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December 18, 2007
Veni Vidi ViciI feel something coming on in my life, something that I can't escape. I feel change and I don't mean wearing gray socks versus the usual black. Several months ago, we were told that my office was potentially moving to Bedford Massachusetts from its current location in Portsmouth. I am used to hearing this; in my 17 years here, this suggestion comes up every five or so years, only to be shot down. This time the threat seemed more imminent. Relocations and structural changes have been occurring throughout my organization in vast amounts and I knew better than to not take this scenario seriously. I know that on my salary I can't possibly afford to live in Massachusetts, and I figured if I sold my house and found something here in Portsmouth or Kittery, I could just commute as I've been doing from Sanford. I am not so naive as to think that the commutes are comparable. I have pretty smooth sailing between Sanford and Portsmouth and back every day, and long though it may be, I'm rarely if ever stuck in traffic. Commuting from Portsmouth to Boston and back every day has been reported as brutal and not recommended for any but the hardiest of individuals, say, those who climb K-2 on their holiday. It's a commute I was not looking forward to making, but my hands seemed tied. I would just have to toughen up. Sure enough, we were told just a couple of weeks ago that the move is definite, and our office will be relocated by January 2009. I put in for another federal position here in the local area, interviewed for it, and was told a couple of weeks later that I had not been selected. Time to move to plan B - sell my house. In a panic I put my house on craigslist, at a rock-bottom fee, hoping to have it sold and a new home in place before that fateful date. I knew I had no other alternative, other than to go looking on the civilian market for a job. If I were childless, this would be a no brainer -- I would be free to pursue any pipe dreams I have ever had - music, animal sciences, home based business, doggie daycare... But I am not childless and carefree, and having over 20 years in with the same company kind of leaves me - at the very least - hesitant to leave my time and benefits behind. Sure, I want to be a rock star, but at 39 years old, I'll have to be a rock star after I retire from the real world and my kid is out of school, and I've got 15 more years until I can do that. I've been in a bit of a frenzy, trying to paste up the house as well as I can. I'm spinning around in circles, doing 1/4 of a room, tiling a floor but not finishing it, moving piles of crap I need to sort out from room to room. The problem is, I felt wrong. The whole thing felt wrong. I've been waffling about selling my house for about a year now, and although I felt determined to sell the house and make this location change work, it didn't ring true. Enter, a small miracle, a small bit of karma that I'm still trying to figure out - a job offer. A week ago, I get a call from the organization with the job that I'd applied and been turned down for. They were now offering me a job, and it's right here in Kittery. I can start in February 2008. I felt a wave of relief wash over me at first, but as the giddiness at not having to commute to Boston, at not having to sell my house wore off, a feeling of wariness was creeping in. A new job. A different employer. A different stack of duties. A big, big change. I have been with the same company for nearly 20 years and with the same office for 17. I'm not too embarrassed to admit that I'm scared out of my freaking mind! It will be a big adjustment but you know what? It's something that I really believe I need. Even if my office announced that the relocation was off, I feel that I would have to move on anyway. It's time. There are so many changes that I have been wanting to make in my stagnant life and I just can't seem to get started on any of it. I want to pursue serious writing; I want to become involved in music again; I want to be more physically active; I want to start on my big list of things to do before I die. This new job feels like a catalyst for something even bigger - for breaking out of my safe little chrysalis and transforming for perhaps one final time in my life. It's time to move on from my 20 year safe little habit of a job, it's time to sell this house which has become more of my life than I really meant it to be, it's time to start living my life rather than just getting through it. I was in my basement last night, staring at my old octopus-style converted coal burner as I folded my laundry and found myself choking up with emotion over it. Do I really want to sell this house? After all, now that I'm not relocating with my employer, I really don't have to. I can hold on to it, preventing as much change as possible. Everything about this house meant so much to me at the time - my first house, my first bid at adulthood. I loved this house from the minute I saw it. This house was the first goal I set for myself as an adult and I mercilessly pursued it until I got it. I won. I've put so much into it, physically and emotionally, until it has eclipsed any other goal I might have set for myself. But now, it's time. I won, and now I need to move on to another goal, another victory. The house no longer means what it once did for me. It has gone from a sweet triumph to a burden, as much as it hurts to admit it. I want to have time to explore activities other than caulking and painting and tiling. I am also a little sad to say that this will be my final blog entry in Bullyland. It was fun while it lasted and the blog has served its purpose - proving to myself that I'm capable of holding an audience with my written words. I'd like to move on to a more fruitful writing career. It's time to go for it, to shake off the moss and start rolling. Veni, vidi, vici. And so, onward ho. Posted by Bullyland at 01:57 PM | Comments (1) September 11, 2007
September 11, 2007Angels are fragile Because I am the one who will never die young And there are babies laughing So will you save me a seat Because I am the one who will never die young excerpt from "Never Die Young" Here's one perspective: TWO THOUSAND, NINE HUNDRED NINETY SIX
THREE THOUSAND SEVEN HUNDRED SIXTY TWO
SEVENTY EIGHT THOUSAND
ONE
Posted by Bullyland at 02:37 PM | Comments (1) August 20, 2007
August 20, 1975Today is my brother's birthday. I remember the day he was born in 1975. He came into this world on a hot August Texas day with a huge to-do; a nearly 11 pound baby who had a few difficulties finding his way out. Once he was here, though, he was a force to be reckoned with. My brother's personality was practically developed at birth - all his life he would keep us on our toes with his uniqueness, his inquisitiveness, his quest for everything he could experience in life. Nothing in our world would ever be the same. It is the first birthday without him here. It's a sad day but also a day that holds so many fond memories. My brother adored birthdays. He would get SO excited about his birthday as a little boy and as a teenager, and the thrill never wore off for him. He planned his birthday months ahead of time. He would find concerts near his birthday, or festivals, or fairs... He would plan the "special thing" he wanted to do for his birthday with an enthusiastic detail I found both unnerving and amusing. I teased him about having birthweek versus birthday. He was such a little kid about birthdays. I never in my wildest imagination, growing up with him, would have dreamed that maybe God made him this way because He knew my brother would only have thirty one of them on earth. In honor of my brother's love for big-production birthdays, and because he asked my mom to do it, we packed up the clan and headed to Fenway yesterday. We each had a button with my brother's photo on it, our Red Sox hats, t-shirts and other assorted get-ups, and piled into the narrow seating behind home & third. The Sox lost, but I think my brother would have appreciated the humor there. Never give up your faith! I could almost hear him saying it. My mom arranged the message in the following photo through the friends and contacts she made at Fenway while my brother was ill.
My mother wrote the following for her friends on a website for parents dealing with the loss of their children. She's made many friends through the website and I'm glad it allows her to channel some of her grief into creativity - another thing my brother would surely approve of. She let me read it and with her permission I'm printing it here. It brought tears to my eye but also a smile here and there. Monday, August 20, 2007, is Mike's birthday---our first without him. A person's birthday is such a huge event in their lives; it celebrates their beginning, the arrival of a new spirit into this world, the moment of life's beginning for them. When they are placed in our arms, our happiness is almost indescribable---remember? "Hey world, this is my baby; isn't he/she absolutely the most beautiful baby you've ever seen? Isn't he/she the smartest, the happiest, the sweetest?" We all traveled this road when our child was born. We all reveled in the joy of it. We all were beside ourselves with pride and love and feeling so very blessed--life is wonderful. Happy Birthday, bro. I hope your first in Heaven was your best one yet. Posted by Bullyland at 09:33 AM | Comments (3) August 10, 2007
Thank You for Not SmokingYeah, I've got a dirty little secret (well, it's not really a secret). I smoke. I've been smoking since I was about 14 years old. I love to smoke. I hate to smoke. It feels like I've always smoked - and I have. I'm 39 years old so I've been smoking for 25 years - two thirds of my lifetime. I've smoked enough Camel Lights to buy Park Avenue. I had enough Camel Cash to buy a Camel Jetliner. R.J. Reynolds & Co. sent me an iPod shuffle - seriously - just to say, "I love you, too." I have not smoked twice in my life, during both pregnancies. During my first pregnancy it was a no-brainer. It made me physically ill even to smell second hand smoke. It was a breeze to quit. The day after my son was born, I was bumming a Virginia Slim off another new mother in the break room. I always thought if I ever had another child it would be as easy to quit. With my second pregnancy, however, came an unpleasant realization. It was very hard not to smoke. I craved cigarettes every day of my pregnancy. It was horrible! Other than that, I've never really tried to QUIT. I have bouts of guilt now and again, but I am really great at denial when it comes to smoking. I won't get cancer, I won't have a heart attack, I won't develop C.O.P.D. - which my dad does have - even though he quit over 20 years ago, my hair doesn't stink, my breath doesn't stink, there's no smoke residue in the car to harm my child, etc. You name it, I'll deny it, when it comes to smoking my Camel Lights. I make Jesus cry with my denial when it comes to smoking. I would jog five miles and light up afterward. I would eat organic salad and light up afterward. I would pay $4 a pack - at the cheapest store - and put only $16 in my gas tank if I only had one twenty dollar bill left to my name. My legacy for my 22 year old son? Camel Lights. Yes folks, he won't even smoke a different brand. "Mom, do you have any smokes, can I get one?" The truth is, my habit is disgusting. It's pathetic. It's time for a change. Guess what? After 25 years, I'm finally ready. My youngest son has never seemed to notice my smoking much. I didn't really "hide" it from him, as so many smoking parents I know do, but I don't smoke in the house, or when he's in the car with me, etc. The other day, however, out of the blue, he called me out on it. "MOM! You have to quit smoking! You're going to die." He paused, and if I didn't know better, I'd swear it was for dramatic effect. "I'm going to be a kid whose Mom died young." I tell you, it was like a cinder block to my heart. You may know I lost my brother last fall. His brain cancer was not caused by smoking, but by a random twist of fate. His kids ARE kids whose Dad died young. I KNOW the tragedy first hand. And yet here I am, tempting death head-on, selfishly taking the chance that my kids lose their mother early. My oldest son would be an orphan if I died. My youngest... well, I don't even want to think about how he'd react. After my son layed this on me I had a revelation. Yes. I would quit smoking. I would pick a date, and I would never light up again. Period. I said to him, "Guess what? I'm going to quit." He stopped and looked me in the eye. "What? Really? Do you mean it?" Another cinder block - it hadn't occurred to him at all that I would agree with him. For the first time, I feel good about quitting, I mean - always before, I'd think about it but with a big sense of dread. Of course, I'd never get around to it. Now though, I'm feeling happy about it, I'm looking forward with a giddy feeling to the date I chose to quit. I'm quitting August 20th, my brother's 32nd birthday. The Gatorade jug he and I used as an ashtray on my mom & dad's porch last fall is still on the porch. I'm going to bury that Gatorade jug in the woods on August 20th. I know my bro will have my back on this; he is my mojo. Wish me luck! Posted by Bullyland at 09:45 AM | Comments (20) July 12, 2007
Is it just me?I was watching TV last night and I usually mute the ads but I decided to watch them this time. Anyone who knows me knows I can't stand advertising. I get my hackles up over manipulation of any kind and I am pleased to report that Madison Avenue is still not as clever as I. Keep trying, ladies and gentlemen, maybe one day an ad will persuade me to spend money. Maybe not. I have to ask, am I the only one who notices how cheesy restaurant commercials are? Why is the food always wet? Why is it always flying through the air? Seriously. If I walk into the kitchen at Chilis or Wendy's, will I see food prep people tossing wet, sliced red onions back and forth? Will I see wet, chopped tomatoes flying across the counter? It's kind of scary. And the people eating at said restaurant are so ridiculously happy, like they've been waiting all their lives for this very moment. Wow. Is it supposed to make me, a clearly unhappy person since I'm sitting at home while other people live it up at the 99, want to go out to eat? What it really does is creep me out. I don't want to go to a restaurant where airborne lettuce may hit my head and fellow diners are having orgasms over the Endless Pasta special. Runners up for most cheesy ads would be tooth whitener and Botox. I've never seen scarier smiles. As if anyone walks into a room grinning ear to ear with every tooth exposed at a party (tooth whitener). And who the hell jumps up and down while tossing their heads back, laughing riotously at the thought of Botox? Please, we all know Botox freezes your face no matter how animated the model's smile is. I found myself wondering also if there's a law that prevents minorities from looking stupid in commercials. Family #1 (white) is upset because their incompetent mother/wife didn't use the good baggies and now their chicken is all freezer-burned. Family #2 (Asian/black/Hispanic/Eskimo) is ecstatic and going to eat well tonight, because their savvy mother/wife went with the good baggies, and Family #2's chicken breasts are vacuum sealed and airtight. Or blonde WASP-y woman walks all the way to the end of the driveway only to have her trash bag burst all over her feet - and AT THAT EXACT MOMENT, as if she were waiting for blondie to take the trash out so she can rub it in - an Hispanic woman trots out her bag which plops neatly into the can. I am ashamed to be a white girl, I will try to improve myself by buying the right bags. I love the Law Offices of Joe Bornstein ads. I am always tempted to call the 1-800 number and when they ask me how they can help me, I'll say "I don't know, you tell me. Robert Vaughn just told me to call RIGHT NOW." Honestly cute is the Aquaboggan water park ad with the three big kids in goggles & trunks sitting in a baby pool, waving. "Wave pool." Get it? Posted by Bullyland at 01:02 PM | Comments (7) July 02, 2007
Racial Tensions in the Mid EastOf course, I'm not talking about the Mid East that's usually in the news. I'm talking about the Mid-East coast, most specifically, eastern Virginia. My sister has lived near the Virginia coast for over a decade and has made it her permanent home. She has two daughters and a wonderful fiancee who also has grown children. They are loving life, and it shows. We had a blast in Virginia, relaxing by the pool, at the beach, visiting and catching up with each other. My son re-bonded quickly with his cousins and all the kids enjoyed themselves to the fullest. So what's this I mean when I say racial tension? Well, living in Maine doesn't exactly expose one to a cultural rainbow. The schools go heavy on Martin Luther King, Jr in January, and segue easily into Black History Month during February. My eight year old can tell you all about MLKJ and name at least 10 African American heroes of the past, not to mention a play-by-play recall of the history of slavery in the United States. He is virtually saturated in diversity training at school. Problem is, he doesn't really get to practice it. He has one biracial child in his class; a lovely boy whom my son has gone to school with since Kindergarten. It seems unfortunate that he isn't as immersed in diversity as I was growing up as a military brat, but when I take a closer look at things, I can't help but wonder if he's actually fortunate to be avoiding stereotypes and racial tension. He doesn't have a clue that some white people still hate black people and vice versa. I hope when he's grown up and ready to do some traveling himself, he'll take his untainted, "everybody really is equal" attitude with him and spread it around. I noticed as we traveled down through Massachusetts, Maryland, Delaware, NJ, et al that the diversity at the rest stops was steadily growing. My son asked me at a restaurant "Mommy, how come there are so many brown skinned people here?" I explained to him that for whatever reason there just aren't that many other colors in Maine, but he should expect a lot more different people as he travels the country. He was happy with that. He was fascinated by all the colors, languages and accents that we encountered as we traveled southward. He was particularly taken with a young Mexican boy about his age who had a brindle colored Chihuahua on a string. As the child's father and brother spoke to one another in Spanish, the boy's lilting accent accentuated his speech as he told my son, "We call him Tiger because he has stripes like the tiger." My son could identify with this child completely. Skin color, accents, and parents who speak another language were not a factor for my son when sharing his love for tiny dogs with this other boy. It was heart lifting. Anyway, once we settled in Virginia, I couldn't help but notice that things weren't all melting-pot brotherly love. My sister and her family are in the minority in most parts of her town. I could sense the tension in casual comments made by white people I encountered. At the beach, I noticed a family had left behind empty bottles, wrappers and cigarette butts in the sand. There were five trash cans within tossing distance of this mess! I made a comment about how disgusting that was and heard, "They don't care about making a filthy mess for others to clean." "They," was I supposed to surmise, were black people? But what about the family to our left? They were black people. I observed the mother chasing a stray Kleenex for about five yards and they were meticulous about cleaning their mess. As I got into an elevator at the hotel, a black man entered with me. He was wearing tourist casual - nice jeans, a polo shirt and some loafers. He was about my age. At the next floor, a middle aged white woman boarded the lift and glanced toward the black man but not at his face. "To the lobby please?" she said to him. I had to stop my mouth from falling open. I could not believe this woman assumed that this black man on the elevator was actually working the elevator. To this guy's credit, he did not even blink. He simply grinned and pushed "L" for her. When she exited the lift she tossed a meek "Thank you" over her shoulder at him. The guy must have an unbelievable tolerance level. It has been a long time since I lived anywhere but New Hampshire or Maine and I forget what it's like to be immersed in cultural diversity. I forget what it's like to be directly exposed to black American culture - i.e., rap music, bling, ebonics, etc - all of which were present in crowds of teenagers in Virginia. I don't know any black people in Virginia and didn't hang out much and so I didn't get a fair and balanced view of racial tensions. Having only spent a week there I am not exactly reeling with culture shock but I am a bit disoriented by it. I don't really remember a lot of racial tension when I was growing up in the racially integrated Air Force, other than the usual cliques which were more defined by musical tastes and class than by race. Aside from the bubble of weirdness that was the realization that racial tensions do in fact still exist in this country, I had a spectacular time in Virginia. I got quite attached to the hotel pool, which turned out to be an oasis in the heat wave where children get along famously, get lots of exercise and get tired out enough to fall asleep without a hassle. I got to know my sister and my nieces again and finally meet her fiancee, who is definitely a keeper. My sister in her new relationship is more like the old girl I grew up with - silly, happy, funny, and loveable. My nieces are such personalities, with the oldest grabbing my heart because she is so much like I was at that age, and the youngest overflowing with comedic possibility. Virginia was beautiful, the skies were fantastic, the countryside ravishing and the prices low. But, I love New England and could never move. I wish so much they lived closer to me in New England. I wonder how they'd handle the culture shock!
Posted by Bullyland at 10:37 AM | Comments (11) June 19, 2007
Vacation, All I Ever Wanted...Was that enough to get Belinda Carlisle's annoying voice stuck in your head? Sorry 'bout that. I'm going on vacation. Me and the li'l squirt and my mom will be heading down to that famous place for lovers - that's right - Virginia (not Fallujah).
We'll visit my sis and my adorable neices, we'll eat out every night, swim in a pool, take in Busch Gardens and the Chesapeake Bay Bridge. We'll forget how to spell "homework" and we'll work on our tan lines. We'll spend over a week away from home in Forget-About-It Land. Oh, I'll bring a little home along with me of course. I'll fret about my pets and plants and house, although each pet is getting a "vacation" of its own with my friends & family. I think I'm going to sneak up on my dad with my potted plants. "Dad, you don't mind babysitting about 20 different planters, do you? And while you're at it, feed my fish, okay?" Hey, he's getting a whole week alone to spend as much time in his recliner as he wants, I'm sure he'll oblige me. I haven't gone out of town for more than a couple of days in so long that I'm kind of in a panic. Will my fish die? Will my house burn down? Will I pack enough underwear? I only own one decent bra, will I remember the Woolite? Will I have enough clothes for my son? Better head to K-Mart. Do I have enough "Virginia" summer clothing? I have lots of "New England" summer clothing, but as you may or may not know, Virginia summers are quite a different story than up in these parts. A walk from your front porch to your car can challenge all but the most aggressive anti-perspirants. Black pocket t-shirts just won't do; better to have plenty of spaghetti straps and tank tops, and keep a bottle of Arid XXX in my purse. Will I have enough spending money? Well, the answer to that is obviously no, so why worry? Will I be so worried about packing for my son that I forget my one decent bra and my Arid XXX? We leave in a couple of days, and I'll let you know how it went. Hopefully I'll return relaxed, refreshed, and ready to go back to work. Weeelllll, maybe two out of three anyway. Posted by Bullyland at 01:10 PM | Comments (4) May 24, 2007
Can I Get Another Amen?VOTE FOR RON PAUL. Please. He's the only guy making any sense anymore. Check out his website. Read his history and where he stands on issues. Google him. Vote in online polls for him. Anything! A sampling of Ron Paul quotes from www.brainyquote.com: A system of capitalism presumes sound money, not fiat money manipulated by a central bank. Capitalism cherishes voluntary contracts and interest rates that are determined by savings, not credit creation by a central bank. I'm not normally very political as far as stumping for a candidate or being involved in a particular party. But frankly I've had it. I want a change. I want our country back. Don't you? Ron Paul wants to give it back to you and I. I want people to once more be confident enough in their country and leadership that they don't feel the need to vote for control freaks for protection. I want Ron Paul for president. Holiday Hear the sound of the falling rain Hear the dogs howling out of key I beg to dream and differ from the hollow lies Hear the drum pounding out of time Can I get another Amen? I beg to dream and differ from the hollow lies The representative from California has the floor Sieg Heil to the president Gasman I beg to dream and differ from the hollow lies This is our lives on holiday - green day Posted by Bullyland at 01:07 PM | Comments (32) May 15, 2007
39 and holding and I still miss youI'm not one to toot about my birthday, in fact most years I lay low and quietly hope they'll forget about it. But it's usually right next to, if not on, Mother's Day and pretty hard to forget. This year I felt...let's say...less than celebratory. All I could think about was my brother - how he never forgot my mom on Mother's day - even usually giving or making me a card. With my brother, you wished for a homemade card, since they were the best. He was so funny and drew the cleverest pictures. I couldn't bear the thought of him not getting my mom a card this year, so I picked one out for him. My dad thought that was weird, but my mom loved it. Well, we decided to have my birthday cake on Mother's Day, since my actual birthday was on a Monday. On Sunday, I sat on my parents' porch and had a "moment." Toward the end of his life, my parents' porch was on some days, highlights of my brother's day. He'd be watching TV and I would say, "Are you ready?" and his face would usually light up, or alternately, he'd roll his eyes at my ridiculous question. Of COURSE he was ready to go outside. I would help him out there and into a patio chair for some fresh air and an American Spirit ciggie. Sometimes my older son would join us. Sometimes we'd play the stereo loud enough to hear on the porch. He wasn't very talkative at that stage and I'd spend the time outside rambling on and on, hoping that I was entertaining him. He'd either laugh at me (I'd told a good joke), or roll his eyes at me (I'd told a bad joke), or raise his eyebrows (he doubted my story). On Sunday as I was sitting on the porch, I could practically see him sitting there under the sun umbrella. I could see him stubbornly trying to get his cigarette butt into the narrow opening of an old Gatorade jug, hands shaking but making it into the hole nonetheless. The jug is still there, his butts still in it. I cried like a baby. I shouldn't have let myself get so melancholy at my birthday cake, since the kids were there, but I couldn't help it. I was born on the fourteenth, the same day that my brother died. I don't know if I'll ever want to celebrate my birthday again, so for the time being, I'm 39 and holding. Posted by Bullyland at 11:01 AM | Comments (3) May 14, 2007
I Haven't Been Ignoring You!!I recently found out that my friend was being blocked from submitting comments to my blog - I am happy to report that problem is fixed. It seems she wasn't the only one being blocked. If you've received this message in the past: "Thank You for Commenting Your comment has been received. To protect against malicious comments, I have enabled a feature that allows your comments to be held for approval the first time you post a comment. I'll approve your comment when convenient; there is no need to re-post your comment. Return to the comment page" or something similar, and still haven't seen your comments, email me at ashtabulababy@yahoo.com and let me know. Thanks! Posted by Bullyland at 01:27 PM | Comments (2) May 08, 2007
Our society is enabling drama queens!I had an accident on Friday afternoon. At the intersection of Maplewood & Woodbury, you know, that busy "Y" intersection, I rear-ended a guy. Now, before you start thinking what an ass I was, let me defend myself. It was rush hour and we were both stopped waiting for an entrance onto Woodbury. He found his and started to go, and after my stop, I started to go too, and then he stopped again. I heard a "POP" and realized I'd bumped him. I thought, oh man, what the flim flam! I had my son's and my dogs with me and my plan was grab an iced coffee and take them to the dog park. This would suck to have them in the car for a while on a hot day, in the middle of an intersection. Well, I barely tapped him so I figured there wouldn't be more than perhaps a couple of scratches. I got out of my car and was very relieved to see absolutely no damage to either car. I mean, he had a brand new Nissan Versa, shiny black monochrome bumper, and there wasn't even a mark you could rub out with your thumb. Yes!! Then, I noticed he wasn't exiting his car. I thought, well, maybe he just wants to leave, but he should at least check that there's no damage. So I went up to his window and he's gripping the steering wheel for dear life, rolling his eyes in all directions a la Marty Feldman and saying, "My back! My back!" I remember thinking, how is that possible? I barely tapped the guy. He started freaking out, saying things such as this had never happened to him before, and he wasn't sure what to do, and he knows that after an accident you're supposed to call the police and not move your vehicles... I could see the guy was more shook up than he should have been. I mean, I didn't have to look twice to see that the guy was a bit of a drama queen. At first, I thought he looked familiar, like I may have met him before. Then I realized that was because he looked a little like James Spader, if Picasso had imagined him. He had unusual facial angles, and eyes that kind of rolled about even when he wasn't rolling them about on purpose. Anyway, I said, "Are you going to be okay? If it'll make you feel better, there's no damage to your car." He continued to freak out but eventually got out of his car and made his way back to the bumper. "You're right! I can't believe it. There's not even a scratch! You've got to love a Nissan!" I said, "Yes, man, that'll be the next car I buy. What luck." I'd already written my insurance info down for him, not really knowing what for because there was no damage, but it was clear I had to, since he'd already called his insurance company. He went back to the front of the car to get his info and at that moment an Amesbury EMT truck pulled up. The EMT came over and asked me if everything was okay. "I'm fine, the cars are fine, but he says his back hurts." The EMT told the guy that if his back was hurt he shouldn't be up walking around and led him back to his driver's seat. The EMT then proceeded to radio for local help. Next thing I knew there was the ambulance, the fire truck and a cop on a motorcycle. I watched from the other side of my car as the medical personnel had the guy answer some questions, do a few duck squats, reach for the sky, and then someone determined that he was good to drive off, or he refused the ambulance, I don't know which. I heard him complain to someone that the firemen seemed more concerned about my dogs than him. No one wanted to tell him, well dumbass, that's because the dogs are sitting in a hot car in the middle of the sun because you have to be a drama queen about absolutely nothing! No one had the heart or the balls to tell the guy he was wasting everyone's time and valuable resources, and that he needed to shut up and get moving. No one (myself included, I'll admit!) had the heart or the balls to tell the guy the truth. "THERE'S NOTHING WRONG WITH YOU, GO HOME." The cop looked at the cars and said we could pull our cars over to exchange info. The guy asked the cop if we did the right thing by not moving the cars, and the cop replied that since there was no damage, it would have been fine to move them out of the way. The guy, Paris M. as I found out when I gave him my info, was still half-heartedly emoting about his back after the EMTs and firemen had left the scene. I was at a complete loss as to how to handle him. I was absolutely speechless over everything that had transpired. Had I had the luck to hit a normal human being, we would have looked at each other's cars, laughed, said how lucky we were and drove our separate ways. I hate drama. According to my friends, I've turned into a virtual hermit and the main reason may be that I hate drama. I can't understand anyone who likes it. I can't understand anyone who creates it. I can't understand Paris M.'s desire to make a mountain out of a molehill, to want to go through paperwork and red tape. I got a call from our insurance company - turns out we share the same company - and was asked to make a recorded statement about what happened. As I told my story I really bit my tongue and held back the negative adjectives regarding Paris. When I got to the point about being lucky there was no damage, the agent stopped me. "Mr. M. said there were some scratches and scuffs, and he's taking it in to get an estimate. We'll be taking care of all that for you, so you won't have to worry about anything." "Wait a minute," I said. "You don't understand. I know I'm at fault, but there was NO damage. Not even a smudge you could wipe off with a cotton ball. How could he claim there was any damage?" The agent said well, he had. I said. "Hold on one second. Since I'm being recorded, I just want to say for the record that Paris himself said - quote - 'You're right! I can't believe it. There's not even a scratch! You've got to love a Nissan!' - unquote - and frankly I don't understand how he had the nerve to get an estimate. What's he going to say to the body shop? Paris: 'I'd like an estimate on repairs for my car.' Bodyshop guy: 'For what?' Paris: 'To see how much it'll cost to buff out those invisible scratches.' I mean, if I were him, I'd be embarrassed. I'm embarrassed for him. What a drama queen." The insurance agent laughed a little, a little taken aback by my forthright comments, obvy. He mentioned that he would have it looked into. Clearly, he as well as everyone else in this world has been conditioned to "be nice" instead of telling it like it is. Someone should have probably called Paris on his melodrama when he was 5 or 6 years old, then maybe he wouldn't be a forty-year old loser who has to make a big deal out of nothing, get the cops, the ambulance, the fire department all involved and tax dollars wasted for nothing - save a little attention. The more I thought about it, the more angry I became. I had Paris' contact info in my hand. I grabbed my phone, planning on getting him on the phone and calling him on his lies and his drama. Then I remembered a long talk me and my mom had just had with my 8 year old about his anger. He's been losing his temper a lot lately, and a lot of drama has become of it. I'm trying to nip this bad habit in the bud - that habit of jumping the gun and getting angry or melodramatic over small, everyday things. I felt as though I couldn't very well call Paris and chew him out if I was preaching the exact opposite to my son. So I took a few deep breaths, relaxed my clenched fists, hung up the phone, and forced myself to laugh. I started giggling, then laughing, then got the hiccups, then I started feeling - gasp - empathy for Paris. This poor dude has such a boring life that he not only had time for - but created - the extra footwork for himself making a big deal out of this nonissue. Then I picked up the phone again and instead of dialing Paris' phone number, I dialed the insurance company. "I forgot to mention the fact that there was a motorcycle cop at the scene, along with four firemen and two EMTs. You may want to get the police report as I'm certain it will include the fact that there was zero damage to either car - as well as the names & contact info of the six other professionals who witnessed the car and the fact that Paris was doing duck walks and refused the ambulance. Just in case you really did want to investigate, you know, to save your company from a little fraud by not pandering to the drama queens." "Thanks - we didn't know about the police or the fire department or ambulance. We are definitely looking into it." You're welcome. I'm just doing my part in preventing America's enabling of melodrama. Post script: My friend Heather is an EMT in Manchester. Upon hearing this story, she declared, "Welcome to my world, sweetheart."
Posted by Bullyland at 11:11 AM | Comments (9) April 24, 2007
Time flies when your knee's on iceI can't believe it's been over a month since I felt the urge to write anything. Ah well, that's the top benefit of working for free. To be honest I've been pretty lazy about nurturing my creative side. Well, I did paint the kitchen and living room. One piece of advice - don't paint your walls red. Sure, it's gorgeous. Sure, the ruby sheen has the exact effect I was hoping for - exotic yet homey, startling yet comforting. I should have listened, however, when the Aubuchon hardware guy gently warned me away from red. "You'll need gray primer," he said. "And some really good rollers. And several coats. And make sure there are no defects in the plaster." "No problem!" I breezily replied. I was gung ho for red walls. Oh. My. God. He was not kidding. I mean, after two coats of gray primer (specially tinted), three $9.00 roller pads, and SEVEN coats of the perfect shade of red later, I had my red walls. Well, two of them anyway. After 4 straight weekends of painting, I decided that two opposing red walls were just lovely next to the two opposing off-white walls. Really. The kitchen was cake, comparatively - even taking off all the cabinet doors and hardware and cleaning the beadboard with vinegar before painting was easy compared to the dreaded red experiment. But, I got my desired red walls which indeed make a nice backdrop for my big fish tank and are, for me anyway, extremely aesthetically pleasing. I also began a task that seemed easy at first - tiling my kitchen floor. My floor and my bathroom are covered in the same ugly ca. 1950 linoleum that I'm sure used to be white, but is now several different shades of yellow. The effect is a hideous pee-stained look. My best friend Heather, who has been my renovation muse since I bought this money trap of a house, motivated me to purchase black and white tiles and supplies with some of my meager tax return and get going. That first weekend we worked with a manic vigor, making a few newbie mistakes and finally getting the hang of cutting the tiles and laying the adhesive. Of course, all during this kitchen floor project, everything that had previously occupied my kitchen floor - the island table, microwave cart, dog food bin, trash can, litter box, etc - was rehomed in either my dining room or the living room. We'd been living around these items uncomfortably all week, but with the goal in mind. The second weekend she came over again with the intent of finishing the project. I popped out to procure some refreshment and before I even stepped into the store my cell phone rang. "I need to go to the emergency room," I heard a plaintive little voice say. "I cut my finger." I rushed home to find that Heather in her haste had gotten sloppy for a moment, not using the metal straight-edge to guide the knife, and sliced her fingertip to shreds. Needless to say the project was off for the time being. (note - Heather is okay and amazingly took only three stitches.) ********************* There is another reason besides lack of pay why I've been unmotivated to write. In late February (after painting my walls) I fell directly on my knees on the ice at my parents' driveway. It hardly hurt; I felt lucky to only have to dust a little snow off my pants. Almost an entire week later I woke up in agony. One of my knees was swollen like a cantaloupe. I tried to let it heal on its own, knowing that for knees - like toes - there's really nothing the doctor can do. After a week of excruciating pain I gave in and made an appointment and sure enough, there was nothing they could do for it. Now, I'm overweight, that's no secret. In fact, in the past 6 or 8 months I've put on even more weight. However I have always been relatively active. Even though 5 mile jogs - hell, any jogs - are a thing of my thinner past, a nice walk on my lunch break is a daily routine for me. This knee thing was really deflating my spirit. Having to hobble up and down stairs was a total drag. Laundry was a nightmare. Getting in and out of the car was a hassle. Getting up and down from my computer chair at work was particularly painful. Even sleeping was uncomfortable. I started developing pain in my other joints with the effort it took to readjust my movement. I started to despair that I would ever be normal again, that I would always walk with a gimpy gait. After many, many weeks I'm finally about 95% healed. Since this orthopedic nightmare has ended, I am raring to go. This past weekend's lovely weather was the launchpad I needed to get going again. I spent it raking year-old leaves, sawing through gianormous pine tree branches that have fallen in my yard, riding bikes and walking to the playground with my son, etc. I have been walking daily, and with a renewed energy. I've dropped seven pounds without even trying to drop seven pounds. ******************** I'm feeling pretty good, and I can't wait to get out in my garden. Last summer through fall when my brother's tumor returned, I spent as much time with him and my family as possible. Gardening and home improvement were the last things on my mind. For the first time since I bought my house in 2002, I left leaves on the ground to be covered up by snow. This spring, I have a determined sense of purpose. I've decided to sell my house and move closer to where I work in Portsmouth. I have a new goal, one that is very important to me, and I know I must get off my ass and finish these renovation projects if I want to make any money at all on this house. I need to make that garden look as beautiful as possible. I need my floors and walls to shimmer with beauty. My knee is healed, my garden is beckoning, the kitchen floor is nearly finished and my waistband is looser. And I finally feel like writing something. Posted by Bullyland at 09:35 AM | Comments (6) February 12, 2007
Turning JapaneseNo, this entry isn't about the Vapors' song nor is it about the song's supposed insinuated act. This entry is just my musings on being Japanese, or more generally, Asian, be it Japanese, Chinese, Korean, or any other far Eastern nationality. Why is it that in the movies, Japanese men and women seem so incredibly dignified and desirable? Americans and Europeans seem so intensely awkward, noisy, greedy, and inept next to the elegant and esoteric Asian characters. I just watched the Last Samurai again. Tom Cruise looks like such a crass dork next to all the quiet and august Japanese villagers he lives with - until he starts turning Japanese - wearing his hair all Samurai, putting on the silk robe, twirling a polished stick, meditating and remembering to take off his muddy shoes when entering the pristine little Japanese houses. Only when he began to emulate all the virtuous habits of his fellow villagers did we the audience start feeling any empathy or admiration toward his character. Maybe it's the futons. I mean, most people have slept on futons, right? It's like padded wood under your back. No springs, no fluff. This could contribute to the discipline of the Japanese - having to sleep on a hard surface such as a futon. Maybe it's the rice paper walls. You've seen them right? One can see through them, hear through them, and fall through them if one wasn't careful. Those walls must encourage quiet, focus and discipline. It could be the food, too. Eating steamed veggies with minimal amount of meat, usually fish, must keep the body upright and demure. Making intricate presentations of meals, using chop sticks, tiny tea cups, etcetera is all very practiced, very deliberate. I wish I were so beautiful and delicate as the Asian women I see in movies and read about in literature. Even the uber bitchy Hatsumomo from "Memoirs of a Geisha" was a fragile butterfly compared to me. I know I'm probably being a bigot by assuming that the stereotypes in movies and books are true. For all I know, the average Japanese or Chinese household has sheetrock walls and sleeps on memory foam instead of rice paper and futons. For all I know, they are eating spaghetti with plastic forks and knives instead of sushi with chopsticks. For all I know, their children run through the house colliding with every third object they encounter, the women are sneaking ciggies behind the porch between loads of laundry, and pet hair gathers in little balls under their loveseats. But it's nice to imagine that they are like the beautiful Asian characters I see in movies, and that their gentle discipline and understatement is something I can aspire to. Posted by Bullyland at 09:53 AM | Comments (10) January 24, 2007
It's Different for Her.I move through my grief over my brother's death. I notice so many things I've never noticed; I feel so many feelings I've never felt. I've never experienced grief before. Three of my grandparents died in my lifetime; I had no real grief. Uncles, an aunt passed; I had no real grief. I felt separated by miles and time from these people, few if any really shared my life with me. I came upon a forum created by a woman whose brother had died; the forum was specifically for grieving siblings. Her "mission statement" is what caught me. She writes: "It is said that when your parents die, you lose your past; when your spouse dies, you lose your present; and when your child dies, you lose your future. However, when your sibling dies, you lose your past, your present, and your future." This moved me to tears - for days. I know I'm not alone in my grief, and I don't really need a forum to let me know that. My whole family, tens of relatives and friends, we're all grieving for my brother. My mother, however is the only one I know of that still weeps inconsolably, day in, day out. I tear up everyday, I'm sure my sister does too. I'd bet my life that my father cries every day for his only son, his future. My mother, though... My brother was their last born child, their baby, coming a full seven years after his two sisters. His sisters were born so close together to my mother who was barely out of her teens. I can only imagine how overwhelmed she must have been with no one to show her how to handle these impossibly delicate and devilish baby girls, with her husband in Thailand, her siblings all much older and scattered to the four corners of Massachusetts, her parents from the Old School, her friends just as hapless as she. When my brother came along, things were totally different. Here at last was a child she knew how to hold, how to care for... here was a child she could raise while breathing at the same time. I've been reading "The Poisonwood Bible" by Barbara Kingsolver, and this passage from a mother's point of view who just lost her youngest child halted my breath, tripped my little hairs, made my heart ache for my mother and not for me or my sister, or my brother, or even my father. It's different for her. "As long as I kept moving, my grief streamed out behind me like a swimmer's long hair in water. I knew the weight was there but it didn't touch me. Only when I stopped did the slick, dark stuff of it come floating around my face, catching my arms and throat till I began to drown. So I just didn't stop. from The Poisonwood Bible, by Barbara Kingsolver Posted by Bullyland at 03:39 PM | Comments (10) January 12, 2007
I can only avoid it for so longWhat, you ask? What is this thing I can no longer avoid? Ugh - New Year's resolutions, that's what. I've avoided the topic thusfar and I could probably avoid it for a little longer, after all, it's still January, right? Ugh. I'm so ornery, I'm so set in my ways, that my gut reaction is to ignore the new year's dawning. What is this business about making resolutions to change, improve, begin a new chapter? Why is it so ingrained in our culture? It's just another month. It doesn't mean anything. Or does it? There's nothing like a whole new digit and a blank calendar to inspire the list making optimist in one. As I was telling my sister blogger Internet Geek, I can no longer hide from the fact that at best, my life is half over. I know it sounds alarmist, defeatist and pessimistic to proclaim, but it's only the bald faced truth. I have another forty years on this planet *if* I'm lucky. And as this fact hovers in front of my consciousness like a swarm of no-see-ums on a muggy day in August, I am forced to confront the reality. I'm in a rut. I've been in a rut. I need to do something, and fast, to get myself out of this rut. I brought these observations to my shrink. She suggested I make a list of things I want to do before I die and choose the one thing I can work on right now. ( Why didn't I think of that? What a simple but incredibly astute suggestion.) If I want to be repeating myself 10 years from now, when I'm closer to fifty than forty, I'd better take the bull by the horns (snort!) and get busy. I know once I get started doing new things I'll break out of this terrible state of suspended development for good. I want to absorb all the culture of this planet that I can possibly absorb. There are things I want to do - things I've always wanted to do, and I need to get started doing them. As terrible lessons have taught me this past year, I've only got one shot here in this life. I need to start making it happen. So here are the beginnings of my list. I want to learn Spanish. One of my best friends is planning on settling in Argentina - her fiancee has purchased a winery there and I would love to mete out my golden years assisting her with the place. I want to travel to Alaska and the mid- and southwest, the sections of America that I have either never seen or only driven through; I want to see the vast portions of wilderness that still exists in this country (before they're gone). I want to be able to jog 5 miles like I used to. This may seem petty but it's really not. When I was jogging a few years ago I had so much more engery, mentally and physically. I don't think I will accomplish much else on my list if I don't get into that kind of physical shape again. I used to live for crystal winter days, chilly fall days, new spring days, all SORTS of days when it was perfect weather to jog. Now, when one of those days occurs, I just get melancholy thinking about how pumped up I used to get with anticipation of my lunchtime jog. I want it back. I want to learn more about the arts & humanities, subjects I adored in school and still do. I want to study individual artists and study different eras of humanity's development. So, that's what I have so far. There are more things to...mundane things like, keeping my house in order and getting out of debt, but those are boring and predictable so I won't bother listing them. I haven't made any progress toward any of these lofty goals yet; I figure my first lofty goal is to finish the list which will take a lot of thoughtful effort. I don't want to haphazardly throw a list together that will end up under a leaky coffee cup or something. I want it to mean something. I'm going to print it in 18K gold when I'm finished and frame it. I have started working toward the jogging goal, though. This is one thing I can do in the meantime, while I complete my list. I upped my effort on my daily walk yesterday, going another 5 or 10 minutes and never slowing down. Today I plan on doing the same, only actually break a sweat. That'll be new. Happy New Year's, y'all. Posted by Bullyland at 11:27 AM | Comments (2) January 08, 2007
Fuck off, I'm readingZoiks! Lots of attention being given today to a Seacoastconnects.com forum thread regarding partner swapping. Not so much to my own little thread about book swapping. I guess it's just not as titillating. I for one would rather talk about book swapping than partner swapping, since I have an overabundance of the former and not even one of the latter. I love books, I always have. I remember carving out a little hole in my closet when I was about 11 or 12 - complete with tiny bookshelf, battery-powered hurricane lamp, and snack box - just so I could read and read and read (and snack). This stressed my mother out to no end and she tried to abolish my little hidey-hole, but it didn't work. Eventually she just limited my time in there (I would have been in there every waking moment if I had my way). I have no reading hidey-hole anymore; but hey, I am the mistress of my entire house. I can read anywhere I care to and don't have to worry about being snatched from my book in order to clean my room or something.* I've read a lot in my lifetime, but I do tend to go in spurts. I've been on a bender lately. It's reminiscent of my short-lived affair with Blockbuster.com. (As predicted, my movie splurge ended abruptly with the second or third payment after my free trial was over.) I've been working my way through Oprah's entire Book Club with a determined zeal, thanks to Paperback Book Swap, an online free book trading service. It's awesome, totally free except for postage (you pay postage to send books to someone, but no postage when books are sent to you). As I get most of my books from the Goodwill anyway, this has worked out enormously. My little boy is an avid reader as well and we've already swapped out some great Berenstain and Beverly Cleary books. I've passed on a few to my older son as well (he really got into "A Million Little Pieces," as did I). In the past few weeks, I've managed to polish off the following: The Reader And I've unloaded quite a few books as well. As soon as I've finished a book I post it. The more books you post, the more chances you have that someone will request one of your books. You can't request a book unless you have credits, and you get one credit for each book you ship out (two credits for audio books). And yes, hardcover books are more than welcome. I'm so besotted with this new club that I've even written to suggest this blog entry's title as their new slogan, but oddly enough, no one really warmed to it. Oh well. Anyway, give it a shot, whether you are a bookworm like myself, a self-help junkie, a history buff, or just a casual reader it's a great website. *I do most of my reading after my son is asleep so there is no one to distract me anyway. My cats, usually possessing full domain of my ample lap, know and obey only one command..."fuck off, I'm reading." Posted by Bullyland at 02:47 PM | Comments (1) Snort, stamp, gnash teeth...or notOy, I've fallen on hard times. Seems my little blog has slipped to the #4 position on blogthecoast.com from a respectable #2 a little over a year ago. How have I come to this lowly stature? I guess I'm just not fashionable enough. Seems like Runway Ready is eating up all the page hits lately. Who knew I just had to get my "fash-on"? Isn't being Bully fashionable enough? If only I could be as funny and random as Funtime Sindy and Terribly Happy... Or as controversial as Kelly... Or as smart as Internet Geek... Or as hip as Beth... Or as entertaining as Mallory... Or as cunning as Union Jack... Or as disgusting as Kung Fu Mike... Or as brave as Chris... Hey wait a minute, I just guaranteed some page hits for all these people, further edging myself out of the running. Oh well, at least they have some talent. I've never been exactly one to "excel" at anything. I've always been a fast and impressive starter, only to fizzle out when real effort and/or little payoff were involved. None can beat me at mediocrity, I guess. I have that. Whoops. Looks like these two already did. Damn! Posted by Bullyland at 02:12 PM | Comments (5) January 04, 2007
[White] America Runs on Dunkin's?I am a regular customer of Dunkin Donuts, even though I love my own coffee even better*. I usually have at least two cups from DD every week. A friend I work with was addicted to their Dunkaccinos (sp?) and was crestfallen when she learned that DD has recently replaced their Dunkaccino offering with the "New White Hot Chocolate." (Moreso because she'd just received a gift card). To make matters worse, the little placard that they have by the register screams: WHITE. THE NEW BROWN. What? It seems positively...Aryan. Do they realize how bad that sounds? Well, probably not, and I'm sure the white hot chocolate is tasty enough. But I wish they'd bring back the Dunkaccino PDQ. My coworker is also the boss' favorite, and he was in the habit of bringing her a Dunkaccino in the morning - and of course so as to not betray his secret little crush, he'd bring us all coffees as well. Since Dunkaccino left, my friend no longer wants anything to do with Dunkin Donuts, and thus me and my other coworker suffer Dunkin-less mornings and that is not cool. Dunkins, what are you thinking taking away Dunkaccino? What are you thinking with this NEW BROWN campaign!? You don't have to eighty-six the Dunkaccino just to bring out some white hot chocolate. I should mention that my Dunkaccino-jonesing friend is also BROWN, and a lovely CHOCOLATE shade at that. This is like, a double insult to her. Bleah! * My friend Sharon returned from Australia for the holidays and informs me that after drinking the delectable European coffee found there, Dunkin Donuts is now "swill." Posted by Bullyland at 01:53 PM | Comments (4) January 03, 2007
The Cutest Boy in the WorldI hope everyone got a chance to play in the snow with a child this weekend. It sure did wonders for my soul. I finally figured out the video on my digital camera and managed to take a few of my little boy while we were sledding. You'll see for yourself how the boy deserves the title of Cutest in the World: This clip is the first one I shot - after he and I had completed several successful runs. Goes to show you can't figure on anything 100%. Let's try this one more time: Following is the only clip he managed to get of me - he forgot to push the on button until I'd already made it down the hill. There are mysterious forces working toward keeping my identity a secret, I tell you.
Posted by Bullyland at 01:36 PM | Comments (4) RE: ReincarnationWould you be If you could be also And what if being Posted by Bullyland at 08:55 AM | Comments (1) December 12, 2006
James the Cat Arrested in Welfare Fraud!Turns out James the Cat, the little scoundrel, is a professional con artist. After tugging at my heartstrings for weeks on end, it comes to light that he is, after all, stalking Miss Puss. My oldest son revealed to my father that he knows this cat, and it belongs to a friend of his that lives the block over. The sneaky devil (I mean the cat this time, not my son, although the title has been used in conjuction with my son) is sniffing after my folks' sweet kitten, who isn't even a year old yet and hasn't even had a heat cycle. He'd better back down...after being fooled so badly I won't hesitate to bring charges of corrupting a minor. I guess my parents had better make an appointment with Doctor Doolittle P.D.Q. if they don't want little James Juniors swinging from their sheer curtains. I can't believe I've been had by a cat! Posted by Bullyland at 09:31 AM | Comments (6) December 11, 2006
Can you help James the Cat?I had a nightmare last night, it was horrible. In the dream, I was in my parents' yard walking through the snow. My foot bumped something, and I looked down. It was a black cat. The cat was frozen solid, tongue out, tail up. He had died in the freezing temperatures and was stuck tight to a bank of ice. I'll admit I'm a sucker for animals. I'm always taking in foster kittens and finding homes for them. Sometimes the home ends up being mine for a long time, or forever, as was the case with my dog. In fact I have a kitten that has overstayed her foster time by about 3 months. James, as I've recently named him (his personality reminds me of my brother, whose first name is James), started showing up on my parents' porch a few weeks ago. He wanders from front porch to back porch to side porch in an attempt to find an open door and boot-scoot his way into the house. He has an ingratiating smile. My folks adopted one of my foster kittens, Brie (renamed "Miss Puss-Puss") and at first we joked that this big black cat was after her. However, Miss Puss, as sexy as she is, isn't in heat. I believe that it's not my parents' female cat that James has sniffed out, but rather he has sniffed out a family with a cat, a safe haven, and is trying his damndest to align himself with them. A family with a warm, happy and well fed cat is like a magnet for a cold, scared and underfed cat. My parents aren't nearly as soppy as I am about animals. I had to wheedle and annoy the hell out of them to adopt Brie..oops, I mean, Miss Puss. They roll their eyes and bite their tongues when I speak of my menagerie in one breath and my empty wallet in another. I don't expect them to take in James, who has a mild case of dandruff, one ear that is only half-there and the other pocked with teeth and claw marks, and is likely a walking flea-hotel. James is unneutered as well and most certainly in need of shots. James isn't skinny - it's rare to find a skinny cat as they will eat anything in order to survive - but he is most definitely homeless. I am smitten with James. He is friendly and unafraid, allowing my dog to sniff at him playfully once when we came for a visit. He won't be "shooed." His optimism has gotten under my skin. No one has fed him (well, uh...ahem...cough... perhaps I let a few pieces of cat chow fall out of my pocket the other day), no one has let him inside, no one has given him hope that this is a house he will be accepted into and cared for - yet he continues to wander from side to back to front door in hopes that he will. I would like nothing more than to take James home and give him the warm lap and bowl of cat chow that he so clearly desires. However, I cannot afford to buy the flea control and shots that he so desperately needs. Will you help James? If you have it in your heart and pocketbook to help James come home with me and be loved and cared for, please click on the "tip jar" at the right hand side of Bullyland's homepage and give what you can to his shots-and-Frontline trust fund. Or perhaps you have a place in your home for James. I'm inspired enough by James' faith in human beings to believe that by Christmas, James will find his way into the door of his dreams. Posted by Bullyland at 11:25 AM | Comments (2) December 07, 2006
I wear my sunglasses at nightWell, not really. However, I never realized just how much I do wear them until I lost them recently.
My sunglasses are my babies - prescription, polarized lenses of just the right tint of dark gray, Ray Ban Wayfarer frames. I waited and waited for the opportunity to afford these and I absolutely love them. I want to marry my sunglasses. Anyway, I lost them the other day and man, oh man, was I frantic. My eyes are photosensitive. I can't stand glare. I can't stand looking people in the eyes.
It's true. Sure, I'm a tad sensitive to the light and practically blinded during a snowstorm and really must wear my sunglasses for these purposes...but...I've developed a disturbing habit of wearing them even when I don't need them, into stores, the library, just about everywhere. I feel ridiculously safe behind my dark shades, so big, black and consuming that if I robbed a 7-11, they'd have to use my freaky hair to identify me. "Yes, officer... she had, uh.. hair that stands straight up, and I...uh...I can't remember her face." You may get the feeling I like anonymity, and you'd be correct. I hide behind many things, my screen name, this blog, my weight - oh, yes...and big, black sunglasses. I can't help myself. I'm really an introvert at heart. I'm afraid, though. I fear for my future - wallowing in aloneness, no one knowing who I am, ending up a spinster with several cats and an abnormal amount of plastic grocery bags filled with God-knows-what. I had the unwanted opportunity this past several days to learn to live without them. Sure, I have an old back up pair - but they are the wrong prescription and so badly scuffed and chewed by dogs that they're almost impossible to wear. I had to look people in the eyes - and more frightening - let them look into mine. The first few days were horrible! I felt naked! Exposed! Then I started getting used to it. I started to realize what a freak I'm allowing myself to turn into with all this covertness. Finally, I began to actually enjoy face-to-face contact with strangers, and didn't even think twice that I was, say, sitting in a library reading books with a NAKED FACE. Ha! My eyes aren't really windows to my soul, which can be pried open and slipped into, and robbed of all my inner workings. They are only eyes, and people can see them, and I won't die if they do. I did come upon my sunglasses - today. Turns out they weren't lost after all, but simply tucked inside a shamefully unused athletic sneaker. Hooray! My babies are back, safe and sound, in my possession. I still live in fear of blinding sunshine or glare from rain or snow. But perhaps I can leave them in their case now and again too, as I no longer fear exposing my soul without them. I'm free!
Posted by Bullyland at 04:23 PM | Comments (1) December 01, 2006
I know this much is trueI've been reading the book with the above title by Wally Lamb, (yes I admit to an "Oprah's Book Club" addiction, what can I say, her choices rock)... but this entry is more about... well, what I know. I know that my hair grows straight up. I noticed this only when I got it cut very short. As in, growing pointed toward the Heavens. As in, Cosmo Kramer. As in, if I dyed it bright orange and was really grumpy, you might mistake me for the Heat Miser.
If they didn't make "product," I could make some money at the circus with this hair. All I can say is Thank God for Aussie Aussome Volume Mousee-Gel Fusion. I know that Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles are ageless. I know that I can make a meal out of macaroni and cheese several times a week, and keep it healthy. I know that sometimes, the unraked leaves just have to stay unraked. I know that you don't know how to go grocery shopping just because you move out on your own. This is evidenced by my appointment with my oldest son, who recently moved into his first real apartment, to bring him to the supermarket and demonstrate how to get more than 2 days' worth of food for $50. I know that you can't make Christmas go away just because you are sad. You might as well be happy, if you're going to have to pretend that you are.. I know that friends are truly only appreciated when they aren't readily available. Two of my best friends recently moved away - one to Australia, and one to Colorado. Man I wish they were still here! I know that it is physiologically impossible to resist a fat kitten.
I know that I am really, really, REALLY glad that Friday afternoon has finally arrived. Have a great weekend!
Posted by Bullyland at 04:36 PM | Comments (5) November 29, 2006
A Domestic "Situation"Sometimes I wonder why I watch the news at all. Some stories get me so upset, I literally can't sleep. This was one of them. Thirteen year old Anthony Tucker was killed in the home he shared with his mother April Cooley, his siblings and his mother's boyfriend Todd Curry. Curry has been charged with the murder. As if this tragedy weren't bad enough, the news story added insult to injury (well, not injury...MURDER). First they interviewed Anthony's neighbor from across the street, Donna True. Ms True sat in her chair and talked to the police, averting her eyes several times when discussing her neighbors. "I'd seen those kids out there, acting like they didn't dare go inside." She'd seen the mother chased down the street with a gun before - but only called the police after she heard gunshots fired. Could she have done nothing else? She said she knew the children were in an abusive situation. She did almost nothing. She didn't call in the gunshots that killed Anthony to the police, because she heard on the police scanner that gunshots "from up here" had been reported. Incredibly, she attempted to turn the pity on to herself, lamenting how sick and violently ill she's been since the incident. Aw, poor baby. Domestic violence was reported in that household on more than one occasion, including the time Ms True actually decided to call the police after hearing gunshots. Curry took a restraining order out against Cooley but then dropped it. Currently, the police are calling this cold blooded murder of a thirteen year old child "a domestic situation." What the flim flam? A DOMESTIC SITUATION? Are they trying to cover their asses or what? This is not a domestic situation. They cannot temper the tragedy with these words. This was a murder of a child that could have been prevented. April Cooley, the children's mother, should be arrested as an accessory to murder. This woman should not have kept her children under the same roof as this violent man. I had flashbacks of little baby Kassidy and her evil mother Amanda Bortner, just watching as her boyfriend slowly murdered her child through abuse. I just can't understand it. How can you stay with someone like that? How can you watch your own child be abused by a man, who isn't even the father of your child? The final blow for me with this fucked up story was the principal of the school. He stated, "We'd like to see some of the kids on a one-to-one basis, you know, to try and keep the rumor mill down to a minimum." What? As if there could be a rumor WORSE THAN A KID'S MOTHER'S BOYFRIEND GUNNING HIM DOWN AND KILLING HIM. I don't know what he needs more - a reality check, a sensitivity class, or a kick in the ass. Probably all three. People, don't let this kind of thing happen in your town. If you know your neighbors are violently abusive, rattle some cages until something's done about it. Don't just peek out from behind your curtains for your next opportunity to gossip about it later. If the police do nothing, call them again. And again. And again. Call the Department of Human Services. Call the school. Call anyone who will do something about it. Maybe you could save someone's life. I hope little Anthony Tucker gets the peace his mother and the man that murdered him should never know.
Posted by Bullyland at 10:30 AM | Comments (1) November 20, 2006
This Just In - God Hates BlogsWell, just because I'm all depressed doesn't mean a website can't make me laugh. Thankfully, this one did. Taken from the October 8 entry on Cruel.com: Sunday, October 08, 2006 Bloggers are going to hell one entry at a time, according to Kevin D. Denee of the Restored Church of God's Ambassador Youth magazine: Should teenagers and others in the Church express themselves to the world through blogs? Because of the obvious dangers; the clear biblical principles that apply; the fact that it gives one a voice; that it is almost always idle words; that teens often do not think before they do; that it is acting out of boredom; and it is filled with appearances of evil -- blogging is simply not to be done in the Church. It should be clear that it is unnecessary and in fact dangerous on many levels. Let me emphasize that no one -- including adults -- should have a blog or personal website (unless it is for legitimate business purposes). Photo sharing is acceptable to the Restored Lord in some circumstances: Some questions naturally arise: "Can I have a photo gallery?" For example, maybe you visited an exotic country and want to share your photos with close friends. This can be done, but certain guidelines apply. Of course, there should never be any inappropriate pictures (again, be careful of the appearance of evil); it should be private and password protected, and only shown to family and closest friends. Footnote: I found Cruel.com while perusing Candyboots.com, another website that caters to dry senses of humor. Posted by Bullyland at 04:37 PM | Comments (1) Tis the season.I noticed it a few days ago. Lately I don’t want to eat; food is tasteless in my mouth and nothing in my kitchen appeals to me. I wake up several times a week at 3 AM with an upset stomach. I go to sleep only after chugging baking-soda-laced bottles of water to quell the heartburn and nausea. A feeling of weight, heaviness; a physical despair that is getting harder and harder to shake off is beginning to envelop me. At first it was just at night, and I attributed it to my brother’s recent death. Now, though, it starts on me first thing in the morning and stays with me throughout the day. I have a headache that’s taken up permanent residence at the very top of my skull, sometimes migrating east or west, front or back, but always there and only barely repressed with regular doses of aspirin. My back aches every morning when I wake. With winter’s inevitable departure of geese, leaves, and sunlight, so goes my emotional well-being. And, like the inevitable arrival of snow, Christmas decorations, and icy windshields, comes my old arch-nemesis, depression. The most curious thing about depression, I think – is the physical aspect. I’ve lived with it long enough to know when it’s coming on and my emotional downslides are nearly always hailed in advance by these physical ailments. (Some people develop physical symptoms after the onset of depression. I, of course, being so weird, develop the physical symptoms first.) Probably the most curious of all is the feeling of weight. Anyone who has ever been covered by a lead apron before an x-ray has an idea of this feeling. Imagine wearing a lead jumpsuit, complete with lead ski mask. The other symptoms – digestive troubles, headaches, arthritis-like issues – are all common enough in life. The feeling of weight, however, is unique to depression as far as I know, and the most tell-tale sign that I’m heading down that slope. I so do not want to spend this Christmas weeping incessantly, wearing a phony smile, struggling to get out of bed every morning. I so do not want to go the route I’ve gone every single year of my life that I can remember. When I was a young girl, I was abnormally crabby at Christmastime. Nothing pleased me. I wanted to be happy – I really did – but there was always a blackness inside my heart that I was too young to understand or deal with. Now I know of course that I've probably had this illness for most of my life, and those early Christmas bad moods were predecessors of my adult-sized depression. So it has been, so it goes, and so it will go, year after year. I will make an appointment with Shrinky. She will adjust my medication or perhaps suggest a new course, and we will work together to keep a grip on my sanity throughout the winter. I have given up all hope of ever having a symptom-free winter; I’ve resigned myself to this fate. What I strive for now is simply to make it to April in one piece and perhaps even with a few good days along the way. Wish me luck. Posted by Bullyland at 03:53 PM | Comments (1) November 17, 2006
Let the Weekend BeginAllow me to leave you for the weekend with a few things that made me smile. A smile is a precious commodity, and one you don't realize the value of until it's hard to find. My first smile is complements of my dad who snapped this awesome pic of my nephews and my son. The three older ones did the cha-cha-cha line around the house several times before the little guy grabbed on to the end. I call this photo "Three-and-a-half Cabaleros:" A dear friend from high school recently contacted me - we've been out of touch for years. It was really great to hear from Anne, and at that low point in my life, it couldn't have been nicer to "run into" an old friend. She's a linguist in the Air Force, currently in Hawaii with her husband and four kids. Anyway, she recently sent me this link which made me laugh out loud. Three cheers to TSgt Tucker for kicking my sadness to the curb! Got Puppy?
Got Baby?
Signs you may have seen before, worth another peek. (P.S., the rest of sillyprat.com is worth checking out as well!) Now, this is just plain silly. And more silly stuff. Have a great weekend. I hope I made you smile at least once! Posted by Bullyland at 10:10 AM | Comments (0) November 14, 2006
Thirty one days.I can hardly believe it's been a month since my brother died. I wasn't thinking about it in terms of time, but my dad sent me an email this morning. From my dad (you can see where I get my penchant for collecting lyrics): Subject: Awakening thoughts on the 1st month's anniversary of Mike's death I woke up this morning with an old sacred song rumbling through my head: Farther along, we’ll know all about it Then, just the words from one off Vince Gill’s song he wrote for his brother when he died. Titled: “Go Rest High Upon That Mountain”. I know your life on earth was troubled Go rest high on that mountain Oh, how we cried the day you left us When I opened his email it really hit me how little time has passed. I thought I had been doing a spectacular job holding up and healing - my bro would be proud. The other day while we were out to eat, my mom let me listen to a voicemail message my brother left from May, that mysteriously showed up on my father's cell phone after he died. I heard about 5 words and couldn't finish it - I started bawling. (I had to reassure the slightly shaken waitress that it wasn't because the seafood Newburg hadn't worked out.) I had no idea that much pain was still inside me. I'm all about remembering the happy times and believing he is in a better place and not being miserable about his death as I know he doesn't want us to be. But, it totally struck me like a ton of broken glass to hear his voice - healthy, happy, alive. The sadness came back like it never had left. This obviously isn't one that can be boxed up for the cold case files. It's going to remain open as long as I live. My brother was thirty-one years old when he died. It's been thirty-one days since he died. I know now that it's going to take longer than that to heal. Like, forever. My Dear Old Friend how will we smile ever again how will we laugh just like before will there be someone to remember how the birds sang in the morning how will we smile ever again -patty griffin Posted by Bullyland at 10:57 AM | Comments (0) November 13, 2006
Secret LoversWe have a foster kitten who is completely without fear of my dog (or anything else); I've caught her nibbling on the tip of the dog's marrow bone - while my dog was eating it! Anyway, our dog has always displayed a certain disdain for the cats, as well as being clearly put out that they are able to climb onto my lap and other high places where she cannot. I busted my dog succumbing to the kitten's charms. Check out the procession of pics: Kitten: "Snorgle, snorgle" Dog: "What are you doing?" Kitten: "it's okay, no one's watching us..."
Sleeping together...Both: "Honk-shu! Honk-shu!" (and other assorted snorts & gurgles of fuzzy content)
Busted! Dog: "Hnh? Wha? Omigod!" Kitten: "So?"
Dog: "I am SO outta here!" *So embarrassed at being busted snorgling with an annoying-but-irresistab |
