birth. Which is totally rude and none of their business unless they are going to be sending expensive birthday gifts. In which case see the question regarding address. Not to mention I lie on that one anyway, because a lady never tells and I refuse to admit to being a day over 25. Even though I graduated high school in 1987 and college in 1993 and 1999. GAWD bless the miracle of botox.

Then it gets to the part about emergency information. This is where I just can't help myself. I have to answer these questions with all the do seriousness these questions are just screaming for:

1. Any medical conditions that would prohibit you from doing your job? Well, I am allergic to work and break I out in hives when I am required to do any physical labor. Plus, I don't do mornings very well, so I would appreciate it if you could schedule the classes I have to teach in the afternoons.

2. Are you currently taking any medications? Not right now, but I intend to go to lunch and self medicate with my daily ho-ho with xanax and vodka chaser. I will probably change the times for these self medication rituals once school officially starts, but I'm waiting to see what the semester brings.

3. Do you have any special needs? Oh sweet mother-of-pearl YES! I need a job where I get paid to look good and not one that requires me to get up before 9 a.m. But if you can't arrange that, could you please get me a room with an ocean view, a masseuse named Sven to help work out the stress knots I have in my shoulders and a T.A. who can actually work the copy machine without screwing up a two sided copy?

And my ALL time favorite question

4. Who do you want us to call in case of an emergency? My answer: 9-1-1!!!!

Seriously, what do you think my sister could do for me? She's a flight attendant not a doctor. If I ever need to safely exit a 747 during a freak air incident; she's the person I'm gonna call, but if I'm having a stroke at school because a 7th grader actually DID their homework and turned it in on time, I want you to call the paramedics! What do you think my dad's going to do? He lives three states away. I'm thinking it might take him a while to get there. Don't call my family, call someone who can competently administer high dosages of xanax and ho-ho's. Preferably one of these guys:

Family Time And Other Time Warps

2010-08-15T12:11:00.000-07:00

I love my family. Don't get me wrong, I really do, but they can push my sense of "come on people, let's go" to the end of all reason. As I understand it we have 4 time zones here in America. So why is it that my family operates in it's own little time warp continuum that prohibits them from getting anywhere together in a reasonable timely manner? I'm not joking. Herding cats is easier than getting my family to the church on time, if ya know what I mean. At least with cats, you can get everyone headed in the general direction.

A few weeks ago, Ms. Tastrophie was visiting most of her time-delayed family and after much discussion, we decided to head out for dinner. The decision was to go to Jack Stack's for BBQ. And for those of you who don't know, let Ms. Tastrophie educate you: Kansas City has THE BEST BBQ in the world. Hands down. Even when KC BBQ is bad, it's still better than any other BBQ in the world. I know many of you may think them there are fightin' words, but bring it. 'Cause brown sugar and molasses kick some pork rib @$$!

Now the where to eat discussion alone took us the better part of an hour, so once the decision was made, Ms. Tastrophie thought it was a fait de compli. Why I don't know better by now, I can't tell you because this was not the first time I have made this mistake. And here is where the time-warp-continuum begins:

Oh look, the family's all here.

6:00 p.m. - Grand announcement that we have "made a decision and are leaving" is made. This is the announcement that signals everyone should get their stuff together and make any needed restroom breaks.

6:15 p.m. - My aunt, step-mom, and I start looking for car keys, purses, cell phones and discussing who will be riding with whom in which car. The men haven't moved from their respective positions since the Grand Announcement was made.

6:30 p.m. - The women are walking out the door. I decide I have to go back to the bathroom...again. My family knows I have the world's smallest bladder and why they think I can make it out the door with only one potty break, is beyond moi. My dad can't find his cell phone and has to have it because it's the one he uses for business. My uncle is still standing in front of the t.v. watching sports center and it hasn't been determined whether or not he actually heard the "grand announcement".

6:45 p.m. - One person has decided that the outfit currently worn doesn't match the shoes currently worn and has returned to the bedroom to change. (To protect the innocent, no names will be mentioned here...LISA.) There are now two guys in front of the t.v. watching sport center. Someone has discovered the sports section from yesterday's paper and is re-reading it to see if anything has changed since it was printed. My aunt is on her cell phone talking to a friend back home and has poured herself a glass of wine.

7:00 p.m. - Someone has stuck their head in the refrigerator and is rooting around for something to eat. The kids have returned to the den and the previously started video game. I am texting and two people suddenly have gin & tonics in their hands.

7:15 p.m. - Step-mom (bless her heart, she is trying to get us out the door) re-announces the "Grand Announcement" to which the fluttering of car keys, cell phones and potty breaks begins anew.

7:30 p.m. - All family members are actually OUT of the house and standing halfway between the door and the cars. Someone notices the inside only cat is now standing outside. Cat herding for real has begun.

7:35 p.m. - Cat is much faster than the rotund body shape would imply.

7:45 p.m. - Grown people are circling a car attempting to coax rotund feline out from under the front axle. Neighbors are gathering to watch the show.

8:00 p.m. - Long pole is used to "gently" herd cat to back end of car where rest of family is waiting to pounce and procure said feline.

8:05 p.m. - Neighbors start taking bets. Odds listed at 80:1 in feline favor.

8:08 p.m. - Cat has outsmarted the entire family and is now up a tree and hissing. Debates about calling the fire department vs. leaving feline up a tree. One person has returned to the house to watch sports center and finish his gin & tonic.

8:25 p.m. - After much cat calling and fresh tuna enticement, the feline is out of the tree and safely inside the home. Antiseptic, bandages and another gin & tonic have been applied. All members are out of the house and half way to the car.

8:30 p.m. - Final head count is taken and all members are in assigned cars. Assurances that a hospital visit is not necessary as enough gin & tonic has been consumed to kill toxoplasmosis, thypoid, and the common cold.

8:35 p.m. - Someone announces they have to go to the bathroom. To which the reply "tough noogies" is actually heard out of a grown woman's mouth (O.K. it was my mouth) and the procession of cars pulls away.

8:55 p.m. Arrive at Jack Stacks "on time" for THE BEST DAMN BBQ EVER!!!

And Thank You For Flying "I QUIT" Airlines

2010-08-11T10:13:00.000-07:00

Now you know Miss Tastrophie could NOT pass this one up. Seriously, if you thought I wouldn't have something to say about a flight attendant losing his bacon on a flight, telling everyone to suck it because he quits, then grabs two beers, pops the chute, and makes the best exit from a plane in all airplanedom? Baby, you obviously do not know Lisatastrophie very well. Cause this guy is my new hero.

I mean, who wouldn't love to quit their day job in a larger than life manner? Oh Lawdy, I know I have. And you know Ms. Tastrophie would have to give her two cents worth as she was walkin' out the door. Trust me there have been days when the only thing that got me through that day, was dreaming of how I would quit my job - provided I won a few million dollars in the lottery and I wouldn't go to jail for doing it. Because I don't do the poor thing and I just do NOT look good in orange. I don't care what my color wheel says.

So I thought I would share a couple of my favorite "This job sucks lemons and I ain't making lemon aid out of this cr*p anymore" quitting fantasies with you.

I did have one job quitting fantasy that involved naked pictures of my boss, photoshop, and some barn animals. Needless to say I bordered on using them for revenge or blackmail in my fantasies, but could never decide which would work best to my advantage. They were defiantly fun to think about. Plus, I'm not really sure if you could get any self respecting farm animal to come within a fifty mile radius of my disgusting (at that time) boss. Good thing I never really learned how to work photoshop all that well.

Then there was the one where I am stuck in a life-sucking-mind-numbing meeting from h*ll and just at the moment when I realize I have won the lottery and no longer need to be a sycophant on my bosses rear, I stand up and announce: "Excuse me. I have a few things I would like to get off my chest. You're "Golden Boy" Robert has been padding his expense report to cover his topless bar and drinking problems. Sara is the refrigerator bandit who has been pillaging our lunches by taking bites out of peoples sandwiches and then putting them back. Personally, I think Sara's got bigger issues. With her using the copier as her own personal porn reproducing machine. Sara, next time take off the wedding ring before you hit copy. And Boss-man, your wife know you are having an affair. Because really? The only reason a 50 year old man get contacts, joins a gym, and suddenly develops a sense of style is so he can impress his half-his-age-botoxed mistress. Buddy, you're not fooling anyone, let alone the people who work for you. Especially since the bimbo you hired as your new "secretary" can't even fill out a phone message form, but does manage to fill out that $300 Anna Sui cardigan quite nicely. Which, by the way, I couldn't afford on MY salary and I KNOW I bank more than she does. Oh yeah, AND I QUIT!" While I might not have enjoyed working at that office, it did make for some really good better-than-Days-of-Our-Lives daytime drama.

Since I am no longer in the corporate world, my fantasies of quitting involve hyping 7th grade juvenile delinquent wannabes on pure chocolate, Jolt cola, and Tupac videos right before I call the front office to tell them I am walking out the door. They can keep my my Hello Kitty wall clock, pink post-it notes and the candy bar stash I have in my desk drawer. I'm taking the xanax and Ho-ho's with me because I do have my priorities people.

Even with my job ending fantasies, Steven Slater is my new "I quit" Hero. Nobody has done it better when telling the masses just what he thinks before sticking it to "The Man" by pulling a several thousand dollar get-a-way on an emergency exit slide. Not to mention he got free beer out of it- BONUS! What I do find slightly ironic is that there hasn't been any mention of the passenger who felt she was above the FAA rules and could get her bags whenever SHE wanted. (And, no, it was not Ms. Tastrophie.) I wonder if Miss-I-don't-have-to-follow-flight-attendant-instructions-like-everyone-else-even-though-they-tell-us-in-the-flight-briefing-that-it-is-a-federal-offense-not-to has gotten into any trouble or if she is blissfully unaware that her being a royal assha*t has given America a new "I Hate My Job And Want To Quit Hero"?

Hot Enough For You?

2010-08-10T06:00:00.000-07:00

Miss Tastrophie is not one for idol small talk. I mean, she can chit chat with the best of them while standing in line at the liquor store, but she has no patience for the stupid. So asking her if it's hot enough for her while the mercury is pegged at triple digits and she is sweating in places Gawd NEVER intended for her to sweat, is just stupid and might get you a free can of the smack down. Just sayin'....

Anyway, Miss Tastrophie was on her way home a few weeks ago from a nice little visit with the fam. (GAWD love them - they are a hoot, but couldn't get their collective rears to the church on time for their own funeral if it killed them) when she found herself sitting in the airport waiting lounge. First off, this was a new experience for our heroine as she previously existed only in a world of the Admiral's Club, Elite check-in, and First Class. Now she finds herself sitting in coach, using the kiosk, and flying Southwest. It's sad, but we hope she will be able to adjust to this new found life style without going all Wynonna Rider five finger discount at Nordstroms.

While sitting and knitting I got the grand pleasure of listening to three passengers talk about how hot it was (close to triple digits) and how the media was reporting how horrible it was that the members of a certain pro-football team were being made to practice in this gawd-awful heat. What with them being in tee shirts and shorts and blasted by oversized industrial fans equipped with water misting equipment. The indignity of having to wear their pads and run drills that required fancy footwork, tires, and a lot of throwing and catching while sweating like a virgin on prom night. (Somebody call Amnesty International on this travesty.) All this while collecting a paycheck that at the VERY LEAST has one comma and six digits BEFORE the decimal. Some having two commas and seven digits before the decimal. Now, I'm not innocent in this little discussion. I agreed with them that it was hotter than bejesus out there and I thank GAWD for the genius who invented central air 'cause I don't do sweat, but then again I also don't have a paycheck with six digits before the decimal. Nor I don't go a b*tchin' to the media about how awful my job is. I am very grateful to even have a job in the suck economy. (I just do my moanin' and groanin' to you fine people).

After fifteen minutes of listening to the heat-index trio, I had reached my max on the whinny. So ever so sweetly, I had to butt into their conversation to put things into a little perspective - Miss Tastrophie Style!

Miss T (said in my sweetest southern belle style equipped with just enough sarcasm to be my oh-so-subtle self): Excuse me, but I couldn't help but overhear your conversation - because apparently after the third beer in the airport lounge, you'all forgot that normal human beings have good hearing and whining at the top of your lungs is almost as annoying as your conversation topic. I am sure the fine folks at gate 38 -(we were at gate 30) - have enjoyed hearing you as well. Anyhoo, I think it's nice that you care for our fabulous members of KC's finest, yet constantly choking it, football team and are worried that the heat is just too much for a bunch of spoiled-over-paid-should-have-majored-in-something-useful-as-a-back-up-plan-football players. I think we need a little perspective here.

Right now, this country has service men and women who are fighting in countries that regularly peg the triple digit mark on the mercury scale.

They sport 60 plus pounds of protective gear that could barely stop a hot rock let alone a piece of shrapnel from an IED. Which they have to wear regardless of whether or not they are going outside their tent to patrol or to use the head (toilet for all you non-military types). And I know for a fact that not one of them is touting a six digit paycheck to the bank. More like a three digit paycheck that will barely cover the rent on my luxury apartment. So before you go all flower power on me; no I am not making a statement about whether I do or don't support the wars. What I am saying is I DO support my military families. And while your complaining about some hot-shot pro player who entertains you for four hours on Sunday and the suffering he must go through, I think your concern would be better placed on the poor Private First Class who stands ready to give his life for your ability to watch the freakin game on your HD flat screen in your air conditioned living room. Don't you?

After which I smiled my best "love ya, mean it" smile and went right back to my knit 2, purl 2 ribbing on the oh so fabulous scarf I have on my bamboo needles. Funny thing was, it got a lot quieter in the lounge and a I swear I heard the distinctive sound of hands clapping from gate 38.

Coming Back!

2010-08-09T16:40:00.001-07:00

Rumor has it that Miss Tastrophie has found her missing writing mo-jo. Either that or she found another case of vodka and a new Rx of xanax, but I have it on good authority that she is returning to blogging. No promises on the quality of the blogs since writer's block has apparently dulled the senses more than a vodka, ho-ho, and xanax chaser trifecta, but she's coming back.

So hold on to your panties, baby, cause it's gonna be a bumpy ride!

A Jury of My Peers

2009-12-07T11:25:00.000-08:00

Weeeeeeeelllll, I have now seen it all. That's a pretty big statement considering that I have seen quite a bit in my 40+ years.

I had to report for jury duty. Or as I now like to call it "Holy Batsh*t, our legal system is in a whole lotta hot water duty". I don't even know where to start with the whole-lotta wrong I saw.

I get to the court house early and finally find a parking spot that is somewhere between the building and the middle of bejesus nowhere. I park my car, pay the meter, walk in the rain/drizzle to the courthouse while avoiding the advances of a couple of "displaced" persons. Then I get to the courthouse and have to go through a metal detector and a security screening process that would be an embarrassment to even the White House screening staff. I took my knitting bag and a book since anyone who has ever been called to jury duty knows, you are going to be bored off your bum for hours on end. First off, my knitting needles were bamboo and the tips are rounded, so any threat this middle class white chick was going to be was to her yarn and not to the judge. Bubba the cop-wanna-be who was in charge of checking my bag, kept trying to UNSCREW the needles from the plastic cord that attaches them! Yep, boy wonder was a mental giant among men, but he is nothing compared to the people I got to spend the next couple of hours with in an air conditioned (it's 40 degrees outside!) room.

Once I sat down, I quickly got out my knitting and tried not to make eye contact. I heard somewhere that it's a sign of aggression in prisons and since a lot of the people in that room looked like they were fairly intimate with that part of our legal system, I wasn't taking any chances. Somewhere between my fifth K1P1 row, I looked up to see something that even in a Ho-ho/xanax induced craze, I would NEVER have thought up. There was this woman, weighing in at roughly 275 pounds, walking towards me. By looking at her hair and make up, you would have thought she was going to a casting call for The Love of Ray Jay. Then I caught full sight of her fashion choice for the day.

When I got my jury summons, right there at the bottom was a little note about wearing clothing appropriate for the somber atmosphere of a court room. I have no idea what it said at the bottom of this lady's jury summons. I think it might have said "Pimp and Ho attire welcome" or wear what you wore the last time you were in front of a judge. She had on jeans in a size she probably wore back in 1997, but hasn't seen since then and ~ wait for it~~~~~~ A TUBE TOP!!!! With sequins!!! And this tube top was working overtime trying to keep her massive mamas hidden from view. Personally, the fact that everyone in that room didn't get a full frontal assault from those jugglies is a testament to the strength of cotton. Did I mention it is December? It was 43 degrees outside? The jury room was freezing as well? To her credit, she had completed the outfit with a big Michelian Man looking parka, but she wasn't wearing it. Just carrying it around as a fashion statement. All of this was being moved around by a pair of 6 inch, bright red, plastic-leather-clear-heeled hooker heels.

It took me five minutes to close my mouth and realize she was not going to topple over me as she passed. And trust me, I was so relieved when she chose to sit on the bench two rows away from me. I spent the rest of the time waiting to be called, looking at this woman and thinking, "If this was your best choice of the things you had to wear. What was your second choice?"

After that it was pretty much a blur. I was called. They asked questions. I answered in the manner I felt that would work best to insure I NOT get selected. Yes, I believe in the death penalty for stealing candy from babies. Yes, I think we should bring back the guillotine. No, I don't think embezzling should be a capital offense, if you are taking rich people's money. Could we hurry this up my Knights of the White Magnolia meeting is in two hours and I have to pick my sheets up at the cleaners. Yeah, none of that worked because I was impanelled and have to report back on January 11th.

As we were being released for the day, I saw Ms. Tube Top walking out of the court house. Guess what? She had a nice notice of impanelment piece of paper in her hands as well. I now feel free to commit any crime I want, because I can tell you that if that woman was on my jury, I would have significant grounds for an appeal. None of my peers would be caught dead in a tube top, let a lone a tube top in a courtroom, in December!!

An Open Letter to my Cats

2009-12-06T17:10:00.001-08:00

Dear Family Felines:

As you well know, things have started to settle into a nice routine since the newest edition to the Tastrophie household arrived. Now that we have overcome the small issue of a certain orange someone's addiction to my panties (see blog post of September 23rd), I would like to address some of the other issues we are experiencing while cohabiting.

First, my house is not a NASCAR race track. Nowhere does it say Indie 500 or Churchill Downs on my property. I know the lay out of the rooms makes a nice little circle if I leave all the doors open. It is tempting to take a lap or two around the house every now and then and being the competitive siblings that you are, I understand the need for a little race-and-chase. However, we might want to rethink the timing of our daily workouts. I suggest some time between 7 a.m. and 5 p.m. when I am at work and not likely to get my legs broken by the sudden impact of two felines going top speed around the corner. And not between 5 a.m. and 7 a.m. when I am still coming to terms with the fact that I have to be awake, for which I am not the happiest of campers to begin with. Notice that I did not include any time after 9 p.m. or before 5 a.m. This time is reserved for Mommy's sleeping and should be revered as sacred. I have inflicted bodily harm on people for messing with my sleeping; I am not above knocking your racing rear to the curb at 5 a.m.

Second, if it is in a glass/mug or on a nice plate and it smells good, it belongs to me. I do not need you to check my drink/food for poison as I am the one who fixed it and poisoning is not the method I am going to chose to off myself with any time soon. Especially after you have just returned from using the cat "facilities" and have litter mushed in your paws. Please be so kind as to at least do a preliminary wash down before attempting to check the coldness of my ice cubes with your paws. I bought you both some really nice, overly priced prices of "flatware" on which your meals are placed every morning. I can't really imagine that your culinary tastes run towards the Lean Cousine and South Beach Diet pallet as you mostly lick your rear end or fur on a daily basis. I still find it a stretch that the makers of cat food pretend you actually know the difference between roasted duck and chicken tartar. Seriously, I don't know why they just don't flavor them like fur and hinney, since that's what you are licking half the time anyway. Either way, since my tastes do not run in the fur and hinney directions, I would appreciate it if you would not mess with my food.

Third, personal habits. There are boundaries to our relationship. Do I go and stare at you when you are in the litter box? No. I would appreciate it if you would not walk in and sit smack dab in front of me and stare while I am trying to use mine. First, it creeps me out. Second, I don't work well under pressure and your need to have the end-all-be-all of staring contests at this crucial moment in my life really messes with my head. I am coming to terms with your fascination towards the shower/bath. I have stopped having small heart attacks at the sight of you jumping through the shower curtain and shower liner a~la Psycho/Norman Bates. And I no longer hear the theme from Jaws every time you stalk me while I am in the bath tube. Which pretty much leaves your staring at me while I put my make up on the only thing that we have left to deal with in the bathroom.

This brings us to other things for which I don't need an audience. To put it politely, if Mommy is gettin' jiggy with it in the bedroom, you should go entertain yourself in the other room. Really. I can't tell you what it does to my psyche to look up and have the two of you sitting on the dresser staring at me like the olympic gymnastic judging team. Half the time I expect you to start holding up score cards and to hear Nadia Comaneci doing a recap of the night's activities. I had both of you snipped to keep the feline population in check, not to create two voyeuristic peeping tom cats.

Now, I know that I have some issues in our cohabitation as well, and I promise to work on these. As soon as I win the lottery, I promise to stop working 14 hour days and be home more often or at least awake when I am home during the week. I understand your addiction to that kitty-crack-cat-nip and will make a sincere effort to have a better stash on hand at all times, and not just when I remember to pick it up while standing in line at the pet store after running out of cat food at the end of the month and having to feed you tuna for two days in a row until payday. In addition, I promise to try to curl into an even smaller ball while sleeping in order to give you maximum bed space available for your night time slumbers. I know it was wrong of me to think that my bed is there for my own sleep comfort. Silly me.

Love

Mom~tastrophie

Turkey for One

2009-11-27T10:40:00.000-08:00

I have had the best Thanksgiving! School got out on Tuesday and the Fearsome Foursome headed out for some celebratory ritas and enchiladas. Nothing like starting an American tradition in the Tex-Mex way :-) I was so looking forward to five whole days of nothing to do! By nothing I mean I planned an entire list of "To-Do's" to get done.

Since this year, I was not going anywhere for Thanksgiving, I had planned to spend the five days powering through my list and relaxing. Now, I love spending time with my family and my family has always come first, but this year it was nice not to have to haul my rear around the country like a turkey with it's head cut off. I spent Thursday knitting, watching movies and cheering on my beloved (yet losing) Aggies as they once again lost to Texas. Judging by the fact that I never got out of my Pj's ~ it was awesome!

Now, there is that "To-Do" list I was talking about. Being the anal-retentive-control freak that my mother raised, I have a pretty long list of things.

The list looked something like this:
1. Clean out and organize personal files
1a. remove outdated files
1b. make new folders for old kept items
1c. make new folders for non-filed items

2. Balance and prep budget for upcoming holiday season
2a. checkbook update
2b. holiday spending list
2c. Estimate Birthday money wind-fall :-)

3. CLEAN (not clean, but scrub the ever loving daylights out of type CLEAN) the house
3a. clean & Detox cat box
3b. dust, vac, and mop all surfaces
3c. Clean in this order: Living room, bdrm, ktch, bath, then cat stuff

4. Laundry ~ including mending and ironing
4a. dryell
4b. bleached items

5. Update my knitting on Ravelry (knitting website)

Told you I was annal about it. I like to think that in a past life I would have been Martha Stewart or Leona Hemsley.

Here is what I have actually managed to accomplish:
1. Ate an entire package of Sultana Biscuits (my favorites that I get in Bonaire)
2. Knitted the bodice of two sweaters (waiting on yarn to finish one)
3. Finished reading "Shopaholic Ties the Knot"
4. Slept
5. Watched Cake Boss marathon ~ all 12 hours straight!
6. Made napping an Olympic sport.

Since I am now three days into my five day holiday break, I am thinking I am not going to make a dent in my actual "To-Do" list. Being one who hates to do anything half-arsed, I think I will chuck the list all together. (Save those things for another more productive time.) Bummer thing is that I can't blame my lazies on the Turkey-trypto-thingy.

Here's hoping you had a Wonderful and Happy Thanksgiving.

Will Read For Food

2009-11-08T00:22:00.000-08:00

Once again this year I am teaching Language Arts. Ironic isn't it? Since I tend to be the Queen of the Comma Splice and the run-on sentence. Not to mention, that my writing style is so not exactly in line with the MLA style. But hey, you know what they say, "those who can do ~ those who can't teach". (Which is truer than you think.)

I also got tasked with being the "Reading" teacher. Now when I was a kid, by the 7th grade, most of us knew how to read, so I took that as an indication that my students would also know how to read. Yeah, I was wrong. I was thought that everyone valued an education...eventually. Yeah, I was wrong. Less than 60 years ago, we read pretty much as part of our daily lives. Until T.V. came into our world and started sucking our will to learn straight out of us. As kids we used to read from books! Not iPods, Kindles, or computer screens. And kids read things like Shakespeare, Keates, and Shelley; not Patterson, Rowling, and Meyers.

Today, I spend more time "dumbing down" my lessons than I do actually teaching. Remember learning to diagram sentences in order to learn about subordinate clauses, noun - verb agreement and dangling modifiers? Ah, we don't teach that any more. "It's too difficult" for students today to "grasp" that concept. Did IQ's drop suddenly since the 1980's? I have students who are reading "Curious George" because they can't comprehend a sentence structure that includes a noun, verb, adverb, and an adjunctive. They are still amazed when I tell them "She swam" is a complete sentence! I don't think any one of them today would be able to survive the educational process that was in place 100 years ago. Come to think of it, neither would I since I couldn't speak Latin if my life depended on it.

Education used to be HARD. If you were privileged enough to get any education, let alone a "good" one. Most people who were able to go, went to a one room school. Where all grades were taught simultaneously and no one gave a rat's ass if you were a kinetic, auditory, or whatever learner. You got what you gave and you earned your grade. Today, I have to give "participation" grades in order to even out GPA's and I am not allowed to "give" below a 50% on anything! This includes assignments where a student does NOTHING!! I have to give this "grade" when a student doesn't even TURN IN THE WORK!! Tell me, what I am "teaching" my students by rewarding them with a grade for nothing! WOW! If I had known I could get half my paycheck for doing half or none of the work, I would have been surfing the net on company time years ago. Yeah, that's a real life lesson. And it still doesn't teach them to read.

The students tell me they don't need to read because they can watch everything on the TV or listen to books on audio! I am beginning to think that one day job applications will be completely verbal. No writing, just answering into a little microphone your response to things like name, age, education level... Who needs a high school diploma or a college degree?

Sixty years ago not everyone went to college or finished school, but just knowing how to read, cypher and do math were impressive things. If you were blessed with the means, your education was more robust and harder. Seriously, anyone out there (other than MJenks) know how to read Latin? Speak two or more nonnative languages fluently? Know how to fence and ballroom dance? Can you run a household with a staff similar to that of a small business while maintaining proper decorum and finding a suitable mate before you become a spinster at the rip-old age of 20? How about knowing the simple basics of being a gentleman or lady? Don't even think this stuff is taught these days. I went to cotillion classes when I was in 8th grade. My students have never even heard the word cotillion. Please and thank you won't come out of their mouths without a crowbar and a jack hammer.

No Child Left Behind has not left our children behind, it has lowered the bar to the point that a slug could pass over it and be considered a rocket scientist. I hope one day we will remember that not everyone gets to be a rocket scientist and start making education worth earning. Not just a baby sitting location for children ages 5-17. Society can't handle a 30% drop out rate. The jobs just aren't there anymore and the military isn't a holding ground for them. I am off to figure out how to inspire a new generation to read and write, so that one day their generation will be able to take care of themselves.

OH MY GAWD GIVE IT TO ME!!!

2009-10-17T18:36:00.000-07:00

I am somewhere between nirvana and a toe curling scream right now. I was watching t.v. and this vision appeared to me. It was if the Ghost of Drinking Binges Past had come to visit me. There on my t.v. screen was the one thing that would make Ms. Tastrophie break down and beg for more. If Elvis were alive and it was 1950-whatever, I would be screaming my throat out and tossin' some panties. It's as if God knew my most secret-of-secret dreams and decided to grant them to me all at once.

Little Debbie, the makers of that little life saver known here as the Ho-Ho,* has created a contest just for me!! They are giving away A MILLION HO-HO's!!!!!! Just go to their website and enter. OMG!! OMG!!! This is almost as good as sex!! Except it has been so long since I have had sex that I am thinking this is as good as sex. I maybe wrong. Now if the makers of Xanax would just come out with a similar contest, Ms. Tastrophie's world would be perfect!!

*Side note: Ho-ho's in Lisatastrophie's world are really Swiss Rolls (also made by Little Debbie), but have been called Ho-Ho's ever since a really crass girl's night several years ago. It's my blog/world and I will call it what I want.

Note on Nooners

2009-10-04T17:10:00.000-07:00

The following is from my days in corporate life, when I worked for the nation's leading healthcare tech company.

Dear Co-worker:

Hi! How are you? I am going to assume that you are doing great considering the glow you have after returning from that extra-long lunch you took today. In fact, I am going to go out on a limb and guess that you had a wham-bam good time at lunch.

I only say this because, we (your fellow co-workers) have noticed a few changes in you since you came back from that small 2 hour lunch you and the hot new guy from resource management took. Like how bouncy and fluffy your hair is now. It's a complete 180 from the semi-plastered look you were sporting this morning. And speaking of sporting... Do you remember in the 6th grade when they taught us about the birds & the bees? Did you by any chance happen to pay attention to that part where they talk about hormones and pheromones? You should have. While, I am not one to knock knocking boots; I am one to advocate good hygiene and a quick little shower or some perfume after the quickie would be a good idea for next time.

While we here at work are all so delighted in your happy-go-lately attitude that has suddenly developed ~ it is a welcome depart from the uptight b*tch you usually are; we did want to let you in on a little secret. Yours is out! No amount of sitting on a dead phone line while pretending to talk in an overly developed stage whisper to your best gal-pal "Cynthia" about how you just couldn't find the shoes you were looking for during your lunch hour and how the sales lady made you late getting back because she kept bringing you the wrong size, is going to make us think you did anything but get jiggy with it while you were gone.

Oh, and in case you haven't noticed, we work in a glass building ...On the fourth floor. One floor above the parking garage. The garage that you and hot-guy from resource management both use while managing to park right next to each other...On the top level. So, that little last minute grope session you two had right before you came back to work was a nice peep-show for those of us blessed with window cubicles (and anyone else we could manage to get the attention of during the fifteen minutes of fame the two of you were having). Seriously, park on the second floor. No one parks there and therefore would not have seen that you are not wearing panties or hose anymore. Which, by the way, was another thing that tipped us off. You had pantyhose on this morning. Might I suggest having a back up pair just in case these little afternoon delights get a little rough on the original pair. Just a suggestion.

Sincerely yours,

Ms. Tastrophies &

The ENTIRE PathNet Team*

*cause you KNOW I told everyone and their uncle about this.

The Curious Case of the Missing Underwear

2009-09-23T16:35:00.001-07:00

Well, now that I have MJenks attention, I am going to sadly reveal that this story is not about any new found love of going commando. Sorry guys, but the epic question of "Does She or Doesn't She" will not be answered here today.

Two weeks ago I made my way to the local animal shelter to adopt another kitten. After two months of mourning the passing of my beloved B-Phat, I had decided to bring another kitten into my home. Elsa wasn't really happy about my decision, but since I buy the Fancy Feast and have the hook-up for the catnip, she gave her reluctant meow of approval. I, on the other hand, am now asking WHAT THE HELL WAS I THINKING??!?!

OMG people, I have completely lost my freaking' mind and had the world's biggest brain-fart. It's been three years since I last had a kitten in my house and apparently time erases the memory of all the crazy batsh*t things kittens like to do.

Like:

1. Get a cold one week after you bring them home from the local Typhoid Mary Infirmary, so that you can spend every last dime you have until the next payday on x-rays, shots, IV saline re-hydration, oxygen tank confinement (seriously?!), antibiotics, and your vet's new Lexus XL complete with GPS and side door airbags.

2. Keeping you up until 5 a.m. the night before a full day when you have to get up at 7 a.m with their sneezing and hacking up a lung onto your carpet, bedspread, and new cashmere sweater you bought on sale for 50% off of the 50% off sale price from the original price.

3. Running full balls-to-the-wall speed down the hall, across the coffee table, over the love seat, and straight into a full set of closed window blinds in the middle of the night; thereby causing you to have a small, but significant heart attack that is only calmed by half a bag of Ho-Ho miniatures and two xanaxes with a triple vodka chaser.

4. Chase after a rather rotund three year old feline who is seriously pissed at her owner for getting her de-clawed because she would really like to smack the sh*t out of the new kitten at this point in time. Why she doesn't just sit on him is beyond me. She may not have claws, but she is up about three weight classes on him and could take him out with one good sumo squat.

Basically, I now know why God and I have decided that kids would not be a good thing for me. Cause right now, I am one good midnight race-and-chase away from re-inventing the catapult. But, love conquers all and Sneezes (no, I am not really going to call him that permanently, just until I can think of something more befitting) will curl up on my lap to "make biscuits" while purring the "Battle Hymn of the Republic"* then all is forgiven. * Ok, he doesn't really purr the Battle Hymn of the Republic, but I think he was humming the theme from Jaws last night.

So, what the hell does any of the above have to do with underwear? Well, I'll tell ya. Tonight, I was trying to get some housework done. Including laundry. Which I hate to do and will put off until I have worn every last pair of clean socks, underpants, and tee-shirts I own. Which is enough to last me about two weeks. As in... I got Sneezes about two weeks ago. Anyone getting a little light switch flick right about now????

I go about sorting my clothes. Turning thing right side out (like my Mama taught me), when I start to notice a decided lack of something in my hamper. I kept sorting. And thinking, "I know I have worn underwear lately". Followed by, "Where the hell are all my panties?" For a minute I panic and think that I have left two weeks worth of undies at the gym and the people at Lifetime are going to ask me to go through some sort of sensitivity training before I can return. I think I must have done a load of laundry earlier and left it in the dryer. Nope, I checked. Not there. Then, from out of nowhere comes this small orange streak, racing full speed ahead with a flash of zebra print sailing behind it like the Black Pearl at full mast.

HOLY VICTORIA'S SECRET, BATMAN!!! That was yesterday's panties streaking by me at 30 knots. I gave chase to the little thief and discovered that he has absconded with every pair of underwear I have put in the hamper since I released him from his new-kitten quarantine. He has been stashing them in the back of my closet behind a suitcase doing all sorts of who-know-what-kitten-things to or with them. UGH!

Now I have a big decision to make: Do I wash them (about 50 times in really hot water) or do I toss them out and run to the local Wally-world for a clean 5-pack of the Fruit of the Looms? Then I have to decide what a kitten therapist is going to cost me because I'll bet you good money this little kitten has got some sort of full blown pantie issues going on and I can just see him growing up to become an internet-kitty-porn addict if I don't get this nipped in the bud right now. Does anyone know a good therapist who is also fluent in Feline? Or if Tide works on cat fur?

Sophie's Choice

2009-09-07T17:19:00.000-07:00

Sunday, I went to the local animal shelter. Bud E Phat has been gone for two months and while I morn the emptiness that he has left in my house, I also yearn for the pitter-patter of four more paws. That is not to say that Elsa is not the love of my life. I fought hard with the decision to bring another kitty into my home. In all honesty, I am still not sure I am doing the right thing for her. There are times I wish she could speak to me. Even if it is just so she could tell me what the h*ll "Meeow, mow, moooww, meow" means. Especially at four a.m. when she thinks this is a life ending all important thing to tell me at the top of her lungs.

The shelter was overflowing with kittens. They were everywhere. I was on fluffy overload. As I went between the two cat houses, I couldn't believe that I wasn't finding the soul of my beloved B-Phat in any of the cats I held. That soul that has come to me each time I have needed it and it never fails to give me unconditional love, affection and gratitude.

Then a volunteer came in with a pet carrier. Inside it was the most beautiful Snowshoe-Siamese mix I have ever seen. Eyes as deep blue as the waters I love to dive and a chocolate brown coat that begged to be petted. The volunteer appeared to be so blase in his duties that he banged the carrier around a few times when he sat it down to prepare a cage for this gorgeous animal. A new home for what will be the last days of his life.

The minute I looked into those eyes I saw that soul. The soul of my Turbo. My Baby Kitty. My Bud E Phat. That soul that seams to find me every time I have an empty spot at the food dish. That soul that I have loved so deeply that I would give my last breath to save. And on Sunday, I broke my heart and walked away from all he promised yet again. For on this animal were four words that will condemn this wonderful creature to a death that even I can not delay: Owner Surrender ~ Behavioral/Urination.

Before I even laid eyes on the surrender form, I knew I wanted this cat. A cat that had been someone's faithful companion for 7 years and was now looking so lost at the drastic change in his life. The soul I have been blessed with three times before, shone brightly behind those blue eyes, pleading with me to take him home again. I had found him once more and my heart cried in joy. But this time was not meant to be. This time logic won instead of my heart and I chose another.

That is not to say I do not adore the cute little orange and white tabby that is to come home with me next Saturday. I have known this kitten soul before. He is the soul of Thomas O' Malley. He lives with my Dad for now, but time is winning that age old battle with him. (Thomas lived with me after Turbo had gone but stayed by my Dad's side after I had gone.) I know that his playful demeanor and little "chirping" noises are what drew me to him. Soon he will have covered my house and heart with cat-fur and I will love him as much as my Elsa. Maybe one day, my old soul will come to see me again through him. But for now my soul is back there in a 3'x5' cage waiting for a rescue that this time can not come. He is waiting for a heart that is fractured by reality, logic and reason instead of being ruled by instinct, faith and love. For this I hope he can forgive me and once again come to find me when the time comes.

We Need A Meeting

2009-09-02T14:22:00.000-07:00

I know, I know, I haven't written. I'm going to claim utter desolation at the pain inflicted by the two Ex's. In reality, I have been caught up in the back to school madness that is Jr. High. But have no fear, I found something to Yip about. See? I knew it wouldn't take long since I am fairly certain that there are elements out there specifically designed just to piss me off. One of them is "The Meeting". Low and behold, my employer decided that we need more meetings. (Which is funny because we have been having weekly meeting since last year and no one remembers why we were meeting in the first place.) Usually a meeting can be a small but painful thing. Like a paper cut. They tend to be self contained and last a mercifully short (1-2 hours) amount of time. That is if course unless someone higher up in the food chain decides he/she "has a great idea" and wants to re-invent the wheel or beat a dead horse into dust. This decision usually morphs into "The Seminar". Which is slightly less painful than a root canal done by a chain saw.

"The Seminar" is the modern version of the Grand Inquisition. It has probably taken more lives the Inquisition at this point. "The Seminar" last just a little shorter than the Six Day War. Any longer and it would be a "Convention". "Conventions" are not as immediately painful as "The Meeting" or "The Seminar" as participants are able to slip out undetected for longer than scheduled in order to partake in the team building exercise known as the liquid lunch or the extra-early-happy hour. "The Seminar" and "The Convention" are also mercifully held at a location other than your office, so they have a nice min-break appeal to them. Something to do with the cat being away and mice playing.

"The Seminar" occurs when someone in management (who has access to major budget funds) decides that life as we know it has been going a little too well, and he/she has to muck it up some how. While "The Meeting" is typically used to get workers to drink the kool-aid or a major management-to-employee flogging; "The Seminar" is used to completely F-up life as you know it. Nothing gets a CIO/CEO/CFO hotter than thinking that worker bees really give a sh*t about rewriting the company mission statement or redesigning the process-flow/task analysis of the water cooler bottle replacement system. This leads to hours upon hours of discussing the merits of totally trivial sh*t; like the toilet paper being hung with the flap forward vs. the flap facing backwards. Especially when worker-bees know it's all going to be chucked in the bin by an over-riding management brain-fart two months from now when management gets another "bright idea" to create more work than humanly possible in addition to the 80 hour work week that we now endure without complaining for fear of losing our jobs in an economy that sucks hard than the prom queen.

Management will schedule a 2-3 day confinement in a banquet room or conference hall, where a perky, overly-caffeinated, ex-prom queen consultant will tell you how you are now going to beat a dead horse to death with a new and improved beating stick. The entire stick will be used in a more timely and efficient manner. (Cause GAWD forbid, that the way you have been beating it for years isn't the right way. No matter how well it got the job done.) In the meantime, work will be piling up on your desk and you will be expected to be "on top of it" even though you are locked away for 9 hours a day, learning how beating the dead horse with the old stick is no longer efficient. And isn't the new stick all nice and shiny? The new stick will turn out to be the old stick with bows, bells and whistles added to make you think it's a new stick. Then they will ask for your input on how the company can better beat the dead horse. This little piece of input typically manifests itself in the shape of an "anonymous feedback" survey where the first question is "Name"? Usually this is when management takes note of the nay-sayers and has them taken out by the secret Gestapo when no one is looking.

I would write more, but I have to go to another meeting. Really. It's been my fifth one this week and it is only Wednesday. At this rate, I am going to have to add another meeting to my schedule because all the drinking I will be doing in order to recover from the last five meetings is going to send me straight to AA!

Tale of Two Ex's

2009-08-15T11:43:00.000-07:00

Oh, we all have them. Ex's. Ex-boyfriends, ex-husbands, ex-what-was-your-name-again? If life was fare, we would break up with up them and never hear anything about them again, except that they spent the rest of their lives pining away for us. We would not have to hear that they happened to find the love of their life with the very next girl they decided to date right after you...

Or that they are getting married. Ever. Which they informed you after having had some sort of massive brain fart then getting the fabulous idea that they needed to call/e-mail/facebook/twitter/IM you with that little glorious tidbit of information. Just so you would know. Cause the fact that you weren't THE ONE, but the one before THE ONE isn't enough to make that bitter taste in the back of your throat every time some one brings up Ex's name (or in this case apparently ~ names) go away.

Here I was enjoying the last bit of my summer break. Not having a care in the world since the school district can't get their sh*t together and actually post the curriculum so I wouldn't have to bust my hump making lesson plans that have more amendments to them than the Constitution on the day school actually started, when I get an e-mail from Ex#1. What?! I haven't heard from him in ages and while, yes, I was technically the one to dump him, it was still a little *Yeah Me* on the ego scale to see that he had been thinking of little ol' moi. It was full of the usual catch-ups: How are you? What have you been up to? How's teaching? And, Oh by the way, I am getting married.

I think I spent five minutes reading and rereading that little dagger through the heart. Strangely the announcement never changed no matter how many times I read it thinking I had mistaken something in the Times New Roman font. Ok, time to woman-up, Ms. Tastrophie,

and send Ex#1 a begrudging congratulations. I mean, I was the one to break up. And I knew I wasn't THE ONE for him, but single-at-40 is still a bitter pill to swallow, no matter how many Ho-Ho's and Xanax you use to cover it. I sent a slightly over-the-top-cheerful note expressing my hopes for a long and fruitful union. Then went and downed a couple of Ho-Ho's to sooth my bruised ego. (Make that several Ho-Ho's: you know how big Lisatastrophie's ego is.)

About an hour or so later I am talking to Ex#2 via IM. Strangely, through our love of a similar sport, EX#2 and I have kept in brief/random contact. So having a random IM conversation with him was not too far fetched. Plus, he was the one who said we could still be "friends" when he broke up with me and I took his word on it. (Note to guys: Don't even bother with this bullsh*t line. We know you don't mean it and we will only use it as an excuse to drive you batsh*t nuts. It's our little way of getting even for your breaking our hearts.) Anyway, I was telling him about Ex#1's little announcement when he decides to disclose to me that he has an announcement of his own: He's engaged as well. Then he proceeds to give me every detail of how the nuptial asking went down. Being that Ms. Tastrophie is a true Southern woman, I gave my second cheerful congratulations of the day and quickly ended the IM session before I went all Fatal Attraction on my pillow with the butter knife.

The whole time I am making mince-meat out of my favorite feather down king sized pillow, I am thinking "OMG! Are you kidding me? This can not be happening twice in one day. Hell, lightening doesn't even strike twice and I just got a double love-karma b*tch slap from two Ex's on the same day!!!" I didn't get this kind of love-karma-hell when I got divorced. Oh Sweet Mary someone get me the double sized box of Ho-Ho's STAT cause this is not going to be pretty. Who cares if I was the dumpee or the dumper? I don't want to know that my Ex's are living happily-ever-after when the closest thing I have had to a relationship in the last year has been telling my batsh*t crazy co-worker to go screw off. Now that I think about it, he is now my EX-co-worker and with my luck will probably call me to tell me HE has gotten engaged as well.

After the first (of many) 30 minute crying jag, I managed to find my recipe for Lemon Drop Martini's (*see below) and make myself a few (I lost count at 5) that would have made James Bond beg me for more. I am not sure what happened after martini #3 but I do know that the hang-over I had the next morning would have given both of the Ex's sweet satisfaction knowing that once again Ms. Tastrophie was given a taste of the little karmic-kick-back she is so richly getting from the universe these days.

Life's Little Helper Lemon Drop Martini's

1 1/2 ounce Vodka

3/4 ounce Triple Sec

2 tsp Sugar

3/4 ounce Lemon Juice

Mix over ice. Shake 40+ times. Strain and pour in sugar rimmed glass.

Drink responsibly please. :-)

Yulekaka ~ Or How to Offend an Entire Country in Just 9 Hours

2009-08-14T09:24:00.000-07:00

My mother's side of the family has Nordic ties. In fact, if I had inherited any of her side of the family genes I would be 5'9" with awesome cheekbones, fare skin and hair. My Dad's side of the family hails from Germany and Scotland. Three guesses which end of the gene pool I went swimming in? Yeah, this sucks. Although I can pound the sauerkraut and brat wurst with the best of them.

Anyway, in a yearly attempt to get in touch with my Nordic roots I embark upon making the traditional Christmas/Holiday fruit bread called Yulekaka. No, it's not fruit cake. Trust me, when made correctly, it is a small piece of heaven toasted and topped with butter. Made incorrectly it is just this side of the third circle of Dante's hell.

Now, Norway is known for several things: gorgeous men, The Three Billy Goats Gruff , and one of my favorites ~ trolls. These creatures guard bridges, wreak havoc, and basically make life hell for any man who crosses their path. (See why I like them so much ~ we have similar goals.) You really do not want to offend the trolls. Or any Nordic gods, for that matter, as they have a few anger management issues when it comes to mere mortals stepping on their terrain. Making Yulekaka incorrectly appears to fall on their terrain.

Last Christmas, I set out on my yearly quest to make this small sampling of Valhalla. I get out all the ingredients. I measure precisely the amounts and set everything aside in cute little Williams Sonoma ramekins a la Ms. Martha. We are talking about moi after all and you know I am high maintenance, so why wouldn't my kitchen accoutrements be. I get out the needed pots, pans, mixers, oven mitts and my little troll dolls. I make sure to place the trolls in a position of significance as not to offend their delicate sense of authority. The trolls are a very important part of making Yulekaka. They have to watch over this process in order to insure the proper making of this Valhallic delicacy. But they will also wreak havoc if you happen to do anything that could slightly offend Thor and his might buddies.

Which apparently I was destined to do... yet again. Yulekaka takes about 9 hours to make ~ if you make it right and don't cheat by using the quick bread method. Which by the way is for wimps and cowards. I'm not joking ~ nine hours. It has to rise twice and the mixing has to be done just right... with details like the beaters need to be all the way in the batter and the mixer NOT set on high when you turn it on. Ugh, details, seriously people you know I just don't do details. So I measured, poured, mixed and kneaded. At some point in this process one of the trolls got knocked off his perch. How? I don't know. What I do know is that he was pissed and hell bent on wreaking a little havoc into my Yule time baking. I ended up with batter on the ceiling, the walls, across the room, in my hair and on the cats. Note: Bread batter + Cat = antiseptic, band-aids, and possibly a trip to the emergency room for a few stitches. I killed the yeast. The dough (what was left of it) didn't rise all the way. The candied fruit had gone bad ~ even though I could have sworn I checked the expiration date five times!! Candied fruit has the shelf life of a Twinke. It will last longer then cock roaches after the nuclear holocaust, but these had gone rancidly bad.

By now I was about four and a half hours into this Yulekaka operation and the only Kaka I was getting was coming from a mean little troll laying face down in the flour bin laughing his bum off at my feeble attempts and sending me every ounce of troll turmoil. The small loaf that I did manage to somehow cajole into rising the second time turned into an Acme Brick in the oven. Thor had turned his back on me and had given the troll permission to make this mission impossible. And I was so pissed that I tossed the terrible trolls into the oven with the brick burnt offering and let them melt into one giant lump of coal. Which set off the fire alarm and brought about a dozen very pissed off firemen to my house. BTW, none of those firemen where hot, so it was a lose-lose situation all around.

Needless to say, I went without my Yulekaka that year - until my mother rescued me and made me a few loafs. Thor & the trolls always did like my mother best. I waved the whited flag and have given up any future attempts at getting in touch with my Norwegian ways... Unless his name happens to be Sven and he looks like this:

TMI Tuesdays ~ Sweet Mammories

2009-07-21T17:00:00.000-07:00

Introducing TMI Tuesdays. Inspired by Mjenks ~ This One's For You Oh Mighty Crown of Thistles.

One thing that I have no problem admitting is that I've had a little after-market work done. I don't mind admitting it, trust me people know and it's not like I'm trying to pass anything off as home grown or original ownership. Plus, I just don't give a crap if anyone knows ~ I'm not showing them off or letting people get a free feel of them, but I don't care if they know.

In fact the year that the twins first arrived, I was in a master's program. The twins were "delivered" over Christmas break ~ Merry Christmas to me. The kicker was that I would have

to tell my instructors that I had "had a little work done" and would not be fully recouperated until at least two weeks into the new school year. Nothing like telling a couple of pudgy, not-gettin-any collage professors that you just got a new pair of turbo twins to cause a few "awkward" moments. In theory, the professors can't touch them, look at them, or even think about them because they are professors and aren't supposed look at student's chest. In reality, it causes more than a few sneaky glances south of the collar bone and some really interesting faculty meetings.

At first I wasn't going to tell anyone at all. Then I found out the recovery would take a whileand I was going to need help with things, not to mention still be on-boarding the

nice little muscle relaxers that come with the new equipment. It wasn't like I was going to back to school and someone would look at me and say "Oh, did you get your hair cut? You look different." No sh*t Sherlock, I now have knockers where once the cupboard was bare. Cause guys may not notice a new hair cut for weeks, but bring in the boobs and they spot them right away every time. So being up front about it cut down on the amount of class gossip and whispered questions.

Well, I was not about to have the twins delivered by just any man. So I asked around for some referrals. I got a few names and a few invites by girls to "feel" their work. Yeah, it gets a little creepy when women you barely know start flashing you their tatas and invite you

to grope on them like a freshman in high school. Maybe not for you guys, but for me ~ yeah, creepy. However one name kept cropping up: Dr. M.

Now before their was Dr. McDreamy, there was Dr. M ~ the original McDreamy. Not only was he highly recommended for his surgical skills, he was recommended for is, ahhhhhh, ahhhhhh, scenic offices. Yeah, that's the ticket.

A few consultations later and wham! I'm in post-op. Where I was begrudgingly dragging my drug induced comatose ass back into reality. Dr. M walks in to check on me and give me the post surgical update. After a few minutes of his cajoling me to wake up and talk to him, I finally mustered the strength to lift my head and look at my chest. OH-SWEET-MARY-MOTHER-OF-GAWD!! look at these babies!! They are HUGE!

They were especially large from the angle I was looking down at them. They were BIG. Mount Everest Huge. If I could have lifted my hands, I would have felt myself up right then and there. Instead I put my head down, look Dr. M straight in the eyes, and with a smirk whispered "sweet!" Then passed out.

P.s. Blogger has crappy formatting!!

Goodbye Buddy

2009-07-12T19:34:00.000-07:00

Friday July 10th at 12:45 p.m., Mr. Bud E. Phat went to wait for me at the Rainbow Bridge*.

After two months of battling with medical problems, my Buddy could fight no more. After careful consultation with his personal vet, we decided that his quality of life would not improve and it would be best to let him "retire". I cradled him in my arms. Whispered "I love you" and looked him in the eyes, so that the last things he would see and hear in this world was his mom's love. I told him I would come for him one day and to wait for me at the Bridge with Baby Kitty and Turbo (my cats who have gone ahead of him). He lay peacefully in my arms as we said our goodbyes. Me giving him paw-kisses. He giving me, with the last of his strength, one final head-butt goodbye. I cried at the sight of his life leaving; fading those beautiful green eyes as they closed in death. My heart was screaming "Don't go! Stay with me forever", but I knew that he was no longer in pain and I had done the right thing.

I'm sorry this is not a better written goodbye, for Buddy really deserves one, but right now the grief is too raw. Each corner of my house holds some memory of our life together. A feather toy here, a cat hair covered pet bed there. The luggage he would lounge on as if he too had been a frequent flier. The corner of the bath tub where he would sit in silent demand until you turned on the water for him to drink. His spirit fills every nook and cranny.

Elsa is missing her big brother. She meows for him as she searches throughout the house. She goes to his favorite spots and looking to see if he is there. She doesn't understand why there is now only one food bowl on the floor. Often she will sit by the window, looking at Buddy's favorite patio perch, as if she is expecting him to return at any moment. One day I may get her another brother or sister, but for now we will have to take comfort in each other and the knowledge that one day we will all be together again.

*THE RAINBOW BRIDGE
Just this side of heaven is a place called Rainbow Bridge.

When an animal dies that has been especially close to someone here, that pet goes to Rainbow Bridge. There are meadows and hills for all of our special friends so they can run and play together. There is plenty of food, water and sunshine, and our friends are warm and comfortable.

All the animals who had been ill and old are restored to health and vigor; those who were hurt or maimed are made whole and strong again, just as we remember them in our dreams of days and times gone by. The animals are happy and content, except for one small thing; they each miss someone very special to them, who had to be left behind.

They all run and play together, but the day comes when one suddenly stops and looks into the distance. His bright eyes are intent; His eager body quivers. Suddenly he begins to run from the group, flying over the green grass, his legs carrying him faster and faster.

You have been spotted, and when you and your special friend finally meet, you cling together in joyous reunion, never to be parted again. The happy kisses rain upon your face; your hands again caress the beloved head, and you look once more into the trusting eyes of your pet, so long gone from your life but never absent from your heart.

Then you cross Rainbow Bridge together....

Daddy's Little Girl

2009-07-06T18:40:00.000-07:00

Not so long ago (cause Ms. Tastrophie is NOT that old) in a land far, far away. Where flying monkeys and ugly green witches were mean to stylish girls dressed in the latest farm fashions with fabulous shoes, lived a sweet innocent little girl. On this particular moon lit night our petite heroine was very tired. She had been on a long journey (a car ride aimed at getting her to shut up and go to sleep) and was very tired (the trick worked). Now her Knight in Shinning Armor (AKA Dad) was carrying her into the house for her beauty sleep (trust me, she slept A LOT as a kid).

The night was cool and clear. The crickets chirping in the breeze. The weather brimming with the lightness of spring. The moon full of future promises. Clearly the fates were whispering of something to come as they looked down upon our Knight and his maiden fair. Because it was was on that night that his lovely little girl would utter the words that would change his life forever.

With eyes full of slumber, she looked high into the sky at the bright shining moon and then at her Knight. She smiled her sweetest and most sincere smile then pointed her small cherub finger up into the night. She asked, in the simplest of little girl voices, "Daddy, will you give me the moon?" It was at that very moment that our Knight in Shinning Armor knew, in his heart of hearts, that his life was never going to be the same. His little girl was

HIGH MAINTENANCE

Things That Go GRRRRRR In The Night

2009-07-05T09:25:00.000-07:00

This is a little diversion from my usual posting type, but this was too weird and I want to see if anyone else has had this type of experience. Basically when it comes to scary things, I am a chicken. I don't do slasher flicks or anything that is an American remake of a Japanese horror film because those are scarier than all get out to me. The Ring (which I watched with ALL the lights on and only because I was forced) frightened me so much I almost threw out my t.v.

So, knowing my chicken of all things horror/super natural/slasher, I don't tend to have bad dreams. Occasionally the sad ones or ones where I am naked and have to take the final in my Logics class. But not ones that freak me out or scare me.

Last night I was having a bit of difficulty sleeping. Side note about me: I am a true insomniac. I want 8 hours of sleep ~ believe me~ but on my own will only get about 3 to 4. I had done all my pre-sleep rituals: lavender, reading (for fun and boring academic stuff), cuddling with Elsa & Bud E. but nothing was working. Finally around 3 a.m. I start to nod off. Somewhere between being awake and fully asleep I think this happened.

I was lying on my side with a pillow covering my face (the apartment lights up the parking lot like the airport runway). When I feel a hand on my side and hear a low guttural growling. Here's the kicker, I FULLY FELT this hand and how it pressed against my side. It wasn't a light touch, but more of a keep you in place type touch. The growling type sound was almost demonic ~ and I don't believe in that stuff, so believe me when I say it was pretty scary. My first thought was OH MY GOD someone is in my house! How the hell am I going to get out of this? Then I tried to figure out if I was really awake or if I was dreaming. I make myself move my right hand. It moved. I open my eyes under the pillow. They opened and I saw some light. And I am fully aware that I can still hear this grrrrrrrr throaty noise beside me.

My heart was pounding and my entire body had moved into Fight or Flight mode. After what left like forever, it stopped. Just completely stopped. No hand holding me down, not ggrrrrrrr sound. Nothing. When I finally mustered enough courage to throw the pillow off my face and confront whoever was in my house, there was nothing/no one there. But wait, it gets even stranger. Ever been away and had someone in your house? That feeling you have when you come back and you KNOW someone has been there? Things may not be out of place and nothing is missing, but you can SENCE it? That's how it felt in my bedroom. I was completely freaked out and then I saw my bedroom door... it was shut.

I don't close my bedroom door ~ ever! It's a thing with me that I want it open, don't know why. But it was closed. Not just the cats knocked it and it swung slightly shut. It was CLOSED as in the door completely flush in the frame. History of where I live: There is none! I am the first occupant in this apartment. It was brand new when I moved in. So there isn't any freaky built on a ancient burial ground, someone got murdered, old woman eaten by her cats, type history going on here. So why the door was shut I don't know. I am sure there is some logical explanation for this, but I can't think of one or why I would have arbitrarily decided to shut it.

So I wonder, has anyone else had a dream that seemed SO REAL that when they woke up they had trouble distinguishing between the dream and reality? This thing is kind of weirding me out. Especially since I do not believe in anything that goes "bump" in the night. Was this just a very vivid dream or am I losing it? (Oh, wait don't answer that one.)

No, I was Drunk Yesterday...

2009-07-04T16:07:00.000-07:00

Today, I am hung over. That level of hang over that is not completely world ending, but annoying enough to keep you from getting anything done but relocating your butt to the couch. The one where you wake up wondering why you slept with a sweater in your mouth and who the hell moved the sun directly into your room right above your eyes. You're not dead yet, but somewhere around questioning God's sanity for letting you live. For the under 30 set, this is nothing. You still have the ability to bound back after a night out with the same rapid reflexes as a cat falling out of a tree. For those of us a little farther from the thirty line, recovery and reflexes are slower. (We also tend to fall out of higher trees.) Somehow in my semi-dazed & confused state, I remembered a friend had sent me this Handy Hang Over Rating Scale. I am suffering somewhere between two and three stars. I'm going to try to re-hydrate; you read

*This hangover rating scale has been passed around for years.

One Star Hangover:
No pain. No real feeling of illness. Your sleep last night was a mere disco nap, which has given you a whole lot of misplaced energy. Be glad that you are able to function relatively well. However, you are still parched. You can drink 10 sodas and still feel this way. You are craving a steak bomb and a side of gravy fries.

Two Star Hangover:
No pain, but something is definitely amiss. You may look okay but you have the mental capacity of a staple gun. The coffee you are chugging is only exacerbating your rumbling gut, which is craving a rootie tootie fresh and fruity pancake breakfast from IHOP. There is some definite havoc being wreaked upon your bowels.

Three Star Hangover:
Slight headache. Stomach feels crappy. You are definitely not productive. Anytime a guy walks by you gag because his cologne reminds you of the random gin shots you did with your alcoholic friends after the bouncer 86'd you at 1:45 a.m. Life would be better right now if you were in your bed with a dozen donuts and a meatball hero watching the E! fashion awards. You've had 4 cups of coffee, a gallon of water, 3 Snapples and a liter of diet coke, yet you haven't peed once.

Four Star Hangover:
Life sucks. Your head is throbbing. You can't speak too quickly or else you might puke. Your boss has already lambasted you for being late and has given you a lecture for reeking of booze. You wore nice clothes, but that can't hide the fact that you missed an oh-so crucial spot shaving, (girls, it looks like you put your make-up on while riding the bumper cars.) Your eyes look like one big vein and your hair style makes you look like a reject from the class picture of Grover Cleveland HS, class of '84.

Five Star Hangover:
AKA "Dante's 4th Circle of Hell."
You have a second heartbeat in your head, which is actually annoying the employee who sits in the next cube. Vodka vapor is seeping out of every pore and making you dizzy. You still have toothpaste crust in the corners of your mouth from brushing your teeth in an attempt to get the remnants of the shit fairy out. Your body has lost the ability to generate saliva, so your tongue is suffocating you. Death seems pretty good right now. You definitely don't remember who you were with, where you were, what you drank and why there is a stranger still sleeping in your bed at your otherwise empty house.

Six Star Hangover:
Otherwise known as the "Infinite Nut smacker"
You wake up on your bathroom floor. For about 2 seconds you look at the ceiling, wondering if the cool refreshing feeling on your cheek is the bathroom tile. It is amazing how your roommate was as drunk as you, but somehow managed to get up before you. You try to lift your head. Not an option. Then you inadvertently turn your head too quickly and smell the funk of 13 packs of cigarettes in your hair. Suddenly you realize you were smoking, but not ultra lights... some jackass handed you Marlboro reds, and you smoked them like it was your second full time job. You look in the mirror only to see remnants of the stamp "Ready to Rock" faintly atop your forehead... the stamp on the back of your hand that has magically appeared on your forehead by alcoholic osmosis. You have to be to work in t-minus 14 minutes and 32 seconds and the only thing you can think of wearing is your "hello kitty" pajamas and your slippers.

*I am not the author of this hang over scale from this point down.

A Tooth Story

2009-06-28T14:20:00.001-07:00

I am in pain! Really. Not just the over-acting, can-I-get-an-Academy-Award attention seeking crap that I usually pull. We are talking severe shooting pain right through my gum and into my cheek. I was driving home and realized that I had this nagging something stuck in between my favorite-root-canal back tooth and it's sidekick. Being the multi-tasker, really bad ADD driver that I am, I tried to extract the annoying thing. When BAM! The crown fell off taking my low-pain-threshold through the roof! I'm screaming, driving, holding this crown in one hand and trying to get a better look at the grossest tooth ever in the rear view mirror. I think the guy in the car next to me thought I was having a seizure or something, because he made a spit second decision to move two lanes over and turn right at the next intersection. Anyway, back to my pain.

Somewhere between being totally grossed out by this whole thing and my attention-whore screaming, I figured out that I should probably call my dentist. Who, BTW, is the Marque de Sade that gave me this lovely defective dental damage in the first place. Bastard isn't open on Sundays. Doesn't he know that his handy work only has a two year shelf life and he should be at my beck and call when it all falls to sh*t? I leave a message, find my way home through the blinding pain and try to find ANYTHING in my medicine cabinet that is stronger than Tylenol.

Side note: I really need to clean out my medicine box. I have a bin that I keep under my sink for all the random/left over medications I collect though out the year(s). You know, that half filled bottle of Penicillin you got from that little rusty nail you stepped on five years ago and decided you didn't really need to follow the "Take Until Empty" directions on the bottle. Or the almost empty bottle of cough syrup that you stopped taking when the coughing stopped (or you figured you were getting a little too involved with the codeine and decided to end the relationship before things got too dependent). Yeah, I have an entire box filled with those little wonders. The only thing I DON'T have in that box is any type of pain killer. I have every antibiotic ever made and several half -used packets of birth control pills (which confused the hell out of me since A: haven't had "any" in over a year and B: changed "methods" years ago ~ oh sorry, TMI). But nothing stronger than 600 mg of motrin. Which doesn't do a damn thing for me personally.

Back to story. So Dentist de Sade finally calls me back. He tells me to "push the crown back on, but be sure to take it off before you go to bed so you won't choke on it during the night".

WHAT!?!?! Then he proceeds to tell me that since this is a crown covering a root canal and there isn't any bleeding, it can wait until tomorrow. OK, I was a little reassured that I was not going to have a whole Tommy Knockers episode and calmed down a bit.

Then he proceeds to tell me that my tooth should not hurt since it was a root canal and there aren't any nerve endings to feel any pain. OHHHHHHH MY A$$ THIS SUCKER DOESN'T HURT!!! I don't know what nitrous tank he's been sniffing from, but MY tooth hurts. It hurts all the way into my jaw and up the right side of my cheek. I think it has a pulse of it's own and I know I can see it throbbing when I look in the mirror. (Ms. Tastrophie does pain just about as well as she does camping in the great outdoors with no running water. Ain't gonna happen.) I attempt to correct Monsieur Dentist that I am indeed in pain and what is he going to do about it? I cry. I whine (which in 9 out of 10 cases works). I beg. My dentist must have gone to the Dr. Mengele school of dentistry and steadfastly refused to give in or believe my cries of pain.

After he said no, I took myself back to the bathroom and the medicine box. This time I frantically dumped the bin onto the bathroom floor.... and there it was! A small bottle with one lone pill inside and the beautiful word "Darvocet" on the outside. I swear I felt like I had just unearthed the Holy Grail. Now all I can say is Thank You to those wonderful people who made this little white pill and that I'm off to go chase a White Rabbit...

Happy Papa's Day

2009-06-21T18:12:00.000-07:00

The Greatest American Hero

When I was a child, you would hold me on your lap and let me eat small pieces of raw turnips you had sliced with your pocket knife.

When I was a little girl, you taught me that ice cream tastes the best when it comes from a brick carton and has been sliced into a bowl. Always Neapolitan and always sliced from the short end.

When I was young girl, you would take me for a ride in the truck while telling me stories of your life, your friends, the war, and how you met my Gammie. Those rides would become my shelter in the storm that was my parent's divorce. You, my rock to cling to when the emotional waters crashed over me. Your stories would become family lore for me to tell and retell. Entrusted in my heart to carry for the next generation.

When I was gawky and uncoordinated, you let me stand on your toes as we danced at the VFW. The King of the USOs held court to his devoted princess. I learned to love the 40's, Buggy-Woogy-Bugle Boys and a larger than life Grandfather who had been a lover and a fighter; just not at the same time.

When I got too big for my britches, you let me know you could knock the taste buds right out of my mouth. Then you would show me just how much you loved me by holding your thumb to your last knuckle when I asked.

When I was hurt and cried, you always had a handkerchief. Your gruff side would become all blustered and you would bristle at whatever was upsetting me. Your bark was always worse than your bite. But you would always hold me and love me until everything was alright again.

When I went into the Marines, I should have listen to you. Once again you proved to know what was best for me. It was the only letter you ever wrote me and I read it so many times that the ink wore off and the paper fell apart. I am so sorry I failed, but I know you loved me in spite of myself.

When I became a woman and life became busy, you waited for me. You waited for me to call, to visit, to write more letters. I should have visited more. I should have written often, called more. Told you ever day that I love you and that you are my Papa. Eventually, your life became full of waiting as well. Waiting to live. Waiting to die. Your mind not knowing what it was waiting for. If it was the life of today or a memory of things long past.

This is our first Father's Day without you here. It's been hard. I love you Papa. I miss you. I can't seem to go on without you, but each day I grow a little stronger. And each day brings me one day closer to when I can be with you again. Until then, I'll Be Seeing You

WTF With Dick and Jane

2009-06-19T15:57:00.000-07:00

File Under: Shit You Just Can't Make Up

Very few things in Life will leave Ms. Tastrophie speechless. This is one of those few things.

BTW, I'm all for more power in the "adult fun" department, but attaching a saber saw blade to my favorite BOB??!! Oh hell to the no, just get some 9 volt batteries if you want to up your fun. Don't go all Tool Time Taylor on the poor Rabbit. Ok, you all just read on and feel free to be as dumbfounded as I am.

WHAT THE HELL WAS THIS WOMAN THINKING!!

Maryland State Police airlifted the 27-year-old woman to Prince George's County Hospital Center early Sunday morning after she was injured in an incident involving a sex toy attached to a saber saw blade, TheBayNet.com first reported.

The man who called 911 about the incident admitted attaching the sex toy to the saw and then using the high-powered, homemade device on his partner, according to the St. Mary's County Sheriff's Office.

The saw cut through the plastic toy and wounded the woman, according to TheBayNet.com. The injuries were severe enough for medevac, but the woman was released from the hospital Monday and is recovering from her unusual injuries.

Investigators talked to the woman, who told them she suffered the injuries during a consensual act and that she and her partner were trying something new and no crime was committed, the sheriff's office said.

ABC ~ Yes, It's All About Me

2009-06-18T18:45:00.000-07:00

In an attempt to make sure I blog about once every other day or so, I give you this: a semi-autobiographical ABC list of me. I know, it's not too earth shattering, but now you know.

A - Age: 40

B - Bed size: Queen

C - Chore you hate: Cleaning ~ irony here: I am a neat freak.

D - Dog's name: Lord Montgale the 7th (basset hound found at the intersection of Montgale Street and 7th Ave.)

E - Essential start your day item: Bitching as I walk to the bathroom

F - Favorite color: pink

G - Gold or Silver: silver or white gold

H - Height: 5'3"

I - Instruments you play(ed): Clarinet for about 5 days. I hit another 5th grader over the head with mine and was told that group sports/activities probably were not a good thing for me.

J - Job title: TEACHER

K - Kid(s): anywhere from 5 to 65 depending on enrollment at the time. None of my own that I know of.

M - Mom's name: Lynne

N - Nicknames: Not even going there.

O - Overnight hospital stay other than birth: Several. I am accident prone to say the least.

P - Pet Peeve: people who don't know how to turn across traffic via the median. You go to the side that has YOUR oncoming traffic!!!

Q - Quote from a movie: TONS and I use them in my daily life. Just a few:

Get away from her, you BITCH!!

Come, D'Artagna, we are saving the king

We are going to need a bigger boat.

What we have here is a failure to communicate.

R - Right or left handed: Right

S - Siblings: Sister and half-sister

T - Time you wake up: Between 5:30 and 6:30 depending

U- Underwear: None of your damn business

V - Vegetable you dislike: haven't met one yet

W - Ways you drink your coffee: SUGAR!!! CREAM!!! MILK!!! some coffee

X-rays you've had: Head to toe at various points in my life ~ again with the accident prone issue.

Y - Yummy food you make: Does Weight Watcher's Frozen count?? If not, cupcakes via the cake mix box.

Z - Zoo favorite : Sea World (does that count?)

Dumb & Dumber, Part Deaux

2009-06-16T13:43:00.000-07:00

File Another One Under

More Shit You Will Never See A Woman Do...

Some people in life never learn. And some people in life just should not be let alone to their own devices. Thus we have the continued tales of Dumb and Dumber... Note: this tale was told to Ms. Tastrophie and as she did not see it ~ can not vouch for it's validity. Although based on the stupid sh*t she has seen these two do... she doesn't doubt that it happened.

Dumb & Dumber are residents in my apartment complex and from what I can gather from various sources, their time here might be short ~ especially after their latest & greatest drug induced debacle. A past Saturday, Dumber was nursing his war wounds back at the scene of the great football vs. nose battle. Again he was accompanied by his trusted side kick: Dumb. This time since Dumber is on pain killers for his broken nose, they decide to opt out of drinking. Instead they decided to smoke pot. At the pool. In public. For everyone to see and smell.

After a time, the Baked Lays twins got the munchies. Our pool has two sets of grill for the residents and they can be used at any time on a first come first serve basis. The Dumb-ass twins get some grillin' food and go to use the grill. Some where between the cooking and all the smoking, Dumb decides to add a little kung fu fighting.

Now in between boggartin' the dubitch and being as fast as lightning, the dynamic duo managed to actually KNOCK OVER the top portion of the grill. A little background info on the grill. The grill component sits atop a pole through which the gas is fed via a pipeline. If you removed the top/grill part, the pole and pipeline are still vertical. And gas continues to flow. Does anyone see how knocking the top portion off would not be the best option at a family pool late in the day on a Saturday? Apparently not Dumb and Dumber because that's where they found themselves.

Then as if being higher than Santa's Workshop on the map and engaging in property damage were not enough, the Fabulous Baked Boys try to LIGHT THEIR FARTS ON FIRE using the gas from the grill. Much to their lack of understanding about the primal use of fire and methane, this experiment did not ignite. At this point I will defer to the Great Chem Gods: Mjenks and Chemgeek on all things methane and combustion. (Please see these two great combustion gurus for all your "blowing sh*t up" needs.)

Thanks to the good thinking on other pool goers part, the police were called, the gas turned off and Dumb & Dumber got to take a nice trip downtown. although the way I hear it, they were not able to sit in the paddy wagon as their butt-patty melts were too singed. Again ladies, these guys are out there and available. I know we all will be just waiting in line for them to make bail.

Revenge of the Hamsters ~ Feline Style

2009-06-12T12:05:00.000-07:00

Remember when I posted about my childhood "problem" with hamsters? And how I said that, from time to time, the little suckers get a big karmic kick back on the apparent abuse I gave them? Well, take a look at the newest vet-fashioned accessory Mr. Bud E. Phat has been sportin' these days:

Yeah, it's about as gross as it looks. Mr. Phat decided about a month ago that he wasn't going to eat. We don't really know why. He never told us and still refuses to answer any questions, regardless of how many mice or catnip toys I offered as an incentive to talk. The Vet ~ who is now putting her third child through Princeton via my wallet ~ said that it could have been any number of things that caused him to go on this self imposed hunger strike, but that his liver had developed Feline Hepatic Lipidosis (FLD) and that FLD is idiopathic. Great, now there is scientific proof that my cat is an idiot.

After careful consideration of the options:

A. Put in a feeding tube and have to force feed him 3x a day until he starts eating on his own.

B. Escort Bud to the Rainbow Bridge earlier than expected.

C. Let him slowly starve to death. (Sorry, wasn't gonna happen.)

I picked option A.

B was never really an option as his odds of recovery were about 90-95% with the feeding peg. And C is just flat out sadistic, in my opinion.

Option A also had a bonus that included a life time payment plan earning the vet a new car, braces for her fourth child and NO xanax for me. Seriously, I thought we had covered the vet Rx program for me after Bud had all his teeth removed and nuts replaced with Neuticles. Why the hatin? I'm the one who has to fork over the big bucks and deal with the nastiest smelling wet cat food of all time. Cat food that had to be heated up, mixed to a nasty consistency, then syringed into the tube over a total of approximately five minutes. Cat food, which by the way, costs more per can than a Big Deal Meal at McDonald's. While Bud E. has been living high on the hog (or should we say fish), I have been downing Top Ramen at a rate that is bound to make my life time sodium intake top over the billion served mark. Why me? Oh wait, I think I hear the pitter-patter of little hamster feet somewhere in the distance....

So today, after a little over a month of me continually smelling like a catfish fry gone bad, Bud E. and I are off to the vet to get the tube removed!! He is (finally) eating on his own and has been for the last five days. Proof of life was confirmed after I caught him ass-end up in the toilet bowl enjoying his favorite fountain water. Now if putting this tube in cost me close to a large mortgage payment; I can't wait to see how much yanking this bad boy out is going to cost. (A nice kicker to all this is that the government won't let me declare Bud E as a dependent! And I have spent almost as much on him as my girlfriends spends on their kids!) Do you hear hamster's squeaking? What is that noise?

The Gene Pool

2009-06-10T18:02:00.000-07:00

File This One Under Stupid Sh*t You Are Never

Going To See Women Do

There are times when I just LOVE communal living. Visiting the swimming pool on a hot summer evening after Dumb and Dumber have been drinking it up pool side all day is one of them. (Dumb and Dumber are actually going to play in a major part in a second posting, so stay tuned, because these two are proof positive that some people should never be allowed to reproduce).

Last week, I was at the pool in a very advantages spot ~ where I had view of

everyone and every thing. Which suites me just fine as that means I can watch others and be as mentally vicious about swimsuit decisions as I want without anyone seeing my cellulite riddled thighs pressed against the lawn chair straps like a chicken on the grill. Yeah, it ain't a pretty picture ~ that's why I take the high spot.

Anyway, from my vantage point I was able to watch the Dumb and Dumber gang. They proved quite entertaining as they proceeded to run through what amounted to a small liquor store in about 3 hours. About 2 hours into it they decided it would be great fun to start throwing the football. Starting with the obligatory short tosses between the guys, they quickly moved on to the half-assed half-pool pass. This was followed by the aquatic version of the Super Bowl

complete with touch down dances that would have made T.O. proud. After a short half time break to replenish their thirst, the Dumb-Ass Gang decided to go for the long pass practice.

This is where it goes oh-so-wrong. Dumb and Dumber tired of their long pass practice and decide to make it more "challenging". Dumber decides that target practice would be best and oh, wouldn't these beer cans be handy-dandy targets. Instead of placing the cans on something practical, like say the pool side or lawn chairs, Dumber places it on his head. He then tells Dumb to throw the football and try to knock it off.

Yes, ladies it is hard to believe these men are single. First, they are throwing a semi-ridged pig skin at a target approximately 6 to 8 inches (depending on how long you REALLY think 6 inches is...) The target is on, what one assumes would be on a normal person, a solid object. And unless your aim is that of a Manning family prodigy, the likelihood you are going to hit that target is pretty low. So, how did Dumb and Dumber do you ask?

It wasn't pretty. It took exactly five passes before Dumb nailed Dumber right square in the nose.... But here's the best part!! Dumber actually had the wherewithal to catch his beer can first before realizing his nose was doing a perfect imitation of Old Faithful. The medics were called and things progressed as expected. Although I did hear the medic say that the cause of the accident was "drinking while stupid".

I saw Dumber at the mail box yesterday and he is sporting a nice metal face plate with The Bruised & Bandaged Mark of Stupidity across his nose and face. Yeah Ladies, he's out there and available...........

Fly the Friendly Skies

2009-06-07T12:07:00.000-07:00

I know you can't believe it, but I am back in the blogger world. Things have calmed down and life is starting to return to a semi-normal state. I promise to catch everyone up ASAP, but this story was just dying to get out first and since when do I ever get on a plane and NOT have a story to tell? Well, cats & kittens, I have a little story for ya.

Recently my Papa passed away and Ms. Tastrophie had to travel back home to say goodbye to her greatest hero. She worshipped her Papa and was graced with 40 years of memories to keep her until she sees him again. So it's been a sad time for her.

So off I go to fly home and since I no longer work in the frequent flyer world and can't afford upgrades or first class seats on a teacher's salary, I was flying Southwest. This is important because Southwest doesn't have a first class section and anyone flying Southwest pretty much knows you (and the 150 other people on that flight) got the cheapest tickets you could find. Props to Southwest for keeping it real in this economy! I hear American is charging people for toilet usage now.

I get to the ticket counter to get my ticket and have spent a few minutes talking to the two ticket agents (TAs) when a guy comes strutting up to the second ticket agent. By strutting, I mean walking with a sense of self importance that only the truly egotistical and blowhard people of the world can pull off. You know them when you see them because secretly inside you are envisioning that person falling flat on his/her face while ripping their pants wide open and the whole world gets to discover that he/she doesn't have much to be strutting about.

Mr. I-AM-SO-MUCH-MORE-IMPORTANT-THEN-YOU gets to the counter and tells the ticket agent that he is on the 7 p.m. flight, but that she "needs to put him on the 5 p.m. flight " because (and I quote) "I shouldn't have to sit and wait that long, my time is too valuable". (Yep, he's an asshat.) The TA looks at Mr. Big Britches' ticket and proceeds to tell him he has a discounted fare and that to stand by will be change.... WOOOW

Here's where the gates of hell opened up and Mr Hell Fire decides to let everyone know just who he is. He started screaming about how he NEVER flies on a discounted fare and how he has told his legal team never to book a discounted ticket and how dare SWA put him in a discounted ticket and by GAWD, someone is going to get fired over this!! And did she know who he was?! Personally I don't think she gave a rat's ass about who he thought he was, but I was thinking he was Mr. Douche-bag.

Anyway, Mr. Never-Flies-Discount whips out his cell phone and starts punching it like a monkey on crack. By this time everyone around him has stopped what they are doing and is watching him like the attention-whore he obviously is.

Mr. ~ Barking loudly enough that the people at the DELTA counter 20 feet away can hear him: "GET ME LISA (holy cats, this asshat has an assistant with my name!!!)

Mr. ~ "DID YOU BOOK ME A DISCOUNTED TICKET? (not giving her anytime to answer) YOU'RE FIRED!!!! GET YOUR STUFF OUT OF MY OFFICE BEFORE I GET BACK!!"

Then he snaps his phone shut. Pretty much everyone within hearing distance is in stunned silence and waiting for his next Big-Asshat maneuver.

While he was making Lisa's day a little slice of hell, the ticket agent had been trying to tell Mr. Big Shot that his return ticket was a full fare ticket and that he could fly stand by without any changes. Big Shot wasn't listening (as I suspect is his normal operating mode) and is now giving the TA more than enough attitude due the situation. Again props to SWA for keeping it real, because the TA just tilted her head to the side and gave him a look that said "are you done?" until Blow hard ran out of steam.

Now, being how I am a "Lisa", I tend to have an affection for others who are cursed with the "Lisa" as well. And I for one, was not about to let Mr. Asshat have to last say in any show down with a fellow "Lisa". I don't care if she really is a colossal f*ck up of an assistant or if she has three heads. She is still a member of the "Lisa-hood" and I am honor bound to see to it that she be avenged. Besides, this guy has it coming to him and only Ms. Tastrophie has the attitude to do this one right.

After I received my ticket, I turned to leave the counter. Walking right by Mr. Don't-Mess-With-Me-Because-I-Don't-Fly-Discount, I looked him square in the eyes and said loudly enough for everyone to hear me (cause that's just the Ms. Tastrophie way)

"YOU'RE A PRICK"!!

Apparently, I wasn't the only one who thought that because several people clapped as I walked to security. The kicker: Mr. Prick was on my flight and sat a row behind me. I, of course, had to make sure that I told everyone around me (in an overly staged voice) the story of this total Prick who was making an ass out of himself at the ticket counter and what a jerk he was for firing his assistant. Her life is obviously so much better now that she doesn't have to work for him anymore. And, really, if he was such a big shot then why the hell was he not flying American or some other airline that is known for kissing the asses of pompous windbags like him? Why was he flying on SWA with us little people?

He never said a word and when we got off the plane in Dallas, if looks could kill I would have been Dead On Arrival.

Hitting Below the Belt

2009-04-19T09:23:00.001-07:00

LIES!!! LIES!!!! That thing in my bathroom is an evil lying little bastard! If it weren't for the fact that it is the only other thing with an actual human voice in my house, I would chuck it out the window and end its evil ways. In its malicious attempt to drive my already depressingly low morale into a pit so deep I may never recover, this foul-mouthed little machine has now informed me that I can include a fifteen pound weight gain to my hit-me-while-I-am-down list. No wonder everything in my closet no longer fits me. I think the two are in cahoots and are trying to gaslight me into thinking that I really have gained all this weight.

How could I? I only turned 40, made a major career change, lost 2/3 of my prior income but retained 100% of my prior debts, and increased my Hoho intake to nearly double its normal dietary allotment. I mean, none of these things should have any impact on my apparently-now-the-size-of-Texas ass, right?

Good grief this means I am going to have to say those two wretched-evil-foul-sounding words: Diet & Exercise. What the hell is my world coming to!! I mean, I can handle the career change. I love teaching even if it is THE MOST over-worked and under-paid profession in the world. (I swear to GAWD, if one more person tells me my job is easy because I get summers and holidays off, I am going to have to "enlighten" them about the REAL meaning of teaching.) I can handle the massive loss of income and recovering from being unemployed for almost a year. So what if I no longer have any retirement, my savings is gone, the IRS wants my first born child, and I am having to declare bankruptcy? I count myself lucky to HAVE a job and that it is a career I LOVE! Most people these days don't even have one of those two. But to add diet and exercise to the list? That's hitting below the belt.

Now this damnable digital devil has told me that my life as a Barbie is over. My youth has passed and my ass has become my personal Dorian Grey; taking toll for my indulgent sins. Damn you, Hostess for making such sweet chocolate and cream-spread rolls. Damn you for becoming my enabler and the pimp of my decadent escapes from the hounds of hell that has been this year. Now my sweet-sweet days of being able to inhale an entire thin crust pizza, three cokes and two pudding cups all in one sitting without anything to show for it are over. I mourn the loss of my metabolism and do not go quietly into this good night. (Why the hell is liposuction NOT covered through my insurance?)

Damn you thin celebrities for making me feel less than beautiful if I am not emaciated and malnourished. Goodbye my sacchariferous Hoho love. Our time was a delicious descent into cellulite and debauchery, but now must end. I must feign a new adoration for such unpalatable cellulose as celery and lettuce....

Oh screw the flowery goodbyes. Dude, this just sucks!!! I'm off to haul my newly formed ba-donka-donk butt into the gym before I suck down another two pound leftover Easter bunny in a fit of despair. And if you don't think I won't be bitching about dieting and working out, you obviously have not been reading Lisa-tastrophies for long.

Gold-Member

2009-04-15T17:44:00.000-07:00

Or what REALLY happened to King Midas and his golden touch.

This six weeks my class Language Arts class has been studying Mythology. Let's just say the gods and goddesses of Greek and Roman mythology in the minds of 7th graders are more mixed up than a Roman orgy at closing time.

Note to kids:

A) Pandora was not Samantha's mother from Bewitched. (Although points given for having knowledge of "vintage" television shows.)

B) Brad Pit is NOT really Hercules. Even if he was built like a greek god in the movie....

Monday we read the story of King Midas. For those who don't remember: his curse was to turn everything he touched into gold. Which was great for him in the beginning, but not so much for his daughter until Midas got his greed issues worked out.

Two things I have learned about teaching seventh graders:

1. They take everything LITERALLY!! They can't understand common sense, but they will beat you down with the literal every chance they get.

2. Everything ~ and I do mean EVERYTHING ~ can have a sexual connotation to it. Even math because GAWD forbid you add, subtract, multiply or divide something and have the answer turn out to be 69!!!! You will not get your class back for a good 10 minutes.

After we read the story, we start discussing why the ability to turn everything into gold might not be a good idea. It went a little like this:

T - that would be me : how do you think this would affect Midas in his daily life?

Student A: It would suck if you had to take a piss. Dude, you touch your dick to shake it off and your sh*t's hard for life.

Student B: Oh dude!! That would suck, except for with the chicks, man.

Student C: Yeah, but if she was sucking your dick and it was gold and everything you touch turned to gold, would she turn to gold? Cause, man, I ain't got no use for some gold hoochie.

T ~ (Not wanting to give ammunition to this conversation direction ): I can see how not being able to use certain body parts would not be a good thing, but can anyone think about other ways this golden touch might give Midas problems?

Student D: Oh Man!! So if everything you touch turned to gold, what about your sh*t? F*ck! Solid gold sh*t!! That's da bomb! You could actually sell your sh*t and get money......

This is the part where I walked over to my desk and open the "In Case of Emergency" drawer. This drawer is filled with chocolate ~ since the school district apparently frowns on teachers taking xanax during class room hours ~ and proceed to eat my body weight in Hershey's miniatures while waiting for the "Midas Touch" to run its course.

The Hamster Homicides: Confessions of a Serial Hamster Killer

2009-03-28T17:33:00.000-07:00

When I was just a little tastrophie in the making, I developed my love of all things furry. Since Mom knew, as all Moms know, that mini-tastrophie was not going to engage in any real care and feeding of the animals no matter how much she swore she would keep her room clean, feed it and love it every day, she was not going to hold up to her end of the bargin. And that Mom would be the one to walk the dog, clean up after the cat and feed both, she wisely denied all my pleas for a larger pet. She new better and thus regulated my fur ownership to small caged animals instead of the ones that had to be walked or scooped daily.

After days of endless whining on my part (a precursor to my days of endless b*tching, I assure you), Mom took me to the local pet store to pick out my new furry friend. Some how I wasn't a rat person and a gerbil looked too much like a mouse-kangaroo hybrid for my taste, so I settled on the cutest teddy bear hamster the store had to offer. He was golden and white and had checks that could hold an entire bag of sunflower seeds. With my being the creative person I am; I named him "Goldie". Not too sure he was happy about a being given a girl's name, but he never complained.

After a short period of time Goldie died. I don't know if it was from my constant feeding, or the fact that two days prior to his demise he had escaped from his happy habitrail home and woke up Mom in the middle of the night by crawling up her leg onto her chest. Mom responded by using a combination back-handed-bitch-slap with a terror-induced-throw-down ending in Goldie making direct and hard contact with the wall across the room. So Cause of Death, while never fully determined by necropsy, was either internal hemorrhage or internal fat. This began what would be my brief, but high body count, foray into the world of hamster homicide.

It was purely accidental, I assure you. And it is not like I am proud of the fact, that in the world of serial killers, (if the FBI included hamster body counts), I would probably be at the top of the most wanted list making John Wayne Gacey look like an amateur.

Goldie made it about a month in my house before he went to the big habitrail in the sky. I was broken hearted. I cried for two hours and in an attempt to get me to finally shut me up, Mom agreed to let me get another hamster. Off to the same pet store that bore Goldie to find me a new furry friend.

"Squirmmie" (Are you seeing a pattern to my pet-naming skills?) was the second and longest lasting of my hamsters. He lasted about four months before joining Goldie in the Great Hamster Valhalla. COD in his case was clear cut. He had an "unfortunate" wheel accident and that is all I can say about that. It wasn't pretty and I am still a little traumatized by the whole thing.

Back to the SAME pet-store we go. At this point the store owner has started to look at me a little funny and the other hamsters have begun backing away from the front of the cage when they see me. But this time I was going to be smart. Since the boy hamsters couldn't hack it in my house, I picked a girl hamster. I also managed to pick the hamster version of the happy hooker, cause this one came all ready knocked up. Hammie (Do you see now why I don't have kids? Can you imagine what I would have called them?) managed to increase the hamster to human ratio in my house by 5:1. Pretty impressive for a creature only seven inches long. After a few months, I discovered that hamsters are faster at breeding than rabbits. Six became 12, then 24, and so on.... I had my own stock piled hamster stash and the only thing that kept these little tribbles from over taking my house was my ability to "level the playing field".

I like to think of it was "loving them to death". In my need to overcompensate for the deaths of my first two, I made sure there was an endless food supply. I shoved anything and everything I thought a hamster could and would eat into that cage. My methods weren't always clean or consistent. After all I was only about 7 years old and couldn't remember when I had or had not fed them last. Feast or famine was my modus operandi, plus on occasion I had help from others. Hamsters are worse than the Mob at taking out others who get in line for their goods and there is no love loss when taking out your sibling if he cuts in line for the sunflower seeds. Pure carnage in a plastic coliseum.

In the end it wasn't pretty. It took fourteen months and countless bags of hamster food, but I managed to single-handedly reduce the hamster:human ratio to 0:3. By then I had run out of places in the back patio garden (we lived in an apartment) to bury the bodies. I had begun secretly disposing of my "hamster packs" in spots along the leasing office bushes, in trash dumpsters, and one mass grave in the playground sand pit. While that did cause quite the ruckus among the other apartment adults, no one asked any questions and Mom stopped asking me where the bodies were going. I think some things a parent does not want to know about their child.

Eventually they were all gone and Mom carted the well used habitrail to the dumpster for good. After the last one was gone, I did not have another pet until I was well into my teens. By then I had learned the rules of responsible pet ownership. Yet as Karma has always done, she was not about to let my hamster homicides to go unanswered. Since that fateful year, every pet that I have ever owned has had some illness/disease/injury that was answered in the biggest of Karmic-pay-backs: the over-priced vet visit. My guilt at having taken so many lives now manifests itself in spoiling my cats. Thus I have one very large, toothless cat and one who's lack of navigational skills cause her to miss the litter every time. And every now and then, when the pocket book is empty and the vet bill is large; I think I hear the soft squeaking giggles of a couple of dozen hamsters getting even.

Thanks to Dr. Zibbs who's equal opportunity offending of little people inspired this blog.

Beware the IRS of March

2009-03-23T20:09:00.000-07:00

Guess what happens when you try to deduct Ho-ho's and you make a major screw up on your tax returns from two years ago? The IRS sends you a nice love letter saying you f*cked up and could you please send them a check for $10,000 ... LIKE NOW. But if you can't pay, they will be more than happy to let you make payments while interest and penalties rack up at a rate higher than the current APR +20%. I should be able to pay off Uncle Sam for this nice little screw sometime in 2120.

I have to say that opening this letter was a one of a kind feeling. Somewhere between getting kicked in the (proverbial) nuts, getting bitch-slapped and having your eyes gouged out by

hot iron pokers all at once. I am not recommending this ride to anyone. After the full bout of hysteria and hyperventilation, followed by the consumption of SEVERAL boxes of Ho-ho's and a few (OK, MANY) xanax, I proceeded to scour my house for money. I found $2 in my jeans pocket, $1.75 in change between the couch cushions and a few wayward raisins under the sofa. (Do raisins go bad??) Now, if I can just come up with the other $9,996.25 before April 15th, I should be good to go. Apparently if you are a fat-cat CEO who gets mega buck bonuses, Uncle Sam doesn't give a rat's ass about your tax return but if you are a dead broke first year teacher who is still trying how to make ends meet every month when she has more month than money...game on!!

On the bright side, the IRS is not auditing me. Which would probably amount to a bigger pocket-book bioposy than this one. So I should be thanking my lucky stars that it is just a minor piece of government endorsed extortion instead of a full blown body cavity search with a chain-saw. Although, it is just as pleasant feeling :-)

So here are Ms. Tastrohpie's little words of warning for all you tax-fun loving people this time of year. CHECK, DOUBLE CHECK and THEN GET SOMEONE ELSE TO CHECK before you file. (Karma can kick slap me all she wants and usually does; I just don't want her messing with anyone else.)

I'm off to go sell some plasma, a kidney and my (future) first born child. Hey Mister, can you spare a dime?

P.s. Turbo-Tax can SUCK IT!!!

Can I Deduct Ho-Hos?

2009-03-10T14:43:00.000-07:00

Oh Good GAWD it's that time again. That time when I run around the apartment looking for everything and anything that can be considered a deduction on my taxes. And let me tell you, people, Ms. Tastrophie can rationalize the living sh*t out of things.

***Five dollar Starbucks White Mocha Latte as an educational expense? Hell yes! You want me to be wide away when I am trying to import the importance of conjugating the "be" verb correctly to kids who can barely spell their own names, don't you? Not to mention that Ms. T tends to be a bit on the cranky when she doesn't get her morning fix. Not a good thing when talking to a bunch of kids who think Tupoc was the Original Gangster.

***$65 (on SALE ~ thank you very much) Naturalizer kitten heeled black patent leather too cute shoes ~ educational expense. Because we do NOT need another teacher in a denim empire waist jean dress and tennis shoes trying to teach the importance of making a good impression. Define Irony, anyone???

***Massage therapy ~ health care. Uh, duh! If you had my job you would be stressed too. So having Sven with the Wonder hands rub me up and down for an hour, keeps me from going postal on the kids. I think that is justification enough. Plus, did I mention his name is Sven? Please feel free to use your imagination...I do ;-)

***Ho-hos and Xanax ~ another health care cost. I lobbied my insurance company to include Ho-hos in the prescription plan but I don't think they are taking me seriously. I kept getting sent to the Mental Health Claims department every time I call and ask about this. I don't know why?

***Victoria Secret V-Thong Panties with Matching Bra Sets ($250) ~ Home Improvement. How the hell am I ever going to move out of a shit-hole one bedroom apartment if I don't get a man who can hep finance the move out? O.K. this one is a little on the setting-women-back-a-few-decades side, but these are desperate times and I am in some serious need of a few tax breaks of my own, so work with me here people.

Now if anyone knows where I can get a couple of social security cards issued for Elsa and Bud E. Phat, I would appreciate it. Since they don't seem to be motivated to find a way to help support this one income household, I am thinking I am going to shove them in some Baby Gap clothing and start claiming them as dependents.

I'm off to go look for that receipt for my Coach Carry-All ~ Future Mortgage Expenses. Because at the rate the economy is falling, I maybe living out of that bag soon enough.

Sarcasm ~ Not Just For Adults Anymore

2009-03-01T15:27:00.000-08:00

Ms. Tastrophie is one for knowing when to cop an attitude and when NOT to cop an attitude. I have copped a few in my life and all I can say is that; in the world of the verbal bitch slap, Ms. Tastrophie has been known to take down a few names. When I lived in the corporate-frequent-flier-world, I earned quite a few upgrades based on my ability to repartee and flay with the best of them. So when I started teaching, I realized the day of the verbal-knock-down was coming to an end. Or so I thought....

Every teaching book, training video, educational theory class in the world will tell you that you can not, and should not use sarcasm with kids. Wwwwweeeeeeeellllllll..... I'm here to tell you that, aaahhhh, isn't necessarily true. In fact sarcasm can be, and usually is, your best line of defense in some cases. And used effectively will gain you more street-cred than a new pair of Jordans on a Friday night.

Case in point. When some smart mouthed seventh grader yells at you from across the room "Fuck You Bitch, you ain't my Mamma", you can smile and simply reply back "No, I am not your Mamma. God didn't see why two women should have to bear that little life draining pleasure." And no one will see the verbal smack down you just bestowed on the lovely little princess you have in your class.

Since Sarcasm works so well, not only with the students, but with their parents; I feel it should be spread equally. Especially when someone's Baby-Mama is telling you that her little contribution to the world's future is not her problem during school hours and it ain't her fault that the kid can't do homework because he/she was too stoned after finding da Mama's stash last night. Please feel free to enlighten Ms. Baby-Mama that you can not take the credit for her child's future employment at McDonald's; that bragging right will be all hers.

Apparently I am not the only one. Recently a friend sent me the following comments via e-mail. Ms. Tastrophie is only ashamed that she did not think of some of them first.

These are actual comments made on students' report cards by teachers in the New York City public school system. All teachers were reprimanded (but, boy, are these funny!)

1. Since my last report, your child has reached rock bottom and has started to dig.

2. I would not allow this student to breed.

3. Your child has delusions of adequacy.

4. Your son is depriving a village somewhere of an idiot.

5. Your son sets low personal standards and then consistently fails to achieve them.

6. The student has a 'full six-pack' but lacks the plastic thing to hold it all together.

7. This child has been working with glue too much.

8. When your daughter's IQ reaches 50, she should sell.

9. The gates are down, the lights are flashing, but the train isn't coming.

10. If this student were any more stupid, he'd have to be watered twice a week.

11. It's impossible to believe the sperm that created this child beat out 1,000,000 others.

12. The wheel is turning but the hamster is definitely dead.

But I Love Nuts....

2009-02-26T13:03:00.000-08:00

Once again, life on an airplane has brought me something to blog about.

First off, in order to get to my Mother's house I have to start flying at ass crack early, go to no less than half a dozen airports and change flights about five times. Damn good thing I really like going to the Caribbean because if she still lived in New Jersey and I had to do that crap... Faaaaaaa - getta-boudit.

Anyway, on the fifth and final leg of my day long venture, I had hit max-flight-saturation and had begun to hallucinate. I know this because as I was sitting in my (recently upgraded) first class seat and after watching the in-flight movie, a PSA came on for prostate cancer. Nothing unusal there. Men, get your prostate checked!! If we woman can endure having our girls pushed into pancakes by Nurse Ratchett with a machine that amounts to a medievil torture device, you can turn to the side and cough.
So the PSA starts and the bubbly young blonde starts telling the women in the audience to make a prostate check appointment for the men in their lives. OK, I get it. Men hate going to the doctor for any reason. (Case in point my Dad ~ who happened to almost slice his nose off and thought that super-gluing it back together would work just fine. Step-Mom had the good sense to yank his butt and nose into the ER.) So instead of riding your man's ass to get him to do it, make the appointment and he can't back out. Simple as that and I'm cool with that idea. Then the blonde babe tells the women to tell their men that by making this appointment she is showing him that she loves ALL of him...and not just his prostate. WWWWAAAAAHHHHH?????

Now there have been a gazillion books written about relationships between men and women, and how men and women talk to each other. And how men and women talk differently than each other. And how men feel about women and how we express our feelings differently. But NEVER in all my self-help/relationship-help reading days have I EVER seen it written that women express their love for their man by grabbing him by the balls and saying "THIS" is what I love about you. I mean, we may LOVE that part of you and we may even LOVE all the things you can make it do. But we do not LOVE ONLY THAT part of you. Unlike some men I have known...

Yes, this is that part that rags on men objectifying women through their body parts. (If I was really offended by it, do you think I would have paid so much for the Turbo Twin Upgrades I LOVE so much?) Women do NOT keep a man around long enough to make a Prostate Doctor appointment for him just because he has a great "package" in his jeans. We may put up with his baggage and crap for a while because of it, but we aren't going to make a "bend over" exam for that man.

Back to the plane and a dozen people in first class watching Ms. Perky Prostate PSA make her little announcement. I am scanning the seats to see if anyone else is having this nutty moment. Most were stifling their snarfing or rolling their eyes in a sort of we-don't-talk-about-nuts-and-bolts-in-public kind of way, when a hushed female voice from behind me asks her husband what a prostate is. (I am assuming it was her husband because she had Trophy Wife stamped all over her Prada wearing forehead and had the blank expression of someone who has problems putting 2+2 together and getting anything other than 22.) Thankfully, he had the sense to whisper his answer back to her because I didn't really want to hear how he was going to answer. He must have broken it down into elementary terms because she replied, "But honey, I love nuts...."

And I love traveling :-)

Out Of Service

2009-02-01T13:51:00.000-08:00

Due to difficulties beyond our control, Ms. Tastrophie will not be posting for a while.
While she may visit blogs from time to time, she will not be attending to this site in the near future. Thank you to everyone who has posted, read and stalked this blog in the past.
Ms. Tastrophie hopes to one day return to her snarky ways and post again in the future.

What Did You Say??

2009-01-17T18:09:00.001-08:00

This is a re-enactment of a conversation that I had with my younger sister (YS). The following is the conversation as I heard it in my mind and may or may not be how it really happened. But this version is funner:

Ring Ring

ME: Hello?

YS: (very loudly and in an exceited tone) I LOOOOOOOOOOVVVVVEEE COOOOAAAAWWWKKKKK!!!!!

ME: (Holy sweet mother of pearl, what did she say?) WHAT?!?!?!?

YS: (again in said loud excited voice) I LOOOVVVEEE CC-AA-WWW-KKK

ME: What the ever-loving hell are you talking about?
(I am now standing in the cat food isle of Wal-Mart and can no longer concentrate on the decision between Fancy Feast and Special Kitty brand cat foods. Somehow words that sound like porn movie lines tend to do that to me. Go figure.)

YS: (speaking at a rapid fire rate and in a loud voice) It’s great! And it comes in all sizes and colors. And I have been sticking it in every hole I could find. It's fixed everything. Dad says he uses his all the time...

ME: SSSHHHHUUUUUTTTT UUUUPPPPP!!!!! At this point I had to interrupt her because what I was hearing sounded like something that was going to send me into therapy for a very, very long time. Seriously, I do not need to know anything in the remotely porn-like-information department from any of my family members. It's bad enought that I have made secret agent trips to the Wall-O-Vibraters* for my friends. I don't even want to go there when it's family!

YS: I love this stuff. I spent the entire day playing with it and if I wasn’t so tired, I would play with all night, but I am just beat.

I am now covering the phone, hiding in the corner of the cat food isle and hoping like hell no one around me speaks English well enough to understand any of the conversation that is coming through the phone.

ME: Oh GAWD!! Please tell me your husband is not in the room while you are telling me this? And on second thought, WHY are you telling me this? I don't need to know about your sex life and SHUT UP about anything sex and Dad!!!

Silence on the phone as I can hear it sinking in that I am not understanding what she is saying.....

YS: WHAT??? Not COCK, you idiot. CAULK. C-A-U-L-K You know, the stuff you use to seal tubs and stuff?** You get it at Home Depot??? Really! Get your mind out of the gutter.

The conversation pretty much died out after that. Then I started thinking about how funny Home Depot could make Caulk. Just think about it:

LADIES NIGHT AT HOME DEPOT!!
All the Caulk you can handle!
Now Offering caulk-tales for all the single women.

Hammered and Nailed by the Caulk on Isle 4

Alright, I'll stop. I know. I am just amusing myself on this, but it really was kind of funny. At least in my mind.

*See previous post "Secret Agent (Wo)Man"

**OK, now why she thought that moi of all people would know anything about the Caulk is beyond me? I have ZERO Home Depot gene and my Dad restricted me from using anything fix-it-yourself after I managed to send a 16 penny nail straight out of a nail gun and dead center into a freshly finished tiled wall. My tool belt privileges were revoked forever after we spent four hours fixing that mess.

***P.s. the bloody spell check isn't working for some reason and I am too darn lazy to go get the dictionary. Sorry.

So Help Me GOD!!

2009-01-14T19:11:00.000-08:00

Atheists want God stricken from inaugural oath

Lord Almighty what the F*CK has this country come to? Sooooo, let me get this straight. I am not supposed to offend YOUR delicate civil liberties by discussing, praying about, mentioning, and/or otherwise acknowledging in an oath that I believe that there is SOME form of a higher being other than Homo sapiens? BUT you can sue me and infringe upon my right to swear to, believe in, pray for, or otherwise publicly acknowledge that I believe someone else is watching over and helping me? Tell me again why MY beliefs are wrong but YOUR beliefs are right? Oh I guess you forgot that whole Rodney King plea: "Can't we all just get a long?" Or that part about not judging lest you be judged your self. Or that I'm rubber and your glue ~ whatever you say bounces off me and sticks to you!! For Jimminy Cricket's sake, who really gives a shit if the man says "so help me God" or if he says "so help me Jimmy Buffet" as long as he says he is going to faithfully serve and defend our country!?!?!

Because if I didn't believe in a higher power, I would have to slit my wrists right now over the thought that F*cktards like this asshat are not part of Satan's big plan and the world really is just going to sh*t in a hand basket all on it's own. Because, REALLY?!? Who gives a crap which God Obama is going to ask help from as long as he is asking for help for our country, it's people, servicewomen and men, ending THAT war! And while, yes, I would prefer that he be asking the same God I use when praying for these things, I'm not going to sue him in hope of him not being able to take the OATH of office.

So here's some free advice about dealing with the "so help me God" issue....... JUST DON"T LISTEN TO THAT PART OF THE OATH!!! Holy rat-f*ck, I solved the entire problem. If you don't like it you can move to a country where they tell you which temple/church you will worship at and with which idol/God/deity and how many times a day you must worship and if you don't they will whip/beat/crucify you to within an inch of your sorry life "SO HELP ME GAWD/ALLAH/BUDDA/XENA WARRIOR PRINCESS"!!

P.s. this post was brought to you by the makers of Ambein and xanax and their friends at Smernoff.

That's My Story... And I Am Sticking To It

2009-01-11T13:17:00.000-08:00

When the school board pulls me in and asks me why my kids didn't learn a damn thing all year long, I am going to man up and put the full weight of the responsibility right where it belongs....

On the computer screen shoulders of my fellow bloggers. Thanks to the following people for helping me to get absolutely nothing accomplished in the way of lesson plans, papers read or test graded:

Dr. Zibbs

MJenks

Cappydoodles

IHoB (who has gone away, but I still give him some of the blame)

Chemgeek

Random Ramblings

Evil Genius and his gal-pal Evil Red

MelO

And oh so many more I found from clicking links on these blogs.

It's because of you funny people that I have nothing to show in the way of inspiring lessons that will motivate juvenile delinquents in training to cast off their bad-willy-wanna-be behaviors and become highly educated, fully employed, tax paying citizens in their adult years.

And I thank you, each and every one of you. Because with out you to take the full responsibility for my perfecting of procrastination, I would be forced to admit that I spent the weekend watching re-runs of David Caruso and Emily Procter battle it out for the WORST ACTING Emmy in the Seriously-Not-Needed-Spin-Off Category.* Not that I did that or anything, I'm just saying it's really all your fault. You and those meddling blogs you insist on writing. Except, you IHoB. You left me crying and broken hearted. Forced to read old posts.... oh Fernando, I will forever dream about what might have been (insert cheesy love song that I can't remember the name of).

Anyway, I have to go watch the entire season of 24 in hopes of redeeming myself with the people at Netflix. They are beginning to question my taste in DVD rentals. I think it had something to do with the post-it note I attached to the copy of Starship Troopers II stating something about this being the BEST MOVIE EVER!! Yeah, drinking and Netflixing = not always a proud moment. But just so you know bloggers, I will be watching you. And you had better keep up your end of the responsibility bargain here. I ain't going down alone on this one.

*(I was going to attach the best video of Caruso one liners, but I can't figure out how to do that, so follow the link ~ you'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll realize that my cat has more acting skills than Caruso.)

P.s. If anyone can help me with Blogger's crappy formating please leave me help in the comments section. Also, how do I get videos on here? Damn.

Holy Crap!

2009-01-07T06:37:00.000-08:00

The other day I was deep in thought. As luck had it, I was deep in thought in my favorite deep in thought place: sitting on the loo. As I was conducting my business and thinking all manner of very important things, when my eyes wandered around the ceramic surroundings and spied a book.

Given that my life has become a performance art of multi-tasking, I have to squeeze in things where ever I can... even in the can.

One of the books I noticed sitting in the book bin was a Bible Daily Devotional. It was then that I had the most insidious thought. One I think could be worthy of debate amongst the best religious scholars or Notre Dame graduates. (OK, not really, but it would be an interesting to get the Vatican's insight into this ~ Anyone have the number of Dial-a-Pope?)

I wondered: Do you think God is offended when people read the Bible/Biblical Literature /

Devotionals while performing the bases of human functions sitting on the loo? I mean, really? You are in there eliminating the waste from your life when you are struck by the need to get closer to the Almighty?

Da-da-da-da- just sitting here and oh yeah, "Hi God, I'd like to spend a few minutes in deep meaningful thought with you. Yeah, I know I am taking a major dump right now, but isn't this the best time to pray for that new job/man/car I have been wanting? It's not like I am putting You on the same level as, say, my needing to pee, but that I can't squeeze another more fitting moment out of my day to talk with you. Please don't be offended. I mean, thousands of people talk on their cell phone while using the bathroom. I herd a woman the other day at Miami International Airport breaking up with her boyfriend just two stalls away. So if she can conduct life changing business like that while on the seat, I should be able to have a heart-to-heart one-on-one with the Big Man. Right?"

I know that these two topics of thought in the same blog could be offensive to some, but I don't think I am the only guilty party here. (He that is without sin among you, let him cast the first stone. ~ Remember that one???) So what do you think? Do you think God takes offense to us using "potty time" as "prayer time"? What if there is some form of prayer purgatory where you have to pay penitence for your misspent personal time with God? Like one layer of Dante's Inferno where you stand endlessly in line for the ladies room at some major sporting event while having to watch the line for the men's room sail quickly through.

Maybe, I'm just over thinking this whole thing. I mean, with all the other sh*t that I have done in my life that I am going to have to answer for on the Big Day, is this sh*t really going to be one of them? Or will The Big Man just say all is forgiven?

Bon Pasku & Bon Nuevo Annos

2008-12-30T12:24:00.001-08:00

What? It means Merry Christmas & Happy New Year in Pompementaeu. Which is what they speak on the island of Bonaire. It's a small island right above Venezuela and sort of in between Arruba and Curacao. And it's where my Mom lives. They moved there about three years ago and I get the added bonus of "having" to go visit my Mom in the Caribbean. Damn, life's not fair.

So, while I everyone is suffering the fall out from the nasty weather in the states, I am soaking up the sun and SCUBA diving in the most beautiful waters in the Caribbean. (Bonaire is the #1 voted Caribbean dive spot). Yeah, it sucks to be me, I know.

I will return with my new and improved blogging after the first week in January. Just wanted to wish everyone a safe & Happy New Year!

It Seemed Harmless in the Beginning

2008-12-22T07:24:00.000-08:00

Holy Hot Rocks, Batman! It was a little over a year ago that I started blogging. Admittedly, I was much funnier in the beginning and my rants have gone down the tubes over the last few months, but I do intend to make a come back. I will be funny again! I will learn to over come Blogspot's crappy formatting. I will figure out how to get The Internet Sensation that is Dr. Zibbs to read my blog. I have survived my first semester of teaching, becoming more than poor, and a year so close to hell the only thing I can say is "Damn, I'm hot!" (Double meaning intended :-)

Now I can focus my somewhat limited attention span on bigger and better blog offerings. Hell, I might even learn to proof-read my writing more than once.

In honor of (and seriously people, we should all be honoring moi) my first year of blogging, I return to where it all began: the first post. Below is the karmic moment when wine, whining and writing all fell into place:

Seriously people. Two Buck Chuck and the internet at 2 a.m. are never a good mix. Actually, most decisions made at 2 a.m. are never good ones. I mean who has ever stood in front of the ATM in the middle of the night, getting cash to support something they were not going to regret the next time they woke up?
2 a.m. + decisions = BAD MIX.
OK, so it was really around midnight, but whatever.... about a empty Chuck bottle latter, I thought e-mailing would be a great idea and wasn't NOW the appropriate time to catch up with all my chickas. After all, I had been out of the country and they had little-to-no contact with me. And weren't they just dying to know what was going on in MY little piece of the world.
Thus at midnight I am clicking away at my contact list and in my drunken haze clicked the e-mail of my recently Ex-dating "relationship".
Note to self: Once dumped remove e-mail, phone number, website and all other possible ways of contacting said "ex" from all things electronic/digital/technological.

After raging on them to get SCUBA certified so that we can commander the high seas as SCUBA Chicks next year, and updating them on my current work/lack of work situation, I move on to the big topic: my getting dumped 12 days before I turn a "certain" age. See Exert Below:

"Well, I have slowed down a bit on the break-up crying. I mean, he did have the worst timing...12 days before I turn ##. Thanks. Insult to injury. Positive side: I do think this qualifies me for an emergency botox. The bummer part is that I really must have liked this guy more than I thought (or I have the world's most RAGING case of PMS) because all I want to do it crawl under a rock and try to figure out what is so wrong with me that a really smart, nice, funny (and for me cute) 45-yr-old divorcee with grown kids and graying hair (that I found to be really sexy) would dump me...He gave me the same lines we all get. The "I can't give you what you want" - which I find interesting because he never asked me what I wanted. That was
followed by the "he doesn't deserve me" line. Really, did he stomp on baby kittens in a past life and dating me was some sort of special hell reserved for Kitten stompers, Dante's political enemies and Caiaphas?? What did he "deserve"? Sharon Stone? But as difficult as it has been, I have been respectful of his decision. I have been good and not e-mailed, called or texted him...out of respect for his wants. Can't say it has been easy...especially since A---- and I have managed to inhale an entire bottle (or so) of wine between the two of us tonight as I was writing this up. It was so much easier when all we had to worry about was the drunk-dialing from the cordless phone at home. Or paging him 600-million times...remember when pagers where in? :-) Now you practically have to lock yourself in the loo in order to avoid any possibility that you could get some drunken message out."

Which is apparently what I needed to do...because he got the e-mail!! Spent the next day wording carefully phrased apologetic e-mail to said EX, then deleting name, number, e-mail, web-page and anything else that could possibly lead to accidental contact from all things electronic. And nursing headache, and bruised pride...again.

This people is the introduction to what I have labeled Lisa-tastrophies. Those lovely little life events that only seem to happen once in a person's life but for some reason appear almost daily in mine. I would love to say I wasn't bitter, but OH PLEASE!!! I went an entire year thinking that CNN was announcing daily that the world was indeed out to get me and that everyone was in on it but me. Since my friends tell me I need to write a book about these little Lisa-tastrophies, I thought I would try my hand at the blog. Maybe it will serve as a warning to the rest of the world that if you are a royal B*&% to the oh-so-badly-dressed lady at the Nordstrom's shoe rack and tell her that you are indeed SHOPPING there while she is WORKING there;* that life will come back and karma kick you in the @$$. So here's my chance to chronicle them all.

*more on that story latter...and yes, she did deserve it...and yes, she did get canned....and yes, I did get the best pair of perfect black pumps on sale for 40% off plus an extra 10% for my troubles.

Now Isn't That Special

2008-12-20T15:22:00.000-08:00

Last week I went to church. Yes, I went in the building and No, it did not catch on fire. Lightening bolts did not hit the roof and the pits of Hell did not open to devour me. Although I did manage to scare the crap out a little old man when I accidently walked in the men's room. Since I think that was what he was there for in the first place, that doesn't count.

After the pre-ordained* hour of listening to our Pastor telling us about the meaning of having a giving heart, the Christmas season, and being charitable to others, it was time to go.

I got into my car and proceeded to start backing out of my parking spot. Now, before I started backing out, I did my safety checks. I looked Left Behind** ~ check. I looked Right Behind ~ check. And I looked straight behind ~ oohhh nice Aaasss..... Uh, Check. I even fixed my lipstick in the rear view mirror before I completely committed to putting the gear in the reverse position.

Now, I took driver's education about the time that law makers started requiring set belts to be worn all the time, so my knowledge on the legality of the speed limit in a church parking lot might be a little hazy. However, I did take defensive driving a few months ago and now know the laws regarding the right of way. (And yes, I know the legality of driving 10 miles over the posted speed limit on the interstate, thank you very much Mr. I-Would-Give-A-Ticket-To-My-Own-Mother-Police-Officer.)

Anyway, I am about 2/3rds of the way out of my parking spot when this Soccer-Mom-Pimped-Out SUV comes hauling ass around the corner and slams on the brakes. By this time I am fully committed to getting out of my parking spot and was not about to throw it into drive just to tuck my Toyota totin' butt out of her way. Especially since I have THE LAW on my side. Yep, thanks to my newly minted defensive driving knowledge, I know I have the right of way in this situation. Check it people, once you are over half way out of the parking spot, Ms. Soccer-Mom-SVU has to wait on you! So there!!!

When I continue with my reversing process, Ms. I-Go-To-Church-And-Am-Obviously-A-Much-Better-Christian-Than-You proceeds to lay on the horn and flip me the bird!!!!! Wellllllll, isn't that sssspeciahhhhhhhl!! Being the much better person (of course), I just smiled, waved and mouthed "Merry Christmas............

B*tch" as I finished pulling out and drove out of sight.***

* Oh here I go, getting funny... Get it? Pre ordained Pastor. Somebody stop me.

**Get it???!!! Oh Christianity & Armageddon humor is too much

***Let's just say I am a work in progress on that whole being good to ALL God's creatures.

Houston, We have a Mouse

2008-12-19T18:58:00.000-08:00

As Promised Several Blogs Ago......

When I was coming back from the second best holiday EVER...

~ The BEST holiday EVER was the year I spent Christmas with my less than favorite side of the family. The night before, BFF & I had engaged in our now annual Christmas Eve Sushi Feast and I had gone to the liquor store in order to stock up on Santa's Little Helpers (Jim, Jack and Smirnoff). I was three feet from the liquor store door when I slammed my hand in the car door. (So close, yet so far away. Story of my life!) I got to spend the next four hours in the ER with a fat-assed nurse who could not be bothered to get me some ice and a man who wanted a tetanus shot for a cut he had received three days earlier. The ER doctor was obviously less than please to be working the holidays and dosed me with enough pain killers to keep Rush Limbaugh happy for a few years. What made this the BEST holiday EVER was that I got to spend the entire Christmas Day drooling on myself, demonstrating that hand-eye coordination is not key to demolishing freshly wrapped gifts, and generally getting away with telling the less-than-favorite-family-members what I REALLY thought about them; then getting to blame it all on the drug induced haze. Loved it!!

Anyway, back to the Second Best Holiday Ever. Which was brought about in part by my Dad's superior Apple Martini making skills. After spending a few days with the family and my shaken-not-stirred new friend, I was headed home via the Houston Intercontinental Airport. I had decided to sit apart from the crowd at the gate when I looked down and saw a pair of black eyes and whiskers poking out from under a newspaper. WHAT THE??!?!?!?!!?

It was a little mouse. No shit!! A mouse. In the middle of a major international airport. A small, grey colored, cute as a button, little field mouse. Complete with whiskers and a little tail that were moving like he was in the great quake of 1906. How in the world he got there, I have no idea, but he defiantly took a wrong turn somewhere in the maze. And now this little guy was shaking for dear life under a chair in the Continental gate 23 lounge of Houston Bush International Airport. About the same time that I noticed Mr. Jingles, Bubba the Redneck comes running up to him like he is going to stomp the living daylights out of the poor mouse. I mean, this man was hell bent on doing something to this poor mouse.

Now, anyone will tell you that Ms. Tastrophie is a softy for the furry. Not so much for people. Especially not so much for people who don't have a soft for the furry. And had Bubba gone through with his mouse stomping plans, Ms. Tastrophie would have been spending the end of her Thanksgiving break in a Houston jail cell. (And I do NOT look good in orange!)

Since Bubba was on a mission, I quickly got up and scooped up Mr. Jingles and whisked him over to my seat. After a few minutes of soothing whispers and gentle stroking, I tried to figure out what to do with this newest edition to my travel plans. I think there was a little divine intervention for Mr. Jingles, since I just happen to have a little plastic container to put him in. (Gammie had packed me a lunch for my trip; thus the container.) Although I think the excitement might have been a bit much for the poor fellow. He was scared stiff and looked like he was going to die from fear alone, not Bubba's size 22 boot.

After a few minutes of pleading with the nice man from customer service, Mr. J was on his way to the field outside the airport. At least that is what I made the man swear to me was going to happen. I did not want ~ and do not want~ to know if Mr. J was going to meet any other fate. (I would have brought him home, but Elsa would have made it a very short homecoming for Mr. Jingles and I think he preferred the fields anyway.)

I'd like to think that Mr. Jingles is now off somewhere in the green fields of Houston Intercontinental Airport. Maybe with his own little Cirque du Souris. And if Karma likes to give it out to others, like she has been givin' it to me lately, Bubba is experiencing a few little boot stompings himself.

P.s. for my germaphobic readers: YES, I washed my hands. And used the Purell.

Life Changing Choices

2008-12-14T15:29:00.000-08:00

As some of you know, my life has gone through some really big changes in the past year. The biggest one comes from a change of careers and the income that comes with that change. Basically I went from trying to keep up with the Joneses to trying to figure out how I am going to make $50 last three weeks when I still have bills to pay.

Last week I had a nasty viral infection that spread across my face like wild-fire (from the left bottom corner of my mouth, across my lower lip to the right upper corner of my eye.) It wasn't pretty and could have caused blindness if it had spread into my eye. The doctor was nice enough to send mega drug prescriptions to the pharmacy for me. Mega drug prescriptions that come with a mega drug price and no generic equivalent. I get paid once a month. I bring this up because once I have paid everything I can for the month, I am rarely left with more than $200 to pay for food, gas and anything else Murphy decides throws at me during the remaining 29-30 days of the month. This month, I had about $100 left and Murphy is having a field day throwing curve balls at me. This was only one of his pitches. Got to love Murphy and his timing.

I go to pick up the Mega drugs along with some routine medication and the clerk tells me the price is $158!! AND I HAVE INSURANCE!! I don't even want to know what the price would have been had I not had insurance. I had $30 in cash in my wallet and about $100 left in my checking. Math skills check: 100+30 = 158??? Nope. Not even close.

For the first time in my life I experienced what it felt like to have to choose between a true rock and a hard place. Not a "oh, do I have McDonald's even though it's really not in my budget" choice, but a "will they cut off my electricity if I get choose to get medication that might save my life with this money instead of paying the electric bill?" choice. I can honestly say that if you have never stood at the Walgreen's pharmacy counter with a line of people behind you that can hear every word spoken and ask the pharmacist which medication you can live without; you have no idea the humiliation and hurt that comes with this choice. I stood there fighting with every ounce of courage I could muster, trying to retain what little shred of my dignity I still had as I paid for what I could afford. It took the sheer strength of God to get my feet to carry me out of the store without collapsing, crying into a fetal position. As I walked out, I put my last fifty cents into the Salvation Army kettle. Somewhere, someone will need that 50 cents as much as I just had a few minutes earlier.

I now know what it feels like to lose your self worth and try to retain some dignity; and it's not a warm fuzzy. I have a feeling that until I can recover from the changes that have been occurring in my life, I will have a more than a few of these moments. It sucks. For lack of a more mature adult term, it really sucks. It's like having the wind knocked out of you, and the person who delivered the punch is someone you know and love. And it feels like the world is sitting in judgement of you and finding you guilty even though you know you are innocent.

So this Christmas season, when you go to buy another needless thing for that Great Aunt Sally you never really liked and don't talk to except once a year. Take a moment to be grateful you have the ability to make that choice and aren't faced with the decision between a Maslow's need and a Macy's need. That the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come will show you "God Bless Us Everyone" and not the feted face of Jacob Marley in your dreams. I was not mindful of the spirit of my choice to keep up with the Jones. I wasn't grateful that I had the ability to choose. I never was grateful and now I wish I had been.

So to all, I wish with a grateful heart a Merry Christmas.

God Bless Us Everyone.

How Do You Like Me Now?

2008-12-08T18:04:00.000-08:00

Last Sunday, I met a Blog-friend!! You guys, this was sooooo cool. There is so much to tell you'all, so don't lose me here.

First, I met Caps through our blogs and Ravelry. Oh and she is a way better knitter than I am! Not to mention the girl kicks Martha Stewart ass when it comes to getting the Christmas decorations done, cards mailed, presents knitted (yes, I said knitted), crafty decorations made and her own personal four disk set of rockin' Christmas carols. Me? Yeah, not so much. If you get your card before Valentine's Day, think of it as my way of extending the holidays just a little bit longer.

Anyway, after many moons of blog-talking and my joyful winning of a personal copy of the said four disk Christmas set, Caps and I thought it would be great to meet IRL. Being that we are both residing in the same town and all.

First off, you all, it's kind of weird to meet some one you know, but don't know, but want to know, but are afraid they won't like you, but don't really know. And what if you don't like them? And what if they are really just a front for some psycho-cyber-stalking ring that withholds Ho-ho's and xanax from unsuspecting first year teachers?? And did I mention, I was REALLY afraid she wouldn't like me?

I mean, it's kind of like a blind date that your mutual friend sets you up on. And has told you all the details about the person, but forgets to mention the really important things...like the name. True story, I didn't know Caps' name!! I only knew her as Cappydoodles!! (Which makes for an odd moment when you first meet.)

Well, it turns out that Caps is way too cute and cool. (And I don't think she would ever withhold any Ho-ho's or Xans, thank GAWD!!) We chatted, knitted, and ogled yarn. She told me where she was from and I told her about my mouse adventures in Houston. Turns out Caps has a handbag problem as well. I KNEW I would like this girl! Although we were good and didn't buy any new knitting bags, or yarn. (Damn you, Budget!!) She did try to convince me that knitting socks was easy, but I am not too sure...

So, how did it go, you might ask? Did she like me? I think so and I made her blog for the day! That must be a good sign. Ms. Tastrophie has to say that she has never been that confident when she meets people for the first time. Honestly, I talk a blue streak out of nerves and people have been known to gnaw their own arms off in order to escape. Me? Did I like her? Oh Hell Yeah!! She knits, she decorates, she makes jello-shots in actual syringes. What could you not like?!?! (Cappydoodles ~ can't wait for the next time! I have to try that jello-shot idea.)

Now, all I have to do is meet:

Mjenks and Wizard Cat

IHOB and Fernando

Chemgeek

Reenie

Vanessa

... And many more (but it's late and I need to BS my way through another lesson plan.)

Two for Tuesday

2008-12-02T17:47:00.000-08:00

Being a woman of few words, I thought I would share how my day went with you. I hope you had a wonderful day :-) Besides, the real post for today is below.

P.s. Not really THAT bad, but I giggled my rear off at this and wanted to share it

Fancy That

2008-12-02T17:41:00.000-08:00

Dear Makers of Fancy Feast Wet Cat Food:

As my eldest cat ~ Toothless is, well, toothless (save for the four little things masquerading as teeth in the front of his mouth), I have given into the guilt and purchased your fine wet cat food for several years now. (Truly, you should be thanking the Jewish relatives somewhere in my family tree, because this guilt thing is totally making you bank!)

Recently Toothless has upped the guilt ante and I have been purchasing your Fancy Feast Elegant Medleys. As I am fairly certain that neither of my fine feline friends can read, and since they also lick each other's ass (as well as their own), I am sure they don't care if it is the Tuscan Blend or Florentine Delight they are savoring as long as it is wet and in the cat bowl. Which leads me to ask, "What the hell do you put in this shit"? Because what goes in smells NOTHING like what comes out of my cats.

OH MY GAWD PEOPLE CAN YOU SMELL THIS SHIT??? No really. SMELL. THIS. SHIT!!! I have no way of describing it. I have been to third world countries that use a hole in the ground as a public toilet and that smelled better than what my cats mass produce after eating your product. I have three year old paint peeling off the walls around the litter box from the fumes this shit emits. The Special Forces are petitioning Congress to fund my kitten's shit as weapons of mass destruction or at the very least a form of Biological Warfare. Ohhhhhh MMMMMMMYYYYYYYYYY GAAAAAAWWWWWWD!!!

You would not believe the power of this shit. I have been in a dead, xanax-and-hoho-overdose-coma type sleep and one little drop of this shit has been enough to wake me. It brought tears to the UPS man's eyes the other day as he was delivering a package. The litter box is two rooms away and has a cover on it!! Not to mention, I had to "blame it on the cats" in front of a complete stranger, who by the way, would not take me up on my offer to come in and smell it for himself. (Note: recently learned that the UPS man has requested another route ~ preferably one without crazy farting cat ladies.)

I only bring this up because, seriously, the odor is beginning to make me wonder if I should be whisking the kitties to the vet for some sort of emergency bowl surgery. Really? Did something die in there? Or is this what you intended when you did the R&D on culinary wet cat food? Is this some sort of sick twisted lesson you are trying to teach us about spending more money on cat food than on human food? And since I have been such a loyal customer, would it be too much to ask if you put a little sprig of mint or something in there? Maybe a touch of pine? Hell, I would settle for Country Linen at this point.

Sincerely

Miss Tastrophie

P.s. The Shit count is this is high and if I offended your delicate sensibilities... I apologize.

Sunshine on my shoulders....

2008-11-22T18:37:00.001-08:00

Thank you to everyone who made a comment on my post . You have given me a little hope in what has become an utterly hopeless never-ending chain of days. If I can come to my senses sometime before I come to the end of my rope :-) I will resuscitate Ms. Tastrophie.

Plus, I really do have some killer stories to about kids, Yosemite and some Karmic-bitch slapping I have been getting lately.

Thank you to all

Ms. T

My Hero

2008-11-11T14:19:00.000-08:00

It's Veteran's Day and it is oh-so sweet for me. My grandfather has dementia and while he has his good and bad days, I am saddened by the knowledge that all those great war stories he used to tell me are forever being locked away, one memory at a time.

When I was younger, I spent the weekends at the Lake of the Ozarks. Every weekend, he and I would take a ride to the "top of the hill" for something we inevitably forgot to bring. On these rides, he would tell me little "tales" of his life when he was a boy or stories about being in the Army during World War II. Nothing horrific, just the fun things you could tell a ten year old and still have them gaze at you in wide-eyed adoration.

My Grandfather met my Grandmother at a dance hall and just 10 days later, they were married. Papa says he was a lover and a fighter; he just couldn't be both at the same time. So he married my grandmother and then left for the war.

My grandfather was in the Cavalry. In fact, he first trained on horses at Ft Riley before the Army trusted him enough to let him ride the Harley-Davidson WLA motorcycle. (Guess they wanted to make sure he could stay in the seat.) The Army did finally get around to sending my grandfather to war; he landed at La Harve on D-Day +1. I don't know much about the fighting he saw; just that he saw it. When Saving Private Ryan came out I asked him to go see it with me. He shook his head and said "No, I think seeing it the first time was enough for me". Later he would tell me that bullets sound like bees when they pass by you and that your hearing tunes out the cries of people, but not the sound of bullets. From La Harve, he did a tour through Italy, Germany and France. By the time the war ended, his company was in Germany and living the high life in the Austrian Alps.

My Papa also holds the distinction of being promoted and demoted 13 times during the war. Seems Papa and trouble were quite the couple. And trouble followed Papa everywhere. Like the time he called the Lt.'s wife a whore and the Lt. was standing right behind him. That cost him his Sergeant's stripes. Or the time he and the company Sergeant went on the mail run and came back with a friendly pretty young Fraulein who was more than either of them could handle. (I was sworn to secrecy to keep that one from my Grandmother.) That cost him those newly re-issued stripes again. Papa went in the Army as a Private and got out of the Army as a Private; although according to Papa, the Army did its damnedest to keep promoting him but trouble wouldn't let them.

There are more stories he told me. Some as I got older, got more realistic. Like how the people in Europe were so starved that when a horse was shot, before they could go back to get it, the people had butchered it for food. Or what it was like to have a grenade explode in your face and spend months having your teeth, jaw and nose rebuilt. Of having your buddy next to you one minute and then gone the next and how it made making friends seem pointless in war. Mostly he told me the "good" things about the war. How the dance halls cost a dime, and that he and his best buddy "Peanut" could bring down the house doing the jitterbug.

Today he spends most of his time watching t.v. Although I don't know if he sees everything he is watching or if his thoughts are tuned to a different time and place. If the faces he sees are the ones of friends and family here today or the ones gone past; or if he will really remember me the next time I call. All I know is that my greatest hero sits so far away and I would give anything to go back to a summer day and take a ride up a hill for one more story...

You Can't Agrue With Logic Like That

2008-10-23T18:33:00.000-07:00

My students had a test a few days ago covering their comprehension of the story of Rikki-Tikki-Tavi. One of my all time favorite stories and a heck of a good cartoon, if I do say so myself. Since I also teach Language Arts as well as messing mathematicly with the minds of youngsters, we had read the story... and watched the cartoon. Because using the tv is still the best way to get some down time from dealing with a room full of over diagnosed and under medicated kids. (The kids laughed when I screamed from the back of the room "Don't go in the cobra hole, Rikki!!! Seriously, don't they know he might not come out?)

Anyway, after our week of study, the class got the test. I was good and used Bloom's Taxonomy of educational objectives. I covered all the key points and vocabulary for the first level of knowledge, then moved on to the deeper cognative understanding questions. The last question asked the students to pick the best of two answers, then explain why they DID NOT chose the other. It was ment to be a short answer response. This is what I got:

"Duh, that other one sucked"

Yeah, it's hard to argue with logic like that. (Just like he is not going to be able to argue with the "F" he earned on the test.)

This is Some Scary Knit, People

2008-10-20T15:40:00.000-07:00

The other night me and one of the best girlfriends (AW) got together for a night of movies and knitting. (Yes, Ms. Tastrophie knits and she has some mad cable knitting skills, thank you very much. http://www.ravelry.com/) Now, I love to knit. I am not a lover of all things scary movies. But this is the season and Best Girlfriend does love her some scary, so Ms. Tastrophie does what every good friend would do... watches and closes her eyes at the scary parts. (Which means I close my eyes pretty much from the minute the movie starts until the credits roll, because well...I'm a chicken sh*t.)

Now, I really can't yip too much on this because the movie and knitting was my idea. When I suggested the movie and knitting it was 9 a.m and I was thinking more about day-time movie viewing. For me, watching scary movies is done in the brightest part of the day with all the shades open and every light in the house on. The last time I did the scary with the shades closed and lights off was when my sister convinced me that it would be FUN to watch The Ring (http://www.ring-themovie.com/) with no lights on in the middle of the evening. Did I mention my sister is mean? Then she thought it would be funny to call me on her cell phone from the bathroom right after scary-wet-black-hair-creepy-girl comes climbing out of the well and through the TV set. Did I mention I am now an only child?

Yeah, I had a $200 electric bill that month after sleeping with my entire apartment looking like the Crank house at Christmas time. I also lost a month of TV viewing since my TV was unplugged and hidden in the back of the closet for three weeks before I could bring myself to take it out. (I also had the closet door wedged shut with a chair, 2 stacks of BIG @$$ books and a dresser... just in case.)
Back to the story. AW & I rent the typical suspense-horror movie. The one where the Japanese version was so good that Hollywood tried to capitalize and re-make it. Yeah, it fell flat and was pretty bad, but it had just enough scary to get me all weirded out. We watch. We knit. I hid my eyes. Apparently not enough though because after Best Girlfriend leaves to return to here abode, I am left alone in a semi-dark apartment with two of the worst guard cats. One day someone is going to break in and those two morons will fall over themselves trying to make it under the bed in time.

I go to bed. Thing 1 and Thing 2 park themselves on the end of the bed dutifully keeping one eye opened for anything that should go "bump" in the night. Did you know cats can sleep with one eye opened? Yeah, they do. So that they can look like this when the boogie man comes creeping down the hall:

BIG PUSSIES!!! About 3 a.m. one of my neighbors decides now is a good time to go slamming doors and making all sorts of go-bump-in-the-night noises. I sit straight up. Cats jump straight up. My heart races faster than the Indy 500 lead car. Cats race faster across the bed and under the covers. Fur and blood was everywhere. Little brats forgot to pull back the claws in their mad dash under the covers to protect my feet. I scream like a little b*tch. OK, it was more like a blood curdling, bone chilling, OH-MY-GAWD-HE-IS-GOING-TO-KILL-ME-SCREAM. I kept it up for about 5 minutes (it felt like five minute, come on, work with me here). And thanks to the lovely after-market set of lungs I am now packing, I scream VERY loudly. When I finally wake up from the hyperventilating pass out, I grab the closest thing to a weapon I could find: My copy of the latest Twilight Series Breaking Dawn. (I don't know what I was going to do with it: bore the intruder to death?) After a very careful search of my apartment, I kicked Useless and More Useless out of the bed and went back to sleep....

Until the cops banging on my door woke me up and I started screaming all over again. My neighbors heard me screaming, called 9-1-1 thinking I was getting the business end of an axe or something, and the town's finest took 30 minutes to come rescue me. Let's just say they were not too happy to hear my explanation for interrupting their late-night donut run. And I won't be watching any more scary movies in the dark.

The Palin Problem

2008-10-16T06:50:00.000-07:00

I figured out what is wrong with Sarah Palin. Other than she is being totally set up for the fall guy when McCain gets tanked in the election. Note: I have not decided who I am voting for this year, I am still researching it. Paying teachers more money & health care will be my deciding factors. So this is not a political blog. Trust me, read on.

The problem with Sarah Palin is that she is pretty. Apparently you can't be pretty and have a brain. At least that is what Fox News, CNN, MSNBC, etc. keep telling me. Seriously, they have each spent at least one news show, if not more, talking about her clothes, eye wear, hair style, and physical appearance. Where were the shows on Obama's fashion choices or McCain's decision to go full on grey instead of covering it up? Not once in this campaign have I heard two political analysts damn near wet themselves trying to discredit Obama or McCain because "he is too good looking" to be President. LAWD knows you can't be good-looking and want to change the country.

I guess it is a good thing Obama doesn't look like Tyson Beckford or Denzel Washington, cause good grief, how would we deal with that? Oh yeah, I forgot. It's OK if your a guy and good looking. You can still be taken seriously and thought to be intelligent even if you hit the gentic lottery. Forget about it if you are female. You KNOW those two things just can't mix in our gene pool and work out well. (I don't care how much they call it a scholarship pageant ~ no one is watching it for the heated political debates on World Peace!) Apparently before women are born, while we are developing, women get a choice of two lines: Beauty or Brains. You only get to go through one line and you're just plum-outta-luck if you wanted some of the other.

I found the biggest irony in all this to be when Palin met with the President of Pakistan and he almost drooled all over the carpet telling her how "beautiful" she was. At least she held her composure and didn't look act like Mr. President-fifteen-year-old-in-heat for a Major Nation. I guess the bigger problem is that men can't make rational decisions around pretty women and that is why Palin's looks are so damn important. LAWD, knows we have had more than one election outcome changed based on a man's inability to keep it together around good looking women. Gary Hart, anyone?

Seriously people, who cares what she looks like? I mean if we are going to base our choice for Vice-President based on looks alone, lets get Angelina Jolie in the White House. She's HOT. She's aware of global wide issues. She can intimidate the living sh*t out of pretty much anyone she meets and I've seen what she can do with a gun. Think about the foreign trade policies we can change with her in the negotiation chair. Plus I would KILL to see her wear leather to the Inaugural ball.

**And since I have spent the better part of the last two days in a NyQuil induced haze watching more political t.v. than I ever hope to see again, I just thought I should add my thoughts to the mix. Because, even drugged out of my gourd, I know stupid when I see stupid and George Stephanopoulos discussing fashion is just dumb....and wrong...but mostly dumb.

Hi-Jacked Blog

2008-10-15T19:13:00.001-07:00

This is Bud E. Phat and Elsa Lioness.
Ms. Tastrophie is sh*t-faced flat down on the bed in a NyQuil induced coma trying to cure another nasty cold. Being the loving pets that we are, we decided that revenge is best served when one is passed out cold. So we have jacked the computer for some sweet payback.

After purchasing a lifetime subscription to Live Nude Cats (http://www.livenudecats.com/ ) and finding a few new friends (http://www.catster.com/)who were willing to send us some premium grade kittty-nip, we have decided to spill the Whiskas on Ms. Tastrophie. Of course she probably will sell us down the river when that box from PlayPet arrives C.O.D. Who knew that a little feathers and fuzz could cost so much? Good thing this woman had a few coin hidden in the cabinet.

Now, here's where you come in. Send us your questions, inquiries and twisted photo requests and we will kitty up the goods. Trust us, that girl ain't getting out of that bed anytime soon. We mixed the xanax with the NyQuil and she hasn't seen the light for the past two days. We're thinking if we can work this right, we can spill the beans, and get the packages hidden before she realizes that we figured out human technology.*

So what do you want to know?

P.s. Wizard Cat ~ WE LUV U!!
P.s.s. Fernando ~ You had us at "Oink"

*Cause really people? What the hell do you think we do all day when you are away? Sleep? Chase mice? Yea, right. Check your cable bill. Those $3.99 movie rentals you been blaming on the kids? The "good" cheese that keeps disappearing from the fridge? Those internet sites you pretend you don't go to? We know.

Redemption in The Eye of The Pit

2008-10-04T13:58:00.000-07:00

I just finished watching one of the most gut wrenching programs I have ever seen (and I watch ALOT of TV). It was about Michael Vick and his dog fighting ring. (I know, this is old news, and yes, I followed it when it was happening, but this story was on the animals.) I was so upset watching it, that I actually was sick to my stomach!! I personally hope Michael Vick rots in hell and has become the little bitch for every Arian-Brotherhood-Loving prisoner on his cell block.

I was horrified to watch as these dogs were forced to fight each other for the entertainment and profit of their owners! And if the dog lost, it was killed. Not humanly euthanized. KILLED. Some were hung from trees, others beaten to death, others left to die from the injuries they experienced in the fighting ring. Hell, if a grown man want to put on gloves and get into the ring in order to beat the living shit out of another other so that they can be punch-drunk later in life: more power to him. He knows what he is getting into and the risks involved. These dogs fought - not because they are solely bred to be mean, but because they have an inherent need to PLEASE their owners! You could actually hear the owners saying "Good Boy/Good Girl" to their dogs on the videos.

Now, I know Pit Bulls* are scary looking dogs. Often fighting dog owners crop the dog's ears and bulk up the dog in order to have a meaner looking animal. Fighting dogs endure months, even years of abuse in the name of "training" in order to make them vicious. At times, I did not know which was worse: the fighting videos or the videos of the training and captivity of the dogs. The breeds of dogs used in these fights have been given (and some have earned) a reputation as being aggressive. I know that people have died from attacks by pit bulls, rottweillers and wolf hybrid breeds. I am not saying that doesn't happen. Personally, I blame careless breeders and owners who line-breed or trait-breed in order to create more aggressive fighting dogs. What the hell are these people thinking? I can't find a single reason WHY this sport made it out of the colosseum and into modern day culture.

There are those who say the breeds should be banned. That it is in their nature to be aggressive. I don't believe that, especially after watching what happened to these dogs after they were confiscated. I can't advocate the extermination of a species based on a few "bad apples". That argument didn't work for the Eugenics movement or The Nazis and I don't think it holds water for taking out a dog breed. But that is not the point of this blog.

What amazed me about the dogs involved in the Michael (rot in hell you scum sucking pig) Vick case was that with the exception of two of the dogs, who had to be euthanized for health reasons, ALL of the dogs were rehabilitated and placed in homes or rescue agencies!!! One even works as a therapy dog with the elderly! I was moved to tears by the sight of dogs who were once trained to fight to the death, giving unconditional love to another human being. Puppies and adult dogs playing, fetching balls, running with their new owners, and giving kisses in return for good belly rubs like normal companion pets. I found it interesting that a soul with every reason to HATE based on the inhumane treatment it had experienced until that time in its life, could learn to forgive and love those very creatures who had shown it no mercy.

Ms. Tastrophie has to wonder about the world in which she lives. Apparently we are not as evolved as we would like to think we are. If we have learned to hate one another based on a skin color, job description, or religious affiliation, how can we claim to be above one who can't even hold a fork? Yeah, I am being a hypocrite by saying I hope Michael Vick gets @$$-pounded in prison for his part in all this and I know that some will never think that the breed is redeemable, no matter what anyone says. For me, watching those dogs find a new leash in life was enough to restore some of my faith in man-kind (even a very little for Michael Vick ~ who really does deserve to rot in some level of hell).

So my thought is this: Who knew that the key to man-kind's redemption could be found in the heart of a once trained killer?

*The pit bull is a type of dog bred for fighting, not a specific breed. Responsibly bred and owned, the American Staffordshire Terrier and the Staffordshire Bull Terrier -- often referred to as pit bulls -- are not fighting dogs.