tactfullyblunt

I Love to Hate You, I Love to Hate You, I Loooove to Haaaate Yoooooouuu

It's official: Penn's got The Cancer.

There will be plenty of time for retrospectives on the life of Bill's cat later, but for now he is crying above his tranqs, moaning about the state of his existence.

His body has always burned through any meds we've had to give him—8 kinds of kitty psychotic drugs which had no effect on him (except to make him even more homocidal) proved that. But I'd have to say that this is the saddest drug burn through I've ever seen him go through.

Poor Penncil.

You're not much longer going to be trapped in The Pennitentiary.

I hate this cancer thing, man. Fucking blows.

Jesus, He loves Himself a pogostick

The last 24 hours have been a bit painful.

Yesterday we found out that Bill's cat, Penn, probably has mysenteric cancer (for which there is little treatment) -or- FIP (for which there is little treatment). For people who have no children, our cats are our children.

This morning Bill received a call from his sister to say that Mr D had an impromptu appendectomy. The update on that is that the appendix had already exploded by the time they opened him up and that he'd had some infection in there. They scooped him out like a cantaloupe but are going to keep him in the ICU for the next few days to make sure he's ok.

Our house, meanwhile, has been in a constant state of upheaval since before Halloween. This has caused Bill's other cat, Teller, to begin leaving us lovely little presents of the smelly variety all around the house. To say that this is annoying is putting it mildly, especially since it was only two months ago that I was going on and on about how our cats don't piss all over the place. As a way to remedy the situation, the only thing we can do (besides hurry up and finish the construction already before our obviously Felix Unger cat floods us with urine) is to put Feliway dispensers in every room, spray enzyme crap everywhere, and attempt to squeeze enough time into the day to reassure him that everything is going to be ok. I'm beginning to think that there is not enough reassurance in the world, however, because just the other day, immediately after I gave him the reassurance he was craving, he went and pissed on the floor. [He just went to the vet and there is nothing wrong with him, so this is definitely behavioral.]

I am really at the end of my rope with this cat and have contemplated that perhaps in order to figure him out I need to walk a mile in his shoes. When I'm hungry, I'm just going to piss on the floor. When I'm lonely, the same thing. No one's come to clean my bathroom for a while? Ditto. Bill spends too much time working and not enough time giving me pets? You got it. Someone calls me with more bad news? That person is going to get a snoot full of funk.

This stuff writes itself

So I just got back from walking to my polling place where I blindly followed Bill to the incorrect precinct voting area (there are two hosted at our neighborhood elementary school). But following Bill blindly isn't what this post is about, that's just more of a disclaimer of my own stupidity so that you won't hate me for what I'm about to write.

Anyhow, we're waiting in line when the next couple comes up behind us. They're late middle aged, large people (both tall and wide), with the woman using a cane. The only other thing I can tell you about what they looked like was what I saw when she was walking away—her kelly green, too short (and tight) jersey pants and sweater a la 1982.

The reason I couldn't tell you any more about what they looked like is because I was afraid of them. I knew as they were walking up that there was something not right about them. Before you dismiss me as being too judgmental, consider, if you will, the following items:

1. I couldn't look at them because I have a morbid fear of staring at people who might go completely insane and chop me to bits in the too small lunch room of the local grade school.

2. The smell of stale smoke and sickly sweat coming off them made me too light headed.

3. Oh, wait, that wheezing isn't wheezing. It's actually the woman breathily (and repeatedly) mumbling "Ewwweeechubbachubbachubba...ewwweeechubbachubbachubba...ewwweeechubbachubbachubba". One time she got so wound up that she said the chubba part seven times. I counted.

4. This was offset every few moments by the man mumbling in a very base toned voice "MMMMMmmmmmrrrrrrgggrrrroooonkkk."

5. Then the woman lapses into a very coherent diatribe about how 2am comes very early in the morning when you've not had your nap. "Waayull, I just HAyud to watch MASH."

6. Then she goes back to talking about chub again. Hers? Mine? Someone else's? Who knows. I call my cat that sometimes, maybe she was talking about him.

7. Him: "MMMMMmmmmmrrrrrrgggrrrroooonkkk."

8. Right about that point, God help me, there was a adolescent looking male walking away from the voting booth towards what I can only supposed was his mother (she had a similar vacant look on her face) who was saying "umph" with every kick-legged step. He didn't look right to me either.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that while I'm thankful that I don't live in Precinct 10 (yayyyy Precinct 13), it's no surprise why we wind up with certain persons voted into power.

And that's all I'm going to say about that.

musings of a monday

If we are a nation of conservative hick rednecks, how come the majority of commercials running right now use alternative music to market their products?

In researching images to represent the concept of priority, why do the first three pages show corporately dressed women in various poses on the phone or in front of the computer, a little too obviously ignoring toddlers, most of whom are screaming? The toddlers, not the women. (Well, some of the images do show a screaming woman, but those are in the minority.)

My father called yesterday to tell me about the most recent rumor one of his "friends" had shared with him about his upcoming surgery. Seems some fool decided to tell him that he will lose the ability to have an erection—for the rest of his life. This was enough of a concern for my father that he said he's been seriously considering not going through with the surgery at all. This conversation left me thinking several things:

1. Wow. It's nice to be old enough that I'm not squeamish about acknowledging my father as a sexual being. In fact, it makes me love him more that he can talk about it so openly with me.

2. Thankfully, I've done more research about the potential side-effects of his upcoming surgery than he has and am able to dispel these ridiculous (and overtly cruel) rumors these fright-mongers have been telling him over the course of the last few weeks.

If I were given a moment with this particular loser, I would say "How about I come over to your house and give you a homemade Brachy therapy treatment and then we'll see how much you want me to tell you that not only are you getting older, not only do you have cancer of the privates, but now your whole sexuality is caput? I didn't think so."

You'll Never Find, As Long As You Live

Poor Bill.

No, we didn't make it to Longwood Gardens on Friday. Or Saturday.

We also didn't go to the winery.

No, instead the plan was to go to a small (bring your own wine) French bistro named Charlotte's, which had gotten great web reviews. We were going to catch a late lunch there and then meander through the gardens before driving the 2.5 hours back home to walk our vacationing neighbors' dog.

It was pouring down rain as we left the State store (that's liquor store for those of you who don't know the original name the State uses for their highly taxed and controlled alcohol disbursement system). If it was at all possible, the rain was coming down harder as we drove past Charlotte's the first time. We knew it was Charlotte's because that's what it said on the sign; right above the word COCKTAILS. Omen number one.

By the time we pulled into the parking lot, the wind was howling so hard that it nearly blew over two of the 85-year-old men running for their Caddys. Omen number two. This point was the first time that I asked Bill if we were at the correct address. He assured me that we were, checking the mapquest directions again. We looked at the windowless, stained cedar-shingled building, considered the wisdom of going inside and instantly checked it against our growling tummies.

As we reached the door, there were four more 85-year-old men holding it open and yelling about the rain. Their 85-year-old wives were sitting at the top of the stairs immediately in front of us—and immediately below the most enormously tacky crystal chandelier I've ever seen. And yet, dear reader, I did not hesitate one bit to enter the abode. I knew I was in for an adventure, and adventure I would have!

As a very heavily Emerauded Maude led us into the dining room, I was totally overwhelmed by the ambience. I can honestly say that I have never seen alcoves covered with camel-covered carpet before, especially when accompanied with a pressed and punched copper convertible Dusenberg wall-hanging! I musn't neglect to point out that there were separate brass and crystal chandeliers for each table. The piece de resistance was that every table had a huge piano bar tip glass (a la Making a Living's piano player) full of, um, some kind of 10-month-old balls of crunchy dough which we bit into with our molars as we perused the menu of over 75 offerings. To say it was all overwhelming is totally selling the place short. I did some minor translation for Bill with the waiter and we were on our way.

I can't really talk about the food. There was a lot of it, for sure, but like all good design, there must be a hierarchy—and in this restaurant the decor was definitely in the driver's seat.

Bill was crushed; his plans had been entirely romantic, and here I was mocking the velvet and gold floral patterned wall-paper. At the time I asked him if it was comparable to a woman laughing at a man's ding-ding and he said it was. From my perspective, I couldn't have asked him for a more hysterically intimate afternoon if I tried—my imagination is good, but my imagination would never have come up with a bow-tied, 90-year-old waiter offering me alfredo shrimp fra diablo (ewwwww and wha?) and prune liquer in a crusty glass, while Tom Jones sang It's Not Unusual over the restaurant's hi-fi system.

Unfortunately, by the time we were done with the meal, we had to immediately drive home. Still, no one else has ever given me anything like that.

ED Note: Yes, we went to the Phila. Museum of Art on Sunday for a champagne brunch. It was most welcome.

circular

For the most part I seem to be doing fatally fine since the bluebarfy incident. The only thing that remains a little off is my tummy—which seems to be remarkably picky these three days later about what I put into it.

Last night, in celebration of a check which was supposed to be FedExed to me this morning (and wasn't), we went to the neighborhood watering hole for some salad. I'd eaten the same salad four days ago (prepuke) and enjoyed it immensely. This time I couldn't eat but four bites before I was f-u-l-l and feeling nauseated. The experience reminded me of one of my Dad's favorite stories about my childhood.

In many ways I think I was like most little kids and would eat just about anything that came out of a babyfood jar, off someone's plate, or off the floor, and lots of it. However, there were a few things that either I didn't like right off or developed a dislike for as I actually grew taste buds. When these things were put in my mouth, I'd make a sour face, get watery eyes and try to spit it out. If those things didn't work I'd call on the big guns and roll my eyes up in my head, simultaneously lolling my tongue outside my mouth with as much food as I could immediately jetison, gag dramatically, and bob my enormous baby cranium forward violently upon my twiggy neck.

Sure, great story, right?

What made it great, people, was the fact that I'd then look helplessly up at whomever was foisting this nastiness upon my gentle sensibilities, shrug my shoulders and say, "Mouff not laak iiit". In this manner, I was no longer responsible for refusal to eat whatever it was. If I could've talked more plainly, I'd probably have said something like, "Hey, Man, s'not my fault I can't keep this down. My mouth just can't handle this, and hey, we both know how rebellious that SOB is. Let's just agree between us that we're not going to try to fill any more beets in there, and maybe he'll be more amenable to those huge chewable vitamins you keep trying to get him to swallow, ok? I just can't be responsible for what he might do if you bring another spoonful of pureed liver near him—he's craaaaaazy."

blueberries make a nice stain

The "heat wave" in this area has really been playing havoc with my system. Since about Sunday afternoon (coinciding strangely with Pirates of the Caribbean), I've been battling a near constant pain in my right eye. Last evening found me in bed by 9:30, wishing that the world would stop moving the bed so much so that I could get comfortable. I blame the dreams I had in part to the movie, in part to my inner ear issues, and in part to the ginger granola cereal with fresh blueberries I had for dinner, because I certainly have zero desire to be on a ship in the middle of the ocean—ever. All of these things contributed to my spending the better part of the hours of 1am to 3am heaving my guts up.

Things I have learned:

ONE
Blueberries leave a nice stain

TWO
When exposed to gastric acid, ginger's atoms are rearranged such that they create a super acid that will eat all of the flesh from the inside of your throat, your eucstacean tubes and your sinuses in a nanosecond; this goes double for any place affected by splashback. Case in point: my right eye. Damn. Nothing wakes you up faster than blue gingery puke in your eye.

THREE
When vomiting up something that you really, truly enjoy on a regular basis, it's best not to remember all of the alcoholic beverages which you can no longer enjoy for the same reasons. I personally believe the definition of insanity is vomiting at 2:30am and having a conversation with myself that goes something like this:

"Wow, do you think that this will be anything like the time you drank Bud until you puked and could never wear Salon Selectives hair product again because the smell reminded you too much of vomit in your hair?"

Shut up! I want to keep liking blueberries! And I'm not giving up ginger granola either!

"Still, I wonder how pregnant women can just go on, heaving up their guts like this—oh, wow! That was some serious splashback!—and don't have any lasting effects. I bet they do. Great, something else to look forward to."

Shutupshutupshuppp!

FOUR
Why is it that there comes a point where the desire to not throw up is totally overwhelmed by plaintive cries emanating from deep inside your soul to "Please, Holy Spirit, wilst Thou visitest mine bowels and push these foul demons back into the sewer from whence they came! Only, in Thy divine mercy, I beseech Thee, please don't push them so hard that they go up my nose to burn me with a thousand flames of hell on their way out!"?

Every time I get sick I actually believe that if I can hold my head in the correct position that I will be able to puke without that burn at the end. Last night I actually thought "Alllll Riiiiight!" every time I chucked and didn't get it up my nose. Such hubris, because the next round was twice as badly up my nose.

Why am I writing about all of this? Because I'm thinking I'm going to have a reprisal this evening, and I'm hoping at least to have some new material tomorrow.

ageism

Yes. I've been away. I've had a lot on my mind in the last few months.

As the owner of a soon-to-be 1-year-old business, I've been busting ass and taking names so well that I've got more work than I can handle but not enough (this week) to involve someone else.

As a 2-yr-old wife, I've learned that every single family on the planet has their own dysfunctional SOPs, and fooling with that can quickly turn into a kick in the cherries. Even (and most especially) when you're behind the scenes doing all the right things. No good deed goes unpunished, as the old saying goes.

As a 35-year-old, I've been learning that my body has a lot of grievances against me that were never addressed, that it really doesn't appreciate my 2-year-old intense interest in its upkeep and lets me know by crapping out on me nearly every time I go to the gym. Currently the regime change is taking place in my ankle after this morning's long-awaited return to the gym. At least my body is nice enough to tell me which machines it harbors ill will against—I just wish it did it before, and not after, the fact. Like I said, my body's a spiteful, vindictive bitch.

As a 2-year-old in-ground gardener (my success as a container gardener left me naive), I have learned that when I put something in the ground it is no longer mine; it belongs to the rodentia in my yard. This afternoon, I decided to rescue the third tomato of the season (as they had stolen the previous two, take bites out of each of our cucumbers and have decimated my soy beans). For this, I had a very angry, barking squirrel fling squirrel poops at me as he hung upside down from the side of the tree.

And isn't that what the day-to-day living of life is, when you get right down to it? A whole bunch of love, hard-work and poop flinging that can snow you under with prosperity or have you doubled over holding your bruised fruit.

conspiratorial irish whispers

Oh Internet, how ye foil my vain attempt to proclaim this day in history as "Jen Becomes Adult Day". Can't frickin' be an adult if you can't access your (ha!) assets in order to flog yourself with how far behind you are in paying your bills.

Can you tell I thought I'd be further along the financial food chain by this point in my everloving life? The fact of the matter is that in the last few weeks I've gotten overly sick of my brain, my body, the internet, the house that is.never.clean.or.finished, and, well, everything about my self. Add to that the strange omnipresence (in the last two or three weeks) of my mother's ghost and you've got me: a woman on the edge. A me finding my ass suddenly aflame with the desire to do.some.fucking.thing.about.it. If only I could find the right zealotry.

So far the best I've been able to come up with is to go back to being totally anal retentive with my pennies, clean like someone with OCD, make incessant lists (and actually do (!!) them), and just return to what seemed to work on some level for me in my 20s by going all perfectionist on my life. The problem with my doing that, and the reason that I've ultimately been so resistant in the last few months, is that not too many people were willing to be part of my life then. I mean, they were part of my life by dint of proximity, but they weren't actually willing. It was more like I was a force of nature that just sucked up everything around me and then threw it all back out, spent and shrivelled. I thought I was so "advanced" with my volume-at-11-emotions but I was totally unbending and completely unforgiving of the faults of those closest to me. I'm not the most consistently social person yet, but now that I've got people around me who actually enjoy my company and stay in contact with me, as God is my witness, I never want to go hungry again!

Working toward adulthood has been a fine line to walk and I'm not sure I'm doing a great job of it. In fact, I've been a lazy shit. Which is probably why yesterday I took advantage of the fact that all of my female siblings were home and suggested we go through Mom's closet. It wasn't originally my intention to do that when I got down there, the idea and the words just sorta fell out of my mouth. And, despite the fact that the clothes smelled like she'd just worn them yesterday and some misty eyes, it went smoothly.

Mom wasn't much of a fashion plate in her later years, but she had saved so many old clothes from her youth that there were things back in fashion. We all had emotional responses to different clothes, but it was the 70s era clothes that made me miss her the most. She was so pretty, so thin, so everything this chubby-little-girl-everyone-always-mistook-for-a-boy wanted to be. Cathy tried on one of the cocktail outfits and instantly I was five again. Dad didn't remember that outfit, but I sure did: a black, one-piece looooowww-cut, halter topped, flare-pants jumpsuit with the accompanying lace-backed, bell-sleeved jacket. I don't remember knowing what sexy was at five, but I thought she was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen walking out the door wearing that, tossing her Farrah hair over her shoulder and telling me to behave for the baby-sitter (who proceeded to drug me with cough syrup so she and her friends could drink all the alcohol in the house). Cathy looked really good in it. She said she was going to use it for her Halloween costume this year...I think she's going as a hooker.

I miss my Mom today, but I'm ok about it. Because I know somewhere out there she's throwing around her Farrah hair and totally flirting with Peter Jennings. We both had a crush on him but I'm ok with Mom getting to him first--because she's so smokin' hot. Rock on, Pete, you don't know what's about to hit ye.

.......

In this photo I am thinking how wrong it is that my Mom is so durn cute.

My Dad said that a Gunny he works with said "Who's the ugly dame?" when he saw this picture last week. This, people, is my father's father and is the gene pool from whence I come. Thank the Christ I got his sense of humor as well.

wash. rinse. repeat.

The photo to the left is of me; I am the round-headed baby, all fresh-faced and ready to learn about the world. For the most part I have been a quick learner, but I guess everyone takes continuing education courses nowadays, so I shouldn't feel too poorly for last Friday's refresher.

My college roommate can attest to how obsessed I was with my hair the entirety of my freshman year. There probably weren't three days between each time I picked up a pair of scissors to cut it, looking for a visible way to work out my plethora of issues. Ah, if only the world's problems could be cured as easily as cutting off the grey split ends of one's hair!

That's right. I said grey.

The summer before I went to college, I spent a good deal of time in the sun. I also spent a good deal of time fooling with my hair, perming it beyond recognition. What started out as a nice foofy white ball atop my head had become a lank, chlorinated-green poodle in need of a grooming. Pink or blue I'd had done before intentionally, but green was unflattering to my skin tone and that just would not do. So I locked my parents' upstairs bathroom and went to work armed with Clairol Ultresse, Platinum Blonde.

What made the impromptu dye job even more imperative was that I had fallen in love the month before with a gangly cyclist from the local liberal arts college. He had beautiful long hair and the cutest little John Lennon glasses and was just as nervous around me as I was around him. We had previously avoided a first date by hanging out with a mutual friend (and as is often the case, the mutual friend was crushed when we started dating), but tonight we were daringly forging ahead to the movies. So I couldn't go on this momentous date with green hair or I'd be mortified. What's worse, he might be mortified.

Fast forward to 20 minutes before the date, and I am madly washing and rewashing my hair. The Platinum Blonde did half the job--by turning my hair Platinum. Grey to be precise. I'm not talking "flat", "dull" or brown, I'm talking g-r-e-y. I had no idea what to do. I couldn't go ask my mother for help because she'd be upset that I'd done this in the first place. I couldn't call any of my girlfriends because they had already left for school. I didn't have any time. He was going to be here any minute and here I was looking like a granny with a bad hair day.

Eventually I did run down to ask my mother what to do. She followed through, true to form, and told me that I shouldn't have done it in the first place (well, duh!) and that it served me right. (I don't remember her laughing at the situation, which I think will probably be my first response when my daughter comes to me in the same predicament. Yes, I realize she will hate me; she is probably in my ovary hating me for it in advance and shaking her fist at the sky at this very moment. Such is the joy of karma.) She just made some comment about how she couldn't believe she was going to have to send me off to college "looking like this". The Robert Smith hairstyle with blue and pink streaks she didn't comment on. The fact that I had been wearing black clothes for three years made no impression upon her. But the grey hair, THAT got her attention.

As I was standing there talking to her, my date arrived. I remember opening the door and immediately starting to apologize. I think I even told him that it was ok if he didn't want to go out with me. He looked a little stunned and then he said, "No, it's ok, really. We can still go out...if *you* want to..." Long story short, I went on the date.

The grey hair, however, lasted longer than the summer fling did. My hair grows painfully slowly, and it took a good two years before the whole tragic mistake was cut out (thus the perpetual cutting that freshman year).

All of this back story is to set the framework for last Friday's debacle, wherein not having done a thing to my hair since last August, and whilest also feeling rather peaked about my appearance, I decided to once again take matters into my own hands. This time I thought I was being wise by choosing something that was semi-permanent (ie, will wash out) and closer to my natural hair color. Apparently I wasn't that wise, because I was blessed once again with grey hair.

Grey. Like Carol Kane's in The Princess Bride. Yes, I laughed when I saw it, even though I was sent into a similar panic as the last time. I could hear Bill's voice in my head pleading with me not to change my hair color again (he was kind about the color I had for the wedding, but it was easily the most brassy blonde I've ever been, and I think he had fears that I was considering another such fiasco). I could hear my mother's voice telling me that I shouldn't have done this in the first place. I also heard a voice telling me that perhaps if I styled it it wouldn't look so bad. It seemed like a good idea, so I tried it.

After a curling iron revealed that my hair was indeed still grey (big surprise), I assessed the situation to determine whom to call in as a reinforcement. I opted for Shelly, who has had the most brilliant shades of red, burgundy, pink and orange hair the whole time I've known her, because I figured if anyone would understand my plight so clearly it would be her. The choice was a good one because, while she laughed hysterically, she told me stories about other womens' hair trauma (one of which involved trying to hide a half bleached head with a sock stuffed into the side of a baseball cap) and soundly advised me to wash it a few times with dishwashing soap and if that didn't work to call Clairol (again, I should've learned my lesson about Clairol the last time).

Five washes later and I was on the phone with the Clairol 800 number. A pleasantly effeminate man answered the phone and, after asking me a series of questions about how this travesty could have occurred, politely said he needed to put me on hold, Honey. I said sure and had my hopes further buoyed when the hold music was Oleta Adams singing "Get Here If You Can" (hey, if you're going to have a hair emergency, your best friend is the gayest man you can find, and it helps if he's got Oleta, Patty or Aretha on hold, and I don't think that's unPC, thank you very much). However, in this case, Sweetie, he was unable to advise me about what to do, on account of the fact that, Child, you could do a lot more damage to your hair if you use another off-the-shelf Clairol product. In short, Girl, his advice was to seek a professional's help, because that grey part would have to be cut out.

So I called the professional who said she couldn't cut my hair until May 6 and was told that no, indeed, she can't fit me in for an emergency color consultation until she sees me to cut my hair. And even then we'll probably be looking at an appointment round about the beginning of June.

sigh

So I got off the phone and washed my hair some more. I even put vinegar on it because a link said that was how to get hair dye out of shag carpet, and after so many washes with dishwashing soap, my hair definitely felt like shag carpet. I think it helped a little, because the roots of my hair now look normal, but the ends of my hair are still holding onto the base color enough that they look grey. My outside source, Shelly, said it wasn't so much grey now and that when she saw it she "just thought it was more toned down than usual".

Somehow that sounds like there's an insult hidden in there, but I'm still laughing about it.