When I was young I knew everything
And she, a punk who rarely ever took advice
Now I’m guilt-stricken, sobbin’ with my head on the floor
Stopped a baby’s breath and a shoe full of rice, no
Can’t be held responsible
She was touchin’ her face
I won’t be held responsible
She fell in love in the first place
For the life of me
I can not remember
What made us think that we were wise and we’d never compromise
For the life of me
I can not believe we’d ever die
For these sins
We were merely freshmen
My best friend took a week’s vacation to forget her
His girl took a week’s worth of valium and slept
And now he’s guilt-stricken, sobbin’
With his head on the floor
Thinks about her now and how he never really wept he said
Can’t be held responsible
She was touchin’ her face
I won’t be held responsible
She fell in love in the first place
For the life of me
I can not remember
What made us think that we were wise and we’d never compromise
For the life of me
I can not believe we’d ever die
For these sins
We were merely freshmen
We tried to wash our hands of all of this We’d never talk of our lacking relationships
And how we’re guilt-stricken sobbin’ with our heads on the floor
We fell through the ice when we tried not to slip we’d say
Can’t be held responsible
She was touchin’ her face
I won’t be held responsible
She fell in love in the first place
For the life of me
I can not remember
What made us think that we were wise and we’d never compromise
For the life of me
I can not believe we’d ever die
For these sins
We were merely freshmen
It’s been a hot minute since I went to the psychiatrist. Doc went on vacation (is she allowed to do that??) last month and I knew I had scheduled something upon her return but it wasn’t until a text reminder arrived on Saturday that I remembered it.
Reply “C” for confirm. Hell yeah, I’ll be there. I need refills! Also – did you read my last entry??
Love Bomb used to snap at gently encourage me to see a psychiatrist whenever I’d get upset about virtually anything, unreasonable or not. Okay, so that time I got into a physical altercation with the lawnmower could have been construed as “unreasonable”, but it’s not like I was hurting anyone besides that self-righteous asshole mower. It’s no secret that I have a hot Irish temper (thanks, ma!) and fairly high expectations that are often unsatisfied. No, it’s not an “anger management issue” (quotations inserted on Love Bomb’s behalf) – it’s just one of those charming things that makes me an exceptionally passionate human. My passion makes me a better being, not inferior nor in need of repair.
I rolled out of bed at my typical slothful 10:15am. Why yes, I am generally expected to be to work by 10:30am, but you know what? I have a 2 minute commute (woo!) and time-clocks working the way they do with a built-in 8 minute grace-period, I most often arrive quite on-time by 10:37am. And yes, it’s also true that I sometimes resemble a recently unwrapped mummy complete with sleepy creases still embedded in my cheeks and I’m just fine with that! I work in an animal shelter, not a beauty salon. Besides, most everyone I work with knows better than to poke this bear before I’ve consumed at least one very strong cup of coffee, and the ones who don’t learn quickly.
Have I mentioned my temper?
Truth be told, I do realize that my sleeping habits tend to be excessive and that is something I discuss with my psychiatrist. I also have Fibromyalgia and Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, so if you’re feeling judge-y about my sleep schedule, just don’t.
I had every intention of heading in to my appointment and having a reasonable adult conversation with my doctor, but it became pretty clear on the 20 minute drive to her office that that wasn’t happening. The sun was shining bright warming this February day to a whopping 70 degrees, windows open, sunglasses on, playlist, set to random, was choosing awesome tunes, and then there was me: ugly-crying all the way to Vienna.
By the time I arrived, I decided I no longer wanted to go in the office for the whole 15 minutes I had reserved. I had finally pulled myself together and I just didn’t feel like crying anymore. Fortunately, it’s clear I’m not the only one who does this by the two boxes of tissue within arms reach of that familiar soft, leather chair. Still, at 8 months into our work together, I hoped I had improved enough to avoid accruing a small mountain of soggy tissues, that, despite their strategic placement, I couldn’t find a trash can to deposit them in, so I wadded them into my hand, one after the other after the other.
Doc: “So, what’s been going on? How were your Holidays?”
Self: “Well, you know, every solitary first is tricky, but I got through it.”
Doc: “I’m glad to hear that. And more recently? It sure is a beautiful day outside!”
Self: <sob>
Doc: “What is it about a pretty day like today that makes you sad?”
Self: “It just kind of reminds me of last spring, and all that happened last year.”
Doc: “I see. You’re coming up on a year now since your breakup.”
Self: “Yeah, I mean, it’s only February, so this is gonna be a long spring, but April 6th was pivotal, April 23rd was too, and then May 13th was when she officially did away with me.”
She nodded some more and reassured me that what I was feeling was okay and normal; Every first is a struggle and that may also be true of seconds and thirds. GREAT!
Suddenly, fifteen minutes didn’t seem like enough time to cover all the topics I felt needed covering, i.e.: all the things that have contributed to my recent crap-ass mood. My birthday two weeks ago. Valentine’s Day. Even the fact that my bank information was recently stolen and just how vulnerable that makes one feel, not to mention all the work involved in fixing it while also making sure the bills get paid.
Doc: “So, it’s been almost a year. Have you started to consider dating? Does that interest you?”
I put myself out there on a couple of dating apps because, apparently, that’s how a lot of singles do this. For the most part, I’ve been discouraged. The dating pool, in my opinion, leaves a lot to be desired at the geriatric age of 43. Isn’t there some theory that men get more distinguished as they age? Lies!
That’s not to say that I’m perfect. Here’s what my profile should read:
Age: Too old for this crap
Sexuality: Somewhere on the spectrum
Body type: Not terrible, but definitely enjoys tacos
It’s entirely possible that I need to lower my expectations when it comes to finding a suitable partner-in-crime. Perhaps I should reach out to the guy I met for drinks a couple of weeks ago — the one who sort of reminded me of my pop. Maybe he’ll appear less dad-like dressed casually … ? Then again, I may just put this whole dating thing on the back burner for a spell. After all, I don’t require someone to fill my heart or my bed to make me whole.
It’s never about finding the one. It’s always about becoming the one. -Sylvester McNuttYour bed is still warm from us and your mouth still tastes of mine. I hope she likes the warmth I’ve left. I hope she likes my second hand taste. @thedominantpoet
I wish I could say that the 15 minutes I spent with the doc fixed all my woes. Unfortunately, it just doesn’t work that way. I wish it did. Although I’m not actively suicidal, I flirt with passive attempts at self-destruction like not wearing my seatbelt. And so, a tweak here and a tweak there of those morning meds that make my life more tolerable, and check in next month.
I may wake up late and ruminate, I may stick my head in the sand some days, but I will keep getting up (eventually) and showing up (in due time). There’s no way around doing the hard work when you’re left behind, and so I will.
I had planned to be on a date tonight, but apparently, I musta offended the other half of the arrangement because I’ve texted a few times … <chirp> <chirp>.
I don’t like to be on anyone’s shit-list, but honestly, the girl was already clingy and we hadn’t even met in person, yet. When I wouldn’t respond to her texts, like, immediately, she’d get sensitive – “Are you ok”? Uh, I am at work, it’s a Friday afternoon, calm down. She sent texts and photos of the event she was attending all weekend. When we discussed her return to the area, she suggested we have dinner together on both Sunday and Monday nights. I brushed that off and leaned in to Monday. Random texts kept coming in, topics ranging from “do you like leather?”, to “is it snowing where you are?”, and finally, last night: “May I call you?”, to which I didn’t reply. I texted this morning, apologized, and explained that I hadn’t been feeling well last night, followed by another text about where we should meet for dinner. It’s 6pm now, and nada.
In that case, I’ll go ahead and pop open a beer now.
If you’re going to be that weird about an un-replied-to text on a Sunday night, well, I don’t need that sort of drama in my life.
Perhaps she already rented the U-Haul. Fucking lesbians.
So, now, here I sit, conflicted and sad. Maybe this whole dating thing, even this being partnered thing isn’t my deal, at least, not anymore. There’s no doubt that I’m lonely, but I’ll admit that the thought of sharing time and space with anyone isn’t terribly appealing these days either
It’s a conflict, for sure. I sit here alone so often I’ve actually worn a solitary indent into the couch.
It’s hard all the time, but tonight feels worse than most. I sit in my crevice and wonder if I simply deserve this pain, and why … because I wanted a baby? Was that not painful enough? Can we call it a fucking draw, now?
I wish I could vaporize, I’d turn myself into a pink haze and disappear. No more pain. No more hate. No more jealousy. No more sadness. No more. Going. Going.
In honor of the first Valentine’s Day I’ll be sharing with only my cat, I shall now present lyrics to just some of the songs I’ve been known to play on repeat as I’ve rolled into a fetal ball over the course of the last 9 months.
Anything in italics is an additional insert by Yours Truly.
Oh, and if you just aren’t into lyrics right now, feel free to scroll. There’s more. (But these are really good songs, yo.)
I have to block out thoughts of you so I don’t lose my head
They crawl in like a cockroach leaving babies in my bed
Dropping little reels of tape to remind me that I’m alone
Playing movies in my head that make a porno feel like home
There’s a burning in my pride a nervous bleeding in my brain
An ounce of peace is all I want for you will you never call again
And will you never say that you loved me just to put it in my face
And will you never try to reach me
It is I that wanted space
Hate me today
Hate me tomorrow
Hate me for all the things I didn’t do for you
Hate me in ways
Yeah ways hard to swallow
Hate me so you can finally see what’s good for you
I’m sober now for three (six) whole months
It’s one accomplishment that you (never) helped me with
The one thing that always tore us apart is the one thing I won’t touch again
In my sick way I want to thank you for holding my head up late at night
While I was busy waging wars on myself you were trying to stop the fight
You never doubted my warped opinions on things like suicidal hate
You made me compliment myself when it was way too hard to take
So I’ll drive so fucking far away that I never cross your mind
And do whatever it takes in your heart to leave me behind
Hate me today
Hate me tomorrow
Hate me for all the things I didn’t do for you
Hate me in ways
Yeah ways hard to swallow
Hate me so you can finally see what’s good for you
And with a sad heart I say bye to you and wave
Kicking shadows on the street for every mistake that I had made
And like a baby boy I never was a man
Until I saw your brown eyes cry and I held your face in my hand
And then I fell down yelling, “Make it go away!”
Just make a smile come back and shine just like it used to be
And then I whispered, “How can you do this to me?”
Hate me today
Hate me tomorrow
Hate me for all the things I didn’t do for you
Hate me in ways
Yeah ways hard to swallow
Hate me so you can finally see what’s good for you
I only wanted to have fun
Learning to fly learning to run
I let my heart decide the way
When I was young
Deep down I must have always known
That this would be inevitable
To earn my stripes I’d have to pay
And bare my soul
I know I’m not the only one
Who regrets the things they’ve done
Sometimes I just feel it’s only me
Who can’t stand the reflection that they see
I wish I could live a little more
Look up to the sky not just the floor
I feel like my life is flashing by
And all I can do is watch and cry
I miss the air, I miss my friends
I miss my mother, I miss it when
Life was a party to be thrown
But that was a million years ago
When I walk around all of the streets
Where I grew up and found my feet
They can’t look me in the eye
It’s like they’re scared of me
I try to think of things to say
Like a joke or a memory
But they don’t recognize me now
In the light of day
I know I’m not the only one
Who regrets the things they’ve done
Sometimes I just feel it’s only me
Who never became who they thought they’d be
I wish I could live a little more
Look up to the sky not just the floor
I feel like my life is flashing by
And all I can do is watch and cry
I miss the air, I miss my friends
I miss my mother, I miss it when
Life was a party to be thrown
But that was a million years ago
A million years ago
I want you to know that I am happy for you
I wish nothing but the best for you both
A younger version of me
Is she perverted like me
Would she go down on you in a theater
Does she speak eloquently
And would she have your baby
I’m sure she’d make a really excellent mother
Cause the love that you gave that we made
Wasn’t able to make it enough for you to be open wide
And every time you speak her name
Does she know how you told me you’d hold me until you died
Till you died, but you’re still alive
And I’m here to remind you
Of the mess you left when you went away
It’s not fair to deny me
Of the cross I bear that you gave to me
You, you, you oughta know
You seem very well
Things look peaceful
I’m not quite as well
I thought you should know
Did you forget about me, Ms. Duplicity
I hate to bug you in the middle of dinner
It was a slap in the face
How quickly I was replaced
And are you thinking of me when you fuck her?
Cause the joke that you laid in the bed
That was me and I’m not gonna fade as soon as you close your eyes
And every time I scratch my nails down someone else’s back I hope you feel it
Well, can you feel it?
So I’m here to remind you
Of the mess you left when you went away
It’s not fair to deny me
Of the cross I bear that you gave to me
You, you, you oughta know
Nearly a year of solitary firsts, check.
God, I hope this is the last of the intensely painful stuff, at least for this first year. Fortunately, I don’t anticipate that President’s Day or Easter will be heart-wrecking in the way that Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Valentine’s Day have been.
My friend Kim assures me, “you’ll get your own firsts” but it doesn’t really cushion the blow. Don’t get me wrong, because I’m all for having my own firsts with someone special, but I continue to wonder … why is it that Love Bomb is somehow exempt from these feelings of loss, loneliness, and jealousy? My firsts won’t bother her; she won’t pay no nevermind. Only I must struggle through holidays and, uh, everything alone. How does she get away that?
Must be nice. And I guess that’s the point.
Must be nice to be you. (@secondtongue)
It’s like a game only she gets to win.
@kaitlyn.n.lentulo
Love. I’ll wait for it. I’ll be ready for it. And this stupid Hallmark Holiday won’t matter for shit. The love that’s coming will be celebrated every damn day.
There’s something especially dread-worthy about Valentine’s Day this year – my first V-Day alone since I was pubescent. Not that I remember doing anything particularly memorable for this Hallmark Holiday in many, many years. It’s a similar feeling to New Year’s at the stroke of midnight – like, I know what you’re doing out there … without me. I actually do remember how exciting firsts are with a new luh-huh-ver (channeling Adele) – major holidays, that New Year’s midnight kiss, “Our First Valentine’s Day”. Gah, especially if you’re both Love Bombs. It’s sure to be an extravaganza! I’m imagining flowers (delivered to work for ultimate impact), cards, chocolates, bubble baths (I seem to recall a trail of rose petals that led from the front door all the way to the tub back when weeeee were young (yep, Adele again) and celebrating our first V-Day). And there will be sex. More sex than I’ve had in years. YEARS I TELL YOU.
Left behind is a shitty place to be on Valentine’s Day.
Maybe it wouldn’t hurt so bad if I didn’t know how they relish in my pain. Social media is a real kick in the ass in this modern age of breaking up. Well, that is before I was fully blocked. Blocking, I discovered, was often strategic. I’d be blocked for a bit *until* a flower delivery and then someone would make sure that I could see that bidness. Honestly, I don’t need to do my own research (er, mild stalking?), someone typically sends me a screenshot or mentions a particularly intriguing (or revolting) post. Love Bomb and I share over 100 friends on Facebook, and there are people looking out for me, many of whom are not impressed with how quickly and easily I was replaced.
But New Girl and Love Bomb, they’re laughing AT me and at my expense, “Haha’ing” on posts that, clearly, are about me. Strategic.
Love Bomb didn’t do that shit to “Caroline”, whom she dumped – for me. It was clear all along that she actually had a sense of remorse, guilt, and a certain degree of sorrowful respect for the one she left behind with no explanation or warning. Granted, we didn’t have social media back then (because OLD), but I certainly never laughed at or talked shit about Caroline – ever. I felt guilty and horrible with the knowledge that she was left alone, traded in and replaced. And I … I was the home wrecker. I desperately hoped she might find it in her heart to forgive me someday. We were civil, but was there forgiveness? In hindsight, no, I don’t think so. Not with the knowledge I not only understand, but now share about just how terribly it hurts to be replaced without so much as a real conversation. She was just better at maintaining a friendship with Love Bomb, despite me. She was a better, stronger person than I. She was better at hiding the pain.
Love Bomb and Caroline had a special, undeniable connection. If you couldn’t tell by looking thru just a few of the 9 years worth of photos of a life they shared, it was unmistakable when it came to Caroline’s passing.
Yes, Caroline died. In hospice care – in a room overcrowded with other dying people.
She should have died in her home. The home they purchased and made theirs. The home I was sharing with Love Bomb at the time. A home I never really felt comfortable in. It wasn’t mine.
The morning Caroline died started much like any other. Love Bomb got in the shower while I enjoyed a few more minutes of shut-eye. Her shower was brief; she dressed quickly. She came in to the bedroom and announced that she had to go see Caroline before work. She said she felt an urgent need to go to hospice, like, right now. And so she did.
In some cosmic sort of way Caroline summoned Love Bomb, waited for her, and moments later, she passed away.
I, for one, feel horrendously guilty, and I wonder if it ever occurs to Love Bomb that she threw away a relationship with someone that she was genuinely cosmically connected to. She brushed it off, “everything happens for a reason”, and explained: “I couldn’t have managed that loss if we were still together”. It would have been devastating, of course. Maybe she’s right – maybe she couldn’t have dealt with that loss – she won’t manage the loss of people who are still living and breathing. She will NOT be alone.
Caroline, I’m so sorry that I was a part of your loss, and that by participating in an adolescent game of passion, I took so much more than just your best friend and partner. I wish we all would have done things differently. Soon, I’ll do an entry about the things we tell ourselves to make ourselves feel better in light of the crappy things we do and say. I think back on those excuses now and can hardly stand myself. My only solace is that I’ve done the hard work to let the grief in; I’ve reflected upon, grown, and learned from my mistakes. I did not appreciate that my 22 year old self could actually change lives and futures forever. I was thoughtless and impulsive, and 22 was my excuse. At 43, one birthday more than you ever enjoyed, Caroline, I get it now, and I’m sorry.
I wonder what you did that first Valentine’s Day alone in 1999 as I followed a trail of rose petals to my tub. Are you laughing at me now? Do you laugh just like they do?
I am having a hard time with this blog thing lately.
I start something, then decide that it’s not interesting or engaging to anyone besides myself. There are currently three “drafts” sitting in limbo, I can’t decide on a direction for any of them.
So, I’ll try again. It’s not like nothing has happened worth mentioning: I went out on a date – a real date, with a boy, at a restaurant. I celebrated my 43rd birthday, complete with a small gathering of some of my dearest friends and a head-sized margarita. I sent a letter to my landlord and asked if I could buy the condo unit I currently rent from him. It’s been an eventful week!
Mostly, I’m struggling with which direction I ultimately want to go with this blog.
“… Engaging with other bloggers is so important. I didn’t realize until I started engaging more with other people that that’s what blogging should be about. It should be about community and people, not writing about yourself and hoping someone will listen. It’s a way of helping, educating and making a difference.” -Giles Jordan, Giles Meets World, The 10 biggest mistakes I made in my first year blogging.
How can I engage … uh, you (are you out there? anyone? anyone?) … when I’m not even sure how I feel about just about everything these days? It certainly won’t be my witty writing or fantastically funny jokes. Right? Right. But that’s one of those things I’m here to work on – improving those writing skills, telling a story, drawing insightful conclusions, so on and so forth.
Okay, so I’m just going to go for it.
Date night. So, I’ve been using a dating app called OKCupid for a couple of months now. I like it better than Tinder, which seems to be a full blown fuck-fest. OKC has the option to answer questions related to things like ethics, lifestyle, and yes, even sex, which are used to “match” you with this person or that. It’s kind of nice to know at a glance whether or not you and the person who pops up have things in common and/or if you’ll be at all compatible. I gravitate to people who are low on the ‘conservative’ and ‘sexperienced’ scales, and high on ‘compassion’ and ‘giving’. What does my profile say about me? Well, OKC describes me as ‘nerdy’, ‘adventurous’, ‘progressive’, and ‘thrifty”. Three out of four ain’t bad … I don’t see myself as particularly adventurous – BUT, I did meet someone and join them on a date! Some might consider that adventurous. I’ve been known to struggle with anxiety, especially when it comes to places where I feel quite stuck, like restaurants and stylists chairs once the dye is applied. Considering how far I’ve come from my “she who faints in breezeways” history, you might conclude that going on a real date was not only adventurous, it was downright brave.
The guy I met is fairly fascinating. He’s a refugee from Romania, and grew up in New York. He has three sisters. He works for the man. He’s a devout Buddhist – he teaches mindfulness and goes on mindful retreats. He said and did all the right things. He listened intently to everything I said and made lots of direct eye contact. We match at 93%, according to OKC. There’s just one thing … I’m not sure I’m attracted to him. Which makes me feel like a jerk. I mean, it’s not what’s on the outside that counts, right? On one hand, I feel like a certain chemistry or spark is really important in a relationship. On the other, I feel like maybe I need to look past those receding hairlines now that I’m <gasp> 43 – and so is my dating pool.
43. So, that happened on Wednesday. It wasn’t nearly as depressing as I anticipated. (I hope I can say the same for Valentine’s Day – it’s coming right up.) It rained like a mofo all day, but I like the rain and I found a nice rain jacket at the house when I went to pick up the last of my things. (Thanks, New Girl – I needed one real bad!) The day flew by (despite the fact that I did virtually nothing) and I was treated to dinner and margaritas with some of my very best friends. It shouldn’t come as a surprise that the people who came to my birthday party were the same sweet af humans who came to my housewarming, and yet, I was tickled when I noticed this consistently faithful crew in this photo. I get what I need. And these be my peeps…
I’m the one in the green jacket gettin’ her buzz on.
The official celebration didn’t stop there; Thursday, I joined another friend (she’s gonna need an alias – let’s call her “Kate” from now on) for dinner and drinks. And tonight, dinner will be served by my squirrel rehab mentor and her sweetie. I get what I need from these kind people who surround and support me. Imma lucky girl!
And as for my cute condo? I put it on my landlord’s radar that I’d like to buy the joint. I’ve been there for over 6 months now, but I’ve really only just started to feel at home. I finally put some things on the walls and although I still have plastic bins for nightstands, I DID purchase some cute end-tables for the living room. Progress! I dread the thought of moving again and I can’t see myself leaving my job (I am so lucky to be where I am, doing what I love, with people I adore) anytime soon. It makes more sense to pay a mortgage than rent, and with the new Harris Teeter / shopping center that’s going in just a few blocks down the road, I imagine property values are going to increase in the next few years. I should probably get in on that.
As you can see, it’s been a pretty good week, overall. I don’t know that I have any specific guidance or insights for a reader, but eh, whatever. I was actually chatting with another OKC match (a girl this time) (91%) who is an active blogger. She says that a target audience is not necessary and encouraged me to “write what makes *you* tick – to hell with everyone else, pay no regard what anyone thinks”. So, for today, I’m going to run with that. And so, I’ll hit “Publish…” and clear this hurdle.
In an effort to be more versatile in my bloggings, for my next act, I shall assemble an assortment of things you maybe didn’t know about me:
Socially awkward right from the start, in the first grade it was not at all uncommon for me to use recess as an opportunity to escape through some poorly placed fence posts and head on home, over a mile away. I pulled this little trick off two or three times before an attentive administrator figured me out.
In another attempt to get out of school, I once convinced my mother that I had a sore throat and couldn’t go. Well, rather than let me watch Three’s Company all day as I intended, she dragged me to a doctor who proceeded to approach my face with a 6″ long cotton swab. Helllll NO! I’ve always had an irrational fear of choking, so upon realizing just where doc was about to stick that swab, I rebutted (See what I did there? You’d think that’s where he was going to put it, wouldn’t you?), started crying, and confessed that I had been faking it all along. The doctor, unamused, swabbed my tonsils anyway <gag>. The next day, thwarted, I was back in school. But it wasn’t long before the school nurse interrupted class to pull me out. “Grab your things”, she said. Lo-and-behold, I had a raging case of Strep, no symptoms.
My family moved every 2 years while I was growing up, so we never had pets that were more complicated or challenging to relocate than fish or parakeets. Gordon the goldfish committed suicide by jumping out of the tank, so that was that. We did have a number of parakeets, all of whom were named Mr. Gregory Peck. Peck II was the most awesome parakeet ever, but my heart always longed for something more – furry. Now that I’m an adult (debatable), it’s pretty established that I have a “gift” with animals, so I’ve dedicated nearly all of my adult life to working with them. Now my poor my mom feels guilty for dismissing my near-constant pleading for a furry thing. Here is a drawing of Peck II, circa 1982.
(have patience, photo is coming)
Favorite sound: Purrrrrrrr. And rain. A rainy, lazy Sunday shared with a purr-happy Torti? Sublime.
I L-O-V-E me a Tortoiseshell cat. My soul-critter has tortitude and so do I. Here are my two favorites:
Creole & Ramona
Favorite animal (beside my dear Torti-cat): The Virginia Opossum! (Didelphis virginiana) North America’s ONLY marsupial, she carries her babies joeys in a pouch and his testicles are on his belly! When we get calls for Opossums hit by a car in the spring and summer it’s considered a true emergency – we must check the pouch for babies! There can be a max of 13 babies stuck to 13 teats – don’t pull ’em! You’ve gotta release the suction they have on the nip or you’ll literally pull their insides out by pulling them off. One last fun fact: The Virginia Opossum has the most teeth of any mammal in North America. All the better to scare you with! Their best defense is to play dead with their mouths wide open in an effort to show you how scary they are! Observe how frighteningly cute …
Fierce!
This blog entry is full of great opossum tidbits, and check out the whole enchilada at Birch Nature because it’s amazing!
(OMG, I JUST INSERTED LINKS, Y’ALL! Look at me being all blog savvy! How about thaaa?!)
I am a Wildlife Rehabilitator permitted by the VA Department of Game and Inland Fisheries to rehabilitate grey squirrels, southern flying squirrels, chipmunks, and bats. I’d have to research the by-laws, but I bet the condo association would frown upon wildlife rehab off the ole balcony, so I mostly help other rehab-type friends when they go out of town or just need a break. I also get to hone those skills every spring, summer and fall just by going to work. Which reminds me, Spring is coming. Crap. But also, Yay! But then Crap. A 9-month busy season is drawing neigh…
This baby is a Big Brown. So Big.
I asked my step-father to adopt me in my 20’s – on Father’s Day. He had always been my Dad, he stepped right up when I was only two. Odd how a handful of court documents and fancy stamps later, my biological father was literally erased from my existence, not so much as an * to indicate him anywhere on my new birth certificate.
When it comes to cute families, mine takes the taco.
Once, I flew. Allll the way across the bathroom in the 4th grade. Jumped off the sink as I had done a million times before for the very first time, in an effort to swing on the exposed pipes that darted through the basement ceiling. I blame peer pressure and that show-off, Mary Lou Retton. My gymnastics career was forever thwarted one afternoon when I crashed to the floor just inches from a mouthful of toilet, stall #3. I broke my arm, but must have been in shock because I just wanted to walk it off and go back to class. Meanwhile, my hand was just dangling, so we flopped it around a little. I don’t recall any pain.
Favorite flavor: Banana. Artificial banana, a plus! Banana runts. Banana popsicles. Banana bread (no nuts!), Frozen chocolate bananas. Banana pancakes. Banana taffy. Banana tic-tacs! Damn you, delicious tic-tac, you mini minion of yumminess – you owe me a crown!
Favorite food: Bring me all the Mexican food.
I work in an animal shelter and despite the fact that it’s considered “low-rung on the totem pole”, my heart is in the kennels with the animals. I live work behind a desk these days in large part due to a nasty cat bite I suffered back in 2013. I went to Urgent Care right away and started antibiotics within hours, but by the weekend my finger looked more like a purple penis than a digit. Long medical story short, I developed a bone infection (osteomyelitis) and had to get a PICC line so I could complete a 6-week protocol of IV antibiotics from home. I kinda had the trots for 6 full weeks, but my skin was glowing and clear, so you know, compromise.
I’ve been in/felt three earthquakes … 1987: Anchorage, Alaska: 4.1. 2001: Seattle, Washington: 6.8. 2011 Arlington, Virginia: 5.8.
For some hateful reason, I’ve been on the scene of 2 fatal motorcycle accidents. The first I watched in my rear-view mirror. The person in the car didn’t see the approaching bike and made a left behind me. The bike T-boned the car and the guy flipped through the air like a rag doll. Unlike just about everyone else who just stood there with their chins on the ground, I ran over and tried to comfort him. You know, I work with animals, and in the stress of that moment, all I could think of to offer him comfort was, “good boy”. He looked at me for a minute or two before his gaze changed and then, his gaze looked through me. The second accident I pulled up on. I noticed 2 people laying in the road, bike on it’s side. The rider had hit a pedestrian, who was clearly in worse shape than she was. I ran over and started CPR compressions right away, but blood squirted from his ears with every push. I knew he was already gone, but I wasn’t going to regret not trying. Not this time. And Love Bomb wondered why I got so upset when she and the Master Manipulator went out and bought a bike on a whim one afternoon while I was at work.
I been in love af with everyone I’ve ever slept with.
If roller-skating were an Olympic sport, I’d have a wall-full of gold medals. I am seriously good at rolling around on 4 wheels.
Do not approach before coffee. I don’t do breakfast unless it’s lunchtime. Or dinnertime. But not in the morning. Blarf.
That’s all I’ve got for you today, kids. I hope you’ve enjoyed this little stroll down Mazie’s Lane.
MazieCakes 