My dogs are obsessed with obtaining a piece of chewing gum from my coat pocket.  They love chewing gum, especially the fruity kind.  And I have a feeling that the Extreme Watermelon Blast variety I'm currently holding is the equivalent of pug cocaine. 

One of my pugs once ate a piece of fruity chewing gum that I had absent-mindedly left on My Beloved One's bedside table.  My dog smelled like raspberries for a few days, which I guess isn't too big of a stretch for her, since it is my profound belief that pugs inherantly smell like Fruit Loops and dreams. 

It is kind of hard though, having one perfect angel of a pug and another who received a post-doctorate degree at Evil Medical School.  I shouldn't imply that she is evil, I guess....she's just heinously naughty and attention-seeking and has seperation anxiety when I leave that makes her prone to long fits of shrill and demented barking. 

But she is so ROTTEN CUTE I just can't resist her! When she's not being a complete jerk, she cuddles with me and snores with this only-a-mother-could-love cuteness that melts my freaking heart.  She is afraid of smaller animals and always has to sit by me on the couch in the presence of one.  She has soft black ears and these sad little eyes that are always hoping to spy a saltine cracker or, well, a piece of fruity chewing gum, I guess.  I can't be mad at the little bugger!  She kills me with cuteness!  Even when she is ripping serious ass on my girlfriend's pillow or completely annihilating the garbage can, I can only laugh and say dumb shit like, "Awww...you must be hungry!  How about a saltine?" 

The Snow Globe Continuum

        I woke up especially early, climbed down the ladder, and stepped outside.  As I lite my cigarette, I was comforted by the calm of the early morning.  The crunch of snow beneath my shoes was the only sound amidst the quiet, sleeping cottages.

        I am in a snow globe! I thought, excited.  Everything above me is frozen!  The twigs and the light and the great white expanse of sky are character studies in stillness, standing sentinel over me, tiny below in my plastic globe. If shaken, I would be the one to alter, crashing through space and bouncing like a pinball against tree and ice and stone.

         The sun began to filter in that early morning way, and as I looked up at my exhaled cloud of smoke, I saw a ripple in the fabric of the sky, as if heat were radiating out and warming the cold around it.  It grew to such great heights and widths and other measurements used only far off int he distance of time that I feared it would melt into the roof of the cottage, marring the shingles with its captivating undulation.  Instead, it began to circle and swirl like the eye of a storm, and then, without warning, it shriveled to a speck and blinked away.

        The door slammed behind me.  She, looking trampled by sleep, must have sensed my absence from bed and come to look for me.  She walked to my side and rested her head on my shoulder.

        "I just saw a portal to another time," I said, "just right over that low branch there."

        She continued her silence and nuzzled further into me, away from the cold. We stared at the sky, over that low branch, into the great white expanse of white and filtered light, and wondered what we will become as this snow globe life hurls us together through space.

*Modified from work appearing originally in Writing Bitches Writing Group, 4 September 2008©.

Spirit in the Sky

Since quitting my job, I've been able to go a great many things that I've always wanted to do and very rarely had the time to complete.  These include overhaulin' the apartment big lesbo style with my girlfriend (she has a very sporty power tool collection--innuendos are welcome!), spending time with The Old Wimmins (the pugs), and, of course, spending more time at the neighborhood bar. 

I have also been able to go back to work at the funeral home, which I am so excited about! I love the funeral home.  When I tell people this, it usually illicits some form of, "What?  You love the funeral home??  Are you sick or something?"  But I really do love it--I love the people, I love the services we provide, and I love to drive funeral hearses.  They are the sweetest rides one could possibly imagine, despite the main purpose being to transport deceased folks.  Last summer, I got into the habit of singing "Spirit in the Sky" whenever I drove a funeral hearse:  "When I die and they lay me to rest! Gonna go to the place that's the BEST!! When I lay me down to die, goin' UP to the spirit in the SKY!!! Spirit in the SKY!!!"  I don't know.  It just seems right.

Last night, I walked into work and a strange man greeted me in the foyer.  He wore a three-piece suit that was a little short in the legs and had a plethora of buttons and pins decorating his lapel. He looked roughly 90 years old and his remaining hair was brushed back into a gray cloud of fluff that touched his shirt collar.  I'd never seen him before in my life, but he extends a hearty handshake and says to me, "Well! You look just like our new vice president! You know, that Palin lady! You look just like her!"
Kill me now.
"Oh,"  I say, trying to sound as pleasant as possible after being compared to the likes of a fundamentalist right-wing crazy person.  "She's not the vice president yet." 
"Well, she will be!  I'm going home to watch her speech with my wife!  I wouldn't miss it for the world!"
The gentleman then pulls out his card and introduces himself to me.  "I'm not just giving you this because you're a potential voter, you know," he says, "but I'm running for senate!"
I look at the man again, and notice that one of his many lapel decorations was a campaign button that looked as though time had forgotten it.  I thought I could make out the year 1968 in a spot where the dust wasn't so thick. 
"That's great," I say as I pocket the card.  "What brings you to the funeral home tonight?"
"Well, I was just visiting the presidents display," he says, referring to a traveling exhibit about the death of presidents.  It even includes a full-scale replica of one of the presidents caskets.  "I was just sitting in that room, meditating.  I was thanking all the presidents for their fine contributions to our wonderful country."  

The man eyes fill to the brim with tears that threaten to spill over onto his weathered face.  He clutches his campaign cards and shifts a little.  I picture him sitting in a room for a few hours with nothing but a full scale walnut replica of Lincoln's coffin and a few thoughts of gratitude in his mind.  I soften a little as all memories of the Sarah Palin comparison flee from my mind. 
"Hey," I offer. "Have you seen the video presentation?  I can set it up for you."
"No, I haven't!" he beams.  "I would love to!"
I take his arm, and we take the short cut to the exhibit.  I imagine what we look like, walking together; his rickety, aged steps leading the way in excitement as I wobble along side him in my high heels.  When we arrive, I pull a chair close to the television and he sits down.  I ready the DVD and turn up the volume to full blast at his request. 
"The video is about twenty minutes," I say. 
"That's great!"  He answers. "I have plenty of time before the new vice president's speech."
"Excellent,"  I say, and leave him to it.

I check in on him about ten minutes later to bring him a cup of coffee and see how he's enjoying the presentation.  He is enthralled, and so gracious.  About thirty minutes later, I return to make sure he hasn't fallen asleep or something, but there he sits, attentive as ever, watching the presentation for the second time (it automatically loops).  He seems very content and extends a hearty thank you when he leaves.

Whenever someone walks toward the exit in the early evening, I always think it looks like they are walking toward heaven--it's the way the sun is shining and the relative darkness of inside, the way the light seems to engulf the person as they walk away, and the blinding flash of white when the door is opened.  The interesting man turned around and waved when he reached the doorway, and I smiled and waved back.  And, although I knew he was only leaving, that he would probably be back later in the week to see the president display again as he promised, that he was on his way home for a nice dinner with his wife before diving into the RNC coverage with as much gusto and zest that can be mustered in a 90 year-old frame, that familiar tune popped into my mind--not as a final salute this time, but in recognition of meeting a suprisingly endearing friend: "Goin' up to the spirit in the sky.  That's where I'm gonna go when I die.  When they lay me down to rest, gonna go to the place that's the best." 

I haven't written in quite some time due to several reasons, mostly revolving around work.  It drives me crazy; I never thought I would be someone who would set aside writing for any reason, even an occupation.  However, I received a promotion, which is nice, except it has also promoted my workload to the point where I'm heading into the office (yes, I have an office now!) even on my days off.  And I'm salaried.  Hrmph. 

I'm excited to report that My Beloved One and I are getting along quite nicely in our loft.  I've been frequenting the Bar Next to Our Loft quite frequently, and it has turned into an increasingly exciting hangout.  I've met a lot of new friends, and made several shocking discoveries (namely that my next door neighbor ironically has the same crazy ex that I do.  It was probably one of the most surreal experiences of my life, yet a wonderfully odd way to bond with someone.  Nothing brings people together like sharing horror stories about a mutual, psychotic past lover).  I've still been doing some improv to keep me grounded, but the consistancy of the group tends to waver quite a bit, unfortunately.  My Beloved One and I started a book club (membership: 2 thus far) as an extra curricular couple-thing.  Our work schedules are still opposite, so it's sometimes difficult to spend time together.  At least reading the same book at the same time bridges the gap.  Or gives the illusion of doing so.

We are going to The Faint concert together this coming Monday, so that will be some quality time worth looking forward to.  We've been planning on this for months, so I'm excited for the day to come! 

I have little else to report, but am hoping to offer some social commentary soon.  Hopefully I still have the chops for it!

I haven't written in awhile, mainly because every time I'd sit down to type something, I'd feel like my life was irrevocably falling apart.  Now I'm feeling better, and therefore feel able  to write about it with a little more objectivity than I would have been previously.

I got hurt at work.  Again.
Granted, working with intensive adolescent kids with histories as violent offenders is probably a good indicator that these sort of things might or will or sometimes do occur.  However, this was not in my job description.  After I got injured, I stayed at work for another few hours and then started throwing up.  Without giving details of the incident, my head had been hit several times with a decent amount of force.  My eyes wouldn't focus as I was trying to type up my incident reports, and I found myself staring blankly at the computer screen for several minutes at a time, unable to collect my thoughts to even form coherent sentences.  My coworker asked me if I was ok, and I said, "Well, I can't quite make my eyes focus.  And I have a splitting headache."  She said, "Oh, no, I wonder if you have a concussion?"  I said I had no idea if I did or not, because I'd never had one.  She said, "You're not throwing up, are you?"  And I said, "Well, I did earlier, but I guess I thought that it was just because I got punched in the stomach.  But then I did again just a little while ago."  My coworker called our supervisor and told her she was taking me to the ER.  I puked into a plastic cup of banana smoothie on the way there, which was a shining moment in my life. But we made it, and after watching an ailed patient surrender the contents of his stomach onto the ER floor and enduring a CATscan, the doctors said I had a concussion, indeed. 

The crazy part was that my nurse, Roger, a red-faced, Santa-esque man in a blue jumpsuit asked me for my pain rating, which I reported as "probably a six..yeah, six."  He asked me if I wanted something for my pain, and I said I would.  Roger then pulled out two large, white pills and placed them in my hand.  I said, "Wow, these are HUGE Tylenol!"  Roger said, "Uh, these are Vicadin.  Take two." 
I said, "Holy shit."
The only thing that completely dispelled the excitement of Hydrocodone to the inner teenage pill popper hidden deep within myself was the fact that the Vicadin made me really, REALLY sick.
Miserably sick. There goes my career as a professional prescription drug addict. 

At any rate, I'm on the mend and back at the job, which is getting better.  But truth be told, it got a lot worse before it improved.  And when I think about it---about the injuries I've sustained at the hands of really angry, scared kids over the past 9 months---I feel sad.  Two sprained shoulders, one dislocated jaw, one sprained neck, one concussion, and too many bruises, bites, and batteries to even count anymore, and I wonder how much, literally, I can take.  I thought I would quit the first time I got punched in the face. That didn't happen.  I thought I'd quit the first time I had to get medical attention.  That didn't happen (obviously).  I then set the bar so high as to say I would finally quit the minute I had to set foot inside an ER.  And that hasn't happened, either.  And I'm not sure why.

I'm beginning to think that there is a fine line between devotion and insanity.  Sometimes I feel like my job is an abusive lover---the shifts where I'm called every single detrimental name in the book, beat up, shoved, spit at, sworn at, slapped, kicked, intimidated, ignored.  My family says, "Get out of there.  We're worried about you getting hurt."  And I say, "It'll get better.  It always does. The next time I get hurt, I'm out.  I promise."  And then I go to work and kids want to play games, work on homework, joke around, have fun---be kids.  And it is so wonderful.  Then I feel like I'm doing something, I feel like I'm helping.  I feel good about myself and very proud of the kids.  But I know in my heart that it's all too good to be true.  The behavior is so unpredictable.  And it's just a matter of time before I'm that "fucking bitch" either getting hurt or watching my coworkers get hurt, which is almost worse.   A lot of people don't understand why I stay.  And I sometimes don't, either. 

I've always been a big fan of cognitive dissonance theory.  But not so much when it applies so directly to my life.