Happy 1st Birthday!!

I’ve dedicated spent one year writing my blog.  It’s a bloggy birthday!

I started this as a fun project to write about things I’ve seen, things I’ve done, and things I have opinions about.  Maybe even some private snippets of my life (that I think won’t bore people to death!).

I’m not the funniest person on the planet but I hope that I make my readers laugh occasionally often (at a blog like this about a hair weave).  I’m not the smartest person in the world but I hope that my readers may learn something new (like this blog about the evilness of celery).  I’m not the prettiest gal in the world but I hope my readers . . . wait, what does that have to do with my blog?  I just hope that if you’ve stumbled in here, you’ll stay awhile and find some enjoyment from my musings.

I don’t get many comments.  I'm OK with that but I love the ones I do get!!  I try to reply as quickly as I can.  I hope that there are more readers out there that enjoy my blog but, for some reason, don’t want to comment.  That’s OK too; but please, don’t be shy.  I take both compliments and criticism well.  I also like you hear if you’ve had similar thoughts or similar things happen to you.

I can’t say how long I’ll keep blogging.  My goal is to just keep going for as long as I can come up with something to say.  Angry would tell you that I’m never at a loss for something to say so I may be doing this forever.

Happy Birthday to my Blog.  I think I’ll have a beer (or several) to celebrate.

My love, my shadow.

Almost 15 years ago, Angry and I adopted a cat from a no-kill shelter.  I want to tell you his story.

I went to buy some kitty litter from a local store.  Some people from that shelter were there with cats and kittens in cages, looking to adopt them out.

I spotted a little grey guy who looked like a cat we already had.  He was so cute and sweet that I adopted him on the spot.

You would have taken him home too!

When I asked the people about him and they estimated that he was about 6 months old.  One of their volunteers had been driving down a very busy street and she noticed him running around.  She pulled over and called out “Come here kitty cat.”  He ran right to her and let her pick him up!   He loved everybody, even a stranger on the street.

When we got him home, we put him in one of the bedrooms to separate him from our other two cats until we could get him checked out by the vet to make sure he was healthy.  And then we’d have to introduce them slowly.

We’d go in a check up on him and give him some loving about every hour or so.  One time, Angry went in and he came right back out and said, “It smells like piss in there.”  Sure enough, he hadn’t been fixed (they told me he was and I didn’t look at that area to check) and he was spraying everywhere in the bedroom.  Everywhere.  He could smell the other two cats and wanted to make his presence known!

When we went to bed, we tried to think of a name for him.  He couldn’t go to the vet without a name.  We discussed lots of options but didn’t “love” any of them.  Finally, I said, “Wait a minute; I love Gossamer, the monster from Bugs Bunny.  He’s a monster right now.  Let’s call him Gossimer.”  We spelled it differently so he’d be unique.  I called the vet at 7 am the next morning and told them we needed a checkup and a neuter that day.

He became my baby almost immediately.  He had to share me with one of our other cats but when she died, Gossimer got full possession of my lap and my time.

Catching a few rays.

Gossimer tried to help me blog. It was obviously boring for him!

Where's my milk and ice cream?

Packer fan, through and through.

I was a naughty kitten!

In late October, as we were getting ready to go to Mexico, Gossimer started to rub his face and shake his head like he was in pain.  We knew his teeth were sort of yucky and planned to get him in for a cleaning and have any bad ones pulled when we got back from vacation.

Unfortunately, the day before we left, he stopped eating.  We called Angry’s parents and asked them to rush him to the vet on Monday.  When we called them to check up on him, it was dire.  But the vet got him “up and running” again with some fluids and some antibiotics.  The plan was to clear up the infection in his gums and then do the dental work.

The week before Thanksgiving, he stopped eating again.  We made his appointment for the Friday after Thanksgiving and he went in that day for a cleaning and any pulling that was required.

It was very unpleasant for him.  He had two teeth pulled.  One small one way in the back of his mouth and one canine (the big pointy one) on the bottom.  Canine teeth help keep the jaw bone stable and when his was pulled it did quite a bit of damage.  He was in a lot of pain and we had him on some narcotic pain meds and antibiotics.

He seems to be healing and was slowing eating small bits of food.  Then, he quit eating again.  The vet checked him out and felt that his jaw was healing well.  We couldn’t figure out what was happening to make him not want to eat.  We started giving him some more pain meds and that worked for a few days.

On Friday of last week, he quit eating again.  We visited the vet again on Monday of this week and she said she was terribly worried that something else was “really wrong” that was not related to his jaw.  She drew blood and we waited with baited breath until Tuesday for the results.

The results showed that he had cancer.  By Tuesday he had really wasted away to nothing.  He had, in these months, gone from about 7.5 pounds to 5.6 pounds.  He was so weak that he could barely stand up.  He was basically just staring straight ahead with no “life” in his eyes.  The decision was easy for us.  He could not suffer any longer and keep starving himself to death.

Tuesday night we took him to the vet, wrapped in his favorite blanket, and let him go to heaven.  He was finally peaceful.  He had been so hurt and sad since October.

I miss his face.  I miss his purr.  I miss his big eyes looking up at me waiting for me to scoop him up into my arms.  I miss his long claws that I never trimmed enough, that would scratch my legs when he jumped on me.  I miss his prancing around the kitchen because I could never get his breakfast or dinner ready fast enough for him.  I miss him playing with his favorite plastic ball with a bell in it (carrying it in his mouth like a goof).  I miss his “yowling” when he was hunting his toys.  I miss his scratching on my bedroom door if I didn’t get up early enough for him (and while I was getting ready for work in the morning because he missed me for those few minutes).  I miss his body sitting on my lap all the time.  I miss him trying to get onto the TV tray when I was eating cereal or ice cream to get some goodies.  I miss him reaching into the potato chip bags to help himself to salty treats.  I miss him digging in the carpet.  I miss him running to the door to greet me every time I was out of the house (or even if I was in the basement!).  I miss him sitting on the toilet lid clawing at my legs, trying to get me to hurry up when I was brushing my teeth (so I’d pick him up).  I miss him waiting for me to put on my jewelry in the morning so we could get some petting time in before I left for work.  I miss him turning over onto his back to get his “armpits” scratched (he loved that!).  I miss holding him in my arms, listening to him purr every time I picked him up (which was all the time).  I miss his “head bumps” when we sat on the couch.

I know that he’s in heaven playing with his buddies that preceded him in death.  I know he’d not in any pain.  I know that he’s back to being a healthy kitty.  I know that he’s at peace.  My tears will eventually dry and my heart won’t ache constantly.

Goodbye to my handsome buddy who was my shadow for almost 15 years.  You’ll be missed Gossimer.  You’ll be remembered with much love and happiness.

How much for the hooker? For a week?

I want to share a story from our vacation in Mexico.

To set the scene:  The resort we stay in has a bar on the beach.  It’s actually a large round bar sitting on a huge slab of decorated concrete with tables circling the outside of the bar.

We were sitting at a table one evening, enjoying some beer, tequila, and the sunset.

I looked over to the bar and noticed two women girls, in their early 20s at the very oldest, who were not dressed appropriately for the beach/resort/bar.

Everyone else was wearing and assortment of shorts, t-shirts, tank tops, and swim suits.  These gals were wearing skirts so short that I could see butt cheeks; tops so small that I could see nipples popping out; and shoes that were true “fuck me” heels.  They were so high that I suffered vertigo just looking at them.

These girls were not alone.  They were accompanied by two men who appeared to be in their late 50s or early 60s.  These men were not “ugly” but they were not enjoyable to look at (not like Mike Rowe!).

The couples moved to a table and I noticed that one of the men’s hands was “roaming” over his partner’s butt and boobs.  Roaming and grabbing, grabbing and roaming.  That hand had a wedding ring on it.

“Hmmmm. . .  I don’t think that’s his wife.” I said to Angry.  Someone tried to take a picture of the two couples and he shouted, in a panic, “No pictures!  No pictures!”  My thought had been validated.

They spent the evening at the table feeling each other up until they left.  We assumed they went to their rooms for more than roaming and grabbing.

The next evening, they were at one of the tables at the bar again.  One of the young women lit a cigarette; her partner (he was without a wedding ring) pushed the ashtray across the table, gave her a very nasty look, and turned his face away from her and the smoke.  She quickly put out the cigarette and popped a piece of gum into her mouth.  Next thing I know they are facing each other sticking their tongues straight out and touching the tips together while “wagging” them.  GROSS!  GROSS!!  This is NOT what I wanted to see while trying to enjoy a beautiful sunset.

During the rest of our trip, every time we saw them at the outdoor restaurant the men had their hands all over these girls.  All. Over.  They were constantly french kissing.  It was worse than two teenagers in a mall parking lot.

In the swimming pool?  God only knows what was going on under the water (they stayed in one corner the entire day).  Angry commented that he would stay far away from that section of the pool.  He assumed it might be “gross" over there.  Needless to say, the bikinis that the girls wore were non-existent.  A strip of Christmas ribbon would have covered more real estate.

I’m not sure how much these gals cost for the week.  But from what I witnessed in public areas of the resort (I do not want to think about what happened in private), the men got their money’s worth!

What's a Wazoo?

As I’ve told you before, I had the pleasure of living with my Grandma while I was growing up (here’s how she saved my life, sort of).

She was a Polish woman who cooked like magic and could tell stories that made you laugh so hard you would pee your pants.  She also had some interesting “sayings” and used some different unusual words.

Here are some of the things she’d say:

“That drives me up the wazoo.” – I’m not really sure what the hell a wazoo is but there are a lot of things that drive ME up the wazoo now a days.

“We’re off, like a herd of turtles.” – She always said this when we were getting ready to head to a store or a mall.  It was usually me, my Mom, and her going but sometimes we’d have an Aunt or two tag along for the ride.  I assume she meant that we were a pack of slow moving shoppers.  These are the kind of people that I hate to get stuck behind in the aisles.  We must have been annoying!

“You know what burns my ass?  A fire about this high.” – She’d hold her hand right next to her butt to show where that fire would burn.  I use this all the time.  I guess a lot of things burn my ass.

“Yell-o.” – That was how she answered the telephone.  It sounded like the color but with a hard accent on the “yell” part and a soft “o” sound.  I do not answer my phone that way as I think I’d confuse someone.  Of course, I text way more than I talk on the phone.  Maybe I should try it and see how it goes?

“Whatchamacallit” – This was a much-used word in her vocabulary.  Often several times in one sentence!  She used it for anything she couldn’t remember the name of.  Such as, “You know that whatchamacallit we saw in the store today?  I think it was on sale.”  Or, “I need one of those whatchamacallits that you use to fix glasses.”  This is used by enough other people that Microsoft’s spell check recognizes it.  I don’t tend you use this.  I’d rather say the “real” word which probably has less syllables.

“Dupa” – The Polish word for ass.  If she didn’t like you, she told you that you were a dupa.  In no uncertain terms.  I know a lot of dupas.  I like to call them that (sometimes to their face).  That way, I can say I speak Polish.

I'm reminded of her when I use these words and phrases.  She was a unique woman.  I wonder if she ever though those things would be sort of like a legacy?  Probably not, she was just speaking her mind.

A rose by any other name.

The name that is on my birth certificate is Elizabeth Margaret.  I was named after my Grandmothers.

If you look up Elizabeth in a baby name book, you will see that there are quite a few nicknames associated with it.  Go ahead and do it, I'll wait. . .  I find some strange.  Tibby?  Babette?  What does either of those have to do with Elizabeth?

Most people call me Liz.  Most.

I have a few other nicknames.  Let’s discuss. . .

Sassy – Angry started calling me this soon after we started dating (and still does).  Hmmm. .  . I wonder why?

Dolly – The story goes that Elizabeth was too formal a name for a baby.  Someone said to my Mom or Dad, “She looks like a little doll.” and the name Dolly stuck.  When my Mom was mad at me she never, ever called me Elizabeth.  She’d say “Dolly LastName, just what do you think you are doing?”  Or some such reprimand.  My family still calls me this and I’ve always been introduced to other people by them as Dolly.  Many of my Dad’s friends don’t know that that isn’t my real legal name.

Lizard – Who hasn’t called someone named Elizabeth by Lizard?  One friend calls me that regularly and believe it or not, I like it!  Not everyone can be a Lizard.

Lizilla – Just like Godzilla.  I was given this nickname when I worked with a group of stock traders.  I needed to be a tough bitch to talk to brokers on the stock exchanges.  I’ll be the first to admit that this fits me to a tee (look up tough bitch in the dictionary and you’ll see my picture).  Angry will use this when I'm in a menopausal rage.  It fits.  I’m thinking of getting this on a personalized license plate. 

Lizzie – This handle was also given to me while I was sitting on that trading desk (see Lizilla).  Everyone on the desk got a “y” sound at the end of their name.  Bobby, Stevie, Markey etc.  I don’t like to spell it with a Y so I spell it Lizzie.  The "big boss" at my company still calls me this.

Lizzie Lou – Not related to plain old Lizzie.  Long after our trading desk was removed from the firm, a coworker said she thought I looked like a Lizzie Lou.  Many years later and I’m still not sure what a Lizzie Lou looks like but that’s what she always called me.  Since it’s different and cute, I still use that for some of my screen names on the interwebs.  So, I guess it's only a nickname that I call myself.  Does that count?

No, I don’t get confused by having so many names.  I’ll answer to pretty much anything!

I wanna bitch about something.

As I say in the "About Me" section, I love some good beer or tequila (and wine too).

I don't have a drink every day but when I feel like it, I pop open a beer, pour a glass of wine, or have Angry make me a margarita (he makes a great one!).

Or, we visit our favorite local restaurant’s bar (and all our Facebook Friend bartenders) for Happy Hour.

I'm currently taking an antibiotic.  This antibiotic has a "severe" reaction to alcohol.  It is so severe that I can't even use mouthwash, cough syrup, or perfume.

Read that again. . . I can't put alcohol on. my. skin.

Needless to say, these 7 days that I’m on this medicine (and at least a couple of days after to let it work its way out of my system) suck.  Big time.

Like I said, I don't have a drink every day.  But since I know I can't, I've never wanted needed a beer so badly in my life.

Every time I go into the fridge those beer bottles are staring back at me as if they are daring me to open them.  I swear I heard “triple dog dare” last night as I was shutting the door.  I hate them right now.

Thanks for letting me bitch.  I hope I can survive until next Wednesday.  Wish me luck; I'm going to need it.