thestain

Choosing a Candidate: First, Wait for a Sign

This morning at 9:15 my doorbell rang, setting in motion a cacaphony of barking (Zeke and Jasper) and howling (Hank, a blue heeler; she's lately abandoned the simple bark as plebian and has embraced instead the high pitched screechy howl, perfect for morning or evening.)
I went to the door and, sandwhiching myself with some difficulty through a crack big enough for me and only the business end of Zeke's still barking head, I am greeted by a man; a small man with thinning hair, but long over the ears, he's holding a clipboard as if it were his spleen. He asks if I'd like to be added to his list for a mail-in ballot. He seems to be asking me, but his eyes are still on Zeke's head sticking out the bottom of the door. Or so I think at the time.

"You should watch out..." he warns. People are always warning me about something.

I stepped outside, pushing Zeke's head back in the door and closing it behind me. The barking is now muffled. This leaves me standing on my front door step wearing Heinrich's pajama bottoms and a t-shirt riddled with holes. I am cold. It's 45 degrees. I wish I had my coffee, which is just now finishing its brewing cycle in the kitchen. I hear the beep. Typically, I require 8 cups before I can process men on my doorstep.

The man continues to register a small amount of distaste. But, then, he's wearing tweed pants and shiny leather slip on shoes, which I found distasteful; A crisp cotton shirt with a flying mallard on the pocket. Is there no day free of ironing for some people? My feet are very cold. One of them, anyway....

"Are you a Jehove's Witness?" I ask, to get the ball rolling. "Interested in my Personal Relationship with The Lord? Would I like new knives that never need sharpening? Pheasants Forever? Ducks Unlimited? Magpies Maybe?" I list the possibilities, thinking of my strong strong coffee waiting warmly inside.

"I'm with Dave Beeter's campaign..." he begins, trying to erase his sneer. Adjusting his spleen for action.

"Yeah. Okay. I'm voting for Beeter, and, yeah, I'd love a mail in ballot." I am dancing to keep warm. The only reason, in my opinion to dance, whitely. I really don't have rhythm and that, I assume, is why he looks increasingly frantic, eyes blinking and darting to and fro like some sort of bad short going on behind his trendy frames. An all out war between his brain and his eyeballs.

He says, again, "WATCH YOURSELF! EWW!"

We stare at one another. I wonder if I should offer him a sedative. Something to take the edge off. A social anxiety drug. Sunglasses....

"Okay." I say. "So...."

He stares at me, again, at my now still feet. He looks again at my face. I almost expect him to tell me that Beeter exposes himself to school children, but he's solid on wanting to increase bike lanes. Beeter hates minorities, but loves women. "Wants bitches to have all the rights that ho's enjoy!"

The guy seems conflicted. I want to get back in bed and drink my coffee. Read...
"SO?" I ask, "Are we done?"

"Would you let us put up a sign in your yard?" he asks finally. Almost like he doesn't want to, though. Like the question was on his list and he had to ask, but ...he is reluctant. Hank can still be heard howling in the distance.

"Yeah, okay," I shrug. It's sad, but probably inevitable.

Everyone on every side of me and across the street has a Dave Beeter sign in their yard.
"As long as it won't hide the Lyndon LaRouche 2008 banner..."

He looks at me, at my feet again, and back to my face. He backs up.

I laugh, "Just kidding!"

He seems less relieved than I would have expected. Infact he sighs.
"Okay. We'll get one out...sometime..."

He is already walking away. Sort of waving without looking back.

It isn't until after he's rounded the shrubs and I turn to go back inside that I realize I am standing in a big pile of dog shit. RIGHT ON MY FRONT DOOR MATT. DOG SHIT. NOT, I might add, MY DOG'S SHIT.
SOMEONE ELSES! My dogs do not ever go in my front yard. EVER.

What sort of deviant dog shits on a Welcome matt? One of my neighbor's no doubt. Did the guilty neighbor actually watch his/her dog hunch over my doorstep's friendly greeting? I'm convinced of it. I picture a whole bevy of these slip-on shoe wearing, 3 block dog walking Beeter enthusiasts standing in the street and holding their applause while the biggest dog in their group strains to dump his vile load upon my freshly swept threshhold.
"There's her sign!" the owner says quietly.

Of course, now I can't vote for Dave Beeter, NOR can I allow his sign in my yard.

I Remain

I Recommend: Because She IS Funny

I Respond:
To Reader Phil, who writes in the comment section,

Dear Katy,

OK, what accounts for this Willard-like renaissance? You back on your meds?

Phil! Is that your real name? Because did you know, unless you add, "That's PHIL, with a 'Ph'" during introductions people might snicker. Or look at your crotch. I care about things like that, deeply. I don't want people thinking Phil is some sort of porn star name. "Phil Her Up" Because you seem like a nice, decent family guy.

Willard-like Renaissance... I need more. I keep picturing that horror movie from the 70's featuring rats; the movie my brother took me to see, after telling my mother that we were going to see Cinderella. For years I thought the story of Cinderella was way less enchanting than my peers. I didn't get the whole "It's a Cinderella Story" reference, either, as being good thing. Rats everywhere. Now, as an adult, I see the similarities and how they really are basically the SAME MOVIE. Brillant!

Is the past tense of Phil Phul?

Mew Goo Gai Pan

Data Strategy

I’m supposed to be writing a Data Strategy. I’m not actually sure what one looks like. I know if people were honest they’d say, “Make it 30 or so pages, with some diagrams and maybe an Excel spreadsheet attachments with data-y sounding names….”

I don’t want to, though. No one will ever read beyond the first page, which, happily is what I have completed, entitling it “Debbie Does Data”. Next, I PLAN to copy and paste 30 pages from another, earlier Work of mine, “Install Document for Lightning Mapping Extension”….some of my best stuff, and stick it behind the Title page. All I will then need to do to wrap things up is search and replace some recurring theme words, like ‘software’ with ‘data’, and ‘install’ with ‘strategize’, add a graphic or two, which I’ll find off the internet ….SHAZAM! I can go back to listening to Chet talk about his cats.

Chet is a Cat Fancier. He shows cats. Like the Westminster Dog Show, only with cats. Can you believe it? Can you think of a more senseless activity? I mean besides painting them on saw blades or clogging? He talks of Cat Breeding as if it were a GOOD THING. I like to counter with tales of my own….like yesterday, my Chinese Chicken Salad recipe, handed down from Chinese/hillbilly relatives. How in China the word for ‘cat’ and ‘chicken’ is the same.

“Those curly crunchy raman-like noodles? In the original recipe were deep fried fur patches,”

“Not uh.” He said, lip curled, looking uncertain, yet frantic. The hand holding a picture of his pedigreed sweater wearing salad ingredient falling limply to his side.

“Oh yes!” I assure him. “I lived in China on a 'chicken' ranch as a child. They feed the cats CHICKEN BY PRODUCTS! The word for ‘hairball’ is ‘sidedish’….”

This makes it hard for him to continue on with his version of fancying.

“We are flying Princess Pamela to Maine to be bred…”

I nod. “Breaded…mmmmmm…..the Chinese word is ‘Tempura’”

Operation Mind Crime

...Speaking of shovelizing your Other Half, mine just called to ask if I'd like a ticket to go see Queensryche with him tonight.

"I'll buy!" he enthused, "Tickets are only $10!"

"I'd rather breastfeed ravenous adult badgers from my long-dry motherjugs." I replied. 

I hope this wasn't too ambiguous.  I've seen this bad 80's band one time already.  On stage as their main prop, the Icon to what their tour was about, I assume, was featured a large fiberglass model ear.  Men in their 40's wearing lycra, attempting splits and jumps that 20 pounds and 15 years did not sign on for around a big pink...ear.  Just like the one that some doctors have in their office next to a model of the vagina, the plastic heart, some pamphlets on Lipator. 

With the canal and everything.  Wax. A few long hairs sticking out.  Or so I imagined.  I wanted to run down to the stage and stuff a big cotton ball in it.  Get a few people and rush the stage with q-tips.  But the band just kept singing those bad 80's songs, and I kept listening until my imagination was tired of the possibilities.  My body resigned to inaction.  I didn't have a qtip.  I wasn't prepared.  That is sort of how I feel about politics these days. 

I still wonder how any babies were born at all during this sad rock and roll decade.

I like badgers.

I now pronounce you man and mound...

I'm all for killing your spouse.  I mean, if the person who vowed to Love Honor and Obey you for LIFE, thinks we'd be better off hitting you over the head with a shovel and moving on, then who are we to argue? I think ProChoice needs to expand its horizons.  What is a wife, but a cluster of cells that argues? What is a husband, except an egg that operates all 5 of your remote control devices?  I'm not a cynic. I believe in love.  I love love.  I love chocolate and flowers, too, but I don't think I need to keep them around forever.  Chocolate gets eaten, flowers die and are tossed out.  We have to be realistic about love. Divorce is for lawyers.  I do think there should be a process. Like with the wedding. 

"Do you John Sundry, wish to shovel your wife's skull until she shuts up forever?"

"I do."

"If anyone present disagrees with this union between Mrs. Sundry's head and the shovel, please step forward...."

If no one steps forward... ThWACK!.  And then a band plays and he gets to have a reception. And a big garage sale. If someone steps forward, then that person becomes responsible for Mrs. Sundry.  Band plays, reception, etc etc...The big ole circle continues...

A wood chipper would make an excellent wedding gift.

Not really.  But that's what I've been telling John all morning.  He clearly wishes I'd shut up, but other than that I think he's taking notes.

Killing her softly

"And just because my wife's in the hospital with a concussion and our stories about how it happened are different, the police want to talk to ME!"  - overheard in my office about 30 minutes ago

Yesterday this guy I work with, and by 'work' I mean 'share cubical space and some bad air', John, was loudly complaining about how inept his wife is and how this last weekend they were "trimming trees" in his "yard" (I love the double quote, don't you? It's natures typographic way of sneering while you write)when, as she was "tugging on a limb", she lost her balance and fell back, hitting her head on a tree. 

"She was nauseas and had a headache all weekend." he concluded, shrugging.  "She went to the doctor today and has a concussion."

Only workplace etiquette and shoveling a sandwich into his cake-hole while he spoke kept him from adding, "Stupid whore." 

My boss, Craig, was telling me, (and by me I mean Derito, but she sits close and he's deaf so he yells) that John and his wife, one or the other, are always in the hospital. Food poisoning, injuries, asphyxiation....

John is retiring soon.  Or dying.  I wanted to start a Widow(er) Pool, but that idea was shot down.  We're always circulating cards and having memorials for fallen co-workers, but try and put a little Fun back in Funeral and it's like we work for the Park Service or something.  I'm getting him a hammer for his retirement.  An elegant ball peen hammer with a walnut handle.  Im having it engraved. "KILL HER"  Along with our agency logo.  He has given 30 years.

Oprah's Head, with Mashed Potatoes

I've thrown my back out.  It hurts like a slighted hag.  I move slowly with a bend in my frame and a wince that says, "I'm over 40 and privately enjoy my fried foods. So fuck off."  At least I hope the "fuck off" is in there somewhere.

I haven't run regularly in months and I haven't been on my bike in weeks. And I have eaten meat on several glutinous occasions lately, most recently at Gallagher's in the New York, New York, Las Vegas. The slab of dripping red animal sitting on my plate, next to a serrated knife and some butter, was as big as a baby's torso.  I swallowed it all down with my 4th beer.  Then I waddled off to lift something wrong and screwed up my runway walk for nearly a week now.  There is a zit on my chin that has witnessed everything.  It's older than most of my thoughts or goals.  I want to call this my personal low point, but we'll see.

I spent the weekend with Zeke herding sheep at a stock dog trial. We sucked.  Together as a team. BUT we made it through our started title.  Why am I herding sheep when I do not actually own any of my own? It's certainly not a skill that in my current life can be regarded as anything beyond slightly less useful than hula dancing or oil painting kittens on saw blades.  I don't know why.  I seem to keep doing it, though, like a compulsion. 

I plan to start running again tonight.  Or I'm buying some oil paints and a basket of kittens. A ham as big as a Oprah's head. (I've heard its HUGE!) mmmmmmmm...hammmmmm....

That's my news. 

Stinging Him in My Mind...

I've emailed the Healer with some questions:

Dear Healer,

I'm curious...

Are you an actual HEALER or a COMMUNICATOR? 

You've listed various animals, down to reptiles that you can heal.  Do your skills this extend to lower life forms? I have wasps and I actually want them to 'heeled', rather than 'healed', to another location.  I don't want to spray them, or trap them in poison,  because I believe that is an awful way for anything to die.  Although, I could do this, if you could heal them afterward, but in the neighbor's yard.

The neighbor's have a huge 'habitat' that is fragrant with old garbage and recently cooked meat. (They barbeque constantly. They claim to never having had children. Rather adamently, I might add. EVERY TIME I ASK)

On the other side of their yard is a school, just in case stinging is a necessary part of their life cycle.

Any help you can give me would be appreciated,

katy

His, as it turns out, response:

Hello,

What I would recommend is for you to just swat down the nest, carefully of course.  If they come back and make a new one in the same spot... keep swatting it down and they will get the point.

Otherwise you could try communicating to them.  Just sit quietly as close as you can and try to ATTUNE to their nest.  Speak to them inside your head and tell them that it is not beneficial to you or your household for them to be there.  Tell them that they can go anywhere else but there.  Over and over just say that you do not want them there and that they, too, would be better off somewhere else.

I hope this helps.

Thanks.

Levi

WASP ASAP

This is so FORTUITOUS! Timing is EVERYTHING!! I believe this person can help answer a few questions around MY HOUSE...or my GUEST HOUSE for sure!  Like...why are the wasps so angry? Why can't they share space, like the raccoons seem to be doing.  And that garden snake.  It's a little house, but with love and understanding, and a cat food can welcome matt, there is room enough for everyone!

Heinrich suggested a Wasp Trap, but this is so much better.

I'd like to see if I can get the Healer to my house ASAP for a stinging intervention.  First step, lock Him/Her in the Guest Cabin (see below) with the Afflicted Swarm of angry stinging jihadists and a mountain dew, plus a rancid hotdog (to break the ice)...

Maybe its just a matter of understanding. Maybe they feel unattractive, compared to bees, less gregarious than the housefly.  I'd like for the wasps to know that while I do like bees better, I admire the wasp stand on poop.  That my brother's wife sweats diet pepsi and she makes crafts for christmas every year out of common trash, like a crazed vagrant Martha Stewart with glitter glue.  I don't have space for any more recycled can welcome matts or plastic Fred Meyer grocery bag wreaths.  Sting.  They should be aware that the neighbors barbeque constantly, enough to wonder if they have always been childless.  That what my other neighbor has hanging from her deck is not a succulent feast in festive fluids. 

With my direction and their angst, there is no reason this can't be a good weekend for everyone. 

Web of Flies

Hi! I'm averaging ***7*** hits a day now, most of them accidental tourists. Those crazy random Google interpretations that lead someone earnestly searching for "When God Shuts A Door" or "Rabbits Humping", or worst yet "{INSERTMYHUSBANDSREALNAME]" straight into my web;  where I can suck the juices out of the cores of the Innocent and leave them a dry husk who never again sends a Christmas card.  Whatever.  This is about ME, not Heinrich, as he will be henceforth be known as... (and preforth, as I did a "replace all" - cheaper than divorce! AND this time I get to keep the car!) Not about Rabbits Humping, or God's Access and Eggress alternatives. MEMEME.

My family, all of them, are coming to visit a week and 2 days from now.  TO STAY with me.  All of them.

This consititutes 12 people,  discounting me and Heinrich and Carlos. 

The occassion is our 2nd Annual Bertfest, in honor of my Mom's birthday and the fact that she's still having them.  This will involve a party, where an additional 6 - 8 people will come.  This entails Planning and Preparation, Feeding and Care - things I haven't had to do since my 7th grade 4-h project, which did not end well, let me just say.  It was NOT the kind of thing you like to see featured at the fair. Fortunately my little stall was next to the Sausage Garden....where things are often hurried along to their rightful conclusion.  With condiments. 

Anyway! I've learned a thing or two since then! 

This little house can sleep 4, I figure. It's in my yard and up until now had been grossly under utilized harboring wasps and raccoons, plus our lawn mower and a Garden Weasel. This last weekend I vacuumed, moved our futon out into it (just fits!) plus a small matt for the upper part - the 'Weasel Loft'! VOILA!  It's a 5th bedroom with a loft overlooking the garden! Especially fitting for the children, not mine - but my brother's are small and, as long as they don't wear perfumes or carry meat with them, or corn, it will be like a petting zoo up there. Not being able to manage an upright posture is finally a bonus for my brother's wife.  If I weren't allergic to being stung and bitten, I'd want to sleep up there. AND that is exactly what I told Heinrich who has problems with my hostessing concepts. 

"If you are going to insist someone sleep in the garden shed, you should at least get rid of the wasps.  Why don't you buy a wasp trap?" Heinrich asked over the phone (he's still in Nevada for fire season)

"Why would I? They don't need to be trapped, they come freely on their own..." 

Indeed. I've installed the next best thing. Jasper.  She's not our friendliest dog, but flying insects stand no chance around her.  She's not a big fan of children, either, but as long as they stay in bed and don't move around, Jasper will just quietly stare at them all night. That long border collie stare.  It will also keep the raccoons in the lower part with the grownups, minimizing barking.

I've also put in an air freshener in the shape of an owl. It's the little touches that make being a hostess an art.