What Goes Around, Comes Around

I'm flattered. Really, I am. Also annoyed.

To the people who swipe artwork and turn it into widely disseminated joke emails: At least have the common decency to leave the signature on the artwork. I won't sue you (probably) since you aren't making any money off the stolen work in question. And I know you figure it won't ever land in the mailbox of the original artist (wrong). But, maybe, just maybe, if you leave the signature on, someone might google my slightly unusual last name, Kadel, and go to my website and BUY some artwork.

My own work, uncredited, has shown up in my email twice in less than two months. The first one was for Halloween. I almost deleted the email, but for some reason I scrolled to the bottom (no pun intended, but it should have been...) and there she was.



The most recent one was turned into an animation (pretty nice job, art stealer, but you got the mouth wrong). Here she is in her original form, the one with the good mouth...



Now, go ahead, drag them to your desktop, add a cute saying, and send them to 10 million of your closest friends, but leave my name on them. OK? Thank you. Thank you very much.

Let It Snow

I just love weather news. Not the regular weather report, I mean Storm Team Central, that relentless round of live reports by ruddy cheeked reporters in huge parkas stationed at freeway overpasses and high-elevation problem spots around town. I can't get enough of film clips of vehicles spiraling down hills in slow motion, ricocheting off parked cars and telephone poles. Rapes and murders disappear from the radar to make way for close-ups of reporters' boots scuffing a half-inch of gravelly snow.

When you live someplace that's basically gray for about eight months of the year it pays to make the most of what moderately interesting weather there is to be had. We don't have many tornadoes (ok, we had a little one this year that took the roof off Kentucky Fried Chicken, but that was God making a statement about obesity), and darn few hurricanes. 

Ooh! It's snowing again. Gotta go turn on the tv.

It's the Hap-Happiest Time of the Year

A couple of days ago, in among the Christmas cards and insurance ads, there was an envelope in the mail from Peaceful Paws, the pet cremation service where the emergency vet sent my beautiful little dog. Now, I have to think it can't be a cheery job, cremating a steady stream of dogs and cats, nipping a lock of hair to sell you later in the form of a paper weight or pendant, taking footprints from lifeless feet to make keepsake ornaments. There must be a level of callousness that these people have to achieve in order to go to work every day.

But the contents of the aforementioned envelope stopped me cold. The heading wished me "The Gift of Warm Memories... of Seasons Past with (sic) Gromet", but the kicker was the title of the poem to follow, printed in a bold font, Christmas Without My Dog. They had customized the heading and poem, misspelling both his name, Gromit, and his breed, schipperke.

I guess it was well meant. Later, after I regained my composure, I peered into the envelope looking for a page two that offered me the chance to buy some warm memories at budget prices, but they weren't trying to sell me a darn thing. All I can say is, Peaceful Paws, what were you thinking??

Damn Cocoa

Cocoa and keyboards do not mix. My numbers are now limited to 456789. That's it. No one, two, or three. Also no decimal point, directional arrows, or forward delete key.

Now there is something on my Christmas list. Damn heartwarming breakfast beverages.

Starting Over

Three weeks ago I lost my best friend. We had known each other for 10 years. We went everywhere together, we slept in the same bed, shared the same friends, we loved to get fast food (he liked the drive through). Sometimes we showered together. People we know expected to see us together. Then, in the minute it takes for a heart to stop beating, he was gone. Unexpectedly. Too soon. He was an example for the rest of us: a perennially happy guy, curious, irrepressible, always on the alert for the next good thing to drop out of the sky. Big appetite, big heart, he never turned down the chance for a cuddle or a snack. I loved him with all my heart and I miss him every day.

Hearts are big places, and I'm working on falling in love again. We have only known each other for 10 days. But we go everywhere together, sleep in the same bed, and he's meeting my friends. I met him online. He was in jail. I was looking for love. These things happen. The funny thing is, I don't know his name. Sometimes I think it's Ollie or Otis. It might be Nick or Henry or Jack, Chance or Antonio. For a minute or two I thought he was Winston and for a couple of days I was sure he was Scooter, but that's just silly. So, we walk and talk and learn each others' ways and pretty soon I'll know his name. And I'll love him, only differently. And that's fine.

Crackpots in the 'Hood

I know Vancouver doesn't have the corner on crackpots. After all I live here. But, on Monday, I stopped by a neighborhood grocery store to buy a friend some cold medicine. Normally I would go to a giant chain grocery to save money, but I was in a hurry so I stopped at a market that fell somewhere between Huge-orama-Foods and Mom n' Pop. On the sidewalk at the front of the store was a man on his knees, praying. Just like Christopher Robin: head bowed, hands clasped together. My first thought was, "Don't go into the store. This guy is going to wrap up his prayer session and blow away all the shoppers with an automatic weapon." I went in anyway. Remember? I was in a hurry. Inside, I made my choice (one box of generic DayQuill left! Score!), and as I rounded the last aisle I encountered Crackpot Number Two. He had a hood pulled tightly over his face so just his left eye was exposed and, with this single eye, he stared intently at me as I made my way from the back of the store, past him, to the checkout counter. Curious as I was, I lacked the intestinal fortitude to look back to see if he had swiveled around to look after I had passed him. Prayer guy, by the way, continued to loiter outside the store as I left, but had switched from praying to smoking. Maybe he had been praying for his lungs.

The Hazards of Drinking in Vancouver

Sometimes a person needs a little pick-me-up in the form of carbonated caffeine. Such was the case last weekend as I drove down Mill Plain Boulevard in Vancouver and was faced with the choice of Burgerville or Taco Bell. Side by side, Burgerville was just a smidge easier to get to. What's the difference? Right?

Not right. Burgerville charged me a whopping $1.84 (or maybe it was $1.94, I was too shocked to register my exact amount of change) for an ordinary "small" drink. This wasn't one of those commemorative plastic bathtubs printed with action figures that won't fit your cup holders. It was just a regular, normal-person-sized, soda.

However, if, instead, I had turned left into Taco Bell I could have gotten a free Senior Drink with the purchase of any food. By purchasing one crunchy taco (which costs somewhere in the neighborhood of 89¢) I could have 1. saved a dollar and 2. offered the taco to the man with the cardboard sign at the freeway exit, thereby making the world a better place.

Just a note: you don't have to be all that "senior" to get the Taco Bell drink deal. Only fifty! I have years of free drinks ahead of me. Burgerville and I are through.

Boo.

Ok, I have had this blog for a while without ever writing anything. I only got it because Blogger led me to believe that I couldn't read my children's blogs, Child A and Child B, not necessarily in that order, without signing up for one of my own. Now, years later, I know better, but still have the darn blog with a yawning hole.

Thus, my seminal post.

Why is it that adult females, and by adult I mean middle aged (mostly, though the perps fall across several decades), feel that Halloween events are a suitable venue for displaying acres of boobage and miles of thigh that are tastefully covered the other 364 days of the year? When I made this observation, I was at a dance. Thus, the acres in question were on the move - and, in a couple of cases, very tenuously contained. 

This might be construed as sour grapes from someone who came dressed as a cowgirl (and joined rest of the herd of cowgirls, so aptly described by one of the cg's as the "what the hell am I going to be that I can get out of my closet?" school of costume design). Friday, officially Halloween, I plan to switch from cowgirl (perky) to Sarah Palin (scary, yet still perky). My date has steadfastly refused to be a caribou.