|(edit) Aaaaand I can already see I've been away too long. Have they given FriendsLock the proverbial axe? Because I can't find it. Pfftt . . . |
Thank you all so much for the comments, messages, and emails wondering if I'm still alive and letting me know you're thinking of me. I have missed you all, and I have occasionally tiptoed around to check up on how everyone is doing. (I've also gotten quite a few updates on some of you from my mom lol)
I needed a Xanga hiatus - and honestly, I can't promise you whether I will ever post as frequently as I did in the past.
Before I do start posting again, I'm going to protect my site by enabling FriendsLock. It might take me a few days to figure out how to get the html out of my profile (that has been the reason I could not use FriendsLock in the past), but after that, I'll fill you in on the main reason behind my absence. (If that's not enough of a teaser, I don't know what is! )
Hopefully, it will work. If not, I'll simply shut this site down and blog only from the growingupisoptional site (the Xanga one - not the .com one). Keep your fingers crossed for me!
(10:40p.m. edit) You must check out the ecard my mom sent, it is hiLARious!! Try clicking on this.
Tom & Tammy got quite the kick out of my squirrel crisis this evening. But I wanted to share my own version of the saga. With pictures.
The Killing at Kenmare
(not for the squeamish - mom, that means you)
Oh, the squirrel.
Such a cute, fuzzy creature as it scampers over the ground & soars from limb to limb.
But when a squirrel enters the most sacred of places - your home - he ceases to be cute.
The squirrel is now evil. Deadly force must be employed.
Michelle first noticed our squirrel yesterday. Now, granted, we've had squirrels in our attic (akin to bats in one's belfry) for awhile. Last fall, Casey the Squirrel Guy, who, incidentally, could not spell "squirrel," set up a trap to catch the critters as they came out of the attic. It was like a miniature bear trap, and when an unwitting rodent wandered out of the attic to bask in the sunshine, it snapped his little neck & he dangled on a tiny metal noose over the side of the house. You might think this is cruel, but you probably don't have squirrels playing tag in your walls. And squirrels talk. A lot.
Anyway, Casey the Squirrel Guy caught many squirrels. And then one day, Casey the Squirrel Guy didn't come back. Oh ho, but the squirrels did. But being busy students, we ignored the problem. See, the squirrels had been content to ransack our attic and walls, until yesterday when one broke the seal and entered "the Inside."
Squirrels talk about "the Inside" as if it were a myth. Kind of like the Bermuda Triangle.
"Hey Vinny, where'd your cousin Vito go?"
"He went to the "Inside," and we never saw him again."
This is Vito's story.
Squirrels are curious creatures. When not amusing themselves by throwing acorns at innocent passers-by, they play hari kari in front of moving traffic
to see how many accidents they can cause.
Vito, however, was even more curious than most. He dreamed about the Inside, and was determined to make it there and come back to tell the story. So one day, as his cousin Vinny was kicked back with a cigarette in the Kenmare attic, Vito made a bet: "I bet I can get Inside, and come back out."
"Yeah?" Vinny said.
"Yeah." Vito replied. And with that, he scampered off to find a hole. Vito made it. For over 24 hours he stealthily crept through the house, breaking candle holders, peeing on bedspreads, pulling curtains rods down, and leaving little squirrelly poop treasures everywhere he went. Michelle confirmed his presence last night: when she walked into her room, Vito ran out. At first she thought it was a hallucination, but she confirmed the reality when she saw his puffy tail disappearing down the stairs.
But Vito had a problem. He couldn't figure out how to get out. "I need to get back to my cousin Vinny!" Vito worried. He camped out in the guest room, mistakenly considering himself an invitee of sorts. I caught him there this afternoon.
Immediately, I called Tom.
"The squirrel! It's in the guest room!"
"Take a deep breath, do you think you could try to herd him out?"
So I shut every door but the office, which doesn't have a door at all, & left the door to my bedroom open, where I also opened the door to the balcony. I set suitcases in front of the stairway so Vito wouldn't try to escape to the basement. Then I laid a trail of Oatmeal Squares from the guest room to the balcony door (hey, what was I supposed to do, I don't have squirrel snacks laying around the house!). But Vito was a-hiding. With much trepidation, I tiptoed into the guest room and stepped onto the bed (to avoid Vito running over my feet as he exited). I looked here, I looked there, no Vito. I leaned over to see if he was behind the bed - but HOLY CRAP!! He was right below me!! In between the mattress and the headboard - he was caught -
and we weren't sure which one of us was more distraught.
I shrieked, Vito made a break for it, right past me on the bed.
Vito ran like the wind. Into the office.
He frantically ran up onto our desks, where I got a picture of him peeking at me over my basket. Desperately, I threw an Oatmeal Square into the room, trying to both: a) calm him down, and b) take another picture. Vito was having none of it. Sensing the standoff, Vito proved to be the braver of us two - gathering his strength, he ran. Straight. At. Me. I let out a blood curdling scream which left both of us temporarily deaf. Rather than looking to his left, where freedom awaited, he looked to his right, and squeezed past the suitcases. Vito made it to the basement. He would never see the sunshine again.
At that point, I knew I needed back-up. Michelle, who knew of the situation, had alerted my landlord, who up until the meth bust a few weeks ago, could have cared less about our rodent problem. Now, though, she was concerned.
Landlord Plan #1: A bug bomb.
It would drug the squirrel so we could take him outside.
But, um, what if it kills him and we can't find him and he starts to decompose in the walls?
Good point, Dionna.
Landlord Plan #2: Send Phil, the maintenance man over to close the vents.
Great. But what about Vito?
Good point, Dionna.
Landlord Plan #3: Call Casey the Squirrel Guy.
Casey was called, Casey announced he was coming over. With his dog. Michelle said, "Don't let the dog poop in the house."
Critter Control to the rescue!!
Patiently, I waited for Casey to visit. I was up in my bedroom (balcony still wide open - oh, freedom!) when I heard voices downstairs. I saw Casey at the top of the basement stairs, he asked, "You think he's down here?"
"Yes," I said, "See the squirrelly poop treasures on the stairs?"
Not sure what to expect, I followed him down to the basement.
"I thought the landlord said you were bringing a dog."
"Is it outside?"
"No, look." Casey pointed.
This is what I saw:
Meet Doc, the Super Squirrel Killer Extraordinaire. Now, friends, this might not be apparent from the picture, but this is a weiner dog. I laughed hysterically.
I ran upstairs to call Tom. A weiner dog? To catch a squirrel?
What was he going to do, throw the dog at Vito?
In the time it took me to go upstairs, call two people, and walk back downstairs, Doc the Super Squirrel Killer Extraordinaire, went to work. As Casey urged him on, saying, "Hunt for it, hunt for it Doc," Doc worked his magic.
He sniffed this way and that. And as Casey explained, "as soon as the squirrel hits the ground, he's in trouble."
No less than five minutes had passed. This is what I walked down to the second time:
Vito! Was dead!! Oh, poor Vito.
Paul & Doc celebrated. I apologized to Doc for my earlier doubts.
As Casey the Squirrel Guy and Doc the Super Squirrel Killer Extraordinaire walked off into the sunset, Vito dangling between them, I shed a tear for that darn rodent.
He was a brave, yet stupid, little guy.
Vito the Squirrel: 2004-2005
A toothpastefordinner.com email contained this link, and to amuse myself, I have used these pictures to make a fun post for your viewing pleasure. I bring you . . .
"If Tomford Was a Japanese Baby:
A Life in Pictures"
"Hello, my name is Tom. Tom Ford. I idolize Tom Selleck because of his red convertible, wicked moustache, and massive amounts of body hair. Someday I'm going to have hair growing in strange places, too."
"My birthday is on Halloween. You'd think this would mean I had all kinds of sweet birthday costume parties. But that is not true. Instead, I'd dress up like a bumblebee,
eat lots of lollipops and sweet tarts by myself, then have stomach pains for at least 2 days. I ate so much I could never take the bumblebee costume off for hours.
It was embarrassing."
"One time my mom made me dress up as a flower.
That did *not* score well with the ladies.
"I am finishing my college degree. I am real smart. This is what I look like when I have to go to school, or study, or write a paper. School makes me poopy."
"In my spare time, I am a musician. I play guitar and sing real good. I have hundreds of CD's. Bet you're jealous of my music skills. If not, you should be."
"I have a girlfriend, her name is Dionna. She is hot. Put your clothes back on, Dionna!
The first time I went to Dionna's house, I brought my guitar and played and sang her one of her favorite songs, she fell instantly in love with me. Don't be jealous fellas."
"One skill I do not have is cooking. It makes me cry. I have a whole set of pots and pans in my kitchen that I have never used. Nor have I ever turned the stove on.
When Dionna found that out, she made fun of me.
So I put this pot over my head and hid in shame.
And I cried."
"Since I don't know how to cook, I eat out. A lot. One of my favorite things is Pad Thai. This is what I look like when I eat it. Sooooo good."
"Another time when I went to Dionna's house we got to babysit her friend's puppy, Bosco. It was delightful."
"Until we had to clean up the dog poo. I don't like cleaning dog poo."
"I think I'll just stick to the pets that don't have real bodily functions. Gross."
"One of my personal heroes is Napolean Dynamite. He has sweet chugging skills. But I only imitate him when I'm not wearing a shirt. Chugging is pretty messy."
"The other day, Dionna and I went to look for engagement rings. This is what I looked like when I saw the pricetags. Getting married is expensive."
"I tried to convince her I'm only getting her a lollipop ring. I am soooo funny!"
"But she is so happy getting to marry such a stud like me, I'll get her anything she wants. Plus, she's hot.
"I hope you liked my story. Bet you wish you were a Japanese baby too!"
Life on Lincoln
a.k.a. Gat City Blues (keep reading, this one's good)
I'm sitting on my porch with Paul last night, when SUDDENLY . . .
A creepy white van rolled slowly down our street, it had the sliding side door open, and there were Men. In. Black.
WITH BIG GUNS
Inside! Staring at us with beady little eyes from behind their ski masks. I said "Paul!! It looks like there are men!!! Inside the van!!! With GUNS!!!"
He said, "It's a drive by!!!"
I said, "I'm calling the cops!"
<Insert Cops "Bad Boys" music>
Ok, so the white van rolls into a driveway across the street and 3 houses down from ours. Like evil military clowns, men in black SWAT suits and ski masks start streaming in march time out from the van, big guns drawn. The lead two take a big black stick, and within seconds of various testosterone-filled voices shouting "OPEN UP POLICE OPEN UP SWAT TEAM," they had rammed the door in with two calculated blows.
9-1-1 remains undialed, looks like the police [are already] on the scene. (you know what I mean - ha! Take that Tommy Boy - I got the song into YOUR head!)
Meanwhile, a sheriff's car pulls in directly across the street in the parking lot of the Governor's Rowhouse (which, incidently, is owned by my landlord) . . . said Sheriff starts pounding on that door and enters . . . two men in lesser SWAT suits emerge from thin air in the parking lot and begin hopping fences - one, two, three - over to the backyard of the yellow house now infested by big men in body armor.
<Been spendin' most our lives livin' in a gansta's paradise . . .>
What do Paul and I do? Go inside? Duck and cover? Oh noooooooooo - we jump up. And Walk. Toward. The House. Big white burly cop man standing solo across the street glares at us with meaty arms folded. We giggle and I try to take pictures with my camera phone. Nothing. I call Tom and breathlessly try to fill him in. We wait and giggle some more as Michelle pulls up and we fill her in on the high drama. We wander back to the house and watch it all unfold from the safety of our porch.
Lights shine through the windows of the attic at the Governor's Rowhouse as they search aimlessly, for what? Who knows. Drugs? Guns? Prince Charles in a can? It's a hot commodity in the underworld you know. At The House down the street, men in black are exiting house with guns drawn, yelling at some unseen person, "GET OUT GET THE (censored) OUT!"
A roly poly sheriff huffs and puffs as he runs to his car (don't they have to take agility tests after they've joined the force?!), he speeds off. Sheriff at Governor's Rowhouse also speeds off, but leaves one of his comrades behind on the porch. Oh so sad, to be the lonely little sheriff left to guard an empty house while your partner chases more exciting endeavors.
With little fanfare, the SWAT team piles stealthily back into the van, but several are still milling around the porch and yard, looking curiously like confused dogs who knew there was something tasty to chase, but the prey had escaped. All over the neighborhood, the curious onlookers' hushed whispers turned to nervous laughter.
(Here comes the best part!)
We watched as a beat up car rolled slowly to a stop in front of The House. Was it a drug buyer, come to trade sweaty dollar bills for a dime bag? Was it a lady of the night, come to sell her wares to the dirty drug lord? Nope. It was PIZZA DELIVERY MAN!!! (say that in a radio announcer voice please) He sauntered up to the sea-green house next door to The House and glimpsed nervously at body armor man still holding a large gun in the yard not 15 feet away. I almost peed my pants we were laughing so hard.
Just talked to the next door neighbors, seems our landlord does indeed own The House. I called her to let her know the Governor's Rowhouse was being given a once over by gun-toting men, should've told her she was going to have a nice door bill on the other one.
Ahh, another sheriff. Wonder if he's just late to the party.
Do I *really* have to read real estate again? This is SO much more exciting!!
YAY! More SWAT team men leading a skinny white boy away in handcuffs!! Good golly Miss Molly - one of the SWAT team boys is still in his ski mask! WHY???
I *love* this neighborhood!
(two hours later, cops still on site - must be cleaning up the meth lab . . .)
"Maybe It's Crap."
My gripe today is make-up. (yes men, you may skip to the next paragraph) For those of you who know me well, you know I'm not a snobby, have to wear the latest fashion, have to buy the name brand clothes (much to the chagrin of my sister), must have my hair & make-up done perfectly kinda girl. My favorite outfit is pajamas, closely followed by sweats, closely followed by jeans & a t-shirt (preferably a really sexy t-shirt, but a t-shirt nonetheless). Ok, so the extent of my snobbiness in the make-up department is that I always buy a couple of things from Clinique - concealer & mascara. That's it. And it's been like that for years. So the other day I'm taking the wand out of my Clinique High Impact mascara and this clump of globby black goo reminds me that my lashes want fresh stuff. That day, I had to go to Target. Happening past the make-up aisles, I was lured in by bright lights (just like a moth) and pretty pink tins of lip gloss (none so pretty as the Strawberry Shortcake one you opened so effortlessly for me though, Marvin). There, I noticed that Maybelline had packaged mascara with cute little dual eyeshadow thingamabobbers (that's what it says on the package anyway) - and I thought to myself - zut alors! What is this?! Maybe it's Maybelline! I bought two, because they were *really really* cheap!! I've now given the Maybelline mascara the good ol' college try - I've used it 3 mornings - and now I know why I'm a Clinique snob when it comes to mascara. Maybelline is c-r-a-p. Let's analyze why:
1) The little brush that you actually apply the mascara with is about as long as my pinky nail, which is to say, it's not that long. Um - I'd like to paint more than 2 lashes at a time, thank you, I already run late enough as it is w/o spending half my morning making my eyelashes look more "full" and "separated."
2) There is like NO mascara on the brush - I mean, I know there's something in there, but it's some kind of mutant invisible mascara - it kinda stains my lashes without putting anything on them - and then still manages to look a little clumpy. (true story - someone told me yesterday I had piercing eyes - I thought to myself, is that because they are b-e-a-utiful? or because a clump of Crapelline flew off and hit the person in the nose?)
3) That jingle they insist on retaining is moronic. Maybe it's Maybelline. As opposed to what, ad guys? A pair of falsies? Yeah that's attractive in a Tammy Faye kinda way. Or maybe as opposed to smearing Pennzoil on your eyelashes? That might do the trick just as well. Maybe it's Maybelline - but we're not gonna tell you because if it is, it usually looks bad, and that wouldn't really be a good marketing campaign.
Last gripe about mascara. Have you ever noticed how much more often you sneeze immediately after putting mascara on? Is that some kind of joke God likes to play on women in the morning? Or a test-your-patience kinda deal? God, I have to redo *all* my eye make-up when that happens - it's not really amusing. (j/k, Lord!)
(HEY MEN - you can tune back in now, the make-up part is over, and now I'm gonna talk about cop things! No, girls, not cop *things*, but just a general story that semi-has to do with a cop. A fake cop. Well, me.)
So yesterday I had to play a witness for a class at school. The prof had brought in 2 real live attorneys (ohhhhh, ahhhhhhhh) to direct and cross me - I played the part of a cop. Everything was fine until the defense attorney started asking me to estimate distances from block to block, and what part of town is this street in, and blah blah blah. I'm like - umm, dude? Did anyone fill you in on the little secret that I'M REALLY NOT A COP?!?! Because when I tried to guess, he'd screw up his face (like this ) and say, "really? how long have you been on the force again?" (This is me rolling my eyes )
Then afterwards they were both like - you did a grrrrrrrrreat job! I said, very snottily, "hmph. I don't know how long a city block is. Sorrrrrrry." And then I threw a clumpy eyelash at him. Well, not really, but I wanted to.
That was a very long entry, I wasted a lot of time, and now I must read some real estate. Singin' joooyyyyyyy to the world!
p.s. by the way, yesterday i did my very first set of 30 MBE questions - they're the multiple choicers you take on the bar. and, well, i would not be a lawyer today. i got 50%. which i've heard through the grapevine is par for the course - we all had to do them, and that's about the average score. average = boring. next week i'm going to get 26% just to stand out from the crowd.