Life's small miracles

I sat for a bit today and reflected back on 2011. Usually we do this as the year ends, but I'm a procrastinator, so I got an early start.

I have to say, my trip down memory lane went far beyond 2011, and before I knew it, I found myself deep in the past.

Now, given the events of last month, taking a trip down memory lane to review the many gratitudes of the past, is not a bad thing. Many have experienced losses we cannot fathom, and more than ever, hope is essential. It reminds us that while things sometimes seem hopeless, they are not, for life has an ebb and flow, and for every difficult time, there is a good time to maintain the balance.

It was these times I was reflecting on, as I pondered how to reclaim the good life I once had.

I was reminded of one singular event, one amazing moment, so brilliant in its perfection, it may never be outdone by another. I am okay with this.

It was, in itself, a small miracle, as it almost didn't happen.

The story goes a little bit like this. I say "a little bit," because I have a rotten memory at times, I write fiction, so embellishment could happen, and I am still pretty sure that long-term exposure to kerosene fumes causes brain damage. I might be brain damaged, but it's hard to tell, since I'm not really any more effed up now than I was prior to this past March.

Anyhow, I digress. It's probably the brain damage.

Back to the story.

It was summer of 2005, and I was knee-deep in my new found obsession with theater. I didn't have a script in my purse for the first time in months, and I was getting nervous.

Our theater group in Norwich announced auditions for The Sound of Music. I liked music, and I'd watched the movie fifty times, so I figured I was a good candidate. Like any diva, I went for the brass ring, and sang my heart out for the part of Maria. I knew, just knew, I'd die if I didn't get it.

Well, as the story goes, I didn't get it, and the funny part is, the absolutely mystifying part is...... I didn't die.

Actually, it gets better.

I didn't want to be Maria after all.

Here's why.

After singing my heart out for the coveted lead, I was asked to sing for the role of Mother Superior.

A nun?

Why not?

Nobody would find this surprising, since I was getting up there in years, hadn't had a boyfriend in a sad stretch, and had a lot of cats.

I didn't think I wanted the part, but I sang the song, and knew, this was the role of a lifetime. I had to have that part. If I didn't get it, I'd die, for sure.

But I didn't die, because I landed the role. Now, here is where it gets interesting.

I guess I got the role because I was "the voice." Evidently - and we're gonna get spiritual here - The Sound of Music almost didn't happen. The role of Mother Superior is hard to cast. Climb Every Mountain is one hard song to sing. I know. I sang it about 400 times before the whole shindig was wrapped up. The director had toiled over whether or not she could cast the show, and in a moment of need, asked God for guidance. That night, she had a dream. In the dream, someone was singing Climb Every Mountain, but as dreams go, of course, she couldn't see the woman's face.

So, she woke that August morning with a new quest. Find "the voice."

I was it.

She cried when she told me the story. I cried, too. Little did I know, I would cry a few more times before the show closed.

On a Sunday afternoon, in November of 2005, a very sick man got into the passenger seat of his car in Chenango Bridge, wrapped in a blanket, medicine in hand, to make the trip to Norwich to see his daughter play the role of Mother Superior.

In case you're slow, or brain damaged too, the daughter is me.

The day was divine, warm, unseasonably so for a day in November, in New York, when it should be snowing.

He arrived without issue, took his place in the center of the audience, and the show began. The first Act went beautifully, quickly, and then it was time.

It was time for me to step into the spotlight and do what I'd rehearsed some 399 times.

I never look into the audience. I look above them, and not because I'm arrogant, but because it's easier, and you really can't see them anyhow. This time, I looked, and there he was, my dad, weeks away from taking his last breath.

Everyone else disappeared.

It was just me.

And Dad.

The spotlight took on an ethereal glow, and I said a silent prayer.

"Just this time, God. Just this time, let it be perfect."

And, it was.

Time paused, and I stood in the light of God, and sang my heart out. I sang to a man who might never hear me sing again.

He didn't.

In a few short weeks, he was gone. Cancer had commandeered his body, and on a cold January night, he left me.

But what he left was greater. He left me a perfect moment, a perfect memory, that if not for his presence, and even the nasty disease which had stolen him, would not have been so poignant.

It was a moment that almost didn't happen.

Time passed. The lights went out, the set was struck, the debris was swept away, and the snot I plastered all over the coat of the soldier on whose shoulder I wept, dried.

Many days have gone by since that one, most remarkable day. Some have been good, some great, some lousy, and some, this year especially, just plain awful.

It is, as I said, the ebb and flow of life.

No matter what came after, or what comes next, I will always have that one, divine moment.

It was, I thought, a small miracle.

Now I know, it might have been the greatest one of all.......

In the aftermath of tragedy

In the days that followed what will likely be known as the Great Flood of 2011, as an observer of life, naturally, I am observing, and basking in what I've seen.

The resiliency of this community is astounding to me. I see those with the least reaching out to help those who have nothing. I've seen the best and worst.

I've heard stories of looters, and heroes, and, of course, Petco. Let's not go to the Petco just yet. In fact, I may reserve that for another blog, and I expect you'll see a follow-up on that on my Examiner page.

I've seen tragedy. In fact, I've probably seen more than most people will ever see, at least on a personal basis. Do I want you to feel sorry for me? No, I do not. I'd like you to buy my book, and those yet to be published, but I don't need sympathy.

In fact, I'm proud of my survival skills, and I'm happy to put them to good use in problem solving, and especially when given the opportunity to help someone else.

A friend told me something interesting today, and if this isn't putting a positive spin on something negative, I don't know what is. Her basement flooded. In fact, I know it did, because while it's been hoed out by some of the finest people I've ever met, I can still smell it. It smells bad, but she knows this, so I won't point it out. It smells worse than my Sunflower perfume, but slightly better than the garbage can on the patio, two days after I deposit fifteen pounds of dog shit in it. This smell is somewhere in between.

And while the smell remains, so does the gratitude, and a lot of people might find this odd, but I don't. I think if you can stand in three feet of river water in your basement and find something to be grateful for, you've got damn good character. If you're this kind of person, I want to hang out with you.

Come over!

I'll make margaritas, and we'll chat about how much worse things could be, and not to be fatalists, but to be damn glad we've got each other, our meager belongings, a damn good blender, and a local store that sells margarita salt. You're a good egg, my friend, and you know who you are.

So, anyway......

Getting back to the silver lining. A pile of flooded belongings can be a trip down memory lane, and it proved such for my good friend. Soggy boxes yielded memories of days gone by, an opportunity to laugh, and reminisce.

I too found a silver lining in this past week's disaster. Despite the fact that I evacuated six months early, and not because I'm wicked proactive, or own a magic Almanac, but because I've got my own cross to bear, I found comfort in being safe and out of the water's way. I found comfort in the fact that I found myself useful to someone in need. I was proud to care and empathize with those who had lost so much, and still found the ability to reach for the hand of a friend who had less.

I was royally ticked at Petco, but again, we'll come back to that. I was also royally ticked at the whiners, who cannot for a moment emphathize with another, because they're so wrapped up in their own self misery.

Set it aside for a minute folks, and grab a bucket. Someone could use your help bailing out. I don't particularly want to hear you bitch because you don't have cable. Things could be worse! You could have ten feet of water in your house, or be a hamster at Petco.

Shut up!

So, in addition to the horrible and wonderful things I've seen this week, I am pretty sure I found a way to fix our current administration.

I don't think we need to vote for another president. I think we need to let the pack assembled at Cup-A-Jo this past Saturday, run the country. We won't have a president. We'll have a bunch of presidents, and we'll have really good coffee. In fact, I'm having some now, and when I'm done, I'm gonna figure out how to get a group on the ballot.

We don't have a white house here, but we have a white fence. We don't have an oval office, but we could get some room dividers, set 'em up just right, and make an oval space. We won't need to spend two-thousand bucks on toilets, because if ours breaks, we'll just get Don to fix it.

Sometimes it doesn't need to be as complex as we make it. If you've got water in your basement, get a bucket, a few friends, some sandwiches and curly fries from Arby's, put a pot of coffee on, and get the shit out! We didn't need to take a majority vote, we just did it. We didn't need to be politically correct, because frankly, I'm not necessarily PC, and Don sure isn't, but we got shit done anyway.

The clothes were wet, so Sue washed them. There was water on the floor, so Chuck got it with a ShopVac. He didn't go ten days over deadline trying to figure out who was to blame for the seepage, he just vacuumed it up.

Elana, our smallest warrior, kept everyone in check, and she'll be our Junior President, or a Prez-in-training, but anyone who has kids, has been around kids, or watches Kate Plus Eight, knows that kids run shit anyway. So, Elana will be running the country, and I'm okay with this. We'll just drive her around, because she's only ten and can't see over the steering wheel yet.

Amy got cut, so she put a bandage on, and went back to work. She didn't need to get a committee to figure out how she got cut, and if there was someone who needed to be sued, or a product that needed to be recalled. She got cut, she washed it off, got a dinosaur bandaid and went back to work.

Sometimes we just need to fix problems the old fashioned way. Bail the water out, get a snack, a cup of coffee, and move on. The water rose, but so did we, and so did so many others in this trying time.

So, that's what I learned this past week. What did you learn? Did you learn to be better, more prepared, kinder? Did you learn to shop locally, where someone with a kayak will rescue a lizard, instead of letting it drown, and then blaming it on the Mayor? I know, I wasn't going there, but it was just for a moment, and I couldn't help it.

Any of those will serve you well. Also, when the water rises, it's good to have a friend whose hand you can hold, or someone who needs you to hold them up. It's also good to have a sense of humor, some batteries, instant coffee, a big heart, and a canoe.

Your life is never empty if your soul is full.

Mine is.

Back later with more.........

And Petco.

The ramblings of life

Today I was reminded of Steel Magnolias, of the group of fiery-spirited southern friends who laugh and cry together.

This group of friends is repeated all over the world. I have one. I can only hope that you have one, too. Life is nothing without them, these people we can call on when our hair dye job goes bad, we've run out of gas, got a new job, lost a job, lost ten pounds, or gained five.

They are always there for us, and we for them. They aren't "fair weather," friends, they're "all the time," friends. Good or bad, they're by our side.

I was sitting with such a friend when a bad call came in. We all know what it's like to get bad calls. One of the constants in life is that bad calls will come. They seep in unexpectedly, while we're having coffee, updating our Facebook status, toiling about in our daily job, or crawling around in the blogosphere.

I watched my friend's face change, saw her body tremble, as she tried to absorb the news that a friend had died. I hurt for her at that moment, and I hurt still. I also feel pain for the family.

It's called empathy, and the more I travel throughout this great, big world, the more I find that very few of us have this. It's an ability to put ourselves in someone else's position, walk a mile in their Jimmy Choos, as I've often said, or feel what they're feeling.

There isn't any way to make this funny, so I won't even try. The burden of living always falls to the survivors, those left behind when the hands of fate reach down and snatch someone away unexpectedly.

We cry, and mourn, and sometimes we throw things. At least I do. I threw a lot of things while my dad was ill some years back. The upside was I never really had anything that nice, so I never missed the things I threw. I throw pretty hard. Most of that crap is broken and long gone.

I digress.

Getting back to empathy.

If you look around you, a lot of what you'll see is blank faces, blank expressions, blank stares. I'm not blank.

If you know me, you know I'm one colorful gal. If I were younger, and had better knees, I'd be on Glee. I accept this as gospel. If there's ever a Glee for older gals, with canes, reading glasses, Metamucil & Ben Gay, I'm gonna be on it.

So, what does this have to do with empathy, you ask?

A lot.

It's about feeling. The only way to truly embrace the joys in life, is to let the bad things in, too. Allow yourself to feel for someone else. Share in their joys, their losses, their good days, and their bad.

I'm sitting in a coffee shop right now. It's quiet because it's closed. I'm still here because the owner is in my Steel Magnolias club. She's my buddy, my friend, a confidant, and a small miracle. I thank God every day for the clusterf*$k of events that led me to her doorstep last year.

I'm watching the cars pass by, the people busy with their evening tasks. In some ways, I'm amazed. My friend is hurting because someone she cared about has died. Despite this, the traffic still moves, people bustle, voices carry from next door, and a gentle wind lifts the American flag and sets it back down again.

Life doesn't stop, not even for a moment. We enter the world and leave it in the same way, while everything else just happens around us.

Life is fleeting, this is one of the lessons I've learned. We're here one moment, and the next, we're gone. If we're lucky, someone will remember us, we'll leave a stamp on this life, a mark on someone's heart.

Personally, I want to stay a long time, at least until I get my truck cleaned out. I cannot imagine leaving someone to clean up that mess. But, we don't know. We never know what moment might be our last. I suppose it's best if we make them count.

I want to be missed, and I know that seems macabre. I want people to miss me, because I want to make an impact on this world. I want people to be better for knowing me. I want to make them smile, and laugh, and I'd really like them to care more. I care a lot. I'm trying to make that cool. It's cool to care.

We need to care about others, the world in which we live, and our environment.

Speaking of which, I'd also like people to put their gum someplace other than the parking lot at work. I'm quite sick of stepping in it.

Looking back at this blog, I see it's rather "all over the place," as the saying goes, and I suppose this is okay. There are times when our minds are scattered, as mine is right now. I guess it's the empathy, and the fact that my mind is heavy with the weight of empathy, and my heart a bit broken at the sight of a friend's tears.

I know you'll forgive me my ramblings. The things you adore about me don't come in a perfect person. They come in this one.

I'm okay with being flawed. It is in the flaws where we find the beauty of life. It is beautiful, if only we'd take the time to look.

I just did.

There's a man on a bike, a woman walking off her cheesecake, a dog.... um, a dog doing his business. Wow, at least once a day I see a dog doing his business. What is up with that?

Anyhow......

I suppose it's time I close this laptop and get out there and embrace life, because one day the "call" will be about me.

But life is about what we do before the phone rings.........

Intersections

We all know them, intersections where people meet, become friends, and sometimes family. I work in such a place. To some, it may seem a place of good food, a refuge where one can obtain a sweet, frozen treat on a hot day. To me, it is a place where I have found value again as a human, where I am needed, and I have found a new family there.

We are a unique bunch.

My Russia-obsessed comrade, who delights me with his knowledge of facts, and his wit, delightfully profound for someone so young. He is imposing in size, but sweet, and you know this if you look in his eyes. He's also good for moving heavy things, and sweet-talking an aging ice cream machine, or co-worker.

My youngest fan, who reminds me daily of how I struggled to become a woman, from a child, as I changed, and the world changed around me. A beautiful woman-child whose entire life lays before her. We must save the world, for her, and others like her. We owe it to them, this new generation of hopeful.

Our resident soccer player, who reminds me not to complain about my aging feet, as she stands tall on hers, once broken, now healing. A sweet girl, once too shy to speak to me, for she must have felt unworthy. She was wrong about this, for I am simply an older version of her. She has validated my worth, reminded me of how my contributions touch and touched others, at a time when I have nearly lost everything. In time, I have revealed my wounds to her, and it is in this way that we become real and human, to others.

The college bound high school graduate, who has restored my faith in the work ethic of the young. She wipes the counters clean, sweeps the colored decorettes (the official name for rainbow sprinkles),all the while dreaming of the days before her, as she charts the remainder of her life. She is uncertain, and while she may fail at times, she will grow from this, as we all do. I predict her successes will outweigh her failures, and she will open many a door with her beautiful smile and radiance.

The experienced twist maker, whose cones are perfect, far better than mine, who is patient as I learn the closing procedures, and soak myself with the evil sprayer in the dish washing sink. She will adapt to my bizarre sense of humor, and already I see myself in her, in her rare “Cat” moments.

The milkshake making man, the son of a single mom, who is proof that some men become good because they begin good. If your ice cream maker explodes, he is the man to call. Never stop smiling, or making me laugh. I so enjoy the hours I spend with you. Your “situations,” while heart-pounding, are manageable. I will always know to keep Bandaids on hand.

And then there is the walking work of art, tattooed, but more gentle than he'd admit, patient with my floundering, as I adjust to a new career, serving food to those happy, and those not. I am still searching for Abba's greatest hits for you, my friend. I promise it will be under your tree on Christmas morning.

And, our fearless leader, who is beautiful, even when she thinks she's not, and far more courageous than she knows. Our ringleader, a hero in my book, offering a job to a forgotten misfit, like me. She believes I am better than I think, in this time when I remain a bit broken by all that has come before. My scars are much likes hers. They are simply lines on a map of a journey that is our lives.

She knows this is a stop along the roadway, as I become what I have always known I would be.

Johnny Depp's wife.

Oh, right. We're talking about reality here.....

Okay. Okay.

I am a writer, a messenger, one destined to remind the world about joy in simplicity, and how tragedy, no matter how ugly, is sometimes beautiful in its aftermath. I accept how I differ from others, this unique, childlike woman who adores cats, dogs, the ocean, our walk-in cooler, and a perfectly made banana split.

While I have not become an overnight sensation, as I was once sure I'd be, when I was filled with optimism and vodka, I now realize how lucky I am.

Had I fast tracked to fame, I'd have missed this intersection and the opportunity to become part of this zany family, in the tiny building in upstate New York, part of a small miracle we call Big Dipper 2.

You should come see us. Our food is wonderful and, needless to say, so is our family.........

Plug us into your GPS. We're at 1167 Conklin Road, Conklin. You'll either end up with a great meal or frozen treat, or in the ghettos of Newark, New Jersey. Some GPS devices are tricky that way.

Just another manic Monday.....

So, here we are at Friday. And, with Friday in full bloom, I cannot help but reflect on Monday. Monday stunk, as Monday's often do, but with a little positive thinking, we can all have good Mondays. And, if I can say that, after the Monday I had this week, the rest of you have nothing to worry about.

You see, my Monday was Tuesday, proving Mondayitis is nothing more than a state of mind. This is a powerful truth. Ask anyone going back to work on Tuesday from a long weekend. Mondayitis is a result of the thoughts we put into the Universe about Monday.

So, my pseudo Monday, aka Tuesday, began like any other. The royal hounds deposited a veritable minefield in the front yard. The Queen Mother wobbled on her way to the kitchen, and grumbled about the sad state of affairs in the Universe, to which her daughter is in service, as its queen.

I took off in the Royal Chevy, with its broken gas gauge, destined for my fabulous job in the royal hamlet of Conklin. There are certain errors that are colossal, and create what is called an “epic fail,” and create an apocalyptic situation. What happened Tuesday morning was nothing less than absolute pandemonium. I ran out of gas at KAMIKAZEE CURVE. I failed to remember that the royal fleet needed to be refueled. And this isn't exactly and “oops”moment. This is an “are you out of your effing mind?” moment.

And, you Binghamtonians know the power of this error. Let me tell you, sitting on the shoulder at Kamikazee curve is the equivalent of the theme park ride from hell. You keep your hands and feet inside that ride, unless you want to lose them! Eighteen wheelers tear around the curve in a race to see who can get to Pennsylvania first. And let me tell you, you know when they've passed. The royal Chevy shook like Santa's belly, and your Queen just about crapped her royal knickers. And, as much as it pains me to speak of anything intestinal in this blog, I must. If you can run out of gas at Kamikazee curve, sit there for over thirty minutes, and arrive at work without needing clean underpants, you've got bowels of steel. Plain and simple.

Eat the burrito grande, because nothing can touch you!

So, I sat there, praying for my life, until my brother's car filled my rear view mirror. I had been saved! This man is my hero, and if I'm Queen of the Universe, this strapping (soon to be available) man is the Duke of Hillcrest. I have never been so happy to see another human being.

I finally arrived at work, grateful for the sheer pleasure of being alive, and thinking nothing else could touch me on this, the most powerful of pseudo Mondays.

I was wrong......

Check back to find out why..........

Being royally screwed.

So, like all world officials, sometimes the Queen of the Universe makes a cardinal mistake. I made such a faux pas last night, as I was looking ahead to what today might bring. I knew it would be one hell of a day, and I happened to say that out loud. Words are tough; it's hard to take them back once they're out there. If you doubt this, ask Mel Gibson, Rush Limbaugh, or even the notorious Anthony Weiner. You can't unring a bell, or unpost a picture of your weiner.

In my state of being royally exhausted, I slipped. I voiced, aloud, my fear that today might royally suck. And, as the Universe would have it, I am not left disappointed.

But, like all humans, those royal, and those not, I have the opportunity to redeem this day. And, I plan to do just that.

After all, why not?

I woke up on this side of the dirt, and that alone is an opportunity.

But, before I move to redemption, let me share with you, my loyal followers, exactly how I managed to screw myself royally. This should serve as a lesson to each of you. Be careful what you tell the universe, because it is always listening.

If you tread carefully, in your Jimmy Choos, certain you will step in dog shit, pack some paper towels, because, "step in dog shit," you will certainly do. You have, by the magnetism of the Universe, drawn the shit into the radius in which you plan to meander. Such is the law of attraction. Think of shit, worry about shit, step in shit. It's not a twelve step program, it's only three. Easier to remember, and it doesn't require you to hang out in a church basement that reeks of Mister Clean and old-lady perfume.

Disclaimer: The Queen of the Universe means no offense to those older red-hat-wearing divas. You ladies rock! Keep up the good work.

So, remember these three steps. Memorize them, and use them wisely. But, if you do step in shit, call me, email me, Facebook me, Twitter me, text me, mail me a letter, or stop by the royal palace. I've spent years picking up after the royal hounds. I have more methods for cleaning shit out of Choos than we have philandering senators.

Impressive. I know.

So, back to getting what I wanted. And, you all need to read this, take it in, process it, and treat it as gospel. If you tell the Universe you're going to have a bad day, you'll get exactly what you wanted. Because, it's what you asked for.

Exhibit A: Your Queen was up until about 4:00 AM, bawling royal tears. This isn't a royal thing, it's an estrogen thing. Sometimes the floodgates just open, and it's best to let it all out. I left no one disappointed. I sobbed until I couldn't breathe, and when I was done, I looked like hell, and felt fabulous. Then I did it. I said it, I thought it, and I was royally screwed. I said I was going to have a bad day.

And, I have.

The alarm rang at 8:00 AM. I dragged myself from my queen size bed and shuffled to the loo. I passed the mirror, and turned. It's true what they say, we can't just pass by a train wreck, we have to look. So, I looked into the mirror, through swollen eyes, and the thing I saw there grimaced. Trust me, it was frightening. It made Linda Pearl, in full Exorcist throttle, look like Miss America.

I spit up some pea soup, dragged myself into the shower, righted myself to where I wouldn't get busted for crimes against humanity, and left the safety of my temporary home to face the world.

That's pretty much when everything went to shit.

I might have broken the law. It wasn't intentional, but I knew I was doing something wrong, and in my state of royal desperation, and with only three hours of sleep under my belt, I made an error in judgment. On this, I will not elaborate. If I'm arrested, convicted, and thrown in my sister's pod - God forbid - we'll call the press to do an article, and then you'll know the details. For now, take my word for it. I almost landed my royal ass in the slammer.

And, just when I didn't think things could get worse - despite the fact that I'd asked for it - I noticed the car keys in the console of the Chevy Blazer - part of the royal fleet - and, of course, the doors were locked. Thank God for Roadside Assistance. If you're a royal idiot, like I am, get Roadside Assistance. Two three-minute calls, forty-five minutes of standing in the hot sun, one fully-equipped tow truck, and your Queen was mobile again. And, in the interest of saving time, I asked the guy if he was interested in putting the royal Chevy on the tow truck today. This way I don't have to call him again next week.

So, moral of the story, my minnions.... be careful what you ask for.

Surely, you will get it....

The Queen of the Universe seeks thousands of book readers

So, folks, I have blogged about being Queen of the Universe, about my most efficient banana-split-making skills, but I've yet to speak of my ultimate quest.

As queen, I have a limited following, because obviously, word hasn't gotten out yet. If people knew I was queen, I'd have a virtual shitload of followers, and people would be tweeting about me constantly, and that would rock, although I wouldn't know, because, although I have an IQ of 156, I cannot figure out the mechanics of Twitter!

I digress.

Now, once word gets out that I'm queen, let's face it, I can't be going to the grocery store in my Winnie the Pooh pajamas anymore. Be honest, would you curtsy to someone in Winnie the Pooh pajamas?

Yeah, I didn't think so.

I'll have to have a "Queen-like" appearance at all times, which could be a real issue for me, but that's okay. I figure it's gonna be a while before this whole Queen thing sticks, so in the meantime, I need to stay focused on the most massive of quests.

How do I get thousands of people to buy my book, when no one knows about it, and I have so few loyal subjects?

That, my minions, is my ultimate quest.

As you know, the royal palace is severely damaged, and at this time, your queen is living with the queen mother, which is another "real issue" for me. Now, our digs aren't like Buckingham Palace, they're like US suburbia. The queen mother doesn't have her own wing. She's perched on the queen mother couch, clutching the remote as if it holds the key to every unanswered question in the Universe.

Maybe it does.

So, I am faced with the problem of how to fix the royal palace, as the position of Queen of the Universe is, at present, a volunteer position.

SELL MORE BOOKS!

And, yes, my loyal, royal followers, I know this sounds like a pop-up, a 2:00 AM infomercial, or part of the Nigerian Uncle scam, but that is the answer to my royal dilemma.

Holy, royal shit!

Did I fail to mention that the Queen of the Universe is a published author?

I am.

Most of you know that, so I am not telling you anything new, but every once in a while I love that rush of saying it out loud, putting it on paper, or seeing it magically appear on the screen in front of me.

You see, it reminds me of last year when I first said the words, before I knew that being a published author, and fourteen quarters would buy you a latte.

If you don't have a lot of royal subjects lining up to buy your books, being a published author isn't really all that big a deal in the industry. In my head, it's a big deal.

In the real world, not so much.

So, I MUST find a way to SELL MORE BOOKS.

This way, if the royal palace cannot be saved, we'll have a royal bonfire with the existing house (controlled by the local fire department, of course), and put in a royal Doublewide.

Yes, my friends, it's a new day and the thing that country songs are made from.....

Some queens live in Doublewides.

So, I must remain true to my quest and find a way to raise funds to repair the royal palace, and the best idea, thus far, is SELL MORE BOOKS.

There was another idea, but it didn't work, and no, I won't leave you hanging....

Of course I'll tell you what it was.

I had a bruise, in which, you could see the face of Jesus.

Now, I know, this sounds like royal bullshit, and I understand, since I am queen, why you'd feel this way.

Honest to God, I saw the face, but the bruise faded before I could find a way to sell it on Ebay.

Bummer.......

So, selling the bruise with the face of Jesus, is out!

MUST SELL MORE BOOKS.

Please support your queen and recommend The House of Roses, by yours truly, Queen of the Universe, aka Cat, aka Cathy, aka "hey, you forgot to shut the refrigerator," pen name...... Holden Robinson.

I bow to you.......

Single Queen seeks King.........or not???

So, now that I've taken a few days off from torturing myself about the “plan,” I am free to focus on the happenings on this planet which is spinning around me.

Today, I am talking about men, husbands in particular, because, as you recall, I am the newly – if not self – appointed Queen of the Universe, and I cannot help but notice, the throne to my right is empty.

I see an amazing trend. While I am canvassing the planet in search of my husband – who will automatically become king- it seems as if everyone I know is throwing theirs out. In a sense, I get this. Husbands can be an enormous pain in the ass. They make extra laundry, and occasionally chase their bag of Lays with your nonfat yogurt. Some husbands can fix things, but I hear this isn't always the case, and with this, I agree. The men with whom I've had occasion to share my domicile were sadly incapable. Sure, we had tools, but if CSI has ever shown up and dusted them for prints, they wouldn't have found a man's prints on them.

Singlehood has its perks. When you're single, there is always toilet paper, and it is never teetering on the holder, held in place by the empty roll. And, if there isn't toilet paper, it's your own fault, and, since you live alone, no one sees you toddling to the toilet paper cabinet with your knickers around your ankles. There are other benefits to singlehood. You don't have to cook if you don't feel like it. You can eat a Lean Cuisine while standing over the kitchen sink, if the mood strikes you. And, if you've had a particularly hard day, you can eat an entire half gallon of Perry's Banana Cream Pie, without your man leering at you like the freakin' diet police. Another perk is you don't have to hide your new shoes, or the shopping in which they were housed for ease of carrying. I don't have a husband. I have dogs. So, unless my new shoes are basted in chicken marinade, the dogs don't give a shit what's in the bag.

Husbands do.

I had a husband once. The novelty wore off quickly. I gave him back, and eventually the hate mail, from the person to whom I'd awarded this testosterone-filled treat, stopped coming.

I almost had another husband. I left that one during the state of purgatory known as engagement. He was a fabulous turd, a narcissist without good reason to be narcissistic. These are the worst kind.

He made me feel like crap, and I stayed with him just long enough to no longer recognize the face staring back at me in the mirror. When that happened, I faltered in my devotion to him. Not much after that, he announced he was leaving. I cried for an entire day, but only one. After that first day, I wore a shit-eating grin. He was gone, and I was free to reclaim my pre-fiance identity, and burn lilac candles which eventually covered the stink of narcissism. My former fiance left with my engagement ring in hand, and I got the cat and the washing machine. Trust me, this is a good deal. If you ever have a chance to trade your husband for an Energy Star appliance, do it. The opportunities to do this are rare. When God closes that door, he doesn't always open a window. Sometimes you're trapped in a doorless, windowless room, with the shithead you agreed to marry because he was down on one knee and you were loaded with tequila.

Someday soon, I expect, we'll have husband shelters, much like animal shelters. And, there should be an exchange day. Drop off your husband, get a cat. No charge.

If you get this chance, do it. These opportunities don't come along every day.

I'm gonna simmer on the pros and cons of having a man. I'll be back with another excerpt. You know I will.

When one plan goes into the crapper - try another....

Well, kids, the 50-day plan didn't work as I expected. So, instead of bawling, hitting the vodka, or playing in traffic, I developed a Plan B. This is what Plan B is for. If not for Plan B, the vodka shelves would be empty and the highways would be littered with the bodies of those whose Plan A failed miserably.

Mine did.

Okay, so on to Plan B. Plan B is a bit more modest, with a time cushion built in for unexpected delays. Plan A was an unexpected delay. It basically amounted to a delay caused by spending useless energy on Plan A.

Plan A sucked.

Plan B is better.

So, Plan B involves me living in Binghamton for a full year, instead of just a few months. This means I can remedy the issues at the cabin gradually, and won't have to move back into a house that, in its present state, affords an exciting year round camping experience. Anyone who's camped understands this. Camping grows old about day three. The beer runs out, the marshmallows get stale, you actually have to walk someplace to get wood, and swimming in toxic waste, no matter how refreshing, has lost its appeal.

So, Plan B is a far better plan. For now, I will focus on working on my numerous novels in process, and learning more about my new job in food service.

Oh, yes, did I fail to mention I have a new job in food service?

I do.

I'd have never thought that twenty years in banking would prepare me to one day make the perfect banana split, but it has. I knew the industry drove me bananas, especially the dark years, and I've discovered if you take those bananas, add ice cream, toppings, nuts, and three cherries, you've got yourself a damn good dessert. Acceptable transition. Mortgage Goddess, Unemployed - yet still fabulous - aspiring author, Banana Split Queen. Sounds good to me.

Besides, if you consider how many people have no jobs, and are on Plan N of trying to get themselves back to work, we banana split makers have it pretty good. We're employed, we work three feet from a veritable vat of hot fudge, and our work environment smells great!

So, aside from struggling with the mechanics of Plan B, life is good. I only had seven hot flashes yesterday, down from about a thousand the day before.

I'm improving with age.

More later..........

The apocalypse has been postponed due to technical difficulties

So, anyone else notice the world didn't end? I figured you probably did, but remember, as Queen of the Universe, I told you it wouldn't end. I did not authorize an apocalypse, so no worries, we're all good. And, no one asked me about rescheduling it for October, so if you want a plasma TV, I might suggest you continue contributions toward your Christmas Club.

This all being said, and this is far more serious than I normally am in this blog, but, as Queen of the Universe, let's face it, at times I'm going to have to get serious. This is one of those times.

Something is happening. The horrific number of deadly storms tearing through this country is absolutely frightening. In a blink, people have lost their lives, and those lucky enough to survive, have lost everything else. Images on our television screens show devastation most of us cannot even imagine. Still, we whine about the most mundane things, and most wouldn't even think to lift a hand to help another.

Seriously?

Let me tell you, as Queen of the Universe, I am no longer going to let you get away with that shit. If someone needs your help, help them. Don't even ask questions. Just do it.

Everywhere I look I see people who have nothing, and I see people who have way too much. And, I'm not promoting communism here, but I'm just saying, if you have the money to go out to dinner every other night, and buy a new car anytime the mood strikes you, think about giving a couple of bucks to someone who really needs it. Besides, let me tell you, in the new and improved Universe, the kind of car you drive isn't going to matter anymore.

Remember, an asshole with a BMW is still an asshole.

In fact, this might by my Queen of the Universe slogan.

Moving on........

Recently, I saw a news clip about a show called "What Would You Do?"

I have to overuse this word and say it again....

SERIOUSLY?

We need to have this show? What happened to just doing the right thing, without the camera, without it being televised, without the need to throw our help in someone's face years later, and WITHOUT expecting anything in return?

People, WHERE HAS OUR HUMANITY GONE?

We see strangers helping others in the tornado-ravaged south, and while my heart breaks (Queen or not) for these people, we need to see this everyday.

Everyday I want to see someone helping someone else. Tomorrow, when you get up, wipe the sleep from your eyes, and drag yourself to the commode, I want you to ask yourself:

Who can I help today?

And, if you don't.......

ZAP!

Preparing to become queen

I have decided that becoming Queen of the Universe is a desirable position. I have to admit, I was on the fence for a couple of days, but I've decided, I am good with this.

I redid my pedicure, and spent a little time with the Ped Egg. Ever see one of these things? It's frightening. It's a bunch of little razors on a plastic base with a flimsy plastic handle. I'm pretty sure you've got to have a license to carry this thing concealed, but I found it on the couch, in plain view, so I decided not to turn my mother in. Hey, I'm the Queen of the Universe, folks. I saw this as my first unofficial "pardon." I'll be granting more, I'm sure, because I am big on second chances. I'll list a PO Box to where you can send your pardon requests. I'll accept most to the PO Box, unless you're Michael Vick. Mike, you have to ask in person, so I can kick you in the gonads right before I say, "NO!" Seriously, man, you're a piece of crap, and now that I'm the Queen of the Universe, if you see me in WalMart, you better be ducking behind the Little Debbie rack. As Queen, I can carry concealed, and a good whack upside the head with this vicious Ped Egg thing will seriously alter your perspective.

Moving on......

Anyhow, back to the pedicure. Let's face it, gals, the Queen of the Universe cannot be out in public with scraggly winter feet. You know what they look like. Heels you could sand furniture with, long nails, and a smidgen of last summer's pedicure remaining, but only on the big toes. This is gross. Take care of your feet. You have to stand on them, unless you're Queen of the Universe, and then you're sitting on a throne most of the time, but when I'm wearing the royal flip flops, I want to look amazing.

Now, as Queen of the Universe, I am pretty rattled about things. First of all, the apocalypse. Did you check with me before you decided the world would end tomorrow, because I do NOT remember seeing that in my Inbox. Well, did you?

The world is NOT ending tomorrow, folks. All chocolate you eat today will end up on your ass by June, and June will come, so snack with caution.

Besides, I have plans. I am attending karaoke with my Knights of the Round Table, a great group of folks with whom I'd like to spend my last hours, if the world were ending during tomorrow evening's outing, which it is not. I did not approve this apocalypse, therefore it isn't happening. You can continue to plaster it all over Facebook because you have the right to free speech, and I am not planning to mess with your rights, unless you're that idiot who was screaming at me for no reason in the WalMart parking lot in March. You are having your mouth duct taped, because nothing good comes out of it.

Moving on....

Soon, I will posting my own rules for those of you who want to live in my Universe. For those of you who want to live elsewhere, I have no idea what to say to you. If you believe you have this option, excellent.

For now, I must deal with something that makes me most disturbed. Although I am Queen of the Universe, and I have royal status, my economic status does not change, because (perhaps I failed to mention this,) with the state of economic affairs world wide, the Queen of the Universe position is a volunteer position, at least for now. It pays by sweat equity, which is excellent for me, since I am having hot flashes by the hundreds. If I'm building "sweat equity" I should be rich as hell in no time.

That aside, I must focus on the present, and with that, comes a most immediate issue to be dealt with. This Egyptian debt that has been forgiven. I have a problem with this. No one asked me if this was okay, and frankly, it's not. Now, I have to say, Egypt, your worship of felines is spectacular, and I'm not as up on modern Egyptian stuff as I should be, so maybe you're not about this feline worship anymore, but if you are...., outstanding! We treat our animals like shit in America, so keep up the good work!

Incidentally, I will be blogging about the new punishments for cruelty to animals under my Queen of the Universe rules soon. If you want to beat a puppy, or drown a kitten, think twice. I am everywhere. I see your indiscretions by remote viewing, and I know what you've done.

I digress.

Back to the topic of this debt.

Feline worship aside, I still have an issue with this. And, given that I am an unpaid servant of the Universe at present, I'd like to know if my 1999 karaoke rendition of "Walk Like an Egyptian" qualifies me to have my debt forgiven. Well, does it? I have a monster mortgage on a pyramid I cannot currently occupy, and I'd love to have it written off.

All right, my Inbox is filling up with pardon requests, although this Bernie Madoff one is going in the shredder. Seriously, Bern?

Back soon.......

The Queen of the Universe

Well, as life would have it, my fifty-day plan has become fraught with unexpected obstacles, heartbreak and hurdles. Having been stripped of all material possessions by a random act of fate, and a not-so-random act of sheer negligence, and having been left with nothing to offer but the gifts with which I was born, I am finding myself completely unappreciated, as what “little I have left,” seems to be no longer wanted.

If being victimized by the Universe – the fates, God, Jerry Garcia, the original Star Trek cast, or whomever we worship and bow to – was an Olympic event, I'd be standing on the podium, neck heavy with the albatross of a much-deserved gold medal, while The Battle Hymn of the Martyrs is played with elementary precision by prepubescent pipers, flautists and buglers, suggesting that the members of the Boston Philharmonic, are, at least as a whole, “smarter than a fifth grader.”

“Suffering builds character,” is often lovingly spoken by my ninety-one-year-old grandmother. Granted, this is the same woman who thinks Google is Gurgle, Oprah is Offrah, and “Intendo” is still the hottest video game console on the market. But Grandma knows a thing or two, as is expected when someone has observed the unkindness and beauty of this thing called life for greater than nine decades.

According to Grandma's score-keeping methods, I've built enough character to become the leader of the free world. You never know. It could happen. You wake up one day and I'm the leader of the world, and the funny thing is, you don't remember me campaigning, or announcing my decision to run on Celebrity Apprentice. You just wake up, and there I am, on the news, announcing that the world has gone vegetarian, pink is the new pink, as evidenced by my fabulous tiara, and murder is actually okay, as long as you've killed someone who killed someone else, might kill someone else, hurts puppies or children, or is the hacker sending that shit about my uncle in Nigeria.

You might find things substantially improve when I am the Queen of the Universe. I know, I know, I've gone from a world leader to Queen of the Universe in less than one paragraph, but with no concrete proof of life on other planets, and with Area 51 still mainly mystery, if I'm top dog, or Cat, if you will, I am, for all intents and purposes, Queen of the Universe, but don't get too damned excited. Those of you who know me, know that a future royal wedding is unlikely.

Moving on.......

While under my careful guidance, be prepared to recycle. We will all be recycling. We will be kind to ourselves, and others, and I plan to wrap the world with an invisible fence of sorts. When you're unkind........ ZAP! Believe me, that shit happens once or twice, and you'll all quickly change your perspective on life, and only turn right on red when it means someone hasn't just nearly shit his/her pants because you almost ended their life with your lack of patience.

Here it comes........

ZAP!

Wait your turn! Where do you have to go that is so damned important you can't wait your turn?? I'm the Queen of the Universe, for heaven's sake. If I can let someone out into traffic, surely you can.

And, if you don't......

ZAP!

To wrap up this blatant insanity, I can only say, if becoming Queen of the Universe is another unexpected twist in my fifty-day-plan, I'd better get to planning. I've only got fourteen days to figure out how to save the planet, and what to wear for my inauguration.

Back soon................

Behind the comic's mask

Today I am thinking about the Wizard of Oz, about the moment when it was revealed that the "great and powerful Oz" was nothing more than a mortal, hiding behind a curtain, fighting with the mid-20th century version of Window's Vista.

I wonder what people would think if they saw the real diva behind the comic's mask, if anyone knew where my mind goes when it is allowed to wander without its ankle-bracelet monitoring system. What if we all had a chance to say what we really thought, to open the levee on our own flooded emotional system, and let it all out. I'm pretty sure you'd be coming to visit me in a nice facility, where I'd live out the rest of my life surrounded by like-minded rejects, who've gone emotionally bat shit, who make necklaces out of elbow macaroni and laugh at farts.

Is that what my future holds? I don't think so, but I'll accept whatever happens, and go with the flow. That's pretty much all we can ever do. Fighting it creates more bat-shit tendencies, so just relax and watch everything go to shit. You can clean it all up with Mr. Clean Magic Erasers, and vodka will ease the emotional pain.

We all think of the future, no matter how much we are seeded in the present. Where will we be in five years?

Someone recently asked me that. I was inclined to say "in the bat shit ward," but I was pretty sure I wouldn't get the job with that response, and I really want that job. Still hoping they call, in fact, and really hoping they don't see this blog. Actually, it's fine if they do. I can't pretend I'm normal. If I do, nobody will read this. Besides, I figure in five years we'll probably all be bat shit, and if the Mayan's are right, we won't exist at all, unless we're chosen to go with Nicholas Cage into that big, glowing ball.

Um, wait.....

Nic didn't go, his kid did. But, they did take bunnies, and I was pretty happy about that, because frankly, I don't want to live in a world without bunnies.

Actually, I'd prefer to go up in the big, glowing ball with the neighbor kitty, because I am about to make that little shit famous with the Neighbor Kitty Rap YouTube video, which I am pretty sure will go viral. So, Neighbor Kitty and I will get to our new planet, and he'll be a celebrity, and we'll get a reality show. Wow, I am really getting ahead of myself.

Where was I?

Right....

I was bat shit.

Rewind.

I digress....

As I was saying, who isn't a little bat shit? Everyone, that's who is. And, those least likely to end up in the Macaroni/Fart Unit are probably those who step up and admit, "I am bat shit."

I am.

You know me, and I know you're all thinking, "does that crazy B think she's revealing some kind of secret?"

Nope.

Just practicing for my 12 Step Bat Shit meetings.

In fact, I should jet. It's my turn to bring the elbow macaroni.......

Ranting for the hell of it

Now I realize I still owe a debt of some nine-hundred thousand - and some change - reasons why an adult child should never move in with an aging parent, but I'll have to come back to that.  For now, I have returned to my trusted friend, the blog, where I will unload all the baggage none of my human friends want to hear.

So, if you've been following the saga, you know I have a home, which is sitting empty, at a temp of about fifty degrees, with busted pipes, and an odor reminiscent of a room full of mechanics on discount oil change day.

Needless to say, folks, I am hanging on by a string, and not a shoe string from an athletic shoe, more like one from a baby bootie.  I have to mentally fill myself with positive energy just to get out of bed, and if you knew what I faced in the morning, you'd understand why I put vodka on my cheerios.  Actually Kahlua sounds a lot better, and the cheerios would be like little inner tubes, floating along in a drunken breakfast regatta. 

Moving on....

Okay, I'll admit, I don't put booze on my cornflakes.  If you call me at 10:00 AM, you won't hear the ice clinking around in my breakfast.  I am pretty much running on hope now, which isn't a bad deal, since who can afford gasoline?

The downside of being unable to fuel up your motorboat, and relying solely on the wind, is that just as you get your sails set for a good-ass day, someone comes along and sucks the wind right out of them.  I am not sure what to make of these people, but we all know them.  They are often referred to as "the haters," those whose cups are "half full,"  and the age-old description, the "party poopers."  Some of them don't even have a cup, but they're happy to piss in yours, and there are those folks who make the "party poopers," look as happy as a bunch of potheads at a Grateful Dead concert.

Yup, there are folks out there who just like to bring us down, and there isn't any good way of avoiding them.  We can't put those dollar-store plastic things on the hood of our cars which help us avoid hitting deer, which is probably okay.  If one of these folks are in the road, it might best serve us all if you just run them over.  You can always say the sun was in your eyes, unless you live in Broome County and then no one is gonna believe that for a moment.  You'd be better off saying you were distracted by the image of Jesus on the side of the Kmart plaza. 

Ranting must be good for the soul, because I gotta tell you, I feel better already.  It might be because of the chocolate brownie that will show up on my butt in June, but in May, it's kept me from becoming a homicidal maniac, and I am really living in the present these days.  I think one should go to whatever extreme necessary to avoid homicide, and if the FBI thought chocolate brownies would do it, they'd all be in the kitchen with their Kevlar aprons, cooking up more shit than Betty Crocker. 

And speaking of the present, I've got about a hundred pounds of rain-soaked dog logs to pick up before I attempt to eff up my mother's new lawnmower tomorrow, so I need to think about wrapping up this blog, and wrapping my paws in Freihofer's bags to go fishing around in the tall grass for the candy wrapper my dog ate on Tuesday.

And so, I'm off.  More soon.  As always, I aim to please.........

One million reasons why an adult child should never move in with an aging parent

So, I began with the title, "one million reasons.......".  Let's face it folks, I can't list them all, but a lot of them you can probably figure out on your own, especially if you've ever helped a relative clean up after a holiday dinner, only to discover, at the age of forty, you can't possibly know how to load a dishwasher properly, or wash a pan.

Older folks are pretty darned quirky, and it doesn't mean we don't love them, it just means that sometimes its easier to love them from one town over.  Prior to my temporary stay in my childhood home, I felt pretty independent.  I could wash a dish without supervision, and operate a microwave without fear that my wrongdoings might further damage an already seriously effed ozone layer.

One month later, I don't trust myself to do much of anything.  I can't wring a dish cloth properly, I sometimes forget to turn off the coffeepot in the allotted three seconds after emptying it, and I occasionally don't close the cupboards after extracting something from the time-spattered shelving within.  Plain and simple, I have so much in my mind at any given moment, ie:  the new book I'm outlining, the one I am writing, the six part time freelance jobs I am doing, my quest for the perfect full time job, my upcoming theater audition, my volunteer work, the endless supply of logs in the front yard, the strange smell coming from my aging dog's left ear, and the status of the EPA disaster at my cabin, etc, etc, etc, ad nauseum, that I sometimes screw up the minutia, these intricate details older folks are positively obsessed with.  I also obsess over run-on and poorly punctuated sentences.  A lot.

I digress.

I can see an F4 tornado plowing through my childhood home, and I don't mean in a crystal ball, or a Captain Crunch-induced dream at 2:00 AM, I mean more like imagining such a thing for the sake of humor in this blog.  I should clarify I find nothing humorous about natural disasters, but as Gilbert Gottfried said, "tragedy and time equal comedy."  And, those of you who know me, know I can laugh at anything.  It beats an indeterminate stay in a facility for those who've gone bat shit, which is where I might be without the laughter.

Moving on.......

So, I can imagine this tornado whipping Mom's old ranch around for a few seconds, whilst she and I huddle in the basement cavern, surrounded by whining pets.  We emerge sometime later to the disorder created by flying monkeys and my neighbor riding by on a bicycle, and Mom looks at me dead serious, and says, "did you forget to close that cupboard again?"  And I, dazed by the confusion, and her ability to recall such detail (this is the same woman who forgets what I told her five minutes ago), say, "you know, Ma, I don't know.  It could have been me, or it could have been the freakin' tornado.  Hard to say.  Oh, look, isn't that your car in the tree?"  Now to this statement, she would inevitably respond, "if you hadn't parked so far away from me, the wind might not have taken it."  Just to clarify, I am also responsible for the sinking of the Titanic, the Alamo, and Pluto being denounced as a planet.  I am all powerful.  Tread lightly.

Now, on to the grocery shopping.  This should be an Olympic event.  Grocery shopping with someone over seventy is a major event.  My mother, and let me again speak of my undying love for her, can take six minutes to select a box of Kleenex.  In this same six minutes, I've spent fifty-five bucks on everything on my list, but on the upside, it's easier to keep track of our elders this way.  I fill my cart, and leave her with the Kleenex.  I know where she is, and if she falls, the paper towels on the bottom shelf should cushion her fall.

It's equally taxing to do this solo.  I inevitably forget to check the date on everything I purchase.  It's probably because I am writing in my head, while I brainlessly toss things into the cart.  So, I've decided to propose that grocery stores change the way they label goods.  I DON'T CARE HOW MUCH IT IS.  JUST TELL ME WHEN IT EXPIRES.  I will pay seventeen bucks for a gallon of milk, if you display a sign that says "EXPIRES ON MAY 11TH." 

I will stand proudly at the checkout, successful in my task, and sign over my house (which isn't a good deal for the grocer these days), and leave with my basket full of shit that's good until June.

Job well done.

Stay tuned for the other million-or-so reasons.  They're coming.  Oh, and just for a head's up, I'll be taking this on the road as a stand-up routine, but out of respect for Mom, I'll either do it under the cloak of Witness Protection, with the help of Joan River's plastic surgeon, or wait for Mom's passing some years in the future.

Why 50 days, you ask?

So, a few people have asked me why 50 days?  Actually, I don't know, but it made sense when I realized that would take me to Memorial Day, which presented me with a three-day weekend to move the family back in. 

Now, I don't know why I think I need three days.  I moved all the pets out in about ten minutes, at night, in the pouring rain, whilst stoned out of my gourd (God, I love that phrase!) on kerosene fumes.  I may need two days to scrape all the mud off the floor, and a little time to restick the linoleum down, because the pipes burst and the kitchen flooded, so three sounds good. 

Wow, when I actually wrap my brain around all that's happened in the last month, I start thinking about putting the Exacto knife back.  No wonder you worried.

Moving on....

50 days gives me the opportunity to do 150 things.  Odd, I know.  I do things in three's.  It's the OCD, which stands for Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, unless you're part of my family.  Then it stands for Obviously Cat's Deaf.

Let's touch on the real OCD first.  I wash my hands.  A lot.  This is good if I'm preparing your food, or if you're a stockholder in Bath and Body Works.  If you're not a stockholder, become one.  I can make you very rich. 

My OCD is mild.  It pertains mostly to the hand washing, and the obsession with the number three.  Basically, I'm like the Count on Sesame Street, only with very clean hands.

Now, on to our heritage, and family definition of OCD.  You see, sometimes I don't hear you.  This is because I have the ability to leave this planet and go to another, all from the comfort of my favorite chair.  It's less like space travel, and more like something totally effed up in my gray matter.  I accept this.  It's simply who I am.  My planet is nice.  No one spills kerosene on your daffodils.  No one kills children or beats puppies.  If you do, you're put in a capsule and sent into outer space, with nothing more than a Kenny G CD, which will repeat until your oxygen runs out. 

Wow.  I digress.

Anyhow, I am on day 6 of the 50 day plan.  I feel pretty good.  I have given up sniffing kerosene, choosing instead to be addicted to something wonderful called Bubble Tea. I have given up junk food, have successfully buttoned last year's jeans, and have convinced myself that everyone's mother acts like mine at the age of 73.  If I pretend this, I can cope with the deterioration. 

Jeez, this isn't funny anymore.

Moving on...... 

All righty then.  Time for me to get back to work, to move on to writing something other than this insane shit.  I'll be back soon, to give unwanted advice to anyone forced to move in with an aging parent.

Trust me, you want to read that one...........

The 50 Day Plan

So, as we often do as humans, I've finally embraced the sheer gruesomeness of my situation, and had a meltdown.  I felt it coming.  It's like a hot flash, only worse.  The body heats, the hands shake, and not even a King Size Reese's cup will thwart it.  And, let me tell you, if you have something that a King Size Reese's cup can't fix, you're screwed.

So, I felt the meltdown coming, and quickly fled to the cavern my mother calls her basement.  It's kind of like where the Phantom of the Opera lives, but without the monkey music box, fabulous orchestra, and the need to keep your hand at the level of your eyes.

So, I'm in the cavern, and it comes.  I'm a wreck, crying, screaming into a towel that smelled a little musty, but was still absorbent, and then.......... I step on the cat.  Not only do I step on her, but in an attempt to gain my footing, I kick her halfway across the floor.  Poor kitty.

She's fine.  I'm not.  I'm a mess, bawling, and cursing the Universe for its unfairness.  I'm bent over the old pool table, trying not to heave up something I ate in March, and I see it.  An Exacto knife.  Now, don't get nervous.  I wasn't thinking of succumbing to the darkness.  I was more thinking "hey, there's an Exacto knife."

They're cool.

So, treasure in hand, I am thinking, "what can I use this for?"  Then it hit me.  I'd use it to scratch out a countdown, kind of like Tom Hanks did in Castaway, but without the need to discuss it with a soccer ball first.  So, I found a piece of plywood, and made my first notch. 

One notch.

One day.

The first in what I've decided is a fifty-day plan to reclaim my life.  I am going home.  In fifty days I will be there.  I've decided.  Everything I do will be for this purpose, to get home in fifty days.

It could be daunting, but it's not.  A lot can be accomplished in fifty days.  In fact, you could sprain your ankle, hang out in the Barcalounger with a bag of Doritos and an ice pack for two or three days, and still accomplish a lot in fifty days.

I plan to.

I'll keep you posted...........

I shall put the naysayers beneath the heel of my shoe, and I've just stepped in poo

I am feeling sassy, so I've changed my font.  I'm more inclined to change my hair, but I'd have to move to do that, and I am fairly confident I've lingered so long I am adhered to the chair.

And so, I've come upon a phrase that I've decided to abhor.  Yes, abhor.  A strong word, stronger than the "dislike," so many are campaigning for on Facebook.  Don't give me a "dislike," give me an "abhor," especially since I am an animal advocate, with many like-minded FB friends, and I "abhor," the posts I see about abused animals, and those who torture animals for fashion.

So, on to the phrase. 

Today was a splendid day.  I interviewed for a job I actually want.  Now, when one needs a job during a time when there is one job for every two-thousand people who need it, the odds of interviewing for a job you want are about equal to finding a pair of Jimmy Choo shoes miss marked at $6.39. 

Like many, I've been practicing other random phrases in preparation of my new career, such as, "would you like fries with that?"  "Paper or plastic?"  I mean no offense to anyone who has such a career.  I bow to you.  You are essential personnel, and I don't think I could do your job.

So, anyhow, back to my splendid day.  I am already thinking about what I will wear to this job.  At what point can I fly my freak flag?  Is one week in too soon for the flowered reading glasses?  Is one month in too soon for wearing Hello Kitty pencils in my up do? 

I have declared my intentions to the Universe.  I felt the positive vibe in this workplace, and I've decided I must have this job.  I was glowing, happy, singing to Tom Petty and feeling like Tom Cruise.  Until......... the phrase.

"Don't get your hopes up."

Uh huh.  Seriously?

Why the hell not? 

What would life be without getting our hopes up?  We buy lottery tickets.  Why?  So we can recycle them the following day?  No, so we can, for a few hours, "get our hopes up."  I buy a ticket, and I'm practically signing on the dotted line for a classic VW Bus.  Of course I'm going to win.  Why not me?

Anyone who says, "don't get your hopes up," to another person should be packaged with fries and sold to cannibals.  Never, ever tell someone not to get their hopes up.  Perhaps hope is all they have.

Poo poo on you naysayers......

The Traveling Diva

And so I've become a gypsy of sorts, something I once found thrilling, and now find dysfunctional.  I live out of a Chevy Blazer and two suitcases, and sleep where my brother once slept as a child.  When dawn breaks I look out a window that should be familiar, yet isn't. 

I once stood there, behind the drapes, while my brother slept.  He woke, I jumped out, screaming something original, like "boo."  I don't remember what happened next.  I assume it probably involved an instrument of discipline known as "the stick."  I'm sure I got it, and although I no longer lurk behind anyone's drapes, for that one moment, the threat of "the stick" was worth it.  I feel bad for what I did to my brother, although I suspect he's long since forgotten that moment.  I haven't.  It makes me smile deviously, and reminds me that I'm not as far from home as I think.

Once a week I make a sad journey, traveling north, along a road I know well.  I ascend a familiar hill, and remnants of winter's savagery crunch beneath the tires of my old truck.  My heart beats rapidly those last few miles, as I approach the cabin where I have left my heart.

No one seems to understand my connection to this place, nor do I, at times.  But it is where I am meant to be, and there is something important I must do there.  This is something I accept as absolute truth.  It has become my new fight, to return to this place where laughter lingers, and dog hair floats of its own volition past an open window.

I leave the safety of my vehicle and tread quietly to the front door.  The key objects, but only slightly, and I open the door.  It smells like kerosene and sadness.  The eyes of numerous Boyd's Bears meet mine.  They seem to say, "we've missed you, and we could use a bath."  The couch sits in the center of an empty room.  No cats adorn its sagging back.  This is odd, for me, and for the couch, something neither of us has ever known.

The acrid smell of the kerosene assaults me, although it is fading, and my eyes water.  I blame the oil, yet I know it is the sting of emotion and not any pollutant. 

I am home, if only for a moment.  I complete what task I have come to do, and turn to leave.  "I will be back," I whisper.  I cannot explain how I know this.  I just do. 

Humor will soften despair, and if that doesn't work - drink!

And so, here I am, temporarily homeless.  Until one is temporarily homeless, one cannot fathom what this is like.  It is a sad story, one that did not have to happen.  Although, as sad as I am over my own situation, I cannot help but feel for the thousands of people who are in shelters in Japan, because their homes are also lost, and to a disaster much more grave.

My disaster is small, unless I measure it against only my experiences.  Then it is massive.  It is massive because it is happening to me.  It is massive because my home sits quiet and sad, on a beautiful spring day.  A ruined cabin, surrounded by the splendor of a world becoming reborn.  Wow, when I say it like that, I want to cry, but I'm wearing makeup and WalMart raised the price, so I shall withhold my tears until a later time.

Eight days.  Eight days since I was forced from my home in the pouring rain, with seven frightened pets crammed into a Chevy, fleeing to my mother's home.  Now, if Mama lived in a Doublewide, we'd have a damn good country song here.  But, she lives in a stick built home, and even set to a catchy tune, it lacks flair.  My career in country music is over before it's begun.  (There's the humor, in case you missed it.)

So, back to the disaster.  Oil spill.  (I just said it like I was the Tinman.  It still sucks, but at least I'm smiling now.)  Fifty to one hundred gallons of overly-priced, ought-to-be-filled-with-gold-flakes, kerosene, dumped into my basement.  I can't get into why it happened, because that isn't blog worthy.  I will say that most of it isn't there anymore.  The sump pump took care of it, pumping it into the yard and the creek.  Now this is a pretty bad thing.  The DEC is out there organizing a major clean up, and I hope everyone watches their step because the snow melted, and the amount of dog shit is out numbering the amount of kerosene by two-to-one.  All right, before this post becomes a novella, or worse yet, a novel, I'll get to wrapping it up.  Now, I do not by ANY means find this spill funny.  It is a major disaster that didn't have to happen, that's ruined my house, my belongings, and screwed the environment worse than it normally is.  But, that being said, when that sump pump pumped out that pink kerosene, into the hose the lawn guy ran over last year, it must have looked like the Bellagio, a great pink fountain befitting to a pink-tiara-wearing, broken hearted, diva.

Introduction to the Single Diva's Guide to Humorous Living

Some years back, I had a splendid idea.  You know the kind, those brilliant flashes through our gray matter that start with "wow," and conclude with "what was I thinking?" 

It happened in 2001 when I saw a simple cabin, tucked into the woods, surrounded by splendor previously seen only by Norman Rockwell.  The day was sunny.  I was wearing my rose-colored glasses.  I thought to myself, "I can do this.  I can take this fixer-upper and turn it into something incredible."

Sadly, I did that.  I turned into a sadder version of the ready-to-be-condemned money pit it was in 2001.  Living here has taught me survival skills CBS never touched on.  It's made me laugh, and cry, and I've redefined words such as stupid, crazy, and most of all, courageous. 

I close my eyes and the words "buyer's remorse," flash behind my lids like a half-lit neon sign, on a greasy spoon diner in the middle of nowhere. 

It's been an amazing journey I must write down.  If I didn't, I wouldn't believe most of it had happened.  I'll start here, recalling random moments of "someone shoot me," for the world to see.