In Which Scooter Brings His Girlfriend Home

I woke up this morning without the killer headache that kept me couch-ridden all day yesterday. When I went to let Adicus out, he went directly to one of the armchairs out on the porch and proceeded to freak out. I forced him out the door and looked under the chair. There was a small black lump under there, and Scooter was patting and licking the lump.

Scooter has a bad habit of bringing us stuff. Like bugs and birds and moles and mice and voles and a baby rabbit. Yes, a baby rabbit. So my first thought was perhaps this is a skunk. A wounded skunk. I stood up, and Scooter came out from behind the chair. I asked him, in a calm and even tone, what he brought us this time. At the sound of my voice, a little black kitten jumped up onto the railing from behind the chair, climbed the screen, jumped off the wall and flew out the cat door. Scooter followed behind, and I could just imagine him saying: “you noes goes! mama is cool. she is will feed you and stuff!”

He returned right before breakfast, and immediately checked in with me to assess the damage. I loved on him and told him that until we can afford to neuter him, I don’t suppose I can say much about him bringing girls home.

What I find amazing is that my other three cats did not show any care or concern that there was a strange cat in the house. Ivan sat in the armchair in the living room and watched in detached amusement. Gizzy was nowhere to be seen. Lewis smacked Scooter in the head, but I feel like this had more to do with Scooter being the only cat still intact, rather than his bringing a visitor home.

While I do love sweet little black cats, we are at full biomass capacity in our little farmhouse. Scooter’s girl is welcome anytime to visit, and will surely be given the same treats, food and love as my own cats. Because I’m the irresponsible (read: broke) party that’s letting a male cat run around un-neutered, if Scooter knocks his girl up, I’ll make sure that she and her kittens are cared for. At the county cat rescue.

Let’s give it up for Scooter! At least he’s getting some.

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Certifiable

My blog BFF and a true and dear friend outside of the interwebs, Tricia, has bestowed me with this lovely award. I am incredibly deserving of a Crazy Chicks award, and I think it was awfully nice of Tricia to recognize that.

I’m passing along to nuttycow. She’s my new favorite crazy chick.

Protected: Laptops, Email and Print Servers, oh my!

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Casablanca

The mother of all classic movies.

So, Casablanca, while a little overdone in my opinion,  is probably not the movie to watch if you’re already on the brink.

I think my favorite part of the entire movie was when Ilsa laid her head on Rick’s chest and said “I don’t know what’s right anymore. You just need to do the thinking for both of us”. I hear you sister. I hear you.

I had conflicting feelings when Rick put her and Laszlo on the plane. He made an incredible sacrifice for an important cause, and I hope that’s the only reason he put Laszlo on the plane. I wouldn’t have wanted him to. Laszlo loved her, but I don’t think that’s why he put her safety above his own. I think that he was a noble man, and a noble man never could have left her there and gone ahead without her.

Rick loved her with a fiery passion. He wanted her. What woman doesn’t relish in a man having that kind of desire for her? What woman doesn’t yearn, deep inside the core of her soul, to be wanted with that kind of depth and intensity? I believe her love for the two men mirrored their love for her: Laszlo represented that comfortable, familiar love built on withstanding adversity together. She thrived, though, on her passionate love for Rick.

Why must the Ricks of the world must protect us from our passion, from our deep yearning to be desired at an all consuming level? Why can’t they sweep us off our feet and spend the rest of their lives wandering into the kitchen to throw us against a counter top and kiss us deeply, with intense feeling? Why must they be so noble, so unwilling to steal us from our Laszlos, or borrow us a little while? I dare say that it’s some form of oppression, in that they refuse to follow their hearts, our hearts, because believing in the power of emotions and heart is inherently feminine. It simply must be the wrong thing; to be irrational, to throw practicality, morality and logic to the wind in order to honor the undeniable song in our hearts.

So they do the thinking for us, when we don’t know what’s right anymore. They put us on planes, with our Laszlos, shuttle us to safety, send us back to our lives filled with sacrifice and adversity and safe, comfortable love. They reject us, not because we are undesirable, but because we are dangerous, we are complicated, we are difficult. Yet our greatest hope and wish is that your desire is enough to overcome all of that. The fact that it isn’t is, in itself, a rejection.

I’m sure Rick was right when he said “If that plane leaves the ground and you’re not with him, you’ll regret it. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow, but soon and for the rest of your life.” I know that he wanted the best for IIsa and the world. But dammit, Rick, do you even comprehend the sweet joy you’ve denied her forever?

“We’ll always have Paris.”

We could have had a lot more.

Here’s lookin’ at you, kid.

Protected: Goodnight, Irene. Redux

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Clash by Night

It’s been a quiet Sunday, ya’ll. A little quieter than I intended, but nice nonetheless. I got my boring domestic stuff done, and when I’m finished avoiding Sunday night and it’s inevitable follower, Monday morning, I’m roasting a chicken for dinner. I’ll be taking another stab at the stock and soup making later this week and I’m looking forward to chicken salad for lunch. Last time I chopped some celery and walnuts into it and it rocked.

My Sunday afternoon was consumed by this incredible movie. I’ve developed quite an appetite for old black and white movies lately. It started with a Gregory Peck marathon last week and resulted in my scouring the old movie channels for DVR fodder. Casablanca records tomorrow night, and I am too pumped, ya’ll. Does it get more classic than that?

The draw for me in these old movies is the dialogue and the drama. Modern movies are okay, I guess, but back then everything was deep and melodramatic and symbolic, and it just rings with  me in a way that “Ten Days to Lose A Guy” just can’t. Behold these awesome quotes from Clash by Night.

Earl Pfeiffer: Mae – what do you *really* think of me?
Mae Doyle D’Amato: [coolly] You impress me as a man who needs a new suit of clothes or a new love affair – but he doesn’t know which.
Earl Pfeiffer: [stung] You can’t make me any smaller. I happen to be pre-shrunk.

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Earl Pfeiffer: [to Mae] Jerry’s the salt of the earth – but he’s not the right seasoning for you.

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Mae Doyle D’Amato: Aren’t there any more comfortable men in this world? Now they’re all little and nervous like sparrows or big and worried like sick bears. Men!

Earl Pfeiffer: Women!

Love this! Even back then, women found the male creature lacking. When in history have we ever been satisfied?

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Mae Doyle D’Amato: I’m tired of looking after men, I want to be looked after…
Peggy: Is that what you want from a man?
Mae Doyle D’Amato: Confidence! I want a man to give me confidence, somebody to fight off the blizzards and the floods, somebody to beat off the world when it tries to swallow you up. Huh, me and my ideas.

Go, Mae go! Explain the female condition! Just don’t forget the part where they let us go to the bar once and awhile. That part is important.

I’m with her- give me a confident man who takes what he wants. Like when Earl throws her up against the kitchen counter and kisses her until she gives in and kisses him back. I’ve been shoved into a kitchen countertop during a passionate embrace only once, and I would give an eye tooth to relive it. Not a staple of married life, you know.

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Mae: You say to yourself, wait be patient, things will change, you’ll feel different.. No good , nothing changes. The days go by, down to the grocery store, back to the house, hang out the wash, take the dishes out of the closet. Go to bed, wake up.. wait wait wait… Shut your mouth, close your eyes. this is the man you married.. This is the life you’ve made. Expect nothing. hope for nothing. And every day, a little older, a little duller and a little stupider

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Amen, sister! Sing it! I think there’s a part of every married woman who dreams of throwing off the bonds of responsible life and running away. Of course, the ones who do that just end up married to someone else and hanging out their wash, but everyone has a dream, right?

Don’t get me wrong, she’s looking for something that just doesn’t exist. I just wish that I could live back then for just a little while. Long enough to pluck the ever living hell out of my eyebrows, make some pointed dramatic comments and drink coffee and whiskey at the same time.

Casablanca comes on tomorrow night. I don’t even think I’ll wait till it records on the DVR. I’ll watch it as it records.  Play it once, Sam. For old times’ sake.

Those were the days. ~sigh~

Wish me luck with that chicken, ya’ll.

Filler

I was out until 330a last night, ya’ll, and I had an absolute blast. For those who expressed concern, I quit drinking around midnight and so I was actually quite sober by the time I drove home. Now if I could just get a hold of my coworker, who was not so sober (and is very fucking stubborn) when he left, and be assured of his safety, I could consider the entire evening a smashing success.

Here’s some filler while I re-hydrate and try to cut down on the fester factor here at the house.

I am… intelligent, but perhaps a little too honest and/or expressive.
I think…all the damn time, even when I should be trying to sleep or relax.
I know…that I’m hot and smart enough to be a pain in the ass.
I want…more security and more sex. Now.
I have…a full life and a promising future.
I wish…WH would grow up a little quicker.
I hate…scantily clad skanks who don’t even have the figure to pull off their outfits.
I miss…having more time to hunt wildflowers and take picnics on the Parkway.
I fear…failure, bees, puke, poverty and bad decisions.
I feel…a little hungover, but a lot happier than I’ve been in about a week.
I hear…the wind rustling the trees around the house.
I smell…fresh brewed coffee.
I search…for fulfillment, for contentment, for the copy of the high school creative writing mag I was published in.
I wonder…what people really think of me.
I regret… some most of my financial decisions.
I love…WH, and the other people in my life that make it so full. Oh, and vodka, apparently.
I care…about being the best person I can.
I always… show up late.
I am not…patient enough.
I believe…that you reap what you sow.
I dance…much better when I’m a little drunk.
I sing…with a ton of heart and very little pitch.
I don’t always…make my best effort.
I write…because I can’t live without it.
I win…when it really counts.
I lose…my temper too often.
I never…take care of myself the way I should.
I listen…to the meaning behind peoples’ words.
I can usually be found…unless I forget to mind my cell phone.
I’m scared of… giving in to the Crazy.
I read…lots of blogs. Textbooks. Too few “fun” books.
I forget…that sometimes it’s a good thing to limit what you tell most people about your private life. (except for the interwebs!)
I just…fed my passel o’ housecats and Adicus.
I am happy about…fall being right around the corner.

Update: numerous text messages received from coworker. Is fine. 🙂