Goodbye Doggie-Brown

The Real Zaedah
approx. 1998 - 10/10/2010

Site now closed.

Every Generation's Question

This is a re-post of a message I composed last year. Still feels relevant on this day...

It seems to me that every generation is called upon to answer a variation of the age-old question; "Where were you when?"

On this day, we ask our friends, coworkers and occasionally strangers, "Where were you on 9/11?" Nine years on and still we are curious. Why? To gauge the impact on others, to engage in remembrance of a shared experience, to fulfill what the previous generations know. My parents ask the question in reference to John Kennedy. Their parents asked because of Pearl Harbor. Perhaps we'll tire of the game one day, but at present I can still recall every detail of the 12 hour day I was working when I learned of the first plane's crash.

As we recall events today, most do so with a shake of the head and a reverent voice, telling our day with the remnant of disbelief. I sometimes wonder how those who championed the hijackers tell it. Where were they when our country was changed? Do they revere the killers? Do they shake their heads? I don't expect to meet anyone who sides with the perpetrators and must therefore contend myself with the empty act of forgiveness. They killed people I don't know and though the day shook me, it will never approach the pain of those who buried a loved one or gave their lungs for the cause.

At the Veterans Administration call center, we received a call from a vet who said aliens were attacking. In minutes another man informed us that a bomb went off. Soon the story trimmed the fantasy fat and veered toward truth. We were attacked. And then Peter Jennings took over our radios to give us the play-by-play of a day gone terribly sideways. Without televisions, we relied on callers to update us on the visuals. Another plane struck. The Pentagon was breached. A plane was missing and thirty employees began scanning the ceiling tiles. The bulk of the day was thereafter spent talking among ourselves in shock-tainted tones.

The drive home is what I will remember most strongly and will always mention when this day is recalled. I will speak of the man who stood on the side of the road at 8:00 pm with a huge American flag. He waved it solemnly and I will not deny the tears that welled. On that day, everyone that I knew had become a vocal patriot and this man showed his pride in the most beautiful display I'd ever seen.

We no longer look up at every airplane overhead with suspicion as we did in the days following 9/11. There are less flags flying, though more magnetic ones remain on cars than I can ever remember seeing prior to the event. Distance dulls the perspective and time lessens the wound on most days. But today, on this anniversary and every one to come, our minds reverse the tape and replay our day. The day we were slapped, the day we stood up again, the day we united. The day we survived.

I am an American. I wave my flag. I remember where I was when...

Nope, no identity crisis here...

It's good to know who you are. It's even better to know what you are.

For some, there's room to doubt in one or both cases. But nature is certain in its ways, having enjoyed millions of years to play trial and error. My friend below was spotted at a nature center, busy in his endeavors to be who and what he is...

And we think WE have it tough?

Few appreciate the trials of the typical house cat, what with all those lofty expectations and deadlines and such. We humans can't understand the pressures of the Kitty Do list.

Take Zimba-Saurus Rex for example...

According to the feline bylaws to which he must adhere, Zimba is obligated to trip his human ten times per day to meet his quota. He must explore every inch of the house like it's an exciting new territory, as if he hasn't lived at his present domicile for the last eight years. In the course of said exploration, he must push his face through every cobweb he finds, as befits his status of 'permanent kitten.' As required by his local union, Zimba will sit in the sink in anticipation of the faucet being turned on (under the guideline that fresh water is best). Because he doesn't wish to be ousted from his fraternity, Zimba will play with every shoestring, drawstring or baggie tie within the span of his particular universe. Having obtained the moniker of a dinosaur for his feats of great destruction, Zimba must live up to his name by, even when approaching double digit age, decimating everything not nailed down and a handful of things that are.

And, as a survival tactic, he must do all things both dangerous and annoying while appearing to be - and here I quote the manual - too cute to kill. It works.

Because I come home from a looooong day of paid slavery and lo... the lamp has leapt to the floor, the speaker wires have been chewed clean through, the food dish is upended (to the dog's benefit), the pillows lie shredded and every pile of anything is scattered.

At least the cobwebs have been cleared. They all reside on his face. But it's difficult to skin the beast, shove a stick down his throat and rotate him over a fire because self-preservation kicks in and he summons, for want of a better word, cuteness. Behold...

Rumors of my death...

could, in some variation of our fine universe, be true. I hear that on the third moon of Lotusi XI, there was an office pool on how I'd go. Unfortunately the popular choice was 'Death by Stampede' and thus, as fate would have it, the alternate me was crushed rather efficiently by a herd of free-range armored rhino thingies.
Bummer.

But on this side of the space-time continuum, I am whole, untrampled and only slightly wrinkled from the hectic pace of life. Writing time is squeezed in between losing an Uno tournament to a nine year old and trying to sell air to people who, it should be noted, reside on an oxygen-rich planet.

But I assure you that I have not been disintegrated, unassembled or devoured by by cats (although anything's possible with this crew). I am merely pressed for time and, as it happens, time is pressing right back.

Another lesson from California...

Elephant seals know how to settle disagreements on everything from proper posture to the best remedy for sunburn. Perhaps if we humans just rammed into each other, mouths agape and flubber flying, we might end wars in the span of a rooster crow. Just a thought...

At least it wasn't obscene...

Remember being an innocent, imaginative child sprawled out on the lawn looking skyward? It's a universal game; what does that cloud remind you of? A bunny, a squirrel, a face, a dragon or, if you were a particularly vibrant child, a laundry hamper filled with jelly beans on fire. Or was I the only one to notice that one?

I've recently returned from a glorious vacation and, as is my custom, I had my camera at the ready to snap away at the sky. Even in these cynical adult years, there's something still magical about being on the same level as clouds, gliding through their marshmallow bodies to find there's truly little substance to their composition. There aren't often many shapes that can be discerned from that height, but sometimes, I get lucky.

What do you see in this cloud?

If by some strange optical deficiency you fail to recognize the Jerry Garcia cloud giving a peace sign, please see your ophthalmologist...

Zaedah Coast to Coast

In 48 hours, I shall find myself on the opposite coast sipping... whatever people who don't drink sip. Yup, this Pennsylvania chick is heading to California, land of sun, sunburn and possibly sun poisoning. Oh, and did I mention NO WORK!!!!

I've secured a neighbor as house watcher and cat feeder. I'll be boarding the dog at her second favorite place on earth. I'm entrusting the newly bush-happy garden to... well, mother nature and leaving the resident bees to fend for themselves.

I'd like to think the furries will miss me but know too well that The Cats shall be drawing up chalkboard plans for my demise, which will go something like this...
I made myself a promise in 2006 that I would travel at every opportunity. Having a condition that may one day borrow my mobility and then play keep-away, it's silly to wait. Thus I've seen Arizona, the FL Everglades and Williamsburg/Jamestown/Yorktowne. This year shall be Fresno/Ataskadero. I don't care if my friend and I do little more than sit in a meadow everyday playing Uno, as long as I'm there.

Of course (with my luck) my arrival with herald the day of destruction, when The Big One separates the state of California from the rest of the country. But hey, that'll just make it my first island trip!

And I thought I was small...

I have climbed into the boat that ferries the unsuspecting down the river toward middle aged. One might think that, at this stage, I've arrived at a certain level of 'been there, done that.' Apparently, there are still new experiences to be had in this life and I'm soaking up the joy of one right now...

I have poison ivy.

This may not seem unusual to those who spend long summers scratching at rashy skin that is coated a divine shade of calamine pink. But I, Zaedah, have never, ever had the pleasure. It's something to brag about and, if you're me (apologies in advance) there is, on average, so precious little to boast about. I've grabbed the three-leafed nuisance with bare hands and flung the vines carelessly over our fence for eons. Folks, I've even strangled poison sumac with no consequences.

I've been pink all week.

But alas, I did a little internet research - and we all know how reliable that is - and found numerous mentions of tea tree oil as a cure-all for this annoyance. So I jaunt over to the local health store and alas, I could not locate the stuff despite a whopping ten minutes of aisle wandering. I mean, seriously, the store only has four aisles. The reason I missed it became clear later, when I finally held the supposed fixer in hand...
People, it's tiny! Imagine 'Honey I Shrunk the Nail Polish' and you'll have some idea. Or better yet, give yourself a thumbs up, paying particular attention to the size of your thumb nail and you have the gist. But don't worry, it gets better. The cost of this micro-wonder?Yip, what equates to a half a tank of gas is spent on this thing. Thus the rate at which I'm using the oil is the rough equivalent of waving the fumes over my skin. They mentioned neither the size nor the price on those sites that praised the stuff. I will report the success or failure of my experiments, but be assured that in the meantime, I will be avoiding three-leafed things for the rest of time.

It's all in the font?

To protect my happy little car and ensure the big bad police don't take Lil Neon away, I have car insurance. Yup, that thing we pay for monthly which we pray we'll never need and (on short pay weeks) can't figure out the real purpose of?

I received an e-mail from Esurance (the carrier who insists that high premiums and the biggest deductibles on planet earth are beneficial to my personal growth) which details the exciting new change... Are you ready? Sitting down? Defibrillator on hand? Good.

They've changed their logo from this...

To this...
Why? Well, thank goodness I have an e-mail to explain it! I'd have gotten my statements and though them to be fraudulent - and possibly filled with anthrax - had I not known of this change.

They believe - and this is quoting from the source material - that the new logo "is modern and approachable." So what I've gleaned from this is that the new black, lower case font is modern (in that way that means a child who hasn't learned about capitals wrote it) and approachable (in that way of nice old ladies who never shun you). So I can now walk up to the new logo and shake its E?

If they waste actual paper - thus killing trees - to inform others who lack e-mail, I'm switching companies, approachable, modern logo or not!

Mommy's Day

Mother's Day was an interesting affair for me.

The brunch hour was spent in the company of women in their 70's, fighting the onslaught of thinning bones, cataracts and crazy young drivers by staunchly adhering to their code of honor: I'm never so old that I can't kick your @$$

The dinner hour was spent cozying up to a host of related and extended family, helping the kiddies cut their pancakes and watching some of my favorite moms (especially my own) enjoy their designated day.

At work last Friday, strangers kept adding the line "Have a great Mother's Day, if you're a mother." I am not, in fact, a mother, unless you count the long list of furries currently eating me out of house and home. But I appreciate the sentiment. At 35 and (still) single, it's unlikely that I ever will be - though the notion seems to sadden the folks. I proceed through the day knowing that I've missed the boat on claiming this holiday for myself.

Still, I always manage to enjoy the day, hobnobbing with family and doling out those additional hugs to mommy. And I'd like to think that the furries bestow upon me a little extra thanks when they meow and bark.

Glory in the Bathroom

It is stunning. A beautiful work of gleaming art that rips tears from the eyes of angels. A white monument to all that is grand and flawless on this planet.

It's a toilet.

Now I realize that other people (the jaded sort with whom I shall not associate) will not see the perfection in lavatory equipment. But I assure you, the new gem in my bathroom has produced rampant weeping. I simply adore it.

Partially because it's brand spanking new. Mostly because it works.

I feel no shame in proclaiming the rapture soaring through my bones as I gaze at my pretty new friend. Folks, it not only flushes (which is only appreciated when accustomed to one that needed daily floggings) but it's whisper-quiet, snap-quick and did I mention it gleams? Did I also mention that the old one was pink?

Now you see the cause of my joy.

Conversations in the Garden

My neighbor said the oddest thing to me tonight. She said I was graceful.

(Quit laughing, family)
I took a moment to envision myself as a graceful person and came up empty. Even my potent imagination, fed a steady diet of Dr Seuss, couldn't summon the picture. This. Is. Me.

When the doctor handed out an MS diagnosis, his sticky fingers managed to pickpocket my balance. I miss it dearly and found, sadly, that while informercials offer an unholy host of useless items, they've yet to advertise Balance in a Box ($19.99 and your firstborn, plus shipping).

I eventually tuned back into my neighbor's kind and utterly undeserved praise and learned she was speaking about a different sort of grace. Which is good since she herself has witnessed my unusual, unplanned and entirely uncoordinated flailings down the steps. She thinks I have 'the package.' I've got it all together.

(Stop snorting, family)

Naturally, I had to scoff, pointing out the bad teeth, severe scoliosis and that pesky MS, (plus the early gray, the lack of mate, offspring or desirable... endowments) Yup. I've got it together. Yet this doesn't deter her from elevating me to pageant queen status. Because I appear to be satisfied, she tells me. I have problems, like everyone else on the planet, but they don't seem to get me down. And seemingly lend me a floating, Zen-like movement that even the constant stumbling can't ruin. She envies me.

Yikes. But in the end (and after much consideration) I suppose there's something to it. Despite all the woes, I am rather content. And apparently it shows up as grace. It means quite a lot that someone who doesn't know me well finds in the outer appearance something that speaks to the inner pieces. It makes me glad to know I'm conveying positivity without opening my mouth.

Maybe I can be a ballerina yet!

Confessions of an Addict...

Hello, my name is Zaedah (sorta) and I write fan fiction. I have been an addict for years and I am confessing for the good of my soul. And also to gripe.

For those out of the loop on this worldwide phenomenon, fan fiction is the blatant stealing of someone else's characters for the purpose of bending them to your will. Let's face it, how many times has your favorite show either jumped the shark or created unbearably slow or unfulfilling storylines. Fan fiction is our way of setting right these wrongs. I write original works too, but fanfic is a great venue for stretching one's craft with unusual premises, unique genres and receiving simultaneous feedback.

Of course, it's also (in my selfish opinion) the highest form of flattery to the TV gods. We like the characters so much that we pilfer them and make them live in new and exciting ways. For no money and less prestige. I enjoy this so much that for the last few years, I've also served as a beta for other writers. A beta is what we spiffy internet folks call editors who, like fanfic writers, make zero bucks for the effort.

My gripe?

I take the art seriously, spending time that I should use to work on my tan to instead plop in front of my computer (which I don't do enough in my ten-hour work day). Lately, I've helped a few new writers who are, to be excruciatingly polite, novices and, to be utterly rude, deficient. I used to blame texting, which teaches us to squeeze whole ideas into as few letters as possible. Now, I'm shifting the guilt to the Word Verification box. You know the one. Many bloggers require readers to suffer these boxes when leaving a comment. Many websites use them to verify payments. And the words used are in no way actual words, unless you're a new fanfic writer, in which case you're sending me whole paragraphs filled with the following (taken from actual word verification boxes)...

ancedn, suptill, tratoxi, sesse, volodebu, matouff, mighhobi, crocizat, busaggr, diosogy, oushili, kyrreo, lasich. Do you want more? I've got more!

How are the impressionable youths of our society supposed to develop brains sophisticated enough to produce works of literary art when they spend their days typing the above nonsense? It makes one's eyes cross just looking at them. I tried to ponder possible definitions for this sampling of words but my brain melted and I had pour it back in.

Still gelatinous I'm afraid, but it won't stop me from writing my fanfic!

The point of a weekend...

Lesson number 12 on the point of a weekend. Pencils ready...

The point of a weekend is to spend more money on pet food than your own life-sustaining groceries.

The point of a weekend is to pay $14 a ticket to view a 3D movie (remake) with little 3D while they smash your childhood gorgon memories to bits. Poor Perseus.

The point of a weekend is to spend most of your tax refund on... wait for it... bills.

The point of a weekend is to help your father buy a printer that does not (I repeat does NOT) come with the necessary cables to actually hook it up. Said cable costs more than the printer.

The point of a weekend is to listen to said father speak on our proud heritage and be impressed that the fairly shy man can stand before a room and win it over. Every time.

The point of a weekend is to buy a round trip ticket from Philly to Fresno because... well, because I CAN!!!

The preceding is the incomplete list of one weekend's events. Do not attempt without proper safety gear.

My name is Pollen and I'm a Registered Sneeze Offender

Above is a secret Pollen Anonymous therapy session in progress.

Pollen is a group of lonely spores who really need a date. Fortunately, all the pollen in the charted galaxy have chosen my backyard to accumulate, propagate and disperse. This saves the rest of humanity from the ill-effects of having the party and band gazebo shoved up one's nose. I'm taking the hit for all of you.

Applause not required.

I'd advise the populace to buy stock in Advil and Kleenex, as I'm personally cleaning store shelves of said items and arming myself for battle...

It's okay to bite their marshmallowy heads off...

I love Peeps. Anyone who knows me (which is unfortunate for some) will tell you that my Easter basket must contain the following items:



Peeps (yellow)...
Goldfish...
Peeps (blue)...
Coconut eggs...
Peeps (green)...
and also Peeps (pink)

I, like many who need more hobbies, like them stale. Yes, open the packaging and let'um bathe in that wondrously firming air, that's the way to enjoy a Peep. However, despite the fact that I have two containers of Peeps percolating in the fresh oxygen, a bag of goldfish (thanks mom!) and will feast upon my egg shortly, I shall not forget the purpose of the day. And no, it's not to see what the multi-colored, Peep sugar coating does to my tongue.

It is, quite frankly, this...

Oh happy day... I get to be counted.

Like most Americans who check their mailbox once a decade, I eventually noticed the little form in my cluttered box. It's time to join the masses and get census-ed!

Yipp-freakin'-ee.

It was, as the sole resident in my apparently too-fascinating-to-be-missed house, a fairly short form to complete. I had only to answer about myself, a relatively simple request. But I fear my place in the universe still eludes me.

Is it bad that I lied on question # 4?

They want my phone number in case 'we don't understand an answer.' Considering they're multiple choice, what's not to understand? Plus, I'm thinking... telelmarketers are bad enough, so why give the US Government permission to text me at all hours? Don't get me wrong, I like Obama, but I don't need him to call me at 3 am for my opinion on foreign policy. My views on Israel/Palastine relations get fuzzy without enough beauty sleep.

Having debated whether to use a write-in option for gender and listing my age as negative two, I finally mailed the little beast, which will ensure local funding and appropriate seats in Congress. Thus my life is made infinitely better in ten short questions because they now know that I rent...

Jealous?

There comes a time when we must put away the 70's lounge-act costume, but that time is NOT now. Not when she, I mean he, can fill it with such... sass.

Note devilishly coordinated converse-to-bag combo, hearkening to bag lady, or... bag dude, fashions.

Don't hate, ladies. It's okay to be in awe of the striking manner with which he carries the ensemble.

The Dates That Matter-ish

It's either a sign of spinsterhood or muddled near-middle age when today is a memorable day in the mental calendar in my head.

I struggle mightily to maintain a clear record of birthdays in my family. Having eight nieces and nephews is a challenge worthy of Einstein's impressive brain. Even my own birthday has been known to sneak up on me (which has NOTHING to do with the fact that additional digits are less welcome... much). But, this is the ultimate sign that a cat chick can become a crazy ol' cat lady with the speed of one simple memory skill;

Today is Zazu's fifteenth birthday.

The moment my rebellious eyes opened this morning, I congratulated him on another year of life, hand-feeding him treats at six am (because I'm dedicated) and serving up exquisite moist food for dinner (not that I've sampled it to know its quality). I remembered, before the sun rose no less, that today was meaningful. Zazu himself opted not to weigh in on his advanced age. Or mine, as forgetting dates is now part of the daily cycle.

Of course, April Fool's Day isn't difficult to remember when your cat is the feline equivalent of Cujo. The day was made for him. Look Zaedah, here's an eight week old, sweet and fluffy bundle of kitten joy...

AAAAHHHHHH.... who bites and scratches and hisses and has been known to take on giant dogs without flinching a whisker. Yes, April Fools indeed. The miracle is not that he's still healthy, but that he hasn't eaten me alive yet. Nonetheless, Happy Birthday Zazu. You may be sinister but I wouldn't change a thing.

Rampant Sinister Bunnies...

Why do people not turn their highlights on in the rain? Unless you drive a glow in the dark car, I fail to comprehend how you've arrived at the notion that being rear-ended is an additive to your cool factor.

How did Jamie Lee Curtis become an expert on what my personal digestive track requires? Did she get a PhD in Zaedah-health? If so, can she cure the odd dry spot on my left palm via commercial?

Who decided that I should receive Viagra e-mails EVERY SINGLE DAY? I may be confused, but I'm fairly sure my parents, friends and medical professionals can't all be wrong when labeling me a girl.

When did the record industry stop churning out the best little nonsense one-hit wonders? Remember Mexican Radio, Fishheads, Future's so bright (I gotta wear shades), One night in Bankok, Turning Japanese, Cars and the perennial favorite, Safety Dance, My meaningless quirk died out with the 80's?

I suppose I'll Wang Chung Tonight in a headlight glow while slurping Activa on a Viagra high.

A Word on Staples...

We, as an obnoxiously unaffected society, don't give nearly enough consideration to the little things that make Planet Earth such a smashing place to eat dead pigs and stuff. Man, can you tell I'm craving bacon?

Simple pleasures, folks. That's all I need (aside from George Clooney, a Ferrari and a private island on which to enjoy the preceding items.) But I'll settle for courteous staples.

Here's the thing... Being a regular gal with aforementioned simple needs (Do Ferraris come automatic), I believe I should be able to stumble into my place of employ and join several pages of nonsense (such as Medicare claims) together with no more effort than I put into my hair. Which is none.

Is this lofty goal unreasonable? Apparently, Staples believes it is. Why is it that I'm utilizing the very latest model of Staples stapler (exact model to your left), filled to bursting with Staples staples and...

JAM?

Why do I get three at once and each contorted in a different direction (which is rather like a staple orgy and nothing you should be contemplating)? And they admit it! Note the 'L' in the above Staples logo and you'll see how 32.7% of my stapling attempts look. Lopsided, like a deformed alien with half a brain and marbles in his shoes. Is it so difficult to get a matched pair of office apparatus and have smoothness rule my day?


To recap, I'm using Staples staples in a Staples stapler and it all goes pear-shaped. Maybe Milton had it right? SWINGLINE ALL THE WAY!

The curse is contagious...

There goes another dream, withering under the glaring sun of celebrity statistics. I shall never win an Oscar. Partially because I have not now nor shall I ever act in a public forum, save for sheer and utter innocence when I get pulled over. But mostly because it's become apparent that winning the naked gold dude is bad for one's relationships.

Exhibits 1 through umpteen: Halle Berry, Reese Witherspoon, Gwenyth Paltrow, Helen Hunt, Kate Winslet, Hilary Swank, Angelina Jolie and now... Sandra Bullock.

Maybe their men get jealous of how adoringly they're gripping that undressed hunk of precious metal? Maybe it's because Oscar, rather than using his arms to cover his nakedness like any sensible person, uses them to do a little chest-pounding? He's saying, 'now that she's got me, you can take a hike.'

I don't watch the Oscars as a general rule because they usually celebrate movies I have both never seen and frequently don't care about... (war dramas and romantic comedies take the fun out of living, folks). But next year, should I break my fast and observe ladies wearing my year's salary on their wrists, I shall pity the best actress winner as I would a kicked puppy.

Obviously, it's better for my love life (which I don't have) that I'll never receive such a coveted and manly object (for which I have no space). I am resigned to the notion that the closest to Oscar I'll ever get is this one:

Oh well... At least he's got his own place.

Oh, To Be Legal... *UPDATED*

This is my car...











And this is the money I will spend today on said shiny little blue guy...










The concept of car inspections is, to my feeble brain, akin to exploding subatomic particles. Or filling out tax forms. Or VCR manuals. And other equally difficult, mind-ripping experiments in human foibles. Who decided my happy, innocent vehicle needs gruff, unwashed hands wandering about his curves, seeking imperfections for which to charge me? Why does someone else have to put a stamp on my transport to declare it fit for duty?

Lil' Neon works just fine, thanks. When he's spitting up fumes and vomiting essential parts, I'll bring him in for service. Yes, I'm aware his check engine light is on. Has been for nearly a year and it hasn't stopped him from zooming down the freeway and shredding through yellow lights with the greatest of ease. Why must I pay an extra $92 for the privilege of knowing that the light is on for no particular reason?

It's a conspiracy. A ploy to take my hard-earned cash for which I slave at a desk for untold hours. See, here's me working terribly hard...


What more proof do you require that I shouldn't have to inspect my car? In protest of this intrusion, I waited two months beyond my expiration date to get my new set of stickers. Because when the state has a sticky hand in my pot, I like to make them work for it!
_________________________
Failed???

So I have to take Lil Neon back in a few days when they have the correct replacement parts for my fuel system leak. Plus two tires were deemed insufficient to handle road duties. Anything else, guys?

But with my luck...

It's a classic phrase in our family, as shared genes ensured we would all enjoy the delight of world-off-axis luck. It peppers the end of many sentences and if there's decent, unlaminated wood around, we're a group of hard-core knockers.

Example: For the last six years, I've wanted to rid the enclosed porch of the dinky mutant fridge we've been afraid to toss (because during the apocalypse, our household would be saved by having somewhere ancient to hide). Having come with the house, it's yellow (which is the first thing the manufacturers did wrong) and roughly the size of the common aardvark. Undersized lettuce feels cramped in this thing. We'd bought a shiny new energy star fridge, tall and gleaming white and the butternut munchkin was assigned eternal guard duty on the porch.

Yesterday, my seester and brother in law gave up a portion of their day to remove said unwanted monstrosity. YIPPEE!!! Bulk item trash day isn't for another week, so I figured (as delusional people do) that it could sit for a week out in the open for all to see what I've endured (avert your eyes!) and soon it would be gone.

But with my luck...

We got a wind storm today. YIPP-freaking-EE!!! A rip-snorter, as dad would say, that is sure to blow the yellow mutant over and into the street, thus (with my luck) landing on a passing motorcyclist who (with my luck) is an accident lawyer. Then I'll wind up (with my luck) living in the fridge prior to the coming apocalypse because (with my luck) it's too ugly to be kept in the evidence locker.

The Bombs of Doubt...

You know how you do something brave and inspired and all manner of nifty and then ATTACK!!!!!



Bombs of second thoughts drop from nasty little planes that follow you around all day, pelting your scalp with doubts, true of aim and entirely unpleasant. And then, the Mushroom Cloud of Regret...

Ohhh ahhh... pretty.

But maybe it's just me.

I've completed a very difficult task, one that anyone who's ever met me (which includes those who sadly have) would find unlikely. Namely, I stood up for myself (see dissertation on doormats several posts back to properly appreciate momentous occasion). Yes, gentle readers, I strapped on a bright and shiny pair and went about the reclaiming of something terribly precious to me.

Peace. And quite possibly sanity.

But as with all really great, awesome and otherwise fabulous victories, there's the aftertaste best described as Hmmm... Sure, I secured my peace. Okay, I've got my sanity (such as it is) but were my actions worthy of pride? Did I abide by my own needle-pointed rules of conduct? Did I, in the most general terms, act as a decent person?

I may have to wait until the bombs quit smacking into my head before I can formulate a sufficient answer to that. Until then, my peace has drawn me a bath and I shall go soak in sanity...

Zeus tested... Zeus approved!

Please note above Greek God and his mighty lightning bolt... The Olympics, which fills our screens at present, was begun to impress this guy. Does he look impressed? As we practice it now, poor Zeus must look down from whatever cloud has tickled his loins to behold this...



That can't be comfortable.




So, in honor of Zeus and (perhaps) in an effort to bring him something more entertaining, I believe the Olympics is due for an overhaul. Under Zaedah's administration, we'll do away with the boring, the lengthy and yes, the unsightly (take another gander at above shot).

First up... Dolphin racing. Grab your friendly marine mammal and put him up to the gate. Aaaaand they're off! Of course, this will all be done humanly because that's just the kind of people we are. The winner will be fed fresh fish. Oh, and the dolphins will get stuff too.



Next: We shall cater to the criminal element in us all by a handcuff picking tournament. Speed and creativity will be essential in this competition, as participants will be hand chosen from our incarcerated population. The winner receives the Erik Weisz medal and a 'get out of jail free' card.




For the kiddie demographic, I suggest a marble-shooting contest. Only the stakes shall be higher than the average schoolyard pastime. While not endorsing violence in an arena, there's nothing wrong with a little incentive. The bullies will be lined up outside the playing circle, ready to... deal with the losers. The winner gets to keep his teeth.

There are many other entries that the committee will be reviewing. Shoot-apple-off-head archery, swine riding, applying-makeup-in-a-speeding-cab, scorpion eating contest and my personal favorite... reciting Shakespeare while skydiving without a parachute. Viewer ratings will plunge straight off the chart and into the unbridled atmosphere.


Everyone will get into the spirit of these revamped Olympics.




The strangely beautiful...





And the downright scary.






So please, gentle readers, vote for the Zaedah Olympics. Choose your extremely non-exotic locale and let the games begin!

The Nature of Nature is... Rebellion!

Outside the windows of my office lives the above row of trees. Being an amateur photographer (neon-bright emphasis on amateur) I've attempted to secure an artsy shot of these trees in their mostly uniform appearance. 'Mostly' because they have a rebel in their ranks.

I'm rather partial to the daring tree who stands fourth from the left. She (because wild children deserve some sort of gender designation) sticks her leafy tongue out at the others who feel that green's still in even after autumn gets traction. But our girl's a fan of red and isn't interested in waiting until the fashion police say it's okay to begin the traditional turn. Nope, she's breaking out early.

Of course, with the ravages of snow and the inevitable balding, she's as naked as the others. But autumn will return months from now and she promises to trade her future emerald for splashy red before the rest can chastise her.

Good for you, Tree!

Wisdom of Zappa...

Two weeks after the blizzard of 2010 deposited a cushy 17 inches on my poor lawn, we still tromp over the mounds of white stuff. I'm one of those "bring it on" snow-enthusiasts but even I have had enough. I'd like to start a letter campaign to evict Father Winter.

The stuff won't freakin' melt!

Princess Vespa (Spaceballs) had an industrial sized hairdryer that garnered its own luggage. I should very much like to borrow it. For only the power of the mammoth beast of electric fury could turn these stubborn inches of sinister, compactness into sweet little puddles. The problem we're facing now is a bit of unsightly technicolor that has crept into the once-virgin fluffiness.

As previously noted, we have three gigantic dogs. In the natural order of things, big dogs leave big... messes. Lets face it folks... if they could flush, local busybodies wouldn't have to post reminders to pick up after your adorable bundle of killer fur. My yard is the glaring reason why clean-up is not only good for visual aesthetics but necessary for the sanctity of one's shoes.

Fortunately, no one wants to picnic in the snow, handy thing since my property looks like we've been using lemon snowcones as weapons. (And don't get me started on the tootsie rolls bullets). Look out my kitchen window and take in the ice formations, majestic cardinal and the splotches of spilled lemonade. Thanks puppies!

I'm reminded of the stirring lyrics of one Frank Zappa... "Watch out where the huskies go and don't you eat that yellow snow."

Yeah... about that.

Valentine's Day. Is there a more puke-worthy holiday? It's the sort of made-up, commercial fund-fest that only romantic sods and jewelry/flower/candy shops can get behind. Bitter? Not me! Well, maybe a little.

Because you may not know this about me (which explains why I don't receive nearly enough pity) but my last boyfriend was in the dark ages of 1999. Yup, a decade and a millennium ago. I've gotten a bouquet only once and that was by an ex-fiance who should have remembered that I'm allergic to flowers.

Today I received a Facebook note from a new friend (Thanks JF) who invited me to celebrate SPAD (Single Persons' Appreciation Day), an inclusive affair in no way limited to one 'special person.' Which is great when you don't even HAVE one.

I'm told the official color of SPAD is navy blue because it's not as unappealing on the masses as red. I actually changed my shirt to honor this bit of information. But regardless of the acronym or the color of my attire, I'm still alone for yet another Day of Lovers.

But not entirely...

Today I have officially adopted the foster cat formerly known as Reuben. As of today, he is called Zhander (poor creature, having to abide by my Z theme) and many hugs and treats were bestowed upon my furry Valentine. Hey, he's more loyal than most guys I've dated, so don't knock my choice of companion. He won't kill me with flowers, fatten me with candy or even care if my hair is brushed. I now have his fur all over my navy blue shirt and it feels a lot like love!

Yup, they bathe in Blue # 40

If you're like me (and I know we've had that discussion before), you wait until the craze dies down before sneaking through the backdoor into a fad. Call me a Phenomenon Procrastinator but, being one of those anti-establishment types, I'm not waiting at the front of the line to jump on any blockbuster bandwagon. I tend to loiter somewhere in the back where they're selling eight day old hot dogs in soiled newspaper.

Mind you, there are exceptions:

A fascination with Zachary Quinto put me just a scant few paces off the head of the line to see Star Trek. And Lord knows I saw Sherlock Holmes on opening night because, quite frankly, Robert Downey Jr just plain works for me. But a movie about CGI-ed blue people isn't likely to motivate me to brave the after-Christmas crowds, especially at a two-and-a-half hour running time. I mean, have you met my bladder?

So I waited, sitting comfortably away from the tumbling debris of shattered records (though it was a delight to see Titanic sink from # 1). Until today, when the biggest smash of all time (or some such) was no longer in the top spot and I had some chance of getting a decent seat. 3D? Why not. $11.50 a ticket? Ouch.

Okay, fine, whatever... it was good.

A story that reincarnates the age old tale of the white man coming in hoards to steal native land? My Cherokee daddy will be pleased. A tale of living as one with nature and striving for balance? Mother Earth advocates will celebrate. A bunch of buff blue guys scampering about in thongs? Sign me up! That the natives are victorious feels a bit like vengeance against those whom my ancestors could not defeat.

Oops... perhaps I shouldn't have spoiled the ending, but then again, the box office assures me that everyone else on the planet has already see it.

Why I oughta...

There are some days when one wishes for a mountaintop and a set of operatic lungs from which might issue forth a seismic bellow the likes of which ensures an avalanche that demolishes the populace below.

It seems to me that one would need a quality phrase to shout in order to secure the greatest amount of damage...


"I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take it anymore..." No, that's been done to death.

"You're cruisin' for a bruisin'..." Nah, wouldn't even scare the Beach Boys.

"insert vulgar flip-off here..." Nope, no one would buy that from me.

So I've climbed the mountain and stand tall-ish at the ledge, viewing the world below that I shall obliterate with my Mariah Carey banshee yell, armed with my most cunning phrase...

WHY I OUGHTA!!!!!

Who's that sickly chick? Oh, wait...

I've recently been blessed with new friends on Facebook... the kind that have never met me, which is generally a good thing for them. The joy of social networking is the chance to learn about the other grasses, greener or otherwise, when the ol' homestead patch gets a little dull. The downside is that the cyber-me is even stranger than the real thing.

I took a little time today to look at the pictures on my page. These are typically there to serve as an overview of that which I hold dear; my family, my furries and the evidence that I do, in fact, leave the house occasionally. Unfortunately, what I found is not necessarily the representation of myself that I'd prefer. Exhibit A:



The last time I saw limbs that stick-like was, well... the last stick I saw. And the fact that this is one of those rare moments when my cane snuck into the shot makes it even worse. (see post several links down for the rant on canes). And then there's this beauty that we shall dub, per acceptable sequential order, Exhibit B:



I look like a cancer patient, which should be offensive to cancer patients everywhere. The eyes are so sunken, they're planning an escape via the back of my head. Those Cherokee cheekbones are sharp enough to slice bread but (from an outside's view) I appear to never eat such things.

Granted, I've always been small. I once reached a staggering 112 pounds but that's been quite a few years (freshman ten and all that). But I can't account for the rest of the issues. In a recent post, I extolled the perils of growing old and I now see the proof that I wasn't just typing Dixie that day. Man, I need an intervention!

This is the image that people who 'friend' me will see; a skinny, gaunt and apparently ill chick in desperate need of a meal and potent medication. But seriously folks, it's not so bad in person... I think?