Help, I need Somebody

To get me another cat, and yes, a new job. Hate to play that damn fiddle over, but Pinochet returns in one week. My coworker and I aren’t sitting around waiting for the bullshit. I know Sad Sack won’t listen. Sad Sack is a control freak. No wonder they love each other so much.

All I know is that we will not go back to the voice mail nastiness just because IT spawned. I suggested we go together to HR to put in a formal complaint since, at this point, we need to go past Sad Sack. We are chattel, and not worth being spoken to. We both got a 1% raise, and our lack of Latin language skills (although I am pretty handy with French in a pinch) does not endear us to Sad Sack or the Snake Bastard.

Another weekend of back pain and I basically wanted to fall apart. I took care of my neighbor’s cats and got a paper, but that was about it. Fibromyalgia + change of season = UGH.

Piscean luck must be changing, though. Miraculously, one of my mother’s neighbors handed her a $6,000 check because he and his wife were moving to West Virginia. Out of all the phonies, snobs, and lunatics they’d met, they felt my mother was the most deserving. Talk about a loan coming just in time. Wow. I wonder: if Pisces swim in schools, could I or one of my other March fishies be next? There’s about 10 of you out there that follow this blog. Maybe, just maybe, some niceness will brush by our fins.

I miss Muffins horribly. I’m having guilt over the fact that I kinda took her for granted. Again, it’s that “Butchy” problem: he lived 21 years, I keep thinking all my cats will make it that long. The real problems begin at around 14-17 years of age. I cannot get it through my Butchy Brain that he was an exception, not the norm. Taffy, too—she lived 19 years. La Grande Diva to the end. Kashi and Dexter are playing rough with each other, and won’t leave my side. They know something is not right, but can’t verbalize. Muffins’ ashes sit near the radiator, her favorite spot. She was kittenish and chubby till the end. So cute and loveable, even though she hated being picked up. I really believed she’d come home. Two cats at Christmas just seems so empty. Dex will be 14 on December 19. Now I get into the “what if” years. The day I lose him? There will be a national day of mourning. I don’t think I’ll be able to go on, but I will get another male black cat. It’s a family tradition after 27 years of black cats in our lives. Even my dad had one right before he died. My wacky cat-ness continues.

Halloween’s coming, which is my only joy right now. I have taken to listening to Anonymous 4 at night, which is a female group specializing in polyphonic 13th century chants to the Blessed Mother. It’s gothic, stern, and yet angelic. At this point in my life, I truly identify with the angelic and the demonic. I’m surrounded by demons in the corporate world. No wonder I choose to hear angelic voices calling out to God.

St. Michael’s feast day—and I’ve learned my departed Uncle Vincent’s birthday—is Friday. Someone left Michael a really ugly ficus-looking plant. I’m bringing something colorful, maybe carnations or lilies. Anything but a tiny tree that sheds when you walk by.

Oh, how I want to get out of here. What the hell’s taking so long?