Unhinged in the City
Friday, December 29, 2006, 5:59 PM
It feels weird being home since I haven’t been lately. I’ve been trying to get back into the swing of being homebody. Woo, it’s rough.
I was house and pet sitting for a friend during the days just before Christmas, for a little alien calico girl and a grumpy orange tabby. They’re such sweethearts, both of them in their own way. Fidget is the calico’s name and she’s the equivalent of a Joe Cool. Nothing fazes her, except maybe for a stuffy nose. (A cat can snort. A cat can sneeze all over you and make you flinch.) I love how she lets me lay my head on her side and gaze up into her pretty kitty eyes. She earned her name because she’s a fidgety foo to the oomph degree. And she earned her nickname because she sounds like an alien when Kitty Madness strikes. Instead of tearing around the house howling like a normal cat does, she’ll say, “Eeee-ear. Eeee-ear.”
Gromit is the orange grumpy Gus, the kitty who looks so much like my Pooky boy. My heart goes out to this scowly cat because he’s been through so much and is still going through a lot. We believe he had a tough kittyhood fraught with the wrong kind of attention. Plus, he’s had medical issues even before his mommy swooped in to save his life, so he’s understandably wary of strangers and of life. I’m as gentle with him as I used to be with my Pooky, but Gromit still won’t let me pet him much—only when he’s taken unawares. He swats at me with his claws sheathed, so it’s more of a gentle paw pat. His mom tells me he was the same way with her when she first took him into her home—hissy and standoffish, and that she finally won him over when she decided to ignore his grumpiness. She just picked him up and settled him beside her … and he stayed.
It was weird not being home for Christmas Eve (again), but I talked to Oogie and to my sister. And on Christmas morning, I got up and opened my presents. My booty? Omaha steaks, candles, candle holders, a wicker box, a Coach coin purse, A Victoria’s Secret gift certificate, a wine bottle with lights inside (my favorite), wall plaques, chocolate and clothes. One of the tops I got is Victorian-like with a ruffled neck and sleeves. I can’t wait to wear it.
I went to a friend’s on Christmas Day. We had wine, beer, tamales and a black light. My knees are still sore from dancing.
For New Year’s, I’m going to a Killers concert hosted by Carmen Electra in the Paramount Studio’s Backlot. Apparently we can take a bus there (for free), so we’re going to have an Omaha steak dinner at my place first, then mosey on down the street to the studio.
Dude, I hope it dudn’t rain.
The days after Christmas are always a bit of a letdown for me. All that hype, all the build-up and talk about past miracles, human sacrifice and – well, whatever it is. I still love it all, even though I’m not a kid anymore and I’m not physically close to my family. I guess I’ve always expected that a miracle will happen. That I’ll be a part of it somehow, that I’ll know it and feel like I’m alive for a reason.
Little Girl Andi imagines she could somehow save a small piece of the world and be hero for a day. Adult Andi thinks about how she could make a difference in just one person’s life and know that that is enough for a long time afterward, maybe forever. The real Andi (whoever she is, I rarely have much interaction with her) hopes that one day she realizes she is her own hero. She figures it’s like Morpheus told Neo in The Matrix: There’s more than just knowing the path. It’s WALKING the path.
I have no idea what I’m trying to communicate, although it’s probably a parody of soul searching since the New Year is almost here. Like usual, though, I will resist the idea of making a resolution that I’ll only break later.
I wouldn’t mind wearing a cape, though.
Froot Loop Girl on the Mountain
So I took this online quizlet, even though I swore off of them a long time ago after the Stinky Butt Bunny virus-that-ate-the-hard-drive fiasco, because I had the burning urge to find out what kind of box of cereal I’d be if I was a box of cereal. (It’s been a long day.) It turns out that I am Honeycomb--I am the dorky looking blond girl who tried to lure other kids away from Cap’n Crunch. But really, I don’t care for either of these cereals. I think I’m more of a Golden Graham or Froot Loops kind of girl.
It rained this weekend in LA. It was windy and cold and gray. Perfect weather for holing up at home with books, movies and wine. Only I didn’t do that. I went to Big Bear instead, where it snowed and was really cold. If you click here, you can see the webcam of the Fawnskin area at the top of the mountain, near where we were. It's fresh snow, compliments of Mother Nature this past Saturday.
My lips got chapped, I almost fell on an icy road, and my nose hairs froze. I haven’t had to stomp the snow off my shoes in over a year-and-a-half. I’d almost forgotten how to scrape snow off a car’s windshield. But man, was it beautiful. All those mountains against a blue sky, white snow, skeleton trees, wind that rings like crystal in your ears. Put me right in the mood for Christmas, it did. Which means I have to go and finish my shopping now.
Just so you know, this is going to be one of those pointless, aimless rambling kind of entries that will make you wonder what happened to the last few minutes of your life.
So I haven’t been writing much lately, although it's not for lack of nothing to say.
Forget apples, it’s bananas that will keep the doctor away?!
I'm on the edge of an obsessive shopping disorder?!
Is that Hispanic man coming on to me?!
That man has bigger boobs than I do?!
I know the people with whom I work would rather I was a wee bit less vocal, but I guess I’m not the quiet sort after all. I am, I am not, I am, I am not. Concentration is of the utmost importance where I work and often, it’s quiet enough to hear the rumble of a stomach. Like mine today, after that salad I ate for lunch.
“If we had office music, no one would have to listen to this,” I said to them.
Sometimes my job duties make me go balls-out batshit and the only way to deal with that kind of emotion is a verbal vomit. But don’t cry for me, I’m the employee of the month.
Speaking of which, I can’t believe it’s practically mid-December. And that I got my second holiday gift already: schloads of Giradelli chocolate. Which is great news for my big ole zit, Herman, who's lonely.