A Case of the Mondays

June 1, 2020 at 6:51 pm (Cussed Dumbers, Drunk and disorderly, That's not funny...)

Courtesy of The Oregonian

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Hero

May 31, 2020 at 4:20 pm (Cussed Dumbers, Drunk and disorderly, That's not funny...)

Standing Up To Stupidity

Because This Helps

Defending Home

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The Hangover

May 30, 2020 at 9:27 pm (Cussed Dumbers, Drunk and disorderly, That's not funny...)

The day before my birthday has always been a big party day. On my twentieth, I spent a day and a half getting ready by going to a Judas Priest concert and then drinking in the park. My 21st was a work night, a Saturday night, and I did work, but I was in a bar seven minutes past midnight, already drunk. I’d stay up way too long, then wake up wondering WWWWWTF I’d been doing?

It’s been years since I’ve had a hangover, which is why it seemed weird that I woke up in a mild panic, trying to remember what happened last night? I hate that sense of dread.

* * *

I’d planned a four-day weekend, taking a rare Saturday night off. I texted Dizzy at lunch, “Four days! If I can only make it until midnight.” Three hours to go.

She wrote back, “You can do it!” A cat meme reminded me to keep hanging in there.

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Welcome To My World

May 12, 2020 at 11:11 am (Cussed Dumbers, On the road again..., That's not funny...)


H/T to Jonathan Maus

“How are YOU doing?”

Are you tired of reading/hearing about the Cornhole Virus? Me too. Jeezus I am sick of it.

But I’m not sick. Thank you, powers that be.

So how am *I* doing?

It’s business as usual, mostly…

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Hope Springs Eternal

December 1, 2019 at 3:45 pm (Cosmic Encounters, Cussed Dumbers, That's not funny...)

Lost Hope?

After fifteen years on the Avenue, I have met a lot of people from all walks of life. Some affluent, others flush with personality, some are rich in earthy aromas. Everyone brings something to the store, even if it’s just irritation and anguish.

It can’t be easy being a fifty-year-old woman living on the streets, yet I know several. You’ve met Crazy Catwoman Carol, Carol Jr, and some of the others; allow me to introduce Hope.

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Carol Junior

September 25, 2019 at 11:11 am (Cussed Dumbers, Sweet sticky things, That's not funny...)

I have met and known a lot of interesting people at work over the years. One of my favorites was Crazy Cat Woman Carol, a fixture of the night who, despite being filthy-mouthed, unwashed and potentially violent, gave me untold hours of entertainment and companionship. Carol disappeared a few years ago, likely the happy hunting ground, but we like to think she decided to start taking her meds and live indoors again. That’s what we tell ourselves.

But who is gonna pick up the slack, the huge gap where Carol filled our nights with filthy nonsense and inspired curses?

Carol Junior, of course.

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No More Rain

August 1, 2019 at 10:15 am (In Memoriam, Sweet sticky things, That's not funny...)

I’ve been putting this off for too long. My Brother in law says I need closure. The other day I was reading about procrastination, and it gave me the kick in the ass I need to to get this done.

I have always fancied myself a writer, but about the only things not self-published were my parents’ and older brother’s obituaries. I followed form, and submitted them to the newspaper, and they printed them word for word. I was sad but proud; I got published! It cost me a family member, but I could read myself in real print.

So I was kicking around the idea of an In Memoriam section, which would be a spot where my clouded memories could rest, and maybe inspire memories in others. I’m still going to do that, but I have something serious to do first.

I have to say goodbye to my dear sweet Rain…

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“Where Ya Been?”

February 24, 2018 at 12:35 pm (Cussed Dumbers, Sweet sticky things, That's not funny...)

Ya Big Silly!

Hey strangers… It’s Stranger Yet!

Yeah, it’s been a while. I’ve been a negligent blogger, watching life’s moments pass by without stopping to note each one. Been spending a lot of time pondering the universe, and sometimes the thoughts that wander through the brain need time to age, ripen, ferment. Not that I’m any kind of genius. I just needed a break.

Sunshine passed away last week. Rain’s new boyfriend and Sunshine were best buddies, and Rain was crying when she called to tell me. Sunshine had a major case of ass-cancer, and was a hard-living old coot, so it wasn’t unexpected. (Anyone who can smoke three packs of American Spirit full-flavors in a day is living on borrowed time.) How he lasted as long as he did is a tribute to the stubbornness of the human spirit. I’d been holding up okay, but then I saw Werner Klemperer on a Law and Order rerun, and noticed that Werner and Sunshine were dead ringers for each other. (Literal.) I’d thought about reaching out, but our chats lately involved lots of his get-rich-quick schemes, usually needing my financial support. (Sorry Sunshine, you can’t get blood out of a turnip.) The doctors, frustrated with his use of street drugs, cut off his prescription meds and told him to go for it with the heroin and meth. I don’t know if he passed from natural causes, or got a fentanyl hit, but Sunshine has faded into the night. RIP, you giant teddy bear.

I have a sneaky feeling my beloved cousin has also moved on to the next level. He’d not been well, and moved to Arizona. All phone numbers are disconnected, no news whatsoever. I’m going to write him a long letter, in longhand, to tell him goodbye. Whoever says adopted relatives aren’t as close as blood relatives has not met our family. WE decide who is family, and if you burn us you might find yourself unadopted, bloodline or no. You can choose friends but not family, the saying goes. Our best family are the ones we’ve chosen, not those thrust upon us.

A lot of other stuff has been going on, which I will eventually write about. I needed time for life to percolate. Also, there have been major changes at work, and I don’t want to pontificate too much about that in a public space. I love my job at Master P’s, and now, other than the bookkeeper, Grinder and Master P himself, I have been there the longest. Art East is behind me by about six months. Everyone else, my bosses? I’ve trained them all. I’m feeling a bit of burnout, it’s been thirteen years. But I’m not so burned out I’m ready to jump. I took a sick day, creating a four-day weekend, and it was just what I needed. I sat around just long enough to be restless, but not long enough to appreciate being bored. I came back to work a half-hour early, urging Southie to bank those minutes for the next time my bus is late.

It’s been a dark time in my world. Ain’t no Sunshine to brighten it up. It will be a long time before I forget Sunshine. He was a sweet, thoughtful career criminal who gave me more smiles than I ever realized at the time. Save me a fistful of happy pills, bud, and I will see you when I get there.

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RIP Mr Burns

January 12, 2018 at 8:00 am (Sweet sticky things, That's not funny...)

So long, little buddy. You will be missed.

We have had a plethora of wacky pets over the years. Mostly it seems like a science experiment; can dogs, cats, mice, fish, guinea pigs and other critters live under one roof? We have tried, and yes, it can happen, often with amusing results.

Mr Burns came to us a couple years ago. Sister bought two male mice at the “feed store” and put them in a cage. Boys will be boys, and since they seemed to do better in their own areas, we put them in separate cages. Creeper, the black one, died after about a year. We thought he’d be the hearty one. But he had half the lasting power of Mr Burns.

Mr Burns was chosen for his craftiness. When Sister got him home he was “hiding” by clinging to the roof of the box. Smart little feller, huh?

He got his name from his stature. He had something up with his front legs, so he tended to scoot around on his butt. He’d hold his paws in front of himself and wiggle his fingers, like Monty Burns from The Simpsons. He’d wobble over to say hi when he heard my voice. Mostly because I bribed him with toffee peanuts and popcorn.

He’s looked ragged his whole life, and each day I would wonder. Last night when I went by, he was sleeping in an unusual place. I blew on him, that usually got a movement, but not this time.

When I came down the hall, I saw the cage had been cleaned, and my little friend was gone. Sister had pronounced him, and he was sleeping with the fishes. Specifically, my niece’s several pet goldfish from over the years.

I salute you, Mr Burns. The hounds have been released for the last time.

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Footprints In The Snow

December 25, 2017 at 7:07 pm (Sweet sticky things, That's not funny...)

My buddy, the Mighty Hunter

There they were, Django’s footprints leading from the front door toward the neighbor’s house. He loves hiding under their boat, or perch majestically atop their recycling bin. He’s a smart cat, he’s lived outside most of his 10-12 years. For some reason I found his footprints unsettling. He’s been spending time indoors; the kitchen is like his Florida, he goes there in the winter. He’s a big eater, but his 17-20 pound frame wasn’t totally subsidized by us. I have a feeling he had two or three homes he fed off of.

Lately he’s been moving slower. He can still clear a six-foot fence, even with his girth. The last time I saw him snoozing in the kitchen, he looked like he’d eaten three or four canna-brownies. He was nodding, and was uninterested in me. I found that odd. He’s a macho cat, lovey-dovey in the house, but you best not pet him in the driveway. “That shit is for sissies,” his upturned nose and high tail would say as he moseyed away. “I have an image to upkeep!” But if I pulled up a chair in the yard to play harp or smoke a doobus, PLOP into my lap landed Django. Always the gentleman, his talons were retracted when he climbed aboard. I swear he knows how to read a clock. Almost every night at 1 AM, he’d be waiting at the front door to come in with me. If I were early, he’d sit outside looking for me. If I was late? I would hear about it. “Mrawrr…”

I understand why you’d go indoors, buddy. It was cold last night. I’ve been listening for your knock. (He rattles the screen door when he wants to come in.) I hope you’re curled up in front of the neighbor’s fireplace, staying warm and well-fed until the snow and ice melts. You know you’ll always have a home.

When I got up Xmas morning, my sister was upbeat, yet blue. “Christmas is starting with a bummer.”

Before I could ask if it was Django, she said, “I found Fuzzball in my horsey room, curled up dead. And we haven’t seen Django since midnight.”

“Oh man…” Fuzzball, while not my favorite cat ever, had become quite a character. My brother-in-law has always good-naturedly grumbled about the critters, especially the cats. (“At least the dog barks at the mailman, what the fuck do cats do? Knock over the Christmas tree and turn on the stove! Fucking cats…”) But he’s a big softy at heart, and when he saw Fuzzball sitting abandoned in a cardboard box marked FREE in front of a Plaid Pantry, he stuffed her under his coat and and brought her home. (“What?” “Oh nothing.”)

Fuzz was tiny, and may not have been a kitten. A year later she was the same size. I called her Scaredy Cat. It was like living on the Nostromo when she was up and about. She’d sleep atop (or inside) the kitchen cabinets, and come bursting out like a deranged alien looking for a place to hide.Something had been wrong with her fur, she was hairless on her back-half for a few months, looking like some sort of psychedelic jackrabbit. She had the prettiest blue eyes, like a Scandinavian princess. Over time, her hair grew back, and she wasn’t quite so skittish. She’d adopted my sister, riding around on her shoulder like a parrot. She, however, wasn’t as kind with her claws. I don’t need no cat-scratch-fever.

So long Fuzzball. I will miss you jump-starting my heart on a twice-daily basis, those big blue eyes suspiciously watching my every move. It took you a long time to accept us, but I’m glad you did.

And Django? You can come home any time now.

UPDATE 3:20 AM: Lord Django rolled in about 3:20 AM, and is currently sleeping off his Xmas dinners.

Django Hunter

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