Talking Trash

My cell phone went missing Monday evening.  After a couple hours of fussing over “what-the-hell-will-I-do-if-I-can’t-find-my-phone” I decided it would turn up if I didn’t try so hard to look for it.  I stopped looking because I’m so very optimistic about expecting happy endings.

That didn’t work.

So I went to my office the following day, filled with absolute certainty that by the time I got home I would find it.  That didn’t happen either.  Rats!

I hate to admit being dependent on a cell phone but alas, I am.  Really.  Dependent.  My virtual universe is loaded on my iPhone.  Pictures, applications, maps, appointments … the works.  Of course I could get another cell phone if this one was truly MIA forever.  But what a hassle!

After muttering to myself when I returned home from work  (and creeping the cats out in general) I decided to try a different search method.  I started calling my phone, room by room, from my land line in the house.  Called the bedroom.  No answer.  Called the basement.  No answer.  Went to the garage and called the car.  No answer.  No ringing.  No nothing.

Finally, I went to the kitchen and called.  Nothing.  However, the stovetop fan was on because I was trying to make dinner, so it turned it off to listen.  Oh yeah, I was expecting some friends over for dinner to watch American Idol and was also rushing around cleaning up at the last minute.  I’m the queen of multi-tasking … dinner, vacuuming, table setting, and cell phone searching.

But I digress.

Finally, FINALLY, I hear a muffled “ring ring” (like the old fashioned phones) coming somewhere near (or under) the sink.  OMG!  It’s in the trash can!

The trash can that is filled with the most god-awful, gross food crap you could imagine.

I grab a new trash bag and start pulling junk out of the trash can and into the new bag.  One by one, I pulled out chicken bones, which really excited the cats.  They gathered ’round me sitting on the floor, as if they wanted to help search.  Cats are such fake-out artists. I knew they were only interested in potentially plundering some chicken parts.  There were multiple other gross things discovered in that icky bag, including some leftover cake batter, that I had to maneuver around.  It was tricky business, indeed.

And let me just say that when you are exploring the contents of a trash bag and if you happen to come upon a lot of  discarded red velvet cake batter in a hasty manner, your kitchen is poised to look like an episode of Dexter doing what he does best.

I did just that and it wasn’t pretty.  Unless you like to watch autopsies.

I was praying to the patron saint of kitchen cleanup to help me find this stupid phone and restore my kitchen to glistening cleanliness before my friends show up and find me splayed out on the floor digging in the trash, looking like I lost my mind.  Which I probably had at that point.

But to my horror, I STILL couldn’t find the phone.

Now I have 2 big trash bags half filled with crap. And no phone.

So I called my cell phone again.  This time I separated the bags so I could tell which one was ringing.  Did I mention that it is harder to locate missing cell phones in dark trash bags, as opposed to light colored trash bags?  And I’m not profiling anything here.  It’s just the plain truth.

Finally.  I find my phone, covered in butter, cake batter, indescribable fuzz, and a random chicken bone sticking out of the side of it like a fake antenna.

But Lordy, it was still ringing!

The cats left the kitchen, quite disappointed.  I hastily bagged up the second trash bag, washed the floor, cleaned up my iPhone and the case, set out the fruit plate and hummus, washed my hands, put on my pearl necklace and apron and was ready to great my company with no evidence of the insanity I just barely survived right before they knocked on my front door.

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Yep.  Tuesday night, nobody knew about the riotous cell phone incident.

Until they read this post, that is.

Snow Day

We had our first big snow of the year here in River City.  Sometimes it’s best just to stay home.

The December Rush

I hate Christmas shopping. Don’t get me wrong. I honestly like the Christmas season and look forward to spending time with family and friends. However, being in a crowded store with maniac shoppers is enough to throw me into a crazy lupus flare. And yet, somehow I found myself in one of the big box stores the day after Thanksgiving, with my son, looking at flat screen televisions. And the stupid thing about that was knowing he wasn’t going to buy anything. However, the other nine million people in the store were going nuts with their credit cards. I hope their retail therapy experience made them happy, bless their hearts.

Yeah, let's all stand in line outside and wait for the store to open!

The December Rush is upon us.

Black Friday.

Cyber Monday.

Panic shopping at the last minute for gifts we weren’t going to buy but now feel we must.

Some of us (not me) are compelled to bake enough cookies to feed a small country.

Are you suffering from the symptoms of The December Rush? If so keep reading, because during this time of the year, I’m all about slapping some common sense into your head in BEFORE you get carried away.

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#1 Do you really want to stand in line to buy stuff? Of course you don’t! Standing in line only makes you more tired. Pay somebody 5 bucks to shop for you. It’s worth it. Better yet, shop on line.

#2 Does old Aunt Myrtle really need your homemade peanut brittle? Not if she wants to keep her teeth. Buy her something soft … like warm, fuzzy socks … from the drug store, where the checkout lines are short.

#3 Don’t be afraid to give people The Gift of Disappointment. It’s free and they will get over it.

#4 You know what else is free? Driving around and looking at Christmas lights. It’s fun and you’ll have the satisfaction of knowing that YOUR electric bill won’t be as high as the guy whose house looks like it’s on fire.

#5 Wash your hands. Sleep 8 hours a night. Drink plenty of water. It’s easy to get sick when you’re stressed out and heaven knows you don’t have time to be sick in December.

#6 Try to not get sucked into the vortex of buying a Lexus with a big bow on it. Or a puppy with a big bow on it. Who does that? Really?

#7 Wine is a good thing. Not to be confused with whine, which is terribly overrated.

#8 Sing Christmas songs. And if you can’t sing well, sing anyway. Singing lowers your blood pressure.

#9 Remember that you are not perfect, the world is not perfect, your family and friends are not perfect, and there is no such thing as a perfect Christmas.

10. If you think you’re going to lose your mind over the holiday pressure, go right ahead. Everybody is entitled to a meltdown now and then.

#11 December lasts only 31 days. Eventually spring will come, which is what I really look forward to enjoying.

Halloween Butt

The stomach says "NO" but the mouth doesn't listen.

I’ve been eating candy.  A lot of it.  My butt is going to be bigger than Kim Kardashian’s.  Actually, I don’t know why I even bother eating it;  I may as well  slap it directly on my ass and thighs.

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It’s a Halloween curse.

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Every year, we buy a ridiculous amount of candy for the office.  I work for a doctor and our patients like holiday decorations … and candy.  So Halloween is a big deal that the patients look forward to.  At least that’s our general excuse for having enough sugar to put us all in a diabetic coma.

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Halloween candy is so different from regular candy.  It comes in “fun size” and “bite size.”   So we’re seduced into thinking that hey, enjoying a couple pieces of these little things won’t be a big deal.   But when I look at my wastebasket at the end of the day and it is full of little bits of shiny candy wrappings I have a heart attack.   Did I really eat that much?   WTF happened to my brain?  Did my mouth not listen to my stomach when it was screaming “NO MORE CANDY.  YOU WILL DEVELOP HALLOWEEN BUTT.” Apparently not.   The candy corn is still calling my name and my mouth is still drooling.

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The easiest thing to do is get rid of the Snickers, Paydays, Baby Ruths, etc.  Just use some self control and stop eating the &*#@ing candy.  But (or should I say butt) the damage has already been done, giving the phrase, “Go big or go home.” a whole new twist.

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Some years, I’ve not been home on Halloween.  Weight watching is easier when you’re not stuck with a bunch of leftover candy.   This year my son will be in town to trick or treat with his sister and brother.  That spells T.R.O.U.B.L.E.

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I might tag along with them.   Put some tape over my mouth, wear a sign saying Candy Makes Your Butt Big, and call THAT a costume.   At least I won’t have to tell any stupid jokes.

Here Kitty Kitty

I have two cats, Tigger and Charlie.  They are sweet and funny and loving, which is my biased opinion because I’m a cat person.  Admittedly, my cats are spoiled rotten, pampered and played with, and get along with each other …  most of the time.

Charlie is a gentle giant.  He’s an orange tabby with big green eyes and weighs a whopping 16 pounds.  Despite his size, he’s extremely agile.  He’s been known to vault his big kitty butt over couches, countertops and even the occasional refrigerator.  Remember John Belushi’s pudgy but agile Blues Brothers character Joliet Jake Blues?  That’s Charlie.  This cat loves his food and has a reputation for dumpster diving. His favorites include pizza and chinese pea pods.  He has a tiny baby-sound meow that somehow doesn’t match his physique but comes in handy when people pet him because he likes to meow.  He’s a lady’s man.  He’s also extremely laid back and unflappable.

Tigger, on the other hand, is a spazmo.  He’s a brown tabby with green eyes and sports an unusually long tail.  A couple years ago I adopted Tig from a shelter when he was 8 weeks old.  A kitten would be good company for Charlie, right?  And I  just, well,  wanted a kitten.  Besides, Charlie could use a little more exercise and a kitten would be a great workout partner.  Tig did not disappoint.  He loves to chase anything that moves, especially Charlie.   Tigger is both shy and curious.  Nothing motivates him to come when you call his name unless  you have something shiny to dangle, or a treat, catnip, or anything that might resemble a snake …. string, ribbon, a fake snake … whatever.  He’s also seduced by french fries and crackers.

Mind you, pets are no substitute for family, friends, children or significant others.  However, Charlie and Tigger are good company.  When I broke my leg a couple years ago (actually I broke my left leg and foot, and sprained my right ankle), Charlie spent every day of the 6 weeks I was stuck in bed right by my side.  And they protect my house … sort of.   Every spring they manage to hunt down several mice and bring them to me when I get home from work.  On a cold winter night last year I came home to a crazy mess of broken plates in the kitchen and crooked lamp shades in the living room.  Tigger stood sentry next to the home wrecker … a bird that somehow, some way, managed to get INSIDE.  The bird was bigger than Tig, and he tried to corral that crazy thing until I threw a towel over Mr.  Bird and ushered it outside.

Okay, so they really don’t protect the house.  But don’t tell them that.

For those of you who have pets, you know that when they get sick, the cure always involves an unexpected layout of money way beyond what seems reasonable.  Charlie is prone to urinary tract infections.  My technique for getting sick or injured cats inside their carrier is a masterpiece of bribery and foolery.   Last week we made the trip to the clinic … and waited over 2.5  hours.  Charlie had to pee, but couldn’t.  He managed a few sorry little puddles on the floor.  He was hot and shedding fur was floating around the room like milkweed.  I was hot (and crabby) and was sweating enough to melt magazine ink all over my hands in a frantic attempt to fan myself.  My stupid lupus rash glowed purple under the lovely harsh lights of the exam room.  So pretty.  At least the cold tile floor helped the cat.  I couldn’t justify stripping down and laying next to him, so I suffered in silence.  Outside our room, dogs were howling, cats were hissing, and we both stared at the door, praying for redemption, which finally came with some antibiotics after I handed over my VISA card.  Oh yeah, and a reminder to make a follow up appointment for a urine specimen in 2 weeks, just to be sure the infection is cleared.  We get home and are greeted by Tigger, who is now convinced that Charlie returned with  a bad case of the cooties.  He hissed at Charlie for two days.  Charlie could have cared less.

I know some folks might think I’m well on my way to being one of those old lady cat people, walking around with clothes covered in cat fur, and a kitchen pantry filled with cans of cat food.  I have a bunch of kitty Christmas ornaments.  I own earrings and pins with cats on them.  I don’t have any grandchildren yet, so I call Charlie and Tigger “my boys.”  Kitty toys litter my living room … little mice, balls, and catnip squares.

But here’s the thing.  These guys don’t care what I look like.  And lately, between the prednisone and the lupus flare ups, I’m a little worn around the edges.  Charlie and Tigger  just want to sit on my lap, purr and chill out.  When they act like total goofballs who run around and chase their tails, I often forget about the crummy day at work, or the scary doctor visit, or the infusions I deal with every three weeks.  These kitties are good for the heart and soul.

Now, if they could only learn how to cook and fold the laundry.  But even I know that’s never gonna happen any time soon.   Maybe some day  🙂

White Nights

Lately, I’ve been having trouble falling asleep.  It’s very frustrating.  Some of you might be reading this post in the middle of the night and can relate.  Since I can’t sleep I might as well write.  At least I feel I’m doing something positive with all this free time on my hands.  Actually, it really isn’t free time because I know that sometime tomorrow afternoon I’ll be taping my eyelids to my forehead.

I don’t really have a bedtime routine.  Maybe that’s the problem.  But I’m perfectly capable of relaxing, getting cozy in bed, maybe reading a little bit, or watching something I’ve taped on television.  A little Tylenol PM, or something stronger usually does the trick.  Sometimes the brain just won’t shut down.  I start thinking.  And thinking.  And making lists in my head.  And playing out scenarios of possible future events.  God knows I must be prepared.  I tell my brain to shut the hell up.  My brain doesn’t listen …. it has a will beyond my control.

Yeah I make grocery lists.  To Do Lists for the office.  And I come up with what I think are stunningly brilliant ideas for a music project, an art project …. you name it.  But I’m trying to fall asleep, dammit, and so I don’t take the time to sit up and write anything on paper.  Maybe that’s a good thing.   What seems like a great idea in the middle of the night can look pretty stupid in the light of day.  I lived through the 70’s and 80’s and 90’s.  Enough said.  Now that I have my own personal forum of random rants, I’m taking a chance and depositing some of the loose screws in my head right here, right now.  Maybe this will help me fall asleep.  It’s worth a try.

Between June 11 to July 2  St. Petersburg, Russia, celebrates what they call The White Nights.  During this time, the sun does not go below the horizon deep enough for the sky to become dark. It’s a veritable Mecca for insomniacs.  And I’m sure their festivals are lots of fun.  Hmmmm … vodka 24/7.  Not a bad idea!

2:00 am in St. Petersburg

As I sit here, my two cats are looking at me.  They are both curled up, totally relaxed and have not a care in the world.  Maybe that’s because they are cats with little brains and the ability to sleep with their feet over their face.  My gray tabby, Tigger is actually looking at me upside down.  But it’s easy for him to be distracted and now he’s licking his ass.  Lovely.

Well, at least the crickets and other bugs are still up and making their end-of-the-summer bug sounds.  However, at some point they too will shut up.   Insects are classified as arthropods.  I know this because it’s late at night and I have time to Google random information about bugs.  I could be doing something more productive like laundry but that would involve actually moving and going up and down stairs. I could try wandering around Facebook looking for new games and applications.  It’s easy to get lost in the Facebook Vortex.  Maybe I’ll give it a try and will let you know if it works or not.

So if you’re reading this in the middle of your own personal White Night, or in the morning, or depending on where you are, I wish you sweet dreams.  We can all use a little extra  Zzzzz’s.

Hang Em High

It all started when I began thinking about the strange randomness of the single shoe found on roadsides.  How did it get there?  Was it thrown out on purpose or just carelessly tossed aside?  Who knows?  And who cares?

That’s when I decided to Google “random shoes.”  I found photos of this tree in Hawthorne, Nevada.

Shoes in Tree

Apparently the custom is to sling your shoes up in the tree after you’ve experienced a certain rite of passage.  Ahem.  The tree is dead, by the way, perhaps by way of stinky feet.  And maybe the tire was a tribute to ah, uh …  whatever.