Livin' the Life I Wa-ant!

I had a dream last night that my hair was so dirty and unwashed that it formed into dredlocks. I kept thinking, "But it's only been two days!"

[and she went directly to the shower after waking, with no moaning]

I had a lot of other things that were really amusing or funny to say, but then they got drowned out by knowing that Bruce got a job! It only took my awesome husband five days to get a job after being fired on Friday.

Needless to say, that's part of what's been making me depressed lately. And it's all gone! Yay!

In about a half-hour, we're going to take an inside-look at a rental house we're mega-interested in. Not only does it have more bedrooms than we could possibly use, it's also got a backyard! With a tree! And a shrub! And (best of all!) a privacy fence!

Bruce says that if we get a fenced yard, there's no reason we can't get a puppy. That's reason enough for me.

Also, I stole a coffee cup from work a few weeks ago, and forgot to tell you all about it. It's got Vioxx^TM's logo on it. (And we all know about Vioxx, right?) Later that day, I also found (and stole) a pen with the Valtrex^TM logo all over it. ("Livin' the Life I Wa-ant!")

More Cowbell!

I need more, people. I've been updating regularly (almost daily, minus the weekends) for a while now, and I've gotten back into the swing of things. I love your comments, all of them. I love them when they're happy and funny, I love them when they're sad and contemplative, I can't get enough of them. And I don't mean love in a preschool way, I mean love in a junior high, pseudo-erotic sort of way. So you know that's for real love, y'all. Seriously.

But I'm having a problem with blogs. I can't seem to find enough well written blogs to satiate my appetite for good reading. I know you can do better than this!

To be fair, I read a lot more than my vacant stare would allude to. What can I say, it was my substitute for friends in junior high! How fascinating! In any case, I need more (well-written) blogs than the average blog-reader.

To that effect, please, pretty please with sugar on top recommend some good blog reading for me! I love you.

Goodnight.

A Sack of What?!

Yesterday I was sitting at my post (in front of the TV on the couch, if you must know) when it came to my attention that in order to convenience myself for the long night ahead, I might go to the gas station to relieve them of a liter of Diet Coke (I'd won a free liter, and had the cap to prove it) and mayhap some beers (to refresh my husband and his guest for the night). I went.

Once there, I sought out their favorite 'cheap beer'. Keystone Light! Not without Potassium! I noticed an older gentleman reaching for the Natty Ice at the same time. Score! "We're all in for an old-fogie sort of drunk tonight!" I thought. And I walked with my 18 pack to the counter.

The elder gentleman was checking out at the other register. When it came time for change, he brought out a fuzzy little purse for coins. The lady naturally asked him what it was made of, and I quote, "Rabbit?"

"No," the man said.

"Come on, tell me!" said the over-enthusiastic counter-girl.

He shook his head, remaining silent. Laughing to himself.

Finally, at the end of the transaction, after much pleading, he told her. I was too far away to catch him saying it, but I did hear her exclamation afterwards.

"A deer's NUTSACK?!?"

Let me tell you, the elderly gentleman was more than pleased to get this reaction, it fucking Made His Week. "Yup," he opined. "That thar's a deer's nutsack, alright. Carved it off me-ownself."

"Good for you," thought I. "Good for you, Elderly Gentleman! Don't let the man tell you what sort of purse to keep your coins in!"

"Also, can I get a nutsack the next time you bag a buck? Please?" I thought afterwards. It was too late, however, he was out of the range of telekinesis. "Damn you, range of telekinesis!" I swore. I swore out loud!

And that's what I live for, people, to swear right out loud in my car, and then to drive home, get wasted, and report these stories straight out of the Ozarks into your [insert name of room where you keep your computer].

Portrait of a Linus's Favorite Place to Hide:

Thank you, thank you. My finest artwork to date.

PS: That's our "Important Document" file.

Some Things Might be Better Left Unsaid, but Why Not?

Claim: Hurricane Rita wind swath chart resembles a human penis.

Status: True.





Now the only obvious question seems to be, "Why is it going backwards?"

I know we're way better off, what with the natural disasters hitting everyone where it hurts and all, but still, some days feel like the whole world is going to crumble beneath our feet. And always with the "when it rains it pours". And also the "grass is always greener" thing. If I believed in the "rule of threes" things might be looking a little up. Because we would have hit our limits.

More later, when I'm not so garbled.

Scheme: Version 1.2

We're on to something in this house. No, not the couch, but that was a fair guess. No, not the bed, although it comes in a close second in frequent-ity. I'm talking about a real, live, scheme here people, and you'd best tune in. It's bound to get good.

There are a few supplies required for this scheme:

• new shower curtain
• new bathmat
• new toiletseat cover (not necessary, but I've gotten used to it, so I'm insisting)

For this to work, we have to have full audience participation. If you're the praying type, please include us in your thoughts. If you like to meditate, maybe you could picture our apartment with a white light around it or something? I'm not too clear on the meditation thing. After 8 years in Catholic school, I'm an expert on praying, though! Perhaps I should send some money and have them dedicate a Mass? Not clear anymore. Maybe if things get desperate, it will be considered.

Here is our plan: Hide the Linus.

Very stunning, I know. We've only been doing it that way for nine months, what makes us think it might work? Well, my stunning new plan, of course! Download it here. That link might not be right. There may or may not be music with that link. Ok, so I made it up. But not in the sense that it's my creation. Just go there. It's totally funny.

So here's Hide the Linuses V1.2:

• First, buy new bathroom supplies. Then, put up old (but pretty) curtain in mainstream bathroom. Add old (but pretty and maroon and oh-so-not-sexually-oriented) bath mat and toilet seat cover to room. Make it look as homey as possible. Not to be confused with homely.

• Second, I'm totally not sure you can read my little "map" of my apartment. If you can, consider yourself "lucky". Either you're incredibly creative, or a little "off".


• Third, we're moving all the decorative pieces from the bathroom off the bedroom (I just realized I left the bedroom blank. Do I suffer from victorianesque modesty? Post-Catholocism-Stress-Disorder? Am I too lazy to go back now and change it? Yes. Just assume the room with nothing in it and a bathroom attached to it is the bedroom, ok? Thanks) into the bathroom off of the hallway, thereby making it more "inviting" and "friendly looking". Then we're going to buy new stuff to put in the bedroom-bathroom (Ok, I did that partially because I like to have new stuff. But that's not the only reason!). This will make the hallway-bathroom more inviting and seem more clean, thereby making them less likely to demand to check inside the bedroom bathroom. This will be amplified because..
• Whenever Bruce (he works from home, remember? I knew you did, I was just checking.) hears a knock on the door, he will immediately scoop up the Linus, throw him into the bedroom-bathroom, turn on the shower in there, and close the door. Therefore, if they want to do an inspection, they will have to avoid that bathroom, because "I" am taking a shower.

This way we don't have to move out without giving notice, they won't take away our security deposit in it's entirety, and we won't have any more bad marks against our credit. Also, we won't have to move in less than a week. Hoo-ah! That's right, I'm quoting Scent of a Woman. I deserve it, because..

How genius am I? I'd really like to know. Seriously. This is all my big scheme from (yet another) long talk on Bruce's chest before bed. All day yesterday, it was a big stress for us. All I really wanted was a way for LLinus to live with us, without taking his fingers away, until we could move. And I think this is the most logical answer, don't you? I'm so proud of myself.

PS: I picked him up from the vet's today, and although he's still a little groggy from the anesthesia, he's doing just fine. His ballsack is hurting him, though, Bruce noticed that when he tried to lick it he cringed like it hurt him. We've prescribed a few days bedrest, and lots of fancy rockstar meals to keep him living in luxury until he feels better. It's not just the surgery that got him, it was all the time he's spent away from home this past week. Hopefully my shower solution will be just that - a solution. Meditate for us?

A Funny Thing Happened...

On the way to never-neverland last night. We've thought a bunch about whether or not Linus should be declawed. On the one hand, I'm passively against declawing your cat. I know that there are several good arguments for the procedure, and that everyone's situation is different. I also used to work in a veterinary clinic, and I've seen it done, and seen the way cats feel about it. I know that if you have a cat and it's made a habit out of tearing up your skin (or your children's skin, or you dog's eyeballs, or your furnature), you're probably thinking it's a great idea. If your cat is young enough, it's probably not going to do any mental damage on your cat. Hell, even if you've got a slightly older cat who's otherwise well-adjusted, most of the time, it'll take the procedure fine. Of course, the older the cat, the longer it (might) take him or her to adjust. That goes for removing their sexual organs, too, by the way. That's part of what made it so hard for me to decide that it would be the best thing for Linus - he's almost a year old.

We've discussed this at length, usually when in the process of "winding down" for the night. I'd curl up on Bruce's chest and talk to him about all of the reasons we should - and all the reasons we might not want to - declaw him.

The argument for:

1. We live in an apartment building, and plan on renting for at least another few years before we're able to afford a house of our own. There are many landlords in the world who will only accept cats who've been declawed.
2. We want to have other pets during his lifetime. Because we're unsure how those pets and Linus will get along, and because we don't want any bloody battles in the future, we were considering declawing him - for the sake of those other animals or (don't get your hopes up yet, not by far) even children, some day.
3. If you're going to do it, the time to do it is when they're getting fixed. That way, they only have to get put under anesthesia once, and the whole process is combined. There is always a risk when you put your pet under, and you definitely want to avoid doing it if at all possible. This is perhaps the worst reason.

The argument against:

1. The vet doesn't cut off their fingernails to the point that they're no longer capable of growing - well, actually he does. But that's not all he cuts off. Take a look at your hands. That last third of them, the third that your fingernails grow on and all the way back to the first knuckle? That's the bone they amputate. It's not the most attractive of terms, but it's essentially what they do. Amputate. When a cat is only a few months old, it's sort of an inconvenience and it makes them uncomfortable for a while. Then they get used to it. But...
2. as the cat gets older, it starts to gain confidence and define itself in at least a small way by the weapons it has "on hand". That's my view of it. Why take away that definition, that confidence, unless there's a direct threat to your (way of?) livelyhood? It made me feel selfish to consider it for the reasons above, because...
3. Linus really isn't a scratcher. Sure, when we're playing rough, sometimes he pulls out the big guns - but not until we're (let's face it here) picking on him hardcore. He doesn't rip up the furnature, there's never been an instance where we've lost an eye. He uses his scratching post.

So we went through the whole list in bed last night (or I did, I think Bruce was listening to me drone on and on because it lulls him to sleep), and we came to the conclusion that there was really no reason to declaw him. Also, it made me cry to think about doing it, and Bruce is just nice enough to want to make me feel better when I start crying about something.

When I brought him into the vet's this morning, I checked the box for Neuter, and left the one for Declaw blank. I also left the box for "Pre-Anesthesia Bloodwork" blank, because he's not old OR decrepit, and I'm pretty damn cheap, when it comes down to it. If Linus starts clawing things up in the future, I guess we'll just have to try the double-sided tape thing. Or maybe chase him around with a squirt gun for a few weeks. I don't know. I just didn't feel good about doing it. (Again, I have nothing huge against it in general, it just wasn't right for Linus.)

We had a scheme worked out, you see. This afternoon, Bruce called the apartment office and told them we were looking into getting a cat. He asked them what the guidelines were for the animals in the complex and the deposit. We were prepared to pay the extra $15 a month, and the $200 pet deposit - even though we really can't afford it. We were ready to go that extra step so that we wouldn't feel paranoid for the rest of our lives in that apartment. We wanted to have him at home without being worried that the inspectors were going to pop in at any moment to give it a once-over. If they discover we have him, we'll owe them $150 for every month we've been at the apartment, regardless of when we got him. We definitely can't afford that. Although we were planning on moving in November, we thought that $200 was worth it, in order to feel at home again in our apartment.

Enter the extra conflict. Remember how I drove Linus to the vet's office this morning and checked the box for neuter? The apartment won't accept any cats that haven't been declawed. FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK, and that's when I collapse onto the floor in a fit of hysteria.

There is no way that I spend all that time coming to a decision I feel comfortable and right about, and then reverse it. No way am I putting him through boarding at the vets, then coming home for 2 days, then dumping him off on Miss Molly, then bringing him home for a night, then bringing him back to the vets to have his testicles removed under anesthesia, only to bring him home for a few days, then take him back for another fucking surgery. It's just not happening. I thought about it - and I can't do it. I can't do that to my baby.

So we're going to look for another place. Maybe as soon as October. After all, we never cancelled the U-Haul we reserved when we thought we were moving to Wisconsin at the end of September. We can probably just downgrade it. We're probably going to lose the security deposit for not giving them enough notice, but at this point my mental health is much more valuable than what that's worth. And after so much thought, it's just not right to Linus or us to have to back down on our decision at this point. The good things about leaving his claws intact just outweigh the bad. It's that simple.

There's another option, one that I'm hesitant to mention to our apartment bitches. False Nails.I'm pretty sure they won't go for it. Why? Because they're evil Nazi people. That's why. Next thing you know, they're going to require us to salute when we see them walk by.

"I Totally Hope I'm Still Ovulating When My Daughter Goes Through Puberty"

The Linus is back from his adventure at Miss Molly's house, and tomorrow morning he goes to the vet to be de-nutted. Apparently not de-little-pink-donged, though. I knew it wasn't being done away with, I just didn't know that it'd still be worthy of such intimate oral attentions. Thank you, HappyFunBall, for ruining my fabulous illusion of a dong-free world after tomorrow.

I bought two bottles of wine tonight to use as a model for some things I'm making some people for Christmas this year. And then I drank one, and went back for the second one. Will inform you if White Merlot is better/worse than White Cabernet Savingon. It smells a little pretty much identical. Now for the taste-test. Worse, definitely worse. Yet I drink it. I'm such a booze-hound.

Do you prefer booze-hound, or lush? I have a lingering suspicion due to my college roommate that "lush" is sexier, and yet, damnit, "booze-hound" is comedic gold. When it comes to sexy vs. comedic gold, I'm going for the latter every time. After all, I'm married.

By the way, my husband wrote the sweetest thing about us the other day, and it made me cry and kiss him more. Which I'm pretty sure was his intention. That bastard, always making me cry. Ignore that if it sounds like PMS, it probably is. ONLY DON'T TELL ME THAT. I'm that girl who was on the verge of tears once a month who totally kicked anyone's ass who opined that it possibly could be PMS. And then I went home where my mom was having PMS and we clawed each other's eyeballs out every night that week, and then shared a pan of brownies and cried about how sad those shows on all those channels were. And hugged. And then screamed at each other, and then went to bed. It was great. I totally hope I'm still ovulating when my daughter goes through puberty. Keeps the men on their toes, it does.

So, anyway, Linuses are being removed of their testicles tomorrow. Also their front claws. Because we are heartless people and refuse to let him out of our home EVER EVER EVER. We're just that selfish. Also, I do not wish to have a debate about declawing him. Thank you.

Ok, that's enough for now.

PS: I totally need a gay male friend. Does anybody know of a site I can go to to find one? Like a dating service, only you're looking for gay males in your area to knit with you and talk about boy troubles with and tell you you're fabulous? That would be awesome.

I Can't Think of Good Titles Anymore

I gave my mom my blog address a few weeks ago when she was hopped up on screwdrivers, and then she went for two weeks without a computer, and now that she's gotten all the new cables for her old computer which she's setting up on the porch where my computer used to be after putting all the cables on the curb while moving my brother who used to use the computer at college but no longer needed and was sending back home for her and now I don't know if she's even wrote my address down, because she was that tipsy - to be fair, so was I, hence the giving of the personal and vulgar blog-address, not that my address is vulger, just the things I write sometimes - and I'm a little confused and scared and trepidatious about when she's going to come here and what she might find when she gets here and I also just remembered that I have my brother's blog (which I think he's forgotten about) in my sidebar and it's got some slightly sensitive material that I'm not sure she'd be totally cool about reading in it, and I think I should take that down and hope that she didn't: a) come here without letting her presence be known to me and b) figure out how to click on links since I lived with her and had to show her how to read again, now that it was written on a screen and not on a pad of paper.

Welcome to my brain. Now you see why I can't sleep.

I dropped Linus off at Miss Molly's house this morning before work, and BOY HOWDY that was fun. First of all, he didn't quite forget the trip to the vets in the space of 3 days like I'd been secretly praying for, and he was all nervously thinking he'd be poked with stuff and have to hold in his poop for way longer than he should. Then we got there and went inside, and I foolishly thought that instead of introducing him to Miss Molly first, I would set him down on the living room carpet and let him sniff around for a little while, to acclimate. Instead, he put his belly directly onto the floor and made like a boot-camp soldier, speed-crawling into the laundry room and behind the dryer, where I was informed later that he stayed until 4 pm. At least he's determined.

Fortunately, now he and Miss Molly have made bestest of friends, and he's not letting her walk anywhere without trying to make her stumble, and playing with all the new toys she bought him (yes, for a 2 day stay at her house, isn't she sweet?) and eating Fancy Feast like a fucking movie star.

I'm alternately ecstatic that he's so happy and at home in a strangers house, and proud that we've raised him to be sort of social and friendly, and on the verge of tears thinking that he's going to be pissed off when I go to pick him up tomorrow night, and then beg me to take him back to Miss Molly's where he's appreciated for the movie/rock star that he so totally is. Especially after Mama is so mean and asks the vet to cut of his little balls so that Dad doesn't have to see him licking his little pink dong in the middle of the living room floor anymore.

See? Correct use of the word.

God love the people in this state, but is this really a proper use of the word: "We used to pay fifty cents for a pack of cigarettes. Anymore, we pay $3.50." This is purely an example, but I heard something very much like it on a radio commercial the other day. Can't you just say "Now"? I'm really annoyed with myself for actually writing this down, but it confuses me more than anything. Is there a reason? My brain isn't working it's way around it. The word doesn't have the same meaning to me as it seems to have down here.

Anymore

What's up with this whole "anymore" misuse, people?

I've really grown to love Missouri and it's people, but for Pete's sake.

I'll explain later.

Baby Got Back

.. from the vet. He was a little skittish for a few hours, but now he seems to be calming down. Poor little guy nearly took my arm off trying to get me to escort him out of the office, and the poor old man (the vet?) who got him from the back was very nearly accosted. Linus was ready to get out of that place. He was DAMN READY.

We had to board him last night because of our shitty landlords. They still don't really "know" that we "have a cat". And yet, I'm not calling them shitty because we had to board him, Oh No. I'm also not calling them shitty landlords because we have to board him ALL NEXT WEEK, as well. I'm calling them our shitty landlords because the reason we have to remove him (and all traces of him) from the premisis is because they're planning on an inspection sometime next week. That's right, a surprise inspection.

Now, I had no idea that it was within the rights of the landlords in the state of Missouri to come into your apartment unannounced to "check how clean it is". This is our home, and my whole not-inextensive repetoire of various apartments in various citys has led me to believe over the years that "surprise inspections" aren't that common.

I sort of thought that by giving them our security deposit when we moved in, we were insuring them against us decimating the place while we were here. I had no idea that during our stay, we were also going to be subject to periodic white glove tests. I'm a 25 year old woman. I know that houses should be kept clean, and I really do my best to keep ours that way. My mother is a practicer of the custodial arts. I've been brought up to keep a pretty spiffy house. I can (almost) understand the lease when it says, "I do hereby solemnly swear on the gods of apartment management that I do hereby own and will constantly operate a vacuum cleaner.*" But writing an allowance in the lease for periodic unannounced visits to look under our couch for dust-bunnies? I think not. Actually, I thought it was a right of me, as a renter, to have notice when my landlord plans on visiting.

Anyone familiar with renter's rights? Rob? Jess? Anybody?

PS: I again changed the header to my blog. As my last one didn't seem to get any big responces, I thought a more subdued look might be what's required for you, my (3) fans. So tell me if you like it!

PPS: Also, the ARCHIVES that have long since eaten me alive and chewed my spinal cord like so much rawhide are back up and running! And if you click on a particular month (go ahead, test them, you can try any month you want), you actually go to a month's worth of beautiful prose, written by yours truly. Or perhaps some pictures with no captions! You never know!

*I'm paraphrasing, but I swear to Pete, it's actually written in our lease that if they find that we do not, in fact own a vacuum, they reserve the right to be royally pissed off. And maybe murder us. We're not sure which.

Sleeping Disorders: Including Commercials?

I've had a hard couple of nights. Before I tell you about them, let me say that I will be online more in the next 3 days than I have been in the last 3 days, because our internet is not in danger of being disconnected for 12 hours by lightning storms (knock on wood) and we have now paid our bill. The day without access was a blessing, really. Ok, so it sort of sucked. Bruce got the day "off", which was nice, but then he spent so much time catching up yesterday that I thought for sure he was on his way to a heart attack. We really should work on that.

Anywho, the night before last, I had a toothache. I had a toothache that hurt so badly that I couldn't concentrate on going to sleep. Whenever I'd get so exhausted that I thought I might be drifting off, I'd start having horrible dreams involving really hard patters of knitting. Did I tell you guys I'm starting to knit? Well! I am! Don't knit before bed, that's my advice.

There were a couple of times that I started to drift off without knitting nightmares, but those were punctuated by that song from that commercial for vacations. You know the one? Where the dad and son are running along the beach and building castles in the sand.. "We're having fun, out in the sun... Being a dad is AWESOME.." Mostly the "Being a dad is AWESOME" part, just because I think it's funny. That was before it kept me up all night. Has a song ever kept you up all night? Which one(s)?

Also, during one long stretch, Linus thought that my hand sticking out from under my pillow would make great target practice (or he thought that since I was awake, why not engage me in some friendly combat?), and chewed on my hand for a good five minutes. I let him do it without moving my hand away because I figured that after a while it'd become boring to him, and he'd stop. NO SUCH LUCK. He started chewing harder. That cat was out for blood, I tell you, BLOOD! So I swatted at him, and we got into a cat fight. A whispery cat fight. (Bruce slept through the whole thing.)

Then last night, Linus was gone. But I'll tell you about that later today. Suffice to say I might have slept better last night, but I miss the baby*.


*This is a picture of him as a baby, keep in mind that he's not a baby any longer, and actually, the vet tech said he looked like he spent all day on treadmills. Cause, you know, he's a lean mean machine. I miss him like this, but he's getting really gorgeous, that's for sure. More recent pictures on their way, I swear.

But the Water, it Tastes So Good

Productive Idleness - How you can send money to Hurricane Katrina relief without spending a dime? So leave a comment, won't you? What an amazing thing to do.

I've heard word recently that one of my best friends was back with a "woman" who has "treated him badly" in the past. Or rather that he had been back with her, and that now he was "finally over her for good". Good for him, I say! She's no good for you, I say! Many many things, I say! That I've said many many times before, in the exact same context, regarding the exact same "woman".

Situation: You're living 300 years ago. You live on a farm, and you have a well. One day, you go to your well and take a drink. Mmm, water, you think. This water is some mighty fine water! That night, you wake up with such explosive poo water that you have a hard time crawling back into bed. You are sick, and go to stay with your mother for 6 months while you recover.

When you're finally well again, you return to your little farm. You have a great first day, full of fun and surprises, and My, isn't that just the tastiest water EVER? Followed that night by the poo water once again. And then again with the recovery at your mother's house.

Wouldn't you think that after a few cycles of this, you'd decide that maybe there was something wrong with the water?

When I Was Twenty

When I was 20 years old, I was busy trying to correct myself to all of the world. I was trying to reconcile who I was as a person with the things I saw in the people around me. I don't think those parts of me have disappeared altogether, but I do think they've faded a bit with age. It's like a favorite old sweater: it becomes more and more comfortable until it's at the stage where it's almost a pain in the ass to wear anything else, and at that point you realize that it's gotten so worn that it's embarassing to show in public. And then you decide to start making your own sweaters and stop caring what people think of you.

If I think really hard, or if I start talking to a twenty-year-old girl, it really hits me how little I knew when I was that age. I love being able to guide them, or at least talking to them and being the one person to forgive them their minor errors in life. I had many errors at that time, why shouldn't I be the one to make them feel good about the things they've done?

I know it's a selfish way to be, but when you've been living somewhere for almost a year and the only people you've become friends with (that aren't your husband's friends - I love you, husband's friends!) are 16-20, you start to really understand how much you have to give. Even if it's only old stories and advice. How much would I have given to know that no matter how much I was tormented over a decision at 20, I would laugh at the outcome at 25? Probably not much, because I was broke. But it's the thought that counts, right?

PS: All the standard drunken posting exceptions/forgivenesses apply in this post, please.

High humidity is murder on pouffy cats.

High humidity is murder on pouffy cats.,
originally uploaded by bokeh.

Please,

Please click on the link and read the whole post before you comment. Remember that more people than you could count know how this feels. More people than anyone could imagine. Right here in our US of A. This is what being poor feels like.

Whatever: Being Poor:
"Being poor is people who have never been poor wondering why you choose to be so.
Being poor is knowing how hard it is to stop being poor.
Being poor is seeing how few options you have.
Being poor is running in place.
Being poor is people wondering why you didn't leave. "

From nola.com

OUR OPINIONS: An open letter to the President

"Dear Mr. President:

We heard you loud and clear Friday when you visited our devastated city and the Gulf Coast and said, "What is not working, we’re going to make it right."

Please forgive us if we wait to see proof of your promise before believing you. But we have good reason for our skepticism.

Bienville built New Orleans where he built it for one main reason: It’s accessible. The city between the Mississippi River and Lake Pontchartrain was easy to reach in 1718.

How much easier it is to access in 2005 now that there are interstates and bridges, airports and helipads, cruise ships, barges, buses and diesel-powered trucks.

Despite the city’s multiple points of entry, our nation’s bureaucrats spent days after last week’s hurricane wringing their hands, lamenting the fact that they could neither rescue the city’s stranded victims nor bring them food, water and medical supplies.

Meanwhile there were journalists, including some who work for The Times-Picayune, going in and out of the city via the Crescent City Connection. On Thursday morning, that crew saw a caravan of 13 Wal-Mart tractor trailers headed into town to bring food, water and supplies to a dying city.

Television reporters were doing live reports from downtown New Orleans streets. Harry Connick Jr. brought in some aid Thursday, and his efforts were the focus of a "Today" show story Friday morning.

Yet, the people trained to protect our nation, the people whose job it is to quickly bring in aid were absent. Those who should have been deploying troops were singing a sad song about how our city was impossible to reach.

We’re angry, Mr. President, and we’ll be angry long after our beloved city and surrounding parishes have been pumped dry. Our people deserved rescuing. Many who could have been were not. That’s to the government’s shame.

Mayor Ray Nagin did the right thing Sunday when he allowed those with no other alternative to seek shelter from the storm inside the Louisiana Superdome. We still don’t know what the death toll is, but one thing is certain: Had the Superdome not been opened, the city’s death toll would have been higher. The toll may even have been exponentially higher.

It was clear to us by late morning Monday that many people inside the Superdome would not be returning home. It should have been clear to our government, Mr. President. So why weren’t they evacuated out of the city immediately? We learned seven years ago, when Hurricane Georges threatened, that the Dome isn’t suitable as a long-term shelter. So what did state and national officials think would happen to tens of thousands of people trapped inside with no air conditioning, overflowing toilets and dwindling amounts of food, water and other essentials?

State Rep. Karen Carter was right Friday when she said the city didn’t have but two urgent needs: "Buses! And gas!" Every official at the Federal Emergency Management Agency should be fired, Director Michael Brown especially.

In a nationally televised interview Thursday night, he said his agency hadn’t known until that day that thousands of storm victims were stranded at the Ernest N. Morial Convention Center. He gave another nationally televised interview the next morning and said, "We’ve provided food to the people at the Convention Center so that they’ve gotten at least one, if not two meals, every single day."

Lies don’t get more bald-faced than that, Mr. President.

Yet, when you met with Mr. Brown Friday morning, you told him, "You’re doing a heck of a job."

That’s unbelievable.

There were thousands of people at the Convention Center because the riverfront is high ground. The fact that so many people had reached there on foot is proof that rescue vehicles could have gotten there, too.

We, who are from New Orleans, are no less American than those who live on the Great Plains or along the Atlantic Seaboard. We’re no less important than those from the Pacific Northwest or Appalachia. Our people deserved to be rescued.

No expense should have been spared. No excuses should have been voiced. Especially not one as preposterous as the claim that New Orleans couldn’t be reached.

Mr. President, we sincerely hope you fulfill your promise to make our beloved communities work right once again.

When you do, we will be the first to applaud."

Just to give you something to smile about. Strangely enough, she dresses exactly like my grandma.

Lug Nuts

Probably, it wasn't the best idea in the world.

Probably, a guy isn't going to get all epiphanied on my ass for that line of reasoning.

But, you see, it just makes sense to me. I mean, don't you think life would have been sooo much easier on pubescent boys if they'd just not had all that testosterone raging through their bodies? Doesn't it stand to reason that their heads would be clearer, and they wouldn't be filled with inexplicable rage at random objects, and maybe - just maybe - they might be able to concentrate on something other than their penises once and a while, and that that might make them happy?

Ok, you're right. That probably wasn't a good argument for the neutering of the cat. But, you know, if we don't do something soon, this sweet little angel of ours is going to rip our eyeballs out in our sleep.

I Found a Great Blog

Rabbitch: So Long, and Thanks For All the Sodomy: "I have always wanted to visit there, imagining that the streets were full of dancing, bare-breasted women, people performing all sorts of bizarre rituals involving blood and chicken bones, people actually speaking French (of a sort) in public. A big, noisy, bold and unrepentant city, full of history and culture and sin and music (and, of course the sodomy. Always with the sodomy.)"

This is the way I've always thought of New Orleans, this is what made me fantacize about going there for Mardi Gras. Even though it made me shit my pants to think about being there, amidst all that evil unrepentantness, I wanted to experience it. I guess that's the only way to put it.

My only experience in New Orleans happened this past May. On the way home from Florida (newly married and having the Time of Our Lives in the car together for more than 15 hours straight for the second time that week) Bruce took a different route than the one we'd driven down on. He wanted to show me New Orleans. What a man.

We drove through the French Quarter for about an hour. I was nervous, never having driven on streets like those before. You know, streets where you can each stick your hand out of your respective window and clothsline a sax player and a palm reader with one fell swipe. We toyed with the idea of stopping for dinner, but the streets were lined with cars, we weren't really that hungry, and we doubted we could find a place that would let me in with my shitty pants on. So instead, we got lost in the scariest suburb in the world. I can't think too much about that lost opportunity, or I start crying. I'll never get to see it.

But man, those poor people.

We Are Experiencing Some Technical Difficulties

I fucking decimated my entire template last night while trying to fix how the comments looked on the permalink pages. I cried.

Anyways, mostly I was pissed. I'm going to work on fixing everything that I fucked up, and then work on doing the work I was trying to do in the first place, but in the meantime, hang in there, ok? God knows when Bruce will let me on the computer again (stupid work stupid thingy taking all his time - and my precious online time, too!).

Here's my email address again: sunnyfreakingday (at) gmail.com

Just in case you had something to tell me that's burning a hole in your mind. Or, you know, just to say hi. Because when I finally get my 2 minutes on the computer tonight after Bruce has passed out on the toilet, I like to have something to look forward to. You know, like an email or two.