A dame that knows the ropes isn't likely to get tied up. -Mae West

Even before I got Benny I was pleading the case with Mr. Onion for a second kitten. Once we had Benny and it was confirmed that he was a deamon fucker, hell cat I redoubled my efforts. I consulted the vet who confirmed that a second kitten would perhaps help to calm Benny down, or at least give him someone who could fight back with more than a squirt gun. I presented articles from cat fancy and the like, to no avail.   

Months passed and Benny grew, and grew and I resigned myself to having a fussy little fucker of a cat. Then one day Mr. Onion came home and mentioned oh so casually that there was a cat at the critter barn who needed a home. He said that she was a young female, about Benny's age (8 months) who was found abandoned in a trailer  with her litter of kittens. Since she had been taken in she had fostered an additional litter that someone had tried to drown in the river, and had managed to tame a feral kitten she was given to foster. I peppered him with questions: what was she like? Was she feline lukemia tested? what color was she? Mr. Onion in his infuriating way had no information, and seemed to think I was mad for suggesting we act on this information.  

Lucky for me I immediately knew his game. Expressing a desire to save a cat and offer it a home would put some serious strikes on the man card. By casually mentioning it to me he knew that I would attack like a Doberman on the mailman and relentlessly badger him until he agreed that I could get the cat. Then it would be my cat, my idea, my responsibility, and he and his man card would still be clear of any litter box obligations. Thus, began operation kitty kitty.  I meowed under my breath when he walked by and suggested it was his conscience. Cat toys on his pillow and ventriloquist pleas from Benny for a sister. Finally, it was my appeal to his cheaper nature that won him over ("She can be one of my christmas presents"). 

Saturday morning arrived and Mr. Onion appeared with a giant spaceship of a pet carrier, a tiny, modge-podge, speckled kitty blinking inside. I presented the crate to Benny and let him sniff and inspect. After several hiss free minutes I opened the door and Minnie Mae West sashayed forth. She sniffed Benny in the face and dismissed him instead surveying her dominion. Benny followed her, trying for all he was worth to get a sniff of her behind. In minutes Mae had made Benny her bitch and he hasn't been the same since. Like Romeo and his Juliet, Baby and Johnny, Buttercup and Westley, there is Benny and Mae. 

jaw muscles

This past weekend a birthday extravaganza was held in my honor. First stop: Zaftig's, which means plump woman in yiddish. I've come to understand that Zaftig's is the Carnegie Deli of Boston. Hour wait and completely worth it. I ordered a $20 sandwich, the New Yorker, 1/2 pound corned beef, 1/2 pound pastrami, hot, with swiss and russian dressing.... we're talking 5 inches of sandwich delight.   

When the plate was first set in front of me  I turned it this way and that planning my angle of attack. Any way I turned it, it was huge, so with cameras blazing I unhinged my jaw and took a five inch bite. Fabulous. 

Fast forward through a day spent at the Arnold Arboratum and an evening spent, eating drinking, and singing to the morning after. 

I had been awake throughout the night, never quite making it into deep, restful sleep. Just as the first grey rays of morning light happened through the window, the what that was keeping me awake occurred to me; My jaw hurt. A lot. I lay there clutching my jaw and wondering if I had blacked out at some point in the evening and missed my bout with a heavy weight fighter. Ibuprofen, a gallon of ice tea, and 1 individual pizza later and my jaw still ached and my friends had assured me that I hadn't taken to calling Mr. Goldengloves a sissy. Then it occurred to me. In my line of work I am constantly councelling children on the consequences of their actions and how all it take is one minute where you are showing off or trying to fit in to do something STUPId. What I had done, was eat a five inch sandwich. The consequences were these: bruised jaw muscles and lasting proof of my stupidity on ALL of my friend's cameras. The ache in my jaw would be my reminder that showing off comes with a price. Amen.  

Toasty Again

This past weekend I was in "the weeds" and this old man kept bugging me for warm bread. I was annoyed and in a hurry, so I stuffed the bread basket into the microwave and set it for 20 seconds and began to make a salad. Then a funny sight caught my eye, orange shadows were dancing on the floor. I yanked open the stupid microwave and the basket had two big melted holes in it and the napkin was engulfed in flames. All I could think was, "I don't have time for this crap!" I  impatiently blew out the flame, dumped the bread into an unmarred basket, and stormed into the diningroom thinking, "damn q-tip, I'll give him WARM bread."

LaDeDah + Fire = BAD STUFF

As the afternoon sun faded on this glorious day I puttered around the dining room at my latest future former place of employment lighting candles on the table tops and making conversation with the guests. As I neared one particular table the woman at it caught my eye and touched the candle holder in a gesture fraught with "please sir may I have some light". I rushed forward to oblige. (have I mentioned that I am terrified of fire and use a foot long grill lighter for this?)

Suddenly she was waving at me and saying, "NO, No! The oxygen!"

It turns out that her elderly husband was attached to a traveling oxygen tank and in my fervor I almost blew him up. Woops.

Who's the Pet Here?

My cat falls into the "special" category. He is 3 pounds of satanic arms and legs with teeth. Today I went to target and bought kitten repellent (so he stops eating the couch) and fresh toys (a package of furry mice and one of fuzzy mice). When I came home I dropped the bag and ladedah'd off to organize the kitchen cabinets (no I'm not lying I really did). The next thing I know I look up and he is dragging the full shopping bag across the floor.  

"WHAT are you doing?" I schreeked at him.

On closer inspection I say that he had one of the furry mice in his mouth, but couldn't disengage it from the wrapper so was taking the whole kit n' caboodle. I showed him the new toys and he sniffed each mouse in turn before biting a camo fuzzy mouse to let me know he had made up his mind. 

He took off with the mouse and for the rest of the night has been growling and hissing at me when I get too close. He lost the thing under the fridge and yowled and screamed until I fished it out for him, then hissed at me because I was messing with his toy. 

It occurred to me then, as it does from time to time, that I am the pet and Benny Whiskers (aka Benny the Brat, Benny the Bat, Benny Big Balls, Kittenzilla, and Fucker) is the master. 

In Bloom

In a moment of girly weakness I found myself seated at a jewelry counter with my mother and sister. We gazed hungrily down at the rows of engagement rings shining like the crown of jesus himself. I asked the woman to pull first one then another diamond from the case. I slid a 1.5 karat marquis cut diamond onto my finger and held it up to show my mother.

"It's on the wrong hand!" She shreiked. 

I looked down and thought, "Who cares."

"The left hand rocks the cradle while the right hand rules the world," I said.  

The market sells roses for 50 cents a piece and I buy myself fresh flowers every few weeks. At first I thought, "I'll show mr. Onion, I'll buy MYSELF flowers." but what was originally a ploy to shame my boyfriend became a practice in self indulgence. The fact is, I like having fresh flowers in the house, so why not treat myself to them? Why do I have to wait around for Mr. Onion to be in the doghouse before I can get some blooms?

Likewise, if a woman likes diamonds, why does she have to wait for a man to buy it for her? It seems to me that if women wait for men to indulge them they may never be fullfilled. Its like the woman who believes the man is in charge of giving her an orgasm. Most of the time she ends up pulling a when Harry met Sally so she can catch her beauty sleep. 

I wanted to tell my mother right then and there, wether it's flowers, rings, or orgasms I'm alright giving them to myself and in the end I can't help but feel like that little fact makes me a better candidate for gifting ( lest someone think I would be an unwilling recipient of any of the above).   

Jobless Island

Greetings from Jobless Island, where entire days can pass in a cheesecake induced haze. 

I finally had enough of the bartending gig... It sucked and I am just so not good at hiding my displeasure. I walked up to the annoying pretty boy owner and said, "I'm sorry, this isn't working out." and he said, "No." Those of you that know me know this one important thing about me, I dont take no well. Mr.Onion encouraged me to quit by carrying the 15 cases of wine that I was required to carry up into the attic weekly and instead carry it to the middle of the parking lot, tell them to fuck themselves and then leave. In that instant I was wondering why I insisted on doing the honorable thing. I was thinking, "NO?! NO! you stupid limp dick prick. I am quitting. The whole point is that YOU dont get to tell me what to do, so I can finish my shift and go on with our lives, or I can stab you with a fork and leave now." What I did was smile sweetly and say, "No, I'm not happy here and I need to be done." I think he must have seen that crazed look in my eye, because mr. I'm gonna bully you into staying backed down awfully quick. And I got on with the sleeping late and cheesecake consumption. Life's fine, thanks for asking. 

what I Saw

The coastal fog was thick this morning as I climbed aboard a bus bound for boston. From my seat against the window I watched as a crowd of people descended on the platform. In their center was a man younger than I by about 5 years, he was maybe 20, dressed in new age military fatigues (you know, pixelized camo). Several people hefted heavy bags, which they set at the soldiers feet as they gathered near the side of the bus. He gathered with first one group and then another for pictures. Last boarding call for logan, south station....

Dad handed the heavy bags to the attendent. THe round mother, her sloppy hair twisted into a bun, twiddled her fingers and then suddenly clutched her son. 

"I love you, mom." He said, burying his face in her shoulder as she sobbed. 

He hugged each of his well wishers furiously in turn. I love you was repeated a dozen times. 

"We'll blow something up when I get back," he promised a younger brother.

Again he clutched his tearful mother and father, and then boarded the bus saying, "oh jeez, oh jeez," plaintively under his breath.

I realized that I too was crying; giant tears of sorrow and fear. Oh, the gruesome cost of war, I am thankful and ashamed. He serves for me, Matt serves for me, Stanley died for me. Yet, I rarely give this a second thought. Truely shameful.  

A Golden Geyser

"Can I have a large Bud Lite please?"

I raise the ice covered mug to the silver draft and slide the lever forward. There are two glorious seconds where the golden brew flows then there is a sputter and a cough of foam splatters beer up my arm. "F%&@, the keg is out."

For all of you that don't know I have been sentenced to spend my summer faithfully preforming my duties as the world's worst bartender. Okay, maybe I'm not that bad and I am perhaps less than faithful, but you get the idea. The kegs are in a double door cooler just big enough for the three of them. Non-alcoholic beer (pointless shit) and the wine chillers are crammed in around them. These are the steps for changing a keg: 

1. find pubescent dish boy with spaghetti arms 

2. together wrestle keg onto dolly 

3. both jump on handle until dolly tips and dish boy is able to cart it out of the walk in and into the bar

4. hastily pile non-alcoholic beer (pointless shit) and wine chillers in the corner

5. discover that the bud lite is the middle keg, which means in order to remove the empty I must first lift a full keg of Bud (regular) over the lip of the door and far enough away from the opening that I can get the empty out the door. 

6.yank miserably on keg of bud whilst muttering obscenities under my breath, dish boy joins in, then a waitress who really needs her drink order. 

7. fucker won't move

At this point cranky restaurant owner storms into the bar. Spaghetti arm dish boy, needy waitress, and I (inept bartender?) freeze. He scatters us like gulls at the beach, grabs the freaking, stubborn keg of Bud and yanks it free. He disconnects the empty keg and hands it to dish boy, glaring as if to say, see? see how easy? He pulls the fresh keg to the cooler door and begins to attach the hose.

I stare in horror. 

In his pissed off hurry, he is connecting it wrong. I knows this because I have received several lectures on proper keg attachment procedure. Mostly from cranky restaurant owner. There's a hurricane a commin'...

He breaks the seal and a geyser of foaming beer-y goodness shoots into the air, directly into the face of cranky restaurant owner. The air is sucked from the bar and silence descends. He growls, manages to catch the seal threads, shoves both kegs back into the cooler, and storms out without a word.   

Dish boy stares at me, his face white, and slowly the corners of his little mouth turn up. "Holy...." He breaths. 

My sentiments exactly.  

Mr. Onion Loses His Mind

I finally managed to convince Mr.Onion that there was something missing form our lives... an entertainment center. Yesterday we drove to Walmart and chose a real whopper. Mr. Onion strongarmed it into the car and we were off. Once home it quickly became apparent that this was going to be fun. Not because I so love putting things together as much as the fact that Mr. Onion can rebuild engines but when faced with the complicated details of particle board and slot A meets notch B he loses his freaking mind. 

Even with Benny lending a paw Mr. Onion had about reached his boiling point by step 4 of the instructions. After that I demoted him to entertainer of the kitten whilst I put together the entertainment center (enlisting Onion to tighten screws etc along the way). THEN, I made the mistake of suggesting he put together the drawer while I nail the backing on the unit. I was about 5 nails in when I had to stop hammering or risk losing a finger I was laughing so hard. Mr. Onion had put one of the pieces in backwards and was talking dirty to the drawer as he pulled it apart. Then he flipped it over and hammered it back in swearing up a storm  only to discover that it STILL wasn't in right. I staggered, I clutched my stomach, and Mr. Onion glared. 

In the future I feel certain in the knowledge that this will be one of the defining moments of our relationship. Mr. Onion quit amidst my peels of laughter and resumed his post as screw tightener while I fixed the drawer, finished the entertainment center, and fell exhausted into bed.  Lesson learned: taunt your help, build by your onesies.  

cranky cranky

This is the last full week of school. With humidity it was 108 here on tuesday. I had recess duty and an impertinent child taunted me as  I slathered on nuclear strength sun screen. I consoled myself with the knowledge of what her skin, now a youthful brown, would look like at fifty. On monday one of my kids looked at me and said, "You know what I realized on the bus? There are more kids than adults so we could take over." It was then I decided the learning was through and have been concentrating on staving off a mutiny ever since. And then there are the adults. Anyone have any idea how hard it is to deal with 50 people who have either checked out or give you a shit eating smile to our face and talk about you behind your back? It is a constant reminder of why I like kids.  And then there is the little fact that some.... bovine... has decided that she isn't happy with any of her choices for job for next year, so she's taking mine. And even though I am the person that the teacher and the special ed director want for the job she has more seniority so she gets to go where she wants, and then she has the GALL to bitch about the job!! MY JOB!! I also have to chaperone two different field trips, both to the beach where I will have to bare skin in front of adolescents or risk heat stroke. I know, I know, bitch bitch bitch. 

No Dynamite Here Folks

Scene: Very early on a work day in a tiny apartment bathroom, no windows.

LaDeDah (into the mirror): Oi, I should call in sick. 

No, bad girl you have to go to work and shape young minds. 

BUT I DONT WANT TO!

You have to. What kind of example are you setting?

The kind that says, "become a teacher and get 12 sick days to use to your heart's content." Really I'm promoting my profession. 

Are you through? Brush your teeth and suck it up, you're going to school. 

grumble, grumble grumble (LaDeDah commences brushing her teeth)

Mr. Onion (coming to the door): Are you almost finished? I need to blow up the bathroom.

LaDeDah: You need to do wha... oh... I'll be done in a minute.

(LaDeDah begins to frantically stockpile the day's beauty supplies. The bathroom will be unfit for humans for a good half hour)

Later that day...

LaDeDah: Yeah, so I have to go home and blog about the phrase, "Blow up the bathroom."

BossLady (looks to the board where one of the students has recently written the rule, "what happens in the bathroom stays in the bathroom."):Who said that?

LaDeDah: Mr. Onion, this morning while I was brushing my teeth.

BossLady:Well it's nice to know the romance isn't dead.

End Scene

I like lists

I've had this list hanging around for a while. I figure if I publish it I'll be more likely to finish it, so here goes...

10 Things to Do Before 30

1. Learn to Belly Dance

2. Take knitting classes

3. Have a story published

4. Learn to ride a motorcycle

5. Get my masters

6. Establish a successful photography business

7. Have my own classroom

8. Travel Europe

9. Drive from Mexico to Alaska, length of Rt1

10. Volunteer at an orphanage

Heavy Metal

How many of you have ever explored the local Metal scene? No I'm not talking about trying on a gold bracelet at Tiffany's. No, I don't mean taking in the bronze age sculptures at the Musee d'Art. Last night I attended a Heavy Metal concert.  I am not what anyone would imagine when picturing a devotee of the genre. Light make-up, clothing meant to offer the maximum in comfort and the minimum in fat rollage, long hair that has never (not once) been died black, etc etc. You would be right, I am not a metal fan, but my boyfriend, Mr. Onion (we call him that because he's got layers), is a HUGE metal fan, AND his brother plays in a well respected local metal group. Apparently metal and I were fated to stand uncomfortably in an empty elevator together, each watching the floors slowly click by and hoping the other won't try to strike up a conversation. I go to these concerts because Mr. Onion hopes to instill an appreciation for the man yowl, and savage guitar playing, and lyrical hyjinx, and absurd stage theatrics. He wants me to share this with him and deep down I want to like it. 

The band was called Man Witch. A name I took to mean man who practices witchcraft until the Gerber faced lead singer began a soliloquy on the tastiness of a Manwiche. The mental image of a flaccid, pink, wiener, looking like an outie belly button between two slices of whole grain, was enough to make me a little green. I held out hope for the performance until about the time that Manwiche launched into the ballad "Giant Pillow of Fear".  I looked around at my fellow concert goers and saw a room full of BAD hair and faces that would be perfect on a poster with the caption, "This is your brain on drugs."Needless to say, I was unimpressed. 

I know that my gross generalities are slightly careless and mostly for humorous affect. The truth is that everyone I know who appreciates Metal is well-read, and well-spoken. I can appreciate talented musicians like Dio and enjoy the stage shows and the smart historical lyrics. For me, however, the whole thing goes cold when I see a band with little talent using thier stage show to distract from the fact that they can't play their instruments, or when one man yowl sounds just like the next. Metal is a music that I can think about and appreciate on a purely mental level, but rarely does it transcend and become something I can identify with.