Salem died at the Vet’s office on Wednesday evening.  On Thursday I drove to Havre to pick up his remains (they would have charged more money I don’t currently have to ‘take care of him’ which apparently involves cremation, and not the rusted dumpster from my nightmares) and pay the bill, which came to $180, and all they could tell me was that he died of some kind of ‘toxicity’. Maybe a spider bite, the very nice and helpful and ultimately useless doctor told me. I buried him yesterday afternoon, under a tree in K’s yard by the garden, since I don’t have my own yard. It’s a pretty spot, and I think he’d enjoy it if he still could.

My first reaction, of course, was ‘huh?’ What the hell kind of mutant, super-powered spiders are living in my apartment that can bite my cat and cause a fever, and then turn his butt black and blue, and then ultimately kill him? Because I do have another cat to protect, and also, my own ass.

I did a lot of crying blubbering sobbing pouting asking god why life is unfair thinking, and it sucks to lose a pet. Thankfully, it’s really hard to be depressed this time of year, what with the decorations and the fact that H was thoughtful and bought me flowers, and the impending Halloween party tomorrow night.

As I write this, my Grams is taking care of the finishing touches on my skirt (I can accurately call it a ‘skirt’ now!) and thank god, because my costume is SO COOL. Also, the debate currently taking place in my little world: Is it even more slutty to pass out the cupcakes I’m baking and tell people it’s their ‘unbirthday?’ Or is it merely enhancing the authenticity of my costume?

I’ve been working the graveyard shift at the office, which involves going to work at midnight and getting off at eight in the morning, then sleeping the better part of the day (unsuccessfully, usually). Yesterday I got up and found cat puke on my living room carpet, then another puddle nearby, then a third in the bathroom. Since Luna was being her typical climb-on-tables, yowl annoyingly, attempt-to-knock-over-trash self, I concluded the sick cat must be Salem.

I found him upstairs, hiding under the desk in my bedroom and looking completely pitiful. When I picked him up he just sort of dangled limply, staring at me squinty-eyed. I put him on a towel downstairs for monitoring and, when I noticed that he couldn’t eat/drink OR go to the bathroom, I called the vet.

A couple of hours later, after realizing that he was oozing from a certain orifice (allow me to spare you the vivid and horrifying details) I called the vet back nearly hysterical with panic and calmly explained the situation. She said if he wasn’t improved by the morning, I should bring him to Havre for an exam. So I asked K to check on him periodically through the night while I worked, and by morning, he was still very sick.

I drove to Havre, exhausted, and found out he has a fever of 106.6 (normal temps for cats are between 99 and 102, I’m told) and that his bowels are swollen, and that he’s especially tender where he got his boy bits hacked off about three weeks ago. So, the vet thinks it’s an infection caused by the neutering he got. She’s keeping him over night, pumping him full of antibiotics. Thank god it isn’t anything worse, such as I don’t know, the cat chowing down on the dental floss in my bathroom garbage, because surgery I cannot afford.

I drove back at about noon, after having a cup of coffee with my sister, and I’ve come to the hazy conclusion that driving while barely awake is just as bad as driving while drunk. I was scared of falling asleep, and that song by the Barenaked Ladies (Tonight is the Night I Fell Asleep at the Wheel) kept playing in my fuzzy head, and then about ten miles out I had to roll down the windows for fresh air because otherwise I was in danger of going into the ditch, or worse, another driver.

Lucky me, tomorrow I’m going to do it all again, assuming Salem is healthy enough to retrieve. But first, a nap.

Also: for those of you worried that pictures of my exposed ass were going to end up on the web courtesy of my ‘costume’ (K, this means you), fear not! A friend of mine found some black satin, and my Grams is helping me add about two and a half much needed inches to the skirt, so all extremities will be adequately concealed. Luckily for the eyes of the innocent, anyway.

I’m sure you’re all positively DYING to hear about my weekend away, at my future brother-in-law’s 21st birthday party…so, the short version: There is a birthday shot labeled a ‘Mexican Snowflake’, which entails the honorary birthday-haver climbing onto the bar top, stretching out on his (or her) back, and having peppermint schnapps AND tequila poured directly into their throats, no shot glass required.

As you can imagine, the party was quite enjoyable, and a smashing success for all involved, not including the next day when we all woke up with varying degrees of hangovers.

Now, moving on to the important and pressing topic at hand: MY HAIRCUT!

I am not the kind of person who vaguely notices split ends and decides to call and schedule the next available, convenient appointment. I am the sort of crazy person who will decide, randomly and absolutely, that I CANNOT STAND MY HAIR ANOTHER MINUTE and proceed to move heaven and earth to get my impatient butt into a chair, only releasing a breath once I hear the familiar and oh-so-comforting snip snip snip that implies relief is near. I’m not normally a diva, I swear.

Anyway, today I went to my usual stylist (after deciding last night the end would be near if I had to bear my uncontrollable mop another day). She managed to fit me in, like she always does, and everything was lovely – except, in a change of events, she politely told me she was going to cut my hair dry, because it would help her even the layers more accurately. I agreed, because, why not? – she’s the expert.

WRONG. So very wrong. It was still wet, like it usually is, when I zipped out of the salon, giving my thanks and leaving a tip. As it started to dry, K commented that it didn’t look quite right. What a lovely understatement.

It looks terrible! It’s short and uneven and WRONG in every way! And I’m picky about my hair, but I do realize it’ll grow out, and eventually be normal again. The problem lies in that I told my sister I was going to get it cut, and I wanted to hack off a few inches (it’s pretty long) and she asked me not to, because of some thing she plans to do with it in the wedding. So I agreed to only cut an inch or less, and when she sees what is left on my head she’s going to have a cow. The wedding is in two months, and my hair grows fast, but I’ll still need a correctional sort of cut before the big day, and it’ll be much shorter than she anticipated.

Not good. It looks terrible. It feels wrong. But I guess I’ll quit moping now and be quiet,  because there’s honestly only so much bitching one person can get away with.

A couple of weeks ago, I ordered my Halloween costume, eager with anticipation and all overly excited about the upcoming dance/costume party that the local bar has every year. Everyone in town goes, and it’s always hilarious to see who came up with what, and of course as every good girl knows, Halloween is the perfect opportunity to dress like a tramp and get away with it.

And, if you clicked on the link, you know my Mad Hatter (Alice in Wonderland style) costume is completely, utterly adorable. Except NOT when I tried it on. I show-cased it for my best friend K, and the conversation went something like this:

Me: “What do you think?”
K: “Oh my god.”
Me: “It’s cute, right?”
K: “You should replace those numbers with a dollar sign. You look like a ten dollar whore.”
Me: “What!?”
K: “It doesn’t even cover your ass!”
Me, getting panicked: “But it covers the model’s ass! Or it looked like it did, anyway!”
K: “Sure, I bet she’s a size two. You’re not. I can see your entire ass. If you bend over…you’re going to flash the room. You should send it back.”
Me: “I’m going to modify it. My grandma’s going to help me modify it.”
K, looking incredibly doubtful: “I wouldn’t wear it.”
Me: “It’s THAT bad?”
K: “People are going to grab your ass all night long, calling you ‘Sweet Cheeks’. OLD MEN are going to grab your butt.” (She proceeds to demonstrate, complete with grope and leer).
Me: “But I can’t send it back! I’ll just lose ten pounds before the party. I have two weeks.”
K: “Just don’t stand on my porch under the red light.”

So. We can glean two things from this discussion. a) I am a slow learner, and b) K is a ruthless truth-teller. She actually referred to my costume (or me in my costume, rather) as SKANKERIFIC. All caps. Just like that.

The thing is, I didn’t realize when I bought the damn thing it said 420/69. I mean, the costume is tramped up enough, as if they need to add WEED AND SEX into the ensemble? It’s bad enough my butt cheeks are well below the bottom of the flouncy, Vegas-showgirl style mini-skirt.

And now you’re thinking, listen to the ever-wise K and send it back already. Except I stubbornly (read: stupidly) want it to work. So instead I am going to exercise like a crazed anorexic zombie and also modify the skirt, adding an extra four inches of fabric to it so my butt is adequately covered. Also, I’m going to reinforce the stitching on those little brass buttons, because now I’m planning for every worst case scenario possible, and I can see myself bopping along to Air Supply and then PING, off goes the button keeping my boobs contained, at which point my bottom would be the LEAST of my worries.

I mean, I’d at least like to look like a $50 hooker.

This weekend, I’m taking off to Havre to celebrate my sister’s fiance’s 21st birthday bash. Which should be fun, especially since H made homemade root beer schnapps, and oh yeah, I’ll be wearing clothes. Everywhere.

It’s a perfect autumn day outside. It’s the type of day that makes people smile just to see it. The sky is a cloudless blue bowl. It’s just breezy enough to be comfortable, and just bright enough to be cheerful. Some of the trees remain stubbornly green, but most have given over to fate and stand bare, with dying leaves in shades of red and gold blowing around their trunks.

My mother loved days like these. If she were here today, she’d be raking piles of leaves for us to jump in, and then, giddy with laughter, she’d jump into the pile herself. She used to kick us out of the house, claiming it was too nice to be indoors, and then she’d make cocoa and chase us around the yard. Days like today always make me remember her, and smile.

It’s too bad I don’t have a camera (stuck at work) or I’d take a picture and share it with all of you.

Sometimes, I like my job – and then there are days like today, where I am forced to re-evaluate the intelligence of ever getting out of bed. I mean, HONESTLY. Do I need to work, and pay bills, and get dressed when what I REALLY should be doing is mummifying myself under a heap of blankets, shoveling in Ben & Jerry’s, and muttering oh-so-gratifying insults about MY INSANELY RUDE, STUPID CO-WORKERS?

Actually, they’re more like…superiors. Not directly, but close enough to make me grit my teeth and pull my hair and violently wish for a 5th of Jack. DANIELS, I say! And I don’t even like Jack Daniels.

All day today it’s been nothing but what a failure I am, punctuated with sighs of disgust and eyerolls and snide comments. Yes, clearly HIS misinterpretation of my explanation makes ME the moron. I mean, everyone knows that.

Complaint #1: I am not responding fast enough on the radio.

What the hell? The only way I could possibly respond faster would be to lunge across the room the EXACT second I hear the mike key and slam my fist down on the connect and breathlessly ask, ‘Yes, of course, how else may I kiss your ass, OH MIGHTY GOD?’

I’m not slow. At all. I hear someone request our county and I immediately respond, so whatever crack aforementioned co-worker is smoking, it must be GOOD shit.

Complaint #2: I am not making myself clear.

Well, jeez, I guess I could buy a blank notebook and DRAW A PICTURE, complete with color-coding, but then they’d just bitch and moan about how I don’t know my proper place, because we don’t have any sexist, egotistical, know-it-all bastards working here – of course not!

Complaint #3:  I am too polite, and it is not professional.

Yes, it’s completely wretched of me to say ‘thank you’ on the radio. Technically, the FCC prefers us to keep unnecessary air time to an absolute minimum, understandably, but…this is ANYRURALTOWN USA, where our biggest issues are cows blocking the road and occasionally someone getting locked out of their car, if you get my meaning. The reason the FCC doesn’t like people hogging air time with trivialities like good manners is because if something serious were to happen (say, a bomb threat) and it was missed because I was running my mouth handing out thank-yous like candy at a parade, GOODBYE JOB. But that’s an extreme scenario, which would NEVER happen, mostly because we don’t sit on the radio saying thank you all goddamn day, BUT WE SHOULD because then we might actually have something to do with ourselves, as opposed to say, listening to our puffed-up superiors assess our so-called short-comings.

Admittedly, I’m not the best dispatcher in the world, or even close to it. I can’t possibly be, as I work in a rural area, and will never get to experience the full scope of my responsibilities. BUT. It would be nice if instead of harp harp harping on me because of their personal issues, or whatever is causing them to have a bad day, they would SUCK IT UP and leave me out of it. Is all I’m asking. Is that too much? I think not.

I stole this meme from ‘Messing with Texas’ (see blogroll). I was bored, and now so are you. Ha! I’m an evil mastermind.

4 jobs I’ve had:

shoe salesperson
mailroom clerk
waitress (for four terrifying hours – my clumsiness knows no bounds)
911 dispatcher

4 Movies I can watch over and over:

Never Been Kissed
The Wedding Singer
Armageddon
V for Vendetta

4 TV shows I like to watch:

House, MD  (mmmm House, mmmm)
America’s Next Top Model (I admit shamefully)
Law & Order Special Victims Unit
The Closer

4 places I have been on vacation:

Seaside, Oregon (several times, it’s my favorite)
California
Arizona
Montana (when I lived in WA)

4 favorite foods:

raspberries
chocolate ice cream
warm, gooey chocolate chip cookies
mashed potatoes

4 websites I visit daily:

the google page
all the ones on my blogroll
wikipedia
sephora.com (i am a total makeup junkie)

4 places I’d rather be:

Ireland (always wanted to go there)
London (would like to eventually live there)
Italy (co-worker went, bragged about how gorgeous it is and incited my envy)
Seaside, Oregon