Giving Thanks

This year, I'm thankful for mine and my son's continued good health. It's so easy for something like that to be taken away without a moment's notice. My little man is a pistol, to be sure, but that is proof enough of his continuing to terrorize me for many years.

I'm thankful for my family being there when I needed them most, emotionally and financially. Without them, I'd probably be struggling in a homeless shelter in Missouri. They're the reason I'm back in Texas with loving family surrounding me, helping me get my feet back under me.

I'm thankful for the job I just got. It's a part time gig, but even for that, it pays decent and will help immensely.

I'm thankful that the Death Star is (somehow) still running. Don't ask me how, several mechanics have been amazed it hasn't gone out in a fiery blaze of glory. They're *especially* amazed that it drove 1200 miles in approximately 48 hours with nary a hiccup. The Death Star, man. Damn thing is like the Energizer Bunny from Hell.

I'm thankful for my son. Without him, I probably really wouldn't have a whole lot of reasons to give a fuck. About anything, really.

And I'm thankful for you guys, my friends that I can't see or hear, but I know are there to talk to me when I'm down or laugh with me when I'm not. Thanks, guys.

Happy Thanksgiving. Now, go have yourself a turkey coma!

AKs, ARs, and Mosins: the Differences

Stumbled across this little gem on the internet, and while I know that I'm not educated enough in long-arms to truly understand the humor, I've heard enough from my crew in the GBC to get a giggle out of it anyway. And now I pass it on to you fine folks for a lol.

The difference between an AK47, an AR-15, and a Mosin Nagant.

Is it bad...

... That the only time my two year old will say "please" is when we have candy of some sort? He's particularly susceptible to the lure of Skittles.

And of course, he'll say please for one piece, and then another. Sometimes if you're lucky he'll feel nice enough to say please for a third Skittle. But after that, he's like "Fuck saying please, just gimme the god damned candy!"

Oh, the epic temper tantrums that ensue...

If It's Not One Thing It's Another

In which I scream and rage at the heavens as uselessly as possible, because the world is conspiring against me.

Me and mine live in a house with a roommate, the lady that rents the place. She's lived here for almost fifteen years, it's her place.

She just got a job. I just got a job. Both of us have part time jobs. My other half hasn't worked in three weeks, and there's no foreseeable work in his future.

My mother, out of the kindness of her heart, has been supplying me with gas money for my truck, and cigarettes for me the the Other Half. And occasionally a little bit of play money. Occasionally. Because until now, Other Half has had at least a little bit of money to throw for rent.

I woke up this morning with a text message from Biker Roomie saying that, not only do I need to give her some tampons because she's out, but I also need to talk to my mom about money for the water bill. Cuz she ain't got any.

I have a big fucking problem with this.

I provide transportation (because I have the only working vehicle), at no cost to Biker Roomie - she hasn't given me a dime in gas money for all the running I've taken her to do. I've nearly run out of gas on more than one occasion because I've taken her to run errands, then I haven't had gas to do what I need to do.

I also provide food - I'm on food stamps because I have pretty much zero income and a child. The entire house eats and gets around because of me.

Also, thanks to the kindness of my mother's heart, me and mine always have cigarettes. Biker Roomie usually does not, and I end up providing cigarettes for her, too.

And now she expects me to call my mom and say "Hey, can I have a wad of cash for the water bill?" In addition to giving her tampons when I'm not going to be able to afford a new box of them when I need them before too awful much longer.

I have a big problem with this. And now I'm fucking pissed.

Great way to start the day.

Teh Cute, It BURNZ!

Wee Idjit is totally in love with the movie Happy Feet now. And every time there was a penguin dance scene, he was running in circles and jumping and squealing and just having a blast.

Totally makes the bad day I've been having a little less god-awful.

I'm a Genius

So, I haven't had a job since early in May, when Big Company On Campus laid me (and everybody else) off for the summer.

Yeah, I found one yesterday. Applied and got hired on the spot at a hospitality staffing place. I need to get a cheap tux for banquet work, but I'm so not going to argue with $14 an hour to wear a penguin suit.

(I was originally told $10, but I was corrected today. Holy shit!)

Well, last night, Boss Lady called Biker Roomie at about 8:30 PM for a certificate number and said "And tell your roomie she's working tomorrow."

Uhm. Problem, boss? I just got back to the house after coaxing my mother into giving me money to buy the clothes and shoes and such needed for work. All the stores I need to visit are closed, and I wasn't going to drive to Pasadena to go to Walmart.

So, I was a bit late today, because the closest store that sells shoes didn't open til 9. We were supposed to be there at 9.

Yeahhhhh.....

And then, I got paid $9 an hour to work a concession stand. And did I mention how much that sucked? Cuz it sucked. Horribly.

Okay, I have not worked for MONTHS. And I also haven't had an excuse to spend almost nine hours on my feet. OR worn actual shoes, as opposed to flip flops or open-toed wedge heels.

My feet hurt. My calves hurt. My knees, thighs, and hips hurt.

And I am such a whiny little puss when it comes to pain that until it stops hurting, I won't stop making noise about it.

Zero pain tolerance, people.

Lolwut

Lolwut?

Silly black people....

*readies herself for oncoming cries of RACIST!!*

Gone

Sunday night, I got word from Missouri that my cat had died. To say I was upset over the news is a massive understatement.

Ping was 13 years old. I got him when I was 10 years old. He was six weeks old and itty bitty. Bright yellow, too. Not the smooth chocolate coloring he sported for the past few years.

And unlike most of the animals that had existed in my home until that point, this one was mine. He inherited his mother's looks, a dark-colored Himalayan named Ling, but his stray tom father's shorter hair, so I just named him Ping. It ended up suiting him, as he bounced off the walls like a ping-pong ball as a kitten and young cat. I took to calling him Ping-Pong or Ping.

He was an affectionate cat. But he wasn't a pushy-lovey cat. He'd walk up and nudge your hand and then just lay down next to you and wait to be noticed, content just to be close to you until you saw him and scratched behind his ears.

My dad made the decision to have him declawed at the same time we got him fixed: early on. So while lacking sharp pointies with which to gouge at an annoyance, he still packed a hell of a punch. Literally. On more than one occasion in the past couple of years when Daniel would get a hold of his tail, he'd turn around and plant a firm slap upside his head to get his attention, and in that moment of infant confusion, Ping would haul ass.

As he got older, he became more affectionate. He would spend hours parked on the arm of the couch next to me as I surfed the internet or read or watched a movie, or across the back of my giant black chair.

This cat went through a lot with me. When I first moved out of my dad's house and in with my first boyfriend, he moved with me nine times in a year and a half. Nine times. For about eight months there was another kitten I called Squeaker, do to her very high pitched squeak of a voice, that he tolerated well enough, sometimes even allowing her to curl up close and snuggle against him for warmth.

When I was 19, I made the decision to move to Missouri, and my dad had joked at the time "I'll ship you along too, if it will get rid of that damn cat of yours." Dad wasn't fond of Ping because he went after Dad's many birds. Didn't have claws, but he'd slap a bird stupid, hard enough to stun and sink his teeth in. Never say that he was hindered by not having any front claws.

Ping went to Missouri, all right, same as I did: cramped and uncomfortable for twelve hours in the back of a 2-door Chevy Cobalt. I'm not a tiny girl, and while I didn't have a whole lot of things to move, it still filled what little cargo space was available. Ping's cat carrier was crammed half in the back window of the car, the other half resting on top of a giant box of small odds and ends on the back seat next to me. He cried the whole way there; my roommates were not pleased about that.



Once we made it and got settled in, he became part of the household: and we had a household. A bunch of young adults, pretty much striking out on their own in a college town, banded together as peers, and a gay cat. Oh yeah. The shenanigans that ensued. He made himself very popular amongst my roomies, with his stunning personality and vocal opinions. Damn near every one that came into contact with him fell instantly in love with him. Redhead used to sing his praises often, stating that he was everything people liked to have in a pet cat: affectionate, not reclusive, liked to sit in windows and be visible, inquisitive, and vocal about his wants, needs, and desires.

Of course, once I moved out of the big house with numerous roommates and in with the Redhead, I really did learn what hardship was. I spent a summer basically squatting in a house with no power and no gas, no money for food, and Ping was left to scavenge. I got a job, Redhead went back to work after being laid off in the summer, and we both relocated to stay with a friend so we'd have power and a way to survive until we had enough money saved up for a new place to live. Our friend was very anti-cat, and Ping had to stay behind in the dead house. I visited often and brought him food once I started getting paychecks, and he cried whenever he heard me walking up and cried as I walked away. It was enough to break my heart.

Ping survived my pregnancy, when I was an unholy demon to any who came near me. The entire nine months of hell, he slept curled up on my pillow around my ears. I was grateful for the extra warmth; it was a winter pregnancy. Thaaaat sucked.



I spent a lot of time laying around the apartment that winter, absorbed in loud music and those strange thoughts that highly hormonal women think. And Ping would lay nearby, just purring contentedly while I stroked a hand up and down his back. On more than one occasion, especially when I started approaching ginormous sizes, he would lean over and sniff at my stomach, twitching his long, white whiskers whenever my gut twitched at him.

When Daniel was born, the apartment was suddenly full of ten tons of baby stuff and a screaming wiggly pink thing and OH MY GOD WHAT IS GOING ON! It rolled right off his back. The first couple weeks Daniel was home, he slept in the bed with me. Ping stood watch at the foot of the bed, with his very regal pose. Redhead and I usually ended up with almost opposite hours, but he said that whenever he stuck his head in while I slept, Ping continued to sit.

That cat was a very big part of my life. He was there through everything I went through, all the ups and all the downs. Pretty much the only real constant thing in my life since I was 15. I called him my first-born fur ball for a reason.

Safe journey, big guy. Momma misses you.

Wanderlust, Part 2

I want out of Houston. Duh, half the people in Houston want out of Houston.

Alan, I'm looking at you.

The thing is... I don't know where I'd want to go. Do I go back to MO, where I know people and have friends and pretty much a life (albeit not a fabulous one) waiting for me to step back into it?

Or do I want to go someplace new? Completely start over, in a foreign town where I am known by absolutely no one. Make new friends, build a new routine, start a new life.

Am I insane for contemplating this? Or just young and foolish?

Maybe it's that romantic-at-heart thing I got going on.

All I know is I'm bored with this routine. I really am. But I am nowhere near close to being ready to handle a cross-country move, financially or mentally.

What if someday when I can do that whole "cross-country road trip adventure" thing, I take notes of all the places I visit? Maybe when I'm there, look up the statistics on unemployment, research the cost of living. And once my spirit settles down and I feel I know who I am again, I decide from my notes which place would be best for me to move and start up at again?

Yeah, that idea has merit. And I wouldn't be going in COMPLETELY blind.

Hmm. Must ponder on this a bit more.

Wanderlust

I have been seized by wanderlust.

The past couple of weeks, every time my attention is not firmly held by the task at hand, I find myself imagining what it would be like to spend time in Alaska. Or maybe Oregon.

Driving through vast deserts in Nevada, perhaps. Or redwood forests up and down the west coast, perhaps?

It's a very distracting phenomenon. That's what I think of it as, anyway. That whole "ADD-Brain" can seriously backfire when this happens. It's not unusual to find me sitting somewhere with a glassy look in my eye; quite obvious that my brain is elsewhere...

But oh, the money that would be needed for such a venture! Least of all being a massive overhaul on the Death Star. *sobs* That thing is so torn up that I'm amazed she still runs most days. I'm getting my head on straight and hunting for a job, dutiful as ever, but the fact that I don't speak Spanish is a major hindrance.

But it would be nice, you know? Cooler full of pepsi and snacks, food, a duffel bag full of clothes, an iPod full of music, a netbook and camera for blogging, and a giant road map. Probably as close to "an adventure" as you can get these days, but it would make great memories to comfort me when I'm old.

I'm not making any sense, am I? What else is new!

Who knows. Maybe someday I will.