Introducing The Cat-Shaped Hole Chronicles

First off, yes, I know this is the time I usually do my YIR post but 2024 was just a little difficult, what with Sammy dying, and the Cheeto-in-Chief not dying, and, well, 2025 was off to a very rough start (see above). So yes, the YIR post is forthcoming, I am just not sure when.

So, in the meantime, I want to introduce a new feature: posts about what I am doing or what I would like to do to fill the cat-shaped hole Sammy has left in my home, my life, my heart, everywhere.

The title of these posts comes from a friend’s comment on one of the many Facebook entries I made in the dark days immediately following Sammy’s death. I asked for opinions on a variety of things I would like to do or purchase or places I’d like to go (I still don’t remember why I picked Belgium, for fuck’s sake) and a ton of other lunatic ideas. On one of them a friend commented: “That won’t fill the cat-shaped hole.” That gave me all the feels. And ideas for this blog, so watch this space!

 

“Cat is fractious” no more

 

On our first visit to his vets, just about a week after we rescued each other, the intake tech wrote a note for Sammy’s vet: cat is fractious.

How little did I know then how true that was. The online thesaurus site lists tons of synonyms for fractious and I can easily say that Sammy exhibited most of them at some point: irritable; unmanageable; testy; scrappy; wild. I could go on, but you get the picture:

But no more, for my beautiful boy died in our sleep on March 15. Beware the Ides of March indeed.

I knew he was dying. He’d stopped eating and had lost a lot of weight. On the morning of his death, I found him settled on my collection of throw pillows in my bedroom (finding a quiet, safe space is a well-known behavior amongst cats when they know they are dying). And I knew that but stupidly, I picked him up and settled him on the couch in the living room. Comfortable, but not nearly as comfortable as those pillows. I am wracked with guilt about moving him. However, if it caused him to stay alive a little longer, then I am OK with it. Because it meant he was still alive when I got home.

I ate dinner quickly, changed into my jammies, picked him up, settled him in my lap and fell asleep on the couch. I can’t be sure of this, but I think, in the middle of the night, he awoke me with a loud meow just before he died. But that might be wishful thinking on my part.

When I awoke, I knew he was dead. But I let myself pretend it was just his normal habit of jumping up on me when I was asleep and settling in for a nap. So I talked to him like I would normally do when he wouldn’t move from me: “Sammy, get up, mummy needs to use the loo.” I went on in that vein for about five minutes, delaying the inevitable.

And, like after the workplace shooting, most of my posse of beautiful strong women reached out to me and helped me through it.

So you know that old chestnut of a question, “If you could have lunch with anyone, living or dead, who would it be?” Well, before Sammy, my answer was always William Shakespeare. After Sammy, it would be whoever could tell me of Sammy’s life before me: who got him declawed? How many siblings did he have? Did his mummy and daddy love each other or was it just a one-night stand? Did he ever do the deed before he got fixed? Did someone abandon him or did he run away, to be found by someone named Guido who took him to the shelter? (When he got to the shelter, he was initially named Roseannadanna, in keeping with the Saturday Night Live theme. That was changed to Rodin (one of my favorite artists). I named him Sammy after Sammy Davis Jr because he had only one eye (something else that I am sure added to his fractiousness!).)  

I’d also ask my lunch partner who abused that beautiful boy so much that he turned into a psychotic biting machine? Notice how I wrote I’d like to meet someone who could answer these questions, and not the person who did the abusing because I would kill that motherfucker in a slow and very painful way.

But, like my moving him from the pillows, perhaps on some level him getting abused was a good thing because it meant we ended up with each other. Because he was as fucked up in his head as I am in mine. Yeah, he might have gotten adopted on his good looks alone, but any normal, sane person would have returned him after one of his biting sessions. We were meant for each other.

But now he is gone and I am alone once more. It does hurt, but, because I am a sociopath, I am handling it so much better than I thought I would. I expected to try to fill the cat-shaped hole with a parrot. Or a tortoise. I pictured my grief causing me to shave off all my hair. Or dye it black. (One of those is for sure going to happen soon.)

But I am going on with my life with reminders of him everywhere. His picture is my profile pic for my work emails. Most of my passwords have some form of his name in them (there are lots of other deets in them so that is not giving away anything). He is my screensaver on all my devices. I say good morning to him. I tell him at night when it is time for bed. And about a week after his passing I had a dream that was so intense that I think it might have actually happened: He jumped up on my lap and we rubbed noses and said goodbye. In other dreams I feel him nibbling my toes or jumping up on my lap for a nap.

I could not give him the best life, but I think I gave him a good one.

RIP, love of my life.

I Second That Emotion

 

Today is the one-year anniversary of the shooting at my workplace.  I have attempted to write this post myriad times in the past year, but I could never find the words to express my emotions on that day and the year since.  Because, well, I don’t have any emotions about it.  

Why is that, I wonder? Because this one was close, the closest I have ever come to being involved in the gun violence that saturates America. The place where it happened is about 200 yards from my office. Some of our team, who were in lockdown in a different part of the building, heard the kill shot. The head of the department targeted by the psycho (white male, natch) shooter was at a meeting on the second floor of the building. We were in lockdown for about three hours, watching everything that was unfolding outside, mere feet away from us, on the TV in the office. And when we were finally released, it was by police armed with rifles. When we returned to the office, many doors bore signs of having been forced open by police. Later, reports came out and one student told of having to step over the bloodied body of his professor to get out of the building. All of that and I have not spilled one tear over it. What is wrong with me? 

I looked up some of the signs of narcissistic personality disorder, just in case that might be what ails me. I only had to read that two of the signs are a belief in specialness and superiority and I knew I don’t have it. The exact opposite, in fact. Like when I call my landline from the office to check if there are messages (there never are), I always hang up the phone with the phrase, ”Well, who would call you, you big fat ugly loser?” 

So maybe I am a sociopath? One of that disorder’s signs is a lack of empathy. That sure sounds like me.  But only as far as humans are concerned. Not with animals. During COVID, on our weekly video chats, our boss would report if anyone we knew had died of it. Not once did I feel anything. Then one week, he tells us that one of the police dogs that work on campus had died. I was a blubbering wreck for the rest of the day. I can’t watch movies if there is a chance the dog will die (to this day, despite it starring one of my future ex-husbands, I can’t bring myself to watch John Wick). And I was halfway through I Am Legend when I got a feeling something was going to happen to the dog, so I quit watching it.

And not only am I writing this on the one-year anniversary, I have just come from a memorial service held mere yards from the building it happened in. And not the reading of a poem, the blessing from a native American spiritual leader, the ringing of chimes, the cello and piano performance of a piece by Rachmaninoff (one of my favorite composers) or the singing of Lean on Me by a choir of students did anything for me. But it was when the person who survived the shooting stood up to speak and received a standing ovation that I realized if that did not move me, nothing will.

But one thing did move me: the outpouring of love and concern from my small but mighty group of friends. The first one to text me was JTV. A few others followed. L. sent a message on a group text and told everyone I was OK and not to worry about me. In one exchange someone called me "our girl". That really moved me. So maybe there is hope for me yet.

A Post about the Posts I owe you, my loyal reader(s)

I owe you posts. Some you are probably expecting (Nos.1, 2, and 8 in the list below); some, you are not (uh… the rest of them). I don’t really have a good pre-No.2 excuse as to why you have not gotten No.1 but it is because of No.2 that you have not gotten Nos.2 through 12 (No.13 hasn’t happened yet). I don’t know if it makes any sense but when those of you who do not know about No.2 read that post (whenever it gets published) you’ll realize why.

So, coming to this blog…  at some point:

1.   The December 6 shooting.

2.   Sammy died.

3.   The reasons behind a huge upswing in readers of this blog.

4.   My plan to quit drinking on Tuesday and Wednesday nights so I can watch TV and actually remember what I watched the next day.

5.   My plan to start incorporating the phrase “I fart in your general direction” more into my life, both verbally and in writing.

6.   My need for new excuses as to why I cannot travel to visit friends and family now that my main excuse (i.e., Sammy) is no longer viable.

7.   Why it was not Sammy keeping me from having a boyfriend (seriously – when I made the announcement on Facebook concerning No.2, someone remarked “Well, now at least you can get a boyfriend.” Oy vey.).

8.   American Idol.

9.   How I didn’t realize just how much No.2 had affected me until I started this blog post.

10.  How I really want to make a comment on Facebook about a former friend’s wife’s teeth but only because something he said to me one time would be on a post about the worst insults I have ever received but what is stopping me is my pledge to not post anything negative. Plus, it really isn’t nice to insult someone’s looks (which, as I am sure you can surmise, is a very big part of the Worst Insults I have Ever Received post, should I ever get around to writing it).

11.   A post about the worst insults I have ever received.

12.  How a meme about a bottle of champagne caused an existential crisis.

13.  The annual Feast of the Virgin post (technically, I could still get this one in on time because this year’s bacchanal is scheduled for June 8 but it is not looking good that I’ll get it in any time soon (see Ibid.)).

Year in Review - 2023 Edition

 

I am not sure why but 23 is my favorite number. I mean, why does anyone have a favorite number? I can understand having a favorite color (lime green, scarlet, black, black and white) or smell (fresh-cut grass on an English summer’s afternoon, Brute cologne, Obsession perfume) or song (I Guess That’s Why They Call It The Blues by Elton John, Jeff Buckley’s version of Hallelujah, Yellow by Coldplay) because there is something there, some visceral element, but a number is just a number.  My love of 23 probably stems from my love of William Shakespeare - he was likely born on April 23 and he probably died on April 23. Anyway, so, going into 2023 I had high hopes but in fact it turned out to be a pretty crappy year.

 

Where to begin? How about my car, and the three things that happened concerning it in a span of one week: Well, the first is kind of positive: I paid it off, almost one year early. Yes, on one hand that is very positive but, on the other, I managed that only because I am the Most Boring (and Bored) Person in the World: the money that I would have spent on doing things and going places, like people with lives do, was put towards the car loan.

 

Then, a day later, the battery died. Not a big deal, I have AAA but still.

 

Then, three days later, I had an accident, my first official car accident (by official I mean the first one my insurance company heard about). I’m not going to go into deets, it is still too painful. I was not physically harmed but it was still a major bummer.

 

And I have to do another “I See Dead People” section this year.

Steve killed himself about a week before his 70^th birthday. If you ever attended any type of philanthropic event in Denver or did any type of charity or volunteer work, chances are you met him. He was so giving of his time. And he was the only man ever to utter the following to me: “I love your ass”. After his death his Facebook page was overflowing with tributes. And this one hurt a lot because I hoped that we might end up together - we had been involved Biblically at some point; oh, and non-Biblically too – see here. And the fact that it was suicide was so heartbreaking. He had over 1.4k friends on Facebook, why didn’t he reach out to one of us? I am absolutely sure that there is not one of those 1.4k friends, including me, who would not have dropped whatever we were doing right then and there and gone to him if only he’d reached out.

Franklin’s death was natural, but untimely; he was younger than me, and much like Kim’s death, I did not find out about it until a few years had passed. And, in fact, I only found out about it because of Steve’s death. Because I had not been in contact with Steve for a while and it ended on a sour note (I sent him a short and bitter text – “I hate Facebook” after he had posted a picture of him and his girlfriend celebrating their one-year anniversary. In Las Vegas. At a restaurant less than two miles away from me) I decided to re-connect with some people I’d not heard from in a while and that was when I found out about Franklin. We probably hung out only a few times but oh he was such a character, the life of the party. And another one with over 1k friends and a Facebook page overflowing with tributes.

But I think it might be time to face the fact that this “I See Dead People” section might become a regular part of this post, because of my advanced age. Speaking of which, there was a period shortly after Christmas when I had pain in my left arm and jaw. It scared me so much that on my next trip to the dollar store I picked up some aspirin!

And, in other health news, it finally happened: I got the ‘rona. Three years and 10 months (or 1,405 days) after it first appeared in America, I got covid. I guess because I’ve gotten the vaccinations, I had an extremely mild case. Just like a minor cold, really and, except for the vomiting up blood part, it really wasn’t that bad.

.

And stuff around the apartment has just started falling apart, like my bed and my couch. And there seems to be an excessive amount of other household chores that need doing that I am not physically capable of doing and it makes me miss having male friends who I could call on to help. And the fact that housework and errands never fucking end. You get two things scratched off your To Do list and another five are added. How do people with families and more pets and bigger homes and real lives cope? It is just me, Sammy, a one-bedroom apartment and a non-existent social life and it is overwhelming. For once I do feel for people with lives. You must be exhausted all the time.

And the Prettiest Boy in the World moved. I mean, he was not close anyway, but this move was pretty dramatic and now he might as well live in, oh, I don’t know, Venice, let’s say, for how far out of reach he is now.

But 2023 was not all doom and gloom for me.

I had two visits from Denver-based friends this year: D., who has here for a work thing, and JTV who was here to attend a concert. Weirdly enough both their schedules and mine were such that we did the exact same thing: they came straight from the airport and met me at the office and we had lunch and hung out a bit until they had to leave. Of course, after the shooting there on December 6, I am not sure I’d ever want to ask anyone to visit me at work again.  (About the shooting: I think I will do a separate post about that at some point. I am still processing it, and this one is so much harder than October One because of location: the shooting site is about 200 yards from my office.)

And a little flirtation took part this year on a couple occasions with members of the contradictory gender. The first was a painter at work who was doing a job in the office. We chatted a little and on his last day he brought me a peach and jasmine flavored iced tea. I did not have the heart to tell him I hate iced tea, so I thanked him and took a couple sips while he was still there and dumped the rest when he left. I have seen him a few times on campus since then and he is always very friendly and gives me a ride if he is on his work cart.

Then there was the cable guy who, whilst fixing my cable in the middle of November, asked me if I enjoyed being single. What is weird, though, is that I think that some other man has asked me this and I think it might have been another cable guy. And I also think it was around the same time of year. So of course, my overactive but negative imagination immediately thinks that maybe all the single cable guys have entered some sort of hogging competition for the annual Christmas party. But even though we exchanged a few flirtatious texts (“You’re always welcome to text me outside of work as well” he replied to a question I had about internet speeds), he must have found someone hoggier to take to the Cox Christmas party.

So, yes, there were some high notes in 2023, but for the most part, this tea towel sums up my 2023 quite accurately and eloquently:

Sammy’s 12th Annual Holiday Message

 

So, this is a day late, sorry, and it going to be brief: as you can imagine, not really in much of a mood to write. Actually, maybe you can’t imagine because you might not know where I work, but, yeah, there was a shooting. I am OK, I did not know anyone who was killed, but it has done a number on me, and I am not in the mood to do much of anything. I think I might write about it eventually, and there will be the annual YIR post, but I am just not sure when. Stay tuned. And, yeah, how effing cute is he? 

Feast of the Virgin Year XI

I celebrated on the correct date this year only because Domino’s was having a 50% off special. And that is the only time I will buy pizza these days, when there are deals like that. But even at 50% off, it was still at the very top of my budget at $20.

And look at this:

Did this sauce not have garlic in it originally, so it had to change? Oh, let me check the ingredients lists. Huh. The only difference is the new “flavored” version has “Bioengineered Food Ingredients.”

Anyway, the only reason I got this post written so soon is because I am actually writing it before the above pic was taken, on a Friday afternoon in the office, where I have fuck-all to do.

Yep, still a born-again virgin. There was a glimmer of hope back in April that I might not need to celebrate/commiserate this year when a person of the contradictory gender bought me a peach and jasmine flavored iced tea (I didn’t have the heart to tell him I do not drink tea, hot or cold). It was a maintenance guy doing some work at the office and he was there for a few days, and we got chatting and he spotted the accent (although he did guess Irish at first) and then on his last day, he brought in the aforementioned beverage. But I never saw him again, so I guess the chemistry was in my mind.

But then along came Elvis.

OK, so before we go on, I really should tell those of you who don’t know what my ideal type of man looks like: short, dark-haired, wears glasses and is Jewish. And let’s get the Electra Complex issues out of the way now–yes, my father is short, has dark hair and wears glasses, but I swear that is not where I get it from. Truly, I don’t, because whilst I do love my father, as a father, I don’t actually like him as a person, and I think that were we not related and let’s say, for example, I worked with him, I wouldn’t like him for myriad personality issues, most of which I share (I have no idea which Freudian complex that falls under).

So, with that in mind, I was shocked to have my libido sparked recently by the movie Elvis. Now, I have never been much of an Elvis Presley fan. He’s as big in the UK as he is here, and I have two American friends who saw him in concert and I worked with someone who met him, but I own only one CD of his, a collection of number one hits. But the only reason I have that is because I got it back in the day when Columbia House did that 12-CDs-for-a-penny deal (fellow Gen Xer’s, remember that?). And I took advantage of that offer to start my CD collection and pack it with the classics (CDs by Fred Astaire, Tom Jones, Shirley Bassey, and The Clash were also purchased), and Mr. Presley was simply included for those reasons alone.

But I never looked at Mr. Presley in a romantic way (and, yes, I am fully aware he has been dead for the majority of my life, but that has never stopped me crushing on hot guys before–Napoleon Bonaparte and William Shakespeare and Rupert Brooke come to mind).

And during award season when Austin Butler, the actor who plays him, was EVERYWHERE, I did not give him a second thought either because, 1. He is pretty much the antithesis of my type–tall, blonde, good looking; and 2., well, yeah, I do not have a Jocasta Complex.

But this movie changed my view of both these men. Hunka hunka burning love indeed.  Mr. Presley, I guess I can understand why, because of the dark hair and the talent, which, along with intelligence, is another huge turn-on for me.

But, on paper, there was no way I should be drooling over Master Butler. So why was I getting so riled up about a tall, blond, Christian who occasionally wears glasses? It bothered me so much that I did some online research. I even re-watched the SNL episode he did that I first saw before I watched the movie. And whilst I sure wasn’t creaming my jeans when I first watched it, I did the second time–for the most part. Because I realized that it was only whilst he was doing Elvis that my loins got a little inflamed. Yep, his turns in Hannah Montana or Zoey 101 or Once Upon A Time in Hollywood did nothing for me. That was a big relief.

But even if he did it for me in a non-Elvis way, during my online research, I discovered that Master Butler is dating someone 10 years younger than him so there is one strike (of so, so many) against me. And Mr. Presley liked getting blowjobs from teenage girls, so there are two strikes there, because, owing to a very small mouth and a very intense gag reflex, I am not skilled in the oral arts. And if there are any of my former paramours reading this who were on the successful receiving end of a blowjob from me, well, sorry, I think you can infer what that means!

But should Master Butler ever find himself in need of crossing off from his Sexual To-Do list any of the following, I would not be averse to helping him out: Fat Chick. Um, wait, that is about it. Normally I would add English Chick, but he spent two years in Australia, so I am sure that one was crossed off then. And it probably goes without saying that I would also be happy to help out in any Oedipal fantasy he entertained (as long as he dressed up as Elvis). And also (wow, this list keeps getting longer) should the chance (and other things!) arise, I would be OK with Master Butler punching my Cougar Card (Zac Efron, Chris Pine and Chris Helmsworth would also be welcome to do the same). As long as they don’t expect blowjobs.

Idol's Old Enough To Drink Now

 I had not planned on writing much about this season of Idol, but I am at work and bored to death and no one is here, because it is the Friday before a three-day weekend and of course my co-workers are a bunch of P.O.E.T.S. (Pissed Off Early Tomorrow’s Saturday). (That’s a throwback from my brief time in the English newspaper business.) So here goes.

Can’t be arsed to go back and read my old Idol posts but I am pretty sure I have made it known my dislike of any contestant who not only has a sob story but also milks it to (the) death (of their best friend/mother/father/cousin, etc.).

Maybe it is me, but I think it was way worse than normal with Iam Tongi. That James Blunt song didn’t help, of course, but those damn Idol producers have never met a dead person they didn’t like.

But I think even without that issue, I still would have not liked Iam and I really don’t think he was all that good. I thought he was very one-note. And I am going to predict a Justin Guarini-level of success for him, rather than a Carrie Underwood one.

And for the first time in a while, I did have a favorite - Wè Ani. I thought she was amazing. Ironically, though, I think it was her speaking voice that did her in – that squeakiness sure was hard to listen to at times.

And there was some talent among the rest of them, but these stereotypes of the white guys with guitars and hot rock girls and not-so-hot gospel girls and the rough-around-the edges Country guys are getting tiring. At least the prerequisite crazy one (this year that role was filled by the aptly-named Nutsa) had a modicum of talent, unlike many of her predecessors (I am talking about you, Catie Turner).

And of course, I did have my usual “deal breaker” contestant; i.e., the contestant that, should he or she win, would mean that I would never watch Idol again. This year it was Lucy Love. And you should all know me well enough by now to know that my hatred of this person was not based on racist issues. And for once it was not based on lack of talent issues, because she wasn’t that bad. No, it was just her attitude that rubbed me the wrong way, her smirky facial expressions and all that sort of stuff. But she did not win and so of course I will be watching again next year.

And, as always, let me end this on my annual declaration of love for the wonderful and sorely missed Brian Dunkleman.

Last night was the Last of the Last (at Last!)

Yeah, I think you’re gonna need to read this post for the following to make any sense.

So, first off, I have never been ashamed of how much television I watch. Unlike some people who were–and always had a tell (at least they did back in the day when there were only 100 or so channels): at some point in a discussion about television, those who did in fact watch a lot always said something along the lines of the following: “I really don’t watch that much television, mainly the Discovery Channel and the occasional episode of The Simpsons.” It’s like those bible thumpers who, after they have run out of rejoinders to my inquiries about why their all-loving higher power allows children to starve and men to rape and cancer to kill, they always bring up free will. It is their get out of jail free (will) card.

OK, so, yep, I broke my Lost/Revenge pledge–not once, but twice. The first time was with This Is Us (TIU). But, in my defense, I was set up for failure from the start.  The previews all mentioned two of my positive trigger words–fat and twist. I will absolutely be watching anything that has a twist in it and/or features fat people. (My negative trigger word? One mention of vomit and I am outta there.)

So, TIU: oh, how I loved that show. Like I did for Lost and Revenge, I avoided tigers and wooden objects and squirrels in the run-up to the final ep. I considered doing a post about it, but was too emotionally drained by such a wonderful show and kind of embarrassed that I have broken my Lost/Revenge pledge.

So why this post now? Well, yessum, I did it again. This time my partner in crime was A Million Little Things (AMLT). I started to watch this only because it involved suicide and my inner Goth chick (her name is Elsinore – a nod to my paternal grandmother, Elsie, and my love of Hamlet, and one of Google’s top ten results for a search entitled “names for a Goth girl”) has a bit of a suicide obsession. (She does–I do not.)

So, yes, last night was the last episode of AMLT. The avoiding of tigers and wooden objects and squirrels was tamped down a bit because there were no loose ends to tie up, unlike the three previous shows mentioned (only two of which did so satisfactorily and the other not so much (yeah, I am talking about you, Lost). In fact, I think the only concession to it being the last ep was that I did not drink as much as I usually do on a school night (I have already started making up for that tonight (we can’t have Franzia going bankrupt, now can we?)).

But what really makes this noteworthy is that I really think it is the last scripted mainstream broadcast network episodic television show I am going to watch. Because unlike I have done in past years at the start of this TV season I did not pick one new show to watch and am, in fact, down to just two shows I watch on a regular basis: American Idol and one or more from the 90 Day Fiancé franchise.

So, maybe it is time to drop cable and shell out for Netflix or one of its ilk. That way, I can be sucked into an emotional vortex but I can binge all the eps at once and won’t have the need to avoid tigers and wooden objects and squirrels. You read it here.

Year in Review - 2022 Edition

I know, I know, super late, right? I wish I could say it is because I finally have a life and no time to write but nope, still boring and bored!

But 2022 was pretty quiet, even by my standards. No large purchases, no lockdown, no major work drama (although I do get a new boss next week - my fifth in seven years).

The first half was spent obsessing over the last episode of This Is Us, breaking a promise I made to myself after the last ep of Revenge (newbies can check that out here). It did disappoint, as it was bound to because I had built it up in my head so much, but it wasn't as bad as the last Lost ep (yep, still bitter - and confused - 12 years later).

I was also kept busy trying to stick to a new year's resolution I made – “I will not eat chocolate in 2022.” A birthday care package from my parents, full of English treats, threatened to put the kibosh on that, until one of my alter egos saved the day. I don't think I have told you about Lucy Loophole, have I? She is the natural-born lawyer in me who can find a loophole in anything. With the chocolate resolution, it was to simply change it to “I will eat, but not buy, chocolate in 2022”. That was good until Easter when those Cadbury Mini Eggs were on sale. I love those things but they are only available seasonally. So, once again, me and Lucy drafted a new resolution - “I will eat, but not buy, chocolate in 2022 unless it is only available for a limited time.” That one lasted two weeks until I went to the store shortly after Easter, where there was a 75% off sale on the aforementioned mini treat. Back to the drawing board it was. And so, the final resolution was “I will eat, but not buy, chocolate in 2022 unless it is only available for a limited time and/or on sale for at least 75% off”. That one I did keep, even though I still ate chocolate pretty much every day. There was a spell from mid-September until after Halloween when my supplies dried up and I had to result to eating gummy worms or banana flavored Laffy Taffy, but those aren't chocolate, so I was breaking no version of my resolution!

Oh, how about this creepy once-in-a-million occurrence: my old car, the one that crapped out on me a few years ago, showed up in the parking lot where I live. Shut the front door, right? I mean, what are the odds? I texted the Triple A guy, to whom I sold it, and he said he had fixed it up and sold it, and obviously to someone who lives in the same place I do. First time I saw it, I drove past it and thought, “Wow, that car has the same torn front bumper my old car did”. Then a couple days later, I walked past it and noticed a dent in the passenger side door and thought, “Wow, that car has a dent in exactly the same place as my old car”. Then a few days after that, I drove past it and it was parked in reverse and I saw scratches on the rear bumper. I was halfway through the thought - “Wow, how weird that that car has scratches on it like my old car…” - when I realized that I had not seen three separate cars that had three similar mishaps as my old car, but that this was, in fact, my old car! I confirmed this when I took a closer look at the rear bumper and saw two spots where stickers had obviously been removed. Spots that were the same size and shape as the Steelers and “GB” stickers I used to have on my car. But, seriously, what are the odds that it would be purchased by someone who lives where I do? But whoever purchased it was not a Steelers fan or from the UK, obvs.

What else? Oh! Facebook just remined me that I met Clarence Gilyard. Not only is Die Hard my favorite non-traditional Christmas movie (it's a tie between Love, Actually and Elf for my favorite traditional-traditional Christmas movie) but also it is in my Top Ten Favorite Movies of All Time (well, definitely top 20, if not top 10). So, to meet someone from that movie was so cool. Although I do think one time I was on the same tube as Alan Rickman. This was when I was still in journalism school and I had just seen him in Les Liaisons Dangereuses at the Barbican (wait, sorry, I have to pause here - could those two previous sentences have been any more pretentious?) But that was way before Alan Rickman was in Die Hard so it probably doesn’t count, because we didn’t meet, and it might not have been him. Although, once, in my hometown, I was on a bus with an actor I'd seen previously in A Chorus Line, and I asked him how they did that costume change at the end so quickly.

Where was I? Oh, yeah, so I met Clarence. He taught a class where I work, and I'd been hoping to meet him for a long time (I think I might have been stood behind him in line at the Student Union’s Panda Express once, but I was in a shy mood), and I finally did this past summer. Good thing too, because he died in November.

Facebook also remined me that someone famous or famous-adjacent liked a comment I made on some random post. It was from the ELLEN.DEGENERES page and whilst I am not naive enough to think it actually was Ellen DeGeneres and not a lackey or even someone who has no connection to her whatsoever and is running the account in her name, I do still think it was cool and even if it wasn’t her, my comment might still have been pointed out to her, and, if she still had a show, she might have offered me a job on it.

Anyway, this post is already too long so I am going to omit the usual stats (mileage, Target, weight, etc. (but if you want those stats, slide into my DMs)) but I did want to mention one of which I am quite proud: I actually saw a movie at the movie theater! (Death on the Nile - I am a huge Agatha Christie fan, although, if I wasn’t before seeing this movie, it certainly wouldn’t have turned me into one, it was pretty bad (the 1978 version is way better)).

And so, I am going to end this post on what was easily the highlight of my year: finally meeting my dear friend C.'s daughter, JMM (that first M is the same name as my only M!). It was a long time coming, 12 years to the day, in fact (it was her birthday). We celebrated with fish and chips at a Strip restaurant and saw the Bellagio fountains and took tons of pics, none of which I am going to publish here, because I'm in all of them and I don't want to subject anyone to having to look at me!