Regina Noctis

Olivia is there to bring you more. You damn betcha, baby.
Olivia is a spunky little pig with an abundance of energy and enthusiasm. Will NObody let me forget how overweight I am?
Olivia is the 15th named storm of this busy Atlantic hurricane season. I always knew I was a destructive force of nature.
Olivia is sure to become a classic. Become?
Olivia is gorgeous in this. Well, at least SOMEone thinks so.
Olivia is “plain,” attired only in red briefs.
Olivia is upset that no one takes her cyber-stalker seriously. Which one? Last I checked, there were two of ‘em.
Olivia is Four. Does that mean that both my cyber-stalkers are Jabba the Schmuck? He’s big enough for two…
Olivia is a Countess. And don’t any of you forget it!
Olivia is written and illustrated by Ian Falconer. Because, of course, nothing this perfect could be real.
Olivia is standing over the body holding a gun. So much for the last one who forgot I was a Countess.
Olivia is still recovering from her performance with the circus.

and I just got back from helping and pack. Misdev and I got quite a bit accomplished, got fed, threatened a union strike unless there were a Slurpee run made, and otherwise completely enjoyed being able to hang out with a couple of the folks we don’t get to see nearly enough of. even put in a brief appearance, though unfortunately he wasn’t feeling too well. Hope he feels better soon.

Now that we’ve done our good deed for the day, I think it’s time I get some sleep. Back to the hell hole… err.. work when I get up. Joy joy joy.

I gotta get a different job.

VIVA THE LONG TRAIN!

has gone above and beyond around here. The place is actually looking like a place. And should only get better once payday and my bonus check make their appearances.

I didn’t expect her to take on the lion’s share of the work. Matter of fact, I mostly asked her to come stay while the cleaning/organizing efforts were going forward primarily to keep me company while I’m doing it. I’m more likely to take on a large re-organization project like this and stick with it if I have someone to talk to while I’m doing it.

I’m also glad I could provide her a place to stay while the house she’s living in gets tented and fumigated.

Next up will be building bookshelves for the boxes o’ books, getting boards cut to the right size for the wrought-iron bed, getting the bed put together, and re-arranging furniture. No more having my bed up against the wall with the basketball net the neighbor kids put up right on the other side.

So, it’s official. The vet said that my poor asthmatic babycat has feline AIDS. On top of the asthma, he’s already had pneumonia twice because of his lowered immune system. And on top of that, the heavy steroids we have to give him because of the asthma also lower his immune system. But we have to treat the asthma, or he’ll slowly suffocate to death. The asthma has only been getting worse, so much so that my mom is afraid to leave to come up and visit me on weekends. Whiskers gets so stressed if she’s gone overnight that he has a bad asthma attack, and my grandmother’s too blind to be able to drive him to the emergency vet. If mom comes up here, she’s sure he’ll die.

And with AIDS, it’s a waiting game anyway. All we can do is either watch him get more and more sick as the days go on, or have him put down. What a choice.

I remember when we first got him, still not fully grown though already the size of a normal cat. He was very sick then, nearly dying, mostly of dehydration. He’d been badly abused and then abandoned by this previous owners. We nursed him back to health. Then came the fight he got into, and the puncture wound he got on his foot. It abscessed, and we had to have it drained and give him antibiotics that made him ill. The cat he fought must have been FIV positive. It was after that the second set of tests were run, and there was the anomaly in them that indicated he might have feline AIDS.

And then the asthma, when we were getting ready for the move. I remember him lying there, too weak to move, his sides heaving while he fought to breathe. We had to take him to an emergency vet in the middle of the night and have him put in an oxygen cage while waiting for the shots she gave him to free up his lungs enough to breathe. And all the asthma attacks and pills and shots since.

And through it all, he’s stayed such a sweet, loving cat. Even in his arrogant phase, when he got so much attention from so many people that he came to expect spoiling as his due rather than a privilege, he was sweet and cute and funny about it.

When I was losing my mind, and often couldn’t sleep around the insane amounts of pain and depression I was going through, he saved me a little. He never liked sleeping in my room, but he’d come in sometimes then, on some of the worst nights, and cuddle up to me on the bed, purring and soft and warm, until I could actually fall asleep.

There are probably people out there who’d see my reaction to this and think or say, “It’s only a cat, get a grip!” Or something along those lines. But he’s not just a cat. This is almost like finding out a brother or a son is dying.

It’s just a matter of time now…

News from Delano about John’s hearing this week. I know it’ll do some good, because there will be a respite… but I wish that he was going away for a good, long time. Preferably for the rest of his unnatural life.

They sentenced him to 18 months drug diversion on Tues. – but didn’t address the other charges. He went back yesterday and got a year, except that he’ll probably be out in September. He might have gotten less time, but he decided to serve time rather than do the drug diversion program where they test for drugs on an ongoing basis. Looks like he doesn’t think he can stay off once he’s out. Grandma was waiting to see what happened with the other stuff before filing on the checks – said today that she wouldn’t file on that. I think that’s a mistake, but she can’t bear to hold his feet to the fire.

What does it take to convince that stubborn grandmother of mine that going easy on him isn’t doing any good? It just allows him to spend more time free, more opportunity to abuse her and my mother. It feels to my mom, and has begun to feel to me, that she loves my cousin more than her own daughter, more than the rest of the family. It feels like his comfort is more important than everyone else’s safety.

She has disowned me before when she was angry, and then taken it back when she calmed down. She’s disowned my mother, and then taken it back.

I’m on the edge of telling her that she’s disowned, no blood of mine, for all the things that she puts my mother through since she’s so determined to protect my cousin from the consequences of his own actions and insanity.

And I’m not taking it back.

My sphere is Guardian (Person of great Love and Altruism), and my class is Defender (Peaceful, yet Potent). I am a Warden. To be a Warden is to be the ultimate Guardian. Whether a physical Guardian or an essential Guardian, is up to you. You may be both. To be a physical Guardian is to be a living, breathing testament to the love you carry for a person, or people, whose lives you will always defend if you possibly can. To be an essential Guardian is to be a living, breathing testament to the security that your wards seek, and will look to you for your always kind, always nurturing support. What kind of Warrior are you?

My sphere is Guardian (Person of great Love and Altruism), and my class is Arms Master (Pragmatic and Stout). I am a Guard. You are a true, versatile guard. You have a defensive nature, that is, you are good at instilling a sense of security in the places around you. A strong presence weakens any possible threats around you, and a swift, practical approach to the problems that crop up puts them down before they can get out of hand. What kind of Warrior are you?

My sphere is Guardian (Person of great Love and Altruism), and my class is Champion (Self-Righteous and Confident). I am a Hero. You are true heroic material. You find great motivation in the things you love, and great inspiration in your sense of self-confidence, and your excellence. Once you get your mind set on a goal, you are nearly unstoppable, and given enough time, you will meet it. What kind of Warrior are you?

My sphere is Guardian (Person of great Love and Altruism), and my class is Rogue (Precise and Unhindered). I am a Protector. You won’t let anything or anyone threaten the ones you love if you have anything to say about it — and you aren’t afraid to back that up by any means possible. You might get your hands dirty in your life. You might do things that more lawful people would question. But there is no doubt in your mind that what you are doing is right, and you will have no regrets. To be a Protector is to shed many layers of “status quo,” of “morality,” and, to a degree, of honor, in order to dedicate yourself to the protection of your love in any way you can. You are a truly rare breed. You are loved in return for your great dedication by the people who value you. You know how to keep secrets, and uphold your word. What kind of Warrior are you?

So, I’m only half as schizophrenic as , apparently. Four results to his eight.

I just woke up from a truly strange dream involving arson on a grand scale. The details are already fading, but I do remember that, toward the end, I saw the mystery arsonists, knew them, and had to warn before calling the cops. You see, when the summer was over, three of the four of them would have been her roommates…

I’ve wondered where the dream would have gone from there, if I hadn’t been woken up by a leaf blower outside my window.

In other news of the weird, the guy whose profile I liked on the matchmaking site is, indeed, the guy with the fuzzy white cat slippers and crocodile from the party last Saturday. What a weird, weird coincidence.

I went to a party in Mountain View on Saturday for some one I really didn’t know, but it was her birthday and I went with friends who knew her

That was in some email I got from someone I spotted on the matchmaking site. I’d written a little while back, got a short (one line) reply, and my reply to that went unanswered. I figured that I wasn’t going to hear from him again, and kinda just shrugged and went on with life.

Well, he replied Sunday and I got the email just now. That line was in it. So I hopped on over to his profile again, and took another good look at the pictures with the profile.

I do believe he was the boy in the fuzzy white cat slippers and short robe who was flashing his croc at everyone.

If not, he’s croc-man’s twin brother.

The world just shrunk some more.

I’ve been restraining this ever since I saw the scene with Anakin and his mother in the Tuscan Raider camp.

I had the sudden realization that he’s now Little Orphan Ani.

The pun has won. :D

I’m feeling good tonight. Relaxed, mellow, happy. I haven’t felt this good in some time. Not since I was with in New Jersey. It’s been so long, I’d almost forgotten what it was like to not be stressed about something.

Goddess, is this what it’s like to feel cheerful? I’d forgotten. I don’t want to forget this again.

The party last night was amazing. It just needed , and there to be perfect, at least for me.

The only thing I’m not sure I like about that is the fact that I’m adjusting to the space that used to be filled by Sylvan and Wolfie. They’re still very much missing, and very much missed. But I’ve come to accept and expect that vacancy, and I’m not sure I like being accustomed to it now. I guess it almost feels disloyal to me to accept that my best friend I adore and his boyfriend that has come to mean almost as much as Sylvan (no insult there, it’s a huge accomplishment to get anywhere near the Sylvan in my esteem) are up north.

Today has been good. I talked with Sylvan and Wolfie, and even made Sylvan laugh so hard he dropped the phone, by passing on a comment made to me at the party. I talked with Mom. I talked with Phil (not that Phil, the other one.) I won the scenario and moved on to the next one in Pharaoh. I finally saw Attack of the Clones (could they have not found a better name? That’s my biggest objection to the movie at this point.) I watched it with , and then we went out to dinner. Good dinner, good talk, good time.

I’m not ready for this weekend to end. Monday has come too quickly.

‘What kind of Wing are you?’ by. Xera

THAT was a PARTY.

I think I enjoyed that more than any party I’ve gone to in years.

I hope that the birthday girl loved it even more than I did. Even if she did get spanked and didn’t save her.

At least, it damn well better be.

It is, of course, payday for me. That will be good. Thanks to spending at BayCon, what with food and the dealer’s room, plus the rent check that still hasn’t cleared, I’ve had to be cautious about spending money. I can be a little less paranoid about it come Monday. And Miss Kitty and I will be celebrating payday by having Cluck U for lunch. Love that place.

But more importantly, my psycho cousin’s hearing is on Monday. I hope my grandmother doesn’t back down on the forgery charge. Though they do have the syringes that were going to be tested for whatever drugs he’s been on this time, the vandalism, and violation of the emergency protective order, even if she does. I just want her to press charges on the forgery as well. Get him put away for longer.

My family’s been going through this, and I’ve been stressed about it, for so long now that I almost can’t believe in even the respite we’ve had, much less a longer one. It’s only slowly becoming something I can accept. It’s only been in the last few days I’ve been able to stay asleep once I’ve gotten there, rather than waking up every hour or so, convinced that I’m going to get a phone call at any moment, telling me that my grandmother and mom are dead.

I wish that I could afford to take time off to be there for the hearing. I’d like to see for myself that he’s being put away where he can’t hurt my family anymore. But my vacation time (what’s left of it) isn’t until September, and if I call in sick I’ll probably lose my job.

The company I work for is ridiculous when it comes to sick time, but that’s something I’ve ranted about often and I’m not going to go through it all yet again.

Ah well. Off to bed. I’ve got things to try and accomplish before ’s party in the evening.

26

I act like I’m 26.
This test was brought to you by David – Part of the David and James phenomenon. Take it here.

I just got my copy of the BayCon Progress Report #2 for BayCon 2002 in the mail.

I suppose it could be worse. It could have arrived a month after the convention, instead of a couple weeks.

Some days, I get really sick of men. I’m not attracted to women, sick of men. Can we please have a third option for those of us in that position, who don’t want to spend the rest of their lives on their own with a bunch of cats?

There are, of course, the many bastards of my past to encourage me to be thoroughly sick with the entire gender. There are the freaks I keep running into, like I’m some kind of magnet, to keep me firmly in the realm of fed up with men. There’s the thus-far disappointing (at best) series of talks, dates, and attempted dates from the silly matchmaking thing I joined. There are the things I see or hear or read about my friends, people I adore, things they’re going through because of men in their lives. And the more I see, the more I’ve had it. It makes me want a different way for the human race to be able to reproduce itself, so we can eliminate the male gender altogether.

But then I’ll talk with my and his and feel full of warm fuzzies. Or will make me laugh. Or will throw one of his verbal grenades that I love. Or will display some of that enthusiasm and energy I love in him. Or I’ll get a letter from and it will remind me of how sweet and caring he is, and how, despite everything, he’s still an angel. Or will come up with another of his brilliant, eccentric, strange posts or conversations that I have always enjoyed from him. Or will come up with something creative or insightful, or at least a truly beautiful verbal smackdown. Or will prove to me once again that he’s the wonderful, thoughtful, generally cheerful and upbeat Ferret and friend that he is. And it reminds me that they’re not all bad.

Just most of them. Or so it seems most of the time from where I’m standing.

Some days, I’m tempted to convince the women of the world to rise up and take over. Eliminate a large number of the males on the planet. Among the rest, three possibilities. The men I listed, and the ones like them, they still get to free reign to live their lives as they see fit as full citizens. Of the rest, the ones that have a little something… brilliant, or particularly handsome, or talented… are given no power as citizens. Instead, they get placed in various, for lack of a better term, stud ranches for reproduction purposes. Women can go pick and choose who the want to father their child, or for a bit of fun, or both. And the rest, the majority, eunuched slaves to maintain the household for the women. After all, SOMEbody still has to open the peanut butter jar when the lid sticks. ;p

There’s a guy I’ve talked to off and on over on the matchmaking site I joined a while back. Up until tonight, it’s always been fun and a little flirty, but nothing more than that. Just online friends, you know.

Tonight, he’s trying to convince me to drive up to a deserted rest stop between Santa Cruz and here on highway 17. Go meet him and blow him.

Suddenly, he’s not fun to talk and flirt with anymore.

The idea of meeting someone I don’t know, have exchanged a couple emails with, at some dark and deserted rest stop off the highway just ain’t my bag. Among other things, that strikes me as a really excellent way to wind up as a headline tomorrow.

I’ve been forcing my way through the godawful Far from Grace. I finally found the part that I’m in, under my old pseudonym. I was curious about that part. I’m more than half-tempted to stop reading now that I’ve satisfied my curiosity about how I was portrayed. The writing is truly horrible. Some of the worst writing I’ve ever seen. I wonder how that boy managed to get the thing published. You can almost understand it when an established writing gets something really bad published. You can figure that the publishing house was willing to do it in on the theory that they can make money on the name. But this guy is an unknown. How in the hell did he get published? It defies logic.