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Just emerged from seven long days in which the kids and I were violently, repeatedly sick.

But, now Husband has a cold.

Commence Armageddon.

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The following is an actual article from The Bee, my former local newspaper…with a little editorializing. You gotta love the hometown breaking news.

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Treed Cat Doesn’t Stick Around To Thank Would-Be Rescuers

Botsford Fire/Rescue volunteer firefighter  Steve Osmolik was positioned at the end of  the ladder extended from Sandy Hook’s Quint  fire truck at about 11:30 am February 25, and  was just about to reach out to rescue a black  long-haired cat that had been stuck for days  in a tree off Marlin Road. The frightened cat,  however, then suddenly jumped out of the  tree, dropped about 20 feet to the ground, and  ran off into a rocky, wooded area. The cat is  shown in the left-center area of the photo,  perched on a branch. —Bee Photo, GoroskoEnlarge image

Fire/Rescue volunteer firefighter O. was positioned at the end of the ladder extended from fire truck at about 11:30 am February 25, and was just about to reach out to rescue a black long-haired cat that had been stuck for days in a tree. The frightened cat, however, then suddenly jumped out of the tree, dropped to the ground, and ran off into a rocky, wooded area. The cat is shown in the left-center area of the photo, perched on a branch. —Bee Photo, Gorosko

You might call him Blackie, the Mystery Cat, the long-haired feline who eluded rescue. (If you were someone who names random cats, that is.)


It was not for a lack of effort, but the disheveled black cat, which reportedly had been stuck high up in a tree for almost a week, on February 25 managed to avoid rescue by well-intentioned firefighters. (I imagine if I was in a tree for almost a week I might be a little less than pristine myself.) They had responded to the scene and extended an aerial ladder (a ladder, huh? wow.) toward the animal in seeking to remove it from its dicey perch about 20 feet above ground at the Norling residence on Marlin Road, off Hill Road.
Norling explained that the unfamiliar cat had been sitting up in the tree near his driveway for nearly a week and seemed for some reason unable to come down. (You’ve been watching the cat up there for a week? How humane of you to finally call someone, chump.)  Police were alerted of the situation, as were firefighters, and the animal control officer (Calling all cars! Calling all cars!). They converged at the slush-covered property during a cold rain in seeking to help the stranded cat.
Fire/Rescue Chief C., wearing a long fluorescent-green raincoat (flourescent green? now that’s news!), supervised firefighters who used a ladder truck as a platform from which to try to snatch the isolated cat.
Chief C. noted that the volunteer fire company does not normally respond to retrieve stranded cats from trees. Normally, cats that become stuck in trees eventually find their way down to the ground, he noted, adding dryly, “You usually don’t see many cat skeletons in trees.” (Then again, who’s really looking?)
For some reason, however, this cat had not been able to come down.
Mr Norling speculated that perhaps a dog or a coyote had chased the cat up into the tree, where it had become isolated for almost a week. (Or, he just wanted a peek at that flourescent coat.)
As he had approached the stranded animal, the cat would make “meow” noises, he said. (No way.  He meowed?  That’s crazy.)
As the fire truck’s ladder was extended toward the cat, Firefighter O. climbed to the ladder’s end and attempted to retrieve the feline. (The suspense is killing you, isn’t it?)
But the frightened cat suddenly jumped away from him in the opposite direction, rapidly dropping 20 feet to the ground (landing on all fours, I bet!), after which the cat quickly ran away from its would-be rescuers who were standing nearby.
Animal Control Officer M. returned to the Norling residence with a baited cat trap in seeking to lure back the cat who had run away, but she had no luck (shocker.)
It is unclear if the cat is owned by someone in the area, she said. If so, it may have run back home after falling from the tree, she said this week.
Or the animal may be a feral cat which has lived in the wild, she said. (So, we deduce here it either has a home…or it doesn’t.  And all lived happily ever small-town after.  The end.)

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See that new bird over there to the right?   I don’t even really use Twitter (as you’ll see if you decide to click on him to follow my page of nothingness over there.)   Well, except to stalk follow some of my favorite mind-numbing celebrities.

I “joined” Twitter over a year ago, never posted a single thing, set my profile so that I had to approve any “followers” and ignored every single weirdo that came my way.  It was just sort of a voyeuristic peephole for me.  I was there.  And, I was watching…but silently.

And then, predictably, I got bored.  Stopped checking daily, then weekly then stopped altogether.  Facebook’s more my obsession thing.   Twitter wasn’t for me.

Turns out, though, that anyone who’s anyone in the blog world thinks “tweeting” your posts is a good idea.   Drives traffic, encourages a following, comments, etc.  So, I’m somewhat skeptically trying it out.

But, if it scares me (a la Craigslist) at any point, you all (my prior readers) will be the first to know.  ‘Cause I’ll cancel my Twitter account and BeeBee gun that little birdy over there right off his post.

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In an attempt to clean out the room, we decided to try to sell a few pieces of furniture on Craigslist instead of wastefully just bringing them to the dump.

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From: lili loulou
Date: March 3, 2010 1:07:37 PM EST
To:myemail@xxxx.com
RE: interested pick up craigslist chair let me know

we can do it after 5:30 . 6ish, would you give me a ride to my place, i dont have a car and i can pay you for that
please let me know otherwise i can not pick it up today

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Oh, sure, complete internet stranger!  Come on by after 6 (when it’s dark out) and I’ll just load up my chair and welcome you into my car so I can drive you home.  Sure.  Maybe you’ve got some candy to feed my children, too.  


So much for that idea.  To the dump we shall go.

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Awesome.

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We’ve moved a lot in the last few years.  A little more than 4 years ago we lived right here in Marblehead.  Then, we moved to Vermont.   Two years later we moved to Connecticut.  And then, about a year ago, we moved back to Marblehead.   A lot of packing, and unpacking, and packing again and unpacking again.

People say that the best thing about moving is that it forces you to weed through the stuff you don’t need so you wind up with just the essentials.   Not us.  We wound up with an entire room in our basement that’s full of boxes.  Full.  And, its not a small room.  We moved into this house in June and still that room sits.  I hate it.  And, most of these boxes have moved with us from one state to the next (some even remained sealed) and just continued to move to the next location.

Come on.  Clearly, this is sh*t we don’t need.

Nice, isn’t it?  Dontcha just want to come visit me?  No.  You don’t.  You want to call “Hoarders” and turn me in.  Admit it.

So, we’ve committed to this:  On every Saturday going forward that we are home for the weekend, our plan is to remove two boxes from that room and take them to the dump.  Whatever is in those ridiculous boxes hasn’t seen the light of day in years.  And, sure, we could go through them meticulously, post things on craigslist and eBay and host a profitable tag sale.  We could donate things to worthy charities.   But, we won’t.  The boxes will sit there.   Probably making their way to our next house in our next move.  Enough.  Judge me as wasteful, as lazy, whatever.  It’s probably true.  But, damnit, those boxes are outta here.

The other night out to dinner, Husband and I had a conversation that led to this question:

What percentage of clothes in your closet do you think you actually wear?

Husband thinks his is somewhere around 7%.   Because, he mostly wears suits and I’m a laundry maniac.  He never has a chance to get down more than one or two levels of boxers before I’ve washed them and put them right back on top in their drawer.

I’m closer to 15% but you wouldn’t know it to look at me because I have a number of the same style (it’s generous using the word “style” in any sentence pertaining to myself) of clothing that I just wear over and over.  My daily uniform is a pair of jeans (I have three in rotation at the moment), a turtleneck sweater (three again) and a fleece overshirt (two black, one red).

But, don’t those percentage numbers seem really low?  As though we have a giant closet full of items we should never have purchased?  But, we are not fashionable people.  We don’t have a whole bunch of nice things that we just buy because we think they’re stylish at the time but then we never actually wear.  Nope.  Like the boxes, there are piles of clothes in the bottom of our drawers and the back of our closets that get packed up, and moved, and packed up, and moved.  That we haven’t worn in years.  Still, in the back of the closet they remain.  (With my mirror, I might add.)  I think they like it in there.

So, how about you?  


What’s your percentage?

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It’s become clear to me that I have contracted a version of my children’s hideous virus.  Yup.  Sweet.   And, you know what would be the worst possible thing for me to have right now.  Coffee.

But, I’m going to.  Because, well, it’s my coffee.

“Hello.  My name is Swooper and I’m clearly addicted to coffee.”

Wow.  That was somehow liberating.

Now, pour me a damn mug and pass the Caramel Apple Coffee Mate.

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That’s this week, though.  The Hell Week.   Next week, I’m sure I go all Hallmark again but, for now, this works.

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My two year old is obsessed with Jason Mraz.  I know.  Weird.  But, he totally is.  We Tivo’d “Farm Air Presents Jason Mraz” and I’m not kidding when I tell you that Little Brother wants to watch it every hour of every day.   And, while we were in Hell this week, I swear we must have watched Jason Mraz sing “I’m Yours” three hundred and ninety-seven times.  Roughly.

And, Jason Mraz is now ever present in our conversations, too.  For example:

In the car from the backseat:

“Where are we going, Mommy?”
“Just a few errands.”
“Jason Mraz’ house?”

Or, the other night when Big Brother was miserably sick and Little Brother was still blissfully healthy and we found Little Brother using Big Brother’s toothbrush:

“No, no, no!  J., where’s your toothbrush?”
“Umm.  Jason Mraz.”
“Jason Mraz has your toothbrush?!”

It could certainly be worse, I suppose.  If it were Big Brother (a victim of my Magic 106.7 tendencies), Taylor Swift might stop in for visit and then I’d get all self-conscious and have to brush my hair or something to hold Husband’s attention.

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…I went down, down, down
And the flames went higher.

Did you miss me?   Well, I’ve been away.  I went on a six day walkabout through Hell.  Hades.  The Underworld.   Old Dante had nothin’ on me.

And Hell hath no fury like a stomach bug passed along from a five year old to a two year old within a very loooooong six day span.

Ah, where to begin?  How about this?  If I asked you to name the locations at which you would least like your children to throw up you’d probably say…?

#1.  Their beds?   Course.

#2.  Your bed?  Oh, yes.   A few times, in fact.

#3.  Inside a friend’s car?  Charming.  How to make friends and influence people…

#4.  On your computer?!  Awesome.  (As you all can imagine, this was the worst for me.  It happened on day one of my six-days in Hell and oohh, it hurt.  Funeral rites were performed.  And the replacement was not cheap.)

I won’t go into any more detail.  Suffice to say that it was all hideous and stinky and awful and I felt very sorry for my kids and even more sorry for myself.

I hear it rained?  We had a little wind?  What happened to Boner?  There was a hockey game?

But, the boys appear to have come out of the dark, dark place and into the light and onward we go.  School for Big Brother today, grocery store for Little Brother and me, life returns.

My washing machine desperately needs a day off.   So, do I.

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