The Silver Bullet is slowing me down.

I work a few blocks from the Coors Brewery, and it is rather stinky, what with all the hops and whatnot. Stinky on most days that is. Some mornings the brewery emits olfactory hues not unlike scrambled eggs (with pepper), and it's kind of sick because the smell of stale beer on those days actually makes me hungry.

Today, an entirely new scent is wafting from its towers - the unmistakable smell of ripe b.o.


Doesn't exactly make ya want to crack open a cold one.


Paranoia strikes deep.

I'm torn. In just one week, our place was robbed and our neighbor two doors down had his car stolen...both in the middle of the day. Last year, there was a whole mess of rapes in the neighborhood, the perpetrator of which was finally caught two blocks from our house. We got a report from the city showing the unbelievable amount of theft and other crime in our neighborhood over the past several years, and it honestly blew my mind. I leave my house at 5:15 in the morning, in the dark, to go to the gym, and there are other people (mostly women - alone) jogging or walking their dogs in the streets.

In the mail over the weekend, we learned of plans to use a church at the corner of our street as a temporary, 120-day shelter for homeless men this winter. There is a public meeting tonight to discuss our "concerns" about this idea and to vote on the proposed plan.

Now, I'm certainly not saying homeless people are responsible for the theft in our 'hood because it most likely ain't so. Nor am I saying that there is necessarily a correlation between the existence of a shelter and the frequency of crime. But, I am saying I'm just a little perturbed at the prospect of a whole slew of men, homeless or not, hanging out a block away all winter long.

If I were the normal me, as opposed to the current ultra-paranoid version, I would support this proposition wholeheartedly. In fact, one of the areas in which I'd like to work eventually is homelessness and affordable housing.

But I'm not the normal me right now, and I'm feeling completely shitty about the fact that I really don't want this in my backyard. That's right...I've become a NIMBY! The type of blinder-sporting, self-as-center-of-the-universe prick that I've been known to rail upon for any number of social and environmental insensitivities.

Of course I want homeless men to have a warm, safe place to sleep at night this winter. Who doesn't? But I also want a warm, safe place to sleep this winter, and in my freaked out state, this shelter idea runs counter to that.

Am I a totally selfish, uncompassionate whore? Should I just keep my mouth shut and see what the other folks in the 'hood decide?

Should I march on over there and make myself announce what I wish I was thinking and know I should be thinking - that despite the rising crime rate in our neighborhood, and the (perhaps unfounded) fears of women like me, these men should have the right to use the space being offered to them this winter and that it's the least we can do to help curb homelessness in the city?


I want my blankee.

You know how on all those insurance commercials, there's some kindly chap standing in the wings after a tornado, fire or other disaster with a blanket in hand (and sometimes even a teddy bear or a thermos full of hot chocolate) waiting patiently for the chance to bring a little ray of sunshine into the lives of the traumatized?

Yeah..well, that's a big fat load of crap. Not that I'd really want some stranger forcibly shrouding me in a blanket after having just been robbed, but a little decency would be nice, or hows about just a sprinkle of tact or a pinch of flexibility in my cup of hot chocolate?

Dude (whose name has been changed to protect his privacy even though I feel like screaming "Mr. Smartyman from Safeco blows a big one" from the rooftops) is supposed to come by the house this week and photograph the point of entry (also known as the bedroom window), along with things like the place where the stereo used to reside, the empty laptop case laying on the floor, and the severed electrical cords hanging forlornly in every corner of every room. He must take and submit said photographs before we can move forward with our insurance claim, so time is, as they say, of the essence.

Presumably, these photos of empty, dusty spaces are meant to ensure the money-holders of the fact that at some point in time there was indeed a penny jar atop the dresser, a copy of MarioKart next to the TV, etc.

Anywho, Dude is what most people might refer to as a DICKHEAD. He is totally unwilling, although completely able, to come by our house outside of regular business hours, and scoffed when I suggested he stop by either really early in the morning or sometime in the evening after 5. When I told him that the H and I both work at least 30 minutes from the house, that we'd both taken an unpaid day of leave last week to clean up the crime scene and were thus tapped out on time off, that it would be great for him to at least try to accommodate our schedules, seeing as how we are the clients and he is the service provider,etc... he said, "You know, there's really gotta be some give n take here." I can only surmise that by this declaration, he meant to say "You know, you really gotta give, so I can take take take."

I do believe Dude was intended to be a cable guy. Then he could just throw some ridiculous span of time out there...say, "sometime between 7am and 9:25am or between 3:45pm and 7:17pm on either this Tuesday or the Friday after next"...and show up if and when he pleased. But alas, he is no cable guy and I have resigned myself to the fact that I must give of my time this afternoon so that he may take it away.

So, I'm taking off work early today, during one of my busiest times of year, to go be blessed by Dude's presence and thank him so much for going above and beyond the call of duty to assist his clients.

And then I'm going to fill out the clusterfuck of paperwork the insurance folk want, and you better believe I'm billing them for:
-1 soft, woolen blanket
-1 steaming cup of hot chocolate, and
-1 friendly smile from a kindly agent who really truly cares


Overcoming inertia.

Turns out there is at least one good thing about having your house burglarized.

You see, a couple credit card statements were out in clear view when the bastards infiltrated. And because we weren't sure whether they saw/photographed/copied the card numbers, we could either: a) pay the cards in full and close the accounts for good, thereby eliminating 2 of the 3 remaining credit cards in our possession, or b) go through all the rigmarole involved with reporting them stolen, getting new card numbers issued, and interacting with the irritating little phone jockeys who try to upsell you on something every dang time you call.

We chose a. Which worked out to be pretty sweet because those two cards had pesky little balances of less than $1,000 each anyway and I was really really sick of writing $15 and $25 checks to the credit card companies each month, whittling away so incredibly slowly at (relatively) tiny amounts of debt.... but apparently not sick enough to pay them off without some sort of external motivation.

Now those assholes just need to come put our big daddy credit card in jeopardy. Surely that would light a fire under our slackin asses and put us on the fast track to financial freedom.

THANKS CRACKHEAD BURGLARS! With your help, we'll be out of debt in no time.


Find a penny...

I pull up to my house after going to the gym on Wednesday night and notice two cop cars parking on the street behind me. The po's file out of both cars and head toward me.

"Stay back ma'am," one says, all serious-like, as I approach the stairs leading to our front door.

"We got a call from a Mr. C K, and we don't know if anyone is still in the house."

I'm like...what? huh? C K is my husband. What the hell's going on? Still in the house...who?

C comes to the front door to meet the po's, and that's when I learn that we've been robbed. Or more accurately - robbed blind.

BASTARDS. Why, why, why do people feel the need to take shit from other people? It's totally fucked and completely infuriating.

Good news is Willy was fine. He was sitting amongst the broken glass, torn window screen a'flappin' in the breeze, like nothing ever happened. I'm telling you, if my kitten would have been gone, I would have totally LOST MY SHIT. Hell hath no fury like a woman....well, like a woman like me after finding out some dickheads let my kitten out to fend for his little self in the wild.

Anyway, I just compiled the laundry list of stolen items for our insurance adjuster (incidentally, why the jazz are they called "adjusters"...aren't they "deciders" - oh no, that's W. - or "money-giver-outers" or "those whose decisions affect my financial horizon for the next 10 years-ers").

Grand total? A whopping $14,893.

I'm taking bets on what we'll actually see out of this. Feel free to weigh in. (We have a $500 deductible).

Among the items those jackass motherfuckers took from MY house: laptop, desktop, digital camera, stereo, DVD player, ALL our CDs (600 of em), the Sega and the Nintendo (a blessing in disguise to me but a major blow for the H)...and, here's the real kicker,...OUR PENNY JAR.

What kind of crackhead beotches steal a flippin penny jar? It wasn't even like a big huge jar...just a pint-sized Mason full of, at most, $5 in pennies.

Karma better get to those punks before my fist....yeah....cuz my fist is BIG and cuz I'm totally insane and bite the heads off of bats and stuff.....






...what's funny about the W. veto of the measure to allow federally funded stem cell research?


Let me see if I've got it straight. I'ts not ok to "murder" leftover, soon to be destroyed, potentially invaluable embryos, but it's just dandy to send little boys and girls to bum fuck to slaughter innocent LIVING people in the name of a war on an abstraction?

Will wonders never fucking cease?


There's a tear in my beer.

Remember how I said I was emotionally immature?

We went to this fabulous place for my birthday weekend, and by "we" I mean me, the H, my little brother, my mom and dad, my BFF from childhood, her man, and two of my nearest and dearest friends. Everything was right about the trip - the house, the weather, the delicious meals we cooked together, the copious amounts of beer, the endless UNO matches, the mouse that haunted my brother's bedroom, the amazing quantity of stars we could see at night...everything.

That is, until the inevitable happened. My mom and I got in what was quite possibly the most retarded argument of our lives...in front of everyone. It had something to do with sweatshop labor and something to do with Malcolm X, with a little bit of Vietnam thrown in for good measure. The whole thing lasted only about two minutes, but the look on my best friend's face as she started reliving the last 29 years clearly conveyed the frustration and exhaustion of everyone involved.

After this ridiculous spectacle, I promptly began to realize the depth of my assholeness, turned several different shades of red, ran into the bathroom, sat my bitchy butt down on the floor, and cried.

Not just a couple tears haphazardly trickling down my face. Oh no. This was a full out CRYFEST - middle school style.

Then my mom started to cry. Then the H tried to "help" at which time I totally snapped at him (sorry C) adding fuel to my mother's fire and multiplying the bitchiness factor by at least a billion.

All it took were these four innocuous little words to send me face first into complete and unfettered total-fucking-bitch-on-an-otherwise-
perfect-trip-thereby-alienating-your-closest-friends-and-family mode:
"Don't do this Trisha."

Something about my mother and that particular string of words does it every time.

You'd think I would have figured out how to repress the impulse to behave like spoiled Satan spawn by now. But you'd be wrong.

Happy birthday to me!


I've fallen and I can't get up.

I will be 29 years old on Friday. TWENTY NINE.

That means there are only 12 more measly months until the big 3-to-the-0.

I never thought I'd give two shits about aging. Jesus, "aging" itself sounds crusty and old. But it turns out I do.

Well, I guess I don't care about getting older per se but I do care about where I am currently and how that bodes for the next 30 or so years.

I have a job, but that's all it is and I want more. I want to be impassioned about what I do and *make a difference* blah, blah, blah. Really though. I do.

I still smoke cigarettes. I shudder when I stop to do the math on that one.

I still drink every night of the week. Sometimes it's just the socially-acceptable "glass of red wine with dinner" but most often it's not.

I am nowhere near owning a home and the prices keep skyrocketing all around me. I realized the other day that my landlord has sucked a total of somewhere near $30K in rent out of us over the last three and a half years. That makes me want to barf.

Also in the barf-inducing category - our debt.

And my bouts of "adult acne"...what the fuck is up with that?! Haven't I paid my dues for the last like 15 years? Haven't I?

I can't cook Indian food and I'm starting to doubt I'll ever acquire the skill.

I'm *emotionally immature* when dealing with people who I've considered friends but who often don't act like they give a shit.

I hold grudges.

I can't relax.

I don't remember significant parts of my life - parts that other people seem to have no problem recalling in vivid detail.

I make lists of goals when I hit rock-bottom (once a year or so), but I never even look at them once I've moved beyond the immediate crisis.

I have a man I love and a kitten I can't stand to leave in the morning. I have good neighbors. We are slowly meeting new people in this town. I'm getting back in shape (slowly but surely). We're eating better. I'm realizing what's important. I take less for granted. I'm reconnecting some of the connections I've lost over time and countless moves. I've stopped putting my own shit on hold to go attend to other people's shit. I'm trying to be less passive-aggressive. I laugh more.

So what.

As my body continues to make its hatred for my mobility known (damn sciatica), and as my bladder plans its inevitable decline (I've always known Depends were in my future), at least I'm learning to live a little...to take it a little easier...to stop and give the stank-ass roses a little sniff.

or something.


Domestic bliss.

In my 5 years in Colorado, I don't think I've ever seen as much consistent rain as we experienced this weekend. While fabulous for the lawn, the constant drizzle kept me inside for the most part.

It was kind of nice to actually spend some time at home for once, and I found myself hovering in and around the kitchen most of the weekend.

Not only did I make 48 banana-chocolate chip mini-muffins (of which the H and I promptly scarfed 10 before even removing them from the pan), but I planned AHEAD and made a dinner for LATER in the week! And it's a flippin *meatloaf* - (made with MSF Crumbles for my non-red-meat-eating self). I also personally made every meal, with the exception of one, that the H and I ate all weekend long, did like 87 loads of laundry, brushed crazy Willy's teeth (poultry toothpaste - yum), balanced the checkbook, cleaned the bathroom, and swiffered the floors.

How much more Donna Reed can I get? I need to purchase an apron or something.


This town needs an enema!

I absolutely LOVE the Last.fm Player. It keeps me sane and entertained all day at work. Most of my favs are in its library, and it even leads me to new bands on a regular basis. I highly recommend it.

One of the great features of the player is that you can tell it to play music "similar to" X, Y or Z. I do this when I don't really know what I want to hear exactly but am in some sort of easily-identifiable mood.

Last.fm still has some kinks to work out though, as evidenced by one of its selections for me this morning.

In a mellow-yet-excited-for-the-weekend mood, I told the player to play me some tunes similar to Paul Simon. Most of its choices were pretty right on: The Who, Pink Floyd, David Bowie, The Band, Nick Drake, Wilco, Neil Diamond, etc.

One can sort of see the similarities in these choices and understand the logic of the player. Intermingled with all these songs, however, came this old gem - Prince: Batdance!

It was so totally sweet, and caught me so totally off-guard, that I almost peed my pants. Seriously.

And for some inexplicable reason, I actually KNOW the lyrics to this classic ditty, a portion of which I've pasted for you here so that you too may recall its greatness:
. . . . . . . . . .
Well, miss vale
Ever dance with the devil in the pale moon light?
I always ask that of all my prey.
I just like the sound of it.
. . . . . . . . . .
This town needs an enema!
. . . . . . . . . .
Im gonna kill u
Im not gonna kill u
Im gonna kill u
Im not gonna kill u
Lets do it
Im batman
Dont stop dancin
Im batman
. . . . . . . . . .
Dont stop dancin
Lets do it, batman
Lets do it, batman
Dont stop dancin
Dont stop dancin
No, damn it! turn the music back up!
You son of a bitch!
. . . . . . . . . .

Take Prince's advice this weekend - turn up the music and don't stop dancin' you sons 'o' bitches!


I did it like this, I did it like that, I did it with a whiffle ball bat.

This weekend, a big group of us (drunkenly) played a good ol' game of whiffle ball at City Park.

It was such a totally odd choice of activity, particularly for my non-exercise-inclined friends. But fun nonetheless.

We cheered each other on, talked trash to the opposing team, spit whenever we thought about it, high-fived as much as possible, drank cheap beer out of plastic cups and ate hot dogs.

I loved that we were being so very *amuricun*, in an extremely cheesy, sort of genuine and somewhat facetious way.

W. would be proud. Although I wouldn't have given him a hot dog, even if he said please.