I DON'T EVEN HAVE WORDS...

Suffice it to say that this is one of the funniest things that's happened at work so far this year. I will enthusiastically celebrate McClure Day (by eating copious amounts of chocolate, of course) every year from now on.

THE CRAZY CAT LADY STRIKES AGAIN

Since I blogged about them in my last post, I thought I might include a photo of the kitty darlings. Aren't they sweet? There are seven all together, but only three or four that we see routinely. The little grey one sitting on the bench and the black one on the deck are the two that always run up to the car and allow us to get close. It's my mission to eventually win them over with food... it works with men, so why not cats? :-)

I hear you... I know it's nuts. Gas is four bucks a gallon, and I'm still willing to hop in the car several times a week to check on my feline friends. But get this... over the weekend, I read that the homeless pet population in the U.S. is so overwhelming that every man, woman, child and infant would have to adopt SEVEN animals each to curtail it. Can you believe that? Well, this self-admitted Crazy Cat Lady will just have to visit the homeless and dote on them from afar, because my two fuzzy little snarks at home are all I have room for. Spencer and Sydney are not willing to share the princess bed (not to mention they're so fat it barely contains the two of them). And now that I'm finally sans-dog (oh, yes, Lightning finally went home yesterday! Holla!), there's no way I'm adding any other creatures to the Mannon menagerie anytime soon. Besides, it just doesn't look right for a 37-year old single woman to have too many pets... I'm not that anxious to conform to stereotypes. Next thing you know, I'll be living up to the other one about getting killed by a terrorist, since that's apparently more likely for me than a marriage proposal at this age. Ok, that's enough about me...

Now for the rest of you: Don't you people remember what Bob Barker told you every day for 30 years? Get your pets spayed or neutered! If everyone practiced good stewardship, we wouldn't have a bunch of homeless animals running around... and we sure wouldn't have a bunch of Crazy Cat Ladies running around with cases of Iams in their cars! Yep, just so you know, I'm blaming my quirks on you.

LUCKY 777, ARE YOU FOLLOWING ME?

I hate to look a gift horse in the mouth, as the saying goes, but considering the run of ill luck I've had lately (and the nagging feeling that the universe it speaking directly to me through a freakin' bullhorn), I thought I might share the latest oddity here.

Well, you know how Mark and I build "good kitty karma" by looking after the forgotten and neglected felines of the world? Oh, maybe I haven't shared that here... let me back up and tell that story first. Sometime early last fall, we noticed some kittens scampering around in a parking lot at an office building in Fayetteville. Realizing that we'd stumbled upon a colony of feral cats, we instantly "adopted" them. We also look in on two that we call Barnes and Noble, because they hang out in front of the bookstore. Anyway, throughout the fall, all winter and spring, and even now that it's summertime, we go and check on our feline charges one to three times a week. Our two favorites are at the old IBM building, across the street from Walgreens, so we have a habit of trekking over there to buy canned food and Pounce first. We secretly nurture the hope that one day they will let us touch them, but physical contact has been pretty slow-going. They do recognize the car and will run up to it and meow in anticipation; they are generally eager to accept our treats, which we consider an honor (crazy how cat fanciers interpret things that way). Once in a while, we vary the routine and take leftovers from home or buy pouches of tuna. Last night, we had a little picnic there and fed them pieces of shrimp and Canadian bacon from the salad we brought with us. I know it sounds kind of strange, communing with the cats, but we are very attached to these whiskered little sprites. And that's where my tale begins.

We had called Tim's and ordered a super-salad to go, then dropped in at Walgreens for catfood on the way. We stepped up to the register, paid for our items and received $7.77 in change. We joked about it with the clerk, laughing among ourselves that it was our lucky night and that we should point the car toward West Siloam and make tracks over to Cherokee Nation. We didn't though... I mean, it was 9:30 and we hadn't had dinner and that super-salad was beckoning (plus I'm too much of a cheapskate to gamble!) Anyway, we pull up and I hop out to pick up the food. The waitress rings it up and says, "That'll be $7.77." Ooooh-eee-oooh. Isn't that freaky? Back-to-back $7.77 incidents! As soon as I opened the door of the car to get in, I said, "You won't believe what the total was!" Mark thought I was making it up.

Later on, we were driving home along 71-B through Springdale and saw a billboard advertising some sort of gaming, with cards reading "777"on it... I don't really consider that a positive harbinger, since that board has been there a while and had no direct relation to me, personally. It's just something I zero'd in on because of the other two happenings. And by that point, I was also longing for another brush with the ubiquitous triple-sevens.

So I'm wondering if I should've come home and played a few hands on Pokerstars? Am I getting ready to take a trip on a Boeing jet? Should I infer something about the seven days of the week? Seven phases of the moon? Seven seas? Wonders of the world? Colors of the spectrum? I'm not sure... But I'll tell you this, I'm kinda relieved it wasn't 666! Only kidding... I don't actually believe in all that "Mark of the Beast" hocus-pocus, owing to my personal convictions about its biblical misinterpretations. But I'm also not taking any chances! :-)

You know, come to think of it, there are a total of seven cats at that office building... Hmmm... Maybe there's something to building "good kitty karma" afterall...

TRANNY TOILETS... THAT'S FIERCE

In a bold move of political correctness, a high school in Bangkok, Thailand, has taken the concept of the "unisex" restroom to a whole new level. This semester, the school has added a trans-gender toilet for students. The principal had the restroom built in response to a survey revealing that 200 (roughly 8%) of the school's 2,600 students considered themselves trans-gendered. The lavatories are designated with the words "Transvestite Toilet" and bear a symbol of a human figure that's half man/half woman, split down the middle.

Seriously.

The principal justified the decision, stating that students should be able to "go" in peace, without being "watched, laughed at or groped." He said that using the girl's room made the female students feel somewhat uncomfortable, while using the boy's room often resulted in harrassment. (Tough crap... haha... ok, sorry.)

So let's see if I can follow this crazy-train of thought... First, we're going to build a "teen queen" hang-out (with good lighting, please, so everyone can pluck their eyebrows between classes). And now, the students who already enjoy harrassing these poor confused boys will know exactly where to find them... plus they'll now be able to kick their tranny butts behind closed doors. Hmmm... Mr. Principal, I don't think we've thought this one through.

I don't know where to start, there are so many angles to this story. I am extremely tolerant of others' lifestyles (perhaps overly so), but even I have to ask is this really solving a problem? How about investing in resources and counseling to help these kids with their gender/identity issues? Might we have attempted to enforce stricter consequences for the kids who harrass the boys who dress like girls? Is building separate restrooms not further segregating the students from their peers? And is this not a validation that could potentially influence other kids to join in trans-gendered activity? And where, oh where, are the parents?

From what I've read, the Thai culture is much more tolerant of alternative lifestyles than we are in the good ol' US of A, but it's unthinkable to me that this would take place in a high school anywhere. High school, folks. Back in the day, all Ferris Bueller wanted was a teeny little day off. And this principal in Thailand? Well, if you ask me, he makes Mr. Rooney look like a real smart guy. And as a homage to the brilliance that was (and is) Ferris Bueller's Day Off, I'll exit with a quasi-quote from the end of the movie: "I bet you never smelled a real tranny toilet before." Nope. And I hope I never do.

SIGNS FROM THE UNIVERSE

Have you ever felt like the universe is giving you a sign?

Like maybe you've deviated from the plan and it's time to get back on track?

I find myself feeling that way, as of late.

It kinda started as a niggling in the recesses of my sub-conscious, about the time of this whole silly business of my 20-year class reunion-- which for some reason seems to have dredged up every twinge of juvenile insecurity I ever felt. I'm not sure why it has consumed my thoughts the way it has. My best friend, Melonie, tells me I should pull out my Prom Queen tiara and don it for the reunion... as if it has some kind of magical Stuart Smalley-esque power. She's convinced that it's ensconced somewhere in glass (like the Hope diamond) in my closet or something. Honestly, I think I threw it away years ago. I'm not really one to form sentimental attachments to gee-gaws from my past... that, to me, just reaffirms how bizarre all of these anxious feelings are, in the first place. I think the universe is trying to tell me something.

Ok, so I'm unsettled about reuniting with my classmates. And as a result, I'm now devoting an inordinate amount of time (it's bordering on a compulsion, I'd say) obsessing about skin care. I'm spending mad money on medi-spa treatments and all manner of topical "snake oils". And I'm constantly Googling to learn more about collagen and peptides and hyaluronic acid and dermal fillers and anything that might possibly restore the dew of youth to my aging face. Ironically, my skin looks worse than it did before that ridiculously expensive bottle of Sonya Dakar (but it sure does smell nice). So I'm all broken out and flaky-- and since I'm avoiding the sun, I look like something from an opening scene of Six Feet Under (you know, that show was always chock full of traumatic deaths and frightfully realistic-looking corpses). Anyway, I shouldn't even be spending my money on this crapola... I'm supposed to be paying off my cards. So now I feel even worse about myself...What in the world am I doing? I think the universe is trying to tell me something.

So then there was the little fender-bender. Ah, yes. A true wake-up call. I'm still not sure exactly what happened, because it all happened so fast. But given my new found fixation on my skin, I wouldn't be surprised to learn that I had the visor pulled down, looking at my face instead of the road and oncoming mailboxes. I gotta tell you, I was rattled by that whole thing. I mean, I can't even keep my 1992 Honda between curbs? Really? Plus I was miffed about having to drop 700 bucks (that's five facials!) for my neighbors' replacement mailbox... not to mention its deep cut into my "get out of debt" initiative, which is really supposed to be the priority here. And it also cut into the joy I felt when the big, glossy, long-anticipated Mercedes catalogue finally arrived. What? No joy from the sporty centerfold? I think the universe is trying to tell me something.

Next, I had to get the Hoopty in shape for a weekend trek down to Little Rock. Mom and I had planned our spa day at the Rejuvenation Clinic for weeks (again, I'm getting spiffed up for those classmates!) and I realized that, even though the windshield had been replaced, the car really wasn't road worthy. It needed an oil change, wiper blades, a set of new tires and a brake job. That's a total of over $850, just so I can get in one last round of micro-dermabrasion before Saturday and shop for the perfect reunion outfit. That's freakin' nuts. I'm starting to feel like "Misplaced Priorities" should be my middle name. I think the universe is trying to tell me something.

Before I could get on the road for Little Rock, though, I had a dentist appointment... and though I haven't had a cavity in, like 28 years, I found out that I'm going to have to have an old filling removed and re-filled. Plus, in my quest for a pearly-white smile, I'm also brushing my teeth so hard that I'm damaging my gums. I've never had a periodontal exam before... they rammed a little metal rod into my gums to assess the health of my gums. That made me feel really old. I think the universe is trying to tell me something.

So on Tuesday, I take a quick lunch break to see the doctor. I'm really only needing a refill on a script, so I feel that this office call is a bit of a formality. Until the nurse takes my blood pressure, that is. The first reading is 161 /113. We finally settle on 150/101, which is still serious. Now, I'm really falling apart. I think the universe is trying to tell me something.

So I've had a little time to reflect on the events of the past few weeks. And I think I've figured it out. The universe REALLY IS telling me something. Slow down. Regroup. Stop worrying about superficial stuff like red C350's and making my face look 29 again. It's time to adjust. Adapt. Overcome. Get back to basics. Be healthy. Be organized. Form a new routine. Act like a grown-up. Stick to the goals that will make me a more attractive person on the inside-- not on the outside.

I'm still not sure how much the things going on around me are to be perceived as meaningful... I think time helps us sort it out. Some of us are just worse at interpreting the signs, I suppose. I'm clearly not in tune with discerning these little messages-- mainly because I've become so distracted by the minutia. But ok, universe... you don't have to beat me senseless... I get it! I read you, loud and clear!

WILTED, FADED FLOWERS

So it's Wednesday night and I'm tuned in to O'Reilly to get my weekly "Miller Time" fix, along with a little fair and balanced coverage... when, lo and behold, something happened that threw my whole universe completely off-kilter: Gennifer Flowers and Paula Jones. There ain't nothin' fair about that, let me tell you.

First of all, I wasn't mentally prepared for a plastic invasion of this magnitude... I darn near hit the floor in throes of pain, my retinas starting to smoke. The years may not have been a friend to these two, but it seems that these two are now friends to each other-- friends joined in the common bond of unbridled avarice. The two jilted Clinton cast-offs have teamed up to film "Two Chicks Chatting". Seriously. They have taped an interview together, and are charging $1.99 to view excerpts of them as they swap stories of the slick willie. It's incomprehensible to me that even these two are tacky enough to do this... and that they're honestly trying to make a buck. I visited the site to see if all the hype is true, and unfortunately it is. They even take PayPal!

When you're only real claim to fame is being some bimbo that the president bonked for a dozen years, do you really want to dredge all that up? Apparently so. The whole thing seems really oddly-timed to me-- but then I realized that with Hillary out of the race, these two saw that their window of opportunity was barely cracked and decided to go ahead and throw a little dirty laundry right out (sorry, that conjures up visuals of Lewinsky's stained blue frock, and I think I just threw up in my mouth).

But the foremost question in my mind is what in the Sam Hill happened to Gennifer? Other than Bill, what did she do? I'm the first to say that I don't believe in "growing old gracefully"... I believe in fighting it tooth and nail. But in Gennifer's case, I think the teeth and the nails won.

Who says greed isn't ugly?

THE WORD OF THE DAY, KIDS, IS "FLIBBERTIGIBBET"

Finally, my whole life makes perfect sense. Thank God for the word of the day.

flibbertigibbet (FLIB-uhr-tee-jib-it) - noun :
Someone who is regarded as flighty, scatterbrained, and talkative.

[Apparently from the imitation of the sound of idle chatter.]

CHICK-FIL-A... MY PLEASURE

Never have I had so much pleasure as in a trip through the Chick-Fil-A drive-thru...

I've made a little game out of counting the times the friendly employees of Chick-Fil-A respond by saying "My pleasure". I'm averaging about 3.5 "my pleasures" per trip these days. They've also started throwing me off my game a little with phrases like, "Pull around to the window, ma'am, and it will be Isaac's pleasure to serve you"... I mean, I'm not sure whether to count that or not. I guess I still need to lay down some strict ground rules for this game.

I think Chick-Fil-A is an amazing corporation. Years ago, I listened to a fascinating radio program about their founder Truett Cathy and the phenomenal corporate culture he's created. They say employee turnover is almost unheard of, owing to Mr. Cathy's personal principles and the family values to which the company has remained true over the years. I admire what they've got going there, and it goes without saying that they offer a fine product. I can't think of anything I enjoy more than Chicken Mini's... their restaurant may be the #2 chicken chain in America, but it's #1 in my heart and on my hips.

And I appreciate the friendly, customer-first attitude of the folks that greet the public at Chick-Fil-A... I sincerely do. But I believe the "my pleasures" should be limited to one (maximum of two) per customer... if you hear it more than that, it loses sincerity and just sounds trite and cheesy.

I will say this, though. Never, in any three minutes, have I ever been so completely, so thoroughly, so willingly, so multiply pleasured. Thanks, Chick-Fil-A.

FROM WENTZ COMES SUCH OVER-EXPOSURE?

Brittnee and I were talking at work today about Wentz-Fest 2008... haven't the little newlyweds been all over the place? You can't turn on the tv or pick up a rag-mag without seeing some over the top goofy-faced photo of Pete Wentz and Ashlee Simpson-Wentz. I hope the clock on their 15 seconds of fame is sitting about about 14.5, because it's getting a little absurd.

It got me thinking... Does no one else remember that, about a year and a half ago, she had lost all respect after abruptly running offstage during her lip-synch debacle on SNL? And at that time, if you had asked anyone on the planet if they could name the bassist for Fall Out Boy, most of the general public would've probably said "Fall Out...Who?" Save the Nickelodeon crowd, how many of us knew Pete Wentz by name back then? It feels like he kinda popped up overnight and then took over the universe. I mean, I know these two are teen/tween faves... but other than a handful of feeble pop songs, some "very newsworthy" hairstyle changes, two new boobs and one brand new schnoz, why is Ashlee Simpson-Wentz really relevant? Moreover, why should Pete Wentz even be a blip on our collective radar? Last I heard, people get married and get preggers (not necessarily in that order) every day. Big freakin' deal. Does an Alice In Wonderland cake and 10,000 specialty roses really make you newsworthy?

And while I'm on this rant... has anyone else noticed that Wentz looks like Fred Gwynne (the guy from Car 54, Where Are You, who also played Herman Munster)? This may just be my opinion... but I think they bear a striking resemblance. They both wear black nail polish. Although Herman does wear less eye-liner, of course. But give Herman a wispy little razor-cut to peep out from under, and I promise he'd be a dead ringer for Mr. Ashlee Simpson.

Come to think of it... those were "black magic" roses at the wedding. Let's hope the little Wentz tyke doesn't come out with facial hair, pinstriped pajamas and a werewolf doll.

... not that we should care either way, of course.

EXTREME MAKEOVER -- BEFORE & AFTER

"How was your weekend?"

That phrase is pretty much the stuff of which all Monday mornings are made, around the office. And though I don't usually have any earth-shattering weekend stories to share, today I actually did have a good one of the glass-shattering variety.

I'll spare everyone the sordid blow-by-blow details, but somehow (and I really have absolutely no idea how) I went out for a Sunday jaunt in the Hoopty-Honda yesterday and wound up jumping a curb and plowing into and over a neighbor's mailbox. And when I say neighbor, I mean the house directly across the street from my next-door neighbor. We're talking neighbors (don't ask me how I possibly got up enough speed to cause this level of destruction... I guess I've not been giving ol' Hoopty her due). But that whole thing about accidents occurring close to home? I found out it's true. And though I've lived in my neighborhood for almost two years, I hadn't met these nice folks yet... frankly, I don't really recommend mailbox annihilation as a means of introduction.

The whole thing happened in the nano-blink of an eye. And by the time I'd gotten down the street far enough to get my wits about me and turn the ol' Hoopty around, the addressees of said mailbox had already heard the loud ka-boom and come running outside to investigate the origin of the ruckus. What they found was a mailbox post unbolted from the concrete below, the box completely ripped off the post (impact with a windshield will do that), and about a 20-gallon stone planter with its potting soil and flowers strewn across the driveway. Remember that scene in Back to the Future where Biff and his friends run into the manure truck and get covered? It was kind of like that-- but with dirt instead of poo. It was an Extreme Curbside Makeover of magnificent splendor. And the precise dollar value of this splendor is still TBD. So far, I have horked up $700 for a new cast aluminum mailbox that adheres to our neighborhood covenants, and that doesn't count the cost of repair to the Hoopty. Which is a whole blog unto itself... because let's be honest: Hoopty probably isn't worth $1,800 from bumper to bumper. So I'll be Biff'd if I'm going to pour that much into sprucing her up. I think she's just going to have to be uglier than normal for the rest of her natural life.

Here's a little "before and after" for your viewing pleasure...

And if you're wondering how Hoopty fared...

I know, she was a real beaut before. But I think the busted windshield, scratched front fender and demolished mirror add to the old girl's swagger.

As Brittnee so eloquently put it "She has street cred now."

In fact, I've driven her to two different places since the incident... and so far I'm two for two with queries about her demise. Hail and flying baseballs are the front-runners thus far. But nope, I just smile with pride and tell them it was all me. Well, all me... with a little help from a USPS-certified mail receptacle.

I think we really delivered. Don't you?