A New Kind of Catnip

Every morning, I grab a plastic bag on my way to the litter pans. I then scoop out the unwanted items from the pans and throw them in the plastic bag. After this is done, I tie the bag closed, place the bag on the floor by the side door, with the intention of taking it outside to the garbage can on my way to work.

This morning my routine didn't vary. I cleaned out the litter pans, put the bag on the floor by the side door, and went into the bathroom to wash my hands. I then packed my lunch, got my stuff together, grabbed my keys and headed for the door.

I bent down to pick up the bag...but the bag wasn't there. Wait. I could have SWORN I cleaned out the litter pans...I run to the office. Yep. Litter plans are waste-free. I look in the office to see if I left the bag in there. Nope. Could I have taken it into the bathroom? Nope.

Hmmm...

Then I remember that I heard a strange rustling when I was washing my hands...almost like the sound of a plastic bag being played with by a cat. Or perhaps a kitten. "Big Chief!" No response. I start looking around for the bag (which you would think would be easy, since I have very little furniture). No bag. I look under the bed. One cat, no bag.

I look behind the washer and dryer. No bag. I look in my closet. No bag. I go back out to the front room and look around. Wait. There's a bulge underneath the slipcover of the couch. I move the slipcover and there it is...the bag of crap.

Big Chief was watching me, and as soon as I grabbed it, he thought it was play time again. He ran towards me just as I was lifting myself and the bag up. He jumped, with 12 front toes aimed at the bag. He missed and landed back on the ground.

I took the bag and did what I should have probably done in the first place: took it immediately outside to the garbage bin.

Now that I realize Big Chief thinks a bag full of crap is as much fun to play with as a catnip toy, I'll have to be more mindful of where I put the bag in the morning, lest it end up wedged in my couch again.

Martinis, Old Men and Confessions to the Boss

Much to my delight, GSR is having a special during the month of June at the 20 500 East bar: free drinks, including six different martinis, to ladies on Mon-Thurs nights.

My boss scheduled a ladies night for this past Wednesday. Originally five people RSVP'd, but you know how that goes...one backed out to have sex, another backed out because she couldn't get a babysitter, and then we were left with three (plus boss).

I was the first to arrive, and was surprised to see the bar was almost full. Thanks to local advertising, the word finally got out and the bar was overrun with women. I found a table that would seat all of us, and grabbed it. A waitress came over and took my order.

Next to arrive was my boss, and next my cube neighbor. No one else showed up. My boss ordered appetizers, and we all ordered martinis (me, one more, everyone else their first!).
Martinis seem to have a way of loosening lips. Before I knew it, my boss was telling us a funny drinking story about my cube-mate's boss. I spilled some of my own secrets, and then my boss spilled another one. By the time my boss and I had downed three martinis, the party was underway.

As soon as the free drinks hour ended, the cocktail waitresses literally disappeared. We hung out, as a "band" was setting up. (Said band consisted of one guy and many synthetic instruments.) We decided to see this guy perform, so we stayed.

The guy was actually pretty good. He started out with some swing music, and people got up on the dance floor and danced. By people, I mean senior citizens. After the second dance, a senior citizen approached our table and asked if one of us "ladies" would care to dance. We all said no, but my no was different. I said "Thanks, but I don't know how to swing." Wrong response, because he said he could teach me. Next thing I knew, Grandpa had grabbed my hand and pulled me to the dance floor.

I will admit, he was a good teacher. We danced the length of two songs, then he led me back to my table and grabbed my boss and dragged her to the dance floor. (Gramps was pretty strong.) She did a much better job than I did, but I guess that's why she gets paid the big bucks.

Strangely, the music man decided to transition from swing to Pink Floyd. The dance floor was totally empty...for about two minutes. Then an old couple courageously hit the dance floor and waltzed to Pink Floyd. It was mesmerizing to watch. (Well, keep in mind mesmerization was easy after a few martinis.)

After the Pink Floyd debacle, the performer decided it was time to get us all back on the dance floor. He asked for requests. I shouted "Disco!" while the rest of the crowd shouted "Country!" He pointed at me, laughed and said "Disco?" Then he played the opening bars of Play That Funky Music to tease me, then launched into some old Merle Haggerd song. DAMN HIM. The good news is that for the rest of the night he flirted with me, but I think only because I was the only one in the crowd to actually put money into his tip jar.

After exchanging several winks and teases for disco music, the AV system crapped out. Even a squad of four geeky AV guys (one was replete in full outback regalia... from khaki shorts to floppy hat) could not put it together again. That was our cue to leave.

Even though it was now ten p.m., my boss insisted on treating me to dinner at Fin Fish. Hey, who am I to deny the boss this great pleasure in watching me eat? So off to Fin Fish we went. I ordered the crab "cakes" (actually, it ended up being only one cake; apparently the menu had a typo), and she had tuna tartare. She offered to buy me a glass of wine, and I know this is so unlike me but I declined. I mean, it was now about 10:30, and if I had any hope of getting home in one piece the last thing I needed to do was down another glass of alcohol so close to the time I needed to get in my car and find my way home.

I couldn't believe how easy it was to talk to her...alone. It's usually pretty easy to talk and joke with the boss when everyone else is around, but when it's mano-a-mano it can be a bit intimidating.

When all was said and done, I finally got home around 11:30 p.m. Way too late, because I had a job interview the next day and a skills test to take. But that's a story for another day...

Real Girls Eat Meat

PETA is on the rampage again, this time slamming poor little Jessica Simpson for wearing a T-shirt with the saying "Real Girls Eat Meat" emblazoned on the front. I have to admit, I've never been a big fan of little Jess...that is, until today. Now I say "Rock on, blondie!"

Ya see, real girls do eat meat. I should know. I'm a real girl and yes, I eat meat. Pretty much every day. And you know, none of that sissy ground turkey for me. Nope. Hot dogs (Hebrew National, of course!), hamburgers, steak, and dare I say it, salami are consistently on my daily menus.

So grab a bottle of wine and a chunk of salami...I'll gladly meet you and show you how a real girl eats her meat!

The Pleasure of My Own Bed

I spearhead a group here in Reno made up of magical ladies over "a certain age." Last night we met at Rancho San Rafael park for a picnic and a walk around the labyrinth.

The weather was perfect. We spread out our blankets underneath the trees, placed all our food offerings in the center, and before eating, one of the ladies read to us a passage from the book "Simple Abundance" about Midsummer.

It was an enjoyable evening, but we felt incomplete in a sense as one of our members who had RSVP'd did not show up. We knew she had planned on joining us after her plane arrived, so at first we just thought she was late...then we realized she probably had jet lag and decided against a night out with friends.

We were half right...today I was greeted with an email from Marilen stating that she had come down with an awful cold, so was not able to make our get together last night. Then she said "So, I'm going to take a bath, put on some PJ's and take great pleasure in my own bed."

Ahhh...that sentence really hit home with me. There is nothing I like better than the pleasure of my own bed (and, of course pajamas and a bath!). Women's magazine after women's magazine constantly states the importance of making one's bedroom a haven. And even though my house is under furnished and still needs work, I have made every effort to make my bedroom a place I enjoy being. It's the only room in my house that is fully furnished.

I spent some extra money on a quality bed. I added luxurious sheets and down pillows, and a comforter that's both comfortable and beautiful. I keep the room picked up and clean. It's my haven.

I love the time I spend in my bed. Oh sure, you can insert all your own lurid reasons here as to why I love the pleasure of my own, but the truth is I love it simply because it is my own. It feels safe, it feels comfortable, and it feels welcoming.

It's one pleasure I wouldn't give away for anything in the world.

young@heart

Last week, a friend from work and I went to the Riverside to see young@heart. The movie is a documentary that takes place during a 7-week period in the lives of several of the members of the Young at Heart Chorus in New England.

The movie is both hilarious and touching.

While the chorus has many members, the documentary focused on just a few. I think I would have liked to have gotten to "know" more of the members, but I understand that focusing on only a few would translate into a tighter story.

After the movie, my friend and I went to Ultra Divine Lounge for a drink and some food. Normally we spend time after a movie catching up with one another. Not this time. Nope, this time we could only talk about the movie.

It was one of the most inspiring movies I've seen in ages. I loved watching these very senior senior citizens perform. But not only that, I loved seeing the vibrancy and joy they had in their later years. I also loved the openness in which they embraced songs that were new to them, like "Fix You" by Coldplay and "I want to be sedated" by the Ramones.

I hope that I'm still singing when I'm 83. And I hope that when you plug in your hearing aid, you can hear me. I'm sure I'll sound wonderful.

Too Good for TV

Yesterday, Adam Carolla had Larry Miller on his radio show (again...kind of getting tired of the dude, but whatev). I tuned in when they were in the middle of playing some sort of "pick between the two evils" game. The idea was this: Larry was to take a long road trip, and was to pick a passenger from two offered. Adam would outline these two fake people's personalities, and Larry had to pick one and give his reason why he picked that person over the other.

One of the choices was a guy who thought Face Off was the best movie ever or a guy who proclaimed loudly and proudly that he didn't own a TV. Larry picked the Face Off guy. His reason: at least he knew this guy liked something. He added that he never really trusted people who said they didn't own a TV and/or hadn't watched TV in ages. And this is where Adam Carolla then inserted his own wildly hilarious rant about the people who don't watch TV.

One of the things he said was you can't trust 'em. They're lying. Because, as you begin to peel the layers, you find that the person who says they don't watch TV do watch it. Supposedly occasionally. "Oh, I watch the news, and sometimes PBS. Oh and I like to watch the playoffs..." and, and, and... Before you know it, it turns out that the person actually does watch TV.

As for the person who doesn't own a TV, well probe enough and often times you'll find that person watches stuff online.

I agree with Adam Carolla: I do not trust people who deny they watch TV. They normally have this holier-than-thou attitude to begin with. The noises they make indicate that TV is of the devil. It's a time waster. It promotes violence. It (fill in the blank with the latest scourge to scour the earth). They then eventually turn the conversation back over to themselves. Since there is no TV in their life, they are more productive. Happier. Their minds are not polluted. They are free thinkers and out-of-the-box problem solvers. In other words, they are better than the rest of us who do watch TV.

Good for them.

I, too, was without a TV for approximately 6 years. I was in the Army, and there just wasn't time for TV. Not really. But I had no problem admitting that I missed it. Oh sure, my evenings were filled up easily. GI parties. Uniform pressings. Boot shinings. Letters to my parents (yes, the old fashioned way, using pen on paper). But sure, I missed my TV.

After several years without having a TV, one night I received a knock on my barrack's door. I opened it to find a guy I had only recently met holding a TV. He said "I cannot believe you don't have a TV! Here, take mine. I use my roommate's - his is in color!" He handed me his precious TV, and I don't believe I've been without one since.

I'm sure it is a time waster. But you know, some times I Iike to waste time (another not so popular past time that I am admitting to). After a day of listening to whining co-workers, finding a buttload of bills in my mailbox, and passing by 17 gas stations proudly displaying gas for $4.17 a gallon, I need to veg out. To waste some time.

Only, I don't actually think of it as time wasted. I think of it as time spent with some of my favorite Losties. Or finding out what Allison Dubois is dreaming about now. Or maybe I'm watching a story that was ripped from the headlines, and seeing how these particular detectives solve it. Or laughing at Jim's latest prank on Dwight.

Yes, some may look at it as the scourge of the earth. I look at it as entertainment, ghetto style.

It's Tuesday...Do You Know Where My Bed Is?

I. Need. Sleep.

I haven't slept in three nights straight. As soon as I turn out the light, Big Chief Many Toes thinks it's time to play. He pounces on the bed. He chases his tail. He jumps on my stomach. He meows at nothing, then jumps in the air and falls off the bed. Because the floor is not such a fun place to be, he climbs back up on the bed and jumps on my feet. When he's tired of jumping, he starts combing my hair, because he thinks I'm hiding a nipple in my head.

After awhile, I think "Enough already," so I pick him up, put him outside of the bedroom, and close the door. Good idea in theory. In practice it does not work. Why? Because then he sits outside my bedroom door and cries and cries and cries. I feel sorry for him, and open the door and of course he's like "Yay! I get to jump on the bed some more!"

I'm subsisting on coffee and thirty minute naps. I don't know how much longer I can take it!

It is fun, though, to have a kitten in the house (fun, that is, when he's not climbing up my beautiful curtains or hanging by a claw from my brand new quilt). I love listening to him purr, and watching him check things out. And of course, I really love kissing his little toes...all 24 of them.

I may not be getting any sleep, but life indeed is good.

Big Chief Many Toes

I did it. I got a new kitty.

Yeah, well, those who know me know I probably would not be able to say "no" when I went to go see the kitty. And I forget who said this, but yes, I suspect this was a backyard breeder. The good news is that these people did take good care of the cats and kittens... the vet and vet assistant both commented that the kitten was obviously well taken care of.

But I digress...I met the kitten on Friday afternoon, fell in love with his many toes, got the lady to sign a contract guaranteeing that my money would be refunded if the cat had FIV (she wouldn't agree to signing anything else but that, so I took what I could get). Then kitty and I made haste to the vet's office, where he obtained a clean bill of health and many kisses from strangers. Apparently, I am not the only person in the world who wanted to kiss his little toes.

The vet also stated that he's rare in the fact that he also has bones in his many toes. She said often times polydactyl kittens have an extra pad or an extra claw, but not the attached bones...however my little kitty does.

He is acclimatizing well to his new surroundings. My other two cats are scared of him... about time. They both terrorized my other cats when they came into the household. However, this little kitten is leaving them both alone, yet they are still frightened of him. Sissies.

Now that I have a new cat, I realize I probably won't be getting a dog. I'm a little sad about that...but I still dog sit occasionally, so it's not like my life is dogless.

Why look at the time...I must leave now to go kiss toes. It's my hourly duty!

Numerology

I believe in a lot of hogwash, but numerology isn't one of them. Every time someone offers to "numerologe" me, I politely say no. However, some people don't take no for an answer and do it anyway.

My numerology (i.e. "Life Path") number is six. I am nothing like what a "six" is supposed to be. One of the main attributes of that is that I'm supposedly a nurturer. Well, ask anyone who knows me and they would say "PJammy? A nurturer? You've got to be kidding me!" Then they would qualify the statement: "Well, she's a good pet mom, but um, I can't see her mothering anything other than an animal."

The description goes on to say that the number six signifies great responsibility and indicates that one is the main caretaker in the family. Again, a big no go for me.

Supposedly I'm also idealistic and a humanatarian. It's also my main role to serve others. Um, wrong again.

Anyway, for years I did not believe in numerology and then it dawned on me...I was actually supposed to be born on a different date. (I refused to come out of the womb, so I was taken by C-section). "Ah HA!" I said. And I figured out what my real numerology number was supposed to be, based on my original birthdate.

Guess what? It's still a six. My theory was blown to hell, and so was any potential for me to believe in numerology.

No wonder I don't gamble...I just don't "get" numbers!

Nothing But Toes

Today, I was perusing Craig's List looking at available pets. I have been toying with the idea of getting a dog for the longest time...but even though it's a dog I'm after, I often find myself looking at the cats.

In sorting through the list and passing by entry after entry for pits and lizards, I saw this little gem "POLYDACTYL KITTENS." When I saw there was an image attached, I clicked the link and saw the MOST adorable little multi-toed kitten. I just wanted to grab its little feet and kiss 'em.

I am SO tempted to call...but I keep saying "They're probably gone. The listing is three days old. What am I going to do with another cat anyway?"

Oh yes. That's right. I'm gonna kiss its little toes all day long. That's what I'll do with another cat!

Crushed

As I may have mentioned, I've been laid off. Technically, I will more than likely be kept on the payroll through August 29th. However, for all intents and purposes, I no longer have a job.

I've been applying fast and furiously for any opening in the local area that I am even remotely qualified for. In the six months since I've been applying, I've only been called in for two interviews. Strangely, those two interviews were almost back-to-back.

I heard back from the first one about a week ago: Thank you for taking the time to interview with us for the position, but we found someone with stronger credentials to fill the position. That's okay, I thought, I still have one more on the table.

As of one hour ago, I no longer have that option on the table. Yes, I received the dreaded "thank you, but no thank you" letter. I'm afraid I am now in panic mode. Six months of applying, only two bites...and no job offer.

I'm on the verge of tears...this is the worst time to be looking for a job. Why oh why did I buy a place? If I had not, I could have moved for a job. Now I'm stuck...and could potentially lose my house if I don't get a job soon.

I have never been this scared for my future before in my life.

Memorial Day Weekend

Ahhh, sweet mother of holiday weekends! Memorial Day. Three days to rest, relax, and recover. However, my veteran status doesn't allow me to forget what the weekend is really about: honoring those who fought for our country.

In the 80's, I was stationed at Fort Drum, NY - a little (then) reserve post right outside of Watertown. The folks in the neighboring towns were very patriotic. And so, every year Fort Drum was asked to provide soldiers for the memorial service held in town.

My very first year, I was called to be on the Color Guard. I was supposed to feel honored to be chosen; after all, only the "best" were sent to represent Ft. Drum. Instead, I was pissed. I had just had CQ the weekend before, and now I was going to lose another weekend because I had duty. It just wasn't fair!

The four of us "chosen" ones spent time after hours practicing. And again I was pissed. I could be having fun with my friends, but NOOooooo, I had to hang out with these three lumps and practice our moves.

Finally, Memorial Day came. We had to wear our Class A uniforms, so of course we were inspected before we went. We passed. Then we were driven to a cemetery. We were too far away to hear the speech that was given. On cue, we marched in and did the 21-Gun Salute. In less than 30 minutes, the whole ceremony was over.

Or so we thought.

After the ceremony, all sorts of people flocked over to us. "Thank you so much for being here," they said over and over. "We so appreciate you using your holiday to help us." We were thanked for our service. For our unselfishness. For so many things. Do I even need to mention that I felt guilty for not wanting to be there?

I was overcome with pride when I began to talk to the townspeople, many of which were veterans themselves. They treated us to doughnuts and then we were back on our way to Drum to enjoy the rest of the day, sans uniform.

In the years that followed, I ended up being tasked for that duty several more times. The only difference? I stopped complaining.

Karma

I've been thinking a lot about karma lately. I've never really believed in the concept, however many people I associate with do, and so I've come to accept some aspects of karma. For example, I believe that if someone is constantly unfriendly, underhanded, and/or unpleasant, that someone has a sort of black cloud around them that strangers can pick up on. On the other hand, people who are friendly, nurturing and/or open more than likely have sunlight surrounding them that strangers can pick up on.

But, do I believe that for every bad deed someone does, it comes back? Not really. And, I'm supposed to, being a witch and all. "The karmic power of three..." I've seen it gone ignored too many times to believe it exists. I think of it more as an innocuous scare tactic than a serious concept to grab on to.

This weekend, as I was driving home from Carson City, I tuned into a local talk radio show. The news segment announced Ted Kennedy's seizure, which led into Tammy Bruce's show. She first stated that she normally said nothing when bad things (of a health nature) happened to bad people, however confessed that she was chomping at the bit to comment on Ted Kennedy's health problem.

She talked about Mary Jo, etc...and I started to tune her out to make room for my own musings. This man, who caused the death of a young girl, got away scot free. Not only that, but he sure seems to have led a charmed life. Rich. Powerful. He has not seemed to suffer one iota for causing the death of Mary Jo Kopechne, and he received no real punishment for leaving the scene of the accident.

So where is this karma we're all supposed to be so scared of? Certainly not this brain tumor. Even so-called good people have health problems. Basically, this man who caused someone's death, not to mention all the jerky, untoward things he has done as senator, has lead a rich, full life.

While I don't wish him ill will, I find it very difficult to feel any sort of sympathy for his predicament. In fact (and Lord forgive me), I'm actually looking forward to a senate that is finally Kennedy-free. It just should not have happened this way...this is not karmic justice. It's just life.

Lucy

On March 27th, I had to make the difficult decision of having my companion of 14 years put to sleep. It was probably the hardest decision I've made as an adult - to have a creature I loved have her life taken from her.

While I have two other cats, my connection to Lucy was much different, and almost spiritual. See, years ago I was attacked. It was hard for me to live on my own right after that, so I moved in with a guy friend ("I have guns! I'll protect you!"), and lived with roommates for years after that.

When I moved back to California, I was able to afford a home of my own. However, I was a bit apprehensive to live on my own again. It was then through a series of synchronistic events that Lucy came to me. She and I moved into my home on the same day. The first week, I never saw Lucy during the day. But every night when I turned off the light to go to sleep, she would jump up on the bed and sleep by my feet.

I named her Lucy after Lucy Coe on General Hospital. (Lucy Coe used to eat and eat and eat and never gained weight...it was the same for my Lucy the first few months I had her.) It was my concern for her well-being that prevented me from being frightened to live on my own again.

Lucy was a great cat. She never jumped up on counters, damaged my furniture, or clawed me. She was always gentle, and seemed to ask permission to even sit on my lap. If I ever cried, she would just come sit in my lap until I was done. She had a very sweet spirit, and everyone who met her liked her, even people who would normally say "I don't like cats..." would end up liking Lucy.

Of course I miss her. I light a candle for her every Thursday night, but last night was different because I saw her again. It was during class, and we were all instructed to pull a crystal from a velvet bag. I pulled out a quartz crystal. After we all had a crystal in our hands, our instructor walked us through a meditation in which we were to merge with the crystal and see what the crystal had to show us. The meditation was supposed to take us through several stages...hearing and/or listening to the stone, "merging" with the stone, and then have the stone show us what could be done with it (healing, enchantment, etc.).

The instructor told me I might have trouble with the exercise, as I do have a bit of trouble meditating and faring forth. So, I was quite surprised when I connected with the stone almost immediately after the meditation begin. I felt the crystal throb in my hand, and then I saw nothing but white in my mind. Through the light came Lucy...but just her face. The only difference was she was white in the meditation, but it was definitely her...her little pink nose, outlined in black, her outlined eyes...but she was asleep. Still asleep. Eyes closed. Just like the last time I saw her.

I felt the tears start to trickle down my face. The stone would not allow me do the other parts of the meditation...it did not speak to me, would not let me know what it was used for, etc. So, for the duration of the meditation, Lucy's face was in my mind, and the tears just would not stop.
As my instructor brought us out of the meditation, he immediately said "PJammy, are you alright? I think you should go first." I told him what I saw, and how the crystal would not let me go through the other parts of the meditation. He said "Interesting...see, the stone you have there was a gift to me. The person who gave it to me called it a 'memoriam stone' because it is enchanted to show the Holder people who have passed over."

He went on to say that was why the stone would not let me go any further... that it's only purpose was to allow me to spend time with a loved one. In my case, my loved one was my cat.

I still lit a candle for Lucy last night...even though I am now sure she's passed over and is doing well.

That Old Black Magic

Last year, my friend and I took a walk around the Sparks Marina. I was bemoaning the fact that most of the local pagan groups were either unwelcoming, cliquey, bitchy, or a more toxic combination of the above. I joking said "I should start my own group and call it The Black Hat Society!"

My friend didn't laugh. She said "Yes, Peej, you should. Do it. I'll help." And so that night in the Sparks Marina, we ironed out a brief outline of what we'd like the group to be.

Eight months later, the group is going strong. Our first meeting was in January, and while it hasn't grown in leaps in bounds as far as members, the ones that have joined us are committed and regular. Last night was our very first social gathering. By social, I mean we didn't have a planned topic of discussion, and we broke out of the Border's habit to meet somewhere else. That "somewhere else" was Vintage, a wine shop that I love. It was wine tasting night, so all three of us ordered the tasting, and were treated to a most delicious array of cheese, bread and fruit.

At some point last night when we were laughing about something someone said, I stepped out of myself for a minute and took a look at the ladies I sat with. This, I thought, was what I wanted all along. A true connection with women of like mind and spirit.

Oh sure, we talked about magic. A bunch of witches gathered together are bound to talk about magic. But, it was a casual kind of talking...and we also talked about our relationships (or lack therof), of earthquakes, of wine (we love wine!), and of how glad we all are that we were able to connect. We even talked about our next social gathering...perhaps a bar-b-que or a night at The Chocolate Bar. Who knows? The calendar is ripe for the picking.

What I do know is that I am ever so thankful that my friend encouraged me to get off my assets and start this group. The rest has nothing to do with me...but with the wonderful blessing received by all of us when we are together. The magic of friendship is some powerful magic, indeed.

Voices Carry

Dating online can be disappointing, exciting, or just plain surprising. When you first see someone online, you only have so much to go on. You kind of - well maybe - know what the person looks like (depending on the quality and truthfulness to the pictures posted). And, after a few chatroom and/or email exchanges, you kind of have an idea of how the person thinks, communicates, etc. But the voice...ah, the voice is always up to the imagination.

That is, until the phone call or the first meeting, which ever comes first.

Recently, I had a few exchanges that have been rather surprising. The first was a guy who emailed me (back when I was able to get away with hiding that precious address in my profile). He and I exchanged several interesting emails, and then we talked on the phone. Ahhhh...his voice. It was deep and tinged with amusement. I almost fell in love with him just from his voice.

Of course, as all things Pamela, that was not to be. We met in person, and he didn't really look like his photos. (Not his fault; he's one of those guys that photographs well, but reality is a bit, well, harsher.) But I didn't mind, because he had THE VOICE. I could listen to him all day. All night. However, truth be told, he couldn't listen to me, so he ditched me.

Okay...I brushed myself off and went on to the next guy.

The next guy seemed intelligent and well-spoken. He knew how to spell (bonus!). He also knew how to write. He was even, yes, funny. So of course I said yes when he asked me out for wine.

His voice was...ah...disappointing? I imagined him with a melodious voice. Maybe not deep...but deepish. Instead, he has the voice of, well, something I can't pinpoint. It's a bit breathy and nasaly. But, in a strange turn of events, I actually grew to like his voice. It seemed almost comforting in its strangeness. I found myself wanting more of that voice.

Again, as with all things Pamela, that one appears to have faded off in the distance. And so imagine my surprise when I received a whispered message in the chat room yesterday, with ten precious digits attached. Should I?

Of course I should! And so I did.

Ahhh...the voice was deep and comforting and slightly surprised and slightly amused all at the same time. The sound of this guy's voice was like a melody my heart could dance to.

I could get very used to a voice like that!

Spanks for the Memories

This quarter's issue of Bitch magazine has an interesting article in it about DD (domestic discipline). Actually, the article is mostly about spanking and the women and men who like it.
I haven't finished reading the article, so it is probably a bit early to weigh in on it. However, one thing that stood out in the part I already read is that spanking seems (at least for the couples interviewed for the article) to help alleviate tension. Say that a woman is overly sensitive. Or ranting and raving. Or just put a dent in the family car. The guy simply puts her over his knee, spanks her a while, and the tension and anger just melts away.

Now, as a big fan of movies from the 30's and 40's, I'm no stranger to this concept. In fact, for the longest time I thought most husbands probably spanked their wives behind closed doors. Imagine my surprise when the feminists I knew said "Piepa, your crazy! This is not at all acceptable!"

And so began my split persona: the public part of me that agreed with my crazy, feminist friends, and the private side of me that just wanted a good spanking.

At this point, a few of you reading this are tempted to IM me, email me, or post a reply that goes a little something like this: "I'll give you a good spanking!" And I'm sure you could. But that's not what I want from you. Unless, of course, you are good looking, smell delicious, and have all your teeth, then please spank away. Seriously though, folks, please refrain from writing me such things, because I will not respond.

In mulling this concept over, I find it to have merit. A good spanking can sober someone up. It can release tension. And, it can help two people reconnect in a healthy way.

Now don't go thinking that I'm for domestic violence - I'm not. Domestic violence is QUITE different than DD. Discipline is given lovingly, carefully and respectfully. DV is quite the opposite, and is abusive, degrading, and dangerous and should be dealt with by the authorities.

That said, I wouldn't mind going back to a place in time where spanking wasn't taboo. I think a good spanking now and again could make the world a better place, one butt cheek at a time.

Ten Truths About PJammy

I just saw an article titled "Ten Truths About Tom Cruise." However, because I don't care about Tom Cruise, I've never cared about Tom Cruise, and I will never care about Tom Cruise, I decided not to click on the link.

I do, however, care about me, so here's Ten Truths about Moi that you won't find circulating around on the Internet (at least not yet!):

1) The last time I ever jumped on a couch, I was five years old. My mom yelled, my dad spanked, and I was grounded for a week. So Oprah, have no fear...when you call (and you will), I won't be jumping up on your couch. I just know you'll have my mom hidden somewhere, and my dad will have the paddle.

2) I like cats, and I'm not crazy. Well, at least not certifiably so.

3) I'm afraid of Scientologists...but that's just because my Hare Krishna friends planted strange ideas in my head about them. I'm sure they're just fine people, despite the mind control.

4) I have a baby. Her name is Suri. She's got fringe on top. I can't say anything more than that, or I'll have to go in for more auditing.

5) I once shot a duck. After it fell over, I shot another. After that one fell over, I shot another. Then I got an ugly stuffed animal from a toothless carny with a really bad mullet.

6) I used to think "pocket pool" was some sort of cool hand-held game. Oh wait. It is, isn't it?

7) I stripped. Once. That's right, once. It was enough. Getting that wallpaper stripped off the bedroom walls was one of the hardest things I've ever done!

8) I used to be a pole dancer. That's right. Me. Yep, a pole dancer. See, I used to roller skate in the neighborhood, head for the slight incline, and roll right down towards the light pole. I'd put my arm out and swing around and around the pole. It probably looked more like Square Dancing than Pole Dancing, but hey, it was fun!

9) I have never stolen anything in my life. Except for some guy's heart. It's still in my freezer. Shhhh...don't tell the cops.

10) I complete me.

A Toast To Me

For two days, I've had an awful migraine. Boo hoo, poor me. Well, that's right, dammit, poor me, indeed. You see, I had my Tuesday all planned. I had a chiro appointment at 5 p.m., and a massage scheduled with a co-worker (long story) at 5:30. I thought after all that pampering, I was going to go home, pour myself a generous glass of wine, and watch a movie on DVD.

No such luck. First off, the migraine started. The chiro took care of it...for a little while. And then it came back with a vengence. The massage helped, but not for long. This migraine was determined; it would not be stopped.

After 36 hours, my migraine finally went away around 8:00 p.m. last night. So, what did I do to celebrate? Have a nice heatlhy glass of water? Nope. I broke into my bottle of Smirnoff's Grand Cosmopolitan and poured myself a glass.

Ahhhh...it was everything I'd hoped it would be and more.

So, a toast...to my migraine. May it rest in peace.

Where has all the time gone?

I can't believe it's been over a month since my last post. Then again, I can. March definitely came in like a lion - early in the month, I learned that my beloved cat, Lucy, was very sick.

After several visits and several HUNDRED dollars, one of the vets thought she probably had small cell lymphoma. It was either that, or her IBD had gotten way out of control. Either way, the treatment was the same: chemotherapy.

Lucy did not do well with the chemo. She started having seizures several times a day. After the chemo treatment was over, she went downhill quickly. It became clear that I needed to make a decision, and so I did - painfully and regrettably I had to say good-bye to my companion of 14 years.

I still have trouble believing she is gone. Lucy was such a quiet, gentle force in my life. Today marks one month since her death. Tonight I hope to light a candle next to her cremains in remembrance of her friendship and gentle spirit.

Lucy, thanks for the memories. You will always be in my heart.