Wonder Woman - Or How To Be A Farmer

When I was a young lass, I thought – no, I KNEW – I was going to grow up to be Wonder Woman.  I had the belt and everything.  In truth, it really wasn’t the Wonder Woman belt, it was a Holly Hobby belt that I pretended was Wonder Woman’s.  It gave me special powers as I held my arms out and twirled.  And let me tell you.  I was one damn good twirler.

My brother was the Incredible Hulk.  He even had these green floaties that came with an air pump.  They gave you tremendous green floaty muscles.  I was beyond jealous.  I had a freakin’ Holly Hobby belt and he had genuine green muscles.  Life was already unfair.

Fast forward a few years and it dawned on me that I was probably not going to be Wonder Woman.  I wasn’t a brunette.  And I didn’t have an invisible jet.  I stretched my brain, I searched within, I discovered what my true calling actually was:  to be an ER Clerk, like my Mom. 

I think I was about 8 when my Mom started working in the ER.  My life would never be the same again. 

See, my parents had an interesting way of raising my older brother and I.  It sorta went along the lines of this:

• Tell any story in front of your kids, no matter how inappropriate

• Take immense pleasure by telling your kids that “No, this isn’t a horror movie…”, and watch them go green
• Conspire, Plan, and Execute any way in which to turn off the lights, put shaving cream on your face, and hold a flashlight under your chin.  All while pretending you’re a zombie, out to eat your children’s faces

What can I say?  It was the early 80’s.

In line with this way of rearing their young, my mother would tell “Stories from the ER”.  My brother and I were too young to stay home alone (although now that I think of it, that’s where they drew the line?), and my Mom worked the 3-11:00pm shift.   So every other night or so, we would pile into our orange and white striped van, without the seat belts, and drive the 15 minutes to the hospital.  My brother and I were usually sacked out until my mother got in to the car.  Then the stories began. 

Stories of severed fingers, crazed maniacs getting strapped to gurneys, paper cuts that Princess found too painful to endure for one more second!  Car crashes, ambulance calls, heart attacks.  And the coup de grace, the be all end all, the question I had yearned to ask since watching the movie “Carrie” and my Dad told me it was over when it wasn’t (see:  hand shooting out from grave): “Did anyone die tonight, Ma”?

Just to make things clear, if anyone did die, I felt bad.  I really did.

Hearing these stories, I was convinced that Wonder Woman had not only been the wrong choice for me, but an ER Clerk wielded much more power.  Who needed a lasso of truth when you could slap a name bracelet on someone and tell them to take a seat?  Who needed to twirl when you had a wheelchair ready to go?  Who needed red boots when you could…well, I still wanted the red boots, I must admit.

It seemed to me to be the most exciting job known to man.  I had developed a pretty thick skin at this point for dealing with the ick factor.  In fact, the more ick the better!  I had found my career, and I even announced it to my Elementary School class when Career Day arrived and one would proudly state what you wanted to be when you grow up.  Blond curls dangling, I emphatically said, “My Mother is a Unit Cluck, and I want to be a Cluck too!”  I had a really bad lisp, so Clerk came out as Cluck.  I think the teacher considered sending me for help when I confessed I wanted to be Head Chicken.  I was always misunderstood as a child.

That kinda ended my desire to be a Cluck, er, Clerk. 

From that point on, I kinda jumped from one career wish to another.  After seeing “Silence of the Lambs”, I definitely wanted to be an FBI Agent.  But there was running involved, and I was a really bad runner.  I wanted to be a journalist for quite a long time, but I only wanted to write about stuff I wanted to write about. Which kinda blows that career.  A dancer, a singer, a commercial actress.  No, No, No.  Then Junior year of High School came, where you took a career aptitude test.  It asked you what three careers you would like to have, asked a bazillion questions akin to the SAT, and in 3 weeks, they would send you your results.

Well.  My three career goals were doctor, lawyer, and social worker.  The test came back, which they handed out in class.  I was 100 % ill-suited to become a doctor, so don’t even think of it Missy.  Lawyer wasn’t out of the question but pretty out there, and social worker was a match.  The test provided three career goals that best suited my “aptitude”.  Only one of which I remember, but it’s the one that counts.  Based on all of my answers, I should be…a farmer.

A farmer.

There’s absolutely nothing remotely wrong with farming.  Hell, I live in the Garden State.  But, please tell me, which of my answers, what combination of my results suggested farming was for me?  Was it the analogy questions?  “Banana is to fruit, as pepper is to _?”  Was there a subliminal message in the math questions?  Did my scan-tron sheet somehow indicate a growing plant or pitchfork?

Of course everyone compared results and I was the only farmer in the class.  They might be doctors, but how were they gonna eat without me, I ask you?  Suck it, doc.

***

Well here I sit, many years later.  Career-less.  I have floated along the business path as a feather dances on the water.  I’ve gone where the direction has taken me, and it’s taken me to a comfortable single lifestyle.   Here I stand at the crossroads.  A chance to start a career that I choose.  Something I want to do.  Something I might be good at.  And I still have not the foggiest idea what I want to be.  Maybe I should be a farmer after all.

Crayons

A few years ago, I started a weekly blog:  "Musings of a Former Social Butterfly Turned Cat Lady".  It was my first attempt at writing anything that someone might read, and I thank that "one" for reading it.

My initial desire was to start writing about the adventures I had in my late teens through my twenties, and compare those wild days to where I was in my life now.  It didn't really work out that way.  The more I started to write, the more I decided that my childhood held some damn funny moments, and my day to day - while corporately mundane - held its own, compared to my carefree youth.  Plus, it's best not to put too much craziness online.  I might want to run for political office one day, you know.

A few years later, and now I've decided to try and resuscitate this blog.  Maybe resuscitate isn't the right word.  Maybe breathe new life into is a better term.  The same skeleton, but a different beast.  Franken Butterfly, perhaps? For things have obviously changed since 2013, right?  Right?!  right.

That bring us up to the Autumn of 2013. In wine, it would be called "L'annee de la folle"

"The Crazy Year"

In brief, I lost my sanity at the end of 2013.  I won't delve into the nitty gritty, but I will say it wasn't pretty.  I went on a leave of absence from work and started attending group therapy sessions.  I feel no shame or embarrassment in this.  I did what was required of me in order to not lay in bed all day and contemplate how my navel was actually the center of the universe.

Group Therapy.  What a term.  In essence, this is where the powers that be take a bunch of people they have no idea how to deal with, and shove them in a room and hand them crayons.  I kid you not.  Crayons.  If you aren't staring at your crayons, you are sharing your feelings about crayons.  Or deciding why you prefer pencils to crayons.  Or why markers are FAR SUPERIOR TO CRAYONS, DAMN YOU.  I kid, sort of.  But we did use a lot of crayons.

Group meant sitting around a long cafeteria table and discussing a topic that the counselors brought up.  "Who are you?", asks Jane.  "What do you feel about [insert anything here]," questions Tim.  "Not sharing is your option, Ellen."

If you didn't go into Group scrambled, you certainly came out scrambled with cheese.

Not that it didn't help.  I learned a few things.  I learned that I am a person that other's feel comfortable holding on to when they are at their lowest.  I learned that I wanted to protect the people who had no round hole to fit in.  I learned how to lie to the therapists, in order to help a "friend".  

I was repeatedly spoken to about how "I was there for myself and while people might look to me for a shoulder, this is not something I can adequately provide.  These people needed professional help, and I should focus on my own well-being."

I agreed with one of these statements.  I should have focused more on my own well-being.  Everything else they said was crap.  It was clear that some of these lost souls just needed to hear someone say they care.  Just needed to hear someone say that they understand you're going through hell.  Healing is wonderful.  Learning tools to heal is amazing. But a person has to know that someone cares for them.  That someone gives a crap that they exist.  Group did not provide that for anyone I saw.  Then again, I was scrambled.  What do I know?  They're the experts.  I just know that I didn't swallow what they were offering, and if people are coming to me for help, they didn't swallow it either.

Regardless, I did my time and went back to work with my signed medical letter and a grin on my face.  It might have been a snarky grin, but that I can neither confirm nor deny.

2014

A year of nothing to report except a bad relationship and a lot of unfortunate choices.  I suggest that you do not drink Absinthe with someone who does not want to hold your hair back while you have a love affair with the commode while hallucinating about Sylvia Plath.  I'll leave it at that.

January 2015 - October 2015

Work sucks.  My boss is a socially inept woman who feels that saying hello is equivalent to a royal bow.  So she doesn't bother saying hello.  Well, not true.  She doesn't bother saying hello to me.  If this were Group, she'd be the guy in the corner who says nothing but stares at you like Quint....whispering "Dolls Eyes".  Shiver me timbers.

October 2015-December 14 2015

A wonderful communication is sent 'round declarin' that the office will be experiencin' some layoffs.  Oh no.  Not "some layoffs", me boy, rumor has it, layoffs that amount to half of the company.  

Rumors and insanity abound.  No work is to be done because, why?  Fuck you!  Am I working towards my pink slip?  

December 14, 2015

The stage is set.  All at the Company are told to arrive no later than 8:45. At 9:03, my phone rings from a random conference room number.  My immediate thought it is, "That's odd.  Someone must be lost.".  

Yes. I am an idiot.  But in one brief moment, I have shown that I can be a positive idiot.  Mark that down for posterity.

I'm called up, My VP is there, along with HR.  Any time you asked to attend an unannouced meeting where people's titles are reduced to 2 letters, beware.  This cannot be a good thing.

I'm dealt with in the quickest and most efficient way.  I'm handed off to a lower HR representative and told how to handle things while at my desk.  I have never received such service at any hotel I've stayed in.  And I've stayed in some nice hotels!

I am granted the opportunity to say goodbye to my coworkers and boss. Only one of which I give a shit about, and am thus ushered out of the building I've worked in for almost 10 years.  It took less than 15 minutes.

Well.  Maybe I should have given more attention in Group, after all.  And maybe political office is out.

To Be Continued....

Fly By Night

You can dive with the

Fishes

The Dragonflies

You can swim with the

Mermaids

The Fireflies

You can dip with the

Wings

Of the Butterflies

You can swoon with the

Moon

The Alibis

Your days have left me

Alone

But not Scared

Alone

With the darkness

But Prepared

Your love is not something

That needs to be

I loved you

With a longing

Unfortunately

You can dive with the

Fishes

The Dragonflies

You can swim with the

Mermaids

The Fireflies

You can dip with the

Wings

Of the Butterflies

You can swoon with the

Moon

The Alibis

Book Review - The Secret History

Book Review Series

“The Secret History”

Donna Tartt

Published 1992

“The Secret History” does not start off gently.  The first sentence lets you know just what you’re in for, as the undiscovered body of Edmund “Bunny” Corcoran lies in the melting snow.  This is not a whodunit.  This is not a murder/mystery.  The fact that someone is dead is indeed an integral part of the story, but the fact that someone is dead is never hidden.  Nor does it need to be.  The novel has much more in store for you than that.

The story is told from the perspective of Richard Papen, an isolated and lonely young college student from California who seems to have a shaky future.  His college endeavors have been primarily based on how he could get out of his lower middle-class station in life, and away from his unsupportive parents.  By sheer fate, Richard enrolls in a Greek language course and excels.  This decision proves monumental.

To avoid California life and his family, Richard transfers to fictional Hampden College in Hampden, Vermont, and manages to impress the Greek professor, Julian Morrow. After their second meeting, he is admitted in to the highly selective Greek Studies Course.   This program is a college unto itself, with all courses (except one) being conducted with the same teacher, same students, same classroom.   The students are either isolated or immersed, depending on your viewpoint. 

Only 5 other students are enrolled in this program:  Twins Camilla and Charles Macaulay, Francis Abernathy, Henry Winter, and Edmund (Bunny) Corcoran.  It is immediately clear that Henry is the nucleus of the group.  A head of the Lernaean Hydra.  Richard’s life will never be the same again.  You know this as he enters the room.  You read this in the lines that Donna Tartt paints. 

“The Secret History” weaves a tale with many fibers.  Economic class distinctions, mob mentality, peer pressure, morality, hubris, secrecy, and cultism.  As you read the story, you become immersed in the lives of these people.  You hate them, you love them, you root for them, and you wish them harm.  You forget that they are college students.  That is one of the things that make this novel - any touching novel - worthwhile.  You find yourself amazed at the things these people do, but often forget that they are young adults.  They speak with such knowledge, such eloquence; you need to remind yourself that they have a lot of growing up yet to do.

Broken into two parts, “The Secret History” unravels at steady pace.  You are given enough time to breathe in the characters and to feel them out, but not enough inside scoop to be fully aware of what makes them tick.  That’s the thing about this novel.  You are aware that you are not aware of some vital information.  And some vital information you are never privy to.

Do I have any issues with the story?  Sure.  It can be a bit pretentious.  It can be a bit showy.  I’ve read a decent amount of Greek mythology to know about Dionysius, but some of Ms. Tartt’s scenes do seem as if she’s trying to prove just how smart she is.   The book itself could be cut down a bit, as it lags some in the second part. The narrator can seem a bit frustratingly naive at times. These are minuscule points that I can pick at, for a book that I adored.

Do I recommend “The Secret History”?  Most certainly.  It was a unique and exciting read.  Most importantly, it was one that I didn’t want to end.  I’ve discussed with my friend the question of what makes a good book, a good book?  We agree, that any good book is judged by how it made you, the reader feel, and how (or if) it stuck with you.  I finished this story and still wish I was one of those people who were new to it.  I envy those of you who have yet to read it and can still embark on this journey.

I hope you enjoy it half as much as I did.

With Love

Lady Butterfly

xoxo

Musings on a Winter Vacation

Or...How I Survived My Alone Time.

This week ushered in my first full time schedule back to work since December 18^th.   With more than 2 weeks off, in which I had no plans of any sort¸ I sit here a changed woman.  And probably not for the better.  You have been warned.

 “Time, time, time.  See what’s become of me.”  Those are the lyrics I’m reminded of.  Simon and Garfunkel’s “Hazy Shade of Winter”.  OK, I’m being a tad dramatic.  We’ll make it the Bangles version of the song instead.  To lessen the intensity.

It’s no great epiphany to realize that when I’m at work, I want to be home.  I’m certainly not unique in this regard.  What is eye-opening, however, is that when I’m home, I get bored and turn into The Creature From The Black Lagoon.  Sitting at work I have these images of all of the things I’m going to do while I’m on vacation:  Paint the bedroom, wander around NYC by myself, have wonderfully girly luncheon dates that turn into dinner parties, change my hairstyle, go to the movies, etc, etc, etc.

You know what I did during the 15 days I was off?  Slept, fed the cat, slept, fed the cat, read, slept, fed the cat, read.

The biggest accomplishment I can claim is that I finished 3 books and wrote a few poems.  When I say I did nothing, I mean I DID NOTHING.  I couldn’t even be motivated to…well, never mind.   We’ll just leave that one hanging.

My point being is that given 15 days off in which I could have accomplished any number of things, my immediate instinct was to do nothing.  Which inevitably lead to feeling down and disenchanted with my station in life.  Which then lead to a lovely period of revisiting every painful moment I ever went through.  When, you know, I actually did stuff. 

Far from being healthy, it gets downright scary.  Just how precarious is our (my) state of mind?  This thought ran through my foggy head as I fumbled through my days.  “How easy it seems to turn from a functioning member of society, into a recluse.  Into a hermit.  Into that crazy lady in the corner condo no one ever sees.”   I was shocked at how easily I slipped in to a lifestyle that was damaging to me.  Is this who I really am (I thought)?  Is this the person I would be if I didn’t have a job to go to (I questioned)?  Most importantly:  Who would I be if I had made different decisions, or tried harder?  Is my regular life someone else’s idea of a damaging lifestyle and slippery slope?

My brain’s incessant questioning and berating was taking a toll.  The vicious circle did not take long to begin:  Sleep in late and feel guilty, chastise yourself for being a worthless sack of dung, feel bad about being a worthless sack of dung, remember all of the times you felt like a worthless sack of dung, go to bed and sleep late to avoid feeling like a worthless sack of dung.  Repeat.

Awake one random early morning at 5am, I started to evaluate my life and bump it up against how the world operates, as a whole.  How the microcosm of “just me”, related to the world at large.  To break it down further, I related the world of “me” to the world of “X City”. 

In the world of “X City”, life has a pace.  Like a living organism, it feeds, it operates, it communicates, it supports.   Should you throw a large wrench in to the works, “X City” fundamentally loses its shit.  Seriously, the Department of Waste Management and the Sewage Treatment Plant are in trouble.

“X City” is always operating one second away from disaster.  Look at what happens when a major city loses power.  The city goes crazy.  Our whole life revolves around electricity.  Pretty much every external thing we do requires this power.  When a city loses the ability to “see”, they lose their ability to function.  When a city loses what they are so reliant on having - what they don’t know what to do without - the city begins to lose its connectivity to humanity.  Things that were unthinkable before start to become doable.  How quickly “X City” turns from a fully operational and productive entity, to a place of divisiveness and despair, is amazing.

Sitting there at 5am in the morning, these not-so-deep thoughts made me realize just how close we all are from destruction.  Here I was sitting home during my time off of work and dipping my toe in to a pool of despondency, meanwhile the whole world was just as close as I was to soaking their collective feet as well.

As a human race, we just don’t seem built to handle change very well.  While we will adapt, eventually, our initial reaction is to revert back to instincts that are more…primal.  Survival of the self, hiding, providing shelter, seeking food, avoiding danger.  In my own way, that’s exactly what I did when my world was shaken up by (GASP!) a vacation that lasted too long.

In the end, I think I’ve made some of my own discoveries.  Take them as you will:

• The monotony of daily life is underrated.  Having something consistent is a welcome blanket in a world full of things we have no control over
• We, as a people, are not nearly as advanced as we like to think we are
• We like to complain.  It makes us feel like we have options we wouldn't take anyway.  And that's OK
• Too much time off with nothing planned is an exceptionally bad idea
• You are who you are.  Eventually, you're going to have to come to terms with who that actually is

Happy New Year All!  I hope 2014 brings you nothing but the best of everything.  For me?  Well, I’m counting down until my next vacation 

With Love
Lady Butterfly
xoxoxo

The Week That Was

2 News Stories from the Global Week that Was

Affluenza – AKA Rich, Spoiled and Entitled - It appears that being young , wealthy, and a criminal is now a solid defense strategy.  The “Affluenza”  defense was successfully argued in a Texas courtroom this week, sentencing a 16 year old defendant  to  (up to) 10 years of probation at a rehabilition clinic.  Obviously a much more lenient sentence than what the prosecution was seeking - 20 years in jail. 

“Affluenza” is a term that was coined in the 1990’s and, in essence, means that a juvenile comes from a wealthy home in which no boundaries or limits were set.  Affluenza is also a synonym for rich, spoiled brat, but I digress.

Being “afflicted” with such a condition has allowed this 16 year old to get away with murder.  Literally.  Not only was this 16 year old caught on camera stealing cases of beer.  Not only was the blood alcohol content 3 times over the legal limit.  Not only did he flip his truck, severely injuring passengers in his own car – one to the point of suffering severe brain damage where he can no longer move or speak -  BUT -this teenager also happened to KILL 4 innocent people.  He killed 4 people by drunk driving his truck and plowing in to them on the side of the road.  That’s how “strong” this “affliction” is.

So, to recap, because Mommy and Daddy didn’t establish any consequences for his behavior, the judge has now reinforced Mommy and Daddy’s lack of parental ability, by giving him a slap on the wrist.  Does this make sense in anyone’s mind?   Oh, and Daddy has to fork over $450,000 a year for each year this creature stays in rehab. 

What is wrong with this picture?

***

The Sign Language Affair - It was a somber event in which many of the world’s leaders were gathered.  Nelson Mandela, who passed away on December 5 at the age of 95, was honored and revered by his country and the world at a memorial service on December 10, 2013, in Johannesburg, South Africa.

Unfortunately, the news story that has made the world scratch its universal head, has now become about the sign language interpreter who ‘signed’ the program for the hearing impaired.

It appears that the sign language interpreter has a few demons, a few problems, and more than a few skeletons in his closet.  Apparently suffering from schizophrenia, the interpreter claims he had a full-blown attack during the memorial service on Tuesday, signing words for “rocking horses” and “prawns”, which were not – no doubt – part of anyone’s speech.

To add insult to injury, it now appears that this interpreter has a very shady past, to say the least.  Numerous charges have been brought against him since 1994, some of which include rape, murder, and kidnapping.  The plot thickens when we learn that the murder court case file is mysteriously empty.  The plot gets downright muddy when it was uncovered that the firm that hired this interpreter has apparently vanished like dust in the wind.

The fact that all of this was uncovered by a news outlet after the man was hired and was standing next to some of the most powerful people in the world, at a memorial tribute for a legend – makes this story seem like a bad Hollywood movie.

2 News Stories from the Local Week That Was

Human and Feline Stomach Virus Linked? – In a Northern New Jersey suburb, a strikingly attractive woman with a gift for gab  was suddenly silenced, when a stomach virus took hold of her intestinal tract on Wednesday, December 12, 2013.  While details were not shared, the experience was captured with this quote from the gravely ill:  “UGH. I feel like ass.”  A truly telling statement, indeed.

Adding to this medical mystery was the fact that not only was this beautiful woman struck down with illness, it appears her Felis Catus, or housecat, was also afflicted. 

There has been no conclusive study conducted that proves the connection between feline and human viruses, however it seems clear that we have a potential case in this small hamlet, located 20 miles west of New York City. 

While authorities were not called in, the CDC is aware of the episode and plans to keep a vigilant eye on both the woman, as well as the cat.  A spokesman for the CDC, who wished to remain anonymous stated, “It is easy to track the movement of the woman.  Her habits are routine, and her schedule is consistent.  The Feline, on the other hand, has proven to be quite tricky.  A female cat, this animal has been known to hiss when approached and to swipe her claws, even when not provoked.   Without access to specimens from both subjects, we can only assume that the Feline in question poisoned the woman with its apparent malcontent.”

The Feline was unavailable for comment, but did provide a glaring look through the window, aimed directly at this reporter’s camera. 

***

2 Working Days Left – A female, who is presumed to be the same woman who contracted the potential Feline/Human Stomach Virus earlier this week, has been gleefully announcing to all around that she “…only has 2 working days left in 2013.”

Interviews with the recipients of this proclamation have offered varied quotes, again with the certainty of anonymity:  “What the (expletive deleted) do I care how many days left of work this (expletive deleted) has?” said one vocal recipient.  Another offered these words, “If that woman says one more thing about her remaining working days, she will be counting her remaining days. Period. “

The woman was unavailable for comment, but a quick look at her FaceBook page did show that she was “Doing a dance of joy, 2 more work days left in 2013.”

With Love

Lady Butterfly

xoxo

Lessons of the Week

This week has been interesting.  It has brought about fits of giggles, tears of annoyance, waves of rage, and dawning realizations.  I’d like to dedicate this post to the things I’ve learned this week.  A simple post with a hefty impact.  So she said modestly.

Commuting in the Rain is Nothing Like Dancing in the Streets

Driving to work in Northern New Jersey is a painful experience.  It is a knuckle-whitening, teeth clenching, foul-mouthed swearing nightmare.  And that’s all before I even leave my parking garage.  Throw rain in to the mix of a normal commute, and you might as well stick a fork in you – because you. are. done.

We’ve had spotty showers off and on all week in my area.  Nothing torrential.  Nothing earth shattering.  Something you would put your intermittent windshield wipers on for, in order to dissolve the splats and tire mist. To NJ, however, rain is an anomaly.  A demon of the sky:

“Why, oh why are these wet discs falling from the sky?  What am I to do except slam on my brakes as each droplet bounces off of my car?!  I must treat this “rain” (as they call it) as an agent of doom.  The only way to save myself is to stand still and lurch my car forward, every now and then.”

NJ drivers act as if they are dodging virus-filled hypodermic needles while navigating hot-air balloons, as they maneuver their way from Point A to Point B.  What exactly is the problem here?!?!  Step on the gas, and go.  Jiminy Crickets these people are going to give me an ulcer. 

Oh, and as a side note:  Stay out of the passing lane if you are A)  Not passing anyone  B)  Feel uncomfortable doing the speed limit or above C) Your car can’t make it up a hill.

Working Nine to Five is No Fun Without Lily Tomlin

If you’ve ever watched the 1980 movie “Nine to Five”, than you understand where I’m coming from.  If you’ve never watched it, then you should still read this, but none of it will make sense to you.  I highly suggest you Netflix it or do what you do in order to watch older movies.

Those of us that are gainfully employed are happy to be so.  I am certainly not asking to be jobless.  I’ve been there, and that’s no fun without Lily Tomlin, either.  Let’s face it though, what is?

I ask you, where is the Skinny & Sweet?  Where is the mistaken identity corpse stealing?  Where is the boss snatching and kidnapping? Why isn’t everyone going down to Charlie’s and getting drunk?

I feel I was sold a bill of goods on this whole “working” thing.  I want my toy back.  I’m going home.

 

 

 

I’ll be watching you.  You better call the Police

This week I’ve interacted with people in all sorts of ways:  Via Web Ex, Skype, Conference Calls, Through Social Media, and Via Finger-Gestures.  And, oh yeah, in person.

I must say, this has certainly been a week to highlight people’s deficits in perceiving verbal and non-verbal cues.  Myself included.

I’ve come to understand that if I’m consistently reaching out to people and they don’t reach back, than maybe my reaching isn’t so welcome.  I think this rule can be applied across universally. 

Heads up boys and girls:  The more you persist in trying to get someone to understand that you’re interesting, witty, charming and insightful, the more you’re not interesting, witty, charming or insightful.   With each unasked step you take, the more you tiptoe to that gray town of Stalker-ville.  You don’t want to live in Stalker-ville.  It’s full of Peeping-Toms and Lazy Susans. 

You can’t make someone comfortable if you are bombarding them with discomfort.  Back off.

Cats.  Now and Forever

This week, a friend posted a link to a fun website that showed how owning a cat can cause permanent mental health damage.  As I read through the 30+ examples, I began to notice that I fit most, if not all, of these criteria.

 

 

I sing to my cat on a daily basis.  The nightly ritual being a song that is composed by myself and is copyrighted, so back off:

The Monkey Butt Song

Giving some water, to my daughter

Monkeybutt, monkeybutt, monkeybutt

Giving some dinner, to my winner

Monkeybutt, monkeybutt, monkeybutt

Giving some treats, to my sweets

Monkeybutt, monkeybutt, monkeybutt

And in the morning, we will repeat

Monkeybutt, monkeybutt, monkeybutt

*I make myself uncomfortable, so she can remain comfortable.

*I no longer need an alarm clock, because she’s staring at me at 5:00am

*I find her 3:00am fits of energy annoying, not scary.

*I overspend on cat toys, when she’s more interested in the box it came in.

I’m OK with being that crazy cat lady.  I love my girl with all of my heart, and I think this list is hysterical.  I’m not sure it will be so hysterical when I’m 98 and am drowning in cat hair and nasty cat looks, but for now…I  think it’s hysterical.

Here’s the link to see the full list, because it’s hilarious:

http://distractify.com/people/personal/agonizing-struggles-that-prove-cat-owners-are-the-best-people-ever/

So my readers, that sums up this week’s lessons.  As Brad Hamilton so sagely uttered in “Fast Times at Ridgemont High”:   Learn it.  Know it. Live it.

 

With Love,

Lady Butterfly

xoxo