The Saga

I started this story with the sentence, "I"m ashamed to admit this..." but then realized that wasn't one bit true at all, and I was just using that phrase to temper my dorkiness. I'm not ashamed, Reader, to admit that I've not only read all the Twilight's, but as of this weekend, have also now seen the whole Saga. And I've dragged My Mister along with me for all four movies, kicking and protesting, but he's gone none-the-less. She who has the pussycat has the power. 

See what I did there for you, Reader? I made this a CAT post. 

But back to the story.   

There was a slight miscommunication, and I thought that we had planned to go see the last Twilight over this past weekend with our friends The Hoffs.  So I put My Mister on a mission to go and get  Breaking Dawn Part 1 so we could catch up in time to catch the movie on Saturday. 

We crammed it in late Friday night. And I have to say, my little kitteh (see, another valid CAT post!) was on my lap (he was under the weather, a little cold and sore paws) and when Jacob and the other woofs turned into giant woofs, he jumped back against me and was mesmerized by the telly, with all that growling and whatnot. I found that to be a little charming, that he was watching Twilight with us.

Anyway, we watched it and didn't hate it, but both agreed that it could have ended right there, with Bella's blood red eyes opening and that could have been that. We didn't need yet another movie. 

But having committed to three of them at that point, we HAD to go see the last, even once I discovered that the Hoffs went without us while I was busy NOT having the day off from Tiny Town on Friday.  My Mister said we had to go that night, before we both totally lost interest.  

So we went. And in the beginning I wanted my time back. And then some stuff happened in the middle and we started to get involved. And then the most awesome fight scene erupted and we loved it, right down to clapping during some of the losing-their-head scenes. That is, when we weren't gasping at all the shock-deaths that happened. 

By the end? Stupid Bella and Edward were back in the flower field, and promising something about forever, and they flashed all the people who had been characters from all the stories, and a whole reminiscent scene of Edward & Bella's blossoming love story, and I found myself getting all misty-eyed. I blamed the dust in the theater.  

My Mister looked over in disbelief, asking, "Are you...CRYING??"  

Yes, dammit. I CRIED. It was a stupid shitty love story, and it still made me cry. 

On the way out, he bought me a $3 Twilight cup.  

Now that's true love. 

Thankful

I'm late with a recap of the nonsense that's my life, and I know you're sad about that. As am I, Reader, as am I.  I've been preoccupied, my nose has been buried in the book Gone Girl.  When I wasn't reading it, I was thinking about it. So it did it's job, kept me entertained and kept you from having to read about my vagina. Which is the perfect segue (wow, I had spelled that segway and then checked with Almighty Google on that, and I was way off, way way off!) into Thanksgiving. 

Thanksgiving brought an impromptu dinner plan my way. I had bowed out of the family affair this year, as My Mister had to work and I just didn't feel like going to his side of the family's and eating a hurried dinner. I just wanted to sit at home, unshowered,  in my pajamas, watching the parade, drinking coffee and eating pumpkin coffee cake while I enjoyed my "brief break" as Tiny Town encouraged us to do before we got back to business.  Which isn't the worst Thanksgiving plan, Reader.  

But then my friend Murdoch said, "come on over, we'll have plenty of food." And I declined because really, how intrusive would that be, to accept a nicety, but then a text message in the morning reiterated the invite and I found myself saying, "Okay!" despite having absolutely nothing to bring with me.  I don't think they wanted on-the-verge-of-spoiling milk. But maybe I should have brought it anyway, just to be polite. 

I was excited I said yes, and had something new to do, and it encouraged me to even take a shower and wash my hair, which I guess could be my Thanksgiving gift to them. You're welcome, Murdoch's. 

Dinner was delightful, with a fantastic meal cooked from scratch, and I especially liked Rob's mom, who is a world traveller and really charming. His Dad and I talked about mining for diamonds (a life list item for me), as I have discovered he has read snippets of this nonsense, which is a little awkward if he's read any of the vagina monologues parts, or about me dreaming of getting fingerbanged by a black basketball player, or even THIS POST, now that I've said all that. Sorry, Rob's Dad, if you're here. I'll try to be more lady-like. But I can't make any promises. Just go to the posts about cats, those are usually pretty tame. Unless I'm referring to "pussy" and not "pussy cats" or something, wow, just stop typing already, Me, stop! You're not helping! 

Er. 

I apologize? 

Anyway. I am super appreciative for the invite, glad I said yes, was grateful for the leftovers as they became part of my back-to-work-Friday lunch. And happy to have met the folks responsible for Rob, haha.  And their new dogue Sulley, who is very cute and not even slobbery yet. 

One bad thing happened while I was at their house for Thanksgiving dinner.  I discovered a $50+ bottle of wine that became my favorite. I don't have $50+ wine income.  I liked it so much I went to my local winery to buy a bottle the next night, and while they don't carry Twomey, he led me to a $20 bottle of Pinot Noir that was good, but not the same.  So thanks a lot, Rob and Beth, when I'm a poor drunk because I've drank my retirement in fancy wine, you have only yourselves to blame when I have to move into your basement  (or thank, as you may really enjoy more of me!). Which is really part of my dream plan, as they have a sauna in their basement. And a lot of delicious wine, so win-win for me. 

He'd Flip Us Off If He Could.

We had the kitty declawed last weekend.   Dismount from your high horse, you out there who is opposed to this barbaric practice.

I'm opposed to it, too.  If you look on the Internet, you can't help but be opposed to it. It's horrible looking. But so is a lot of shit we have to do in life, and this is his only sacrifice he has to make to live a pampered existence for the remainder of his days. 

I thought of the soft paws option, but the reality is, I don't think that will work as he gets older and declawing an older cat is reportedly more painful. 

All the other cats are declawed and DJ used his weapons of cat destruction against them all the time. Kitty Purry had boo-boos all over her nose and ears. 

He didn't fight fair.

And My Mister was convinced (probably rightly so) that the baby would be hanging by his claws off the new 80" t.v. and then we'd all be sad. 

So he went in last weekend for laser surgery. It's supposed to be the less painful/less invasive option, so we paid the extra to try and give him a little less agony.

And today, we had to take him in as an emergency visit, because he was chewing himself bloody and has caught a cold on top of it all. 

We just got back, and he has a Cone of Shame he'll have to wear, and I need to do some paw dips in a solution of stuff a couple of times a day, and he's on an antibiotic for 20 days or some absurdly long time like that. 

He DOES NOT like the Come of Shame. At all. And I'm a little miffed that the fucking thing was $13 and it's opaque, and not a clear one, so he doesn't even have the luxury of peripheral vision. Rob, you & he are in the same boat (Rob just got new progressive lens glasses and now he and my cat have something in common). 

The vet who came in tonight said, "You look really familiar." To which I replied, "Yeah, you're the vet who had to put our cat Twinkle to sleep a few months ago."  

It was a little awkward.  

She graciously didn't charge us for the Sunday emergency visit, only for the medicines. I really appreciate that. A lot. The visit was *only* $88. Not bad for an exam, 2 meds, a shot and a cone. And a toe dipping bath. 

The cat? He doesn't even know how shitty the next 20 days are going to be.  

In My Next 30 Years...

Happy Birthday,  Vintage Me!!

A few things you should know about how the next 30+ years pan out. 

First, you never outgrow that "awkward phase." You are awkward, you remain awkward, the best you can learn to do is accept and adapt. Don't try to fight it. You're just who you are, and that's okay. Stop resisting.

The shit you wrote about in your diary? That shit never changes. The players change, the venue changes (school to work), but the shit? That's your life. 

You don't outgrow your love of cake. So stop with all the "I"m giving up sugar FOREVER" plans; that is a stupid goal for you and then you just feel like a failure when you give in to the red velvet. 

You can, however, give up meat, and your crusade to save the animals was a noble goal for 5 years. 

Your dream man doesn't work out. Twice. It's okay to alter the criteria.

Keep your perspective, because life does have hard times.  Lots and lots of them.  Find the funny. 

You'll travel, and finally make it to your dream destinations, including Barbados and Italy. You're lucky in life that way. 

But it's all possible because you get up and go to work every day. If I could gently advise you to do anything different? It would be to stop thinking about boys and apply yourself to your schoolwork. Earning a decent living for yourself is what saves you. You could have done better. There's still time. 

46-year-old Me thanks you for flaunting it, even when you thought you were too fat and certainly not pretty. Because 46 year old me? Looks back on that and sees the greatness that's me, and it's a reminder that one day? I'll be 86 and looking back on 46-year-old me a little wistfully, so I might as well flaunt the fuck out of it now because eventually this will be the "good old days" when I was in my prime. 

Keep your perspective. 

The Master Plan

Morning conversation with My Mister, while we were still warm and sleepy-eyed from a good night's sleep:

Me: "Since I turned 46 yesterday, does that mean I'm now in my 47th year??" 

Him: "Yep. You're in your 47th year now. And I'm only 44."

Me: "Hm. Well, I think it's time we broke up. I have reached the age where I can get myself a nice 60 year old with a full pension plan and you can go get yourself a 34 year old and maybe start a family." 

Him: "You'd want a 60 year old??" 

Me: "Hell yes! "Cougars" are STUPID! What the fuck would I want with a 20-something year old guy? Give me someone nearing -or in - retirement, with a paid-off mortgage and a good pension plan or big 401k, who will be THRILLED to get a whippersnapper like myself!"  

Me: "You know, someone with a full head of white hair, like Ted Baxter. Or Lou Grant. Lou always made me laugh."

Him: "Ted Baxter's dead." 

Me, wistfully: "Yeah......that's the downside of this plan."

Him: "Sounds like you've put a lot of thought into this." 

Me: "Yep! I've seen the ad on t.v. - "our time dot com" - dating place for "mature" people. I think you have to be 50 to be on it, but I'll lie up. No one will question me lying up, who would lie up to 50? And I'll just look like a hot ticket for my age." 

Him: "Who do you think I'll get?" 

Me: "Oh, someone much younger, who maybe can bear children, and give your mom a grandchild."

Him: "But I don't want children!" 

Me: "Too bad. It's in the scenario."

Him: "Damn."

The end. 

It Went Without Warning. Maybe.

You may or may not (probably not, why would you?) remember, but about this time last year I was having some Titty Troubles. See, I was peer-pressured into getting my first ever mammary-gram, and the message? Wasn't very nice. 

It was downright scary. 

It involved a lot of follow up appointments and shish-ka-boob antics (needles sticking in my boobie), and an appointment for a biopsy where I cried on the table. Not because it hurt, but because my feelings were hurt. My boobies, who I've long supported in their endeavors, were causing me angst and that was really rude of them and hurting my feelings. 

I also didn't like the amount of blood I saw. 

So anyway. I had the biopsy surgery last November 1st, and I was therefore ordered for a follow-up boobie MRI 6 months later. Which I frankly wasn't ready to face. Oh, the results of all that angst? It was nothing, but it could have been something, so I guess it's good to get it checked out, because my friend who had peer-pressured me into the gram? She wasn't one of the lucky ones, and her boobie WAS a traitor and needed to be bitchslapped into proper boobie behavior. Also known as "don't be a bully on the playground, yo."   

Now that I have my new heath care coverage all in place, and we were coming up on a year of since the Scare of '11, I figured it was time to make the appointment.  Which is how I found out my vagina is playing tricks on me.  See, I called in October to schedule the appointment for the boob MRI. Which, for the record, does NOT sound like it's going to be all fun & games, oh nosiree. But whatever. These things come with a high degree of maintenance. Apparently. 

Well, I found out that I couldn't schedule the appointment until the first day of my period, because it has to happen exactly 14 to 17 days from the start of your period.  She asked me when I could expect that. I don't know. In a few weeks? A few days? I really had no idea. I mean, I'm always quite regular - in fact, I'm going to add that to my resume. Because it demonstrates punctuality, Reader - a valid business reason, and NOT because I'd like to put "Punctual Vaginal Secretions" on my resume. I'm supposed to tout my strengths, all the career boards say so.  

Because it's always so punctual, I don't keep any records of the comings and goings of it. It shows up once a month. 

I was told to call back when that happened. 

So far? It hasn't happened. Still waiting. Going on three weeks or so.  

Interestingly enough (to me, anyway), the nurse on the phone asked if I was pre-menopause.

I don't know.

How are we supposed to know these things?

It's hard being a girl. All sorts of shit we're supposed to know.

But it got me to thinking. How do we know when our last period is our last period?? How long do I wait around before coding it and declaring myself Officially Old. 

I wish there was a way to know. A handwritten note would be a nice gesture, with a, "Hey, this will be your last period. Ever. Sincerely, Your Vagina." Because after 30+ years of "spraying out of the blowhole" (a term my ex-fucktard coined, which is really kinda funny, I'll give him that), I feel like I should have had a little going-away party, with a cake and a little party hat for my vagina. 

And maybe even a blowhorn.

Shaken, Not Stirred.

Roger Moore was interviewed on Howard Stern this morning. When Roger Moore played James Bond, I would have totally pulled my pants down for him. Totally. Off.  

Today, I discovered he's 85.

Eighty. Fucking. Five. How is it possible that I would entertain the thought of pulling down my pants for an eighty-five year old man?  

The age gap didn't seem so .... gappy.... when I was a nubile young teen and he was a suave and debonaire secret agent. 

The question is, would I pull my pants down for him NOW? The gap is still the same. But yet somehow it's not. 

Worth 2 in the Bush

Did you ever see the movie Election, Reader? If not, I recommend it. It's a good time.

There. That's my election post. 

I'd write more, but I had a hair-brained (or is it hare-brained?? I don't think that's very polite towards rabbits, actually, so I shall insult my hair instead) idea to glue on press-on nails. My friend wears them and they look really nice on her. I thought I'd copy and get a $6 manicure look from the comfort of my toilet seat. Because I put them on in the bathroom, Reader - duh. In case the glue spilled. So I have on my fake toilet-applied nails and I can't type and would like to take them off but I've been advised that won't be possible for several days, so instead I'll type less and just go to bed. 

That's why I haven't written you any love letters lately. My nails are handicapped. Sort of literally - hand-(i)-capped - see how clever? Although they prefer "Differently Abled," thank you very much. 

My nails, unlike my hair, don't like to be demeaned. 

Semper Fi

My nephew graduated from Marine Corp Boot Camp yesterday. I'm so...choked up, proud, happy, sad (the little one who was a baby is now a grown adult male set to defend this country! - I cannot grasp that!), nostalgic for 18 and the world at your feet, all the Firsts to look forward to - First Loves, First Marriages (hey, I'm a realist), First House, First New Car, First Travels to other parts of the world - finding out who you are and what you're made of. 

It makes me nostalgic. I've looked at his picture over and over and tear up every time. 


I wish my mother were here to see him. I pine, for not being able to talk to her about him and sharing in his moment with her.

I want so much for him!! I want him to live a happy life, and make good friends, and create a family he's proud of, and find love and make some girl's heart sing, and be honest, and have integrity so he looks back on life and he's as proud of himself as I am right now. 

He's had a rough time of life as a teen. My brother - his father - is an asshole of uncommon proportions. So to see him rise above? Well, bursting, that's my heart.