I saved a spider today.  I...SAV-DED...a spider.  Like the ugly eight-legged beasty above.  You've got the crawlies right now don't you?  Like there's one creeping up your bicep towards your shoulder.  Ugh, gave myself the willies.

Since buying a house last month, no spiders have been spared from the wrath de Chy.  Serious, I spare no eight-legged lives, I don’t want them in my house, breathing my air, walking on my walls, hanging out in my curtains.  Nuh-uh.  Nada.  I don't know when I became so goose-bumpy at the thought of spiders, but in the past week I've shrieked many blood curdling shrieks of a small, defenseless girl being viciously attacked, and moments away from being murdered by a quarter-inch long arachnid. 

On Tuesday I screamed just such a scream after a remorseless human terrorist snuck up on me; I ended up scaring the spider.  Shit you not.  That sucker ran like dogs of Hell till I smashed it with my latex dipped work gloves (a risky maneuver I wouldn't have attempted un-gloved).

I've been de-wallpapering, sanding, painting and repairing the new home for a month, a house that's been unoccupied since October.  Long enough for spiders to move in.  The past week has been particularly bad, requiring me to kill up to four a day.  But I figured I'm getting in something bad with the spide-y karma.  So today, I turned a new arachnid-loving leaf which included saving a spider from being permanently painted into my dining room walls and refrained from killing another little bugger. 

We'll see how long I last.  The fact that I look at every spider and think "BROWN RECLUSE, DEATH IMMENENT!" when I see one of these ugly punks may work against me.  Even though I don't think they reside in the state of Connecticut.  No one said fears make sense.

First World Complaint: the coffee shops aren’t close to me, I can’t walk to my caffeine fix, I have to drive.  Ugh, what. a. hassle.  Totally throws off my weekend dates with my dog, Jimi the Savage.

I love a good First World Complaint.

 Seriously, I do have to drive to my coffee shop – not to mention my complaint that in Avon, we don’t have coffee-only shops.  We have bagel shops (which I complained that Seattle didn’t have) or donut shops.  But sometimes, I don’t want to asked if coffee is the only thing I want at a bagel joint or be tempted by Munchkins and Vanilla Kreme donuts while getting my large hazelnut, black, no sugar coffee.  Regardless, I’m stuck.  Mostly, I miss the early weekend morning walks with my dog.  Jimi got extra exercise on Saturday and Sunday mornings ‘cause I got to sip my coffee while strolling through deserted streets without interruptions by a gaggle of passer-byers drooling over my admitted adorable dog – who eats that kind of affection up.

Jimi the Savage and my Gorgeous Man during our cross-country relocation drive.

Seattle, Washington to Avon, Connecticut

I’ve subbed our weekly walking dates for weekly driving dates.  Talk about a First World Resolution for a First World Complaint. 

 I move the passenger seat as close to the dash as possible, raise it as high as it will go and pile my 25 pound crazy-monkey dog into the vehicle.  We make our way to Avon’s Bagel Chalet – I recommend a sun-dried tomato, toasted with light cream cheese, my Gorgeous Man recommends the French Toast, toasted with regular cream cheese – Jimi the crazy-monkey keeps the car warm while I grab my bagel and Snickerdoodle coffee (not gonna lie, that’s a damn good cup of coffee) and we’re homebound – where we’ll curl up on the couch and watch the week’s episode of Fringe, also a part of our date.  We DVR Fringe because, First World Complaint: we don’t like commercials.

 Jimi the Savage News:

 Two weeks ago, Jim accidentally swallowed a mini rawhide.  It ended up stuck at the bottom of his esophagus; he was unable to dislodge it and we ended up at Farmington Valley Emergency Veterinary Hospital.  We were faced with two options: attempt to move the rawhide into his stomach by forcing a scope through his mouth and esophagus [esophageal lavage] and pushing the obstruction, then removing the rawhide with stomach surgery, or surgery through his chest to remove the obstruction.  The esophageal lavage wasn’t guaranteed to be successful and if the Vet was unable to move the rawhide, we’d have to drive to Tufts Veterinary Emergency and Vet Specialty Hospital, near Boston Mass – approximately 1.5 hours away.  Because the chest surgery is such a precarious and delicate surgery, and this occurred on Sunday afternoon, we were going to be required to travel to a specialty hospital.

It was late and we had to leave our little guy in the hands of the Emergency Hospital staff and go home while they attempted the lavage.  I made many calls, asking if the lavage had begun, if the lavage was successful, requesting they call us, regardless of the hour once the surgery was done, asking when we could come by in the more, when he’d be released.  Needless to say, the Gorgeous Man and I were wrecks.

The lavage was successful and Jimi was released to us the next morning around 7a.  The staff bandaged his IV’d arm with a blue wrap decorated in green stars and he had a gnarly Frankenstein stapled stomach.  He was hopped up on powerful pain medicine – just like a stoned human, he had the saucer-sized pupils, glassy gaze and he panted a lot giving him a goofy, lolling tongue grin. 

Jimi the Savage has been the third member of the Gorgeous Man + Me family for two years – two days after we got him, the Giants won Super Bowl XLII; the Gorgeous Man and I are NY Giants fans and that was a sign [last win: 1991].  We can’t imagine our lives without our little buddy.  My buddy dates are super important to me, I’m so happy Jimi is still my Saturday morning co-pilot.

                I don't hate Avon, Connecticut.  It's, well, decent.  I like it as much as a person can when they move from a spectacularly - albeit overcast - mild climate to Antarctica.  Or a frozen tundra.  Or colder-than-a-witch's-tit-Ville.  It’s hard to bond with a town when you're freezing your tookus off. 

                It's been a learning experience.  For example: leather steering wheels get so cold it feels like they freeze-sear the skin off your finger tips.  It's really difficult to drive when you're afraid to touch the steering wheel.  Also, cold weather causes involuntary faucet nose. 

Startling realizations have been made as well.  Over the weekend I went to Boston to visit another recent Seattle-deserter.  While walking down Newbury Street, I realized that, should I piss my pants and then stop at a crosswalk, it's very likely that my legs would freeze into immobility from said pants-peeing.  The thought process behind this realization was this: a particularly cold draft flew up my toosh-covering arctic jacket and into my lady bits, freezing my uterus, a couple dozen potential Chy-babies and my intestinal tract.  While contemplating how uncomfortable an ice cold, slushy "number two" was gonna be, I made the above ImmobilityDueToFrozenPeePants realization.  Thank goodness I still have bladder control [at my old age].

                Relocating isn't terrible.  I now have a viable reason for not knowing where anything is.  I'm not one for directions, having long ago deduced that my internal compass was replaced with a franticly trapped cockatiel.  I'm known for taking the longest possible route just because I think I know, but I actually don't.  So that little trapped frantic bird is flying all over the place but getting No[dash]Where.  Even to my parent's house, I don't know that I've driven directly to their house; I'm fairly sure every time I've gone there, I've driven up and down every surrounding side street before stumbling across their house.  But it's okay now, I'm not from here.  Aside from the numbing cold, the weather's pretty awesome.  By this time of year in Seattle, we've gone without sun for 3 to 4 months, and have another 3 to go.  Connecticut gets sun during the winter.  Woot!  Good sun.  Like brilliantly blue skies ALL DAY.  Sunglasses wearing Sun.  And, ‘cause it's so cold, there's no real rain.  I’ve said it once, I’ll say it again: WOOT!

                I work from home.  It’s cool; I dig.  My dog gives me “let me sit on your lap” puppy eyes and I get to watch Ellen (if I want) and I can wander over to the Man Office whenever.  I listen to Gangsta Rap at my lady desk as loud as the Gorgeous Man can stand.  Yes, I listen to Gangsta Rap, which is so misleading ‘cause I don’t look like a “Gangsta Rap” listener.  I look like I have a hard-on for Modest Mouse or Lady GaGa or perhaps, Usher.  I assure you, I’m all T.I., and Juvenile, and Lil John and Chingy, and, have I mentioned Luda?  As in, Ludacris?  Yep, we’re secret hip-hop lovers.  I can “white-girl-sitting-at-her-lady-desk-and-can’t-rap” sing every Luda lyric he’s ever produced.  And that’s no lie.  Keep this in mind, when I’m reviewing all the legal documents I get my hands on or troubleshooting all the IT issues my little firm throws my way, it’s to the sound track of T.I.’s Top Back and Ludacris’ Blueberry Yum Yum.  Yup.  [don’t hate]

Yea.  I was mugged.  Here are the logistics.
X, Y, and Zs.  Pop Tart (awesome lady friend, knows of my pentiant for the living dead) takes me to a free preview to Zombieland (which, by the way ROCKED!).  After the movie, we crossed through the D.town Seattle Nordstroms on the way to Bartells to get her some bus money.  I can't be 100% sure, but I'm ninety-nine percent certain @sshat duo followed us out of Nordstroms 'cause, while using the phone to check her bus schedule, two somebodies were breathing down my neck.  I mentally thought: "get your own damn bus route scheduler checker and get off my ass" - because I am b!tchy.  Those somebodies were behind us; I didn't see faces to say for sure they were the same, but those @sshats weren't outside the Bartells before we went in. 

Leaving Bartells, Pop Tart and I part ways; I start my walk home by jaywalking 'cause these dudes, who had already piqued my attention, were on my ass and I assumed they'd wait for the cross walk.  Nope.  I whip out the phone and call the Gorgeous Man - thinking: these two aren't dumb enough to try something WHILE I am on the phone.  (eventually) Wrong.  @sshat #1 and @sshat #2 are really riding my @ss (HAH! pun).  I'm watching thier shadows because they are flanking me - I'm thinking 1 for the purse, 1 for the phone, but again assuming these two aren't dumb enough to try something. 

Chy: if you are mentally noting that dudes are FLANKING YOU, to which you assume for an upcoming purse/phone snatch, don't ignore it.

Anyways: I'm talking.  Zig zagging home.  Aiming toward where people would be.  Stopping, hesitating at corners, hoping they'll go around me.  All the while, yimmer-yammering with the Gorgeous Man.  We are not talk-on-the-phone types, so I'm literally asking him about his friends, his friend's girlfriends; he's trying to get off the phone -dude, there's nothing to talk about (except shady-ass guttersluts following me) - my response: "uh, no.  No."  They repeatedly stop behind me, "discussing" if they need to go left or right, blah BLAH, till I walk.

And, I DON'T DO SHIT.  It's pretty obvious where this is going.

Ram-bam!  @sshat #1 throws me into the wall while @sshat #2 grabs for the phone, I'm (of course) struggling, meaning @sshat #1 really pins, otherwise he'd have grabbed for my purse.  The iPhone is a slippery little bugger; in the heat of the moment, you'd think that thing was KY-jellied up.  Eventually @sshat #2 makes off, @sshat #1 follows and I, in all my infinite wisdom, take chase. 

Can I mention that there is NO decision making on my behalf?  None.  One minute = struggle; next minute = little legs in motion, years of vocal training and "projecting from the core" unleashed as banshee screams.  Oh yea, AND I exploded into the most rage-filled person this side of the Mississippi, clad in dress slacks, (p)leather jacket, turtleneck and 3" heels.  Weilding a gigantic white purse.  Sprinting down the street.  Screaming at the top of my lungs.  Yelling at Every. Single. Person. I. Saw.  Shouting discriptions as I ran for blocks.  b ... l ... o ... c ... k ... s ... 

ALSO, the Gorgeous Man: he heard that all go down, but has no idea where I am.  He hit the streets at a full run to find me.  Because he loves me. 
DOUBLE ALSO, Pop Tart saw me running and screaming while on the bus.  She got the driver to stop (by being that crazy person), disembarked and joined pursuit.  Because she loves me (too).

Random panhandler with a big, like, 5G water jug strapped to him, throws his jug into the street and takes after the guys.  Panhandler really saved the day.  Not only did his help allow me to catch @sshat #1, he also retrieved the cops for me.  Dude's got something coming for him, if I ever find him.  As in, a thank you card, large monetary bills and cookies. 

I have @sshat #1; @sshat #2: gone.  But!  I got @sshat #1.  And 1 is better than none.  While Panhandler got the cops, I wrassled @sshat #1; he mistakenly thought that since he didn't have my phone, I'd generously let him go.  Heh heh, no young fella, and I informed him thusly; we tussled.  I knotted my hands and arms into his clothing and repeatedly introduced him to a wall while he tried to get away.  He failed in escaping from the grasp of a 5'2 girl wearing high heels and STILL carrying her purse.  Seriously: body slam, tripping, Full Nelson, elbow-to-the-brow/kidney/gut, sitting on your chest and, if need be, knee to the babymaker - all apart of my citizen's arrest arsenal.  Our fight got the attention of some local lady @sshats who tried to wade in; Pop Tart, in all her 5'3, model-thin petiteness and insanely nice persona, was having none of it.  Cops show up, the Columbia store/Macy's parking garage block is locked down.  @sshat #1is cuffed and landed in the jerk-seat of a cop car (behind the shatter-proof glass), my statement taken and I'm told: "Eh, you're probably not gonna get your phone back, he's probably ditched and long gone."  I learn these types of assault/robberies have skyrocketed the last 2 days but no arrests and no property has been recovered.  I was cool with that. 

I didn't think I'd get my phone back and I definitely didn't think they'd find the guy.  When a call came down that they had detained someone on a level of the parking garage we were at, I was damn sure it wasn't him.  Probably just some poor dude wearing the same color clothes.  I was escorted to @sshat #2 extremely unimaginative and, my I say, STOOPID, hiding area for eye-witness identification; eventually retrieving my crap.  Insult to injury: @sshat #2 told the cops that the PINK, BOB MASSE (rock poster artist) clad iPhone was his.  For serious? @ss.

Score one for the "easy" mark. 

I was mugged last night.  I was freaking mugged(!!) last night.  Dude.  What a bunch of f#ckheads.
It's cool.  Don't cry for me Argentina peoples.  The @sshats just wanted my iPhone, though they would have nabbed the purse if one of the idiots hadn't thrown me into a wall, sandwiching said purse between my body and bricks. 

BattleRoyaleTime: 8:50p, Thursday October 1st.

BattleRoyaleTurf: Pine Street through Virginia Street and 5th Avenue through 3rd Avenue.

BattelRoyaleAdversaries: One mid-twenties aged female v. two eighteen-or-under male "minors."

BattleRoyaleWounds: minor.  Two tiny scratches on my right temple acquired when @sshat #1 tried to strip the phone away from my ear, a light bruise on the left of my forehead from @sshat #2 throwing me into bricks and my right hand is sore from struggling with @sshat #1 while he was trying to steal my phone. 

BattleRoyaleOutcome: @sshat duo arrested, property returned.

BattleRoyaleVictor: Me, BITCHES!

Regardless, I'm feeling really freakin' dumb.  I had the little alarm bells going off, I knew something was gonna happen.  I've always been hyper aware of my surroundings - Navy father’s paranoia has rubbed off - but I've also always been cocky.  More accurately, I've been cocky mixed with naivety and a dash of expectation that people are too smart to be dumb which equals stupidity.

Every year of my twenties has been punctuated by pre-birthday mental turmoil.  A period of time in which I take mental stock of my life and realize I am failing miserably at that elusive thing called “Adult.”  Although on any normal day, I think to myself: “Self.  You’ve got it together.  You’re doing your thing and that’s good.  Way to go.”  Pre-birthday mental turmoil is always the opposite.  It includes berating and shining a spotlight on what I consider my downfalls.  It’s like a modified biological clock that measures what I perceive to be success.  Whatever that is.  This year my mental turmoil is all about my imagined barometer of an Adult.

This year it’s arrived very premature, propelled by my friend’s and family’s seeming advancements into Adulthood.  My little bro is going to propose to his girlfriend AND have his first child.  The oldest of my younger sisters is graduating and may make a partial cross-country relocation.  My Ma is getting married for the fifth time.  My friend has an impending engagement that she does not want to accept.  I have two weddings on the docket this year, and two possible weddings next year.  The Gorgeous Man is one year from thirty.  If I had any friends that weren’t already married and/or had babies, they’d all be getting married and having babies.  Instead they are contemplating purchasing double wide trailers.

My claim to maturity is purchasing an iPhone so I can immediately input my purchases from Sephora and Nordstrom into my personal finance software.  Really, it’s so I know exactly how much money I have left to spend on wine.

So I’m having a little bit of the biological clocksies.  Every other day I hear updates on so-and-so who had a baby or blah-blah person who just got married and that someone who’s buying a house.  I’ve officially reached that age when the only time you’re gonna see all your homies and have some real party fun is at someone’s wedding.  Lame.  I’m lucky, I have a very small group of friends, and none of them are immediately making maturity jumps in the form of job relocations, condo purchases or engagements.  But timetables have been established; timetables and speculation are big with people of my decade.  Everything and everybody is evaluated, and then key life hurdles are scheduled.  This person’s turning some-odd age in November and is going to buy a house by then.  Someone’s been with X-company for six months so they are going to be President of Awesomeness at X-company by the end of 2009.  Blank’s baby is due in June so the wedding will be the following August.  This girl and that guy have been living together for three months so his proposal is coming within twelve months.  She wants to have a baby by that age, and she’s already this age, which means she’s got to get engaged then married then knocked up within yadda-yadda years, but he’s got no money to do any of that.  I’m in it too.  But my timetables aren’t defined, in fact I find then to be indefinable.  When am I moving to the East Coast?  I dunno.  When am I buying a piece-o-American Dream, depreciating money pit, real estate?  Unknown.  Even little things, like when am I going to train my dog to not be a jerk or when am I going to paint those lamps I’ve wanted to paint for two and a half years?  I have no idea.  I’m stuck in a tar pit of immaturity.

I’d like to set some schedules.  Part of me wants to define some life hurdles.  But when I sit down and contemplate by what age I should be impregnated, thoughts of all the things I can’t have pop up.  Pregnant = no martini Fridays.  Swollen feet and ankles = no stilettos.  Mortgage payment = no shoe fund.  Homeowner’s dues = no more dining out.  Crying, snot-nosed, poo-smelling, money-eater = no more $200 trips to Sephora purchasing skin care items I probably won’t even use.  Instead I find myself scheduling events that have nothing to do with growing as an Adult.  Like making Fridays a weekly Cocktails at Fluer’s night.  And Wednesdays should be Ladies’ sewing night.  And start a pool league.  And devote myself to that new yoga spa.  And take up Salsa, Belly Dancing and Tango again.  And buy a road bike and a goofy pet trailer to attach to it and go on massive bike rides, towing my little pup along.  But if I did all of those, I’d feel like I was sliding backwards from maturity. 

Maybe it’s just that I equate selflessness with maturity.  All the above seem selfish to me.  These are things I want to do; but having a baby, then the focus shifts.  It’s not about ‘you’ it’s about ‘it,’ with ‘it’ being your baby or your mortgage or your spouse.  I want a selfless item to put on my timetable.  As selfish as that sounds.  I want to join the conversation and not just be a spectator.  When my girlfriends talk about their impending engagement timetable, I want to say, “Yea!  I know!  So stressful, this growing up thing.  I mean, I’m totally trying to save for a condo.  I’m gonna buy one in one point five years.  But the market <insert blah-blah> and interest rates <more blah-blah>.”  I want to relate.  ‘Cause right now, I can’t.  When they talk about a baby schedule, I talk about when I can buy a 63” tv so I can move the 52” into my bedroom.  House down payment discussions are met with me discussing the food porn theme I want for my kitchen decor.  Engagement anticipation is answered with my anticipation of a real vacation in 2010, assuming no one plans a wedding for that year.  

On my imagined barometer of an Adult, I’m really failing.  I have no ticks in the checkboxes of life advances.  Beneath my name, there is not a list of accomplishments that I have achieved or am attempting to achieve.  And if someone from my past ran into me today and asked what I’ve been doing for the past seven years, I’d stammer and tell them that I have a dog.  He’s a French Bulldog.  He’s a year and a half.  No, he’s not trained.  No, he’s not fully housebroken.  No, he doesn’t listen to anything I say.  But, I have a lot of points on my Sephora Beauty Insider card.  And my iPhone has an Atomic Fart application. 

Way to go.  I’m really making progress towards some sweet, free samples at Sephora.

DECLARATION: 2009 will not be my year.

Everybody makes the same new year initiation phrase: this is the year.  The year of fitness and love and book reading and self exploration and travel and personal growth and making millions and on and on.  It never works out.  Last year: crappy year.  Year before: I can’t remember that far back so I’m inclined to believe it never happened and/or it was crappy.  Like last year.

The positive to this declaration is this: if a declaration made at the initiation of the new year, more often than not, does not come true, then by reason of logic, making the declaration of a wish/hope/prayer that you do not want to come true (but perhaps, actually think will come true?), should result in the opposite of said declaration.  Which, in theory, would be a good thing.

So, if by chance, 2009 happens to not be not my year, I will be pleasantly astonished.  And my backwards/opposite plan is working.  So far this is my2009:

I got a raise, woot!

I also got a bonus!  Suck it economy!

Company matched retirement plan.  Here I come early retirement.

I’m going to the casino on Friday and I’m very excited.  I might win money.  I might loose it all, I don’t care.

My tax refund is going to F-A-T.  More than a month’s salary, which is how I planned it.  And I can't wait to spend it on hospital bills.

I’m going to Scottsdale, AZ with a couple I actually like and a Gorgeous Man who pleases my eyes in a bathing suit.  We got an incredible deal.  It will be warm.  I will swim.  There will be fruity drinks and I may be able to convince some naive pool boy to put that drink in a coconut.  I could get laid. 

I have two weddings I’m going to attend.  Which means I will get gussied up in a fancy dress with pretty make up and high heels, then I will drink and dance and eat on someone else’s bill.  Both weddings are in cities that are novel and cool and I could get laid again.

I will become an Aunt to my brother’s spawn child.  And I might get a sister-in-law. Actually, I’m lukewarm about this.

The Gorgeous Man and I will have been dating for three years (at some point this year, we have no anniversary, which makes my little, pink, marshmallow, girl heart hurt) and he still likes me!  Small pleasures.

My dog, despite pooing uncontrollable for a week+, is still living!  And even recovering!  Enough to attack me on a daily basis.  You can’t beat the love of a dog for it’s Ma.

Dude, two zombie games and like, 5 zombie books this year and it's only 13 days deep in 2009.  'Nuf said.

See?  I’m on a 'not year' roll. Here’s looking at you 2009 for not being my year.

This is a major problem in the city.  With narrow sidewalks crowded with commuters that area already pissed off for whatever reason, there is no reason to add to the general discourse during a sprinkling of precipitation.  Don’t be a Sp.Ed.**, leave your golf umbrella with a caddy.

I got hit on by a lesbian last night. 

This is super cool to  me.  I am not fodder for lesbian attraction.  Not that I actively try to coerce people into hitting on me, but I’ve always kind of wondered why lesbians don’t like me.  I get hit on by guys all the time.  Ok, that didn’t come out right.  I get hit on by gentlemen with a frequency that would denote that I am neither hideous nor intimidatingly beautiful but am eye-pleasing enough for interest and homely enough to be approachable.  Flirting from the hetero-man genre of sexuality is taken by me as either, amusing, ridiculous or insulting and is accompanied with a laugh and shove brush off, an eye-roll and hair sweep or one very pissed shorty.  Mostly it’s insulting because I (incorrectly) believe men should just KNOW I’m not available, but we all know men are not intuitive. 

Having determined that I could procreate if I ever developed that wild oat-sowing desire I’ve instead settled quite well with a man that flirts with me constantly (and is always received as amusing), but I’m still baffled by why, oh why am I not approached by lesbians?  Seattle is ripe with alternative genres of sexuality and we run a full spectrum of proclivities.  I live in very close proximity to Gay Central and I’ve already determined that my features do not make people run screaming or attempt to gouge their eyes out to avoid look upon my freakish face.  So where’s the lesbian love?

Last night I was hitting the local Borders to fulfill my Zombie book appetite and the nice, tall, tattoo’d and Mohawk-sportin’ lady commences to flirt with me through my transaction.  I guess I sparked her interest with my book purchases: a novel about Texan Zombies and (unbeknownst to me at the time ‘cause I got it out of the 75% box) an erotic Vampire novel.  DON’T JUDGE ME!  I didn’t realize what I had until I was reading the back panel this morning, talk about judging a book by its cover, I thought it was Bram Stoker-esgque novel.  Any who, as she dilly-dallies through my purchase, she asks if I’ve read World War Z (no, I’ve never warmed up to first-person accounts) or the Zombie Survival Guide (same author) then proceeds to discuss with me graphic zombie novels, of which I have no knowledge because I have not fallen down that Rabbit Hole of Zombie-Geekdom.  Yet.  Actually, I’m not a graphic novel person, something about books with pictures makes me feel like I’m, uh, 2 IQ points away from Simple Jack (Get the Tropic Thunder reference?! amazing!) 

Speaking about books with pictures, a few weeks ago I was chillin like a villain, alone sipping a martini and reading a book on Fleur’s Friday Post-Work Martini – I haven’t yet made it weekly installment – when a guy asked me if my book was good (“yes”, return attention to book) then asked if it had pictures (pause, “no”, return to book) and followed up with “I don’t read anything that doesn’t have pictures.  For some reason I can’t get interested.” (pause, swig of martini, “I avoid things with pictures because they make me feel illiterate”, ZING!)

Back to the story at hand.  I listened to her talk about some well known zombie graphic novel writer, nodded at appropriate times, smiled occasionally, said polite things, “Ahh.” and “Interesting.”  She finally handed over my bag of books and concluded our conversation with offer to lend me some of her zombie graphic novels.  Awww, how sweet!  Wait a second….YES!  I was officially inducted onto the lesbian radar. 

Perhaps, under normal circumstances not muddled with zombie novels, women of the lesbian persuasion can sniff me out.  A waft of my Fancy perfumed head sets of the “Straight” light and I fail to register.  I’ll be honest, I figured I could be mistaken for a lipstick lesbian because I coif my hair and were makeup, but apparently not.  Or maybe they can just tell that not only have I never kissed a girl (or liked the taste of her cherry chapstick – Oh Em Gee, another reference, I’m on a roll) but it’s never been appealing.  There was never a One-time-at-college and I have no stories about a Melissa Etheridge concert, at which I was drinking Apple Pucker.  Well, there was that one time with Pam Anderson.  She made me call her Pam Anderson, not Pam or Pammy, but that was in my youth and there are only so many decades a sex symbol can get away with wearing thick black eyeliner (and nothing else) before the world realizes she’s using it to disguise her old-lady eye bags and crow’s feet.

Either way.  My “why-don’t-lesbians-like-me” curiosity has been cured but now I have to find a new Borders to visit.

Sidenote: Book about Zombie Lesbians?  I think I’m onto something here.

I would make a terrible mother.  I’m glad I’m only 25 and wasn’t born in an era when marrying at 12 was appropriate and child rearing was expected immediately.  I’d pretend I was a boy.  Or refuse to emerge from my mother’s womb.

I have a little Rabid Beastie instead of children and I’m damned happy about that.  I’m holding off on having little Fleur clones until my uterus dries up and I have a real reason not to contribute to Earthly over population.  Or at least until I’m 35 and my significant other roofies me, and that will be an awkward conversation the next morning.  25 is, in my egomaniacal opinion, too young.  Although my littlest brother, at the ripe and fresh age of 24 (today’s his birfday) has already put a bun in his girlfriends oven.  Vicariously, I will emotionally-abuse his children.

I’d be a horrible, terrible mother and I’m learning it thanks to my Rabid Beast.  He’s small and sometimes very annoying and he needs my attention, like always, and instead of repeating “Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom! Mom! MOM!” over and over, he steals my nail file or takes off with my one of my bras in my mouth.  Just as annoying and more expensive too, because bras are not cheap and I have not learned how to repair teeth shred on satin and lace.  I also had to buy a plastic case to store my nail file in.  How ridiculous is that?

I’m also a worrier and I’ve known this and the Gorgeous Man has adapted to this personality flaw, but the Rabid Beast brings out the WORRY like no other.  If I’m not worrying about what he just ate off the sidewalk (two days ago: a huge wad of blue gum that still smelled like mint and was probably 3 pieces combined) then I’m worrying about why I can’t see him/hear him.  Because the quiet moments are when he does the most damage.

The most recent worry is explosive diarrhea and I truly never thought I’d have to worry about that, except on the rare occasions I go ape-shit on McGutbomb Big Macs and in that case, I’d be worrying about my toosh and also about assaulting the Gorgeous Man olfactory, not a small 22 pound creature that can create the most disgusting, heave-worthy poos imaginable.  Under normal circumstances, I’d probably just be disgusted and tell the Gorgeous Man that explosive diarrhea is a man job and besides, he’s your buddy.  But, Rabid Beast has this forlorn look he gives me and he just looks so sorry!  Then I melt and meld into a clingy, worrier doggie-mommy.

I’m pretty sure, or at least I’ve been told, that the most annoying thing a mother could do is be overbearing, clingy and overprotective.  Add bossy, moody, and the unique ability to never be satisfied with the cleanliness of the homestead, and you have me.  That last one actually makes me cranky and pissy, so add those personality traits to the Cuisinart, hit pulse three to seven times until you have a substance resembling pus and that is me.  I’m also a spoiler.  You know what kind of booger-eater that makes?  A slightly insecure, hypochondriac that is jumpy, passive-aggressive, needy, incapable of handling anything but has a sense of entitlement and too many toys.  When applied to a dog you get a hyperactive chewing machine that thinks the middle of the bed is his spot and who will randomly attack me when I look at it wrong with too many toys.  I think I’m better off parenting creatures that I can legally cage and bark at when I get pissed off.

In the Rabid Beastie’s case, it’s good that I worried.  We ended up having to hustle him to the vet when his explosive pooing was tinged with blood and he was vomiting everything and shaking.  Now he’s back home safe and secure with prescribed meds and cans of $13 special bland food after we ran the gamut of possibilities and tests at the vet’s and received IV fluids.  Did you know that they don’t put an IV in a dog, as in to give him fluids?  Yep.  They just put all the fluid under the pup’s hide and it’s slowly absorbed by the body.  But in the meantime, the pup has a huge bump where the liquid is.  The Rabid Beast looked like a hunch back ‘cause they put fluids right in between his shoulder blades.  I called him the Hunchback and tried not to touch it, but the bump was like, the size of his head!

I’m sleep deprived from repeated bouts of comforting him during the night and strung out tighter than tight wire thanks worrying that something else might go wrong with his little puppy intestines and too much coffee to counteract the lack of sleep.  On the bright side, I don’t need to worry about saving for his college.

Yea, yea.  Christmas is over, New Year’s is one fart from being over and in two farts time, we can all get back to the scheduled farts of 2009.  I’m pretty dag-gone pleased about that.

I have a thing with farts.  They are, believe me on this one, hilarious.  You’ve never seen a girl so delighted as I am when the Gorgeous Man rips one around me.  Laughing ensues. It’s such a rare occasion that I have to laugh it up.

Lets recap:  Christmas was a day of unbridled spoiling.  I was spoiled by the Gorgeous Man with a fancy, extra awesome digital SLR Nikon camera – which was a total and complete surprise.  Ever since he placed my three professionally wrapped gifts under the tree weeks ago in a crazed form of Christmas torture, I have been guessing by the visuals. I was not allowed to touch them, let alone shake them, and I wasn’t even allowed to verbalize my guesses, but I’m so damn cute that the Gorgeous Man entertained my guesses periodically.  Always retorting with “I will send them back!  No more guessing!” He loves me.

I’ve, obviously, been a good girl this year.

My Ma and step Ma and dad and grandparents spoiled me with things I didn’t know I needed or wanted but now have no idea how I’ve lived without them, like a bohemian scarf and patent-leather rain poncho, cute snowflake bowls and mugs, and money and other stuff.  My little sister got me a sweet ass NY Giants throw and she has been deemed most awesomest Giant’s gift giver.  The Gorgeous Man’s family spoiled me to the nth degree, extra spoiled, really, considering I’m of no relation and have stolen their son/brother/grandson/nephew away from the East Coast.  To which I will return him, eventually, with me in tow.  I’m getting some stunner shades and bought myself a bounty at Sephora, slated some monies for a mindblowingly cool mp3 player and have a romantic date with the Gorgeous Man at an Italian restaurant to look forward to as well. 

The Rabid Beast sucks at giving Christmas gifts, I’ll tell ya.  His gift was to wake us up at four in the morning with explosive diarrhea.  After I took him onto our balcony – where his doggie potty is – and he poo’d what amounted to creamy water, he would not sleep.  My doggie mommy intuition told me that he had more pooping to do.  I had to dress myself, leash him, grab an elevator, go down 17 floors, through the parking garage, out into the frozen, icy tundra of Seattle’s streets and stand in front of bum-ville as my dog painted the sidewalk brown.  With an audience of homeless people who were quite intrigued by the little girl in a pink hat, rain boots and pissed off look on her face and her projectile shitting dog. 

Upon return to the warm cozy confines of my home, Rabid Beast still would not sleep.  So instead of laying my brunette head down on a fluffy pillow in my warm, pillow-top bed with my own personal heater known as the Gorgeous Man, I had to hang out in the living room. With my sick dog that kept making tortured faces at me and running around nervously. After half an hour or trying to cajole him into relaxing with me on the couch, he made the “I’m gonna puke” sounds, I dragged him into the bathroom, he vomited three times, I found a new appreciation for parenting little things that heave smelly, slimy stuff out both ends and we went back to bed.

He wishes you a Merry Christmas from Santa Paws.

Turns out, we had gotten some expired samples of all-natural dog food from our yuppie dog store, and of course we fed it to him unknowingly.  Poor buddy, I still feel incredibly bad for force feeding food poisoning on him.

And now it’s New Years.  And I’m pretty freaking relieved to be putting 2008 away in a box, sticking it under my bed and forgetting it existed.  Although, I won’t be able to entirely, seeing as how a few people related to me died and my sibling’s girlfriend is incubating a spawn and another sibling visited me from a far way place and we had so much fun.

So I’m partying like it’s 1983 – because that’s my birth year and I figure that you can’t top the excitement that I assume a person has when they are about to be pushed from a va-jay-jay and start ‘life.’  I would think that’s quite an exciting event and maybe me, as a little almost-born embryo, laughed a lot and knocked back bottles of champagne, took stupid pictures wearing glasses that spelled out 1-9-8-3, said “Wooo!” a lot, kissed strangers and entered the new year crying.  Ahhh hells yea.  That's what I'm gonna be doing TONIGHT!

Love, Peace and Chicken Grease, homies.