Ravens of Doom

Maybe you've been wondering what's become of me. Or maybe not. Whichever, I don't care. As it happens, though, I have been working out of town. WAY out of town. And since I have been traveling I thought it would be a good idea to do some travel writing. What is that called? Travelogues? Something like that; watch out Rick Steves!  So, hmmmmm, where to start? A good beginning is so important when it comes to good travel writing. Otherwise it would be super boring: I got on an airplane and the seat was too small, then I went to this place, and saw some stuff and ate some food. Snoresville, am I right?  In fact I should probably just admit right here I have never read one single word of any travel writing, ever, because it is so deadly dull, and therefore have not even the slightest idea how to do it. Oh well, that never stopped me before! I'm just gonna jump right in, how bad can it be?

First of all, the stupid TSA confiscated my corkscrew. And they didn't just take it quickly so I could be on my way. No, it was a whole ordeal.  See, somehow,  I have NO clue how, it had found its way into the backpack I use to tote my computer back and forth from work.  The backpack had to go through the scanner TWICE, then they searched it by hand, STOLE my corkscrew, and then ran it through AGAIN.  In the meantime, I was forced to stand there with my collection of two computers, iPad, and multiple phone/devices. It was very depressing to confront the fact that I should have been able to launch an array of satellites or at least hack into the FoxNews website to endorse gay marriage across the land but instead my efforts will produce nothing but a prodigious stack of questionable paperwork.  And me without a corkscrew, sigh.

Finally, my spirit adequately squashed, I was allowed to continue on my journey. In an airplane seat that was too small. Now, the purpose of this particular journey was to assess some disaster damage in a bunch of freezing cold and remote places.  Places that you have to get to in teeny tiny airplanes that are wired together with walrus guts and polar bear spit. If you don't die in an icy fiery crash first, of course.  Because I am opposed to dying in such an undignified fashion, I put the kibosh on the wings of deadly carnage and instead we evaluated damages remotely.  From a toasty warm office that was apparently riddled with bacterial pneumonia spores. It was a really tough choice, deciding whether to plunge into the frozen tundra at high velocity or hack up blood. I went with door number two, which has worked out relatively well for me so far. I weaseled out of a boring meeting because germs! And one of my coworkers brought me salami and orange juice and kleenex because I can't leave my hotel room, because the blood will freeze in the air on the way down because it's like 12 below, and then I might slip on it and hurt myself. Also, every time I leave the room there are ravens following me. Ravens of doom. They are waiting for me to die so they can devour my bloody flesh and peck my eyes out.  Actually, they might not even wait. Especially the big shiny one. He talks to me. Caw! Caw! Caw!

I have to go home tomorrow, though. In an airplane seat that is too small. So I'm working on a strategy.  I'm going to save all the hacked-up blood and use it to fashion what appears to be a bloody corpse out of pillows. This room has at least eight giant ones, they won't miss a couple. Then, when I get outside, I'm going to throw them at the ravens and make a break for it. Wish me luck! I'm leaving my new corkscrew for the maid, along with all my dirty clothes and a few books. I can't have that stuff slowing me down. If you never hear from me again, Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!

Caution: DANGEROUS UNICORN

Holy roadkill, people. You would not believe the day at work I just had. I feel like I got run over by a steamroller and then scraped up with a pitchfork, tossed into an incinerator and dumped at a landfill by the Pentagon. It started out okay, until I had a little accident and my finger started bleeding. That's all. Just a tiny little cut that started an avalanche of crazy.

I have this problem with the bandages at my office. The truth is, I'm kind of a menace and I frequently need minor medical attention, so I'm a connoisseur of adhesive bandages. We have first aid kits on the wall in multiple locations but I'm sorry to report that the bandages are often missing and always substandard. And I must point out that I am well-versed in opening the first aid kit, retrieving what I need, and then successfully latching it and walking away with minimal trauma. You can imagine my delight, then, when I spotted a brand new first aid kit affixed to the wall this morning. I unlatched it so fast your head would spin, eager to check out the new bandages, only to cry in dismay as the supplies tumbled down onto the floor. In fact, if I had been wearing open-toed shoes, I might have suffered an injury from the baby delivering/tracheotomy scissors. Naturally I never wear open-toed shoes, even though I have the most awesome sea green toenail polish on right now. I WOULD wear open-toed shoes, only I can barely keep from tripping over my own feet when I'm wearing sensible boots. NOT RELEVANT.

Because I am a kind-hearted person, my first inclination was to fix this problem so it wouldn't happen to anyone else. After I punched my whiteboard, I mean, and the guy that hung up a first aid kit that was meant to lay flat. I went to talk to him about how we needed to either put the thing somewhere else, or put a note on it so people knew not to open it while it was on the wall. Shockingly, he looked at me like I was the stupidest thing to ever walk the earth on two legs and said that I should have KNOWN that I needed to take it off the wall before I opened it. So I canvassed the office. Every single person that I asked, with one notable exception, agreed that I was right and he was grievously wrong. WRONG, WRONG, WRONG. If a first aid kit hangs on the wall, it is reasonable and logical to assume it can be opened ON THE WALL. So I told him to shut up and put the note on the first aid kit.

Then all hell broke loose. One of my pollees mentioned the dispute to the facilities manager, who hit the roof. The first aid kit is unapproved, unauthorized, unmapped, cannot be hung on the wall and was requisitioned improperly. Now the first aid kit guy hates me and I still can't get a damn bandage. And that was all before lunchtime. I don't even have the energy right now to write about the afternoon, when I was forced to choose a fierce animal to be. I went for a unicorn with a big stabby horn and then someone called me a My Little Pony. I wish I was making this up. Lucky for me my dream castle has wine AND margaritas on tap. Come on over if you want, but watch out for the horn. It's sharp and did I mention I'm a little dangerous? It could get bloody if I start swinging that thing around and bandages are hard to come by these days. I better put a sign up.

Pass the Frozen Chickens and Make it Snappy

Check out my new brainstorm, you guys! This is a plan for improvements to my office. And boy, could it use some! See, I live in a four-cube room with three excellent cubers. That's like a neighbor, only in a cube. Like a cubeneighbor, get it? The problem is the other people that so often want to come into our blissful kingdom. Seriously, sometimes someone wanders in there that's a real pain. You would not even believe it if I told you. Another problem is the cynical and not-necessarily-complimentary opinions are always flying around freely, and loudly, in our flunkie haven, if you get my drift. We have been debating the most effective alarm system for some time now. We're a Government operation, you know; we can't do anything too quickly. The best candidate until I had my epiphany this morning was one of those annoying santas with a sensor that says 'ho ho ho' when someone goes by. We could probably get one for 75% off now, too, which is good because everyone is so stingy with their damn tax dollars these days.

I was just minding my own beeswax this morning when it happened. It was bright and early and I was listening to a little Meat Loaf and having some coffee when all of a sudden the whole scheme just came to me. It's like a curse, y'all! My favorite part is the frozen chicken cannons, because they can be totally recycled. See, you fire the cannons, then barbecue the ammo using the pedal-powered generator, then you toss the carcasses to the alligators in the moat.

The rest is pretty self-explanatory, but I should point out that my cube is the one on the left in the back, where the command and control center and the escape hatch are located. That is because I am definitely the brains of our operation and if we get overrun I need to get out so I can re-establish our empire somewhere else in the building. Normally you would find me curled up in a ball under my desk whimpering, but if the chicken cannons fail I'm definitely bailing, and quick. I'm leaving the alligators, though, because they're kind of stinky.

I bet you think I'm kidding. Oh, you have no idea..... Have a good weekend!

School

Hey, everyone! How's it going? I probably wouldn't be writing today, but I have received MULTIPLE reports that my last post was extra dreary and it sure would be super nice to have something different up here instead. So I thought I would put up some pictures and make a report. I am too lazy to check and make sure, but I believe I previously reported that I am at at the National Fire Academy along with my tinfoil/amethyst hat for protection from The Man. Did I mention that there is a guy here that looks exactly like Ferris Bueller? Every time I see him I think, 'Bueller? Bueller?' Oh, I crack myself up. But I feel sorry for him, because I bet if he had a dollar for every time someone said that he would have enough cash for some plastic surgery.

Here are some pictures, just for funsies. The one from the Fallen Firefighter's Memorial that was supposed to go with the Timmy Stackpole post, along with one of the memorial itself. The flag one is a 9-11 memorial modeled on the flag-raising photo that everyone loves so much. Sorry they were taken in the dark but that's pretty much my only option, since I am EVER SO BUSY learning all day long.

This place is weird, you guys. Do any of you remember college? I kind of do. It's sort of like that, only not quite so much fun. Ratty dorm room? Check? Dining hall food? Check. Alcohol and explosives restrictions? Check. Actually, now that I think about it, it bears a certain resemblance to prison, too. Not that I would know! Definitely not, and anyone who says they were my roommate in prison is definitely lying. I can't believe how many people lie these days. It's very discouraging for truth-telling folks like myself, seriously. Next thing you know they are going to be making me pee in a cup. What? They didn't do that at your university? I suppose you didn't have bars on the windows, either? And why did I have to pick potatoes on the weekends wearing that funny jumpsuit? I am definitely going to stop writing checks to the alumni association, and I think I better have a chat with my dad.

Huh, better go to bed. They are calling lights out. What? That's normal, right? Good night!

The Dead Cat Legislative Conscription Act

Gosh, people sure are concerned about our military spending these days! Here I thought cutting all that wasteful funding for mental health services was going to do the trick but I guess we're going to have to dig a little deeper. You have probably seen this article from the New York Times that describes military retirement and health benefits 'social welfare'. I despise the Times for all their lying lies and their complete lack of journalism ethics but was unable to ignore the uproar caused by this piece, and a lucky thing, because it gave me perhaps my most brilliant idea so far! You should read it if you haven't already but basically it says that military retirement benefits are super expensive and and outrageously over-generous! Something has to be done! Check out the comments on the article- they are generally clustered around a couple of excellent points:

1. Veterans are treated abominably and it's appalling that our government thinks nothing of cutting benefits to military members to fund tax credits to, say, Exxon. Or Halliburton. Or whatever they are calling themselves these days. I have a name for them too but this is a (mostly) family friendly blog.


2. If we want to maintain an all volunteer force, we have to be willing to shoulder the cost. Otherwise, let's bring back the draft. With no deferments for the children of rich people and legislators. Of course, in many cases these are the same thing.

I'm not entirely sure what I think about a military draft; I'm an expert in pretty much nothing. Scratch that; EXACTLY nothing. But thinking about it inspired me to come up with the Dead Cat Legislative Conscription Act (DCLCA). Catchy, don't you think? Here's how it works: instead of drafting military members, we raise their pay so none of them have to go on food stamps to feed their families, and give them adequate health care. Then, we draft the legislative branch instead! No more campaign lies, no more corruption scandals, no more politicians owned by corporate American. Can you imagine? Two-year terms, no deferments. Everyone has to take their turn in the barrel. You have to pass a mental health screen for a few disorders: no paranoids, no sociopaths and no hallucinators. All the other conditions are fine. In fact, some of them would probably be beneficial. Like the manics; they would do an awesome job and we need a few more. Obviously, no IQ test is necessary. No drug tests, either. I want to get back to 'By the People, for the People'. And let's face it, some of the people are on drugs. Plus I'm pretty some of the lawmakers we have now are on some serious mind-altering substances. A small stipend, chow hall meals and dorm style housing with shared bathrooms would be provided.

As luck would have it, there will be plenty of suitable space available for this initiative as soon as more appropriate accomodations are made for military members requiring medical care. Walter Reed, for example, would make an EXCELLENT compound for our new senators and congressional representatives. It's totally self-contained and could easily be locked down for when they need a time-out or when lobbyists come sniffing around. And, we've seen how cheap it is to operate! As an added bonus, it's location is convenient to the capitol. I'm on the fence about whether we should require PT for the conscriptees; what do you guys think? It seems like it'd be a waste of time during which they could be busting their asses getting rid of those corporate tax credits, but if the debates turn to hand to hand combat, it would be nice if they all started out on equal footing.

So that's the DCLCA in a nutshell. I think it's a surefire winner, don't you? I welcome your comments and suggestions as I refine my proposal. I realize it might be a tough sell, but I'm no quitter. God bless America, my friends.

The Vegemattress

Boy, have I had a busy week! What with teaching the new guy how to do all my crappy projects, parsing the news for my friends, and re-netting the trampoline, phew! And OH, YEAH.... I invented something and this time it's actually useful! As an aside, I did not have a category labeled 'brilliant' until today. I regret the oversight.

I'm a little bit of a levee geek, I bet you didn't know that. It's because I hide it well and never, ever wear a plaid shirt. You also may not know that levee vegetation is a very complicated and political issue, and it's especially difficult here in the Pacific Northwest where we have multiple species of salmon on the Endangered Species list. The fish people demand trees and shrubs, because that's better for the fish, and the levee people demand lots of bare rock and grassed slopes, because that makes safer, stronger levees. Trees and shrubs are sub-optimal for levees because the roots can tear them up and falling trees can gouge out big holes. Overgrown vegetation also impedes inspection and encourages colonization by burrowing creatures. Both the fish people and the levee people have excellent points, and the law on their side. This leaves people who need to build or repair flood control structures in a very difficult position, between a rock and a hard fish, you might say. If you are someone who makes bad puns, that is. Which I am. And right now I am one of these unfortunate people who has competing Federal mandates to produce a project with no vegetation in the levee structure AND with plenty of plants to shade the fishies.

Behold, I give you the Dead Cat Vegemattress! It's essentially a mattress of vegetation that's designed to break away in a flood without damaging the levee structure itself. As you can clearly see from my not-to-scale drawing, a layer of non-permeable geotextile fabric, possibly combined with a layer of chain link fencing, protects the levee prism and rock face from the roots of the plantings and burrowing animals. A hefty lift of soil placed on the fabric provides plenty of room for lots of whatever plants the fish people want, and everybody wins!

You probably know I have been frustrated in the past by people stealing my brilliant ideas. The breastmilk factory, the diapers that look like clothes and the clothes that have drinking pockets spring immediately to mind. Not this time, though! You heard it here first: I invented the vegemattress (vegemat for short) today, September 15, 2011.

News

Is it just me, or is everyone WAY crazier than usual these days? I swear, I am going to stop listening to/reading/watching the "news". Have I said that before? I'm pretty sure that sounds kind of familiar. Anyway, I mean it this time. It's like we're living in some kind of bizarro universe where the three stooges are serious contenders for president, teachers and other public servants are lazy, greedy parasites with outrageously cushy jobs and unreasonable benefits, and Jesus would rightfully withhold healthcare from a sick kid in just retaliation for his parents' poor capitalism skills. Corporations enrich themselves on the backs of the environment and the increasingly marginalized and desperate labor force, then use the cash to lobby the congress and bribe the Supreme Court, all so they can make MORE money and pay less taxes. Our elected representatives battle amongst themselves like toddlers who all want the only Elmo toothbrush and can't even keep the government running and airports open while they wage unsustainable wars. Yet somehow, the guy that issues my passport and makes 40k and the school lunch program are the reasons we're awash in red ink?

I'm terrified that the next news I see will inform me that two plus two now equals 43,873, gay people cause hurricanes, and that the law of gravity has been suspended because the tea party thinks it might be socialist. Oh, I could go on. And on and on and on, but just thinking about it makes my head start to throb like it's about to explode, and then I just get exhausted and want to lay on my couch drinking beer. Not that there's anything wrong with that! I believe in moderation in all things, and too much beer/couch time will cut into my beer/screen time, so I'm on a mission, and I think you guys can help me out. Here's what I need: news that won't make me insane. More insane, I mean. My friend MeLissa has already come through, with this story from King 5 on cooking with the bug chef. Thanks, MeLissa! That's more like it. Put your suggestions in the comments or email me at womanwithadeadcat@gmail.com; my sanity is in your hands!

Anniversary

****updated to add this link to a publication that describes the Corps response****

So, ten years. That is a long time, and yet, not long at all. I was thinking about reposting some writing I did way back then, but I decided not to; it's not my best work. That would DEFINITELY be this piece on boogers, which garnered me much acclaim from my many readers. Especially my mother; she LOVED it, and you won't hear her say any different, now will you? I considered reworking my original ground zero essay but decided not to because it was true to me then and I didn't want to monkey with it. Besides, I don't even like reading it; it's a little too melodramatic. It's still there, somewhere, in the archives at Stories from Korea, if you want to see it. Instead, I decided to just start over from scratch and share some pictures.

Ten years ago I was working for the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers in Seattle. On that Tuesday morning, I was teaching a class on emergency construction. A few days later, I was standing on the West Side Highway, looking at the reeking, burning pile that used to be the World Trade Center. It was night, and the bright beams from the light plants shone through the rising, curling smoke. I will never, ever forget my first look at it. Surreal.

Gradually, though, the place became home-ish. It was just like you'd imagine a post-apocalypse city, with everything repurposed. The lower Manhattan Brooks Brothers store, for example, was now a morgue, while the Burger King was a medical clinic. The best restaurant in town was called the Green Tarp Restaurant, for the green tarp that covered the entrance, pictured below. Celebrities would come in and serve up the grub, which was catered by the fanciest chefs around. Seriously, it was good stuff. I gained at least fifteen pounds while I was there because of the free food on every corner and the McDonald's people that came around every afternoon with quarter pounders.

I was on a logistics team (I am MULTI-TALENTED, y'all!), and we worked out of the Corps' DTOS (Deployable Tactical Operations System) units. You can see one in one of the pictures. They are portable offices with satellite communications, and we had them set up on all four corners of the site for us, FEMA and FDNY. We had nice neighbors; there were rows and rows of tents and trailers set up for all kinds of organizations: search and rescue teams from all over the world, NYPD, EPA, FBI, Justice Department, ATF, utility companies, you name it, and they were there.

Anything you can think of that a regular city would have was there, in that tightly enclosed 16 acre site: offices, food, medical services, vets for the search dogs, places to sleep, masseuses, clothes, supplies of every kind, counselors, and all free and available for whomever had a need. It would have been a happy little commune if it hadn't been dreary beyond words, and reminds me of a book I recommended not too long ago, called 'A Paradise Built in Hell', by Rebecca Solnit. Everyone should read it; it will completely change your perspective on disaster response and human behavior.

You may be noticing that I'm not saying anything about loss, grief, terrorism, war, retaliation, or politics. All I can do is reflect on my own little piece of paradise in hell and hope that it never happens again, to anyone, anywhere.

photos courtesy U.S. Army Corps of Engineers

Disaster

Holy smokes, people! I have been on such a trip, you would not even believe it. See the helicopter? Oh yes, I got the bird's eye view of the beautiful state of Maryland from a military helicopter. There was a hurricane, you know. Maybe you heard about it. As result, my office sent me on an epic cross-country adventure. I was working in the state EOC (emergency operations center) one day, minding my own beeswax (my beeswax consists primarily of filling out forms and reports on a pre-determined schedule and "coordinating" with a bunch of people that possess varying degrees of charm and competence, and is mostly a better-left-unblogged story for another day) when the boss lady practically wrenched my arm off dragging me out to the landing pad. On the way, she said, "You can go in a helicopter, right?" Ummm, yes? I mean, it's not as if she was wanting me to fly the thing. I was a little concerned when they started asking about my next of kin and making me sign forms so that after I died in a fiery crash they could use my charred corpse for the chow hall, but whatever. I've always been a girl that's happy to take one for the team. So I hopped on, the crew chief slapped a truly terrifying and complicated harness arrangement and some headphones on me, and off we went into the wild blue yonder.

You guys all know how readily I get motion sickness, right? And in the interest of full disclosure, I was also working off one too many glasses of hootch from the night before. It's not as if I was planning on going on a nauseating spin through the Maryland sky, after all. Lucky for me I was wearing my friend Gretchen's coat. I had borrowed it earlier because the EOC was FREEZING and I had dumped coffee all over my own coat. The helicopter was plenty warm, but I definitely felt I needed to be prepared to hurl in something. As it turns out, my seatmate was in a similar condition, so I spread out the sleeves, one for each of us. It was touch and go for a while, but everything stayed inside where it belonged. You're welcome, Gretchen!

On the way home, I took a little extra time to see a couple of my sweet friends that I hadn't seen in much too long. Love you guys! Unfortunately, I have a bunch more just-as-sweet friends that I didn't get to see but I will definitely try to catch everyone else next time. Love you guys, too! This is a picture of Helen's new dog, Sherlock. He is a 5.5 month old lab and he acts EXACTLY as you'd expect from looking at the picture.

On another note, it's Labor Day. I feel strongly about labor, social and consumer issues but I'm also very lazy. It's sort of a bad combination, so to assuage my guilt, I am sharing this post I wrote two years ago for Labor Day. To keep up on all the latest on labor and the shenanigans of corporate America, check out Mother Jones. You won't be sorry! And if you don't know who Mother Jones was, you can read about her here. She is definitely one of my heroes: I'm a great admirer of courage. I hope you are all having a fabulous long weekend!

Friday

Happy Friday, everyone! At my house, it's barely 6 a.m. The coffee has bypassed the carafe and flowed all over the counter, cabinets and floor, along with a generous helping of grounds. I like strong coffee, y'all! The towels were all dirty and there was no soap in the shower. I licked the floor like a thirsty cat, I rubbed the grime off on the shower wall like a cow on a fence, then shook myself dry like a dog, only to discover that facebook is down. OH, THE HUMANITY!

Let me make a slight clarification: when I say facebook is down, I mean I can read it, but not post. They are working on this issue and feel certain it will be resolved shortly. Try again in a few minutes! In the meantime, however, here I sit with rage to vent. Thanks a lot, FACEBOOK!

You know, I hate the legislative branch as much as anyone these days. Maybe more! It's super easy to get whipped into a frenzy, for a multitude of legitimate reasons. But I keep seeing these posts about how they all get their salaries for life, or how they get a full pension after one term. None of these things are true. You can read the truth here or here. Or google it up and find out more. As per the usual, the truth is much less outrageous than the rumors and lies.

BPA PSA: plastics, cans and receipts

Everyone knows about BPA, right? You can read about it here. It is used in many hard, clear plastics, among other things, and is known or suspected to have multiple deleterious effects on human health. Manufacturers have stopped using it in many things, including baby bottles, pacifiers and toys, though it is still a good idea to check. Not out of the goodness of their hearts, or because they care about public health, but because of the public uproar, led by activist groups like Environmental Working Group. Labels or packaging will usually say 'BPA free', if the item is, in fact, BPA free. Possibly even if it's not, but that's a rant about profit hungry corporate America and our corporation loving government for another day.

BPA is also used in the liners of many canned foods, and leaches into your food. Some brands of canned food have switched to other liners, and others are working on it, but many will continue to blatantly ignore the health risks of this practice until change is forced upon them by consumers. You can read this report to see which brands use BPA in their cans.

Another place you might not expect to be exposed to BPA is at the checkout counter. But guess what, many stores use BPA to print receipts. Huge, huge volumes of it. Much more than might leach into your food or drink from a can or plastic bottle, and much more likely to get into your body because it's loose, instead of bound up in a compound. You can read about it here and here. How many times have you grabbed a receipt, given it to your kid to occupy them for a minute while you get out of the store, and then put them in their carseat with a handul of goldfish? Or taken a receipt, crumpled it up in your pocket at the coffee shop, then eaten your muffin? Horrifying. Unfortunately there is no way to tell by looking which receipts have it and which don't. This article lists some stores that had clean tests in some locations, as well as some that had super high levels. Again, nothing will change until consumers rise up and demand it. So ask your retailers if they use BPA to print their receipts. If they don't know, ask them to find out. And ask them to change, and shop at the stores that don't use it. Google up the retailers you frequent and use their online forms to tell them you want to shop where receipts are BPA free. Handle receipts as little as possible and wash your hands after you touch one. Don't let your kids touch them at all. Don't expect any help from the government- the FDA has already declined to regulate BPA, so you're on your own, baby.

Ping

Here, as promised, is the story of Ping. Ping is what the kids named this white poodle that showed up at our house the other day. I call him 'Satan'. Oh, I know, he is a cute little thing. He doesn't LOOK like evil incarnate, what with his fluffy little ears and his delicate little pink toenails. That's how he sucks you in, see. And then WHAMMO, the maleficence starts oozing out, along with the reeking dog farts.

A few days earlier, I came home from work and heard about a little dog that had tried to get in the van. Hahahaha, that's funny, I said. Little did I know. If I had, I wouldn't have been laughing, believe you me. Then, on the day that I have come to refer to as the apocalypse, a little white poodle and a small black dog were careening around our cul-de-sac. I saw one of the neighbors chasing them, then ringing another neighbor's bell. Assuming that he knew where they belonged and was summoning the owners, I grabbed the white one as it went by. Maybe I should have gone for the black one; it was probably the Antiping.

You can imagine my dismay when the door-ringing neighbor trotted over and said, 'Hey, do you know whose dogs those are?' I dropped Ping as quick as I could, but the black dog was long gone, and he just wouldn't leave. Surely someone is looking for these dogs, right? Ping was nicely groomed, with clipped toenails and clean teeth, and he was wearing a little blue harness with no name tag. I hadn't yet learned to be suspicious about this, you see.

Thus began a quest to reunite Ping with his owner that consumed an entire weekend. First, my brother-in-law took him to the nearby shelter where we got Henry. They refused to keep the dog, but offered to scan him to see if he had a microchip. Sadly, he did not. We went to the pet store to put up an ad and spend a ridiculous amount money on holistic organic dog food and a leash. We put an ad on craigslist and painstakingly perused the lost pet pleas. We googled up and checked every single lost pet forum in the free world. We put posters up on the utility poles around town. Nada. No one, it seemed, was looking frantically for Satan Ping. How could this be? We called up all the shelters that would answer the phone. No one was looking for a charming little poodle, and no, sorry, they could not take strays. He has to go to the county shelter. Oh, sorry, no it's not open, and yes, it's too bad it's at least an hour away from your house. And make sure you make anyone who calls identify him to you! Don't you dare let him go with someone until you're sure he/she is the legitimate owner! People do terrible things to strays! They go around collecting them! Craigslist puts out these warnings, too. Really? People go around answering ads and collecting strays so they can be cruel to them? Don't these people have kids to torture? It's much less hassle. KIDDING. But seriously, I don't buy it. Who would do that? I think it's just another fear-mongering scam, like the one about the pedophiles that will snatch your kids at the park if you turn your back for one second. Anyway, as you can clearly tell, we put in a major effort here. I DID draw the line at my sister's suggestion of hiring a pet psychic for $65-75 per half hour to ask the creature where it came from, because what if it was dyslexic and got its address mixed up? That would be money down the drain.

We tried to foist him off on my dad and my sister to no avail, and then resigned ourselves to hosting him for a day or two: Someone would call us soon, we were sure of it! He's so cute and well taken care of! He peed on the floor, but that's okay. Someone will be along soon. He can stay in the bathroom at night; that will work perfectly! It's just for one night; someone will come tomorrow, for sure. He's howling, we can't sleep! We'll have to let him out of the bathroom. But what if he pees or poops on the floor? We'll just have to clean it up. Check the email again, any responses from craiglist yet? COME ON, PEOPLE! One long, long night passed in this fashion and we awoke to poop on the floor.

The next day, Lloyd and Weston went fishing, and Shane and I needed to go to Target for soccer shoes for him and swim trunks for Weston. Oh, and to look for Squeaky, the green squeaking toy that's shaped like a star and doesn't exist. But what shall we do with Ping? I guess we'll have to take him with us. We can check the signs on the way and make sure they'll still up! I don't know why someone hasn't called yet. I tried to give him to the lady at the Starbucks drive-through, but that failed miserably. I guess I'm just not persuasive enough. Either that or I shouldn't have been calling him Satan while trying to convince someone of his many charms. Then, we courageously left him in the car when we went into the store. We came out with swim trunks, shiny flashing Spiderman shoes, three movies, five shirts and a green squeaking dog toy shaped like a bear, and cautiously peered into the car. Everything LOOKED okay- he hadn't chewed up the seats or anything. I opened the door and it hit me, a foul stench that could have come from only one place. Yes, the beast had pooped in my car.

Dammit, when does that shelter open? First thing in the morning, huh? Do not give him any more food; maybe he won't poop anymore. Phew, morning at last! Smell you later, Ping. May the force be with you. Then, just as I was getting ready to stock the car with Febreze for the trip, a miracle occurred. Shane and I were out front with Ping, planting yellow squash when a couple of teenage boys jumped out of a car and said it was their aunt's dog, 'Taco'. They looked a little sketchy, but didn't have any fillet knives in plain sight so I figured it was okay. Plus I would have given him to Michael Vick if he drove up, so it's Taco's lucky day. And mine.

Hamster Ball

A hamster ball could be any one of a legion of things: a hairy little testicle, a party where rodents go dancing, a party where people dressed up as rodents go dancing, or a game where you kick hamsters into a goal or whack them over a net. The possibilities are endless, and I now have about a zillion new ideas just awaiting further development; feel free to borrow them! Look away now if you are a PETA member- it's just going to get worse and I'm not at all squeamish about inventing other, more bloody, ways to entertain myself. Judgmentalfreakball, anyone? BYOBAPOB (Bring your own bat and plenty of beer)!

But I've been thinking about a different kind of hamster ball lately- the clear plastic kind that the little critters can cruise around the house in without getting stepped on or peeing on the carpet. Not that we have any hamsters, of course. The boys simply refuse to try them, even when I fry them up like nuggets and serve them with ranch and a nice side of fava beans. I swear, kids today, they're so SPOILED. The truth is, the hamster ball is for me.

Remember that John Travolta movie where he played the boy in the plastic bubble? I got to thinking about that the other day because I am very, very sick of dead soldiers, earthquakes, tsunamis, radiation, psycho politicians, the Supreme Court, corporate greed, the economy, the dreary weather, and all the rest, making a plastic isolation bubble extremely appealing. I need to move around, though, and I'm pretty sure a giant hamster ball would be an outstanding solution. It will have a number of attractive design features, including my friend Lisa's idea for a wine-filled drinking bottle. It will have curtains that I can draw when I can't look at the worms in my living room or the pee in the boys' tub anymore, an artificial source of sunlight for all those super rainy days, and some high-grade soundproofing. For work.

I even have the perfect name for it: The Nut Ball. Interested? Call me!

Update on the paper

Remember when I wrote last week that my office is running out of paper and has no money to buy more? It’s getting worse- today at the weekly meeting, there was serious distress over occasional six dollar fees for transactions on one of the computer systems; we simply cannot afford these anymore. The paper is dwindling and the supply fund is not, shall we say, robust. There is enough in there to buy a few boxes of printer paper, so I’m not sure why they are waiting. Perhaps there is something more important than the paper? I can’t imagine what it would be, because we have plenty of TP and coffee. I checked when I was doing the inventory for my swapping scheme. Don’t worry, though- I have another idea for how to get some, since the trading post idea doesn’t seem to be taking off.

Last week, I was noticing my hands were getting all carpal-tunnelly, and I knew why. My office chair was too low and I couldn’t get it go up. One of my cubors (these are like neighbors, only in cubes) heard me swearing and came over. He flipped my chair over and had it fixed in a jiffy, which gave me another fantastic idea for paper procurement. I figure we can put him out on the sidewalk with a sign that says ‘Will fix office furniture for paper’, and then I thought, WHY STOP THERE? Many people have skills that could be utilized to conquer this crisis. Another of my cubors, for example, dances in his free time. He could get out there in front of the office and dance with an empty paper box, so people can come by and toss paper in there. When it’s filled up, he can come in. I think this is a surefire winner, so I’m going to get a sign-up sheet and go around figuring out what extracurricular skills everyone else has. I will probably have to sit this one out myself: my only talent is coming up with brilliant ideas, and my friend Helen has already cornered the market on that. Although, ‘Will provide brilliant ideas for copy paper’ would look good on a sign, wouldn’t it?

Smoking

I hate cigarette smoke as much as the next guy, maybe even more; GROSS! Here in Washington, you can’t smoke anywhere anymore. Not even in a bar or an adult video store. I bet you want to know how I know that, so I’ll tell you. Over the weekend, we went to an ice cream/beer/video game shop in a seedy suburb. It has a bad reputation, this town, but I drive through it pretty often because it is in between my sister’s house and one of the Goodwills I like. They vary, you know- the Goodwills. I have my favorites. Anyway, I have always defended the ratty place and when people criticize it, I call them snobs and tell them to go back to their McMansion and pick up a Starbucks on the way. I wasn’t concerned at all about going there to play Pac Man and eat ice cream. But the shop was down a street I don’t need to drive on to get to Goodwill, and I’d never seen it before. Just let me say WOW, and that it was the first time I wasn’t glad Weston could read. I had to explain what Payday loans and junk gold and diamonds were. Fortunately he didn’t ask what XXX means. Because I don’t know.

The strip is apparently popular- it was very crowded and we had to park quite a ways from the place, in back-in only angle parking. Who invented that? It’s the worst idea ever. I had to drive through a pot-holed parking lot and over a sidewalk to turn around and drive straight in head first. To get to the ice cream shop, we had to walk the gauntlet of drunks on the sidewalk in front of the dive bars having their smokes. Now, loud and cheerful hammered bikers don’t bother me, of course. Some of my best friends could make the Olympics in boat racing (the kind with beer, not actual boats, because that would be boring as hell). But Weston was terrified, never having encountered a drunken moron. Well, maybe one.

Once we got there, the shop was fun in a dingy sort of way and delicious ice cream and a good time was had by all. Unfortunately, we then had to retrace our steps, only this time it was more fun because Weston was clutching my legs while Shane ran on ahead as we picked our way through the throng of friendly pickled smokehounds spilling out of the various establishments. My favorite was the grinning toothless woman who informed us that she LOVED little boys; she had three of her own and adopted eight more. I told her how lucky she was and we continued on our merry trek. We barreled into the van as fast as we could, and it was then that I figured out that parking headfirst in back-in angled spot was not actually the greatest idea I had ever had. For the love of all that is holy, LET THE TOKERS SMOKE IN THE BARS! THINK OF THE CHILDREN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Did you get the memo on the paper?

I work in a government office, and you might have heard something about budget problems in our public agencies lately. My office just got some seriously bad news: we are down to our last box of 8.5 x 11 printer paper. Dude! Printer paper is like the fuel that powers the machine where I work. The place will grind to a screeching halt in a hurry if the supply is cut off, and at least six, no.... seven people will immediately shrivel up and die. We've already had to go to double-sided printing. You would think people would embrace that; it cuts the paper usage in half, so that's like two trees a day, but surprisingly, this has not been a super popular move.

But if we get cut down to zero on the paper front, what are we going to push around? All day long, piles, folders, clipboards, and binders, all cram-jammed with dead trees, get schlepped from cube to cube, from one end of the office to the other. Over and over and over, like a perpetual motion machine. I've been brainstorming ideas for a good substitute, and the best thing I can come up with is old computer monitors on old office chairs. The pushing would be easy, because of the wheels, and it would be efficient because we'd be pushing two things at one time. The scary thing is, I can totally picture this in my mind, and it wouldn't be all that different. Pretty viable, don't you think?

If that doesn't work out, I have another idea to acquire the paper we need: a swap operation with other public agencies. As it happens, we have an ample supply of legal paper, which we don't use very often, and I did an inventory of the supply room. We have:

A polaroid camera, still in the box

4 unopened boxes of 3.5" floppy disks

23 dirty mouse pads

119 pounds of tabbed sheets

47 2" white binders

4 boxes of toilet seat covers

3 cubic yards of desktop organizers in various configurations

14 pencil sharpeners

Large box of fortune cookies

6 reams carbon paper

I'm thinking we can appoint a Swapmaster, which should definitely be a good promotion for someone. Not me, though- I'm not a good bargainer, plus I'm not really ambitious. The new Swapmaster could set up in the supply room on the big table with all the goods and start wheeling and dealing to get the printer paper, and we also desperately need some kleenex right away. I mentioned it at the staff meeting today and they just laughed at me, so I guess that means they all want to try the office chairs and computer monitors first. I'll let you know how it turns out! I might consider putting up pictures but I don't want to get canned. Maybe I can make everyone disguise their identities while they careen around the hallways- we can probably get a gross of masks from the health department in exchange for the fortune cookies. And, just in case that doesn't work out, keep your eyes open for surplus you might want to trade; I'll put in a good word for you with the Swapmaster.

Words of brilliant wisdom from 1938

**again with the editing! A few points of clarification: FINE, I was not so much sorting stuff at my parent's house as grumping around while my sister and my aunt worked. WHATEVER. Also, of course, as revolutions go, I'm a fan of the non-violent type, which are entirely possible, no matter what Lloyd says. That is all.**

So! What super fun things are all you guys up to today? I am at my parents' house sorting through my dead mother's stuff- and boy, is it a BLAST. She was a big genealogist, and so there are piles of things from her ancestors. One of her grandfathers, Josef, was a real character, and he was not shy about speaking out against injustice, which often made him unpopular among the townspeople. Which he did not give a rat's ass about, apparently. I came across some of his writing today, and had to post a little excerpt, because it is so remarkably similar to what I wrote yesterday:

April 1938: Oh yes, there is general demand that the telegraph and telephone rates be lowered, and it can be done by not giving a set of hogs an enormous profit. The fact is, big business is grabbing all the money; it will make very little difference, how much money the government spends to relieve unemployment, in a short time it will be in possession the rich, and we are on the same old place, where we were before; that is the curse of our competitive or capitalist or profit system, and when our national credit will be gone, we will either face a dictator or a revolution, for it is hardly possible that 99% of the people will submit to the financial and economic tyranny of less than 1%.

SING IT, GRAMPS, AND BRING ON THE REVOLUTION!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Screw you, preemies

***update: the March of Dimes has reversed their position on this, most likely in response to public outrage. Or a giant drop in donations.

**edited to add: here is a link to a blog post by Michele, who has posted the pharmaceutical companys' contact information, if you feel that doing something might be more productive than angrily ranting. Now, on to your regularly scheduled tirade**

Boy, I sure am sick of people getting screwed over by big business and the US Government. I'm really not sure which of them is worse. I could write a post every hour until my fingers fell off and still not even scratch the surface of the appalling lack of liberty and justice for all around here. Tax cuts for the rich while soldiers die for lack of equipment, gazillion dollar bailouts for Wall Street and Detroit with big fat bonuses for executives while families across the country go without health care, adequate child care and education, regular attacks on freedoms of every kind, and the list goes on and on. Today, though, I really want to vomit. The FDA has proudly announced that they have approved the first drug ever to prevent premature birth. Too bad they didn't mention that it has, in fact, been in use for years at a cost of $10-20 per injection, and that research and development was funded with tax dollars, and now they've allowed a pharmaceutical company exclusive rights to it, and the company is charging $1,500 per dose. You can read all the disgusting details here, and you can be sure it's a bad deal all around when even Fox News is pissed off about it.

Outrageous, right? How can this even happen? Here's how: it's all about the money. The pharmaceutical industry spends a lot of cash paying off lawmakers in exchange for legislation that guts the powers of the agencies that are supposed to be regulating the industry, and it's perfectly legal, thanks to all those legislators sucking up campaign donations and fact-finding trips. Here's the FDA's page on 'partnerships'. I especially like how they come right out and say they're looking for ways to get drugs approved without incurring a cost to the government. It's like high-class panhandling. Or hooking. Actually, now that I think about it, I find both of those things infinitely more respectable. And it's just going to get worse, now that the Supreme Court has decided that corporations cannot be restricted in their political spending. Big business will not rest until they have sucked every last cent from citizens like you and me, and destroyed the soil, the water and the air in their neverending quest for more, more, more. What a bunch of greedy, ridiculous bastards.

But that's the inherent flaw in democracy, isn't it? People are greedy, and government by the people means the people in government vote to enrich themselves at the expense of all the rest of us. It won't last long, though: it's simply not sustainable. So stock up on canned food, water, wine-making equipment and warm clothes. You probably won't need those guns and ammo, though- as it turns out, humans are social creatures and rapidly build thriving, happy, communal groups in post-disaster situations when they are sans government 'assistance', and then these lovely new communties are even more rapidly destroyed when government control is reestablished. If you're interested in this, an excellent book is Rebecca Solnit's 'Paradise Built in Hell'. So the coming apocalypse is for the best, really. I'm sure that those of us that survive the massive crash of resources will be much better off. Plus we'll be much skinnier, and that's super important.

Also, the March of Dimes can kiss my ass. In exchange for hefty donations from the pharmaceutical industry, they have endorsed this sickening travesty. The blood of the tiniest of the tiny is on their grasping outstretched hands, and their hypocrisy is astounding beyond words.

Well.

Well. So now I have a job and I go to work every day. How I wish I could blog about it, because there is some crazy stuff going on there, people. I'm going to try to walk the line here because I don't want to get dooced. At least not yet. But who knows, in a few more weeks I might have a raging desire to go out in a blaze of glory, or to shove a freshly sharpened pencil through my eyeball. It's funny, the Place I Toil (PIT) is VERY interested in the total control of information flow. Overly so, in my opinion, and since I've been there two whole weeks now, I definitely know all about how they should do everything.

Maybe I should do a secret password protected blog, what do you guys think of that? They are kind of a pain to read because you have to sign in, but I think you can have up to 100 people invited. Let me know if you would be interested, and maybe I'll set one up.

Okay, okay, it's not THAT bad; I am actually mostly enjoying it. It is a weird change, though. It's been a little hard to transition from laying on the couch reading in my thrift store pajamas to laying in my office chair reading in my thrift store comfortably-relaxed office wear, but you know me, always up for a good tough challenge!

Let's see, what else in new? Oh yeah, one bad thing about being at work all day is that there is no competent adult at home to impose reasonable checks and balances on Lloyd's imagination, so he is puppy shopping. Yes, a puppy. Because it is too quiet and clean around here, I guess. I suppose I should be grateful he's not scheming up some way to acquire some additional small children while not interfering with my money-making prowess. And don't think he couldn't do it; he is VERY resourceful. It's kind of scary, I have to admit. I go off to work every day and I'm never quite sure what I might find when I come home. One day we had a new fence, another day it was a giant trampoline. See what I mean? He's been talking about chickens, but I'm sure he wouldn't really...... RIGHT?

Work

Today, for the first time in six years, one month and seven days, I left the house to go to work. Pretty zany, huh? I brushed my hair, put on shiny shoes and mascara and teetered out the door at O'dark thirty with a briefcase. Aren't I such a FANCYPANTS?!?!?!?!?!? I felt all smart and PROFESSIONAL, and it was FANTASTIC!

Well, until I got there. I will actually be working in a smallish office very near my house, but had to go into the main office first to fill out reams of paperwork, get my equipment issued and attend a Senior Staff meeting to meet all the muckety-mucks. I'll just skip the part about how the phone box to get through to security to get through the gate is like one of those japanese puzzle boxes with no visible means of opening it and the security guards laughed at me, shall I?

After I finally weaseled my way into the place, which is literally a huge maze-like bunker two floors deep, I was presented with a pile of paper taller than my head and a ratty ballpoint made by blind people in Wisconsin. Or somewhere like that; how the hell would they know?

Then it was time for the meeting. A little backstory might come in handy here: you might recall my recent involuntary diet, during which I dropped a significant bit of weight. This, as you might guess, caused me a significant pants problem, as in, I had none that I could wear, so for the past two weeks I have been frantically shopping for office-appropriate legwear. Desperation does not make shopping fun, friends. Finally, just this past weekend, I cobbled together some suitable attire, or so I thought. Really, you should test drive new office clothes, but pressed for time, I went with the new pants. Which are FINE, don't get me wrong, but they have one of those flat metal tab things that slides into a little catch for a fastener. This is not a secure arrangement, as it can just slide right back out, so there is also a button on the inside. Not being a fan of extraneous fastenings, I went commando on the button and paid the ultimate price while making my way to the cluster of bosspeople. Too bad I wasn't in the pen factory. Note to self: no such thing as extraneous fastenings.

After that smashingly successful meet and greet, I gathered up my equipment, including a mobile device that I'm pretty sure could simultaneously program a missile guidance system and break the Vernam Cipher. Naturally, I can't even turn it on, but I cannot possibly admit this, and am therefore now forced to capitulate and learn to.... do whatever the hell that stupid thing does. I went to the smaller office where I will be working, and got my cube. It's nice and clean, or WAS, until I spilled tea all over my desk. Normally, I would have SOMETHING to sop up spills in my office- gym clothes, paper towels, kleenex, SOMETHING, but since I had just moved in, I had nothing. Nada. Zip. Now that I'm sitting here after the fact with some wine, I realize I should have used the fancy contraption because that totally would have solved two problems at once, but since I wasn't thinking clearly, I wiped it up with my ivory colored coat. It wasn't especially absorbent, and so I just sat on the desk and squirmed around in the offending pants to soak up the excess, and to teach them a lesson. After all, I didn't want to make my new cubicle neighbors think I was WEIRD because I spilled tea, right?

With that accomplished, I set out to send emails to all my friends, find the coffee pot, and do all the other REALLY important stuff. It was going great, until I started smelling something very, very foul in my cube. I sniffed around like some demented little dog until I figured out that it was the floor. I think it's rotten tuna fish juice, and it was fine until I started spilling tea on it and rolling my chair around and walking on it. Lucky for me, I was assigned an office 'sponsor' whose duty it is to help me out. This poor sucker had no clue what he was in for, but he gamely helped me spritz the floor with some carpet cleaner and scrub it with paper towels. Then we started questioning all the folks in the cuberhood about who was there before me and what the stench might be. A little information was gleaned: the previous occupant might or might not have been named 'Don' and he may have left a few months ago to work for the state, but no one knows why. It's BECAUSE OF THE SMELL, fools!

So that's the day one report. I'll keep you posted, but right now I have to find my febreeze, and some super glue for my pants.