When Paradise Freezes Over

Last night I dreamt that I moved to Hawaii.  Yea!  A huge, luxury oceanfront condo, way nicer than some dee-luxe apartment in the sky-y-y.  Within a week of my arrival, it SNOWED.  And the snow stuck and accumulated to about two inches.  In Hawaii.  To make matters worse, hordes of people descended upon my luxury oceanfront condo to witness the amazing, first-ever Hawaiian snow.  They treated the entire complex as if it were a public park, not private residences.  I was distraught.  However, there was this gallant gentleman there to aid me.  A single, handsome, gallant gentleman.

After the snow melted and the hordes left, my dream evolved into some sort of virtual tour of my new digs:  three floors, eight bedrooms, an everyday kitchen AND an industrial kitchen, formal dining room, breakfast nook, den, living room, game room, library/reading room, crafts room, exercise room, spa room with four massage tables.  Some place, eh?  Eat that, Martha Stewart!

So what does the dream mean?  Damned if I know.  That the chances of my living in Hawaii are roughly the same as it snowing in Hawaii?  I just hope the virtual tour missed the servants’ quarters, because there’s no way I’m cleaning all those rooms.

On the subject of warm places, I’m wearing a red sweater today.  It’s old.  I’m not a fan of red, but it seemed somewhat necessary given that I am also wearing devil horns.  Yes, devil HORNS.  No fewer than three attorneys have commented on my nice devil “ears.”

They’re HORNS, you moron!

Yeesh.  Seven years of college, and some people still don’t know shit.

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

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Pointless Survey Question of the Week

Premiering a new feature!  If you’d like to respond, please do so in the Comments link, or if you have lots to say, feel free to post your own entry.  Okay?  Okay!  Let’s start with a classic:

Boxers or briefs – or boxer briefs or commando?

I prefer my men in boxer briefs.  Boxers are a distant second.  As for the tighty whiteys, I think they are best left to the underage set.  As such, I find the sight of a man in briefs a turnoff, if not a little disturbing.  A guy going commando is just plain icky.  Do a load of laundry, for heaven’s sake!  And none of that inside out for a second wearing business – yuck!

Your turn.

(Also accepting pointless survey questions for future posts)

Happy Weekend!  Don’t forget to set your clocks BACK one hour.  Yea!  Extra sleep!

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Business, I Mean Bag Lady, Casual

When I get home, I think I might throw my shirt away.  I never should have bought it.  It’s too big, and the princess seams are off, making the shirt (and me) look even bigger.  I like that the sleeves are cuffed to three-quarter length, but is that reason enough to keep a shirt?  I think not.  I could donate it to Sal’s Army, but then I’d have to wash and iron it.  Or would I?  I presume they launder all the clothing they receive, so what’s the sense in my doing it, too?  Or, I could be sneaky and just iron it.

Moving on, I don’t like my pants either.  They’ve seen better days.  I nearly discarded them last spring (along with two similar pairs), but I decided to hold on to them in case I hadn’t “replaced” them by fall.  I know my procrastinating self too well.

Don’t care for the shoes much, but they go with the pants.  The fact that they permanently reside in a desk drawer and never come home with me attests to my dislike for them.  I have received several compliments on them, but it doesn’t help.

The socks aren’t bad, except the paw print pattern may be a tad inappropriate (read:  goofy) for the office.

To complete my ensemble, I’m wearing a necklace that my sister-in-law gave me for my birthday last year.  She bought it while in St. Lucia.  I’ve never worn it before and never thought I would.  I think it’s kind of ugly.  Yet, somehow, it sets off the overall look quite nicely.

Conclusion:  Accessories do make the outfit.

Action Plan: I really need to finish sorting through my clothes and then go on a major shopping spree.  Like, maybe tomorrow.  Cough.  Yes, I think I feel a touch of that bird flu coming on – the 24-hour variety.

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And So To Bed

Q:  Why are there no kitties sleeping on the coveted fauxchilla throw I so thoughtfully left on the bed?

A:  Because someone barfed on it.

Typically, when I come home from work, there is at least one cat on my bed, especially in the nippier weather.  Yesterday, Rory trotted from the living room to greet me; P.J. and Sam were in the family room.  And to think I purposefully left the ‘chilla on my bed for them.  Seriously, they KNOW and LOVE the fauxchilla.  When Sam and Rory (already!) see me hunkering down on the sofa with it, they practically come galloping to me.  You’d think I was covering myself with catnip-laced tuna topped with chicken gravy.

When I went into the bedroom last night to gather some of the first of three loads of laundry that I didn’t do over the weekend, I found the answer, in a deceptively fauxchilla hue.  The thanks I get.  Make that four loads of laundry.

Also, last night marked the switchover to flannel sheets.  No blanket yet, but the flannels felt wonderfully cozy.  They’re a light blue-gray color with scattered paperwhites and rosy-pink oxalis.  (You didn’t think I had something other than floral, did you?)  Changing the sheets spells big fun for Rory.  He loves darting under them as they float down from above, and feline silliness ensues.

Another thing I didn’t consider when bringing home Cat No. 3:  bedtime sleeping arrangements.  It’s bad enough having to share with P.J. and Sam.  Sometimes I wake up all contorted and lying diagonally across the bed with a cat comfortably curled up on either side of me.  Now I have to make room for a third?  A third who has not yet been totally embraced by the other two?  Yeah, I know people sleep with more pet in less space.  I have a coworker whose beagle often sleeps under the covers, between her and her boyfriend, and their pug and their cat usually sleep somewhere on the bed, too.  (I’m still waiting for the photos.)  So, I should be able to accommodate a trio of cats without having to move up to a king-sized bed.

So far, it has worked out well.  Rory seems to prefer an unrumpled sleeping surface with minimal disruption.  Translation:  The bed with the restless sleeping woman and the two hissers isn’t cutting it.  The neatly folded up fleece blanket surrounded by pillows in the middle of the loveseat is much more to Rory’s liking.

As long as no one barfs on it.

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Does This Make Me Look Too Trashy?

So, there’s this chick named Melinda in the bowling league.  I’ve always thought she was a superficial vanity case, but lately I’m thinking there’s something more going on.

Prior to this season, Melinda’s vanity seemed to be limited to fake nails (VERY fake looking fake nails) and dyed blonde hair.  An acceptable level of vanity, in my opinion.  Unfortunately, I’ve never known her to have a conversation that involved anything other than makeup or clothing.  One time last year, she and Colleen went on for what seemed like hours on the topic of body lotion.  I also get the distinct feeling that she is one of those women who would rather DIE than gain five pounds.  And really, does anyone need to reapply her lipstick throughout the course of the evening when she is bowling?  It ain’t a black tie affair, hon, just a bowling alley.  Who are you trying to impress?  The guys?  Um, you’re married, and your husband is in the league.

Whatever.  Be like that.  I guess it doesn’t matter.  What concerns me, however, is that Melinda has two young children, and I always wonder how much of a priority they are.  Yes, I know it’s important to be good to yourself, but in the case of Melinda and others like her, I have to question the importance of oneself over one’s own children.  Not to mention, what kind of message is she sending her daughter?

So why am I carrying on?  Well, it seems that over the summer, ME-linda has kicked up the vanity a notch or two.  Or three.  Hundred.

She has grown her hair long (or is that extensions?) and dyed it an unnatural looking blonde.  (It was dyed a more natural shade before.)  Yeah, not a big deal, but I go on…

Fake tan.  Melinda is too fair to have naturally obtained such a deep, even, allover tan.  Also, when she wears her XS baby tees, you can see her armpit tan lines.  Dead giveaway.

Rhinestone nose piercing.  Ick.  At 30, I think she is too old for it.  Personally, I do not find nose piercings appealing or attractive.  All I can think is how gross it must be when you have a head cold.

And finally, the kicker:  boob job.  She freely told a number of people about it (even before getting it), as if it were something as routine as an allergy shot.  So tacky.

Fake nails, fake tan, fake hair, fake boobs, fake, fake, fake.  Add to that the too small baby tees, visible thong, nose piercing, and the long, dangly earrings that remind me of the disco sluts, and it hits me:

Melinda is trying to get into the porn industry.

What else could it be?  All that’s missing is the clear, plastic fuckme heels, and we all know you aren’t allowed to bowl in those.

“Bowling Alley Bimbos,” starring Melinda Mellons.  “Need your balls polished, big guy?”

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Mice

All the partners are out today for a three-day retreat, or, as I’m calling it, Herd o’ Nerds.  I feel sorry for everyone else who happens to be staying at the same resort this weekend.

Meanwhile, things back home are running smoothly…

Several of the associates blew off work today.

NONE of the support staff called in sick or took a vacation day.

Most of us who are here today (self included) took it upon ourselves to wear jeans, always a taboo in our business casual environment.

A clerk is leaving next week.  I had the foresight to suggest having the farewell luncheon today rather than next Friday.  We ordered Chinese and enjoyed an extended, leisurely lunch in the board room.  We talked freely and openly without fear of being overheard by any BFBs.

A few minutes ago, a clerk called to inform me that there is some “special tea” in the refrigerator.  It is in an unmarked bottle, and if I would like some (at my own risk), I am to serve myself (at my own risk.)  I guess they weren’t kidding in the board room with those references to “champagne at three.”

I hope the Herd o’ Nerds are enjoying their mini vacation in the Caribbean, all paid for with firm money.

The peons mice are having a very nice day, too.

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Pussy Galore

How does someone who doesn’t want a third cat end up with a third cat?

Petfinder.com.  I first heard about this site some months ago, and gave it a look-see.  There was this one cat, Michael, with whom I was especially smitten.  But I have a two-cat maximum rule.  Two cats are quaint.  Two cats are acceptable.  Two cats do not make someone, not even a single, never married woman, a Cat Lady.  It takes at least three cats to make someone a Cat Lady, and I do not want to be a Cat Lady.  Anyway, I was just checking out a web site.  End of story.

Then came Katrina, and in reading an article about pet rescues and reunions, I was once again directed to Petfinder.  Where my previous search parameters had been saved.  Where this one cat, Michael, with whom I previously had been especially smitten, was listed first, with “Urgent!” next to his name.

I had just sort of assumed that the shelter was a no-kill shelter.  Not so.  And Michael had an impending date to be “PTS.”  PTS?!  I could figure out what that meant:  Dead Cat Walking.

But he was such a cutie.  A 3-year-old cutie.  I knew what I had to do.  I called the shelter to find out more about Michael.  He had been at the shelter (not PARL – I guess they all look alike, Nicole) since April.  His owners had moved and abandoned him, just left him behind (fucking losers), and a kind neighbor brought him to the shelter.  It seemed that he was being passed over for adoption because (1) he doesn’t get along with dogs and (2) he has a heart murmur.  Now, a heart murmur isn’t necessarily a serious thing, but people would hear that and just dismiss him.

So I went to the shelter the next day, paid $100, and brought Michael home.  PTS my ass.

I usually don’t make decisions based largely, if not solely, on emotions.  In the past couple of days, I’ve come to realize what a third cat means:  more cat food, more vet bills, more litter box “offerings,” more hairballs, more fur to vacuum, more frequent replenishing of food and water bowls, more cat.  Two cats are quaint.  Three cats are a house crawling with cats.  And now I’m (un)officially a Cat Lady.  I don’t regret saving Michael, but this is a one-time deal, I swear.

P.J., Sam, and New Guy are in the “meet and greet” phase, a/k/a Hissfest 2005.  Maybe tonight I’ll break out the catnip, let them get their mellow on, and see if that improves relations.

I started with a list of about two dozen names and narrowed it to three.  Then, y’all had some cool suggestions, but it turns out he’s an Irish cat.

His name is Rory.

Oh, yeah, and as long as I am at maximum cat, I’m staying away from Petfinder.  New personal rule.

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New Guy

Look what I got…

Yup.  I broke my 2-cat maximum rule.  I just had to save this guy.

The photo is his pound portrait.  (That’s not me holding him.)  He really isn’t the behemoth Catzilla that he appears to be, but he does have long legs and weighs a strapping 12 pounds (Sam weighs 14).

New Guy needs a new name, too.  His shelter name was Michael, and I can’t go with that.  It’s a dumb name for a cat, and then there’s the whole Michael Jackson thing.  He deserves better.  I’m bouncing a few names around but haven’t made a definite decision yet.  Suggestions are welcome.

Additional details to follow.

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