Too cute not to share...

I LOVE THIS!!!

This picture is the first thing to make me laugh in three days! My friend Danielle went through all the trouble of posing her cat Frank (he's a good sport, isn't he?) with tarot cards and photoshopping the whole thing together just to make me smile.


Thank you so much D... you definitely earned this smile. I love you!

Goodbye, Miss Lady Vayda

I apologize in advance for the length of this entry... this is more of a story than a blog entry. While I normally try to keep things lighthearded, the subject matter of this particular blog is a little heavy. Be prepared.

Five months ago I was blessed with a kitty who needed me. Her name was Lady, and she came to me from despicable conditions, dirty and sick from having spent the last six months of a New England winter living in a cold, dark, dirty basement… She had no human interaction, and she slept under a furnace for warmth. Occasionally, someone would come downstairs to do laundry and Lady would jump up to greet them, desperate for their attention, until she got too sick to do even do that. She had a raging respiratory infection which limited her breathing, she was losing weight, and she had even stopped cleaning herself. Had an angel by the name of Justine (who is my landlord and good friend) not intervened, Lady surely would have died down there. Right there in her fur and vomit covered dog bed, under the furnace, sick, dirty… and most disturbingly of all… completely and utterly alone.

Five months later, I think back to those first few days when Lady came into my life. I remember taking one look at her and being absolutely appalled at her appearance. She was so dirty I didn’t even want to touch her. She would sneeze and cover anything she was sitting on in a thick green mucus. She would crouch down when standing on all fours, because she was literally petrified of all the attention. I remember thinking to myself “I can’t believe this animal was under a person’s 'care'" – and I am using the word "care" very loosely here. She looked like a stray. I honestly don’t believe she would have lived another two weeks if she hadn’t been rescued by Justine.

Circumstances prevented Lady from staying upstairs in Justine’s apartment as Justine has two other animals that would have been susceptible to the infection, so I offered to let her stay downstairs with me until she was in better health. I thought of her as sort of a temporary roommate, and gave her free reign of the house to do as she pleased. Even still she spent the first night curled up on the couch. I think she slept for about 14 hours straight that night. She literally did not move, and we just let her sleep it off... like her previous existence was nothing more than a bad dream. The next day when I got home from work, I found her curled up in the exact same position, only instead of being on the couch she was in my bedroom, perched on top of my bed like she had been there her entire life... and that’s pretty much where she stayed put for our entire five months together.

I can’t exactly pinpoint when my home stopped being a temporary “pitstop” for Lady, but needless to say within a few days I told Justine it was safe to call off the search for a new owner. Although, I did not want or need a pet at the time, Lady definitely needed ME and that’s all that mattered. I felt a very strong obligation to this animal to give her a happy and loving home for the remainder of her days. Her given name was Lady, but we called her Vayda or Lady Vayda, due to the fact that her breathing was so loud from the congestion of her respiratory inflammation that we could hear her come into the room even before we saw her. My boyfriend joked one time that it sounded like Darth Vader just waked in the room, and since then, it just stuck. “Lady Vayda” it was.

The first few weeks were not easy. Lady Vayda was still very ill, and required some serious antibiotics to cure her of her infections. She sneezed on everything, and covered everything with her mucus. She would scarf up her food as though she was never going to eat again. She was still very timid around people, and I remember one time I accidently stepped on her (I was not used to having an animal underfoot!) and she bolted from the room, petrified. I searched for her and I finally found her crouched and hiding behind the furnace in the laundry room. I think she may have derived some sort of comfort from the furnace, as that’s where she had spent the last six months. It absolutely broke my heart.

When we first got Vayda, she had a habit of sleeping directly on top of my boyfriend’s chest. It used to freak him out. He would wake up in the middle of the night and she’d be on top of his chest, literally two inches from his face staring him in the eye. He would pick her up and move her into the space between us, and she’d crawl right back on top of him, and the cycle would repeat itself over, and over again. It used to drive him crazy, but he eventually came to find it endearing. Well, actually he was forced to eventually find it endearing as I made no qualms about the fact that if that’s where Vayda wanted to sleep, well than that’s where she’d damn well be sleeping. He was more than welcome to go sleep under the furnace if he liked.

Eventually it all sort of came together, and it began to feel as though Vayda had always been there. She was the perfect pet. I honestly believe she was genuinely grateful to us for rescuing her and nursing her back to health, and I myself was head over heels in love with her. I looked forward to coming home and seeing her at night, and I took comfort when she slept above my head on the pillow. I would fall asleep every night listening to her purring above me. It was a really a wonderful time in my life for me.

About six weeks ago Vayda started getting sick again, and it was traumatic for all of us involved who cared so much about her – myself, my boyfriend Matt, and Justine. I am honest when I say that I have never felt more powerless in my entire life. I think we all knew what was coming, even before any of us could form the words to say it. About a month ago, we took her to the vet, and she gently informed us that we needed to start making some tough decisions as it was simply “Vayda’s time”, and that we needed to “allow her to die with some dignity”. Vayda was sixteen years old, and we needed to respect that. She did not have a lot (or any, really) options available to her. So we talked to another vet…. and then a friend who works for a vet… and then we tried doing our own research on the internet… the answer was always the same, and it was never what we wanted to hear.

As I stated in my previous blog, the decision to put her down wasn’t necessarily that hard to make. It was actually going through with it that was the hard part. After weeks of putting it off, I finally made the appointment last Thursday, and it was scheduled for yesterday at 2:30 p.m. I only wanted what was best for her, and it was becoming more and more apparent as the days went on that what was best for her was no longer of this world. In her last few days she started doing what cats do when they’re about to die… she was looking for a place to go in peace. I caught her a few times under my bureau, and Justine found her once – sadly enough – curled up behind the furnace.

Knowing that she was virtually at the end did not make this any easier on any of us. For me personally, I think that these past few days have been the most difficult I’ve ever experienced in my twenty eight years. My heart is literally broken in half over the loss of my beloved Vayda, and I am overwhelmed by all the conflicting emotions that I have surrounding the toughest decision I’ve ever had to make. I feel very guilty, although I know in my heart that it needed to be done. I would never have done it if I even had one glimmer of doubt that maybe it wasn’t the right thing. I feel incredibly sad because I just miss her so damned much already. Last night was particularly hard because I didn’t drift off to sleep listening to her purr behind my head as I normally do. Getting ready for work this morning, I was overcome with emotion because she wasn’t standing there patiently in front of her food dish when I got out of the shower, ready to be fed. As I type this, I am sitting at work two hours past closing time as I dread going home to an empty house. And mixed in somewhere with all that guilt and sadness, I am also a little angry that I didn’t have more time with her. Those six months she spent alone under the furnace… I would do ANYTHING to have had those six months with her. Those people had no idea what they were missing.

I know that the healing will take time, and I know that eventually I will make peace with myself for my decision, but right now I just need some time to mourn my beautiful kitty. Yesterday, on August 26th at 2:30 p.m. my beloved Lady Vayda passed away, peacefully, and full of love. It is nothing short of amazing to me that this cat went from being horribly neglected and unwanted to being one of the most loved, adored and cared for animals this world has ever seen. She brought happiness to each one of us, and in turn she was absolutely adored by us all until the very end. I honestly believe in my heart that it was fate that brought Vayda to us, and I take solace in knowing that did exactly what it was that I set out to do – I gave her a comfortable, peaceful home full of love for the remainder of her days, just as she always deserved.



Rest in peace my love.

Love, Miss Jennifer Kevorkian

The phrase “why do it now if it can wait till later” is pretty much my mantra. If I could count the number of times I’ve put off something I HAD to do but didn’t WANT to do… Well, let’s just say the number would be pretty freaking high. (I don’t feel like counting it right now, I’ll do it later.) It’s one thing when I have a sink full of dishes yet make the conscious decision to watch E! News instead, or when I was in college and waited until the night before it was due to start my semester long research project. Nothing catastrophic is really going to happen if my Teflon pan soaks another night, and really… what’s another all-nighter when you’re 23? That’s what they make Ritalin for. Well, this time the reason for my procrastination is a bit more serious. I’m delaying putting my elderly cat down to sleep.

I’m not going to go into much detail on the matter, as I know most of you are my Facebook friends and have been following this saga for a while. The long and short of it is simply that Vayda is 16 years old, and due to her old age and her sordid past of being mistreated by her previous owner, her body has begun to fail her in many ways. One of these ways is that she can no longer make it to the litterbox to relieve herself, and instead just goes wherever, whenever. It’s really heartbreaking to witness, because I feel (and my vet feels) that she is losing her dignity. More aptly put, it's just simply her time and I need to respect that. If only us humans had the option to die with dignity, I'm sure many of us would choose to do so.

After exhausting all of my options (you name it, I tried it) and after getting several different veterinary opinions all confirming that there was very little hope, I made the decision to put her down. In all actuality, the decision was relatively easy to make. It’s the act of actually going forward with it which is the hard part. I admit, I’ve been selfish. Four the past four weeks since the decision was made, I feel as though I’ve been in purgatory… just waiting. Waiting for what, I don’t know… maybe for her to pass in her sleep on her own, or maybe for her to miraculously get better on her own. Who knows why we delay these things that cause us pain. We're all guilty of it at one time or another.

Furthermore, my poor kitty has been carrying about as normal, totally oblivious to the fact that she’s on death row. Dreading the inevitable, I’ve come up with every excuse under the sun to keep her around for a few more days, ranging from “Oh its rent week, so I’m a little tight on cash right now. We’ll have to do it next week.” or “Well I just bought 10 cans of cat food on sale… waste not, want not!” Being the master procrastinator that I am, I took a huge first step and called the vet last Thursday to schedule the appointment. In a stroke of good luck for me, Vayda’s doctor was in a surgery so I left a message. She called back that same day but I was “busy” so I let it go to voicemail. I stayed “busy enough” that I was unable to listen to the message until the next day (Friday), but then I figured they might close early on Fridays or something so I should probably just wait until after the weekend to call her back. (Do you see where this is going?)

Today, I finally ran out of excuses. I spoke with my vet, and I scheduled the appointment for Princess Lady Vayda Sultanpuss to eternally sleep on Wednesday, August 26th at 2:30 p.m. Unfortunately I will not be able to take her myself. In the same vein that I handle most things in life (ignorance is bliss), I just want to get up next Wednesday morning, feed my cat, kiss her goodbye, come home to an empty house and pretend I was never a pet owner. (I give it exactly five minutes after walking through the door Wednesday night that I curl up on my bed in the fetal position, sobbing hysterically with her flea collar clenched between my fingers.) Lucky for me, my wonderfully understanding, compassionate, loving, brunette boyfriend has offered to do it for me. He’s not thrilled about it either, as he’s grown to love Vayda as much as I do. Furthermore, he feels bad that she has no knowledge of what’s to come. To quote my boyfriend, “This is so unfair… it’s like a mob hit! She trusts us!” Then he goes into the whole Sopranos thing “We’re just going for a ride, that’s all. We’re all friends here.” And thoroughly distracts himself from the matter at hand by his own, hilarious self. (Insert pat on the back here.)

I have yet to really process the news. Five days away still seems like a very long time to me, and I'm sure I'll find plenty of ways to keep myself busy between now and then to keep my mind off the inevitable. Although, something tells me that this time, the wait is going to be the hardest part of all.

I swear, it's natural!

Late last night, as my boyfriend and I were readying ourselves for bed, we started having a " couple's discussion". Somehow, we started talking about what sort of physical traits we were attracted to in the opposite sex, using celebrities as a guide. It turns out that Matt is more attracted to brunettes - ala Megan Fox, Jessica Beil etc. - but usually dates blondes. I myself am just the opposite. I find I am more attracted to blonde haired, blue eyed guys - ala Cam Giganet (google him, you WILL NOT be disappointed), Paul Walker, etc. -, but usually date brunettes with brown eyes. Well as most of these "relationship discussions" go, it didn't take long for an argument to arise.

When it was my turn to share my physical preferences on the opposite sex to my boyfriend, he was somewhat suprised to find that I was more attracted to blondes. I gave him a few examples (see above) when I got stuck trying to think of another blonde haired, blue eyed guy that I found attractive. At that point he looked over at me, and said "um, how about me. You know... you're blonde haired, blue eyed boyfriend".

I looked over at him, somewhat puzzled and said "Matt, you're not BLONDE!!... you're a brunette!" At that point, Matt recoiled as though I had slapped him and called his mother a whore. A good twenty minute argument ensued where Matt was absolutely defiant that he was blonde, whereas I'm holding my ground that he's a brunette. He threw out a few "It's the gel! The "wet look" makes it appear darker than it is!" and "it's cut short so you can't really tell, but it's definitely blonde Jenn!"

Well long story short, Matt and I clearly cannot reach a consensus on this matter. I'm leaving it up to you to tell me what you think:

Here is my (achingly handsome, if I do say so myself) boyfriend:



As you can see from the date stamp across my face, this is a recent picture.


Here is a REAL blonde:



Please leave a comment as to who is right. Dinner is riding on this!

Things I Learned This Weekend

1. That “Objects may be closer than they appear” has got nothing on “Just because you can’t see the object doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist, thus you are most likely going to hit it”.

2. That Murphy’s Law states that three weeks after spending $600 on four brand spanking new tires, you will back into a retaining wall and tear a hole in one causing an immediate flat…

...while in an incline position on a steep hill...

…where your dinky little jack will prove insufficient to hold up your front end…

…thus you will probably end up going door to door looking for a jack…

…while the entire guest list of the Sweet 16 Birthday Party you just dropped your little sister off it looks on in horror...

… and your 16 year old sister is so embarrassed she pretends she doesn’t know you.

3. That the front bumper of a 2005 Jeep Grand Cherokee is surprisingly resilient, and can withstand the force of being ripped off halfway when you reverse into a retaining wall you didn't know existed.

4. That by jumping up and down while applying forward pressure, you can snap said bumper back into place like a giant lego piece.

5. That jumping up and down on the front bumper while your boyfriend is trying to change your blown tire will cause him to yell at you.

6. That's it's probably best NOT to apply any weight to said bumper once it's back in place, although the theory has not been proven yet.


Things I Learned Today:

1. That Tire Insurance costs $3.00 per tire at the time of purchase.

2. That one tire costs $140.00.

3. That I probably should have bought the Tire Insurance at the time of purchase.

4. That sometimes having boobs does NOT entitle you to a discount at an Auto Body Shop.

5. That the salesmen at National Tire & Battery have no heart.

6. That the NTB Salesman would "give me a good price" on the "front brakes I desperately need."

7. That I would rather take the chance of smashing into a brick wall doing 80mph than give National Tire & Battery any more of my money this week.

Pink Elephant

Ok so I'm officially five days into my new blog, and I'm excited to announce that I am making progress! (Or as i've so wittily titled it: blogress.) I've already transferred over a bunch of my Facebook "Notes", and even posted a few new blog entries to get the ball rolling. I have to admit, I'm already addicted to blogging. Throughout the day when something out of the ordinary happens to me, my immediate first thought is "Can I blog about this?" and I immediately start forming it into a story in my head. This excites me to no end, as my original plan for this blog was to update it whenever the mood struck, hopefully once or twice a week at least. I didn't want to set an unrealistic expectation of updating every single day because unfortunately, my life just isn't interesting enough to warrant a daily post. Not to mention that in order to continue receiving that paycheck I rely on so much, it appears that I am expected to do some actual work to earn it and not just blog all day long. *Sigh*

Another bit of exciting news to note is that I seem to have been successful in luring in readers thanks to incessantly posting my blog link on my Facebook page, on my friends Facebook pages, through text messsages, as well as repeatedly emailing it to friends and family. Yes, I've offically become a spammer. Anyway, it seems to have worked so a big "gracias" to everyone who's stopped by to check out the action, most notable being my facebook friends, my parents, god-parents, my boyfriend's family, an ex-boss or two, and a couple coworkers who’ve all hopped on the Stiff Niffles bandwagon. I welcome you all, and hope that you like what you see. New friends are always welcome over here at Stiff Niffles. (The name still makes me giggle, so I try and work it in as much as possible.)

With that said, I’m not going to ignore the big, pink elephant in the room which is that I now have my PARENTS, EX-BOSSES (aka referrals!), and COWORKERS reading my blog. Hmmm. This presents an interesting challenge. It seems in my quest to gain readership, I may have forgetten that there are just some things you don't want your parents or bosses to know. I'm the first to readily admit that the topics of my blogs aren’t always exactly “work” and/or “parent” friendly, but I think they're hilarious and that's all that matters right? Right? Maybe not so much when the people you are blogging about are the ones reading your blog. After much soulsearching I've finally come to the conclusion that I'm not going to sacrifice funny for politcal or parent-correctedness (don't even bother googling it, I made it up).

The bottom line is that I refuse to censor myself just because my parents and other such influential people are reading my blog. Nope. I can not and will not be silenced. Fret not - If you were afraid I was going to stop blogging about all the crazy things I've done in my life, well you can breathe a sigh of relief, my friends! How could I NOT blog about that time I almost dozed off in church, (in the middle of a sermon no less!), or about that time I skipped a whole chapter while reading books to the eldery just so I could leave early and grab a milkshake with friends? Just wait til I tell you guys about my experiences with the Peace Corps and how I spent one lazy afternoon playing cards with the locals in Malawi when I really should have been reinforcing their fresh water supply. Oh, and don't even get me started on that time I was supposed to be speaking at the "No Sex Until Marraige" seminar at my congregation, only instead I spent duration sending text messages back and forth with my BFF who was two rows down from me.(I tried my best to save you a seat!). Gosh, just thinking back to those crazy experiences make me wonder how I'm still alive to talk about them! Man I tell ya... I've done some pretty wild stuff in my days.

So in closing, I just want my readers - new and old - to remember that you can always expect more of the same from me. When you visit Stiff Niffles, you know what you're getting yourself into. I will continue to do my best to stay true to myself, all the while regaling you with tales of my wild and crazy life.

Cheers and God Bless,
Jenn

Hi.

I'm hungry.

Outsourcing

Namaskar dear blog readers,

I was alerted to this gem this morning by my godmother, who for obvious reasons immediately thought of me when she came across this phone number.

If outsourcing and indian help desk operators infuriate you as much as they do me, please call this number for a good laugh 401-285-0701.

Happy Outsourcing to you all!

Jenn

Andover, India

Yesterday I arrived at work to discover that our email was down. Our internet worked, but alas no email. This allowed me (a technological genius if I do say so myself) to determine that it was an issue with our email host company. I work for a small company, therefore if something goes wrong and you’re the person who discovers it, you now OWN that issue and it is your responsibility to see it through to completion. So I put on my IT hat and looked up the company on their website and was pleasantly surprised to discover that they were located in Andover, MA. I called their 1-800 Technical Support number and was transferred to some guy who called himself “Bob”. Now, I’m no dialect expert, but I think it’s fairly safe to say that his name wasn’t really Bob, and I’m also pretty sure he wasn’t in Andover, MA. Andover, India maybe… but definitely not Andover, MA.

9:00 Conversation

BOB: Technical support, how may I help you?
ME: I’m having an issue with our email. It doesn’t work. Can you tell me why?
BOB: Have you created a work order yet?
ME: No. How do I create a work order?
BOB: Well you have to email our service department at XXX@hostcompany.com etc.
ME: Um. I wish I could do that BOB, but our emails down. I can’t send emails. I’m calling you to figure out why.
BOB: Oh okay. Please stand by.
ME: (being patient)
ME: (being patient)
ME: (being patient)
BOB: Ok I can’t seem to figure it out for you ma’am. Let me try one more thing. Please stand by.
ME: (being pissed off)
ME: (being pissed off)
ME: (being pissed off)
BOB: Ok ma’am you’re going to have to create a work order. You’re going to have to email the ser---
ME: (interjecting) Sir. I don’t know how else to explain this to you. MY EMAIL IS DOWN. YOU GUYS MADE IT GO DOWN. THEREFORE I CANNOT SEND AN EMAIL TO YOUR HELPDESK. Hey, I have an idea! Why don’t YOU create a work order for ME since that’s why I called you. You know, to get the ball rolling on this whole here thing.
BOB: Oh ok. Please stand by.
ME: (f**king livid)
ME: (f**king livid)
ME: (f**king livid)
BOB: Ok I created the work order for you. Your number is as follows: PEE-EHM-TEE-nine-six-five-six-zero-eight. That’s P as in Peter, M as in… um. M as in… (uncomfortable silence while he consults his Indian to English travel pocket companion dictionary.
ME: (Really eating up this awkwardness)
ME: (Grinning ear to ear)
ME: (Thoroughly enjoying Bob’s discomfort with his second language)
BOB: … Um. Ok it’s P as in Peter, M as in Mother, T as in Tango… etc.
ME: Why thank you Bob, that was very helpful of you. Now what do I do with this number?
BOB: You will soon get an email informing you it is fixed.
ME: Ok let me get this straight. My email is down, so when I get that first email stating the issue is solved then it will be back in action? I’ll be free to email all my friends and you know, do business stuff and whatever?
BOB: That is correct ma’am.
ME: Well Bob, thank you for your help old pal. Have a great morning. Or is it afternoon already? Night maybe? Whatever it is, have a good one.

12:00 p.m. Conversation

BOB: Technical support, how may I help you?
ME: Hi. I'm calling to check on work order number PMT965608. I have yet to receive this elusive email stating my email is fixed?
BOB: Oh. So it’s still not fixed?
ME: Um. No. Hence this phone call.
BOB: DOES u have a work order?
ME: *sigh* Yes, Bob. Yes I DOES have a work order. I. Just. Read. It. To. You.
BOB: Oh okay. Please standby
ME: (f**king beside myself with anger)
ME: (f**king beside myself with anger)
ME: (f**king beside myself with anger)
BOB: Ok ma’am your technician is working on your problem. He will contact you in 20 to 25 minutes when it’s fixed.
ME: Ok thank you. I anxiously await word from my technician. Have a good day night or whatever. Stop calling me ma’am. Thank you. Bye, now.

2:00 p.m. Conversation

BOB: Technical support, how may I help you?
ME: Ok, WTF Bob? Level with me.
BOB: Ahem. Technical support, how may I help you?
ME: This is Bob, correct?BOB: Yes ma’am it is.ME: Ah, hello there Bob! It’s been about, oh say, two hours since someone was supposed to get back to ME 25 minutes ago. Just thought I’d give another check in on the ol’ work order number PMT965608.
BOB: Oh ok. Please stand by.
ME: (checking flight prices to Bombay so I can murder Bob and his family)
ME: (checking flight prices to Bombay so I can murder Bob and his family)
BOB: Hi ma’am? Hi. It seems your account was shut off for non payment.
ME: (silence)
ME: (silence)
ME: Ok Bob. I have several issues with that statement. Let me break them down for you. I’m not even going to begin with questioning WHY this is the first I’ve heard of it, WHY you didn’t call us weeks ago to notify us that the credit card was declined, or WHY it took us to getting our email shut off to be notified of the issue. I don’t even care about that. What I want to know is WHY you couldn’t tell ME this when I called at 9:00 a.m. this morning, but instead it took you FIVE FRIGGEN HOURS, one Work Order and three phone calls to inform me my account has been suspended for non-payment. Second, when were you going to inform me of this? All day long I’ve been getting the run around, and I just so happened to call in now for the third time, and you just so happen to have the answer for me?
BOB: No ma’am, actually your technician sent you an email approximately an hour and a half ago.
ME: SILENCE
ME: SILENCE
ME: You’re kidding me right? HE. SENT. AN. EMAIL. You are aware that you’re my email host company correct? You shut my account off for non payment, and then you SENT ME AN EMAIL to inform ME of the matter? Please explain to ME how that works Bob, PLEASE EXPLAIN TO ME HOW THAT WORKS.
BOB: I’ll put you on hold for your technic--
ME: NO BOB, I WANT YOU TO EXPLAIN TO ME HOW THAT WORKS.
BOB: Oh ok. Please stand by.
ME: (FURIOUS)
ME: (FURIOUS)
ME: (FURIOUS)
BOB: We sent an email using the address you provided when you created your Work Order this morning.
ME: I didn’t create a Work Order. YOU DID IT FOR ME.
BOB: (silence)
BOB: (silence)
ME: You know what? I don’t want to argue about this anymore. We have a business to run, I have personal emails to send, and I went to get on with my life and pretend this never happened. Can you please tell me how I can get the account in good standing?
BOB: You need to call back and hit #1 for bill payment.
ME: Thanks Bob! You’ve been ever so helpful. Have an awesome day my friend. Have an AWESOME DAY.

At this point, I hang up the phone and proceed to calling billing. I hit #1 as instructed and the phone rings, and rings and rings. I get a message stating that “although my call is important to them, nobody is available to take my call right now.” And I was instructed to “leave a message and my call will be returned within one business day”. I leave a message informing them that “it took five hours for their help desk to inform me that the reason I had no email was because of non payment and that it was imperative I get a return call ASAP” and hang up. I decide to call right back. Lo and behold, someone answers! I update our account with our new credit card info (the previous one was expired, hence the “unable to process”) and within two minutes we have email again.

Three hours later, I get a return phone call from “Steve” in bill payments regarding my message. I resisted the urge to tell “Steve” he should stick to making slurpies, and instead I informed him the situation had been rectified. Today I get an email stating my account was back in good standing. There’s the “elusive email” I’d been waiting for!

Why do these things happen to me?

My Letter to McDonald's

Monday, July 27, 2009

Attn: Vice President of Customer Satisfaction
McDonald’s Corporation

CC: McDonald, Mr. Ronald
CC: Grimace

Dear Sir/Madam,

I would like to begin this letter by stating that in addition to being a steadfastly loyal customer of yours, I am now and always have been a big fan of your products. Being the type of individual who often engages in bad decision making due to over-consumption of alcohol, as well as one who is not particularly “health conscious” to say the least, I consider myself to be somewhat of a late night, fast food connoisseur. Now living fairly close to a major metropolitan area, I am fortunate enough to be blessed with a myriad of late night food options readily available to me. There’s the old standbys such as Bill & Bob’s, Kelly’s, Burger King, Taco Bell, etc. If I’m feeling adventurous I could take a ten minute trip into the city and visit the North End for some generic Italian food, or even hit up the Sausage King and eat my late night fare curbside. But ninety-nine percent of the time I choose YOU McD’s. The allure of your Late Night Menu, combined with the convenience of your Drive-Thru make you my #1 Late Night Contender. Your cheap, you’re filling, and most of all YOU’RE CONSISTENT. I can’t tell you how many Sunday mornings I’ve awoken with sweet and sour sauce smeared on my cheek, and a big water stain on my nightstand from the gallon of coke I left there before I "retired" for the evening, belly full, and happy. A night out drinking copious amounts of alcohol just wouldn’t be the same without a late night pit stop at McD’s. This is why I am particularly saddened to say that I am momentarily displeased with your service.

According to the date stamp on my receipt (exhibit A below, please disregard the grease stain), I arrived at your Route 1 north location at 1:55 a.m. Traffic at the drive thru was minimal, and I was prompted to order before I had a chance to fully scan your photo menu for recent additions/deletions, before arriving at my final decision. To buy myself some time, I asked my boyfriend (who was designatedly driving me, I might add) to order me a a Happy Meal, full well knowing it would not be available at this hour. As was expected, I was cheerfully informed that I needed to make my selection from the Late Night Menu, as it was 2:00 a.m. and only Late Night Menu items are available from 12:00 a.m. – 3:00 a.m. As a frequent proprietor of your establishment, I was well aware of this fact before I placed the order, but I figured (as I always do) that it wouldn’t hurt to ask. Maybe, just maybe, a Happy Meal would be available to me. Alas, it was not (please work on this), so instead I ordered my late night regular, which is what you folks over there at the Golden Arches refer to as The Number Ten. To refresh your memory (I know you're busy people over there), The Number Ten consists of the following: Ten pieces of all white meat chicken McNuggets, lightly battered and fried, a large sized fry, and a drink of my choice. (I went with Coca Cola and it was delectable). In addition, I asked for my fries well done and the voice on the loudspeaker assured me this was no problem.

So I pulled up to complete my transaction, hand over my debit card, and pay the $7.54required of me. I asked for extra sweet and sour (for fry-dipping, it’s a must) and extra salt. Here is where my first issue arises. I got A salt packet. ONE. Lowly. Salt. Packet. Are you guys cutting costs over there? One salt packet is barely enough to cover a small fry, never mind a large! Regardless, I had a few extra packs in the glove compartment from last week’s visit to your Laconia location, so jokes on you buddy.

Secondly, per my request the fries were NOT well done. They were border-line cold, and I should know I ate every single last one of them. I’m not going to spend a lot of time on this matter, other than to say that when I make a special request, I expect it to be fulfilled.

And now we arrive at the reason for me writing this letter. After paying and receiving my meal, I drove away and continued on towards home, and began setting up my dashboard for proper nugget consumption. I never make the rookie mistake of putting the sweet and sour packet directly on the dash, as one quick stomp on the brakes and that’s just asking for trouble. Instead I move the nuggets over to the right side of the handy little container they come in, and place my sauce on the left. In general, happiness ensues. Not this time though buddy, not this time. I reached in the bag, brushed away an errant fry or two on top of the “McNugget” box, and discovered that the box appeared to be oddly misshapen for that of a nugget container. “Did they revamp the carton?” I wondered out loud to my boyfriend. I pull out the box entirely, and to my dismay I discover that I have inadvertently received a Number Three, i.e. a Double Quarter Pounder (pre cooked weight) With Cheese. I was flabbergasted! I double checked my receipt and sure enough I ordered a 10 Piece Nugget… so I ask you Mr. VP of Customer Satisfaction - How on earth did I end up with a DQP with cheese?! Did I receive someone else’s order accidently? Were your employees simply not paying close enough attention to one of your best customers? Maybe the Hamburglar was up to his ol’ hijinks again? Now, I may have been a slightly “overserved" at the bar, but I KNOW what I ordered, and I ordered a ten piece nugget. How dare you, sir. How freaking dare you.

Now, I admit that I failed to properly inventory the contents of my bag prior to pulling away, but really, this is just ridiculous. This was an obvious, glaring error on your behalf. Now in the event that you assume me to have been in too altered a state of mind to have made a mistake myself, as further evidence of this injustice, I’ve attached a photo of the Double Quarter Pounder with a copy of the receipt (Exhibit B) thus proving that I did in fact order (and pay for, I might add) a ten piece McNugget meal. Please do not mistake the fact that there are several large bites taken out of the burger to be indication that I was pleased with my substitution. I was just drunk, and it was edible so I ate it. Unhappily, if I do say so myself.

Now, in closing, I’m not going to go ahead and lie and say that “I’m done with you”, or that “I’m taking my business elsewhere” since we know I’d just be hurting myself. You have me by the proverbial balls McD’s, and you know it. Let’s just try a little harder next time, shall we? And maybe a complimentary 10 piece nugget is in order next time you see me at your drive thru.

Your loyal customer and #1 fan,

Jennifer Martin











EXHIBIT A - Receipt for a 10 Piece Chicken McNugget Meal











EXHIBIT B - Double Quarter Pounder w/Cheese, next to Receipt for a 10 Piece Chicken McNugget Meal. Where is the justice?

My Weekend at the Lake

So this past weekend was a great one as far as summer weekends go. Now that my “wedding season” is pretty much over, (three weddings in four weeks) I took the opportunity to go away for a much needed weekend of relaxation. My boyfriend’s family rented a house up Lake Winnipesaukee for the week, and while I wasn’t able to take any time off from work because my supervisor is out, I was able to get up there for the weekend at least. Let me tell you, it was well worth the trip! We spent most of the weekend just lounging around, reading, playing board games, drinking coronas in the sun, floating around on rafts, etc. All of the things that personify a family vacation up the lake. Well, those aren’t exactly the sort of things that personify a vacation up at the lake for MY family… instead my family vacations usually end up with copious amounts of alcohol consumed, a fistfight or two, $2k in fireworks, keys getting taken away, and the cops being called. Ahh, family bonding! (or bondsmen… whatev).


How gorgeous is this view?

But I digress… Upon our arrival on Saturday, Matt and I decided we were going to swim from the dock to a floating wooden raft about 25 yards away from shore. The water was pretty shallow, and we could pretty much walk halfway to the raft before the water became too deep, but regardless I almost drowned anyway. See, I enjoy swimming. I really do. What I DO NOT enjoy is smushy, mucky lake bottoms. And sharks. I do not enjoy sharks. Yes, I’m aware that sharks don’t normally frequent freshwater lakes, but I once read an article about a Bull Shark that made its way up the Mississippi River and now I’m convinced that it’s going to happen in Winnipesaukee. (If you are so inclined, here is the link). There is a first time for everything, and you can guarantee that when it DOES happen it will involve me being eaten alive by a shark while I’m sitting contently on a blow up raft reading US Weekly.

So ANYWAY, back to my original story. Even though the raft was fairly close by, (literally I could probably throw a rock and hit it) and even though I was able to walk most of the way out to it, instead I made the ill-fated decision to swim the entire way from the dock to avoid having to put my foot down either directly into a shark’s mouth, or onto the smushy mucky lake bottom. I’m a little what you would call “rusty” at “physical activity of any sort” so there I was, doggy paddling my little heart out and my smokers lungs were NOT HAVING IT. I was about three quarters of the way to the raft when I decided to break procedure and I went to put my foot down, so I could catch my breath and rest for a minute. I couldn’t touch the bottom. I COULDN’T TOUCH THE BOTTOM. Panic set in. I was going to DIE right then and there in Lake Winnipesaukee. Michael Phelps, I am not. I started frantically treading water and screaming for Matt who more or less had to backtrack, throw me on his back, and swim the rest of the way to the raft with me clinging to his back like a koala. I climbed the ladder, collapsed to my knees, thanked the lord for solid ground and allowing me to keep on living this blessed life, and passed out for about a half hour until my heart resumed its normal rhythm. They seriously need to put a defibrillator on that raft. Or Michael Phelps himself.

Sunday we decided to take a ride down to Weir’s Beach to meet up with some friends of ours who were also in Laconia for the weekend. We parked over at Wier’s and walked over to the Marina where Jessica and Stephen have a slip for their boat. We met up with them just as they were pulling in from a long day out at the sandbar. Stephen told us to hop in their (friggen awesome) boat, and he sped us off over to the Naswa all Miami Vice-like. Now, if you’ve never been to the Naswa then I pity you because it personifies everything that is right with this world. It’s an outdoor beach bar right on the water. You can drive your boat up, tie it up to the dock, and get out and walk right down the dock and order up some drinks for you and your “crew” (pun intended because I’m witty like that). You can kick your shoes off, wiggle your toes in the sand, and even take a dip in the water if you feel so inclined! It’s a great place, and no trip to Laconia or the Weir’s is complete without stopping by for a drink or two (or eight in our case). Well after a few drinks we were all feeling a little famished so we went ahead and ordered up some chicken fingers and nachos, typical pub food. As I picked up the last chicken finger, I took a bite and in my drunken, sloppy state OF COURSE I dropped in the sand. So I did what came naturally to me… I hopped down off the stool, picked it up and yelled “FIVE SECOND RULE” for the purpose of 1. informing my fellow cohorts that I was really planning on consuming the sandy chicken finger, as well as to gauge their reactions to my intent of consuming this sandy chicken finger. Now, the law of “Five Second Rule” generally applies under certain conditions. Rule 1. Said article of food falls onto the floor of someone’s home, and 2. Said article of food isn’t porous or greasy enough to absorb anything that may be on the floor. Oh no. Not in this case. Sandy Chicken Finger broke ALL the rules. It was visibly sandy, and no amount of wiping with my cocktail napkin was going to change this fact. I may as well have just dug it out of the ocean like a clam. Jessica and Matt were visibly horrified by what I was about to do (and I was definitely going to do it) but it was Stephen who gave me the go ahead to get ‘er done. Stephen (like me) saw no problem with eating it, which I believe directly corresponds to our blood alcohol level. Stephen is also a Police Officer, so I briskly informed Jessica and Matt that it was safe for me to eat the Sandy Chicken Finger because an Officer of the Law of our Glorious Nation said it was okay to do so. So I did it. Two minutes later we discovered there was another chicken finger buried underneath all of the French fries in the basket. Story. Of. My. Life.

So that about wraps it up! We went home the next night and we were both so sunburned that we took turns rubbing lotion all over each others backs. Seriously, my poor Irish body hasn’t seen sun all year, and I definitely overdid it, but it was worth it. In addition, I’d like to mention that my BABY SISTER TURNED SIXTEEN this weekend. Watch out Massachusetts Drivers, if you thought I was bad here comes the next generation!

Heebie Jeebies

Today began like any other day. I was awoken by my alarm at 6:15 a.m. at which point I reflexively hit the snooze button. Same thing 8 minutes later. And 8 minutes after that. At 6:31 I nudged my boyfriend... time to go to work! Must be regretting that you strolled in at 3:00 a.m. now huh sucka! Haha! Then I rolled back over for another 14 minutes of blissful sleep, snuggled up with the kitty. Ahh it's Friday! I feel GREAT!

My boyfriend was gone by the time rolled myself out of bed, and my first immediate stop – like most people - was to the Ladies' Room to get my pee on. So I did my thing, discarding clothes as I went because as the routine goes, immediately after my morning pee concludes I enter the shower. So here I am, naked and mid-flow (a.k.a. at my most vulnerable) when I glance up and see this:








My immediate thought was "holy shit this Thing is going to fall on my face and eat me!" My second thought was "HURRY UP PEE!!! I NEED TO GET OFF THIS DAMNED TOILET BECAUSE THIS THING IS GOING TO FALL ON MY FACE AND EAT ME!!!"

My third thought was: Boyfriend, you motherf**ker. I KNOW you saw this Thing, and you left it here so it could fall on my face and eat me.

This Thing was suspended on my ceiling and was about five inches long, with a leg span of two inches wide, and it had so many legs it looked furry. It was so big I could make out its facial features, and It literally could have held the door for me had I asked it politely. I could see its pulse. It appeared to have just crawled out of my bathroom vent, or as I call it "The Portal" as it seems to be the connection point that separates me and my apartment from some of God's scariest prehistoric and un-evolved specimens. This Thing hanging out on my ceiling looked like it had stepped into Bill and Ted's time travel phone booth in 900 B.C. and asked Abe Lincoln to "press 'Jenn's Bathroom 2008' for me please!" Think about it: If a creature looks exactly the same now as it did when Jesus was eating Dinosaurs with the Mayans, than you can deduce that it simply had no need to evolve over the course of history. If something had no need to evolve over millions of years, than it's obviously been doing something right all this time to skirt the need for further survival mechanisms. Doing something right like eating humans. Humans like me.

So I formulated a plan.

PLAN ONE: I'll just take a shower, and keep my eye on it the entire time. If it starts coming at me, I'll run like a motherf**ker.

REASONS DISCARDED: This idea was quickly discarded because not only is it impossible to not close your eyes or blink in the shower at all, but seriously if it started coming after me I know in my haste to exit the shower and bathroom before carnage ensued, then I'd slip and fall in the shower, split my head open and die right there on my bathroom floor. My boyfriend would come home to find naked, shampoo covered me, with a big centipede eating my face. I just couldn't let it win.

PLAN TWO: Don't shower today. Just get dressed and LEAVE THE PREMISES. When you get home, it'll be gone! Alternatives of Plan Two include: Shower upstairs in my landlord's apartment; rinse yourself off with the hose; Mexican shower; etc.

REASONS DISCARDED: There is no way I could leave the house knowing this Thing is in there. In the past, I've made the mistake of letting spiders live only to find them in places you really don't want to find spiders. Shoes, bed, toilets, etc. Give 'em an inch, they take a mile. Worse is when you don't find them, you just know they are there. Plus, this Thing was almost bigger than the cat and godforbid it ate the cat! And I really needed a shower.

PLAN THREE: Just kill the motherf**ker. Then shower. Simple enough.

PLAN THREE SELECTED AND READY FOR IMPLEMENTATION

Now that the decision was made to kill the Thing, I had to formulate a Course of Action. It could go either way. Literally this Thing was big enough that it could be a fight to the death, but if I methodically took my time and did it right, than victory would be mine. Being that it was on the ceiling posed an issue. If the initial blow from a shoe failed to kill the Thing and simply stunned it, gravity could take effect and it could land on me and eat my face off. Conversely, if it landed on the ground it could run up my leg and eat my face off.

In the end I chose to stand on a chair and use the Ortho Spray from a distance of three feet. I gathered my militia and stood there, ready, armed. I went for it and lobbed the first strike. Shock and Awe like you've never seen. It was a perfect arc, and hit the Thing dead on. It started scampering over towards the shower, wounded, but angry. I kept going, I didn't let up. The thing would not die! Finally, after sixty seconds of solid spray of the toxic substance it stopped fighting. It was dead… or so I thought.

DUN DUN DUN…....

I gingerly stepped down from my chair and went to inspect the damage I'd inflicted. As I drew closer, Ortho in hand, it started flailing about. It had faked its own death! It was a ploy! ABORT MISSION! ABORT MISSION! I ran, screaming and naked from the bathroom and grabbed another weapon – a shoe, Steve Madden circa 2004 with a wedge heel. Heart pounding, I ran back to the bathroom and momentarily panicked when I realized I could not find it. Reality settled in, and I realized that I had made what could culminate into a fatal mistake by letting the Thing out of my sight. Just then, something caught my eye. The Thing was running down the shower wall, tasting freedom with each step of its 300 feet. This was it. Make or Break. I couldn't let it get away. At the last second, I changed my Course of Action and grabbed the detachable shower head and sprayed the motherf**ker. This time, I didn't let up. Five solid minutes of water boarding, and the Thing was definitely, 100% dead. I would not be fooled this time.

I took a few steps back... exhausted, but relieved.

Victory was mine.

(written July 2008)

I knew I had to have you the moment I laid eyes on you...

...you were about two tons... white... shiny... bigger than the others... and you came equipped with loads of upgrades like a Bose sound system and power everything. All the things that really matter to a girl like me. I looked at you and the earth stood still. It was like my destiny was fulfilled... I've never felt so right about anything in my life. Pathy, I know your time on this earth is short lived. I hear you crying when I start you up, and nobody seems to be able to figure out what's wrong with you. I just want you to know that the 128,845 miles we've spent together have been the best I've ever had. I will forever cherish each and every one of them for the rest of my life.

Pathy, you know I can't allow myself the luxury of reminiscing about the good times, because I just get too upset. You've escorted me as my date to some of the defining events of my youth. You've sped me out of countless bad situations (and into countless more!). You've sung along with me to everything from Justin Timberlake to Alice in Chains (I know how you love my Layne Staley voice).

Hey Pathy! Remember that time I bought you two new shiny doors when I randomly crashed you into the telephone pole at the end of my mom's street? Good times. I also loved the ease in which you ripped that concrete pillar out of the ground in Burlington when I backed you into it. Remember how it just laid there looking all stupid and broken after? You so kicked it's ass. Same goes for that pole at Bank of America in Melrose and the one at the Landmark Center in Boston too. (Okay and the wall in mom's driveway and that big rock last weekend too). For the record... I really thought we could fit in that spot at the Landmark and I'm sorry I broke your passenger side mirror. I promise I'll get it fixed soon! You were also a good sport about the time I crashed into you with the YMCA's Ford F 250 and broke your taillight also. Never a complaint out of you.

Ha! Remember that time you played that funny joke on me and didn't indicate that you were about to run out of gas and you left me stranded on 128 for an hour? So funny. I also like it when you play that game where you you lock me out of you while you're still running. Even though that happens fairly often, it still gets me going every time. But only you would know that. Although you weren't there for the major accident, you know... when I parked on top of that woman in the Honda Accord on the wrong side of the street -- that was your predeccessor 1992 Blazer -- I know you would have done me just as proud.

But I digress... Yesterday you took a turn for the worst and let me know you were slipping further away from me by telling me to "Check Your Engine". You did this once before, but that was just because I drove away and forgot to put your gas cap back on after I filled you. This time I just know it's different. I just don't think you're going to make it Pathy. I'm sorry I authorized that "experimental treatment" a few months ago where I allowed your mechanic to just weld together your tailpipe to the bottom part of your exhaust instead of springing for a whole new exhaust system. Money was a little tight that week... your gas is really killing me! $65 to fill you? Come on Pathy... what happened to $30?

Now that I know our time is coming to a close, I feel like I never got to know the you... I mean the REAL you beyond just P, R, N, and D. What really makes you tick Pathy? What do the extra numbers 2 and 1 after D actually stand for? I am regretful that in all these years, I have never taken the time to read your manual and really understand the real you. If we're being completely honest with each other Pathy, I'm beginning to feel that I can't rely on you anymore. What's up with the speeding tickets? You never did that before! I'm also a little upset about the warrant out for my arrest in the City of Lowell for failure to pay my excise tax. The $440 in parking tickets is another story all together. And just so there's no awkwardness -- I know you've seen me checking out other cars. I have a thing for Cadillac STS's and you know it. You've felt the brochures in your back seat and I know you've caught me looking at them on 93 S. I just want you to know I never meant to hurt you, but I know your time on this earth is short lived and I really need to start planning for my future without you. Trust me though, no car will ever have what you and I shared.

In closing Pathy - we're both getting older and we want different things. It's a natural transition... The Circle of Life, if I may. Your inspection is coming up, and I just don't think you're going to be able to make it through. I do wish you the best though. I just hope that I've been able to do you just as proud as you've done me. I'm getting all choked up here, but I'm really going to miss you Pathy!

R.I.P -- NIssan Pathfinder -- 1998 - 2006 "Pathy"


(written July 2006)

The Art of Driving

Rule 1: Don't cut me off and then slam on your brakes, because I will hit you. I will. Not necessarily because I want to (which I do) – but because there is far too much going on in my vehicle – cigarette smoking, texting, radio fiddling, mascara application, McChicken-ing, etc. - for me to be paying attention to what YOU are doing too. Trust me, these dents don't come from missing things.

Rule 2: If I should hypothetically slam into the back of your Yaris when waiting to exit the Eastern Bank parking lot onto Route 1 and then continue to apply gas because I think the reason I'm not moving is that I'm just stuck on the curb, could you please have a little understanding that it was a simple mistake? It's called an "accident" not an "on purpose". I'd appreciate it if you did not stare at me like I just murdered and ate a fetus in your presence and then flossed my teeth with its umbilical cord, and tell me that your daddy is going to be "like, wicked mad at me". Because I don't care. I clearly have things to do and places to go. Let's get a move on.

Rule 3: If you are sitting on phone books, have a bingo "strategy", or have blue hair with the consistency of unrefined cotton... I'm ordering you to stay 100 feet away from me and my vehicle at all times. There's nothing I hate more than driving behind a pair of knuckles doing 25 m.p.h. in the fast lane.

Rule 4: If I'm doing 90 mph three inches from your bumper, it's because I want you to move out of my way. Do not slam on your brakes to "intimidate me" because I have cat-like reflexes and you just started a war you won't win. Trust me, grandpa.

*Exception to Rule 4: If I have decided to abandon my days agenda to instead follow you mercilessly because you slammed on your brakes when I was 3 inches from your bumper doing 90mph, do not pull over next to the cop parked on the cloverleaf to 93 South, roll down your window and start pointing at my car screaming "CITIZEN'S ARREST!!" at the top of your lungs. Because that really scares me.

Rule 5: To the city of Lowell: If I'm parked in a "tow zone" it's not that I'm lazy, it's that I couldn't find another spot. Come on… just leave me alone. Enough with the friggen towing bullshit. All the homocides in this city and you have to busy yourself with towing my car everyday.

Rule 6: To the ungrateful passengers in my car: Please don't stomp your foot on the floor looking for your "brake" when I do something that scares you. This isn't the driving school vehicle… there's only one brake and IT'S ALL MINE and I will use it AT MY DISCRETION. There are "oh shit" handles and seatbelts installed for a reason. Use them.

Rule 7: If I should happen to cut my left turn too tight and therefore end up driving on the wrong side of the road coming head on at you, please be paying attention so that we can avoid disaster. I'd hate to have that whole "jaws-of-life-street-shut-down-with-six-fire-engines-help-I-can't-feel-my-legs" type situation occur again. Trust me, twice is enough. Should above situation occur, please take my advice which comes from experience: Screaming at the top of your lungs means that I can't hear the 911 dispatcher. Have a little consideration please. I'm aware that you are pinned inside your car because my car is parked on top of yours. Remember, I started this impromptu Monster Truck Rally on Essex Street in Saugus. I have feelings too, you know.

Rule 8: To the gas station attendant on the corner of Main and Charles – If you're not done pumping my gas, don't tap my hood three times because I think this means that I'm all set to go. If you should do this, I believe you forfeit all right to be upset when I drive away and go half a block with the hose still attached to my gas tank.

(written December 2008)

A Blog is Born

Here I am. Online. I officially have a web presence.

Those of you who have encouraged me to start blogging probably know more or less what you can expect from this: An outlet for me to share my thoughts and witticisms on my daily life and interactions with others, complain about stuff, write a full two pages about nothing, etc. For the past few days, I’ve been unsuccessful in trying to hammer out an “identity” for my blog, thinking that most people read blogs that are based on something they are interested in. Gardening, mommyhood, politics, math, etc. Unfortunately for me, I’m pretty bland. I have no hobbies, nor am I an expert in anything. I can’t garden because I hate bugs, I don’t have children thanks to my daily dose of AntiKids, the politics thing has been done before, and while I do like to find the coefficient solution to a good cubic polynomial quadratic equation or two in my downtime – hell, who doesn’t? -, I’m far from an expert. I pretty much suck. Like one big Seinfeld Episode, my blog is really about nothing. It has no identity, which is actually a good thing with that whole identity theft thing going on. Nobody’s going to be stealing junk mail from MY blog’s trash barrels late at night.

So here she is. My blog: Stiff Niffles. Ain’t she purrrty?