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Here's a great big hug for all my friends out there in BlogLand. Happy Halloween!!!

I just read something that tends to negate my belief that those who run television networks have brains or education. It seems that professional muckraker Rush Limbaugh will be judging the Miss America pageant. Apparently there is no end to the stupidity of these beauty contests. I can actually picture a bunch of guys sitting around having a few beers, trying to come up with ideas to add scandal to an already exploitative show. Not only will they have a lineup of lovely ladies prancing around, each trying to prove she is more beautiful than everyone else, but they will be accompanied and judged by the most opinionated, self-centered, scandalous jerk in the country. I hope the owners of the pageant are planning on doing away with the speech portions of the pageant; Limbaugh won't let anyone get a word in crosswise, anyway. Let's just hope they don't let him try to sing. If they do, every news program in the US will be featuring the song stylings of Rush Limbaugh as their breaking news the next morning, in which case eating breakfast, for me, will be futile since it will all come right back up again. 

If you haven't already done so, boycott these stupid pageants. I did years ago, and I refused to allow my children to watch them, either. If you don't turn it off for the principle of pageant exploitation, do it to save your own ears from loud, lewd Limbaugh. 

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Little Stash is doing so well now, and is growing to be a beautiful little boy! His tail has healed completely and is indeed part of his adorable personality. He is like the class clown in our house. When the other cats are trying to act regal, Stash is the one who does something wild to wake everyone up. He likes to hide around corners waiting for one of his buddies to come into pouncing range. The hallway is the kitty racetrack, with Stash and one or more of the other cats chasing one another back and forth at breakneck speed. It is so fun to watch.

Stash is also one of the absolute cuddliest kitties I have ever had. He loves to climb down from the back of the sofa and drape himself around my neck like a collar, which makes stitching or watching TV rather difficult at times. And his purr can be heard throughout the room, even over the TV sound. When I get up, he follows me anywhere I go in the house. He tried to follow me out to the garage once, and it took me 20 minutes to get him to come back to me; there was so many places for him to explore and climb on, and he was having too much fun.

So, thank you SO very much to those who donated for Stash's care. He is a completely wonderful little spirit and totally worth the cost and effort to save him.

Okay, it's happening again. I filled up my car last night and paid a teeth-swallowing three bucks a gallon. WHY? What is their excuse this time? What is the reason the gasoline companies are giving for this latest episode of price gouging? Did some misguided fool consider insulting the Muslim prophet again and bring the Middle East to the brink of war? (Oh, yeah, I forgot, the Middle East has been at war or on the verge of it since Christ was a corporal.) Or did some moronic speculator insinuate that gas prices MIGHT rise again next year, prompting gas stations to run out lickety-split and change their signs? I want to know why we are being gouged again. I am even more curious to know why no one seems to be balking at this but me.

This is what seems to happen at regular intervals. The gas companies jack up the prices to some ludicrous number they know consumers will scream about. Then, when people start to believe that it will never get any better, the prices are dropped to something almost as painful but not quite as ridiculous. That's the public pacifier. The oil companies are still raking in cash manicured hand over bejeweled fist, but since they dropped the price a little, people think these magnanimous billionaires are doing them a favor. I remember the first time this happened, about ten years ago. Gas prices climbed to $1.99, and the public gasped in horror. Then it went up to an astronomical two-fifty a gallon. People everywhere were screaming "foul". And then the public pacifier; the prices went back down a bit. Suddenly two bucks a gallon felt like a lace had broken in our financial corsets, allowing us to breathe a bit. And that false fresh breath continued to hover over us for a while. The gas companies got their wish; they raised prices to two dollars a gallon, and no one complained anymore.

When the gas prices flew up to four-fifty a gallon last year, I knew this would happen. Eventually, the price would drop to three bucks or so, and since it's not four dollars anymore, the public is duly quelled and appropriately grateful to those wonderful billionaire oil barons again. Well, I'm not fooled. I am SICK AND TIRED of shelling out ridiculous amounts of money for gasoline just so some fat-cat CEO can buy a million-dollar bling for his latest girlfriend. I'd rather use my money for something frivolous for me or my family...say, electricity or water, for instance, which aren't getting any cheaper, either.

Refuse to be pacified. Three dollars a gallon is NOT a reasonable price, especially since everyone else in the lower forty-eight pays fifty cents a gallon less. But that is another gripe.

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My oldest boy came to my office yesterday to take me to lunch. This is a real treat; in the time I have worked here, I can count on one hand the times Alex has been here. But he had a couple hours to kill between his classes, so he took pity on poor old Mom and came to brighten my day. When he asked where we could go, I suggested Moo Creamery, which is directly across the parking lot from my office. "Great," he said, "I'm starving and I want a really big burger."

When we got there, I ordered my favorite salad, and Alex ordered a bacon double cheeseburger. The cashier told him that the bacon cheeseburger usually only came with one patty, but she would be happy to have the chef slap another patty on the grill for him. "Great," Alex told her, "and add a side of fries, too."

When our orders came out, we both nearly dropped our teeth. The chef/owner set a plate before Alex, in the center of which was the biggest burger we had ever seen. "Good Luck," she said as she walked away. As Alex contemplated the monster meal in front of him, the lady sitting at the next table leaned toward us. "I just want to see you try and bite into that," she said with a big grin. Alex not only bit into it; he finished that huge burger before I could finish my salad. I guess he was starving. The chef returned, and patted Alex on the back. "I'm impressed; I didn't think you could do it," she beamed, and then she put the untouched fries in a "doggy box" for us to take. As we sat there digesting, the lady at the next table spoke up again. "My son is coming home from college soon; I'm bringing him here to get one of those burgers."

"Great," Alex replied, with a quiet burp. "Just tell him he won't need the fries."

A week ago today, an injured kitten, about six months old, came to the back of our office with the ferals, looking for food. He was very friendly, and seemed to be looking for affection as well. Since he had not been there the day before, I assumed he had been dumped in the lot next to our building the night before; sadly, this happens quite often. But this kitty was different in two ways: one, he was fearless and affectionate, and two, his tail was badly injured. It looked as if it had literally been ripped in half, the fleshless bone jutting from an infected, open wound. But despite this grievously painful injury, this kitten showed no aggression, fear, or skittishness. I knew he would die if left with the feral colony, either from starvation or from the infected tail; I put him in a kitty carrier and took him home with me.

This is not the first time I have done this, nor will it be the last. I have been doing pet rescue for years, and I know that sometimes rescue means humane euthanasia. But I also know that some of my charges are very special, and this little boy is one of those. He will be a kitty who cheers his family when no one else can, who makes it wonderful to come home at the end of the day. He is a kitty with a lot of love to give; he deserves the chance to give it, and his potential family deserve the chance to receive it. And so I took him to my vet. It wasn't good news; Stash, as I had named him, alluding to his little brown fur mustache, needed the remainder of his tail amputated. He tested negative for FELV (feline leukemia, a debilitating, fatal feline disease) and except for his tail and a yukky case of fleas, he was in good health. The vet said he could do the surgery that day, and that he would neuter Stash at the same time. He said he would allow me to pay for the treatment in two installments, and I gave my consent.

I know that I am the one who takes this on, of my own free will, with no regrets. But this time, I am truly financially strapped, more so than usual, due to various unforseen problems. Stash's vet bill came to $475, half of which I paid the day I picked him up. But I am a loss as to where I am going to come up with the other half before September 17th, when it is due. And so, for the very first time ever, I am looking to my blog buddies. Do you have it in your heart to help me save this adorable kitten? He is so sweet, and absolutely beautiful, even though he only has an inch and a half of tail left; actually, his tiny tail adds to his personality! I am hoping my animal-loving blog friends will pitch in with donations to help pay Stash's vet bills. If you can do so, even if it is only a little, please contact me via email or message on the blog. I am attaching some photos of little Stash. He is six months old according to the vet, and will be a beautiful cat. And by all means, if you fall in love with him, you're welcome to adopt him. He will add untold love and joy to your home.

I hate sneezing. I really hate it. Sneezes come at the most inopportune moments, like when you're attempting to pass a swerving semi truck at eighty miles an hour, or during the vows at someone's wedding. Sneezes often cause numerous other annoying and mortifying side effects, too; if you are a woman and have given birth more than once, you know exactly what I mean. That said, the last thing I want when gripped by a sneezing fit is for anyone to call attention to it. The point I am trying to make is, why do we feel the need to bestow verbal blessings upon hearing anyone sneeze? Even total strangers receive our best wishes with every nasal explosion. Speeches, dinner dates, even arguments are subject to interruption. Regardless of how angry you are at someone, you will stop mid-rant to respond if they sneeze. "How many times do I have to tell you...gesundheit...."

Why do we do this? Personally, I think it is one of those traditions that we could do away with. I suggest we follow our own sneezes with the response of our choosing. When I sneeze, I am not interested in blessings. My word of choice happens to be dammit.

When I lived back east, a friend of mine and I used to take a drive to upstate New York together on occasions when she needed to pick up her children from their dad's home. On the way, we enjoyed stopping at the World Trade Center for lunch. We would grab something yummy to eat and sit in the courtyard, staring up at the awesome towers and having a blast just watching people. When we had the time to spend, we actually took a trip up the elevators to Windows On The World. We never ate there; we couldn't afford it, really, and were not dressed for it. But oh, the view! It was absolutely breathtaking. I will never forget it, and fervently wish that I could take my husband and my stepkids up there and share it with them.

When the towers fell, I was sad, not only for the obvious reasons, but because I had wonderful memories of that great place, which I would ever see again. Since 9-11, I have taken to looking for the World Trade Center in movies. I smile when I see the towers, standing tall and proud and beautiful. My most recent WTC "sighting" was last weekend, while watching Trading Places with Dan Aykroyd and Eddie Murphy. I like that one. Not only is it a really fun movie, but the WTC is not simply in the background. It is up close and personal. Near the end of the movie, Aykroyd and Murphy actually walk between the towers; you can see the distinctive decorative construction along the bottom that is recognizable to everyone as one of the largest pieces recovered from Ground Zero. I remember walking between the towers in the exact same spot with my friend, and it is a great memory. The movie brings it back for me. Not the horror or the grief; the happy times I spent there.

Do you ever see the World Trade Center in movies or TV shows? What have you seen the towers in? How does it make you feel? Or do you have something else that you look for while watching movies, something that brings back a happy memory for you? I would like to hear about it. I would also like to find out if there are other WTC bytes out there. I'd like to see them...for old times' sake, you know.

You never know who could be watching you at any given moment. For example, if you pull up into the parking lot of an office building and park in front of a large, mirrored window, you should assume that there is someone sitting on the other side of that window working at their desk. It is also safe to assume that this person is bored out of their mind and just dying for something interesting to look at outside their window. That person could even be me. Actually, if you happen to be one of the two men who pulled their El Camino into the parking space directly on the other side of the window from my desk today, it was me. I was watching you from the minute you parked.

The first thing I noticed was that the car did not seem to be very clean. This is Bakersfield, however. Dirty cars are a given, especially after the light, misty spray that occurs on rare occasions, which some people call "rain". Since it nearly rained a couple days ago, I gave the dirty car a pardon. But when the two men climbed out, each holding a Styrofoam cup the size of a gallon of milk, my attention was caught. I happen to be the unfortunate individual who has been charged with informing patients that they must leave their drinks and food outside. And so, I noted the huge drink cups and hoped they were empty, which they were. This fact was immediately apparent when the two men took a final slurp from their straws and proceeded to toss the cups into the lovely flower bed outside my window. I drew in my breath in outrage. How dare they! I was so incensed by this that I determined to ask the men when they entered the building to go right back outside and pick up their trash.  I thought better of it, though, when I realized that our waiting room was packed with the late-afternoon crowd. It would have been grossly unprofessional of me to pick an argument with the two men in the presence of witnesses. Therefore, I decided to do them and my office a favor by taking care of their trash for them. Outside I went, without a word to the slobs (although, I must admit, I threw them a glare as I passed). I picked up the Styrofoam cups from the flower bed and deposited them into the nearest trash receptacle...or at least, the next best thing.

I would love to have been a fly on the wall when those guys found their trash in the back seat of their El Camino. They really should not have left the windows open. This is Bakersfield, after all. Someone could take something out of their car...or in this case, return it to where it belongs.

Unfortunately, I am sure the Styrofoam will find its way into someone else's yard. But at least those guys will know that someone was watching them be slobs.

Once upon a time, I was an avid music lover. I spent high school and college singing with a few bands, attending every rock concert available, and blowing out the speakers of all my dad's cars. My parents yelled through my bedroom door to "turn that noise down" at least every hour for about six years. I once considered hiring a private detective to track down two hundred CDs that some jerk stole from my car. But my love of music died very recently. More specifically, in the last two and a half years, around the time I started working for my current employer. That was when I discovered that it was possible to hate a song so much that you could spend hours awake at night in an attempt to exorcize the infuriating tune and moronic lyrics from your head.

The reason for my workplace torture is that one of my coworkers decided long ago that the office radio is her own personal domain. She is the only person allowed to touch the thing, regardless of the fact that she is not the one who actually owns it. And every day, from open to close, all we are subjected to is the so-called "hits" upchucked by KLLY95. This amounts to about seven lousy songs that are played ad nauseum, at least five times every single hour. And so our ears are assailed by such untalented individuals as Beyonce, Britney Spears, and some woman who can't seem to come up with a reason to finally write a love song for some unnamed guy. It really gets interesting when I am working with a preteen patient and her mother, trying desperately to keep up my contact lens monologue while the strains of "rolling 'round on me in between the sheets" plays in the background. It's very embarrassing.

Before you ask, we have tried numerous times to either change the channel or turn the thing off altogether. No matter what we do, KLLY comes back like an evil spirit, ready to haunt us again. Someone kissed a girl who shoulda put a ring on it, and it's too late to apologize because it starts at your toes and goes to your nose...on, and on, and on. Talking to the radio queen is fruitless. She refuses to hear of it, even though even she complains about some of the crummy KLLY selections. We think we have figured out part of the reason why, though. It is really kind of a high-school-crush thing, involving her boyfriend...whose name is KELLY.

So, do any of you great bloggers out there have a suggestion for those of us at my office who have begun humming show tunes to ourselves rather than listen to that inane radio anymore? And just so you know, I already suggested that Mr. Kelly change his name, hopefully prompting his girlfriend to change the radio station. However, I don't think he wants to be known hereafter as KRAB.