Zaedah Tampers With Reason...

Goodbye Doggie-Brown

2010-10-11T00:43:00.004-04:00

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

Site now closed.

Every Generation's Question

2010-09-11T13:00:00.001-04:00

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...

2010-08-29T10:40:00.004-04:00

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?

2010-08-22T13:28:00.006-04:00

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...

2010-07-31T11:56:00.006-04:00

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...

2010-07-02T19:46:00.003-04:00

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...

2010-06-24T18:29:00.004-04:00

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

2010-05-26T20:44:00.003-04:00

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...

2010-05-23T14:58:00.006-04:00

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?

2010-05-22T10:58:00.005-04:00

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

2010-05-10T18:10:00.003-04:00

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

2010-05-03T20:29:00.004-04:00

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

2010-04-30T21:08:00.004-04:00

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...

2010-04-25T13:19:00.007-04:00

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...

2010-04-18T20:09:00.003-04:00

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

2010-04-11T15:27:00.005-04:00

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...

2010-04-04T10:23:00.000-04:00

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.

2010-04-03T18:47:00.004-04:00

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?

2010-04-02T22:04:00.006-04:00

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

2010-04-01T20:27:00.004-04:00

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...

2010-03-30T20:11:00.006-04:00

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...

2010-03-23T18:38:00.005-04:00

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...

2010-03-21T16:24:00.007-04:00

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

2010-03-20T08:21:00.007-04:00

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...

2010-03-13T08:56:00.009-05:00

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...

2010-03-05T21:36:00.008-05:00

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!

2010-02-27T08:25:00.012-05:00

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!

2010-02-21T09:38:00.005-05:00

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...

2010-02-20T18:04:00.007-05:00

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.

2010-02-14T17:40:00.006-05:00

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

2010-02-13T16:43:00.008-05:00

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...

2010-02-06T10:10:00.005-05:00

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...

2010-01-31T13:57:00.010-05:00

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?

Surpassing the Numeric Value

2010-01-09T11:19:00.004-05:00

If I were an inventor, I'd spend gazillions of the government's money to build a sci-fi machine. Revolutionizing the global landscape, my gadget (which I'd naturally name after myself), would perform the most significant task ever crafted for something less than God. This creation would be assigned the world-saving job of pinpointing the exact moment when I got old.

Seriously.

It's well known among the people who know me (which includes those who do) that I have more gray hair than should be planted upon the head of anyone so young. Should someone measure out my hair, currently of an appalling fishing-wire texture, with my mother's not-entirely-brown variety, mine would outweigh hers. This seems wrong. And just a bit like punishment.

But it's not just the follicle matter. Remember when our teen-aged purchases always included Stridex, Clearasil and other pimply dohingies? Residing now in my shower stall is a tube of face cleanser marked 'tone and renew.' This product and others like it promise to revive the wicked witch skin and reclaim the once-smooth surface from the angry crows scratching their lines around my eyes.

It seems I skipped a step somewhere. If you were like me (and I pray to holy Jesus you weren't) you couldn't wait for the end of the pubescent pestilence known as zits. We can accept that one day there will be wrinkles and such - in that distant future where we all eat rice pudding in the nursing home - but there's supposed to be a space in between where we all wander the earth with the airbrushed look of fresh-baked supermodels. Apparently, I leapt over that blessing in a single bound. Honestly, I'm TONING AND RENEWING people!!!!

I've always looked younger than my years. A few years ago I got stopped by a cop near my house. He turned one of those sun-in-a-can spotlights on me and then laughed. Laughed! Apparently he thought I was a twelve year old on a joy ride (my family will tell you that Mr Law Enforcer added 'boy' to his description but I've blocked that part out). But now, with the old hag hair color and early eye lines, I fear my looks are surpassing my numeric value. Gettin' old, friends.

But, as daddy would say, at least I'm still gettin'.

In which dating turns (really) ugly...

2010-01-02T12:28:00.013-05:00

VH1 should be renamed. Remember when it showed (oh, what do you call those brightly colored, three minute thingies?) videos? Unfortunately, the channel has cordoned off a scant one hour of programing specifically related to those thingies and the rest has become a haven for those who just can't get enough CELEBRITY DATING SHOWS!!!!

Are you one of them? They have help for such folly... I think it's called A LIFE!

Seriously, thirty beautiful women - lacking actual careers and, dare I surmise, marketable job skills - strap on their hair extensions and fight over the species to your left. Seriously, would you date him? And when I say fight, I mean erupt in b***h slapping, hair-pulling, 'your momma' insults and the ever popular backstabbing. Really, how do these chicks manage to walk upright in stilettos with a machete so deeply lodged in their spines? Many of these long-legged samples spackle on enough make up to lend a conservative visage to drag queens and we're supposed to root for them based on the displayed talent of cattiness. (anyone remember New York?)

After one season of clawing past whiners to win the gold-toothed heart of Flav, a new batch was summoned from a porn casting couch to battle for the prize to your right. Apparently, Bret's time with Poison didn't introduce him to his eternal angel among the groupies. Have you noticed that despite multiple seasons of both Emmy-worthy shows, neither fella has found true love? Why? Because everlasting devotion isn't grown under the unflattering lights of reality TV. You've got a better chance of finding your soulmate stocking the nut aisle at the local Whole Foods. Naked.

I remember dating (through the haze of a decade's sabbatical) but I don't recall ever having to lower my shame tolerance and compete for men who are clearly in it to rekindle their dwindling celebrity. The women must pole dance, take lie detector tests to prove their love (having been nurtured for two days) is true. Let's face it, the guys aren't looking for forever... they, like their suitors, are on a quest for fifteen minutes and since the viewing public digs a catfight, they'll get it.

Stop watching, people! It only perpetuates the mind-numbing cycle. After all, the aforementioned New York got her own show and now we've got season one of Ray J, who must be a celebrity of impressive caliber since I've never heard of him (though at least he doesn't hurt my retinas). You have to wonder what sort of person needs to go to such lengths to find a date? Surely even Match.com would accept an account from B-listers.

And I have to wonder why I, who protest the existence of such fare, know so much about them?

Trippin' ain't just for hippies...

2010-01-02T10:36:00.007-05:00

Some mornings, it's tough to wake up.
Some mornings, it's tougher afterward.

Here's a rundown of a typical post-snooze saga as played by myself (in the unfortunate lead) and my supporting cast (strewn about the stage).

Exit bed - trip over snoring 70 pound ZaedahDog for whom getting up is like being drafted.
Head to closet - cut off by Zazu, who only wants affection when I have other plans for my hands.
Leave room - kick 'black cat in the dark' Zorro who, in general, sees this as quality cuddling.
Shower time - fall over bubble lovin' Zimba who insists on drinking out of every running faucet.
Breakfast - sloppily dodge as Reuben climbs up leg in an effort to secure love regardless of pain to human.
Walk through living room - stumble around Bugg and Stitch, who believe we all paid good money to see them... you know... boink.
Check water bowls - Collide with massive Willow, a German shepherd who is convinced she's the size of a newborn lightning bug.
Feed the maniacs - perform webble wobble dance as the herd comes running like divas at a Gucci giveaway.
Search for seating - only to find it's all be taken...

The unmentioned animals (oh yes, there are more) are patient stagehands waiting until the dust settles from the multiple collisions before making their daily debut. Needless to say, I am a canvas of bumps, bruises and occasional contusions, painted fresh everyday by artists plotting their masterpiece of carnage!

New New Year's tradition...

2010-01-01T12:40:00.010-05:00

You knows the smoldering ash of age has snuck into your bloodstream when Dick Clark stays up later than you do.

For the last few years, I've sworn off watching the once terribly exciting Times Square ball drop due to encroaching factors beyond my control. Like excessive yawning. And the fact that, really, it's not that exciting. I've never actually gone anywhere on New Year's Eve, an issue born of my staunch 'no drinking' lifestyle and the shameful truth that I've never been a party chick. It ain't me, folks.

It's taken me three decades to buck the trend.

I did, in fact, go out!

My good buddy Dennis and I visited the ancient Keswick Theater outside Philly, an establishment that opened in the rip-roaring year of 1928, when even Dick Clark wasn't alive (debunking the myth that the man's first NYE countdown was done before Moses stopped to ask for directions). According to my butt, the seats and accompanying padding (or lack thereof) are original to the building. We were crammed in with 800 of our closest neighbors to watch a live performance.

I'd like to pause and thank Dennis for introducing me to Mystery Science Theater. You know, that late lamented gem that showed the worst that cinema has to offer while the silhouettes of a host and two robots skewer the plot, characters, dialogue, settings, props and cliches with rapid-fire jokes. They makes Ed Wood films watchable in a way only Prozac and Jack Daniels could before.

Last night, we spent five glorious hours absorbing three stellar films (War of the Insects, Samson and the 7 Miracles and Legacy of Blood) presented live with original riffers standing live on the stage before us. Yes, Locke... we got to suck in the same air as Joel, Crow, TV's Franks, the original Servo and Pearl. While sitting on torture devices (did I mention they need to remodel the seating?)

They paused for champagne (no thanks) before midnight and we counted down, afterward embracing friends, strangers and that guy dressed like Dr Forrester (Okay, maybe we didn't). It beat gazing upon a ball who's only true claim to fame is merely reflecting the principles of gravity or, as has been my custom of late, staring at the backs of my eyelids. The evening was delightful, a first in what I hope will be many more new years starting interestingly. I'm only sad we weren't able to meet the actors after the show. But in their honor, I leave you with the image Dennis and I have come to appreciate as a staple of sanity in a crazy, mixed up world...

They don't just hold shoes together...

2009-12-28T19:11:00.005-05:00

Does your wallet look like mine? After a lovely Christmas with family and friends (and Sherlock Holmes and chipmunks), I have scanned my purse and found exactly one piece of lint. Couldn't even afford two!

But cast no worries upon my stubbly shadow... I'll get by. Because along with jujitsu, filleting and slow poisons, I possess the skill of the Shoestring. Not a member of this elite art? Allow me to enlighten you.

Can you fill to bursting three bags of groceries on a mere fifteen dollars? That's Shoestring, baby!

Can you squeeze an extra fifty miles out of a tank flashing the deadly empty warning? That's Shoestring, baby!

Can you pay bills, feed eleven pets, buy presents for nine nieces and nephews and still pay your physician copay without hitting the credit card? All from one paycheck? That's... you get the picture.

Momma's been doing it for years, layering the craft of creative shuffling with the talent of thrift. I learned at the feet of a master. Despite an empty account, a cleaned-out change jar and no further revenue for two weeks (darn you bi-weekly employers!) I am surprisingly comfortable. Because I spent wisely, I have food, gasoline and no impending bills. I have utilized every knotted rainbow Shoestring at my disposal. The trick is not to trip.

I am super-uber-comfy-ish. Which doesn't mean I won't hug the calendar on payday!

Yes, but for 24 hours?

2009-12-25T14:14:00.009-05:00

What is it with the holiday season and movies?

I dare say no single day has garnered as many cinema experiments as Christmas. If it isn't in the title, it's weighing down the plot with the thickness of figgy pudding. Santa, elves, reindeer and the occasional grinch are unavoidable today. And, of course, we have 24 back-to-back, unending hours of Ralphie and the Quest for a Dangerous BB Gun.

"It's smiling at me!" (Ralphie's dad and the duck)

I'm not opposed to catching Snoopy and Jack Skelligton as I ramble through channels. Quite the opposite. But how many Santa Clauses does it take to complete Tim Allen's career? And no, I don't want to see Arnold and Sinbad slugging it out in the aisles nor every drawn-out, sap-coated version of Christmas romance that Lifetime can think up (it ain't just 'women in peril' on this day).

And that's just the small screen.

Apparently, the sugar high from too much pie keeps people up Christmas night (that or the spiked egg nog) because throngs of over-stuffed patrons will fill the theater tonight. The mere fact that we've all maxed out our credit cards buying STUFF (see last post) should make movie-going the least viable choice. I mean, $4.00 for a teeny box of Even More Sugar? The cost of a slushy is the equivalent of my electric bill and the smallest popcorn they serve would feed Nebraska. And you must take out a loan to pay for it.

Having said that, I shall be among the... um... fruitcakes.

Yup, as part of my Christmas prezzy from my roomie, we shall traipse merrily to the local big screen to see Sherlock Holmes (my choice). See photo below for a sizable reason for the trek. I hope the movie's as good as Mr Downey looks but regardless folks, it's a night out requiring no down payment from me and therefore I will tug down my santa cap and go. Although, with a 10 pm start time, I should be getting home at right about... tomorrow.

Mall Santas Don't Try Anymore

2009-12-23T18:29:00.006-05:00

When experienced as an adult, Christmas has a tendency to lose a little something in translation.

Remember the magic of waking in the morning with the taste of anticipation and suspense warring on your tongue? Perhaps you still believed that a hefty fella could fit down your chimney (provided you had one) or that a thick gloved man could jimmy open the back door without setting off security alarms (assuming you had those) or at the very least that a red-attired dude could squeeze through the bathroom window to the obliviousness of your neighbors (despite them being ex-Russian spies like ours).

How fast did you fly out of your covers, creating enough static in your Superman or My Little Pony feety pajamas to fuel the mid-Atlantic region, and zoom (and I do mean Zoom) to the living room where tree and presents and grinning parents await? Even the realization that Santa did not bring the goodies did not deter your enjoyment of, shall we say, GETTING STUFF.

Because that's the name of the commercialization game, right? STUFF.

But not in our household. Being on the lesser end of the economic pool as we were, the gifts did not reach the ceiling. Our tree was not real, rather a three-and-a-half foot contraption weighed down with fake snow. And there was, let's face it, not many ways that a giant red-clad jolly guy was sneaking into a single-wide trailer without waking the entire neighborhood (since they were, like, six inches away).

But here's the thing...

We always got what we wanted. The spirograph, hoppy hop and sit & spin were among my still-favorite surprises. The tree was always beautiful, with the red garland dad insisted on, hovering over the more perfect platform you've ever seen (and I'm talking lit buildings, tee pees and a jet black train). Dad would spend eternity and back on the pine fencing, gluing one piece at a time until the old fashioned trim wound around the full length of felt-covered plywood. They don't do THAT at the stores!

One year, my mom-mom bought my sister and I porcelain dolls. Even in the throes of Alzheimer's, she knew that I should have the brunette one while my sister got the blond one. Even today, when I look at that doll I get goosebumps.

As an adult, it becomes mandatory to hand the magic off to the next generation. Now we are the engineers, helping Santa down the chimney, through the door or past the window. We wrap until our fingers spit curses for the paper cuts. We get manhandled by the crowds when, like this year, shopping had to be put off for a 12-20 inch snow storm. And we're the ones who grin as our offerings are torn open while simultaneously praying that the present doesn't end up at the bottom of the toy box by next week. There's a bit of competition amongst family members now; who'll have the preferred gift?

I don't have children (other than the furry sort) so I play Christmas with the nieces and nephews. I suppose it's not the same, but it's what I've got and being the Cool Aunt doth so totally rock. Still, when I scoot from my bed tomorrow morning, I'll be missing the feety pajamas, the tree and the surprise. My house will look no different, the price of having tree-climbing cats, destructive dogs and no kiddies for whom to deck the joint out.

Oh look... the melancholy fairy!

I'm not complaining. Because I have memories of close knit Christmas mornings where five people who really only had each other in this world would Oh and Ah over the number of presents that somehow my financially struggling parents managed to buy. We were never disappointed. And we had each other, something we lack a bit right now. I think that's the womb from which my melancholy has sprung. But my parents still have that same snow-covered tree and while there's no platform this year, there's always the chance next time. My parents' tree-topping angel, the same one they had thirty nine Christmases ago, has never needed a bulb replacement. And I'm still greeted with warm hugs when I arrive for Christmas dinner, although such squishy embraces are a year round thing.

The point? Hang on, let me search under the white tree for it...

Oh yes! The point is that Christmas is no longer surprising, but that shouldn't mean the magic is lost. Santa still drives by on the back of a fire engine, waving to the shivering masses at the curbside and if you close your adult eyes, you just might feel a little something mingling in with the sirens and exhaust fumes. Today my roomie and I entered the Super Walmart (I know... tragic) and a departing woman offered us her cart. Roomie took that as a trick to avoid putting her cart away and that may be so, but I've got just enough holiday spirit to think perhaps she was just being kind.

Because kindness is a big chunk of what the season is supposed to mean (along with love and peace and all that rot). In the end, it's a choice... will you see the worst in human throngs mobbing every aisle in a world where Santa never really came down your chimney (or door or window) or will you accept that, in the midst of commercialized madness, there's still something to be gained by childlike faith and enough optimism to fill a stocking?

I choose to cultivate Holiday Happiness!

Ode to the White Stuff

2009-12-19T09:36:00.006-05:00

Remember when snow was the entire purpose for the blustery winter months? There was a sled in the shed and the promise of a school closing. I'm an old trailer park kid and would descend upon the little field behind my single-wide and play for all I was worth.

Yes mom, I have my mittens.

The pleasure I soon outgrew, as happens to unfortunate young adults who must now learn to drive in the white stuff. If you were me (which I suspect you weren't unless you've manipulated the space/time continuum) you had to drive your father's Oldsmobile with a learner's permit in your hand while the former drill sergeant keeps his hand hovering between the steering wheel and the emergency brake. Suddenly snow is a thing to be cursed.

And of course, there's all that shoveling. Why, I remember one president's day when we received 17 inches of not-so-fluffy molecules. We got a snow day that day, the entirety of which was spent shoveling. And shoveling. And shoveling. I'd have rather been at work. This was, in fact, the last snow day I received and it was nothing like the romping gaiety I recall from youth.

Except we have dogs.

Because ( as previously noted) you're not me, you may have kids and therefore have already re-discovered the bliss of deep snow. I, however, have come back to the love through four legged nutcases who think the piling mass of coldness is their personal plaything. Oh, they run and jump and frolic in the grand tradition of any kid in a new snowsuit with a well-oiled sled (none of that plastic nonsense if you please). My gigantic pups have made it fun again because watching and interacting with them shrinks me down to an excited ten year old, which height-wise isn't terribly difficult.

So thank you Zaedah, Mysty and Willow. Turns out that despite adulthood, I still dream of snow days!

Who needs sleep?

2009-12-13T10:01:00.005-05:00

A few days ago, my roommate announced that she intended to go kayaking and invited me along. The offer was made with an expectation that I'd say no since I was already in my PJs and curled up in bed (under fleece sheets!) with a thick book.

Not to mention it was seven pm on a Wednesday in the midst of winter and I'd just been chained to my work desk for 10 hours. Naturally, I said yes!

Of course, kayaking means manual labor, because it's not just the paddling, it's the heavy lifting. As those who know me are aware, I top the scales at a staggering 102 pounds. So the breakdown goes like this: Put two kayaks on car, take kayaks off car and into water, paddle like mad, put kayaks back on car and then take off to put away.

I'm not the brightest crayon in the box, huh?

So there we are on a lake that is off-limits after dusk, my spaghetti arms struggling to keep up with my experienced friend as we fight the current of a flooded waterway. We ducked under bridges that would normally be high above our heads and dodged startled Canadian geese who were trying to bed down for the night. Smart creatures.

Did I mention it was cold? And dark?

Along the way we saw two separate flocks of egrets, which glowed silver/white in the moonlight as they migrated. That was a first. We chatted and teased and mocked (as friends do). When we tumble back home at nearly 11:00 pm, I find my devil-cat has peed on my bed and I must now do emergency laundry. And the alarm goes off at 5:45 am so I can enjoy another 10 hour day of working.

It was so totally worth it!

The Robot and the Fish

2009-11-29T14:07:00.006-05:00

Anyone who knows me (which is anyone who does) will tell you that I hover on the Cliff of Silly. It's a ledge where I've pulled up a sleeping bag next to the roaring fire of ridiculousness and made myself at home. Marshmallows can be roasted on the flames of my insanity. But I digress...

I have been known (by those who know me) to assign personalities to inanimate objects. I just think the spatula should enjoy being a microphone and yes, my pencil rolls off the table of its own volition. It likes the ride.

Above we have Mr. Miagi, a red Japanese fighting fish who, by virtue of his breed's quirks (do fish have breeds?) had to live in his tank all alone. Oh, he amused himself by playing in the bubble stream and could eat like a starved child at a free ice cream buffet. And certainly he paid attention to the office staff (he was employed as a mascot) when we lifted his lid. He had no opinions on proprietary matters, but nonetheless, he was quite a hit with visitors. And then the office lights were shut off because five o'clock had come and it was time for the human types to race back to their own tanks.

I like to think that, on those lonely nights and lonelier weekends (three-day weekends must have sucked), he wasn't entirely alone. You see, I'd given him Robby.

Robby doesn't actually work as I'm told he once did. If you're older than me (for which I offer apologies and Depends) you may remember Robby Robot, who ate your dimes and never pooped them out. He was a mechanical bank and, sadly, mine has retired from active duty. So I put him in charge of Fish-Sitting, a job for which an immobile item has, in fact, little choice. I like to think that, on those lonely nights and lonelier weekends (four-day weekends must have blown), Robby would provide Miagi the audience he craved.

Unlikely friends from whom we may learn a lesson. The first is that granting sentience to playthings is a good way to score eye rolls from others. The second is that we should be so undiscerning in our quest for friends. Grudges, prejudices and wars all spring from a narrow view of differences; fish and robot could have fought over the value of plastic over flesh and vice versa. But Miagi just swam and Robby just watched.

Now that Mr. Miagi has gone on to that great tank in the sky (or under that tiny bush by the warehouse) I find Robby's permanently downcast eyes rather indicative of his emotional state. No one else sees this, naturally, but we should all have such good friends.

Minor Allergies

2009-11-28T19:16:00.006-05:00

Sometimes, the animal kingdom gets it right. I have (as previously mentioned) eight felines and not one of them is especially sensitive to their shortcomings, flaws or quirks. They just blast through life in that self-important way of theirs, untroubled by such things as leaking eyes, crooked tails or extra toes. We have unapologetic 'velcro' kitties (the ones that cling), unabashed schizophrenic ones (the ones that fear their own whiskers) and carefree adventures (the bombastic ones who won't stay out of the basement). They don't mind being different, odd or even mildly insane. They just are.

We're all a bit sensitive. Go on, admit it. What are you sensitive about? My list includes small... shall we say... bosoms, utter lack of vertical reach and a spine laid out in such a way as to resemble a blind man's doodling. But I have arrived at such an age that these things have been relegated to the bin of 'minor inconveniences.' I know they're there but acceptance is two parts reality and one part dementia. Where was I going with this? Oh yes, I remember.

I have developed an allergy. One might say I'm allergic to a stick. Or not the stick so much as its existence. Or not so much its existence as the documented proof thereof. Confused? Good.

My problem is thus: I have, sometimes-sporadically-occasionally, required the use of a cane to remain mobile. I know... shocking. MS is a funny thing, letting me tell it just how invincible I am while plotting to cut my legs from under me without warning. Sensitive about MS? Not at all. As anyone with the disease will attest, the MonSter isn't interested in such novel things as pride and therefore sensitivity is fairly short-lived.

In truth, I don't truly mind the cane anymore. When I need it, which isn't often yet, I can endure the stares from people who see a young person stealing the accessories of a senior citizen. I can manage under the constant "Can I help you?" when I'm trying to reach the Fiber One cereal. I can even laugh off the people who walk right past me (and practically over me) when I fall. The one thing I strive to avoid in all that is photographic evidence of my stick.

Yup, that's the allergy. I cannot tolerate having my picture taken while holding the dastardly thing. Something about committing its likeness to glossy paper bugs the all-loving crap outta me. When I was in Williamsburg VA this summer, I needed the dreaded thing to maintain forward momentum and made darn sure the cane was ten feet away from any photo op. My friend looked at me like I'd sprouted mold whenever I threw the wretched thing halfway across the state so she could snap a shot of me. Recently, my oldest niece and I went to a nature center and once again, the stick was a balance saver. But she got a picture of me with the cane and I had to refrain from tossing her camera into the lake. That would be impolite.

I suppose humans are wired for denial, particularly regarding things society considers weakness; mental disease, addictions, physical imperfection and everything in between that can't be squeezed into the cookie cutter. Not having a picture of the cane doesn't change its presence in my trunk. Not having a picture doesn't mean it won't be there next time I need it. It should be a badge of courage, a sign that while something within me wants to defeat me, I have chosen not to let it. At least I could go to Williamsburg and the nature center and countless Walmart trips that have involved the stick. The pictures just prove I was living, not sobbing at home for a disease I cannot change. MS would like me to do that but my Mommy taught me to be defiant.

And anyway, it's one of the few weapons that is legal to carry!

Doormats (or The State of Which)

2009-11-04T20:51:00.007-05:00

I was the quiet kid in the back of the class. I was the girl who never winked at a boy. I was the lady who wore the conciliatory nature as though it were virtue. It's not.

I'm a woman now, however fervently my height disagrees. I've done the self-examination thing to the point of boredom. There's much we don't realize about ourselves and more that we do. Often what we don't like within ourselves becomes a sweep-under-the-rug nuisance. Change is and always shall be counter to our instinct. Most humans dwell in that forest of the status quo.

In these questing years, I've come to understand a little of how others view me. I'm the doormat. It's a useful invention, really. We all have one and those that don't mourn its lack. Who doesn't want visitors to wipe their feet? I have lived a wiped feet existence. Oh, not in every aspect, but in the ones that count (meaning the personal matters) I have to shake off the dirt they track in.

Not my family, naturally. No, it's the ones who share no blood with me that seem to see that as an excuse to trample on me. Why? Because I've always let them. And when that brilliant self-examination is through, I see a person within who hates confrontation and wishes to upset no one. So essentially, I'm too nice. Which must explain why I'm still single.

I intended to say something to someone at some time today, a cutting dissection of how I am being treated and how I demand it cease. And let me tell you, I rehearsed all day. It didn't happen. Because though I had the words, I failed to summon the appropriate moxie. I have reached the point of anxiety and cannot open my mouth properly. I want to spare feelings, everyone's except my own.

There's a point when even the most conciliatory person must stand their ground. The one I must correct thinks that I can't do it, can't say it to their face because I'm the quiet kid in the back. I long to prove them wrong. I need to. Because I'm still a person, no matter how short or nice or anxious. I can be conscious of others' feelings while still voicing mine. This is America, folks. I have rights.

So I will get up off the floor, dust myself off and kiss off the status quo.

The Offer and the Chicken

2009-09-30T20:25:00.010-04:00

Every person I know in this life lives in and around Bucks County, PA. If the location doesn't ring a bell, imagine the breads of Philly and Trenton. Bucks is the meat. And it's been my home my entire life. I know, I know... I need to get out more. I hadn't traveled much as a kid, other than whatever campground we could reach in a day. Now getting out into this sparkling country has become terribly important to me as evidenced by a vacation in Arizona, a trip to the everglades and most recently a drive from Florida to PA by way of an extended stay in Colonial Williamsburg, VA.

And then Kelly had to go and get me thinking...

My friend and former coworker moved back to California, where life in a seaside college town is apparently waaaay more fun than fighting with Jersey drivers. Her new digs feature a small downstairs apartment where little me has been invited (possibly even seriously) to live. Come on out, she says. Share living expenses and get away from the East Coast tension. So, in the spirit of my anal brethren, I made a pro/con list. Yes, even early middle aged people do this.

Problem one: Family. I live (and I'm not kidding) three streets away from my parents. I like this, keeping them close for parental hugs and such. And I'm an eight-time aunt of darlings aged 16 down to not-quite-born. This is an important role to me, being childless myself.

Problem two: Money. A cross country drive and all the gas/food/motel expenses is a wee bit out of the pocket change range. I'm a single gal, after all and far from independently wealthy.

Problem three: The furries. Can you imagine me tooling down the road in my rental van, towing a Neon-full of cats behind me? How do I sneak them into the motel each night? And did I mention my 13 year old dog (still recovering from a second cancer surgery) gets carsick?

But...

Pro one: Weather. My multiple sclerosis is no fan of heat, which brings symptoms I'd be just as glad to live without. And the cold steals what little circulation I possess. San Luis Obispo is, by all accounts, the happy medium.

Pro two: Living. Yes, aside from travel, my thirties have been as unexciting as my twenties. I'm not a chance taker, I don't get up and go, I haven't the pioneering spirit. So I watch as opportunities pass me by. But I have no man (and no expected prospects), no offspring, no monumental debt. So why can't I get up and go. The wonder of technology will help me stay in touch with loved ones. Do they actually require my presence here? I don't believe I'm that important to anyone. MS has given me challenges but I'm not disabled, darn it. I want to live and see and do!

Pro three: Housing. I have ready-made and available housing in a new state. How often does that happen? Four walls and a new beginning. Who wouldn't love that?

But... sigh. Though I've considered all the angles (while I was supposed to be working, I might add), I know that I'll never go. I will live in Pennsylvania for the rest of my days, regretting yet another missed opportunity whilst surrounded by loved ones.

Honestly, that's not such a bad deal.

Generational Technology

2009-09-26T08:51:00.005-04:00

Today, a new participant in the social experiment known as The Internet will wander onto the game board. My father, who has knowledge and experience on the world wide web, will now have access in his own home.

You'd be surprised at the number of 'previous generationers' online at any given moment. I speak to Medicare patients all day long and often hear the word 'e-mail' drop from their lips in the same sentence as 'colonoscopy' and 'pacemaker.' Our parents, grandparents and occasionally beyond are typing their way into this instant-news, viral-video, mass-networking world. My generation has become enslaved to our keyboards but if you look at the person surfing the web next to you at the library, chances are they've got a few decades on you.

It has given me pause, though. Is the Zaedah found online someone my father will recognize in real life? Is there anything connected to my penname that I wouldn't want him to see? What will he learn of his child by roaming in cyberspace?

Would he be proud?

I'll have to let him answer that. I can only hope that I have been true to myself and the ideals, passions and beliefs that he's long seen in the flesh-and-blood me. I will welcome my daddy to this wired land and gladly guide him to everyplace his little girl inhabits.

And though we live a mere three streets apart, I expect an e-mail often, Poppa Smurf!

Aging with the Wizard

2009-09-23T18:47:00.006-04:00

Tomorrow I shall be 35. No, that's not a typo... 35. That's three and a half decades down and I'm still the height of a twelve year old. On a stool. With platform shoes. Tonight, however, I will be the age my height suggests and those shoes will be ruby. And big sis is in on it too!

We're going to watch the Wizard of Oz, which turns waaay older than myself and thus has earned a coveted screen at our gigantic, overpriced and admittedly impressive theater. Yup, Dorothy's back on the big screen for a one night, one showing engagement. And I will see her in all of her newly digital glory. Why? Because I can.

Because I'm old enough to drive and, despite snickering in the back, I can actually reach the peddles. Because I grew up watching this movie which, by line of logic, means I actually grew up. I'm paying with money earned from my grown-up job (or as grown-up as selling air can be).

My sister doesn't know where we're going yet, as I think the birthday girl is entitled to surprise other people instead. And I can only hope she'll be as excited as me to see a movie at ten o'clock at night and then get up in the wee hours of dawn for the activities that adulthood requires. I hope she'll join me in the reverse aging process, marveling at munchkins and flying monkeys and a yellow brick road I'm fairly sure scientists have yet to unearth in reality. I'm about to hit the 'old threshold' according to family, coworkers and my traitorous hair color. I don't care. Tonight I'm still 34 going on twelve.

Mind you, I'm so old now that the sense of thrift has set in and I bought the normally four dollar candy ahead of time at the dollar store. Sue me!

The End of Humor

2009-09-20T17:03:00.010-04:00

Several years ago, writing had become a multi-generational affair. My father cites my writing as his inspiration to pick up a pen and record his own thoughts and experiences. Over time, he made a binder for all of his children, filled with memories from days gone by and considerations of the world now before him. But it's been awhile since he's added to that binder...

He didn't think we were interested.

I doubt I'll ever convince him of how wrong he is. But two days ago, after a hiatus, he finally picked up the proverbial pen and made a new entry called 'Humor.' In it, he reflects on a solitary childhood and how he overcame loneliness at school with humor. It became, he tells us, a shield as hard and protective as a turtle's shell behind which he could hide the true person inside. Daddy explains how he now lives Bruce Springsteen's 'Glory Days,' when one is left with boring stories of days gone by.

My dad can tell a story like no one else. He infuses so much life into a simple recount of the day or a remembrance of long-buried relatives. They're anything but boring. And while he acknowledges that he's been putting that humor away, because the world is too busy, because his family is too busy, because his health is weakening along with his spirit.

He is now the unsmiling face we see on the photos of Native Americans. His ancestors.

He says: "So I have put the humor aside and will now just wait for the spirit to leave me."

No time soon, I pray. Because there is such value in this man of wisdom and love. Because no one is a better example of everything little girls want to find in their future soul mate. No one can live up to my daddy. And no one has stood by me, lifted me up and made me whole like my parents. I need his stories and the humor that comes not as a shield but as a genuine part of his spirit to remind me of who I am, where I come from. If he will listen, I will tell him not to put his thoughts away but preserve them as he has in the past. If he thinks no one cares, no one's interested and no one has time, he need only look at his daughter.

I am standing here, ears alert, waiting to hear his voice.

The Name Project Update...

2009-09-15T20:38:00.009-04:00

My little Facebook social experiment continues, gentle readers (see blog entry dated 9/12/09). I shall have some raw data coming your way soon, an initial compilation of what I've learned about we fabulous women. The dozen new friends I have made (lovely ladies hailing from all points on the globe) have been a delight and I will strive to add to our numbers. A Facebook group is in our future.

For the time being, I wanted to share a few responses I've received from willing participants (no arms twisting was committed in the making of this project...

"You know I have thought we should all get together for so long now. Can you believe how many of us there are???? I wonder what we all look like? How we behave? What is really in a name!!! Good for you Zaedah for branching out to connect us all. Let's make it happen! : )"

"Hey... I've accepted your friend request to support your quest, Have fun
collecting Amy Blacks."

So I guess I wasn't nuts after all. And it appears I've infected my brother...

"Cool idea sis. Maybe I'll give that a try. Hope there's not to many of me,
one is toooo many."

If you don't share my name, it's never to late for a legal alteration!

Cat Hoarder Test

2009-09-13T10:13:00.002-04:00

Apparently, I am one of gazillions that has become interested, shocked and occasionally appalled by A & E's new show, Hoarders. Here we feast on folks with minor trash disposal issues, credit card love and enough food storage to carry one through the Apocalypse. But yesterday I saw one that made me ponder my own household collection...

Cats.

Sure, we've seen feline adoptions gone mad on Animal Cops too and many head shakes ensued. But the 71 year old woman on yesterday's program was a prime example of too much love and no good counting skills. When questions, Shirley put her cat population at 20-25. If only. As law enforcement began the task of rounding up the brood, the final tally was 75 cats, a host of them dead. And she had no idea! What kind of scent can rampage through a house that can successfully mask the smell of rotting corpses?

My roommate and I have often said that anyone entering our home would likely think we were on the cusp of hoarding. But I have devised a way to judge our proclivity by the hoarding standard. It's quite simple... if you can answer (correctly) how many cats you have, you might not be a hoarder. Especially, in my opinion. if the number is still a single digit.

We have eight. We know their names, birthdays, quirks, manner of arrival and can accurately run down their varied medical conditions and vet visits. And, in fairness, we are two households combined and one of the critters is a foster cat. There. I feel much better. So here's to Zazu, Zimba, Zorro, Bugg, Reuben, Stitch, Pudge and Montana!

The Name Project

2009-09-12T11:40:00.002-04:00

Have you ever wondered how many people share your name? When I was young, I saw an article in Time magazine and was surprised to find the author's name was my own. So I grabbed a phone book and noted two or three locals enjoying my moniker. Years later the advent of the internet allowed me to search worldwide for others with my rather simple name. The numbers were, frankly, staggering. There's a lot of ME running around the globe!

I haven't thought about this little game for some time, until last night. Out of momentary boredom (and we all know how dangerous those can be) I plugged my name into Facebook's search engine and the resulting list was 500 names strong. There were a few variations but for the most part, I had several hundred ladies who'd either been born or married into my name. And so, in the spirit of my uber-friendly mother, I decided to say hello to a few handfuls of them. I sent friend invite with a quick explanation (because no one likes a stalker). In the first few hours, I received 7 replies.

I look forward to reading every profile, every synopsis of a life lived under the same umbrella. An eager eye will be cast to the similarities, the differences, the stories learned on a screen. Perhaps a few cyber-friendships may be constructed on this foundation of a name.

More to follow...

Every Generation's Question

2009-09-11T18:38:00.002-04:00

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?" Eight 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 how 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 as 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 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...

Entry Number A

2009-09-10T21:25:00.001-04:00

Wisdom should pervade this first entry, but alas it is rarely found at the end of my fingertips. Thus I type from this place of sporadic confusion, planning nonsense as only the mortally silly can. I lack wisdom, therefore no self-help book shall ever bear my name. I cannot promise sage advice nor enlightenment, only the ramblings of a scattered mind on this stark white blankness that is the waiting entry.

Zaedah Tampers With Reason...

Goodbye Doggie-Brown

Every Generation's Question

Nope, no identity crisis here...

And we think WE have it tough?

Rumors of my death...

Another lesson from California...

At least it wasn't obscene...

Zaedah Coast to Coast

And I thought I was small...

It's all in the font?

Mommy's Day

Glory in the Bathroom

Conversations in the Garden

Confessions of an Addict...

The point of a weekend...

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

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

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

Jealous?

The Dates That Matter-ish

Rampant Sinister Bunnies...

A Word on Staples...

The curse is contagious...

Oh, To Be Legal... *UPDATED*

But with my luck...

The Bombs of Doubt...

Zeus tested... Zeus approved!

The Nature of Nature is... Rebellion!

Wisdom of Zappa...

Yeah... about that.

Yup, they bathe in Blue # 40

Why I oughta...

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

Surpassing the Numeric Value

In which dating turns (really) ugly...

Trippin' ain't just for hippies...

New New Year's tradition...

They don't just hold shoes together...

Yes, but for 24 hours?

Mall Santas Don't Try Anymore

Ode to the White Stuff

Who needs sleep?

The Robot and the Fish

Minor Allergies

Doormats (or The State of Which)

The Offer and the Chicken

Generational Technology

Aging with the Wizard

The End of Humor

The Name Project Update...

Cat Hoarder Test

The Name Project

Every Generation's Question

Entry Number A

Oh, To Be Legal... UPDATED