I'm like dating a guy but with a better rack and a more sensible car

I'm in the process of a more focused post, but it got too introspective for me -- I got uncomfortable and had to stop. It's things like this that make me such a joy to date. One ex-boyfriend called me "emotionally constipated" (and yet another said I had "daddy issues" and still another one renamed me "man poison." I refer to them as, respectively, "28-year-old who still lives in his parents' basement"; "guy who couldn't spell 'daddy' even if he were assisted by the kids on Sesame Street"; and "dude, I don't even remember dating you").

So, in the middle of the other post, I started asking myself the tough questions ("Why am I here? What am I doing? How can I better eradicate armpit odor?"), and it was hard to answer them, you know, requiring me to think and all. I think that's why I didn't keep a journal all through college: I didn't want to think about the changes I was going through and what course my life would take as a result of those changes. I would rather those things remain unacknowledged, safely bottling up all of that doubt and anxiety inside, away from prying eyes and sun exposure.

What I'm saying is that the post where I explain why I think I'm heading down the wrong path will have to wait until I'm either (1) more comfortable with my feelings (don't hold your breath for that one) or (2) drunk (this would happen tonight as I don't have a 'real' day of work tomorrow, but I'm out of beer and I'm not opening my Washington wine). Speaking of drunk blogging, has anyone read Dooce lately? I dig the pink flamingoes.

What I bring you today I bring you to bring us together. Sometimes I like using a word so often in a sentence that it ceases to have meaning. Below are some other nuggets of goodness that comprise the essence of BPW -- maybe some of these nuggets make up your essence, as well. If you're not too proud (have no shame, whatever), share your nuggets! (No really, share your nuggets. I prefer honey-mustard dipping sauce).

1. I don't make left-hand turns when driving. Notice how I say "don't" instead of "don't like to" -- I really don't make left turns unless I have the benefit of the green arrow. I will drive in circles if need be.

2. Another car-related nugget (this one's more of a morsel): I drive a minivan. In fact, I drove a minivan, handed down to me by my parents, for a few years; it died in December. When I went car shopping, I could have bought any affordable car out there...I chose to buy another minivan.

3. While we're talking about traffic: I never jaywalk due to my (irrational) fear of getting hit by a car.

4. Speaking of irrational fears, I'm terrified of flossing. Once the floss goes in between my teeth, I start to panic that it won't come back out again and it will be stuck there forever. Real panic -- shortness of breath, sweating panic. I also worry that by flossing, I am encouraging giant gaps between all of my teeth.

5. I've mentioned this one before, but it bears repeating: I love Journey. I have Journey in my computer at work; Journey as my ringtone; Journey in my dreams (that's actually not true; I just needed a dramatic closer). Other than them, I do like cool music (since he's been a recurring name this week, check out Seth Walker if you've never heard of him).

6. I'm not really "from" anywhere. Florida is my 11th state.

7. My crappy apartment is so cramped that I use my kayak as a desk.

8. I sold gallons of plasma (my own, don't worry) in college for grocery (read: beer) money. It worked out well: I made $50 a week, got to do my homework while in the chair, and I have cool scars from the needles. Things have gotten so bad that I'm looking for a plasma bank down here for some extra cash. Either I sell plasma again, or I start buying Top Ramen, and I don't think I'm ready to go back to that place yet.

9. I frequently have dreams where all of my teeth are falling out.

10. My B.A. is in Anthropology/Linguistics which explains why I'm so cool and I have no idea what I'm doing with my life. But damn can I diagram the hell out of a sentence.

11. I didn't eat meat until I was 20. In college I got drunk at a party, and took a piece of burnt chicken off my friend's grill and devoured it with my bare hands because "it smelled so good, man." I was horribly ashamed when I called my mom that week. I was shocked to learn that she had a dream about pot roast that same week and actually cooked one. We both turned to the dark side.

12. Everywhere I look I see egg cartons: in my living room, in my car, in my office. I horde them for kids' arts & crafts projects at the nature center. Say you're making an egg carton alligator -- that requires two egg cartons per child. Multiply that by the 25 children we would have in a single program, and suddenly you need to be or know someone who has consumed 600 eggs. So, I stockpile egg cartons in order to diminish the pressure of upping my egg consumption.

13. I am a card-carrying member of the NFL -- the National Forensic League (you can also say NFL stands for "Nerd for Life"). I was on the debate team all four years of high school, captain of the team my junior and senior years, and coached high school debate in college.

Thirteen is a good number on which to end this list (13 is also my brother's age, which explains why I don't visit home very often. At least when my sister (who will be 16 on Halloween) and I were 13, we were friendly every so often. JPW, my sister, is a ray of sunshine; I'm kind of afraid of BPW2, my brother. He is now bigger than my dad and the only words I've heard out of him in the past year have been "Yes," "No," "Fine," and "Nothing." A sparkling conversationalist).

In ohter news, I am KICKING MYSELF for not saving the email from the Fish Head Lady! God, how blog-worthy was that? What was I thinking by deleting it? I apologize, I really do.

I'm off to figure out why it is still over 80 degrees in my apartment even though maintenance "fixed" it last week. Although I love sweating in my sleep, I have to be up early tomorrow morning and would prefer not to have to build in extra time in my morning routine to de-slime myself.

For the record, Mars never will rival the Moon in size or brightness, so stop calling the Nature Center

Did anyone else have a really bizarre and/or crappy week? Mine leaned more toward the craptacular side, but elements of the peculiar certainly snuck in, too. I blame it all on the Mars-Moon hoax or falling barometric pressure.

My favorite part of the week was, unbelievably, not spending $1,500 that I don't have to fix my car, but talking to the local ABC affiliate on Thursday about what animals do during floods. This interview was part of ABC's 93 hours of continuous coverage of Hurricane Katrina, which as we know, completely skipped over our area (on a related note: please keep the people of Mississippi and Louisiana in your thoughts. Wherever this storm hits, it will certainly cause mass destruction and hurt many people. Please consider making a donation to the Red Cross disaster relief fund).

Anyway, a reporter and cameraman came down to the nature center to ask me such hard-hitting questions as, "Can a snake bite through a plastic bucket?" and "Can you spell your name for me again?" In the middle of the interview, an older woman interrupted us, stood between me and the camera and said, "Do you have any need for a bag of fish heads?", then she handed me the bag and walked away. What the fuck?!? Does this happen at your office?

Unfortunately, this moment is lost forever because the cameraman had a faulty tape, necessitating us to refilm the entire interview. That sucked for me because I was incredibly articulate the first-time around and not so much the second time. Plus, the snake I was standing next to struck the glass of its aquarium every time I spoke. I don't know what I did to piss him off. I realized later that I forgot to brush my hair prior to the interview, so maybe it was offended by the gnarly rat's nest on my head. Who knows.

After the news crew left, I checked my email. In my inbox was a message from the Fish Head Lady (wow, no matter what I do in this life, I will never have a nickname that awesome). Fish Head Lady -- who I had never met prior to her Soy-Bombing my interview -- had emailed me pictures of the actual fish heads, along with some of her Boston terrier licking its lips near one of the heads. Seriously, does this kind of shit happen where you work? I know I'm still somewhat new to having a 'real' job, so I don't know know if strangers bombarding you with animal parts is, like, a normal thing for the working professional. Is it?

In a sea of personal and professional shit this week, that incident really rose to the surface. I did go on a blind date yesterday (swell guy, but I don't think I'm ready to date yet); someone stole my spare key from my front porch (I've never lived in fear before; now's my chance to practice my best Lifetime-movie-esque Woman in Peril); my dog needs puppy uppers; I have a potential $30,000 hole in my budget at work (like how I clarified that? As if you might be confused and think that I have $30,000 missing from my personal budget?); and I have the sneaking suspicion that I am doing the wrong thing with my career. How does one get to be independently wealthy? Please tell me.

Oy vey. At least I got to see Tommy Lee in speedos on his Nebraska show. That was both uplifting and inspirational.

Too Much Information, Vol. III: The Pits

First off, I'd like to shamelessly plug my other blog. I updated Lepidoptera Lady last night, so go over there and love those lepidoptera. Please? I'm just looking out for the newish blog on the block.

Onward.

If you've stood near me recently -- and really, who among you hasn't? -- you may have noticed a distinct aroma emanating from my armpits. The particular scent varies by the day. Some days you might smell a clean-laundry-like fragrance; other days my pits just smell straight up rank; and still other days my underarm area smells like a basket of baked goods. Indeed, there are scents a'plenty dwelling in my pits.

I wish I could take credit for this odiferous odyssey under my arms, but I really owe it to my recent venture into the world of aluminum-free deodorant. Deodorant/antiperspirant is a necessity down here; today, it was over 80 degrees at 6:30am when I walked Foxy. The humidity is so thick -- even in the early hours of the day -- that you can grab whole chunks of it and form it into balloon-animalesque shapes (I make a mean humidity poodle). I'm usually on my second shirt of the day by 9am; I just get so nasty and sweaty so quickly. So, I wear the deodorant/antiperspirant to minimize laundry and as a courtesy to others. I work with the public and I would like them to return to the nature center, and not be put off by the smelly girl.

I used Degree for awhile and it worked well. Then we got these nice white moisture-wicking Greg Norman golf shirts at work (the shirts were left over from a golf tournament fundraiser for the Nature Center. We would never buy $48 shirts 'just because.' I'm still awaiting approval on buying my own bottle of Wite-out). My fancy shirt was nice for a month or two. Then I noticed the stains. The round yellow stains ruining the only nice thing I had to wear to work.

I looked at some of my other white clothes and noticed similar stains. For a little while, I thought I had some super high-powered sweat coming out of my pores, capable of altering the chemical composition of cotton. It really seemed like I was producing some weapons-grade stuff in my armpits; I even considered harvesting it and selling it to the U.S. government, or at least a militia in Montana.

But then one day I read an article that shattered my dreams of assisting fringe political groups. The article said that aluminum in deodorant/antiperspirant caused yellow staining. Maybe this is common knowledge, but it was news to me, and that day I threw out my little teal friend -- it was the end of the road for me and Degree. No more would I allow it to wreck havoc on my whites.

What's funny is that I was well aware of the aluminum antiperspirant-breast cancer link, as well as the Alzheimer's link. Did that stop me? No, but the threat of permanently sullying my clothes surely did. It's nice to have priorities, isn't it?

The next step was to find an effective aluminum-free deodorant/antiperspirant. The whole foods store has quite a selection, but it's hard to tell which ones actually work, so I chose one with a snappy name: le Stick. The fresh gardenia scent was pleasing enough and the label claimed that this "natural deodorant absorbs excess perspiration, oils, and odors to give all day, all the time protection." Why, that's exactly what I was looking for! Who would have ever thought that the marketing folks would have put the exact words I was looking for on the label, causing me to buy their product? Amazing.

What I learned from le Stick is that I should never ever trust anything made by the Grandpa Brands Co. I've never been near any grandpa who smells like gardenias or who didn't appear sweaty at some point. Le Stick and I did not get along well. If by "all day, all the time protection" Grandpa meant "28 minutes," then I suppose le Stick was a good buy and not le Shit. But I would really like to make it to lunchtime without knocking myself out with my own stench.

I auditioned Tom's of Maine natural long-lasting deodorant stick in apricot next. Tom did more for me than Grandpa ever did; I was drier longer and my armpits smelled good enough to lick, or at least gnaw on with a cup of coffee. However, when I returned from vacation I thought the airline had stuffed pastries in my toiletry bag; the bag smelled all dessert-y. Turns out my apricot deodorant melted all over my toothbrush, floss stick, and nail clippers. No more Tom's.

The final contestant in Aluminum-Free Deodorant Idol was Adidas Absorbent-Deo with some sort of "Cotton Tech" (which is patented if you were wondering). This stuff is actually the best of the bunch. Not only do I not have to drive across town for it, but it handles odor well with its sporty scent -- "Fitness Fresh" to be precise; if I can't be athletic, at least my deodorant can -- and I guess it keeps me dry. Actually I feel more slimy than dry; the deodorant seems to congeal my sweat. When I'm in the heat I feel kind of gooey, but once I'm in some air conditioning, the slime disappears. It's incredible; must be the "Cotton Tech."

It's been a smelly journey, but the end is nigh. The bunny has been nibbling on me throughout this post, and I fear that he's going to start taking bigger chunks out of me soon. I must don body armor and put him back in the bathroom. If I don't post for several days, please alert the authorities as that probably means a rabbit is feasting on my corpse.

I almost lost my left nipple just now

The scratches on my boobs are really not to be believed. Who's that rapper with the claw mark tattoos on her chest? Is it Eve? Whoever it is, she has nothing on what I'm rocking right now.

Hef was not helping me unpack my books (licking me and looking cute while I unpack boxes=helpful; rabbits are fun! chewing on my books and inner arm=not helpful; rabbits are vile hell rodents), so I picked him up to put him in his room (which also functions as my bathroom).

If you don't know much about rabbits, most aren't fond of being picked up and/or carried. Perhaps that is because predators grab ahold of them and carry them away, so maybe these domesticated bunnies feel like they're losing control of their bodies when a person picks them up. For the first few seconds, Hef is okay -- "oh, hey, look at that. I'm not on the ground any more." But then just moments later, he's wildly thrashing about --"I saw Fatal Attraction! I know what's happening here! Unhand me, you evil bitch!"

And that's what happened today. I was wearing a loose-fitting tank top and Hef doesn't so much have claws as he has talons. As he thrashed, his paws -- I like to think of them as daggers of pain -- got caught in my shirt. Had I been wearing a bra, the situation wouldn't be as dire as it is now. But, alas, I have just returned from vacation in granola-mecca Missoula, so bras are the furthest thing from my mind.

These scratches start at the top of my breasts and go all the way down on each one (<-- I like that "all the way down." Sounds like I have a massive rack). Left one sustained some pretty serious areola damage; I have no words for the stinging pain in this area. Right one has scratches all over it -- even close to my armpit. Perhaps I should have labeled this a "Too Much Information" post. Ah, well, if you've read this far, then you obviously have no problem with my nipples.

I'm going to go ice my boobs now. I'd go look for Neosporin, but I think it's in the bathroom with Hef, and I'm afraid to go in there. Now, to me, he looks like that Donnie Darko rabbit. Damn, I really liked the left nipple, too.

[big heavy sigh]

Blargh. This one is going to be a quickie. I haven't been feeling very Malachitey this week.

I was half-heartedly writing a post -- I've been pretty half-hearted about most things since returning from Montana. Foxy was sitting behind me looking pretty forlorn, so I turned around to assure her that she is my number one poocharoo. While my back was turned, Hefner knocked over my beer and started to lap it up. I have a dog who needs Xanax and a rabbit who likes the sauce.

I abandoned my post because I just couldn't bring myself to do it, which is weird because I'm always in the mood to throw some crap on up here. I've just been really down this week. Returning from vacation blows, man.

Anyway, I wanted to put something up today -- even its me rambling on and on (not drunken rambling, mind you, since the rabbit drank my beer) -- because I don't think I've gone this long without posting. I end this one with the few things I know to be true:

1. Too Much Information, Vol. III is on its way. It's not as invasive as the last two, but it still gets to the slimy, waxy, fertile essence that is BPW.

2. I'm feeling...adrift? Out of place? Something. I'm not feeling right. I don't know where I'm supposed to be and I'm not handling it well. I'm semi-seriously looking at MFA programs for creative nonfiction, but I don't know if that would be a good place for me given my previous experiences with poetry/fiction folks (my impression=humorless, pretentious twits). I either love my job or I hate my job, I don't know; trying to figure out on which side of this fine line I stand is giving me a major headache behind my right eye.

3. I will never again trust gas station coffee that proclaims to be decaf because I'm sure someone fucked up and switched the canisters. That, or the gas station ran out of decaf and thought no one would notice if they put the high octane stuff in the unleaded coffee canister. To someone who hasn't had caffeine in almost a year, there is a noticable difference. I noticed this difference while I sat at my desk, clutched my chest, panted, and shook my leg uncontrollably for four hours. I also had time to think about as I tossed and turned in my bed until dawn. Never again, 7-11, never again.

4. I can predict the weather with my left elbow.

5. JB, you are way too cool. Your comment on the last post made me cry. Sure, I cried as I drove through Idaho listening to "Don't Stop Believing" by Journey last Saturday, but that doesn't mean I give out my tears for free. The scenic beauty of Idaho, Steve Perry's powerful vocals on that inspirational tune, and your words are all equally moving.

Good beer, mountains, and interpretive dancers, oh my!

What I did on my summer vacation: a mystical journey of sexual awakening.

I got that from a New Yorker cartoon, printed a few years ago. I came across it while cleaning out my storage unit this week (oh, the things I took the time to box up). I'll have to scan it and post it here so you, too, can hang it on your fridge.

No, my summer vacation hasn't been that mystical, although I did have a fun reunion with a special friend. This whole trip has been odd; Wednesday of this week really was the oddest day of them all, mostly because I ventured outside my storage unit into downtown Missoula. Below are some of my favorite pictures from that day.

As I repacked my books, I had a little helper. I like this picture of Charlie because he looks totally stoned (well, he is a Missoula cat, soooo....). Check out his rabies tag. Why, oh why, is the county rabies tag in the shape of a pig? I do not understand.

Oh, lordy, lordy, it's the Interpretive Dancers with Matching Bowl Haircuts (IDMBH)!

I knew I came back to Missoula for a reason. Any time there was live music at the park by the river, these two were there. In fact, any time music could be heard over a PA system anywhere, these two were there doing their crazy arm movements. I used to see them at the mall every so often. I would just be strolling through the mall, la la la, then the dynamic duo would literally spin by, twirling their arms, making faces to match their movements. My favorite move was when the guy would motion his hands and arms in such a way to show that his eyes were bulging out, his jaw was dropping open, and his tongue was rolling out. Then he would have to pick up his tongue (which appeared to be quite heavy) and roll it back into his mouth. Oh, I was thrilled to see them at the park on Wednesday, jamming out to the country rock cover band. I think I watched them for an hour. It's good to know that some things never change.

Missoula has its own brand of grafitti, to say the least. I agree: worms are cool. I wonder what you're thinking about when you scrawl that on a restroom door. Did you just have an epiphany about vermiculture? Or did you heatedly debate worms versus beetles regarding their roles in decomposition? Who knows.


I distinctly remember children fishing in this "lagoon." And it did used to freeze in the winter, necessitating this sign. I really think that when the "lagoon" is full of rocks and knapweed, they won't have to worry too much about kids ice-skating on the "lagoon," falling through the ice, and suing the city.

I just want to know where all the fish went. Fish and Wildlife used to stock it full of fish that were too big to successfully spawn, so kids would catch ridiculously massive, slow-moving fish when they were hanging out at the "lagoon."

What's weird is that the city is also ripping out the huge wading pool at the park I used to work at. What does this town have against bodies of water?


Mmm, beer (mouth open, drooling). Skydiver Blonde, one of many fine beers out of the state of Montana. I now live in a place that considers Sam Adams to be a microbrew. This makes me sad. Sam Adams doesn't even have a cool label.

Good parenting, Missoula style. Take your child to the park for the day, even journey out onto the scary cement ledge in the river. Then turn your back as your child tries to step into the river which appears to be moving quite swiftly. You're quite obviously absorbed in the poetry of the rapids; you're child is soon to be absorbed in the rapids. What's that you say? This will be a "life experience" for your child? I agree. I'm sure she'll never forget about the time she almost drowned.

Just in case you forget, "M" is for mountain (actually, it's for the University of Montana, but I like to think that people put letters on things to remember what they are. An "R" on the river, a "T" on a tree, an "S" floating in the smoke from all the fires). I love this western habit of alphabatizing mountains. There's actually an "L" to the left of the "M":

"L" is for what a Loser I feel like for Leaving. Luckily, I still have beer to get through this Lonely Life. Oh, that's just Lame.

Charlie the cat is loving my laptop (hey, look at that -- more "L"s) a little too much. Has he been hitting the catnip while I wasn't paying attention?

Free to be you and me

To the people of Missoula, Montana:

We need to talk. I would like your undivided attention, so please close your book and turn off your ipod. What were you listening to? Bella Fleck? Whatever, just give me a few minutes and I'll leave you alone.

Just because I wear pastels and you wear various earth tones does not make you better than me. Additionally, although my clothes, hair, and feet are clean, doesn't mean it's okay to stare at me. Lots of people outside Missoula bathe and do laundry; it may even be an everyday practice for some.

And this thing slung over my shoulder that you keep glaring at is called a "purse." There's no reason to be angry at it. I know I can't easily tie a pair of rockclimbing shoes to it like you do with your backpacks to prove your outdoorsy cred, but I can store my vital items -- wallet, phone, keys, facial blotting sheets (for degreasing) -- in it. It may not have "North Face" or "Columbia" written all over it, but it still does its job.

To you Missoula women (or would you prefer 'womyn'?), please don't feel threatened by me because I shave my legs and armpits. I know it totally disturbs your world order when a pink thing with silky smooth legs traipses through your town, but I mean no harm, really. I shave because I like to, not because I feel like I have to. In fact, I don't think of gender roles at all when I'm in the shower. I think it's okay that you don't shave; it is your choice. Please remember that feminism can wear pink (thanks JB) and it can be hairless, too. So, don't judge.

In general, you're good folks, Missoulians. Sometimes, though, your glances linger a little too long. And you're not very good at disguising your thoughts as you're sizing me up. Really, you don't have to literally look me up and down. I'm a person, just like you, and I used to be a Missoulian, just like you (although I've always bathed and shaved). We're not that different.

I think it may do you good to leave Missoula every once in awhile. Take a trip to Boca Raton and see how some other people live. You'll find that it's okay to be clean and wear color. However, don't take too much Boca couture with you; it's never okay to wear socks and sandals, no matter what the folks on the shuffleboard court tell you.

Hey, remember that time we got lit and we ran home from across town and fell asleep in a grassy median in the street? We had some good times together, don't forget that. So, are we cool? Cool. Yeah, you can go back to your chai and Kafka now. Thank you for your time.

You can't go home again

Or so says Thomas Wolfe. Thomas Wolfe said a lot of things; I like to call these things "crap." He may be an essential writer of the American canon, blah, blah, blah -- whatever, I'm not a fan. I can pinpoint the start of my disdain for fiction to Look Homeward Angel. The most lasting memory I have of that torturous read is Wolfe ending every chapter with "O lost!" Wee bit over the top, don't you think, Thomas? I know nothing can go your way and that's very tragic and all, but calm the fuck down.

The only redeeming quality of Look Homeward Angel, besides its top-notch paperweight abilities, is that it piqued my interest in literary criticism. What a wonderful way to make a living -- read all sorts of garbage and rip it apart. If you tell me there's more to criticism than that, I won't believe you.

The most memorable commentary I read on Look Homeward Angel completely ignored the novel itself. Instead, this critic, one of Wolfe's contemporaries, spent more time on Wolfe's odd personal habits, citing how he had his tailor cut out the crotch of his slacks (*least favorite word alert*) and patch the hole with a softer, thinner fabric so that Wolfe may better rub himself throughout the day. Now, that's good critiquin'.

Anyway, while I've been running around western Montana, I've been thinking about that phrase, "You can't go home again." (Oh yeah, I always have American writers on the mind. I think about Noam Chomsky's quote,"If we choose, we can live in a world of comforting illusion", while I do the dishes.) (That, of course, is a big fat lie. I really ponder, "Colorless green ideas sleep furiously."). I'm not sure if Montana was necessarily my home in the first place. After all, I only lived here during college; still, that was almost four years. I consider it more my home than everywhere else I've lived, with the exception of Florida (where my actual home, parent's home, bank account, job and car are).

I came back here last summer for a wedding (where I was the minister. For a small fee, you, too, can be married by BPW. Unlike most other ministers, I won't tell you how to live your life, plus I'll show a lot of cleavage during the ceremony.). I was all caught up in the wedding hoopla then, so I didn't notice this strange feeling as much...this strange feeling of "Okay, I used to live here. I've had some important life experiences here. Why do I feel like I should not be here?"

On an unrelated note, these thoughts have alternated with the constant question, "Where are all the old people? Did they all find cocoons?” Everywhere I look, there are young unwrinkled faces (actually, this dry western air causes premature wrinkling, but we shan't dwell on that fine point...or crease), and not a single AARP member in sight. Walking down the street and feeling like the most senior person around is a new sensation for me. In Florida, most of the women on any given street have hairdos older than me.

So, I feel out of place. I don't think that means I can't come back here again, but I do think that it means I can't come back here and expect everything to be the same as when I left. For one, everyone I ever knew at any point in time ever is married. That kind of makes me feel losery. (Perhaps, and I'm just guessing here, perhaps it is because I live in God's Waiting Room that I don't have a mate. I might fare better in a town with 6,000 men ages 18-30, conveniently placed in one location, for my enjoyment.). I'll just have to learn to appreciate this place as a (gasp!) tourist now.

I've got to skedaddle and call up the people who are supposed to pick up my futon and microwave. Great website if you are looking to get rid of crap or get new crap: freecycle.org. I listed the items in my storage unit and within 12 hours everything was spoken for. It costs me nothing, costs them nothing, and prevents me from taking the journey to the landfill.

Most exciting and/or questionable items in my storage unit:

1. My journal from 1996-1999. If you are into meaningless high school drama, this is the book for you. I highly recommend it.

2. Old shampoo. Why did I take the time to box this up? If it wasn't important enough for me to bring with me, why didn't I throw it away? Did I think when I finally cleaned out my unit that I would be so destitute that I wouldn't be able to afford new shampoo?

3. Love letters from an exboyfriend. What is funny is that I don't remember him writing love letters at all. It's not like I opened a box, saw the letters, and said, "Oh yeah!". It was more like, "Who are these from? Really, C. wrote me letters? When did he give these to me? I didn't know that he could read, let alone write."

Exciting stuff here, folks, exciting stuff.

If a hurricane or earthquake screws up this trip, I will be so pissed

Oy, it's been a rough week. To those who sent warm thoughts my way regarding my kitty, thank you. The apartment is definitely not the same without him. Foxy was really droopy the first morning without him, and I've been droopier than usual. But we'll get through it. It was for the best; I did everything that I could (or at least what I thought was fair to a cat who can't tell me how he really feels) . I couldn't have loved him any more and he couldn't have been a better cat. We had a good run.

I'm leaving at the ass-crack of dawn tomorrow for Montana. When I moved to Florida 2 1/2 years ago, or so, it was just supposed to be a temporary thing before I went to grad school in Washington state. So, I left most of my belongings in a storage unit in western Montana. However, Florida sucked me in and I'm kind of tired of paying $70/month to store my things 3,000 miles away from me, so I'm liberating my junk.

I bet there are all kinds of neat things in storage units across western Montana. Every time I think Floridians are kind of nutty, I'm reminded of the Aryan Nation, the Freemen, Kaczynski, Ted Turner -- all sorts of much nuttier nuts (the Jordan almonds of wack jobs, if you will) that have deep Montanan roots. Anyway, I'm sure some of these folks have some neat documents and weaponry in storage units across the state.

What do I have in my storage unit? Good question. Aside from a smattering of body parts of ex-boyfriends, I'm not totally sure. My books are definitely there. My winter clothes, which I hope I'll never need again. And I'm sure they're totally out of style. They've already been hidden from the light of day for nearly 3 years, and when you consider that Montana is a few years behind the curve anyway (I'm just being honest), I bet I have a special sampling of the late '90s in my storage unit.

So, that's what I'm doing with my summer vacation. This is the only time my Montana friends can take vacation, too, so no one will be in town when I'm there. Awesome. I get to return to my college town and get rowdy...by myself. Jealous? And to make this vacation even more exciting -- besides flying from Tampa to Phoenix to Spokane, then renting a car (4 months, 4 months, and I wouldn't have to pay that damn under 25 surcharge), and driving three hours into Montana tomorrow -- I overdrew my bank account with all of my vet bills this week. Yay! Vacation with no money! It's all a girl could ever want!

I'm bringing my laptop with me, and since no one will be around, I assume I'll be using it a lot. I apologize for my surliness. I've been up at my parents' house, hanging around my teenage brother and sister for the past 36 hours. My 15-year-old sister is actually a little ray of sunshine; I even got her to ear-candle today (this wasn't difficult; she's much more into ear cleanliness than I am). The 13-year-old brother, though. Oh, dude. There are no words, mostly because he refuses to utter any around us. One of the little old ladies at work said that this behavior is nature's gift to parents: kids are absolutely unbearable in the teenage years, just before they leave the house. This makes them very easy to say goodbye to when they go off to college. And then they come back as normal human beings!

Anyway, I hope that his surliness didn't rub off on me too much. It's been a hard week, with Ernie, with getting ready to leave, getting things in order at work and all that. Oh, awesome thing on my last day before vacation: while the campers were in the planetarium, someone (we're 99% sure it was three teenagers loitering around the nature center in the morning) broke into their classroom, went through all of the camper lunch boxes and stole their vending machine money. Isn't that sweet? The thieves made off with a grand total of $18.25 and drank one little girl's orange juice. And of course, they freaked out all the little kids. What is wrong with people?

Man, fuck packing up the storage unit. I'm going to sit on the river and drink beer all week. I earned it.

Ernie

A few days ago I mentioned something about Ernie acting kind of off. It started last Thursday -- all of a sudden he went from being a kitten to ... not acting kittenish at all. He was really lethargic and didn't eat all weekend. Monday morning was the first morning since I've had him where he didn't sit on my lap to gnaw on my hair while I combed it after showering. That was really alarming.

I took him to the vet yesterday morning. They took a few X-rays and found that he had a massive build-up of fluid around his heart, so much so that they couldn't even see the heart. They told me that I needed to take him to a specialist immediately since the pus area was so massive it was compressing his lungs, making breathing very difficult for him.

Since the only internal medicine specialist for small animals is in Sarasota, I picked up Foxy and the three of us drove up. It was an unnerving drive; the look on the vet's face when she looked for his heartbeat -- with two different stethoscopes because she couldn't hear the beat through the fluid -- distressed me.

The specialist immediately did an ultrasound on Ernie and extracted some of the fluid (10 syringes full in five minutes) to examine it. It turned out to be pus surrounding his heart from some unexplained infection. It's very unusual to have an indoor cat (like mine) to have such an infection; it could have been a pre-existing condition, for all we know.

The specialist presented me with a few options and called my vet at home for me so I could get her take, too. The best option seemed to be to leave Ernie overnight to allow the specialist to aggressively tap the pus area and bombard it with saline and antibiotics to break it up so that she could use tubes to suck all the junk out. Since my parents live closer to Sarasota than I do, after saying goodnight to Ernie, I just headed further north, so I could stay with them for the night. The vet was going to call me after tapping the pus that night and this morning.

I was walking Foxy with my mom this morning when the specialist called. By this time I hadn't eaten since Sunday (still haven't eaten) and I'd been up since 3am, thinking about Ernie. I got a lot (definitely not all) of my crying out in the Sarasota clinic parking lot yesterday and also as I drove to my parents' house. I knew. I knew there had been a reason that I wrote my ode to Ernie post last week (although I do have to say that I'm a little leery about writing posts about Foxy and Hef now). And I knew this situation wasn't going to turn out how I wanted it to.

The specialist said that the pus had a cottage-cheese-like consistency the closer she got to his heart. This consistency made it very difficult to extract as it kept clogging the tubes. The only other option would be to intubate him, so that he wouldn't be breathing on his own, and surgically go in there and remove the pus. Even then, there's no reason why the pus wouldn't come back, so it could be an ongoing thing. And he would have to be hooked up to the breathing machine for at least two weeks.

The specialist did not recommend that option; she didn't think he would pull through it. As for me, I didn't want to do that to Ernie. It just sounded like a lot of stress. I think if he could talk he would ask me not to do that to him, too.

So, this morning at 11:30 I made it back to Sarasota so that I could be with him as he was put to sleep. When I walked in with the vet, Ernie got a little pissy -- probably because the vet had been coming after him with tubes and syringes all night and all morning. He calmed down, though, when he figured out who I was. He always liked to have his cheeks rubbed, so I did that as the vet administered the injection. I watched his tail; that was one of the funny things about Ernie -- his tail was always twitching. Soon the twitching got slower, and his head drooped a little in my hands, but he still pushed his head into my palm as he always did when I pet him. Then he let out a big breath and his tail ceased twitching. And that was all.

Getting mentally prepared to go do this was much worse than actually doing it. Don't get me wrong -- it was horribly sad, and I cried then, just as did yesterday and as I am now. I'm so glad he didn't have to go this alone, though.

A week ago, I had a normal kitten. That's one of the more upsetting, confusing things about this situation: he was so young and this happened so fast. I just feel like I've been kicked in the stomach non-stop for the past two days.

I'm going to miss him so much. He was such a good cat.