Girl Friday

Living in Terror

Every morning before I go to work, I sit down at my computer to check the news, my email, and a few blogs.  And lately, my cat has begun hopping up in my lap to join me.  It's really very sweet; now that she's outgrown her affectionate kitten phase, all I'm good for anymore is keeping her food bowl and litter box in check, and the occasional romp when she's feeling playful.  So I've been greatly enjoying our cuddle time, and have been getting up earlier than normal so I don't have to hustle her off my lap because I have this stupid "job" thing I have to go to and I'll get "fired" if I don't show up because she was just getting cozy.

Sometimes she'll rest against my chest, her head on my shoulder, briefly resuscitating the rapidly-diminishing maternal urges in my black soul.  And sometimes, she'll lay on her back, paws curled up in a Cute Overload-worthy pose, her tummy begging to be petted.  So I surf the 'net one-handed (because if I pause her belly massage for even a moment, her big green eyes shoot open as if to say, "What the fuck, Mommy?") - and she gets so very comfortable, so at ease, so relaxed that my adorable little feline FARTS.

FARTS.

Her farts are of the silent-but-deadly variety, and the first time it happened, I wasn't sure what I was smelling.  Had the commode backed up?  Was my neighbor laying manure in his yard?  I momentarily considered the dozing cat on my lap, but that seemed absurd.  When I smelt the foul odor again a few days later, however, one look at her smug, contented little face confirmed my suspicions.

How can such a darling little thing expel something so very, very rancid?

Now our peaceful morning commune has become fraught with fear.  I try to enjoy her warm, furry, calming presence before I head out into the world - but it's impossible, knowing the terror that might be unleashed at any second.

This must have been what the 1950s were like: sipping strawberry shakes at the malt shop, and diving under desks and into fallout shelters lest the Ruskies attack.  Except the hydrogen bomb wouldn't smell like canned chicken livers and cat ass.

What we have here is failure to communicate:

Me:  I've a shitty day.  Let's order pizza for dinner. 

Mom:  There's a frozen pizza in the fridge!

Me: You're new to this "emotional eating" thing, aren't you?

Good morning, sonshine.

The Victorian Chick No. 2

Saturday eve, I ventured out to the shopping-mall.  I'd only thought I might purchase some Fripperies and have myself a bit of fun - I certainly did not expect to be manhandled.  Not once, but twice!

Strolling down the arcade, I passed by a cart laden with wares, and a dusky Vendor leapt forward and took hold of my hand.  As he spoke to me, inquiring about my manicure regime, I gathered that he was foreign - perhaps a gypsy.

Try as I might to extract myself from his Grasp, he held me captive, using a product from his cart to buff my finger-nails as he explained to me its virtues.  For a moment's time, I weakened to him as he praised my soft, uncalloused hands and I admired the lovely shine of my nails, but the Spell was soon broken when he attempted to sell me two manicure kits for the price of one if I would also purchase a scented lotion.  My heart holds no Charity for vulgar peddlers.

In a huff, I flounced away and took refuge in a near-by shoe store.  Ah, the wonders a pair of new dancing slippers can do for a girl's weary Soul!  Soon, I had made my selections and I handed them to the sales-boy.  He seemed Docile enough until he returned with my requested size and knelt to shoe my foot, for then he held my ankle in a manner most familiar!  I was speechless with shock and shuddered with Revulsion as I felt his flesh on mine, and I tried to discern whether I had appeared forward to him, whether he could have possibly thought his Fondlings would be welcome. 

No, it was impossible.  My Honor needs avenging.  Twice!

It takes a lot to laugh, it takes one high school boy who calls me "ma'am" even though I'm not even 25 to cry.

I like to prolong my excursions away from the office as long as possible, so before I left to deposit the day's checks this afternoon, I put out an APB over the intercom for orders from the smoothie shop across the street.

When I left the bank, I noticed that the nearby high school must have just let out; kids had suddenly appeared on the sidewalks and benches.  Ugh.  I pushed through a cluster of giggly girls (all dressed, I must add, in mini-skirts and leggings - oh Lord) and slipped inside Simplie Smoothie.

I had the place to myself for a few blessed minutes - then the kids poured in.  When the smoothie chick handed me my big cardboard box of Styrofoam cups (the contents of each labeled on the lid in Sharpie per my request) and I turned to leave, a bunch of boys were shuffling through the door.  In no hurry to get back to work, I stepped aside to let them pass - until one guy stopped his friend and said, "Hey, dude, let this lady by."

"Sorry, ma'am," he said, and held the door open for me.

Lady.  Ma'am.

Now, The Victorian Chick would simply be delighted to find that chivalry still lurks in the hearts and minds of greasy-haired high school boys.  I, on the other hand, wonder if this means I need to invest in a quality under-eye cream.

The Victorian Chick No. 1

Editor's Note:  Chickadee finds herself dull and uninspired these days.  However, she still digs the idea of having a blog, so she's turning over some of the writing duties to her alter-ego, The Victorian Chick.  The Victorian Chick will attempt to tell about Chickadee's day-to-day experiences in a more entertaining fashion than Chickadee can muster.  They both hope you will enjoy.

A most disastrous experience to-day!  As I left the office to take lunch in the park, I stopped at the Mailbox on the corner to post a few items for the noon mail.  I had my sandwich in my hand, nestled beside the envelopes, and somehow, the turkey-and-mayonnaise confection slipped from my Grasp and into the Mailbox before I could help it!

It was a clumsy slip of the Hand and nothing more, but I have heard that tampering with the mail is a Punishable Offense!  There was no way, with my short and Delicate arms, for me to reach it, amongst all the real letters and parcels so far below.  Besides, I would have made quite a sight, don't you think?  Then I thought I might ring the postmaster to warn him of my errant sandwich - but then feared I might be located and reprimanded in exchange for such shocking Disclosure. 

So instead, I have kept my silence, and hope most earnestly that some dapper young postman imagined not a cruel vandal, but a foolish Girl like myself, dropping her luncheon by accident and spending the rest of the day fretting after it.

Mom & Pop

I write a lot about my mom, but I don't think you've met my dad:

It's okay - you can get closer.

Okay, not that close.

That's better!

He's been home for a few weeks between Washington and Afghanistan, and we've been having family time. 

People are always telling me how adorable my parents are together.

Yeah, I guess they're pretty cute.

Especially when they make each other laugh.

I've had quite a handful with these two.  No wonder I let my blog go to pot.

An enviable bond:

After almost fifty years of smoking, my mom is trying to quit. She's bought nicotine gum and the patch, and in an admirable show of support, I'm calling her Patches at every opportunity.

Hey, it's nicer than when her diabetes progressed to the point that she needed to start injecting insulin, and I nicknamed her Stabby.

Although, in my defense, when I went on the Pill (for my skin) last year, she called me Trampy for weeks.

The rules don't apply to me but I obey them anyway.

Last Friday, a little before noon, I drove up to the office to pick up my paycheck.  Ahh, three day weekends...  After chatting with my coworkers a little bit, I decided to go over to Bread Co. for lunch.  That particular Bread Co. (or Panera if you're not cool enough to live in St. Louis), is adjacent to an upscale grocery store, but the big parking lot is for grocery store customers only.  Bread Co. patrons have to park on the street.

Aside from my womanly aversion to parallel parking, there weren't any spaces available and I was only getting takeout, so I swung into the lot.  What, was some bag boy was going to run over, shouting, "Ma'am, ma'am!" as I made a mad dash for the door?

That was exactly what happened.  This fucker was patrolling the parking lot, and he was actually out of breath when he reached my car and demanded my intentions.

"I was just going to get some lunch and then do my grocery shopping," I told him through the lowered window.  Then, haughty as I get when caught doing something wrong, I asked, "Is that allowed?"

He assured me that it was, somehow mistaking my sarcasm for a genuine question, and let me go on my way.  Now, I had absolutely no intention of actually going shopping after I got my sandwich, but when I came out, the parking lot patrol boy waved at me with a grin, so in the store I went.

At first, I thought I'd just buy a magazine - but if I was in the store for a few minutes and came out with a tiny shopping bag, he'd guess that I'd lied, that I'd parked in his lot with impure intentions.  So I grabbed a cart.

$32 and a proper amount of time later, I exited the grocery store with two bulging bags with my head held high.

Lesson learned?  I really need to set up direct deposit.

Pop culture is getting to me.

Exhibit A:  Even though I have a sub-zero desire to read any of the books, this weekend, I actually found myself Googling to find out whether Harry Potter lives or dies at the end of Deathly Hallows.  I may have had some kind of queer, unexpected, "pleased" reaction, but I'm firmly back into my "Harry Who-ter?" mode.

Exhibit B:  While I can think of few things as viscerally horrifying as John Travolta - not to mention Travolta in drag, a fat suit, and a nerve-grating accent - when the film critic at the paper said he had free passes to previews of "Hairspray," I was first to grab a pair.

Exhibit C:  I bought city shorts.