I sat knitting yesterday and had the TV on for some background noise and a PBS station was broadcasting a documentary about Navajo Indians living on a reservation who weave rugs and now that I've progressed to understanding wool a little bit more than I did a year ago, this show interested me.

At one point, the focus was on a woman who only spoke her native tongue and she raised sheep that she sheared with manual tools and she processed the wool outdoors over a wood fire using dyes she had extracted from indigenous plants and she spun the wool by hand and then she weaved rugs on a loom using patterns that have been used by the Navajo people for centuries.

When she's finished these rugs, she performs the same spiritual ceremony that her ancestors performed and eventually, a rug trader takes the rug and sells it and this is when the scene changes to a venue where rich spoiled white people arrive in Lexus SUVs and they take out a tape measure and measure the distance between pattern repeats and measure each element in the design to make sure it's right on the mark and this one asshole wearing a baseball cap is on camera saying,

'I like to get the feeling that someone has put their heart into making the rug you know? Like they didn't just throw it together without a thought other than how much money they're going to rake in you know? I don't want to feel like I'm getting ripped off and being had you know?'

And I wished I had interactive TV so I could reach through the screen and punch his stupid face.

A while ago, I found a shop on Etsy, and speaking of Etsy - you really must check out Regresty!

anyway

so this woman makes crystal beaded Stuff and Things that are shiny and pretty so I placed an order for some stuff. A while later, I went back and placed an order for some things that matched the stuff I had bought previously.

So last week, I ordered this other thing that didn't match the previous stuff and when I received it, I found out that I could have placed a special order and she would have made this thing to match the other stuff.

So I contacted her this morning and asked if she would allow me to exchange the thing for one that she would have to make to match the other stuff but I said that I wouldn't be throwing a tantrum or having a seizure if she didn't have an exchange policy.

So she emailed me back right away and she said, she said!! and I quote:

We do in fact have a matching bracelet on hand that was completed yesterday. Please consider it our pleasure to send you one as a gift. Keep the one you already have and we will package the bracelet and mail it out to you.

Thank you so much and best wishes,

Jenny

She has ... thanked me for ...letting her send me ... free stuff.

This woman has forced me to consider that nice people exist and may lead me to start a Reasons I Like People List.

Damn her and her little dog too!


Reason Number One why I like people: Free stuff.

I knit baby shoes for absolutely no reason whatsoever other than ( they are adorable. )

What happens when you let your guard down with the neighbour since you are both being taken to small claims court by a lunatic and you decide to get friendly and band together to pulverize that lunatic - is that one day, that neighbour's little granddaughter shows up at your door asking to borrow a curling iron because she's having a 'chic' dress up day at school so you lend her your curling iron and then at 8:00 pm she shows up at your door again asking if you can glam her hair because grandma doesn't know how and then you spend the next hour and a half ( slaving over ringlets )

So I finished those intricately ( cabled socks. )

Even though Jazz outweighs Rufus by at least five pounds, Rufus is the dominant male and intimidates Jazz and kicks his ass when the urge hits. Rufus gets this specific look in his eye and Jazz starts up with a low growl which may resemble bravado but the look of sheer terror in his face gives away the fact that he's a pussy.

Rufus will throw the first swing which sends Jazz running for his life in a frenzy and Rufus often gets a good bite or two on Jazz's neck and he screams like a soldier on the battlefield who's having his leg amputated at the thigh without anesthesia.

This screech brings out the two female cats no matter where they are or what they are doing and they stand out of striking distance with huge bulging eyes and fat tails and they alternate from looking at me to the battle with faces that say 'What happened? What did I miss? Who pissed off who? How did it start? Shouldn't you be doing something??? Someone might get hurt!!! Oooooohhhh nice left hook!

Then the most amazing thing happens every time. Jazz hauls ass to the kitchen and leaps up onto one of the chairs, the seat of which is pulled up under the table and the fight over. That's it - the end. The kitchen chairs are magic safe zones. They're third base of the cat fight world. Somehow Jazz and Rufus have this mutual understanding that making it to the chair is the cat equivalent of Ollie Ollie In Free.

This got me to thinking about how much I wish this routine would work with my fights with Robert.

Robert: Grumble grumble, that tone, mad mad mad!

Me: Fucking sigh! Potential Battle Loss Deflector Shield engaged.

Robert: Same old complaint! wrath! tantrum!

Me: Here we go again, defensive sarcasm, Jesus H. Christ!.

Robert: Angry words I'm going to regret later!

Me: ORLY?!?!?!

Robert: Not letting it go, strong resentment!

Me: No sex for this asshole!

Robert: More complete and utter bullshit!

Me: Fuck that shit! had enough, Magic Safe Zone Chair!!!

Robert: Smooths out fur, wanders off, sleeps on couch.

Me: Win, haughty air of superiority, flower delivery in T minus 24 hours.

Robert: Expectation of make-up sex.

Me. Not even. More win.

In celebration of not having rabies, Rufus wore jewels.

So today as I was standing outside completely minding my own business, George Micheal snuck up on me from behind and bit my bare shin and as I yelped in surprise and leaned down to rub the shin he sunk his fangs deep into my wrist and wouldn't let go and I had to shake him off because I feared that if I swat him he might go ballistic and go into shred my face mode.

I was all very wtf about this because it's completely out of character for him - since the spring he has been nothing but gentle and docile and friendly but I sort of fear him now.

I told my friend about this in passing and she was all, you have to look into that and I was all yeahsurerightokwhatever but she pressed on and I called a 24 hour info santé line that we have here and spoke to an RN and told her the story and she started asking aye lot of questions about the cat, is he stray? check! and stuff like do I live near a wooded area? check! do wild animals hang in my yard? you mean the raccoons and skunks I feed? check! is this behavior normal for the cat? negative! was he provoked? negative! so not only did she tell me I had to get all shot up for rabies but she needed to file a report and send the Department of Rabid Stuff and Things to come take George Michael away.

So she tells me to wash out the wounds for 15 minutes and get to a clinic and I get ready and go do that and sit in a waiting room full of plague victims hacking up lungs and I finally see a doc who shoots me up with tetanus and writes a script for an antibiotic and he wraps my wrist that has swelled and become stiff and painful and is throbbing because kitteh PUNCTURED A TENDON in there the fucker and then the doc tells me that I have to go to the You Might Die Of Rabies Center because THAT shit is delivered over a series of five injections some of which are SHOT IN THE WOUNDS and I am holding back tears with all my might because I am a pussy after I asked how much they hurt and am told SOME PEOPLE SCREAM and I already have issues with needles in general, and verrah huge ones with injections that MAKE PEOPLE SCREAM and I just can't face anyone sticking a needle in my fucking throbbing wrist right now.

So I hoof it over to the Help Me I'm Dying Of Rabies Clinic and then they ask me a bunch of the same sort of questions and walk off to call the Here's The Rabies Protocol hot line and the RN comes back and says that since I can observe the cat since he shows up for the buffet every day, then I need to do that for ten days and I can avoid the scream shots for now and I'm all THAT IS VERY OK!!!THANK YOU SO MUCH!!!LINDAPENDANT OUT!! and I run away.

I get home and the RN calls me again and says a Veterinarian with the Rabid Stuff and Things Department is supposed to call and have a little chat with me and she tells me that meanwhile if the cat doesn't show up for even a day then I have to go scream while I am injected in the wounds with rabies shit and I'm all but what if he's actually just on vacation in Boca Raton and not sick with rabies at all and I'll be screaming rabies injections for nothing! and she's all sorry! you come in and we make you cry!

So I look up rabies shit online BAD IDEA and the CDC is saying don't fucking wait, just go scream with your damn rabies shots or you will surely die so tomorrow I'm telling the vet that they're going to come and get the damn cat and THEY can observe him for ten days their own damn selves and let me know if I am going to die of The Rage or not because scare me all you want with your foam at the mouth seizure paralysis brain turns to mush crap I STILL can't stand the thought of getting shot up in my throbbing bony wrist if I don't have to because guaranteed, I will be one of those SOME PEOPLE SCREAM people.

I would rather have surgery. The last thing you will ever remember is how you wish you had access to more of those drugs they are shooting through your veins which has to be what heroin must do to your happy content OMG nirvana center and if you die you will never know that you did and it won't be painful or scary.

You won't have been screaming.

Anyway, later that day I am talking to this friend and she's all 'I'm telling you, he's effing rabid!' and I'm all 'He so is effing NOT' and I hear some howling outside and report that George Micheal is having a Eff You! fest with a new cat but he's not attacking so here's some NOT RABIES PROOF! and she's all, 'If he chews off and eats his own front leg you will say, "Good sign! he only chewed off and ate ONE leg! Not rabid!" She's right.

I tell her that feeding strays is so over for me now, I have learned my lesson and the kitchen is closed and she's all 'that is such bullshit!' and I'm all 'no really, this is it, I'm done' and then a little while ago George Michael is at the door with a dinner napkin wrapped around his neck and I look at him and when Robert who wanted to kick him over the fence like a football, isn't looking - I put out food.

We had Thanksgiving dinner on Sunday. I was thankful for fall leaves.

( Yes they are real. )

My sister told me today that some guy in the Ottawa area where she lives seems to have got his hands on a school bus and he has been driving around stopping at primary school bus stops and trying to get the kids to board it and this can only mean he's got molest/rape/torture/murder on his mind and I am so fucking beyond outraged and this is another example of why I have put myself on a self-imposed news blackout and also why I hate people so so much.

This kind of story just brings out the upsetting knowledge that I know without a doubt that I am capable of murder and I am dead serious when I say this. If anyone ever laid a hand on my son, hurt him beyond what a psychiatrist or medical doctor could heal, or a mortician had to deal with, I would hunt that motherfucker down without a thought and I would kill him myself, and I would go to jail for the rest of my life, and I wouldn't fucking care.

If I was able to torture him first, I would do it without flinching but if all I had to work with was to pull a Jack Ruby, I would get my hands on a gun and make sure the one shot I had would blast a bullet between his eyes and lodge into what little gray matter he possessed.

I think I'd be capable of killing to save any child now that I think about it and actually, I know I would.

Stories like this involving little kids and helpless animals just make me reflect on how many sick fucks walk this earth and they put my brain on rage overload and make me feel like I need a 'wailing wall' like that woman in The Secret Life Of Bees and this is why I need to shut the world off.

So I knit ( this scarf )

The kid has been working at his father's company since he was 15 and while being the boss's son did get him in the door, he has been at the bottom of the ladder doing grunt work that nobody else wants to do.

Until last year when the guy who programmed and operated the CNC bailed unexpectedly and Justin's father gave him a manual and said, 'Learn this tonight and get the machinery up and running tomorrow and by the way, this means you need to design and program two new layouts.' And he pretty much did.

Then this year he was asked told to revamp the entire computer gigawhat? system for the Company that is on the verge of dying to death and taking everything with it. This is taking him longer than overnight because he has to techno babble blank stare cricket cricket more gigawhat? and the server but not the waiter kind is going down (on me please) but it's not compatible for the love of god who did this? and DOS what's that again the mainframe interface human race just in case before the fatal error! are you sure? are you really really sure? press enter to continue are you sure? fine then it's your ass on the line anyway Escape! happens.

So all this led him to say to me a few weeks ago,

'I'm sort of wishing I went into Engineering with a side of Computer Science.' and I said,

'It's not too late. You need to think about this long and hard because life is a whole lot sweeter when you're doing what you love to do, not what you thought you'd love to do.' and he said,

'But this will put me back a year.' and I said

'When you are middle aged a year is nothing.' and he said

'When you are eighty-six a year is everything.' and I said

'Touché. Point. Justin.'


And then last week he said,

'Am I ever enjoying Political Science!' and I said

'I'm really sorry to hear that.' and he said

'I'm thinking I might enjoy a career in Politics.' and I said

'Your name is impossible to pronounce unless you're Polish and it will never fit on a ballot.' and he said

'Have I mentioned lately how I never would have made it this far without your unwavering support and also how grateful I am that you're my mother? I am forever in your debt. ' and I said

'You will make an outstanding Politician. You lie like a rug.' and he said

'Yes I can.'

So I have been agonizing since the spring about George Michael's fate because I haven't been able to find him a home and every day I thought about how -40C in January and February is going to kill him and me. There is no way I can watch this sweet-natured guy freeze his ass off all winter and four cats is really enough for me. Really.

Until I'm seventy-two and forget to wear underwear and never shut my front door and raccoons live in my attic.

Then I can have a hundred and twelve cats and call each and every one of them Fred.

Until the men with nets come for me.

Anyway.

I am ever so glad that the kid dates a new girl every other month because a few years ago, he dated one called Sonia and I only remembered her name because one day I asked Justin what his plans for the weekend were and he said, 'Nothing. Sonia has pneumonia.'

I realized then that if I rhymed every girl's name he dated with something amusing, I had a better chance of keeping track of them. I'm hoping he doesn't date one who's stupid parents *coughGwenythPaltrowcough* decided to name Orange.

So anyway.

Sonia is studying to become a veterinarian and over lunch one day, she mentioned that she volunteered at a no-kill shelter for cats in Montreal so I asked Justin to find out the phone number of the place and I'll be calling today to see if they have room for George Michael the heart breaker.

I don't want to think about what I'm going to do if they say no, sorry, we're bursting at the seams with unwanted cats.

I have gone back and forth with 'One more is manageable.' and yes, one more is but I have strays every year that I feed and they come and go and there will always be yet another stray that was clearly dumped and is starving for human contact and is affectionate and cute and gets to me and all that shizz.

Taking G. Mickey into our home means a trip to the vet for a de-flea and ear mite eradication and a tune-up and a check of the air pressure in his paw pads and the removal of his male engine parts and fuel injection maintenance and this isn't cheap.

And.

There is always going to be another stray that gets to me.



Spay or neuter your cats - asshole.

When there is only one seat left in the shoe store, and some woman stares you in the face as she sits down in one chair and then puts her bags down on the very last one available while you are clearly holding shoes in your hand that you want to try on, a really fun thing to do is to stand right in front of that woman, and struggle to put those shoes on, and then start to wobble and tip and pretend you're losing your balance as you try to put those four and a half inch heels on, and then make like you're right on the verge of falling on top of her.

It's pretty amazing to see how fast she's able to tumble out of that chair to avoid getting a lap dance from someone who gave up starvation diets a decade ago. Also, the look of panic on her face is abundantly satisfying.

By the way, I have perfect balance and by that I mean I can stand completely steady on one leg while I put the other into extreme control top hose. It's practically ballerina balance.

For the first time ever, I did not hem and haw over the purchase of a pair of boots, nor did I tell myself I'd think about it, nor did I feel as though I should look around some more, I dove right in as soon as I tried them on and blurted out loud to nobody, 'Oh my god they are so freaking comfortable!

I based a boot purchase on comfort level and even though they're great looking too, I was greatly motivated by comfort and this scares me. It's like the beginning of the end or something.

I am going to have a nightmare tonight about owning oxford lace-ups.

With arch supports.

Earlier this morning as Robert and I sat over breakfast, a bit of news that was being broadcast by the sports station he likes to listen to penetrated my Bad News Deflector Shields and so it came to my attention that some woman who was impregnated with someone else's egg at a clinic has decided to return the infant to the biological parents and Robert and I looked at each other with stunned expressions and said at the same very same time,

'Oh my god someone has done the right thing!!!'

I say, 'I can't believe that there are any people left in the world with morals and are willing to make decisions based on feeling empathy for the other guy.'

He says, 'There is at least one it seems.'

Me being me, I can't leave well enough alone and I go on to say that this woman can't be solely motivated by a well developed conscience and that there is more to the story than what has been revealed so far and that it's only a matter of time until we hear that she has launched a multi-million dollar lawsuit against the doctor, the clinic, the janitor who works there and every last sperm donor who ever jacked off in the p0rn room.

'You are so cynical.' he says to me, 'You just aren't capable of seeing the good in anyone.' he says.

'Someone has to be this way.' I say, 'If I don't think about these things, who the hell will? I can't leave this work in the hands of an amateur. I can't trust anyone to be as dedicated as I am to believing that faced with a difficult choice, humans will pick the one that leaves the most destruction in its wake.' I say.

'Well at least the biological mother gets to raise her child. Something good will come out of it.' he says.

'You know what I'm thinking?' I say. 'I'm thinking that she's only willing to hand the baby over to its mother because the payout is going to be so much bigger than if she kept the child. Think of it. She can sue for extra pain and emotional suffering over a child she carried to term and will never see again. It's way sadder in the eyes of the court. She gets more mileage out of that kind of trauma, there just wouldn't be as much compensation out of a child she decided to keep and spend money on until adulthood.'

'You watch too many movies.' he says to me.

'And. She gets to have her next baby free. That's got to be a few bucks right there huh? She's American right? This super human effort to conceive stuff costs money yes? Aye lot of it.' I say.

'You have an overactive imagination along with that cynical nature of yours. You are so jaded.' he says.

'Oh. My. God.' I say, 'How did I not consider this right off the bat?' I say.

'Consider what?' he says.

'She planned this all along!!! She cooked up this devious scheme and she's got someone on the inside of that clinic who helped her set this thing up. Her motive was a big fat lawsuit from the get go! It's brilliant! It's never been done before that I know of! She's a freaking genius!'

He rolls his eyes and I say,

'There's only one loose end she's got to take care of.' I say, 'And if she pulls that off it's the perfect crime.'

'I'm afraid to ask,' he says.

'She's got to kill the co-conspirator.' I say

'You are sick.' he says.

'You mark my words. You're going to see this story on 48 Hours Murder Mystery and I'm going to make you eat your hat.'

'Why aren't you just willing to accept this as a feel-good story with a happy ending like a normal person? he says,

'Because I prefer to be dark and disturbed.' I say. 'And also...'

'You hate people. I know.' he says.

Oh my god Mackenzie Phillips. For the love of christ, shut the hell up.