I Think I've Been Blessed

Leaving the Greater Stadium Area after working football, even though my legs and feet were sore and tired, I was in a particularly good mood for a couple of reasons. First, at the height of load-in, at the busiest moment when all the folks were coming in my gate, one of my bosses stood beside me and asked, "Does it always go this smoothly?" Why yes. Yes it does. Second, we were out of there with daylight still left instead of at 10 or 11 at night like the last two games, and I knew that both of my loves would still be awake when I got home.

As I approached my car, feeling beneficent toward the world, a presumably Crazy Homeless Man stood on the corner. He pointed with vehemence, with his entire arm, his entire body, at each car and pedestrian passerby. Then he put his palms together in front of his face and bowed. The he pointed with vehemence at the next passerby, and bowed again. He was roundly ignored.

When he pointed and bowed at me, though, I put my palms together in front of my face and bowed in return. He looked at me for a moment, then nodded with vehemence several times, as if a deeply held conviction had been confirmed. Yes, that nod said. Yes. Fucking-A. That's what I'm talking about. Yes! Then he waved at me, then pointed with vehemence at the next passerby.

Huh?

Fleet Foxes "White Winter Hymnal"

I was following the pack
All swallowed in their coats
With scarves of red tied 'round their throats
To keep their little heads from falling in the snow
And I turned 'round and there you go
And Michael you would fall
And turn the white snow red as strawberries in the summertime.

Why I Don't Talk About the Bailout

Here's another 100-Word Challenge from Velvet Verbosity. These are fun. I'd kind of forgotten about them, so I added VV to my blog roll to help me remember.

Moral

In 1992, Bruce Springsteen sang that there were fifty-seven channels and nothin' on. Now, only fifty-seven channels seems quaint. Provincial. Like how many you're allowed in England. Or France. Here, in America, the Greatest Nation on Earth, we're into the hundreds by now. At least. Maybe more. The cutting edge. 24-hour news channels. Passels of passionate pundits yelling at each other for their due while the crawl contradicts. The moral of the story is no moral, is passivity: we can do nothing because we can know nothing, because everybody knows something different. We are crushed beneath an avalanche of information.

Living Up to His Old Man's Athletic Legacy

I'm trying to teach my son to kick a ball. I say, "Kick it! Kick the ball! Kick it!" Then I kick it across the room. He looks at me blankly. I go get the ball. I say, "Kick it! Kick the ball! Kick it with your foot!" I wave my foot at him. "Foot! Kick it with your foot!" He squats down, grabs my toes, and says, "Toesh!"

"Yes," I say. "Toes. Kick it! Kick the ball with your toes!" I kick the ball across the room. "Toesh!" he says, and runs to retrieve it. He carries it back, holding it up. "Kick key!" he says and hands me the ball. I put it down. "Kick!" I say. "Kick it! Kick the ball! Kick it!" I grab his ankle and swing his foot into the ball. "Yay!" I cheer. "Good kick!" He runs after it. I think he has to get it now. He'll at least poke at it with his toe. No, he picks it up. He runs back to me, holding it up. "Kick key!" he says. "Kick key!"

Apparently I have taught my son that the name of that particular ball is "Kick It." Maybe he's more the musician type.

Tasha's Tail

Aerie made a scrapbook a couple of years ago of all our cats. Along with the pictures, she wrote each of their stories. There was "Sampson's Story," "Harley's Hisstory," "Tasha's Tail," and "Puck's Profile." Tasha's Tail ended this morning, probably from damage to her organs caused by the Metacam she was prescribed for pain from her torn knee ligament. The emergency vet on Sunday hypothesized that her lethargy and refusal to eat were due to ulcerations in her G.I. track from the Metacam. Yesterday, we gave her the medicines prescribed and force-fed her a soft meat paste with a syringe. By last night, she still hadn't perked up, so we planned on taking her to our regular vet again this morning. But she didn't make it that long.

So rather than dwell on all that, here's Tasha's Tail. I'm sorry in the end you knew hunger again, little girl.

Tasha's Tail

Gender: Female

Breed: Domestic Short Hair

Markings: Torti

DOB: 02/01/1999

Weight: 12 pounds

Likes: Kit-n-Kaboodle (aka PIECES!), being told how pretty I am, bread and butter, being told how pretty I am, back scratches and being brushed, being told how pretty I am, people, kitty greens, sitting on laps

Dislikes: The ironing board, having my toenails clipped, my brother Puck, being disrespected (it happens all the time, I swear!)

Hobbies: Keeping an eye on Puck to make sure he doesn't have any fun, grooming, playing with Ducky, stealing things off the table, tripping Momma and Daddy

Momma and Daddy took me home from the Town Lake Animal Shelter. I was happy that the shelter took me in because it was tough on the street. I’d recently given birth to a litter of kittens and I don’t remember what happened to them. I was malnourished and weighed barely 6 pounds (I’ve since been able to reach a beautiful, shapely 12 pounds and plan to never know hunger again).

At the shelter, they were calling me Pompei, which sounds like some foreign city. I quickly informed my new staff that my name was Natasha. They call me Tasha, which is fine. Some of the other nick-names are not so okay (like Tubby), but it’s so hard to find good, respectful staff these days. Don’t get me wrong, I love Momma and Daddy, but I just don’t always get the respect I deserve. Don’t they realize that cats were once worshipped? Momma tries to tell me that she is the queen in the house, which is why I have trouble respecting her. I love her a lot, but she’s not that bright. She brought that Puck into our lives and refuses to get rid of him! Now, Daddy has more sense than that. I have to respect him, so I won’t swat at him or hiss when he makes me mad.

I like people better than other cats because I’m clearly superior to other cats and much more beautiful. Harley was an okay brother and I do miss him. We got along pretty well and I had to respect him because he was already living with Momma and Daddy when I moved in. Puck is a different story, though. I’ll never understand why Momma invited him in. He’s such a brat! He doesn’t respect my authority.

Being this beautiful is a difficult and stressful life. There’s the constant grooming and unladylike hairballs. But, it’s all worth it. It’s not easy managing this household. I have to keep a constant watch on Puck and am always having to remind the staff when it’s time to be fed. They are sometimes late returning from their day of frolicking and you can almost see the bottom of the food bowls! Humans. *sigh*

I’m Tasha. Admire me.

Farewell, Miss Thang

Goodbye, Tasha. We'll miss you.

Tales from the Playground: The Dirty Rat

A little boy of Thumper's age (almost exactly, in fact) climbed up the single step and stood on the slightly raised platform with two older kids. The girl, probably between two and three, put her hand on his chest, straightened her arm, and launched him right back off the step he just climbed and flat onto his back. He cried; his mother came running. Her mother, who was bottle-feeding a near-newborn, hadn't seen the incident and said, "Oh, he fell!" I said, "Actually, she pushed him."

The next thing I know, the girl's mother hands the tiny baby to her friend and pulls a wooden spoon out of her purse! She carries around a wooden spoon! She yanked the girl over by the arm, and whacked her a good one on the bare back of her leg. I couldn't believe it! Is it me, or does that strike you as an incredibly ballsy thing to do in a public place in this day and age?

I feel horrible. I ratted her out, and she got whacked. I mean, she was an aggressive little snot, but now I think I understand from whom she's learning that aggression.