I feel bad for cat owners because every single one of them that I know or have met that have “lost” a cat, don’t seem to be able to accept the fact they have been jilted. They are in complete denial. They all believe their cat is lost. That for some inexplicable reason, one day they just couldn’t remember where home was. They remembered all the other days, but somehow they have now forgot and are “lost”.  No, sorry.  They didn’t forget. They didn’t get lost. They just decided they didn’t like you anymore. Every person who has ever put up a lost cat poster is basically advertising their pet has found them unworthy of companionship and will be getting their tender vittles elsewhere, thanks for all the fish, and bu-bye. Maybe you bought the wrong food, maybe they didn’t like the face you made when you cleaned out the litter box, maybe they got pissed off when you put a cute little hat on them, took a picture and posted it on the internet. Who knows? They’re cats. And this is another thing I don’t get about cat people – they are always so self-righteous about how independent cats are, how you don’t OWN a cat, how cats are sooo much smarter than dogs because you CAN’T train them, and how a dog’s devotion and love is so pathetic. They are so proud of their furry little sociopaths.  Yet, they get all upset when their cat leaves them – “Oh, my poor cat is LOST”.  All of a sudden, your cat NEEDS you, and is so tied to you, that some unknown force is keeping you two apart. It’s kind of like Marianne Ginther being surprised Newt left her for Bisek. Uh, yeah, this would be the same man who was screwing you when his wife was undergoing cancer treatment and asked for a divorce at the hospital when she was recovering from surgery. What did you expect?

Look, I understand – you fell in love and you have been abandoned. I feel bad for you, I do. But please stop putting up “Lost Cat” posters. Be honest. It should read something like this:

My Cat Has Left Me

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

Chooses not to answer to “Mipper Binkers”

If you see him (or her, not really sure – it’s a cat),

please let him know I have tuna and no self respect.

Please come home! Call me. 555-1212

Seriously? In a city of over 1, 700,000 people they couldn’t find ANYTHING else to do? Were there no domestic disturbances? No drugs being sold? No drunk and disorderlies? Last year Austin had 1,961 aggravated assaults, 8, 640 burglaries and 35,534 thefts and these two had to come rolling into the TXDOT parking lot to keep the administrative associates, retirees, and graduate students from devolving into lawlessness? Yes, here are sown the seeds of anarchy, first people allow their dogs off leash in an open field, next thing you know their tossing Molotov cocktails at the Governor’s Mansion and eating human flesh. Not gonna happen on their watch. You may sleep safe tonight, Austin – the Thin Blue Line holds fast…

MacArthur Park –

Who the HELL convinced Richard Harris he could sing? Cakes left out in the rain? Love pressed like a striped pair of pants.  Who leaves cakes out in the rain? What are you doing walking around in striped pants with a cake in the rain anyway? Your poetic license is revoked.

It’s A Small World After All –

Once heard, it cannot be unheard. One can only hope there is a very special boat ride in hell the Sherman Brothers are on for eternity and I think we can all agree on the soundtrack. If the CIA  never used this to break someone, it is only because it cannot be handled safely. You might hear it. Someone might hum it. Sweet Jesus, it’s playing in my head right now!

Angel of the Morning –

For the love of GOD, call her Angel of the Morning and a cab, and shut her the hell up.

Tie a Yellow Ribbon –

What was he in for? Six to ten and out in three? Awful big of him to offer to “put the blame” on him. Uh, yeah. You’re the FELON.

Anything by ABBA –

Basically for the same reason as It’s a Small World After All. In fact, I am kind of surprised they never recorded it. I guess we should be thankful.  ABBA singing that song would be something akin to Chernobyl. Only on a much larger scale.

I think I know what the Sherman Brothers are listening to right now, and forever and ever and ever…

I don’t necessarily like September. I like that many of my friends birthdays are in September, my mother’s birthday is in September. But it is also the month my father died, and last year on Labor Day weekend my dog Shug died. I don’t know why losing a dog is so damn hard. Lot’s of people have written about it, about how they love you unconditionally, etc., etc.  It’s that, but it is also that they trust you. Their life is in your hands, which means, unfortunately, so is their death. That is hard. So hard that I swore that was it, I was not going to get another dog. So it was very strange that almost one year ago to the day, I adopted another dog.

I did not plan it. In fact, it only occurred to me as I was driving home with Lucy Loo in the back seat (half of her anyway, the front of her was actually standing on the cup holder between the driver’s seat and passenger seat with her cheek pressed to mine) that I remembered that it was Labor Day Monday that Shug died and hear it was Labor Day Sunday and I had just adopted a one and a half year old pit bull, the exact opposite of Shug in almost every way – Shug was a soft, fluffy, vanilla blond, Lucy is a hard, shiny blue-black. Shug was soft and squdgy, Lucy is sleek and muscular. Shug was shy and submissive, Lucy Loo is assertive and unafraid. In fact, the only way Lucy is anything like Shug is she is a cuddler and a bed hog – I don’t know how she does it, I start off in the middle of the bed, but when I wake up in the morning I am scrunched to the side and she is in the middle with her nose tucked under my neck.

I forgot what it’s like to have a puppy. She is work. She wants to play. She wants to walk. She has no manners. She is rambunctious. She likes to chew. She is all these things and she is STRONG. She is also funny, sweet, and smart (in two weeks she has learned not to try to kill the cats, to not pull on the leash, to sit (mostly), to come when I call her (mostly) and not completely destroy the house when I leave (I consider this a huge accomplishment since I know damn well she could eat the couch if she wanted to).  She is gentle with my 74-year-old mother. Somehow she just knows she should be. She stays with her during the latter part of the day, and I like knowing she is there with mom. She is a good guard dog – if I was a burglar or serial killer and heard Lucy bark or saw her at the window (or say, standing beside the frail 74-year-old woman I thought I would rob), I would move on to another target – someone with a yorkie or something.

So, I have taken on the duties and the responsibilities that come with being a dog mommy again. Walks, toys, food, chewies, be home on time, don’t be gone for too long, vet check ups and registration, shots and obedience classes. What do I get in return? Unconditional love, exercise, and 1/5 of the bed.

I know a good deal when I see one.

I saw a young man riding a unicycle today. When I see someone riding a unicycle (who is not juggling and/or wearing a clown costume) it always strikes me the same way—I find it a little, well, pathetic. I have tried to put my finger on exactly why that is and I share it with you now.

A unicycle is an underdeveloped bicycle. It is inefficient in the transfer of energy, it is ungainly and less stable. A bicycle takes the energy you would use to walk and gives you the velocity of running. A unicycle takes the energy you would use to run and gives you the velocity of walking. In fact, it really has only two advantages, one being storage—but really? You can’t find space for one more wheel? Are you living in a supply closet? The other being people will stare at you. And that brings me to my point. Because I really think that is the only reason why someone chooses to ride a unicycle over a bicycle. The reason I find it pathetic is because there are easier and more energy efficient ways to announce to the world that yours is a life outside the constrictions of conformity that bind the masses, and get people to stare at you, with the added benefit of not making you look ridiculous (or AS ridiculous).

Why would anyone come to the decision that peddling feverishly while traveling the distance and speed that an octogenarian could travel using a walker in half the time, makes them look eclectic or unique?  It makes you look comical—which is probably one of the reasons that circus clowns ride them. You are working harder to cover less ground than if you were WALKING. If you were an animal in the wild doing something like that you would be the carcass torn apart by hyenas on the Discovery Channel.

Look, unicycle guy, I understand, you are a hipster. Anyone can see that by your messenger bag, the three days growth of your testosterone challenged “beard”, and your t-shirt with the name of the band that only 18 people know about (including their parents). But trust me, a unicycle is not the way to go.  A gear-less bicycle would give you more cool for your buck AND it would actually get you some place—like the coffee shop where you can take out your MacBook Air and work on your submission to the Paris Review—in an efficient, timely, and perhaps more importantly, less silly-ass way.

If you need people to stare at you in the street or other public places, try any of these time tested methods:

Street Mime (you’re in a box!)

Protest (anything—as long as it’s against “The Man”)

Tattoos and/or Body Piercings (the more the better, and in highly visible places—like your face)

Mohawk (with unnaturally colored hair—it still works)

Eye Patch (pirates wear them, you can’t get any cooler or anti-establishment than pirates)

Funny Hat (Isabella Blow made an entire lifestyle out of this)

There is also the “Metro-sexual-Kurt Cobain-I-wear-girl-clothes-because-I-won’t-be-defined-by-your-limited-gender-based-ideas-of-social-identity” approach. Wear a ladies satin bed jacket and some Doris Day sunglasses and you are sure to get attention.

Anyone of the above will not require you to expend anywhere near the energy of a unicycle and you will get to whatever hipster scene you are going to, quickly with your dignity and ironic angst intact…

People will also stop asking you to juggle.

No, I want to talk about the really important news, Willie Nelson cut his hair.  Finally.  People seem to be a little shook up about this.  As if THIS signaled the fall of western civilization as we know it.  For me, it is a sign of hope.  Of clarity in a world of muck and swirl.   Willie got up Saturday morning, looked in the mirror, and said “What the hell? I am a 77 year old man, ASPIRING to look like a 45 year old hippie and FAILING.” He didn’t look biker cool, or “anti-Grand Ole ‘Opry” He looked like an old woman with a hormonal imbalance.

Look, I like guys with long hair, but there are a lot of things that have to be happening for a man to pull it off. First,  they must have nice hair – not stringy, thin, greasy looking hair. It is preferable to have a masculine physique, not a soft, flabby body, with saggy man-boobs so as to dissuade any comparison to said old woman. Some would argue you can get around this by having lots of tattoos and a felony record, you can’t. Watch an episode of “Cops” – there are some pretty tough old women out there.  And another thing, if  you have long hair, WEAR it. If you constantly put it in pig tails, braids or a pony tail, what’s the point? Furthermore, pig tails, whether braids or not, only look good on little girls and Native Americans….and Native Americans are not a definite (see above).

A man like Willie Nelson just encourages men like the one I saw at Thunderbird Coffee last Sunday, balding (I could pull more hair off of my lint roller, in fact, they look a lot alike), with a “pony tail” the size of a preemie’s pinky at the back of his head. What really drew my attention was he had secured it with a rubber band. Where did he get rubber bands that small? Barbie doll accessories? Those little rubber bands that used to go on braces (maybe he’s a dentist? What were those rubber bands for, anyway?). I just wanted to tap him on the shoulder, look him in the eye and say – “Really? Are you trying to convince us or yourself, that you just have SO MUCH hair on this mildly warm day, that you have to special order rubber bands from Mattel so that you can get it off your neck?” I wanted to reach into my purse, take out my cuticle scissors and cut it off. I am fairly certain he would not miss the weight of those five strands of 2″ hair.  The weight of the rubber nano-band? Maybe.

So, I am glad Willie Nelson cut his hair. Maybe he will inspire Thunderbird Coffee man to find a pair of cuticle scissors and do the deed.  Maybe Willie will inspire us all to see things a little bit more clearly.  However, we all should continue to look tastefully away when confronted by the sight of man-boobs.

It started with a black cat that started hanging out at my house. My mother named it B.C. Which brings me to another irritating quality about cats, they are for all intents and purposes, asexual. Unless you want to get very up close and personal  -  which I don’t.  B.C. stands for “black cat”.  Not very imaginative, but hey it’s not MY cat it’s A cat and I am not going to spend a lot of time trying to think of  a name for something I am going to refer to as “pain in the ass” or “goddamnit” or  “get outta my way” most of the time.

For some inexplicable reason B.C. was in love with my dog Shug.  He/she would not come near me, but would try to rub up against Shug, follow him, meow at him, run to him…it was bizarre. Shug being a self-respecting dog and having a deep understanding and appreciation for how the universe is supposed to work, was having NONE OF IT. He would flit away in a state of pique, turn his head with disdain, and on occasion, if pressed, would lift up a side of his sweet little muzzle and sneer with trembling whiskers, whites showing around the eye, and give his best Clint Eastwood “I am so close to tearing your head off, you don’t even know” look.  Of course, B.C. being a stupid ass cat, completely ignored this. I felt sorry for B.C. You know, unrequited, forbidden love and all.  I started leaving a little dog food out. Then I figured dog food probably wasn’t good for it, so I bought the cheapest bag of cat food they had.  Thus began my soup kitchen for wayward cats (and really, aren’t they all?).

My guess is cats are gossips or like criminals who can’t keep their mouth shut about a big heist. Probably more like criminals. B.C. was probably hanging out under the bridge by our house with the other stray cats and just HAD to tell them about his recent score, leaving out the part about falling for the blonde with the big brown eyes (Shug was a Cocker Spaniel mix). Because after awhile, a big fluffy orange cat showed up and began to hang out. Of course it and  B.C. and didn’t get along and fought, which meant there were times when I had to go out and break it up. Usually at night when I was in bed, or early in the morning, when I was in bed.

The orange cat was NOT in love with Shug. I find it interesting that though for the most part cats can’t be trained, orange cat learned, very quickly (with one lesson) not to touch my Shug. The orange cat took a swipe at Shug once, unfortunately for orange cat it did so within my swiping range. It swiped at Shug and I swiped orange cat. Orange cat never even hissed at Shug again, and seemed to go out of his way to stay out of his way. Cats may be dumb, but there is nothing wrong with their survival instincts.  Orange cat also differs from B.C. in that, B.C. took over a year to come up to me and actually come into the house when I am getting the food ready, whereas orange cat wants DESPERATELY to be a house cat and tries to get in whenever possible. Shamelessly storming the screen door, rubbing my legs and meowing loudly. Very undignified. I think B.C. is embarrassed for him. I know I am. Show some self-esteem, play a little hard to get. Orange cat and B.C. have come to an uneasy truce. B.C. has taken the front yard and orange cat has claimed the back yard. My house has become the “DMZ”.

But not being able to keep a good thing to themselves, yet a third cat showed up. I call him “Gunney”. I don’t particularly know why. There is just something about him that is tough, pulled together and squared away. He isn’t overly aggressive. Doesn’t seem to want to fight unless push comes to shove (orange cat again—what a pain in the ass). He is cautious but not unfriendly. I guess courteous would be the word. He doesn’t come into the kitchen when I am getting the food ready unless I speak to him, He doesn’t meow and rub against me, but just waits for the food to be put out.  He seems to know how a chow line works. I actually kind of like him. If it is a him. I haven’t seen Gunney for a couple of days though. I hope he is okay. I hate cats.

]]> http://quarlesome.wordpress.com/2010/05/15/i-hate-cats/feed/ 5 kweenipie cattongue BC kitty03 catcrime OJ korean_dmz_map 3cats http://quarlesome.wordpress.com/2010/04/11/zen-and-the-art-of-dent-removal/ http://quarlesome.wordpress.com/2010/04/11/zen-and-the-art-of-dent-removal/#comments Sun, 11 Apr 2010 18:42:50 +0000 kweenipie http://quarlesome.wordpress.com/?p=188 ]]>

Who would have thought that an “As Seen On TV” product could deliver a life lesson in patience, attention and persistence? I am speaking of the “Ding King”.

After having over $5,000 worth of repair done on the front of my car after an accident, the small dent over the front wheel of my car looked worse to me. After all, at this point my card was 25% new and since the dent was a “pre-existing condition” they couldn’t fix it along with the other repairs. When I asked how much it would cost to pop it out, I was given a quote of $240. Really? Is that $40 for popping the dent and $200 for my blond hair?

So as I was driving my 25% new car home, I remembered a commercial from my youth for an item called the “Pop-A-Dent”. I got home and through the magic of Google I found it. As I was researching it’s efficacy (yes, I do things like that) I found that another item was repeatedly stated to be better. For $14.95 + shipping and handling I could attain dentless nirvana. Deal.I received my Ding King and was immediately impressed by the fact that Billy Mays picture was on the carton. If Billy said (yelled) it worked, it works. And it did. Sort of. Being me, I tried the direct approach first, I applied the little puller thingy to the center of the dent, waited the allotted time and then pulled. Nothing. Hmmmm. Maybe it doesn’t work. No, what am I saying, an “As Seen On TV” product not working? It works in their commercials. Back to the instructions – “may need more than one application” – Okay. Again, nothing. Maybe I am being to direct, maybe an oblique approach would be better. I tried at the very edge of the dent, success! It moved. Yes!

Thus began my zen lesson, grasshoppers. It went like this – wipe dent with rubbing alcohol (they call it “prep solvent” – it’s rubbing alcohol) go into the house and squirt hot glue onto dent puller thingy, walk quickly outside to car, apply thingy, wait 20 minutes, apply bracket and turn knob until hearing a satisfying “pop”, scrape glue off dent, repeat. Repeat again….and again…and again.

I am a very impatient person. When I want something, anything, a green light, a document from a co-worker, a phone call, a better mortgage rate, I want it NOW. NOW AS IN NOW. Obviously, reality being what it is, I don’t usually get it. Which leads me to screaming a stream of invectives either in my head or in the privacy of my car. So you would think that this dent removal would drive me crazy. I want my pristine fender, damnit and I want it now! But you would be wrong. I did this for HOURS and it didn’t bother me in the least. I returned again and again, searching the dent for just the right spot to provide the right balance of torque and counter torque. But knowing me as I do, I thought it was weird. But I think I figured it out.

It isn’t the waiting that makes me impatient. It is the lack of progress. Those are two different things. Every time I applied the puller thingy I saw the dent pull out a little. I saw progress. Small, incremental, but progress none the less. This made me want to keep working at it and find just the right spot to get even more progress. Hmmmm. I can wait for the result if I see progress, no matter how small. Don’t look for the result, look for progress. To some of you reading this, you might say “duh”. But you are probably a “sooner or later” type person. I am a “now or never” type person. So, this is a very revealing concept to me. You don’t need to see the progress. You have faith that it is happening somewhere. I need to see it. You can wait in beatific grace knowing the light will turn green. I don’t necessarily know the light will turn green. What if the light is malfunctioning? WHEN is it going to turn green. See, it would make me feel a whole lot better if I knew when that was going to be. If they had a little digital clock counting down, I wouldn’t really care how long the light was, as I could see that in 2:48 seconds the light will turn green. I did not know this about me until now. I think I can apply this little lesson to lot of things. I do not think I am alone. All of this for $14.95 + shipping and handling.  Thank you, Ding King.

]]> http://quarlesome.wordpress.com/2010/04/11/zen-and-the-art-of-dent-removal/feed/ 2 kweenipie buddhagod Dumb-blonde-10369 ding_king images images 180px-SantaTeresa http://quarlesome.wordpress.com/2009/12/24/damaged-goods/ http://quarlesome.wordpress.com/2009/12/24/damaged-goods/#comments Thu, 24 Dec 2009 16:45:33 +0000 kweenipie http://quarlesome.wordpress.com/?p=174 ]]> Well it’s happened. We have become THE official disposable consumer society. Melissa Wescott and her husband want to “return” their adopted son. This has become newsworthy because Oklahoma’s Adoptive Services has the audacity to say “No.”

When interviewed Mrs. Wescott said her son is eleven years old and when asked how long ago she adopted him, Wescott said they have had him for “two years – a little less than two years.” She said this in the manner of someone trying to negotiate a trade-in on their car, “look, it’s hardly been driven!” This is your CHILD, he does not have a blue book value, you don’t get a higher trade-in allowance for “lower mileage”.

Why does she want to return him? Well, first because she is a person with all the character of a… you know what? I am having trouble coming up with an analogy. Even insects take care of their young. But reportedly she found three knives under his bed and a note saying he was sorry he had to kill her. You adopted him from Social Services. He was there because he was neglected and abused. Children who are neglected and abused have psychological issues that will need to be addressed. That is why it is important to have good parenting skills and to be a reasonably intelligent and resourceful adult.  You will need to teach them compassion, empathy, responsibility, the true meaning of strength, courage, duty, honor, etc., etc.  Of course to teach those values, you would first have to know them yourself. The Wescott’s do not. They think adoptive services is something like a Nordstrom’s, if you are dissatisfied with your purchase, simply bring it back no questions asked. After watching the video of Mrs. Wescott you might say a Walmart, but you would be wrong. Walmart has a much stricter return policy.

I wonder what Mrs. Wescott would have done had she given birth to a baby who was, as she said of her adopted son, “too much to handle”? Throw it away, no doubt. And what exactly does idiot woman mean by “too much to handle”. He is eleven. You are an adult. You are the GROWN UP. I am pretty sure every parent out there has had similar thoughts and feeling at one time or another. You saddle the fuck up and you deal with it. Why? Because he is your child and he is depending on you. AND WHERE THE HELL IS MISTER WESTCOTT? Is he too, some sniveling, self-pitying, weepy bag of woe and martyrdom like his wife?

There is no good outcome to this story. The child was taken by social services because he was neglected and abused by his biological father. Now, because he did not act like a stray dog that has been given a home – obedient, grateful and loving, he will be neglected, unloved, and left alone. Again. I don’t know how this can end well. Adoptive Services cannot take him back – you can’t let people think that adopting a child is like going to Sears. On the other hand, you can’t leave the kid with these idiots. They don’t love him, they are worried about liability issues caused by his behavior (ALL children are a liability), and my guess is they just don’t want to do the work. It’s too hard. It is taking too long.  After all, he had a year of therapy and he isn’t all better. A whole year, huh? He had seven years of abuse. Since he was born, every day, of every week, of every month, of every year, for seven years. Getting this kid straightened out may take a little more work and dedication than housebreaking a dog. Obviously idiot couple is not going to do that work and even if they are court ordered to do so and given the resources to do so, they have already sent powerful messages to this child – “you are disposable”, “our love (such as it is) is conditional”, “you are bad”.

The Wescott’s adopted because they were unable to have children of their own.  There may be a very good reason for that. Maybe they should take the hint.

Don’t get me wrong, I love Barnes and Noble (and the Grateful Dead).  I just can’t afford to buy a book there.  I have every book Stephen King has ever written (yes, I will say it: I am his biggest fan).  But when I went there to get his new book it was $75.  I haven’t paid that much for a book since college.  To be fair, it was the “collector’s edition”.  Which means it comes with 27 cards, each having a drawing of a character from the book.  Things like these used to be in the book.  They were called “illustrations”. Apparently, Scribner has hired the same marketing team as JetBlue Airlines – “Here’s an idea: let’s take out the illustrations and charge them extra for it!”  Though, I’m not really sure what market they are trying to reach.  What are “collectors” supposed to do with the cards?  Trade them?  Most people who can afford to drop $75 on a book of fiction have grown beyond the card-trading/which-is-the-coolest Transformer/sparkly-fingernail-polish phase and are now in the have-a-job/mortgage-paying/hardly-have-time-to-read phase.  Don’t really need any trading cards. Now, if they had made illustrated coasters, they would have been onto something.  I can use coasters. Coasters give me a place to set my drink as I try and forget I just added $75 of debt to my credit card.  Or I could just go to one of the off-brand bookstores I frequent and spend $14.50 for a copy without the trading cards that smells like patchouli.

Which gives me an idea for a marketing slogan for one of my favorite off-brand bookstores, Half-Price Books:

“Patchouli fades. Rip-off is forever.”