Kittens: “What is this ‘work on’ thing you speak of?  We are perfectly cute, there is nothing to ‘work on’.”
Me: “Good point.”

I looked at Moxley.
“Well Mox, you’re the awesomedog and really, there isn’t a thing you need to work on either.  Guess it’s just me that needs to improve.”
Mox: *UUURRRRRPPPP* as he barfs.  (Fortunately in the kitchen, easy cleanup.)
Me: “Aww, OK, that’s nice of you.  You can work on not drinking your water too fast and then running around like a banshee and barfing.”

Beyond the dog not barfing up his water and the cats continuing their quest for world domination via cuteness, there are some other things I’d love to see in 2010.

– Lord Stanley’s Cup coming home with the Washington Caps.  (Who should be playing in the Winter Classic today, but NBC and the NHL are full of morons.)

– Civility in the political arena.  There is this really nifty concept where people “agree to disagree” on various subjects that works quite nicely in lieu of ridiculous name calling.  (Note to all parties: The minute you play the Nazi card, you automatically lose the argument.)

– For the economic recovery to actually make it down to regular people and not just Wall Street.  It’s great that the markets have come back, but until people can go to bed at night without worrying that they will lose their house/job/everything, the recovery isn’t complete.

– More reading.  I need to find my library card again.  (Or just suck it up and pay the $2 for a replacement, which will guarantee I find the old one.)

– More patience with my grandmother.  Things are only going to deteriorate, and she’s never going to get that prescription for Valium that the rest of us so very much need her to have.  On the flip side, I also need to remember she has never, ever called with an actual emergency, and she hasn’t died as a result of getting my voice mail instead of me, so the guilt needs to go out the window.  (Probably all easier said than done.)

– For the awesomedog & superkittens to continue to get along so incredibly well.  And for Moxley to not be quite so nervous when Lily is in “Oh Moxley, I LOOOOOOOOVE you!!” mode.   (Right now she is cuddled up next to him, on her back, fast asleep.  Shame she doesn’t feel secure around him.)

– To learn how to clip the cats’ nails.  I chickened out and had the kennel do it while we were in PHX.  (Which also reminds me, the kitty clippers were the item I forgot to get at PetCo yesterday.)  I suspect this may be the easiest of my 2010 endeavours.

– Improve my housekeeping skills.  OK, the skills are there, just getting off my lazy ass and doing it.  I just have a knack for finding a million things that are more interesting than cleaning.

– Finally, to find a bit of direction in my life beyond just keeping my grandmother from calling 911 to ask what day of the week it is.  I think this will be the most challenging task of this year, as my grandmother’s situation has become a bit all-consuming to me as I have been having a very hard time convincing myself that I do not have to make myself available 24/7, and this has put a real dent in my doing anything new or different.

It’s more of a *thunk* than a *crash* but what it lacks in auditory flair, it more than makes up for with the visual of bits of green bottle everywhere surrounded by  red wine.

Bonus when it happens in the checkout line at the market.

In short, Moxley is a big tattletale.

It goes something like this…

“MOOOOOOOOOOOOM!”

“The kittens are fighting!”

“They’re running in the house!”

“They’re standing near the bicycle!”

“Lily’s in my spot on the couch!”  (Though he did attempt to take care of this himself by jumping on the couch and sitting on her.  Lily was unfazed.)

“Carmen is laying by the front door!”

“Lily is on my chair!”  (Followed by his jumping on the chair and Lily headbutting him.)

“Lily’s touching me!”

“Carmen went under the shelf by the door and I can’t see her now!”

The kittens have gone back upstairs for lunch and a nap.  The dog is utterly exhausted.

It’s not great by any means, but I do like my handwriting. It might take a second look to read some words, but it’s not as bad as a doc’s prescription.

# Do you prefer to print or write in cursive?

No actual preference, as I will switch between printing and cursive at will. (And yet didn’t realize it until my brother pointed it out to me just the other night.)

# Do you think handwriting should be graded in school?

HELLS Yes. Not necessarily “great cursive” (which we *were* graded on) but being able to write something that others could read at a later date.

# Do you prefer writing in pencil or pen?

Pen! Not that I do the NYT crossword in pen or anything like that, but I do prefer pen to pencil for writing, as pens go faster across the page than pencils do.

# When you write in ink, do you prefer a neutral color such as black or blue, or a fun color like purple or green?

I don’t know why, but I HATE blue ink. Black, pink, purple, green – it’s all good. Blue I will only use when there is no alternative. (I never said I was normal.)

But I’m OK with it. I once asked a bartender if my consistency in ordering made me predictable or pathetic. She said, “It makes you a good customer.” She really knew how to earn her tips.

There is the rare occasion where I deviate from the norm. Not often, but it does happen. And it worries people…

This afternoon I submitted my final paper and put the lid on another class. I then picked up a non-textbook and went outside and sat in the sun and read and dreamed of world travels. It was a good, hot, sunny day and this put the idea of margaritas into my head. Had I actually had the ingredients to make a pitcher here at the house, I would have, but I didn’t, so I kept reading and drinking Gatorade for the course of the afternoon.

Hoofed it up to the pub for some “it’s Friday night/my class is done/my brain can rot for a month” socialization and libations. This is where it went a tad sideways, and eventually I got ratted out to the manager…

I still had margaritas on the brain and near had to jump the bar to keep the bartender from hitting the Guinness tap (she’s a very good bartender) to ask for a margarita.

Her answer? “NO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” (With a look on her face that said I asked for Red Bull and rat poison.)

But she came through for me and the margs hit the spot head on. Then I asked for a Corona as a chaser. Because you can’t follow a margarita with a Guinness. (They simply do *not* blend well.) This is when the bartender turned to the manager and said, “Cindy’s messing us up!!!!!!!!!” This particular manager, not knowing my habits like the back of his hand, looked at her and said, “Corona is good, what’s the problem?”

My brother nailed it quite well when asked why I was going off the rails as far as my usual consistency goes. “I think she’s in beach mode.” (He’s quite smart.)

Hot sunny day, the beach is a mere two weeks away, I can let my brain rot for a little bit? Yes, I suspect I am in beach mode, which is sunshine, fruity drinks, and Coronas.

It’s not a bad mode to be in, even if it does upend the bartender occasionally.

There appeared to be no intimation of further discussion or any other activties, just the simple offer of a beer to a fellow pub-goer.

I shrugged and said, “Well, um, OK.”

In return I got the Obama Terrorist Fist Bump and, “That’s just how we roll.”

I can deal with that. (I did apologize for my beer of choice being an import vs. a domestic.) They also purchased my next adult beverage with no expectations of conversation or well, anything. At the end of the night, the first gentleman did say it would be great if I could “smack [his friend] on the ass and say thanks” – except his friend was then waylaid, so I offered to smack him on the backside and say thanks and call it even. He was completely OK with that, and I had no issues with it. (It’s been a while since I had someone say it was OK for me to smack them…*)

So, I easily caved and gave him a whack on the ass with a sincere thanks for the beer and all went off with silly giggles.

I then realized that I had quite possibly prostituted myself out to someone with a mild spanking fetish for two beers. Not sure what it says about me that it really didn’t bother me that much… Cause it’s not like there appeared to be any expectation of anything else.

Perhaps it’s time to rethink what my next move in life is.

* And I could only do it in exchange for money for the soda machine. But it was great to have a coworker that you could say, “I need to hit someone… I’ll buy you a Coke for it!”

Now, when one takes the late shift, there is a better than good chance that you’re going to run into someone that started their happy hour at 1730 and is still going at it full bore at 0100 hours. Can’t really judge on that one either – it is what it is. We all have bad days. However, this has given me a few insights. One of them being that most of these folks seem to be from the defense contracting sector of the beltway world. (Perhaps just a inevitable issue of living where I live…but it tends to not happen with non-govt-contractors, so I cannot help but sense a trend. Possibly a weird coincidence, but I think not.)

That all being said, I can remain quite unfazed when someone walks up and says, “I’m quite inebriated, but…” Because I could tell you were six sheets (yes, twice the traditional three sheets) to the wind even before you opened your mouth. I will certainly not be offended by the fact that alcohol may have helped you walk up to someone you don’t even know and say something complimentary. Let’s face it, alcohol is essentially liquid Xanax when consumed in sufficient amounts. (And a hell of lot easier to wean yourself off when you don’t need it anymore.)

However, there comes a point where you’ve just had one Vodka Xanax too many. And you’re describing in Cinemax-worthy detail of the ways in which you would be a GREAT boyfriend. (Or the ways in which you *think* you’d be a great boyfriend.) That is when you’ve crossed the line from “courage to talk to a stranger” to “courage to be a total freaking idiot in front of a complete stranger”… This is the point I will create an invisible super-awesome boyfriend out of whole cloth if needed. (And oh yes, I will do that if I have to. I am not above that kind of deception when required.) Or an invisible boyfriend based on a real person who I know will go along with the story if needed*… And trust me, said invisible boyfriend will be all that and a bag of chips, far and away beyond anything you think you can offer. If you’re lucky this is the point where your spectaculary more sober friend will come up and distract you with something shiny before you embarass yourself any further. (And apologize profusely for your behavior. And 5 minutes later will say, “Crap, I lost him again!”)

I will not argue that alcohol can be an excellent social lubricant. There have been countless social and pseudo-social events I have attended over the years that have been made exceptionally more tolerable with a dirty goose martini to kick things off. But really guys, you need to know where that line is – and stay on the right side of it. Or at least have friends that will keep you from speaking to any strangers when you go careening sideways over said line.

Just sayin’…

*Thank you, twas a lifesaver.
Black 47: The Reels

However, given the wide range of “sitting up with paws folded” cuteness posistions can mean, I really have no idea. It can mean any of the following:

Let’s go play ball!! It’s the middle of the night and the light-up balls have disappeared in the backyard.
I’m hungry! Except that he’s gotten multiple treats since I got home.
Rub my tummy! Did that and it made no difference.
Just sit on the floor with me! Did that, too. Still getting the ‘dog imitating a meerkat’ routine.

Sat down and cuddled with him one more time, and he just gave up. He’s now on his blankie on his side of the couch looking decidedly annoyed with my ability to read his mind.

Note to self: Find the light up balls so we can play catch at night…

So, I started with hot tea and lemon and honey and cough drops.  Worked semi-decently.  Not great, but better than nothing.

Then I decided I would beat the cough into submission with beer.  This worked surprisngly well.  Which makes sense when you think about it – alcohol does have mild anesthetic properties, and hence, less coughing.  The only problem with this is it’s not a practical 24/7 solution – mainly due to my own shortcomings – I’ve not been a member of the beer for breakfast club for years.  Also, there is the issue of your liver deciding to drunk dial your inner ear and make you walk into a wall.  No solution is foolproof.

This morning I gave up and went to the store to buy cough syrup.  Dammit.  I get pissed when I can’t intimidate my own body into doing what I want and I have to bring in Vicks products.  Of course, it’s been at least a year since I needed to get cough syrup and of course, all the formulations have changed.  So I’m literally sitting on the floor in the CVS with half a dozen bottles of medication trying to find something that doesn’t have Phenylephrine or Pseudoephedrine in it, cause I have figured out that’s what makes me a very angry little person.  Success!  Dextromethorphan only.

This stuff doesn’t work for crap.  It could be the fact that I can’t actually down an entire dose of it at once, thanks to the wonderful “berry blitz” flavor.  You can’t tell me with all the scientific advances we’ve made over the years, we can’t do better than cough syrup that tastes like a wild cherry life saver that has been under the couch cushions for three months.  Maybe it’s because it doesn’t have the “make me psycho” ingredients.  All I know is that this stuff definitely no longer has any benefit whatsoever for me.

Not only did the beer work better, it also had the added bonus of making everyone around me more attractive.

I’m back to the hot tea and honey and cough drops.  And I’ll just tell my inner ear to ignore any prank calls from my liver later tonight.

This afternoon I spied a cell phone in the grass between the sidewalk and street while I was out running.  While I did think about leaving it so the owner could backtrack to it, that was outweighed by the scattered rainstorms and the potential for kids deciding to play street hockey with it.  So, I picked it up and took it home.

Tried to call the phone to leave a voice mail for the owner, thinking they might be checking it remotely.  Great idea except that the voice mail wasn’t activated.  No “Home” or “Mom” or “ICE” in the contact list.  Put a found posting on Craigslist and a note at the bus stop where I found it.  Sent a text message to a female contact in the recent calls list.  (Dunno, just didn’t want to send a text to one of his potenially whackjob friends – mainly because I know how many whackjobs I have in my own contact list.)  And waited.

The phone rang and I answered – the owner calling from a friend’s phone!  He apparently parks his car right near the bus stop and dropped/kicked it out of the car.  Got the address for the drop off – he said, “You can drop it off at any hour, someone will be up.”  AKA, we have a house of half office workers, half restaurant industry. :)  I was on my way out, no big deal to make a 1/4 block detour to drop it off.

And this is where shallow comes in.  The voice was of a 6′2″ Tennessse farm boy between the ages of 22 to 35.  When I dropped off the phone, I was met by a lovely Indian lady at the door (wife/girlfriend/landlady/roommate) who seemed to be aware of the situation and happily accepted the phone (or had no idea and thought, “Hey, free cell phone!”)

So the phone was returned.  (Hopefully to the right address.)  But dammit, I wanted to see the face that went with the voice!!

But the phone is back with it’s rightful owner (in theory) and that has to be good enough.  And I can live with that.