I’m becoming my father: A Pop Quiz (in run-on sentences)

When Person A says “the system won’t let me print the information” and I say “That’s ok, I just need to see it, not print it”, and I go into the system and click “display”, and the info most assuredly does NOT display, and Person A says {gleefully} “I told you that it won’t print!”, I will :

A) Say, “oh, that’s what you meant, thanks” and move on to the other 254 things on my to-do list, or

B) NOT IGNORE THIS OBVIOUS LACK OF UNDERSTANDING OF THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE, because it is IMPERATIVE that everyone know the difference between print and display. RIGHT NOW.

When Person B (who is, by the way, also Person A) says “That Office is across base. It’s next to Building 200” and I say “Building 200 is right next door” and s/he says “Well, That Office used to be next door, next to 200” – and this happens 3 times in the SAME conversation, on the third time that I am told “That office is across base. It’s next to Building 200” (which is now OBVIOUSLY WRONG), I will finally say:

A) “Thanks, I’m sure I’ll find it”, while planning on calling and asking for directions later; or

B) “But you just said that the office is across base. Building 200 is next door. Which is it?” And NO MATTER WHAT they reply (because I need them to say they’re wrong at this point), I’ll say “But you just said…”

I have about 4 more examples of this, but I’m going to let it go.

Until tomorrow that is, when Person A/B tells me to go next door to print a report that won’t display. Then, we will have A LESSON IN THINKING ONE THING AND THEN NOT SAYING SOMETHING COMPLETELY DIFFERENT.

And Now, Happier Things (AWSOFTC(SFBIGTNABO), Part II)

Sidenote: If you sent The Professor and me a very beautiful rose, please let me know! It wasn't signed! A little over 13 months ago, we had what some wonderfully witty person titled the "Alabama Winter Storm Of The Century (So Far, Because I'm Going To Need A Better One)". That person has had her (*ahem*) wish fulfilled. Friday, appropriately, was a Very Stormy Day. We were under tornado watches, severe thunderstorm watches, TORNADO WARNINGS, flash flood warnings - you get the picture - all day. And night. The arriving Original Redhead from Tennessee complained around 8 PM that no one told her to bring an arc. And then, Sunday morning we woke up to snow. We took a drive down to The Professor's University for lunch, and it was still coming down. The University is always pretty; in the snow, it's beautiful. I loved this tree: These were pretty too: In the hour we were there, though, the sun came out; by the time we left, it was starting to melt. Still, there was plenty on the ground when we got home to try and whack The Professor in the butt with a snowball. I missed. But I was distracted by my target.

A Very Loud (and Long) Weeping and Wailing and Gnashing of Teeth

A week before That Blessed Date when The Professor and I legally linked our lives together, we went to fill out the requisite paperwork at the county courthouse. I knew that on the way home, we’d be passing the local shelter, and I spontaneously asked The Professor if we could stop and look at the cats. His reaction was a little more … dramatic than I expected: “Damn it woman, I was going to surprise you! Are you going to be two steps ahead of me for the rest of our lives?” {Hint: The answer is yes. But I digress} And so, The Professor got me the best wedding present in the world: A cat. There weren’t a whole lot of cats, and I really didn’t want one of the babies – those are always the top pick and have the best chance of getting adopted. I wanted a young adult. The choice was between two cats: A steel grey charmer, who purred and rubbed against our hands, and a sulky exotic looking cat who cried nonstop and didn’t want to be touched. The Professor made the decision very quickly – he wanted Mr Sulky (named “Shelby” by the shelter) because he was convinced an unaffectionate cat wouldn’t get adopted by anyone else. The shelter told us he had been left on their doorstep in the middle of the night that Hurricane Ivan blew through town. Being this far from the coast, a hurricane isn’t as bad as it could be – but it was still a hurricane when it got here. And Mr. Sulky had spent the storm alone, in a box. We debated what to name him while we filled out the paperwork and waited for the volunteers to bring him to us. “Shelby” didn’t seem right. It just didn’t fit, but we couldn’t think of anything better. When we got in the car, the song “Sultans of Swing” was playing on the radio – and we both yelled out – “Sultan”! Sultan immediately made it known that he was not a quiet cat. He paced, prowled and yowled non-stop. So much so that on the first visit, we asked the vet if we should be worried that something was wrong. He just laughed and said that he was almost positive Sultan’s a Bengal – and Bengals have amazing voices. We left him at home when we went on our honeymoon, leaving The Bestest Friend to come by to take care of him. I think that's when she started referring to him as "Senor Mau-Mau", because of his crazy voice. Halfway through the week, he was hoarse from talking so much. A few months later we introduced the Ever-Fluffy Lucius to the house – and Sultan never talked himself hoarse again. “Crazy Cat” is probably too gentle a term – “Spastic” may be better. But there’s no way to describe a cat to someone who hasn’t met him, except to say “WOW”. Also “Makes Stinky Litter Box”, but then, what cat doesn’t? He warmed up to us very quickly. He claimed The Professor, and every morning he's on the floor for the hour that The Professor does his morning workout - laying down next to him for The Professor to put out a hand and pet him as he does his 100's of crunches - this goes on for about 30 minutes every morning. At night, he's either curled up behind The Professor's shoulder to watch TV, or lounging in front of the fireplace if it's the correct season and we're treating him right. Two weeks ago was the annual checkup, and there was a bunch of fluid coming out of his eyes. He’d also lost 3 pounds in the past year, but he just seemed a little tired lately. The vet put him on ointment for the eyes and scheduled a follow-up for 10 days later (this past Monday) – by which point he’d stopped eating and lost another 1 ½ pounds. We did blood work and some other tests, but couldn’t find anything conclusive, so we scheduled some x-rays. And now, because the past 24 hours are interesting only to a very few people, we still aren’t completely sure what’s wrong. But we do know that it’s one of two Very Bad Things – a tumor that I can’t afford to A) find out about, or B) fix if it’s there; or FIP . The vet is pretty sure it’s FIP, and at such an advanced state that there’s no way to even make him comfortable for long. He hasn’t eaten in a week, so he’s literally wasting away. You know what’s coming… I went to visit him this morning, and I can honestly say it’s the most heart-breaking thing I’ve ever done. He’s lost another half pound this week. I knew then that this afternoon would be the end, but seeing him at half the weight he was just 2 years ago hurt more than I thought. He’s not talking anymore – he doesn’t even make a peep when a large dog barks on the other side of the wall. He just snuggled down into my lap and closed his eyes. In my head, I told myself that he was asking me to make him better. And all I can do is stop him from getting worse. The Professor just left to go be there when they put him to sleep. I had planned on going up to the minute it was time to walk out the door. And I couldn't. For once, I let myself back out of something I didn't want to do. And now...it's time to go buy more wine. I drank just about everything in the house last night, and an empty wine rack is a sad wine rack.

Frightening Thought of the Day

Whilst sending an email to my sister this morning, making plans for a summer vacation, I had an epiphany: Six months from today, StepSon will be living at college. In a dorm. Where no parents are present. Prayers and presents of an alcoholic nature (for ME! Not him!) are much encouraged and appreciated.

National Day of Service (or, Boy Do I Sound Full of Myself)

It might have been a tad bit obvious close to the end of the last election cycle - and even once it was over - that I had high hopes for this presidential election. Call me a bleeding-heart liberal, but our Prez-Elect's community service past always spoke to me. Not in the "I-hear-voices-in-my-head" way, (I think?), but in a good way. A "Hey-I-can-do-more" way. I'm a pretty mean sales shopper these days, stockpiling food and toiletries that I have no hope of ever using. Last year, I picked a shelter near my workplace to donate my extras to. I've actually started buying MORE stuff, just for that. At the end of December, I discovered that there was a new facet to the inauguration - Obama And Company were calling for a national Day of Service, scheduled for the day before the inauguration - which just happens to be Martin Luther King Day, and a federal holiday. I checked out the website, but there weren't any projects listed for my little section of the state. BUT! These people were ahead of me - I could add my area to my blog reader, and get notices as projects were added. And BOY! Were they added! Yesterday, Michelle Obama put out a video call - really, you should watch it, it's only 2 minutes long. And finally, I signed up for a project in my area. Now, there are projects that are more involved than the one I've chosen. But this one is being organized by friends who own a local business. And since I already have the stockpile to take care of things, I've chosen the lazy way out and decided to go to Eclipse Coffee and join in their food pantry drive. The donations will go to an organization that serves my community, which means a lot to me. The Professor is also off of work that day, so I've recruited him to come along with me. Even more importantly, I've also convinced The Bestest Friend that it's worth getting up out of bed at 7 AM on a holiday to do something worthwhile. So...my question is...what are YOU going to be doing for the National Day of Service?

Oh, Christmas Tree

Last Saturday was designated as the the Official Day of Christmas Making. The Bestest Friend came over for cookies, eggnog and so much decorating that she would lose face if she admits she enjoyed it. I've struggled for 6 days now to get a good picture of my tree. There have been many obstacles. Obstacle #1 is the tree itself - I admit, it was a cheapy. In fact, I disliked it so much the very first time I put it together, that the next year I didn't even have a tree. I couldn't bring myself to buy another one, and I didn't want to decorate the one I had. This year, I pulled it out of the attic; it wasn't as bad as I thought it would be - maybe it's seasoned? I still lost five tufts off of various fake branches. Obstacle #2: the top of the tree. It's not very sturdy, so anything weighing more than .02 ounces topples the thing over. I forgot about this and tried to put my star on top...and now the top of the tree is permanently crooked. Obstacle #3 : My photography skills. They are not great. I can get the lights to show up freakily bright (especially the blue), but they blind you and hide the rest of the tree. I can get the ornaments and every fake pine needle to show in amazing detail, but then it looks like there are no lights. So, here are a few extreme choices. Merge them together in your brain, take care of the lights (They're LEDs, and very bright and beautiful) and you'll have somewhat of an idea of my tree. Oh, you noticed the lack of an appropriately festive top to my tree? Not to worry. The Bestest Friend made the supreme sacrifice of going to Old Time Party and rectifying the situation for me before the week was out with a finial that is so light it could float away. And yet it STILL does this to my pansy-ass tree: The cats have also decided that they like the tree skirt. I have to admit, it is very thick and soft. And this year, it's captured their attention more than the ornaments. Although Sultan does have one branch he likes to attack on a daily basis. At least they're not chewing on the lights this year. Sultan: Lucius: SO, since we're here and all Christmasy, what else have I got here? We have an entertainment center: We have some bookcases: We have the cookbook bookcase: We have the Precious Moments display on yet another bookcase: We have another bookcase with a couple more nativity scenes: Did you see the craziness in that picture? Somehow, that bookcase has now become the home of The Bestest Friends least favorite of decorations. Separately, she calls them the Alien Reindeer (I remind her every year that they used to be my grandfather's, and were always displayed beneath his tree) and the Demon Doll. At a dinner party this week, Some forty-something males who shall remain nameless found them and put them together. The Professor has taken to moving this Christmas Miracle around the house: But to end this on a somewhat happier scene, this is probably my favorite part of the Christmas decorations. The Mama of all my nativity scenes: Now, I need some eggnog.

In Which My Family Laughs In Scorn and My Best Friend Calls Me Old

Today, I went to the eye doctor. I hadn’t been in almost 5 years, but The Professor’s university just added a vision plan to their offerings this month and we jumped into that pool feet first with our palms open for handouts. He’s getting Lasik-ized next month. I decided that maybe it was time I could tell the difference between a Prius and Suburban whilst driving down the interstate. It’s all in the priorities. I just got back from my appointment, and the glasses – which will only be made cuter by the librarian-chain they will hang ‘round my neck by – have been ordered. (And as an aside, I am very glad I passed linguistics before I started butchering grammar as I just did back there). The Bestest Friend has promised me a Seeing Eye Dog for my 50th birthday. That’s more of an excuse to A) Call me old, and B) get me to own a dog, than it is a necessity, but she’s occasionally good at planning ahead and killing two birds with one stone. Or two eyes with one dog, as the case may be. My family…well, I and the baby brother have been blessed with our lack of a need for eyewear. I’m pretty sure a couple of them are legally blind without some kind of device on or in their eyes. So when I tell them I have 20-30 vision in one eye and 20-25 in the other, I’m sure I’ll get a “Yeah, kid, come back when you have an actual need for vision correction”. To them I say: “Please. Call me kid again. It sounds kinda nice.”

Two Totally Unrelated Things

Thing the First: Everyone knows that we have a crazy-liberal, give-the-Dems-glowing-praise-no-matter-what, fall-all-over-themselves media in the US, right? Ok, good. Thing the Second: Friend Rob pointed me towards this handy little garden-style-analyzer and it got me spot on:

Eclectic and sweetly rumpled, a cottage-style garden isn't the buttoned-up type. Relaxed, romantic and informal, the cottage garden overflows with multiple blooms, often set off by picket fences, arbors, and trellises. Heirloom and vintage plants are quite at home here as well. It's often the melange of plants that makes it so charming. Practical herbs for kitchen and medicine chest stand side by side with roses. It's truly a garden of the heart, of the hearth and of the home.

Conclusion: I really need more days off to play around these here internets.

I < heart > Charleston

I know it sounds like I’ve been complaining non stop about this trip. And looking back Saturday on the problems that I’ve focused on…I need to make one thing clear: I have fallen in love with Charleston. Granted, anytime I get 70 degree weather in November, an open air market, a ton of history, easily walked streets, shopping to die for and food! Oh my gosh the food! Fresh seafood. I love salmon. Sing with me… “I love salmon in the springtime…I love salmon in the fall…” You know what else I love? PRESIDENT-ELECT OBAMA. What? He has nothing to do with Charleston? Well. Get your own blog. Anyway, I love the city. The conference is pretty good; I don’t know that I’m feeling the raptures I’ve heard from a couple of others, but, eh..that’s work. This post is about play. Wednesday night I took the time to stroll along King Street and all the shopping that: A) I cannot fit into the small suitcase I brought with me, and B) I cannot afford, and C) I drooled over anyway. Thursday I came across the market shops: Ok, these pictures aren’t great because I was so busy drooling over the overpriced handmade baskets and jewelry that I forgot to take pictures until I was leaving. Yes, I bought some jewelry. I also found a Harley Davidson store and grabbed an overpriced T-shirt for The Professor. I also found a street cart selling some kind of Caribbean jerk chicken on a stick that was absolutely delicious – the spices were crusted into the chicken and the whole thing was a crispy, spicy awesomeness that made me very thirsty. Luckily, there was a bar across the street and I popped in for a beer before I went back to work. Later in the afternoon, walking between two sessions of the conference, I had to cross Marion Park: And then after my last session for the day, I made it back to my hotel just in time for the beginning of the wine and cheese hour. I love this place. On Friday, I skipped an afternoon session and – after dropping by my hotel to leave off the laptop - I found a restaurant that's over the harbor. It seemed like a good place to get seafood, so I stopped in. Lunch: And the view from my table: I headed out from lunch - that was grilled amber jack with steamed green beans and red rice spiced with Andouille sausage - and had one of several places in mind to visit along Museum Mile. I ended up passing the Old Exchange & Provost Dungeon five minutes before the next tour, so that's where I ended up. That's the Tour Guide in the Dungeon with the Tea. I still had 45 minutes to kill, so I moseyed back down the street that's just dripping with history... ...to my hotel ... ...for a quick 20 minute lie-down before heading back to the conference. After the afternoon sessions, I went back to the market - one of the buildings has different vendors at night - and then stopped and found a great local beer and some Bruschetta Salmon for dinner. AWESOME. I never would have thought of bruschetta and salmon together, but it was great. Then I decided I didn't want to walk around the city after dark by myself. So I came back to the hotel, got some more free wine, and spent some quality time with the internets, which have greatly missed my presence this week. Now I'm just back from my last conference session, waiting for it to be time to wing my way back through the skies to The Professor, The Cats, and Life As I Know It.

More of the fun that I had on Wednesday

It was Wednesday night. I had survived the panic attack, I had re-met a lovely French lady (I don’t remember her name – is it bad that I call her Juliette in my mind? Complete with the pronunciation that Meg Ryan used in French Kiss? Because I totally think of her as JJhhuuliette); I got to my hotel with no incident, checked in and totally fell in love with my room – here’s why: This wing of 5 rooms has only been open for 10 days. Brand new, and I found out later that I was the first person to stay in mine. So, I lounge around for an hour looking at maps and restaurants online, chatting with my sister and watching TV– did I mention the free wifi? – and then head out to the conference reception where I find – blessed be! – free wine. I drink about a glass and a half and head back to the hotel on foot. My feet are killing me – I vow that the shoes I am wearing will never be on my feet again after I get to my room – and so I call the Bestest Friend to distract me for the 12 minute walk. It works (I developed a new mantra for her in her classroom: “The Children are the future and the volunteers are free” – say it, BFF!) and I arrive in my hotel ready for another glass of wine. Problem The First : My card key doesn’t work. No problem, they gave me 2! Problem The Second : It doesn’t work either. So I go back to the front desk – it is, of course, across the building - they cheerfully reprogram my keys and I head back. Problem The Third: They don’t work either. I stand in the hallway wondering if this is the kind of place that will mind if I run around in my socks and try to convince myself that someone with a master’s degree should really be able to open a hotel room all by herself. Unfortunately, the lock didn’t listen to me and I had to go back up front the lady working the desk. I want to say right now that this woman was incredibly nice, funny and just an all around great receptionist. I almost looked forward to going up front. Except…Have I mentioned my laptop was on the other side of that locked door? I was beginning the early stages of withdrawal. This time, she gave me some kind of master key that will open any door in the building. As I trekked back down the hallways – they were growing about a yard on each trip – I had fun imagining what was behind all the doors I passed, because some of them weren’t numbered. They could be ANYthing and I wondered if each one held the secret wine stash for the complimentary 5 o’clock cheese and wine fun that I had missed out on. Problem the Fourth: The master key did not work on my room. It did work on the unmarked door next to my room (it was a conference room, no wine in sight). So I begin walking back up front. Have I mentioned I’m lugging around a bag of conference materials which – since I am a librarian – is just full of publishers’ catalogs? This time, the lovely lady sends her assistant with me without pointing out that trained monkeys have fewer problems getting into hotel rooms. But… Guess what? His key doesn’t work either. The lock is completely malfunctioning. We begin our walk back up front. I’m terrified to look at my feet – I’m convinced that by now, they are oozing out of the seams on the sides of the shoes. But then something wonderful happens. Halfway between the desk and my room is the hospitality suite; we meet the angel from the front on our meanderings and she guides me in, seats me at a very comfy table, brings me the newspaper and asks would I like a glass of wine? Red or white? Do I need a cigarette? She has a Camel Light. I take the wine, refuse the cigarette and settle in to watch Brian Williams on NBC talk about President-Elect Obama, OMG I LOVE TYPING THOSE WORDS SO MUCH I HAVE TO DO IT AGAIN. President-Elect Obama. Can you see my grin? Angel floats in the room 10 minutes later to refill my glass and let me know the repairman’s on his way and they would be more than happy to give me another suite to wait in, if that’s what I’d prefer. Later they would bring my stuff to my new room. At this point, I was more annoyed that she was talking over Mr Williams recap of PRESIDENT-ELECT OBAMA’S life (because we don’t all know the story by heart by now), but she had brought wine, so I just said no thanks and settled back in. 45 minutes later, the repairman – also an incredibly nice person – came and told me he had replaced my lock. He escorted me back to my room – he refilled my wine glass on the way and apologized profusely for the problems. He’s the one that renovated this wing, and he was horrified that the first person to stay in this room was having a problem. I found out he lived in Birmingham 20 years ago, and we chatted about Riverchase. I did NOT add him to my Christmas card list, but I liked him enough to almost ask his name before I realized I was on the slippery slope of making connections with random strangers all over the place and never remembering any of their names. I may have flirted a little, but I blame it on the wine and the fact that he was reconnecting me with my laptop which I hadn’t touched in TWO AND A HALF HOURS. I have to say that a hotel that cures all its problems with complimentary wine is a place that I will be happy to stay in the future.