Ch-Ch-Changes

Yesterday I was sad.

KC and I have been living in different cities since we were married on July 3. It's been inconvenient and difficult, especially since I wasn't able to live in my own home because of that nasty little fire that I accidentally set. KC and I originally talked me moving to his city because his job was going to change and would pay better and give him better benefits. This would allow him to support me, and potentially a family, without me having to work. Ideally, we agree that the mother should stay home with children until they are at least in school. Then we talked about about him moving to my city because it looked like his job changes weren't going to take place or were going to be very delayed and because my job paid better and had better benefits. Things then started looking better at his job again...so we were completely up in the air about what to do.

I heard about what sounded to be a great job in his city and decided to apply. I faxed over my resume late one Friday afternoon and they called me before 8:00 a.m. the following Monday to schedule an interview. I scheduled the interview for the following Friday afternoon (last Friday) and took the day off. I drove up to his city Thursday night and had the morning before the interview to get my power suit in order, get my thoughts gathered, prepare answers for expected questions, etc. I bought a new suit that Thursday night and new shoes Friday morning. I had my game face on for this interview.

My interview was at 1:00 p.m. and I didn't get out of it until 2:25 p.m. It seemed like they were interested in what I had to say! I didn't want to get my hopes up though, so I tried to keep things pretty low key. On Monday of this week they called to tell me that I'd been chosen as a final candidate and that they would proceed with a background check. I provided them with the necessary information and Wednesday morning at 8:41 a.m. they called to make me the job offer. Of course I accepted. The job pays more, is less work, and most importantly I'll be able to live with my husband whom I love more than anything in this world.

So why did I instantly start crying after I got off the telephone with my new employer? I was SO sad. My heart just fell when I hung up because I knew that I'd have to say goodbye to everyone that I know and love here in my city. I've lived here five and half years and have developed relationships that I know I'll have for the rest of my life. Some relationships, like with Flik, I can't even imagine not having. There's rarely been a day since I moved here that I haven't had some sort of contact with Flik. I am her sister and she is mine.

I'll only be living a short distance away, relatively speaking...but yesterday and today it feels as if I will be a world away from all the people that are important in my life. I've developed unique and valuable friendships with co-workers. I will miss seeing, talking and laughing with them five days a week. A job is a job. I'll miss those people that I've grown to love.

When I left my home state those many years ago, I started over here only knowing two people. I know that I can do it again. I'm a likeable gal and have never had a problem making friends. But gosh, leaving these friends behind is like excising a piece of my heart with a dull blade. It hurts and I fight back the tears several times every day.

I'm having dinner with Flik and her sister (Pik) tomorrow after work. Pik lives three hours away and is coming to town for a "weekend away." Pik has adopted me just like Flik did. Pik and Flik's Mom and Dad adopted me too. They are my family when my family is so far away. Tomorrow will be the beginning of my goodbyes. I don't know when I'll see Pik or her parents again.

What lies ahead for me with KC is exciting and I know it will be wonderful. I am excited, anxious and READY for us to really start our married life together. I will be okay. I am happy with life and I will be happier in the weeks to come.

Today I am sad.

Poop and Sex

I'm not feeling terribly creative this evening, but I promised Poop and Sex "tomorrow" and here it is several days later. Time goes by so fast when you're a weekend wife and too busy to take a pee break or lunch at work!

Back to poop and sex. Flik's boyfriend (John aka Juan) believes that everything in life comes back to poop and sex. Just think about it. I think Juan may be right.

The other day I was talking with coworkers at lunch about the worst jobs EVER. This subject also happened to coincide with a TV show one of my coworkers had seen and a radio program that I listened to the same day. Out of all the jobs my coworkers saw on the TV program, she thought that the worst job EVER had to do with horse breeding. Apparently this TV show (I can't remember the name) went into great detail, in video, showing a stud being....shall we say.....manually manipulated for a "donation" to artifically inseminate a mare. She was embarrassed, shocked and appalled at the efforts required to accomplish this task and at the video she saw. She said she felt sorry for the horse. I doubt that the horse cared much that he was caught on video in an intimate moment. If I only knew how to type happy horsey sounds...

The worst job I could think of comes from India (I think). I remember seeing a show quite some time ago, also about the worst jobs EVER. From what I recall, there is a caste system in this country. The people lowest in the system were responsible for cleaning up people poop. Not just any people poop. Poop that had fallen. Poop that came straight out of the ass and fell onto the ground. From great heights. Here's the deal: people higher up in the caste system sit on top of this wall, hang their booty over the edge and poop like 30 feet over the edge onto the ground below. The unlucky second class citizens were responsible for maintaining the poop on the ground all day long. Reportedly cleaning this poop up constantly day in and day out causes great illness, so there really are no retirees from this occupation. THE. WORST. EVER.

Blog for "tomorrow": Poopy Sex. Just kidding, Juan!

Polish the Turd

KC: "I love your hair."

Scooby: "It's just curly and frizzy and out of control."

KC: "You polish the turd pretty well."

Scooby: "Polish the turd?"

KC: "Yeah. You've never heard of that?"

Scooby: "No. What's it mean?"

KC: "It means that you make the best with the poop that you have."

Scooby: (laughter)

So now KC and I have a phrase challenge. I have to use the phrase "polish the turd" in a sentence sometime tomorrow at work. This should be interesting.

Join me and report in, if you dare!

Flik

I'm still displaced. I'm living (by the grace of God) with my friend Flik. I had an entirely different blog planned out for today but I've decided to save it for tomorrow. Let's just say that it's about poop and sex. (Yes John, it's your theory that I'm working from here.)

So I sat down today at Flik's PC (she's still at work) and started munching on cinammon rolls that HAD TO BE EATEN or they would forever be spoiled. Okay, they're not even close to being spoiled. I just felt the need to eat an exessive amount of bread with gooey caramel-y frosting on top. Here come the yummy noises!!!!

But I digress. The subject of today's blog is Flik. Flik has her PC set up to automatically go to this blogrolling dealie-ma-jigger where numerous blogs are listed. Presumably, these are Flik's favorite blogs. Do I see Scooby's blog listed there? NO.

My friend Flik, who encouraged me to begin this f'ing blog, does not even have me on her list.

For the love of God and all things gooey, she could just put my blog on there to visit NOW AND AGAIN....which is exactly about frequency of my posts.

I think I'm going to have to rethink this relationship. I don't feel the love. I may have to find a NEW and BETTER heterosexual same-sex life partner.

Life Without Kids

Yesterday I had a conversation with a friend that absolutely disturbed me. This is a 30-year old woman with two children and one stepchild. She told me that she and her husband would not be married if it weren't for their children together. Realizing there are a lot of difficulties and complications in marriage alone, and knowing that she has additional difficulties with her stepchild, I still assumed that she was just joking. She was not. She informed me that she and her husband had a weekend sans kids recently and agreed to spend two hours together without discussing his passion (his motorcycle) or her passion (the children). With this agreement, these two people who were married in love, and who presumably still love each other, had only enough to say to each other to fill 10 minutes. What will will my friend have when her children are gone?
My friend openly admitted without regret that her entire life consumed by her children, by her choice. She told me that she wants her children to have a better childhood and a better life than she had, so she spends all her time with them and gives them more than what they could ever need with that purpose in mind. I was absolutely dumbstruck. Then I started thinking about this and looking at other parental relationships to which I am exposed. I realized that have seen a lot of people, mostly women, who commit everything and dedicate all their time and energy to their children.

This concerns me as a newlywed and a hopeful mother. I can't criticize my friend or any of the parents I know. I firmly believe that they do everything and give parenting their full effort for the sole benefit of their child(ren).

But I can't help but wonder...is this really how marriage and parenthood are supposed to be? Or, is this just a well-disguised booby trap that leaves parents with nothing once the children are gone?

She's Been A Long Time Gone

So I've been gone awhile. Gone from posting. Gone from my home. Gone from all things usual and customary. Here's the Cliff's Notes version of Scooby's life in the last couple of months. I got engaged. KC asked me to marry him in May and wedding plans started immediately. Thus, you have all gone sans blog. I had a birthday and am now the grand old age of 34. Thirty-four!!! Shouldn't I have accomplished something more in life by the ripe, old age of 34? I guess I did accomplish something. I managed to nearly burn down my home due to a careless cigarette butt thrown into a dry planter. For those of you who haven't nearly burned down your own homes in this manner, here's a little FYI. The moss in potting soil when dried to a crisp is quite flammable. I've not been able to live at my home for the past month (exactly 4 weeks prior to today) while cleaning and repairs have made and have been living in hotels, with family, and off the good graces of wonderful friends. The best news from these months is that not only did KC and I get engaged...we were also married!!! We haven't quite figured out our living arrangements since we both live in different cities, but we'll work that out in time. In summary, life has been crazy and difficult lately but is still really good. I'll be back on the blogwagon soon!

Demon, Be Gone!

I'm praying for an exorcism. I thought the cat rescue place was going to take little Jerry back to "socialize" him so that he could be around humans without attacking them with the little sabres in his head called teeth. I thought they were going to take him back so that he could get some of his aggressive kittiness out of his system by being around and playing with other kitties. They thought this would tame him somewhat and help him learn that people are not toys.

And then things changed. The cat rescue place then thought it would be better if I took in another cat for little Jerry to have HERE rather than take him THERE. They thought that would be easier on HIM.

What cat did they want me to take, you ask? A mean, unadoptable little bastard named Genghis Khan. Why is he named Genghis Khan, you ask? Because apparently he's just as ADHD as little Jerry is and they think he'd keep Jerry occupied. Sounds like fun, huh? And they want this little 2 cat soiree to occur in MY house. With MY carpet. And MY furniture. I don't think so.

With my own tail between my legs and with resignation and defeat, I called the cat rescue place a couple of weeks ago and told them that no only would I NOT take Genghis Khan but that I also wanted to surrender Jerry back to them. I can't try to make this work with this cat anymore. I've tried everything I've been told, taught and ever learned about cats to try to make this a loving owner/kitty relationship. It's not working. I'm tired of being stalked, attacked, bitten and woken up in the middle of the night. I'm tired of digging toys out from under the refrigerator and from under furniture. I'm tired of shutting my bedroom door at night to keep Jerry out because he jumps on my head and bites me while I'm sleeping. I'm tired of trying to keep him off the kitchen table, counters and entertainment center and I'm tired of trying to re-arrange everything on the shelves that he knocked over when he jumped up to investigate the area for the kajillionth time. I'm really tired of my arms and hands being all scabbed up like I'm a cutter, when it's actually bites. And I'm still searching for the dried orange that used to be in my potpourri dish.

Mostly, I just want to beat the little fucker and I know that's just not right.

The cat rescue place told me that the state regulates the number of cats they can have at one time and that they'd have to wait for an opening before they could take the Spawn of Satan back. I've been waiting patiently for weeks for a spot to come open, it seems. Two days ago, the cat rescue place called me and told me that they could take Satan, Jr. anytime. So I've called and left messages in hopes that I can pack his happy kitty ass up and dump him of STAT.

What is taking them so long to call me back? UGH!!!!!!

Scooby Cam

I'm one of those people who is endlessly entertained by the riddle of a personalized license plate. I also try to read as many bumper stickers on a car in front of me before my life goes in a different direction than the other driver. Personally, I think bumper stickers are permanent litter. I'm ashamed to admit that I'm slightly judgmental and condescending about the fact that people would reduce the value of their vehicle by pasting irremovable, useless tidbits of information on it. No one really cares about what they say....but I think everyone tries to learn a little something about the anonymous driver by reading what a plate or sticker has to say.

Am I THAT bored as I drive? I guess I am.

I digress. Back to the Scooby Cam. Today I'm driving home from work and I'm sitting at a stoplight behind a car that has a window sticker that says, "You just got passed BY A GIRL!" Okay. I'm thinking, "Wow, that's a big girl in there." This girl was seriously like 7 feet tall and about 400 pounds. I continue thinking, "I wonder if that little car can even pass a burger joint. That girl is HUGE!" Then the light changes and I switch lanes. I MUST get a better look at the amazing Amazon-woman. I get up beside the car and am obviously pulling a lookie-loo to get a gander.

Who is in the car, you ask? A big, ol' black dude who thinks I'm checking his fine, pimp-daddy ass out. He starts rubber-necking because he thinks he's snagged himself some pretty pink snapper on the hook. I start laughing OUTLOUD at the thought of this big, burly black dude driving a pint-sized car with a girlie sticker in the back window. I hope he thought I was laughing at something on the radio.

My birthday is coming up.....send donations for a Scooby Cam so I can capture these moments!

Small Victories

I'm not a vengeful person. I'm not into paybacks or retribution. I may not have the most fond feelings for someone that I've dated and broken up with in the past, but I'm not a hater. Recently I developed some old film in my camera that had some photos of an old boyfriend were on there. We'll call him Jeremy (because that's his name!). For purposes of this story however, I'll need to back up to the beginning of "the end."

I dated Jeremy for a couple of months last summer. Jeremy was in the middle of a divorce and had a slight drinking problem. Okay, he actually drank a whole lot ALL THE TIME. He was a functioning drinker in that he still maintained his friendships and went to work every day. But every night, the drunkfest was on. He probably managed to drink a 12-pack every night and much more on the weekends. As for me, I'm a social drinker. This was one of the many cruxes (cruxi?) of our problems.

Jeremy took me to Oklahoma to a cabin owned by some friends of his. There were 2 other couples that went and it should have been a GREAT weekend. The weekend started going in the shitter when Jeremy couldn't come pick me up at the designated meeting spot (getting driving directions to the cabin was apparently too intricate down in bubba-country where there are no road signs) because he was too drunk. It took me 3 hours to drive down from where I live to get to the meeting spot and 2.5 more hours to get 5 more miles to the cabin. Needless to say, SCOOBY WAS PISSED!!!! The rest of the weekend was ruined for me from there. But no, this wasn't "the end."

The following weekend Jeremy and I went with some other straight friends to meet our gay-boy friends at a gay bar. Jeremy had never been to a gay bar and was extremely hesitant. Once he got there, he had a fabu time though. My friends are fantastic, the music is good, the drinks are made well, and there's plenty to see. What more can you ask?

Nothing major happened to cause "the end" of Jeremy and I. I think I was just fed up. Fed up with his emotional baggage. Fed up with his drinking. Fed up with conflicting signals. So Jeremy and I ended things quite amicably. You know, the "let's be friends thing."

The following weekend, Jeremy has a date with another girl and calls me to get directions to take her to the gay bar he and I had gone to. MISTAKE #1. Jeremy sees my gay-boy friends there and "claims" to have a girl with him. MISTAKE #2. Following this, the gay-boys decided to refer to Jeremy as "Scooby's Gay Boyfriend" and proceeded to tease me about being the straw the broke the camels back claiming that I had made Jeremy switch teams. It's all been a good fun since then. A harmless joke. Following MISTAKES #1 and #2, I clearly let Jeremy know that he had burned his bridge with me and that I never wanted to hear from him again.

As we all know, time heals most wounds. I called Jeremy today to see if he was interested in receiving the photos from the cabin since most of them are of he and his friends (I was the sober photographer). Jeremy and I have a friendly and innocent conversation and catch up with what's been going on in our lives since we last spoke. Of his own accord, Jeremy apologizes for acting like such an asshole. SMALL VICTORY #1. During the course of the conversation, he also asks if I am married. I eagerly fill him in on the details of KC. I am curious to know if he's married, so I ask him. Turns out, he's not even dating someone. SMALL VICTORY #2.

My friend Flik never sees the point of keeping in touch with old boyfriends. TODAY she understands. Oh, the joy. SMALL VICTORY #3.

Animal House

I'm an animal lover. Ask my friends. Ask my family. I love all animals except snakes and spiders. I'm sure there are other animals that I'm not terribly fond of, but you get the gist.

For 10 years I had a wonderful, beautiful, sweet and loving kitty...we'll call him Tom. Tom started coughing shortly after spending some time in the kennel over Christmas last year. I figured it was kennel cough and didn't worry about it. The cough persisted for a couple of weeks so I took him to the vet in January. After listening to his lungs with the stethoscope, the vet thought he probably had a respiratory infection and prescribed antibiotics. Ten days of chasing sticky, blue pills that had been gagged and spit out of Tom's mouth ensued. No improvement with the cough. Another 10 days of antibiotics were prescibed. More gagging and pill chasing. After five days, still no improvement. X-rays were taken and showed that his lungs were completely full of fluid. Tumors were suspected. Stronger antibiotics and prednisone were prescribed. No improvement. Tom even began gagging before I even got the pills out of the bottle. Repeat x-rays were taken and showed that the fluid had not improved. The vet made a final determination that Tom probably had lung cancer. Kitties can have chemotherapy but I was informed that it is generally too strong for their little kitty systems and most often they die anyway.

After 10 years of spending every day and night with my little lover kitty who followed me everywhere, gave me kisses on my nose, expected scratching and cuddling every morning after I got out of the shower, cuddled with me every night, and was the only male who ever loved me unconditionally....I had to put my loverboy to sleep. This was the single most painful decision I've ever had to make on my own. Watching his sweet little blue eyes glaze over as he stared at his mama was torture. See his pupils eventually blow and knowing that he was gone FOREVER was excruciating.

Coming home to an empty house was new and horrible. I hated to even come home because I didn't have my little Tom to greet me at the door each day with happy meows and purrs. Soon after, I decided to adopt another blue eyed kitty from a cat rescue shelter....we'll call him Jerry. Little did I know that this adoption was the beginning of chaotic HELL.

This little bastard deceived us all by pretending to be sweet, cuddly and full of purrs when I spent time with him before actually adopting him. He fooled me. He fooled friends who are vet assistants. He even fooled the vet.

Jerry (aka the Spawn of Satan or Satan, Jr.) greets me at the door every day but usually just ends up stalking me like I'm a tasty little mouse invading his domicile. As I walk, he stalks me and attacks me from behind biting the backs of my knees. When I am sitting watching TV, he jumps me from the side and bites the tender backside of my arms. If I am laying in bed, even sleeping sometimes, he jumps on my head and bites my scalp or neck. Even if he is having a reserved and quiet moment where he is lying in my arms purring, he will suddenly turn schizo and bite my hands or arms. Even now, as I try to have a quiet moment at the computer, he is trying to jump up into the armoire so that he can lie on the keyboard. Irritating little fuck.

I have despised Jerry. I have picked Jerry up and have shaken him while yelling, "You are no Tom! You will never be Tom! I DO NOT love you!" Is there such a thing as shaken kitty syndrome? I'd swear he's brain damaged. I have yelled, insulted and berated him. I have tried scaring him with loud noises. I have bitten his little kitty ears back just to show him how it feels. I have tried putting him in kitty "time out." All to no avail.

I have had to shut him out of my bedroom at night to protect myself and those that I love from being attacked as we sleep. Jerry hates this and throws his body against my bedroom door for hours it seems all the while pitifully whining and meowing in hopes of being allowed back inside the inner sanctum. I admit, I've given in on occasion only to have Jerry sit up on my antique vanity and systematically paw each of my bottles of perfume off the vanity onto the floor. He's been punished for this and all his other misbehaviors (is that a word?) time after time. The little retard DOES NOT LEARN.

While he is being shut out of my bedroom at night, Satan Jr. proceeds to methodically destroy the rest of my house. Framed family photos on shelves are knocked over. Crystal candle holders are broken on the tile in front of my fireplace. Plants are dug into. I could only hope that he'd eat a toxic plant and die on his own. The Human Society suggested putting double sticky tape in areas where kitties aren't allowed. The tape is an alleged deterrant since kitties are not supposed to like the feel of the stickiness on their paws. I should be so lucky to have him actually EAT the tape and die. This little mofo plants his kitty ass down on the double sticky tape and licks it. I swear, he's E-V-I-L (eeeeeeeviiiillllllllllll!!!!).

Jerry has moments of love and sweetness where he will cuddle with me and sleep. He gives good kisses. His actions aren't aggressive. He's never hissed at me, laid back his ears or even used his claws. He just bites with his sharp little kitten/cat teeth and holds on like a pinscher with the jaws of death.

Tomorrow I will be going to "shop" for another kitty to bring home. I can only "trade in" Jerry with the cat rescue place if I agree to adopt another pet out. Perhaps temporarily. Perhaps permanently. Once I pick another kitty, the cat rescue place will take Jerry back and will work with him to socialize him and to TRY to tame him and teach him manners. I may or may not take Jerry back after that. The truth is, I am attached to his sweet side and will probably miss him.

At this point, I'd rather have a ghila monster french kiss me than risk taking in another psychotic furball. I'd rather chew glass. I'd rather belly dance for a living. Satan Jr. better appreciate this, the little motherfucker.

Somtimes I hate being a responsible grownup.

Glee

Is it strange that I care about who reads my blog? All this time I've been thinking that it's just my sweet and caring friends who read my blog. It's hard to wrap my little brain around the thought that anyone other than my friends would be interested in what I have to say. Imagine the simple joy I felt when I learned that I had a reader from Portland today!!!

Feel free to inflate my ego further and weigh in with YOUR location.....please? Yes. I'm begging you.

Flashback to Ferris Bueller's Day Off:
"Bueller........? Bueller........?"

The Yummy Noises

My friend Flik coined the phrase "the yummy noises" one evening as we ate dinner at Jason's Deli. She and I always order the same thing whenever we go there with very little variation. Every time she gets her favorite salad, you can always count on her making the yummy noises. You know the ones. The uncontrollable noises you make when you're eating something that seems sinfully luscious and wonderful to eat.

Every afternoon at work my co-workers and I pop some microwave popcorn to share during our last break for the day. We're all women, so of course we're all dieting ALL THE TIME. So for months, we've been eating that 94% fat-free crap that is loosely referred to as popcorn. Subtly salted styrofoam is more like it. We ran out of our fat-free popcorn yesterday afternoon so the SKINNY co-worker offers to buy more for us to share. Unbeknownst to me, skinny-girl buys regular, full-on fatty microwave popcorn. I shake some out onto my paper towel and throw some down the gullet.

Oh my God!!! Who knew all this time that microwave popcorn could taste sooooo good?? Who? WHO??? I need to know!! And THIS is how the yummy noises were introduced to my concerned co-workers who stared blankly at me as I loudly savored the salty and buttery flavors in my mouth. Right then and there, I decide that I MUST HAVE MORE.

After work, I called Flik to report in. It's a daily thing we do, Flik and me. So I call Flik as I'm driving to the Target (you know how I hate the WalMart) to buy some savory popcorn for my dinner at home tonight. Here's how our conversation ended:

Flik: "Anything that causes you to make the yummy noises should never be withheld."

Scooby: "I totally agree. Thank God I have a boyfriend who actually said to me 'Now don't you go getting TOO skinny.'"

Flik: "Oh my God. Can I make out with him later?"

Scooby: "Absolutely. And he's got a good one too."

And we both make the yummy noises with the thought of a "good one."

So tonight, as I sit here unashamed in my gluttony with my full-on fatty microwave popcorn, Almond Roca and honey roasted peanuts, I'm making my yummy noises. Gluttony can't REALLY be a sin, can it?

The Lies That Bind

It's been a long time since I blogged...for no particular reason really. One day early on, a loyal reader asked what I'd do if I the day ever came when I didn't have anything to write about. I scoffed at the absurdity of the comment. I always have something to say so why wouldn't I have something to blog? From that moment, the curse was on. I had NOTHING to write about. However, my loyal and dedicated readers are begging...so here I am opening my life to all y'all (that's plural for 'all of you', in case you're not from the south!).

The story of us: KC and I "met" online in November 2004. I don't remember the specific date. Neither of us planned to meet or to develop any sort of connection. We talked frequently, sometimes for hours and hours. We covered every imagineable subject. Even those that are usually controversial such as politics, religion, money, etc. We talked about our childhoods, which were remarkably similar, and our futures. We seemed to have everything in common. Our desires for our futures were identical. KC was intelligent, witty and funny.....and he GOT my sense of humor. Such a rarity!

We met in person in December and had a wonderful day together. We met for a second time just before Christmas and had an amazing weekend together. The sex was wonderful and I finally felt safe and completely comfortable with a man. I was comfortable being completely naked with this man...even in daylight!!! Then the bomb dropped. When KC got home from our incredible weekend, he told me that he had lied to me. Not about one thing. Not about two things. About everything. EVERYTHING! He confessed all his lies and asked for my forgiveness. Weeks went by and I punished him with every ounce of anger and resentment that I had in me. I insulted him, berated him and ignored him....over and over and over again. KC continued to humble himself before me hoping and waiting for my forgiveness, which was NOT quick in coming. He opened his life to me completely so that he might show me that the truth was really the truth. He sacrificed his own pride so that I might find it in my heart to look past the bad decisions he made and into the heart of a truly good man.

In the middle of this, I met another man whom we'll refer to as "Chicago." Chicago was good fun. He was completely different than KC and at that time I found that incredibly attractive. I didn't want to be reminded of the man who, as far as I was concerned, had betrayed and deceived me. I turned to Chicago for attention and affection and I slept with him one time.

Chicago and I continued to talk after this, although nothing more than friendship developed. I cared for him and I believe he cared for me, but not in a romantic way. There were no options in that regard. My thoughts always turned back to KC who remained a daily part of my life...albeit an unpleasant one a lot of times. Chicago knew about KC and eventually KC knew about Chicago too.

Forgiveness was slow in coming for me, but it finally came. In March 2005 KC and I started trying to repair the damage and entered a committed relationship with each other.

During all this, I lied to KC about Chicago. I told him that we'd never slept together. I perpetuated this lie for months...even after KC and I finally started repairing our relationship. I perpetuated the lie even when I was directly asked about Chicago by KC. I lied and I lied and I lied to protect myself; all under the guise of protecting KC. The pressure became too much and I confessed to KC what had really happened. Always the selfish girl, it was such a relief to get my dirty little secret out in the open. KC was absolutely FURIOUS. He wanted nothing to do with me. He didn't want to know me, talk to me, or to see me ever again. I felt like I was dead to him.

Fortunately, KC reconsidered quickly and took me back. He forgave me much more quickly than I did him although the thought of me having sex with another man haunts KC even today. In some strange twist, our lies have brought KC and I closer together. Each of us is fully aware of why we lied (whether the reason was good or not) and we recognize the effort it took for us to come clean with each other. We understand how it feels to be lied to and betrayed in every way. We understand how hard it is to forgive and what an awesome gift it is to be forgiven. KC and I become stronger as we continue to forgive each other. We are strengthened and encouraged to forgive when we are granted forgiveness.

As humans, we really do hurt the ones we love the most. Before the lies were confessed, our lies restricted us, stifled us, made us feel guilty and drove us insane. Now, with full honesty, our lies bring us together and unite us in common understanding and in the comfort and joy of forgiveness.

Love is tough. Sometimes love DOES require the choice to stay to together and to actually TRY to make things work. I'm the queen of running away when things get difficult. I'm finally reaping the rewards of staying. I thank God that sometimes I get smart by being stupid.

I love you, KC. I can't wait for niglets.

To my friends who already knew all this, and who forgave KC too, I love you too.

Scooby Snacks

The things I say (oy!)...........

RE: my buttocks:
Scooby: "If my butt gets any bigger, somebody's gonna put a flag in it and claim a new continent."


RE: Terry Schiavo:
Former Roommate: "She was bulemic. She probably doesn't want to be fed anyway."

Scooby: "If you say anything like that again, the next thing you'll see is me coming at you from across this table like Luke Duke on the General Lee."

The Memory-Go-Round

Something small like a smell or a sound can trigger a memory. An old, familiar song can remind you of something you thought was long forgotten.

We've all been on the memory-go-round at one time or another. Some of us may still be riding....spinning endlessly around and around. Sometimes the memory-go-round never stops so that you can step off safely. Sometimes it spins so fast that you feel like you might vomit. Sometimes you lose your grip and get thrown off.

You might land on a soft spot of sand and get right back on to ride some more. Sometimes you get the wind knocked out of you and have to take a break. Other times, you bleed.

If you're lucky, a playmate might give you a hand up, dust you off and make sure you're okay. You're playmate could be the one and only playmate you've had for the last 10 years. He might be the one you've run to for 17 years whenever you've been hurt. He might be the playmate that knows your heart and soul and wants to keep playing with you anyway. Or, he might be the one who sees that the memory-go-round isn't safe for you to ride on anymore and takes you to the slide or the swing set instead.

Riding the memory-go-round can be fun but you should never stay on for too long. Sometimes you just have to close your eyes, reach out for your playmate, and JUMP. If he's right, he'll be there to catch you. Mine was.

Sucking a Bullet from a Gun

The following are the things that have made me consider dropping a live appliance into my bath water:

1. The "homeless" vet who was standing by the highway again today holding his cardboard sign saying that he needs money to get to Montana. Go west, oldish man.
2. The 'mone rage that's begun because I start perioding next week.
3. The anxiety of weighing in this afternoon at Weight Watchers and the expected disappointment when they tell me that I've gained a couple.
4. Hearing Johnny Cash's "Ring of Fire" over and over in my head because my ass has exploded for about 10 hours straight. Thank you, Correctol.
5. The spawn of Satan (a.k.a. my new cat) who is retarded and mean and who woke me up at 3:03 a.m. this morning by jumping on my head and biting me.
6. The sore and inflamed 'gina I have due to a yeast infection incurred as a result of excessive amounts of antibiotics.
7. The sun ISN'T supposed to come out tomorrow.

Bright spot in the day: even if tomorrow is cloudy, it'll still be Friday and I'll be heading off to spend the weekend with KC.

The Saddest Little Vet

Signs, signs, everywhere there's signs. The one that sticks out in my mind today happened to be cardboard and was being held by a little man claiming to be a homeless 83-year old veteran (or was it veterinarian?) needing money to get home to his family. Call me crazy, call me a skeptic, but something strikes me as odd here. Several things actually. The man does not appear to be homeless. I know this because I see the homeless every day downtown near where I work. He doesn't look a day over 60. Sure, he had a gray goatee....that was nicely shaped, of even length, and the rest of his face was cleanly shaven and far from being 83 years worth of wrinkley. His coat was clean and in good shape. Likewise with the rest of his clothing that could be seen. He had no bags or backpacks on or around him and frankly he did not appear to be destitute whatsoever.

Even so, I did find it in my shriveled and pathetic heart to feel sad for the little man. Not sad enough to give him any money, of course. Obviously he was in some dire need for money or he wouldn't be standing on the corner at a stoplight holding a cardboard sign. If his family was so dang-ol' important to him he could call them collect and have them Western Union him some money to the closest grocery store and he could buy a one-way ticket to paradise.

There's usually always an alternative to begging. Unless you're begging for ice cream. I'm SO not too good enough to beg for THAT. If those crazy Taliban could just accept that we live differently from them and just TRY a little Marble Slab or Coldstone.....I just know that the middle-eastern woes of the world could be cured.

Playing Nascar

I spend all day at work trying incredibly hard to please people and to make them happy. People call me with all their problems and I'm the one they expect to make it all go away. This can be a little frustrating some days. Each day there's something and someone new calling in "needing" something from me. If you're one of my friends who just happens to be on the same stretch of highway at the same time as me, and if you also happen to be on the cell phone with me at the same time as when I'm completely fucking with another driver....then you've heard the simple pleasure and joy in my voice as I screw someone over purposely.

It's not just random people that I feel the need to fuck with. If you're being fucked with, you're one of "the chosen." You've done something to piss me off. Either you've fucked with me on the road thinking I'm some wimpy woman driver who will back down or you've fucked with some other unsuspecting driver who IS wimpy and WILL back down.

Let me tell you a story about my ride home today. I'm driving on the interstate going at least 5-10 miles over the speed limit. I notice a maroon Explorer riding my ass like he's driving himself to the Emergency Room. He gets into another lane to pass me at the speed of light only to slam on his brakes when he realizes he needs to be in the exit lane I'm in. So, he proceeds to wedge his ugly Explorer ass 4 inches in front of my front bumper to get between me and the car in front of me. Right then, I get a cell phone call from a friend....let's call her MBFLIK. Okay, how about just "my friend Flik."

I pick up the phone just in time for Flik to hear me scream, "Okay buddy! Get ready for some SUV to be rammed up your Explorer ass!" Flik immediately starts laughing. She recognizes that I've been crossed. I proceed to tailgate the Explorer just as he did me. A little taste of his own medicine, don't you see? As we merge onto the 4-lane highway, I then pass HIM at the speed of light and trap him behind me as I slow down to keep pace with the old guy in the grandpa car next to me going 5 miles under the speed limit. My friend Flik is still on the phone with me and happens to be merging onto the same highway I'm already driving on at nearly the same moment as I'm driving by. I give Mr. Explorer a small reprieve and speed up.....but only so that I might catch up with Flik. I'm giving her play-by-plays on the phone as we drive. By this time, there's a Dodge truck who cut in behind me between me and the Explorer. I'm not sure how that happened, but I'm choosing to think that the truck cut off the Explorer to get behind me. That gives me some small satisfaction.

I catch up to Flik, pass her and then move into her lane so that the truck can pass me. No need to punish the innocent, really. Then I quickly change lanes again to get in front of the Explorer so that I can slow down and keep pace with my friend Flik. We're laughing hysterically as she describes the incensed expression on Mr. Explorer's face. I purposely drive 5 miles out of my way just to fuck with that little bastard a little longer.

And so, as warning to you all....don't drive stupid out there. There may be someone willing to drive more stupid than you. She just might think that she can outshow, outrace and outhink you....because she watches Nascar. And she's right. Now let's be safe out there.

Dentiquette

I went to the dentist today for my regular 6-month cleaning. Why is it that I forget every time that I HATE having my teeth cleaned? Everyone is always so nice when you walk into the lovely office that is decorated ever so tastefully. Comfort surrounds you as you sink into a soft, plush loveseat to wait pleasantly and peacefully until your name is called. Ever so gently and sweetly they call your name and take you back to the leather chair with the wonderful little headrest. I always think that I'll be able to just lean my head back and take a little nap while they get their silly little cleaning out of the way.

And THEN, the serious business of attacking your teeth and gums from all angles with razor sharp little ice picks begins. Pick, poke, prod. Scrape, scratch.....screw you, you crazy hygienic bitch!!! Not the floss! Not the floss! Don't you see that's why my retainer is called PERMANENT? It can't be removed! Can't you even TRY to be gentle? Is it really necessary to MAKE ME BLEED in order to clean my teeth? Can't you see that my brow is furrowed, my toes are curled, my butt cheeks are clenched and my hands are balled into fists? Can you READ this body language?

And please, for the love of God, stop asking me questions about the weather and my job. You don't really care about the answers and frankly I'm concerned that you're delaying your own progress with idle chit chat. Get in and get out and shut the hell up in between. How exactly do you expect me to answer you when my mouth is wide open like a carp?

These could be the very reasons that rednecks, hillbillies, hicks and bubbas HAVE NO TEETH. Maybe all y'all ain't sa stoopid after'n all.

Big Bottomed Girls

Plans have been made for KC to come spend the weekend with me again. I asked him to call me just before he left so that I'd know approximately when he'd be here. He's from another city, so the drive can be lengthy. The phone rings just a few minutes ago.

Scooby: "Hello?" (I already know it's him...the glories of caller ID)

KC: "Hey. Just calling to tell you that I'm getting ready to leave."

Scooby: "Okay. Good. Drive safely."

KC: "Can you hear the song I'm playing?"

Scooby: (listens) "For the love of God....is that 'Big Bottomed Girls?'"

KC: (belly laughing) "Yeh....he.....es. Except it's 'Fat Bottomed Girls'. I'm playing the song for you. The song reminds me of you."

Scooby: "You're an asshole."

KC: "Oh honey, you know I love your ass or I wouldn't mess with it so much."

Huh? And this is supposed to make me feel better? MEN. The Y chromosome strikes again.

When a Woman Needs a Man.....Dammit

I had company staying at my apt most of last weekend. Male company, that is. We'll refer to him as KC. For those of you keeping up, you'll now know that I had two male fish on my line at the same time.

Any woman knows that when you're having a man stay with you, you need to either A) schedule your pooping appropriately (such as finding an appropriate public pooping area where no one will recognize you or your smell) or; B) wait to poop until the male has gone. There may be more options, but I chose plan B. As soon as KC left the area on Sunday afternoon/evening....I headed to the loo to do the doodoo. How many times have you plugged the loo with your own doodoo? It's a rarity for me, quite honestly. But in recent months my butt has gotten bigger, so perhaps the poop chute follows in suit. Leave it to me though, to NOT have a plunger. What self-respecting single woman really wants to go out and purchase one of THOSE?? Fortunately for me, I have another full bathroom in my apt. I figured I'd wait it out. See who's more subborn....me or my poop. Poop has to disolve over time, right??? These are rational thoughts.

Time flies and I'm still using the second bathroom and am occasionally flushing my main toilie just to check to see if the poop has disolved. By Thursday there is still no progress. Shit. Literally. How can this be? Does poop NOT disolve? If not, where does it go and what does it doodoo once it's gone from sight? What's a girl to doo? The solution is to A) take the plunge and buy a plunger, or; B) call apt maintenance. Which option is less humiliating? And where in the hell do you go to buy a toilet plunger? Surely they're not hard to come by. These are the times when a single, independent, allegedly self-sufficient woman WISHES SHE HAD A MAN. She wishes she were in a relationship that had been established long enough that plugging the loo would be funny and not something to use against her in a breakup. Men don't mind buying these things. Men look at each other with pride when they see each other carrying plungers around. They think to themselves, "Wow! That manly-man must have really laid some pipe!"

And so, the singleton search for the plunger is on. I checked the grocery store when I picked up my prescriptions. Looked by the bathroom items, looked by the brooms and cleaning items....no luck. Great. Now I have to head somewhere else after being told by Satan at the Grocery Store that I looked like shit. (is there a theme here?) So I head to Super Target. Surely Super Target has one. They have everything. They're the equivalent of Super WalMart but without the cluster fuck that only just BEGINS in the parking lot. As I wander Target avoiding any customer service people who may have been tempted to ask, "Can I help you find something," I head to the "manly" areas of the store. I go through automotive, tools, lighting, etc. No luck. Maybe it was somewhere else, maybe not. This was when I realized that Target is really marketed towards women and women with children. The "manly" sections in Target left a whole lot to be desired. This explains why you rarely see men shopping alone at Target. Really, if Target were listening, they'd take note of the fact that they're excluding an entire toilet plunging shopping base and would beef things up. I left with my poopy thoughts and still private humiliation.

As I left, I prayed to God: "Okay, God. You know I'm in a sitch right now. I'm going to the WalMart. You know the one, the HATED WalMart. But only because I'm desperate. Please, please, PLEASE DO NOT MAKE ME GO TO HOME DEPOT. They'll know I don't belong there. I look bad today, but I don't look like a lesbian construction worker. My manicure will give me away and they'll laugh at me and throw me out. If you do this, I promise I'll go to church on Easter Sunday. Best Regards, Scooby."

I now felt that God was on board with me and my mission. I bravely enter the hated WalMart and was of course, greeted at the door by the geri in blue. How sweet.

Scooby: "No, I don't need a basket. I'm just buying one thing."

Geri: "Are you sure? You can take one just in case. "

Scooby: "Thank you, no. I'll be okay."

As I walk away, I'm secretly amused thinking about putting a toilet plunger in a basket and driving that damn thing all through the store, up to the counter, and brazenly putting it at the very end of the roller-counter-thingie so that it could proudly ride up to the check-out clerk. Oh, to have those balls.

God was with me in the WalMart (a.k.a. the "WalMarts" if you're of a certain heritage south of our border) and I found the toilet plunger.....WITH THE PIPE. Good Lord, they make this hard for a woman.

Do you know how far they've come with toilet plungers? We're not just limited to toilet plungers on a wooden stick. Not just the choice between an orange or black plunger attachment. We now have plungers that shrink to fit under shelves in counters. I LOVE that idea. And I'd love to hide my shame under a counter. But, being the borderline OCD that I am, I have to think about the germie ring that the plunger would leave under the counter IF EVER (God, let's hope not) it has to be used again. Eureka! Now they have a plunger that has it's own little suitcase. You put the plunger in the suitcase, do a little twist, and the suitcase lid closes. Plunger hidden. Except for an obnoxious handle sticking out of the top. This is MUCH more suited for my OCD purposes and somehow, in my mind, a plunger in disguise is no plunger at all.

Are You The Woman That Forgot Her Brain?

So I was at the grocery store this afternoon picking up a couple of prescriptions. I'm innocently, quiety and patiently waiting in line at the "pick-up" counter.

Enter Mystery Grocery Store Employee: "Are you the woman that just had surgery?"

Scooby: (long pause) "Um, no."

Employee: "Oh, because you look like the woman that just had surgery." (she giggles and walks away)

Scooby: (long pause) "GREAT."

Another shopper then looks at me and giggles too. I choose to believe it was the "I can't believe she just said that" giggle, and not the "Oh my God, you DO look like the woman that just had surgery" giggle.

It was a fucking good thing Miss Overly Friendly Grocery Store Employee left when she did. ILL PEOPLE stand in line at the pharmacy. ILL PEOPLE who are anxious for drugs that will make them feel better. ILL PEOPLE who would not give a second thought to coughing and spewing infectious green phlegm on mystery grocery store employees who make them realize that not only do they feel bad, THEY LOOK BAD TOO. Bitch.