Roses and Wine

On Friday night, I received a dozen red roses. I know what you're thinking: "Piepa has someone on the hook." Well...I don't. But, since I'm an equal opportunity receiver, I'll take flowers from just about anyone who's willing to give them to me.

Unfortunately for me, my cats love roses so I had to bring them to work. And, once they were on my desk I had to field a bevy of questions ("Who are they from?") and also smile politely whenever someone said "Oh, you must have been a good girl this weekend." News flash: I'm always a good girl except when out on a date. Or driving a car.

I digress...

Flowers on my desk always cheer me up. Always. So much so that some weeks I'll forgo a grocery item or two so I can buy flowers instead. This week started out rather brutally, as I'm still in training and on Monday I had trouble "getting it" as they say. I hung in there as long as possible, and even though the flowers helped to take the edge off, I knew I needed wine that night to really relax me.

The good news: I was supposed to meet a bunch of my ex co-workers for free drinks at GSR. As soon as the whistle blew at 5 p.m., I was out like a light and headed for GSR. I kept thinking about how good it would be to sit down with old friends, talk about work, catch up on their lives, and drink free wine.

When I got to the 20 500 East Bar, I took a quick walk around and did not see any of my friends. Figuring I was the first one there, I saddled up to the bar to get my free drink. I think the bartender really hates giving out freebies, because he made me wait. And wait. And wait. I finally got my wine and snagged a table.

And waited some more. And some more. And some more.

Finally, I dialed up the co-workers for whom I had numbers. Lany: no answer. Carmen: no answer. Christine...wait, she wasn't going anyway, so I didn't call. Played my portable Yahtzee game. Still no friends. Had I been stood up?

After I finished my glass of wine, I decided to go home. The brave part of me wanted to go to the cafe and grab a bite. The lost soul part of me wanted to retreat to the safety of my home. The lost soul won, and home I went.

When I got home, I debated about opening up a bottle of wine. I bought an extraordinary wine from Cost Plus, and was saving it for a special occasion. Wasn't being depressed that my friends stood me up special? While I was debating this in my head, my phone rang.

I heard "Hey girlfriend..." and was instantly warmed by Lany's voice. Turns out I had the night wrong; our get-together isn't until next Monday night. Strangely, I felt instantly better knowing I was a bonehead, as it meant that I wasn't stood up. Or forgotten.

After the phone call the only thing I needed was some chamomile tea. I put the bottle of wine away for a special occasion...

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Well Groomed

I received a rather odd compliment from someone recently. He told me I was rather well groomed.

Now, like most girls I would hope to get compliments like "Gee you're hot" or "hubba hubba, I like your legs." And personally, I prefer compliments about my personality and/or how enjoyable I am to be around. So, being told I am well groomed, while obviously a compliment, has left me feeling completely flummoxed.

I suppose I should stop chewing on that and just enjoy it. Instead, I feel as if I must now work harder to become memorable for something other than my washing ritual and mad ironing skillz.

Claim Jumper Friends

If I've said it once, I've said it way too many times: Claim Jumper is probably my most favorite restaurant EVER. The reasons are varied...the service is almost always top notch, the food is plentiful and good, and I just like being there.

That said, my love of Claim Jumper is well known to those that know me and love me. And even those who don't love me. (But I won't focus on them now...) So, my boss, who won't be at work on my last day, took me to lunch today at Claim Jumper. He also invited Lany (my next-door cube neighbor) along.

These are two of my most favorite people at Acme Cardiac Safety Services. Mike was a great teacher, and really showed me the ropes when I first got to Covance. Lany also taught me a lot about how to succeed at my job. I'll be sad to leave them behind.

We had a nice time at Claim Jumper. We talked about work, people at work, next steps, the grief we felt over the lay off, cars, kittens, children, and the Independence Day. At the end of the meal, my boss insisted on buying me a brownie (something I normally don't indulge in, as Dr. Atkins would slap my hand if he knew what I was eating) to go. Frosted brownies are one of my favorite indulgences, so I was touched that he remembered and got me one.

I have two more days left at work: tomorrow and Monday. Today before I left, I packed some of my items up and as I placed them in a box I found myself tearing up. I wish I could have stayed at Acme. The people there were some of the best I'd ever worked with. I will really miss them (and my paycheck).

Hopefully I'll fit in at QuadNet and make new friends and be as highly esteemed as I am at Acme. I know one thing, though: Acme will always have a place in my heart, even after its doors are closed for good.

Sexy Red Shoes

Unlike most girls, I am not a shoe hound. I don't get excited about shoes, I don't spend much money on shoes, and I prefer flats to heels. Every once in awhile, though, I feel the need to get a little sexy with my footwear. Saturday was one of those days.

I have a few outfits which have been begging me to buy them a pair of red heeled sandals. So, feeling a bit restless and getting tired of hearing my outfits complain, I left the house Saturday afternoon to look for a pair. I only had forty minutes, so I went to my one of my favorite stores hoping I would find what I wanted.

I did.

Almost as soon as I walked in, I saw a pair of 3-inch red heeled strappy sandals. There was only one pair available...and they were a half size too small. I tried them on anyway, and they actually fit.

Wait. This was too good to be true. Not believing that they fit, I started walking up and down the aisle in the shoes, thinking that they would begin to hurt. They did not. A couple of women told me the shoes were sexy and that I should buy them. So I did.

I couldn't wait to wear them. On Monday, I pulled out one of my outfits and showed them the new shoes. My outfit was happy. I got ready for work, and on the way out the door I put on my new shoes. The total effect was marvelous.

But after 9 hours of work wearing those shoes, my feet started to cry. What looked like sexy straps to the average eye were actually small leather torture devices. I couldn't wait to take them off.

When I got home, I couldn't get them off fast enough. As soon as the shoes came off, I noticed my feet were bruised and chafed where the straps were. I soaked my feet in water, while Big Chief played on the edge of the tub.

Today my feet are not so sexy looking and still bear the marks of Monday's all-day torture session. It's been said that beauty hurts, and I have to agree.

It's back to Easy Spirits for me...at least until my feet heel and my outfits start whining at me again.

Californication

Has anyone out there seen this TV show yet? I just saw the first six episodes this weekend, thanks to Netflix. All I can say is "Whew...where's the cold shower?"

I rented it simply because, as a fan of the X-Files, I felt an unexplainable need to see David Duchovny play a part other than Mulder. I had no idea what the show was about...so imagine my surprise when I discovered the show seems to be about sex, sex, and more sex. And not just sex, but sex of many different varieties: The brown kind, the dominance kind, the awkward kind, and the regular kind.

I think somewhere in there the show is kind of about relationships and mid-life crisis, but it's hard to tell amidst all the sex and talk about sex and naked bits.

Still, I did enjoy the first six episodes and eagerly await the next six. After all, if you can't have it, watch it!

Morning Coffee

This morning started out pretty much like any other. The first alarm buzzed and I turned it off. The second alarm went off and I turned it off. A half hour later, Big Chief Many Toes decided to scream into my right ear canal, so I stumbled out of bed and headed for the kitchen, where I proceeded to make my morning cup of coffee.

A few short minutes later, I was curled up on the couch drinking my coffee while watching Big Chief run around the living room chasing all things visible and invisible. In-between sips, I rested the cup on my thigh while I petted my poor little asmathic Schmutzy.

At some point, I heard a noisy, slurping sound. "Gee, one of the cats is really enjoying their water" was my first thought. And then I saw Big Chief climbing up my curtains, and of course Schmutzy was right next to me...and then I realized that the slurping sounded awfully close...I turned to my coffee, and saw Purrscilla's little head bobbing up and down into my cup.

I figured there wasn't any use to stopping her now...so I just let her have a caffeine fix in peace. About five minutes later, a normally shy and skittish Purrscilla was running around the living room, teasing Big Chief, jumping on stray toys, and bouncing off walls. As for me, I tossed the coffee and headed for the shower while Purrscilla continued to run off her caffeine buzz in the living room.

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.

Prison Break

The dogs I dog-slash-housesit for have obviously been watching too much Prison Break while I'm on the computer.

The rule of the house is: if the dogs don't pee when they're let out for their last visit to the great outdoors before bedime, then they are crated. So, the other night I let them both out around 9:30 p.m., and commanded them to "pee!" They looked at me. They licked their haunches. Spencer rolled on my feet. Benny ran back to the side door.

"Benny," I called. "Go pee!" He came back and sat in front of me. Spencer rolled around on his back, and started rubbin his eyes with his paws. As if on cue, they ran to the side door and started barking for me to join them.

As fifteen peeless minutes had passed, I decided to let them back in. I gave them their night time snack, and said "Crate." They both ran in, and I started to zip the door closed.

Dang. No luck.

I tried the other side, and had a little more luck. I couldn't zip the whole thing, but as there was only about one and a half inches not zipped, I figured I was safe.

Around 4 a.m., I started to stir. I kind of needed to get up, but I didn't want to get up. So, I tossed and turned and then I heard this weird sound coming from the crate. "Why, it sounds like the crate is being unzipped," I thought. As soon as that thought cleared my head, the two dogs jumped on the bed and started rolling around. Then Benny ran downstairs, and Spencer curled up next to my face.

I told Spencer I was going to get some parental controls put on the TV, and went back to sleep.

Bookin' Boomers

Two months ago, I saw a posting on Craig's List from a woman who was interested in starting a book club. She wanted it to be a women's book club, and hoped to arouse the interest of "boomers."

I answered her post, and long story short, we had our first meeting last night at Borders. When I first met Rita I was impressed. She was nice, warm and very organized. We talked for a while, and she mentioned that one woman was coming with her husband, but only because they came into town together as he had an eye appointment earlier.

I expected that while we wimmin folk met, the husband would wander around the store, or go buy a coffee, or whatever it is that men do while their wimmin folk are engaged. But no...when the couple arrived, he plopped himself down and made himself comfortable.

When we were all there, Rita handed out a list for us to fill out with our pertinent contact information. When Howard's wife passed the list to him to sign, I noticed Rita looked alarmed.
When we started discussing possible book choices, it was clear that Howard thought he was part of the group. He suggested types of books he wanted to read. At some point, I thought that perhaps I had misread the posting; perhaps the group was to be a mixed group.

In general, this couple was annoying. They are well to do, and made it known. "We have a nice place at 'the Lake.'" All of a sudden, everything was "the Lake" this and "the Lake" that. The wife stated that they had gotten into house swapping, because they loved to travel and since they lived at "the Lake," they had a desirable place to swap.

Then she complained about some guy who swapped a one bedroom apartment for their tony lakeside property. "He sure cleaned up in the deal," she said.

When we discussed when our meetings should be scheduled, we suggested meeting the last Wednesday of the month, as it seemed to work for everyone already. "Oh no" the annoying couple replied. "We travel at the end of the month...every month."

When one lady asked about how a book club worked (as she hadn't been in one before), Annoying Wife started saying "Well, we've always done it like this..." When Rita suggested some ways we could run ours, Annoying Wife said "But I've never done it like that before."

Rita wants the group to be part activity group and part book club. Her proposed plan is to read and discuss a book one month, and take the next month off to go to a wine tasting or out to dinner or other such activity as a group. Annoying Wife said "Well, before we do any activities, we need to bond as a group first." I chimed in, "The best way to get to know people is at an activity where conversation isn't relegated to book discussion."

After the meeting finally ended, I thanked Rita for organizing the meeting, and then quickly drove home to check out the posting. I was right; the group was intended to be women only.
I wrote Rita and asked if Howard was going to be part of the group. "It's kind of awkward, I would think, if the group is intended just for women to say 'Hey Howard, unless you are prepared to wear a dress and go through menopause, I think you need to find something else to do on the third Wednesday of every month...'"

I haven't heard back...but I'm at least hoping that if Howard intends to be part of the group, that he at least dress the part.

Eat Me

Yesterday was a co-worker's birthday. She has helped me swim successfully through the world of data, and so I wanted to get her something special.

But what?

She loves Bath and Body Works, but since everyone knows that, they tend to buy her loads. Plus, she told me she spent about $100 at the last Bath & Body Works sale...so I'm sure she needs nothing in that department.

Hmmm...

I put on my thinking cap (and it sure looked good on me!), and soon I had an idea: I'd get her a brownie from Claim Jumper.We talk about the infamous brownies all the time. How big they are. How delicious. Filled with nuts and chocolate...ummmm.... (after all, what woman in her right mind doesn't like nuts....oh, and chocolate?)

As yesterday was her day off, I had time. I gunned it to Claim Jumper after work, and bought a brownie. Then I gunned it to Michael's and bought some pretty ribbon (and while there, I met a man who used to be a woman...but more on that at a later time). Then I gunned it to Safeway for munchies (all that gunning left me hungry) and a birthday card.

I was set.

I got home and was greeted by my two very vocal kitties. “We hear you brought home a brownie,” they meowed. “Yeah, but it’s not for you. It’s for Lany, so keep your little tuna-flavored yaps shut.”

I squirreled it away, and went about my business. Every once in awhile I would hear a muffled voice saying “Eat me.” At first, I looked around the house to see if I could find the culprit. The only thing I found was a quarter, a cat nip toy and a pair of nylons that Purrscilla stole from me.
“Eat me.” The voice became louder and more incessant. “EAT ME!”

Finally, I couldn’t stand it any more, and my search for the source became ramped up. Then I found it…the brownie from Claim Jumper. “Eat me,” it said. “You know you want to!”

And yes, I did want to. Terribly so. However, my desire to give the brownie to Lany was stronger than my desire to eat it, so I pulled out the ribbon, cut off a yard, and wrapped up the brownie tightly. Sure enough, my ribbon muzzle worked. “Omphgeatohme” was all I heard for the rest of the night, until finally the brownie tired of talking through its brightly-colored hand-made muzzle.

I slept soundly last night, behind the safety of a closed door and ear plugs…just in case the brownie loosened itself from its hand-made muzzle long enough to convince me to take a girl-sized bite from that big old nut-covered brownie…

The Other V-Day

I suppose Valentine's Day is a good day for someone like Jane Fonda to go on a national morning show to promote The Vagina Monologues. And, I suppose it's also a good day for an aging political activist like herself to spew the C-word on national TV. And by "C-word" I don't mean "cat."

Ah...Vagina Monologues and the C-word...my two least favorite things in the world. Together. On stage. With Jane Fonda...how delightful.

What? How could the Vagina Monologues be one of my least favorite things? Well, maybe because I'm a girl...What? you ask... how can you be a girl and NOT like the Vagina Monologues? Simply for this reason: I think it's an overrated production, and the chronic use of vulgar words in the production does not make it cool.

Oh yes. I saw it. A few years ago, a feminist friend of mine said "PJammy, you have to go see this play! It's the bee's knees!" And, not wanting to seem uncool or against the feminist movement, I said "Sure, sign me up." I went along...and I think I was supposed to be like the other feminist clones in the audience and cheer on the repeated use of the word "C*nt" and "vagina," but I kept quiet. I did not think the chronic use of the "C" word "took back the word" and made it any different. It's still the same old word with the same old vulgar meaning, and watching Eve Ensler utter it repeatedly did not magically change it into something Proud and Bold and Wonderful.

Neither did the repeated use of the "V" word. Yes, I know what I've got "down there." Yes, I know the technical name. However, I do not get any great feeling of liberation or satisfaction shouting it at the top of my lungs. "Vagina! VAGINA!" See? Nothing. I get more satisfaction at shouting the word "Fuck!" at the top of my lungs in the car after some nimrod cuts me off than I do in a roomful of feminists shouting out the V-word.

The thing is, I know I'm supposed to like it. It's not cool for me to admit that I don't. Oh sure, there were a few touching monologues. Overall, though, The Monologues did not speak to me, or give me permission to relish my vagina, or teach me anything new.

I will say this, though: Jane Fonda taught me something new. She taught me that it's kind of gross for an old lady, no matter how made up and plastic she might be, to utter obscenities on TV. Meredith Viera, please note: when I'm old and you interview me on your morning show after my rousing production called "The Penis Chronicals," the only "c-word" out of my mouth will be cat.

Cupid

When my brother and I were little tykes, Cupid used to come visit us on Valentine's Eve. We were SO excited, we could barely sleep. We did think it strange that Cupid never visited any of the other children in the neighborhood. My mom said it was simply because they didn't believe.

Believe we did, so every Valentine's Day, the first thing we did was bound out of bed, kneel to the floor, and lift up our bedspread. See, Cupid always left our gifts underneath the bed. Additionally, because Cupid was small and did not have a big old sack like Santa Claus, he couldn't carry too much...so he normally only left us two presents each. The presents were never that big...but always something fun.

I remember one year, Cupid left me some white tennis socks with red piping and a red pom pom on each. He also left me a small lip balm. I was afraid this meant I was too grown up and he wouldn't come the next year, but he did.

I'm not actually sure when Cupid stopped coming by the house with little gifts...and I suppose it doesn't really matter. Because even now as I face yet another flowerless, candyless Valentine's Day, I can't help but smile when I remember a mother and father who loved me enough to devise a delightful little fantasy for two children who believed.

Phil

When I woke up this morning and saw no snow on the ground, despite the local weatherman's prediction, I felt almost joyous. And then I heard the word: Phil says there will be six more weeks of winter.

Well hell.

Of course, I probably didn't need Punxsutawney Phil to tell me that. After all, storm after storm after storm should have clued me into the fact that Spring doesn't want to come early this year. I suppose she's having the time of her life on her Caribbean vacation and is in no hurry to leave her well-hung cabana boy for the dry desert wasteland that is Reno. Can't say I blame her.

But boy oh boy, am I ready for Spring. I want her to come...to bring with her warmer weather, bright sunshine and happy little daffodils. I'm so sick of the cold and the snow and the ice and the snow and the below freezing weather, and of course the snow.

I want to put away my warm woolen mittens and Harry Potter scarf. I want to pack away my snow boots and break out my gardening tools. But nooooo, Phil says I have to wait six more weeks for that to happen.

I'd cry, only my tear ducts have frozen. Guess I'll just sit in front of the heater with a cup of hot chamomile tea, and just be happy that at least LOST is back on TV. Perhaps the survivors of Oceanic Flight 815 will help keep me warm while I begin my six week countdown to spring.

Taste Test

So, even though Cupid has my heart, I decided to pay for a three-month subscription on the other well-known matchmaking site. Today, I received an email from an old geezer. It went a little something like this:

Subject: You look delicious...
...and I want to taste you.

I wrote him back: Drop the Viagra and step away from the computer and nobody will get hurt.

Then I blocked him, because Lord knows I'm not ready to be some old geezer's dinner.

On Being Hot

Last Saturday night, our company had its annual Christmas, oops, HOLIDAY party at Harrah's. Being as it was our very last one, a few of us decided to wear tiaras in honor of this very bittersweet occasion. So, donning our made-in-China tiaras on top of our festively coiffed hair, we made our way into the ballroom.

The party was...dead. I suppose it had a lot to do with the fact that it was, indeed, our last party together. That, or the fact that just weeks before we had been handed our pink slips instead of the Christmas bonus we were expecting. Either way, the few employees that bothered to show up were milling about dejectedly, while sucking on their five dollar beers.

After eating our lukewarm turkey and our watered down cranberry sauce, the Tiara Girls decided to dance. We didn't care that the DJ was the suckmeister of the airwaves. We just wanted to let off steam.

So there I was, on the dance floor with my "date," when a guy from the shipping department decided to join us. We had ourselves a jolly little threesome right there on the dance floor. All of a sudden, Shipping Boy leans over and yells in my ear "Your crown is HOT!" As if to emphasize my hotness, he waved his waist-long length hair as if it was a dancing exclamation mark. I thanked him, and continued dancing.

A few minutes later, he leaned forward again and yelled "I like dancing with two girls!" I said "Hey! Me, too!" He shook his hair again, and lurched some more on the dance floor.

When the next song started, he leaned into me again. This time he shouted "Your choker is SO HOT!" I thanked him. Then he shook his hair and did a few Elaine Bennis moves before shouting at me again. This time he said "You're so freakin' hot on the dance floor! I like the way you dance!" I thanked him again, and in reply he shook his hair like a wild man. Then all of a sudden he started to laugh, and he shouted at me again. This time he said "You know what? I DON'T EVEN KNOW YOUR FREAKIN' NAME!"

I told him that was okay...after a glass of wine, I don't even know my own freakin' name.

The Year That Shouldn't Have Been

I think I've said it every year since I've been here in Reno: This year totally sucked. So, is it me or is it Reno? Seriously folks, inquiring minds want to know.
To top off a fairly stress-filled year, I returned from the Thanksgiving holiday to find I'd been layed off. However, unlike several of my co-workers, I am one of the "lucky" ones who gets to hang around long enough to help transfer clients and files to the company that bought us out.
After hearing this news, I received a link to a news article in our local paper that stated Reno is not the place to be looking for a job in the year 2008. It further stated that companies are not hiring, and those that hired this past year are letting people go. So, good luck to me in finding a job, eh?
Which brings me to my next point: I was told by an outplacement agency that my best chance for being hired and moving on would be to relocate. But guess what? Homey can't relocate because SHE JUST BOUGHT A HOME. And, since no one is buying homes these days it looks as if I'm stuck.
So just start calling me Debbie Downer, because apparently nothing I've written in this journal during 2007 has been uplifting. And it doesn't look as if 2008 will be any better...

Pink

Pink is one of my absolute favorite colors. Oh, my new house has barely any pink...but that doesn't mean I don't love it.

When my hairdresser up and left the state last month, I felt lost. She made me an appointment with another hairdresser in the salon, and promised me she was good. Saturday, I went to Crush with some trepidation...what would happen to my hair?

The "new" hairdresser put me at ease almost immediately. She was very friendly (and tall! Really, really tall!) and sat me down at her station. I noticed her jet black hair had a patch of pink at the crown. She asked me if I was going to stick to the same color and I said Yes...but would streaks of pink go with it? She said yes so vehemently I knew I had to do it.

Of course, my pink isn't as pink as her pink...but I had taken her pink as a sign to go ahead and do it. I've been thinking of getting pink streaks in my hair for months, but felt I was too old. However, at the psychic fair, I saw a woman in her 50's with pink on her crown (that must be a new thing), and thought "if she can have a blob of pink in her hair, I can have pink streaks!"

And I love it.

Oh it's pretty subtle. With the exception of one streak that is a little chunkier than the others, the effect is barely noticeable. I was feeling really good about my hair, that is, until I called my mom.

When she asked me what was new, I couldn't help but bubble on about my new pink streaks. And then I heard it. The disapproval when she said "Oh Pamela." But, of course she couldn't leave it at that. She had to go on and on ("How old are you going to be this week? And do you really think pink hair is appropriate for your age?"). I heard my dad say something in the background and my mom said "She's got pink hair." I said "It's not pink...it just has some pink highlights." My mom just sighed, and I had hoped that was the end of it, but she brought it up a total of three times during our conversation, chastising me each time for opting for pink.

So, I guess it doesn't really matter how old I'm going to be this week...in my mom's eyes, I'll always be the girl who does something stupid.

Line in the Sand

I know. I have a million and one things I need to update this journal with...I simply have not had the energy or inclination to do so. However, I had a heart-tugging conversation with Todd last night, so I have all kinds of stuff jumbled up in my head that I need to see "on paper" (or in this case, screen) to start to make sense of it all.

WARNING: This post contains rambling thoughts, run on sentences, and rabbit trails.

This weekend was the Psychic Fair. When I saw the list of readers, I realized that none of my favorites were going to be there, so I made an appointment with Carrie at The New Pathways for a reading. The earliest I could see her was Tuesday (last night), as she doesn't keep as full a schedule as she once did.

However, at the Fair I was surprised to see Eugenia, a woman I met while taking Risting classes. She is an excellent reader, so I got a reading with her. Long story short: I received two readings in a span of three days, and both basically said the same things (only in different ways).

I asked about my job (and I won't go into that now...that's for a separate post if I have time) and of course my relationship. But this time, I didn't ask about what would happen between Todd and me. This time I asked if there was new love on the horizon. I have finally realized that it is time to move on.

Eugenia said that she saw that I needed to be single for a while, but that there was love in my future. And solid love at that. Carrie did not talk about being single for a while; only that there was new love, but that person wouldn't come into my live until around March of next year. Both said it was time to move on, that the cards revealed that I wasn't loved the way I needed to be loved in this current relationship (duh).

This post isn't really about the readings, though, so I won't go into more detail about those. This post is really about how I was hit with a brick of reality this past week...the readings only served to affirm what was going on in my head already.

Let me first say that I love Todd. I can't imagine living without him, and I probably won't. I think we will be in each other's lives for the duration. However, I just cannot be the "go to" girl anymore.

Facts: he has been dating other women for over a year. He has an online slash phone sex slash hot email relationship with at least one girl that I know about, and from the looks of what I found on one of his profiles, he might even have more than that. And the hardest fact of all: he has been telling me - sometimes subtly, sometimes overtly - for nine years that I am not really the woman that he wants or needs. So, with all of these facts, why is it that he doesn't really understand that I want to put up a boundary now?

Anyway, after these two readings, I realized that mentally, I've moved on. That doesn't mean that I don't occasionally feel overwhelmed with sadness. Or that I'm glad the relationship is on its way to the trash bin. Or that I'm jumping for joy. It simply means that, after nine years of being told over and over again that if only I was more sexual, more this, more that, everything would be fantastic, I realize that even if I was all of that, I still wouldn't be what he wants. BECAUSE HE DOESN'T REALLY KNOW WHAT HE WANTS.

And that became clear to me when I looked at his online profile again last week. He had this whole list of what he is looking for in a woman, and it was so not me (as I believe I've whined about before in this journal). Only, this time instead of taking it personally, I realized that he probably doesn't really know what he wants. Or perhaps it is that he doesn't know what sort of relationship is good for him. I think he just threw something out there that was such the opposite of me because "me" didn't work for him.

So how does this go back to Todd and our conversation last night? Well...at some point he said that it didn't appear to him that I missed him, at least not in the way that he missed me. And I said that I think that's because mentally, I've just moved on. And that hurt him. And I feel bad that what I said hurt him and perhaps surprised him as well. But what I don't get - what I totally don't understand - is why he would think that I want to continue being in relationship limbo with him - especially after nine years. At some point, it becomes time to move on.

In a perfect world, he would love me. Period. With no ifs, ands, or buts. With no "if only's." But he doesn't. And he never did. He always wanted me to be different. And I'm not.

At some point, he also said that I totally don't understand what's going on with him and this girl - that it is so not serious or something like that. But that's not the point, really, is it? The point is he HAS this girl in his life. He visits with her every day online. He sends her gifts. He engages in phone sex with her. He tells her in email how much he desires her. He even told her that he has marked her as his, and gave her a choker to wear to remind her that she is his. So...not serious? Perhaps. But having a girl on the side doesn't do anything to pull us together.

So, yes, perhaps because of the way he thinks (due to Asperger's) he is able to look at this clinically or in a more detached way...but I can't. And I can't be second fiddle. Or even if I'm first, I don't want some other girls hanging out in the periphery. I am totally and completely monogamous. That is no surprise. I've not ever hid that. I've proclaimed it loudly and proudly.

I'm not saying I have been the perfect mate. I probably haven't been. I'm not a nurturing person, and I know he needs that. I need vast amounts of time alone. I am not the best communicator about my feelings. And yet, while I am lacking in some areas, I feel that I did not get credit for the areas that I tried to change - just for him. And even though I changed some things...it wasn't enough.

I'm sick of not being enough.

I want someone to think I am enough. I want someone to accept the type of love I have to give.

I am sorry that he's hurt by my wanting to move on. And it hurts me as well to move forward without him as my boyfriend. However, for my own peace of mind, it simply is time.

I shouldn't feel guilty about that.

Hell To Pay

Let me ask you, single women of the world, would you REALLY want to carry on a conversation with someone nicknamed "Hell To Pay"? Doesn't that name just connote someone who is divorced, and spends all his spare time trying to get revenge on his ex-wife?

Well...that's what it sounds like to me, anyway.

I'm one of those chicks who signs into Acme Dating Service and forgets to sign out. So, last night while I was sound asleep, curled up with the dogs I'm house-sitting and my 16-year-old cat, some guy decided to message me. Instead of the usual niceties, the first line I see in the IM when I sit in front of my computer this morning is "What the hell is up with your blog?" (Speaking strictly of my Acme Dating Service blog, because you all know this blog rocks!)

The next well-written line was "Well?" That was followed by a "Never mind."

Never mind is right. Who wants to chat with an aging, combative, and obviously bitter man? Not me...and I'm imagining not many of you.

I am glad I wasn't in front of my computer when that friendly little missive was sent my way.
Fellas: let this be a lesson to you. If you really want to chat with a woman, try being nice. And if you really want to meet someone... I mean really... then try a neutral nickname.

Where are the tears?

All day yesterday, I held back tears. I'm surprised I was so successful in holding back, because I was only working on four hours of sleep. It's amazing what one can do when one really tries.

I counted the hours until I could go home - not so much to get some rest, but mostly so I could cry. After I clocked out, I couldn't get to my car fast enough, for I knew I could cry in my safely and loudly in the car. However, on the drive home the tears didn't come. My eyes did get watery a few times, but no real tears. So, then I counted on having time to cry at home.

I wasn't able to, though, because shortly after I walked through the door, Todd came downstairs and started getting dinner together for the both of us. He had gone to the store and bought us both salads, because he wanted to have dinner with me. When I asked why, he said "because I enjoy having dinner with you."

Is that true or not? Maybe. Maybe not. One thing I've learned, though, and should have come to expect is that every time we call it off (well, that makes it sound like it happens a lot - basically, we've been on two breaks and there were about three other times I tried to make a break of it during our 9 years together, but he convinced me that he loved me, so I stayed) he is extra attentive.

Yesterday, he called me about three times at work to make sure I was okay. Then he bought us dinner. Instead of forcing me to take a cat over to my new place (he's dying to get rid of the cats), he seemed to realize that I really needed some sleep, so instead of bugging me, he encouraged me to go to bed early.

But back to my tale of tears...Lucky for me, he had an Asperger's meeting that night, so when he left, I thought "Finally. Time to cry." But those tears I had been holding back all day and all during dinner did not come.

I went to bed around 7 p.m., thinking that once I was curled up in the safety of my bed, I would be able to let loose.

I was not able to.

Where are the tears? Why won't they come?

If I could just have one, good, solid cry, I could begin the arduous task of moving on.

I am 32 Flavors and then some

I'm not trying to give my life meaning
by demeaning you
and I would like to state for the record
I did everything that I could do
I'm not saying that I'm a saint
I just don't want to live that way
no, I will never be a saint
but I will always say...
Ani DeFranco

When I listened to this song on the way home tonight, the one line that really hit me was "I did everything that I could do."

Sometimes I think about the accusations thrown at me by Todd, and I think "Well, yes, perhaps I could have done that..." And maybe I could have...but the truth is, I did everything that I physically and emotionally could do, based on my perception of safety and comfortability within the relationship.

"You could have contributed more money to the household."

"You could have had more sex with me."

"You could have been..."

Maybe.

But not really. Because doing so would have drained me in a way I am not sure I could recover from. What Todd doesn't understand, and never did (and I don't know if that's due to the way Asperger's has his mind wired, or due to miscommunication on my part, or some sort of dysfunctional melding of the two) is that I can't - won't? - give fully when I'm not secure.

And in this relationship, I wasn't ever fully secure.

There were things I was secure about: I knew he loved me. I knew we were best friends. I knew he would support me in my endeavors. The insecurity laid in the threads that unraveled around us; the threads that were snarled and torn at because he always wanted "a better fit."

So while I may occasionally beat myself up about the things I wasn't and the things I didn't do, I am also fully aware that emotionally, I had reached my limit of what I could do.

Out of Time

I had maybe four hours of sleep last night...if that. I need to get out the door to go to work, and yet, I find I can't move.

Last night marks the end of my "romantic" relationship with Todd. It was brought on because I found two pieces of evidence that he is having relationships with two other women. According to him, he hasn't (yet) met them in real life, but it was obvious from what I found, plans are in the making.

Both girls appear to be part of an online BDSM/alternative lifestyle community. One calls him "her daddy," and has a whole blog dedicated to him. The other signs herself off as "Gracie, XXXXX's Nevada Girl" (the x's represent his online name, which I will not share with the world).

After my last entry, we sort of settled into some sort of "wait and see" holding pattern, both of us believing that things would get better when I moved out. After all, the times we've lived apart have been the strongest times in our relationship. However, admittedly I never really could forget that I'm not really what he wants, and so because of that, I saw evidence of that almost every day.

Last night was the last straw for me. I can't deny it anymore, nor pretend that at some point in time, he will come back to me wholeheartedly. It just isn't going to happen.

While I didn't handle the initial confrontation well (I never seem to), after an hour or so of going back and forth, I think I finally got my real point across: I can't be in any kind of romantic and/or sexual relationship with him. He doesn't get that it just hurts me too deeply.

He kept telling me he loved me and he doesn't want me out of his life, and all the other things I've heard for over 8 years. The thing is...love isn't enough. I want to know that I'm the person - the right person - for the man I'm with. It doesn't strengthen my already low self esteem to be with someone who has a roving eye and is always looking for that "better fit."

He said I don't understand him. And he's probably right, in the sense that I don't understand him completely. I do, however, believe that I understand him better than most everyone else in his life. I've learned a lot about living and loving someone with Aspberger's Syndrome, and I feel I've adapted as well as I can to the idiosyncrasies that present them self. But it's a cold, hard fact that I am unable to understand how someone can love me and supposedly want to be in a relationship with me, while pursuing other women.

I suppose that's what is called "polyamory," and this girl is as monogamous as they come.

At some point, he said "What do you want from me," to which I eventually responded that I want what he just can't give: total love and acceptance, without feeling that he's settling. He can't, though. I mean, he accepts a lot of my personality flaws and deals with them well. What he doesn't accept is that I'm not, as apparently these other two are, "his little girl," or "his slave."

When asked what I expect, I told him that there will be no more physical contact. No more kissing, no more sex (to which he said "Well, it's not like there's a whole lot of that going on"), no hand holding, no sitting in his lap...in other words, no type of physical contact that indicates we still have a girlfriend/boyfriend relationship. He doesn't understand - I can't do it. He is angry that I can't do it. Or maybe frustrated. But whatever feeling it is, he is unhappy that I am unable to be in a "friends with benefits" type of relationship.

I think the reason he is so upset is that, in his mind, he feels I am abandoning him. I told him I'm not; he is my best friend. No matter what his faults (and of course, that's all I ever write about here; I never write about the good times), he absolutely is my best friend. He's the only person that seems to "get" me. He is my cheerleader. He is my rock. And he'll still be all that... just not my boyfriend.

Oh, I'm not under any delusions that the transition period will be easy. I know from our past try at it that it won't be. The difference is 7 years have passed since then. I am no longer under the impression that, once apart, he will all of a sudden have that "Aha" moment where he realizes I am the one for him. That moment is not going to come, because I am not that person for him.

And so, with all of that, it is imperative that I get out of here as soon as possible. The electricity and water should have been turned on yesterday in my new home. I was not moving fast because of the "no electricity" deal. And then he was notified that he would have to go out of town, so since I was going to take care of the dogs, it seemed weird to move in for two nights and move right back in here to take care of the dogs.

But maybe after last night, it's not weird. It's time.

Now if I could just find a guy with a truck...

Can't Breathe

It really shouldn't have come as such a big surprise. One would think that by now, after 9 years, I would realize that I'm not the person Hunky wants. However, I didn't really realize it until today.

What made today so special? Such a turning point?

I came across one of his online personals. I had actually found it a few days ago, but being new to the site, I hadn't really clicked around to explore more fully. I saw his picture, read his opening line, and sexual preferences. I thought "Yeah, that's my hunky," and moved on.

This morning, I went to the site to see if there were more people on it from the area I live in. Hunky's was the third profile from the top, so after reading the first two, I clicked on his again, mostly because his is a familiar face and seeing it made me smile.

What I read next took the smile completely off my face.

Without going into too much detail, he basically wrote he was single (kind of true, but not really), looking for a Long Term Relationship with someone who, after 8-10 bullet points, definitely was not me. Someone who was submissive. Someone who was ready to move in with him and be his slave and/or submissive. Someone who...blah, blah, blah, definitely wasn't me.

So if he wants someone who is so totally not me, why has he been with me for 9 years? Is it laziness? Is it that I'm just a warm body to keep him company until the real thing comes along?

What is it?

Oh, I know he tells me he loves me. He can say it until the cows come home, however after reading what he really wants in a mate/girlfriend/lover, it's so the completely opposite of me that I don't know what the hell he's doing with me, let alone believe that he could actually love me.

No wonder we have problems.

I have definitely been a fool in love before, but I don't know if I've ever been this much of a fool. Nine years worth of fool.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

I can see now that moving out is the best thing for me. And probably for him, too. That way he can stop wasting his time with me and move on.

And maybe I can move on as well.

Dreaming of a Dud

I have an active dream life, however it's rare that a dream really hits me and stays with me for a few days. So, imagine my surprise when I had one of those dreams the other night.

I'll spare everyone the details, because I don't think anyone likes to read or hear about other people's dreams. However, the gist of the dream was that a guy I know in real life, Vince, had grabbed at my butt. I remember being repulsed and then...interested. Somehow, we ended up laying on some grass, him on top of me (yes, we had our clothes on!), with his right arm over mine, and our right hands clasped.

In my dream I thought "This is really nice...why have I been avoiding it for so long?"

Of course, when I woke up I analyzed the dream. "Why would I dream of Vince," was the main question going through my head, especially since he's mad at me and hasn't talked to me all summer.

At first I wondered if I had latent romantic (or sexual???) feelings for him. But then I thought about Vince...and realized that couldn't be it. Vince is a nice guy, and actually not bad looking. But...yes there is a but. In fact there are a few buts: He can't spell, which is on the top of my pet peeves list. He was laid off of his job months and months ago, and decided not to get another job, but instead become an "artiste," so of course he has no money. (Not that I'm a gold digger, but I notice I tend not to respect men who don't work...(as Rabbi Lapin - America's Rabbi! - states, women are drawn to men who not only can take care of them, but want to take care of them). And, the clincher: He's single. At age 46.

Okay. Let's not focus on the fact that I, too, am single and forty-something. I fully admit I've got issues...the main one being I like, no need, lots of time alone which doesn't bode well in relationships.

So, then, why the dream? Well...why not the dream? I suppose it had nothing to do with Vince at all, and instead had to do with the fact that as much as I pretend I don't...I really DO want that feeling of security with someone.

I don't have that right now. Oh sure, I know...hunky loves me. He could say it a thousand times a day, and yet right now, it wouldn't be enough. Kind of difficult to feel secure with someone who is dating other people, who always has his eye out for a better fit.

And so that dream probably sums up where I am relationship-wise right now...insecure and hoping someone will grab at my butt.

Summer Favorites

These are my favorite things about summer:

Sun until 9 p.m.

Sun up at 5 a.m.

Big Brother.

Psych (this Friday, bay-bee!).

The Closer.

Top Chef.

Hell's Kitchen.

And my new favorite (da, da, da, DA)...Confessions of a Matchmaker!

That's me...Living life in my easy chair!

Stray Cat Strut

Tonight, hunky took me to Dolce, Grand Sierra Resort's newest "designer" restaurant. Owned by Mike (gag) Boogie of Big Brother fame, I have to say that despite his skankiness, the restaurant is pure class.

It's beautiful inside; walls of fire and water, fantastic music, an inviting menu and fantastic service. They also have a great by-the-glass wine list, and I had the Dolce Meritage...ummmm good. Hunky had the Pacific Rim Riesling, a riesling we both like, but one he has sort of grown out of.

After a fantastic dinner, we began our trek through the casino floor to the great outdoors. We passed what used to be the Hilton Theater, and saw a big sign advertising the Stray Cats concert in August. "Stray Cats!" I exclaimed. "I wonder if it's the Stray Cats with Brian Setzer or just the Stray Cats?"

"Go up and ask. No one is waiting in line."

So, I did. I went up and asked. The woman behind the counter assured me it was Brian Setzer AND the Stray Cats. Next thing I knew, I was plunking down my credit card for two tickets to see the Stray Cats.

I am so excited I can hardly contain myself. Hunky and I saw Brian Setzer about two years ago, and I just about blew my wad then. But Brian Setzer AND the Stray Cats? I won't be coming out of this concert with a clean pair of panties, that's for sure!

Where is...???

I'm going to miss Hunky, there's no doubt. But there are certain idiosyncrasies I won't miss. Like the fact that he appears to blame me every time something goes missing. Yesterday was a great example.

I was minding my own business, when he shouted up the stairs "Where are my glasses???!!!" "Which glasses," I asked. "Your sunglasses or regular glasses."

I hear a heavy sigh. "My regular glasses," he says, in that voice that lets me know I've just asked the stupidest question on earth.

"I don't know. I haven't seen them."

Another sigh. "Fine," he says in that dismissive voice that lets me know he blames me for their disappearance, and is now angry that he can't find them.

I went into the bedroom to see if they were by the bed. Nope. Then I remembered that he went to a movie night at a friend's house and would have taken them with him. "Honey, you took them with you to the movie night. Are they still in your car."

Again a sigh, this one letting me know that once again, I have managed to ask a very stupid question. He answers me as if he is speaking to a two-year-old and says slowly and carefully,"I checked the car already, and they are not there."

Even though this isn't my problem, I know he has made it my problem, so I went downstairs to help him look. I saw his jeans on top of the dog crate, and they were on top of a bag he had brought in from his car. "From his car..." I thought, and opened up the bag. What did I see inside, but his glasses.

"Here they are," I sing out, victoriously. He looks at me, mumbles thanks, and starts to walk away.

I call him out, though, on his tone that blamed me for the missing glasses. He didn't really apologize, just kind of mumbled that yeah, in that case it was him, but normally I am the one that misplaces his things.

So. Not. True.

And that, my friends, is the one thing I won't miss...the daily blaming me for missing items, only to find out that in 9 out of 10 cases, he is the one that misplaced the item in the first place.