A fallen squirrel.

[Bambooki]

Why do bosses get so fired up about things they have little control over? And why do they get fired up in my direction when I’m only the middle man? I’m not really involved in the process at hand. I’m not the solution to the problem; I’m just the one who relayed the information. Don’t kill the messenger.

I was just the sounding board for some squealing and discontent. Ouch. Damn good thing it wasn’t really directed at me, because it was painful enough being on the other end of the phone. My ears are ringing. Whew! If this job has taught me anything, it’s that I don’t like working in a hierarchical office. Granted, if I have to, I’d prefer to be lower on the pyramid and have less responsibility, but by choice I’d not be on the pyramid at all. It’s amazing—I’ve learned so much about myself from this job. I guess it proves that every experience offers a lesson in self exploration, despite the unpleasantness of said experience.

Last night I was inexplicably blue. The Fer made me dinner and brought it to me on the couch, which I appreciated. When I got home there was a disaster in my house; I had an electrician put in a new plug in my bathroom, but when he cut a hole in the wall the 100-year-old plaster, it crumbled. So now I’ve got a nice new plug, but the plaster around it is all broken and you can see into the walls. Also, in running the wires down through the kitchen to the basement, he encountered all kinds of disastrous rubble lying on top of the dropped kitchen ceiling and of course that all went on my kitchen floor and into my sink and all over my counter. I began a massive cleanup effort when I got home. The kitchen had been a tad grimy anyway, so it was needed, but this was downright gross. There’s still plaster on the floor, though the electrician did his best to sweep it up. My house is so damn old, and because my family has always rented it, they haven’t taken care of it as well as if they actually lived there. But I’m changing that. It’s my home and I’m part of the family and I’m slowly working on updates. Before, if you ran the hair dryer or vacuum cleaner at the same time as a space heater or iron, the circuit tripped. So every morning I had to go into the canary and turtles’ and bunny’s room and turn off the space heater so I could dry my hair, and then remember to turn it back on to keep the critters warm. But today I had a brand new circuit for my hair dryer and it was wonderful, despite the hole in the wall. The whole house still needs to be rewired, but this is a first step. I’m also waiting on the wallpaper guy to come and put in my new paper. My house has such potential, but potential costs so much money.

The highlight of my evening was the last 10 seconds of 24: Jack finally shot Nina! I’ve been waiting for him to fuck her up for three seasons. I offered up a barbaric yawp of joy as the credits rolled.

Nothing like a little gratuitous violence.

 

[Bambooki]

Pictures of Me Taking Pictures

Got an email from the photographer from last weekend. He sent me photos of our excursion. You can't see our faces in these photos so I'm expecting to remain fairly anonymous.

The Fer and I photographing the rushing water.

The Fer and I crossing a scary bridge in snow shoes.

Me. Notice the knee brace.

Awkward in snow shoes to climb over those rocks.

Getting a close up of a fungus, I think. That's my big lens.

The Fer videoing the waterfall.

All photographs were taken by Crede Calhoun of Vision Quest Studios.

 

[Bambooki]

Mad drama continues in the Bambooki household. Well, in the household next door, anyway. (Fuck, I’ve got the hiccups. Second time in 12 hours—I get them in three’s.) Mom called; she and Dad had a big fight regarding the cataract surgery that he’s finally agreed to have (he’s almost legally blind) and then The Boy called and wanted permission to go on a rowdy spring break somewhere where he’s guaranteed to get into trouble. Is the kid serious? I know he’s had a rough year and all, but it’s his own fault, and how dumb can he possibly be? Even if my parents were insane enough to give him permission, it’d be dumb move on his part. Why doesn’t he just commit himself to a year-long sentence now?

He goes back to jail tonight and stays until Saturday morning. Then he’s done. Assuming he stays out of future trouble, that is.

I told my mother that perhaps they should just send him out into the world armed with the money he’s got for college and his wits and sensibility. (Haha—that’s almost funny.) What better way to teach him about life? She replied that he’s too dumb to make it on his own. That’s not true, though. He’s too lazy. He should be sent out into the world. That’d teach him what he needs to learn, and it would free my parents of this torment. Then again, they’re his parents so they’ll never truly let him be on his own. They’ll always be there if he needs them, or money, or a savior. They just don’t know what to do these days. At all.

I’ll be picking up my photos after work. God I hope that at least some of them are decent. I’ll be horrified if they suck. Out of 5 rolls I expect to get 4 great photos, and maybe 10 good ones. If any are okay I’ll post them if you all promise to offer your honest opinions and criticism. I promise not tell you if I cry.

 

[Bambooki]

I’ve got sliders that need a home. Anyone interested?

I love the little guys, but they’re getting too big and expensive for me to take care of. I’m not the type of person who makes a commitment to a pet and then waffles and dumps the pet somewhere when it gets hard to take care of. When I commit to an animal, only serious circumstances can part me from it. (Take the case of The Apso; Dobergirl is violent with her so she lives next door, but she’s still my dog and my responsibility. I do vet runs and pay bills and such.)

But these turtles were a gift from The Boy, who had no idea how difficult turtles are to keep. I knew I wouldn’t keep them once they outgrew their tank, and they’re getting to that point rapidly, I’m afraid. It’s not fair to the turtles to keep them when I don’t really have the resources for the upkeep. The Boy was trying to cheer me up after the loss of our second Doberman (back to the dobie rescue), but buying illegal turtles was not the best way to do it. He wasn’t thinking. And now I have to do something I hate, and that’s give up on a critter. It’s best for them, though. I just talked to a local pet store and the guy told me he’d take them if they were in good shape.

I can’t release them into the wild. Having spent four years studying population dynamics, I know what happens when people disrupt the status quo. My turtles are captive; they’re not members of a wild, breeding population. Not only could they have a disease that would infect wild turtle populations, but they might also have a genetic defect of some sort that would harm wild turtles, possibly for the long-term. Also, if there is a different species in this area, releasing exotic (aka non-native) sliders could affect the existing native population.

A prime example is the fire ant. Florida has a native fire ant, but you’d never know it, because a species called the Red Imported Fire Ant was brought in decades ago in a shipment of mulch or dirt from South America. From that one colony, the Red Imported Fire Ant took over all of Florida and the rest of the south. The native fire ant still exists, but it’s been overpowered by the exotic species. Now, fire ants are a huge problem, and they affect other species, some of which are highly endangered. They eat baby animals and eggs. When endangered sea turtle babies hatch out of the sand, they are immediately consumed by fire ants.

So that’s why I can’t release my sliders. Think of Columbus invading America, and spreading disease and decimating the culture of the Native Americans. It’s a human example. Our small pox was deadly and their bodies couldn’t handle our alcohol. We pushed them out of their native land. And the balance can’t ever be restored. Once it’s done, it’s done.

The environmental lesson for today is now over.

My photos came back. I was horrified to see that they didn’t turn out well at all. As I’d predicted, maybe 4 were “good”. None were great, though. Out of 5 rolls, I found 42 prints completely unacceptable. I’m so disappointed in myself. I should have used my tripod more when photographing the rushing water. This photography class is really going to help me. I know a lot but there’s a whole lot more I don’t know and that I need to be taught. This morning when I got to work I went out in the morning light to snap some photos of campus for an upcoming publication. I’m not worried about them. They’ll turn out fine. And they’ll be my first published photos. It’s a start, anyway.

 

[Bambooki]

Two days and $450 later, we have a brand new, 55-gallon fish tank. It’s a thing of absolute beauty. And while that seems like an enormous amount of money (which it is), I saved probably almost $200, because I got the tank and oak stand at cost, along with 15% off of everything. There was so much to carry home: the tank, the stand, the hoods, the gravel (55lbs of it), the plants, the driftwood, the rocks, the salt, the bacteria (to start a healthy aquatic nitrate cycle), and of course, a coupla’ bones for Dobergirl. Not to mention the 4 new Neon Tetras and 3 new Gouramis. Everybody went into the old tanks while we set things up. It took The Fer probably twenty trips from the sink with a big old bucket to fill it up, and we had to wash 55 pounds of gravel, too. Fortunately everything went smoothly. Catching the fish from the old tanks was the worst part. Fast little guys. Eventually we tossed the net and used our hands, which is probably very stressful for the fish, but probably not any more stressful than being chased with a net for 20 minutes. We even found Frog Man, who we thought had hopped out of the tank and died. Either way, all is well. We lost one female guppy in the transfer—she was stuck to the intake tube the next morning. (And two of the old Neon’s mysteriously disappeared into thin air.) It’s hard to introduce fish to a new tank without having what fish people refer to as “new tank syndrome”. Until a decent amount of beneficial bacteria have grown, a tank can be a death trap. We bought bottled bacteria to speed up the process of establishing these healthy bacteria, and transferred some old water to the new tank to guarantee the new bacteria would have some fish poo to digest. Or, in technical terms, we provided them with nitrite to turn into nitrate.

Anyway, we’ve got so much room, now. We’ve got room for probably 15 more fish; the ratio is one gallon per one inch of fish. I’d like to add some platys, swordtails, and black mollies. The schooling fish are great to watch.

Oh Sweet Pete. I just went into the mini-kitchen by my office to microwave some chicken and rice, and there was a bat on the floor in the dark. As soon as I realized what it was I screamed like hell and tore back to my office. I had to call security and maintenance to remove it and of course it was a big spectacle. He’s now outside; they put him under a bush and he’s lying there hissing at them. The maintenance guys snuck back up into the kitchen and made squeaky noises after they released him and scared the bejezes out of us just for one last kick. Men...

And if even one person PM’s me and says, “Bats are harmless and they’re cute and you’re a weenie”, I’m kicking your ass. I know they’re harmless and cute. I know they eat insects. I know their ecological significance and I’m pro-bat. The bat is an intrinsically wonderful animal. I like bat shows on Discovery. I like bat boxes which provide them a home. I like they way they eat mosquitos. I just don’t care for them up close and flying at me or crawling around on my floor.

My earring just popped out of my ear. I’ve lost the back. Damn.

 

[Bambooki]

Poo and Bush

I’m at work, and I shouldn’t be. Yesterday I was home, with the stomach flu. Actually, it wasn’t my stomach. “Stomach” implies that one is throwing up. I was most definitely not throwing up. I did, however, have to remain close to my home base. It was an awful day, and today is equally as bad. But, I’m here. My stomach hurts like crazy, and I can barely make it up and down the stairs. Fear of ridicule is clearly a powerful motivator, because I dragged myself in here anyway, not wanting to miss two days in a row. Now I wish I hadn’t, because I’m too shaky to be taking the stairs safely. Yesterday I took a narcotic I was prescribed a while ago which is designed to stop the poos. It was a big mistake. The drug worked, but it brought on a horrible bout of my Restless Legs Syndrome. I was completely drugged and unable to even get up, but I had to jitter my legs all around for hours. The creepy crawlies were the worst I’ve ever had them. If I’d had a treadmill I would have just hopped on, but the problem was that I was only one degree above comatose. Finally around 8pm the creepy crawlies started to subside just the tiniest bit. I still twitched my legs about as I was dozing in the recliner. I slept through two episodes of Storm Stories and an episode of 24. (Damn!) At 10pm The Fer practically carried me to bed. I didn’t wake up once. This morning, thankfully, the creeps are gone, but the bug really isn’t.

So I’m here, with my ginger ale, nursing it. I’m hungry (like the wolf) but I’m afraid of putting much into my stomach. Last night The Fer made me pork chops in the oven and white rice, and it stayed put. I don’t want to push it, though.

Monday night we sent the sliders off to a better life. A local pet shop, run by a local couple who seem to know their stuff, adopted them for us. They had a 20-gallon tank already set up for them. And it turns out that we had a male and a female, though I don’t know if they ever would have bred. The owner offered us a trade for some pet food or a tropical fish, but we really didn’t need anything so I declined. I was happy just to see them going to a good home and to a place where they’ll be taken care of. Hopefully their next owner will have the resources to be a turtle parent. Best of all, he said they looked healthy. We did right by those reptiles, I think. This was the right thing to do for them. Still, it’s weird not seeing their tank in my jungle room. I always enjoyed coming into the room and seeing them up on their rock, basking.

Meanwhile, I really can’t stand Bush. I hate his policies. Why can’t gay people be married? What’s the big deal? If the institution of marriage is so sacred, why has it become such a total flop in this country? I don’t think we should put our faith in marriage when half of them fail.

Not that I have anything against those who are divorced. Sometimes marriage just doesn’t work out. That’s life. But to deny a group of people the right to marriage because it’s supposedly such a “sacred American tradition” is bullshit. Why are these folks ineligible? It’s disgusting.

I’ll spare you the rest of my rant. But what a pig he is.

 

[Bambooki]

I'm up and I hurt. No work for me today. Last night the stomach ache began around 7pm, and is still going strong. I've taken so much Pepto that my tongue is black. It doesn't do a damn thing for the pain. I called Boss Lady #1 this morning and told her I wasn't coming in, but not to tell BossMan, because he'll make fun of me. I'm starting to worry that I may have a parasite. Not worms, but a bacteria known as C. Dificile, which I got once in high school and missed two weeks straight. When you take antibiotics, sometimes they kill off the healthy bacteria in your intestines, and the result is a big painful mess. I took antibiotics a few weeks ago, and this is eerily reminiscent of my junior year of high school when I was stricken. Although I'm trying not to get overly worried, I do think I need to be tested. My doctor is naturally closed on Thursdays, and the local in-n-out clinic charges $50 because they're not my primary care physician. Also it's not in-n-out at all; I usually end up waiting three hours. I suppose I'll give this one more day. Tomorrow I'll see my regular doctor if the stomach pain (and nausea) persist.

My dad's having cataract surgery right now on one of his eyes. He was terrified. He's weird about his eyes—can't stand to put in drops or talk about his eyes or poke around in them. Absolutely freaks out. When my grandma had her cataract surgery she had a detached retina, so he's doubly freaked. Such a big man, and such a big baby. I wonder how he'll react to the pirate jokes I plan to make when he comes home with a patch. Actually, knowing him, he's having surgery in his suit and will have Mom drop him off at the office...

 

[Bambooki]

It's Friday and we're all slap happy. I've been showing my coworkers pictures of my pecker.

It's pileated.

 

[Bambooki]

Finally the stomach flu has abated. I did give it to The Fer, though, who spent the weekend not feeling so great. I took care of him as he did for me. Saturday we bought $35 worth of new fish for our aquarium. The total was (and this list is more for myself than for anyone else so feel free to skip this part) 4 Mollies, 2 Opaline Gouramis, 3 Corydoras, 4 Long Fin Platys, 2 Pakistani loaches, 1 Tiger Botia, 3 Serpae Tetras, and 6 Ghost Shrimp. Everybody survived the transfer save for one of the Mollies, who was found dead the next morning. That's not bad for such a large addition of fish. You're not really supposed to add that many fish at one time, but we got a little carried away. The Mollies went to work right away eating the algae off the plant leaves and generally beautifying the tank. Corydoras and Loaches (and the Botia) are all good at keeping the bottom clean, as are the Ghost Shrimp. I know I'm a fish nerd and that this is terribly boring to read. It excites the hell out of me, though.

It was an interesting Sunday for Dobergirl; she fell through the ice at the lake house twice. Fortunately it wasn't deep where she landed, and the air temperature was in the sixties. Sure was funny, though. What wasn't funny was when my mother's Welsh Corgi fell through the ice. Corgies aren't meant for swimming. The Fer pulled her out in time, though. Dobergirl went over to investigate despite our protests and callings, and fell through the Corgi hole, head first. The Fer pulled her out a second time, for a total of three canine rescues.

Meanwhile, my romantic trip to Bonaire this summer with The Fer has been turned into a Bambooki family vacation. First Mom was going to come. Then Dad decided he'd come too. Fine by us; we can't afford to rent a car but they can. Then it was decided that The Boy couldn't be left on his own to burn down the house or be arrested, so I believe a ticket will be bought for him. Of course The Boy is supposed to get a job this summer so now we have to put the vacation back until just before school starts in August. Still okay, because that's two more paychecks The Fer and I can devote to the trip, and August is a bad fishing month so we won't be missing anything at home. But this has really been taken over by my family. I want them to come, or perhaps I should say I need them to come so we'll have their added income to help with expenses, and because we'll be able to rent a condo or cabana for five people, but it's so like my family to just come in and fuck up all of my plans. The Fer is the greatest; he doesn't seem bothered by their presence on our vacation and would be delighted to have them come. (At least that's what he says; he's too polite to tell me any different if he is truly bothered by it.) Family is such an amazing entity; it has such a power to incite aggravation. Among other emotions.

I got into a shouting match with my mother at the dinner table Saturday over Bill Clinton. She hates him and thinks he's morally reprehensible and a pig; I think he was a good president and don't really care what went on behind closed doors. She normally won't get involved in politics, much less get fired up about them, but this got ugly. Finally my dad broke it up and she apologized. Good thing, because I wanted to crack her. She was out of control.

I'm mad as hell at work today. They want to hire an outside photographer to take campus photos, which is totally stupid because we have no money whatsoever and I AM a photographer. They're not taking me seriously. I've offered to take the photos for free as long as they buy and develop the film, and I've said I'll do it after work hours so as not to detract from my job. I just want something for my portfolio and a little name on the inside cover of any publication to add to my body of work. And they're being so stupid and pig-headed and I don't know why I offered in the first place.

"Not that your photos aren't good, Laura. We should really hire a real photographer to do this, though."

I AM a real photographer. I'm getting off the ground. Throw me a bone here. Fuckers.

 

[Bambooki]

I’ve noticed that this journal has become more about what I do than about me. I don’t know if that’s right or wrong, or neither, but I’m a better writer than I have been here, and Tombuazit’s last entry made me realize that I’ve disconnected myself a bit, and put up a glass barrier between myself and this journal. I’m not saying that this or any other entry is going to be that much different, but I’m going to consciously try to give more of myself in my writing, and pretend like it’s not being read.

Of late, I’ve had a lot of stressful dreams. Dreams often about my wedding, in which my hair is falling down or my dress doesn’t fit or my shoes are missing, and one in particular where my brother shows up wearing overalls and flannel. In addition, I’ve been cognizant of dreams about college, where I suddenly realize I’ve not gone to one of my classes all year. (That one appears a lot.) My mind seems to be telling me that it’s worried I’m not all in order, but I can’t figure out what the specifics might be. For the first time in a long time, the pieces of my life fit together in a comfortable way. I'm content. True, my job isn’t a dream, but it’s far from a nightmare and most days I really don’t mind it. And, truth be told, I realized last night that I’m still petrified of this whole business-on-my-own thing. The Fer suggested we go to a local Business After Hours event in town in a few weeks and all I could think was, “I’m not ready, I can’t go yet, I’ll catch the next one.” After all, I don’t even have a clear plan of what I’m doing, nor do I even have a simple business card to give to someone. I’m not ready to mingle and throw myself out there and be an extrovert. I’m not ready to rely on myself. I’m afraid.

So what am I afraid of, exactly? That one requires some thought. Obviously failure is the biggest fear. But on a deeper level, maybe I’m afraid to rely totally on myself. I don’t want to go into this with my loved ones behind me, and have to come crawling home and know that my family and The Fer are watching me slink away. I also just don’t know how to start. Sure, I know about writing a business plan and that sort of thing, but I don’t know if I should ease in or just toss myself off the diving board into the deep end of the pool. I know nothing whatsoever about business. I don’t even know how much this escapade is going to cost me. Secretly, part of me likes this stupid job where I have no authority and people checking over my shoulder and keeping me on the path of least resistance.

But I also know I’m not really happy here. Content, but not happy.
_________________________________________________________
Meanwhile, reading Sugar Snit’s recent entry about slipping over the edge wrenched my heart, because those words felt like they might have come from my mouth. And I thought and thought about what to send to you in a PM, Snit, and I just didn’t have the words, even though the feelings run through me too. All I can really say is that I read your words and they were both terrifying and comforting all at once. I’m not beautiful or special or artistic or intuitive because I’ve got a dark spot in my mind. I’m just me, and for better or worse, that spot is part of who I am, and is responsible for part of who I am. And even if someone wanted to see into that darkness, I probably wouldn’t allow it, because even though it’s a cross to bear, it’s also the part of myself I keep for only me.

That reminds me: here’s the poem I had on my bathroom mirror in college. I don't think I can do more than post it and let each of you read it. I think the author would understand my lack of commentary.

A Secret Life, by Stephen Dunn

Why you need to have one
is not much more mysterious than
why you don't say what you think
at the birth of an ugly baby.
Or, you've just made love
and feel you'd rather have been
in a dark booth where your partner
was nodding, whispering yes, yes,
you're brilliant.
The secret life
begins early, is kept alive
by all that's unpopular
in you, all that you know
a Baptist, say, or some other
accountant would object to.
It becomes what you'd most protect
if the government said you can protect
one thing, all else is ours.
When you write late at night
it's like a small fire
in a clearing, it's what
radiates and what can hurt
if you get too close to it.
It's why your silence is a kind of truth.
Even when you speak to your best friend,
the one who'll never betray you,
you always leave out one thing;
a secret life is that important.

 

[Bambooki]

There’s a dead skunk on the way to work. It’s been there for a week now, and every day the stench moves five-hundred feet further in every direction. So now I smell the skunk at least half a mile before I actually reach it, and I really wish they’d remove it. It’s dead on the road right in front of some houses; I don’t know how they live.

Last evening I got home and sat in a lawn chair in the sun while Dobergirl ran about the yard, rolling and snorting around. I was feeling nice so I took her for a leash walk around the neighborhood. Thanks to the Gentle Leader (a special harness which fits around her neck and muzzle) she was unable to pull me and behaved very nicely. When we returned home the grossness of the back porch, covered in bird seed and dirt, struck me as unacceptable so I broke out the leaf blower. I have an enormous amount of spring cleaning to do this year. The sooner I start, the sooner I can go fishing on a Saturday instead of working on the house. I’d like to have it done by mid-April. The inside is as bad as the outside, but the outside is the priority at the moment. My yard is so large that I have the sheriff’s boys (underprivileged teenage boys) do my yard work, but this year I have to plant grass seed and clean out my basement and the shrubbery around the house. I don’t really mind it, because my father had me doing yardwork as soon as I was able to hold a rake. The only thing I don’t do is mow. I’ve never mowed a lawn in my life. I weed whacked once, and it made my arm very sore. So I stick to cleaning gutters and scooping yard poo and digging in the dirt. I’ve got a lawnmower, but I let the boys use it. I pay them a little more than I’d like, but it’s for a good cause. They need all the chances they can get. The sheriff is from my neighborhood, and it’s a good program.

Since it’s been light in the morning by 6:45, I’ve had a lot easier time waking up and getting going. In the dark of winter I tend to get lazy and unmotivated. This week has been warm and gorgeous and I’ve got serious spring fever. Trying not to get too excited yet because it’s still winter in this part of the country.

I’ve hesitated to bring up my latest gripe, because it really is just a gripe and I have no reason to complain. Monday at the gym, after a week off, I weighed myself, and the scale said 122.5. That’s the most I’ve ever weighed in my life. It was a shock, and my knee-jerk reaction was the same one that every woman has: horror. It doesn’t matter to me that I’m still pretty small; I’ve never weighed this much. I’ve got fat on my midsection, and yet I’m truly in the best shape of my life. Can someone explain that to me? I’m so frustrated. I never spent a day in the gym in college and had no body fat. Suddenly I hurt my knee and commit to fitness and then my pants stop fitting. And yes, most of my pants are too small in the thighs because my thighs are now muscular, but they also don’t fit so well in the waist, and that’s just due to chub. This whole paragraph is so typical of an American female; we all complain about our weight and are unhappy with our bodies. I try very hard to tell myself that I’m in good shape and that my metabolism and body may just be changing and that I’ll have to adjust. But deep down I’m horrified. My mother and grandmother make comments about how skinny they were at my age. I refuse to be one of those women who obsesses and does sixty minutes of cardio every day and starves herself. I do 10 to 15 minutes of cardio, then my abs, followed by 20 minutes of weight lifting. Then I walk on the track and swim. I do this three times a week, and on Sundays we go for a hike in the woods with Dobergirl and my father. I don’t each much fast food and I don’t eat cookies or candy. I drink diet soda and eat meat and veggies. I know I’m gaining muscle weight, and that’s okay, but why is there more of me around the midsection? Fuckin’ eh.

Whiny girl stuff done for today.

 

[Bambooki]

Another fish disaster has come to pass. Having such a large tank community means more casualties and potential problems. Last afternoon I came home to find one of my beloved neon tetras flailing about in the tank. Upon inspection, I noticed its tail had been completely bitten off. It struggled to swim and to breathe, so I scooped it up and put it in the freezer for a humane death. I examined everyone else and was dismayed to see that a gourami, a guppy, a gold barb, and a few other fish had large bites in their tail fins, and a second neon was also missing a tail, but was managing to swim.

I knew immediately that the culprit was that wretched tiger botia we picked out last weekend. Ever since his arrival he'd tormented the entire tank with his aggression. It's a peaceful tank, and we didn't know he was an aggressive fish. Since his arrival in the tank he’d mercilessly chased the other fish and clearly was biting their tails. In the case of the little neons, he’d bitten them off. A second neon, I noticed, was missing. I later found his corpse in the cave.

Then, I found my absolute favorite fish, one of my 5 clown loaches, burnt up by the aquarium heater. I don’t know if the botia had any part in it, but the loach had wedged itself behind the heater (they like to hide) and it literally burned his left side off. It was revolting. A second clown loach was found dead in a piece of driftwood. Those loaches are my oldest and most prized fish. I’m heartbroken.

So at this point that little botia had tossed me off and I was enraged to see the little corpses of my fish and the mangled fins on the still-living. I decided there and then that I was going to fuck him up. I took off my shirt and plunged my hand and the net into the water up to my shoulder. (It’s a deep tank.) Botias are incredibly fast, but I was determined not only to flush this little varmint but to do it before The Fer came home and then play innocent. Except I couldn’t catch him. He went from the cave to the plant to the rock to the driftwood and back. I got a crink in my neck and my back ached and I was getting madder and madder.

After forty minutes The Fer came home and essentially caught me with my hand in the cookie jar. I expected him to defend his little botia, but he was in a foul mood too and said, “Let’s fuck him up.” We don’t tolerate aggressive fish in a peaceful tank where the residents cannot defend themselves. We don’t like murderous fish.

Forty minutes later (now 80 for me), we still didn’t have the little bastard. We’d taken the contents out: 10 plants, a cave, two rocks…almost everything was gone, and we still couldn’t get him. I’m telling you, that botia was speedy. Almost impossible to catch. We eventually chucked the net and used our hands, which offered a little less resistance in the water.

At approximately 6:17pm, we caught him between the glass and our two hands. Keep in mind he’s slippery and skinny and narrow and fast. We pulled him up against the glass, ready to put him in a Dixie cup and euthanize him in the freezer, humanely. (Which was more than he deserved, I might add.)

And then…..he bolted.

And then…we squished him.

Well, actually The Fer squished him. The botia tried to slip out of The Fer’s grasp, and was wedged between The Fer’s wrist and the glass trying to slip away. One more wiggle and he would have been free. So The Fer did the only thing he could.

He squished the fucker.

And thus, peace was restored in the galaxy.

 

[Bambooki]

So can I tell you that I had a weird experience in the hot tub at the gym last night? The Fer and I were in the pool, watching the crew in the hot tub. First was a hugely obese gay man with a partially paralyzed face who stared at my boobs as I walked by. (I know, does not compute.) Next to him was a gorgeous but busty black lady whose breasts floated out in front of her. The third member of the group was a one-armed fellow with closely cropped hair and basketball shorts and a wife-beater. This guy had no bathing suit so he just jumped into the hot tub with his clothing on. (And you know in a swanky health club like this that’s a no-no.)

So they were weird. And I didn’t feel comfortable going into the hot tub, but I was getting quite chilly in the pool. Finally I made my way over there when the fat man went to the restroom. The Fer came with me, thankfully. When the fat man came back, the three proceeded to have the weirdest conversation I’ve ever heard. I huddled next to The Fer and pretended not to listen. They were just creepy. After 5 minutes, the one-armed fellow announced he was getting out. So he stood up, and of course the white wife-beater was now completely transparent.

And he had breasts.

And I don’t mean that he had man-breasts. I mean that it was a woman. And she looked like a man. But she most definitely wasn’t. The other two made some nipple jokes as she got out of the hot tub and put on a sweatshirt over her exposed body. It was at this point that The Fer and I decided we’d had enough relaxation for one day.

In other news, I’ve made my plane reservations to go see PGMF in June for a long weekend. I don’t think The Fer is terribly happy about that, but I don’t know why. I asked him if he wanted to come and he said he couldn’t afford the time away from work, so I didn’t make a big deal out of it. But it seems to bother him a bit. I still don’t know how he really feels about PGMF. I do know, however, that he thinks I’m still clinging to my old college life in Florida, and trying to recreate that from time to time by going down to visit. That’s not the case; I’ve pretty much let that life go and am very happy now. Sure, I miss my old home and my old friends terribly, and do often wish I still lived there with The Fer. But I’m not pretending that college isn’t over. I can’t pinpoint exactly what bothers him about this one part of my life, but it does and it makes me unhappy that he’s unhappy. I think it’s important for people to maintain their old friendships outside of a relationship. It’s as important to do your own thing as it is to spend time together. PGMF is still my best friend and I want to keep that friendship strong and thriving. But of course The Fer comes first and I go out of my way not to put too much emphasis on these things. It’s frustrating though. He’s my priority but I won’t allow my friendships to fall by the wayside. He doesn’t let his friendships go either, but it’s easier for him because his friends are all in this area, two hours away at most. I’ve learned enough from my past relationships that I cannot let it overshadow my old friendships. The Fer knows this and encourages me to visit them; he’s wonderful about that. I just sense in this one case a bit of unrest.

That was a bit of a rambling paragraph. Oh well. Hey, it’s going to be 77 degrees today! Woohoo!

 

[Bambooki]

It's freaking snowing today. Friday I was in a t-shirt and flip flops. Now I'm in my heaviest long underwear and three layers of clothing. March blows. It's nothing but a tease. It was a cold and blustery weekend, so Dobergirl didn't get her weekly hike. I wasn't about to drag myself out into the cold rain for her when she seemed so contented on the couch. (For those who've never had a doberman, they reside in only one or two places in the house: couch and bed. They don't know that dogs are supposed to sleep on the floor. They don't know that furniture is for people.)

The Fer and I took my dad to a local Celtic festival on Saturday. He was grateful to be invited. We listened to the West Virginia Highlanders and took in some serious bagpipe tunage, which I absolutely love. I definitely have the Scottish blood in me because bagpipes are music to my ears. I bought a little bit of Celtic jewelry (in particular one ring which wouldn't come off my finger....fortunately it was the one I'd been admiring) and a sticker for my car with my family's crest. The Scottish part of the family, anyway, We saw a gentleman wandering around in a kilt of our family's tartan, so he may have been a distant relative. And the funniest part of the afternoon was when a curly-haired man sitting at a table called me over and told me that he'd seen me walk by several times and he wanted to tell me that I was "just beautiful". I almost hugged him.

He must have had one Guinness too many.

 

[Bambooki]

Furious is a word that doesn’t do justice to how I feel at the moment. I’ve got anger welled up so strongly and deeply inside of my chest and stomach that I may vomit at any moment. Literally. I’ve become angered to the point of absolute nausea.

My father lives on one side of me. My uncle has his business on the other. Three Victorian houses, all together, with enormous backyards and trees and grass. It’s like a little piece of the countryside in town. Most people have 1/10th or less of my backyard.

My uncle has decided that since he’s got a tenant business downstairs, they need a place to park other than the street. So he’s decided to PUT A PARKING LOT IN MY BACKYARD. Not in his backyard. IN MINE. It’s all family land, right? What’s the difference? But Uncle Bambooki, why don’t you put it in your yard? Oh, because my yard has too many trees.

How fucking dare he suggest putting a parking lot in MY yard when he’s got an equally sizeable yard with an old, empty, and decrepit garage taking up space in his? How fucking dare he presume that because he’s the landlord and my uncle that he can put in a parking lot? I believe that because I signed a lease, the property is mine until that lease is terminated. It’s not his to build upon. IT’S MINE. And I am not about to stand by and let him come in and take out my forsythias and my lilac bush and my 50-year old magnolia (in which I learned to climb) and take away my dog’s yard and take away my green grass and put in a mother fucking piece of pavement for his employees and patrons to park on. IT’S NOT FUCKING HAPPENING. I don’t give a good god damn who I piss off and I don’t give a fuck if this is a family matter. This is my house and my yard and as long as I live there nobody but nobody is going to pave over my lawn.

I put a call in to my father at once but he’s in a meeting. I’m waiting, and seething, and trying not to vomit. He’ll be hearing from me. He doesn’t want the parking lot either—he’s a fan of trees and nature. I KNOW he doesn’t want a parking lot and I KNOW that all he has to do is tell my uncle to back off. For some reason, he hasn’t though. I’m not angry at my father or going to take it out on him. I know which “daddy strings” to pull to get him on my side. This is fucking war.

BUILD IT IN YOUR OWN FUCKING YARD YOU CHEAP MOTHER FUCKER.

 

[Bambooki]

Yesterday went from bad to worse. It really did. After the parking-lot-in-my-backyard fiasco, I had to deal with making reservations for the family’s Bonaire trip in August. That’s right, it’s the family. Not The Fer and I. The family. They’re all coming. And I’m okay with that, mainly because they can shoulder some of the cost. And it’s going to be quite a cost, it turns out. I think we’ll all collectively end up spending about ten thousand dollars when all is said and done. But they decided to come along, so it’s their decision. Anyway, it was a long and arduous process. The lady who’s helping me is very nice and patient, but her Puerto Rican accent is so thick that it’s hard to understand her. So I danced the little phone dance with her and my father, who’s credit card is on the line. It wasn’t so much bad as it was tedious.

I didn’t get to leave work until 4:30. I was the last one out of the building. My dad called as I was walking out the door and I had to call back the travel agent to straighten out a few more things. When I got home I remembered I was out of dog food and went next door to steal some. There, I encountered my mother, who’d had a lousy day and so she decided to go shopping and spent $500 of my dad’s money on clothing for their trip to the Greenbrier hotel this month. She stepped up on her soapbox as I was trying to sneak out the door. As I was feeding Dobergirl, the phone rang. And who should it be but my orthopedic surgeon’s nurse, canceling my appointment for a second time. She told me that the doctor is “sick”, whatever that means, and that she might be able to get me in to see another doctor. She said she’d call me next week. Yeah fucking right. So maybe by June I’ll have some idea of the status of my patella.

For the second time I’ve been blown off about my knee. I have no idea how it’s doing and no idea who will see me or when they will see me or what the hell is going on. It’s a damn good thing this isn’t an emergency. That was a mood-darkener, to say the least. I no longer think I will be doing any more skiing. My internet research indicates that skiing is one of the big causes of dislocations. I feel really beaten down.

Then, of course, PGMF calls me with “big news”: Louis Vuitton is supposedly engaged. I’m not going to lie; it irks me. Nor is it the kind of thing you want to hear after an especially crappy day. I find it hard to believe anyway—he’s such a miserable person. I dreamt about him and his Iranian fiancé, and that I was an American soldier in the middle east trying to sneak her into her home country, all the while dealing with his bad attitude and gunfire and suicide bombers. (To my credit, in the dream I was not snarky with him though.)

So the bad day continued well into today, too. I have to say, though, when I came out of the shower and into the bedroom, and The Fer and Dobergirl were sleeping together, all curled up with peaceful looks on their faces, it temporarily melted away. They’re the two creatures I care most about, and I just wanted to call in sick and slip back into bed with them and start the day over again without all of the bullshit. On the way to work I talked to my father, who asked what I did to my mother yesterday to upset her so much. He was joking, but I ended up in the middle again regarding the parking lot, and he told me that she just doesn’t know how to count her blessings when it comes to things like this. In the middle of my parents’ relationship isn’t where I want to be.

Today has improved; Boss Man is out sick and the sky is blue and Boss Lady #2 is stepping down from her position and taking a part-time one three days a week instead. Actually that could be bad. What if we get a Boss Nazi in her place? What if power-hungry Boss Man wants her old position?

I’m ready for a big change in my life. A new job, a new body, a new way of thinking. I’m ready to stop taking orders from others and to start being my own boss and controlling my own life, work-wise. I’m ready to get away from a computer for 8 hours a day, and go out and interpret life as I see it, and translate that into something people can relate to and appreciate. I’m ready for a fresh start, and the anonymity that comes with it.

I’m also ready for a vacation. Geesh. How far away is August, and Bonaire?

 

[Bambooki]

Old Habits Die Harder Than I Thought

You know, The Ex has been out of my life for a year and a half. And yet his memory still plagues me in a way I hadn't considered until tonight. I'm sitting here at my computer at home. It's 11pm. By this time I'm normally passed out on the couch or in my bed, having been tucked in by The Fer, who hugs me goodnight and stays up until midnight or so to work. But tonight I'm at my computer with a vague feeling of dread and discontent in my stomach and chest.

The Fer had to go back to work to get a few things done and have a brief meeting at 9:30pm. I knew it wouldn't be just a half an hour, like he told me, and that was fine. But now that eleven o'clock has rolled around and I'm sitting here alone, I find myself typing and tapping and constantly looking over my right shoulder to the alley waiting to see his car. And when did I used to do that?

At 3am when I'd be waiting for The Ex to come home, drunk as a skunk after 9 hours in a bar, a 24-case of beer in his arms. He'd stumble in reeking of smoke and liquor, slurring his words. He always bring me a peace offering because I'd always have called him 3 hours before asking him to come home. And of course he never did, so he'd find me a stuffed animal, or in one case he stole some girl's jacket because he thought it would fit me. And then he'd go down on the back porch and drink himself through the rest of the night and I'd lay in bed with Dobergirl and cry and cry and hate him and wish my life were different.

Well, now my life is different. I know exactly where The Fer is, and I don't have to call him to be 100% certain. If I called him he'd coming running home immediately. But I don't have to. He's working on his very first commercial and recording the voice-over at a partner's house. I know that at this very moment he's itching to come home and lie beside me and tell me good night. I know he's worried at this moment that I'm worried about him.

And yet old habits do indeed die hard. I have the same feeling. The same old queasy nervousness I had when The Ex would be out drinking. It has nothing whatsoever to do with The Fer. It's all in my head. Normally I'd be dead asleep by now. My body turns off before 11pm every night, regardless. And tonight I'm as awake as an owl. I'm jumpy, too.

This is all a result of what I let The Ex do to me for three years. I let him treat me like dirt, and now this one part of my brain is all screwed up. I'm not sitting up waiting for The Fer right now. I'm sitting up waiting for The Ex. I'm sitting up with my terrible memories. I trust The Fer with my life, my heart, and my feelings. But until tonight I didn't realize how scarred I am by those nights, those hundreds of nights that I waited in terror and fear and hatred and misery.

Damn him for doing this to me. Damn him for making me weak and afraid.

 

[Bambooki]

I feel much better this morning. Much better. Last night after my entry I got into bed with Dobergirl, who laid her head on my chest and went to sleep happily. How could I be nervous with a big Doberman on me? At 11:19pm I did call The Fer to tell him goodnight, knowing full well that he was still working. And he was. After I spoke to him I kissed my dog on her muzzle a few times and said a little thank-you prayer for The Fer, and managed to drift off. I think he came home at 1am, finally, and fell into bed exhausted. The fact that I was able to sleep before he came home proved to me that The Ex does not have a complete hold over me, and that these residual feelings of dread will eventually dissipate. I just went through such emotional torment with him that sometimes my body and mind react as though he were still in my life.

Dobergirl wasn’t too happy when he came home, though. It meant she had to get off the bed. I mean, the poor dog, having to spend the night on the couch…what a difficult life she leads.

 

[Bambooki]

It’s Friday and I’m one of four people left in the office. Anyone who has any authority whatsoever is gone for the rest of the day. You can’t imagine how badly I want to just pack my shit and roll home. Spend the day with Dobergirl, reading. Get away from this computer and this desk and this job. It’s not so much fun at home when The Fer is absent, though.

I’ve been reading various posts and journal here, and I noticed that so many of them contain references to alcohol in mass quantities. And that stirs something inside of me that I just don’t like. It sounds my warning bells, like those in Gypsy’s head. I know that it’s because I lived with an alcoholic and I saw the worst that alcohol can bring out in a person. I saw it ruin his life and mine, too. So maybe I’m crazy for worrying about those of you who drink for the express purpose of drinking or getting drunk. I’m all about relaxing with a glass of wine and a good meal, or drinking something frozen on a beach. But the lives some people lead frighten me. I don’t think that most people realize how destructive a force alcohol can be, nor do they realize the control it can come to have over them.

If I were king of the world, I’d abolish the stuff. I’d snap my fingers and make it cease to exist on this earth. I’d give wives back their husbands, children back their parents, people back their jobs. All the things that alcohol abuse has taken away would be restored and it would be a slightly better world in which to live.

There will never be a time in which I preach to my friends about the evils of the drink. For the most part I keep my mouth shut, because there’s not much to be done about it anyway. I do think, though, that I see things more clearly than others. Booze isn’t a device for having a good time. It’s a weapon that’s designed to backfire on the user.

For whatever it’s worth, that’s my opinion. I worry. And I don’t want any person to ever have to live through my past.

I don’t feel so well. I think I will go home and take some cold medicine and doze. My throat is dry and my head is dizzy.

 

[Bambooki]

So, I bought a Martha Stewart comforter this weekend at Kmart. And then I had sex on it. So I think it’s fairly well defiled, and I don’t have to feel guilty about supporting that harpie’s empire. What can I do? My old comforter was white with purple and green flowers, and Dobergirl made it brown and disgusting. So a dark green comforter is perfect, because it still matches the room and the shams but won’t show as much dirt. I also spent way more than I should have at TJ Maxx, but there really is nothing like shopping therapy to cure the late winter blues. I got some new work pants that are still a size 4 but fit much more loosely. All the pants I have are tight-fitting and hug my ass like Saran Wrap. It makes me uncomfortable to be on display at work. Unfortunately it’s hard to find pants that are both cute and fit well, but still aren’t ass-tight. The style is very tight and stretchy these days. I don’t want to wear pants that look like they were made for my mother, but this is work. I’ll probably go back this week to search for a few more pairs.

This morning as I was walking to the door from my car, a short and low dog came trotting through campus, sniffing bushes and following his nose along some invisible route. A few coworkers and I stopped and tried to call him over but he was on a mission. The president came down from his house on his way to his office and told us that the dog does belong to somebody but that they let him roam free all over town. Granted, it’s a town of about 300 or less, but there’s a major road going through and this little guy was husky but awfully short. I’ve been thinking about him all day and wondering what his story is. He was definitely a little chubby and his coat looked healthy, but I fought the urge to usher him into my car, or at least to check him out. An older employee mentioned that a few years ago all of the employees had chipped in to get surgery for a roaming dog who’s collar had grown into his neck. She thought this was the same dog.

I’d just like to kill people. Or at least take their animals away from them. Meanwhile, my cousin may be moving to California from her Florida home, and she has two cats that might need a home. And naturally, nobody she knows is responsible enough to take them. So of course I knew she was fishing for an offer of a home, and of course I extended one. What could I do? I can’t see them go to a pound. They’re Persian/Balinese mixes, brother and sister, and my cousin adores them.

But my God. Two cats is almost too many for me. What would I do with four? The hair in my home is wretched. The furballs drift around like tumbleweed. Not to mention the money I spend on litter. And these cats are used to living with a Yorkie. How will they react to a Doberman Pinscher? I hope, for my sake, that she finds them a home. Despite appearances to the contrary, I really don’t want a zoo. Not any more of one.

And what about my bun? What if they eat my bun?