The Pink Dragon

Is everyone ready for the holidays?  I am.  You all know that my tree is up and my house is decorated and that Seamus is having a love affair with the tree.  I have gifts under there now and he still picks his way over them to wad himself up in the back under the pretty lights.  I think he has been very delicate as I have yet to find a shredded present. They are all still very much intact.

At work, we began gearing up for the holidays at work long about the day after Thanksgiving.  Just last week we had Goodie Day.  Goodie Day brought catered food from a local restaurant and assorted food contributions from everyone in the office.  The amount of food available was mind boggling.  We all stood in line, filled plates, ate well and then staggered around the office in a carb-induced stupor.  We were worthless and our billable rate plummeted for the rest of the day.  Lazy, yet festive.  We have also decorated the office with lots of standardized trees, ornaments, lights and whatnot that give us the assorted feelings of warm fuzzy and holiday cheer.  And finally, we have my desk: 

 

This is a glittery pink reindeer (or some such animal) that was given to me as a gag gift a few years ago and you know, I just can’t keep it to myself.  EVERYONE gets to experience the glam so I bring him to work for all to enjoy.  Isn’t he cute? 

Unfortunately, it seems that I’m the only one who thinks he’s cute.  Most everyone, when seeing him for the first time, says something along the lines of, “Oh . . . . isn’t that . . .  nice . . . .  Where did you find that thi- um, him?”  And then they grin weakly at him and tentatively reach out a hand to touch him which means that they will promptly and completely be covered in pink glitter and have to explain to their wives and husbands that it really was a hideous pink reindeer on a co-worker’s desk and no, they did not go to the Brass Stables for lunch!  Anyway.  I brought the reindeer in on a Monday and on that next Tuesday, I came in to find this:

 

Since then, Always Keith has renamed him The Pink Dragon and every day when I arrive at work, I have to search for him.  He and The Hulk hide him somewhere close by, usually near the men’s bathroom or in a break room.  My favorite was the day he was packed up in a box and delivered from the mailroom. 

 

Today I came in to find this:

 

Merry Christmas to you!  I’ll have a more serious post on Christmas Day, I’m hoping, but for now, safe travels to you all and happy gifting.  Presents are fun!

Smooches,  

Jimmie

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I’m Not Sure I’m Cut Out To Be A Parent: Or, Oh Murphy . . . . .

So it turns out that Murphy is a brawler. 

My sweet little annoying ten pound cat got outside last week and it wasn’t long before I started to hear some truly terrible noises coming from the street.  It was a cross between a cat being smushed by the tire of a car and children screeching at each other in a sing-song “somebody’s gonna get it” refrain.  With heart threatening to pound right out of my throat, I threw open the front door and bolted out my walkway, barefoot and wearing decidedly inappropriate pajamas, only to find my affectionate beloved orange puffball beating the absolute snot out of another cat. 

You may have many reasons to think me naïve or call me a bit of a ditz, but give me credit for having sense enough to not break up a cat fight, especially seeing as how skinny little Murphy was blown up like a watermelon, tail twitching with his ears laid back flat.

I scurried back into the house to wait it out while Seamus paced nervously by the front door and eventually settled in his new safe place under the lighted Christmas tree.  Within the hour, Murphy yowled at the front door to be let in, and in he stalked, looking a little more broad through the shoulders and with a bit of swagger. 

Later, he sat at my feet as I “powdered my nose” (something he does without fail nearly every single time I have to go) and looked up at me with sleepy and peaceful eyes.  He was completely serene.  I noticed he had a small chunk missing from his ear and as I raked my fingers through his fur, I dislodged pieces of cat claw.  Then all throughout the night he would leave the bed where he was cuddled up next to me to visit the toilet and splash around in there, maybe washing himself of his bad behavior? Whatever his reasons, I woke up to water all over the seat and floor.

I’ll say it again – I suppose getting a red-headed cat and giving him an Irish name and plenty of opportunity to drink (from the toilet) was a bad idea if I wanted a docile lazy aloof cat. That’ll teach me. 

Unexpected, Take Two

Do you guys remember this post?  Go on back and read it.  I’ll wait.

 You done?  Good.

 Now, lookit what was left on my desk for me.  Isn’t that nice? 

 

I still don’t know who did this to me.  I think it is hilarious but I wouldn’t it be great if I could get revenge?

Philanthropy, Take Two

Welp, I’ve been working with my supper club for six months now.  I have yet to see my man with the curved spine to invite him to dinner, but I’m ever hopeful.  Still, I’ve met some great people and in typical Jimmie fashion, I have a favorite.

I’ll tell you who it’s not. It’s not Bill.  Bill likes to ride up front with me and critique my directions (which is a little bit fair as we all know how handy I am with a map.)  Bill also likes to critique drivers, particularly those of the female persuasion.  On the last dinner we did, I had had enough.  It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him where he could stick his opinion but right as I opened my mouth, I backed into a pole.  Granted, it was a very short pole that no one could have seen as high up as we were in the van, but my credibility went out the window the precise moment we all felt the jolt.  Thankfully at dinner Bill had one of those fishbowl beer steins full to the brim of some heavy stout beer and he mellowed quite nicely for the ride home. 

I’ll tell you another it’s not.  It’s not Anna. Not that there is anything wrong with Anna.  I quite like her.  She’s spunky and loud and does not meet a stranger; in short, she’s me in 35 years, except I don’t smoke or eat pig knuckles (both of which she does with great regularity).  She once asked me if I would ask one of the guys who joins us on occasion if he’d ever had sex in his life.  Apparently they all wondered but no one had the guts to ask.  I joined the ranks of those who don’t have the guts.  Poor Anna.  She will always wonder I suppose. 

I’ll tell you some more it’s not.  It’s not Judy and John.  Remember them?  The couple who had just started dating?  You can read about them here.  They are still dating, I am elated to report.  I’m even more elated to tell you that they are now engaged and have set a wedding date of Valentine’s Weekend 2012.  It makes me so happy, so hopeful! 

It’s also not Bobbie and Doug, although they are pretty great.  They’ve only been with me once so far and they fought like cats and dogs the whole dinner. 

Doug would ask, “Did you eat that pork chop I made you?” 

Bobbie would reply, “No, you didn’t cook it right.  I told you how to cook it.  It was awful.  I fed it to my dog.”

And Doug would say, “Your dog!  But why?  I grilled it just right, with garlic and herbs. What was wrong with it?” 

And Bobbie would reply, “You fry pork chops.  You don’t grill them.”

I was getting a bit concerned until the waiter brought the check and Doug whipped out his card to pay for himself and Bobbie.  Turns out they have been dating for eight years and are as happy as clams. After dinner they snuggled in the van and when I took a wrong turn (I know!) they informed me that I was on Love Hill and they had been there many times.   

My favorite isn’t Gordon either, although I like him a great deal despite the fact that he is as deaf as a post and tells me the same story I just heard from the backseat from another passenger two minutes before.  He’s funny, though, and just a perfect sweetheart.

Nope, my favorite is Lily.  She’s gentle and sweet and has been on every adventure we have tried even if the restaurant is weird or overpriced and even if it is raining.  Last week we had our December dinner and I took them to a fancier, higher end place in Nashville.  The center I volunteer for said that we should try to do nicer things for dinner so I went for it.  When we got there, we all realized that while the food was good, it was not really worth the price and decided that higher end is only alright for very special occasions.  I was apologetic but then Lily said, and I’ll probably cry a little when I type this, “Jimmie, it doesn’t matter where you decide to take us.  I’ll go every time as long as it’s with you.” 

You guys, I encourage everyone out there to volunteer in some way and to do so year round.  You may go into it thinking that you will bless someone, give them something they need or can’t do for themselves.  You may give money because you have it or because you feel led to do it.  Those people and organizations will be blessed, but I’ve gotta tell you, when someone like Lily says she likes you, just because you are you, your heart will grow three sizes that day, and you will be blessed beyond all measure.

(It should come as no surprise to you that I called it.  Yep, I totally teared up a little.  I’m such a GIRL!)

Cookie Baking

Part of my Christmas season every year is the cookie baking. This year was no different. I invited a bunch of friends over, gave each of them a small list of ingredients to bring and cleaned my house.

I invited Dammit Todd to my little shindig too. See, I make these rice krispie things that have lots of peanut butter and chocolate in them and when the cookies get set and hardened in the pan, they are very hard to cut. I was crafty and smart – I bribed Dammit Todd with a house full of women, free cookies and milk. Lo and behold, he agreed to come over to cut the difficult cookies and partake in free cookies and milk. Score.

The girls and I were involved in our controlled chaos of cookie baking when Dammit Todd arrived with himself and a contribution to the party – a total surprise as I really only needed him for the strength of his arms and the pleasure of his company.

This here is what Dammit Todd brought:

Do you see why we call him Dammit Todd?

The Box Of Chocolates Post

I got an email from Dammit Todd about my latest post. It needs to be shared.

Dear Jimmie –

1) I’m never hunting squirrels in your home town, especially if they really can be considered to be a big animal, such as a deer.

2) Your makeover pic is definitely being termed “Eye of the Tigger” in my book…

My makeover, courtesy of Tigger

Love, Dammit Todd

When Woney and I were in the Mexico port on our cruise, we got on this bus tour thing. Time has passed and I’m slightly fuzzy on the details now that I’ve slept. Anyway, the tour guide spoke fantastic English although slightly accented, and this is the thing he said that I remember most, mostly because he was calm and dead serious.

“Jyoo can go to the open air flea market and buy lots of silber, leather, wool. Lots of stuff. Jyoo can get handbags, belts, hats, whips. <shrug> Jyoo on bacation.”

An open letter to Tony, Woney’s trainer.

Dear Tony, oh ye of the chiclet teeth, giant arms, positive attitude and Navy Uniform which you refused to wear for me no matter how much I really, really wanted you to or how much I wheezed when I ran to show you that I was serious about the workout –

I heard that you made Woney flip over a bunch of tractor tires as part of her training for her Sheryl Crow arms. I hate to tell you, Tony, but you live in CALIFORNIA. Tractors just don’t really seem indigenous to CALIFORNIA and I’ll bet people snickered behind your back.

However, they do seem to be indigenous to TENNESSEE, where I live. I do believe that here in Nashville we even lay claim to a country music singer who writes songs about how tractors are sexy (Yes, it is a great source of embarrassment for many TENNESSEE natives, one of which is me. Was that Kenny Chesney? Cause if so, he should be strung up by his toenails and tortured mercilessly. Anway . . . .) Tractors and their tires belong here and honestly, I could use some Sheryl Crow arms myself.

I propose an idea. Tony, you come here (and bring Woney) with your tractor tires (and your uniform), and we can flip tractor tires all day long and no one will think it is weird at all. Maybe you can meet Kenny Chesney. And later we can check you for ticks. Deal? Deal.

Smooches,

Jimmie

A Guest Post, by Murphy

People. Tell The Smushy One that the garage is not outside! Frick.

It appears that Christmas is upon us. One of my neighbors put up the whole Clark Griswold-themed light show in their yard Halloween weekend and since then has been blazing the trail nightly in their quest for the Christmas Spirit.

I put my tree up this past weekend and wondered what the cats would do to it. The first year the kitties were with me, I had the tree up but Seamus hid under the bed all the time and Murphy was too busy digging in my cabinets and in the bathroom to notice it. Last year the tree didn’t make it off of the garage shelf.  This year I fully expected Murphy to tear it to shreds or at the very least, pee on it.

Instead, every day when I come home I see this:

Seamus is in love with that tree. He makes a running leap, slides onto the tree skirt and skids across it like he’s sliding into home base. Then he’ll lump himself up underneath the tree skirt and “hide”, except his butt is so big it sticks out. I find new ornaments on the floor every day and I’ve noticed that more and more of my lights on my pre-lit tree are going out. I’m going to have a non-lit tree before it’s over with.

Murphy with the tree:

Meh. It'll do.

Seamus with the tree:

You touch this and I will kill you.

That’s it. Chocolate gone. The end. 

(In case you now need a chocolate fix, all those images came from Godiva.  Just remember me when you go buy some.)