Needle in a Haystack.

Behold the perfect shoe:

At least, according to the 17-year old living in my house.  She bought these shoes at Target about two years ago for about $15.  And she LURVED them.  Her friends also lurved them.  If the kiddo wasn't wearing them, one of her friends was borrowing them.  The whole pack of girls initiated "Wedge Wednesday" based on these shoes.  Then about a year ago...during the middle of the Quaterback Club fundraising banquet, the unthinkable happened.  The cheerleaders were working as servers for this banquet...so they were all dressed up in nice dresses and heels...the kiddo wearing her most favorite pair of wedges in all the land...and they broke.

Now folks, there is nothing about this shoe that belongs in nature...every scrap of material is some type of synthetic something.  There's no fixing these things...and believe me, we have tried.

Since this tragic loss, we have been looking high and low for something to replace them.  My daughter refuses to let me throw them out even though we both know that they can't be repaired (yes, I took a $15 pair of Target's finest Mossimos to a cobbler at one point and was told there was nothing to be done).  She keeps them, I think, to remind herself exactly what they looked like.  And every now and then, one of us will undertake an online search to see if there's anything comparable out there.

I was home today with some kind of minor stomach-ick...and while piddling around the house, straightening things, I spied the-most-perfect-wedges-in-creation in the kiddo's shoe rack.  I hooked the pair through my fingers, skipped downstairs, plopped myself in front of the computer and started scouring the world-wide-web for something like them.  Nada.  So I thought I'd check out eBay and see if maybe someone had a pair of the actual shoes (size 7) out there used.  Typing in "Brown Wedge Sandal size 7" produced 1597 results.  I start gamely going through them and find this:

 

 

Which are A) Butt-ugly; B) NOT sandals; and C) Vintage???

Really? Vintage 90s???

What the hell, people?  Since when are the 90s vintage?  I know that I have certainly tried to avoid the whole hipster movement in its entirety, but I have still been aware of it around me.  Has this trend of shopping at Thrift stores to look all original and shit led to folks believing that the 90s are that far back in the recesses of time?  Really?

Gah.  I feel old.  Also? Unproductive.  I have still not found the appropriate replacement wedges.  Anyone have any ideas where to look? (I've tried amazon, zappos, shoebuy and of course, eBay). 



My Mug Shot

One of my Canadian lovelies, Sarah, recently Tweeted that you can tell a lot about a person from looking at their mug collection. Since Sarah is one of the most profound human beings I have ever met…I generally pay attention to her observations. So, naturally, I immediately ran to my cabinet and pulled out my own mug collection, snapped a Tweetpic of it and asked for my very own Sarah-analysis. Of course she replied with something ridiculously flattering, because she loves me…but it got me to thinking and really examining exactly what these mugs do say:

And whether or not the mugs say a lot about my personality, I have to admit, they do say a lot about my life.

First: to the far left, the Angry Bird mug. This mug is not actually mine, it’s Jeff’s, but I bought it. How my little Toronto-based guru knew this, I cannot fathom, but she declared that the mug said I was a “Devoted wife.” She knows me well. I’ve been married to the love of my life for 23 years now…I’ve been with him for almost 28. (God, those NUMBERS!!) Not every one of those years has been bliss, but each year has been worth it. People look their whole lives for what I found very early on…I’m a lucky chick and I know it.

To the far right is a Department of the Army mug. I’ve worked out on a military facility (as a contractor) for going on 15 years now. This job has played a HUGE part of my life. I love my job. I love the people I work with and I love the challenging work that I do. I love feeling like what I do makes a difference to my community, my family, my nation. We destroyed World War II era chemical weapons out here, and we did an awesome job of it. I know that the world is just that much safer with that crap gone, and I love that I had a part in that mission. We’re winding down now…decontaminating the facility and getting it ready for demolition. I’m sad to be working myself out of a job…but still damn proud of what we accomplished out here.

Moving along, the Sock Monkey mug is one of a pair. My daughter bought them for me and my BFF Annette, whom she has called “Aunt Nette” her entire life. Annette is one of those friends that’s as close, if not closer, than family. Anyway, my child saw the pair of mugs one day while out Christmas shopping and decided that they looked like “us.” You know that special friend you have that you can call at 2:00 am and scream, “I need a chainsaw, some Hefty bags, a flashlight and some tequila!” (hypothetically) and her unruffled reply would be, “’Kay! Be right there! You’ve got limes, right?” Well, Annette it that friend for me. I don’t know what I’d do without her. (Probably jail time).


The Queen of Confidence mug was given to me by another close friend of mine. The other side reads:


Confidence


1. Full of belief in one's self and wardrobe. 2. One who can pull off any shade of lipstick and hair color with ease 3. Knowing that all she embarks on will be wonderful 4. Always right in her own mind.


Please note…none of that is actually a description of me AT. ALL. If it were not for ruthless intervention on behalf of my (very stylish) daughter, I would probably be the season finale on “What Not to Wear.” I don’t know where she got it from, but my kiddo has had an eye for what looks great since she was about 12. She’s definitely not a follower either…she’s hates looking like anyone else…but her taste is unerringly fabulous whether she’s picking out an outfit for me or buying herself a new makeup palette. So 1 & 2 don’t really describe me…but perhaps a latent fashionista gene that I passed along?

Maybe #3, a little. I do love to embark on new things. Except Windows 8. I hate that eff-ing software.

As far as #4 “Always right in her own mind”, I’m usually not even sure that I’m in my right mind. What I AM sure of, is that I have awesome friends who see me for my strengths and not my flaws. So, while I may not actually be the “Queen” of Confidence, having friends that think I deserve the title certainly gets me closer.

Finally, the middle mug. This coffee mug is old. My mother made it in a ceramics class in the mid-70s and gave it to my Granny. For my ENTIRE life, I remember seeing my Granny drinking out of this mug at breakfast. (Also? Eating toast off of a Corningware saucer that had the olive-green flower pattern along the edge. I think every household in the United States had at least one dish in this pattern). 

(Ha! Just looked it up…pattern was called “Crazy Daisy”…which for some reason just cracks me up. We just named the new kitten Daisy)

Where was I? Oh, yeah. Granny’s coffee mug. I am the only one who drinks out of this mug…and it is the one that I reach for if it’s clean. It’s my favorite mug for many reasons: the size is JUST right for the large setting on my Keurig + the amount of creamer I like; the wide opening enables the coffee to cool off enough to drink fairly quickly; the glazed ceramic keeps the coffee at just the right temperature long enough for me to enjoy the entire cup of coffee at just the right pace. But most importantly, the coffee cup reminds me that I am special. Let me explain. I have a LOT of people in my life that love me. I am SO lucky at the fantastic family and friends that I have that think the world of me. My husband loves me. My parents are proud of me. My daughter (even at the age of 17) thinks that I am someone to help her with her worries and concerns. My friends love me and even without the ties of marriage or blood seek me out to be a part of their lives. But no one, NO ONE, has ever loved me like my Granny. My Granny thought I was perfect. Period. All of the wonderful people in my life love me despite my flaws. My grandmother believed that I had none. She thought that I was the prettiest, smartest, kindest, funniest person to ever grace this planet, and if YOU couldn't see that, you were either ignorant or blind. She would not hear one word against me, ever. She would vehemently deny any flaw that anyone might try to point out regarding my behavior. I could have axe-murdered a busload of nuns and my Granny would have found some way to justify why I’d done it. Her opinion of me was, of course, a far cry from the truth…but her belief in me gave me the cornerstone for a rock-steady belief in myself that has served me well my entire life and seen me through some absolute shit-storms that have come my way. I think that EVERYONE needs someone in their lives that love them in this way…who see them as better and more perfect than they actually are…who is their steadfast champion. God, I miss her.

P.S. The only thing that the KFC cup over by the sink is saying is that I fell prey to their “I ate the bones!” commercials. First time I’ve had KFC in freaking years, I swear.

Gross toes

I am from the south...and bitch as we do about the humidity, it serves a purpose. It keeps us from drying out and shriveling up. I have been in Pueblo Colorado this week. Besides being the Federal information pamphlet Mecca, it is the driest place on the planet. Every day has had triple digit temps and single digit humidity. Just look at my damn toes. I'm going to try to go in for a pedicure this weekend. I expect you will see shrieking little Cambodian women fleeing in the streets.

From there to here: Part Deux

Okay, so where were we? Let's see, when we left off at my last blog post, we had thankfully avoided adopting Not-Oscar (aka Puddin' 3).  Things were quiet for awhile and drifted from Fall into winter, when, lo and behold, this showed up on the day after Christmas:



 This dog wandered around in our neighborhood for a couple of days.  He had a collar on, but no identification.  After seeing him narrowly miss becoming nothing but a greasy spot in the road, the kiddo insisted on letting him into the backyard to avoid creating a new speed bump on our street.  We put out flyers, made sure he was well fed and watered...and...nothing.  No one called to claim him, no local Vet's office recognized him.  I didn't want this dog...and honestly, he didn't seem to really want us.  He was an older dog, and whatever language he was used to hearing, it apparently wasn't ours.  Nothing we said to him: "Food" "Stay" "Come" "Go" produced anything but a blank look.  He ate our food, drank the water we gave him, but wasn't really interested in any other interaction.  He had zero personality and zero interest in becoming anyone's friend be it human or animal.  Oh...but he did have a remarkable ability to somehow squeeze through the cat door on the back porch and somehow find any source of electricity available and shock himself into a seizure.  I'm not kidding.  We found this dog behind the counter on the porch where there was this 2 1/2 inch gap and he'd dislodge the cord for the heater and try to fry himself.  The lights inside would dim and we'd find him on the porch convulsing.  This happened at least 3 times.  We tried three different barricades before we could stop the idiot from doing that.  Naturally, we took to calling him "Sparky".  Not that he ever answered to it, or anything else we said...but it was descriptive and more polite than "Damn dog."

Sparky was with us for a couple of months when one day he slipped out of the fence...I saw him rounding a corner of the across-the-street neighbor's backyard.  I yelled for him...he never flicked an ear.  We honestly scoured a half mile radius looking for a dog that everyone in the house (other animals included) were completely ambivalent about for days but never found a trace of him.  Our hypothesis is that he finally remembered whatever non-English-speaking home he had come from and high-tailed it back.

The equilibrium of our household returned.  But only momentarily.  These next couple of entries, I'm afraid, are all on me.

The place where I work is very close to the county animal control center. Animal. Control. Not Animal shelter.  This confuses a lot of people...they assume that this facility is there to help find homes for animals.  You can adopt there...if you move fast enough.  Sometimes this place doesn't wait a full 24-hours before putting the animals it collects (or are dropped off) down.  Also?  There had recently been an investigative piece in our local paper where they uncovered all kinds of atrocities going on there.  Not kidding...I'm talking criminal indictments were made.  But folks CONTINUE to drop animals off in this horrible cage right outside the gates.  Several of us at work had taken to stopping and rescuing any animal we saw in there while driving in to work and putting out a call for someone to adopt them, or at least finding a no-kill shelter to take them.  One day, one of my co-workers stopped and got this little lady out of the Death Pen:



She appeared to have recently weaned a litter of puppies.  She was some type of Chihuahua/Dachshund mix.  She was sweet as pie and stank to the high-heavens.  My co-worker was about to leave for the weekend, but thought that on the up-coming Monday, she could probably find a place for her in a no-kill shelter if I could foster her over the weekend and run her by the vet's office that we'd been working with that would give our rescued animals a once-over and basic shots for a very discounted rate.  I took her home, bathed her a dozen times and took her to the vet.  He assessed that she was about three years old and would never weigh more than ten pounds.  I brought this "foster" dog home for the weekend.  The hubby had her in his lap the whole first evening.  The next morning, after she climbed off of our bed, she went to curl up with all three of the cats.  By that afternoon, she was Simba's best friend.  By the second night, the daughter had named her Libby. Sigh.

(For those keeping score:

Dogs: 3

Inside cats: 3

Outside cats: 1)

I once again declared: "No. More. Animals! This is it! Period!" Even though I was the one who had brought the latest one home. 

A few months later, there was Maxx. This too was all me:

Maxx, when I still thought I was "fostering" him.

Maxx today.  He's ginormous, BTW

I had never, ever intended to have FOUR cats inside.

However, sometimes we get what we need, whether we intend for it or not.  Not long after we formally adopted Maxx, we started to notice Baby (Jeff's funky old yard cat) failing.  While going through the long, long fight to get Baby to rally, I am so thankful that we had Maxx.  He was loving and playful and just what all of us needed while we faced the inevitable with Baby.

We had our 3 dogs. We had four inside cats (Maxx was getting so big, you almost had to count him as a cat and a half.)

And then what happened, Marianne?  Well...the kiddo was out selling ads for the upcoming year's football program (she's a cheerleader...also known as free labor for anything football-related).  While making her rounds, she came across this tiny, precious, helpless, wee little thing:



"Absolutely not!" I said. "Right Jeff?" as I walked into the living room to find her perched on his shoulder, purring her little kitten purrs into his ear.

"Um, yeah, of course not."

I addressed the child using her first, middle and last names, "You'll have to take her back where you found her tomorrow!" I said this while the little poot hopped down to run and play with Simba who immediately turned her into a little white and black spitball (she was clearly having the time of her life...as soon as he quit, she'd rub around on his legs until he did it again).

"I don't care how cute she is!  Five cats in the house is crazy talk!"

"Mew!" she said to me in her little kitten voice.

"But I can't take her back there!  I'll try to find her a home.  We'll just keep her until I find her a home!"

And here we are.  She's still not named...but I've been out-voted on this one.  She IS the most precious little thing you've ever seen.  Everyone loves her.  The other cats don't even get in her way at feeding time.  And usually, they act like a bunch of psychotic, furry piranhas that haven't seen food in a week at dinner time.

For the record, names that have been suggested and rejected at this point:

Aphrodite

Persephone

Rosaline

Penny

Venus

Lyndsey

Carmen

Beverly

Ariel

Zelda

Ophelia

Also for the record, the count is

Dogs: 3

Cats: 5

Sigh.

Update:

Fine.  Her name is Daisy.  Daisy Fay (as in the Great Gatsby).  Daughter wanted something literary and she DID read the The Great Gatsby recently (she's also a sucker for anything Leonardo DiCaprio in it)

From there to here...Part One

Hi.
I know. I KNOW. I swore never, ever again. And yet, here we are. With another damn cat…not even A YEAR since I took in the last one, swearing that he was ABSOLUTELY, POSITIVELY the last new animal to cross the threshold.
To recap:

We had a fully functioning baseline of animals to begin with…

Rosie, the three legged dog (inside/outside):

Three indoor cats:


Pluto and Kendall:

And Jaxamoe:

(Spooky picture, right?)

Outside, the hubby’s funky old yard cat, Baby:

For a few years, we had a ferret as well…but Janie went to ferret heaven after only 5 years due to thyroid issues.


We rocked on with our well established eco-system. Everyone was happy. Everyone knew their place…I was reasonable high in the pecking order, so I was content.


Then, one fateful day in May of 2009, this happened:

My daughter found him over at her friend’s house…the runt of the litter who had been abandoned by his mother. He was all gummy-eyed and sickly…but how could I not agree to take him in? He weighed 7 freaking ounces, for crying out loud! He was so small that we couldn’t really tell what he was…assumed we had a girl and named him Isabella…a couple of days later when the vet confirmed we had a male, we changed it to Izby. It took us several months to get him into perfect health…we had a couple of real scares where he got sick and we rushed him to the Animal ER. He’ll always be a small, wee kitty, he will always be bow-legged. But he fit into our family quite seamlessly…

 

We lost Jaxamoe not long after to a virus that his breed (Bengal) is particularly prone to catching, so we only had 4 inside cats for a little while…during which Izby never broke 3 lbs. By the time Izby reached his full growth of 7 whopping pounds, we were once again at three indoor cats.


We passed almost two whole years without any animal additions. Then the kiddo got old enough to date…and along came a boy that wanted to show her the depths of his affection by bringing her this:

I freaking DARE you to tell me you could have resisted him. Even though I KNEW he would not stay a little ole fur-ball forever, that he would one day be big enough to counter-surf and set off the seat-belt alarm in the car…even though I knew the reputation of Golden Retriever puppies for chewing on everything in sight…one look into those liquid, big brown eyes and I was completely owned by that dog. We welcomed Simba into our fold as an indoor/outdoor dog like Rosie. I will say…he surprised me very much with the chewing thing…he never put tooth to anything that wasn’t food or one of his allowed toys. He is, however a retriever breed. Which means he likes to retrieve things. All. The. Time.

Pictured here: six of the eleventy-dozen tennis balls Simba has. We had to put them on the mantel to keep him from trying to retrieve all six simultaneously. (He could get two into his mouth, but would lose one when he’d try to go for three. He was obsessive/compulsive about trying) Simba came to us very young, and was half-raised by cats. He’s never really embraced the concept that he can’t do everything that the cats can do…and has no real concept of how much bigger than a cat he is.


So okay…we now stand at:


Indoor/outdoor dogs: 2 (or 1 and 3/4)


Indoor cats: 3


Outdoor cats: 1


That’s reasonable. I mean, I know it’s more than most people would really want…but we weren’t in any danger of an animal planet police raid or a staged intervention or anything. I declared that we were at capacity. I even managed to hold strong through several attempts by the child to breach my defenses:

This is a cat. His name is definitely not Oscar. He was looking for a home, but it was not mine. My daughter found him starving outside of the 32degree yogurt place and because I am a great, big, huge SUCKER with absolutely NO backup from my husband, not-Oscar was brought home to stay in the kiddo’s bathroom while I frantically tried to find him a permanent home. He was INCREDIBLY sweet and very purr-y. I could feel myself caving when…only a couple of hours into the second day, my friend Annette found not-Oscar a home. A guy she worked with had a liking for yellow tabbies. His original yellow tabby, Puddin’, had been around about 8 years and apparently weighed 15 pounds…his second yellow tabby had actually just started hanging around his house and coming in through his cat door on his own…for several days, he and his wife thought Puddin had just developed the ability to open the space/time continuum and appear in two places almost simultaneously. When they realized the fact that it was just a Puddin doppelganger, they took to calling him Puddin 2. This couple had no children and spoiled their yellow tabbies rotten. Not-Oscar was crated and taken by these kindly people…off to begin his new life as Puddin 3.


I breathed a huge sigh of relief as I realized what a bullet I had dodged. I set the kid down and told her IN NO UNCERTAIN TERMS that we weren’t taking in any more animals…To be continued… 

A glimpse of my own mortality

Guys. I just filled out a mail-in rebate form to receive $10 off my latest purchase of vodka. My lameness has reached a new level.
I wonder when I'll be eligible for a senior citizens' discount at the liquor store

26 Minutes

26 Minutes.  For those of you out there wondering how long my house could stay clean, the answer is 26 minutes.  No sooner had I posted "Cleaned the whole house today!  Quick!  Someone come visit me!" than I walked into my kitchen, opened the pantry and spilled an ENTIRE. BOX. of cocoa powder onto my kitchen floor.  And friends and neighbors, cocoa powder is insidious.  I spent about 30 minutes chasing it all over my kitchen tile (with the various and sundry animals tracking all through it) before I got it cleaned up.