Mostly it's just time to add something new here

I didn't realize how disturbing putting my own photo on my blog would be to me. But as an exercise in tolerance of my own face, I'm leaving it there for now.
Thanksgiving was yesterday, I spent it *sniff* alone. I had an all day Buffy the Vampire Slayer marathon, interrupted by making a traditional, if slightly small, thanksgiving dinner. The whole day was a lot better than the usual holiday at home, where even though I'm thirty-one years old, I have to sit at the kids table. Apparently you can't be a grown up until you marry and breed. Which, may never happen, given my current state of celibacy. I stopped shaving my legs and that certainly signals a certain defeatist attitude. I've been told that it adds a bit of protection from the bitter VT winters, but you know hippies, they say a lot of stupid things. I'm not becoming a hippie though, I will still refuse all hemp clothing and jewelry as a matter of pride, and good taste.

Dear Daniel,

I made this sign all by myself with pilfered office supplies (including the digital camera and my co-worker's time to take the photo).

Top 3 things I miss about you right now:
#3 Your surf updates that mean absolutely nothing to me.
#2 Not having to pay for expensive meals.
and #1 The Hugs and kisses.

I hope you have a fantastic day. The people of Melbourne are a bunch of lucky bastards to have you there.
Happy Birthday!

Oprah's Book Club is back

I admit it, I often liked the book selections of Oprah's book club, I am a chick after all. When the book club turned to more "classic" (which apparently means anything written more than 15 years ago by one of Oprah's friends or by someone that is dead) literature I didn't really pay attention to the selections because many were books that I read in the ninth grade, like "Cry the Beloved Country." However, after an outcry (begging, pleading and serious whining) from writers, Oprah (more likely Oprah's staff) has started choosing contemporary literature once again. The first book is "A Million Little Pieces" by James Frey. It's a little different than some selections, one, it's written by a man and two, it's a memoir not a novel. I actually read this book last year and have recommended it many times over (so there Oprah's minions, I am SO much cooler than you).
But since it will now be in every nook and cranny of your local Borders/ Barnes and Noble/ or other bland bookstore chain, I am recommending the book to you again(dear reader).
I'm going to start my own book recommendations on this blog soon, I know you can't wait. Authors are going to beg me to get on the list, sales will go through the roof on my choices...

Dead skunks and cat fights

There’s really not much to tell about my life right now. My sleep was rudely interrupted this morning by a cat fight on top of me around 3:30. There is nothing like 2 cats that weigh a combined 30 pounds trying to duke it out for the spot on the bed next to me. I kicked them out of my room 3 times before they forgot there was a problem and wandered off.I tried to fall asleep only to have the smell of skunk wafting into my bedroom window. A quick peak out the window confirmed a dead, very flat skunk down the street. Dead skunks make me really happy even though this usually means a smelly skunk. I have no love loss for the skunk; frankly I have one too many skunk stories to tell for someone of my age and beauty.
I gave up trying to go back to sleep about an hour after that and read a book. It wasn’t even a good book.
As I said when I began this short post, there really isn’t much to tell…

She's my favorite.

Dunk the Clown

I am too old to go on amusement park rides. There, I've said it. If you are the only person on the ride over 17, it's good bet that you will throw up at the exit of the ride.
However, when you're other choice is to disappoint a 9 year old, well, you're never too old for the fair!
So after 12 rides on everything ranging from the Ferris wheel to the Tilt a Whirl to the Caterpillar (this one places you in a rollercoaster type seat and whips you around in a 20 foot circle while it hurtles over "bumps" that sort of mimic a caterpillar shape) I was feeling sick to my stomach and ready for traction. Rose however was just getting started. A bag of cotton candy and an alarmingly large caramel apple later we had won a pink and purple sparkly unicorn and an inflatable plastic hammer with the word "spoiled" on the side. It was a dream come true to end a long boring summer for Rose.
In the end, I have whiplash and I am pretty sure some soft tissue in my brain has been permanently damaged. Before the trip to the fair I told Rose I couldn't afford to invite any other kids with us on our trip to the fair- next year I will take the post fair medical bills into account in my calculations.

bed time at casa de crazy cat lady

Living alone has its perks. For instance, I know that the only hair I have to fish out of the bathtub drain is mine. Also, that mess in the kitchen, all mine! I can clean it or I can leave it. Surprisingly, I end up cleaning it more often than not. However, the downside of being alone is that when I am awakened by strange noises at 2 in the morning, there’s no one to consult. I can look to the cats in puzzlement, but they only look back at me like, “Oh, you’re up! How’s about some cat chow? No? Maybe a scratch under the chin?”
The strange noise was a steady chirping emanating from the basement. Very curious, my half asleep self thought. If you know me at all, you know that I am a really sound sleeper, so if this chirping got into my head and woke me up, it was loud, and persistent.
I got up to pee, which I suspect was what really woke me up, and to investigate. Was it an organic noise, was it an electronic noise? My basement is stinky and creepy in the best of circumstances but at 2 in the morning when I am alone in the house, the basement is a horror house I’d rather not visit. I went back to bed and turned the fan up. I lay there thinking, did an injured bird get into the basement? It sounded like a bird. Suddenly the thought of what else would be trapped in the basement popped into my head, was it a rat? Or a bat? Oh my god, it was a nasty rabid bat! That constant chirping was some creepy sonar thing!
I flew out of bed and ran to the basement to retrieve a litter box. I brought it back upstairs and locked the basement door so the cats could not get down there. If there was some crazy rabid bat, it was not going to attack the kitties. My sleep dulled mind was certain that I could live with painful rabies shots, but I could never live with out my cats.
Once again, I went back to bed. I fell asleep thinking of who I would need to summon in the morning to rid my basement of the bat with a possible case of rabies. I mean why else would he not be able to get out of the basement, he obviously got in, some how….
Fade to morning…I arose fresh and remembered little of the creepy bat sonar chirping noise, until the litter box smell hit my nose. The noise had gone away but the evidence of my bat conclusion was in the kitchen. I went down to the basement, which was considerably less scary at 8 in the morning. I didn’t see or hear any thing. I looked at the smoke alarm by the stairway. Aha! Low batteries in the smoke alarm. Batteries changed, mystery solved. The cat’s bathroom was quickly moved back to the basement. Little Nancy Drew went to work feeling very satisfied.
Cut to 11 pm, bed time at casa de crazy cat lady….the chirping noise came back. What the fuck? The light of day had convinced me of the impossibility of a rabid bat, so I listened carefully at the basement door. It was so loud…it sounded like a cricket chirp but if it was a cricket, it was the Incredible Hulk of crickets, Godzilla Cricket, Jurassic Park cricket, I mean a really freaking ginormous cricket. Clearly mutated from it’s cute little cricket friends. So, I went to sleep. I figured I could leave a giant mutated cricket to the paws of death.

Betty's Back

Betty disappeared from the bike rack in front of my office building in the South End last September. I felt as though it was my fault. I left Betty there with no lock and tempted the fates by asking myself, "who would steal such a crappy bike anyway?" Well, of course, someone did take Betty. I bought Betty at a yard sale in the New North End for $4. She was big and heavy and brown. Brown Betty. Her brakes were pretty bad, the back brake was useless and the front brake was a squealer. She was a vintage Free Spirit bike, not a beauty as young girl but quite a distinguished lady in her old age. I just needed her to get around town (work, City Market, T. Ruggs) and she pulled through for 2 summers. I figured I would get her a tune up at some point even though I didn't want to pay $50 bucks to fix up a four dollar bike. I never got the chance to give Betty her much needed tune up. This spring I decided I would splurge on a nice bike (and a lock!). A nice bike like the cute retro styled ones in front of the Ski Rack on Main Street. It would be pink, and cute, and NEW. I shop at thrift shops and yard sales so new things can be really exciting, too exciting. My decision was made, I would buy the new bike and put Betty behind me. Then, Burlington had the 10th rainiest May on record and I didn't buy the bike. I was waiting for nice weather. On June 1st I walked to work and it was bright and sunny. A perfect day to ride, if only I had a bike. I thought, "I'll go after work and get the new bike." No sooner did I think it than I looked up and there was Betty. Resting on her kickstand in front of Alley Cats bar. I thought, "It' can't be!" But it was. She was sitting there free as a bird, no lock in sight. It was nine o'clock in the morning and I wondered if Betty's thief was enjoying an early morning drink at the bar. I decided to go in and ask. The four men at the bar and the bartender tried to look non-plussed when I walked into the bar. I imagine they don't see many young professional women first thing in the morning. I asked if anyone owned the brown bike outside. No one fessed up, so I told them it was mine and it was stolen last year, if anyone asked about it, tell them the owner took it back! The oldest bar patron, a man with a full gray beard, shook a fist in the air and said, "Right on!" I rode Betty the block and a half to work. Whoever had her was a lot taller than me. The seat was jacked up and I had a hard time reaching the pedals. Betty is now enjoying a luxurious spa week at the Old Spokes Home on North Winooski Avenue. Since Betty came back, I feel she deserves the best. She's getting her brakes fixed and an overall tune up. She doesn't know it but she's also going to get a basket. She'll be happy and she'll never be left without a lock again.