Perhaps it is part of the job description of being the “Poster Princess for Murphy’s Law.” Perhaps I was one in a past life and this is karmic payback. Perhaps it’s a side-effect of my ability to attract those who are emotionally/mentally unstable like a moth to a proverbial flame. No matter what the reason, no matter what the rhyme, in the last roughly 18 years, I have racked up 9 stalkers. Bet you thought I was kidding about the whole cats’ lives thing? Nope. I kid you not. Most of them were tame, some even funny, and one… one scared the ever-lovin’ hell out of me. Together they would make an excellent book I think. Or run the risk of sounding like a bad Scream/Scary Movie rip off. Rather than torture you with the full stalker journey (this is bound to be long enough as it is), I shall give you a mere sampling.

I see that look. Of course I’ll toss in the worst one. You should know me better than that. 🙂

They say you never forget your first. Stalkers are no exception. Although, I giggled through the whole first time of having sex, this yeah, no. That’s a whole other post though. Ok.. onward.. I was 16. He went to another school. Classic story- boy meets girl. Boy and girl become friends. Boy professes undying love. Girl says, sorry, not so much. Boy turns into a drooling lunatic. Girl says, thank you bye bye. No, really, bye. Please, leave NOW. Boy threatens to kill himself. Girl is freaked out. I called his parents, his friends, the guidance counselor at his school- anyone I could think of. After a month of nonstop threats, I snapped. Bear in mind, this wasn’t just phone calls, letters would show up in the mail every day, notes in my locker- this was a full on assault. The first (and only time) my dad would hear me utter the word he hates the most was the last time I talked to stalker number one. After uttering “If you won’t be mine forever I swear I’ll kill myself” for the 104th time, I finally lost it. I screamed “Then grow a sac and fucking do it!!!” then hung up. I never heard his voice again.

No, he didn’t actually grow a sac. Rumor has it he found someone much cuter to drive insane. Alright, because I’m all about full disclosure, I did see him a year later. I said I never heard his voice, I never said I didn’t see him. We were playing his school in girl’s basketball. I ran out to the bus to grab something… it was dark, I turn around, alone on the bus and he’s standing at the front of it- smiling. I took a deep breath, walked toward him and when I got close enough, clocked him right in the nose. Laid him flat, jumped over him and got the fuck off that bus. He was gone by the time security made it out there.

The first one that actually creeped me out popped up Freshman year of college. This was also my first tandem stalkage. I was already facing a total single white female scenario when this one reared it’s creepy lil noggin. And no, it wasn’t one in the same. I ruled that out first. Out of all of them, this one still makes me the most upset on some level. Not because of the actual stalker, but because of the UW-Milwaukee police’s handling, or lack of as the case may be, of it. Barney Freakin’ Fifes. This one is the one that smells of Scream, but this was ’93 so way ahead of the time. I lived in the dorms. When our phones rang we could tell if it was an off-campus call (one ring) or an on-campus call (double ring). If it was call waiting, you were screwed. It’s a Saturday morning at like 6:43am and the phone rings. Double ring. I’m thinking it’s my friend Aaron with pancakes for me, because he rocks like that. Me,very sleepily: “Hello?” “*over-exagerated obscene phone call heavy breathing*” Me, still thinking it’s Aaron, “*giggle fit*.” Clearly not Aaron: “Laugh all you want, I know who YOU are.” THAT WILL SHUT A GIRL UP. Especially when it’s followed by a freakin’ cackle. A CACKLE. Then he hung up. I don’t remember how long I stood there trying to process everything that had happened. Though it probably seemed like hours, I’m guessing it was closer to 5 minutes later the phone rang again. Single ring this time. I squeak out a “hello.” He responded: “You stopped laughing. Good. There may be hope for you yet.” Then, hung up again.

Two nicely quiet days go by. I’m in the library and just started working on one of the computers. Random message pops up “Hi gorgeous.” Me: “Sorry, you’ve got the wrong gal.” (there was some hot blonde cheerleader looking gal on it right before I sat down) “You look much better with your hair down. Why don’t you wear it down more?” I realize that, yup, my hair is all piled up. Me: “Who is this?” “HA HA! It would seem I still know who you are and you, my pretty, haven’t a clue who I am.” At least he used proper grammar. I logged out and left.

Next night, mac lab in the Union. It took one message “I love that white shirt on you.” I’m telling you, I scanned that entire lab and there were 5 people, none of which would have remotely been the person. Now, I’m a pretty tough girl (see aforementioned nose breaking) but, I called to have someone walk with me back to the dorms. I never walked at night alone after that. Period. For the rest of the semester I would get typed notes under my dorm room door, he would call and pop up on computers randomly. I eventually got pissed and taunted the hell out of him. I begged him to show up. He never did. I guess I should be thankful for that. But, the UW-Milwaukee police did nothing. They even laughed at me. The didn’t take it seriously at all and certainly didn’t do a thing to find out who it was. After break was over, he had completely disappeared. Honestly, I’d still like to meet him and find out what the deal was. And who the hell he was. In a well lit public place of course, my ass is getting old.

And then there was HIM.

Fast-foward to ’98. My best friend A and I had hit the road and move to Cali. We managed to score a fabulous 3 bedroom at what was totally dirt cheap for Sunnyvale at the time. Locked intercom, cable tv and a pool table in the laundry room, sand volleyball court, pool, jacuzzi- we were livin’ large. We also had an extra room just sitting there empty. Now, A knows my history w/ stalkers and the unbalanced ones. He actually got to witness one of the funny ones (muffins and typed love notes randomly left for me like everywhere). He’s working at a really great company- one of the first online gaming sites ever. I loved hanging out there. He calls me at work one Friday afternoon (this is when I was running the group home for Autistic children and teaching art at the day program attached to it). He’s got a guy he works with that just broke up with his girlfriend a couple of months ago and really needs to move out of his folks’ house cuz they are driving him nuts (oh the irony). His thought- we all have dinner together and see if I’m comfortable enough to have him take the extra room over. I already had plans with my friend L, so I dragged her along too. There ended up being a group of like 8 of us total. First impression… not so bad. Then the red flags start popping up. Just two. But enough to make me a bit nervous. First red flag- he asked a random question, L answered it. He kind of snapped at her and said ” I was asking Natali.” I called him on his rudeness and he apologized. Second red flag- he called me his ex girlfriend’s name- twice.

After dinner, everyone piles back to our place to hang. This is the one moment I almost wish I would have handled just a bit differently and junk punched A all up in his man business for. A, psycho boy and I were all on the patio smoking and talking and A puts me on the spot “So, whatchya think Lolli- can he move in?” Right in front of him. (Lolli was one of the zillions of nicknames peeps had for me). I freak. I stutter. I wanna ram my head into a wall after I say “Well, why don’t we do a trial weekend and all sit down on Sunday and see if it will work or not.” Why I didn’t put on my big girl panties, suck it up and say “dude, I’m really not sure about this, I’m thinking he’s got some issues” is beyond me. I’m gonna blame the beer I just got done sucking down.

Psycho boy then just gave up any effort at behaving. He blatantly hit on me. He kept inappropriately touching me. He kept talking about how much like his ex I was. Always while no one was around to witness. Sneaky little fuck. Everyone left, he passed out in the back room. I told A I was really not comfortable with the situation. In fact my exact words were “This guys has stalker tattooed all over him and he’d be living under the same fucking roof A. The boy ain’t right. Please do something.” I totally locked my bedroom door that night. Next morning, psycho boy was gone. In fact, he stayed gone until Sunday evening. We all sat down and A laid down the “Hey, sorry, this just isn’t going to work.” Psycho boy looked incredibly calm. The anger seething from his pores was palpable to me though.

Monday afternoon, A calls me at work. Psycho boy stole his key, had one made, and moved a bunch of crap into the spare room. Before I can even respond he pleas with me “I promise I’ll handle this. Just make sure L is with you when you come home.” So, L and I get home. He’s not there. We go out back and take a dip. He pops up and jumps in…. with his clothes on. This is now awkwardness personified. I know showing fear makes it worse. I know he knows I’m already feeling it. I do my bet dance of confidence to dissuade him, praying he buys it. We’re all walking back in to the building and L ends up a couple of paces ahead of us. He grabs my arm and pulls me into him, other hand digs into my crotch and whispers “I’m going to have so much fun with you.” Then disafreakingpears. He didn’t come “home” that night. Three days go by and he’s not at work and not back at the apartment. L is out of town now so I don’t go home until A and I meet up and go home together. Friday comes. L is back and her and I are home having a cocktail and chatting. We’re sitting on the floor and with the way the furniture is set up, when someone walks in, all you can see is me. Pscyho boy comes storming in the door, points at me and says “YOU’RE MINE NOW.” Then he notices L and tries to laugh it off. He slams “his” bedroom door. Then it slams again and I hear the bathroom door slam and the shower turn on. Phone rings. It’s A. “Shit, I’m on my way home.. I just found out he was fired.” All I can squeak out is “It’s too late. L is here, but please hurry.” He’s up in the city, so I know it’s going to be awhile. L and I just try to go back to normal chit chat. I keep the phone by my hand.

I glance at the clock and realize 45 minutes have gone by. The shower is still running. First thought- there’s a dead psycho boy in my shower. I pound on the bathroom door. No answer. It’s locked. I try his bedroom, it’s locked. I call 911. I swear it was less than 5 minutes before I opened the door for the cops. They had heard the whole story on the phone. They pound on the bathroom door once. Then kick it down. It’s empty. Just a running shower. They don’t even knock, they just kick down his bedroom door. I’m not going to lie, I was behind them in the hall. I felt the need to see what was going on. Room was dark. He was in the corner of it laughing manically. They flipped the switch and reveal a wall shrine to me. I’m not kidding. An actual shrine. He’s clutching a length of rope. That’s the point I fled back down the hall and waited on the patio wishing I had something a hell of a lot stronger than a Camel ultra light 100 to smoke. He agrees to voluntarily check himself into psych and walks out with the police. Smiling at me the whole time.

I wish this was the happy ending. It’s not.

A comes back as psycho boy is being hauled off. I’m standing there numb. The coast seems clear. L heads home because she’s been gone 3 days and has cats. A decides I need food and drink and heads out to go get it. I jump in the shower to scrub the feeling off. Well try to. I just step out and wrap my hair up in a towel when the intercom rings. It rings through our phone, much like the dorms. Double ring for someone at the front lobby. I throw on a T and grab it. I did not expect to hear him on the other line.

“Hello?” “Open the door.” “No” “I forgot my wallet. Open the door.” “I thought the police had you.” “I’m voluntary. Cab will take me. I need to pay for it, open the door now.” “Nope.” “OPEN THE DOOR YOU FUCKING WHORE!!!” *click* 911. I call L- she’s not home yet. I’m staring at my patio door. Knowing he’s outside the building…somewhere. I stand there dripping. Waiting. I grab a knife from the kitchen, scared to take my eyes off the patio door. All I can hear is my heart beating and the distant sound of one of the neighbors watching Bollywood. The double ring breaks the silence. I pick it up, unable to even speak. It’s the police. They explain he’s no longer at the front door and they are searching the area. I don’t even hang up, just drop the receiver. Still staring at that patio door. Knowing. Time ticked by with my heartbeats. I appreciated each one as I heard it. I honestly knew that there was a slight possibility it may be one of the last times I hear it. Thump. Thuddump. Thump. Thadd- there he was. Face leering up at me over the top of the patio now. A combination of lust and hatred staring me dead in the eye. I took one deep breath and stared back. Let’s fucking do this. Then we both heard it- the shout of one officer to another coming around the back “WEST SIDE CLEAR!” He winked at me. licked his lips and disappeared. Thump. Thaddump. Thump. I waited. I lost track of my precious heartbeats. My eyes never lost track of that patio though. The apartment door bursts open, I spin, knife up.

It was A. I dropped the knife and literally collapsed in a ball sobbing. As he held me tighter than I think I’ve ever been held, he told me that when he pulled in 7 squad cars had psycho boy surrounded. 12 guns were drawn and pointing. At him and his duffel bag. I would later find out the duffel bag contained some very hardcore S&M gear and a wrapped case of medical scalpels. I never saw or heard from him again. He was admitted to a locked, highly secure psych unit. A slept for the next month on the futon in the living room… in front of our patio door. Just in case. From that night on, I wasn’t ever truly alone and always had to check in if I wasn’t with him.

Part of me wants to see him again. He’s getting junk punched for sure. I owe him that at least that. I will also say thank you. We don’t always have control over the things that happen to us in life. But, we do have control over how we let them affect us. Each of my stalkers have taught me a lesson. Prior to psycho boy, I had been through a year of utter hell. One I’m not sure I’ll be able to blog about any time soon. His presence in my life proved to me that I had been able to maintain the me-ness I fought so hard to hold onto. The year of hell didn’t strip it away. Standing there with the knife in hand, staring his deranged face right back proved to me that I wasn’t about to let his punk ass take it either.

So, thank you psycho boy. But, yeah… still getting junk punched. Asshole. 🙂

Can’t be a Crazy Cat Lady In Training without cats. You’ll have the crazy part down alright, but a Crazy Cat Lady that thinks she has cats, but doesn’t will just get ya locked up. I never thought of myself as a cat person really. I had fish and frogs growing up. This girl’s always been an animal lover in general, but slimy and aquatic seemed to be my niche.

Until the day my first cat chose me.

Summer of 1994 I was a sophomore in college, out of the dorms and in a new place. Two of my peeps, a brother and sister transplanted to Milwaukee from PA, asked me if I’d take them to the Humane Society to get a dog. Of course! So, we arrive on a Saturday mornin’ and while they are scoping out the dogs, I get to wandering. Now, the Humane Society is just a bad place for me to be because I want to scoop them ALL up and take them home. Period. Young, old, short, fat, scrawny, smelly, twitchy….I want to save them. Hmmm… maybe I was destined into CCLdom afterall. I’m in the cat area and for some reason I spot this cottonball with eyes. I stick my finger in the cage and pet it and as soon as it grabs my finger and starts gnawing on it, I’m hooked. I look up and see a piece of paper taped over the sign on the cage that pretty much says “Go home sad, this one’s taken… we think.” It had a 24 hour hold for potential adopters. Can’t be too sad that it’s at least going to a home. My friends find the most spastic dog of the bunch and are thrilled. The Humane Society needs to hunt down their landlord and make sure it’s okie dokie for them to take her home. Bottom line- we need to come back tomorrow.

That night I had a dream. A black and white dream, which are the oddly fortelling ones for me. My colored ones are just weird. Anywho, in the dream the kitty was mine and I named her Cozmo. With a z and all. This was before Seinfeld revieled Kramer’s first name, before Cosmopolitans were all the drinking rage and I damn sure never read the magazine, so the name was a really weird choice. But, it was a dream.

On the way to the Humane Society the next day, I told B&C about the dream. I then declared if the furball was still there, it was coming home with me. We get there and they tear off to get their four legged mass of insanity and I go to check on the cottonball. It’s still there. It’s been 24 hours. I flag down a worker and tell them I’d like to adopt it. (All the its are because I didn’t know it was a she at that time. I pet her and played with her, but I respected her privacy.) So, B&C, their dog Sabina the spastic wonder, the Humane Society employee and I are all crammed in the cat room while my new ball of joy is sprung from kitty jail. I just get her in my arms when the Humane Society employee (who was forced to hear of my dream while waiting for the formalities to be completed) pulls the paper off the sign saying “won’t need this any more.” We all stare at the sign that had been cloaked in complete silence. It read “This cage is dedicated to the memory of Cozmo.”

So I named her Bob. Not really. Just seeing if you are still there. Don’t worry, this next part is shorter.

A year later and Cozmo and I are in our first studio alone. I can hear her meowing for me every night I come home all the way down the hall. So, for her first birthday, she was getting her own cat. Off to the Humane Wellfare Society I went. No prophetic dream this time. Instead, what I found was the ugliest kitten in the joint. He was the runt of what seemed like a litter of 8 or 9. His head was WAY too big for his body so he looked like one of those bobble headed cats old ladies put on the dash of their Buick Regal tanks. To top it all off- he was bow-legged. As soon as the lady there told me all of his brothers and sisters were getting sprung the next day and he’d be left all alone, I knew he was mine. Screw you pretty kitties, the freak is going home first!

And now he’s huge.

The two of them were the perfect balance. So much so that when they curled up together (after Zen grew in to his head) they looked like yin and yang. They went across country to California and back with me. The went to hell and back with me as well. Each time they’d take turns clutching my face in their paws and licking the tears away. I watched them lick bruises, broken bones and stitches determined to make them go away. No matter what I went through, they never left my side.

One of the only regrets I have in my life is allowing the ex to make me take them to my parent’s house to stay when I was pregnant with my oldest. Two months after she was born, Cozmo died.

Zen is still very much Zen. And, now he has a partner in crime. Yet another cat that isn’t really mine. Ok, PIC isn’t entirely accurate. I’m all about the honesty- the two fatboys are straight up brokeback kitty. My little two kitty spinster starter kit also likes to lay in geometric shapes. So, on to his lover……

Last year right around this time, I get a call from my C. She’s pretty much my adopted sister. She has a big fat cat that she rescued from a dumpster 2 years ago. Her roommate’s dogs have been terrorizing him and he’s been peeing on the stairs. She’s got to get rid of him. Yup, into our dyfunctional family he came. It took roughly 45 minutes for the two to get along. Zen (who is declawed in the front vs his man who has all 4 sets) beat his ass down once and that’s all she wrote. He is completely whacked so he fits right in. His name? He goes by MANY. Kitty is what the girls call him. He is also known as Fatty, Fatty McFat, Large and In Charge, Fatboy #2, Blairwitch Cat (he sits and stares in bizarre corners looking like the last scene in BW) and Bird Killer (see next blog post).

They are whacked, they are not really like cats and we love the hell our of their fat, furry feline asses. 🙂 And how lucky are we that they chose us?

Not unlike myself, our living room furniture is on the chunky side. Also, like me, it puts the omf in comfy. After I finally got the ex to vacate the last dwelling, eldest monkey asked if we could rearrange the living room. Slightly odd request for a two year old, but my monkeys and I are slightly odd.

So, I left the big ole wompin’ couch where it was and pulled the loveseat to the center of the room. Then, I pulled the chaise lounge thingie (which just sat in a corner usually as yeah, I’m not the hoity toity loungie thing type) up against the loveseat until it formed a ginormous square roughly the size of a queen size bed. We then all piled on it and snuggled down to watch The Muppet Movie. During the opening Rainbow Connection, the edlest one and I decided to name our new creation “The Island of Love.” It seemed quite fitting.

The Island of Love has since moved with us. Guests that visit for the first time look at us with a mixture of confusion and “wow, they really are kinda nuts” until they park their judgmental tushies on it and feel the love. I fear a day when it will have to be separated. No matter how crazy or rough our lives get, The Island of Love is our safe haven. It’s our fortress of fun, our wealth of woobiness, our sanctuary of snuggle, our lush landing of love.

And we, as you know, are all about the love.

This is an old journal entry I stumbled upon this morning and thought I would share.

Tuesday, May 08, 2007

When working with Alzheimer’s, death is inevitable. I know, I know, death is one of the few things in life we can all count on. But, with Alzheimer’s, it’s expected. It always sits at the back of your heart throbbing like a dull pain that you can usually squelch with some Tylenol.

Mental health is not so cut and dry.

There were months at my last job that I would lose 4 or 5 residents. That’s 4 or 5 people I had loved and nurtured. It took it’s toll and was one thing I was not sad to leave.

This last year I have lost a total of 3 residents. Two went like most- I have this uncanny ability to just sense when the time is drawing near. I get them on Hospice and once that begins, the grieving, the comforting, the process of saying goodbye begins. One, died unexpectedly very early one morning without any sign it was coming. No matter how it happens, it hurts.

I have often been scolded by friends and family- “you shouldn’t get so close to these people.” Why the fuck not? I don’t get it. The day I stop getting close to them is the day I should be fired because I am clearly not effective at my job. It hurts like hell to lose someone you care about, whether they “are old and lived a good life” or died “way too soon.” But, I would rather mourn them when they are gone and live on with the memories of having known them than hold them at some sterile distance that won’t effect me at all. I have learned so much from those I have taken care of. That is something I wouldn’t trade for the world.

I now find myself in uncharted territory for me. A couple of weeks ago I got a call from the Hospice company that I use. They have a client at a hospital that can’t go back home. He’s dying, he just fractured his hip and he is absolutely refusing to go to a nursing home. The one compromise he said he would possibly make was “a group home.” Would I consider taking him?

I have fought tooth and nail with hospitals and discharge planners who try to stick my residents in nursing homes because “they are dying.” They have the right to die where they choose damn it and with Hospice, we can continue to meet their needs in a place they consider their home, surrounded by people they consider their family. Hell, in some cases, we are literally all they have. Now, I have someone I’ve never met before in the predicament where he can’t go back to the home he knows to die and he can’t bring himself to go to a nursing home. I can’t blame him on that one. So, without even pausing, I agreed to go assess him and if we could meet his needs, he was more than welcome to join our dysfunctional little family.

So on a dark, cold, rainy morning (cliche isn’t it?) I met “Guido” for the first time. I know, you had to smile at “Guido.” I have to alter his name for privacy and I’m telling you, if you had to pick another stereotypical Italian name, his would be it. So, “Guido” it is. I always like to go through their chart first. It allows me to get a picture of them and opportunity to ask them face to face any questions that pop up in it.

Before I got there, he was described to me as “a little rough around the edges.” While going through his chart, I couldn’t help but notice the little OT come running out of a room, crying. I looked at the nurse next to me and said “Let me guess, that’s “Guido’s” room?” She laughed “you must know him pretty well.”

When I got in there, I did not see some big ogre. Instead, a tiny little Italian man who looked like he hadn’t bathed or shaved in quite some time. He was drinking a bottle of Miller Genuine Draft for breakfast (I kid you not) and using it to wash down a couple of chocolate chip cookies. I explained who I was and where I was from. He wasn’t impressed. Before I left, I looked at him and said “Look, I understand you want to go home. I also understand it’s not an option. We may not sound like much, but we’re not a nursing home, you can still drink your beer and we’ll take really good care of you. Plus some of my staff are pretty hot. I’m not sure you’re going to get a better offer hon. But, if you’re a gambling man, you can hold out and try. In the mean time, stop being so mean to the therapy girls, they work hard, are only trying to help you and have to put up with shit from all the other patients they have too.”

I almost got to the door when he said “Hey- what’s your name, wait a minute.” I said “It’s Natali.” He said “Well, toots, you drive a hard bargain, but count me in.”

The next day, Bell Ambulance brought him in. The staff doted on him and he just sat there grinning and kissed their hands like a little gentleman. I cut his hair and shaved off his scraggly beard. Monday morning one would barely recognize him. He’s actually quite a handsome little devil. He’s attached himself to my assistant and I and likes to hang out by the office now that we’ve gotten him out of bed and in a wheelchair to join the land of the living. Such a warm, fuzzy story- right?

The problem is he is dying. It’s a fact we can’t forget. Actively dying and not from the fractured hip (which is the kiss of death for most people his age), but from a very, very large mass in his lungs which he wants no treatment for. He wouldn’t even allow further testing to officially diagnose it. It could be quick, he could linger on. Unfortunately, it’s out of our hands and we won’t know until it is too late. At a a time and stage where I am usually starting my goodbyes to people, I am just getting to know him. The staff have already fallen in love with him. They were angry “Why would you bring him here for us to fall in love with and he’s going to up and die on us?” All I could do was be honest- he deserves to be surrounded by love when he goes, rather than rotting away in some nursing home. He’s crusty, he’s smelly (as soon as those staples come out, he’s getting hosed down!), he’s got a smile that would melt your heart and the manners of a prince when he wants to. It’s hard for me to remember, there is going to be a day sometime not that far off where I will walk into to work and not hear him yelling at his roommate and calling him an asshole. Where my day will go by and he won’t roll up to the office door several times and say “hey gorgeous, wanna come smoke with me?” or “you know I get 2 more cans of beer today, can you make it 3?”

When that day comes, it’s going to hurt like hell.

And it did.

So, if you’ve been brave enough to tackle some of my other posts, you may have stumbled upon my one regarding online dating. As promised, here is specimen number one in the line of freaks…

It was late when I set up my profile on the dreaded online dating site. When done, I left it in the hands of the powers that be, logged out and went sleepy nigh. Admittedly, I was excited when my e-mail in the morning revealed to me that someone had actually sent me a message on there. Perhaps I was wrong about my Crazy Cat Lady in Training theory… hee hee oh silly, silly girl I was.

I pulled up the site, logged in and clicked on my inbox with much anticipation. Greeting me was the following:

Dear UberDorkGirl-

I have been on freakssneedlove2.com for awhile now and most of the profiles read exactly the same. I found your’s different and I like that. I feel we have many things in common and would like to meet for a cup of coffee. Please let me know when you would be available to do so.

Fondly,
George

Incase you were wondering, yes, the name of the site and the person’s name was changed cuz I’m feeling gracious thusfar. Not gracious enough to correct his grammatical/spellinng error though.

First thought was “hmmm… a bit forward on going out for coffee right away, but assertiveness can be nice. Especially when you factor in I’m a total dork on making any kind of first move when it comes to this kind of thing. Yup, believe it or not, I get shy when it comes to members of the opposite sex. I know, it’s shocking. I’ll give you a moment to recover from the revelation that I actually am shy in one facet of my life.

Better now? Ok… so I check out his profile. It’s kinda boring and I’m not seeing the big connection, but you have to start somewhere and maybe describing oneself is hard even for an assertive coffee inviter. Then I notice “Location- Houston, TX.” WTF? Seriously?? I go back through the profile over and over looking for some sentence that states “Moving back to WI.” Nada. At this point, I’m thinkin’ “and away we go.”

Back to inbox. Hit reply. What can I say, I’m courteous.

Dear George,

Thank you for your interest. However, as you live in Texas and I live in Wisconsin, it would seem that cup of coffee would be a difficult task to accomplish. I wish you much luck in finding somone in your area that you may ask the same question to.

Have a nice day.

UberDorkGirl

Not letting this deter me, I begin poring over profile after profile of people the site feels I may be compatible with. I get two profiles in, wherein I realize there must be a built in smoking crack factor on their part, when I get a notice I have a new e-mail. Wow. I’m doing pretty good here… until I realize it’s a reply from George. I click on it, expecting to find some sort of gratuitous , thank you for the reply. Nope. What I found was this…

But I spend most of my time in the UK, specifically Leeds.

One sentence of insanity. He managed to stump even me. Actually, I thought of MANY things to reply to my new freak George, but I refrained. I simply left it be.

Maybe I should go back and send:

Dear George,

Thank you for popping my online dating freak cherry. Enjoy Leeds, I hear it’s lovely this time of year.

UberDorkGirl

It was during two very late night/early morning family trips to the bathroom recently that I learned the following important life lessons:

1. We all need to cut the liquids out a little earlier in the evening.
2. Our next place needs to have at least 2 bathrooms.
3. My youngest monkey is probably going to turn out with a case of OCD.
4. All my effort to instill the “family sticks together no matter what” principal is working.

It was roughly 3:30am on a Thursday night/Friday morning when I heard the sounds of monkey feet shuffling about. I flew out of bed and checked the pantry first. Yeah, I now not the first logical place. Last time I heard a middle of the night monkey adventure, I caught the youngest monkey in the pantry eating beef jerky. “It makes a good midnight snack” ya know.

Then I hear the familiar sound of monkey tinkle, followed by “I’ve gotta go too!!” I plod down the hall realizing I need to go too. So, I queue up as the littlest one is done. She barely gets her toilet paper in the toilet and the eldest is ploppin’ her tushy down. While she begins to commence with the task at hand, the little one begins to twitch and look beyond irritated. Just as I am about to ask her what’s up, she belts out “You can’t do that!! You can’t pee pee on my pee pee!!” By now I really need to go and my sleepy noggin is trying to process the freakage starting to occur. Instinctually, eldest wipes, tosses paper, I sit to pee. That is when the complete meltdown began… First was the loud scream “NOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!” Then the crying began. Lastly, through sobs- “You can’t pee pee on her pee pee on my pee pee. It’s just wrong!!!!” Eldest monkey and I both froze, just staring at the meltdown. I’m thinking of the best way to handle this and figure the best place to do so is not while on the potty. I get up, complete my mission and am going to flush when the lil one yells (again) “NOOOOO!!! I will flush it!!” She marches up to the handle, gazes down into the bowl, says “I’m so sorry pee pee” as though she is bidding fairwell to a dceased pet goldfish and then proceeds to flush the toilet. After she was satisfied it all went down properly, the wee one marches up to me, sticks her finger out at me in a pointing manner and declares “YOU should know better.” And back to bed she went.

Eldest monkey and I shake our heads and back to bed we go. As she enters their bedroom, I hear her mutter “Dude, it’s just pee.” Then I hear “It’s just wrong!” So yeah, we flush inbetween now and I am bracing from some serious future OCD.

Roughly two weeks later, around the same time, I awake to realize that both monkeys have climbed in bed with me and the tiny one has hopped down on the way to another middle of the night bathroom venture. At the same moment I realize I am wet, eldest yells “Mommy- she peed on me!!” Mom mode kicks in, I’m wide awake now. I ask her to stop yelling, tell I’ll get her cleaned up, but we don’t want to make her sister feel bad. Off the bed I hop to go deal with the little one when she realizes she’s had an accident and begins to lose it. I’m getting her calmed down and stripping off the peed on jammers when I hear the oldest one start yelling. “No mommy, it wasn’t her fault, it was me!! I peed the bed!! Tell her it was me!!” She comes trucking down the hall to the bathroom stripping off her jammie bottoms and unders. She stickes them out at her sister and says “Look! It wasn’t your fault honey, it was mine, I’m sorry.” I take the unders and look and here, bless her little heart, she had squeezed out like four drops of pee so her sister won’t feel bad. THAT is love. That is how we roll.

woob ⋅ie /ˈwʊdi/ Show Spelled Pronunciation

  /ˈwʊdi/ Show Spelled Pronunciation [woobee] –noun, plural woob⋅ies

This is a phrase used often by me for decades now. It stems from the movie “Mr. Mom” wherein the little boy’s security blanket was referred to as his “woobie.” That which is considered woobie is a totally personal thing. It will vary gianormously. Essentially, it is as follows:

Something or someone that is sooooooooo comfy that it feels like a warm, safe hug.

A woobie could be a blanket, a sweater, I have “Red Woobie Slippers,” a person, hell even a cup of really good hojicha. If it makes ya feel squishy, it’s woobie. If you want to wrap yourself in it and snuggle down forever- woobie. If the mere thought of it makes you smile and sigh- woobie.

It is important to note that while they say that matters of the heart bring about the harshest karmic payback, I firmly believe that stealing another person’s woobie will bring about a karmic bitch slap of equal or greater proportion.

Everyone needs some woobage in their life.

Related forms:

I’m a “rather be alone for the right reasons than with someone for the wrong ones” kind of gal. That and the ex was/is an ASSHOLE of epic proportions. EPIC. So, not one single tiny atom of regret for putting the kibosh on the marriage. I did so knowing I may spend the rest of my life alone and I damn sure was going to be the sole parent in charge of the monkeys. For years, I’ve told everyone I am a crazy cat lady in training. I’ve got the two kitty spinster starter kit going now and I would be fab at it. In fact, my newest therapy in life is knitting, so they would be the most fashionably dressed 933 cats in the tricounty area. I’ve recently added my font whorishness to the mix and am planning on monogramming those bad boys each in a different font. And you doubted I’d be fab at it?

Well, a couple of months ago some of my posse, my peeps, my home skillets decided it was creepin’ them out and I “needed” to start dating. I don’t take well to being told what to do, even outta love. I can be quite the stubborn biotch. But, it did get me thinkin’… cats aren’t as fun to cuddle with and friends look at you weird when you try to make out with them. Ok, most of them. So, I succumbed. Got me a profile on a free dating site and oh the fresh hell that awaited me. I’ll be blogging them freak by freak in the future.

The one thing I still won’t cave on though is my profile. The horde of cupids on crack that I call my nearest and dearest insist it is too “weird.” My response continues to be- “If they can’t hang with my profile, they’re not going to be able to hang with me. Period. It’s ME. ” I lay it all on the line upfront. I know I have the trifecta kiss of dating death- 1.Single Mom 2. I’m a curvy girl. 3. I’m quirky as hell. But, it’s how I roll. Somewhere there is a man who is brave enough to ride the crazy coaster, complete with two extra cars. Who knows, he may be closer than I think. But if not… this girl has a backup plan……

MyProfile (that is such an utter abomination) that’s on the dating site:

I used to beat up the kids that picked on the “special students” during recess. Now I work with those with chronic mental illness.

I speak quite a few languages, enjoy coed naked underwater basket weaving, have an addiction to Sushi and humor is my defense mechanism.

Arrogant people make my right eye twitch.

Other than that, I’m just me.

Honestly though, I’m kind of a quirky girl. I’m ambidextrously brained, I will knit for tattoos, I am the friend that everyone comes to for advice and bail money. I pride myself on keeping my eyes, ears, heart and mind open. Making me laugh goes a long way with me, I think the brain is the sexiest organ and I’m the kinda gal you can take anywhere and I”ll have a good time. Now I just need a good partner in crime 😉

If you’re still reading this… woo hoo! Another thing that’s important to know about me- I’m a really honest person. What you see is what you get with me- I don’t play games. I honestly just don’t think I’m even wired to be able to. So, I’ll rip off the rest of the band aid for ya now..

1. I am a single mom. I know that’s a frightening thing for some guys and I understand why it would be. But, it’s what I am. I’m good at it too and my lil monkeys rock. They are way cool, tons of fun and sooo loving. So, yeah, a serious relationship with me eventually means a package deal. It’s a good package though 🙂

2. I’m a curvy girl. My hourglass comes with a ghetto booty at the moment. But, I work out frequently, eat healthy and am really active. While I am a bit of a work in progress so to speak, I’m also comfortable, confident and take pride in who I am.

If you’ve stuck it out this far, are thinkin’ “hmmm…I think I can hang with this..” and aren’t into the whole game thing… say hi. 🙂

Oh and not being psycho would be a HUGE plus 🙂

It was roughly three weeks into running a 46 bed group home for those with chronic mental illness, when I was in my office working on an Individualized Service Plan. (Fancy term for basically the packet of instructions and care plan for a resident.) My doorway was the third most popular location in the building- the first was the smoking lounge, the second was the vending machine room. Three of my guys were hovering in my door way when the following conversation occurred…..

Mathew*: “Antanette, Antanette, I didn’t get a hug yet today. Antanette, can I have a hug.”

Mark*: “You’re an idiot Mathew*- her name is Nadia.”

Luke*: “You’re both morons, her name is Natasha.”

Antanette/Nadia/Natasha/Me: “Actually, my name is Natali.”

Luke*: “Shut up, Linda!”

I still don’t know who Linda is…..

*All names were changed to protect resident privacy per Federal HIPAA guidelines.