Cats and Stress

I come to you today on location in Michigan, where I have spent every Memorial Day for the past several years. Although I understand the meaning of Memorial Day and respect our troops and all the veterans, to me this has become the road trip holiday - the one time each year I definitely get to see my best friend and her family. It's always an enjoyable weekend for both myself and my daughter, and we look forward to it every year.

Anyway, this year when we arrived, after the hugs and hellos, and once the kids dashed out the door to the trampoline, I noticed that there was something different about their cat, Salem. Something that seemed strangely familiar... As I watched him, it came to me - he suffered from the same disorder as one of my cats, Ace.

You see, a couple months ago I started noticing that Ace was losing his fur. Not all over, mind you, just on his belly and inner thighs. Almost a male pattern baldness type thing, only this was a cat, and it wasn’t on his head. Because this was something out of the norm, I also began overanalyzing his weight. Every time I looked at Ace, I started wondering if he was losing weight as well. He has always been on the slim side, although by no means scrawny. And I really think the only reason he does seem thin is because my other cat, his brother Baby, is way fat. In any sense, being the good “cat parent” I am, I decided that maybe I should bring him to the vet. So, I scheduled the appointment, and brought him in.

Now, anyone who knows anything about cats knows that they usually are not very good travelers. Ace is no exception. Once I loaded him into the cat carrier (which in itself is a project) and got him out to the car, I was privy to the sounds that only exorcists and cat owners ever hear. The noise a cat in a carrier who doesn’t want to be there is a noise that would give a 400 lb. linebacker chills. Think nails on a chalkboard times 100. An unearthly yowl that goes right to the core of your being. Anyone else would think the animal was dying, but of course I knew better (then again, considering we were going to the vet for some inexplicable disease, I really couldn’t be sure…).

When we arrived at the vet’s office, I checked in and sat down to wait. I could see Ace’s eyes glowing out at me from inside his plastic prison, and tried my best to calm him down. After a short wait, we went into the exam room and met with the vet. He and his assistant looked over Ace and weiged him (12 lbs. – so if he was losing weight, he was overweight to begin with) and then checked out the hair loss site. As I held my breath waiting to be told my cat had some fatal disease, I heard the vet say, “Ahhhhh.” Very “Oh-of-course-this-idiot-brought-her-cat-in-for-this?” – like. The assistant was smirking and nodding at him. And I was at a complete loss. “WHAT??” I finally blurted. “This cat has stress-induced alopecia.” The vet informed me. Alopecia?? The only reason I knew what alopecia was was because my daughter had alopecia as a baby (and has since been completely cured): it is basically hair loss. Duh! I knew that! Then the first half of his diagnosis hit me – “stress-induced.” I was at a loss. The vet started asking me if there had been any major life changes for Ace lately, if I got any new pets, if we had moved, if we changed his food… he continued on to say that cats were very much creatures who enjoyed routine, and complacency, and any variation from the norm could emotionally disturb them, thus causing them to acquire the nervous habit of excessive grooming and in essence licking the hair off certain areas of their bodies. As the vet and his assistant stood looking at me accusingly, I racked my brain for something that could possibly have stressed out my cat. After a while, all I could think of was the fact that maybe he thought the squirrels I started feeding were new pets and was jealous. The vet agreed. Solution? Reassure Ace, let him know he wasn’t being replaced. Give him more attention. And if he didn’t seem to be improving and growing some fur back in the next few months – valium. I kid you not. This crazy vet actually said he could put my cat on valium to ease his stress. YEAH, RIGHT. If anyone in my household is going on valium, it sure as hell won’t be my cat, I can tell you that much!! But then again, if cat valium and people valium are the same thing, maybe I can get it for Ace and just use it myself… (Imagine getting busted with an illegal prescription for valium – Officer: Um, ma’am, this bottle says the patient’s name is Ace. And the doctor is a DVM. Me: Meow?) Maybe not. In any case, I paid the stupid office visit fee and took my “stressed” cat home.

Which brings us back to Michigan. Salem had the exact same bald spots as Ace, and I caught him grooming several times. So I casually mentioned to my friend and her husband that it appeared their cat had stress-induced alopecia. Their basic answer was along the lines of “Yeah? No kidding. Well, that doesn’t surprise me. Salem has every right to be stressed.” (They had several other pets in and out of their home while Salem was around, and are now down to four cats, two black labs, a hamster and a parakeet) But when I mentioned valium – they laughed. And laughed. Apparently, like Ace, Salem will just have to deal with his stress on his own.

Stressed-out cats. Ok, Salem’s may be justified, but as far as I’m concerned, Ace is just a (pardon the pun) pussy. He lives in a condo, never goes outside, sleeps most of the day, is well fed… WHERE IS THE STRESS??? If, in fact, he is jealous of the squirrels on our balcony, tough. But I cannot believe the stupid feline is stressed over that. Then again, who knows?? But he’d better get over it. I’m not going to coddle a wimpy cat. Let’s see him work eight hours a day and take care of a kid as a single parent and pay the bills and live a HUMAN life. Now that’s stress. Moron.

Bottom line – if Ace gets a job, MAYBE I’ll get him valium. Otherwise, he’ll have to learn to deal. Like the rest of us in the family.

The Motley Crew Revisited

You know, I am beginning to have SERIOUS doubts as to the direction in which this blog is going. But I just can't seem to help myself. In any case, I will try to keep this as lighthearted as possible, and PROMISE to get back to humorous fluff after this entry.

Yesterday I happened to be reading the obituaries, looking for my name. I do this on a pretty much daily basis, just to make sure I am still alive. Because let's face it, no one knows what happens after you die, and maybe when you die you think you are still alive when the rest of the world thinks you are dead. So if I ever do see my name in the obits, I will know I am dead. Which actually would really suck, because I don't really know what I would do from that point. I mean, Patrick Swayze found Whoopi to help him out and all, but who even knows if that would work. Not finding Whoopi, but finding a psychic, period. Anyway, I digress. While I was reading the obits, I came across a familiar name. A name of someone in the motley crew who I hadn't seen in quite a while. I felt my heart skip a beat, then I clicked to the actual notice. Turned out it wasn't V, but his father. Sorry as I was to hear of his father's passing, I have to admit I let out a sigh of relief to know it wasn't him. The wake was that evening, and I realized that I wouldn't be staying home watching tv after all. This guy had been a friend to me and helped me through a lot of tough times, and I knew that I had to be there for him now.

In my previous post on the motley crew, I gave a pretty general overview of the crowd. But in our little "clique" were some pretty special people. People who made me laugh, listened to me cry, and gave me strength when I didn't think I had any left. I don't know how exactly we drifted apart, it probably had a lot to do with my decision to join the outside world on my own and leave behind 12 step. Even though I knew it was the right thing for me to do, it did strain some relationships. And honestly, whether we stayed in the program or not, things changed for all of us in life, as they have a tendency to do. People grow and change, and sometimes without even realizing it, years go by and you start having conversations in your head that start something like "Gee, whatever happened to...." But as soon as I saw that name in the paper, all the memories came flooding back, and I realized that although time had passed I still had the same love for my old friends that I did back in the beginning. You just don't sever ties that strong, you can't. Going through something as tough and as life-changing as recovery together binds people in a way that people who are "normal" could never understand.

So after work, I got myself and my daughter changed and we made the trek out to the south side to pay our respects. When we got there, C was the first person I saw. He was standing outside, and when I parked and got out of the car, it was like I never really left the old days. I got a big hug (I only don't like them from strangers, remember??) and after exchanging some "you look good" and "gosh, it's good to see you again"s I went inside. I literally ran into V as I was going in, and when I said his name, he looked at me in amazement and said "Wow! What are you doing here?" After an awkward moment (ummm, why was I there??) I told him after all he had done for me, I wanted to be there for him. Big hug, again. He introduced me to his wife, and I re-introduced him to my daughter. I think he last saw her when she was like 2! Then I saw P standing off to the side. More hugs, more "God, how are you??"s and lots of smiles, even at a sad time. I was really glad I came.

The four of us chatted for a while about people we knew, and how our lives were now. All of us were healthy and happy and doing well, which was a wonderful thing. V and P both lived out of state, C still in the old neighborhood. But everyone was gainfully employed and looked great. Time had changed us all in the way that it does, but on the inside, we were all the same friends we had known for what seemed like forever. We exchanged information, and promised to keep in touch. I can only speak for myself, but I really hope we all do. As we learned in the program, you can't change the past, but you should look to the future. These guys were a huge part of my past - and without them, I may not even have had a future. Gratitude was a big thing in the program too, and although I am grateful every single day of my life, I haven't felt it that strongly in a while. I was truly grateful to have reconnected with my old friends.

All of us will certainly continue on with our lives in the manner that we have become accustomed to, and the fact remains that two of the guys are living out of state. But there is still e-mail, and the phone, and even though I got lost going to the wake, I can usually manage directions pretty well while driving. So, guys, if you're reading this, I hope that we can all stay in better touch. You're awesome. And to everyone else - never take anyone for granted. Especially friends.

My Brother Bob Day

Guess what? Today is Bob Day!! I never knew such a day existed (and I’m pretty sure not many other people did, either). According to my little google search, Bob Day is celebrated every May 26th in honor of “ok guys.” Well, then! I happen to have a brother named Bob and I think he is MORE than just “ok!” In fact, I am actually quite insulted that the name Bob automatically refers to just an “ok guy.” So therefore, I am officially changing Bob Day on this blogsite to honor my brother Bob.

Let me tell you a little about Bob… He is my brother. (Ok, you already knew that) But did you know he is my younger brother? Nope, I bet not many of you did. In fact, since I am so much more youthful in heart and mind, many people assume he is my older brother. Or maybe they just assume that because he is like a foot taller than me (and I’m kinda tall myself) and just a tad bit more mature (Personally, I find maturity to be overrated). Actually, Bob kind of pulls double duty in the brother department, since he is my one and only sibling, he definitely ACTS like an older brother. Which, to be honest, I kind of think is cool, even as an old lady in my 30s.

When Bob and I were younger, things were great. Since back then he was still smaller than me, I pretty much got to bully him around a lot. We had a relative that was a teacher, and she used to give us old textbooks and workbooks. I thought this was great, because I loved to play school, and Bob was always the willing student. My role as the teacher basically involved giving him the workbooks and telling him “DO THIS!!” Bob was a good sport, though, and just look how intelligent he is today!! (All thanks to me, of course!) I also used to wrap his arm in a few rolls of toilet paper, tape his arm to his shirt, and tell him his arm was broken. This was always fun, watching him try not to move his arm, until our mom would overrule physician's orders and make him take it off. Bob was the kind of fun younger brother every big sister loved to have, because he pretty much did what I said. Until he started getting older, and began really thinking for himself.

This was a bummer time for me. My baby brother wouldn't listen to me any more, and was turning into the perfect child and making me look bad. He was very athletic (still is - check out Speaker City Softball!) and smart and never got in trouble. My mom says the only reason I got into more trouble was because I had a habit of telling my parents more than they needed to know, while Bob, on the other hand, never offered up any information unless practically tortured - and then he only gave up the bare minimum (a practice that continues to this day). Eventually we both made it through our high school years and into college. By this time, we were beginning to get closer.

I think I began to realize just how cool my brother Bob was when he played the overprotective brother role and began threatening the jerks I seemed to be attracted to. I realized he was human and just as fallible as myself because of the hackey sack incident (which was funny as hell, but I can't go into on a public board, for Bob's sake). I realized how stupid he was when he got his tattoo the size of his calf the night before Easter Sunday. But throughout all those times, I also realized how much I loved him.

Now, this is not a sappy blog, so we aren't even going to go there. But being Bob Day and all, I just had an uncontrollable urge to "honor" the Bob in my life. (Even if he is a big dork who can sit playing Sonic for hours on end with his niece if left unattended. ) Now that he is married (to a woman who is the perfect compliment to him and whom I love dearly!!) I can only hope that when he has kids of his own, his son will be as awesome a brother to his daughter as he was (and is) to me. But I'm sure if he teaches him well, he will be. Only don't name him "Bob." I can only deal with one in the family.

Ranger Rick

Yesterday when I came home from work, there was something in my driveway. For about a second, I thought “What is Baby doing in the driveway?” (Baby being my rather large grey cat who is terrified of the outdoors) Then I realized that the creature was NOT my overweight feline, but a pretty bold raccoon. Just to be clear, here, when I came home from work it was only about 6:00, so the sun was still shining, and by all rights it was definitely DAYLIGHT. The stupid thing just sat there for a while, looking at me and my daughter in my car, while I beeped the horn. My daughter got upset with me (“Don’t scare him, mom! That’s Stripes!”) but my honking didn’t even phase the stupid thing anyway. As we watched, he lumbered over to the garbage that sat on the curb waiting for the morning pick-up. While he nosed around for Lord knows what, it struck me that my daughter had called this creature by name – not a good sign. When I asked her about it, she told me that she had seen – ahem – “Stripes” before, a couple days ago, while she and her friend were bike riding. She continued on by saying (in the way only a stupid child could) “Yeah, we tried to catch him, but he ran.” Ok, this was no baby raccoon. The thing was probably a good 20 or 25 pounds, and did NOT look particularly friendly. So while we waited for it to leave so we could safely get into our house, I explained to my not-very-bright-when-it-comes-to-wild-animals daughter (and before anyone bothers to comment that she got it from her mother – yeah, ok, WHATEVER) that you really should not approach anything that has needle sharp teeth and claws and can knock you over with their weight if they get in a good running start. Finally something spooked the furry bandit, because he took off running (surprisingly, pretty quickly) around the side of the building.

Later that evening, I was telling my friend about this incident, and she commented, “Wow, it probably had rabies. When a nocturnal animal like a raccoon comes out in the daylight, it usually means it has rabies.” Great. So now my daughter is out riding her bike with her friend with the rabid raccoon God knows how close. I just hope she remembers my warning. Just in case, I go outside to check on her, and tell her maybe she’d better come back inside.

So today I do a little websearch to find out if what my friend said is true, thinking that if there IS a rabid raccoon in my complex, maybe I ought to call animal control or something… but it turns out that that is a myth. Apparently mother raccoons search for food in the daylight to feed their babies, and not because they have rabies. Which may calm my fears about rabies, but now we are probably dealing with a whole fricking FAMILY of raccoons. The article continued on to say that one good sign a wild animal has rabies is if it acts unusually tame. GREAT!! So “keep away from the Friendly Raccoons, honey, they’re liable to be rabid.” That is sure to make a ton of sense to a ten year old kid. Makes me wonder about all those stupid petting zoos, and Ranger Rick in particular. Apparently a rabid wild animal will seem tame because it is lethargic from the disease, but when approached will go crazy and attack. Comforting thought.

Anyway, I just thought I should share this newfound information and let the general public know to keep away from Friendly Raccoons. Even if they smile at you. And ESPECIALLY if they look like they just finished brushing their pointy little teeth.

Krispy Kreme Konspiracy

I enjoy Krispy Kreme Doughnuts. Who doesn’t, right? I mean, they have got to be some of the tastiest doughnuts in the world. Ever since I tried my first Krispy Kreme in the late 20th century (that would be around 1999), I have been hooked. When I found out shortly after I moved to the burbs that they were building a new one about 15 minutes away from my house, I was overjoyed. My daughter had never had one, and I couldn’t wait for her to try one. When she finally did, she was hooked too. What child wouldn’t be? Sticky-sweet and fluffy, these doughnuts were like the solid version of cotton candy. And probably had just as much sugar. Anyway, since the Krispy Kreme was close enough to our house to justify making the trip, but far enough away not to go all the time, it became a special treat for us to get KKs on the odd weekend morning. (As I had no desire to go into sugar shock, these odd weekend mornings were once every month or two) For a while, life was good. Then one morning back in March, everything changed. (Insert ominous music here)

I still don’t exactly know what happened, or how it came to be, but I have a sneaking suspicion that aliens are somehow involved. I mean, when you hear this story, you’ll understand why. Either aliens, or a higher power that doesn’t want me to eat Krispy Kremes anymore. You be the judge.

It was a Sunday morning, and a good day for KKs. So I snuck out of the house very early while my daughter still slept so I could surprise her. I went to the drive-thru, and ordered four original, four raspberry filled, and four sprinkles. The cashier was chipper and friendly, took my money, gave me my change and the precious green and white box. With a thank you and a smile, I was on my way back home.

When I arrived home, my daughter was still asleep, so I woke her up and told her what I had gotten for breakfast. She jumped out of bed, and we both went to the kitchen to have our sugar fix. I opened the box, and WHOA!!!! What was this?? These were not the KKs I ordered! There were two original, some weird cinnamon scented ones, a couple kreme filled… no raspberry or sprinkles at all! My daughter, ever the easygoing type, grabbed the two original KKs and a plate and headed off to watch tv. I, on the other hand, was upset and confused. These were not my doughnuts! I located the number for the store and dialed. When I explained the situation to the person on the phone, I was told to come back to have it fixed. At this point, I did not want to drive all the way back again, so I told the guy I was too far away, and couldn’t return today. And he told me, “Well, if you won’t come back, there’s nothing I can do.” And hung up. I was floored. In my many years on this earth, I have spent a number of them in the food service industry and in customer service, and I know very well that you ALWAYS make the customer happy, no matter what. And this guy did NOT make me happy. “Nothing I can do”???? I don’t think so!! But I decided not to push it, and tried a new KK flavor (which I didn’t even like). Disappointed, I tossed the rest of the box since my daughter didn’t like the others either, and figured maybe we’d try again the following weekend.

It was another nice Sunday morning, albeit a little cold, when I again ventured out to KK. My daughter was awake this time and had a friend over who had spent the night. The two of them (ok, and me too) were looking forward to breakfast. Again I went through the drive-thru, this time ordering 2 dozen, 1 dozen original and 1 dozen assorted: four sprinkles, four raspberry, and four chocolate frosted. I repeated my order, the tinny voice on the speaker confirmed it, and I proceeded on to the window. Again, happy cashier, happy money, happy change, happy doughnuts. Only his time, before I pulled away, I opened the box. Inside I found three, not four, sprinkle doughnuts. Now, for any of you who have kids, you know this is a big deal. You cannot have an uneven number of anything in order to avoid the classic “how come she got more than me/those are my favorite too” argument. So I went back inside and explained the situation. Actually, I was a little ticked off, since this was the second time they screwed up my order. And I told them so. Again, very nonchalantly, they apologized and corrected their error. But they didn’t seem to really care too much. So while I was driving home, I called the toll free number to corporate.

The rep was very nice and sympathetic, and told me she would send me a coupon for a free dozen doughnuts. She also told me she would speak to the manager of the store about the situation. Fine. I was satisfied, damage control successful. And we got to eat our doughnuts in peace once I got home.

The next day, I had a call on my voice mail from the manager of the KK. He apologized profusely and asked if I could please return his call as he would like to speak to me directly. When I called him, he asked me again exactly what happened, and when I told him about both incidents, he again apologized over and over. Then he did what any good manager will tell you is the best way to keep the customer happy – he asked me what he could do to keep my business and make me happy. I told him the coupon was fine, but he insisted that he could do more, that I deserved it and he wanted to. I honestly didn’t want anything else, and I told him so. Then he asked if I go to church. (This kind of threw me, because I don’t, and I wondered if maybe God played into Krispy Kreme somehow.) I guess my pause was a good enough answer, because then he asked if my daughter had any sports teams or clubs on the weekends. I told him that in fact, my daughter bowled on Saturday mornings, to which he replied, “Good! How about ten dozen doughnuts for her bowling league?” Well, now, let me say right here that I would’ve been crazy to turn down ten dozen KKs. Even though I kept telling him that it wasn’t necessary. I mean, yes, there were two mix ups, but it wasn’t like anyone died or anything. But he insisted even while I wrestled with the demons in my head (“TEN DOZEN DOUGHNUTS!! YUMMY!!!” “Don’t do it!! Think of the CALORIES! Think of the FAT!! Think of the CARBS!!!!!”) and I finally relented, agreeing to pick up the doughnuts the following Saturday morning before bowling (after all, they would be for the KIDS, not me, right??). The manager seemed relieved and happy, and said he looked forward to apologizing in person.

The bowling doughnuts were a huge success, and I told all the parents what happened. They were pretty impressed at the fact that the manager went to so much trouble to make me happy again, and the kids – well, mixed results with the kids. Apparently sugar improves some bowling games and screws up others. There was one girl who actually told me that the 7 KKs she ate made her score her highest game yet. (Right after she said that, her mother asked her if she took her ADD meds that morning – she didn’t. From the look I got from her mom, I guess KKs aren’t the best thing for kids with ADD, high score or not. Especially 7 of them) When bowling was over, I sent the remaining few doughnuts home with other families (at that point, even the SMELL of KKs was making me nauseous) and went home to puke. Too much of a good thing and all that.

Obviously, it took a while to even think of KKs again, so the coupon I got from corporate sat on my dresser for about a month or so. Then I finally got the urge. Again on a Sunday, I drove out and ordered my doughnuts. They had a new doughnut which looked good, so I ordered 2 strawberry shortcake, 6 original, 2 raspberry, 2 sprinkle. Handed over my coupon, got my doughnuts, drove home. I decided to try the new strawberry shortcake first. Bit into it – hmmmm, this is wierd, this tastes more like NEW YORK CHEESECAKE!!! Which I don’t even LIKE!! I spit out the offending doughnut and checked the other one in the box. NEW YORK CHEESECAKE!! Again, I had received the wrong doughnuts. I called the store, and this time spoke to the assistant manager. I told him what had happened, that I had actually purchased these doughnuts with a coupon I received because I had problems before. He apologized, and told me next time to tell the cashier the doughnuts were on him, and he hoped I would give them another chance. I told him that maybe they had better talk to their employees and make sure they were getting orders right. I even (nicely) suggested that maybe when customers pull up to pick up their doughnuts, the cashier should review what their order was. He agreed with me, and I hung up. Three times!! Must be a record, right? Until last weekend…

Again, drove up, ordered, picked up. Oh, wait, before I picked up, I was told that they were out of raspberry doughnuts. (Out?? They make the doughnuts on site and it was 9:45 on a Sunday morning! Ok, deep breath. Whatever. Give me strawberry shortcake instead.) Told the cashier the assistant mgr said the doughnuts were on him. No problem, thank you, have a nice day. Pulled over before I turned out of the lot – can you guess what happened? Instead of four strawberry shortcake doughnuts, there were four NEW YORK CHEESECAKE doughnuts mocking me from inside the box. I let out a primal scream of frustration and stormed into the store and threw the box on the counter. “DO YOU NOT KNOW THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN NEW YORK CHEESECAKE AND STRAWBERRY SHORTCAKE?????” I yelled. A female employee looked in the box and said, “Yes. Those are New York Cheesecake.” And smiled at me. At this point, I felt like I was in the Twilight Zone. Four times of ****ups. FOUR. I shook my head at the girl. “I wanted STRAWBERRY SHORTCAKE. This is the FOURTH time you people have screwed up my order and this will be the LAST time I come here!!! Tell XXXXXX and XXXXXX (names hidden to protect the innocent – well, sort of innocent. They tried.) thank you for their consideration, but since their employees keep SCREWING UP I will NOT be back!!!!” The cashier quickly scrambled to fix the mistake, but this time I meant it. I was done. I took the corrected box of doughnuts to my car and once again called corporate. I told them I did NOT want any more free doughnuts, because they were never the RIGHT doughnuts anyway! The rep seemed very concerned about the pattern that was forming here, and said she would have the mgr call me. NO NO NO!! No more doughnuts!! No more managers!! NO MORE KRISPY KREME!!! But she didn’t listen and now I have another message from a new manager on my voice mail begging me to call him back to “further discuss this matter.”

So right now, I am avoiding the manager. I don’t want apologies, I don’t want explanations, I don’t want doughnuts. I want my sanity back, which I feel I have lost since I don’t know anyone else who has had something like this happen FOUR times. In a row. Like I said in the beginning, must be aliens. Or a higher power. Either way, I am DONE with Krispy Kreme.

Then again, I can always get them at Jewel, right?

Wedding Bell Blues

Ok, I've been sitting here pondering trying to come up with a topic for today, when all of a sudden my friend comes in and tells me she met some guy in Arizona and might move out there. JUMP BACK!! This is an intelligent woman, folks, an attorney, no less, yet here she stood, willing to give it all up for a man she has known for barely a week. Further prodding got me some additional info which I found quite interesting... my friend started in with the whole "my-life-sucks-and-it's-really-boring" speech and wound up spitting out the real reason she is contemplating this move - she's lonely. In an "I've never been married and I'm in my 30s" lonely. Gotcha.

I can empathize with her situation - to a point. I myself have never been married, and looking around lately, I am feeling completely left out of the loop. EVERYONE is getting married. Two of my best friends are getting married - both for the second time. My baby brother is married. This summer, another of my younger cousins is getting married. Gold Digger downstairs is getting married (well, maybe). At the poker party last week: married, married, getting married, got engaged... blah blah blah. And Erica Kane is getting married on All My Children today - for the tenth time. I am completely baffled by this whole thing. Don't get me wrong, I am all for "true love," and "soulmates" (please try to ignore the sarcasm I am subconsciously inserting in those phrases), but this is a part of life I DEFINITELY don't get. I have been told by numerous people many times that "someday you'll find THE ONE." ??? Oh, and my favorite line: "it always happens when you least expect it." Ok, so now, I don't know about any of you, but there has never been a time in my life when I went out and thought, "Hey, wow! I really think that tonight will be the night I meet my future husband!" Therefore, I am never really expecting it. Yet I still remain single.

Ok, now without tooting my own horn (I've always wanted to use that phrase), I'm not that bad of a catch. I think I'm fairly attractive, average build - and still working on it, intellingent and fun to be around (usually). Yet for thirty-something years, marriage is an issue that has never once come up in my personal life. And honestly, I really don't think it bothers me that much. Which worries me. Basically because I see all these other women running around like chickens with their heads cut off worrying about not having a man and not being married, and I'm not panicked. At all. If it happens, it happens. If not - oh well. And I don't think it's normal to be that unworried about remaining single forever. Case in point - I have several female cousins who have been married several times. All righty then. Bottom line, they are happy now, but did the whole marriage thing over and over till they got it right. I won't have that luxury of time if I screw up on the first husband, which is another reason I want to get it right if I do ever get married. Then there's Ms. Gold Digger downstairs (soon to be Mrs. Dentist) who seems to never be without a fiancee. And she is younger than me. That would drive me nuts, I think. I need some personal space, and having a revolving door of fiancees is crazy.

So I guess I may never quite understand the institution of marriage (another scary thing - I was always taught that "institutions" were places you usually wanted to keep out of) or why there are so many people willing to just jump right in. Maybe people are right when they tell me "it'll happen," but as far as what exactly "it" is - you got me. Thunderbolts and lightning? (Very very frightening!) Butterflies? Head rush? Nausea? Bad case of the giggles? Just please shoot me if I ever start with the baby talk - ok?? And I promise to keep you posted if anything ever does happen.

You Give Law a Bad Name

I work in the legal field as a paralegal for a small law office in the suburbs. That usually doesn’t bother people. In fact, when I say I am a paralegal, it usually impresses people. This is because most people think “Wow, a paralegal. She must be pretty smart. Wonder why she didn’t just become a lawyer?” (I can tell you why – because the whole paralegal thing was a fluke. And now I have no time or money for law school.) Anyway, as I was saying, being a paralegal is usually pretty nonthreatening – until I am asked what field of law we practice. (Drum roll, please…) Personal Injury. (GASP!!!!!)

Now let me preface this by saying that I agree with most people who think that society today is sue-happy. But that doesn’t mean that there aren’t plenty of legitimate claims out there. Or that people should never get compensated for injuries, whether major or minor. The whole thing is, people, there are insurance companies out there for a REASON. And there are personal injury lawyers out there for a reason, too. Usually to make sure that the insurance companies don’t get too rich collecting premiums instead of making payouts. (And, let’s be honest, to collect their attorney’s fees too) Believe it or not, most personal injury lawyers are not the unethical sharks that people make them out to be. They seem to be somewhat misunderstood, actually. The PI lawyers I know won't take on just any case. Because, you see, if they can't win the case, they won't get paid. So all those visions you have of lawyers waiting at busy intersections or steep stairways waiting for people to get hurt just aren't true. Besides, it is totally illegal to "shop" for clients in that manner. But when someone calls the office who was involved in a car accident or was attacked by someone's dog or fell on someone's property that wasn't properly maintained, well, we're there to help.

As a paralegal, it is my job to speak to all potential clients and get as much info as possible. You wouldn't believe what some people try to sue over. Lesson One: LIABILITY. You cannot sue someone because you tripped on their property over your own two feet and broke your ankle. You can sue someone if you tripped on the same property, but over a broken flagstone in their walkway. And big Lesson Two: Most Cases Never Go To Court. Everyone seems to think they have a "lawsuit" when really they only have a "claim." Something you file with the insurance company of the at-fault party. And guess what? Somebody is usually "at fault."

To all those people out there who get into a car accident and go to the hospital and then say "All I want is my bill paid" I say, DON'T BE STUPID!! Why do you think you pay insurance premiums your whole entire life?? If nobody ever made a claim, the insurance companies would just keep getting richer and richer. Premiums are paid for a reason - so that if something needs to be paid, it will be. Pain and suffering don't have to mean just for the accident, as far as I'm concerned (Although legally I can't say what I'm going to say next, I'll trust you not to report me) it should also be for all the premiums you shell out every month. Think that over. The world is about balance - hence PI lawyers and insurance adjusters. They balance each other out. No bad guys here. Unless the adjuster is being a real ASSHOLE about paying your claim and you can't find a lawyer to take it because it's not a BIG enough claim and ... ooops. I'm going off on a tangent here. Sorry - personal shit. Anyway, I have to go now deal with some somewhat related issues of my own. I promise to regale you with some tales of some more, shall we say, colorful clients sometime in the future.

Concerns & Melrose Place II

I would like to begin today by addressing the "concerns" of a couple people who have read my take on Poker Night and brought these "concerns" to my attention. I can only assume that since I have received verbal comments from two people, there are others out there with the same "concerns." Both individuals have indicated that I appeared overly arrogant, smug, and full of myself. So, to all of you out there reading I say this: SO THE FUCK WHAT??????? No offense, but please understand that my life basically plays out as follows: Monday through Friday - get up, get myself and my daughter ready for work/school, work for Satan, pick up my daughter, make dinner, help with homework, watch tv, go to bed. Very seldom is there a change in the weekly routine. As far as weekends go - read on: Get up, watch tv, make breakfast for my daughter, clean house, do laundry, possibly visit mom or dad - usually supervise my daughter and her friends at our place or take her to theirs, make dinner, watch tv, go to bed. So EXCUUUUUUUSE ME if I got overly excited about an evening in my life which varied from the norm and made me feel like something other than a robot. For crying out loud, let me have my moment of glory!! Obviously I do not normally perceive myself to be "awesome" on a daily basis, so if something comes up which gives me the chance to feel cool, please be kind enough to let me enjoy it, even if it means being a bit overzealous. Besides, this blog is for entertainment purposes only, it is not law for pete's sake. Chill out, people!!

Now that we have cleared the air on that issue, I would like to announce that my home may soon become a bit closer to my Melrose Place dream. Then again, it may also become worse. Apparently Ms. Gold-Digger downstairs is marrying Brian the Dentist and moving to Barrington into a BIG house with a hot tub where they will be rich and she will never have to work again (I wonder if she is giving up her dreams of an online md??). This bit of news came from her daughter to mine yesterday, and given the fact that this is the second time (with the second guy) that we were told she was going to get married, I really shouldn't get my hopes up. Especially when my daughter told me they had to wait for her ring because Brian was ordering it online. Now, I may not be the most internet savvy person in the world, but engagement rings online?? Do people actually DO that?? I mean, does e-bay have a whole engagement section or what? Go figure. Anyway, supposedly they will be moving out at the end of the summer, which means the downstairs unit will be open for a new tenant. I am really hoping that it is a studly yet sensitive single male (who is not gay) (although if he is, that would be ok, because gay guys make great friends) who adores kids and doesn't mind the fact that there are peanut shells raining down on his patio on a daily basis from my "pet" squirrels. But considering my luck, it will probably be another Indian couple and they will join forces with their neighbors across the hall and force me, my daughter and Brad-the-guy-across-the-hall (probably his dog Steeler too) to don gas masks from the deadly stench of curry. Oh well. Like I said, odds are, this engagement won't last either. Time will tell. Just keep your fingers crossed for me.

Poker Night

Let me just begin by saying this - I am awesome. Completely, utterly and totally awesome. And I'm sure each and every one of you will agree with me by the end of this blog. (If you don't, I really could care less, because I know the truth.) So let's begin...

(Author's Note: Since this story does not involve CA, AA or GA for that matter, I will NOT be using fictitious names. Besides, it gets too confusing and I don't feel like trying to remember whose psuedonym is whose. So if anyone is reading this and sees their name - deal with it. Or contact me and I'll be happy to change it if you so desire.)

On Saturday my brother had a Texas Hold 'Em tourney. Partially to raise funds for my sister-in-law's walk for breast cancer (great cause - looooong walk; kudos to Sarah!) and partially for fun and profit. Since we have become adults, my brother and I have grown closer and will actually spend time together without being forced by our mother. And believe it or not, we actually enjoy each other's company. (Although I do believe at times my brother is so intimidated by me that he doesn't want me around for fear that his friends will discover what I have known all along - that I am the cool one and he is the dork.) (All right, the honest truth is that as much as my brother loves me, he can only take me in small doses because I am so cool. Anyway, I digress. Back to my story...) So he graciously invited me to this event, knowing that I enjoy such intellectually stimulating games as poker, and that when money is involved, I enjoy it even more. Now, hold 'em, although not a new game by any definition, is a game that has really taken off since being televised. And since any celebrity who can count has tried their luck with the game on Bravo. Like a lot of people, I became sucked in by this phenomenon, and started playing online (for play money, of course. I'm not stupid.) Bob and Sarah even got me a book, which I half-read, but I still think helped me somewhat. Therefore, when I got invited, I was really excited about the whole thing. I hadn't played poker for real money in a long time, and had never played hold 'em with anyone other than computer people or celebrities on tv.

When Saturday came, I dropped off my daughter at her friend's house (no kids on poker night - no sireee!) and trekked out to my bro's in the city. When I arrived, I surreptiously checked out my competition. Some of the guys I had met before, some were new. But the bottom line was, I had no idea about any of their poker skills, so I guess I was just trying to figure out if any of them had the killer eye. I did get a little nervous when the draw was complete and we sat down to play. Bob's buddy & softball teammate Eric (Eric with a "c" not a "k") was to my left, and he was talking like he had been playing the game since diapers. Then again, my sister-in-law's sister's fiancee (who I guess would also be my brother's sister-in-law's fiancee, whichever way you prefer) was also at my table, and didn't appear very threatening. To my right was Rogers, one of Bob's college buddies that I have known for a while. He was drinking scotch, neat, so I really didn't think he was a problem. Sarah was also at my table, and since I know she is a smart cookie, I made her as a wildcard. The final players were Jim & Gil (two more softball buds), and I guy I didn't really know. After a few rounds in which Sarah (admittedly - by her) got lucky, I started to get in the zone. My fears regarding Eric were legit - he definitely knew what he was doing. And my non-fears about Luke were also right on the money - I honestly think he bluffed on every hand (once I figured that out - it was cake). Anyway, time passed and I was one of the final eight.

At the final table was myself, Bob, Clem, Jim, Eric, Gil, Julie and Katie. I found it very impressive that three of the four women made it to the final table, but I had also heard whispers about Julie and Katie being very lucky girls who didn't know how to play before that afternoon. Whether or not that was true, I don't know, both of them managed pretty well up until now, and both had more chips than I did. Julie actually was the chip leader, with Eric not far behind. Finally, after a scrumptious barbecue (the hotdogs were especially divine) it was time to shuffle up and deal. Since poor Bob only started with 900 in chips, it didn't take long for him to go out. Which actually worked out well, because he made a damn fine dealer. (Yay Bob!) I had a scare at one point, but went all in and managed to double up. From then, the shark in me took over. Jim almost cost me the game when he told Katie to call me "because she's a good bluffer" (true - and I was bluffing, but you're not supposed to tell people that, it's rude!), but by some fluke the cards turned in my favor and I won. So I let it go. (But I'm warning you Jim - next time......!!!!) Eventually, Eric and I became the final two. A worthier opponent I have never met. (And not only because this was my first live action game) But after some pulse pounding, vein-in-your-temple action, I prevailed. Hell, I KICKED ASS. Hence, my opening statement. I AM AWESOME. And $300.00 richer.

When the tournament ended, we played again, lower stakes but more relaxed. We all got to see Eric's toe (and he gave me permission to write about it) which was pretty gross. He actually has a bone growing out the side of it. I don't know exactly how the topic came up, or why he felt the need to show us his toes, but he did, so there you have it. Eric has really funky toes. Fig and I got to chat about blogging, I found him as entertaining in person as on the net. He told a very strange tale about a lady on fire, and claimed it was a joke. No one at the table seemed to think a lady on fire was really funny, but when he got to the punch line, it actually kind of was. In a sick kind of way. I just feel sorry for the lady. (To read more, go to Fig's blog and follow his link to the story - I think it's "Fun something" or "Something Fun", either way, you're smart, you'll find it.) Then Bob got bored (he lost in the 2nd game too) and pulled out his guitar. He made Gil sing, which he did - while he was playing cards. A very talented guy, that Gil. Anyone who can play cards and sing at the same time while Eric was making fun of him is pretty impressive. And those teeth - whitest I've ever seen. But if you ask Gil himself, he'll tell you his teeth really aren't that white, he just has dark lips. That went down as the quote of the night, and I don't even want to touch it. After some more laughs and cards, I felt it time to depart. I threw the game (Yes, threw it. I could've won again, but you know how sensitive the male ego is - besides, if Bob's friends didn't like me, I would never have been invited out again) and said my goodbyes.

On my way home, I was feeling pretty good and listening to the radio. I drove on auto-pilot and reflected on how nice it was to spend time with my brother and what entertaining friends he has. I only hoped they felt the same about me - even though I KICKED THEIR ASSES AT CARDS. Then I heard a radio contest and called in. Believe it or not, I was the 15th caller and won a pair of concert tickets. Nice capper to the evening!! Maraschino cherry on top, I thought! "You and a guest will be attending the Survivor concert in Mokena!" the dj told me. (No, Fig, not the cool Survivor. The stupid "eye of the Tiger" Survivor. In Mokena. Where the hell is Mokena anyway??) I tried to act excited, but I don't think the dj really bought it. He knew that 2 $15 tickets to see a band that wasn't even popular in the decade they were supposed to be popular was a pretty crappy prize. Bottom line was, my luck was still good, in a backhanded kind of way. Long story short, I took that as a sign to go the boat, which I did, and proceeded to win $12 at craps, and lose $20 on a slot machine. I wound up $8 in the hole total, which I realized was because it was now after midnight and my lucky day was over. So I went home and went to bed, dreaming of Gordon, Moneymaker, Hellmuth and myself at a final table - and guess who was the chip leader???????

The Motley Crew

I had a nice little e-mail banter with an old friend the other day. She told me she enjoyed reading my little blog, and jokingly said that I should have more than enough to write about in regards to the some of the times she and I spent together - while working a 12 step program. Now, just to clarify, I use the phrase "while working a 12 step program" very loosely, because even though I truly believe it saved my life, I consider most of my time spent in CA (that's cocaine anonymous to all you goody-two-shoes out there) (ok, pick your jaw up off the floor - will you??) to be oddly similar to my time spent in high school. I suppose in order to expand on this theory, I should give you a bit of background...

As I previously wrote while reflecting on my life, I hit a few "bumps in the road" if you will. One of the "bumps" was a tiny little problem with cocaine, which all started while trying to rescue a guy. (NOTE: PLEASE, if you ever meet or date someone who enjoys a little "partying" now and then - RUN LIKE HELL. You cannot save them, help them, sober them up or change them. In fact, as I found out, you usually end up "partying" right along with them. Which, in case you don't already know from Mrs. Reagan, is a VERY BAD THING. Ok, public service announcement over - back to my story.) Long story short, things got quite out of hand, and I eventually realized that I was DEFINITELY not happy with my life anymore and had essentially lost all control. With the help of a very supportive family, I started a outpatient rehab program and was given information on CA. Finally, I was beginning to get my life back on track.

My first meeting at RH (disclaimer - any reference to any person or location from this point forward will be entirely fictitious and no similarity to any person or place living or dead will be intentional. Even though all the people and places mentioned will be actual people and places I have known and frequented, since I will be using pseudonyms, no one will be able to prove it, unless they are stupid enough to admit who they are, which goes against the whole "anonymous" theory. So technically, I am not breaking any honor code) was one of the most glorious experiences I have ever had. I walked into a large room above a bar (funny how most AA and CA meetings seem to be either above or near a bar - kind of a bad idea if you ask me) and found myself looking at a roomful of people of all ages, but mostly 20-something like me. I thik the youngest was actually still in high school, and the oldest had grandchildren. Either way, they were all talking and smoking and drinking coffee. For a few minutes, I just stood there and watched, until a friendly girl walked up and introduced herself. "Hi! Welcome! Is this your first meeting?" She gave me a big hug (which I must admit, to this day is not something I am that comfortable with - strangers getting all touchy-feely) and then the meeting came to order. I listened, fascinated, as the leader went through all the old business, and the twelve steps and twelve traditions were read. (I wasn't sure how much of those twelve steps I was really willing to take, but I figured I'd give it a try) Then one of the guys sitting next to the leader started to tell his story. Form what I recall (and I am not making this up) this guy actually used to sleep in trees when he got high, because he got kicked out of his house. He had been through a million rehabs, almost died like eighty-five times, stole about 68K while partying over a number of years, and he was only like 23 years old. WOW!! I realized then that I wasn't really that bad after all. But I liked these people, because they knew what it was like. Even though some of them were completely whacked. (And I say that with love and respect in my heart.)

I started going to meetings at RH on a pretty regular basis, at least 2 or 3 times a week, and got to know most of the people who were also regulars. We actually had a little "clique" if you can believe it, and looking back now, the whole situation may have been almost as crazy as life was before rehab, except there were no "mind altering substances" involved. Just a bunch of people (myself included) who probably fried so many brain cells that they were just destined to be a little off forever. Every month there would be a dance (see??? Just like high school!! I told you!!) but not many people would really dance. Crackhead Jim would, though. Seriously. There was a guy we called "Crackhead Jim" (no, that is not his real name for those of you reading who may or may not know the real "crackhead" - disclaimer, remember??) who was the kind of person even seasoned writers like myself have a difficult time describing. This guy was everybody's pal, but he also got on everyone's nerves. He was popular, but also made fun of. Nice guy, but weirder than the average junkie. Crackhead Jim was the type of person who actually changed the word to Christmas Carols to make them more appropriate for sobriety - think "I'm Dreaming of a Sober New Year." He considered himself the life of every party and dance, and he usually was, whether he happened to be laughed at or laughed with was never established until well into the evening.

Then there were the good-looking addicts who we really weren't supposed to date. All 12 step rules very clearly state that you should not date in the first year, (although I never met anyone in the program who actually followed that rule, myself included) so as to concentrate fully on your recovery. But these guys made it practically impossible to ignore the testosterone floating in the air. They fancied themselves "nice guys," just forget that they were mostly ex-dealers or ex-cons who had been clean less than a year. At RH, everyone got a fresh start, and even though we all discussed our past in detail at meetings, all seemed to be forgotten in the social scene. (In hindsight, I guess I can understand my father's original fear of me dating any fellow recovery people) Once again, my codependent issues took over all sense of logic, and these guys were simply troubled men who went through the same things I did. WRONG!!!! I found out very quickly that these men were just that - men - and they thrived on the lost puppy method to draw in women. Not to say they were all jerks, on the contrary, there were plenty of honestly great guys, but the great guys usually weren't the ones who hit on you. And that was because they really were great guys and respected your space and recovery.

Finally, as in all good high school, you had your "mean girls." Yes, even in a 12 step program. These were the girls who did all the back-stabbing and relapsing and still smiled and hugged you at meetings. One of these actually became my roommate for a while. I think she has relapsed to the point of no return by now, and I honestly feel sorry for her. But that doesn't mean she isn't a total bitch. Anyway. For the most part, the "mean girls" wound up leaving and going back to their old ways - so that was a revolving role.

RH definitely had a major role in saving my life, but after a little over a year of more insanity (only with sober people instead of non-sober people) I decided I could tackle life on my own. I was given the mandatory warnings about winding up "back on the west side" or dead or in jail, but I felt I had the necessary knowledge and tools to live life on my own. And drink. (ooooh, I know, I was told by 85% of my old pals that drinking meant I relapsed, a fate worse than death, but guess what?? I don't care.) I drink in moderation now, have for the past 8 years, and haven't touched a street drug in almost 10. Life is good. And to all those people I met - well, guys, you have enriched my life and gave me a lot to be grateful for. Like I mentioned, I still keep in touch with a few, but to those who I haven't seen or heard from, I sincerely hope you are happy. Because Lord knows we all deserve happiness.

And to DP - this was nothing - wait'll I write about the REALLY good stuff!!!!

Roller Queen Reborn

Some of my fondest memories are of skating at the Axle Roller Rink when I was in high school. So when my daughter informed me that she was invited to her friend’s roller skating party but didn’t want to go, I was floored. What could possibly be the reason for turning down a skating party? Skating is fun! Skating is freedom! Skating is (forgive the 80’s slang, but we are talking my high school years, here) like, totally awesome!! But apparently skating (especially at roller rinks) has been on somewhat of a decline since the 80’s, because I was the mother of a child who did not know how to skate. This, to me, was unacceptable. I informed my daughter that she would learn how to skate, and that I would help her. She wasn’t very receptive at first, but gradually warmed up to the idea. I, on the other hand, was wayyyyy more excited than any middle-aged woman has a right to be unless sexual activity is involved.

That weekend, we went to my grandparent’s house, where all things of any sentimental value that no one else has room for reside. My daughter made a trek up into the attic and came down with what parallels a nostalgic single mother’s Holy Grail: my old roller skates. Sure, the laces were yellowing, but they were still intact, and the wheels still spun fine. I held my breath as I tried one on, and IT STILL FIT!! After 20 long years of waiting in the attic, my skates were once again where they belonged – on my size 9 feet. I reluctantly took them off and passed them over to my daughter who still was having a hard time believing her mom was a roller queen, but was utterly fascinated at the same time. As I chatted with my grandparents, I kept glancing over at her, while she tried on MY skates… I could feel the heart palpitations and the sweat on my palms and I tried to keep my voice calm and steady as I said, “Sweetie, those are way too big for you. Maybe you should just leave them alone.” She did what all tween girls do when their mother “suggests” something to them, she ignored me. Ok, just to clarify here – these were my skates. The remnants of my lost youth. I smoked one of my first cigarettes in the bathroom while wearing these skates, skated “couples only” with some pretty hot 80’s guys in these skates, learned “the jam” in these skates (and if you don’t know what “the jam” is, *sigh*, then I pity you, because you missed some good times)… thankfully, my grandfather got nervous about his carpet being ruined and made her take them off. (Sweet relief!!)

We made plans to go skating on the Saturday before her friend’s party – and when the day finally came, I was psyched. (I wish I could say the same for my daughter) I loaded her and her friend in the car, and we were off. Her friend had some experience, so I was optimistic that my daughter would be just fine. Besides, she had my skating blood coursing through her veins. For some weird reason, I found myself humming the song “1985” on the ride up there. But when we approached the rink itself, all other thoughts disappeared from my mind. I was actually too excited to think. We entered the rink, and the lobby was eerily quiet. For a minute, I panicked, thinking maybe it was closed, or abandoned, or maybe even condemned. But from just beyond a doorway to our right I could make out the familiar sound of skate wheels on polished wood. I ushered the girls through the door and felt the adrenaline rush. A skating rink! We were approached by a young woman who informed us there would be no drop-in beginner lessons today (our reason for going so early), but we were free to “practice.” She led us over to the skate rental area, where I proudly displayed my skates and cockily said, “I’ve got my own.” (Nice as she was – this woman gave me a really strange look at this point – go figure.) My daughter and her friend got their skates on, my daughter in the tried-and-true roller skates, her friend in those newfangled rollerblades. I wish I could say here that my daughter amazed us all and had the rollerblood in her veins too, but unfortunately, that wasn’t exactly the case. (Although she did wind up doing better than some of the middle-aged Indian men inching along the rink while holding the wall in a death grip.) I, on the other hand, laced up my skates with expert hands and prepared to stand for the first time in almost 20 years.

(Did you hear the drum roll? You were supposed to hear it right at the end of that last paragraph) When I stood, my legs were a bit shaky. I tried not to show the fear that crept into my heart - what if the roller queen was no more? What if I actually (gasp) fell? I took my daughter's hand and led her to the rink. As I alluded to above, she didn't fare too well in the beginning, but she persisted and got up every time she fell. After a few minutes, the speakers flared to life and Sheena Easton announced that all she wanted was to be someone's baby doll. Could that really be STRUT?? I don't think I have heard that song since I actually wore my skates back in the 80's. Sheena gave way to Blondie, and then we were headed on the highway to the danger zone. I swear, had I closed my eyes, I would've been back in Norridge at the Axle. (But closing your eyes while skating is not a good idea, especially when the skater in question is 20 years out of practice. ) I think it was a little bit of everything, the music, the feel of polyurethane wheels on my feet, the sound of other skaters skating around, because all of a sudden, I was no longer "Single Working Mom," I was "Hot Parachute Pants Wearing Big Hair With Lots of Hairspray Roller Queen." I looked at the two almost ten-year olds at my side and said, "I've gotta go around" and TOOK OFF!! Yes, dear readers, I still had it!! I flew around that rink with the breeze in my hair and a smile on my face. I blew by all the Indian families, and all the overprotective parents with their kids wearing matching knee/elbow pads and helmets. No safety gear for me, no siree, I was FLYING!!!! When I came to a stop back by my daughter, I could feel the sweat dripping down my neck, and could barely breathe. This after only once around. Maybe I wasn't as young as I used to be, but I still had it! To a point, at least. I didn't fall ONCE. And even though I woke up with unbelievably sore legs, I have vowed to return. My daughter enjoyed it enough to want to practice some more before the party, and I told her we will definitely go. And keep going. (And going and going and going)

The Roller Queen shall never die. (And will have hot legs for an older chick, if I can last more than a couple times around!)

Not Quite Melrose Place

You know what? I think it would be really cool to live somewhere like Melrose Place. Not that I ever really watched Melrose Place, but I know the concept, and I like it. Just think - a bunch of really cool, attractive, young people who hang out together and swim in the pool under the moonlight. Ok, from what I hear, there was a lot of catfighting and murder and scandal, but overall it sounds pretty good. At least compared to where I live. I live in a nice condo in the burbs (which I never thought I would do because I was brought up in the city and always thought suburbanites were dorks) with a pool and other kids for my daughter to play with. I own this condo, which makes me feel pretty important. Although one of the pitfalls of owning is the realization that for the next 30 years of your life you will be paying for this place, so you'd better appreciate it. And I do - appreciate it, I mean. It's the perfect size for two people (so if Erik ever shows up, he'd better have his own place) (if you don't know who Erik is, you'd better read my previous posts) and two cats, it accomodated a fish quite nicely too, as well as a hamster, but they both died. Sad story, really, at least about the hamster, the fish too, for that matter, but I digress... ANYWAY. So what we basically have is a very nice place to live.

So about now you are asking, "So why move to Melrose Place?" right? I'll tell you why - because even when you own your own condo, when you pay every month ridiculous amounts of money for the upkeep and use of your own personal home, you also have to deal with certain issues. And these issues, ladies and gentlemen, are precisely why I want to move to Melrose Place.

Let's start with the pool. I love our pool. I love our pool so much, I am willing to deal with the pool nazi every weekend just to enjoy hanging out there. What's that you say? Oh, you don't know the pool nazi? Let me tell you about the pool nazi - he is an adolescent scrawny punk with a whistle around his neck who truly believes that he is Supreme Dictator of the pool and surrounding areas. This kid (who probably is only paid minimum wage, definitely not enough to overexert yourself to the extent that he does) actually keeps a copy of the association rules with him at all times. Every time I go to the pool, he will not let me even sit down until he sees my pool pass. Now remember - I am at said pool EVERY WEEKEND. Often times, I even go during the week after work. This kid KNOWS me, for God's sake, and I have pointed this fact out to him numerous times. But still, he will not let me remain in the pool area without first seeing my stupid laminated condo association pass. If you think I am exaggerating - believe me, I am not. Once when I forgot my pass at home on the kitchen table, he actually made me go back to get it. Above and beyond checking pool passes, he must regulate guests. Every adult is allowed two guests in the pool at a time - which I think is ridiculous. Kids are not allowed guests at any time, even when supervised, which means if I have a friend with two kids coming over, we can only bring two of them to the pool, because my daughter is not allowed guests. But, if there is a married couple living with their mother, they can invite six people to the pool. Unfair? Definitely. But you'd better believe the pool nazi abides by it totally. (I do work around that, though. I can usually find a neighbor hanging out at the pool who will claim any of my extra guests as their own.) Also, no rafts (only noodles), no bottles or cans, no food, no loud music... the list goes on and on. I don't know for sure if pool nazi is on the payroll this summer - but if he is, there will be anarchy. I plan on enjoying my pool this year, even if I have to kick pool nazi's ass to do it. (As a matter of fact, I will be making homemade pool passes this year for all my friends. Heh heh - who would've thought I'd sink to this level??)

The next thing that bugs the crap out of me is the stupid "managing agent." And the "condo association." These are two groups of people designed basically to tell residents that any problem they have is not their responsibility. I swear to God. That's all they do. Every month, on top of my mortgage, I pay an assessment, supposedly for upkeep and maintenance on the "common areas." But nothing is common to them except for the landscaping. I have called about numerous things, and gone to board meetings, and have been told over and over again, no matter what the issue "Oh, that's the homeowner's responsibility." In January, I slipped and fell on a patch of black ice from snow that melted and dripped over the gutter onto my driveway. Turns out, the gutters were so clogged that nothing could drain through them. Not even rainwater. So, as any good paralegal who works in a personal injury attorney's office would do, I contacted the managing agent and told them I wanted to speak to their insurance company. But when their insurance company called, I was told there is nothing wrong with the gutters and it is not their responsibility. Ok, I had PICTURES of the scene when it happened, and in the spring when it was pouring down rain and a waterfall was created over the top of the gutter, since it was so blocked up. Not to mention a couple thou in medical bills from a severely sprained ankle (did you know that sprains are worse than breaks and actually take longer to heal? I didn't - until now!). Currently, I am still fighting with them on this point, and believe you me, I do not plan on backing down. I think it's about time they took responsibility for their actions!!! Besides, it's not like they do anything else anyway. Nobody ever had to sue Melrose Place to get something done, I bet.

And then we have the neighbors. Let me preface by saying that I consider myself to be a pretty laid-back kind of person. I get along with pretty much anyone. But there are some people who, no matter how hard I try, I just know I will never get along with and right now some of those people live in my building. My building has four units, two upstairs and two downstairs. I myself live upstairs, which I prefer, because I feel safer when my windows are not level with the ground and all the old people walking their dogs are looking in at me. Now, the guy across the hall has lived there longer than I have. He is the only one in the building I actually like. Nice guy, actually, I could even picture him living in my Melrose Place concept. He's single and cute (but he has a girlfriend) and has a dog named Steeler (yes, after the football team - I know, I know) who apparently he adopted from a shelter for severely abused dogs. For this reason, Steeler is not a people friendly dog, which really bothered me, because I love animals and this dog hated me. My neighbor and I started chit chatting when we ran into each other, and I got tired of his dog growling and backing away every time she saw me. So, after living there for four years, I finally made friends with Steeler after two boxes of Meaty Bones. (Note - this really worked well - so well in fact that Steeler now considers my home her own and walks in like she owns it looking for treats - which doesn't fare well with my boys) Neighbor number two lives directly under me. She is a few years younger than I am with a daughter my daughter's age. Nice kid, but the mother leaves a bit to be desired. She moved in under weird circumstances (which is fodder for another blog at another time) and has gone through about five boyfriends in the year and a half she's been there. She is the ultimate "I need a man to take care of me" bimbo, and since she is thin and exotic looking, she manages to find the suckers. Oh, and she is studying to be a doctor too - online. Go figure. She bothers me just on principle. I hate women who are so damn needy. And I hate that stupid sluts like that manage to trap supposedly intelligent men. Men that should be MINE!! Actually, any man that is dumb enough to fall for someone like her I wouldn't want anyway. So - we have cute nice guy across the hall, fake sleazy bimbo downstairs, and to top it all off (drumroll, please) CURRY COOKING INDIAN PEOPLE kitty corner from me. These people moved in last summer, and I am not exaggerating when I say they cook almost 24 hours a day and the smell is so strong it permates the hallway AND my living room. And I am not the only one who can't stand it. Both the other neighbors agree. It is BAD. I prop the front door open to air it out, and those stupid jerks slam it shut every chance they get, claiming it should be shut "for all of our warmth and security." You don't EVEN want to know my thoughts on that - because I am a lady, after all, and that language is inappropriate. So for now we have a "door war" of sorts going on. Those are my neighbors.

My FINAL issue with condo living is the fact that (at least where I live) the walls are not exactly soundproof. My bedroom wall is shared with the next building's bedroom wall - and the things I hear would make you blush. Loud enough to wake me from a dead sleep. Apparently these people are exhibitionists, though, because I have tried pounding on the wall, yelling, and even an airhorn and they continue without a care in the world. Until the one night when he caught her cheating - oh boy, THAT was a fun argument to listen to at 3:00 am!! He told her to get out and everything!! But apparently they made up, because the argument sounds were NOT what I heard again at 5:00 am.

Obviously, I could continue to rant about all these issues and several more, but this is a blog, not a rant site. And my fingers are tired from typing. Although don't be surprised if there is a spinoff from this blog about any of the above mentioned people or situations. Unless I move to Melrose Place first.

WHAT THE F***???

Now I know why I don't eat cereal anymore. And why I don't live in England.

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/7734025/

Me and Indy are on the same wavelength – could you imagine if this had happened in “Raiders of the Lost Ark?” This article also proves what I've known all along - Brits are incapable of emotion. This kid seemed awfully calm for someone who thought he found a prize, only to have a SNAKE POP IT’S HEAD OUT AT YOU. If it were an American kid, I guarantee you two things would’ve happened:

1. Cereal and snake would’ve went flying everywhere.
2. The kid’s parents would be on the phone with an attorney even before cleaning up the kitchen.

Snakes in cereal. F*** that.

Reflections on Life

Sometimes just after I go to bed at night, I lie there and think to myself “How did I get here, anyway?” I mean, really. Here I am, a thirty-something single mom, no social life to speak of, borrowing from Peter to pay Paul, working the daily grind at a job I’m not particularly fond of for a boss I’m DEFINITELY not fond of. What happened? I can remember back when I was in grammar school, my best friend and I had a plan: we were both going to either be vets or work at a zoo, marry the perfect men (according to the ouija board, mine was to be named “Erik” with a “K”), have kids at the same time so they could play together when we lived next door to each other in fabulous houses, and have lots and lots of money. As my friendship with her faded and I started high school, those dreams changed, but not drastically. Of course, I wouldn’t have the same neighbor since we weren’t that close, but I would still live in a great house in a nice neighborhood with a fabulous husband and kids (still looking for “Erik”) – and I would be a famous author and an actress on the side (I had it all planned out – my name would be famous in the literary world and my face would be famous in the acting world – not both together so as to avoid the pitfalls of overexposure) who would obviously be extremely wealthy. When high school graduation came and I started college, I changed only my career aspirations – I decided to go into psychology instead. (I figured I’d still write though, you can’t get rich as a shrink, unless you’re Dr. Phil or Dr. Ruth or some other Dr. who uses only their first name). After a minor detour during my first year of college (all right, a roadblock – I never quite finished) I found myself having to change my dreams again. Since I left college, the degree in psychology was out, so I figured I’d worry about a career later.

I had lots of fun during this time frame, and kind of forgot about my dreams altogether. I was young, single, and carefree. I lived the party life to the fullest, and loved every minute of it. Guys hit on me left and right, and I was able to pick and choose who I wanted (Erik? The hell with Erik!). I hardly EVER paid for my drinks at the bars, and went out at least three or four nights a week. I worked at a restaurant as a cashier, and then as a waitress – and had a HELLA good time. Sure, the customers could be a pain in the ass, but food service employees know how to PARTY! And they were great people too. Since I still lived at home, I had no REAL responsibilities or bills, but still came and went as I pleased. Ahhhhh, youth! After a couple years of this, things kind of took a turn for the worse.

Long story short – bad boyfriend (good heart though), bad decisions, bad situation. The good news is I got myself out of the hellhole I formed for myself and was able to start over. Only, now I had a daughter to support, no college degree and no money. No man either, since her father is a deadbeat I really didn’t want anyway (bad decision #whatever). It took a lot of determination to get this far, which is where I am at now – the “what the hell happened?” place.

I guess in hindsight I’m right where I should be, considering the choices I made. And technically, it’s not really a bad place to be. I just keep thinking that maybe I am missing something. Maybe I’m missing someone. Then again, after 30, it seems all men want are 20-something supermodels with no brains. Definitely not a 30-something who looks it with a daughter. And I am never going to be what I was in the past. Funny how a guy will hit on a skinny lush but ignore the attractive average size woman who can carry on a conversation without slurring her words. Ok ok – this is not supposed to be the ranting of a bitter woman, because I am not bitter, just thoughtful. Even though my life isn’t the way I planned it, it’s everything I need it to be. And even though it isn’t always easy, nothing worthwhile ever is. I’m who I am because of everything I’ve lived through, not in spite of it. And I’m proud of that.

So, maybe the house is on hold, possibly forever, and I probably will never be exorbitantly wealthy, but that’s ok. Maybe these blogs will lead to an actual writing career after all these years, who knows? And the one thing I do have is a great daughter who I love more than life itself (even though she has mastered the art of driving me insane). My job may not be perfect, but it can be entertaining at times, and hell, bottom line is it does pay the bills. Even leaves me a little something something at the end of the month if I budget carefully. As for marriage – I can take it or leave it. One thing I know is that after all this time, I refuse to settle. But Erik, if you are out there - - - (hey, stranger things have happened!).

Dream Weaver

A lot of people I know claim they don't remember their dreams. Not so me - actually, it is quite the opposite here. I remember so many dreams that I sometimes almost wish I WOULD forget some, just because then I wouldn't dwell on them so much. My dreams range from the completely bizarre and indecipherable to actual "mini-movies" in my sleep. Maybe that is why I enjoy sleeping - dreams (at least to me) are FUN. Take, for instance, last night. Last night I dreamt that I was in someone's house at a party. It was a really fun party, but then the house started on fire. Now, before you say, "Gee, that doesn't sound like fun!" let me finish. When the house started on fire, I started looking for my cats. I don't know why my cats were there, but apparently they were. While I was looking for my cats, an extremely good looking guy (who wasn't even a fireman) approached me and said, "The fire is out, but it looks like you and I are the only people left in the house." Unfortunately for me, I seem to have the same luck in my dreams as I do in real life, because instead of jumping on this glaringly obvious proposition, I asked him to help me find my cats. Apparently he was nice as well as attractive, because he did. I woke up while we were still looking.

Ok, so when I woke up, I was in a good mood, because I was with this guy, but now my mind is going nuts - WHO WAS HE?? I only remember that he was attractive, but I can't seem to remember details. And I am mad at myself for waking up before we found my cats, because obviously we were clicking, and who knows WHERE my dream may have led. I also find myself wondering exactly what this dream meant. According to my Dream Book (which was originally published at the turn of the century - therefore, it contains a lot of very stupid translations) fire is favorable if you don't get burned. Duh. But wait - "if you see your house burning, this denotes a loving companion, obedient children, and careful servants." Hmmm. Then for "cat" it says "to dream of a cat denotes ill luck if you do not succeed in killing it." (KILLING IT????? Ok, I really think that if I ever dreamt of killing my own cats, that it wouldn't really be a good thing. But back to this so-called interpretation.) So now I've got a mixed-signal dream. And alas, my book says nothing of a studly mystery man who is willing to help me find my cats. Bad luck or good things?? I'm totally confused. Not to mention that I don't even have servants... and my daughter has not been very obedient lately. Maybe the "loving companions" are my boys, Baby and Ace, since I was so concerned about finding them... Whatever. I give up.

Ok, so that was last night's dream. My dreams are generally not very threatening, although I HAVE experienced the kind of "get up and turn the light on" dreams, which I don't want to go into, because (obviously) they scared the hell out of me. Let's just say that those dreams usually involve very scary people and impending doom. These dreams seem to happen after I watch a movie that I didn't think was that scary at the time (nope, not scary at all until the house is all quiet and the lights are out!!) or my daughter is spending the night somewhere and I am all alone (I know, a 9 year old isn't the best protector, but I feel comforted knowing she's there nonetheless).

I also dream about celebrities a lot. A LOT. As a matter of fact, many of my friends make fun of me because of this. Soap opera characters (not the actors who play them) seem to enjoy starring in my dreams. I find that they are generally nice people. And I like watching them on tv more when I get to know them better in my dreams. Jennifer Aniston was sitting next to me at a Cub game the other day, and once Noah Wylie asked me whether or not he should return to ER. (Just for the record - I told him he should do what he felt was right.) George Clooney told me I was the most beautiful, down to earth woman he had ever met, and Joe Perry from Aerosmith cheated on his wife with me (did it just get HOT in here??). Personally, I see nothing wrong with my mind's penchant for dreaming of celebrities, as I said before, I think it's fun. Kind of a bummer when I wake up and realize that I really wasn't invited to the party of the year in Beverly Hills, but at least for a while I thought I was. The way I see it, if by some fluke I ever do become rich and famous, I will be well prepared in dealing with celebrities.

So there you have it. My dream world is currently kicking my real world's ass, which I guess is kind of depressing. Not that I don't enjoy my real world, I do, but you have to admit, hot guys in burning houses and celebrities are much more entertaining than the mundane life of a working mom. I'll have to work on spicing up my real world, I guess, but just imagine what my dreams will be like if I do!!!