A Jury of My Peers

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

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

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

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!!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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...

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

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

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