Incognito Breeder

Shaved P^ssy

(title edited due to nasty google hits) -- There's just the G and me in my house, so there's not a lot of random nudity. I figure on any given day I ought to contribute at least $20 to the therapy jar, no need to add brief glimpses of my fat ass to his psychological baggage. Further, the G-Man is particularly modest for a nine year old boy, I haven't seen his tiny hiney hasn't since March of 1998. As a result of the lack of skin at Chez Breeder, when we visit our friends with young children, my son is often horrified by an unabashed three year old streaking through the house. He doesn't have little siblings, he doesn't understand that a post-bath lap around the living room is the most efficient way to dry off. Little boy or little girl, it doesn't matter, when a bare ass gleams in his presence, the G-Man is prone to blushing, averted eyes, and stammering. He's a missionary at the orgy.

In addition to the G and me, in our house there are two kittens, Tiki and Ollie. As felines, they're given to laying about, prone, legs akimbo. Or worse, keeping themselves cleaned and groomed with some thorough licking. I had them fixed last week and the clinic shaved the poor things from tits to tail, leaving their undercarriage quite exposed. Poor G doesn't know where to look when they're in the room, rolling about like a couple of co-eds on oxycontin and E. I brought them home on Tuesday and he's been staring at his shoes ever since.

The Houseless and Spouseless

It was time the change the masthead, eh? Almost a month past Christmas and I was still sporting the candy canes. Besides, it's my birthday (shameless plug) and that's a good day for change.

I did a Google search for "34 years old" hoping to find something clever to inform the new mast head. I found this link, 'Targeting the 25- TO 34-year old Housless and Spouseless.'

The article is old, not all that interesting, but the headline is inspiring. It's the name for a new nighttime soap opera, NBC's response to Desperate Housewives. It's a cruise to St. Barts, no kids, no marrieds, no talk of refinancing the mortgage or juggling the in-laws. It's the curse laid upon your head by your spinster aunt tired of spending her Saturday nights watching Dukes of Hazzard and making Jiffy Pop for you and your siblings so that Mom and Dad could have "date night." It's the freedom of endless adolescence. It's the promise of dying alone. The other thing about the headline that grabbed me was the age range, 18-34. Today I turn 34. I've got one year left in this demographic. Then what? Then I start getting subscription offers from the AARP? Then my friends and family stop assuming that I'll eventually grow up and write me off as a disaster for all eternity? Then Match.com emails me that at a certain point ads without a picture may get more responses? What? What happens then? When I was 23, just out of college, I worked for a woman, a single mom in her 30s named Judi (with an "i") Judi managed a team of six kids like me, young, fresh-faced, our whole world ahead of us. She wore short skirts and high heels and told of us guys she met playing darts at her local. In Boston, we have a radio show called "Leftover Lunch," all request oldies from noon to 1. I started the design team playing a game called "How Old was Judi When..." and we would guess how old she was when the song on the radio was originally released. I was lucky she didn't plant one of those fuck-me-pumps into my left temple.

I'm about the same age now that Judi was then. I'm a single mom. If I met someone while playing darts at my local, I'm sure I'd tell you all about it. But she could pull off those short skirts and high heels, and for that I owe the woman some props. So tonight, when I'm accepting well-wishes for a happy and prosperous new year, I'm going to order a Sugar Daddy From Miami and offer a belated toast to Judi from her sister Houseless and Spouseless, I.B. Me.

With a Nod to Mr. Barker

I don't manage the day-to-day all that well, so you can imagine what a cluster-fuck the big picture stuff can get. For example, in changing jobs this year I found myself with a 401k account that needed to be rolled over. I postponed, I forgot, I made myself notes, it slipped my mind, eventually December 31st came and since I had done nothing, the company that managed the account cut me a check. They deducted the taxes and penalties, so it wasn't a big ol' check, but it was money that was supposed to stay invested for the "big picture" and I had let it slide. Needless to say, I'm less than enthusiastic about the opportunity to invest some of my Social Security money. Some people will do very well with that option, me, I'm looking at a refrigerator box, under a bridge, by the highway.

So, here I am with a couple of bucks I didn't plan on, feeling guilty for screwing up my financial future again, and I decided to make the best of it and use the money to improve my financial present. I paid off a couple of bills and I scheduled my kittens to be spayed. We got the kittens over the summer, two girls from the same litter, Tiki and Ollie. They were a month or two older than I was told and could have been spayed almost immediately, but the vet charges $250 each for spaying and insisted that we do them at the same time. Five hundred dollars while I was paying for G to go to summer camp, it wasn't feasible, so I put it off.

Then it was back-to-school time, then G's birthday, then the holidays loomed ahead, I kept procrastinating, five hundred dollars, Jesus! Finally, a friend told me about a low-income vet clinic that would spay them for less than $100 each. Sold American! With my ill-gotten 401k gains I called the clinic and made an appointment. They took my MasterCard number and told me to look for a package in the mail with instructions for care and feeding and directions to the clinic.

The clinic is located in South Boston. Southie is an old East Coast neighborhood. There are families there who have lived there for over a hundred years and the old aunts and grandmothers who never got their drivers' licenses hardly ever leave the ten blocks that compose their little world. There are new folks who have moved in, the unavoidable gentrification, but they are looked at with distain, they are alien, they are temporary, they are watched with suspicion, like a person with Connecticut plates driving through South Carolina.

The streets in Southie are a maze of narrow one-ways designed before the advent of the automobile and organized to scare away real estate agents and gay yuppies. That morning, as I navigated the directions to the clinic, I was blinded by the rising sun glaring off the snow piles lining the streets. I squinted to make out the street signs, took a right, then a left, down a road that looked more like an alley. Lined with garbage barrels and the back doors of stores and brick apartment buildings, it stretched for three city blocks. I drove slowly, looking for an address, a sign. I half expected to be obstructed by an old Catholic guy wearing a PETA T-shirt and picketing the clinic with garish pictures of tabby testicles, or met at the door by a sadistic vet wielding a butter knife and a clothes hanger. But eventually, I found a modest gray door with a small sign and a sticker advertising that they accept VISA, MasterCard and Discover. I parked illegally, as is the custom in Southie and carried my kitten crates inside.

I was greeted by a red-haired woman, red as in that orange color that happens when brunettes try to go blonde with a box of Loreal from the Walgreens. She had two good teeth and they were in the back, and she was as big as a Mini Cooper.

"You the one got lost?"

"I was in traffic, I called."

"Five more minutes, I would've sent you on your way."

"Sorry about that."

She looked at the two women sharing the reception desk with her. The first a tall, thin woman with a face like cordoroy and hair the color of a Days Inn shag carpet. The other a young, pretty brunette, fresh faced and wearing white scrubs decorated with cavorting puppies. Mini Cooper nodded with the satisfaction of putting me in my place, Cordoroy snickered and Puppy Girl seemed unaware as she reached for my file. I pictured Mini and Cordoroy planning an evening with Puppy involving kitty tranquilizers and one of those collar funnels, I shook my head to clear it of the unholy image and refocused on the file.

They had filled it in with info I had provided over the phone. My kittens, Tiki and "Oily" were scheduled to be neutered and get their rabies shots. Ignoring the unfortunate renaming of Ollie, I pointed out to Puppy Girl that the kittens are female, and should be spayed, not neutered, and that they already have their rabies shots, thankyouverymuch.

"You have a Tiki?" asked a woman standing in line behind me. She too, was holding two kitten crates.

"Yup. You?"

"I've got a Tiki," and she raised the right crate, "and a Baby," raised the left crate. The cats were long-haired, fluffy things, probably a couple of years old.

"Cute," I said, and turned back to Puppy Girl. Who had amended our file and offered it for me to sign. I reached down and picked up the beige crate, "This is Ollie." Puppy Girl took her back into the clinic and returned. I handed her the blue crate, "This is Tiki."

"You have a Tiki?" asked the woman again.

"Yeah, uh huh," I answered.

Again she offered me the two crates, again she introduced her cats, "I've got a Tiki and a Baby."

"That's nice," I assured her and turned back to Puppy Girl, who let me know I was all set. I left the line as the woman behind me stepped up and said, "I've got a Tiki and a Baby," it was time for me to get to work.

Because the clinic only performs sterilizations one day a week, pick-up and drop-off is very hectic and crowded. I made sure I got there on time. I didn't want to take any chances with Tiki/Baby lady picking up my Tiki/Ollie kittens, I was fairly certain she wouldn't notice the difference and half as convinced that Mini Cooper and Cordoroy would mix them up just for shits and giggles.

There were a couple of women in front of me, they were together, they were old, fragile, and hunched and they leaned on each other's arm for support. They were the Olsen Twins, circa 2053. As they waited for their pet, the one with the gray hair (Ashley) kept looking to the cage on the wall containing Kelly, a cat available for adoption. The one with the jet black hair (Mary Kate) slapped at Ashley's hand, "Stop it, you have enough!" Ashley moaned and signed and looked longingly at Kelly. Mini Cooper came out from the clinic to the reception desk with their cat in carrier.

"Do you have a ride, ladies?" They shook their heads. It was 7 degrees, windy and dark out. Mini Cooper shook her head, "If he doesn't die of exposure, you will." She huffed and dragged herself back into the clinic returning with what looked like carpet remnants. She and Cordoroy began duct taping the rug around the cat's carrier. Ashley was oblivious, she had wandered off to play with Kelly through the cage door. Mary Kate rolled her eyes and ignored her sister.

Puppy Girl came up to the reception desk and asked me who I was here for. I told her their names and from behind me I heard, "You have a Tiki?" This time I didn't bother to acknowledge her. My kittens came out in their respective crates, their bellies were clean shaven for the operation giving them a Paris Hilton, baby girl, Brazilian bikini wax look. They were aloof and obviously under the influence of drugs, further emphasizing the Paris Hilton connection. I wrapped them up in a blanket and took them out to my car.

I returned to retrieve my file and invoice in time to see Ashley hugging a squirming Kelly as Mary Kate shaking her head, mumbling angrily, filled out the adoption papers. Puppy Girl was on the phone giving the clinic address as Cordoroy explained that since the sisters were adopting the cat, the least the clinic could do was get them a cab ride home. Ashley nuzzled her new friend, tickled her ears and looked up at her sister, "I think I'll call her 'Tiki.""

Click of Respect

I have this love/hate relationship with going out. I love to get out of the house, love seeing live bands, love having a couple of drinks. I just wish I could borrow someone else's skin for the night. I'm ok with hanging out with people I know, but I don't like standing in the middle of 500 strangers. I love the music, but I don't dance. It can be cool to meet new people, but I'm 10-15 years older than most of the people in the house and I'm starting to feel like that freaky old broad at the end of the bar that me and my friends would joke about in college.

But when I'm the photographer at a show, all that disappears. I don't feel like the 30+ PTO mom, half in a bottle of Knob Creek and looking to score, granted, I am a 30+ PTO mom looking to score, but now I'm official, I've got a higher purpose, I'm not a passive audience member, I'm an active participant. I've got an all access pass, a view from the stage, a job to do. The bouncer has to move the velvet rope to let me by. I love this.

Saturday night, I photographed the Kool G Rap show at the Middle East. I had to share the little closet offstage with the six-plus opening acts. I was setting up my equipment and a young guy came back to drop off his coat.

"Hey, you the photographer?"

"Uh, huh. "

"What paper are you from?"

"I'm freelancing."

"Here's my stuff," hands me a postcard with his band photo and web address, "so you know who I am."

"Thanks. I'm I.B."

"I'm Quite Nyce," and he shook my hand.

That's just something you can't get as one of 200 girls in a club for a show, that nod and acknowlegement, that little bit of respect, and it really is quite nice.

Domestic Dirty Work

Helpful hints from your White Trash Martha (that's me)

You know that scummy crap that you find at the bottom of your kitchen trash can? The wrappers and apple cores that never quite found their way into the liner bag, the kitty litter that spilled over the edge, the slimy film of liquid from that-we-cannot-identify? Here's the White Trash Martha way to clean that all up without getting icky up to your elbows.

1. Take the liner bag out and put it out with the trash.
2. Fill the scummy kitchen barrel with about a foot of water. Yes, the scummy wrappers and chicken bones will float about like a Fear Factor stew. Not to worry, see step 3.
3. Take your kitchen barrel outside. Yes, I am assuming that it is winter where you are and that winter where you are is cold. Is it 70 degrees where you are? Well then, tough titties, Tina, you're on your own then.
4. Leave barrel outside overnight. Watch a movie, have a beer, sleep in late.
5. When the water has iced over, flip your barrel over and drum the bottom. The ice block should fall out, with the nasties all frozen into the block.
6. Pick up the ice block, place it into a liner bag and put it out with the trash.
7. Spray some Lysol in your kitchen barrel and bring it back in the house. All done!

It's a Good Thing.

1985 vs. 2005

I was 14 years old in 1985. That's a painful age, a painful time, very 13 Going On 30, if you know what I mean, Duran Duran and the wall of bangs. I thought, back in 1985, that things would change, that I would grow out of the geeky-awkward phase, that some things, social things would come easier with age. They don't really, do they?

Case in point; Me First and the Gimme Gimmes are playing in Boston this weekend. I love them. Love, love, luv them. So, three weeks ago I bought two tickets. They were only $15 and surely I could find someone to go with me to the show. My friend Erin agreed and I was happily looking forward to wearing my Mighty Shirt somewhere other than the Parent/Teacher conference. Then, tragedy struck in the form of oral surgery and I was left with an extra ticket. Don't get me wrong, I have friends, but one just had a baby and another is out of town and this one doesn't like the band, and that one I will not take into Boston anymore because she's completely out of control, and his wife already loaned him out for a recent concert, and his birthday is that day and he's spending it with his boyfriend... you get the picture.

Then I remembered the cookie mom. One of the kids in G's class has a mom who works at the cookie store in town. She's cool. She has a Replacements sticker on the back of her car. She might like Me First and the Gimme Gimmes.

Problem 1: I know her only by her kid's name. Awkward.
Problem 2: I don't know her socially, only through school and the cookie store.

It's hard to make friends when you're a grown-up. It's awkward and weird and goofy when you're young, but you're in such close proximity to your peers all the time that friendships evolve naturally. As an adult, you don't want to be friends with your co-workers most of the time, and you have your circle that you've developed over the years. Adding new people to that circle is kind of strange.

Since I don't know her name or phone number, the only way I could ask cookie mom was to go to the cookie store where she works. There, I explained the oral emergency and how since I know she likes similar music I thought maybe... and I'm feeling really stupid, like it's 1985 and I've just gathered my nerves and deliberately crossed the street to the cemetary in order to have a smoke, and the cool kids, they're looking askance at me--the poser, trying not to gag on her Newport Lights--and they laugh in that mean way that teenagers laugh, just loud enough that you don't know what the joke was, but you know that it was about you.

Cookie mom couldn't go, had plans for Friday. "Oh, that's cool, maybe next time." I got in my car and headed to work. Halfway to the office I remembered that the show is on Saturday, not Friday. I asked about the wrong night. At this point, I was feeling too stupid to follow up, I could go to the show on my own, that could be fun, right?

Later this morning, I was moving my car with SuperHotGuy: Interactive Designer. Every morning, SuperHotGuy: Interactive Designer and I have to move our cars to avoid a ticket. I told SuperHotGuy: Interactive Designer the story, prefacing it with, "I'm such a dork," to which he responded, "What did you do this time?" When I got to the point in my story where I said, "so, I'll probably go alone, that could be fun," SuperHotGuy suddenly interrupted, "I, uh, I'll meet you inside, I've got to stop at the bank," and then he bolted across the street.

Oh, Christ, now SuperHotGuy: Interactive Designer thinks I was trying to ask him out, Cookie Mom probably thinks I have some kind of PTO-Mom-Crush on her, I still don't have anyone to go to the show with, and I think I'm getting a zit.