You're called Suck

Well it's official. I am a failure. I suppose it's not so bad. In fact there is really not much difference between this week and the week before when I wasn't quite yet a bona fide failure. I still get to enjoy life's simple pleasures like a soft cool pillow, a laugh with good friends and Propel. But still, the fact that I couldn't even stick to my laughably simple New Year's Resolutions feels like a slap in the face from my shamed conscience.
It was simple, two goals: don't kill any plants not marked for death and don't have any run-ins with the police. Seven months in and those intentions are dead. So to be fair, I actually did get pulled over a few months back. Call it convenient rationale, but I didn't count it because I felt a) I didn't deserve the ticket and b) the cops were stupid stupid stupid. Since I drive a sometimes shiny red car with sports suspension I feel like I deserved a break or a freebie, if you will, given the fact I am a natural target to law enforcement. So I ignored that one. Well two days ago I got nailed on 900 W. charged with failure to yield (apparently a pedestrian was waiting to cross) and expired tags. Cool. Then to add insult to injury, I bought a lovely and stunning lily this month, named it Sheila, planted it in the front yard, and then it promptly died. So I got nothin' going for me. I mean the year is just half way over. Maybe it's appropriate to make half-year resolutions...maybe not as hard as the original ones. I vow to drink a glass of water every day and maintain a pulse. Good day.

This...is...SPARTA!!!

I had five cats in my backyard. Not the cute kind, but the mangy feral kind that shriek at night and destroy your already fragile hibiscus plant. I had done everything from opening the window and yelling at them to chasing them with brooms. Finally at my breaking point I called animal control and they presented me with the ultimate solution - a fool proof trap to catch them and bring them in. I was elated at first and even anxious for the day they would have a trap available for me. When I got the call a week later that there was one ready I lost my nerve. I knew that the minute I took the cats in they would be euthanized, given the fact they were wild animals. Their deaths would be on my head and I couldn't take it. Fast forward to this week....I was talking to one of my friends who has known me for about six years. We were talking about the cats and then on to people softening in their old age, accusing me of being the poster girl for it. He then revealed to me that my nickname, years ago and unbeknownst to me, was "the General" - short for General Maximus Decimus Meridius (Gladiator 2000). Then he expounded, calling my former self the the "emotional Leonidas of Sparta." Oh, he had a good laugh and then started speculating on what prompted my fall from being compared to ancient war heroes - age, relationships, something in the water etc. He said that me not trucking the cats off to their deaths was truly a milestone and welcomed me to the softer side. Well it's true, I have never really given way to emotional nonsense and I still like to think that I lean to the pragmatic side of life. But really, you nicknaming jerks shouldn't celebrate too much. Just because I didn't cry over spilled milk in my tougher days doesn't mean I would have gleefully Cruella Deville'd neighborhood animals. AND even so, I haven't seen the cats lately which means someone else probably did it, which I have no problem with. Oh and PS - when I see you nicknamers, and you know who you are, please expect a hearty dead leg.