"Meowy Christmas!"

From Meryl, Spitter, and Bootsie

Stop monkey-ing around

The other day I was talking with my dear friend Kelly, and she mentioned something about not always enjoying talking to grown-ups.

I responded with, "we are grown-ups, darlin'."

Kelly's retort was a Golden Truth: "Well, it sure doesn't feel like it."

From there we launched into a conversation about my impending "quarter-of-a-century life crisis" birthday. My 25th. Which is in September.

Kelly and I have been friends for 13 years. We were mischievous, dorky sixth graders together...and when we hang out nowadays it's hard not to forget that we're that much older. Because we don't feel all that much wiser.

 

Weary, sure. But wise? You tell me:

I didn't think so, haha.

Kelly has a fancy-pants job at a nice hotel. I'm about to start graduate school so I can add a few fancy-pants letters to the end of my professional job title.

In sixth grade Kelly and I frequently ditched class in the afternoon in favor of doing flips off the monkey bars or mentoring the K-1-2 kids a few corridors down. I worked hard on my homework, but I played harder.

These days I'm working so hard to keep up with everything, I have hardly any time to play at all. I know that any "monkey" business in the MSW program will get me "terminated" from the program (as they say over there).

I know what you're going to say: "it's all part of being a grown-up."

Ok, fine. So then when am I going to start feeling like this grown up I have supposedly become?
Tell me, those of you who have been doing this "grown up" thing longer than I have...did you feel this way when you were my age? Do you still feel this way?

Do we ever really "grow up," or do we just learn to exhibit "business hours behavior" until the bell rings (or the clock chimes) and "happy hour" begins?

 

Ugh. It's tiring, trying to to navigate my way through the Land of Being a Grown-Up. I don't feel remotely ready to be making this journey. But here I am. Here we all are, or must eventually be.

One of the hardest adjustments I've had to make since arriving in the Land of Being a Grown-Up is convincing my night-owl personality to spend a decent amount of time in the distant Land of Nod.
Recently my dad and I discussed this unpromising proposition:

Dad: "So no sleeping in tomorrow?" (referring to the fact that this is the week I've had to start being downtown by 8am)
Me: "No, I don't think I'll be sleeping in for-"
Dad: "The rest of your life?"
Me: "-the rest of my life. Yeah."

I guess the only bell I can look forward to hearing for the next 40 years is the one on my alarm clock!

That is, until the bell chimes at the end of the work day, and all the monkeys come out of the barrel (or out of the desk chair) ready to play!

"That is whack!"

If you think about it, we live in a pretty backwards society. We seem to have forgotten what's truly important. I did some research on annual salaries, and what I discovered astounded and appalled me:

Teacher: $40,000

What they do: Act as academic, social, and emotional mentors. Encourage learning.

NFL athletic coach: $85,000

What they do: Induce unhealthy competitiveness. Create sore losers.

Can someone please explain to me why the ability to kick a football is valued as more than twice as important as the acquisition of knowledge???

This one really gets me...

Social worker: $55,000

What they do: Provide social and emotional support. Act as advocates for the well-being of others.

"Reality TV" stars (Real Housewives, specifically): $1,500,000

What they do: Pick fights and act catty. Gossip and lie about others.

Those frickin' rich bitches are paid nearly THIRTY times more to behave badly towards others than I will be to help improve the quality of life for countless clients?? Excuse me?????

There is something so wrong with these numbers!!!!!

A Fairy Tale: The Not-So Classic version!

Once upon a time, there was a dog named Thor.

Thor likes to explore. One day, he decided that my bedroom would be a fun place for an adventure.

Thor came lolloping down the hallway, ready for some fun.

But when he got to my doorway, he paused.


What caused Thor to hesitate?
(can you see her? Look carefully!)

There was a TROLL under the BRIDGE!! ... I mean, a CAT under my BED!


Spitter: "Who's that galloping down the hallway? Why are you standing in my doorway?"

Thor: "I'm coming in to sniff around because I've never been in here before!"

 

Spitter: "Oh no you're not! Not until you pay the TROLL!...I mean the TOLL!"

Unfortunately, Thor didn't have any money... (or catnip)...

So he went somewhere Spitter never gets to go!

OUTSIDE!!!


Leaving Spitter inside with all her hard-earned troll (I mean toll) money.


"And they both lived (separately) happily ever after!"

THE END

Why Blondes and Cars Don't Mix...

Today I had my first experience with AAA. I had to call them because I had a flat tire. What happened? I drove over a nail. Where was I when I got the flat? I'm not sure. I was at home, with my car parked safely in the driveway, when I noticed that my rear driver wheel was slowly deflating.

Since my upper-body strength is nonexistent, I recruited my dad to "help me" (aka take over completely) remove the faulty wheel. But the bolts were on really tight, so my dad couldn't get them unscrewed. He was really frustrated. He blamed it on those groovy guns mechanics use to get those bolts super-sealed.

"Well," he said, grimacing at me. "Call AAA."
"For a flat tire?" I said (stupid question, I know!)
"Well, yeah. What else are you gonna do? We're not going to get the tire off ourselves."

So I found my AAA card...only to discover that it had expired in February. After a frenzied phone call to my mom (she's in charge of AAA stuff and currently out of town), I called AAA and renewed our membership:

(after the renewal process was complete)
Sally: "Is there anything else I can help you with?"
Me: "I just need to know, is the renewal effective immediately?"
Sally: "It's in effect as we speak. Are you in need of assistance?"
Me: "Yes, actually."

Sally transferred me to Services, where Will lead me through the standard questions to figure out my situation. This was my favorite part of the exchange:

Will: "Are you in a safe location away from further harm?"
Me: "Yes, I'm at home."
Will: "Alright, your car is parked in the garage?"
Me: "Not exactly."
Will: "So it's out on the street?"
Me: "Well, no. It's in the driveway. We have a carport."
Will: "I see...but it's somewhere where we can send a guy out to fix it?"
Me: "Yes." (finally, a simple question and answer!)

The guy who came to wrestle with my tire brought a fancy carjack that made my puny one look like a piece of scrap metal. When he was finished, I threw the bum tire in my trunk and zipped off to the Honda dealership. When I got there I told the guy:

Me: "I've got a tire with a nail in it in the back."
Guy: "Is it the rear passenger?"
Me: "No, the driver's side."

About 20 minutes later, a different guy retrieved me from the waiting room...

Guy 2: "We looked at your back wheels, but couldn't find a nail anywhere. The tire looks fine."
Me: "No, no, the bad tire is in my trunk. I couldn't drive here on it."
Guy: (looks confused, checks his written report) "That's not what the guy up front said. He didn't mention that. He just said it was the tire on the driver's side in the back."
Me: "Oh, no. I did say that to him, but when I said 'back' I meant 'trunk.' I'm sorry for the miscommunication."

Guy 2 was really nice about the whole thing. I'm sure he was thinking: Just another blonde chick, living up to her reputation as a moron.As for me, I was thinking, You are such a toe-headed bonehead! No wonder there are so many not-nice Blonde Jokes!

And that is why cars and blondes (this blonde, anyway) are a problematic combination!

"Top o' the mornin' to ye!"

In the United States, we are notorious for our over-indulgence habit. We frequently look for excuses to consume excess amounts of food and drink, guilt-free.

Our biggest excuse? Holidays.

I've already lamented the sugary spectacle that Valentine's Day has become.
Next up: St. Patrick's Day.
Barely a month after an excess of candy hearts and chocolate, we have beer. Lots and lots of beer. Frequently the beverage will be dyed green, the color associated with with the Ireland-originated celebration.

Speaking of origins, I decided to find out exactly what green beer has to do with St. Patrick. So, again out of curiosity, I researched the origin of the mid-March holiday.

Turns out, beer and St. Patrick are as compatible as St. Valentine and chocolate.
Which is, to say, not at all.
According to one account of the legend:

"...as it happened, a certain 16-year-old Welsh lad [named Maewyn] was kidnapped by [a band of] Irish marauders, and during the six years Maewyn spent in servitude as a shepherd in Ireland he experienced a religious awakening, then spent years studying in a monastery. He took on a new name, Patrick, and a new calling — converting his countrymen to Christianity.

Patrick certainly had the luck of the Irish — as a young man he escaped the captors who enslaved him, and several times later in life he escaped arrest by the druids who didn't appreciate his missionary activities in their midst.

He was successful at his chosen mission, too, founding schools and churches and performing baptisms; within 200 years Ireland was a Christian country. The shamrock, a trifoliate clover, became his cleverest teaching tool, which he used to explain the Trinity — three elements forming one entity...

There is some blarney in the stories about Patrick, too, most notably the one which has him delivering a sermon on a hilltop and thereby banishing the country's snakes. Unless one understands this symbolically to refer to pagan practices, it can't be true, for Ireland had no native snakes."

At least the legend briefly mentions 3-leaf clovers, a symbol of Irish folklore and a staple of the Americanized holiday imagery. Well, technically we idolize the "lucky" four-leaf clover. But how many people actually know why a 4-leaf clover is lucky??
According to Irish lore, the leaves of a typical 3-leaf clover stand for hope, faith, and love, respectively.

As for the extra leaf on a four-leaf clover...

...it stands for luck!

And then there's the drinking thing. Did you know that Ireland used to close all pubs on St. Patrick's Day? People went to church all day instead, since St. Patrick was a holy man and March 17 was considered a holy day. I mean holiday. Hm...

Ireland is famous for producing Guinness, but that happened centuries after the death of St. Patrick, the man we now "celebrate" by consuming countless pints of the fizzy libation.
When I say "we," I'm referring to the collective United States. I, personally, drink very little beer (it's too bitter for my taste). I prefer a nice emerald-green Sprite.

Whether you choose to pay homage to beer, religious doctrines, or Irish folklore, have a fun and safe day!
And don't forget to wear some green...otherwise you might get pinched!

Sticky Fingers

Today I had an amusing conversation with a 4 year old boy about stealing:

Harris: "Bad guys do do bad things. Swiper is a very bad guy. He steals things." (Swiper is the fox from Dora the Explorer. He is notorious for his thievery).
Me: "That's right. Swiper is a thief."
Harris: "And he's a robber."
Me: "That's another name for it."

Whatever you call it, stealing is wrong. Even kleptomaniacs*(like Swiper) are capable of recognizing that their compulsions are a problem. They just have a harder time putting an end to the poor behavior.

*Kleptomania: an irresistible impulse to steal, stemming from emotional disturbance rather than economic need.

When I was slightly older than Harris, I went through what I now refer to as my "klepto" phase. My first two offenses were bookmarks I filched from Book Star (now owned by Barnes and Noble) on two separate occasions. The first time I pocketed the laminated cardboard strip, I felt a guilty thrill. The second time, I just felt guilty.
I did not steal from a store again. Instead I wrapped my sticky fingers around "less-consequential" items: those of my friends and family. I figured that stealing from them would make me less of a "bad guy" because the items had been paid for already- just not by me (remember I was only about 5!). I pocketed all sorts of trinkets over the next couple years: slap bracelets, My Little Ponies, Power Ranger trading cards, Pogs, marbles...all little things that I could take away in my pockets.
My life as a little thief was not particularly adventurous, and I wasn't particularly interested in changing that.
Until one night when I was about eight.
Some friends of my parents had a daughter a little younger than me. The daughter, Erica, had a stuffed toy that I coveted. When we were invited to her birthday party, I brought along a backpack, claiming I needed it for a change of clothes (which was actually true, since we were going to a swim party). I waited until everyone was outside before staking my claim on the toy, then stashed my now-bulging backpack under Erica's bed. When it was time to go, I wrapped my arms around my backpack in an attempt to hide its obvious growth. When my parents mentioned my pudgy pack, I told them Erica had said I could have her toy.
The theft of the stuffed animal was by far my biggest robbery, and my lie ate away at my conscience. Before long I confessed my crime to my parents, who insisted that I return the toy to Erica myself. They drove me over to her house, where I came face-to-face with her parents (Erica wasn't home). I figured that Erica's parents would be furious with me, but instead they invited me inside and offered me a root beer float. As I sat at their kitchen table slurping vanilla ice cream, my guilt intensified dramatically. I hadn't expected such kind understanding.
When we left a little while later, I still felt guilty. But mostly I felt relieved.
I have not stolen since.
I'm sure there's a name for a guilt-turned-relief-induced change in behavior, but even with my love of psychology I don't know what it is!
All I know is...
Don't be a Swiper!

 

"Welcome to the Kitty Hospice!"

My mom and I frequently joke about our home being a "kitty hospice," because the house is full of cats who require medical attention. At one point my mom said "cats come here to die." That's not a very accurate statement...if that were true we wouldn't still have all of them around! The truth is, we take such devoted care of our sick pets that they've all ended up living way past their life expectancy! Cats come here to stay alive, man!!

Take Buddy for example. My homely but affectionate baby boy has been living with diabetes for nearly 8 years!! When he was first diagnosed (my junior hear of high school), the vet said we'd be lucky if he lived another 3 years. Since then he's had most of his teeth removed and a few scary blood-sugar spells, but he still has full mobility and his eyesight!

He doesn't even notice the insulin-filled syringe I stick in his neck every morning (the trick: do it during breakfast!).

Jacob has a benign tumor in his abdomen, discovered in late 2008. Because he is so old (17 years!), surgery to remove it is out of the question. He gets a (crushed) steroid with his breakfast every morning, which on most days he chomps like a champ!

Thankfully, the tumor's development has been stunted! Not halted, as it has grown slightly, but for the most part Jacob still seems comfortable.

Giving kisses!

Once the 'roids kick in I can't resist teasing him about his "roid rage" behavior, because he gets so wound up (especially about dinner!). He sits by his food bowl and yells at me every time I walk by...

Spitter, on the other hand, doesn't require any medication- she's just fat!! I have her on a diet, but my kitty-girl eats everything! She loves butter, eggs, cheese...and guacamole (isn't that bizarre?!). She will even lead me to "her breakfast spot" each morning, because she knows exactly where to go! It's hilarious!!

 

     

The whole "kitty hospice" notion came to fruition when we learned that Zuma is in the early stages of renal failure. So far her only "treatment" is staying hydrated, a pretty easy prescription to keep filled!

The other night the subject of animal adoption came up (following that sad Sarah McLachlan ASPCA commmercial). This is how the conversation went, pretty much verbatim:

ROSS'S FRIEND: "There are so many animals that need adoption. It's crazy."
ME: *nods sympathetically*

ROSS: *looks from me to his friend* "Don't say that, don't give her any ideas!"
ME: "Don't worry, I don't think we could fit any more animals in this house anyway." (what I was really thinking was, With our luck, another cat would bring yet another medical issue. The cats we have now already run the medical gamut, I don't think I could handle another one!)

Even the craziest cat ladies have their limits!!!

Life: A lesson in...well, life!

Earlier this week I babysat my 7 year old cousin, Tia. When I got to her house she had just come home from school, and she wanted to go to the park instead of do her homework. This is the (condensed) conversation that ensued:

ME: "Let's hurry up and get your homework done."
TIA: *scowls at me and crosses her arms defiantly* "But I want to go to the park."
ME: "The park is a reward, Tia. You have to do something to earn it, like do your homework."
TIA: "But I don't WANT to do it right now!"
ME: "I'm sorry you don't want to do your homework, but sometimes you have to do things you don't want to do. It's called 'making compromises,' and it's part of life. Grown ups don't want to go to work every day, but we have to make money. You have to do your homework. It's not a choice. I'm sorry you don't like it."
TIA: "But the homework is harder than you think! It's nouns."
ME: "Well let me look at it, and I'll help you. I majored in English, I know nouns! Do you remember what nouns are?"
TIA: "Person, place, thing, or animal."
ME: "This will not take long at all. Let's just get it done, then we can go to the park."
TIA: "But if we wait too long, it will be too dark!"
ME: "Let's compromise. This homework has two parts. Let's do the first half, then we'll go to the park. When we come back, you will finish the rest."
TIA: *nods her head 'yes', then begrudgingly sits down at the table.*

For those of you who are thinking that my compromise turned me into a sucker, you are wrong! Tia is a very smart little girl, and she is actually very good about getting her homework done. I could tell that her "meltdown" mostly had to do with needing a break, since she had just come home from school.
Just how smart is Tia? See for yourself, in an exchange she later had with a family who was also at the park playing:

LITTLE GIRL: *Pointing to the school across the street, which also happens to be Tia's* "That's my school, I'm in kindergarten next year."
LITTLE GIRL'S MOM: "No, honey, you'll be in preschool next year. You're only three. You're a little kid."
LITTLE GIRL: "Well, soon I will be a big kid."
TIA: "I'm a big kid. And you know what?"
LITTLE GIRL'S MOM: "What?"
TIA: "When you're big you have to do things you don't want to."
ME: *Mouth falls open with shock and pride*
LITTLE GIRL'S MOM: "Yes, that's certainly the truth!"

We left the park an hour later. After we had rested for a bit Tia led the way to the table, and we had the rest of her homework done in about 5 minutes!!

Rewards come in all forms, whether it's something tangible (like a trip to the park) or simply felt (like recognizing that you've been heard and heeded).
Tia and I both learned something important that day: in every Situation there is a Lesson to be learned...

whether we want to hear about it or not!!!*

*Yes, I'm also referring to myself... I would have preferred that Tia listen to me the first time around instead of argue, even at the expense of forfeiting the day's Life Lesson! But who doesn't feel that way during a willpower-showdown??

"Oh yeah, today is that romantic holiday..."

I don't like Valentine's Day.

Maybe it's because I don't need any more "socially acceptable" excuses to eat obscene amounts of chocolate and candy.

Maybe it's because I'm single and I don't appreciate a holiday that makes me feel insignificant or inferior compared to those who are "lucky enough" to be in a relationship.

Either way, this year I chose to avoid the commercialized hype by researching the origin of the so-called "holiday."
As is typical of many an American holiday, our present-day interpretation has nothing to do with the events and/or people associated with its creation.
The historical account of the holiday is centered around a man with the surname Valentine. Exactly who Valentine is, however, is actually somewhat mysterious. I found a number of different interpretations of the legend. This was my favorite interpretation:

“One legend contends that Valentine was a priest who served during the third century in Rome. When Emperor Claudius II decided that single men made better soldiers than those with wives and families, he outlawed marriage for young men — his crop of potential soldiers. Valentine, realizing the injustice of the decree, defied Claudius and continued to perform marriages for young lovers in secret. When Valentine's actions were discovered, Claudius ordered that he be put to death.

According to one legend, Valentine actually sent the first 'valentine' greeting himself. While in prison, it is believed that Valentine fell in love with a young girl — who may have been his jailor's daughter — who visited him during his confinement. Before his death, it is alleged that he wrote her a letter, which he signed 'From your Valentine,' an expression that is still in use today. Although the truth behind the Valentine legends is murky, the stories certainly emphasize his appeal as a sympathetic, heroic, and, most importantly, romantic figure.”

So okay, Saint Valentine was a romantic. His importance in the modern day holiday, however, is virtually non-existent. Cupid-the winged, arrow-wielding, practically naked adolescent of Roman mythology-gets more recognition!

My Freshman year of college, a bunch of my single friends and I got together and declared the day Singles Awareness Day. Our boycott included ordering pizza and watching Love Potion #9.

*Ironically, and perhaps a little disappointingly, the acronym for our anti-romance holiday turned out to be S.A.D. But it was a very fun night, not at all sad!

Single Ladies at the Sechrist front desk

Getting cozy on the infamous blue futon to watch the movie! (I'm holding Melvin, my stuffed moose and the "official" mascot of Sechrist hall!)

Two years later I spent Singles Awareness Day indulging my crush on Dr. Derek Shepherd (known as "McDreamy" on the TV show Grey's Anatomy). That was a lot of fun, too!!

Me and Becca (and Melvin the moose again!)

This year I officially named Melvin the moose my Valentine "by proxy." He's been around for the last five years, and I've never given him due credit!

Me and my man (I mean moose!) Melvin!!

Whether your day includes candy hearts and roses or not, remember to wish a happy "statehood" day to Arizona...the Grand Canyon State is 98 today!!