May 13th, 2009 | 20 Comments »

I had a TMI post all written about how Herman got his name, but then I recalled two things:

  • I had stupidly sent emails to the people where I do my banking (Hi! wonderful banking people!) that contained a link to my blog in the sig line. Since they have met me in person, I knew they would associate that post with me every time they saw me.
  • I had promised Kelley, who is having blog problems, a guest post, even though I, myself, have been posting maybe once a week. But I love her and she is all kinds of the awesome, so someday, Kelley will let you know about Herman. He has a twitter account, really.

Did you know it was mercury retrograde? Consider yourself warned. Back up your data. Expect miscommunications, misunderstandings, and old issues to resurface. Travel plans, especially short term travel plans, are certain to be a fool’s errand.

I am embarking on a fool’s errand tomorrow. I was supposed to leave today for a sibling type reunion, but hello?? Merc retro.

A client had insinuated herself into my life because she was hurting so much. I didn’t give much thought to the fact that she had ABSOLUTELY NO EMOTIONAL SUPPORT. (She had alienated everyone else in her life. Hah! How smart was I? But, she was suffering. She really had some terrible things happen in her life.)

As a result, I worked less hours (logged on) than usual to accommodate her many visits, even though I was trying to collect enough hours to take a week off. (I need to be firmer with my boundaries)

Then last week, (full moon in scorpio, uh oh) she showed up (while I was logged on) and proceeded to berate me with all the crazy ways that I was not BEING HER FRIEND. (Did I mention boundaries?) How does a client I felt sorry for become a friend? A “friend” that gets extremely unhinged if you don’t meet her needs in the way that she wants them met? I would say see a therapist, but a therapist has those pesky boundaries where you have to actually make an appointment, and can’t just drop in to dump all your shit on because you have been dwelling and DWELLING on it and cannot stand it another minute unless you share the misery RIGHT NOW.

After placing the entire blame on ME for her being so stressed she had to take a leave of absence from her work, she stormed out. Great. It usually takes me about three days for my energy field to clear itself after such an intense encounter. I was useless to work. So, I took a mini stress leave, because I didn’t feel I could serve my clients properly.

That might have been over and done with, but she wasn’t finished with the demands. By email. My refusal to meet these demands were met with vicious assaults on my character and psychic abilities. I had to block her email and instruct her not to call or drop in ever again.

I don’t know why I let her upset me so much, but I continued to be unable to work. I was planning for last week to be a humdinger, so I could make up for the week I was planning to take off to visit with siblings a short journey away. (Siblings and short journeys are third house matters, which are ruled by Mercury, which is retrograde.)

Now I don’t have the reserve funds to travel that I had, and am trying to contact my brother, Dizzee, who I cannot reach by phone. We are supposed to meet up at Skinny Bitch’s place, and we can travel to the gathering together, then afterwards, he and his long-lost daughter, Hidden Treasure, will come to my place to visit, driving me home. Except I can’t reach him to determine if he will be also travelling with another brother, Mr. Trick and his daughter, Cutie Pie,in which case there would be no room. Mr. Trick is not answering his phone either. Damn you, merc retro!

February 5th, 2009 | 16 Comments »

Have you ever noticed how little kids often have a language of their own, and can communicate with one another?

My brother, Mr. Trick, did not talk early. According to my mother, he really had no need to. Mom said I was talking at 11 months, and I’ve never really shut up since.

She used to call upon the secret language of children to have me tell her what Mr. Trick wanted. She often told this tiny story, complete with sound effects which I cannot duplicate here, and comical facial expressions, again, cannot duplicate.

Mom: Why’s he crying, witchypoo?

witchypoo: Ba didddle blup do blug?

Mr. Trick: Gah googah gee bah bah.

witchypoo: He’s got a pain in his belly. He has to poop.

It’s official now. I’m a poop interpreter.

March 8th, 2008 | 15 Comments »

For any of you still in school, and under parental care, just cover your eyes now. This information will only lead you on a slippery slope of deception and mayhem.

Backstory: Over appetizers and wine with Warrior Woman, we were telling stories to one another about our younger days. WW interjected frequently about each topic being blog material, but when I told her this one, I ran and wrote it down. I knew I would use it.

I was always a good student. My marks and class participation were good, I enjoyed reading, and I had insight that allowed me to giggle at the naughty bits in some of Shakespeare’s plays. The principal, who also taught senior English, answered my giggles with a huge twinkle in his eye. We were the only two that got it. He also gave me a 100% mark on my senior essay exam, which I think was to discuss imagery and some other stuff in MacBeth.

My mildly amusing but OCD stepmother hated writing excuses to cover absences from school, so I devised a system that made it easier for her. I would write the body of the note, and have her read and sign it.

What she didn’t know was that I never submitted those excuses. Instead, I wrote in my own handwriting my note and forged her signature. Then, when I wanted to jig* school, I could word my own excuse and forge the signature so all submitted excuses looked similar. My handwriting in body of note, forged stepmother’s signature.


My brother, Mr.Trick? Not so genius. Or maybe just lazy. He would only forge the note and signature when he was up to no good. I think his girlfriend had introduced him to pot, and maybe he didn’t think things through.

Eventually, the principal noticed the discrepancies in signatures on his notes. Because he only forged when he had to. Doofus. What did my formerly favourite brother do?

He ratted me out.

The principal examined all of my notes, which matched. He didn’t believe rat boy. I wasn’t even called to the office.

Rat boy was so mad that he couldn’t take me down with him. Ungrateful bugger. Serves him right for stealing my idea and executing it sloppily.

*jigging school was the vernacular for playing hookey.

February 13th, 2008 | 15 Comments »

I started to tell this story, then I looked for a suitable image, and while I was at it, might as well create a watermark, so the result is that nothing got done besides a lot of image re-arranging. You may get one poor quality, unwatermarked image, because who really wants to steal a small, poor quality image? On to the story.

Long ago, but not so far away, my brother, Mr. Trick, and I were allied as partners in crimes against the parents. These crimes involved a great deal of intrigue, planning, and stealth. Stealth was key because we wanted, in this case to steal the cookies out of the pantry.

We had to stay awake a long time until the giants (parents) went to bed, and we gave them time to fall asleep. This gave our anticipation of the stolen goods more salivation factor, and allowed us to refine the plan.

Hand signals were not terribly effective in the dark, so we had to revise the plan during the execution of the manoevre. Who says criminals are dumb?

It took an agonizing amount of time to descend the old, creaky staircase, and tiptoe down the hall to the pantry. We were shivering with excitement as we ear-whispered directions to one another.

Once we reached our objective, we loaded up our arms, and BOOM! thundered up the stairs (times two) in our haste to devour the prize. I guess we figured that possession was nine-tenths of the law, but we had forgotten how annoyed those pesky parents became when aroused from their sleep.

The punishment was not just for cookie theft, it was an angry punishment administered in the wrath of being awakened. It wasn’t pretty. We decided our career in crime was not our optimum life path. And it was difficult to sit down for a while too.

Seated on horse: little brother, witchypoo, partner in crime brother. This was taken when we were able to sit without pain.