How People Are Aggravating Volume 1

The Healing Power of a Good Slap to the Head

Have you ever had one (or some) of those people in your life that just know everything. They know the best stores to shop, they know the best route to take no matter where you are going, they know the perfect temperature to cook any meal, and they always know the best way in which a life should be led. Yours included. Especially when you didn't ask.

We all have those people, either directly in our lives or on the periphery. People who can either be taken with a grain of salt, or be the salt that is ground in to an open wound. You deal with them with a smile and a nod - internally giving them props for having such a wonderful sense of self - or internally boiling at their blatant disregard for other ways of living.

I think it's safe to say that most people have a belief system in place, at least on some issue. Be it political, religious, or an otherwise extraneous life postulation. For example, I strongly believe that people shouldn't wear socks with sandals. It's a fashion faux pas and just doesn't look good. I make sure not to commit this err. Unless I'm running to the garbage room and it's chilly, but that's neither here nor there.

My point being with this post, is to identify those individuals who not only decide what is best for their lives, but what is also best for yours; overtly imparting their views - no, not their views, their all-understanding insightful knowledge - as a gift. A gift you should be honored to receive. A gift that should be accepted without question.

I offer up example number one. The person who has found God. I'll preface this with stating that I have absolutely nothing against any religion. I have respect for people and their beliefs. I admire my brother who felt a strong relationship with the Church in his late 30's to take classes, study, perform rites and become a Catholic several years ago. Religion, to me, is a personal matter. Your relationship with God can differ hugely from someone else's relationship with God, within the same religion. This isn't about God. This is about people who feel it's their duty to tell you that you will indeed be a burning head in hell, if you are a non-believer. My personal experiences with this has been with Catholics, but I'm sure it occurs across religions. I really don't feel it's anyone's place to tell me what I should or shouldn't believe. I also don't want you to feel sorry for those you consider "non believers", as that's both condescending and somewhat hypocritical. You, as a believer, have no insight in to what God will or will not do. For wasn't it St. Augustine who said "Humility is the foundation for all other virtues"?

On to something less heavy.

Let's talk about community living, shall we? I'm not speaking of the hippy-dippy movement. I'm talking about living in apartments or condos. In my case, I live in a great condominium complex that has a total of 8 separate buildings spread across lots of land with great amenities. Yet, people still bitch. One complains adamantly about how the snow plow is waking up their child at 8pm, while the other complains with equal gusto about how it's 8pm and why isn't the walkway shoveled yet. Somebody voices a concern that the grass is getting quite long, which is unsightly and a haven for bugs, while another speaks up that the landscapers are here too often. I get complaining. I get advocating change. This goes above and beyond that. What I'm not sure people understand about living in a condo community is, is that it is a community. I understand you have a child. I understand you get up at 4am. You still live in a community which is set up for the common good of the common man. If you want individualized treatment, may I suggest you buy your own house with no neighbors. You cannot live in a condo. community and expect the machine-that-is to conform to your schedule and your needs. I'm sorry. You can't. Stop bitching.

With that said, my Condo. Community at large is also a victim of the "we know betters". We recently had a site wide paving project underway, that caused shifting of parking spots and roadways. Due to this project, a gate was opened up to an outside residential road that allowed people who could not leave or enter the complex via any other access route, to actually get home. This then caused homeowners on the other side of the gate to get pissy because "we shouldn't be here". Are you kidding me? When did basic humanity become such an extinct idea? It's no secret that an entire community was being repaved. It's not secret that the outside gate was opened, as it can only be opened by law enforcement, and is only opened in the most extreme of cases (i.e. crazy snow storms or inaccessible routes). Yet this caused a specific homeowner to hold up traffic to prove a point and to make it known that this was "his road". His road. Not yours. You have no right to be here. Mind you, we all live in the same town and pay taxes. But this was his road. Mr. Know Better, kindly get off of my cloud.

People are aggravating to a degree that is currently immeasurable. There are physicists working 'round the clock to try to determine to what degree aggravating behavior actually exists and what can bring this to an end. At this point, it is infinite.

My suggestion is fairly simply, yet may require court and jail time. There ain't nothing like the healing power of a good slap to the head to reform all of the above offenders.

Volume 2 of How People are Aggravating will be available at a blog near your shortly.

With Love
Lady Butterfly
xoxo

Vacation Lampooned

We AIM to Kill You!

Since this weekend marks the unofficial start to summer, it's only fitting that I dedicate this post to a summer tradition - Family Vacations.

Oh Lord. Where do we even start? I'll begin by saying, I can guarantee you that this topic will be covered again in future posts. My family vacations are epic. Not the Homer "Odyssey" type of epic. More in the line of Lewis (Black) and Clark (Griswold). Where Lewis was so appalled at the lodging conditions that Clark booked, that Lewis said "screw this, I'm outta here". Lewis preferred the wilderness and the great unknown to the venues that Clark booked. Lewis would rather take his chances of being eaten by some carnivorous beast than stay one night in the room that Clark found acceptable. This is a little known fact. But true.

Lewis is the general population. The population that can decipher a clean room from a dirty room. The population that makes the determination that while the price might be right, the potential hospital bills just aren't worth the risk.

Clark is my father.

Growing up, my family went on many, many vacations - be they day trips or week long extravaganzas. My brother and I would get off the school bus on a Friday afternoon, and my parents would have the station wagon loaded up and ready to go. We'd sigh in unison and accept our fate. We were going away... again. To God knows where. To stay at God knows what place. We could only assume that it would include shag carpet of an indescribable color and some sort of unique wall paper that moved if you touched it. We would change into our "play" clothes and pile in to the car. Giving each other knowing looks, my brother and I began our bonding early on in life. These two crazy adults in charge of our well-being certainly were not taking their job seriously.

If we were leaving for a week long vacation, we usually woke up at 3am or so, to get a "jump on the traffic". My father is, and has always been, one who likes to get a jump on the traffic. To the point he arrives at his destination 4 hours before the event/venue even opens; parks at the furthest spot from the entrance in order to have a quicker getaway, and absolutely refuses to stop at any time from his travels from Point A to Point B - unless the need for gas demands it. God Bless the poor lad or lass that has to pee. My brother was known to pee in a bottle at one point. As a lady, I had no such luxury. If my persistent demands and pleas for a bathroom break finally broke through, I was lucky enough to have my Dad pull over to the side of the road so I could cop-a-squat. And then drive on, with pee in my sock, 'cause I sucked at copping a squat.

Our vacations were known for the time spent in the car. Most vacations consist of utilizing some sort of transportation in order to get to your desired endpoint, and then relaxing...maybe using the car to see local sights and sounds, but for the most part - you are no longer driving. Our vacations WERE the car. For example, you drove from New Jersey to Florida in a straight shot. Stopping only for gas and for much needed sleep breaks for my Dad. After a time, you learned to time your hunger pangs and bladder knockings accordingly. Dad would sleep in the front of the car, while my brother had pretty much been asleep since we left New Jersey. That left my Mother and I. Who would stay awake, raid the vending machines and take the dog for a walk. My Mother and I are not great sleepers. Couple that with sleeping in a car at a rest stop with a snoring man and a passed out brother, and we were going to be wide-eyed zombies until our first actual "hotel" stop.

Which brings us to the lodgings. I must correct myself here. We never, ever, EVER stayed at a hotel. We stayed at motels. Which is not a problem. It was 80's-early 90's, we weren't swimming in funds. Motels are admirable. Just not the motels Dad picked. You know the commercial for the "Black Flag Roach Motel", where roaches check in, but they don't check out? That was high class livin' in Dad's book. Those roaches were damn picky, according to Pops. There ain't nothing wrong with a little sticky substance on the floor and fumes emanating from an unknown source. "Where did you get to be so high class", was my Dad's look at it. I still blame some of these hotels for my poor memory and eye twitches.

One such motel was located in Florida. This motel has been etched in my family's mind ever since 1986-87, when my brother was 14ish and I was 12ish. The motel was called the "AIM Motel". They certainly had an aim....Such as, "We Aim To Kill You." This motel was a splat on the road of some random highway in some random town. Like a tossed out dump truck, this building stood haphazardly along the side of a two lane road. Being an efficiency, it came equipped with a stove. Which was turned on when we walked in, unbeknownst to us. There was a distinct smell in the room, and certain haze that hung overhead. One of us walked over to the stove and commented that the gas was on. After shutting it off, we opened the two windows that WOULD give way, and waited for fresh air to overtake this luxurious room. I believe we ordered Domino's Pizza that night, but I can 't be sure since the fumes knocked us all out at 7:45.

Another memorable motel was also in Florida. A mishmash of deities and decor, it was a palace of sorts. A palace of nightmares. While the latch-hook shag carpet was originally beige in color, it was now a dirty gray that most certainly housed bacteria that would cause indescribable itches and hospital visits if walked upon with bare feet. The bed had a Ganesha image carved upon it's plywood headboard, and a Buddha mirror hung directly across from a lion footed card table. Bibles abounded in the rickety nightstand, and you had to pray to God for hot water in the morning. It was a religious experience, indeed.

The coup de grâce was a motel down south that even my father had to check out before he agreed to a nights visit. This is big. Obviously my father has very low standards of what constitutes an acceptable place of lodging. If he actually had to view the accommodations before, it had to be bad. And it was. Yet, we stayed there. The good news? It was close to the ocean. The bad news? You had to make it through the night and then cross a highway and a dune to actually see the ocean.  We barely escaped with our lives.

I have so many memories of family vacations, they could take up volumes of posts. I will definitely discuss some of the finer (and lesser) points of my family trips in later posts.

Without a doubt, I can't say how happy I am that I experienced these trips. My family laughs about them to this day, and a familiar saying is "We AIM to Kill You!"

Happy Memorial Day

With Love
Lady Butterfly
xoxo

Leaving on a Jet Plane

The Pusher, The Snorer, The Incessant Talker

Airplanes. Those aluminum winged vehicles that bring out the "interesting" in people. Those tin cans of transportation that zip us through the air and pack us in like sardines in mustard sauce. Airplanes. A marvel of technology and an anthropological smorgasbord. The perfect setting for my favorite sport: People Watching.

"People Watching" is not a sport, you say. "You haven't People Watched with me", I say. This is no game for the weak of heart. Oh no. This sport takes savvy, patience, craftiness, and most importantly, a keen understanding of the playing field. Plus, if people consider hunting a sport**(see below), then I can consider People Watching a sport.

People Watching must be approached with certain preparations, and with a certain degree of finesse. For example, you can't stare at people. That's rule number one. You have to glance, you have to be casual. You have to be cool, man. Secondly, you must be aware of your surroundings and choose a watching place accordingly. May I suggest the furthest side of the room, with a wall behind you? Or a side row of chairs, if available? A place that can maximize your watching, while minimizing your being watched. Of course, this all depends on room size vs. people ratio. You don't want to take a corner of a large (or small room) if there's 4 people there. Use your judgement to choose your perch that is both ideally located for viewing without looking like "that lurker in the corner". Finally, if you are with a friend, code names are imperative. Code names allow you to speak freely, without referring to "that guy in the striped shirt, plaid shorts and neon sneakers." That would be too obvious. You would simply refer to this gentleman as "Wardrobe Challenged Man" or "WCM". Code names are key. There's many more rules to the sport, but these will suffice for now.

Being of a certain age and within the corporate world, I've travelled both personally and professionally enough to have at least a Bachelor's Degree in People Watching. Or, as the Universities are now calling the Major: Homo Sapiens Spectes.

Based on this experience, let's catergorize some travellers that I have cataloged, and some I'm sure that you have come across. Here are the Code Names:

The Incessant Talker (aka. Talker Non-Interruptus, I.T.):

This is the person who starts chatting before the cabin doors are closed, and doesn't let up until the cabin doors reopen. Regardless of flight duration, this person can and will talk about any topic under the sun. This individual is not necessarily (and usually not) interesting in the slightest, but feels it necessary to make their voice known. If you are the unfortunate individual sitting next to this Chatty Cathy doll, I suggest a slick manuever to insert headphones into your ear. If you are more skilled, I suggest reaching into your carry-on and retrieving a book. This book manuever requires skill, however, because the I.T. can still carry on talking. You need to convey a message of "thanks but no thanks" in the opening of that book. When in doubt, use headphones as a decoy.

The Snoring Man (aka. Sleepus Non-Interruptus, S.M):

While ladies can obviously snore with the best of them, I have only witnessed men exhibit this unique travel behavior. This dude can sleep. The antithesis of the I.T., the S.M sleeps upon finding his seat, and wakes upon arriving at the gate. The only sign that this traveller is alive and well is the snarling, gurgling, guttural noises that emit from his nose/throat at timed intervals. Blissfully unaware of the disruption and disdain he is causing, you are an unlucky traveller if you are seated 2-3 rows in front or behind him. God Bless the poor soul who is seated next to him. I can only suggest several loud and enthusiastic coughs to perhaps disrupt this sleep assault, for a short time at least. I won't suggest a swift elbow to the ribs. You have to do what you have to do, however. If asked, you never heard of this blog.

Napoleon Man (aka. Pusher Man, Little Man, N. M):

You know this one. This is the dude that is shorter than average in height and has a point to prove. His presence is most clearly felt at the time of departure and arrival. His sole purpose being: I'm here and I'm bouldering through this line come hell or high water. Elderly? Beware! Lines? I see you not! "Now Boarding Rows"? Pishaw... That serves no purpose in my world! N.M. cares not for the rules of the travel world, because the world has dealt him a dirty hand. He's out for blood. And if that blood comes from your feet being run over by his carry-on, so be it.

The Sly Dog (aka Canine Sneakyus, S.D.):

This traveller is one who knowingly parks his or her fanny in a seat that is very clearly not theirs. I'm not speaking of the person who obviouisly made an innocent mistake. This is the woman/man who takes the window or aisle seat in a row, with the hopes that the person who actually bought that seat doesn't show. Or that the person who has that seat is too much of a wimp to ask them to move. This is a very specific individual and a very specific situation. For example: Your ticket says seat 8A. There are three seats to a row. The person sitting in seat 8A, has ticket 8B. Even if they misunderstood the little diagram above each seat, detailing which seat is the window and which is the aisle, seat 8B will always be the middle. S.D. doesn't care. S/he figures they will give it a shot. Instead of sucking it up and hoping they can move once all passengers board, they take your seat and feign ignorance. Then argue with you that the window/aisle seat is indeed theirs. This Sly Dog is an a**hole. I suggest holding your ground and occupying the arm rest, just to piss s/he off.

Honorable mention goes to: Back of the Seat Kicker. The only reason this didn't make the main list is because you can't fight it. You can turn your personal fan to high and aim it at them, you can sigh, you can turn in disgust. This is usually a child, however, and you ain't gonna do anything about it. Back-of-the-Seat-Kicker's parent's should. But there's really nothing YOU can do.

I think I could write an entire blog on people watching. Air Travel is a unique experience that brings about it's own unique habitat. Like Jane Goodall, I'm researching man and travel in the hopes of better understanding the behavior of The Pusher, The Snorer, and The Incessant Talker.

With Love

Lady Butterfly

xoxo

**Note From Above: I personally don't consider hunting a sport. I consider hunting an activity that grants men the ability to display their machismo attitude while playing with guns and grants them the much needed relief of feeling superior to other living things. Hunting certainly can bring about a deep connection with nature for some, survivalist in even fewer. This post in not about hunting, so let's move on.

Oh Phudge!!

"P" is for Perfect

Today is brought to you by the letter "P". An innocuous letter of the alphabet to be sure. Unlike it's counterparts "F" and "C", "P" is not typically thrown around as a stand-in for a naughty word. For example, you don't normally hear someone saying, "I don't give a P", or "She's such a P word". No. "P" stands on it's own. With the exception of that tricky "Ph" combination, one wouldn't really think of "P" as an outstanding letter of the alphabet.

That all depends on where you're coming from.

When I was 22, I had a bad case of strep throat, coupled with tonsillitis. Being allergic to penicillin, I had to take a less potent form of antibiotic. Instead of kicking the strep to the curb, I was layed up for a week with drug Z. Luckily, I was also prescribed Tylox - a narcotic pain reliever - so I only was awake for 2 out of 7 days. I still yearn for those nights of zombie-like slumber. There's no sleep like a Tylox sleep.

After waking from my 7 day slumber. I yawned, stretched and headed back to work. I was happy. I had lost weight and gotten a week off! I could fit into my my going out dresses that required one to not eat for at least 12 hours prior, without having to starve! Everything was okey dokey in my book.

After a few weeks or so of being back at work, I noticed these small reddish bumps on the inside of my wrists. They itched like a bitch and seemed to be multiplying by the day. I asked my Mom what she thought they were, and she suggested we go to the doctor to get it looked it. It was probably a rash of some sort after being in bed for so long. That's what I was thinking, at least. OK. So you might be scratching your head and asking, why would you get a rash on your wrist from being in bed too long? Zip it! I don't know. I was guessing and 22...never a good combination.

I saw the doctor and he told me it was an allergic reaction to the antibiotic I had been on. Here take this steroid pack for 7 days. Ok. Sure. Doctor's know, right?

I started the pack, and as I awoke on day 3, I felt like my skin was crawling. I felt itchy and scaly. I felt like ants were crawling all over my body. I stumbled in to the bathroom and turned the light on. I will never forget what I saw. My face and body was covered in pink, angry, blotchy patches. I looked like I was blushing from every part of my body. And the itching. My Lord, the itching.

Now, mind you, in between getting over strep throat/tonsillitis and the appearance of the "splotches", I moved in with my boyfriend at the time. Side Note: The only positive thing I will ever say about this guy is that he was absolutely supportive and non-judgemental of my skin. Otherwise he was and remains a mother"P"er.

I made an appointment with a dermatologist. I seem to have a knack for finding the kookiest doctors practicing in Northern New Jersey. This was no exception. As a matter of fact, I think she takes the cake of nutballs that somehow managed to wrangle a degree out of some University.

This doctor came in to the examination room in a dress of silver lamé, open toed shoes of dyed red ostrich skin, and chopsticks with a silver lamé bow and peacock feather in her hair. I kid you not. She either listened to her own drummer, or had missed the calling for extras in "The Birdcage". It was not off to a good start.

She took one look at my wrist and face and said it was Psoriasis, and that by taking the steriod I had only made things worse. My ignorant self asked what I could take to clear it up. She said "it will never go away, it's a lifelong condition that has no cure". Just like that. In this purely dismissive tone. The peacock lady in silver lamé told me it was Psoriasis and I'd have it for the rest of my life. Holy hell, I was 22. She stretched out the skin on my wrist until the now diagnosed Psoriasis faded to a faint pink and said, "That's the best you can ever hope for." I was shocked. I was saddened. I was angry. Most of all, I wanted to rip the goddamned peacock feather out of her hair and ask her if Hannibal Lecter provided her with bedside manner tips.

She gave me some creams to take home, warning me not to use them on my face because it could cause skin atrophy (!) and advising me to visit an office that had a UvB light therapy box. As I digested this information, I found a small kernel of bliss in the fact that I didn't have to visit Dr. Cruella DeVille again. Apparently light boxes would kill her perky pinky spirit.

I found a wonderful office that offered early Saturday morning light box appointments. My boyfriend and I would wake at 7am every Saturday so I could stand for "x" amount of time in what amounted to a tanning booth. The time increased with each visit. Light boxes offer safe(r) treatments of UvB rays, that are known to help alleviate the appearance and symptoms associated with Psoriasis. Along with this treatment, I was prescribed a more hollistic Coal Tar Cream, that I was to spread over my entire body every night. I smelled like a tire playground at the height of summer. Alluring, I know.

At this point, the Psoriasis had taken over every part of my body. While my face was spared a lot of the heavy "plaques", my arms, torso and legs were virtually covered. I used to look at my legs as one looks at clouds,tyring to find figures in the Psoriasis formations. As I said, my boyfriend at the time was wonderful about it. The Mother"p"er.

I did my homework and started researching this condition. As some may know, Psoriasis is a genetic immune disease, which is currently incurable. A sudden shock or trauma to your system can bring it on. Strep throat is a huge trigger. I joined the National Psoriasis Foundation (link below) where I discovered that people who live with this disease, shorten it’s name to simply, "P".

"P" is for Psoriasis.

I won’t say I handled my diagnosis with the utmost grace and aplomb. Over the years, I have learned to handle the stares and the whispers. The pokes and the head nods. I’ve had full clearing of my skin - due to injection treatments and a fateful visit to a remote lake in Washington State that has healing mud. ( It might sound crazy, but it worked.) I’ve had huge relapses that required medical leave of absences - and the need to wear gloves in public to pick up my medication from the local drugstore. I know that I can never commit a crime because my DNA will be all over that scene. That’s what really hurts the most. I’d make an excellent criminal.

In the end, you are who you are today because of all the things that helped make you you, yesterday. Does that sound trivial? I suppose it is. You were born with certain gifts and certain traits, and other things were picked up along the way. I guess the journey and the life lesson is:  what we DO with those things that make all of the difference. I know I’m learning that day by day.

I also know that "P" can stand for "P"erfect.

With Love
Lady Butterfly
xoxo

For more information on Psoriasis and Psoriasis related conditions, please visit:  https://www.psoriasis.org/

The 17 Year Itch

This Is Bugging Me

This year and month marks the end and the beginning of the 17 year life cycle of the Cicadas. An insect so intent on not being part of society, that it burrows itself underground for 17 years. Emerging only to procreate, and then to die. Talk about keeping your head in the sand.

As the "Swarmaggedeon" of the Cicadas approaches us, I reflect upon my last 17 years. Has it been any more productive than that of this creature living underground? In terms of notoriety and entrance anticipation, this bug's got me... hand's down. Mr and Ms. Cicada have been waited for and talked about. While experts are giving interviews, wildlife aficionado's have been chomping at the bit. This is the red carpet arrival of the insect world. If a Cicada takes a baseball bat to some paparazzo's car window, after buzzing off their own little Cicada hair, I won't blame the bugger. Shit, they've been underground for 17 years and will see the light of day for a mere 3-4 weeks. I get the urgency.

So we're straight. That's Cicada: 1. Lady Butterfly: 0.

17 years ago I was a mere lass. Experiencing legal drinking age for the first time without having to be snuck in between my best friend's band equipment. Experiencing my first love, which is inevitably due to end badly, I endured my first heartbreak. I was on a road, I just didn't know where to. I was working at a record store - which will always be my favorite job in the world - with no clear direction in life. That was fine. I was happy, I was free. I was working to afford to go out.

I was lucky enough to experience the inner workings of the East Village before the gentrification: I was a staple at CBGB's, Continental was my lounge pad, Coney Island High was an awesome blip on the radar that ended much too soon. 17 years ago was fun. My best friend at that time was a singer in her band. She took me to places I would never have been to and met people I never would have met. I took nothing for granted, because I knew it was fleeting. As much as I loved all of the experiences, I always knew that I couldn't live in that world. I just occupied the space for awhile. I loved 17 years ago. As an encapsulated moment.

Let's check stat's: Cicada: 1. Lady Butterfly: 1.

Even Steven.

So, we're at a stalemate. Those Cicada's that are emerging this year have much more fan fair than I can generate, but those dirty ol' bugs of 17 years ago have nothin' on me.

I guess this means war.

A brief history so as not to disrupt any future posts: In the last 17 years I have retreated from the music world to enter the corporate world. Since I have not the slightest bit of musical ability, I thought it best to enter a realm where ability really didn't matter much. So I went into business.

I kid. I kid. Business requires ability: To be a drone and to look happy. Kinda like C3P0, without the personality. I'm certainly not trying to disparage the occupation I have chosen. I'm disparaging myself for being a knucklehead. I'm happy I am good at my job. I am happy I am compensated for my job. Did I dream of my job as a wide-eyed 6 year old? Hell, no. I didn't dream of my job as a wide-eyed 21 year old. I didn't dream of my job. Period. Who really does?

On a personal front, I met and got engaged to a great guy, who turned into not-such-a-great-guy, who married my good friend who also worked with the both of us. I'm a lucky girl for escaping that pitfall of hell! This will certainly be a post.

I let a great guy go because I was stupidly waiting for the wrong guy. I made great friends that I hope will last a lifetime, I've grown to like my family as true friends, and I bought my own home. Oh... and I adopted a cat. That is the icing. Out of 17 years, Miss Dottie is the icing.

In a nutshell, that explains this blog: How a Social Butterfly Turned into a Cat Lady.

Work happened. Tragedies happened. Love happened. Life happened.

Can the Cicadas compete with that? Probably. In a 17 year life span, these suckers deal with the muck and the dirt during most of their life. The filth and the mire. The despots and the bourgeois. They then finally break free, only to "get it on" and then die after mere weeks. I say that's pretty hardcore living.

Cicadas: 2. Lady Butterfly: 1

Ok. So I'm behind in points, but we're on the same playing field. In a matter of mere days these song-birds of the insect realm, these hermit-like creatures will be making their appearance on Terra Firma. We already have something in common. Both of our singing has been known to call the fuzz.

So what is the final plea from the Cicada? Ahead in life experience, but still pursued from Lady Butterfly at a rapid rate, what can this strong, resilient creature say as a last word?

Only this: I'm a bug, I can't speak.

Lady Butterfly's response:  I might be losing in overall points, but at least I'm not on a Chinese menu.

Cicadas: 2. Lady Butterfly: 2.

These amazing insects, who I certainly hold no flame for, spend 17 years underground. Rise up. Shed their skin, and end up on someone's plate? They have worse luck in the love department than I do. Holy Hell. That bug is bugging me.

With Love
Lady Butterfly
xoxo

The Cat's Meow

How My Cat Makes Me A Better Person

As I'm sure you have gathered by reading the title of my blog, I have a cat. Her given name is Dorothy, but she doesn't typically go by that. Unless she's in trouble. Then she is Dorothy Ann.

On a typical day she is Monkey Butt, Boo Boo, Love Bug, Stinky Bottoms, Brat Child, or the standard Dottie, Miss Dots, and Miss D. If she wasn't a cat who already ignored given names, I'd think I was giving her a personality complex. As it is, she's a cat. And anyone who has a cat or knows about cats, knows it doesn't really matter what they are named. They're going to do exactly as they please. When they please. Period.

I was raised with pets my entire life. There wasn't a time growing up and through my early twenties (when I moved out) that there wasn't a pet in my parents house. Dogs and cats have always been part of the family. Not "animals", but family members. My blood boils when I hear or see people treating their pet inhumanely or without any regard. If you don't have time for a pet, don't get a pet. Pets aren't meant to be luggage, pets aren't meant to be accessories, pets aren't around to get you compliments. Pets are human too. Well, sorta. Pets are better humans.

I had been out of my parents house since just before turning 23. In my head, I wasn't ever going to get a pet until I owned my own place and quit smoking. My thoughts were that if I choose to live an unhealthy lifestyle, that's my choice. I'm not bringing another being into that atmosphere. Therefore, in my head, I was never getting a pet. I had no desire to quit smoking. That is until I signed closing papers 3 days after Christmas 2010. With the flu. In a snow storm. I decided I was going to quit smoking once I had stopped vomiting, signed the papers, and boxed up the last of my belongings. I thought if the flu, the cost of the sale, and the money didn't do me in, then quitting smoking sure wasn't. I haven't smoked since. Yay me.

But I digress.

I knew in my heart that I was never going to smoke again. Not so much because of the cost to your health , but because of the cost it costs. Like moolah. And the smell. I was always the annoying smoker who hated the smell of smoke. How can you smoke for 12 years and hate the smell of smoke? Who knows, it's what makes me, me. I just knew that I was done. Plus, I wasn't about to stink up a place I just bought. So I started searching for a feline.

I spotted Dottie at the end of January 2011 on a posting from my local animal refuge (see below for website). The minute I saw her, I knew she was mine. She just had that snotty looking puss on that says, "leave me alone" and "eff off". It was all me. It was like looking in a feline mirror. If I was a cat, she is who I would be. It was instant love. Well, instant love on one end.

Dottie's Refuge Shot:

Delayed by yet another snow storm, I picked up the beautiful beast and brought her home. Oh Lord. It did not go well.

Dottie was 2 to 2 1/2 years old when I got her. Who knows what she had already been through prior to her ending up at the local animal refuge? Only thing I can say for sure is that she was cetainly someones pet at some point - because her front paws were declawed - and she had already been at one "kill" shelter before coming to the local no-kill shelter I adopted her from. With that in mind, Miss Dottie was a hissing machine that would not stop. If she dared venture out from under the bed, you were swatted, hissed at, and silenced in to submission. To say she didn't "show well" is an understatement. On the positive side, she was litter trained and ate well. She just didn't like me very much.

It took a long time to acclimate Dottie to her new environment. I sent frantic emails to my cat lover friends asking for advice, and being reassured that "she would be just fine" , "let her be". I never had a pet that was like this! My family had always adopted pets as puppies or kittens. To adopt an adult cat, with history and fears, was new to me. And to Dottie.

Fast forward through many months of learning and trial and error. Dottie and I came to an understanding. On my part: I wouldn't push her to be the cat she wasn't. On her part: I would accept that. We had reached a critical moment in our relationship. She relaxed more, I relaxed more and we became friends. I always loved her. But now I liked her.

Then I came home from work in April 2012, and the screen was popped out of the bedroom window, with Dottie no where to be found. Utter panic raced down my back in ice cold streaks. While I searched under the bed and under the dining room table, I knew she was gone. I raced down three flights of stairs to the side of the building that the bedroom window overlooked. I searched the mulch. I searched the bushes. I searched the parking lot. Nothing. She was gone.

I called my parents, and they raced over. ('Cause what 36 year old doesn't, right?) I searched high and low. Around the building, down the embankment, across the side parking lot, over the fence. Nothing. I went back to the side of the building my bedroom window overlooked and searched one last time, in vain. As I passed the last waxy bush, I heard a little "meow". I ripped through the leaves and lifted Miss Dot's out of the bush, pollen in her fur and not a broken bone on her body. I felt like I was lifting little Jessica out of the well! We had reached another level of our relationship. She trusted me and looked for me. This is big. This is huge. (PS. Took her to the vet, she was A-OK)

Fast forward to today. I've had my Dottie for well over 2 years. She has taught me a new form of patience. She has taught me a whole new degree of fear. She has taught me a higher level of companionship. She has taught me utter responsiblity. She has taught me what unconditional love actually is.

Cats might not be every person's cup of tea. I get that. A dog is much more attentive, much more appreciative and so much easier in terms of give and take. I love dogs. They greet you when you come home and they ask for nothing but love. I love pooches.

All I can say is that Miss Dottie has taught me how to be a better person, without saying a word. Except the occasional hiss :)

With Love
Lady Butterfly
xoxo


To Adopt a Pet in the local NJ/NY area, please see:  http://rbari.org/

Advil Affair

What Not to Expect When You're Not Expecting

Foot, meet Mouth. Mouth, say hello to Foot. A more charming encounter has never existed. Those moments when your mouth says something, and your foot is already tingling with glee, knowing it is about to get stuck in your chow hole. We've all had those moments. Where an intention was well meaning, but the thought not so well thought out, or words so not well chosen. We've all listened to those ill-fated words leave our mouths, and...just...wait...

Wait for the inevitable. Wait for someone to call you out on your completly assinine statement, or wait - worse yet - for everyone to ignore it. When it's ignored, it's just this "thing" hanging out there. This blob of ickness that everyone knows exists but doesn't comment on. If you can't find the elephant in the room, that's for good reason. You ARE the elephant in the room.

To save myself the embarrassment of discussing my slips of the tongue, I elect to discuss a specific episode where I was the victim. A faux pas so heinous, that I have yet to recover. That's where a blog comes in. It's cheaper then therapy and allows me to confront the situation without, you know...confronting the situation.

There are certain things you just don't say to a woman. There are certain things you just don't assume about a woman. There are certain things you JUST DON'T DO.

• Crime Location: Target Retail Store, Pharmacy Department
• Culpirt: Pharmacy Technician aka Satan's Spawn, Demon from Hell and Lucifer's # 1 Lady
• Victim: Butterfly.  Lady, Butterfly

Scene:

Having a headache all day, and anticipating a headache to last throughout the night, I headed to my local Target Store to find a pain/sleep aid. Being partial to Tylenol PM for both it's healing effects as well as the coma-inducing state it provides, I was disappointed to see everything Tylenol was off the shelves. Leaving only Advil PM. The cause of this whole disaster.

I gingerly picked up the Advil PM package, feeling like it was the poor man's subsititue for the real thing - the Skeet Ulrich to Johnny Depp, if you will - and proceeded to the Pharmacy counter. Where I met Satan's Spawn.

You see, I'm not a religious person in the traditional sense, but I do know enough to understand that the Devil is never going to approach you with a pitchfork and a pointy tail. That would be too obvious. No no. The devil is going to approach you in human form. More specifically, the human form of a Pharmacy Tech at Target.

This "unassuming" lady asked if she could help me. I should have known right there that she was up to no good. Not picking up on the forked tongue cues, I innocently asked if they had any Tylenol PM , holding up the Advil PM box. She answered that they were completley out of Tylenol. I shrugged, thanked her, put the Advil back on the shelf, and started to walk away. She then offered this gem of goodness. These words of butter: "You know, you really shouldn't be taking Advil if you're pregnant anyway."

What? Say who now?

I will preface my thoughts with this: I am not pregnant. I was not pregnant.

I was guilty of wearing an unflattering shirt. The punishment certainly does not fit the crime, however. OK. I should have known better than to wear an Empire Waisted Shirt. Yes, I should have known that a short, semi-chubby lady needs to dress for her body type. I was a fashion disaster. Lesson learned.

But never, under any circumstances, do you ever, ever, EVER, assume a woman is pregnant. I could almost give Satan's Spawn some leeway if she was a twenty-somethinger - doing a job, but still young. No. This "lady" was a woman. She was an adult. She should know better.

After her comment, I kind of stood there. Gap mouthed. Not quite believing what I had heard. If I was watching this scene from outer space, I would assume that the lady with the pitchfork so neatly hidden behind the counter, was trying to capture the pudgy girl in a bad shirt. I just stood there. Blinking. And then I actually thanked her.

I THANKED HER.

I thanked the Pharmacy Tech for telling me that my non-pregnant self should not be taking Advil. I thanked her for looking out for me and my non-existent prodigy. Holy hell. I thanked her.

As I walked myself out of the pharmacy portion of Target and waddled myself to the ice cream and pickle aisles, I was thinking to myself " Who says that?

I have a steadfast rule. Unless a woman tells you, PERSONALLY, that she is with child, then she is not pregnant. I don't care if her water breaks and she's begging you to call her obstetrician.  Call 911, but,  if she hasn't confirmed it, she just had a very big lunch.

A few words to the wise concerning assumptions:

• Never assume someone has children because they are of a certain age
• Never assume a woman is married because she has a child
• Never assume a woman is married at all
• Never assume a woman even wants to get married or have children

　

I've relived this horrific event in the hopes that it might save someone from the pain I was forced to suffer. It haunts me to this day. And it's been, what? Two months?! I hope this post serves all of you out there to know what not to expect when you're not expecting.

With Love

Lady Butterfly

xoxo

Cinco de Uh Oh

It's Not a Holiday if Someone Isn't Crying

In honor of Cinco de Mayo, I decided to dedicate today's post to Holiday memories.  Those joyous times of year where family gathers 'round the dining room table to revel in each other's company and to gaily while away the hours, wishing the day would never end.  

Now that we've covered the Norman Rockwell version of Holidays, we can get back to reality.

I'll start off with a disclaimer:  I adore my family.  Without them, where would I be?  Literally.  They are the cream to my cheese, the egg to my nog, the apple to my sauce.  I love them with all of my heart.  Just not as much on Holidays.  And the feeling is more than mutual, I know.  Holidays should come with a warning label:  Contents under extreme pressure.  Approach with Caution. 

As an adult, you're just not really around your family for an extended period of time all that often.  It's a trade.  As you grew up and moved out of the house, you talk on the phone much more than you used to, but see each other - all together - much less frequently.  I'll see my brother one on one, and my parents one on one, but the four of us aren't together that often.  That makes the Holidays a cauldron for disaster.  And blogger fodder.

Let's set the scene:  It's a random Thanksgiving in a random year.  Dinner has yet to be served, but the parade is over.  We are all dressed in our Thanksgiving day finery - which includes dirty jeans, flannel shirts and some form of pants that you are meant to sweat in.  The sweat pants are worn on purpose.  'Cause history has shown, it's gonna get hot up in here. 

We're all standing about, not quite sure what to do with each other, and hoping for a tranquil Holiday memory. It's pretty standard at this point. It's just the four of us, so we're not here to impress, and we shouldn't be.  You're all happy to see each other, but don't want to piss anyone off.  We all have our buttons.  And we all know how to push them.  Except Dad, he doesn't have a button - but he does know how to push them.

Then comes dinner.  And the wine.  And with the wine, comes the button pushing.  I won't say it's a desire to button push, it's just a lack of caring if a button gets pushed.  I know you know.

Someone will say something, then someone retorts, then someone else says something, then someone cries or gets mad.  Or both.  It's happened to us all - except Dad - and it can range from a minor blip, to a full out earthquake, the likes of which the richter scale cannot possible measure.  This is where the sweat pants come in handy.

If everyone has made it through the dinner without leaving, I'll usually suggest a game.  Which is greeted with sighs and moans.  I get it.  Trivial Pursuit is a long ass game.  But I'm trying to make memories, damnit!! Plus, I love to play games and my cat just scoffs at the mere suggestion.

Now, just because the 4 of us have made it through dinner to game time, don't be fooled in to thinking you are home free.  Heavens no!  Game time brings about it's own pitfalls and landmines, that each of us must deftly try to maneuver if you are to make it out alive.  Again, since the wine has and continues to flow, your reflexes aren't as good as they should be, and your tolerance for what you consider bullshit is at an all time low.  Example: 

Trivial Pursuit Question:  What was the surname of the American Civil War general who has lent his name to prostitutes?

Answer Me:  Hooker

Annoyed Retort from Brother:  How the eff would you even know that?  That's ridiculous.  You get the simplest questions and I get "who was the first player to score a hattrick at the emirates"  So annoying.

Me:  Boo Hoo.  Mommy loves you more, what do you care (wine, sob, whine, sob, wine)

End scene.

I know you're thinking:  "It seems this could all be easily solved with the removing of wine from the dinner table"  Are you nuts?!  Wine and family dinners go hand in hand!  The removal of this gift from the Gods, this elixir of truth, this liquid courage sealed with a cork would be disastrous.  Without this wine, my brother and I wouldn't get the giggles at the expense of my poor Mom.  Without this wine, you couldn't have those really "deep" moments where you tell your Dad that they just don't build guys like him anymore.  Without this wine, you couldn't spontaneously cry over the thought of the four of you not being together in the future, then turn around - still with tears in your eyes - and curse your brother out for being such a douche.

We've started a tradition in my family over the last several years, to have a "theme".  One year was "White Trash Thanksgiving" - served on a table covered with a sticky red and white checkered plastic tablecloth,  Red Solo Dixie Cups, and plastic utensils.  Another year we recreated the Pilgrims and Indians theme.  (P.S.  As history has proven, this ended in a blowout).  Last year we were pirates - complete with tattoo sleeves and eye patches.  This has served to lighten the mood.  Somewhat.

Every family has their Holiday traditions.  Some sing around a piano, others go out to a restaurant to avoid the kitchen duties, some don't celebrate anything at all.  My family tradition is to eat, laugh, toss digs, scowl and throw snark.  I wouldn't trade it for anything.  I'll just continue to wear my sweat pants.

The most important thing to remember is this: It's not a Holiday if someone isn't crying.

With Love

Lady Butterfly

xoxo

Beginnings...

Easy Peasy, they said.  Easy Peasy my ass, I said.

Welcome to my very first post.  An uneventful introduction, I admit - but give me a break.  I'm new to this.

I started this blog to document my everyday thoughts.  This will also come in very handy if I'm ever in court and they want to verify my sanity - or lack thereof.  Ain't nothing like a blog that contains "Cat Lady" in the title to ensure a quick taxi ride to the nearest loony bin. Ya with me on that one?

I am in need of an outlet, of sorts.  I'm a big dreamer with horrible follow through, a great cheerleader who has  no rhythm, a snarky lass without an audience, you get the idea.  This is a toenail dip in the pool of realizing a dream that I've had for a very long time.  Writing.

I've always loved to write.  Since forever.  I would write short stories as a child, poems as a disillusioned, uncomfortable teen, and horrific letters that were never mailed to ex's who did me dirty.  My issue has always been:   I can't write what I'm not passionate about.  Not great for a career that would start you writing about the local crime wave of mailbox baseball.  Don't get me wrong.  I feel for both the owners and the mailboxes.  I just don't feel for them.

As a twenty-somethinger, I lost my desire. Well, let's say I misplaced my desire. I was swept up in being a twenty-somethinger.  I had a swinging decade, I must admit.  I was a Social Butterfly, with plans coming out my butterfly ass.  A Friday night at home meant you were beyond sick, or someone had died.  Period. 

My thirties started out Social Butterfly-ish.  Much more mature and grown-up, but inevitably, finding ways to NOT stay home on a Friday night.  Then it stopped.  I won't get in to the gory details.  I'm sure we'll delve in to my 20's and 30's in later postings.  With wine.  Lots and lots of wine.

Fast forward a few years to the present.  I cohabitate with a cat who raises hell, while I raise little of my own.  Once again my need for an outlet.  How exactly did I go from being a social butterfly, to that weird cat lady in the corner condo? OK.  So I added the "weird" part, but nonetheless. I'm not sure.  I think that's what this blog will help me figure out.   

Here's just a few things I am about:

• I love debate.  As long as it's fair debate.  If you get dirty and start getting personal, I shut you off and start picturing your sudden demise.  PS.  It usually ends in a fiery crash with me laughing.
• I love animals.  Not like "oh, what a a cute kitty" or "can I pet your dog" type of lady.  I seriously love animals more than people.
• I don't understand dance music.  Even in my Social Butterfly days. I just don't get it.
• I am a driver, not a car steer-er.  That's from my Dad, and I think it's awesome.  Living in Jersey, this is super important.  People who understand, understand.  My brother says I have road rage.  I say everyone else is a f*cki*# as^ho*$!
• I try not to kill any insects in my house.  I will take them outside and set them free.  Unless you're a spider.  Then my cat is coming for you.  HARD.

In the end, I'm writing for me.  With the hopes of finding an audience who likes my voice.  I'm hoping this will be a fun adventure and something to fulfill my soul.  My thanks to those who have inspired me, you know who you are.

I've already spent far too many hours on trying to set up this page.  Easy peasy, they said.  Easy peasy my ass, I said.

With Love

Lady Butterfly

xoxo