grrgoyl

Tying up loose ends: The Wii Cyberbike has arrived and it's actually pretty fantastic. Only works with Gamecube compatible games, but it provides a fairly intense cardio workout ("Need for Speed: Nitro" damn near gives me a heart attack) that flies by because you're concentrating on the game and not every passing minute of pedaling that you could be doing something else. Oh, and the reason it sold for $50 less than new was because the left handgrip was missing, which I suspect the seller knew and conveniently neglected to mention, because it's like new otherwise. I was offered the option to return it, but Tery said nonsense, got some PVC pipe, wrapped it with electrical tape, and Bob's your uncle...problem solved, and I still saved $50. I just ordered some used Gamecube racing games dirt (and I mean DIRT) cheap, so I say let it snow, let it snow, let it snow!

~*~



Tery's medical director had the nerve to confide to her that she suspected me of getting on Facebook on her computer overnight at the hospital. While this accusation isn't as absurd as it once might have been (I'll admit, I've drunk the Facebook Kool-Aid, and now actually get on it before LJ in the morning), the truth is I spend enough of my work day at home on it (mostly following up-to-the-minute Occupy news) that I'm all social networked out by 5 pm. Besides, Tery pointed out to her, if I REALLY wanted to get on at the hospital, I would rather use a) Tery's computer or b) my smartphone. And, I added, I'm also clever enough to delete my browsing history behind me on the rare occasions I do go online at the hospital. She should point her finger at almost every other employee whose lives literally revolve around Facebook.

Speaking of Facebook, it has driven the final nail in the coffin of my friendship with Ryan. Well, Facebook/Occupy.

As a reminder, I announced I was more or less done with Ryan way back in September when he blew me off for John. I had continued to "like" things here and there on his FB page, the kind of casual, noncommittal friendship the internet makes possible, but I was by no means ignoring him completely while not really interacting like I used to.

I was kind of shocked last week when he posted a pic of a GI holding up a note explaining how he earned everything he has through hard work and not whining in the streets for free handouts. The pic was insultingly captioned "A young soldier has posted the truth!" Even my Libertarian brother-in-law has laid off the Occupy comments for the most part (or wisely blocked them from me), and has even stopped waving pom-poms for Herman Cain (which I find really freaking funny).

But back to Ryan and his criticism of Occupy. At this point in the movement I thought our concerns about the corrupt government and banking industry had been heard loud and clear, and the only people who still thought it was only lazy kids who didn't want to pay back student loans were Fox News viewers (and their children, which Ryan evidently falls into this category). I couldn't let it pass, and I left him the comment "Do you even know what Occupy is protesting?"

A few days went by with no response, so I figured either he didn't know or didn't care enough to debate it with me. Until a couple of nights ago when out of the blue he texted me asking why I had said that, and "for your information honey, your comment pissed me off royally!!!" I naturally assumed he was drunk (he's a mean drunk) and didn't know how to respond that wouldn't quickly become ugly, so shrugged it off.

The next morning I logged on to FB to discover that he had continued his attack. He answered my question "Your mom told me it was all about her so I joined in (Author's Note: VERY mature). Haha. Of course I know, don't underestimate me, I'm way smarter than u think I am. Honey." Followed by "What is your problem w me anyway? U don't call and when u write, u always put me down (Author's Note: Alcohol-induced paranoia. I've never put him down, always taken pains to remain coolly civil). I don't need any more of that in my life." Drunk Facebooking. Friends don't let friends do it.

The repeated condescending "Honeys" got to me a bit, so I let him have it. I set him straight on the finer points of Occupy that he might have missed from only watching conservative media, then went on to remind him that I haven't called him since the John incident and "I don't need any more of that in my life, so please don't play the poor innocent victim with me. Honey." Let me tell you, that felt too damn good.

Without another word, he unfriended me from FB. Not sure if it was the reminder that he's an asshole too sometimes or the evidence that he's been spoonfed lies by his parents that did it, but there he went. I didn't bother to return the favor, implying that I don't care enough about him to complete the process. However, the Ryan Reynolds issue of "Entertainment Weekly" I've been saving for him since June is going straight into the recycling bin, fuck you very much (pre-June is the last time we hung out together, just as an indication of how deep and meaningful his friendship has become).

Then he went on to unfriend Tery, who had had absolutely nothing to do with any of this. I mistakenly thought FB was also used by grown-ups and not just high school kids.

According to a fellow mutual ex-friend, we're only the most recent in a long line of friends he's managed to alienate after slights real or imagined. So I hope John is being a very, very good boy, because he'll literally be the only person Ryan has left in the world at this rate (oh, and his parents. He'll always have mommy and daddy, and that might be part of his problem).

Remember that time when I thought the hospital was haunted? Something else happened this weekend.

I had walked the dogs, was blissfully sweeping the floor when I heard it: Voices coming from the heating vent in the ceiling. Loud enough, in fact, that I heard them through my iPod earbuds. I listened to them for a minute, quietly freaking out.

The hospital is a freestanding building. There are no adjacent office spaces that might share the vents. I went upstairs, thinking perhaps the breakroom TV had been left on and I had somehow missed that fact in my initial security sweep that I make every night when I arrive. No dice.

I went back downstairs and still heard them, so I called Tery.

Me: Why am I hearing voices in the ceiling vent?
Tery: You are??
Me: Yeah. It's a guy and a girl. I can't hear what they're saying, but the girl was crying a minute ago.
Tery: STOP IT, YOU'RE FREAKING ME OUT
Me: Well how do you think I feel being here??
Tery: Maybe they're ghosts of people whose dog died here...
Me: And then they died here too??
Tery: I DON'T KNOW, I'M SO FREAKED OUT RIGHT NOW
Me: You aren't doing a good job of reassuring me.
Tery: Maybe the workmen disturbed some spirits... (the hospital is being remodeled currently)
Me: Nope, still not reassuring.

Once she got over her paralyzing terror, she reasoned I must have been picking up a conversation from the next door gas station parking lot; the vents open up on that side of the building. It continued for another minute or two and then went silent. Kind of bizarre that in almost four years working here this is the first I've noticed it, but it's not like I hang out at that end of the building all night.

~*~

Speaking of supernatural, I have a bit of an addendum to my "Twilight" review. In it I stated that Michael Sheen et.al. were about the least frightening group of actors to ever play vamps, completely forgetting that this isn't Sheen's first run-in with a fantasy franchise -- I actually first saw him as the werewolf leader Lucian in the "Underworld" series.

Vamps and wolves are also mortal enemies in those movies (minus a truce). He was a lot hairier and more buffed out, and a lot more convincing as a wolf, kind of like Sirius Black's younger brother (Harry Potter interlude there). Of course, those movies at least agree that vamps have no business being in sunlight, even if they play a little looser with the rules of lycanthropy. I think I don't mind those liberties as much because there's no ultra-dreamy vamp making teenage girls lose their minds the world over, with a ludicrous Mary Sue plot -- although there is a Romeo and Juliet-ish romance between Lucian and the vamp leader's vamp daughter Sonja.

(Sort of unrelated squeeing: Just saw on IMDb there's a "rumored" Underworld 4, holy crap. ALSO that Bill Nighy (vamp leader, I think Underworld is actually the first movie I ever saw him in) is going to be Rufus Scrimgeour in Deathly Hallows (Harry Potter interlude) ZOMG YOU GUYS)

~*~



I got a notice from Netflix that they now offered streaming online videos through my Wii player. That's made of all kinds of awesome so I hooked my Wii to the internet to get onboard. The first thing it asked was if I wanted to update; seeing no harm, I did.

By the time it finished updating I had lost interest in the whole Netflix thing (mild ADD?) and wanted to play a game instead. Unfortunately suddenly I was getting an error message after about two minutes of playing. I don't know why I didn't see a connection with the update thing, and in fact there may not be -- I was gripped by mind-freezing panic, especially when I got the message with every single game.

Once I calmed down, I turned to my source for all information, YahooAnswers. Some said it was either a problem with the lens or the hard drive, but most recommended sending it to Nintendo for service.

I'm not really comfortable with the whole manufacturer's repair scenario, since I bought it used -- not that there's anything illegal about buying it used, I just didn't know where that left me in terms of a warranty. According to Nintendo's site, out of warranty repairs were $75 plus shipping. SKATCHAMAGOWZA. But they at least promised to replace it with a refurb if it were unfixable.

Always trying to save a few bucks (a habit that almost always backfires on me), I searched for other options. There seemed to be some local game shops selling repair services on Craigslist for around $60, and some even cheaper on eBay. The thought of not having to ship was appealing, not to mention that savings of $25.

Ultimately I decided to call Nintendo and see what they said. Maybe I'd luck out and there'd be an easy fix someone could offer by phone.

This didn't turn out to be the case, however, they do have an "out of warranty no-cost repair service" that I liked the sound of very much. They opened a ticket for me, sent me a prepaid FedEx shipping label, and that was that. She warned it could take 6-8 weeks, but since it was free I wasn't about to complain.

I ran out to FedEx that day with everything boxed up in the very conspicuous white Wii box. I was a little nervous because the young guy behind the counter seemed like the exact age of someone who wouldn't mind risking their crappy retail job for the chance to steal a Wii -- people have done it for far less (true story: once worked with a stoner who got caught stealing a Grateful Dead cassette tape on the job and got fired). He promised to put it in another box for shipping and take care of everything. Oh, I'll just bet he would take care of everything.

My fears weren't allayed when the next morning I decided to check my tracking number on the site, to discover it belonged to a package that had been delivered to someone in New York in March 2009. What the....? I was sure he had pulled a bait and switch on me. I called the store in a panic. The woman who answered said she didn't have any information in her system regarding the tracking number (oh, GREAT) but that the package was still sitting there waiting to go out. Yes, but was there anything in the box? I didn't ask her. I agreed to put my trust in them.

Looking more closely, it appeared that the tracking number was in fact generated by Nintendo, so I guess they recycle numbers. The next day the site had refreshed and there my tracking info appeared, so I relaxed.

I thought being a "no-cost" repair my unit would sit on the back of a shelf for a few weeks first, but not the case. Nintendo received it, repaired it on the same day, and sent it back out again the following morning. I expect its return on Tuesday. So the point of this whole boring story is major kudos to Nintendo for their customer service (that and a reminder to self that trying to save a few bucks is sometimes a mistake). It almost makes up for the way they gouge you by selling every single bleeding accessory separately for top dollar.

~*~

I have this thing about security. I don't know where it comes from, my house has never been broken into (although two cars have). I'm just convinced everyone is a potential crook eyeballing my stuff.

With summer nearly upon us and no gym membership, I'm stepping up my bike use. My bike is nothing special -- Specialized Hard Rock, but it's over ten years old. The only recent upgrades have been a Cloud 9 seat for my tender, easily bruised derriere and a set of hybrid semi-slick tires (flat on the inside, knobby on the outside, go from paved road to dirt tracks -- LOVE THEM).

And truthfully the bike is hardly ever out of my sight apart from the occasional grocery trip (which I hope to do more frequently this season). Yet I feel the need to lock down every inch of it as if I lived in East LA.

First I looked for a lock. I focused on the Kryptonites since they come the highest recommended. They rock, if only for the fact they have a "New York" line with the word "fahgettaboudit" printed on the side. Would have been all over those if they didn't look like they weighed about ten pounds and cost almost $100. I settled on a midline model instead.

Then my tires started bugging me with their quick release (i.e. quick steal) skewers, so I looked for a set of locking (screw-in) skewers. When I found those I discovered they also make a seat post skewer as well.



Tery reckons I can now get work as a bike messenger delivering crack cocaine on Colfax Ave -- she, like many of you, thinks I'm being a little ridiculous.

Am I though? On its maiden voyage to the grocery store, I pulled up to the sidewalk and noticed a guy standing at the end of the building. As I chained my bike to the rack, he sidled up to stand directly in front of me. What's THAT all about? Either he was trying to appear threatening or volunteering to guard it for me. You can guess which I chose to believe.

~*~

The medical bill craziness continues. After receiving another threatening invoice from someone I've been paying regularly, I gave them a call this morning, with the dread of being forced on another payment plan just slightly more than I could afford.

Me: I'm calling about this threatening letter you sent me despite me paying you every month.
Customer Service: We want you to be aware you have a current balance of $320.
Me: I am aware. I'm keeping very careful track of all my bills every month, and making sure to pay everyone. You have to understand I'm trying to pay like four people back.
CS: I understand. Can I get you on a payment plan? (here we go)
Me: How much more would I be paying a month?
CS: We can stretch it out for 9 months, which would come to $35 a month.
Me: ???
Me: But I'm paying you $50 now!
CS: Yes, and we appreciate that. But right now you will receive a letter threatening to send you to collections every three months you have a balance, and collections is a very ugly situation. If you were on a payment plan the letters wouldn't be sent.
Me: Fine. If you're happy with $35 a month then I am too.
CS: You are free to pay more, but $35 would be the minimum. And may I remind you there will never be finance or interest charges on your balance.

Well $35 is all they're getting, since with no threat of finance charges I don't really have any motivation to pay more -- it almost makes up for the extra $28 I'm paying the other people.

Today I enrolled in my employer's insurance plan, so hopefully this is the last medical emergency where I'll have to go through this nonsense.

~*~

Last but not least, yesterday the satellite TV went out due to Tery not paying the bill. I wasn't all that surprised to learn she would rather stare at a blank TV and sulk than watch Avatar.

~*~

Oops, THIS is last but not least: HAPPY BIRTHDAY kavieshana!!!!!! The big 4-0, huh?

It's been 1-1/2 months since we lost our 17-year-old cat, Alsatia, and we've been strong -- well, I've been strong. Tery's been testing her resolve with daily visits to Craigslist and PetFinders.com. I knew she would like a second cat. Myself (and Schminky Minky, I strongly suspect), I've been happy enough with just the one.

So it really wasn't much of a surprise Friday when Tery announced there was "someone she wanted me to meet" at the hospital. One of her techs had a stray in her neighborhood that had been hanging about for months. With the temperature being in the single digits all week, she brought him to the hospital, neutered him, and now didn't know what to do. She was about to release him back onto the street when Tery crossed his path and it was love at first sight.

We've only ever had female cats, and only ever calicos (well, all calicos are female except for an exceedingly tiny percentage, leading my mother to ask once how they reproduced), so her choice of a male non-calico was a bit out of the ordinary. But he was such a loverboy and so handsome that she really, really, really wanted to make a go of it. She was so excited about him she had set up the second litter box for him the minute she got home and sent me in with a carrier to bring him home. She also already had a name picked out, Julian; I asked when I got to have a cat named Severus (as in Snape), and she said when we got a black cat. So in other words, probably never. I promised to check him out, but ultimately the final decision of course was up to Madame Mutton Chops.

I found Julian in his kennel no problem, and he was gorgeous. I don't want to say that every cat I see now looks like a Norwegian forest cat (see previous entry), but he seemed to fit the bill even more than my Mitten -- the beginnings of a ruff (he's less than a year old), big bushy Wegie tail, huge paws that foretell a massive adult size, and best of all leopard spots that create quite an air of exoticism. I'm not kidding:



However, something had happened in the time between Tery left the hospital and I arrived. I opened his cage door and he came up to greet me. I got to pet his head twice before he suddenly turned hissy and snarly. What the...? He darted to the back of the cage and wouldn't come near me.

I called Tery perplexed. She thought maybe he disliked being in a cage so he might be friendlier if I took him out. Unfortunately this could only be done standing on a stool to reach him at the back and tossing a towel over his head to pick him up, something that never makes you popular with the felines. He got in one shot at my cheek that drew blood before I got him to the floor.

I got him out and gave him the run of the downstairs with me. He was an explorer, climbing into every available nook and cranny. I worried that I wouldn't be able to get him back into his cage by morning (the primary reason I don't give strange cats free run at night) but Tery was sure he'd take to me long before then.

As long as he could see me on the opposite end of the room he was fine. Anything more forward than that resulted in instant hissing and swiping. So I decided to go about my business and let him come to me in his own time. I just moved about very, very slowly to avoid startling him because more often than not I'd turn around and he'd be directly behind me, less than a foot away. It was like trying to work with an angry snake following me around, flying into a rage despite my best efforts to avoid it.

I tried talking to him, coaxing him, constantly saying his name (which of course he couldn't possibly recognize this early), but it seemed the only behavior he wanted from me was complete avoidance. He sure sent out some mixed signals though -- more than once he'd flop onto his back and stretch luxuriously, a move my Frances Feathertail executes when she wants me to pet her belly in long, slow strokes. I knew better than to assume Julian was looking for the same.

It broke my heart that he hated me so much, because he was so very beautiful, and smart as a whip: I had given him a ball to play with, and watched as he batted it between an open door and a wall. He didn't waste a second trying to work it back out from the front. He instantly circled around to the hinge side to swat it out from behind. When he got tired and wanted to chill, he strolled over to the bottom shelf of the blanket rack and knocked a small stack of baby blankets onto the floor, creating a nice little bed for himself. That there is problem-solving, my friends.

Morning arrived and I was no closer to petting him, let alone getting him home. He was still painful after his surgery so the tech had prepared an injection for me to give for the ride, a combo pain med and tranquilizer. Great, in the first 8 hours of our life together I would have: tossed a towel over his head to drag him out of the cage, probably have to do that again to throw him into a carrier, then give him a painful shot. Why WOULDN'T we be BFFs forever?

Tery thankfully agreed that was no way to start off and thought we should maybe try again Saturday night. I still had to get him back in the cage, though. I thought I'd lure him with food (he was quite a good eater, being a stray for so long), but he was too clever for that. I thought I'd feed him and try the towel strategy -- wouldn't really endear me to him, but I had to get him back into the cage. No go, he wasn't falling for that trick again either.

So I got a dog leash and managed to loop it around his neck. He fought it like a bucking bronco, contorting and twisting around every step of the way. Then I made the mistake of trying to carry him. I picked him up and he turned into the Tazmanian Devil -- screaming bloody murder and flailing around in full berzerker mode. It was actually extremely terrifying and didn't end well for me either:



Out of pure fear and not knowing what else to do, I let go of him and hung him with the leash at arm's length (which didn't keep me from sustaining more damage), finally tossing him in the cage forcefully. Well, THAT should shatter whatever fragile trust we had managed to build together.

I cried the whole way home, partly because the deep gashes he had inflicted hurt like a bitch, but mostly because I had never had a cat hate me so much that I wasn't forcing medication on. I think my feelings were hurt, because I pride myself somewhat on having a talent with cats and earning their trust quite easily (our vet friend Liana thinks I have an inner stillness that calms them. Well, where the hell was my inner stillness tonight when I needed it most?)

When I walked through the front door still weeping, Tery said it was okay to forget about adopting him, but I wasn't so willing. She said he was a big lover puss with her and I believed he could be again. She theorized that maybe it was the pain medication he was on, a drug that is occasionally known to have the unfortunate side effect of psychotic outburts in some animals. She thought we should give him a week or so at the hospital to get socialized and then think about it. This is a sound plan whether we take him or not, because she said the way he is now he'd probably be euthanized if he went to a shelter. They can't adopt out cats that like to fillet human flesh.

Saturday night went slightly better after the decision to avoid cages and keep him in Tery's office instead. Again he followed me around, but whenever I called him Julian he would hiss automatically. I think he associates that name with our disastrous first night together. Tery agreed with my suggestion to change it to Logan, on account of his Adamantium claws and his past shrouded in mystery. He seemed a bit happier with that choice.

Hopefully this week will be productive in creating some trust in humans for young Logan. Which of course guarantees nothing if/when he meets Francesca Sofia.

When I asked the Powers-That-Be to move onto someone else for their medical emergencies, I really meant someone a little farther away from me. Trust the Powers to bollocks things up again.

Last night I had an HBC (hit by car) chocolate lab, Murphy. Murphy was a mess to look at -- broken leg and open wound head trauma. The story is his owner wanted to put him to sleep on the spot (leg would probably have to be amputated if he survived), but the helpful day shift talked him into giving Murphy 24 hours to see which direction he went. I was assured he would probably just lie there all night, not much could be done for him apart from morphine injections.

For the most part that was all he did. He would occasionally lift his head if I made any noise, and after his first shot actually seemed to perk up and change position some. The day tech had called me for some other reason and commented how they were all amazed at how well he seemed to be doing. Except every time he shifted he would create pools of blood from his head wounds. The air throughout the hospital had a metallic taste to it, there was so much blood. "Boy, am I glad I won't have to clean up all that blood," I selfishly thought.

Then poor Murphy died. I was sitting on my dog mattress reading, when he suddenly stood halfway up, lurched wildly to the right, lurched wildly back to the left, and then collapsed (I suppose this is what is meant by the phrase "he just up and died"). I went over to check on him. It had happened so suddenly, with absolutely no prior signs of distress, that I couldn't believe he was dead. (Even if there were, he was a DNR (do not resuscitate). The owner really preferred to let nature take its course.) I checked his chest repeatedly for a heartbeat -- with big dogs it's a little tricky because their chest cavity is so large there's a lot of echoing emptiness even in healthy dogs, if you're not listening at just the right spot. I went down to the boarding dogs and experimented on Snuggles the Malamute, the only other big dog in the place, to reassure myself I truly heard nothing in Murphy.

The bright side is his timing couldn't have been better. I was literally just about to change his fluid bag (the second bag would have had to be scrapped after opening it if he didn't finish it).

I called the doc, who asked if I could try to bag him, and if I could bring him out back to the freezer that would be even better. I've only dealt with a couple of dead animals, but none as bloody as Murphy. When I moved his head there was an audible squelching sound I really would have been much happier without. I had been shaking Murphy and slapping him to make super extra sure he was dead, but if a dog doesn't respond while being shoved headfirst in a bag that's usually a good indicator as well. His breathing had been pretty labored before, his whole body shuddering with every breath. He was completely motionless now. Still, the whole laborious trip out to the freezer I kept imagining I saw movement inside the bag. That hospital sure can play head games with you at night.

So much blood. I had to take apart the window on the Plexiglas cage door because there was blood inside it (and, unlike real glass, doesn't come off nearly as easily).

I guess there isn't much point to this entry except to say, there was a lot of blood.

~*~

No cool lomo effects here, just our neighbor's crappy camera phone pic of our balcony buried in there somewhere.



Coming soon: Halloween 2009

I've decided July Fourth is my most hated holiday, because it's celebrated every year on the weekend regardless of what day it actually falls on, and hence I always have to work it. Oh, and I have to spend it with dogs every year.

I'm not sure who I hate more: The people illegally setting off fireworks in the neighborhood surrounding the hospital (and we had some real heavy duty ones this year), or the lazy dog owners who leave their precious babies with me on the night(s) of the year when they require the most intensive comforting (I'm not the right person for THAT position). The answer is neither; I hate the people who buy too many rockets and spend the rest of the month setting them off at odd intervals.

Hence I decided if I ever become a millionaire, every year I'm buying up all the fireworks for sale in the city and burying them in an enormous hole behind my mansion. The Grinch Who Stole Independence Day. Bahoo Boris, motherfuckers.

~*~

I decided I couldn't put off my need for a haircut any longer and headed to my favorite Great Clips for the last time (you'll see).

My stylist this afternoon was a middlish-aged woman named Elaine. "Wow," I exclaimed, "Not often there are two of us in the room, huh?" It turned out the similarities weren't going to end there.

I told her I just wanted a basic cut, just clean up the edges a bit. I wasn't afraid of short and I loved lots of layers. I also didn't spend time styling in the morning, just wash and go -- my usual spiel.

"Don't you want to try something different?" she asked, running her fingers through it casually.

"N...ot really," I said.

"C'mon. I think you should try an A-line," she insisted.

"What's an A-line?"

"What I've got. It's really short in the back and longer on the sides. I think you'll love it."

"Ummmmm....okay." I give Tery such shit for never standing up for herself, and here I was agreeing to a hairstyle I was sure I was not going to love.

I hoped my obvious reluctance would mean she maybe wouldn't make it too drastic, in vain. She took it halfway up the back of my head. Gulp. She left the sides almost their current length. Then she started eyeing my bangs.

"Is this your part?" she said a little critically. What do you think, lady? I did it up differently to come see you?

"Yes, that's my part." Straight down the middle, that is.

"Have you ever thought of parting it on the side?" No I hadn't, mostly because I have a deadly cowlick on the right that pretty much rules that side with an iron fist, and doesn't like anyone messing with it. I told her so (maybe not so colorfully).

But she was determined. "I think you should part it on the side." The reason I come to Great Clips is because they promise to "listen to you" and give you exactly what you ask for, not bully you into a complete makeover.

So she trimmed a bit off the bangs and then proceeded to pile all the hair from the left over onto the cowlick. Yeah, THAT was comfortable. Call me old-fashioned, but I like a hairstyle that lets me move my head, you know, if someone chucks something at my face (it could totally happen). I knew it wouldn't make a bit of difference. In 30 minutes or less the cowlick would throw the pile off again, or make it all stick straight up. This woman had never dealt with a cowlick before, obviously. At least not one as ferocious as mine.

But I endured it, I don't know why, just counting the minutes until I could get out of there and do my best to return to the style I liked. She fluffed it relentlessly, pulling out the blow dryer (I HATE the blow dryer. Remember the part where I said I don't do anything to style it normally?) and whipping it into a fondue. When she was done, she stepped back triumphantly. That's when I noticed she had cut it into the exact same style she herself wore, windswept bangs and all. I wondered how many other clones of herself she sent out the front door every day. Like Tery, I forced a smile and pretended to LOVE IT. ("And the Oscar goes to...")

Then the humiliating walk to the cash register in front of the customers in the waiting room, all of whom I'm sure could tell this haircut was nothing at all like me. The casual march to the car, forcing myself to maintain until I could drive up out of sight of the store front.

Then the frantic running of fingers through it, re-establishing my center part, trying to mash down the puffiness just a bit (for some reason I always schedule a trip into a store after a haircut, so I can't rush home if it's a disaster). Now I regret being so hasty I didn't get photo documentation. I tried searching for some images on the net, but the problem is all the women with this cut seem to be happy with it and it suits them, i.e. none of them are a big gruff man-woman who would rather floss with tinfoil than use hairspray.



Now, let's take a quick look at what my hair usually looks like, and then ask ourselves why on earth Elaine 2 thought I'd like something so radically different.



The only good thing about the visit was when I found my free will in time to refuse to buy the 30-dollar bottle of shampoo she insisted would work wonders with my new 'do. You know, for when I blowdry it and everything. Was she even in the room when I told her my relationship with my hair? Was I?

I got home and started in with the scissors. I absolutely couldn't stand it -- the longer sides made me feel like a basset hound, and I compulsively touched the back repeatedly wondering if it looked as short as it felt. I've been gradually hacking away at it, like a sculptor trying to find his work of art in a slab of rock, looking for the haircut I wanted. I finally think I'm there, but it's going to need a lot of growing back. And now I can never go back to that Great Clips for fear of meeting Elaine 2 again.

~*~

The bulk of this entry was written from the edge of Cherry Creek Reservoir, though you probably can't tell. One of the nicest things about our place is it's about 5 minutes from Cherry Creek State Park, a massive area full of bike trails and picnic spots with the reservoir at its center. I've found a route that works really well for me -- downhill almost the whole way in, where I find a quiet spot to relax for a bit. Then the ride out the same way, which is a gradual uphill that gets my heart pumping but doesn't make me want to spit it out of my throat and collapse on the side of the trail.



The point is, on the way back this evening I saw three things in quick succession you don't expect to see in a park: First, a woman pushing a shopping cart full of her worldly belongings, I'm going to assume homeless. Sad, but I suppose if you don't have a home there are worse places to shack up than a park. Next, three Mexicans just walking, one of them on a cell phone. I don't want to sound racist, but it's not often you see Mexicans in recreational activities around here like hiking. Third, a cop car creeping along on the trail (the trail where motor vehicles are prohibited, I should add). This was when I thought to myself, "Did I take a wrong turn and end up in da hood??"

~*~

Finally, I leave you with a nice shot of Tery trying to enjoy breakfast in bed with me, but then the animals got wind of it and saw no reason she should keep the delicious cereal to herself:

Updatey datey:

Working out is going well, now that Ryan and I uncrossed our signals. He had a membership with John that had lapsed. He wanted to renew but said he couldn't afford to. Assuming he went to a different location (even though he lives 5 minutes away from me), I sadly signed on for a one-club membership ($50 cheaper than all-club). We exchanged emails where he repeatedly expressed interest in renewing. I would say the same thing: "I can only use the one near me." He would say the same thing: "I would only ever use mine anyway." We seemed to be at an impasse, until the day he used slightly different wording to clarify that he was talking about my club the whole time. OH. I don't know why communication is so difficult with him.

So we've been working out every other day if not more. We've tackled the girlier weight machines (Nautilus, etc.) and the cardio (ellipticals). In the middle of the floor are the free weights, and beyond that are the massive circuit training frames where the ripped, tattooed bad-asses hang out. All the while Ryan will point out men who have his goal body type. Then he confessed he'd like to try the circuit training someday. "Ryan, no!" I whispered frantically, "Not the Prison Yard!" Those hulking monsters would eat scrawny little Ryan for breakfast.

So far my plan is working -- the days I don't work out I feel restless, like I can't wait to get back. I also don't want to push myself too hard, since I did last week and spent the entire weekend barely able to move my arms. That was a mistake. It definitely makes a difference having a friend there, and I think the benefit is mutual, as Ryan is having a rough time moving on from John.

~*~

Funny tale from the kennels: Last weekend I was washing dishes when I heard what sounded like a phone ringing, though not the hospital line, followed by what sounded like someone talking. My first reaction whenever I hear a strange noise is to freeze in place with my heart pounding in my ears. I eventually had to move though, and traced it to Rica, an African Grey boarding with us. This bird had a whole routine, impersonating first a ringing phone, then an answering machine beep, and finally a creepily uncanny human voice saying, "Hello?" I wanted to record it for possible posting, but she clammed up the minute she saw me. However, when I covered her cage for the night she said, again in that near-human voice, "Goodnight cuckoo." I would trade her for our stupid screaming Amazon any day.

~*~

"Battlestar Galactica" is over. I think it suffered from this new trend in TV shows, to ramp up to the end by suddenly beginning all these exciting, complex new storylines with only three episodes to go. It makes you wonder, "How on earth are they going to resolve all this in such a short period of time?" Answer: They aren't. The "finale" will have so many plot lines left hanging it will be the narrative equivalent of a threadbare shawl, all for the remote possibility of a mini-series or even a movie in the future which will be the REAL finale. I say this after being severely disappointed by both BSG and "The L Word." I'm starting to fear that no finale will ever top "6 Feet Under." 6FU has RUINED me for all other finales. Though I suspect even people who haven't seen 6FU will agree that these finales sucked balls.

~*~

I had another run-in the other day on the transcriptionist board I hate so much. I hate it so much but it's incredibly helpful at times, if you can avoid the flame wars that is.

I had a stupid, simple formatting question, I won't bore you with specifics. I had found the answer in my AAMT Book of Style, the problem was the wording of the rule for some reason sounded like it only applied to one number rather than all. So I asked what I knew might be a stupid question, but I also figured it would be simply and quickly answered -- which is the only kind of question I ever ask anymore because people are so freakin' touchy there.

The first two people gave me straightforward, sensible answers. The third was a very sarcastic, "Did it ever occur to you that the #4 was only an example?" There was just no call for that. If you can't keep a civil tongue in your head, you're better off just keeping your mouth shut, and on this board most of all so. I answered politely but coldly, "I wasn't sure, which is why I asked. Sarcasm isn't really appreciated." Never heard back from that one (to my knowledge. The board makes it far too easy to post anonymously).

Then someone else chimed in saying they'd always wondered the same thing. This was very soon after Ms. Snarky, so I responded to them, "I'm glad to hear I'm not the only one who doesn't know it all : )." Please take note of the big smiley face because it's important.

Someone responded, "Wow. Unbelievable!" Someone else said something about "the rudeness" and "I'm glad I'm not you." Others trickled in to join the crowd. The way the page is set up it's really not clear who is responding to who exactly, which is why it took me about 15 minutes to slowly realize they were all castigating ME for my incredibly rude comment. What??

This is WHY I included a big smiley face, the only way to express friendliness or positive intentions. If I could dot my i's with hearts I would. Because this damn board is FULL of these people just WAITING for an excuse to take offense, whereupon everyone circles in like vultures to carrion, and like vultures will pick you dry until not a scrap of flesh remains. Even without the smiley face I didn't see how my comment could be so grossly misinterpreted, but there we are. An entire industry of internet users who haven't graduated AOL IM Etiquette 101.

I ignored all the Nosy Nellies and instead engaged the one person struggling to maintain civility, and eventually the original person I had supposedly slammed so harshly. I was able to clarify that I was grateful someone else shared my question and there was no insult or irony intended, hence my BIG SMILEY FACE. They were both glad to hear it and everything was peaceful again. Do you think any of those people who were so quick to swoop in to attack me bothered coming back to apologize? Nope, all suddenly too busy to waste time on a message board.

~*~

Tery Tivo'ed a documentary for me, "The Most Hated Family in America." You'd think it would be the Mansons, but no, it's Pastor Fred Phelps and his incestuous little clan. I've heard of them, but this was the first special I'd seen devoted exclusively to them.

They run the Westboro Baptist Church in Topeka, KS, and their favorite word in the entire world is "fag." As in GodHatesFags.com. As in "Fag Priest" and "Fag Soldier" and "Fag Jews" and "Fag Enablers." It's just about the worst insult they can imagine, thus they apply it to everything and everybody.

See if you can follow this logic: America supports and embraces homosexuality (bear with me). Hence America is going to hell. Hence US troops fighting in Iraq are all fags for defending fag-loving America, and deserve to die. In fact, any misfortune that happens to anyone, anywhere, is evidence of God striking them down because they love fags, and makes the Phelps satanically gleeful. Your grandmother is dying of leukemia? Good, she's a fag-lover. Your church was struck by lightning and burned to the ground? God obviously hates it. 9/11? The best thing that ever happened to America. If you think I'm exaggerating just check out their website.

Don't try to point out to them that, while America might be slowly becoming more permissive of homosexuality, we're still a long way away from feeling America's unconditional love. Don't try to tell them that Jesus, in addition to being a Jew himself, preached mostly about love and probably would take a dim view of the message they're sending out. In fact, don't try to argue with them at all; they're unshakeable in their belief that pretty much everyone who doesn't belong to their church is a fag (either in actuality or sympathetically) and is going to hell.

I'm telling you, even teh gays aren't as obsessed with homosexuality as these people.

They routinely picket military funerals because, well, the soldiers are all fags. They stand on a distant corner (court-ordered) with bright neon signs screaming how you are going to hell. People drive by and curse them, make rude gestures and even throw things (their small son was hit in the head with a soda cup -- no rejoicing when bad things happen to one of THEM, I noticed); the response rate is 100% in the negative, which they consider a success. It perplexes them why people are so mean, though -- doesn't everyone LIKE being told their souls are damned and God hates them?

What is most terrifying is their cult includes children, tiny children, and don't ask me where they come from because the ratio is about one man to ten women in their God-fearing, devout and completely insular society. Tiny children wearing GodHatesFags.com T-shirts. When asked if they know what the sign they're holding means, they smile shyly and hide their faces. No, they don't. The brainwashing (and alleged abuse) will begin in earnest at the earliest opportunity though.

It's totally infected Bekah, the 19ish-year-old who tells the documentarian that yes, even he is going to hell, following it with a completely inappropriate schoolgirl giggle. She also has no plans to marry, since "we're in the end of the end times" and she'll be far too busy serving the Lord to worry about things like the future and having a life of her own.

Meanwhile her mother's mature retort to the documentarian's attempt to get reason to penetrate her thick dogma was, I kid you not, "Not a chance, poopy pants."

The documentarian tried several times to get an interview with Grand-daddy Fred Phelps, each time being treated with open derision and hostility. He called Reverend Phelps "a wellspring of anger," and isn't anger one of the Big Seven?

Tery predicted the show would make my blood boil, but it really didn't, I think because these people are so insane and so extreme that no one takes them seriously. Much less dangerous than the moderate radicals whose equally homophobic (and less nonsensical) message is heard and believed by thousands. Mostly I just feel sorry for them, because I know from experience that hating someone, actively and with the passion these people feel, is exhausting. Imagine hating the entire world and how much energy THAT takes?

~*~

Time to wrap up the Kitten Mitten series, I think. ( ::In here, because I'm thoughtful:: )

Finally, perhaps my favorite thing about any cat:



~*~

I won't cut this because it MUST be seen. OldFriendBear took my Strawberry Series to the next logical level:



( ::Artsy Photo #2 and a little surprise:: )

This is the luxuriousness of my new schedule -- updating my LJ on a Saturday morning! Can you believe it? But my shift doesn't start for literally an hour and a half, and it was this or watch Flight of the Conchords Season One Tery bought for me.

So, some tidbits, like:

Question: How many strangers in the parking lot do Tracey's stupid dog have to bark at before realizing that none of them are a threat and none of them are particularly intimidated by him?
Answer: All of them.

~*~

I blame ms_hecubus, who a few weekends ago posted about her overactive imagination thinking a timber wolf was waiting in her garage to attack her. I smirked that she wouldn't last ten minutes in Tery's hospital at night, to which she agreed. Then that weekend in the early morning hours I fell into such a deep sleep that I had a nightmare. I dreamed I heard a racket and walked down to A-ward in time to see a man coming through the window feet first (the window is ground level outside but there are bars on it). We faced off across the short corridor between the kennels. He looked a little like Peter Horton from Thirtysomething, except with wide, crazed eyes and a sadistic grin. Then he reached for me with impossibly long, clawlike fingers and I woke up with a start, sweating, panting, and totally paralyzed. I felt like my spine was nailed to the dog mattress I sleep on now. It was one of the most terrifying feelings of my life. Thanks, Michelle ;)

~*~

Speaking of wolves, last night I had Lakota, who had been spayed that day:



Her cage slip listed her as a "husky mix." Yeah, husky mixed with timber wolf and maybe arctic fox. She was beautiful, but not leash trained and I spent a good fifteen minutes chasing her around trying to get her leashed. Thank god we weren't outside or I'd probably still be at it. She was a nimble one. Beautiful, but that constant (CONSTANT) whining/groaning was all husky. Tery said the day shift were all afraid of her (honestly, why do these people work at a vet hospital when they're so easily intimidated by animals?) but while trying to get this photo my biggest challenge was getting her head out of my lap.

~*~

Speaking of the hospital (oh, I'm full of segues today), one night someone had left a big note in the breakroom, "Overnight Sun-Thurs not cleaning." Which is kind of like saying, "I'm not naming any names, but our current Holy Father the Pope isn't putting the toilet seat down." The description can only apply to one person, so why tiptoe around trying to spare feelings? Of course, overnight Sun-Thurs is J., who hurt her knee again and was taking it easy for a few weeks. Which Tery could have told the complainer if they'd come to her instead of leaving accusatory messages.

Tery tried to ferret out the note-writer, after having to "talk J. off the ledge." Everyone pointed fingers at one person, who when confronted acted innocently appalled, "I'd NEVER write something like that! But if J. was upset, please tell her I'm sorry." Yeah, uh-uh. No one in that hospital is selfless enough to apologize for something they didn't do. No one. Mystery solved.

It turns out the mess that prompted the complaint was one empty box left in Surgery. To which Tery's response was, "A) I guarantee you J. isn't stocking supplies off the delivery truck, and B) It's one damn box. Break it down, throw it out back, and quit whining."

~*~

Finally, a quandary with Ryan.

Back at the Oscar™ party, I said I lurved my boys (Ryan and John). This is only half true. I love Ryan, love him to death. My feelings for John depend on Ryan's happiness, which at the moment is pretty low.

John has a whole entourage of single friends who sound like they're stuck in a permanent frat-boy mentality. Every weekend they lure John out drinking, binges that last literally from Friday night to Sunday afternoon, when he finally staggers home and passes out on the couch.

Ryan is less than pleased by this behavior, and I can hardly blame him. If Tery did this, I guarantee we wouldn't have made it past our first year.

Ryan has begged him to knock it off and grow up. John refuses to see the problem. They've been going back and forth this entire time, and Ryan is finally at the point of couples therapy or adios, John. John is resistant to therapy, and Ryan still thinks he can't live without him, so they're sort of at an impasse. Naturally I'm on Ryan's side. I do my best to offer advice, but unfortunately most of the work has to be done by Ryan.

At the risk of appearing selfish, this will be causing a problem for me very shortly. Ryan had suggested coming over Monday (he gets alternate Mondays off from work) to hang out. I assumed part of his incentive was avoiding John, who of course will be blitzed the whole weekend AGAIN. Imagine my surprise when yesterday he asked if John could come too? In fact John had taken the day off of work just to hang out with us.

WTF???? Ryan's acting like this is totally against his will, that he has no control over it (and neither do I), and yes we'd have more fun alone and yes he'll ruin everything, but what can we do?

It's like he's split exactly in two. Half of him has broken up with John and just wishes he'd disappear. The other half is hanging onto a faint hope they can still work it out. And I can't tell which half I'm talking to at any given moment. Most of the time a pathetic amalgamation of the two.

I followed Tery's advice and texted him to cancel. I feel like a shitty friend, but I just don't see hanging out with John as being anything but unbearably awkward until they figure out where they stand with each other. I apologized, but suggested if maybe John was too hungover to come Ryan was still welcome on his own.

Ryan texted me back: "LOL"

I don't know what I'm supposed to do with that. And it makes Ryan come off like he's in really deep denial (which is entirely possible). Almost battered wife syndrome denial.

So I guess I'll refuse to answer my phone, close the curtains and pretend I'm not home if they come around. Yeah, I know. Great friend, right? What would you do?

~*~

On a cheerier note, the photo stylings of she_was_stereo have inspired me to do a photo tribute to my favorite subject, Francesca Sofia. I don't have nearly her eye, and of course it's somewhat more challenging photographing an animate object. So we'll start slow and in no particular order.







I can't promise they'll get any better.

~*~

Is that the time? I've got to get to work!!

The terrible economy has finally reached Tery's hospital doors. She received the order to choose someone to lay off.

She's certain this can be avoided if she can squeeze by for another month, when one of her interns will leave for school. But until then, everyone has to step up and make small sacrifices so they can all keep their jobs (if you're wondering why I'm saying "they," I generously offered to quit, but ironically my shift would be exceptionally difficult to cover, so I have job security above and beyond being married to the boss. Instead I leave early whenever it's slow enough that I'm not needed the entire night, and glad to do so -- the good thing about a low hourly wage is it doesn't hurt much when your hours are cut).

So Tery put out a memo making it clear that everyone would have to cut their hours and work a little harder to cover the resulting smaller staff. She herself will be working 10- to 12-hour days to help out, cutting severely into our free time together, which I assured her didn't bother me. Hence No TV Tuesday will have to be cut back to once a month, or else we'll fall woefully behind on all our Tivo (which is for the best -- one adverse side effect of NTT was that it confused me so badly that I spent all day Thursday thinking it was Wednesday. Nothing kills my buzz faster than the sudden realization that I'm on my last night of freedom before the weekend).

All this was a very rude awakening to A., an employee who religiously calls in "sick" after every major football game, so needless to say missed her shift Monday (fooling no one). She returned to work Tuesday to discover jobs were suddenly on the line. "I thought we were safe!" she cried in anguish. Safe because we came in under budget one week. Pull your head out of your ass and read a newspaper once in awhile. These people seem genuinely astonished to learn the country's in trouble, and even moreso at the idea that they could be affected by it. She was further dismayed when she was told that no, she couldn't make up her missed hours. "Well now I don't know if I should sign my new lease or not," she grumbled. Tery's lack of sympathy came close to matching mine. Perhaps next time she won't make drinking and partying a priority over working her shift, fucking crybaby.

If I sound heartlessly gleeful at these brats finally seeing a glimpse of the cruel, cruel world of adulthood, it's because they've gone far too long without the "fear of god" (or Tery) in them, i.e. respecting your boss and doing your damn job, no questions asked.

Tery heard through the grapevine this afternoon that the staff were "very worried" and "thought they should have an emergency meeting," which would necessitate closing the doors and halting business while doing so. Really? Threats of lay-offs because revenue isn't matching payroll and you want to turn away customers so Tery can hold your hands and promise it will be alright? These people really aren't the brightest bulbs in the pack.

She's not sure what they want her to tell them. That they shouldn't worry, that the memo doesn't apply to them? She can't do that. We're both wondering why they're acting like this came out of nowhere, when Tery's been telling them for weeks how crucial it was that they get their budget under control. There's also talk of people worried Tery will play favorites when deciding who to send home. Of course she can't really say that she hates them all equally, which she does.

~*~

Meanwhile at my other job I'm not losing hours, just rearranging them. We were notified of a client whose reports were falling behind consistently because of gaps in the scheduling, and we were all expected to volunteer to fill those gaps (the mail contained a not-so-subtle threat about how they "didn't want to lose any of us but..."). The gaps were for the most part in the midnight to 5 am shifts. Yeah, I can't imagine why those would be hard to cover.

I worked RGIS inventory for 16 long years, a job that doesn't come remotely close to offering regular hours. I didn't mind at the time, but these past few years I've become very spoiled. Perhaps that's why I'm so jealously protective now that I finally have them (well, the weekend throws a tiny wrench in them, but at least it's the same wrench all the time). I really, really love having Sundays and Mondays off no matter what. So you can imagine the sinking feeling when I examined my options and realized the only gap that wasn't midnight to 5 am (cuz THAT wasn't happening) that didn't conflict with my hospital hours was Sunday evenings, 8 pm to midnight. Why, god, why?

I took it rather than wait too long and be forced into a choice even less palatable. The blow was a tiny bit softened when I came up with the trade-off of four hours out of my Saturday morning shift, so I could sleep in after working overnight Friday (when frankly I'm not really at my most productive anyway). THAT would be very nice, although knowing me I'd only sleep until 11 am or so and then twiddle my thumbs waiting to start work anyway.

I sent out a few emails proposing the change without receiving any confirmation to go through with it, so Sunday night I went ahead and worked my first 8-12. Oh, it hurt. Most Sunday nights I hold on until 10 pm or so and then crash hard until morning -- then spend most of the day Monday crashing some more. I had a cup of tea and Tery brought me dinner from the bar, and I slogged all the way through. I'm trusting next weekend with that Saturday morning off it won't be nearly so bad.

Monday morning I heard back from the scheduler, approving my new shift. She apologized for the delay, but she had received an overwhelming response from people about the change. I can't believe that many people were eager to work that graveyard shift, but I suppose you never know. It's amazing how cooperative employees become when the economy is in the toilet (except maybe Carol Siemens -- I guarantee she probably put up a squawk). I couldn't help thinking that if the response was that huge, maybe I didn't need to change mine after all, but I didn't say as much. Maybe I'll end up loving it and it will work out really well, but for now I'm still stubbornly clinging to the good times when I had two whole days off every week.

My sister the nurse, who already works six days a week, said to me wisely (and Tery's employees would do well to adopt the same attitude), "I'm just happy to have a job. I'll work whenever they want me to."

~*~

I thought I had no news from the kennels, but I forgot about Klondike. Klondike is an old Great Pyrenees, who for the most part is infinitely happier sleeping than doing anything else. Coaxing him to stand is near impossible, so you can imagine the fun to be had getting him up the stairs to the yard. He also has a perpetual long string of slobber hanging from his lips, in such quantity that the smallest sip from his water bowl fills it with slimy trails. Ugh.

I knew from previous attempts that he and stairs simply didn't mix. His legs would give out and he'd collapse mid step given half the chance. This led me to create my Great Pyrenees theory -- namely that no one should own one unless they live on the ground floor. Anyway I was trying to help him out, embracing his chest from behind as best I could to leverage him up. His head started lolling and flailing around in alarm, and then, almost in slow motion, that big strand of saliva whipped around and SPLAT! COVERED the whole side of my head. Oh. My. GOD. Say what you will about cats, at least they limit their spit-sharing to petitely and politely licking your face (or the occasional flecks emitted while hissing).

Needless to say, Klondike didn't make any more trips up the stairs on my shift. We were both content with staying in the hallway while he conducted his business.

I also had a Bernese mountain dog, Zoey. The only thing Tery hates more than stupid dogs is stupid dog owners, of which she sees more than her share. Zoey's mother essentially babied her growing up, and now that she's a little larger she has such severe separation anxiety that she lays waste to the girl's apartment whenever she's left alone. The girl just doesn't know what she did wrong.

Tery and I both know what she did wrong. The same thing a lot of dog owners do wrong. She saw that cute puppy in the window and didn't give a single thought to how or even if it would fit into her lifestyle once it grew up.

So she crated Zoey for one day, and that night brought her in for surgery because she'd ingested a foreign body (Tery and I surmised Zoey started to eat the crate). We think the stupid woman deserves every penny of that bill. Hey, it keeps Tery's doctors paid.

~*~

This entry seems to be full of a lot of hate. Well, life isn't all rainbows and new Blu-ray discs.

This weekend was the judging of the Christmas lights in our complex. Tery went even more crazy than last year, but her secret weapon was something I bought for her -- one of those boxes you plug the lights into that makes them flash in time with musc. They were originally $100 and I said "Oh, HELL no," but then after Christmas when the markdowns start kicking in I bided my time and watched and waited, finally swooping in when they were 75% off. That was quite a coup.

(I was a little hesitant about buying something meant to be blared loudly into the neighborhood, but since most of our neighors are literally dead and gone it's not such a big deal anymore.)

Good thing, too, because she actually had some serious competition this year. The renters below Tracey FCW (and also evidently her friends -- she solved the problem of how to shovel dog shit off her porch without her neighbors complaining) had a really nice display up since last week. Tracey herself was out literally two hours before the judges came around, frantically hammering and drilling to get her stuff hung. Two problems -- they were the exact same decorations she had last year, and the eleventh hour installation kind of defeated the purpose of the contest to encourage people to get into the holiday spirit (if history repeats itself, she'll take them down again tomorrow).

Tery invited her bar friends and our neighbors Mike and Anna for an anticipatory victory celebration. Tery was pleased to see parents from the neighborhood bringing their young children to view her work. Anyway, she took first ($75). Second went to the renters ($50) and third to Tracey ($25). Justice was served, and I guess that isn't too shabby for an hour's work. We invited the judges in for some food which I was glad for, so they could see our spirit extends to every possible inch of our house, not just areas visible for judging purposes.



I think the only way Tery can top herself next year is to hire a chorus line of snowbunnies or something.

Tery also outdid herself for the party, making an enormous amount of hors d'ouvres for us. My favorite was a Martha Stewart idea, pea pods with Alouette cheese and tomatoes with pesto.



Christmas also came a little early in the form of someone finally closing our neighbor's door downstairs. Thank god.

~*~

Funny thing is, I was talking to neighbor Anna about how the only thing I really hate about working at the hospital is never knowing what I'm walking into. I had to leave Tery's party to go into work, where I discovered Dr. Norton still present; I hate finding anyone there when I arrive -- it typically means they had a last minute emergency come in that would be left with me. Not the case, however, she was staying with a seizure dog, Colby, who had been there a few days already who she was afraid to leave alone. Terrific.

It turns out this dog was on a continuous Valium drip, absolutely crucial fluid maintenance. We were also having a Valium shortage, never having to administer it in the massive doses this dog required. Dr. Norton hinted if we didn't control the seizures soon, we'd have to send him to an emergency 24-hour facility (so I spent the rest of the night praying for just that to happen).

In the ten minutes it took her to explain everything to me we started having pump difficulties. I was nervous, because in my experience once a pump starts giving me problems, it's nonstop all night long. We thought we had fixed it and she went on her way.

She hadn't been gone ten minutes when the pump started again. Normally I'd do everything I could to fix it myself, except liquid Valium can't be exposed to light or it loses potency, so the tubing and connections were wrapped up super tight, making my troubleshooting work twice as challenging. Rather than futz with it I decided to call her before she got too far away. She came back, fortunately.

Again we had it licked and she left, and again it started alarming on me. The second time she brought a pillow to stay overnight. I felt terrible, she'd already worked a full day, but she insisted.

The trouble with Colby was he was a 4-year-old lab, and when he wasn't seizing he was strong and willful and impossible for one person to do anything with without him fighting to get away. Dr. Norton eventually decided to re-lay the catheter, succeeding after two attempts. This made me feel much better, as I would never have been able to do this myself. The one she removed had a defect in the line that puzzled her.

But that wasn't half as puzzling as when we got him hooked up again and the pump STILL complained about an occlusion. There was no reason in the world for this that we could see and the doctor was stumped (again, making me feel better about keeping her there).

We finally got it going, though it was a tentative victory at best. She went upstairs to try to get some sleep, I tried to accomplish something else on my list of duties. The other trouble with Colby was he had occasional very violent sneezing episodes to boot, during which he would smack his head full force against whatever surface was nearby. The recurrent head trauma couldn't have been helping his condition, and from the next room sounded identical to a seizure, making me dash back into Recovery about every ten minutes.

He had his first seizure since my arrival at midnight. The head smashing with sneezing was nothing compared to what he did while in the throes of an epileptic fit. I fetched Dr. Norton and we sort of nursed him through it. He had a second one about fifteen minutes later. The good news was when he was post-ictal he immediately became sleepy and passed out, making him much more manageable. We pulled him out onto the floor where he seemed more comfortable and she again retreated to her office.

I gave up the idea of doing anything else that night and settled in beside him. The fluids would still inexplicably stop flowing occasionally and need some messing around to restart so I had to keep an eye on the drip. Let me tell you, if you ever suffer from insomnia, don't waste your time with pharmaceuticals -- try staring at an IV fluid drip for about 20 minutes (or perhaps a more practical substitute might be a steadily leaking sink faucet). I absolutely couldn't keep my eyes open, and settled instead for checking in every five minutes or so.

Also for obvious reasons, there would be no setting up my cot that night. By about 3:30 a.m. I was so exhausted it turned out the desk chair with my feet propped up felt just as good. All told I slept about a half hour that night, and I really felt it the next day. Hard. But these medical reports don't type themselves, you know?

Colby was okay the rest of the night (except for more of those alarming sneezing runs), and I was extremely happy when 5 a.m. finally arrived. I called Dr. Norton through the intercom and she sounded as cheerful and refreshed as if she'd slept a solid 8 hours. I asked how she did that, and she replied, "Many years of practice."

She still had to stay, as the next seizure was due in the next hour or so, judging by the previous trend. I felt just as bad leaving as I did making her stay, but she's not hourly so wouldn't impact Tery's payroll the way I would. It turned out the morning doctor let her go home and come back later in the afternoon rather than work through.

Reportedly the kid who owns Colby has no money, so it will be interesting to see what becomes of the bill resulting from essentially four days of intensive around-the-clock care for this dog. Also the kid was going to pick up the dog the next morning, but then leave town at 2 p.m., trusting his roommate to watch over him in his absence. The Valium was all used up at that point, so they sent him home with rectal suppositories to administer if (when) he seized again. I'm sure the roommate was thrilled.

My point is, the dog is only four years old and having these problems, with an owner who has no money. I think the kid is going to have to make some very difficult decisions very soon about what he plans to do with his pet.

Fortunately I only had two boarders that night, one of which looked like the American werewolf in London:



~*~

Finally, Tery is very interested in seeing the movie Slumdog Millionaire, but since she hates leaving the house on her day off and it wasn't available on Graboid, instead we watched Milk which WAS on Graboid.

I won't bother cutting, I don't have much in the way of spoilers or length. Sean Penn did a predictably outstanding job as Harvey Milk, first openly gay elected official. Well, he was a bit more buff than I'm sure Harvey was, but he had the voice, the accent, the hair, everything else down. Josh Brolin was also perfect as Dan White, the insecure, frustrated co-worker that ultimately assassinated him -- if anything, he was a little underused. I didn't really get any idea of why White was driven to commit murder. The scenes between him and Penn, with the knowledge of how their relationship ended, seemed very tense and charged to me.

I think hanging out in the boy_touching community has completely inured me, as I saw nothing at all titillating or unusual about watching Sean Penn and James Franco kiss. Perhaps if the rest of the world joined, two men together would no longer be such a controversial event.

My one complaint (apart from Penn's bordering-on-prizefighter physique) was the first scene of the movie; Penn passes Franco exiting the subway, and greets him warmly. At this point the viewer isn't sure if they are already together or not, and the rest of the scene really does nothing to clear it up. They talk like old friends, then they share a passionate kiss. It turns out that no, they were complete strangers and this is the first time they hooked up.

I didn't buy it, until coincidentally while browsing Netflix's "watch instantly" selections as our afternoon entertainment, Tery chose a documentary called Gay Sex in the 70's (making it quite the theme for the day). This is full of aging queens reminiscing about all the free gay love before AIDS hit the scene, when the community was pretty exclusively about random anonymous encounters, and hooking up really was as simple as walking down the street. So I'd like to think this quick scene in Milk was a brief nod to that time.

The end of Milk, obviously his assassination and the famous Candelight March, had me predictably crying like a baby. It was very understated and very well done, no over-the-top Hollywood dramatics. Tery, equally predictably, reacted not at all. She chastised me for crying so early in the day, as if crying was the same as drinking. As usual I did my best to ignore her.

The movie was very relevant to our time, portraying a major step in our as-yet unwon struggle for equal rights. In particular, I think about Obama's much-criticized choice of evangelical homophobe Rick Warren to perform the invocation at his inauguration. No, it doesn't make me happy, but this is how I see it: It's a two-minute prayer, not a cabinet position. Obama is trying to bring the two extremes of the political spectrum together, not an easy or enviable task, because right now our differences are what is tearing the country apart.

Milk operated the same way. In the film, he challenges one of the biggest anti-gay rights proponents of the time, John Briggs, to a public debate. But he does so with an extended handshake and a warm smile. Because screaming at each other is getting us nowhere. Because if you can't shake your enemy's hand and look him in the eye, how can there be any real communication?

~*~

Is this what it's like getting old? While flicking around, Tery stopped on something called "Hannah Montana & Miley Cyrus: Best of Both Worlds Concert Tour." I watched this young, not particularly talented chick leaping all over the stage in front of thousands of squealing teenage girls and asked, "Now which one is she?" Tery rolled her eyes. "They're the same person, goofball."

Christmas shopping so far this year is turning into quite the nightmare.

First I looked over my sister Nancy's Amazon wishlist, full of lots of $40-$50 sewing items, and a $300 Amazon Kindle. Yeah, that's not happening. So I thought I'd surprise her with something not on her list, that I was sure she'd love anyway -- Wall-E on DVD. My sister is a child at heart like me, has even been known to buy Happy Meals for the sake of movie tie-ins. I emailed my mother in advance asking if she knew Nancy's feelings on the movie. "I'm sure she'll love it" she responded.

I ordered it straightaway. The next morning I opened an email from my mother saying that Nancy had walked through the door last night and announced that she had just bought Wall-E. Grrrrr. She evidently is not living under the same self-buying moratorium Tery and I have imposed in our house. I asked my mom, "Would you like a copy of Wall-E?" She said yes. I said, "Great. Try to act surprised."

However, she will be surprised since I'm returning it to Amazon. For the past three years my mother's wishlist has contained the same two lonely, and currently unavailable, items, a set of mixing bowls and a solar-powered car window fan. This year I decided to make half of her dreams come true and found an equivalent car fan on eBay. "She'll never expect this!" I thought gleefully. True dat, as I discovered yesterday either my mother creates new wishlists and then forgets about them every few years, or there really are five different Marjorie Adamcewiczs on Amazon. Her CURRENT list is made up of almost every Cesar "The Dog Whisperer" Millan product known to man, not a bowl or car fan to be seen. Thus Wall-E is going back for a refund, cuz my paychecks aren't getting any bigger (see previous post), and it's not the 3-disc edition I yearn for.

But all this is nothing to the horror show that is one of Tery's gifts. She asked for a new iron, an iron that must be damn special because Amazon was selling it for close to 80 bucks. Always cutting corners trying to save a few dollars, I went to eBay instead. I got in on a "new" one starting at $9.99. My maximum bid matched what I would have paid at Amazon, thinking winning it for anything less would be a coup.

Sadly, there was no coup, I got into a bidding war, and ended up paying almost my maximum. Fine, still $10 less than Amazon.

The item arrived via DHL, a company I hate so much I had actually rejoiced when I heard about their demise. You can imagine my dismay at this evidence that those rumors were unfounded. It was shipped in a beat-up old shoe box. The manufacturer's box had obviously been opened, but worst of all the entire thing, inside and out, reeked of a foul, pervasive, clinging perfume worn by a ten-dollar whore about 20 years past her prime. Oh my GOD what a stench.

Of course I emailed the seller immediately with my complaint. They responded the box had "only been opened to check the contents" (why would you need to check the contents on a manufacturer's sealed box??) and they didn't remember any smell. Well then, I guess it must have been dunked in the perfume vat at DHL's warehouse, the one they'll never admit to having. However, the seller "regretted my inconvenience" and what could they do to make me happy?

Meanwhile, back at Amazon the price had dropped 20 bucks overnight. GodDAMMMIT. So I came back to the seller with a link to Amazon, not specifying a refund amount but implying a partial one would be a good start. But apparently their offer to make it up to me didn't extend as far as actual monetary compensation. Though I don't know of any dissatisfied customer being appeased with only kind words and feigned concern.

Yep, they stopped answering my emails, obviously hoping to walk away from this with just a negative feedback. I'm filing a dispute with PayPal for intentionally misrepresenting the condition of the item. I'm only asking for $10, because it's really more about the principle than the actual money for me (plus I noticed a negative feedback rating buried back in his shady past complaining they had returned the item and received no refund. THAT would be even worse than dealing with the stink). I don't think $10 is unreasonable, and I just want to prevent this guy from getting off scot-free.

Just in case nothing comes of it, I've removed the iron from the box (saving the box for evidence. If nothing else, it will serve as an amusing illustration when I tell Tery this tale on Christmas Day. Of course, if I ever try to sell my car I might be accused of stuffing a dead hooker in the trunk). I tried powering it on and ironing something to see if there are any odor-related consequences. Doesn't seem to be, knock on wood. MyFriendDeb has generously offered the use of her balcony for a full airing as a last resort.

Don't ask when I'm going to learn my lesson and stop trying to save a few bucks. 'Ain't never going to happen.

My little sister is having still worse luck. She ordered a gift for her new boyfriend, again from eBay, and wondered why the heck it hadn't come yet. Then she was walking with him down the street when five doors down, purely by chance, she noticed an empty box with her address on it among the garbage bags. Either the post office had delivered it to the wrong address, or someone stole it off her porch. Either way, the scumbag opened it and kept the gift. Without knowing who took it, she's left to stew impotently, furiously wishing the worst possible karma on the asswipe responsible -- which isn't terribly satisfying, as I can attest to. She promised me she'd go to the post office today and raise some hell, because I think they bear a large portion of the blame.

Heads up, people. Christmas this year has been cursed. I blame Twilight.

UPDATE!: She went to the post office, and as expected got a whole lot of "What do you want us to do about it?" She was on the verge of filing her own PayPal dispute against the seller, a decision she wasn't at all happy with since she knew he had delivered faithfully, when she called me for advice. Since the seller has a second auction listed for the same item, I suggested she tell him what happened and try to negotiate a bargain on the second one. She'd get her gift without spending twice as much, he'd unload the item (sometimes a reduced price is better than nothing), win-win. She loved this idea. Why can't my own problems be so easily solved?

~*~

This past weekend I had a full house, as to be expected on a holiday weekend. People love their pets, until they have a house full of guests. Among them was my boy Beowulf, who if you'll remember had a grand old time on his last stay the night I decided to let him run around the place. He recognized me when I walked in, and I think remembered what I did, because the whole time I was walking everyone else he was just bouncing up and down, chomping at the bit to get out. He had to wait even longer because I was asked to give another dog a bath in preparation to go home the next day (went better than expected. As Tery assured me, the dog was so terrified at the strangeness of standing in a tub being sprayed down that she didn't move a muscle. It was kind of fun).

I finished with her and out Beowulf came. He immediately ran upstairs, the majority of his territory he claims, which is just fine by me; an intruder would probably have to get in up there. I would just like to see the look on their face when they spotted Beowulf galloping down the hallway at full speed towards them.

I also had Honus the Asshole Beagle of Death, who has settled down amazingly well since the family adopted Travis. But Honus didn't care for Beowulf's preferential treatment, oh, not one little bit. He howled and barked and yapped up a storm. Sorry, Honus. Beowulf is my favorite. Maybe if you were my favorite....but no. If there was some bizarre cataclysmic event that wiped out every other dog on the planet except you, Honus, you STILL wouldn't be my favorite. And even if I had an inoperable brain tumor and decided you were, I hopefully wouldn't forget the last time I gave you free run as a desperate attempt to get you to stop barking THE ENTIRE NIGHT, and you completely trashed the place. No, Honus, sorry. Not again in this lifetime.

Beowulf spent a few happy hours walking his perimeter -- around the top floor, sit by the front door for awhile, then back down to check on me. It was all well and good until I finished my work and lay down for a quick nap. Then his circuit included trotting over to my cot and thoroughly washing my face. On every single pass. Ewww. Meant no open-mouth sleeping, but I tolerated it because it was the most affection he'd ever shown me, and I don't much fancy the idea of saying no when such a large beast has his jaws exactly at face level.

By morning he was literally yawning, could hardly keep his eyes open (I exhorted him multiple times to relax and sleep next to me, but he would have none of it. Not while there was a building to be guarded. Tery's employees should have half the dedication). Tery says the day shift who came in after me remarked about how calm and well behaved he was. Yep, just have me be Beowulf's personal handler. That would be great.



Some more pictures: I found this symbol drawn on every available surface last weekend. I deduced it was Twilight-related.



My Navi Navi, licking her lips and Lomo-fied:



Unrelated, here's another gay ferret boy pic, because I can't get enough of them:



~*~

Finally a movie rec: Right at your Door. A terrorist attack hits LA, and we're trapped in a house with a guy who knows less than us, cuz he didn't read the EW review. ( ::spoilers? Yep, got those. In spades:: )

Scary? Oh yeah, it plays just right on all the new fears of the 21st century. Terrorist attack, government figures who are even scarier than Muslims, biological warfare on American soil, the media lying to the public -- this movie has it all. Kind of a downer of an ending, which is what I liked most about it. Rent it now.