Friday, December 7, 2007

Will They Reminisce Over You?

Being employed by a company who excels at micro managing, every day is rigorously scheduled. You may unchain yourself from your desk at 10:15 to piss and smoke and by 10:12, my co-workers and I get quite antsy, anticipating the fifteen minutes of freedom so close on the horizon. I imagine myself as Andy Dufrane, queerly giddy, watching my comrades drink beer in the warm, spring sun, as we make our way to the corporate patio, feeling, if just for a few minutes, free.

This morning during our break, oddly, there were a group of young boys, (around 8 or 9 years of age) crowded on the shores of the office park pond, hurling rocks onto the weak, thin, cover of ice. We struck up a conversation about why those boys were doing that? Is that fun? I thought about the kids in my life and how Young Son will sit out in the woods in our back yard and slap a tree stump with a stick for hours on end, so yes, I can see how tossing rocks onto thin ice for hours at a time can be amusing.

This got me reminiscing my own childhood, growing up in the country and the weird shit we used to do. We lived on about 50 acres of farmland which consisted of pastures, woods and about a dozen dilapidated barns. My parents were not farmers, but we did lease the land out to a cattle rancher in town who had exceeded his own land, so there was plenty of livestock to chase and harass. Mr. Murray (the rancher) was really nice. Thanks to himself and his farm hands, I learned how to cuss like a pro, as well as dip by age seven.

My brother and sister and I are very lucky people. Not only because growing up on the farm kind of rules the school for little kids, not to mention the added bonus that we were NOT farmers, so there were no ass busting chores we had to embark on at day break, but, because we are alive today. There were so many “games” we played that could have killed us. The only casualties to ever happen were some broken arms and a few stitches here and there.

We had a hay stack (can I get a HELL YEAH!?), where we would pile the bales on top of each other until we could get to the rafters. We then would un-string a hay bale and use the STRING to tie to the rafters to swing across the barn. SAFETY FIRST! Amazingly enough, only one time did I bust the string while in mid-swing. It wasn’t too damaging to me, as there was a big pile of hay to break my fall, though I did find the needle in the haystack that day. It was sticking out of my butt crack.

Way back in the cow pasture, near our property line, there were a bunch of stone foundations from, what we referred to as “old pioneer homes” and barns. Out of all of the structures, only one was still in tact; a small shed that had a spigot from a natural spring that flowed into a rusty old tub, so there was always “fresh water”. We played “house” back there all of the time and DRANK from the rusty old tub. God made rust, too.

One game we liked to play was “Make the cows mad!” This consisted of us grabbing some sticks and rocks, the casing the pasture until we found where the herd was hanging out. Then we, along with the dogs would run up screaming, throwing rocks and slapping them with sticks to get them to “stampede”. We were obsessed with cowboys, so we did this to try to lasso them and play “rodeo”. None of us were ever really close to being trampled, though if it had happened, we would have totally deserved it. We also liked to run through the feed troughs when they were eating. We were dicks.

One game that was always a pleasure was finding petrified cow patties to throw at one another. Good times.

We had quite the groundhog problem on this farm. Every spring, the farmhands would drive up to the fence around our pasture with long-range rifles and cases of beer. They would sit there for hours looking through the scopes on the rifles, waiting for a groundhog to pop up, then they would shoot it. I LOVED hanging with them when they did this,(hence the cussing and dipping) and I shot my first animal, (a vile groundhog) with help from Roy (the main hand) at age 8. After they would shoot a few, they would drive into the pasture to pickup the carcasses and fill in the holes.

Ground hog holes are dangerous for livestock. Livestock animals are stupid. They don’t watch where they are going and fall into the holes, breaking their legs and dying. Livestock animals are also incredibly expensive, so one dying in the night due to a fall, was a huge net loss, therefore there needed to be as much damage control as possible to prevent these situations.

I also fucking hated the damn things. They were vicious assholes that would chase you and if they got a hold of you, very likely might maul you to death. Luckily we had Beauregard J Puppy dog, defender of small children and ground hog assassinator, who saved me from numerous ground hog maulings. Beau was a bad ass and quite the killer. Unfortunately, we had a couple of other dogs and cats that perished at the fangs of the dreaded groundhog. One puppy, Bouncer, got his jaw ripped off by one of these nefarious creatures. He limped up to the porch and the jaw bone was dangling from his face by a thread of flesh. My mom had to hold his torn jaw to his face, tie a bandage around his head, and drive him to the large animal vet down the road to have him put down.

The day I shot that damn ground hog, I did it for Bouncer, man.

One day, my sister and I were walking through the pastures, looking for some cows to bully and we found a rotting ground hog carcass. After inspecting it thoroughly, WITH OUR BARE HANDS, we yanked its jaw out, then started unhinging its teeth to fashion a tooth necklace for Bouncers Revenge. I don’t recall ever seeing a movie where someone did this, so I think this is proof that savagery and revenge are inherent human emotions. We then headed inside to have dinner and I doubt we washed our hands, though Mom did not let us keep the groundhog teeth to make our necklaces. Le Sigh.

My friend J grew up on a farm, too. We like to swap stories on whose upbringing was grosser and who had the least supervision. I think I beat her on the supervision part, as my parents NEVER knew what we were up to, but, she beat me on gross with this doozy. Her daddy was a pig farmer and in the spring they had to slaughter. After the pigs were slaughtered, gutted and parted, they would toss the remains behind the barn before the disposed correctly of them. Well, the remains became bouncy and J and her siblings liked to jump on them, for they were quite springy and soft. Her parents hated this and finally bargained with the kids that if they bought them a trampoline, the kids would stop jumping on the pig remains. J, to this day swears it was more fun to jump on the dead pigs, but never did again out of respect for her parents.

So, there you have it. Kids do really dumb and gross things to entertain themselves. I wish I was back there on that farm, sitting on the fence, contemplating my next move, rather than tied to this desk, at this soul sucking job. My only pleasure was remembering all of this for you all.
Happy Holidays.

Thursday, November 15, 2007

What's Driving You Crazy Today, Kate?

What isn't driving me crazy?

I cannot believe that the end of times are upon us. I thought there were at least two more weeks before the pain, torture and hangovers of the Holidays ensued. But, alas, Thanksgiving is next week. That sucks major dong.

These are driving me crazy.

There is nothing more confusing to me than the kiosk ponytail. I can understand the desire for luscious, thick, shiny hair. I too, covet Gisele Bunchen's seemingly silky, luxurious locks, and envy each layer of perfectly healthy, non-splitting, Rapunzelesque hair. I get it. I want it. I would do almost anything to have it. ALMOST.

Here is a lesson for the ladies: You can't purchase hair at the mall for $14.99 at the Kiosk next to the festively painted hermit crabs and mood rings.You just can't. You are not fooling anyone.

Underpants, jeans, shoes, vibrating chairs, as well as many other wonderful items are available at the mall for your procurement. You can even buy creams, lards and diamond dusts that promise, PROMISE, to turn your hair from split and flat, to bouncy and phat.

Here is the deal, if you are under the impression that a pony tail with the same make up and DNA of Barbie's (Barbie the PLASTIC doll) is going to wow the masses and inspire envy to all of those who lay their eyes on your luscious locks of deceit, you are wrong.

And for pete's sake, if it falls out on the street after a fierce and crushing cat fight, (especially if this takes place on my street, you little bitches) PICK THE DAMN THING UP.

I am sooooooooo tired of driving up my street after a hard day, dreaming about lounging in my bed, gazing at the latest saga of Elizabeth, Lucky and Jason in General Hospital on the DVR, while dining on chicken Thai basil; to be cruelly thrust back into reality when I spot something furry and animal looking in the middle of the street.

My stomach tightens and my palms get all clammy, thinking that maybe, this time, it is an animal,or more importantly, one my furry friends, who has met their maker in the cold, cold street.... As I approach the fuzzy mass, the gross realization sets in that your $14.99 promise of hair envy, has been ripped off of your dumb and delusional head, and is now littering my street. What seems obvious to me is, if this piece of $14.99 heaven isn't even worth you picking it up after it is violently ripped from your head, why waste money on it?

Just stop it. I am tired of the adrenaline rush of terror, then anger, to see that it is just another rotting corpse in the battle of teenage angst, purchased at the mall.

Friday, October 26, 2007

McPantsbridge, Lady Pirate of the Ohio River Valley.

My Pal Feargal Halligan,, has taken it upon himself to pen the troubles of my tumultuous career as a lady pirate captain.


""Twas as cold and black a night as the deepest mines of yore, where amidst the strainin' and a-creakin' of a thousand pantwaists held together by dead mens beards, and o're the bright letters that said "the pillaging pants" 'cross the side o' the stern, Ladycaptain Katy McPantsbridge kept early watch, in a swarm of dawn apostrophes.

Already the Pillaging Pants' sails blew taught as she tacked in the easterlies for Galway bay, loose change and lint showering from the pocktes of the thousand pants that made them. Thus far, having cannoned the swabby decks of cincinnati's real estate ships and keel hauled every manjack in the business, she had kept a tight ship, and a stright tack.

All throughout their journey, Allies, not wishing to heave to, had flashed their boobs to signal crown ships on patrol. And each time McPantsbridge flashed back, eyes watering from the cob pipe clamped in her pearly teeth. She was the only pirate ladycaptain on the seven seas, true, but more: she was the only pirate to wear rhinestones and cowboy boots with playing cards stitched into them on deck.

And through the summer months her scurvy crew danced a merry jig to her repetoire on the squeezebox and spoons: "rhinestone cowboy", "islands in the stream", and the entire back ctalogue of journey, transposed into sailor's jig time.

"aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrr", she thought.

Soon she would breeze into Galway bay, and send word by armoured parrot to her fair ladyboy in Dublin castle. Imprisoned for rank stupidity and treason against the crown, and suspicious cake, and tea, and doilies, his diet of dodecahedral shapes made by gluing communion wafers together had taken a toll on his rugged features. Once a Tom Selleck of the seas, he was reduced to naught but a Robert Carlysle of some multi story car park.

Once a motley crue of mayhem and scurvy deeds, he had been reduced to a new kids on the block of limp, dozy boringness. Once a van halen of mighty adventure, he had become a pathetic, whinging, crying metallica of self pity.

He quietly carved from a bar of solidified bird doody, shaping the pistol that would aid his escape. But as soon as he told his most trusted cellmate that he had many aids to his escape, his cellmate only laughed cruelly at him and said "you have aids".

Twas a cruel joke."""

Written by Feargal Halligan, 10/26/07


Thursday, September 20, 2007


I really enjoy reading Heather Armstrong's blog, Dooce (look on my blog roll). I think she is very clever and she cracks me up, all the while warming the cockles of my cold, cold heart.

In her latest entry, she really hits home with me and my pseudo motherhood position in my family. Hotbuns and his ex, whom I will refer to as Ms. Delish (she has a very tasty place to eat, and she rocks), share custody of the little Buns. It is a good arrangement and Hotbuns and Delish are excellent parents. She has the Little Buns half of the week, and we have them the other half.

Well, as my position grew here at chez Dildo-Buns, I started to really go through a crisis. Overnight I found myself in a parental role that I was completely NOT PREPARED to deal with.

You see, I don't want children of my own, I never really have. The only time I ever expressed any interest is when my career has been in the toilet. (Yeah, because squeezing out babies and having to deal with them for 18 years will be EASIER. I can be a real moron sometimes.)

Well, in her latest entry, Heather wrote this:

For many months after Leta’s birth I felt like I was going through an identity crisis, even after my hospital stay when I could think about things more clearly. I didn’t know I was going through it then, but I had many symptoms of a mid-life crisis, including excessive drinking and lashing out at the most important people in my life. I can look back at those months now and see what was going on, that suddenly I was a mother, but didn’t feel like I thought mothers were supposed to feel. It was as if overnight I had gone from working in the mail room to becoming the CEO, and I had no idea how to run a company. I didn’t want to run a company.

I have been experiencing similar feelings. I know that I am not a birth mother, that I am a bonus parent, but it is really hard. It is hard to know if you are being fair to everyone's feelings. How much discipline is too much discipline? How much disclosure of my life is too much? Dealing with a lot of feelings of resentment, then guilt, because I am the one who put myself here, not these babies, and I should be being a better partner. Frustration on being the bonus parent and things not being done the way you think they should, but, that is the way it is. Feeling like the carpet could be pulled out from under you in a minute and these children you love so much and have helped raise over the past three years, will no longer be a part of your life. That is the biggest fear of all.

Anyways, I deal with fear through humor, so I thought I would share a message I sent Heather Armstrong. Please read the excerpt I posted, so you can see that I am using humor and sarcasm and do not necessarily have the feelings I am about to post.

Traveling with toddlers sucks wads. P E R I O D. Even if it is a one hour road/day trip, it sucks. Why? Because though they are cute and we love them infinitely, toddlers suck.

Toddlers are complete assholes. They don't care about other peoples' wants and desires, they care about their wants and desires. Case in point, toddlers NEVER run the dishwasher and rarely flush the toilet. Heck, you are lucky they went in the potty in the first place. Most toddlers are animals and go in their pants and MAKE YOU clean it up. Typical behavior of a MAJOR ASSHOLE.

Toddlers won't even bother to READ for themselves. They make you do it, if you don't, they make you wish you were never born, just like an asshole would. I have even known toddlers to take a plate of dinner I had just slaved over for HOURS, and dump it on the floor. Just like an asshole. THEY DID NOT EVEN APOLOGIZE, the fucking ASSHOLE.

A lot of times, I look down upon this giant ASSHOLE that lives in my house and think, "Fuck them, I am D O N E." Just when I think I have the balls to totally tell them off and REALLY let them know what a complete ASSHOLE they are, they look up at me and tell me how much they love me and how I am the best in the world. Just like an asshole.

Only an asshole would tell you the most amazing thing you have ever heard, right when you are about to stick it to them. They totally pull your heartstrings and make you embrace them in cuddle time for the next hour, causing you to forget what a total asshole they are in the first place.


(it does get better, when they move out, things are going to be just fine;))

You have to have a sense of humor about parenting. If you don't, you are going to drive yourself INSANE.

Monday, June 18, 2007

Testing My Faith.

I am a person of faith. That is about as far as I will go with that piece of information about me. I think faith, spirituality, religion, what ever you ascribe to or call it, is private. To talk about it is in extremely bad taste.

Did I also mention that one of my multiple personalities is a 65 year old, southern woman who is head of her junior league, and never crosses her legs at knees, only at the ankles because she is not some cheap floozy? Did you know that?

My faith is being tested right now. In the midst of all of my financial, professional, (it has been a year, can things please look up for me? I can hardly afford to drive to work, sign the deal dammit!), and emotional drama, I received some really bad news from an old friend I had lost touch with, but found on MySpace. Her former boyfriend, with whom she moved out to the Bay Area with, whom I was good friends with, passed away last week.

It doesn't make any sense.

A young, healthy man, a father and a husband, just up and dying. No accident, no violence, no nothing. Just blown out like a match in a wind tunnel. To say this is not fair is like saying that Hitler was not very nice. It is times like these that anger me and question my faith. Why is it that a beautiful life, one with purpose and peroguative, can be snuffed out? How does this make sense?

How can I believe that everything is part of a plan when something as ludicrous and ridiculous as that, is part of another person's plan? How can I believe in kindness in creation only to have a friend taken so his wife and his children have to spend the rest of their lives without him?

I understand why I have lost so many people I love. It is cause and effect, whether it be drug related, disease related, or even suicide/mentally related..... There was always a sign, you always knew why.

I have not seen this friend of mine in at least 14 years, I can only base this off of what I understand from others, in that he was healthy and happy. Who knows, had this never happened, I may have never ever seen him again in my entire life. But knowing that people who love him are suffering and that, not only I, nor they will ever see him again, really makes me angry.

RIP, Chip... I hope whatever it is that makes this world tick had one hell of an explanation as to why they chose you... But I know you will always be looking and watching over the ones who miss you the most right now.

To his loved ones, please know you are in Cincy's hearts and prayers and our deepest sympathies go out to you.


Friday, June 1, 2007

Deja EW!

The mice have infiltrated us, yet again.

Sgt. Weiner Hotbuns has set up a new ambush after yesterday's mission was unsuccessful.

The evolution of these rodents has impaired our efforts, for now they do not want to go out like "Uncle Lenny" did.

Please wish us godspeed in allieviating this nuisance and restoring balance to our home.

Friday, March 16, 2007

Mouse Update

Apparently the mice in Northside have reaped substantial, unnatural abilities, due to their proximity to P&G factories and the Mill Creek.

Northside is now home to Mighty Mice.

When I first discovered the little lovelies' droppings in our silverware drawer, I foolishly thought it was just one, itty bitty, mouse. So we trucked up to CVS in the Gaslight to get some mousetraps. We thought it would be so easy. We were so young and foolish.

There is this lady from Russia who has been working at this CVS for years. She is the meanest, uninterested, wearin' lots of makeup, lady I have ever met. Seriously, if you say "Hi" to her, she grunts at you without making eye contact. She is totally intimidating. I asked her where the mousetraps were, and her little face lit up! At first I thought she was passing gas, but then realized she was smiling at me...... What? Were they out? Was she going to go on a tirade about how cruel it is to kill mice with traps and insult my lazy cats, all hopped up on catnip and Pounce Treats?!? OH GOD WHAT WAS GOING TO HAPPEN?!?!?!?!?!??!

She tenderly grasped my arms and led me directly to the mouse traps. She then proceeded to pick up a package and hand them to me.

I clearly thought I was having an acid flashback.

She then smiled ear to ear, and slyly said "I hope you catch it"! I was in shock. I walked away from the "Boo Radley" incident that had just occurred and paid for the traps. As I got into the car, Hotbuns asked me if I was okay, because I was pale. I told him he would not believe what had just happened, because I was still convinced I had made it all up.

When we got home, I designated Hotbuns to be the mousetrap engineer and coroner. He finally was successful in getting the cheese on the trap, only losing two fingers! (I sewed them back on later.) He placed it in the silverware drawer and we went about the rest of our day in giddy anticipation.

The next day we galloped down the stairs, as if we were children ambushing a Christmas Tree. We opened the drawer, ready to bask in the fact that, DAMMIT! WE HAVE THUMBS, EAT IT MOUSE!!!!! We then discovered that the trap had not been activated, yet the cheese was missing. The little pisser sure showed us.

After three more attempts, *shame*, we finally prevailed. We had wine to celebrate.

So two weeks go by. One morning as I was going for a spoon for my steaming, delicious bowl of oatmeal, I noticed little black pellets in the silverware drawer.................AGAIN.

So far we have made about ten attempts to get his one. All unsuccessful.

The mice in Northside have thumbs.

Monday, February 12, 2007

Gersh Dang Mouse in the Gersh Dang House.


Last year we were fortunate enough not to host the "Rodentia Invasionia". Unfortunately, it seems this is an "every two year" event. Like every good host, we obviously have to roll out the red carpet!

As I opened the silver ware drawer Saturday morning, I noticed little black crumby things scattered all throughout the utensils my family sticks IN THEIR MOUTHS. Hooray! Not only is the little vermin an unwelcome house guest, but he does not even have the decency to poop in the JUNK DRAWER. Asshole.

Preferring salt over mouse dookie as a seasoning to my eggs, I promptly removed all utensils and stuck them in the dish washing machine. I then proceeded to pour gasoline into the drawer and light it on fire, hoping to gas the little fucker out. Didn't work.

I am not terrified of mice. I grew up on a farm and mice are really the least of your worries when a fifty pound groundhog is chasing you and trying to rip your leg off. Our house was not just a people house, but a youth hostile for rebellious mice, who wanted more out of life, than following the traditional values of the field. I had to vacuum out the couch one day when I was eight and found three little guys flattened underneath the cushions, just like little rodent pan-cakes.

What I love the best when vermin enter your lives is the advice you receive from people you love, and once thought had any common sense.

First Question:

"Don't you have three cats? How can you have mice with three cats?"

I do have three cats. Two that are indoor/outdoor, one that is strictly outdoor. The two that stay inside are useless. Why? They see a mouse and they get excited and look at each other like "By golly, jidya see dat! Wut is dat!" They then proceed to grab a bowl of catnip and take station at the closest vantage point, to watch this amazing thing run across the floor! They are like French people watching Jerry Lewis movies; the act is so unnatural, totally unfunny, completely not fascinating, and just deeply disturbing.

This brings us to the first suggestion:

"Well, you should get one of those cruelty free traps."

This is so dumb, on so many levels.

First off, what is this person expecting me to do? Trap the stupid mouse, then drive it to the country, to release it while screaming, "BE FREE FAIR MOUSE, BE FREE!" Then witness a red tail hawk come out of nowhere, and snatch the fucker up for dinner?

My house is not a holy place that mice just "pop" into existence, I don't care how filthy some of you think I may be. The thing had to come from somewhere (outside) and since I am not wasting a $2.25 gallon of gas on a mouse, I only have one more option of where to release it (outside), and I have not had a friend with a snake since my Metallica phase in high school.

But, what is dumbfounding to me, is that the same person who wondered why I own defective cats, is the person who suggested a cruelty-free trap. Placing a trap that will snap the mouse's neck quickly, is crueler than letting a cat get to it? Um, hello?

Let me introduce you to Bernie, the third kitty, who lives outside. Bernie lived in the house during the "Rodentia Invasionia" of 2005. Unfortunately for us, he is akin to peeing on just about EVERYTHING in the house, if permitted inside, and unfortunately for Bernie, he pees straight cat urine and not Lysol. So during this stint of mouse residency, Bernie is not a viable solution.

Death to a mouse by way of feline intervention is NOT humane, and quite a gory process. First, the feline (one that is not hopped up on cat nip and Pounce treats) sniffs out the mouse. Secondly, the feline becomes one with its environment, meaning, if the stake out location is on the floor, the feline will flatten itself to become "one" with the floor. Time is no matter to the feline, for it will wait until mouse boldly attempts to change positions, then *SNAP*, the mouse is now a cat toy.

I use "toy" for a reason. Cats are amazing hunters by instinct, they are carnivores and in the wild, they need to hunt to eat. House cats (once again, those that are not hopped up on cat nip and Pounce treats) do not need to hunt to eat, yet sill, instinctively possess the ability to be a great hunter. Being that the house kitty does not hunt to eat, it hunts for sport. A torturous, gruesome, horrible sport. Kind of like golf, but not as boring.

The kitty uses the mouse as its personal entertainment for however long the mouse can cling on to dear life. They carry the mouse around in their mouth, like it was their wittle baby. They play solitary table hockey with the mouse, slamming it back and forth between their paws. They then play the "Hippy Hippy Shakes" game with the mouse, clenched in kitty's jowls, shaking it back and forth until the wittle mouse gets all dizzy! Fun for cat and mouse.....*ahem*

Well, this is what happened to the last mouse that dared enter the lair of "Bernie the Brain Eater". We found the body of the decapitated mouse on the rug in the kitchen and the head being used as a "CHASE IT!" ball throughout the house.

Yep, a regular trap is definitely crueler than letting a cat get to it.......

So, I have decided to go about getting the mouse my own way. I got a six pack, a lawn chair and a BB gun. That son of a bitch will never know what hit him.