Bad. Kitty.

I finished wrapping presents last night. I’d been storing them in the workout room until they were wrapped, and probably would have left them in there until Christmas had I not been claimed by an unanticipated and unwelcome motivation to exercise. So, in order to clear the weight bench and the floor, I moved the presents out onto the pool table. I figured they’d be safe enough there until the Grand Paper Tearing Extravaganza of Saturday afternoon.

I know you know where this is going.

I let the dogs in this morning – they’re so old, poor things, that the cold effects them more than it used to. I put them in their crate with the door open so they could lay in padded comfort, but still be able to venture over to their water bowl should they need a drink. I heard them shuffling around, the vinyl bottom of the pad making a rustling sound against the bottom of the crate.

Then the rustling got more enthusiastic… urgent, even. I hopped up, thinking that maybe Gypsy had gotten her foot caught between the bars – it’s happened before. I rounded the corner from the living room to the game room, and saw Ozzy digging at one of Bill’s presents in a SPECTACULAR, GLEEFUL fashion. I stood, flabbergasted, for a fraction of a second, then YELLED BLOODY BLUE MURDER at that asshole cat.

He took off like a bat outta hell, and now he’s glaring balefully from the safety of their litter closet.

I KNOW it’s my own fault for putting temptation in his reach, but he’s honestly never messed with the presents before. Oh, sure, sometimes there’d be gnaw-marks along the edges, or toothy impressions crimping the ribbons, but never outright destruction. Besides, Zoe is the one with the obsession for chewing on crinkly paper. I figured I’d have to defend the presents from her, really.

Obviously, you can tell how upset I am, since the fraction of a second AFTER I finished yelling bloody blue murder, I thought “Blog post!” and grabbed my camera. Heh.

In Which I Cannot Tell A Story

I’m about to admit a shameful thing. Shameful in that I am a blogger, nay, a WRITER, and as such I should have this particular skill that I am about to tell you I don’t have.

I can’t tell a story. To SAVE MY LIFE, or the life of someone I care about, or even someone with whom I’m only faintly acquainted but hey I’m a nice girl so I’ll give the whole life-saving thing a go if only to benefit my karma, I cannot tell a story.

I get the order wrong. I don’t have bright and shiny descriptive… um… things. WORDS. Those things. I know the middle, and I know how it starts, and I kind of know where I want to get. But not how. And the momentum, it kind of loses all of it. I start out with a great pace, kind of get muddled around after a bit, and in the end if someone could draw a pictorial of the wending path of my story it would start to look like one of those Family Circus cartoons where Billy (not my Billy – who would give you A Look if you called him Billy – but the cartoon Billy) has been all over the neighborhood chasing a butterfly.

Pretty! Butterfly!

Where was I? Right. Story. Can’t tell one.

I would love to be one of those vastly entertaining story-tellers, the kind that are sought out in parties and added to guest lists by virtue of their story-telling abilities alone. “Oh, let’s invite Tiff! You know how fun she is with a story. Maybe she’ll tell the one about how she hugged the toilet at Iguana Mack’s. That one’s a HOOT!”

At first, I thought that by my very blogging nature, I MUST be a good story-teller. Ask Bill about that. I’d be in a conversational group, wending my way along, realize I was taking too long, start to see the eyes of my audience glaze over, try to frantically recall any pithy and fun detail that might corral the interest back in my direction and not on, oh, say, DUST MOTES, catch Bill’s “WRAP IT UP” glare, and peter to a stuttering halt with a sheepish smile. At which point there would be a collective, mostly inaudible “ANYWAY!” sigh, and I would relinquish conversational control to someone more qualified.

I stopped telling stories. Unless I was drunk. Ask me about when I was drunk! Everybody knows drunk people are interesting! And funny!

Anyway. Fortunately, the Internet is blessed with those bloggers who CAN tell a story, and tell a story well. Like this one, and this one, and this one. I read them. I study them. I learn from them. And in the end…

In the end…

I STILL can’t tell a story to save my life. Or anyone else’s. It is my life-long sorrow. My life is a perfect graveyard of buried hopes.

Hey, wait, I’ve found something I AM good at. Gross, negligent exaggeration. WIN.

Post Number 3,861

So last night my brother-in-law George (my sister Wendy’s husband) called. This is unique in the fact that he has never initiated a phone call to me, like, ever. It was 9:30 our time, 12:30 their time. I immediately thought something was wrong. But there was nothing wrong, he was just calling to brag on my sister, who was elected as Androscoggin County’s (that’s in Maine) Register of Probate in Tuesday’s elections. She’s already Chairman of the Board of Selectmen in her home town (Poland). She’s also something called an “AVCOG Commissioner”, whatever that is. (Okay, I just found it, it’s the “Androscoggin Valley Council of Governments”.)

The point being, my sister is knee deep in a grass roots campaign to take over the government in the State of Maine. She could pull it off, too.

———-

We have a marker board calendar on the wall in our kitchen, that we use to plan our dinner menus, write appointment reminders, and list birthdays and holidays. It has a space on the right-hand side to write memos and lists and whatnot, and we use this area to list the items that we need at the grocery store. It’s a common refrain, when someone tells me we’re out of this, that, or the other thing, for me to tell them to, “Put it on the list!” So, my husband does this funny little thing where he purposefully mis-spells the items and leaves it to me to figure out what the heck he means. “Kooking Spra” had me chuckling the other night. Other recent items have been “Kat Fud”, “Kofe” (Coffee), “Basco” (Tabasco), “Groni Chz” (Kraft Mac & Cheese), and “Pit Stop” (deodorant).

It’s just one of those silly little things that he does, that I’d miss if he stopped.

Yeah yeah, I’m having a warm fuzzy fit. What of it?

———-

Lord have mercy, I have been so flippin’ BUSY lately. We have a new project at work that is deploying in two weeks, which means this week I have four nights of meetings that go at least until 6:00 (tonight’s goes until 7:30, waaaaaaaaah). I have those same meetings scheduled for next week, too, but on top of that I have the second half of my Six Sigma Green Belt training next Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, eight to five. Which translates to not getting any of my regular work done, AND having to sit in night meetings. Still not getting work done. Then I have to train my group, probably next Friday because the project coordinator wants everyone trained before deployment on 11/15. And then it’s stabilization meetings every night THAT week.

So, yes, deployment week is the week before Thanksgiving. Which is just in keeping with the mandate that AcronymCo seems to have, that All Major Projects Must Deploy The Week Before A Major U.S. Holiday. Every year. EVERY FRIGGIN’ YEAR they do this.

I’m a bit behind on my articles for BMP, UpTake, and Demand Studios this week, because I gave myself a break last weekend for Grandpa’s funeral. I’ve been doing them during lunch and in the evening, this week. But this weekend I HAVE TO get my articles done for the week following, because I’ll have ZERO time to do them during the week.

———-

Oh, fuck. Thanksgiving. When am I going to have time to plan that??? Thank God I have that whole week off from work, because I have a feeling I’m going to go into a menu-planning frenzy that Monday.

The sight that greeted me upon returning to work this morning

My work colleagues "decorated" my cubicle in celebration of my return from sabbatical. Pictures courtesy of Jen. Hey, at least some of the books were keepers. Took me over an hour to get everything set to rights again. Makes a girl feel downright loved.

Foot In Mouth

Bill – “I think women gain weight more easily than men.”
Tiff – “I’m pretty sure that’s a proven fact.”
Bill – “Really?”
Tiff – “Yeah, something about a chubby woman being more fertile or something.”
Bill – “Whoa, then I’m staying away from you until we…”
Tiff – *pointed look*
Bill – “No! Uh! I mean! Oh, hell..”
Tiff – “BWAAHAHAHAHAHAAAA!!!! Oh, I am SO writing about this.”

New theme!

Do you love it? Do you hate it? Do you care?

What amuses me is that I will, during the life of this blog, probably change the theme three thousand times. So if anyone looks back at archived entries, posts like this one will have no context. Ah, time, you whimsical bitch.

———-

Now, because I told Bill I would, please consume for your amusement the following conversation that took place last night during dinner:

Bill: “You know, I’ve always wondered about something.”
Tiff: “Oh yeah? What’s that.”
Bill: “What would you do if you were, oh I don’t know, poking around on Ancestry.com or something, and suddenly discovered that I was your half-brother?”
Tiff: (long slow blink) “Wha…at?”
Bill: “What would you do if I was your half-brother? Would you still stay with me?”
Tiff: “Uhhh… ummm… ahhhhh…” (longer slower blink)
Bill: (expectant look)
Tiff: “Um, well, no, we’d have to split up. But we could still be friends… you know, later. After the horror subsides.”
Bill: (all butt-hurt) “What? You’d leave me? Just because I was your half-brother?”
Tiff: “Well, um, yeah.”
Bill: “But WHY?!?”
Tiff: “Um, because you’d be my brother…”
Bill: “Your half brother!”
Tiff: “Still, we’d have a mutual parent! That’s just… ew!”
Bill: “I can’t believe it. You’d leave me! I mean, we could just keep going as we are now. We’re not going to have kids… we wouldn’t have to tell anybody!”
Tiff: “Um… yeah. Sure. Okay, whatever. What the heck are you getting all upset over?”
Bill: “I knew it! I knew you were just looking for an excuse to leave me!”
Tiff: “Wha… wait, what???”
Bill: “You’d leave me! Just because I was your half-brother!”
Tiff: “You know, I thought it was only girls who were supposed to get all butt-hurt over a hypothetical situation. Clearly, you are the girl in this relationship.”

bow bow… chicka chickaaahhh

I have decided to never again enter one of Pioneer Woman’s contests or photo challenges. I never win, my photos never get picked, and all I am left with is SAD. VERY SAD. Because dammit, I want a Kitchenaid Mixer. Or a $500 B&H gift card. Or a Le Creuset casserole. Or a free copy of CS5. Or whatever else she’s giving away that day.

SAD.

(Note that I have nothing against Ree, she just gets so much friggin’ TRAFFIC that there’s no chance in hell a randomly picked comment number would ever be mine.)

My editor for Beyond Megapixels has requested that I post a picture a day to the BMP Facebook page (which is here, by the way). I have no problem with that whatsoever, since it takes approximately six point three microseconds out of my day. What I do find annoying, though, is that among the nearly 600,000 “fans” of this particular page, are members of the Asshat Society for Idiotic Trolls. And these idiotic, trollish asshats post comments. Comments like, “First!” Or, “Second!” Or, “Seventeenth!” Or, “yO, dIs PiKsHuR iS dUm.” Or the asinine chain comment thingy, “OK guys, this truly is freaky, the phone literally rang as soon as I read the last wordl!!!!! I am taking the bait – what do I have to lose right? Hope it works! Supposedly The Phone Will Ring Right After You Do This. Just read the little stories and think of a wish as you scroll all the way to the bottom…”

GAH. And of course, because I want to see the WORTHY, CONSTRUCTIVE comments (though the only “constructive” comment I’ve received other than the “great pic!” variety is one person who loved the photo, but hated the frame I used), I self-tag the photo. Which means I get an e-mail for every comment. Including the asinine ones.

I have no point other than this: Facebook is surely annoying sometimes. Also, tRoLlS sUk.

Poor Ozzy and Zoe are both having a hard time of it lately. Oz has some digestive thing going on that is causing him to throw up often (well, more often than the usual hairball-induced hurls), and he just seems kind of… off. Listless, and needy. Zoe, on the other hand, is her usual chipper, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed self. She’s eating her fool head off and has turned into quite the chubba bubba. She does occasionally toss a hairball, which is to be expected with her wispy hair. But she’s limping HEAVILY and favoring her front left paw. Upon inspection, it looks like whoever had her declawed did a WRETCHED job; poor kitty is walking on little bone nubs where her knuckles used to be. They certainly don’t look like the smooth, normal-looking pads on Ozzy’s toes, and we had him declawed ourselves.

So. I went to PetSmart and bought some indoor formula cat food, plus some IAMS dry kibble for digestive health. I got some superfood to add to their canned food (this stuff), and some hip and joint gel (this stuff). I’m going to look into some sort of paw coverings (kitty socks!) for Zoe. Both cats are getting baths tonight, and I’m going to try to be better about brushing both of them to see if I can get this vomiting thing under control.

If they’re not better by next weekend, off to the vet we go!

Finally, something happened to me today in traffic that just cracked my shit up. See, I was driving along, when I suddenly had to slow WAAAAAAAAAY down for a little old lady who was driving, LITERALLY, twenty-three miles an hour in a forty-five. She was weaving gently from side to side, staying within her lane, but just barely. This scene popped into my head:

As I carefully passed her, I got a glimpse of her licence plate.

“D N R”

I totally lost it and started cackling. I’m sure she meant it as her initials, but the acronym, coupled with her creaky age, just struck hard at my sense of the hysterical. So, you know, if she keels over at the gas station or something, her final instructions are clearly stated for all to heed.

Har. I’m evil.

I’m on a horse.

My site had to be restored sometime yesterday, and the backup didn’t include what I wrote yesterday. So that’s the answer to the mysterious disappearing post! Ah, life’s little dramas. They add quality and interest to our existence.

———-

This commercial slays me every single time I see it:

———-

Yeah, I got nuthin’ today. Rather than force it, I’m just going to say, happy Wednesday!

Rollin’ into the weekend.

I am in a waaay frickin’ GOOD MOOD. Even though Whitney Houston is currently singing about how emotional she gets and this song makes my teeth grit in a very gritty way.

I worked from home today because we had the insurance adjuster (that word just looks wrong, for some reason) coming over to assess how much money they would or would not be giving us toward the required repairs to our roof. The end result, after much tape measuring and roof climbing and eeping at the snake who I promised would NOT escape from her tank – well, while it is certainly not going to cover the entire amount, it is far better than a kick in the pants. Plus, they cut a check right on the spot. So, there’s that.

Except that Bill is currently on AutoTrader.com and is trying to convince me to spend the money on something other than the roof. STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT.

Then the landscaper stopped by to give us an estimate on cleaning up the god-awful white-trashedness that is the current condition of our front and back yards, and to give us a quote on a monthly maintenance package (because we just can’t seem to pull off taking care of it ourselves). The quote he handed me made me say, out LOUD, “Really? Are you sure? For BOTH the front and back yards?” To which he replied in the affirmative. To which I responded, “At least let me throw in a six-pack!” Dude is CHEAP, has worked for us before, does our neighbor’s yard, and is coming TOMORROW to get started. Thank the good Lord that value and customer service aren’t completely extinct concepts.

Now we’re just hanging out for a couple of hours before it’s time to get ready and go to the Improv to see Mitch Fatel. Amanda’s going with us, and she’s never been to a comedy club, so that should be fun.

All in all, it’s been an excellent kick-off, rolling into the weekend. I leave you with something to chuckle over (probably not all that safe for work, btw), and wishes for a fabuloso weekend yourselves!

Weirdness and Fun in General

– PRODUCT ENDORSEMENT: Ladies, I am completely serious. Go buy these jeans. They are totally flattering, and the most comfortable things I’ve ever wiggled my ass into. (Readers now go into a veritable free-for-all of snarky fresh comments, the Internet implodes upon itself, mass mayhem ensues, cats and dogs begin sleeping together…)

– Last night, Bill and I went to bed. As often happens when we go to bed, we goof around for a good fifteen or twenty minutes before actually settling down to sleep. By “goof around”, I don’t mean FOOL around. I mean GOOF. Wrestle. Giggle. Tickle. Poke. And some grosser things that I won’t get specific about. I shriek, he laughs. I slug his arm, he pins me to my pillow. I try to roll him off me, he rolls onto me harder. I push his pillows off the bed, me makes me EAT my pillows. All in the dark, all very slumber party-ish. A certain extra element of hilarity was added last night, when I mentioned, “Wouldn’t it be HYSTERICAL if I set up the video camera and all it recorded was darkness, except for all the NOISE we’re making while we’re fucking around like this?” Then we started giggling. Then we started wondering how some of the noises would be interpreted, and we laughed harder. Then we considered all the definitions we’d have to provide to you, the general public, and cracked up. For instance, do you know the meaning of “Wish You Could Breathe But Can’t”? Do you know what it means to be threatened by the “Polar Bear”, or the “Walrus”, or the “Titanic”? Do you know what a “vwop” is? Do you understand the dread anticipation that follows the words, “Okay, now…” uttered by my husband, and causes me to holler, “NO OKAY NOW!” back at him? Can you even comprehend what I could possibly mean when I shriek at the very tippy-top of my lungs, “STOP PUCKERING ON MY LEG!”? Perhaps, my gentle snowflakes, you are better off not knowing.

– Bill and I almost fought over the terms “Slug Bug” versus “Punch Buggy”. Which vernacular do you use? Argue the merits of one term over the other. Analyze and elucidate the wrongness of the use of the incorrect term. Discuss.

– Last night I dreamed that nobody showed up for Joss’ benefit party. I woke up in a full-blown panic attack, complete with a gut that was on FIRE as if there were hellish little Oompa Loompas who had built a campfire in my innards and were happily toasting marshmallows while alternately poking at my stomach wall with their sharp, pointy, fire-heated sticks. The fuckers. I tossed and turned for the better part of an hour, and when I finally fell asleep I was stuck in a nightmare in which Bill was bitten by a zombie and was slowly turning into one and there was nothing I could do about it except either kill him or join him. Interpret. Analyze. Discuss.