Everyone who meets George and Stella instantly fall in love with George. I'm serious. Even complete non-cat people find love in their hearts for Mr. George. I can't say I blame them either. He's wonderful and will love unconditionally, snuggle at the drop of a hat, and play ruefully with his sister (sometimes it gets a little too extreme and I have to intervene and give them a stern talking to). The perfect male cat, some may say. Not to mention he's got beautiful markings--so said the pizza lady.
But Stella is a little different. She's more complex, a thinker . . . or maybe just stubborn. She'll decide to love you when she's darn well ready to love you. Her affection is . . . awkward, to say the least, making petting her almost a chore. But there's something just fantastic about her personality that I adore.
Yes I realize I'm talking about my cats right now. Like a big nerd <--like that's ever stopped me from doing anything before.
Anyway, last night as I was finishing up a paper, Miss Stella, who always sits next to the keyboard as I'm typing, kept squinting her left eye like something was in it. I noticed there was a little goo ball floating around (sorry, gross), but thought nothing of it as I figured she'd blink it out eventually. Once I finished the paper, I looked back up at the little lady and her entire eye was clouded over. Instantly I panicked. My little bug was going bliiiiiiiiind! I flew into action. While my roommate googled "cloudy cat eye," I hopped on the online yellow pages and called the nearest vet to see if this was normal. And here's what I got in return:
"Hello? So-and-so's Veterinary Hospital." -bored man with Southern drawl
"Hi, I'm calling to see if there's a vet available--my cat recently has developed what looks like an infection in her left eye and I'm concerned about her, blah blah blah," -trying to pretend I'm calm
"Ohhh . . . ? Well, here's what yer gonna wanna do: Call back here around 9 o'clock tomorra mornin' and see about schedulin' an appointment with Dr. Murphy. Now, he's been kinda sick lately, but he should be around. So just set up an appointment, then you won't have to be waitin."
Huh. OK.
"Um, all right, thanks . . . ?"
"You have a nice night." -click.
Well, instead of waiting for Dr. Murphy to return to a healthy enough state to assess my cat's quickly diminishing vision, my roommate and I took action. First, we held her next to the sink and splashed water in her face. Um, strike one. Next, we sprayed her in the eye with a water bottle. Strike two. I was starting to feel like a pretty big jerk at this point. Finally, we took some advice from an online cat forum (yep, they exist) and made a saline solution (also known as salt water . . . ), soaked it in a cotton swab, then smeared it over her eye. Freaking. Strike. Three. I really can't believe she even sitting next to me right now after what I put her through last night.
Today I took her to Dr. Cramer, a young vet who wears Ropers (total flashback to third grade for me) and knows his stuff. I walked out of there with 2 kinds of eye drops to cure Stella's fancy-named diagnosis that I couldn't remember for a slice of cake. Regardless, at least this whole mess was actually legit and not like one of my previous sordid adventures.
Case closed. Crisis averted. The little lady will live to see another day.
10/26/11
10/24/11
sunday fun-day.
Yesterday was so fun.
I went to breakfast with my roommate, Bax, and his friends who were traveling across the country from Boston to Santa Maria, CA (HOLY CATS that's a long drive) and just fell in lurv with them. When we got back to the house, I started making granola to send to one of my friends who's deployed (one day he told me that if he could have homemade granola, Greek yogurt and my mom's canned peaches every day, that would be about the best thing ever). Seeing what I was doing, one of Bax's friends said, "What are you making?" "Granola," I replied, "I'm sending it to my friend who's bummin' his mish right now." OK, I didn't really say bummin' his mish, but that's basically what I said and what he's doing. I digress . . . "WOW, you're like the nicest girlfriend ever, huh?" he said. I just thought I'd send a little love is all.
It's one of my favorite things to do. Don't for one second think that I didn't send a 30-lb box of love to Kyle-face when he peaced for his little adventure . . . because there's nothing like spreading love.
Cheesy? Yes. But someone's gotta say and do it.
I spent the rest of the day making salsa, putting in some leg work at the gym, cutting the grass, finishing up the garden with Bax (we were trying, unsuccessfully, to come up with old spirituals to sing, pretending like we were on the chain gang . . . ) and getting into a couple of quality heart-to-hearts, chatting up one of my best friends, THEN finishing a second batch of salsa. We now have 21 (count 'em!) jars of deliciously spicy salsa. Yesssss.
My hands still smell like peppers and onions. Gross. AND I still have 5 huge bowls of peppers to get creative with . . . crap.
I went to breakfast with my roommate, Bax, and his friends who were traveling across the country from Boston to Santa Maria, CA (HOLY CATS that's a long drive) and just fell in lurv with them. When we got back to the house, I started making granola to send to one of my friends who's deployed (one day he told me that if he could have homemade granola, Greek yogurt and my mom's canned peaches every day, that would be about the best thing ever). Seeing what I was doing, one of Bax's friends said, "What are you making?" "Granola," I replied, "I'm sending it to my friend who's bummin' his mish right now." OK, I didn't really say bummin' his mish, but that's basically what I said and what he's doing. I digress . . . "WOW, you're like the nicest girlfriend ever, huh?" he said. I just thought I'd send a little love is all.
It's one of my favorite things to do. Don't for one second think that I didn't send a 30-lb box of love to Kyle-face when he peaced for his little adventure . . . because there's nothing like spreading love.
Cheesy? Yes. But someone's gotta say and do it.
I spent the rest of the day making salsa, putting in some leg work at the gym, cutting the grass, finishing up the garden with Bax (we were trying, unsuccessfully, to come up with old spirituals to sing, pretending like we were on the chain gang . . . ) and getting into a couple of quality heart-to-hearts, chatting up one of my best friends, THEN finishing a second batch of salsa. We now have 21 (count 'em!) jars of deliciously spicy salsa. Yesssss.
My hands still smell like peppers and onions. Gross. AND I still have 5 huge bowls of peppers to get creative with . . . crap.
10/22/11
home day.
Today I woke up with a headache. That's not normal for me. The only way I get a headache is if I drink the night before or wear my hair in a ponytail in bed. Well low and behold . . . I did both last night.
What a nerd.
So I stayed in bed, trying to muster the strength to roll out and pop an Ibuprofin. After getting snuggle-bombed by George for a good 20 minutes, I had finally resolved to get my butt out of bed, and just as I was starting to rustle around I heard my Skype boop-boop-boop-ing from the living room. I instantly perked up and ran to the living room, thinking it was my love from across the pond.
It wasn't him, but it was just as good: it was my MOM! Nothing brings me more joy than a computer illiterate (this isn't mean of me--she's the first to admit this) person hopping on Skype for a face-time convo. And thus started my great day.
A little while later I headed out to tackle the garden. I forget how soothing yard work is. It's like a little soul-time, just for me. There I was, sitting in the dirt, wiping sweat off my forehead while pulling beautiful peppers from the vine, watching the aircrafts cruising overhead (it was "Spouse Flight" day today--oh you better believe I'm excited for next year! BOOYAH!) which was a comforting reminder of the man I love; it was so peaceful. Every now and then George and Stella would come up to me to check on my progress, cat-chat about what they'd been up to, and rub on my legs to get a little love. It makes my heart feel full just thinking about it. (As I'm writing this, Stella is curled up on my legs snoozing like it's nobody's business. And it's great.)
As I was working my way through winterizing the garden, my background noise was my former-football-player roommate yelling at the AF/Boise State game. "Arrrrgggghhhh get in there!" (TWSS?--sorry, had to. I giggled to myself about that at the time.) and "What!? What are you doing!? Oh mah gawd . . . " and "Yeeeeaaaahhhhh!! Touchdown! (through the screen door to me) We scored! It's tied 7-7!" All I could think was I wonder what our neighbors are thinking right now and couldn't stop laughing. He cracks me up. In fact, even now, I'm sitting in my room and he's entertaining guests, telling them stories about George and Stella and explaining all of my things hanging in the living room. "She's into, like, spiritual kinds of things," he said. He's pretty dead-on with that.
Best of all? I snuck in a little Skype date with my future Mister. You better believe that's the best part of my day.
Now all I have to do to wrap up this day is figure out how to move off the bed without waking up Stella. I don't have the heart to move her. Not a bad day, if you ask me.
What a nerd.
So I stayed in bed, trying to muster the strength to roll out and pop an Ibuprofin. After getting snuggle-bombed by George for a good 20 minutes, I had finally resolved to get my butt out of bed, and just as I was starting to rustle around I heard my Skype boop-boop-boop-ing from the living room. I instantly perked up and ran to the living room, thinking it was my love from across the pond.
It wasn't him, but it was just as good: it was my MOM! Nothing brings me more joy than a computer illiterate (this isn't mean of me--she's the first to admit this) person hopping on Skype for a face-time convo. And thus started my great day.
A little while later I headed out to tackle the garden. I forget how soothing yard work is. It's like a little soul-time, just for me. There I was, sitting in the dirt, wiping sweat off my forehead while pulling beautiful peppers from the vine, watching the aircrafts cruising overhead (it was "Spouse Flight" day today--oh you better believe I'm excited for next year! BOOYAH!) which was a comforting reminder of the man I love; it was so peaceful. Every now and then George and Stella would come up to me to check on my progress, cat-chat about what they'd been up to, and rub on my legs to get a little love. It makes my heart feel full just thinking about it. (As I'm writing this, Stella is curled up on my legs snoozing like it's nobody's business. And it's great.)
As I was working my way through winterizing the garden, my background noise was my former-football-player roommate yelling at the AF/Boise State game. "Arrrrgggghhhh get in there!" (TWSS?--sorry, had to. I giggled to myself about that at the time.) and "What!? What are you doing!? Oh mah gawd . . . " and "Yeeeeaaaahhhhh!! Touchdown! (through the screen door to me) We scored! It's tied 7-7!" All I could think was I wonder what our neighbors are thinking right now and couldn't stop laughing. He cracks me up. In fact, even now, I'm sitting in my room and he's entertaining guests, telling them stories about George and Stella and explaining all of my things hanging in the living room. "She's into, like, spiritual kinds of things," he said. He's pretty dead-on with that.
Best of all? I snuck in a little Skype date with my future Mister. You better believe that's the best part of my day.
Now all I have to do to wrap up this day is figure out how to move off the bed without waking up Stella. I don't have the heart to move her. Not a bad day, if you ask me.
10/21/11
my new job.
These past few days have been riddled with little miracles, for a lack of better terms. (I'm not going to try to pretend that I don't secretly like cliches.) Let me explain . . .
Three weeks ago I took a job with a non-profit organization that serves intellectually and developmentally disabled people. I received a lot of push back from people with things like: "Wow. That's, uh, an 'interesting' place . . ." and "Really? Are you sure that's what you want to be doing?" and "Well, if anything you'll get a good 'experience' from it." So naturally, I started to dread what was to come, asking myself what the hell I was getting into.
The first three days I came home from work and cried. I hated it. It was chaotic and overwhelming, not to mention I was preparing to send my fiance off to Africa for the next three months. So I was maybe a little edgy on top of it all . . . I meannnnn, can't blame a sister for that.
The fourth day and following week improved tenfold. The turning point? Making contact with my consumers (or as I call them, "my clients").
I walked into the office one day wearing 4-inch pumps (they were tasteful, mind you) which made me about 6'2". One of my clients was sitting at a table with our Money Manager and as I walked by and said hello, she gave me the look of death. Now, even though I'd only met her twice before, I knew what that look actually meant. Her wheels were turning. "How tall you?" she exclaimed. "How tall do you think I am?" I responded. She sized me up, "5'10"." Pretty good. "Well I'm about 6-feet-tall with these shoes on. What do you think of that?" No response.
Next thing I know, she's marching into my office ordering me to "Stand up!" So I did . . . and towered over her 5-foot-high, 5-foot-around frame. "Ohhhh you tall. I short. I 5-1," she said, still sizing me up. "You're right, I am tall, but there's nothing wrong with being short, you know." So we compared shoes and joked around for a few minutes. Before she left, I invited her to walk in a charity 5K with me. Her face lit up, but she held steady (she's not one to give in easily). She told me she'd think about it and left with a, "Ooooo-K. I call you later." I knew what was coming.
A couple hours later I came back to my desk to a voicemail . . . "Don't forget call me back and put your voice in the machine pleeeeaaaase. OK? That thing you ask me? I wanna go with you. Yes. OK? OK. I will. OK. Bye. I like you better. You nice. Bye!" Having someone tell you they like you is one thing, but having someone for whom you're working to improve their life tell you they like you . . . is probably one of the best feelings in the world.
Today she called to tell me, with pride evident in her tone, that she had walked 2 blocks to the convenience store. That, is what I call a miracle in progress. And that's why I have a great job.
Three weeks ago I took a job with a non-profit organization that serves intellectually and developmentally disabled people. I received a lot of push back from people with things like: "Wow. That's, uh, an 'interesting' place . . ." and "Really? Are you sure that's what you want to be doing?" and "Well, if anything you'll get a good 'experience' from it." So naturally, I started to dread what was to come, asking myself what the hell I was getting into.
The first three days I came home from work and cried. I hated it. It was chaotic and overwhelming, not to mention I was preparing to send my fiance off to Africa for the next three months. So I was maybe a little edgy on top of it all . . . I meannnnn, can't blame a sister for that.
The fourth day and following week improved tenfold. The turning point? Making contact with my consumers (or as I call them, "my clients").
I walked into the office one day wearing 4-inch pumps (they were tasteful, mind you) which made me about 6'2". One of my clients was sitting at a table with our Money Manager and as I walked by and said hello, she gave me the look of death. Now, even though I'd only met her twice before, I knew what that look actually meant. Her wheels were turning. "How tall you?" she exclaimed. "How tall do you think I am?" I responded. She sized me up, "5'10"." Pretty good. "Well I'm about 6-feet-tall with these shoes on. What do you think of that?" No response.
Next thing I know, she's marching into my office ordering me to "Stand up!" So I did . . . and towered over her 5-foot-high, 5-foot-around frame. "Ohhhh you tall. I short. I 5-1," she said, still sizing me up. "You're right, I am tall, but there's nothing wrong with being short, you know." So we compared shoes and joked around for a few minutes. Before she left, I invited her to walk in a charity 5K with me. Her face lit up, but she held steady (she's not one to give in easily). She told me she'd think about it and left with a, "Ooooo-K. I call you later." I knew what was coming.
A couple hours later I came back to my desk to a voicemail . . . "Don't forget call me back and put your voice in the machine pleeeeaaaase. OK? That thing you ask me? I wanna go with you. Yes. OK? OK. I will. OK. Bye. I like you better. You nice. Bye!" Having someone tell you they like you is one thing, but having someone for whom you're working to improve their life tell you they like you . . . is probably one of the best feelings in the world.
Today she called to tell me, with pride evident in her tone, that she had walked 2 blocks to the convenience store. That, is what I call a miracle in progress. And that's why I have a great job.
10/13/11
upgrade?
I think it's time for a new go at the blog. Yes, I'm still a cynic who laughs at her own jokes, but there's ohhh so much more to talk about! So why not reface, rejuvenate and upgraaaade?
Here's my little life recipe for some inspiration:
1 amazing fiance who is the love of my life (deployed until January)
7 months until my wedding!
1 home in Eastern New Mexico
2 guy roommates who wrestle in the kitchen, debate about workout plans, debate about who can kick who's ass, debate about diets, debate about . . .
2 cats who are the miniature loves of my life and provide fantastic cat-hats and snuggle sessions
1 non-profit job serving the coolest people ever
1 in-progress Master's degree in Counseling
1 passion for all-things-Health & Wellness
1 palate for wine and beer . . . the good stuff
1 dysfunctional Jeep named Jennifer
50,000+ miles of adventure on said Jeep
1 huge family (who are the best around)
1 group of the best friends a girl could ask for
Not a bad combination, huh? I'm excited. I realize I'm not entirely unique in every facet of life, but I love my life, I love to write, and there's nothing more I'd like to write about than what I see and do every day. And Belizeyoume, I see and do a lot.
Ladies and gentlemen, get ready to snazz.
Here's my little life recipe for some inspiration:
1 amazing fiance who is the love of my life (deployed until January)
7 months until my wedding!
1 home in Eastern New Mexico
2 guy roommates who wrestle in the kitchen, debate about workout plans, debate about who can kick who's ass, debate about diets, debate about . . .
2 cats who are the miniature loves of my life and provide fantastic cat-hats and snuggle sessions
1 non-profit job serving the coolest people ever
1 in-progress Master's degree in Counseling
1 passion for all-things-Health & Wellness
1 palate for wine and beer . . . the good stuff
1 dysfunctional Jeep named Jennifer
50,000+ miles of adventure on said Jeep
1 huge family (who are the best around)
1 group of the best friends a girl could ask for
Not a bad combination, huh? I'm excited. I realize I'm not entirely unique in every facet of life, but I love my life, I love to write, and there's nothing more I'd like to write about than what I see and do every day. And Belizeyoume, I see and do a lot.
Ladies and gentlemen, get ready to snazz.
9/26/11
bball diaries.
Watching George and Stella pounce around the kitchen, eating flies and beetles, and attacking one another reminded me that it's time I update the ol' B-L to the O-G. We've had a lot of adventures since my last post including two trips to the great Centennial State (ohhh CO how I love you) and a wild little weekend of snazzing here at home. Although I haven't mentioned our trip to the Gorge (WASHINGTONNN) for the Dave Matthews Caravan, it's a lovely little story that deserves a pst all to itself . . . soooo I'll stick to more current events. <-- Yuckerzzz, how's that sentence for bad grammar?
I recently accepted a job as one of the high school girls' basketball coaches at the wild and crazy Clovis High. I've been going to off-season practices only to find out that my girls are a little less than uncoordinated, to put it lightly. I guess my job is to get them out on the court in some sort of organized fashion, then hope they can sink at least 4 points in the 32 minutes of play action. I know I'm amused now, but I have a feeling I'll be humming a different tune mid-season. The good news is, the coaching staff is rad and the girls are all cool. High school kids are hilarious to me--their only concerns are what they wear, how good they look in what they wear, and what people think of what they wear. More or less. Needless to say, I'm jazzed to be living vicariously through the Lady Wildcats for the next 4-6 months. Plus, I rrrreally want to get asked to prom . . . meaning, I want to be one of the prom chaperones. OMGZZZZZ.
Apparently my last name has been a huge issue with the little ladies because it's the same name as their biggest rival. Well shit. So for the past week the ladies have been trying to come up with a nickname for me. So far we've got: Coach Mel and Coach Meezy. Come ON, let's be a little more creative here! Although . . . I do secretly like Coach Meezy. It has a nice ring to it. Makes me sound all gangsta and stuff. And anyone who knows me knows how gangsta I am . . . speaking of, I'd better get back to my reaction paper on Freudian Psychology. I can't help telling my professor (in so many words) that Freud was a lunatic and we shouldn't be studying his crazy ass. But alas, back to work I go. More adventures to come . . . get it riiiiight.
I recently accepted a job as one of the high school girls' basketball coaches at the wild and crazy Clovis High. I've been going to off-season practices only to find out that my girls are a little less than uncoordinated, to put it lightly. I guess my job is to get them out on the court in some sort of organized fashion, then hope they can sink at least 4 points in the 32 minutes of play action. I know I'm amused now, but I have a feeling I'll be humming a different tune mid-season. The good news is, the coaching staff is rad and the girls are all cool. High school kids are hilarious to me--their only concerns are what they wear, how good they look in what they wear, and what people think of what they wear. More or less. Needless to say, I'm jazzed to be living vicariously through the Lady Wildcats for the next 4-6 months. Plus, I rrrreally want to get asked to prom . . . meaning, I want to be one of the prom chaperones. OMGZZZZZ.
Apparently my last name has been a huge issue with the little ladies because it's the same name as their biggest rival. Well shit. So for the past week the ladies have been trying to come up with a nickname for me. So far we've got: Coach Mel and Coach Meezy. Come ON, let's be a little more creative here! Although . . . I do secretly like Coach Meezy. It has a nice ring to it. Makes me sound all gangsta and stuff. And anyone who knows me knows how gangsta I am . . . speaking of, I'd better get back to my reaction paper on Freudian Psychology. I can't help telling my professor (in so many words) that Freud was a lunatic and we shouldn't be studying his crazy ass. But alas, back to work I go. More adventures to come . . . get it riiiiight.
9/7/11
baaaaaack in action.
Hello, blog. It's been awhile. Since I've last written, I've been on a little whirlwind of adventures including an interesting little evening jog in a nearby park/wildlife refuge. When I say "wildlife refuge" I'm referring to bugs and snakes. I'm convinced that one of these days I'll see an armadillo (because aren't they big in the southwest?) but no luck thus far.
We set out to do a loop around the park (6 mi) with a little less than an hour left of sunlight. It was the perfect night. Things started out great. Great weather. Great pace. Great company. Great conversation. After about 10 minutes I realized I had a flat in the shoestring department which ended up being the beginning of a string of problems (no pun intended). After stopping to squat down and tie my shoe, getting back into my stride felt a little awkward, but I worked on getting back into my groove as quickly as possible. And then it hit. That terrible, awful, no-good stomach cramp that all runners know. It's the "you better pick up your pace or turn around and sprint home OR ELSE" feeling . . . ya read? Well . . . I wasn't too successful in picking up my pace. In fact, I did the opposite. I had to start walking, then run-walking-ish, then just keeling over in pain. I was spiraling downward, and fast. And it was only mile 4. And the sun was rrrreally starting to set. And we didn't have headlamps.
I knew what I had to do.
And it wasn't pretty.
The good news was that then we finally were able to pick up our pace, until about a mile later when a funny looking swirly rock thing in the path ahead of me started to shake its rattle . . . now, this was no ordinary rattle-shaker. In my folds of memory, I recall hearing that a rattlesnake can feel your vibrations from far away and will start to shake its tail at you well in advance. This one must have had a serious case of Sensory Perceptive Disorder because he didn't send off his warning signal until it was too late. I was moving too fast (OK, like 2 mph, but still . . .) and there was no slowing down to move around this guy. By the time I figured out what was going on, I was on top of the snake, leaping over it like Gail Devers (pre-'92 Olympics), then feeling the flight part of fight-or-flight, bolted ahead about 100 yards at a dead sprint. For some reason, I had it in my head that the snake could and would catch me and eat me alive, starting at my feet. I had to remind myself that I was not a rat, but more of a honey badger in this scenario. I was in charge here . . . despite the fact that I was running full-bore in the opposite direction.
Thankfully we finished the run just as the sun sunk below the horizon. I don't think two people have ever hopped in a Suby faster than we did that night.
We set out to do a loop around the park (6 mi) with a little less than an hour left of sunlight. It was the perfect night. Things started out great. Great weather. Great pace. Great company. Great conversation. After about 10 minutes I realized I had a flat in the shoestring department which ended up being the beginning of a string of problems (no pun intended). After stopping to squat down and tie my shoe, getting back into my stride felt a little awkward, but I worked on getting back into my groove as quickly as possible. And then it hit. That terrible, awful, no-good stomach cramp that all runners know. It's the "you better pick up your pace or turn around and sprint home OR ELSE" feeling . . . ya read? Well . . . I wasn't too successful in picking up my pace. In fact, I did the opposite. I had to start walking, then run-walking-ish, then just keeling over in pain. I was spiraling downward, and fast. And it was only mile 4. And the sun was rrrreally starting to set. And we didn't have headlamps.
I knew what I had to do.
And it wasn't pretty.
The good news was that then we finally were able to pick up our pace, until about a mile later when a funny looking swirly rock thing in the path ahead of me started to shake its rattle . . . now, this was no ordinary rattle-shaker. In my folds of memory, I recall hearing that a rattlesnake can feel your vibrations from far away and will start to shake its tail at you well in advance. This one must have had a serious case of Sensory Perceptive Disorder because he didn't send off his warning signal until it was too late. I was moving too fast (OK, like 2 mph, but still . . .) and there was no slowing down to move around this guy. By the time I figured out what was going on, I was on top of the snake, leaping over it like Gail Devers (pre-'92 Olympics), then feeling the flight part of fight-or-flight, bolted ahead about 100 yards at a dead sprint. For some reason, I had it in my head that the snake could and would catch me and eat me alive, starting at my feet. I had to remind myself that I was not a rat, but more of a honey badger in this scenario. I was in charge here . . . despite the fact that I was running full-bore in the opposite direction.
Thankfully we finished the run just as the sun sunk below the horizon. I don't think two people have ever hopped in a Suby faster than we did that night.
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