Today I decided to put on some Monster Bait Underpants because I hadn't worn it in a while, and then I put a touch of Bengal over the top. This blend could be called "Panties on Fire." Hell yeah!
That "hell yeah" reminds me -- because the t-shirts you buy at Bob Schneider's concerts have that on the front -- Bob has a new recording coming out on August 8! Ah, something to live for! Bob can set my panties on fire, I tell ya. Plus I really do like his music.
I decided to get all dressed up this morning because I was having one of those days that, when all else fails, be a diva. On the way into work, I decided to stop at my favorite locally-owned coffee house (this town is big into non-franchise coffee houses) called Meadowlark. There's outdoor seating for the smokers and people who generally just want to hang around outdoors, and often there's a real blend of denizens at the outside tables. I've seen residents of a nearby halfway house for mental health center clients sitting at one table and a stockbroker sitting at the next table.
This morning it was a group of characters that I've never seen before at the outdoor table. They were unique. I walked past them and one of them, who had a mullet and was wearing a "Got Milk?" t-shirt, looked at me and said: "Wow, baby!" I walked into Meadowlark and the barrista behind the counter looked at me and said: "You're so fancy today!" I think I may have diva-ed myself to excess...
It's going to be a skort and a black tank top tomorrow!
I have on a new layering adventure today; I bought a bottle of Bengal from chappiti on the forum (BTW, check out her avatar, I love it). While I really love Bengal, (or why would I have a bottle of it?), it tends to light up on my body for a bit. By that I mean, the cinnamon bark makes my skin flush rosy red for a brief time. So this morning I put down a nice layer of O (kind of like a paint primer) and then put Bengal over it. Yummy! Since I think Bengal smells like redhot candies over musk, and O smells, well, like O, I'm calling this blend Candy-O. That name is stolen from the title of an album by The Cars, which had this cover:
And now, for a brief aside: A friend called me and told me to turn on the Today show, because they were doing a shoe fashion show. Naturally, the Shoe Whore-Foot Fetishist turned it on right away. I just finished watching it. They were doing very close close-ups of each model's feet, and ARRGGHH! One of the models had on a pair of open-toe, slingback shoes and SHE HAD CRUSTY HEELS! OK, I know it was a big closeup, but I shudder to think how it looked on HDTV. I probably would have vomited. And who picked her to model shoes? Why didn't they put her in a pair of closed-back shoes? And if you had even 1 hour's notice that you had to sub for someone as a shoe model, would you at least do a little buffing and shining? Arrggh!!! At least I didn't see any French Manicures on the toenails, thank goodness. I would have screamed so loud that I would have frightened my coworkers.
Ahem, sorry to anyone who was eating as they read this. You probably had a hard time swallowing.
I have this tendency to layer my BPAL scents, and then name the blend, as in Smut-O-Rama. I also mixed Lovitar and Smut one night. I'm still surprised that I didn't explode -- that's mixing two incendiary substances! And it's a bit of a BDSM mix that wouldn't be for public consumption, and would naturally need to worn with leather underwear. It was dubbed Joe Perry Bait. (And of course, thanks again to the Diva of Icons, minilux, for providing me with the customized beauties!)
I really do try out these blends because I get curious, or more often than not, I want to juice things up a bit. Every time I get something a bit low-key, I decide to toss in some heat. (I'm a Leo.) So tonight, I decided to see what would happen if I put down a nice layer of Coyote and then dabbed a bit o' Smut on top. It's nice. I went out to get some iced tea and read at a coffee house, and the girls working there were leaning over the counter inhaling me, because they liked it that much. Of course, they now have the Lab's web site address and are officially enabled.
But that blend... do I call it Coyote Smut or Smut E. Coyote?
Since my previous entry was a prolonged rant, I'm doing another entry to lighten up the mood, and it's on one of my more favorite subjects.
I turned on TV last night and there on the screen was some absurd CBS 4th of July special, featuring Boston Pops doing a live outdoor concert. But when I turned it on, Aerosmith was playing along with the Boston Pops. What? I guess the Aerosmith boys came from the Boston area. But it was surreal, to say the least. First of all, these days, Steven Tyler has a tighter face than his daughter Liv. It does not look especially flattering on him -- a bit too much work, I think. But I could have lived with that, had he sounded halfway normal. Oh my hell, his voice made the menacing cat scream-growl noise uttered by Puddin' Tom sound like the song of a lark. Tyler at his best never had a resonant or clarion-clear rock star voice, but this was off-key and vocal chord polyp-inducing squalling. I nearly hit the mute right away. Actually, I did so when he started to hack his way through "Dream On." It was just too sad.
But Joe Perry was, well, Joe Perry. He and Steven did look like they got into a Clairol frost 'n tip hair highlight system together, but I like the way it looks on Joe. (Do I dislike they way anything looks on Joe? Probably not.) Joe has two big platinum blonde streaks running on either side of his part, and it looks rather dramatic, as if he needs any more drama and presence.
Poor Steven Tyler was working very hard to keep the energy and drama focused on him, and all Joe had to do was stand there, play the guitar and toss his head around. If you got it, you got it.
ETA: OK, I just read that Steven Tyler was "fresh from surgery on his vocal chords," so that's why he sounded so bad. But that's like getting a liver transplant and going out and drinking shots a month after you've been released from the hospital! Rest your voice, Steven.
I came up with a descriptive line today that I felt was one of my better ones -- I was talking to a friend about how I'd been in an insanely bad mood a couple of weeks ago. In hindsight, I realize that it was because I was coming down with a bad summer cold, but at the time, all I knew was that I was not a happy camper. I characterized my mood in this manner:
"I wanted to shove kerosene-soaked tampons up everyone's butt and walk around with a flame-thrower."
Maybe TMI, or maybe a visual you'll enjoy. It probably depends upon your mood.
I was bopping around Zappo's and came upon a company called "Pleaser USA," and then I recalled that evanesce provided a link to their shoes earlier this spring. I came across this pair of shoes and was sufficiently provoked to take a closer look. Then I had to look at the customer comments. Read the third customer comment from B.Y in Seattle. WTF? I sent this to my friend Ron (a shoe fetishist if there ever was one) and asked him if it could help him find religion. His response:
"There’s high church and low church. Then there’s high heel church. I know which I prefer!"
http://www.zappos.com/n/p/dp/15599613/c/1141.html
Oh hell. I wasn't going to order Harvest Moon, the scent, until I read the update thread and someone commented that it was her birth moon, so she just had to get it. Well, it's my birth moon also, and while I'm not sure it will smell that great on me, it has all sorts of things in it that I hold near and dear, because I do love those late summer smells. Anything with Russian sage in it is worth owning, in my opinion. So I ordered a bottle. If it doesn't work on my body, it might make a wonderful scent locket or room scent.
And the t-shirt, I simply must order the t-shirt! Macha's design is astonishing. A bit of a Celtic/Gothic/Georgia O'Keefe quality, and who but Macha could weave all of it together so perfectly? I'm just really, really fond of the design, and hey, it's for my birth moon, so I simply must.
So the scoreboard says:
Update: 2
Resolve: 0
OK, the other matter at hand: I have enough reward points to cash in and change my member title to whatever I want. I love all the self-titled names, they are all so damn clever. I'm having problems coming up with anything like "rapscallion in fuchsia tights" or "1/32 too few" or "part-time ninja" or "fae fatale." Sookster just changed her title to "p-town's naughty sea monkey."
In a prior entry, I'd commented that I could call myself "Phantom of the Prairie Phallus," a reference to the building where I work. But it's not that funny, unless you know the architecture of my state's capitol building. I thought about calling myself "The Jean Genie" (as in the Bowie song), since it's a reference to my real name. Then I thought I could call myself "The Jean Genie in Joe Perry's bottle" because we know my feelings about Joe Perry. Or I could say I was "The Jean Genie in Bob Schneider's bottle," but very few people would know who I was talking about. (Bob may get famous yet!)
Then I remembered that in my review of Sacred Whore of Babylon, I was bemoaning that exotic flowers like jasmine and orchids are hardly indigenous to where I live, so I'm not exactly familiar with their exact scent. And I further postulated that exotic florals smell icky on me due to my geographical location somehow influencing my body chemistry (I don't really believe this), but if Beth ever made a scent called Sacred Whore of the Prairie, it would probably smell good on me. Now, "Sacred Whore of the Prairie" might be a good forum name, and it amuses me. (Some might heartily agree that I'm a whore, the sacred business is no doubt highly debatable; but the part about the prairie is indisputable.)
Any ideas, reactions, comments?
I have always been amused by the saying: "their karma just jumped up and bit them in the ass." It's so much more colorful than sayings like "what goes around comes around," or "they got their just desserts." That's probably because I had an Airedale named Karma, and I always could picture the literal Karma laying around in angelic sleep, then suddenly jumping up and chomping butt.
Popular culture in the U.S. has turned "karma" into such a cliche, as in "peace, love and good karma, man," but karma is a two-way street.
And if you haven't figured it out, while I don't really take pleasure in other's misfortunes, sometimes it really interesting to see a fast turn-around of karma. Sometimes it's very, very slow, and other times it's as if events reach a critical mass, and karma wakes up in a big hurry. I think those of us who get little karmic nips all the time are luckier than those who have karma sitting there and watching, just like a terrier waiting for hours for the vermin to move out from under the building. Because then it's just a "ker-pow" of a punch.
There's a couple of people who I know fairly well who are walking around with chunks missing from their butts because karma just got them. I'm sorry life is anything but a dream right now, but I hope it's a wakeup call. You just can't treat people that way forever.
I think I've mentioned before that I have a lot of Wonder Woman stuff sitting around my office, in addition to Marx Brothers memorabilia and various quirky artsy things and photos of my dogs. I ascribe to the Wonder Woman archetype a little too much, I suppose, or I want everyone to believe I'm like that. I have a girlfriend who refers to me as the Wonder Diva. But like Wonder Woman, I sometimes get a little tired of everyone thinking I'm impervious to their bad behavior, or that I don't have feelings. Letting down my guard is not something that I do readily or willingly. As a result, people can hurt my feelings a lot, but they think I'm hyper-rational and bulletproof.
Which is why the Wonder Diva loves her dogs (and her Puddin' Tom and her birdies.) The doggies are probably a pair of overbonded creatures, but they don't buy into the Wonder Diva facade and they don't care that I'm not bulletproof. It's more important to them that I am soft and vulnerable, because they were both abused and neglected dogs when I got them. They know I'll take care of them and I'll never hurt them. That sort of trust means everything to me.
And lots of people find openness and softness really alarming, while animals breathe a sigh of relief and relax. My yoga teacher's other passion is dog agility training, and she and I often talk about how humans become very habituated to keeping their nervous systems in a constant state of agitation. Oddly, many people find quiet and softness more disconcerting that going 500 MPH all day long. I just don't understand that. You see, Wonder Diva is really a yogini who doesn't let most people know that side of her
.
So if you have a dog or a kitty, or any other sort of pet that you can sit and hold, go find the quiet that they love. It's great for both of you.
My brother is about 12 years older than I am, and thus, I'm right in between his age and his oldest daughter's age. So once when I was about 19 and Lori was about 7, Lori decided she wanted to send my dad a letter, and she wanted to dictate it to me. It was really quite hilarious and I think my dad saved it for a long time. It started out: "Hi Grandpa. How are you? I am fine. The house hasn't burned down yet."
And therefore, the title of today's entry. For whatever reason, the firework lunacy around my town seemed to occur on the evening of July 3, rather than July 4. The next door neighbors have been out of town for over a week, leaving their 17-year-old daughter to care for the household. She was having an allegedly wholesome teen gathering at the house, complete with fireworks. Then, about 2 a.m., I was awakened from my slumbers because someone was frantically ringing the doorbell over and over. I got to the door and yelled "WHO IS IT?" and the response was: "YOUR FENCE IS ON FIRE!"
Great. I ran out the back door, turned on the hose and for whatever reason, ran to the right part of the yard. My DH was left standing confused and didn't even know where I went. But the time I got around the corner, the fire was almost out, for the neighbor's daughter had also turned out their hose and was spraying down the fence.
The explanation: although there were about 4 carloads of kids hanging around, they just all happened to be driving past, and hadn't been spending time there. They claim they stopped and rang the doorbell, couldn't wake us up, and went to her house and got her to come out and put out the fire. Yeah, right. I'm a light sleeper and one doorbell ding is all it takes to rouse me from horizontal slumber to a sitting-straight- up, wide awake state.
And the fire was really caused by a plastic gas can that was set on fire. The fence was scorched due to its proximity to the gas can. The kdis, of course, had no idea who had started it, or where the gas can came from, but it was a random act of arson.
Once the kids heard my DH has finally come to his senses and called the fire department, everyone who just happened to be driving by got in their cars and promptly left. This included the friend who was supposed to be staying with the neighbor's daughter. The neighbor girl's eyes popped out of her head when she heard the firemen were arriving, and that they would probably call the police. She yelped: "But the fire is OUT!" Apparently the two guys who knocked on our door felt it was a good idea to let us know the fence was on fire, while the others didn't want us to figure it out. Our neighbor's daughter feigned great innocence to the fireman and the cops and claimed she'd been indoors watching movies when the act of arson occurred.
The cops took forever to arrive, so we were up until almost 5 in the morning. The police just rolled their eyes at her story. By light of day, you could see where the gas can was on fire in their driveway, and someone kicked it (probably to get it away from her car, not a bad idea), it rolled down an incline toward our fence, and then it scorched the fence.
This is the daughter of people who have a patio chimnea in the the back and like to burn tree branches in it, but if the branches are too green to burn well, they dump charcoal lighter on it and get flames jumping 3 or 4 feet out of the chimnea. I am sure they will also take no responsibility for anything, because she's obviously copping to nothing. The firemen did take pains to point out to her how the fire could have really damaged her house a lot, because if it had continued, it would have gone up into a tree and hopped over to the roof her her house first.
And crap, just last week I had commented that she's very good at playing the wholesome cheerleader, fine Christian girl routine, but she's obviously a bit more of a handful than her older sister. But the parents don't seem to get it, because they're too busy acting like they're socially superior to their neighbors, while they guzzle beer and burn scrap lumber in their chimnea.
So why is it that when people act either superior or have to wear their wholesomeness on their sleeves, it's usually to cover up something else?
If you do anything this 4th of July season, make sangria! I made some first thing this morning and put it in the refrigerator, and by this evening, I had a lovely, lovely brew. I was deeply proud of my efforts. I'm steeping some sangria blanco as I write this, and time will tell if it's as good as the red. If you make red sangria, try to get a nice, fruity Spanish wine. It makes all the difference. Here's the recipe that I used -- it's a modification of "Sunset Sangria" by Rachael Ray, and you can find it on the Foodnetwork web site.
3 tbs. sugar
6 tbs. dark spiced rum with citrus flavor
1 orange, sliced
1 lemon, sliced
2 ripe peaches, peeled and cut into wedges
3 ripe plums, cut into wedges
2 cinnamon sticks
1 bottle Rioja or a good fruity Spanish red wine
Club soda, for topping off glasses of sangria
Combine everything but club soda in a large pitcher. Chill several hours. I ran the wine liquid through a strainer to catch the excess fruit pulp prior to serving. Serve over ice, topped off with club soda for some fizz.
This is not the equivalent of bottled Cruz Garcia Real Sangria -- Cruz Garcia needs vodka or rum added to it in order to make it seem like an alcoholic beverage. This is just a smidge stronger. Thus, adding a bit of club soda will not turn your sangria into the alcoholic equivalent of Welch's grape juice.
I am very tempted to make some Sangrita Margaritas, which entails combining a margarita with sangria. Tasty, tasty. Sangria blanco review to follow tomorrow night.
I have not been the chattiest blogger in the world, lately. Bad blogger, bad, bad, bad blogger! Try to type "bad blogger" a number of times that not turn "bad" into "blad." I did it twice. ("Blad Blogger" sounds like the emo nephew of Dracula.) It's been over 100 degrees here the last two days. Blame any weirdness below on the heat.
Well, I've been quiet because I've been kind of angsty lately and I really don't like to subject people to my angst. I'm semi-finished with my angst, and I've basically decided, what's better -- to be someone who has a few things that I'd like to have, but don't, but in order to get them you have to be positively glacial, or to be sort of person who animals, little kids and old people tend to like. I guess it's best to just accept my gifts in the form of a trusting animal, smiles from little kids and conversations with old folks. And everyone else in between. I not a cold bitch, so I don't get the cold bitch acoutroments. End of story.
I'm going to try to brew up a good batch or two or three of sangria tomorrow. I associate sangria with the 4th of July. Now, WTF? A Spanish wine for an American holiday? It's just a summertime thing.
And what is it when you go to the pool and you see the man with his bald head, bobbing just above the water, and then he emerges from the pool, it is revealed that his body is one of the hairiest things you've seen? As in, more hair on the guy's back than on most men's chests, not to mention all the hair on the legs and the chest and arms? I know it's testosterone doing its thing, but it always amazes me. Not that I have a thing against a nice hairy chest or hairy arms or legs, for I like secondary sexual characteristics, but when the back is almost solid hair, I do draw the line. I'd be getting out the waxing strips and using them on the fellow. But it would be like trying to wax a Grizzly! It would be like pulling carpet! Jeez, and guys like that would clog up your drains all the time, and no one would be able to figure it out, because they have a cue-ball head. Where is that hair coming from?
You can see what I was looking at and pondering at the pool today!
OK, this is a hang-up of mine, a silly pet peeve, and if any of you do this and your man-things or woman-things think it's hot and sexy, good for you and good for them. It's just something I'm not going to do, ever.
I have a hang-up about women who grow their toenails long and paint them in a French manicure. As in long, I mean that the nails may reach or surpass the toe-tip, depending upon the shape of their nails and their toes. It makes their feet look like little paws. And then the French manicure -- I think that looks just plain goofy. French manicures on the fingers are rather pretty and I can appreciate it. Especially because my fingernails never get long enough to do that. But on the feet, I don't think so.
I think my hang-up stems from the fact that prior to this recent trend, the only people with long toenails tended towards being unkempt. There were usually other hideously disgusting things going on with their toenails or feet that I won't even bother to mention.
I have a foot fetish, I will admit, and I like to see nice feet. But when I see toenails that look like they could leave a swipe across your skin like a cat's claw, I just cringe. Toes should be able to move all around the body without accidentally drawing blood, you know.
A year ago, my Airedale Terrier named Karma turned 9 years old, and that very same the day, the vet came to the house to euthanize Karma. She had a very aggressive bone cancer in her spine and by the time it was diagnosed, there was no treatment recourse. She was such a wonderful dog, very much a proud, haughty terrier who could also be silly and goofy. But largely, she was Princess Karma, and about 3 years ago, I found a tiara during Halloween costume season and purchased it for Karma's use. While she had a "don't hate me because I'm beautiful" attitude, she was also a bit of a ruffian and preferred to have her hair long and shaggy. She wasn't one of those preening terriers who came home from grooming with an attitude. Well, she did have an attitude after grooming, but it out of annoyance and embarrassment -- she far preferred her "au natural" state. Thus, her official princess portrait properly shows her in a bit of a wooly-bully dishevel. I do so miss playing with those curls. Here she is in all her glory...
Yeah, I read the Bronte sisters and Thomas Hardy, and I like to quote poetry every now and then, but I also listen to Ani DiFranco and I'm in an Ani mood these days. Not that Ani isn't poetic, in her own 20th/21st century way. And anyone who started their own recording label called Righteous Babe Records has to be alright.
Right now I'm listening to the "reckoning" disc of the "Reveling/Reckoning" double CD set. I was driving around last night singing along to "So What" and I looked over at the car in the lane next to me, and there was a teenaged girl, singing and doing upper body dancing as she drove. I thought, damn it, I miss the surly grunger days. In the town that I live in, there's way too many perky teenagers, but I was in suburbia and the closer I get to downtown, the closer I come to finding surly youth. However, a lot of them tend to sit around outside coffee houses and sing folk songs with people closer to my age, and I find it rather confusing.
Back to Ani. A few years ago in "Jazziz" magazine, in response to the question "What is your guilty pleasure?" Ani replied: "FUCK GUILT." That was my New Year's resolution that year. It worked. (I wasn't raised as a Catholic, so maybe it was easier for me.) Then a year later, I did a spin on that and made my New Year's resolution "FUCK 'WHAT-IF'S.'" I realized late last week just how well that one took, because I spent some time around someone who was spinning "what-if" scenarios, that to me, were no more than fantasies about something that was painfully impossible. I realized how I simply never go there, or if I do, I pull myself back. (Hell, I don't even fantasize about Bob Schneider, and that would be a sweet diversion!)
But as a result, I have a bit more of an Ani DiFranco attitude, which is to jam reality right back in my face. It makes for an interesting life, I'm not missing as much, except for when I'm so sulky that I'm not really paying attention. Better to be looking around than your head in the clouds or up your ass, right?
But even then, almost in spite of everything I've said above, I'm still a romantic. I've yet to figure that one out.
I sit here on a late Sunday morning, with my cockatiel, Herb D. Byrd, sitting on my shoulder, doing his imitation of someone dialing a cordless phone: beep, beep, beep... He can also do a killer imitation of the phone ringing and then the answering machine going off, then the beep at the end of a message. He is a little character.
On Friday, the postman delivered a bottle of Dorian that I won on eBay last week! The seller charged me $5 for shipping, which seemed a bit high, but then I realized that she lives in Canada and she it airmailed to me. Bless her. I also bought a bottle of Dorian on the forum three weeks ago, and unless something changes soon, I think I've been swaplifted. I'm giving the seller one more chance to write back to me/send me the bottle and then I file a report with the mods. I'm more than willing to consider that it could have been lost or stolen by the USPS, but the seller's lack of a response to my PM makes me wonder what's happening. I've never had that happen before on the forum, and by and large, most people selling and swapping are incredibly nice and generous.
Anyway, the aroma of Dorian has some sort of effect upon me that I find hard to describe. It involves associations, and scents and music are my two major emotional associations. I love, love, love the smell of Smut and O and Urd and Underpants and Khajurajo, but Dorian almost makes me cry. I get over it after a while, but the first sniff gets me every time. But I love it, I want to wear it, and I think the emotional rush that it gives me is a cathartic thing I'm going through at this time. However, when I did wear it (when all I had was an imp), I had a couple of my male "noses" sniff it and they both responded with a dazed, wide-eyed "you smell so....incredible." Smut gets a vaguely drooly "ohmygodyousmellgood," Underpants and O gets the "yeah, that is nice," but Dorian, I think, has magic dust in it. I think it's the scent that Beth made for her beloved Ted, so maybe in a "Like Water For Chocolate" way, it reflects how she felt when she created it. My, I'm romantic this morning.
Like I said, music also creates some circuit-jamming emotional associations for me. I was at a wedding and reception last night, and weddings don't do that for me. I never cry at weddings. But at the reception, once the endless tape loop of Michael Buble music ended (he gets REALLY tiresome after 2 hours) and the lovely-dovey dance music was tuned on, I was somewhat relieved, if only for a change of pace. I was sitting there watching the bride and groom dance the first dance, thinking how sweet and cute they looked. And it was rather odd, no one else was watching. The parents were too busy being tense (bride's mom and dad are bitterly divorced, groom's dad had a lot to drink by that point), and the wedding party was utterly blitzed. Everyone else was eating, drinking and talking. I was glad that I gave that little moment of theirs my attention. I hope they never forget that they once were like that.
But then some country rock song came up on the rotation, and while I normally detest country rock, this song gets to me. I can't even tell you the name of the song, but it almost made me cry. I thought, well shit, I could sit here and sniff the inside of my elbow, get a big hit of Dorian, and just start sobbing, right here in the middle of the reception. I didn't. It was an open bar, and I got another drink and disassociated for a while. I hate to disassociate from my emotions, but sometimes it's what you gotta do, if only not to make a scene at a wedding reception.
My friend Ron always tells me that in spite of what I call my cynical attitude, I'm the most romantic person he knows. He says I'm not sentimental, but I am romantic. Did I read the Bronte sisters entirely too much when I was a teenager? Yeah, let's blame it on Emily and Charlotte! And Dorian, and that stupid country song! Charlotte and Emily and Dorian don't annoy me, but a country rock song? I humilate my own sensibilities with that one! But at least I take comfort that it wasn't a Celine Dion song! (Whew.)
It occurs to me that I have not provided a definitive update on the cat who took up residence on my front porch nearly two weeks ago. I was calling the kitty Puddy or Puds or Puddin', and a week ago I took the little geek into the vet to get the giant hairballs cut out of his fur and to get a general health assessment.
So here's the news: the kitty is a neutered male, the vet guesses he's about 10 years old. He'd probably lived on his own for a while, considering the extent of the matted hair on his back, but he obviously was someone's pet for most of his life. He had no microchip, and no lost cat report fits his description. His ears were simply very dirty, he had no mites or parasites except of evidence of some fleas, so he was treated for the nasty fleasters. His bloodwork came out clean and vet gave him vaccinations. The vet also said he was in amazingly good shape, considering his age and his recent "on the road" lifestyle. The shambling gait that he has is probably due to general age and perhaps some sort of old injury. But some of it, I believe, was due to the fact that the poor guy was skin and bones and half-starved.
So for now, he's living contentedly on the front porch with his little kennel for shelter and his food and water. He isn't going anywhere, believe me! He's filling out, I'm brushing him daily to get more of the dead hair out of his coat, and his wobbly gait is improving. He loves to crawl onto your your lap, purr and knead his paws. Ella Bean, Basset Queen, was taken out on the porch to meet him, restrained by her harness and her leash, and Puddin' Tom just watched her and gave a warning growl every now and then. She didn't push it. Mugzy the Boxer was curious, but not aggressive. If they keep meeting up, a truce may be established over time
And as you can see, I'm calling him Puddin' Tom. I think it sounds like a cross between a children's book title and a good ol' southern boy. He apparently feels like he's found his retirement home!
I just love this -- there's a roller derby club in the town that I live in called the No Coast Derby Girls. The name alone is priceless. There's two teams -- Gang Green (team color green, obviously) and the Mary Kay Mafia (wearing pink, of course). There's a match in early July and I hope to attend. Several of the girls on the teams go to my favorite coffeehouse, and come limping in, sporting large bruises, all that jazz. They are just wild maniacs, and I do so appreciate that.
And speaking of being in No Coast land, if there's a beach near you, please go to it for me. I have a good friend in Tampa and I'm always asking her to at least drive by the beach and honk at it for me. For those of you who live near very large lakes with quasi-beaches, that works too.
I must share a bit of kitsch from my home state that is probably more evidence that since there's no beach or large body of water or mountains, we fixate on phallic symbols. (You need look no further than me for evidence of that. ) I believe it was in the 1930's that someone decided to create a lake and a faux beach between Lincoln and Omaha near the Platte River. It's called Linoma Beach (heh, heh, Lincoln and Omaha, get it?)
And below is a photo of Linoma beach, and yes, that is a light house. It's often said there have been no shipwrecks there, so it must be doing its job. That may be because the lake is so shallow and it's so dry in this state that only an inner tube can make its way out onto the water. I think I'll have to go there at least once this summer, if only for the amusement value.
It's summer! I know the solstice isn't until a week from today, but I had one marker last night and another one this morning. It's official in my world.
Last night I went outside at dusk and the fireflies are out! I'd seen one or two fireflies in the garden over the weekend, but it was during the daytime and I didn't notice them at night. Last night, at dusk, they were rising up out of the garden and twirling all over. The first sight of hundreds of fireflies waking up for the night always stops me in my tracks, because it is so gorgeous and amazing, especially living here on the prairie. We go through the harsh and barren winter, the mercurical spring, and it's hot and dry a great deal of the time in the summer, but you can go outside on summer nights and watch the stars rise in the sky and watch the fireflies repeat the act as they rise up out of the garden. It's just a miracle.
And when I walked out to check the baby cardinals in their nest this morning, I discovered that the first day lily of the year is blooming in my garden! Day lilies are named appropriately, since each lily lasts but one day, but fortunately they produce a lot of blossoms. The one that's blooming is a pink-peach color and it literally yells "summertime!"
There's a thread in Randomness about what you'd like to pick as a member title when you get enough points. It occurs to me that some day I may have enough points and I can choose my own member title. So I began to consider options.
I cracked myself up with this one, and it would be simply odd to most people, who would probably assume I was a perverted little goth who was overly identified with a certain part of the male anatomy. (This may in fact be true.) But let me explain -- I work in this building:
It's nicknamed the "penis of the plains," although I prefer calling it the "prairie phallus." And I think a BPAL forum member name like "Phantom of the Phallus" would be good for a giggle as an inside joke. Besides, if a group of malcontents decided to get all prudish on Live Journal, it would take pressure off of Andrabelle and her Ron Jeremy joke icons. "Who is that valentina who calls herself the "phantom of the phallus?" What is she talking about? Eeeew, gross!"
P.S. Spellcheck keeps suggesting "Phyllis" as a correction for "phallus."
The Puddy Cat, also known as Puds or Puddin' (a nod to Puddin' of BPTP!) has happily moved onto the front porch. She's sleeping in the small dog carrier that has a towel inside for her comfort, and is eating Tender Vittles and drinking water. I have this vintage wooden bench on my front porch that was originally a gym bench used in a high school in the 1950's or '60's. It's the kind of thing that basketball teams sat on during games -- it must be 10 to 12 feet long. (Speaking of that, I need to check the Dallas - Miami score...) Anyway, Puddin' likes to sleep on the bench. She's not crying as much and she likes to hop up in your lap if you sit on the bench. She's just a happy camper.
She's seeing the vet ASAP, probably Tuesday. I'll probably just drop her off on the way to work and let the vet's office scan her for a microchip, look at those poor ears, generally check her out, and get the hideous clumps of matted hair cut off. They will also be able to give us an idea of her age... I think she's older, looking at the color/condition of her teeth. Assuming she's not microchipped, we'll check Humane Society reports of lost cats. And there's a few people that my DH knows who might want her, although it's also an outside option that we could keep her in the basement. Time will tell! But she's already acting healthier and happier. And she is a sweet pea with such a cute little face.
About two years ago, a small town around 30 miles from here was literally flattened by a tornado. A family who lived there were running into their basement, and their cat got spooked and got away from whoever was holding it. They never saw the kitty and assumed it had been killed, until this spring, when the cat returned to their house, now rebuilt on its original site. They knew it was the same cat by the distinctive meow and markings. Where the little thing went for two years, and how it found its way home, is quite the mystery. Maybe little Puds has a similar story, but if not, she'll find a home somewhere, although she seems rather certain that she is home right now!
If you had to pick your favorite "romantic" movie, what would you pick?
Romantic is indeed in the eye and mind and heart of the beholder. If you look up "romantic" in Webster's, you'd find definitions that include: "consisting of or resembling romance," "having no basis in fact," "imaginary," "marked by the imaginative or emotional appeal of what is heroic, adventurous, remote, mysterious or idealized," "marked by expression or love or affection," and "conductive to or suitable for lovemaking."
Indeed, what some call romantic, I might call sentimental and almost maudlin, and thus, unromantic as hell. And I'm sure others might watch my favorite "romantic" movie and wonder what was so romantic about people who were all confused, drinking a bit too much and acting snarky most of the time. But I do love "The Philadelphia Story." First of all, it's too damn funny and witty. It has Cary Grant, Katharine Hepburn and Jimmy Stewart zinging lines back and forth at each other. The snappy repartee is delicious. But what I really find romantic about that movie is that for some people, when you meet your match, when you meet someone who can both dish it out and take it, you just can't let it drop. Ever. Finally you just give it up and give in to what's going on. But the fight is fun and it makes giving in even more delicious. That's a very romantic notion of mine, and "The Philadelphia Story" has it in spades. Sigh...
So tell me your favorite romantic movie, and tell me why...
Today's animal story is that a cat was camped out on the front porch last night when I got home. There are feral cats in the neighborhood that are truly wild, and over the winter we'd put a dish of dry cat food out on the porch to hide them over. Lately, a yellow and white cat has been up on the porch, but vanishes when anyone appears. Until yesterday, when it was just hanging out, meowing and acting like it was at home. This isn't a feral cat, it's a poor house cat that was either abandoned or got out of the house and never made it home. The poor little soul has terribly matted hair and mite-infested ears. It's really skinny and a bit skittish, but it wants to be house kitty so badly! It starts kneading its paws and purring when you talk to it, and if it sees you through the window, it meows at you. It will let you pet it if you sit with it long enough and it comes to trust you. It's never hissed or clawed once; it's a sweetheart.
What to do? I can not let it in the house very easily, for Mugzy and Ella Bean would try to eat it. Mugzy has apparently declared cats to be his mortal enemies. I could get it inside and lock it in a basement room, but I think it needs veterinary assistance, because it lists around a little bit when it walks. I wonder if it wasn't hit by a car or injured in some manner. All the feline shelters are full, but I can't let this poor thing sit around much longer. I may have to use canned cat food to lure it into a small dog carrier and get it to the vet. I won't take it to the Humane Society, because considering the state of its coat and its tendency to list a little bit, they might euthanize without giving consideration to adoption. This kitty just wants to go home, or to find a new home. The poor, poor baby.
It's bad enough to have lost dog karma and baby bird in distress karma, but now lost kitty karma is following me around. For the time being, I'm calling him/her Puddy, since Tweety Bird has always rocked my world.
