Drama-Cat: Gladys Goes To the Vet

Today was that magical day that happens once a year. No, not Christmas. It was Take Gladys To The Vet Day. Every year we start warning her and taunting her about it weeks ahead of time.

"Gladys! You get to go see Dr. Charlie soon!" we say in our sing-song voice.

Gladys usually blinks her disdain and ignores us. As if ignoring us will make it not happen. Cats are like that.

Here is the usual silliness we are forced to put up with.

On the big day, or sometimes the night before if I'm really on my A-game, I drag the cat carrier up from the basement and wipe the cobwebs and coal dust off of it. Then it sits on the kitchen floor. Gladys senses that it is there and avoids it. She is still in denial that this IS going to happen.

When it's time to depart, I go looking for Gladys. This is her red flag that something big is going down because we usually just leave the house without searching for her first. I sometimes try to bait her into entering the kitchen on her own but it just feels wrong since I know that she is going to see the cat carrier and run the other way.  So this year I picked her up and immediately wished I had gotten her back claws removed also.

Cats have a way of growing seven more arms and legs when you are trying to stuff them into a cat carrier. She pretty much spreads all of her limbs out, her back claws grow an extra three inches and you begin to re-evaluate the physics of jamming such a large cat into such a small hole.

Perhaps it can't be done, I say to myself.  Then I remember that just last week she wiggled under the dresser in the quilting room which only has about a 6 inch clearance. I jokingly asked her if I was going to have to employ the jaws of life to get her fat body out from underneath it when she deftly swooped back out at me in a failed ambush attempt.

This year my husband was on hand to witness the circus that is Vet Day. He thinks I make it up how dramatic she is about the whole affair. Now he has seen the light.  He picked up Gladys and tried getting her in the cat carrier. With the two of us working together, we managed to get her pushed in.  We examined each other's wounds and tried to find that one finger of his that she sliced off. Yowling and crying poured forth from the carrier. And continued for the whole 20 minute car ride to the vet.

At first she tried the distressed yowl. I turned the car radio on.  Then she started peppering the yowls with growls.  I turned the radio up louder.  She added hissing to the repertoire. I started to sing along with the radio. That was when she gave up and switched tactics to the Poor Pitiful Me meow. If you've ever watched National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation you may remember the part where Aunt Brittany accidently wraps the cat up in a box. The box is making terrible noises and thrashing about wildly. That's what Gladys does inside her cat carrier between the house & the car, the car & the vet's.

At Dr. Charlie's, we went into the exam room. (Lights please.) We waited a moment or two. (Camera....Gladys Goes to the Vet Take One....Action!) The nurse came in and opened her carrier and instead of springing out like a crazy baboon, she walked out calm, collected and graceful. Like a movie star on the red carpet. There was no sign of the poofy tail or the big yellow saucer eyes. She walked that counter like she owned it.

Dr. Charlie came in and said hello to her. She curtsied. He checked her ears with q-tips to make sure they were clean. She sat perfectly still, as if we spend every day sticking q-tips in her ears. He pulled her lips back to check her teeth. She smiled and batted her eyes. When it was time for her shot, she acted bored. Needles, shmeedles.

And then for the grand finale (I love this part and I swear some year I will take a video camera) Dr. Charlie opens up the cat carrier door and says "Would you like to go home now Gladys?" And the cat who butchered and maimed us just a half hour before for even SUGGESTING such a thing, put her tail in the air in a delicate curve, and walked into her cat carrier as if she were the queen. (Cut! That's a wrap, folks.)

The queen setting majestically on her Victorian couch.

My Version of the National Poverty Level

According to the newspaper, my husband and I are a mere 2 kids away from falling below the National Poverty Level, or NPL as I like to call it.  NPL makes it sound more like a sport, like NBA or NFL or NRA.

Since I'm mathematically dyslexic and because I don't give a rat's patootie about details (it was in the newspaper but the explaining paragraph looked too boring to read so I skipped it), I'm really not sure how they come up with the figures that define if one falls above or below the poverty level. So I've devised a more clever and brilliantly thought out way to find out where you stand.

I believe my version to be more accurate.

(This is my family in the 1940's making apple butter in their backyard. I might be poor but I get it honest.)

You fall under the NPL if:
1. The toilet paper where you work is better than what you've got at home.
     a. You work in a feed mill part of the time.
     b. The other part of the time you work on a roving tar & chip crew, therefore the toilet paper consists of napkins from Sheetz and whatever flora you can scrounge off the forest floor.

2. Your welfare/foodstamps friends with multiple kids are eating better than you. The inside of their fridge looks like the midnight buffet on a Carnival cruise ship compared to your pitiful collection of condiments and Ziplock containers of mysterious and fuzzy mold.

3. You hang out at the old folks home in the winter time because they have heat.

4. You buy a cheap pair of flip flops for $7 at Payless and the cashier tells you that you must have mega will power because there is a Buy One Get One Half Off deal going on. And you're like "No, I just don't have an extra $3.50 and I feel bad about spending this much instead of buying the $1 ones at Dollar General."

5. You realize that the jeans you are wearing were given to you buy your friend Mary before she moved away and that was about six years ago. You got your "dressy" t-shirts from another very good friend (who will remain nameless so her boyfriend doesn't wig out on me) when she had her boobs done. And as you look around, you discover that your entire wardrobe was given to you by someone else.

6. You read about the NPL in the newspaper you found on the breakroom table at the mill because you can't afford to buy your own subscription.

7. You dream about robbing a bank but in your dream, someone finds your stash of stolen loot and shreds it into mulch. Even in your dreams you get to be poor. Bummer.

8. When you accidentally get burnt by a run-away firework on the 4th of July you refuse medical treatment because the co-pay to see your doctor is $30. You don't need that arm anyhow, that's why God gives you two of them. Let it burn.

(This has healed nicely on its own since the picture was taken and yes, that really is my arm and I really didn't go to the doctor.) 

9. Your front bike tire went flat two months ago and your husband still hasn't fixed it.  - Oh wait. That falls under "Cheap and Simple Repairs Your Husband Could Do But Just Conveniently Forgets To Do." 

Welcome to the NPL. Go Team Poverty!

The Pro's & Con's of Running

In the past few years I have gone from fitness fanatic to world class couch potato. Running was my exercise of choice followed closely by whatever workout they were doing on FitTv or Lifetime in the morning. For years without fail, I would wake up and do Fit & Lite with Denise Austin. Then Lifetime took her away.  Gilad kept me trim and limber on the FitTv Channel until Directv ditched it. Then my dog died and I ditched running. It was an easy transition into slobdom. Pass the Doritos please.

Every now and then I put on my sneaks and hobble outside to do a few lame and labored miles. Grudgingly. In this month's edition of Runner's World it had an article to get people motivated to become morning runners. It said to list the pro's and con's of running. So I shall. Here they are:

Pro's to running:
1. Running makes me look like a goddess. (Only in my mind but that's all I need really. As long as I think I look good....)
2. When I run I get to brag about having ran. (What? Oh, that's nothing. I already ran 5 miles this morning.)
3. It minimizes the cheese on my thighs.
4. It gives me Awesome calves. When I flex them they look like chicken cutlets. This in turn minimizes the fact that I have cankles. (Thanks a BUNCH bad genetics.)
5. You can see my knee caps instead of just stretch marks and cellulite.
6. My heartbeat slows down to like, 3 beats a minute. Running makes my heart so efficient that I'm almost clinically dead. This is fun because it freaks out the people at the Red Cross when I make a blood donation.
7. I eat like walrus and look like a gazelle.

Con's to running: 
1. I'm too lazy to run.
2. You have to do it consistently for it to work.
3. More specifically, you have to do it consistently for months and months.
4. I don't like running in the cold.
5. I don't like running in the heat.
6. I don't like running in the evening.
7. Mornings don't work for me either.
8. My whole day has to be planned around the run because I hate having to take more than one shower a day.
9. I sweat like a warthog. Seriously. I can soak an entire ball cap, including the bill. Ask my old running partners.
10. I sometimes have to wake up at 3:30am to be at work and then if I work 12 hour days, I don't feel like running at the end of it.

Well, there you have it. I'm not sure what conclusion I'm supposed to come to. I think the magazine said I was to be able to see that the pro's outweigh the con's. Personally, I'm thinking I'd totally rock a muumuu. Screw you skinny jeans.

Funeral Crasher

So there I sat this past Saturday morning, enjoying the epic cheesiness of "Eclipse" (thank you Netflix) when I got a phone call from Walt, my unofficial personal assistant. He was calling to let me know that my great-aunt's funeral was that day at 11 o'clock. I found out at 9:45am. 

He said he had left a message on my answering machine about the viewing (the night before apparently) which my machine failed to relay to me. This made me wonder how many other important calls my machine has not given me.

"Kelly? Ed McMahon here. You won the million dollar sweepstakes..." 

Walt was unsure of the exact whereabouts of the funeral but he did know it was at 11. There are only 350 small churches in our community. I felt that I should make the effort to go, and besides, where two or more of my dad's family is gathered, usually a good time follows. I was sure I could find it. 

So I raced to the shower (after I finished watching the Cullens defeat the army of newborns and discuss Bella's future with the Volturi) and was on my way.  The first church I stopped at had only two cars in the parking lot, neither of which was a hearse. 

I tried calling my dad on my sister's old trac phone with 29 seconds left on it. Since there is barely any service in our area I had to drive further down the road just to make the call. It went to voice mail.  He was apparently already at the funeral which was surprising since he is notoriously late for everything. I kept driving.  I even tried calling my gram to see if she had a newspaper with the obit in it. I think I got her out of bed. 10:50am is sort of early for her. 

Three churches and 35 minutes later, I was getting uncomfortable. The vintage dress I was wearing (which fit 5 years ago but not so much anymore) was giving me the vapors from having to suck in my gut. My pantyhose (how OLD FASHIONED!) made me feel like I was wearing long johns because it was a very hot day. I should point out that the purpose of the pantyhose was to cover up the fact that I was too hurried to shave my legs and to give the appearance of a fake suntan. 

I had pretty much given up on finding the funeral when I fell in line with some white cars doing about 20 in a 55 speed zone. Could this be the funeral procession?  I was ready to turn on my hazard lights when I realized that it was just a string of old people driving. ARRRRRR!!!!

So I pulled over in a corn field and shucked off the pantyhose and unbuttoned the middle of my dress to let my gut hang out. Oh sweet relief. The white car drivers were going so slow that I caught up to them again. 

I decided to call it a day and just head home. That's when I passed a church with a full parking lot AND a hearse. So I stopped. And almost got out of the car half dressed. It's a good thing I looked down to find my purse. I put myself back together but there was no way I wrestling the hose back on in a church parking lot. Houdini I'm not.  No wonder no one wears those things anymore. 

Quietly I snuck in the church, and slid into the back pew, hoping this was the right funeral. I decided that no matter whose it was, I was going to stay and if anyone asked how I knew the deceased, I was just going to say they used to be my Sunday School teacher. Even if he/she was the town drunk, that was my story and I was sticking to it. Turns out I was at the right church - I could see the back of my aunt's head.

While I was sitting there I also had an epiphany. This winter, when I'm tired of the ramen noodles, I'm just going to go to random funerals and stay for the meal. I could potentially be eating ham and green beans every day for free. Eventually someone will be clever enough to write a screen play about this and when they do, I want you to remember who came up with the idea first. 

To Bee or Not To Bee (Stung)

Yesterday, while I was working on job #1 (if you don't know what job #1 is, click here) we were barreling down the highway on the chipper and my face and a yellow jacket happened to collide.

Normally the bees and I have worked out an exchange of etiquette that goes something like this:

1. The bee (I used that term loosely, it could be a yellow jacket, a wasp, a honey bee, a bumble bee, etc.) hits my face or body.

2. The bee politely excuses itself. Oh excuse me, I didn't see you there.

3. I excuse myself. No, pardon me, I didn't mean to intrude.


4. The bee and I exchanges brief pleasantries in a British accent. Quite alright, quite alright. Lovely weather we're having today, yes?  Oh my yes, quite lovely. I'm so sorry to have bumped into you so rudely. Here is my card if you need anything.  Thank you very much, You have a smashing day now, no pun intended.  Ha ha, a witty one you are. Yes you have a jolly good day yourself. 


5. Then the bee flies on it's way and I go about on mine. Neither of us are injured, just a bit shook up.

But yesterday the bee I rear-ended with my face had no time for such silliness. In fact, I suspect that the bee happened to be flying the same direction we were and we just overcame it, causing it's stinger to go directly into my face causing shock, pain and panic for both parties.

We hit each other so hard I barely had time to see the bright yellow stripes of its yellow jacket before it went careening off to the side and crash landed in parts unknown. It hurt like the dickens.

Normally, my face looks like this:

Occasionally, my face looks like this:

But this morning....my face looked like this:

I am smiling with both sides of my mouth, but the left side of my face was puffed to capacity and did not allow any room for upward movement of my lips. My left nostril was also swollen which pushed my nose askew to the right. My top lip was swelled up too.  If you think this is acceptable, scroll back to the first picture. Then come back down here. Then laugh heartily because I sure did when I looked in the mirror this morning. 

My Resume. Sort of. Incase You Ever Wondered.

For those who read my blog regularly, you may sometimes ask yourself, "What exactly is it that Kelly does? I mean, sometimes she's poverty stricken but then she talks about being a church secretary and then she tells stories about traveling around to work. So what gives? What the heck does this Kelly character do?"

When people say to me "So, what do you do?" The only answer that makes sense to give them is "Oh, lots of things." Other times I just say that I'm self employed. It would take all day to tell them about all my jobs. So for those who were curious, here it is: 

1. I work with a tar & chip crew. You know- those people you hate who lay down tar & cover it with stone & then you complain and drive 10mph on it even though it's rolled and packed tight- I'm part of the group responsible for your misery. This is a sometimes job that usually takes up most of my summer months. I was just off to a slow start with it this year. I sometimes wonder if the company I work for even knows they hired me because I've only ever met one office person. But she handed me a hard hat and a safety vest and I get paid so I can only assume that they are aware of me. 

2. I'm a church secretary. I do this every week, all year long. Even during tar & chip season. I print out bulletins and when there is a typo or blooper, it's my bad.

3. I am a contract quilter. That is- I hand quilt for others. This does NOT mean that I do all the patchwork. Nay, I don't do any. What I do is, people bring me their quilt tops that they've sewn together. I put the top, the batting (the stuffing in the middle) and the bottom together in a frame and hand quilt the sucker. It takes months. And that's if I work at it all day every day. 

4. I am a writer, occasionally. And sometimes, I even get paid for it. This is a whenever job. Whenever the need pops up and someone needs me to write something I do. 

5. I work at a Feed Mill. This is a sometimes job. Sometimes they need me and sometimes they don't. I usually answer the phones and re-set the computer wallpaper to ornery things. I went to school with the guy whose desk & computer I borrow so it's a lot of fun for me to mess around with his settings and then watch from a distance as he goes ballistic when he discovers it. That's my main purpose at the mill. To spread chaos. But sometimes, during corn season when all the farmers are bringing in corn, I get to weigh the trucks and run the skid loader. I have to say, running the skid loader all evening long for weeks might be one of the funnest jobs I've ever had. And I don't know why. It's un-explainable.

6. I house-sit for people. This is also an occasional job. I water their plants, feed their dogs, cats and/or chickens. I bring in the mail and the newspaper. I do whatever it is they want me to do while they are gone.  My clients are confidential. Mainly I do this for people who live close to me. The further you live from me, the more expensive I am. 

The busiest week of my life was a few weeks ago when I was doing jobs 2-6 and got the call that I'd also be starting job #1. Sometimes juggling six jobs can be a challenge. 

I bet your thinking "Wow, you work all the time. You must be a billionaire." Au contraire. At the end of the day, I am merely tired but no richer than when I woke up. But I can honestly say, I love all my jobs. I have fun at every single one of them. I have met more people and done more things since I've begun this streak of wild and crazy employment than I ever would have if I had stayed tied to my cubicle like a good girl. And now you know what it is that I do. 

Every day is an adventure for me.  Stay tuned. 

GPS, Grand Pandemonium Strategem

I noticed last week, while carpooling with my co-worker Walt, that he was no longer looking out his windshield and using the road to see where we were going. Instead he was watching his GPS screen and swerving when it indicated a bend in the road.

Since he was kind enough to pick me up AND pack a lunch for me, I tried not to pick on him too much about it. But I did draw the line when he tried to veer off into a local farm.

“But it’s showing me I’m going to turn right,” he said.

“Yes, you are but not right now. This is a farm and that is a barn. Don’t even look at this anymore, you don’t need it.” I said, covering up the GPS screen.

At the end of the work day we needed to find our way home. Immediately after turning onto the highway, Walt turned on the GPS. This was good because I was not sure where we were at the moment either. Because I’m lazy, I’m going to switch the speaking format now because I don’t feel like dealing with a bunch of punctuation. 

            Female GPS Voice:  “Turn right onto Kline Road”

Me: Walt, this is a dirt road- we tar & chipped back this way last year. We go up past that farm where the road does a 90 degree turn between the barn & the house.

Walt: Oh yeah! I remember that! I thought this looked familiar. Let’s see where it takes us.

Feeling eager for a new adventure, I agreed. Plus when you’re the passenger in someone else’s car, there’s really no point in arguing- you’re pretty much trapped.  We twisted and turned back a dirt lane, between a barn and a house. Then the GPS gave us our next move.

            GPS:  “Turn left onto Geiger Lane."

            Me: I know we did this road for sure last year. Remember, we had that new kid on the roller and everyone kept forgetting to tell him which road we were doing next?

            Walt: Oh yeah!

            Me: Why is it taking us this way?

            Walt: I don’t know.

            GPS: “Turn left onto Culligan Road.”

            Me: HAHAHAHA! What the heck?  This feels to me like we’re making a big loop.

            Walt: It sure does. (Walt is a man of few words. Sometimes.)

            GPS: “Turn left onto Stoystown Road.”

            Me: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHA!!! WALT!! THIS IS THE ROAD WE STARTED ON!! HAHAHAHA!!! (Gasp for air) WE JUST MADE A HUGE LOOP!!

           Walt: Hate when that happens.

           Me: Why did it take us the whole way through the country side!?? (Followed by more peals of laughter from me.) Why didn’t it just say “Turn your car around Idiot, you’re going the WRONG WAY??!!” 

          Walt: I don’t know.

          Me: (More laughing and eye wiping for the next 34 miles.)

On another occasion last year when there were more of us carpooling to work, we were using the GPS to find our way to Ligonier. We almost made it. Then suddenly, the GPS told us to turn right. We turned right although Granny (another co-worker riding with us) was adamant about the fact that we should have turned left. After a few rambling miles that made no sense to us, Walt asked to see the GPS.  He pushed some buttons and after a few moments asked Bill (our taxi driver that day) if he lived in Such-N-Such Corner. Bill said yes he did. Walt deduced that the GPS was no longer taking us to Ligonier but back to Bill's house. 

Granny was right. We should have turned left.  We were late for work that day.