I've had some big years in the past. Usually they're "big" in a bad way, marked by tragedy of some sort. This one was different, though... A mixed bag of supreme excitement and mind-blowing anxiety, and I didn't post about it nearly enough.
We moved back into our house while continuing to repair it from 2011's flood damage.
I started a new position at the factory job, as a supervisor over the temporary workers. It was interesting, with a ton of comedic moments as well as an insanely crazy amount of stress. I still have mixed emotions about that job, even though I don't regret that I got to spend way too much time with some awesome people, since it was basically my second home. Of course some people were shits, but that's the game.
I got to have an awesome trip with my best friends
to Gulf Shores, Alabama. Then one of those friends moved to Hawaii. I
miss her face. (And her awesome husband and beautiful daughter's faces,
too!)
The Hubby left for boot camp, where after thirteen long weeks he became a Marine. On the flip side, I got to fly to California, a place I've never been, and I got a Marine for a husband. I could not possibly be more proud. As of this year I have two brothers in the Navy and a husband in the Marine Corps, along with a lot more extended family serving (or having previously served) in different branches of the military.
Amidst all of this, I was pregnant. With a baby girl. I had horrible morning sickness well past the first trimester, and after only briefly fading it came back with a vengeance at the end. This time it brought its buddy Heartburn, and he was a major asshole. With The Hubby being away at boot camp, MCT, and training in North Carolina he missed most of the pregnancy. We were together in August for his 10 days after boot camp, then I didn't see him again until Thanksgiving, two weeks after our beautiful daughter was born.
I just got to see him again over Christmas... He got PCS orders (these tell us what base he will be stationed out of), and they moved him straight into the barracks at Camp Lejeune, North Carolina after he finished his training. We have been waiting for those to tell us where we would be moving to so we can all be together again. So this past week I was in Jacksonville, NC with The Hubby househunting and trying to get things set up over there. We wanted to live off base, and success! We found and signed a lease on an apartment! He will actually be moving in there on January 1st, and as soon as the office that organizes the moving stuff approves it he'll be coming to move me, Baby Girl, the kitties, and all of our stuff in with him. I can't wait! I'll miss our friends and family here, but I'm more excited to be back with my husband and raise our little girl together.
It's been an insane year. Having a baby always ups the stakes, but our biggest ruler this year has still been the Marine Corps. With Baby Girl, I knew I had a November deadline and that I'd end up with a baby. With the military, nothing is official until it's in writing at the last minute, and even then it might change later. Most of the year has been spent waiting on information. I've been patient enough, but I was also dealing with quite a bit myself being pregnant and then caring for a newborn. So I really didn't allow myself to stress about the military stuff very often, and instead focused on the things that I did have control over--going to work every day, taking care of the kitties, having a healthy pregnancy and having a healthy, happy baby at the end of it all. I will definitely say it hasn't been easy, but we definitely have gotten through. And although I am still facing the question mark of when my family will finally be together again, I know that it is coming, and soon.
I can't wait to see what 2013 brings us.
Showing posts with label tell me a story. Show all posts
Showing posts with label tell me a story. Show all posts
Monday, December 31, 2012
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
Buffalo!
The majestic buffalo. (Or bison, depending on how particular you are.)
This particular little sculpture was supposed to be for luck. The In-Laws had given it to The Hubby when he first got out on his own. It's a hefty old thing, and for the longest time it had been sitting on a shelf on the wall behind our couch, along with a few pictures and some other knick-knacks we possessed. Honestly we're not big on "decorating," so anything like that was of sentimental value and had been given to us from someone we cared about. Although we're still working on the house, any shelves we do put in will be purely for necessities, not looks. Nail holes in the wall would just be something to patch up later when we move, so we're not even worrying about it.
But back to the story, this particular buffalo was meant to be lucky, and I never ever liked it. I was constantly trying to get The Hubby to part with it, to no avail. It was awkward, and heavy, probably 5 pounds, and was always placed in an inconvenient spot. But the spot above the couch was the worst idea ever, in my opinion.
See, the wonder-kitties were always perched on that particular shelf. They'd jump from the windowsill onto the back of the couch onto the shelf then usually down onto one of our surprised shoulders. (Then down onto the stomach or lap then down to the floor, all to be repeated later, but I digress.) But they loved the hell out of that shelf, and trying to get them down always resulted in our pain, so we gave up. This is why I hated the buffalo's location.
Still, it surprised me when it happened. I was sitting on the couch next to The Hubby, watching TV, when one of the kitties jumped up there and while trying to slink behind the buffalo, managed to knock it off the shelf and onto my poor, unsuspecting shoulder. Unsurprisingly, it hurt like hell. That little bastard was heavy, and the edges that aren't rough were sharp, especially around the base. At first The Hubby laughed it off, until he realized I was being quiet because I was holding back tears. It hurt really bad, and it terrified me how close it had been to hitting my head instead of my shoulder. I had a cut and a giant bruise on my shoulder for days, so I wasn't seeing the humor in the situation yet.
Then I did. I mean, what's not amusing about it? I'm just sitting there minding my own business, and suddenly *buffalo!* It became the moment I thought about every time something inexplicable and ridiculous happened. Those moments where you just want to ask the universe "WHY?!", I could shrug off with "Because *buffalo*." It even became a running joke with a friend at work... Anytime things went insane, we'd just look at each other, shake our heads, then shrug our shoulders and say in a resigned voice, "Buffalo!"
Things don't have to make sense. If I can get mauled by a buffalo in my own living room, anything can happen. Because buffalo.
We still have him, by the way. He survived the flood and now I can't bear to part with him. He may be vicious, but he's a survivor, dammit, just like we are.
 |
| Covered in plaster, because he's our rebuild mascot. |
But back to the story, this particular buffalo was meant to be lucky, and I never ever liked it. I was constantly trying to get The Hubby to part with it, to no avail. It was awkward, and heavy, probably 5 pounds, and was always placed in an inconvenient spot. But the spot above the couch was the worst idea ever, in my opinion.
See, the wonder-kitties were always perched on that particular shelf. They'd jump from the windowsill onto the back of the couch onto the shelf then usually down onto one of our surprised shoulders. (Then down onto the stomach or lap then down to the floor, all to be repeated later, but I digress.) But they loved the hell out of that shelf, and trying to get them down always resulted in our pain, so we gave up. This is why I hated the buffalo's location.
Still, it surprised me when it happened. I was sitting on the couch next to The Hubby, watching TV, when one of the kitties jumped up there and while trying to slink behind the buffalo, managed to knock it off the shelf and onto my poor, unsuspecting shoulder. Unsurprisingly, it hurt like hell. That little bastard was heavy, and the edges that aren't rough were sharp, especially around the base. At first The Hubby laughed it off, until he realized I was being quiet because I was holding back tears. It hurt really bad, and it terrified me how close it had been to hitting my head instead of my shoulder. I had a cut and a giant bruise on my shoulder for days, so I wasn't seeing the humor in the situation yet.
Then I did. I mean, what's not amusing about it? I'm just sitting there minding my own business, and suddenly *buffalo!* It became the moment I thought about every time something inexplicable and ridiculous happened. Those moments where you just want to ask the universe "WHY?!", I could shrug off with "Because *buffalo*." It even became a running joke with a friend at work... Anytime things went insane, we'd just look at each other, shake our heads, then shrug our shoulders and say in a resigned voice, "Buffalo!"
Things don't have to make sense. If I can get mauled by a buffalo in my own living room, anything can happen. Because buffalo.
We still have him, by the way. He survived the flood and now I can't bear to part with him. He may be vicious, but he's a survivor, dammit, just like we are.
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Looking back on 2011.
So it's getting disgustingly close to the end of the 2011, and although I'm giving 2012 the stink-eye it's a glare that is tempered with a tiny glint of hope. Next year will bring a lot of "firsts" for me, mostly because of The Hubby's new and exciting career choice. And although it's terrifying and more than a little stressful to be facing all these changes, I truly am excited. Now it's time for me to put up or shut up... Am I the super-tough, badass, independent babe I claim to be? Or am I simply the "baby ox" I am jokingly referred to as ("I'm strong as an ox!" "Pssh, maybe a baby ox, probably a fetal ox.")? We're about to find out in 2012, y'all!
Like many others more talented than myself, I thought I'd figure out my "Best Of" blog posts this year. Here goes.
In January I talked one of my favorite people, a mother of a gorgeous little girl, into starting up a blog. Her love for her daughter and for a more researched brand of motherhood spoke to me, even though I have no children myself. (The furry four-legged kind don't count in this situation.) I thought she would be well-served to take her passion onto a more open forum than Facebook, and hoped she'd be able to inspire others as she'd inspired me. Unfortunately she hasn't posted much beyond those first couple posts, but hey--they rocked! She's got a lot on her plate right now, but my fingers are crossed that one day she'll work around to it and put that passion out there for a wider audience.
In February I decided to stake my own claim in a tiny slice of the blogosphere, although my start was less than impressive. A few days later, though, I finally got around to why I needed to start blogging. I needed something to help me work out all the changes in my life, and to chronicle my "journey" back to (hopefully) some semblance of sanity and confidence.
In March, I was astounded at the pages Google Reader suggested I visit... at least until I visited them. I profusely cursed St. Patrick's Day, and shook my head in amazement at a couple awesome but poorly-thought-out purchases. I seemed to be off to a pretty good start. The posts weren't coming daily, or even regularly for that matter, but I was doing pretty well at not letting it sit un-updated for long.
In April I continued on my awesome-ish posting streak, sharing a horrible Mean Woman Week story (but also a poem!), gave my few readers a taste of my personal brand of depression, introduced Teh Kittehs, and established a possible menu for the imaginary restaurant that I will never start because I have no interest in owning a restaurant or in cooking.
Then tragedy struck. My home was damaged in a horrible flash flood, leading to about a week solid of nothing but chaos. It was close to the end of the month, and I didn't get the chance to post for a while, so...
May's posts started out with a hell of a bang. I had no idea what was going to happen next, all I knew was that suddenly we were essentially homeless. There was very little posting that month, because there was a whole lot of stress, but I did manage to sneak in a post that was fun to write.
June only brought a couple of posts, but one of them is one of my absolute favorite posts (of mine, anyway), because I firmly believe that you should treat people how you want to be treated. Being a dick ultimately gets you nowhere, and you'll most likely be angry the majority of your life if you keep putting that out into the world. I'm a rant-er, and this was prime rant material, although I personally think that it has a positive message!!
July brought another one of my thoughtful posts, where I express my amazement that people continue to believe in my ability to do anything, ever. Fake it 'til you make it is damn right.
August didn't bring a lot of posts, because it was kind of crazy and I wasn't feeling so chipper. I'll just post those links here without a lot of description (there were only three), because they all meant something different to me. Which do you like best, if any?
About halfway through September I finally started picking up steam again, post-wise, but there were only a couple of gems in there... I finally introduced myself using my actual name rather than using "The ZB," which is a small step toward being more comfortable with blogging but is a step nonetheless. I also told the nail-biting and hilarious "tail" of our juggabuttin' kitty getting stuck in the attic. That was one of the high points of my year, once I regained the ability to breathe and laugh.
In October we mourned the loss of a most fabulous fowl, whose side-of-the-road strut will not soon be forgotten. I also mourned the loss of my original Kindle, but soon My Dear Replacement Kindle took its place of permanent attachment to my hands.
In November I broke the news of The Hubby's enlistment, and later I wrote about my feeling stuck in limbo while waiting for everything in my life to come together.
December has been another crazy month. I've just left my retail job to go back to the factory job, albeit at a higher pay rate and in a position without a time limit. Yay! But there's been some bumps along the way, some super busy days and some super crazy days, and even an exhausted but somewhat desperate letter to Santa.
This has truly been a helluva year, and I'm so glad it's over. My first *calendar* year of blogging has been a doozy. Hopefully 2012 will be a better, happier brand of crazy.
Like many others more talented than myself, I thought I'd figure out my "Best Of" blog posts this year. Here goes.
In January I talked one of my favorite people, a mother of a gorgeous little girl, into starting up a blog. Her love for her daughter and for a more researched brand of motherhood spoke to me, even though I have no children myself. (The furry four-legged kind don't count in this situation.) I thought she would be well-served to take her passion onto a more open forum than Facebook, and hoped she'd be able to inspire others as she'd inspired me. Unfortunately she hasn't posted much beyond those first couple posts, but hey--they rocked! She's got a lot on her plate right now, but my fingers are crossed that one day she'll work around to it and put that passion out there for a wider audience.
In February I decided to stake my own claim in a tiny slice of the blogosphere, although my start was less than impressive. A few days later, though, I finally got around to why I needed to start blogging. I needed something to help me work out all the changes in my life, and to chronicle my "journey" back to (hopefully) some semblance of sanity and confidence.
In March, I was astounded at the pages Google Reader suggested I visit... at least until I visited them. I profusely cursed St. Patrick's Day, and shook my head in amazement at a couple awesome but poorly-thought-out purchases. I seemed to be off to a pretty good start. The posts weren't coming daily, or even regularly for that matter, but I was doing pretty well at not letting it sit un-updated for long.
In April I continued on my awesome-ish posting streak, sharing a horrible Mean Woman Week story (but also a poem!), gave my few readers a taste of my personal brand of depression, introduced Teh Kittehs, and established a possible menu for the imaginary restaurant that I will never start because I have no interest in owning a restaurant or in cooking.
Then tragedy struck. My home was damaged in a horrible flash flood, leading to about a week solid of nothing but chaos. It was close to the end of the month, and I didn't get the chance to post for a while, so...
May's posts started out with a hell of a bang. I had no idea what was going to happen next, all I knew was that suddenly we were essentially homeless. There was very little posting that month, because there was a whole lot of stress, but I did manage to sneak in a post that was fun to write.
June only brought a couple of posts, but one of them is one of my absolute favorite posts (of mine, anyway), because I firmly believe that you should treat people how you want to be treated. Being a dick ultimately gets you nowhere, and you'll most likely be angry the majority of your life if you keep putting that out into the world. I'm a rant-er, and this was prime rant material, although I personally think that it has a positive message!!
July brought another one of my thoughtful posts, where I express my amazement that people continue to believe in my ability to do anything, ever. Fake it 'til you make it is damn right.
August didn't bring a lot of posts, because it was kind of crazy and I wasn't feeling so chipper. I'll just post those links here without a lot of description (there were only three), because they all meant something different to me. Which do you like best, if any?
About halfway through September I finally started picking up steam again, post-wise, but there were only a couple of gems in there... I finally introduced myself using my actual name rather than using "The ZB," which is a small step toward being more comfortable with blogging but is a step nonetheless. I also told the nail-biting and hilarious "tail" of our juggabuttin' kitty getting stuck in the attic. That was one of the high points of my year, once I regained the ability to breathe and laugh.
In October we mourned the loss of a most fabulous fowl, whose side-of-the-road strut will not soon be forgotten. I also mourned the loss of my original Kindle, but soon My Dear Replacement Kindle took its place of permanent attachment to my hands.
In November I broke the news of The Hubby's enlistment, and later I wrote about my feeling stuck in limbo while waiting for everything in my life to come together.
December has been another crazy month. I've just left my retail job to go back to the factory job, albeit at a higher pay rate and in a position without a time limit. Yay! But there's been some bumps along the way, some super busy days and some super crazy days, and even an exhausted but somewhat desperate letter to Santa.
This has truly been a helluva year, and I'm so glad it's over. My first *calendar* year of blogging has been a doozy. Hopefully 2012 will be a better, happier brand of crazy.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Cool story, bro.
Clicking through the Shine website, which happens to be one of my favorite ways of killing time by pretending I want to make an effort to manage my life better, I stumbled across this article called "10 Questions That Have No Right To Go Away." I guess Oprah's website really is everywhere, and sometimes she can be a real asshole.
Who does this poet/writer David Whyte think he is, making me think like this? Although really some of those questions are just reminders for me to keep doing what I'm doing, since I have already made an effort to live my life as an answer to them. (I feel like that sounded more wanna-be-profound than intended.) But the questions from the article are definitely valid, and inspiring (if written a little douchenozzle-y at times), and made me think. *shudder*
For instance, the second question prompted this blog post. As soon as I read the question "What can I be wholehearted about?" and the note that sometimes we do what we do because it's what works for others. But until we come to grips with what we are truly wanting, we're always going to feel awkward about our own abilities.
I love writing. I have since I was a kid, and although I was never going to win any awards for it, I was decent at it. But I enjoyed it, and I never tried to write like some of my favorite writers because I knew I was not in the same class. Or school, town, county, state, country, or universe, for that matter. And that's not me fishing for false compliments, that is total honesty. I was never really good at writing fiction; I preferred to write about my own life and thoughts and experiences because that's what I know. And still, more often than not when telling stories in public I get the strong feeling that those around me are just too polite to say what they're really thinking: the sarcastic "Cool story, bro. You should tell it again." This is why I prefer writing... I can edit for relevance. (I mean, I'm still not very successful at it, but the possibility is there even if I ignore it. These past few sentences, for example? Totally unnecessary and irrelevant to the point I'm making. Yet they're staying. Ahem.)
I wish I had the audience some of my favorite bloggers do. I wish I had the time and space to write on here like I want to. I wish I had more ideas about what to write. I wish I had maintained my anonymity so that I could be more honest about some of my issues and gripes and history without worrying about hurting someone's feelings. I wish I was as funny or as off-beat or as whatever as some of my favorite bloggers, who either are parents, have a neat job or hobby, or are simply amazing writers. I wish I was as good at branding and advertising my stuff on all the available sites. I wish I had the skills they do.
But I don't, I didn't, and I'm not. And that question from the article reminded me of that. I am not one of those writers. I am not one of those bloggers. I am me, and my style is my own, however uninteresting and rambly that may be at times. I'm not at a super-happy time in my life, what with the massive employment shifts, the constant battle with depression, the flooded house, and living with the in-laws. The first two events are what led me to start this blog, so I knew that there would be a lot of not-happy posts. I know that an audience doesn't appear out of nowhere, that it takes a lot of time and effort to build one up. At this point in my life I have a lot of trouble putting all that time and effort into this.
So what can I be wholehearted about? I can wholeheartedly write about what matters to me, whether it's a rant, a story about something funny or shocking or sad that happened, something about my cats or The Hubby (although I limit what I write about him, per his request) or that thing I saw/read in that book/article or on that website, or if I just need the writing space to express the way life and my brain chemistry just kicks my ass sometimes. I don't have to write like they do or about the things that they do (although they frequently inspire me to push myself!). I know I'll be more comfortable with myself and stop worrying if anyone's reading once I stop trying to write like someone else.
Who does this poet/writer David Whyte think he is, making me think like this? Although really some of those questions are just reminders for me to keep doing what I'm doing, since I have already made an effort to live my life as an answer to them. (I feel like that sounded more wanna-be-profound than intended.) But the questions from the article are definitely valid, and inspiring (if written a little douchenozzle-y at times), and made me think. *shudder*
For instance, the second question prompted this blog post. As soon as I read the question "What can I be wholehearted about?" and the note that sometimes we do what we do because it's what works for others. But until we come to grips with what we are truly wanting, we're always going to feel awkward about our own abilities.
I love writing. I have since I was a kid, and although I was never going to win any awards for it, I was decent at it. But I enjoyed it, and I never tried to write like some of my favorite writers because I knew I was not in the same class. Or school, town, county, state, country, or universe, for that matter. And that's not me fishing for false compliments, that is total honesty. I was never really good at writing fiction; I preferred to write about my own life and thoughts and experiences because that's what I know. And still, more often than not when telling stories in public I get the strong feeling that those around me are just too polite to say what they're really thinking: the sarcastic "Cool story, bro. You should tell it again." This is why I prefer writing... I can edit for relevance. (I mean, I'm still not very successful at it, but the possibility is there even if I ignore it. These past few sentences, for example? Totally unnecessary and irrelevant to the point I'm making. Yet they're staying. Ahem.)
I wish I had the audience some of my favorite bloggers do. I wish I had the time and space to write on here like I want to. I wish I had more ideas about what to write. I wish I had maintained my anonymity so that I could be more honest about some of my issues and gripes and history without worrying about hurting someone's feelings. I wish I was as funny or as off-beat or as whatever as some of my favorite bloggers, who either are parents, have a neat job or hobby, or are simply amazing writers. I wish I was as good at branding and advertising my stuff on all the available sites. I wish I had the skills they do.
But I don't, I didn't, and I'm not. And that question from the article reminded me of that. I am not one of those writers. I am not one of those bloggers. I am me, and my style is my own, however uninteresting and rambly that may be at times. I'm not at a super-happy time in my life, what with the massive employment shifts, the constant battle with depression, the flooded house, and living with the in-laws. The first two events are what led me to start this blog, so I knew that there would be a lot of not-happy posts. I know that an audience doesn't appear out of nowhere, that it takes a lot of time and effort to build one up. At this point in my life I have a lot of trouble putting all that time and effort into this.
So what can I be wholehearted about? I can wholeheartedly write about what matters to me, whether it's a rant, a story about something funny or shocking or sad that happened, something about my cats or The Hubby (although I limit what I write about him, per his request) or that thing I saw/read in that book/article or on that website, or if I just need the writing space to express the way life and my brain chemistry just kicks my ass sometimes. I don't have to write like they do or about the things that they do (although they frequently inspire me to push myself!). I know I'll be more comfortable with myself and stop worrying if anyone's reading once I stop trying to write like someone else.
Friday, September 30, 2011
The night the kitty-saurus had an adventure.
It was a warm and lovely day. I got to talk to a few friends who stopped in at work (I must admit, I missed that part of working in retail. Until someone I don't like comes in, in which case I'll wish I was working in a factory again.), and got to spend time with The Hubby. We even went for a walk at a park, and walked about a mile. Of course, then we rewarded ourselves with ice cream.
When we got home and settled it was starting to get late, so we started getting ready for bed. I kept hearing a cat who sounded an awful lot like our Juggabutt, but there are also a lot of other strays that run around. They seem to be drawn to the porch area, especially since my cats like to hang out in the window that faces the porch. So I tried to ignore it for a minute, but it quickly started to bother me. It sounded exactly like Jugga, and The Pants was meowing, too. She's helpful like that. Anytime they are low on food or water, or if one of them hacks up a hairball, or if Jugga's in some sort of shenanigans, The Pants will follow you around and meow like the world is coming to an end until we figure out the problem. This is the only time she does this. I looked out on the porch and in front of the porch, but couldn't see anything, and once I was out there I couldn't hear anything, either. Shit. I had The Hubby go check our bedroom to see if both kitties were safe, because it wasn't looking good for us. The Pants was in there freaking out, meowing desperately to let us know that her frenemy was in trouble, and indeed, the Jugga was nowhere to be found.
The next 30 minutes went something like this:
"I think she's in the wall."
"No, she can't be in the wall, there's no way for her to get in there!"
"Maybe she's in the attic. It sounds like she's in the attic."
"No, she can't be in the attic, there's no way for her to get up there!"
"Could she have gotten outside and under the house somehow?"
"She could have gotten outside, but when? And there's no way for her to get under the house. She's gotta be in the closet. Did you check your closet?"
"Yes, and she's not in our closet, and the sound is coming from this side of the hallway. She's gotta be in the wall or the attic around the bathroom closet."
"She can't be! I don't see how she could've gotten in there."
"Are there any holes anywhere that she could have gotten into to get up into the attic?"
"No, there aren't any holes anywhere, we sealed all that stuff up. Are you sure she's not in the closet?"
And repeat. Sigh.
Closets were ransacked *repeatedly*--no kitty. This whole line of conversation was punctuated by me calling for her and her responding. And almost every time we'd call Jugga to try and get a better idea of where the hell she was, The Pants meowed, too. I think maybe she was trying to help us call her, but her yowling was interfering with our ability to hear our stuck kitty.We could even hear Jugga scratching occasionally, trying to get through. My heart was pounding, but I was going to get my dinosaur-kitty out of wherever she was. The in-laws were using the generic "Here kittykittykitty," which never works for our cats (they respond to their names), so for a while when we were looking outside they weren't getting any response from her. So when I got back in and heard that, I started to panic when I wasn't getting any response either. But I think she was just like "WTF?" since after a few times of me calling her name she started responding again. There was no doubt about it, she was in the wall. We just had to figure out how to get her out.
Like they said, they'd sealed everything up (...Except for the two spots that they eventually mentioned, one of which she had used to get up into the attic. Stab.) so there wasn't an easy way to get to her without putting a hole somewhere. So they dragged a chair into the bathroom closet and ripped out some of the paneling in the wall at the top of the closet, giving us just enough open space to look and shine a flashlight. And pull out a kitty. We could hear her meowing, and she could see the flashlight beam, but it didn't seem like she was moving closer. So I got up in the chair and called for her, and finally I could hear her scrambling. Obviously she had dropped down some from the attic floor into the wall space, and had to climb back up to be able to get out. I was about to cry at the thought of Jugga getting stuck in the wall with no way to climb out (she is declawed, after all), but I stuck my hand up into the hole in the closet anyway so she could hopefully see where to go.
There are no words for how happy I was to see whiskers and a nose finally peek over the edge of the hole... She climbed down so she was at the same level as the hole, but that still left a foot of a drop onto the tops of the clothes hanging up in the bathroom closet. She wasn't jumping it and she wasn't letting me pull her out all carefully and stuff, so I petted her and got her purring and happy while The Hubby grabbed her legs and I got her around the neck and shoulders and pulled. And out comes a filthy, scraped up, musty-smelling kitty-saurus, meowing and purring and rubbing against my ears, neck, hair, and face.
And all was well with the world again.
When we got home and settled it was starting to get late, so we started getting ready for bed. I kept hearing a cat who sounded an awful lot like our Juggabutt, but there are also a lot of other strays that run around. They seem to be drawn to the porch area, especially since my cats like to hang out in the window that faces the porch. So I tried to ignore it for a minute, but it quickly started to bother me. It sounded exactly like Jugga, and The Pants was meowing, too. She's helpful like that. Anytime they are low on food or water, or if one of them hacks up a hairball, or if Jugga's in some sort of shenanigans, The Pants will follow you around and meow like the world is coming to an end until we figure out the problem. This is the only time she does this. I looked out on the porch and in front of the porch, but couldn't see anything, and once I was out there I couldn't hear anything, either. Shit. I had The Hubby go check our bedroom to see if both kitties were safe, because it wasn't looking good for us. The Pants was in there freaking out, meowing desperately to let us know that her frenemy was in trouble, and indeed, the Jugga was nowhere to be found.
The next 30 minutes went something like this:
"I think she's in the wall."
"No, she can't be in the wall, there's no way for her to get in there!"
"Maybe she's in the attic. It sounds like she's in the attic."
"No, she can't be in the attic, there's no way for her to get up there!"
"Could she have gotten outside and under the house somehow?"
"She could have gotten outside, but when? And there's no way for her to get under the house. She's gotta be in the closet. Did you check your closet?"
"Yes, and she's not in our closet, and the sound is coming from this side of the hallway. She's gotta be in the wall or the attic around the bathroom closet."
"She can't be! I don't see how she could've gotten in there."
"Are there any holes anywhere that she could have gotten into to get up into the attic?"
"No, there aren't any holes anywhere, we sealed all that stuff up. Are you sure she's not in the closet?"
And repeat. Sigh.
Closets were ransacked *repeatedly*--no kitty. This whole line of conversation was punctuated by me calling for her and her responding. And almost every time we'd call Jugga to try and get a better idea of where the hell she was, The Pants meowed, too. I think maybe she was trying to help us call her, but her yowling was interfering with our ability to hear our stuck kitty.We could even hear Jugga scratching occasionally, trying to get through. My heart was pounding, but I was going to get my dinosaur-kitty out of wherever she was. The in-laws were using the generic "Here kittykittykitty," which never works for our cats (they respond to their names), so for a while when we were looking outside they weren't getting any response from her. So when I got back in and heard that, I started to panic when I wasn't getting any response either. But I think she was just like "WTF?" since after a few times of me calling her name she started responding again. There was no doubt about it, she was in the wall. We just had to figure out how to get her out.
Like they said, they'd sealed everything up (...Except for the two spots that they eventually mentioned, one of which she had used to get up into the attic. Stab.) so there wasn't an easy way to get to her without putting a hole somewhere. So they dragged a chair into the bathroom closet and ripped out some of the paneling in the wall at the top of the closet, giving us just enough open space to look and shine a flashlight. And pull out a kitty. We could hear her meowing, and she could see the flashlight beam, but it didn't seem like she was moving closer. So I got up in the chair and called for her, and finally I could hear her scrambling. Obviously she had dropped down some from the attic floor into the wall space, and had to climb back up to be able to get out. I was about to cry at the thought of Jugga getting stuck in the wall with no way to climb out (she is declawed, after all), but I stuck my hand up into the hole in the closet anyway so she could hopefully see where to go.
There are no words for how happy I was to see whiskers and a nose finally peek over the edge of the hole... She climbed down so she was at the same level as the hole, but that still left a foot of a drop onto the tops of the clothes hanging up in the bathroom closet. She wasn't jumping it and she wasn't letting me pull her out all carefully and stuff, so I petted her and got her purring and happy while The Hubby grabbed her legs and I got her around the neck and shoulders and pulled. And out comes a filthy, scraped up, musty-smelling kitty-saurus, meowing and purring and rubbing against my ears, neck, hair, and face.
And all was well with the world again.
Sunday, July 17, 2011
My evolution of taste--in music, that is.
So it's been a while since I posted anything new... again. Sorry about that.
Moving on!
I've always been a big fan of music. Yeah, I know, most people are big fans of music, and it has played a major effect on many a person throughout different phases of their lives. Especially the teenage years. But I'm not here to talk about most people right now, I'm focusing on myself for this particular post, and if you're reading this then so are you. Eat it. You can get back to focusing on yourself or whoever else you feel like thinking about after you're finished reading my ramblings.
--Random interjection--Just had to put out there that I just now saw on TV an old clip where three men were chasing a seal around an office. It was flopping around on a desk, then flopped off. End of clip. I'm just minding my own business, then look up, and *seal*. I love this planet, and The Marx Brothers.
As I was saying. I've always been a big fan of music. It has played a major effect on me throughout my life. :) I popped my concert cherry at a very young age when The Mom took me to a Restless Heart concert. After that it was a while, but over time I went to quite a few country concerts with the family, then rock concerts with friends. I've been to about 12 concert events (one was a 3-day festival) that I can think of, and counting up the bands that I've seen at those events is more thought than I'm willing to put into this right now. But I know I'd very much like to increase that number. I used to sing (and dance...) along to the 21 Jump Street theme song, and according to The Mom I answered Jeopardy! questions about theme songs to my favorite shows. Unlike some, I enjoyed music classes in elementary school, and in middle school surprised everyone--including myself--when I tried out for a solo part for one of our Christmas concerts. I totally got a solo, and rocked it. In 7th grade I tried out for a spot in the high school choir, and got it. I loved singing so much, and was good enough at it, some of my friends would have me sing songs for them any time we were hanging out. I loved it. I was devastated when we moved and the high school I started at didn't have a choir.
In middle school I also graduated from the country and classic rock that my family listened to into the boy-band/"grown-up" Mickey Mouse Clubbers era of pop music. I was too late for New Kids On The Block, but just in time for Backstreet Boys, and even then I was enough of a "hipster" to be skeptical when N'Sync came out, because "Clearly, they sound just like Backstreet!" I even briefly loved Hanson. Le sigh. Note: These fascinations only lasted through their first go-round of singles, but that's still hardly acceptable. However, I also listened to a lot of the other stuff that was on the radio, mostly that awesome selection of mid-to-late 90s alternative music. I was relentlessly tortured by people with better taste in music, but why? They didn't give anyone else a hard time. I was terrified of a goth-ish older kid that happened to ride the bus with me (we lived in a rural area) who wore all black, listened to Marilyn Manson and filed his fingernails to a point. For some reason he took particular pleasure in shocking me and giving me a hard time. (And I'm not just being all "Oooh, he wore black, he's scary," he actually did extremely creepy and inappropriate things around me, leading to my terror.) But again, why me? Were they trying to speed up my inevitable musical evolution?
It took a while, but it happened. First, though, I had to be introduced. Oddly enough, the song that broke the spell was Three Doors Down's "Kryptonite," and it all started over a radio battle with a then-step-brother. See, it's one of those songs that played on the mix stations that play a little bit of everything current and on the rock stations. I would sit in the living room, generally on the computer (Our family was still rocking the MS-DOS at that point!! We were ALWAYS way behind everyone in tech, until I moved out of course.) listening to the radio or whatever I felt like putting in the 6-disc CD changer. So then at some point The Step Brother would come in, change it to the local rock station, then inevitably leave the room. I'd get up and change it back, then he'd come back in, repeat repeat repeat.
Then I noticed that my new favorite song "Kryptonite" was playing more on his station than mine, so I started leaving it alone to wait for it to play again, because you KNOW that when a song is popular it's in heavy rotation. (Does anyone still do that??) Or I'd flip back and forth myself until I heard it on one, then put it on the other until I heard it there. Because I'm obsessive like that, and radio stations are predictable like that. Eventually I found that I was actually listening to and liking a whole lot more of the songs on the rock station than the ones on the mix station. For me, history was made.
After briefly dabbling in DMX and Dr. Dre, and inevitably Eminem and a whole bunch of really random stuff, I settled more firmly in the "rock" category, getting progressively harder the older I got... Incidentally around the same rate the symptoms of depression started showing up. Listening to A Perfect Circle definitely provided a muse for a number of art projects of mine. Then there was the Dashboard Confessional stage, but that's a whole 'nother story. I still like a wide range of random, but for the most part it's alternative, rock, metal, and punk. The only stipulation I have is that I like some sort of melody in there somewhere. I don't really like to listen to only screaming/growling all the time. I need some actual sort of singing, even if it isn't the best voice doing it, and even if it's not in every song of theirs. I really don't like much rap or R&B, and although I was raised on country I can't listen to too much of it at once anymore.
I've gone through some downright sickening musical phases, but all-in-all I'm happy with where I ended up. Even if every Bruno Mars song makes me smile, so does every Operation Ivy and Mushroomhead song. So to The Step-Brother who I hated for reasons I may never publicize, thank you for the radio battles. And to that creepy kid whose name I remember but will not use here--I've loved Marilyn Manson for years now. I hope you stopped tormenting others, and didn't end up in jail.
Moving on!
I've always been a big fan of music. Yeah, I know, most people are big fans of music, and it has played a major effect on many a person throughout different phases of their lives. Especially the teenage years. But I'm not here to talk about most people right now, I'm focusing on myself for this particular post, and if you're reading this then so are you. Eat it. You can get back to focusing on yourself or whoever else you feel like thinking about after you're finished reading my ramblings.
--Random interjection--Just had to put out there that I just now saw on TV an old clip where three men were chasing a seal around an office. It was flopping around on a desk, then flopped off. End of clip. I'm just minding my own business, then look up, and *seal*. I love this planet, and The Marx Brothers.
As I was saying. I've always been a big fan of music. It has played a major effect on me throughout my life. :) I popped my concert cherry at a very young age when The Mom took me to a Restless Heart concert. After that it was a while, but over time I went to quite a few country concerts with the family, then rock concerts with friends. I've been to about 12 concert events (one was a 3-day festival) that I can think of, and counting up the bands that I've seen at those events is more thought than I'm willing to put into this right now. But I know I'd very much like to increase that number. I used to sing (and dance...) along to the 21 Jump Street theme song, and according to The Mom I answered Jeopardy! questions about theme songs to my favorite shows. Unlike some, I enjoyed music classes in elementary school, and in middle school surprised everyone--including myself--when I tried out for a solo part for one of our Christmas concerts. I totally got a solo, and rocked it. In 7th grade I tried out for a spot in the high school choir, and got it. I loved singing so much, and was good enough at it, some of my friends would have me sing songs for them any time we were hanging out. I loved it. I was devastated when we moved and the high school I started at didn't have a choir.
In middle school I also graduated from the country and classic rock that my family listened to into the boy-band/"grown-up" Mickey Mouse Clubbers era of pop music. I was too late for New Kids On The Block, but just in time for Backstreet Boys, and even then I was enough of a "hipster" to be skeptical when N'Sync came out, because "Clearly, they sound just like Backstreet!" I even briefly loved Hanson. Le sigh. Note: These fascinations only lasted through their first go-round of singles, but that's still hardly acceptable. However, I also listened to a lot of the other stuff that was on the radio, mostly that awesome selection of mid-to-late 90s alternative music. I was relentlessly tortured by people with better taste in music, but why? They didn't give anyone else a hard time. I was terrified of a goth-ish older kid that happened to ride the bus with me (we lived in a rural area) who wore all black, listened to Marilyn Manson and filed his fingernails to a point. For some reason he took particular pleasure in shocking me and giving me a hard time. (And I'm not just being all "Oooh, he wore black, he's scary," he actually did extremely creepy and inappropriate things around me, leading to my terror.) But again, why me? Were they trying to speed up my inevitable musical evolution?
It took a while, but it happened. First, though, I had to be introduced. Oddly enough, the song that broke the spell was Three Doors Down's "Kryptonite," and it all started over a radio battle with a then-step-brother. See, it's one of those songs that played on the mix stations that play a little bit of everything current and on the rock stations. I would sit in the living room, generally on the computer (Our family was still rocking the MS-DOS at that point!! We were ALWAYS way behind everyone in tech, until I moved out of course.) listening to the radio or whatever I felt like putting in the 6-disc CD changer. So then at some point The Step Brother would come in, change it to the local rock station, then inevitably leave the room. I'd get up and change it back, then he'd come back in, repeat repeat repeat.
Then I noticed that my new favorite song "Kryptonite" was playing more on his station than mine, so I started leaving it alone to wait for it to play again, because you KNOW that when a song is popular it's in heavy rotation. (Does anyone still do that??) Or I'd flip back and forth myself until I heard it on one, then put it on the other until I heard it there. Because I'm obsessive like that, and radio stations are predictable like that. Eventually I found that I was actually listening to and liking a whole lot more of the songs on the rock station than the ones on the mix station. For me, history was made.
After briefly dabbling in DMX and Dr. Dre, and inevitably Eminem and a whole bunch of really random stuff, I settled more firmly in the "rock" category, getting progressively harder the older I got... Incidentally around the same rate the symptoms of depression started showing up. Listening to A Perfect Circle definitely provided a muse for a number of art projects of mine. Then there was the Dashboard Confessional stage, but that's a whole 'nother story. I still like a wide range of random, but for the most part it's alternative, rock, metal, and punk. The only stipulation I have is that I like some sort of melody in there somewhere. I don't really like to listen to only screaming/growling all the time. I need some actual sort of singing, even if it isn't the best voice doing it, and even if it's not in every song of theirs. I really don't like much rap or R&B, and although I was raised on country I can't listen to too much of it at once anymore.
I've gone through some downright sickening musical phases, but all-in-all I'm happy with where I ended up. Even if every Bruno Mars song makes me smile, so does every Operation Ivy and Mushroomhead song. So to The Step-Brother who I hated for reasons I may never publicize, thank you for the radio battles. And to that creepy kid whose name I remember but will not use here--I've loved Marilyn Manson for years now. I hope you stopped tormenting others, and didn't end up in jail.
Friday, May 6, 2011
Flood Extravaganza, Day 1.
Here’s Day 1 of our story.
Around 12:30 a.m. on Thursday, April 28th I was sitting in the break room at work. It had been raining off and on for about a week, and Thursday was supposed to be a pretty, clear day with no rain. When I had gone into work the night before, it was sprinkling a little bit but the drainage ditch that runs next to our house only had a trickle of water in it. That was not unusual, even though we had received massive amounts of rain over the past week. Rivers were flooding, and things were really bad for a lot of people, but the drainage ditch had always prevented our yard from getting too bad. It never held a lot of water for very long. So I was more than a little bit surprised when one of the guys I work with called me over to his table and told me that they were going door-to-door evacuating my town because of flooding. (Note: I'm not watching a lot of TV these days, so I've been relying a LOT on word-of-mouth and news apps on my phone for my news, especially since my computer stopped connecting to our wifi. And no, that's not a priority right now.) I called The Hubby, waking him up, and told him what was up, asked if anything was going on. During that conversation I learned that yep, the drainage ditch and all the ditches around our house were about full. One neighbor near us had hitched his camper up to his truck and was packing everything up, ready to go anytime. They had evacuated the nursing home down the street from us. I asked The Hubby if he wanted me to come home, and after discussing it I ended up staying at work with the understanding that he would keep me posted via text and let me know if I needed to leave. I let my supervisor know what was up in case I had to leave early, but I never heard anything.
I checked my messages again when I was leaving work and had just received a text from him a half hour before saying that there were two or three inches covering the yard, and that he had taken the dog over to his parents’ house (they live in the same town but farther east, which was not flooded yet) because he won’t use the bathroom in water like that. He told me to be careful if I came back to the house, but after talking with him on the way home we decided it would be safer for me to head straight over to his parents’ house while he went on to work. I had doubted my car would even make it through the driveway with that much standing water. Once I got to the In-Laws’ house, I went immediately into the room where they were going to let me sleep. I burst into tears, thinking about my house, the cats, and having nothing but the clothes on my back, my purse, and my lunch box. Shut up, it's totally a grown-up lunch box. How had all this happened in just a few hours? And I stressed over the fact that I was seriously in need of sleep, because I hadn’t been sleeping very well the past few days. After a few minutes I was able to make my way into the living room with his parents to discuss what was going on and figure out a plan of action. Around 7 or 7:30 we hopped in the car and headed over to my house to pack up some of our things. We couldn’t even safely get onto the road in front of my house to get to the driveway so we parked the car on the road beside my house instead (I live on a corner), giving us that much farther to walk in the water to get to the side door that we use to get into the house (the front door won’t open). The water was almost to the top of my rain boots in some spots as I walked through the driveway, or our closest estimation of where the driveway is supposed to be anyway. It covered the bottom porch step.
I kept running around in circles inside, thinking of all the things that I should get. I decided to pack a few days’ worth of stuff, just enough to get us through. I thought I was probably packing too much stuff. Still, I filled our three bags with clothes, toiletries, and “essential” electronics and accessories-phones, chargers, laptop, and my Kindle. I didn’t take the kitties, since I didn’t think we'd be gone that long, and I didn't think they’d appreciate me carrying them across such a large body of water. It didn’t even cross my mind that we did still have one pet carrier hidden away somewhere. I loved on them for a while before we left, but my heart still broke. I told myself that this probably wasn’t a big deal, we’d be able to go back and get more stuff later if we needed to, and the kitties’ food was at least on the counter up off the ground. We’d be back home before we knew it.
We waded back to the car, arms full of stuff, and went back to their house. Now Hubby’s sister, her boyfriend, and her baby were staying at the In-Law’s as well… They live down the street from us, and were getting flooded as well. I know it’s hard to sleep in a house with a baby, and this was a full house, with a lot of stuff going on, but after an hour or so I tried to get some sleep anyway. While I was down for a nap (all too short of one…) they went back to my house and SIL’s house to check on the situation and move things up higher just in case the water did get into the house. My MIL went to help her parents (who live across the street from us) by bringing their dog to her house, then working on getting her parents into a wheelchair-accessible hotel room. When I woke up I learned that the water had risen almost a foot since that morning when I was there, was now up to the porch itself, and was still rising. Still, I thought we’d be able to go back for the lock box with our important documents and other SUPER-IMPORTANT things like that which I had of course forgotten. I hadn’t even grabbed the sentimental-value stuff, because I wasn’t thinking about it being that serious. Also, maybe on some level I didn't want to get yelled at for grabbing pictures but no socks, pajamas, or our toothbrushes. My mind was in a total fog of denial. I simply could not comprehend this, and still can’t.
So when The Hubby got home from work that day (he did end up leaving early) we put on our boots and started walking, not wanting to bother with a vehicle down the streets clogged with people and other vehicles, including emergency vehicles and the National Guard. We made it to about 3 or 4 blocks away from our house before we stopped. We could see where our street was supposed to be, but the water was just too deep. Someone even came down that street driving a big SUV, and the water was up to the tops of their tires. We stood there for a moment, then turned around.
We didn't know what to do, since we didn't know whether his parents' house would get flooded too, or if we were supposed to evacuate, or anything. All we had to go on was the rumor mill, and it was working full time cranking out more bullshit than facts. We heard that a local organization backed by FEMA was providing free hotel stays for up to 3 nights, so we contacted them to hook that up for ourselves. Then we just had to wait to hear back from them. In the meantime, we wanted to go ahead and leave town, so we went to stay with a friend of mine until we heard about the hotel. Not knowing anything about what was going to happen, how things were going to work out, or what kind of condition my house (and my kitties!) were in, and having had almost no sleep, I went on to work that night. There was nothing I could do anywhere else, and I figured I needed the distraction, and I was definitely going to be needing the paycheck. To say that night at work was "rough" would be a dramatic understatement, even when I got the call back about the hotel stay. We decided we (Hubby, really) would go on and stay at my friend's house that night, then we'd go to the hotel the next day. And so ended Day 1.
I won't split the rest of it into Day 2 and 3, etc., but this will have to be continued in another post for now...
Around 12:30 a.m. on Thursday, April 28th I was sitting in the break room at work. It had been raining off and on for about a week, and Thursday was supposed to be a pretty, clear day with no rain. When I had gone into work the night before, it was sprinkling a little bit but the drainage ditch that runs next to our house only had a trickle of water in it. That was not unusual, even though we had received massive amounts of rain over the past week. Rivers were flooding, and things were really bad for a lot of people, but the drainage ditch had always prevented our yard from getting too bad. It never held a lot of water for very long. So I was more than a little bit surprised when one of the guys I work with called me over to his table and told me that they were going door-to-door evacuating my town because of flooding. (Note: I'm not watching a lot of TV these days, so I've been relying a LOT on word-of-mouth and news apps on my phone for my news, especially since my computer stopped connecting to our wifi. And no, that's not a priority right now.) I called The Hubby, waking him up, and told him what was up, asked if anything was going on. During that conversation I learned that yep, the drainage ditch and all the ditches around our house were about full. One neighbor near us had hitched his camper up to his truck and was packing everything up, ready to go anytime. They had evacuated the nursing home down the street from us. I asked The Hubby if he wanted me to come home, and after discussing it I ended up staying at work with the understanding that he would keep me posted via text and let me know if I needed to leave. I let my supervisor know what was up in case I had to leave early, but I never heard anything.
I checked my messages again when I was leaving work and had just received a text from him a half hour before saying that there were two or three inches covering the yard, and that he had taken the dog over to his parents’ house (they live in the same town but farther east, which was not flooded yet) because he won’t use the bathroom in water like that. He told me to be careful if I came back to the house, but after talking with him on the way home we decided it would be safer for me to head straight over to his parents’ house while he went on to work. I had doubted my car would even make it through the driveway with that much standing water. Once I got to the In-Laws’ house, I went immediately into the room where they were going to let me sleep. I burst into tears, thinking about my house, the cats, and having nothing but the clothes on my back, my purse, and my lunch box. Shut up, it's totally a grown-up lunch box. How had all this happened in just a few hours? And I stressed over the fact that I was seriously in need of sleep, because I hadn’t been sleeping very well the past few days. After a few minutes I was able to make my way into the living room with his parents to discuss what was going on and figure out a plan of action. Around 7 or 7:30 we hopped in the car and headed over to my house to pack up some of our things. We couldn’t even safely get onto the road in front of my house to get to the driveway so we parked the car on the road beside my house instead (I live on a corner), giving us that much farther to walk in the water to get to the side door that we use to get into the house (the front door won’t open). The water was almost to the top of my rain boots in some spots as I walked through the driveway, or our closest estimation of where the driveway is supposed to be anyway. It covered the bottom porch step.
I kept running around in circles inside, thinking of all the things that I should get. I decided to pack a few days’ worth of stuff, just enough to get us through. I thought I was probably packing too much stuff. Still, I filled our three bags with clothes, toiletries, and “essential” electronics and accessories-phones, chargers, laptop, and my Kindle. I didn’t take the kitties, since I didn’t think we'd be gone that long, and I didn't think they’d appreciate me carrying them across such a large body of water. It didn’t even cross my mind that we did still have one pet carrier hidden away somewhere. I loved on them for a while before we left, but my heart still broke. I told myself that this probably wasn’t a big deal, we’d be able to go back and get more stuff later if we needed to, and the kitties’ food was at least on the counter up off the ground. We’d be back home before we knew it.
We waded back to the car, arms full of stuff, and went back to their house. Now Hubby’s sister, her boyfriend, and her baby were staying at the In-Law’s as well… They live down the street from us, and were getting flooded as well. I know it’s hard to sleep in a house with a baby, and this was a full house, with a lot of stuff going on, but after an hour or so I tried to get some sleep anyway. While I was down for a nap (all too short of one…) they went back to my house and SIL’s house to check on the situation and move things up higher just in case the water did get into the house. My MIL went to help her parents (who live across the street from us) by bringing their dog to her house, then working on getting her parents into a wheelchair-accessible hotel room. When I woke up I learned that the water had risen almost a foot since that morning when I was there, was now up to the porch itself, and was still rising. Still, I thought we’d be able to go back for the lock box with our important documents and other SUPER-IMPORTANT things like that which I had of course forgotten. I hadn’t even grabbed the sentimental-value stuff, because I wasn’t thinking about it being that serious. Also, maybe on some level I didn't want to get yelled at for grabbing pictures but no socks, pajamas, or our toothbrushes. My mind was in a total fog of denial. I simply could not comprehend this, and still can’t.
So when The Hubby got home from work that day (he did end up leaving early) we put on our boots and started walking, not wanting to bother with a vehicle down the streets clogged with people and other vehicles, including emergency vehicles and the National Guard. We made it to about 3 or 4 blocks away from our house before we stopped. We could see where our street was supposed to be, but the water was just too deep. Someone even came down that street driving a big SUV, and the water was up to the tops of their tires. We stood there for a moment, then turned around.
We didn't know what to do, since we didn't know whether his parents' house would get flooded too, or if we were supposed to evacuate, or anything. All we had to go on was the rumor mill, and it was working full time cranking out more bullshit than facts. We heard that a local organization backed by FEMA was providing free hotel stays for up to 3 nights, so we contacted them to hook that up for ourselves. Then we just had to wait to hear back from them. In the meantime, we wanted to go ahead and leave town, so we went to stay with a friend of mine until we heard about the hotel. Not knowing anything about what was going to happen, how things were going to work out, or what kind of condition my house (and my kitties!) were in, and having had almost no sleep, I went on to work that night. There was nothing I could do anywhere else, and I figured I needed the distraction, and I was definitely going to be needing the paycheck. To say that night at work was "rough" would be a dramatic understatement, even when I got the call back about the hotel stay. We decided we (Hubby, really) would go on and stay at my friend's house that night, then we'd go to the hotel the next day. And so ended Day 1.
I won't split the rest of it into Day 2 and 3, etc., but this will have to be continued in another post for now...
Thursday, May 5, 2011
No title describes this well enough.
*Written April 29th, 2011, in a hotel room... by me, of course*
A week or so ago a bunch of dangerous storms started rolling through our area. I started working on a blog post about my absolute terror regarding tornados, joking about some of the low-priority things I worry about should a tornado sweep through my tiny town. Mind you, I truly am terrified of tornados, but find it much easier to wonder about the little details that don’t matter. I chose not to post that one, because it just didn’t feel right. Even though I wrote that I knew none of that piddly stuff would even come close to mattering in the event of an actual tornado destroying my house, it did still seem selfish, shallow, and insulting. Since that wasn’t my intention, I chose not to post it and deleted it. Note: This was also before the tornados that devastated the South, after which it became a significantly less amusing topic for me to discuss lightly. Then disaster really did strike us, from a direction I totally didn’t expect.
You see, tornados happen around here all the time. They are by no means an uncommon occurrence. So that fact coupled with my fear of them makes it reasonable for me to think and worry about that often. If you’ve been paying any attention to the tremendous amount of damage and devastation caused by the record-breaking outbreak of tornados in Alabama and throughout the South the past week, you know that they are not something to take lightly. I can only sit in silence when staring at the pictures and videos of the magnitude of the destruction down there. I feel so badly for what has happened to them. But still, that’s not why I’m writing this post.
It wasn’t a tornado that took my house, it was a massive flood. And I was right—I don’t care that there were dirty dishes in the sink, that the floor hadn’t been vacuumed in a few days, that there were dirty clothes all over the place because I was slowly getting through the laundry. I don’t care that anyone opening my fridge would most likely only find sodas, expired milk, and 3 kinds of hot sauce. And some Sweet Baby Ray’s barbecue sauce, because that stuff’s amazing! It tastes great with The Hubby’s grilled chicken. I don’t care that our cabinets and freezers are filled with junk food, or that there’s probably piles of cat puke hidden in strange places throughout the house, from the times when we weren’t there to hear them horking it up and hadn’t come across it yet. I didn’t and still don’t care about any of that. I’ll tell the whole story in another post, but truly all I care about is that The Hubby is laying next to me in our hotel room (paid for by a local organization), the animals are safely tucked away with one of his relatives, and we have some clothes to wear, phones (and chargers!) and the laptop computer to stay connected to those we love.* We have so much love for everyone that’s been supporting us and reaching out, willing to do anything they can to help us get through this difficult time.
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Written May 5, 2011
* - Totally didn't work out that way... We've been having trouble with our laptop. It no longer feels it needs to connect to the internet anywhere. So I've been sitting on this post until I had access to a computer that WILL access the internet, and had to save the document to my phone then email it to myself in order for that to happen, and had to have the time and energy to do all that plus whatever editing would be necessary. See how dedicated I am?
And just to make sure everyone's up-to-date regarding our status, we are safe, we're now living with The Hubby's parents, the animals are back with us, we're both still working, our insurance is NOT going to cover the damage, and we are NOT going to be able to live in our house again. Looking for new digs. Just like all the other flood victims. Again, I will tell more of the story later. Please wish us luck, and if you're aware of any decent places for rent in our area please email me/call/whatever!
A week or so ago a bunch of dangerous storms started rolling through our area. I started working on a blog post about my absolute terror regarding tornados, joking about some of the low-priority things I worry about should a tornado sweep through my tiny town. Mind you, I truly am terrified of tornados, but find it much easier to wonder about the little details that don’t matter. I chose not to post that one, because it just didn’t feel right. Even though I wrote that I knew none of that piddly stuff would even come close to mattering in the event of an actual tornado destroying my house, it did still seem selfish, shallow, and insulting. Since that wasn’t my intention, I chose not to post it and deleted it. Note: This was also before the tornados that devastated the South, after which it became a significantly less amusing topic for me to discuss lightly. Then disaster really did strike us, from a direction I totally didn’t expect.
You see, tornados happen around here all the time. They are by no means an uncommon occurrence. So that fact coupled with my fear of them makes it reasonable for me to think and worry about that often. If you’ve been paying any attention to the tremendous amount of damage and devastation caused by the record-breaking outbreak of tornados in Alabama and throughout the South the past week, you know that they are not something to take lightly. I can only sit in silence when staring at the pictures and videos of the magnitude of the destruction down there. I feel so badly for what has happened to them. But still, that’s not why I’m writing this post.
It wasn’t a tornado that took my house, it was a massive flood. And I was right—I don’t care that there were dirty dishes in the sink, that the floor hadn’t been vacuumed in a few days, that there were dirty clothes all over the place because I was slowly getting through the laundry. I don’t care that anyone opening my fridge would most likely only find sodas, expired milk, and 3 kinds of hot sauce. And some Sweet Baby Ray’s barbecue sauce, because that stuff’s amazing! It tastes great with The Hubby’s grilled chicken. I don’t care that our cabinets and freezers are filled with junk food, or that there’s probably piles of cat puke hidden in strange places throughout the house, from the times when we weren’t there to hear them horking it up and hadn’t come across it yet. I didn’t and still don’t care about any of that. I’ll tell the whole story in another post, but truly all I care about is that The Hubby is laying next to me in our hotel room (paid for by a local organization), the animals are safely tucked away with one of his relatives, and we have some clothes to wear, phones (and chargers!) and the laptop computer to stay connected to those we love.* We have so much love for everyone that’s been supporting us and reaching out, willing to do anything they can to help us get through this difficult time.
- - - - - -- - - - - - -- - - - - -- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Written May 5, 2011
* - Totally didn't work out that way... We've been having trouble with our laptop. It no longer feels it needs to connect to the internet anywhere. So I've been sitting on this post until I had access to a computer that WILL access the internet, and had to save the document to my phone then email it to myself in order for that to happen, and had to have the time and energy to do all that plus whatever editing would be necessary. See how dedicated I am?
And just to make sure everyone's up-to-date regarding our status, we are safe, we're now living with The Hubby's parents, the animals are back with us, we're both still working, our insurance is NOT going to cover the damage, and we are NOT going to be able to live in our house again. Looking for new digs. Just like all the other flood victims. Again, I will tell more of the story later. Please wish us luck, and if you're aware of any decent places for rent in our area please email me/call/whatever!
Friday, February 11, 2011
This is what marriage means.
I am very good at keeping secrets. Most of the time, anyway. But just about everything gets run by the husband, in all honesty. So it's slightly more difficult for me to keep things from him. But it can be done.
About a year and a half ago, he was off somewhere and I was at home watching one of my DVD sets of House. I had the windows opened up because there was a nice breeze going, but the blinds closed because it was dark outside. (Actually the blinds are just about always closed, because I immensely enjoy being nude.) So when the knock at the door occurred, it was too late for me to pretend in good conscience that I wasn't home. Luckily I was clothed. I paused my show and cautiously opened the door to a politely smiling but out-of-breath young man. The first thing he asked was, "Has anyone else come by here?" I of course said, "Noooo..." and would have raised a single eyebrow if I was lucky enough to have that ability. I did, however, have the ability to keep the door mostly closed to this probable rapist/burglar/mass murdere, so I did do that. Should've closed it all the way, but he just would have knocked again. I'm too nice. Apparently, his church youth group had a contest going through some company where whoever sold the most magazines would get to go on a vacation of some sort. He had the cool book of magazines and all.
I know, I know. But again, I'm too nice.
I bought a 2-year subscription to Spin. (We're big music fans.) On some level, I considered that money totally wasted at that point, and was resigned to just forgetting it ever happened. This was before the young gentleman had even left my driveway. On foot, might I add. Yes, I know. So first thing I did after this "event" was google the company that was supposedly sponsoring this contest, and guess what... Everything that came up said it was a scam. My next move bordered on overkill: I called our local police department to let them know that someone was selling fake magazine subscriptions door-to-door. The poor dispatcher told me the sheriff (our one officer at that point) was out on patrol, and that she'd let him know what was going on. She probably just could have yelled out the door and he would have heard, our town is that small. So my NEXT move definitely took the cake for crossing the line into "overkill." I decided to go out myself and find either the one cop in town or the gentleman scam artist and get my money back. I don't know how I was planning to go about doing that if I found him, but I was determined. After driving around aimlessly for a few minutes I realized how stupid this was, all of it, and returned home. When the hubby got home I didn't say a word about any of the night's happenings. Again, I was already considering that money wasted. So for the next few months I didn't think about it.
Then the first magazine came in. Imagine Hubby's surprise when a random music magazine starts showing up in our mailbox. Then his feeling of suspicion and confusion and fear appeared as well. Still, despite my almost equal level of surprise, there was no way in hell I was going to admit to my part in this. I mean, how embarassing would that be?! I gave money to a random stranger at our doorstep for a magazine subscription that I knew good and damn well was never going to happen! So the first month we passed it off as a fluke. Then the second magazine came in, the third, the fourth, the fifth, the sixth, the seventh, and I held firm that some random person in our life, perhaps a friend or family member, knowing our love of music must have gifted us a magazine subscription. That was why my name was on the address label and why we never received a bill or anything. It was indeed strange that we never got anything saying that we were receiving this as a gift, or that nobody we knew had told us that they were gifting us a subscription, but hey, why look a gift magazine in the mouth? We were just lucky I guess. Then I vaguely remembered that one of the guests at our wedding years ago had mentioned that they were going to be gifting us a magazine subscription of some sort, maybe they had forgotten about it and just now remembered! Of course, our screen door didn't have as many holes as those stories, so I would always end those conversations with a shrug and a flabbergasted head shake, saying "They'll stop coming eventually, I guess!" Hubby would walk away muttering to himself, still obviously confused. Then one more magazine showed up in our mailbox, and he finally hit the roof. "Why are we getting these freakin' magazines, where are they coming from, and most importantly, AM I GOING TO GET A BILL FOR A MAGAZINE I DIDN'T ASK FOR?!?!?!" The poor guy. He had no idea when he married me that this is the kind of thing he'd most likely have to be dealing with for the rest of his life. So I came clean, sort of. I told him that I had bought a magazine subscription off a suspicious door-to-door salesman and didn't say anything because it was most likely a scam and I didn't want him to be mad at me if it didn't ever come to anything. And when the magazines started showing up I didn't tell him why because I was astounded at my level of idiocy. He agreed it was indeed an idiotic sequence of events, but *sigh*-ed and let it go. He's awesome and understanding like that. This is why I married him, and any time I feel like I could stab him, these are the kinds of stories I remember. Besides, he does the same kind of stuff to me all the time, usually involving car parts ordered off Ebay or Craigslist. Except his general M.O. is to either order stuff without telling me and then something random gets brought home, or he asks for permission AFTER he's already ordered it. This was my first and only major "secret" purchase.
That dear hubby of mine doesn't necessarily think I need a blog. So for the mean time, my personal information, such as age, general location, and names of myself, the hubby, friends, family, and even my beloved pets will not be used. I'm sure that a super-determined person could still figure it out, and if you have that much interest then more power to you, but... I'm trying to wait a while before revealing this to at least the hubs. We all know it's easier to ask forgiveness than permission.
He still doesn't know to expect the magazine to come in for two full years, though. I still shrug when he asks "When will we stop getting this??" Who knows?
About a year and a half ago, he was off somewhere and I was at home watching one of my DVD sets of House. I had the windows opened up because there was a nice breeze going, but the blinds closed because it was dark outside. (Actually the blinds are just about always closed, because I immensely enjoy being nude.) So when the knock at the door occurred, it was too late for me to pretend in good conscience that I wasn't home. Luckily I was clothed. I paused my show and cautiously opened the door to a politely smiling but out-of-breath young man. The first thing he asked was, "Has anyone else come by here?" I of course said, "Noooo..." and would have raised a single eyebrow if I was lucky enough to have that ability. I did, however, have the ability to keep the door mostly closed to this probable rapist/burglar/mass murdere, so I did do that. Should've closed it all the way, but he just would have knocked again. I'm too nice. Apparently, his church youth group had a contest going through some company where whoever sold the most magazines would get to go on a vacation of some sort. He had the cool book of magazines and all.
I know, I know. But again, I'm too nice.
I bought a 2-year subscription to Spin. (We're big music fans.) On some level, I considered that money totally wasted at that point, and was resigned to just forgetting it ever happened. This was before the young gentleman had even left my driveway. On foot, might I add. Yes, I know. So first thing I did after this "event" was google the company that was supposedly sponsoring this contest, and guess what... Everything that came up said it was a scam. My next move bordered on overkill: I called our local police department to let them know that someone was selling fake magazine subscriptions door-to-door. The poor dispatcher told me the sheriff (our one officer at that point) was out on patrol, and that she'd let him know what was going on. She probably just could have yelled out the door and he would have heard, our town is that small. So my NEXT move definitely took the cake for crossing the line into "overkill." I decided to go out myself and find either the one cop in town or the gentleman scam artist and get my money back. I don't know how I was planning to go about doing that if I found him, but I was determined. After driving around aimlessly for a few minutes I realized how stupid this was, all of it, and returned home. When the hubby got home I didn't say a word about any of the night's happenings. Again, I was already considering that money wasted. So for the next few months I didn't think about it.
Then the first magazine came in. Imagine Hubby's surprise when a random music magazine starts showing up in our mailbox. Then his feeling of suspicion and confusion and fear appeared as well. Still, despite my almost equal level of surprise, there was no way in hell I was going to admit to my part in this. I mean, how embarassing would that be?! I gave money to a random stranger at our doorstep for a magazine subscription that I knew good and damn well was never going to happen! So the first month we passed it off as a fluke. Then the second magazine came in, the third, the fourth, the fifth, the sixth, the seventh, and I held firm that some random person in our life, perhaps a friend or family member, knowing our love of music must have gifted us a magazine subscription. That was why my name was on the address label and why we never received a bill or anything. It was indeed strange that we never got anything saying that we were receiving this as a gift, or that nobody we knew had told us that they were gifting us a subscription, but hey, why look a gift magazine in the mouth? We were just lucky I guess. Then I vaguely remembered that one of the guests at our wedding years ago had mentioned that they were going to be gifting us a magazine subscription of some sort, maybe they had forgotten about it and just now remembered! Of course, our screen door didn't have as many holes as those stories, so I would always end those conversations with a shrug and a flabbergasted head shake, saying "They'll stop coming eventually, I guess!" Hubby would walk away muttering to himself, still obviously confused. Then one more magazine showed up in our mailbox, and he finally hit the roof. "Why are we getting these freakin' magazines, where are they coming from, and most importantly, AM I GOING TO GET A BILL FOR A MAGAZINE I DIDN'T ASK FOR?!?!?!" The poor guy. He had no idea when he married me that this is the kind of thing he'd most likely have to be dealing with for the rest of his life. So I came clean, sort of. I told him that I had bought a magazine subscription off a suspicious door-to-door salesman and didn't say anything because it was most likely a scam and I didn't want him to be mad at me if it didn't ever come to anything. And when the magazines started showing up I didn't tell him why because I was astounded at my level of idiocy. He agreed it was indeed an idiotic sequence of events, but *sigh*-ed and let it go. He's awesome and understanding like that. This is why I married him, and any time I feel like I could stab him, these are the kinds of stories I remember. Besides, he does the same kind of stuff to me all the time, usually involving car parts ordered off Ebay or Craigslist. Except his general M.O. is to either order stuff without telling me and then something random gets brought home, or he asks for permission AFTER he's already ordered it. This was my first and only major "secret" purchase.
That dear hubby of mine doesn't necessarily think I need a blog. So for the mean time, my personal information, such as age, general location, and names of myself, the hubby, friends, family, and even my beloved pets will not be used. I'm sure that a super-determined person could still figure it out, and if you have that much interest then more power to you, but... I'm trying to wait a while before revealing this to at least the hubs. We all know it's easier to ask forgiveness than permission.
He still doesn't know to expect the magazine to come in for two full years, though. I still shrug when he asks "When will we stop getting this??" Who knows?
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