I don't even own a microwave.

My mother's microwave broke this holiday season.

It is all she talks about.

She called three different people today to tell them and discuss her options (I don't understand why there are more options than just going to Target and buying a new one).

In addition we had to investigate the entire body of the thing looking for bits that can unscrew just in case we (my mother and I!) decide to try and fix it ourselves.

She called multiple appliance places asking for advice and pricing on getting it serviced ($200!)

The broken microwave came up at dinner three separate times (baked potatoes that were actually baked! Do you know how long that takes compared to making them in the microwave? ...I do).


This is the third day of this.

I can't wait until my own retirement.

Yes, this pretty much sums up my academic/life goals

Kyle: and i want my first published article to be on the play of sound, images, and text in his [Lubitsch] work.

me: I want mine to be about blue yoga panty/shorts



The race is on.

Can we discuss the fact that is it 57 degrees right now (in DECEMBER) and the weather forcast for tomorrow predicts a high of 13!?

ugh

My cat has more developed lifeskills than I do.

So I come home the other day and my darling, precious kitty rushes to the door to meet me. This is rather unusual considering all the acknowledgement I usually get is a quick glance from either the bed or the chair (depending on where I left him that morning). What's even more unusual, however, is the fact that the cat is SOAKING WET. Not kind of wet, not oops I got sprayed with the hose by a pesky neighbor wet, not caught in a rain storm wet (and it hasn't rained in days), not whoops I slipped and fell headfirst into the toilet (again) wet, no he's soaking wet.

"What the hell happened to you?"

Then I panic and run up the stairs to make sure nothing has broken or overflowed and now my whole (2nd floor) apartment has turned into a huge aquarium and kitty actually just swam to the door to meet me.

Interesting fact: Nothing else in the house is wet.

Gross. The cat is following me around like a sad puppy and I realize somebody smells Herbal Essence fresh and it is not me. I pick him up and his collar is tightened a hole too high.

SOMEBODY GAVE MY CAT A BATH.

Somebody (who is not me) gave my cat a bath and then sent him out into the 40 degree weather soaking wet.

Why?

Who bathes somebody else's cat, then puts them out in the cold?



This is how I answer all of life's questions now.

I'm probably a bad person

As most of you know I volunteer at a therapeutic horseback riding facility that teaches people with disabilities how to ride horses. This is a good thing I do.

Recently, because of the change in weather, we have reduced the number of classes and I go out on Tuesdays instead of Saturdays and have a whole new group of kids to work with. The first Tuesday class has little children in it, kids between 4 and 6 specifically. Today I happened to get out in the arena a little early with my horse Jasper and watched as the kids and their parents arrived.

There are two little girls in the class. One, the one I work with, only knows about 3 words right now and has a very distinctive way of purring everything she says. She really has an adorable raspy, purry way of saying "hi" if you can imagine. Another little girl doesn't pronounce words and is very excitable. Whenever she sees the horses she starts roaring loudly and jumping up and down as high as she can. This is also adorable.

So today the purry girl is dressed in a huge puffy pink coat with a furry hood and rainbow striped leggings. The jumpy girl has a big blue coat and red hat with tassels. When my girl sees the other come in she starts purring "hi" and goes in for a hug. The other girl, seeing the horses and all the people, gets excited and starts roaring and jumping as high as she can. My girl seems determined to give the other girl a hug and proceeds to chase her around with her pink marshmallow arms outstretched while the other girl, oblivious to my girl, continues to roar and bounce around.

All the parents are aww-ing and encouraging the each of the girls to interact with her "friend."

Needless to say, they let this go on for a very long time.


And her I am out in the middle of the arena and it's all I can do to keep from falling over myself because I all I can think about is how I am watching a real life Pokemon battle.






My girl did not get her hug in the end... which I think means she lost.

Ask me about the bunny plan next

Recently I was walking past Pet Central Station (my most hated pet store ever) and stopped to look at the kitties in the window.

Me: "You know what, Chris (who I was with, even though I didn't mention it earlier), I've been thinking about getting another cat. I don't want to get just any cat, though, I really want to get some old lady cat who doesn't really like people or other cats. Then Ransom, who is always desperate for attention especially from other animals, will always be pestering her and she will smack him around a bit and put him in his place and be forever exasperated at his youth. I imagine it will be kind of like a sitcom in my living room starring cats."

Chris: "..."

Me: "But, that's not really a good reason to get another cat, ...I guess."

Chris: "No."



Sigh.

So, for the first time ever I'm in an apartment that I actually really love. It's the entire top floor of a house, the perfect size, really old and full of character (meaning if I fuck something up or break this or that nobody will ever know) and the cat has figured out how to climb up the stairs of the building next door and dramatically leap from their balcony onto the roof of the person under me and come in through my 2nd floor window. I don't even have to walk down the stairs to let him in or out. It's pretty perfect.

Of course, with any apartment, there is going to be some things that need fixing/redecorating/changing. No big deal.

Ha.

In the first 4 seconds I was here I managed to break the little contraption that holds up the shower head. Luckily my father was in town and MacGyver-ed together the old shower head contraption with one of those baby-keeper-outer safety things good parents put on their cabinet doors. It worked perfectly until I decided the wood shelf it was attached to needed to be painted and snapped the whole thing in half trying to screw it back on.

Dammit, there was no way my father's fix would work now the thing was in two pieces, so I decided I would just glue the adjustable level part in place and sacrifice the luxury of adjustable levels. I only have Elmers glue though and decided that was good enough so, of course, it didn't work and now there is a spot of dried glue on the counter top. I ended up just jamming a screw into the moving parts and it falls out whenever I touch anything and I'm always afraid it's going to fall out and then I'm going to step on it and probably bleed to death in the shower. It's the best I can do it seems.




I've been meaning to add an additional light to my living room because the one I have now is recessed into the ceiling with a frosted plate of glass over it which means it doesn't actually produce any light at all. It's been slim pickings in the beautiful and elegant wrought iron pedestal thrift store lamp market these days so I decided I would just work with what I already have. I made a bunch of paper cutouts (safe, right?) to hang from the ceiling light and hide the naked bulb when I removed the glass to let more light out. I managed to get the plate out and even clean up a few of the cobwebs and dead bugs before I saw a gigantic spider hanging out on the edge of the hole. Since he was brown I concluded he must be a brown recluse and if not it's totally not worth the risk because those things are deadly poisonous and if they don't kill you you'll probably lose an arm or piece of an arm or whatever and it might have a family in there somewhere. Anyway, now my light looks like this:



and I pretty much hate it.

It does let a lot more light out, though.

To top it all off, it's getting colder rapidly and I have a window air conditioner in my bedroom right next to my bed. I finally decided it was time to get it out so I can properly shut the window and keep out the cold. So I prop open the window, wiggle the thing out, get it about 3 inches away from the window before deciding that's where it's probably going to stay until spring, because it is way too heavy to move any more than that, and go to shut the window. My window has this weird side lock thing that holds the window shut with little feet that press into the wood so it doesn't move up or down. Apparently, the little foot thing was in the window-doesn't-move position while it was open, because when I went to close it the window crashed down on the little pointy top part of the foot which impaled itself into the wood and now for the life of me I cannot get it to move up or down.


Now there's about a foot of open window that is letting in all kinds of cold as well as those poor little bugs that just aren't into hanging out in the cold (can I blame them). Not to mention the cat keeps standing on the ledge and sticking the top half of his body out the window and I absolutly do not trust him enough not to be clumsey and topple out. It is very stressful.


***

I remember when Leah officially moved out of our Arizona apartment and the next day I couldn't get the lid off a jar. I sat outside my neighbor Paul's apartment until he came home and he popped it right off. I remember telling him I was worried about living alone and he assured me I could handle it, that I was overreacting and everything would be alright.

Well Paul...










*************

Edit:
I also, after finishing writing this, remembered that I somehow managed to break off one of the little things that hold my refrigerator up and unscrewed the other so they would be even. Naturally, this made the whole thing lean forward so every time I opened the door something would slide off the shelf onto the ground. I remedied this problem by propping the front up with a pack of Ms. Cleo tarot cards, which, annoyingly enough, the cat is determined to fish out from under there.

(It seems the cat is the real victim here, doesn't it?)

I wish everyone would stop blaming me for their own goddamn ringworm.

So last year I picked up a somewhat minor case of ringworm from my Precious Angel Kitty Princess (I'm actively trying to get them to change her name from Smokey) at the barn where I work. To be honest, she could have feline aids and crabs for all I care and I'd still scoop her up for a little love every time I saw her. She's just so fucking cuddly.

Anyway, it was right on my neck and to keep it from spreading I covered it with a giant rectangular bandage. It wasn't subtle and I told everyone anyway, because it was pretty fucking funny (I thought).

I am home this summer with my family (months and months after curing my ringworm) and my sister comes over for dinner.

Amy: I have this weird bug bite on my face.

Me: Looks like ringworm to me.

Amy: Shut up.


A few weeks pass:


Me: How's the ringworm?

Amy: Shut Up.


Two months later:

Amy: So that ringworm is on my leg now.

Me: Hahahaha, you still have ringworm. (Oddly enough it's even funnier when somebody else has it)

Amy: I blame you. You brought it home.

Me: Shut up!





Discrimination!

Since the last post was way too long for the completely unsatisfying punchline, here's a short one for you.

I turned back my students' first project grades on Tuesday. I, of course, left the printing until the last possible minute and naturally discovered both my office and the workroom to be out of white paper.

I was in a rush so I was all, "fuck it" and pulled out purple paper, but there wasn't enough of that so I had to supplement it with a nice pastel gold.

As I handed back I was all,

"Here are your grades on colored paper...

Please continue to respect me as an educator."




(The grades no good, but damn if it's not going to look great on your refrigerator)

I hate you Pet Central Station Part 4 (parts 1-3 not published, but they're fucking real)

I am painfully out of cat food.

As in Ranse had an omelet for breakfast.


...Yeah


I know I won't have time to drive to the grocery at all today and I also know I better not come home without any food or Ranse is going to be annoying as hell. I guess neglect will do that to a kitty.

Anyway, there's only one pet store downtown, Pet Central Station. So I go there before my last class.


Me: (after walking around the store for 10 minutes and noticeably trying hard not to pet the giant store golden retriever who is following me around for a good portion of that time) Do you carry Science Diet?

Clerk: Oh no, that has bad things in it. We would never feed it to our cats so we won't sell it to you.

Me: (carefully avoiding admitting I usually feed kitty the shit with the cartoon cat on the front because it's less than $6 dollars at the HiVee and the only reason I'm looking for Science Diet now is because I have a coupon I peeled off the hefty stack of free samples the cat has been living on for the past few weeks) ...Oh.

Clerk: If you want something really healthy and tasty I usually buy a bag of this ($22), this ($25) and this ($36!!) and mix them together for a really tasty dinner.

Me: Ok... (sliding my coupon back into my pocket). Well, I've bought this for him before. (I point to a lonely bag way off to the side)

Clerk: Well, that will do. Our cats here won't eat it. This stuff is really good, the roasted duck or on the other wall we have a steak and sweet potato flavored variety. Sounds good, doesn't it?

Me: ...

The clerk finally leaves me there to pick my food and I decide on some french brand (as in the writing on the bag is actually in French) specially formulated to be "Extra tasty" for "Fussy cats" (chats difficiles) because suddenly I feel pressured to act like I care what the kibble tastes like , even though how the hell should I know if it's going to taste good or even like real food products because I don't try my cat's food for quality control even though right now I feel like that makes me a bad pet owner.

And soon I am shelling out the $25 dollars.

Clerk: Oh, when we first got this nobody would buy it and all the bags expired.

Me: Why do you have to be so passive aggressive? Honestly, if it's brown and kibble shaped I think the cat's going to be pretty happy eating it. And according to everyone since I let him outside he's going to get hit by a car and eaten by a raccoon before old age anyway so what does it really matter what's in the pellets?

Me: (for real this time) Uh, huh.

Clerk: But then we fed it to the cats and they seemed to really like it. We did a taste test, with multiple varities and most ate this kind.

Me: That's good.


Long story short I carry the super bourgie cat food around with me for the rest of the day (to class, dinner, the bar) and when I get home kitty is so excited. I immediately rush to open the bag and pour a bit out and 2 things:

1. It smells like a mother fucker.

2. It smells exactly like Goldfish Crackers. EXACTLY.


Gross gross gross.

I hate you Pet Central Station.

I don't usually post things from other people's blogs...

but rather than bitching about a student's bitter anti-Catholicism movie pitch I thought this might be mildly more entertaining:




Also nicely calls to mind a student's project last semester titled Oh My Rock, about cavemen who debate whether rocks are, in fact, the real God.

So there's this guy and he's wearing a black suit and a skinny black tie...

So, I'm teaching a fiction video production class this semester and I put a no violence policy in my syllabus. I thought it was relatively clear: no violence, no guns, no aggression towards women. I basically tried to take away everything they love.

This Thursday they pitched their first major projects of the semester. There was one bar fight, one karate fight, one fatal car crash, and one clobbering over the head and tying to the train tracks.

And I'm all, "WTF guys?"

And they're all, "What?"

And one of them is like, "A car accident isn't violent."



So after many very long discussions about each individual project (at one point I told a student there are three douchbags in his film, the two caricatures he created and the filmmaker himself, cause I'm a nurturer) most of them will be re-pitching on Tuesday.

Well, the train tracks student emailed me with his new pitch to get a once over before Tuesday. Now the film is about a filmmaker making a film about a guy tying someone to the train tracks. Except, the actor playing the guy getting tied to the train tracks convinces the filmmaker that it is a really dumb idea so the filmmaker runs home to rewrite the script. The catch is he is so flustered about the script he accidently LEAVES THE ACTOR TIED TO THE TRAIN TRACKS.


And I'm all like, "Sigh."

But then I'm like, "WAIT A MINUTE, is that supposed to be me?!"





Teaching stresses me out.

What do I do with all these FEELINGS?!

I subscribe to this woman-with-careers-email-listserve-thingie that comes everyday and thus I almost never read it.

I just happened to open it up accidentally this morning and one of the articles was titled "Managing the Feelings."



unsubscribe

Fuck you guys,

I'm going to build my own army of friends


and when I am done with them I will grind the up and sprinkle their powder-fine carcases over my morning latte.

I never thought I would find a would find a worse biography/autobiography title than Lute Olson's




(That's his name with an exclimation point in the title and, in case you don't know, Lute! is a basketball coach at UA hence the 'seasons of my life' part) gag


...Until:






Bleh

Exactly what I've been thinking the past week.

edit
To clarify I mean this in only the most hilarious way and am in no way having doubts about my hair. It's like it's getting me one step closer to Lindsay Lohan this way.

Go me.

I should not be a blogger

Oh my god.

Somebody found my blog by googling a horrible misspelling.

Google: tracher

I should not be a tracher




I should stop blogging only when I'm drinking.







Nah.

A while ago my BFF for fucking ever and ever came to visit me in Iowa. You may remember her from such posts as Here is a list of reasons why visiting me is better than whatever the hell you are doing right now, Photojournalism, and Long Overdue. While she was here we attended the Sanctuary's very last ever half priced wine bottle night. (before I start this next part remember: it's the Sanctuary's very last ever half priced wine bottle night and you would have done the same thing) We get wasted.

On the walk home we pass by this highly stylized old house with a huge banner on the outside "The Sullivan Gang." Alana has been asking what that is all week and I have no idea. We walk by, I hear Alana declare "The light's on," and she hangs a hard left and marches into the house. I, naturally, blindly follow.

Now, I swear to god in the days leading up to this moment we really thought the Sullivan Gang was some kind of non-profit, grassroots activist organization. We get inside and here are three stoner kids with a pile of drums and guitars watching Elvis.

Alana demands to know, "What is this!?"

They play for us, I insist they watch Biodome instead of Elvis, and eventually we leave.

***

Lucky for me the Sullivan Gang is right on my walk to and from school/teaching/library/downtown/bars/coop. Yeah.

I manage to make it over a month before seeing the Sullivan Gang Kid again. I'm walking home from school and some speedy fucker passes me on the sidewalk. I see the back of his head (I am wicked good at recognizing hair styles). Oh shit. I don't say anything.

He gets about 15 feet ahead of me and turns around. I fiddle with my iZune. He totally knows who I am.

He continues walking and I recall the point in that night when Alana realized she lost her phone and we WENT BACK TO THE SULLIVAN GANG HOUSE. Alana ransacked the living room and I sat on the edge of the Sullivan Gang Kid's armchair watching the Elvis tape he apparently put back into the VCR. He pulled me down and then I was sitting in the Sullivan Gang Kid's armchair. This was fine until Alana came back and I got embarrassed so I said (I swear to god), "Alana is looking for her phone and I'm... I'm doing this."

Brilliant.

While I'm walking behind Sullivan Gang Kid I remember saying that and literally start LAUGHING OUT LOUD.

He hears me.

He turns around and here I am laughing out loud by myself in the middle of the day.

I stop.

He lingers at the corner where we should be turning up Bowery together. I charge ahead, through the traffic light and end up walking and extra two blocks out of my way because that kid must think

I AM

FUCKING

INSANE.




...and I never want to talk to him again.







...and this is all your fault Alana.

I hate facebook applications.

For some reason, as Chris has alerted me as well as a handful of emails (is it really worth the five minute loading time it has been taking recently to find out from an email that Internet is running slow? Is it really worth doing it three times?) Mediacom has been running slow the past couple days. No big deal, I'm a big girl, I can sit quietly and wait while Internet loads up old school style. I can even remember the noises it use to make and can do them quietly to myself while I wait.

So I got one of those facebook evites to a thing this Friday night and I go in to confirm that yes, I will be bringing my jazz hands to the Legion for karaoke-party-bar night-global event. I click attending. I wait for Internet to stick my little picture in the attending section. And I wait... And all the while there's this little request thing to take a quizzie that will tellme what breed of horse I am.

Normally I can resist that shit. Easily. I'm sitting here waiting for a page to load, however, and growing slightly bored. I start to wonder, what horse breed am I? I know a lot about horses. Maybe this quizzie isn't so bad. I should do it. I'm gonna do it.

...As soon as this page loads.

So the page loads and I'm ready for my horse breed quiz. It asks me how I would react if someone riding me (heh heh... I am clearly not mature enough for this quizzie) was giving me confusing signals, what do I do if someone startles me in a corn maze, and how do I handle a tense situation at work (interestingly enough make things worse for everybody wasn't an option).

I finish the hard hitting five questions, say 'no' to the 'send this quiz to your friends option' (you assholes can thank me later), and get this as a result:



WTF Facebook?



Really, W T F.

I walk out of my house two days ago and think I see something small and furry slither away from me. I jump and yell "ewww" at it before realizing that it's a squirrel. I feel bad for saying ew at it until I realize that it's back legs and tail are paralyzed and it actually was slithering about like some kind of squirrley little snake-walrus thing. So I tell him, You're so gross. And leave.

Two days later and the poor little guy is still hiding under my deck. I go out this afternoon and leave him some cat food, because Jesus Christ.

The cat follows me out and sees the squirrel for the first time.

This is how pathetic this little guy is:

First off my cat isn't even mildly interested in him as prey. Ransom walks over, looks at him, sits, walks away. He does this about three times and the poor little squirrel is about to pop an artery he's so freaked out. The fourth time Ranse gets a step too close and the little squirrel goes waddling out from under the deck and heads STRAIGHT FOR A TREE. Little pea brain squirrel instincts at work here. However, since his entire bottom half is paralyzed, he gets to the base of the trunk and can't do a damn thing. So he starts making frantic circles around the bottom trying to figure out a way up, but really all he manages is to get himself more worked up. Meanwhile, Ranse doesn't give a shit and is still under the deck inspecting something more interesting, like a leaf or juicy bit of newspaper clipping.



I watch both of them, for a bit but then go inside because the whole thing is too damn sad.