Author: Kara Mae Adamo. 

I’ve spent a great deal of time at the bar over the last couple of months–and eating au gratin potatoes at work (I’m a vegetarian working in a fine dining steak house…they feed us…but most of it previously had a face…you see how my options are a bit limited)

I have, however, been maintaining an active lifestyle. I’ve been switching it up a bit: I have gone rock climbing recently (my friends go a lot, so I really have no excuse outside of my insane schedule not to go), and I’ve started hitting the gym more, too.

I also bought myself some roller blades. I can’t decide if this last one has anything to do with my sudden mid-twenties freak-out, but I have also been looking into buying a ninja 250. It suffices to say that I may or may not be experiencing a quarter-life crisis…but either way I bought the blades. I also went skateboarding for the first time in my life. Granted, I was drinking a beer and smoking a cigarette at 4 o’clock in the morning when I was on said skateboard, but it actually didn’t go too bad…aside from when I ended up on someone’s driveway while on my friend Alex’s long-board. As it turns out, going down-hill is completely different than going straight or up-hill. The board shot out from under me and I fell right on my tailbone.

It was still fun.

And, honestly, why shouldn’t I go skateboarding or rollerblading? Why? Because I’m a grown woman? Meh. I’m the size of a ten year old, and I feel that somehow earns me the right to play like one. I’m not hurting anyone but myself most of the time, anyway.

Perhaps it will keep me young. I’ve sworn off plastic surgery and face-lifts. Perhaps if I keep that youthful glow that comes from climbing trees and making mud-pies, I will never have to consider these things. (Just kidding on the mud-pies…sort of).
I actually am developing a school of thought surrounding this. So what if I want to do all of these things? I didn’t do them that much as a teenager and, well, I’m a grown-ass adult. I pay my bills and work 60+ hours a week. I do my own taxes, clean my own house and own my own car. So if I want to get grass stains all over my jeans by falling down because I haven’t figured out how to stop on my new roller blades then who’s to stop me?!

No one; that’s who.

I’ve also taken to buying more food from the grocery store. I feel as though this is key. I tend to eat healthier when I’m, well, not at the bar. Tonight, for instance, I sauteed some asparagus with some carrots and a touch of soy sauce. I also let a vegan grilled “chicken breast” simmer in some ginger dressing and a little claret. I topped both of these with a bit of caprino cheese and had a small side salad of mixed greens, radishes (an excellent blood purifier, btw) and ginger dressing. In lieu of a beer, I had a glass of juice (a combo of two of my favorite V8 fruit blends).

Honestly, I feel better already.

I’m trying to get myself in shape so that, when I take off over seas a year and a half from now, I’ll be in tip-top condition for the training regimen.

This has helped get my mind off of a few upsetting things and, honestly, it’s how I usually live. I’ve been in a rut for a while and I feel like I’m finally climbing out of it. This makes for a happy Kara–and it also gives me an excuse to shop for cute clothes this spring

Author: Kara Mae Adamo. 

I have a headache today…and it’s not just because of my new glasses.

Santorum, in his most recent stream of verbal idiocy, made a comment regarding prenatal care…and how it is, essentially, unnecessary. His comment, of course, is in reference to Obamacare (a cluster-fuck they have done their damnedest to render completely ineffective because, well, if he doesn’t make strides, it looks like he’s not trying to do anything…but that’s another argument completely.)

The quote went like this:

“One of the mandates is they require free prenatal testing in every insurance policy in America…why? Because it saves money in health care. Why? Because free prenatal testing ends up in more abortions and therefore less care that has to be done, because we cull the ranks of the disabled in our society.”

His argument has to do with the fact that, during prenatal testing, the doctors dealing with his wife’s pregnancy recommended abortion because their daughter suffers from Trisomy 18 (a chromosome disorder that often results in stillborns). Now, fortunately young Isabella was not a stillborn, but that really isn’t the point. The point is, Karen Santorum still sought prenatal testing when she was pregnant…because when you are pregnant that’s what you do.

To say that prenatal testing is unnecessary and to argue that it is part of a massive conspiracy to encourage abortions is ridiculous.

And what if it did?

Don’t get me wrong. I am not “pro-abortion”. I could never get one myself. It would absolutely destroy me and I don’t get over things easily enough. I’ve miscarried and it took over a year to shed that guilt from my mind. A purposeful ridding of my hypothetical child would, simply put, be out of the question.

For me.

I am, however, a realist. Just because I would never want something done doesn’t mean that I want the government telling me whether or not it’s okay.

That’s the cliché answer for “pro-life” women. Please sit down for this next part, though, as I’m bound to make some waves.

For me, it’s not even about whether or not abortion is murder.

I’m sorry. It’s just not. I don’t know when “life begins.” I am not a scientist and I sure as hell am not a priest.

I am, however, a concerned global citizen.

We, as a populace, have grown too much. We are popping out way too many kids and, thanks to modern science, we are sticking around entirely too long (case in point: the near-depletion of social security funds). According to Jean-François Rischard (former president of the World Bank), we are projected to jump to 8 billion people by 2020. EIGHT BILLION. That’s an almost 2-billion jump in under a decade.

Our planet is already going to hell in a hand basket. We don’t have the space or the resources to contend with that kind of demographic explosion. I know it sounds cruel, but abortion is a form of population control. It sounds cold-hearted (and maybe it is), but facts are facts. Factor in water scarcity, poverty, infectious diseases, fishery depletion, biodiversity losses, deforestation, maritime pollution, and energy/food consumption, and this little traffic jam turns into a big problem. Cereal consumption alone is projected to rise by 30 percent. For those of you who insist on eating rotting, decomposing flesh, the meat consumption will jump by up to 60 percent.

Also, the same party that argues against the cruelty of abortion will dash away at the mere mention of socialized healthcare. I’m sorry, but until we are willing to take care of people that are already here, the argument regarding adding to that number is null. There are too many of us and there is no shortage of orphans out there. They’ll force you to have the kid, but then they’ll argue against the taxes set in place to care for it once it’s inevitably handed over to the state…and the charming, balloon-filled, happy home life that goes with it.

When people say that the unwanted child-fetus could go to a willing adoptive family, it makes me twitch because there are already plenty of children that lack homes, clothing, education and food.

I understand the idea that killing innocent children is not the answer, but let’s face it: we do that all the time.

In the last ten years, I have watched us give the finger to our fellow veto powers at the UN Security Council, strap up, and bomb the ever loving shit out of sovereign nations. We finance child trafficking and turn our noses to child soldier stories. So why, in the comfort of squeaky-clean suburbia, does the issue of murdering children suddenly come up? It’s hypocrisy, pure and simple.

I want my government to stay out of my personal life. Don’t tell me what to smoke, who to fuck and whether or not I should have a baby. Don’t tell me what to say, who to listen to, and please leave me alone about the faith thing. The day a presidential candidate admits to being an atheist is the day I dance a jig on the White House lawn…because the race should not be about faith. Freedom of religion was the entire point, was it not? Don’t get me wrong, I know that poor martyr would never make it to the primaries or might even end up stoned to death , but just the idea is enough to get me excited.

The life at conception argument is just as important to me as the argument over whether or not there is a gay gene…in that I don’t care. It’s not about that. It’s about numbers…just like these arguments are about numbers. Unfortunately, there are mitigating circumstances that lead people to have abortions. They’ll always be there and people will always get them. If you don’t like abortion, don’t get an abortion. But the idea that this is a prime issue in a country where so many other things have gone wrong is completely ridiculous.

As my friend Andrew says, they are flooding our media with insane, unfounded quotes regarding social issues because neither party has a solution for the economic issues we’re all facing…they are upsetting us on purpose: redirecting our focus so that we all talk about gay people marrying more and leave lack-o-cash on the back burner for a bit.

Syria was recently condemned, employment remains a constant headache on the domestic forefront, Egypt is screwed and Sara Palin still thinks it’s okay to drill for oil and simultaneously host a nature show. We have far more important issues on our hands.

So I guess it’s no secret that I’m an insomniac. This is what happens when you don’t sleep for two days.

Also: for some reason I can’t seem to add stanza breaks in this blog…imagine (if you can) that there is a break between every four lines. Iambic Pentameter is there–I promise!!

When the Witching Hour

has twice come ’round

and I’ve watched

without a blink,

The twisted words

of rhyme and verse

from shaking hands do ink.

I’ll coax them out

of my worn-tipped quill

watch them swirl and

bend and flow.

From my sleepy head

to a blue-lined pad

my riddled thoughts

will grow.

Half-awake

I’ll read them out

to this audience

of one

And misty-eyed

I’ll see them

and give rhythm

to what’s been done.

Out loud they are

more vivid;

their pattern

is given shape.

And as the sky

begins to lighten

the words will

then escape.

Off the walls

they’ll echo;

through cracks

they’ll surely slip

And on thin breeze

they’ll carry

the message

I have sent.

As it blows

they’ll waver

and my voice

will soon be lost:

Just a wayward sound

to clutter;

a whisper to

melt the frost.

And if all the world

would listen,

their efforts

would be in vain.

The vibrations

are far too subtle

and weighted

by this rain.

So harmlessly

I’ll write them;

my tired thoughts

‘ll be sorted out

And with one last dip

into blue-black ink,

I’ll silently

scream and shout.

It’s a power just to feel it–

that tonic called

written word–

To take what’s locked

and release it

to share my thoughts

with the world.

And while the rain

outside might shatter

the spoken bits

I’ve scribed

The energy of their

existence

(I assure you)

has not died.

The sense of them

will continue.

It’ll hang among

the tiers.

And as sunlight

rounds the corner,

it’ll slip through

waking ears.

It may seem like

it’s nothing–

just a thought

in a sleepy head–

It may only

last a moment;

gone once you have

been fed.

But at least

I know I’ve sent it

as my tired eyes

do close…

Three days long

I’ve waited

to finally

send this prose.

And once I have

awaken

(eyes brighter

from the sleep)

I know I’ll feel

much better

and clearer

I will think.

Nothing too drastic; I’m still going out with friends and I’m still chatting with people on the phone…I’m just…I don’t know…toning it down a bit.

I suppose I mean this mostly in regards to dating. This ever-so-wonderful week marks the last week Rob and I were together. A near three-year live-in relationship was unraveling at the seams by Valentines Day (how apropos) and since then I have been on a wild roller coaster of love interests and not-so-comfortable run-ins that have left me downright winded. I’ve revisited my past relationship–and several other past relationships. I’ve also met a lot of really great people that have turned out to be  good friends and I’m glad and proud to say that they’re in my corner.

I’ve also fucked up. A lot.

Anyway, back to the reason I decided to ramble in the first place.

Kira is at John’s tonight, so I’m home alone. I figured I’d cook myself some dinner, sip some tea, and take it easy by watching The Secret Circle (my new obsession). In this episode, Cassie is being haunted by dead witches. They do a good job making it spooky–it’s much more of a Halloween episode than a Valentines Day episode–which makes it perfect. The problem is, I’m a pansy.

If you’ve never watched a scary movie with me, then there is no way for me to adequately express just how true that sentence really is. I am an absolute, 100% chicken-shit. I am a 24 year old woman who is afraid of standing in front of windows because I fear that at some point somebody will be staring back at me. Sends chills, doesn’t it? I won’t sleep with a ouija board nearby and I am not swell with jumpy things. In fact, I am deathly afraid of frogs because they do just that…they jump. And you never know which direction…and their slimy little suction cup toes…ugh…

Moving on.

The only way I can manage to get through this damned episode is if I pause it every couple of minutes. I guess that, by doing that, I wake myself up from the cinematic trance long enough to breathe before plunging back in.

I also do this when characters in normal shows/movies are about to embarrass themselves.

So my conclusion is this: I wish I had a pause button.

I know it’s not a novel concept. Who doesn’t wish they could “turn back time” (yeah, I went there…and Cher understands, man!!) But seriously…I don’t need to go back…but to “pause” would be great. I can’t count on one hand how many situations this week alone that might have been fixed if I had a fucking pause button. Just a five-second breather so I can recollect and rethink some things.

I mean, I guess I kind of do. If I would calm down more often, I could probably instigate my own little zen-like state, but let’s face it…I’m not going to do that. Not that I shouldn’t…it’s a terrific idea and would probably lead to a higher state of maturity that I so desperately need to reach, but I know me. When I’m upset, that hot-tempered Sicilian blood starts boiling and I see red and every horrible thing that could ever come out of my mouth can and most of the time will come out. As will the tears. (Yeah…pansy and crier.) You know it’s bad when you make yourself cry more than other people make you cry.

Not only that, but I’d make better decisions. If I could hit “pause” before letting my guard down too quickly or taking that last shot of tequila (Patron is my friend…Cuervo is not) then I’d probably be able to avoid a lot more stupid situations. Who knows? Maybe I’d even be able to catch myself before I fall down the stairs again!

Oh, the possibilities!!

Then again, maybe I’d just relish in my anger or make my klutzy stair-face situation worse by flipping into a sommersault and landing on my head. Maybe breaking the flow isn’t always good.

But still–how cool would it be to just freeze everything around you? I’d get into so much trouble with that kind of power. The first thing that comes to mind? I’d totally “pause” my friends’ beer pong games and take the ping pong ball out of the air and put it somewhere else…like in their pocket or something. Or replace the ball with a rubber ducky.

I could also pause life when I’m about to fall on one of Kira and I’s rollerblading routes…right before she notices I’m about to eat shit. I’d just “pause,” right myself, and skate past her before hitting “play.”

More importantly, this would help me when I’m reacting to things emotionally. Then, when I’m about to storm out on a guy who doesn’t even know what the hell he did wrong, I can wait for a second, assess the situation, and possibly stay put. Or I could decide for sure if it’s a good idea to leave.

Or I could stay out of the situation completely, recognizing that in the heat of the moment what seems like a good idea probably isn’t one.

Lately I’ve been making decisions based on nothing more than what feels good momentarily. I’ve spent so long worrying over the moral implications of my actions that I haven’t had a whole lot of fun up until recently. I have this habit of stressing myself out over how everything I do might affect other people and in most cases that’s a good thing…

…if you want to be a lonely, boring nun-like cat lady.

I am not catholic and Rob got the cat when we split, so that just leaves lonely and boring.

So I’ve been out and meeting people and honestly having a good time…except that I send myself on these horrible guilt trips afterwords. I’m not exactly sleeping around, but I’m so used to belonging to one person that I’m not completely sure I know how to be single.

I know how to live on my own and how to have fun on my own…but single life is a strange place. There are so many rules and so many people ready and willing to mess with your head and lie to you! You end up being paranoid. And paranoia leads to craziness. And I’m already crazy enough, thank you.

I’m really good at getting ideas in my head…and not very good at shaking them. Lately, due to one guy outright lying to me about a couple of key details, I have approached other men with the caution and distrust I should really be showing him (oh, don’t get me wrong, I’m tossing him out of the picture).

Another problem is that, when I get angry over something I have every right to be mad over, I feel terrible about it. I hate being mad at people. I can’t stand the idea of bad-blood being between me and anybody else. I usually know when I’m wrong (which I am about 60% of the time), and I always admit it…up to an annoying fault…and I have a feeling that it’s that quality that makes me a doormat. And when you’re a doormat you become very angry…and that anger comes out a lot when you drink…which leads to projection. Never a good thing.

Here is where that pause button would come in handy: when I’m projecting my feelings about one thing onto people that have nothing to do with it. I let myself feel this way…it’s not their fault…and I’m letting the other person–the guilty party–get away scott free because I don’t want to be the instigator. I just want to get along with people, regardless of what’s been done. So when I actually am to blame, the guilt becomes even worse.

And then I hibernate in my apartment and watch cheesy shows about magick and love and haunted medallions…because this is my personal form of a “pause button”…and damnit, I need a break.

I’d like to point out that, while writing this, The Secret Circle has been on “pause.” The TV has switched to a screen saver…so I guess it’s time to hit play and let things play out the way they will.

Until next time

So tonight I was walking out of work when my coworker (Ron) caught up to me and asked me if I was going to drive down Kirkman Road. As it happens, I take Kirkman on the way home, so I told him yes and agreed to drive him to Fridays where the two of us wound up having several drinks. He walked the block and a half to his house and I climbed behind the wheel of my own car and headed out towards my apartment.

Having had a couple of drinks and a meal while at Fridays, my buzz has been decent all night. I have that funny tingly feeling in my face that makes me kind of giggle but doesn’t really impair my judgment too much, either. It’s a happy place to be.

So on the way home, I’m jamming out to the current CD I have in my player (Shout it Out by Hanson…don’t judge until you’ve heard it.) when all of the sudden, I realize that the person in front of me is kind of swerving.

Actually, that is an understatement. They were straight weaving in between the little white dash lines. It was the worst example of drunk driving I’ve seen in a while­—and that includes the times I’ve curbed my car.

Suddenly (and I’m not sure if this was the booze talking or if I’m just a sap) I felt incredibly protective over this person. I didn’t know who they were or what they looked like…if they were male or female; black or white. I just knew that I had to know if they got home safe or not. It simply wasn’t an option. It was like all of my previous goals: of working on the illustration that was due two days ago and getting home and going to sleep and washing my uniform, etc…all of those things simply didn’t matter anymore. I had to know if they got home okay. (because, you know, if they end up in a fiery car crash, I am so qualified to even help them in that situation. *rolls eyes*)

So we turn down Conroy and the weaving gets worse. It was like, the further we drove the more inebriated they became. Now I had to follow them. I didn’t even have the option. I felt like, if I didn’t tag along, they would die in some horrible drunk-driving fiery crash and that I’d be to blame. So I stalked them. I followed them down Hiawassee and even passed the turn onto Lake Debra (my street). I hit the light at Metrowest Blvd. and strained my eyes to keep track of them as the light took its happy-ass time turning to green. Then I sped up. I jumped up to 60 mph in a 40 mph zone just to catch up to them and watch them turn into the McDonalds drive-thru.

Here’s where it gets ridiculous: I went through the drive-thru. I actually turned in and ordered myself something small just to make sure they were okay. It wasn’t until I had to pause and wait for my fries to come out that I realized that they would just speed off into the abyss once they’d gotten their food.

So now I’m sipping on a hot mocha I didn’t necessarily even want wondering if I am crazy.

Does this make me a stalker? I mean, it’s not a sick thing, really, I just wanted to know that they got home okay. But, on the other hand, I was pretty much following them home. I don’t care where they live or what they do or even who they are—I just wanted them to get home safe.

So am I a stalker-creepy-person or a concerned citizen? I’m just buzzed enough to honestly put it out there with the pursuit of an answer. When I studied paganism, I used to draw the safe-traveling rune on people’s cars.

Actually, fuck it. I’ll fess-up. I still do that. Every single day. It’s illogical and a little superstitious, but I like to think that the positive energy I send out will in some way benefit those I send it to. I like to feel like I have some fragment of influence over the people I care about and, as a result, I have drawn that rune on the cars of every friend and coworker and family member I have for years—and I really mean years. Sorry—I just really do care.

My dad used to tell my mom to drive safely whenever she would take my sister and I to church on Sundays and it’s sort of rubbed off on me. I make most people text me when they get home just so I know they’re okay. Perhaps that is where this comes from. Maybe that’s why I’m following strangers until I lose them if I think they’re too drunk to drive. I mean, after-all, I do draw the rune and send it out to drunk girls at bars and clubs for the same reason. My friends have straight caught me doing it.

Yeah. I’m a little nuts. But am I creepy? That is the real question.

Who knows? My intentions are good, but (then again) so are the intentions of most other creepy people.

Maybe we’re all creeps in different ways.

Oh, well. At least now I have a mocha to enjoy .

Author: Kara Mae Adamo.

 I used to have a cat. Actually, I kind of still do have a cat, only he lives with his father (the ex) and my visitation rights are only loosely fulfilled. Thor lives on the other side of town in a townhouse I helped him move into and it is only on the rare that I hear much about him other than the fact that, evidently, he thinks he is an outdoor cat now.

This does not a happy Kara make.

But I digress. The reason I am even mentioning said feline is that, in the wee hours of the night, I sometimes enter a state of delusion where I forget important things like, oh say, I no longer have a pet. Keep all of this in mind as you read on.

So one night, Kira and I were in a girly mood. Fed up with the headaches of dating and the headaches of alcohol, we decided to stay in and just watch a movie. We vegged out and ate comfort food and watched The Daily Show with every intention of just falling asleep in front of the TV. It was the perfect dose of laziness meant to counter the long hours at work and the many hours of socializing we do on a weekly basis.

So I’m watching Stewart point out the most recent disturbing circumstances revolving around the presidential candidacy situation (I’d specify which one, but at this point I’m so over it that I’d really rather slip into a coma until it’s all over and done with anyway), when suddenly I felt something on my back.

Aww, Thor-baby, was basically the un-verbalized thought that skimmed the surface of my drifting consciousness.

I felt the thing move a little.

*a beat*

My eyes snapped open. I don’t have a cat!

I glared at the red head to my left, thinking she was messing with me.

I froze.

Wrapped up like a burrito, Kira was snoring away within the folds of her comforter.

I kicked her. “Kira! Kira, wake up!”

She snorts herself awake. “What?”

“Kira, something’s in your bed!” A furry thing darts across her pillow.

I spring up into the air like Julie jumping onto the car in The Next Karate Kid. “Holy shit! It’s a rat!”

“Wahhhh!!” She screams.

A furry tail curves up over its head.

“Squirrelllll!!!!” I scream.

I sprang from her bed and flew out the door. Running down the hall, I realize that the half-awake Kira has been left to fend for herself. I whirl around in a valiant stroke of white-knight-protective instinct, intent on facing our foe head-on…

…only to see it running towards me with death in its eyes.

I turn-tail and run out the front door.

I slam the door and press my back against it as if a grizzly was on the other side, threatening to claw my face off. Breathing heavily, I look to my right. My neighbor Andrew has just walked out of his apartment. Cell phone in hand, he searches my panic-stricken, paling face. “…are you okay?”

“Squirrel.” I breathe, “Squirrel…ran across my back,” *swallow*

“There’s a squirrel in your apartment?”

“Yes.”

“Is your roommate home?”

“Oh, shit,” I back away from the door, realizing that not only have I prevented the squirrel from leaving, but I’ve trapped Kira as well. Cautiously, I crack open the door.

An angry red head burst through it, running past me like an orange tornado in a purple bathrobe. “You left me in there!”

“I tried to come back for you!”

“You just fucking screamed ‘squirrel’ and ran off!! I was still asleep!”

“Well now what do we do?” I ask.

My neighbor came to the rescue. “The same thing happened to us once. If we turn off all of the lights in your apartment and open the door, it’ll go towards the light.

So our plan was set. We sent our rescuer (a much better white knight than me) in to contend with the squirrel. He searches our apartment high and low, unable to find it. We then turned all of the lights off and opened the front door, hoping the light from the hall would lure it out of whatever crevice it lurked in.

We called the security guards at our complex and told them what happened—you know—because they are going to handle a fucking squirrel break-in. I idly wondered if furry creatures could be trespassed.

After about twenty to forty solid minutes, we gave up. We sighed and tiptoed back into Kira’s room, which we decided was squirrel-free. We stuffed a towel under the door and did our best to fall asleep.

The next morning, we crept out, looking cautiously for our furry friend. He was nowhere to be seen…but tiny little squirrel teeth had nibbled at the peaches sitting in the bowl on our kitchen table. Furry little mooch.

So the office sends a guy out to us who sets up a trap. Evidently, back when we were having problems with our AC in July, the geniuses that “fixed” it created a hole thing near the AC to allow something to drain (hey, I’m a writer, not a handyman. I don’t know how it works).  When they finally really fixed it, they never patched up the hole.

Hens, we had a squirrel visitor.

So he sets the trap by the hole and tells us that, in the event the squirrel gets trapped, we are not to let it out because it will just come back in.

So Kira goes to the restaurant and I start an article for work and neither of us think too much of it…until later that night. I heard a rattling in the cage and a squeaking noise.

Aww, I think to myself, it wants out!

But I have been given very specific orders to not, under any circumstances, let the squirrel out of its cage. Kira comes home and Holz comes over. Holz checks the squirrel. She tells me it’s a tiny little sugar glider. Great. Now I feel even more terrible than I already did.

Oh, well, I think, a couple more hours and they’ll let it out or something.

 So the following morning, while I’m getting ready for an appointment, I hear a knock at my door. I open the door. The creepy old pest guy from before is there and tells me he just wants to check the squirrel. Unsure of whether the caged squirrel or the creepy guy have me more freaked out, I brush past him on my way to my car.

At this point, I want no part of it. “It’s fine. Just don’t hurt him, okay? I have to run.”

“No, here, I just want to show you…”

“No, seriously, I’m okay.”

“Here, you should look at it—oh.”

I pause halfway down the hall. “What?”

“It’s dead.”

“What??”

“It’s dead, look.” He then swings the cage at me. Inside is a catatonic, rigid squirrel.

I freak out, fly down the stairs, and peal out of the parking lot faster than I ever have before.

It seriously looked like the squirrel from Ice Age whenever it’s frozen in a block of ice.

Ever since, I swear to god, a totally different squirrel has lurked near the foot of my stairs. Holz and Kira and my friend Greg can vouch for me on this one…it straight blocks the stairs when it doesn’t want people to go up.

Now the question is, is he a security squirrel trying to protect me? Or is he seeking revenge for his lost brethren? Either way, no squirrels have tried coming in through that stupid hole thing they still haven’t patched up…and I feel guilty whenever I see the other squirrel.

he looked something like this--but needed an inhaler

 Author: Kara Mae Adamo. 

Not too long after I got back from Monterey, (see Attack of the Squirrels, Part 1), I found myself smack-dab in the middle of another squirrel attack. This time, I was not alone.

The Asthmatic Baby Squirrel

One morning, after several rainy days in a row, my roommate Kira and I woke up to the pale glow of mid-morning sunlight. (Yes, our names are Kira and Kara—you can’t make that crap up.)

Eager to soak up the last rays of sunshine of the season, we decided to take advantage of this welcomed change by lounging out by the pool with a couple of books.

We were not alone in our decision. There were already several girls relaxing with magazines and one father was playing with his little six year old daughter in the pool. The sunlight danced happily across the water, reflecting in little beams against our skin. I curled my toes in happiness as I flipped through my now-worn copy of Bugliosi’s Outrage and listened to the trickling of the slated waterfall-styled fountain behind me.

And then I heard it.

A shrill, hair-raising scream pierces through the air, cut through the golden sunlight, zeroes in on me, and stabs at an unsuspecting nerve.

I jump and look up to see one of the girls propped up on her lounging chair, limbs rigid in fright.

“YELLLGHH!!!!” she squeals again.

The hell?

 Another girl wearing what has to be noise-cancelling headphones suddenly drops her iPod and springs up onto her chair like she’s just realized the patio is made of molten lava.

Blind to what was causing the commotion, I take my reading glasses off to see a tiny little brown fuzzy thing on hind legs staring the headphone girl down.

…squirrel..?

 It jerks its head up and down.

It leaps.

The headphone girl springs back, up and off of the chair, nearly falling onto the step behind her.

The squirrel looks at the first girl. It darts at her. She, too, flies backward, almost knocking her friend over in the process.

The little girl in the pool sees the squirrel.

“Daddy! A squirrel! A squirrel!” she says happily, splashing around, seemingly oblivious to the impending danger.

“I see that!” her father says, clearly relieved to be in the pool and not on the patio.

The squirrel darts toward another of the girls. This girl laughs. She grabs a little pool toy (a ball) and rolls it toward the squirrel.

The squirrel—I shit you not—runs after it, pushing it along and rolling around with it like a puppy.

The tension clears for a moment. The squirrel is a baby. It is only playing. That is when the first victim goes “he followed us all the way from our apartment!”

…like a stray dog that follows you home…

This squirrel suffers from identity confusion.

Kira and I laugh and shake our heads and watch as people start trying to take pictures and videos with their phones as the baby squirrel rolls around with the ball.

The child in the pool makes another splash.

The ball be damned.

The squirrel spins around and makes a beeline for the pool. The child-thing screams. The squirrel’s tail bristles. It now stands at the edge of the pool bobbing its head up and down like a lizard. It is angry at the child-thing…and so am I.

Kira chooses this very moment to get up and rinse off so she can cool off in the pool. She goes to turn the pool shower on. The squirrel turns. It looks at her…and it takes off.

Kira runs away, screaming, “agh!! It’s wheezing! It’s wheezing!!”

Me: “It’s wheezing?”

Kira (who is now half-way around the pool): “I think it’s got rabies!!”

Me: “Idiot. It’s not frothing, it’s just tired.”

Kira: “No! It’s sick!”

Splash.

She resurfaces and swims immediately to the center of the pool, joining up with the father and the little girl that distracted the squirrel from his ball to begin with.

I, remembering my recent run-in with his kind, gingerly place my book down on my chair and tiptoe away from it, over to the waterfall fountain.

The squirrel’s ears perk up. It dashes after me. Kira is right. It is wheezing.

I panic. I sprint away, rounding the corner at speeds unsafe for those of us with gravitational issues, and nearly slip on the pavers. The squirrel is now gaining on me. I have no choice: I launch myself into the pool.

I come up for air to see that it is glaring at me. Its beady little eyes and wheezing breaths are but a foot away. It’s crouching low—it’s about to jump in after me.

I kick water in its face and splash it. It darts into a bush.

At this point, one of the office ladies comes out to see what the hell is going on.

The fucking thing leaps out of the bush and onto her shoulder.

She laughs at it and walks out the gate with it just riding there like a goddamn parrot.

I am now leery of any and all squirrels in my apartment complex.

Author: Kara Mae Adamo.

Earlier today, I grabbed coffee with a good friend of mine. For the purpose of this blog, we shall call him…oh, say, “Ben.” I figure, since I don’t have a lot of guy friends named Ben, that it is a safe enough go-to-name.

So, briefly, let me explain how I know Ben. For Valentine’s Day last year, Rob bought me a trip to a really, really nice day spa where I was given the “Rose Petal Treatment”—which consists of a full-body massage and a pedicure. Ben happens to be one of the massage therapists at said day spa. He turned out to be wicked cool and we wound up staying in touch.

Recently, in an effort to emancipate himself from this day spa, Ben decided to look for a part-time gig as an on-call massage therapist at a new venue.  He did the leg work and sent out his resume to some really nice places.

Ben is a massage therapist. As in the case of most servers I know, if you’re a massage therapist, marijuana is pretty much a part of your daily uniform. And so, figuring he was unlikely to hear back from these people for another four months or something, he went about his merry way enjoying the holidays in a green-tinted haze of herbal bliss.

Within a week, his munchy-inspiring fog was permeated by the sound of a phone ringing. He un-macramé’d-his ass from the couch to go answer it and found, to his delight, that it is one of the five-star hotels calling him back.

So he goes in for an interview and passes with flying colors. They like his resume and want to offer him the on-call job he is looking for…

…and they would like to schedule a urine test.

Ben’s brain nearly implodes. He’s been smoking several times a week for years—there is no way he has enough time to clear his system of the THC and residual weed. There simply isn’t enough Cranberry Juice in the world to pull this off. What to do, what to do, what to do?

Fortunately, a secret mad-scientist in civilian’s clothing happens to be around the corner when Ben is informed of the test date. The guy brings him over for a chat. He gives Ben a clear Macgyver-rigged flask with a strange liquid inside and tells him that it is synthetic urine.

All he has to do is tape this thing to his leg and squirt it out when it comes time to take the test. It’s basically vinegar, a few nitrates and some other random substance. It’s pretty simple and does the job. Ben is saved.

Now for the catch: if this man-made-pee doesn’t temp out at a minimum of 92 degrees, he fails immediately. His new mad-scientist-friend has thought of that, however. He hands Ben a hand-warmer that should do the trick.

So it comes time for the test. Ben wakes up bright and early and has a 1980’s Tom Cruise type of a morning. Everything is just clicking. He works out a little, takes a shower, makes himself some breakfast, shaves his beard, brushes his teeth—he can practically hear the hot-to-trot theme song playing in his head. He’s got this.

He goes to warm up his flask of pee…and the hand warmer doesn’t work.

He looks at the time. It’s still early: he can still make this work. He takes his flask over to the microwave and zaps it for about thirty seconds. It beeps and he goes to take it out only to find that it is now scalding hot. He can hardly grip his fingers around it. There is no way he can strap this thing to his leg so dangerously close to his, um, phallic friend.

So he grabs his roommate’s neck-thing that she uses when said neck hurts and wraps his pee flask inside of it hoping that this will cool it off. It does—but now it’s too cold. There is no way it’s testing out at 92 degrees. He looks at the time. Now he has to hurry. He zaps it in the microwave one more time and puts on a second pair of underwear hoping that it will keep the flask from scorching his nether-regions.

Now, Ben is a smart guy for the most part, but like most of my guy friends, there is still a strain of window-licker blood flowing through his veins somewhere.  It doesn’t occur to him that the mad-scientist meant for him to use Duct tape to attach the flask to his leg. Instead, he uses the same roll of tape he used to wrap his Christmas presents. He goes to walk out the door and realizes that not only is his Piss Flask falling, but it is making a papery tape sound. There is no way he is pulling this off.

He takes the flask and puts it into a coffee cup and heads out the door. His neighbor goes to say hello. The poor guy was evidently not awake enough to handle the image brought to him, because he just stops and blinks and blows a mental fuse trying to figure out why Ben has a coffee cup holding a clear flask of pee inside.

Ben laughs nervously and jumps in his car and heads to the place. He gets there and re-straps the flask to his leg. The tape on his leg is barely holding the flask, so he keeps his legs closed together as well as possible as he attempts to walk inside the building. In his words it looked “like I had a dildo or something up my ass.”

He walks in only to find out that he got the time wrong. The appointment was for fifteen minutes ago. As a punishment, they make him wait an additional forty-five minutes while other people go and his fake pee gets cold. Now he figures he’s really screwed. There is no way this stuff is temping out at 92 degrees at this point but he really can’t leave, either.

So they call his name and tell him to take the cup and fill it and bring it back. He takes it into the restroom and attempts to “pee.” The flask is a man-made device with some flaws to it. It really only works once because the vacuum affect of squirting the synthetic urine out sucks in a decent amount of air in place of it. He manages to fill it to the line and even sprinkles some on the seat so that it looks real enough. He’s a detail-guy.

He brings the cup-o-pee to the woman and she smacks her forehead. “Oh, no! I told you to fill it to the wrong line! I need it this full,” she says as she shows him a slightly higher line. “Either you can fill it up or you can wait here for another forty-five minutes and I’ll tell them you had a shy bladder and you can come in some other time.”

“No, I think I can pee some more,” Ben says, cringing internally at the thought of doing this again.

So he goes back inside and shakes some pee out of his flask…and proceeds to “pee” on his second pair of underwear. Now it looks like he had an accident.

He walks in, still keeping his legs tight together, mind you, doing his best to hide the fact that there are now “urine” spots coming through his jeans. He gives her the cup and she doesn’t even check the temperature strip.

He then proceeds to avoid eye contact with anyone as he makes his way to the door to change his panties.

He calls back three days later figuring they’ve found him out.

As his father always used to say, “The Lord takes care of drunks and children.” He got the job. He’s been happily smoking weed and massaging people for almost a month now.

And all things are in their rightful place in the universe.

Here’s an excerpt:

A San Francisco cable car holds 60 people. This blog was viewed about 1,800 times in 2011. If it were a cable car, it would take about 30 trips to carry that many people.

Click here to see the complete report.

Author: Kara Mae Adamo

Hello. My name is Kara Adamo, and I am an internet-shopping-addict.

They say that admitting you have a problem is the first step to recovery, but I doubt that in this case. I am merely embracing the obvious: that the internet wizards have found a way to combat the original reason why I never shopped much before: I am lazy.

Now I don’t even have to get up to grab my Visa. Google Chrome and I have both memorized the number and the little security code on the back (thank god for passcode protections). I can literally sink lower and lower into my seat without so much as blinking more than necessary and I will get absolutely everything I could ever want or need.

Okay, so I take bathroom breaks.

And coffee breaks–which leads to more bathroom breaks.

My point is, internet shopping is not only mad-convenient, but opens up a whole slew of possibilities when it comes to the things you own. I live in Orlando, Florida. Mall at Millenia, in all of it’s infinite glory and splendor, sits not fifteen minutes from my house. I’m not lacking options here–but there are things you can find online that you just can’t find in any ole’ town.

I’m talking about the artsy stuff: the really spiffy things that strange people like me get all giggly and googly eyed over. Some of these sites are pretty well known–one or two of them seem to be hosted by a single artist. Either way, my closet is fuller and my apartment is getting prettier and it’s (mostly) thanks to the following websites:

ModCloth

I have a thing for vintage clothing. I just love ruffles and skirts and bowler hats. There is something so classy about it. If I look at pictures of my mother or grandmothers, I can’t help but feel they had a good idea of how to do it. I like the high waists and the high heeled shoes. If I am having an ugly day, I don a pair of pumps, a cute dress and curl my hair under and everything is somehow turned around. You can’t help but feel more cheerful.

ModCloth is filled to the brim with exactly that kind of stuff. Right now I have my eye on a red With the Breeze hat and a black and white Ruffle Your Feathers dress. I also like the Thoroughly Modern Musician Headphones in Raspberry.

The site offers free returns, shipping and exchanges and is full of some of the cutest clothing, accessories, and apartment junk I’ve ever seen.

Ragtrader Vintage

This is actually my most recent find. Ragtrader Vintage is a site where you can buy handmade indie retro accessories that are all beautifully crafted and incredibly, wonderfully unique. I love the compass cufflinks and the little pocket watch cameos. There is something so quaint and almost gypsy-like about this stuff and I think it’s fantastic.

Just Fab

Of all of the sites that have me itching for a fix, this one is probably the biggest culprit. In fact, there was a moment when I started writing this blog where I nearly typed “Hello, my name is Kara Adamo, and I am a shoe-addict.” I blame my ex, Rob, for this fixation. He bought me my first pair of Aldo’s and it’s been a spiraling whirlwind tour of high heals ever since.

Just Fab make this all much more severe by offering free shipping on items that you’re already getting a deal on. You can also buy handbags and accessories and they even give links where you can purchase the clothing the models on the sites all wear. It’s a girlie haven and I’m loving it.

The way the site works is that, when you join, you select a pair of shoes and fill out a style profile questionaire so they can create a boutique based on your likes and dislikes. You can shop outside the boutique and, if you have facebook friends on there, you can even peak into theirs.

All of the items on the site are $39.95 flat. The site is ever-growing, too. It seems like almost every time I visit, there is another collection and they are all updated every month (along with your boutique). You can even rate shoes that you do or don’t purchase so they can better cater the easily-viewed products to you and your personality. They are, in essence, marketing geniuses. And I drank the Kool Aid long ago.

Membership to this wonderous site is $39.95 a month and that amount goes toward a new pair of shoes that you can either redeem or not, depending on your preference. You also earn points by getting people interested and by buying shoes. The points add up to get credits and one credit is good for one free item on the site. You can also ask them to “skip this month” if you don’t think that you will be buying anything this month. Even if you “skip this month,” you can still buy shoes later.

One of my favorite things about the site is that you can purchase Iron Fist shoes for 60% off the retail price and still get free shipping. It’s pretty awesome–but this particular brand does sell out pretty quick, so if you join the site and they have a cute pair of Iron Fist shoes in your size, my recommendation is to use your membership credit on them immediately.

Direct From Mexico

I have a big beautiful empty apartment with no shelving. It’s a travesty. I have 1,200 sq. feet of space and all of it is occupied by books that are stacked up the the ceiling and art supplies that are backed up against a wall. I am literally that crazed artist type that lives in semi-organized chaos.

This needs to be fixed.

I used to have bookshelves, I just didn’t like them anymore. They were cheap and they worked for a short time, but I’m not in college anymore and I’m in the market for something a little more visually pleasing. I’m also quite the bohemian, so unique is key.

I found some really really spiffy bookshelves at Direct from Mexico. They are handmade, colorful, and beautifully carved. They remind me of the gypsy cart in the movie Stardust, which is a big plus in my book because if I could actually be a romanticized storybook gypsy, I’d do so immediately. There are all sorts of beautiful pieces of furniture, pottery, etc. on this site, and each piece is completely unique as its own work of art. They even do hammered copper! It’s well worth the look.

Etsy

If you haven’t heard about this one yet, I’m assuming you live under a bridge somewhere and have only recently resurfaced to reconnect with the outside world for a short spell before starting your second hibernation in a cave somewhere.

Etsy is amazing. It is an eclectic hodgepodge community of artists that sell their stuff online. On the same page, you can buy a vintage 1960′s metal globe, a collection of blue Vespa art, and herbal salves…and those are just the first things I saw when I looked it up five seconds ago.

Some of it’s junk. Some of it’s cool. Some of it is just really cool junk. Either way, if you haven’t visited the site, I’d definitely stop in. You can even get Ragtrader Vintage stuff on there, lol.

Punk.Com 

This site is pretty cool because you can get a lot of my favorite name brands all at the same place, like Iron Fist and Betsy Johnson. Shipping is cheap on here, too. You only pay $5 on orders under $75, and anything over that is free. It’s also a pretty good spot for shopping for men, too, and they have a pretty extensive cosmetics section.

You have to love a site where you can get a Joan Jett t-shirt, a Hell Bunny Evita dress, and a pair of Chelsea Crew flats all in one swoop.

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So yeah, these are the sites that have caught my eye recently. They thrill my girly, retro-gypsy soul and they are definitely making my apartment and closet a bit more pleasing to the eye. If you like eclectic stuff with lots of color and character, I definitely encourage all of you to check these out.

Happy New Year’s, everybody.