Bag of Cats: Day 1

By nature, and happily so, I tend to run with a regular stress level of about 3 (10 being batshit). I’m in constant fear of loosing my job – of being found out I’m a hack. It is this that I believe has gotten me so far in my career. It motivates me to try harder, do better, do more.

New to me, but similar, I now live in constant fear of failing as a parent. Not enough veggies in his tummy, not enough one-on-one play time, not reading enough books, not doing flashcards. But I hold on to that because I feel that as long as that fear of failure is strong in me my chances of actually ‘failing’ diminish.

After living my own life for 37 years – doing whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted, wherever I wanted and with whomever I wanted, I’d lived a pretty satisfying life. I was completely ready to hand everything over to my newborn son and live to serve him. And that’s what I did for his first year of life. I eschewed socializing. I went to work, I picked up my son from daycare, we came home, we ate, we played, we went to bed. For his first year of life, plus a few months.

After that first year I found my self in a situation were all of my happiness was coming from my son. All of my affirmations were coming from my son. If I was sad, I wanted my son. If I was lonely, I wanted my son. If I want to have a fun day, I wanted my son. It quickly occurred to me that this was not the start of a healthy relationship and perhaps, I was ready to start dating.

So I started an online dating adventure with the intention of finding a nice man with whom I could share burgers on Thursday nights, maybe catch a movie here and there, maybe put away a few beers at a bar, maybe do naughty things on summer evenings. Nothing too serious, just ADULT stuff somewhat indicative of me living an ADULT life. Surely there had to be a fella out there interested in the same. However, within a couple days of joining the site, I got lucky (?) and I met a very nice fella whom I’m still dating, three months later. He lives an hour away from me in Kent (near our cousins) so we really only get to see each other on the weekends. And only then after an hour drive, traffic/weather permitting, each way. It’s a bit frustrating because we spend good quality time, yet we’re still not really getting to know the ugly things about each other and it leaves way too many shadows of doubt exposed in my insecure girl brain.

Also recently, my son is growing in to such a wonderful, exciting adventure of a boy. He’s a chatterbox. He’s a reader. He loves his cars and trucks. He’s learning to poop on the potty. He sings songs to the trees. He has also started thrashing and flailing and screaming to express disagreement. He has learned some sort of pterodactyl mating call which he uses to express displeasure. He will sometimes squawk and squawk until I pick him up only for him to fuss and wriggle out of my arms. Rinse. Repeat. As he becomes more toddler, these demonstrations become more intense.

And then there’s my job. My beloved job where I work for a fantastic company trying to change the world. Brilliant coworkers constantly inspiring me to be better, projects for honing my skills and providing opportunity to grow. What a great gig. Only I picked up a project that I’m really not excelling with. All the chaos in my brain currently seems to be stiffing my creativity. The pressure of possibly letting down my boss is overwhelming.

I’m going to fail them all

My boyfriend is going to see how batshit insane I am and decide that he has no desire to share his life with a crazymaker

My son is going to become one of those spoiled, whiny, screechy bastards making shrill noises in the store about candy and toys

My boss is going to reach his limit with my suckittude, decide they could bring in a couple interns and a marketing manager to replace me.

Now, normally, I can handle all that shit. It’s not real. It’s all in my head. But for the past month that chaos is controlling me instead of me controlling it. It makes me feel tragically fragile. It makes me feel week. It makes me feel ashamed. If I were to come here and write about how I had developed some sort of blood infection, my mindset would be so different. I’d be eager to learn more about blood infections, their treatments and symptoms. I’d be sharing with everyone what I was learning.

I’m now on two anti-depressants; Ativan and Zoloft. I just started them today. For me, the most troublesome side effects are the fatigue and nausea – those two can make me grouchy. The Ativan might make me angry and bitchy. I simply can’t have that in my life. There’s also a possibility of loss in sex drive from the Zolof. Another deal breaker for me. And that’s not because I like fucking – we all like fucking. There’s a certain peace and calm and love and safety that I get from being with B. If I ever needed to keep a strong bead on that, it’s now.

Starting off the holiday season on two drugs that won’t let me drink. Fucking hell. But I need to get my head back. I need to get off the roller coaster and find a quiet place to listen to what’s going on in my brain. I need a clear desk on which to work. So bear with me, this will only take a little while.


Easy (Like Sunday Morning)

I used to live in San Diego (just moved back to Ohio a year ago). There’s a really geat hole-in-the-wall karaoke bar there called The Lamplighter. Now, I can’t carry a tune in a handbasket to hell, but I’ve got some shameless friends who love a spotlight, so we’d frequent the place. Some nights real talent would come through. There was one chick, easily in her late 40s, early 50s, who would come in and do Brittany and Christina spot-on. She was a regular. People loved her. This scawny white dude would often come in and do “Rapper’s Delight” and never miss a beat.

One night this kid comes in – a brown kid like yourself – and sits with his buddies in the corner drinking Coronas all night. They’re loud and a little rowdy. In fact by that point the whole place had gotten more than a little loud and rowdy. You could barely hear the coeds up on stage doing a cacphonic, almost strip-tease rendition of “Hit me with your best shot.”

When the coeds finish to whoops and hollers, this drunk, long-haired, flip flop and paint-speckled tshirt wearing kid gets up and does “Easy (Like Sunday Morning)” and killed. The place went silent. There wasn’t a dry pair of panties in the house; I know I certainly wanted to go home with him after that. It actually took a few minutes for the audience to snap out of the trance and administer a retarded enthusiastic applause. He never came back to The Lamplighter, but the girls still talked about him.

Later in life, I met a guy who would shut a place down with Chris Isaac’s “Wicked Game”, but nothing since has topped that moment back in 2002 when a greasy, drunk, mexican got up and sang a Commodores song and made every girl in the bar forget her name.


The Winning Pregnancy Test

The Winning Pregnancy Test

It looked iffy

Sonny Sal

Salvatore was born at 7:23 PM on Monday, March 12th, 2012.

ColorTheory_Screen_White.jpg 1224×792






ColorTheory_Screen_White.jpg 1224×792.

SteamKeg Games for your iPhone – Steamkeg





Working on the SteamKeg Project has turned out to be fantastic. Learning a lot about Ruby On Rails, forcing HTML5 and CSS3 compliance and (NEW!) utilising Google’s Font API. What a great project.

  1. Company Name
  2. Logo Design
  3. Website Design – page layout, copy editing, graphics design
  4. Social Media Build-out – facebook & twitter
  5. App Marketing

SteamKeg Games for your iPhone – Steamkeg.

Fluince: The story of Ollie and Jan…and Dowser

We were diving off the Johnson Atoll on the morning 13 January 1956 when, Jan, my navigator, and spotter, picked up something smallish on telemetry. We were scouting for wreckage from The Blast and Jan was sure we’d found something. The murk of the Pacific was exceptionally soupy that day. Even in the VAP suit my skin was itchy. Visibility was three feet at best but Dowser was sniffing our way down. You never know what’s in these waters. The murk is so thick it’s been said the sea has trapped the very souls of those warriors who’ve died in it. Too strong for even heaven. Or hell. My eyes strain against the black and my head starts to pound. Best to just keep my eyes closed and listen, let Dowser drive.

Just about anything going by will set Dowser off. A steady rhythm of “blit…blit…blit…blit…”, then a rush of “BLEE BLEE BLEE BLEE” and then back to the rhythm. “What was that?” Jan’s voice sputters inside the VAP helmet. “Ghosts.” It’s possible. Ghosts go by frequently but Dowser stays on course. We’re not looking for ghosts, we’re looking for stash and nothing can sniff out stash better than a Wreckage Dowser 928/10, Class II. One part kennel reject, two parts swedish engineering and about fifty million parts Czech gadgetry. We keep diving and the itch from the Blasted water is almost unbearable. Dowser’s getting excited and starts barking as we approach the stash. “Send down the basket?” Jan’s voice again. “Not yet. I want to see if there’s anything left down here.” I hate having to wait for the basket to come back up when it’s empty. Seems like a waste of time. I’d rather wait at the bottom, sorting through the stash.

The closer we get to the stash, the faster Dowser swims, like a horse bolting for the barn. It’s a small aircraft.

“Jan. Aircraft: Turboprop, Electra 10E. What’s that from?”
“What’s the wing tell you?”
“Can’t tell yet. It’s buried.”
“Well let’s clean it out. Sending down Zorin.”

Twenty minutes later Dowser announces the arrival of the Zorin. Unsecuring it from the tether cable I set it to work blowing out the black sooty debris from under the left wing. What a mess. The Blast soot is really bad for Dowser so I send him up the tether for a bit. I can hear him complaining through the VAP helmet speakers. “Stay,” I tell him. I think it’s all the behavior mods they require, makes a Dowser antsy. “Good boy.” Within the hour the Zorin has blown out a space big enough for the camera pod to clear the underside of the left wing.

“NR16020” I call up to Jan.
“NR16020.” he repeats it. “NR16020. Shit. NR16020?”
“Ollie, call your wife and tell her to put your piece of crap condo on the market. We just found Amelia Earhart’s Electra.”

what next


and what do I do with love?
let my heart run amuck?
jump in with eyes closed?
is there even anything to jump in to
and for what?

I’m not to be moved.
but moved by hearts
and minds and sighs
moved to long and pine.

is it enough to love and be loved?

is this ache a profound emptiness
reaching its arms up and out
pull me out of this darkness
is love simply the echo of something i read about in a book?

hazy memories
is love god’s own measure?

i want nothing as much
as solid arms
warm breath, strong heart.
to hear and see joy
at work on the face of a lover
nothing so much as i want all that and still – i’m here

and i know me.

capable of such cruelty
able to pull love from stone
Bolster of Hearts
a lifetime of sweet dreams for rent
in exchange for attention and kind words
only to end up with a hatful of loathing
it’s been done before.

i know this tune
it’s the measure that throws me
wretched love
my own caution: a swung beat
it starts with a canter
a marcato of courtship spotted with fortissimo
sotto voce
then i know you
I see the spots
always find new blemishes
the morendo as apathy sets in
the dust settles
and finds us where?
my life surrendered?

do you know how fickle i am?
do you know what it takes to keep me?
more designs than any man has had
as a feather in a windstorm
doomed to an unsettled heart

do i just need the right tune?
is there some piper
to charm me
to soothe the sway
to bring peace and calm?
perhaps something i’ve not yet heard
love so deep
it fills me completely
leaves no room for distraction

i only know how to take
can i be something more?


There’s a monster in my chest. I’m not talking about some sort of dark urges I need to fight, I mean an actual monster. They took x-rays and ran tests. It’s attached to my heart. It lives in the upper left ventricle, a parasite feeding off my blood and oxygen. It has a face and hands. Its tiny mouth slowly siphons my blood to feed its own existence. Its tiny hands, all four, work my heart to pump the blood faster through my body. The monster sucks the life from me, makes me tired, consumes my joy. The pain from its tiny hands is unbearable. Always pushing on my heart, making it go faster, making it work harder.

I know how it got there. Like a sexually transmitted parasite, you put it there that night we kissed outside the restaurant. The tiny monster cells traveled up from your heart, past your lips and in to me. Such a loving gesture with such sweet intent, and now this monster is sucking my happiness out.

I could have surgery to remove it, they said they could do it. I know if they remove it the damage to my heart would be considerable. It would never beat the same way again but I’d be free from the pain. Free from the tiny hands. Free from the hungry mouth. So I have two options: kill the monster or swallow the pain.


She laid there, calmly despite her nerves, while the men worked, cool earth beneath her, felt the wet grass on her arms. Her eyes slid up and caught the light through the yellow aspen leaves. The breeze played softly in the branches. She could hear the rustle of leaves on the ground around her. Rotting leaves and the smell of fall. She felt a tug at her back and a grunt escaped her lips. “Careful,” one of the men said. “I know,” replied the other, “keep an eye out, okay?” She heard a sparrow but couldn’t pick it out in the tree above her. Grey sky with clouds rolling by like lazy sighs. “Case.” Some shuffling in the leaves and she tried to look down to see what was happening. She caught a glimpse of bloody windbreakers and masks and she got dizzy. This was so surreal. “Open would be nice,” said the man with his hands inside her chest. “Perhaps you should have been more specific,” the other replied with obvious impatience. She looked down again and saw it. The man had it in her hands. Her heart. Drippy and red like a movie prop in the movies, not really doing anything but being a lump of mess. “You said it’d be safe?” she managed to throw together a sentence. “Yeah, yeah. Very safe. We’ll keep it safe from everyone.” In to the case it went, making an unexpected crunch. The ice. “Okay. Close her up.” The crouching man stood up and stepped away, case in hand. The second man knelt beside her on the ground and she rolled her eyes back up to the leaves, back up to the clouds. Safe. She was taking a huge risk with this one, but there were guarantees, reassurances, and what would they do with it anyhow? The sparrows again, the smell of dead leaves on the ground and the delicious breeze blowing across her chest. She wondered what he was doing at this very moment. Was he getting dressed? Was he going to be there when this thing got dropped off? He said he would. Guess we’ll just have to wait and see.