"If you ever come at me like that again..."

I mentioned awhile back that Mr. Man and I are planning to do some backporch/rooftop/fire escape gardening this year. We started tomatoes a little over a month ago, which might have been a little early (we don't really know what the fuck we're doing, to tell you the truth--I've grown a few things by seed over the years, but never tomatoes, and never with any kind of expertise) but I guess we'll see--in any case, just about every one of the 35 or so seeds we started germinated.

Anyway, the web site I looked at had said to seed them close together, then separate them a few weeks later, the separating being good for their roots. So I thought, since they probably sprouted about a month ago, that I would have done this awhile back, but they only seemed sturdy enough a week or two ago. So I've been planning on moving them for awhile, and kept feeling guilty about it, but not getting it done. Little did I know that drama and comedy would ensue during the process.

So I finally got around to it last night. Actually, I meant to do it all weekend but didn't, then I meant to do it early last night, but I didn't--so at about 1am this morning, I was in the kitchen, rooting up and potting tomatoes. Unfortunately, we haven't amassed enough plastic containers to move each into their own pots, so I only gave the biggest ones their own digs. The rest each gets their own little space in the seeding thingy.

Anyway, there I was, hunched over the kitchen table, when Bitsy (aka DevilCat, who I should mention has been trying to eat these fucking tomatoes since they sprouted--the unicorn piggy-bank is strategically placed so she can't get them--and had been excite-able the entire evening, as she's claimed the kitchen table as her territory) attacked me from behind.

I didn't see her coming at all. I've seen her jump onto Mr. Man's back from atop the fridge, but I'm pretty sure she was on the floor, and by the time I realized what was going on, she was dangling from the back of my person, one set of claws in the bottom of my hoodie, the other in the top of my pants, crying, nay, yowling, as if she were the victim in the situation, and not the batshit cat who'd just snuck up on me ninja-style, and launched herself halfway up my body.

I reached around and tried to get her off me but couldn't get her claws out of my clothes. I yelled at her "what the fuck are you doing?!" Neither of these worked, and I was in kind of a panic--Mr. Man was sleeping already, which was lucky for him, and I was strongly considering dropping trou when I realized I could achieve the same effect, with less potential embarrassment (my paranoid mind was already imagining Miss D waltzing in to find my ass in the kitchen--which would have been almost as funny as Rouge's recent bare-ass in the kitchen hilarity) by squatting down until she could stand on her back feet, relieving the pressure on her claws, and then extract them from my clothes. Lucky for her, she didn't even knick my skin.

Cats are crazy. Good thing she's cute. Don't fall victim to her cuteness, though--hide your seedlings away from this demon and whatever you do, don't ever turn your back on her.

Drunken reindeer games

So the blogging stuff is coming in fits and starts. Sometimes (lately, often) I just don't feel particularly inspired. Sure, there's a ton of blog fodder out there...Hillary just won't quit, the Spitzer scandal has got the media on a sex worker witch hunt but would rather titillate readers with photos and inuendo than engage in a real discussion about sex work (I'll skip the link rather than encourage them), Stephanie told Max she loves him on DOOL (but we just miss Sami)...I guess actually there isn't that much to blog about.

The warmer weather, as it does every year, is coming in fits and starts, too. And the frustrated craziness these false starts elicit in most of us (aka Spring Fever) reminds me of their time-tested cure, as applied in the Rocky Mountains--namely, to get drunk and play games.

In Yellowstone, snow-bound park and concession employees hold the "Rainier Olympics"--two beer-soaked weeks of snow-showing, skiing, and bar games--every year in February, if memory serves. The one winter I worked in the park, I won a bronze medal in fuseball, but I don't remember the last few rounds, as I was in a blackout at the time.

In Red Lodge, Montana, where I spent the following winter, there's more sporty fun in the form of ski-joring (kind of like water-skiing, but on snow instead of water, and with horses instead of boats) competitions, cheered on by bundled-up locals and tourists, most of them on the back of flat-bed pickups, passing bottles of booze back and forth. The winter I lived in Red Lodge, somebody had brought a frozen coyote (roadkill, I presume) and had stood it up on its back legs in the back up of their truck, with sunglasses on it and a chicken wing hanging out of its mouth. My dad, who was visiting me there, and was cool enough to share a bottle Dr. McGilllicuddy's with some of the local drunks, got the biggest kick out of that frozen coyote.

I'm sure that mountain towns all over the world have been holding festivals on the brink of spring to release some of that nervous energy, cheer people up a little.

Maybe even those of us who live in relatively milder climes need to let our hair down this time of year, to stave off the doldrums/depression/crazies. We tried to shake it off with a show last night (Trixie Little and the Evil Hate Monkey--cute except for a random trans-phobic punchline--why otherwise adorable and smart performers still resort to that kind of shit, I don't quite understand) at the Patterson, and an after-show round of Absinthe at our new favorite hangout, the Annabelle Lee. That little outing didn't quite do the trick, so I'm saving up for Jazz Fest (look out New Orleans!)

Hmm...shit-faced games...is this why straight dudes like the SuperBowl?

Is it really you, Spring?

I may be jumping the gun here, but it really seems like my Belle (aka Bella Donna) is feeling a little better after just a few doses of glucosamine and aspirin (as it turns out, though, she won't actually "eat anything." Gotta hide that shit in the raw meat she gulps down in hunks, or, as I did last night, pry open her jaws and poke it into the back of her throat. Good thing she loves me). It may be my imagination, but she seems to be hopping, or at least, climbing a little more quickly, onto the couch and the bed today. Right now, she's recovering from a brief Frisbee-free but stick-heavy (yours truly was throwing like a major leaguer, too) session on the green, green grass of Patterson park.

It really does feel like Spring today--it smells like it, even. It's warm enough here in the Charm that a denim-clad Hispanic dude was napping on that green, green grass, and my t-shirt and hoodie were more than enough to keep me warm during our walk. Of course, all that sunshine is just about enough to make a girl forget she's been down in the dumps recently, though the shift in attitude gives me a kind of deja vu--doesn't this happen every year? That many of us (as the foxy Rouge pointed out in her comment on my bummer post, and has blogged about a bit herself) get the blues, on a level that could lead one to look into pharmaceutical remedies, just before Spring springs? That, in the words of lyricist Gus Kahn (best sung by Mama Cass) "the darkest hour is just before dawn?"

Or it could be I'm bi-polar and on a manic streak. Whatever.

In other Spring-y news, in case you were worried, the tree in the churchyard across the street, whose early-seeming buds I was freaking out about back in January, is fine. It is blooming like crazy right now, and is totally gorgeous--it's one of those white and pink tulip-y looking flower trees. WTF are those trees--magnolias?

First the sweet, then the bittersweet...

I don't know how I missed this before, but as I was checking out Lolcats (aka I Can Has Cheezburger) this morning I noticed a link to its canine equivilent, Loldogs.

There goes the rest of my day.

In a little sadder news, our sweet thang of a dog, Belle (aka Chooch McGooch McGooner) is starting to suffer what we suspect is hip dysplasia. She's ok--she doesn't whine about it or anything--but it takes her an extra long time to get up here onto the couch these days (right now she's lying next to me, snoring). It's really sad watching her haul her butt up, slow-like, one leg at a time. Makes her seem much older than her 6 years. I suspect it's from all the Frisbee we've played over the years--Frisbee being notoriously hard on dogs' joints.

Will we stop playing with our Aerobie Skylighter Flying Disc? I think not. Judging by the obsession with which she plays (it's like crack to her) and the pride with which she carries it home from the park, I'd say it's still worth it. And I'm not just saying that because I'm proud to have the most bad-ass Frisbee-catching dog in the park. I may be (like a lot of 30-ish, child-less women) projecting a lot of maternal feelings onto my sweet doggie, but I'm not the show-mom type.

We're starting her on Glucosamine and buffered aspirin and I'll get her out to the vet when I can afford it, to see what else I can do. Maybe one day I'll get her one of those foam ramps so she can walk up onto the couch.

BTW Aerobies are the best flying discs in the world. For one thing, they have a soft edge around the sides, which protects your dog's mouth (if you've ever seen a dog mangle an actual Frisbee-brand Frisbee, and cut its mouth on it, you know what I'm talking about. Remember that, Carrie?).

Plus, they hover like nobody's business. Once, back when I had a pickup (sigh) and always kept one in the back of it, I saw one levitate in my rear-view mirror as I sped down the freeway. No shit. They're scientifically designed.

Happy Easter, Peeps

Celebrate Christ's big death day (or is it his resurrection day? Whatever.) by checking out the cute-ass entries to WashPo's "Peep Show" contest.

Our faves? Hands down, "Nightmare in Pink" (number 3 in the flash rotation). Shout out, though, to number 8, "Peepator Craig's Wide Stance" and last year's "Marpeep Antoinette" (number 2).

We'll be spending the day working and taking a break from Mr. Man's parents, who've been in town since Wednesday, but, as I type this, are getting set to head out and explore the Charm. (Thank Christ. Not that they're not sweet as Peeps--they are--but this femme likes her space and gets a little overwhelmed by invaders visitors.)

*Note that this cool photo is not part of the contest (obviously--no Peeps). I got that--get most my pics--from Morgue File, where angelic artists post up free photos for deadbeat bloggers to have their way with.

A light in the fog

Apologies to anybody whose calls I haven't returned this past week--paradoxically, the communication breakdown we experienced last week was, for me, followed by a more voluntary lapse in communication--to put it plainly, I haven't felt much like talking to anyone.

Half the roof blew off the building next door during a huge windstorm last week, and in so doing, knocked over our chimney, causing a big scary noise and a bunch of crazy black shit to fall down through our heating vents, making it unsafe to warm the place. I mention this, not because it's further evidence of what a shitty house we're living in (although it is), but because it seems like a good metaphor.

I don't know what the fuck but I guess that sometimes living in a strange town, depending on less than a handful of people for loving face time, and working on issues that more often than not feel completely impossible to overcome, I guess all that is bound to get a girl down. I mean, the world is going to hell in a fucking handbasket, and I'm in Baltimore (a town that got packed into the handbasket a long time ago), you know?

Point is, your girl has been adrift, but rest assured that lifelines have been tossed and gratefully grasped, and I imagine she'll be back to her old, more hopeful self within a matter of days. I know that there are amazing people doing amazing work even as I struggle to stop wallowing and do my own--I'm in contact with more and more amazing worker bees all the time.

And the love. Even as I have been at a loss, cynical and critical of almost everything, I get the sweetest notes and texts from my loving friends. Case in point, this glorious (as yet un-named) poem that Mr. Man wrote for me last week, at a time when I can only imagine I was wicked with anxiety, and sent me today, just in time to soothe the craziness:

This is something that brings me closer to everything else
at the same time it pushes me away from things:
and this not what I mean, but what I say.

And this is not what I say, but what I mean:
However strong you are, however hard you can push it,
I live for this, and so do you.

Those hands strong and working strength to bring
the things you want in this world to thousands of brilliant tiny lights
and it works so much as you believe they will
so fuck thinking of things as 1+1+1=3
because it's all going to happen
with leaves falling from your fingers as you type
while you are sipping your morning coffee just like any other day.

While we sit and wait for the world to catch up with us
while we sit and wait for something to happen
and all of the greed to fall, and all of the hope to be realisms
you are working it through fully knowing that it's been real
and is real
and happened while we were sleeping
and dreaming

While you are cracking your wrists and lifting your beautiful fingers and pushing ideas into real
I am watching you with my love for you
my soul for you
my heart for you.

Thanks for this, baby. Best bf money could buy.

The Good, the Bad, and the Babies

I'm not going to be one of those bloggers who apologizes for her absence--I think that's a little presumptuous, especially for a mouthy femme who has all of about 8 readers a day (you are by far the hottest readers a girl could hope to have, though, lovebugs). I am not, however, above acknowledging and explaining my recent lack of posts.

First, we were in NYC again. Loverly. The glorious, filthy, mercurial big apple has thus far (knock on wood) never ceased to spread her legs for me, even if she occasionally keeps me from blowing my proverbial load with the odd stopped subway car. I'll spare you the "oh I did such fabulous things in NY last week" thing, but I must say how lovely it was to see (albeit too briefly) so many of my very favorite people in the world. I also feel the need to give a shout-out to the amazing Cai Guo-Qiang exhibit at the Guggenheim (muchas gracias to Miss D's cute friend Blair for the tickets). It would take at least another long post to describe this show, and since I probably won't write it, I hope at least some of you will see it and we can talk about it.

I came home energized and excited about getting back to work, which made the last few days, which would have been frustrating at best, particularly excruciating. We've had problems with our DSL (there isn't any cable in this neighborhood) pretty much since we moved in, so we'd finally got Verizon to hook us up with a technician (a process which entails "escalating the situation," according to the operator) on Monday.

I will spare you, lest I risk boring the pants off my 8 precious readers, the details. But I will say that I've moved around a lot, and had problems with cable almost everywhere I ever lived, but I have never suffered a clusterfuck of customer dis-service as unprofessional as what we've been through in the last 4 days, during which time we've seen 3 technicians (the second of whom, Greg, gave me his personal number and said to call if it went out again, which, as desperate as I was to get fixed up, I didn't recognize as a shady move until he left me hanging all day the next day and Mr. Man called Verizon for the millionth time only to find out he hadn't put me on a work order at all).

The third guy came in apologizing and told Mr. Man that we'd been labeled "chronic complainers." I guess if your DSL isn't working, Verizon thinks you're just supposed to shut the fuck up and pay your bill, or assume that every poor $8/hr operator you talk to (because it's never the same one) is going to treat you like an asshole.

If you've never seen a Gemini deprived of her primary method of communication, consider yourself lucky. I was completely insane by this time yesterday. Envision me in tears...anyway, it's back up now, has been since this afternoon, and my wrist is already sore from all the furious typing, but my trust in the communication gods is still pretty shaken.

It's hard because (like most of you, I'm sure) I really love the internet. Not only do I like to read blogs and shop and research stuff, but my career is in a much more amazing place because of it, and in fact, I really do believe (just like old Al Gore) that the web is our best hope for fixing what's wrong with the world at large. It's like the printing press and Martin Luther's 95 theses or whatever (except that there weren't global warming or nukes back then). But I'm worried that with shit like net neutrality, the nets will go the way of food and television and become a worthless corporate imitation of what they should be, and this kind of big-business bullshit just gives a girl more cause for concern.

Sigh.

In much more cheerful news, we arrived home from NYC to see that the tomatoes we decided to seed indoors had sprouted. They are gorgeous, though it's hard to believe that anything will ever come of them. I also took advantage of some net-free hours to start some more seeds (I hope you all waded your way through my last long rant of a post and treated yourself to the Lorax and if you need seeds, let me know, because we've got extras), including rosemary, basil, anise, tobacco, nasturtiums, chives and catnip. It's like having a few dozen (!) new babies in the house.