And Thank You For Flying "I QUIT" Airlines

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?

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.

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.