Category Archives: Criminal Acts

The Life of Pye: And that’s why we can’t have nice things

Posted on by March 8, 2015

Pye.

Pye, Pye, Pye. *shaking my head*

Is it Karma that sent me a Devil Cat? Is there no way to appease the Gods?

I love my furry monster-child, but Pye needs a hobby. She’s bored, perhaps more so because I’ve been home and she is now awake more than usual. Normally, when I’m gone during the day, she sleeps. When I’m gone for a night or two, she goes on an eating strike and hides when her friendly, animal-loving sitter comes over. And she messes up stuff around the RV. (Or pees on my bed three times after I come back from a trip, like she did when I went to Oklahoma for Christmas.)

But when I’m home, like I have been since my surgery, she is awake and demands constant entertainment and attention. Or she’ll start wrecking stuff.

Pye debating whether to play with the keyboard - again, or push the books off the table - again.

Pye debating whether to play with the keyboard – again, or push the books off the table – again.

I can’t sit at my computer table without her trying to “assist” by pushing my papers off the table, or stepping on the keyboard. She relocates all pens to goodness knows where. And if neither of those two things produce the desired response from me? She starts in on the curtains and blinds.

She is not much of a lap cat. It would be great if she could sit with me while I’m on the computer. But no.

She has only recently, But, wait! There’s more…

Tales From the RV Park: Tush Shot Her Car

Posted on by April 9, 2014

This is another episode of Tales From the RV Park, life in the RV parks I’ve been camped at. Disclaimer: These stories are fictitious, happened in nightmares, are hearsay, and/or are what others recounted to me. I am part Irish, so there is likely a good deal of exaggeration. The names have been changed to protect the not-so-innocent. There is no relation to persons living, dead, or in jail, even if you think so. In other words, don’t bother trying to sue me, and I have no money.

It's a shame you can't buy common sense like you can buy deodorant.

It’s a shame you can’t buy common sense like you can buy deodorant.

Remember Tush? She’s a tad on the friendly side – if you’re a man. If you’re a woman, she’s jealous and insecure, and has been known to threaten women who she thinks “looked” at Hatin’ – not that anyone in their right mind would.

Tush and Hatin’ fight all the time, and that’s what makes the following story all the more curious…

Tush shot her car. Yes, with a gun. But, wait! There’s more…

The Life of Pye: 30 Hours Without Pye

Posted on by February 26, 2014

The Life of Pye is about a cat. The cat who adopted me.

And this is a short, sporadically posted series about her. The first post is Pye has a foot fetish.

This is why Pye has to be an "only kitty".

This is why Pye has to be an “only kitty”.

Pye is still quite pudgy.

She’s been on a diet for several months (1/2 cup of kibbles as per the instructions on the bag), but it’s having little effect. (Her blood levels were tested when she got fixed in November and came back normal.) She gets a lot of exercise, still racing around the RV a few times a day — she uses it like an obstacle course.

Pye needs excitement.

She gets bored or anxious or lonely when I’m gone and tears the place up. I recently read an ad selling dog vests in which it claimed the vests helped calm down anxious dogs. My thinking immediately substituted cat for dog, and harness for vest, with the hope that wearing a harness would help Pye calm down when I’m gone.

To keep her from getting bored, I sometimes take her outside on a leash and harness. No, she doesn’t really walk on the leash. But hope springs eternal so I keep trying. She kind of crouch-walks. And only where she wants to go. I’d really like to have a cat that walks on a leash like a dog. I know it can happen, I’ve seen other people “walking” their cats.

Pye, aka Drama Cat, in her new harness.

Drama Cat says, “I’m going to tear up the place the moment you leave and this harness won’t slow me down. That book was wrong.”

Pye ran away for about 30 hours.

Last month during supervised outdoor play (a euphemism for “trying to get my cat to walk on a leash”), she broke off her harness in a panic. (NO, she does not get that from me.) But, wait! There’s more…

Tombstones in Tombstone, Arizona

Posted on by September 29, 2013
No guns, please. The graveyard is full.

He-heh. I need a sign like this for my rig.

On my way to Texas, I stopped in Tombstone, Arizona, home of the infamous OK Corral. No longer the dangerous, wild western town for which it’s so well known, it has become an off-the-beaten-path tourist trap stop.

Downtown Tombstone, Arizona.

Downtown Tombstone, Arizona… seems a little quiet.

One vendor seemed hell-bent on getting me to join the ghost tour. Even the vendors in Mexico were less aggressive – and that’s saying something. But, wait! There’s more…

Don’t make me get my gun out. Again.

Posted on by February 26, 2014

Two things that need shootin’: Varmints in your RV, and Stalkers

It’s been a week of things that need shootin’. (Note the dropped “g” – I’m already starting to sound like a Texan. Just know it happens very fast, people, very fast.)

(A note for my new readers: Last summer I bought my first RV and immediately became a full-timer. I’m single, and drive a mid-size Class A. I travel with my cat, Checkers – the copilot who can’t read maps, and a rare house guest/visitor. I’ve learned I’m a bit of a Glamper – I don’t like to sacrifice the little niceties to live the nomadic lifestyle. If this paragraph hasn’t bored you to tears and you want to know more, you can learn about my travels here, me here, and get zombie t-shirts and stuff here. What? Everyone needs zombie stuff.)

And now back to our regularly scheduled programming…

The varmint inside my RV…

Thump – thump – thump. (silence) Thump – thump – thump. (silence)

All night long it went, coming from somewhere under my rig, but within the chassis or walls.

The loudness of the thumps indicated it was probably a squirrel. It seemed to pull on something (such as my wiring!) and as its body jerked back with the motion, it would hit the wall behind it.

I didn’t find where it was getting in, but I did manage to get rid of the little monster for the rest of the night and finally get back to sleep.

As soon as it was late enough the following morning so as not to piss off my neighbors, I turned on the generator, started the engine and let both run for 30 minutes while I pulled the slides in and the jacks up. Then I covered the area beneath my rig with mothballs, and got an ultrasonic pest control device. So far, so good.

But I’ve learned my copilot who can’t read maps, isn’t much of a pest deterrent, either. *sigh*

Checkers the RV copilot who can't read maps. Or be bothered with squirrels.

The welcome varmint inside my RV: “Look, Ma! I’m guarding the bed.” Yup, no squirrels will get on the bed now. The bed is safe.

 

The varmint outside my RV…

As a single female with long blond hair (which is both my superpower and my Kryptonite), I But, wait! There’s more…

Border Patrol = Reno 911

Posted on by February 2, 2012

The scene: An empty two-lane highway at 8:30 pm on a Wednesday night.

My car: The nice tow car previously pictured, carrying two blond-haired white people (me and the aforementioned house guest) slowly driving back to their campsite in Slab City after a day at the nearby RV park pool, hanging with sober people. (The sober part will be of significance further in the story.)

Behind us: A car is tailgating. For almost 15 minutes.

They could easily go around us on the empty highway.

A couple extra white lights come on over their roof. Then the side spotlight as seen on cop cars comes out. Within seconds a red light comes on, so I pull over.

Two dimwitted Border Patrol agents creep up on the right side, stop about ten feet away, and peer towards the interior of the car, fear and suspicion on their face. But, wait! There’s more…

The Time I Worked For Fred Krueger and Donna Mills

Posted on by July 13, 2010
I'm here about the blow job

Do you think he means a 'blow job' at the salon for that hair??

Recently learning Herman Munster is alive and well and selling real estate, reminded me of one of the many jobs I had.

I said job I had, not gave. sheesh No, not had as in got, either. Remember, I’m a woman – I give them I don’t …oh, never mind.

Where was I? Oh, yeah.. jobs.

The kind you get paid for.

Oh ferfuckssake.

I was fairly young at the time I went to work for this insurance company. My boss was named Fred Krueger. I could not making this up if I tried, people. To separate himself from Freddy Krueger The Slasher, he insisted we called him Fred. Just Fred Krueger.

Yeah, that worked well. Calling him Fred totally made me forget his name WAS IDENTICAL TO THE INFAMOUS SLASHER FLICK DUDE. But, wait! There’s more…

Drinking and Smoking: My Childhood Memories

Posted on by April 28, 2010

Ahhh, childhood memories. So sweet, so innocent, so…

…much like a college frat party.

What is was like at Mom's.

For the most part, I lived a pretty sheltered life growing up in the Santa Barbara area until shortly before the age of 14. After my parents divorced when I was around eight, my younger sister, Chickenbone, and I lived with our mom most of the year. We had to be in the house at 5pm, and in bed at 8:00 or 8:30pm, depending on our age. We had chores to do every weekend and were fed health food.

McDonald’s was not on the menu. We stole candy from the local candy store because we were starved for sugar. (I hope the statute of limitations has run out ’cause I just totally confessed to a major crime. Again.)

Then I was sent to live with my father in Capitola, but for the next year my sister continued to live with my mother. Things were very different at Dad’s: My curfew for school nights was midnight, bedtime was up to me, I could eat whatever I wanted, and drink from the liquor cabinet.

SCORE!!

When I graduated 8th grade, Dad bought me a beer to celebrate. But, wait! There’s more…

Penny and The Attack of The Killer Bees

Posted on by April 11, 2010
The Rispin Mansion, Capitola CA.

The Rispin Mansion, Capitola, CA. Front entry way.

The Time Penny Was Attacked by The Killer Bees

When I was a delinquent young teenager in Capitola, I had some friends with whom I regularly got into trouble had adventures. (See: My First Brush With The Law). One of the places we would regularly go to find trouble was the colloquially named ‘monastery’, formally know as The Rispin Mansion.

(Side note: If you view the more recent photos, note we did NOT spray paint the place, or destroy the statues, and were quick to lecture those who did. We loved that place. I would like to see it restored but it’s going to be torn down and turned into a Bed & Breakfast or something.)

The monestary/Rispin Mansion was once a beautiful mansion built in 1922 by a wealthy man, reported to have transported liquor during the Prohibition.

It seemed only fitting we should go there to drink illegally.

The place once had beautiful parquet floors and statues. It still had secret hidden rooms, and a sliding bookcase. People, I couldn’t make this shit up – I’m not that imaginative. IT WAS AWESOME!

The place was abandoned around 1958, and it’s considered trespassing to be on the grounds.

Yet another good reason for us to go there. Regularly. But, wait! There’s more…

The Time I Learned Golf Carts Don’t Float

Posted on by June 29, 2013

The Four Seasons Golf Resort – probably not the one we were at.

Golf Carts Don’t Float, But Golf Tees Do – Who Knew?!

For a little while after my parents got divorced my father stayed in the general Santa Barbara, CA area. My sister, Chickenbone, and I would spend weekends and long summers with him where we would learn all kinds of grown-up things (much against my mother’s wishes) like playing poker, driving before we were even in our teens, and eating junk food all day long.

My father raised us very differently than my mother: My mother was a fairly strict and conservative parent who raised us on health food, while my father pretty much let us do absolutely anything we wanted. (See My First Brush With The Law for an example.)

And he would often help us cover up the crime.

We were too young to be left alone, not because we couldn’t take care of ourselves, but more likely we’d have burnt down the house.  But my father liked playing golf, so he had to bring us along.

Just imagine two independent, but restrained-9-months-out-of-the year-then-suddenly-unleashed kids running amok on the golf course. But, wait! There’s more…