Premise: Bleach is Bad. Discuss

By Caitlin Salisbury

Dear friends,

Do not use bleach when cleaning. It is a terrible, terrible, idea. I do not mean to belabor this issue, but the more people I potentially reach with my message, the more brain cells I can save – which is a service to the collective whole of humanity. Some say that people are drawn to causes because of a person or an event that has touched them in way like no other – and I think I have finally found mine.

After an indulgent cleaning frenzy yesterday, I woke up a different person. I had a splitting headache and was slow in speech and action. This general slowing down of events probably made my boyfriend happy, but I felt a strange void – the void that could only result from a frontal lobotomy. I took an online IQ test the other day, and given the results, it felt as though the halfway intelligent part of my brain simmered down to my scored Arithmetic level, which hovers dangerously above room temperature. I had difficulty formulating complete thoughts, though I did gain supernatural empathy powers for the guests on today’s Maury Povich.

You see, I went a little crazy in the heavily-fragranced and chemical-filled isle at Walmart and bought all kinds of scented candles and some Arm & Hammer bathroom cleaner. My mom’s visiting this weekend and I don’t want her to think I’ve lost my obsessive-compulsive edge. My philosophy with regard to cleaning product has always been this: the natural stuff is all nice and good for the environment; but will it kill HIV? I don’t think so! Will it eradicate all of the E. Coli and Lysteria gracing my food preparation areas? No way, Jose! I go with major duty killer. When I’m done with a bathroom, I like to see an entire layer of skin peel off of my working hand. It’s proof of its beautiful, corrosive efficiency.

But given the extent of my hangover for last night’s fun, I am reconsidering my point of view.
I guess I huffed some bleach by accident, and got pretty messed up on it, man. It makes me wonder about people that are actually addicted to inhalants, like this one show I watched on A&E called “Intervention” (which ranks a close second to “Ghost Shows - Category” in awesomeness). There was a well-groomed young woman who was addicted to chemical duster, and would go out to hardware stores and buy out their entire stock. She’d sit on her couch, pet her cat, take a hit, and then drool on herself for a couple of hours. She’d come to, and then it was wash-rinse-repeat. (She, for obvious reasons, wasn’t a fan of the actual “intervention” part of the show, though. I cried when animal control repo-d her cat.)

I have hypothesized before that I might be sensitive to chemicals added in cleaning products. One time I was cleaning my old apartment in Jackson Hole and thought it would be a great idea to clean the radiators with this natural looking orange stuff I bought. I thought it was milder than other brand-name agents because it smelled like oranges that had gone bad–for many years - and it was my logic that dead, decomposing things would make good decomposers of grime and filth; compost in a bottle if you will. It cleaned like a charm, but I woke up at 3 a.m., just long enough after the heater kicked in, and emptied the contents of my stomach in my extremely sanitary bathroom.

I guess there was a reason I printed out the 65 Ways to use Baking Soda to use for cleaning. I’m going to use this method in the future. Those old housewives ain’t be playin’, ain’t they?

Update: Baking soda works like a charm, and has fast become my agent of choice. It doesn’t release highly noxious gases. Plus, it creates a wonderful paste that is abrasive enough to clean even the most stubborn of porcelain bathroom sinks. Even better: you can use the remaining paste from the sink to brush your teeth, then use the remainder of THAT to wash your vegetables of residual pesticides, and maybe then cook up some crack (if time permits). Baking soda is basically the Wunder Kind of all cleaning products. It is to cleaners as Mozart was to Classical Music: a little sassy ,naughty, and flirtatious, but always ingenious!

As if I haven't made it clear enough, I am done with Winter. Done with the snow and balls-cold drive to work in the morning (where the temperature gauge usually reads below 0), that is, if we can even get the truck started. I am tired of the slippery, icy driveway. I jumped with joy when I saw the first hint of gravel peeking out from under the compacted snow. A glacial ice field has grown to enormous proportions just outside the front door thanks to roof slides, and is now only a foot away from our entrance. We call the route to the door the "walkway of death", as the likelihood of slipping on the ice or being impaled by hanging icicles outweighs one's chance of survival, and lord knows I don't want to end up like Christina on Grey's.

I know I have the tendency to complain a lot, but I have come to accept that this is my nature, and self-acceptance is more important than depriving myself of the compulsive need to whine. I'm sorry that I have trouble putting up with mediocrity. I really am. I'm not always a pessimist; I have love for many things on this earthly plane at the moment. I love the convenience of the portable french press coffee maker my manager bought me in support of my boycott of the coffee house near work (see blog entry: "I want to cut her"). I love watching ghost and paranormal-oriented shows on Hulu, though at this point I have exhausted all of the episodes but have discovered a new favorite: "Lie to Me". It's great; it's an overly analytical show about facial expressions in criminal profiling. I LOVE it. My world may be small at the moment, but it is filled with things that are great.I also love watching Burmese cats meowing on YouTube. There was the cutest one ever with two of these cats cuddled up with a new-born baby. They're purebred yet, again, I will not settle for some mediocre street cat born in a dumpster........ well, ok, I would if it were left in a basket on my doorstep, but that's beside the point:

http://www.gotpetsonline.com/pictures/gallery/cats/shorthaired-cats/burmese/burmese-0024/

You may think I jest, but over the years I have come to think that it is my fate in life to start a cat farm, where the beautiful Burmese breed can wander freely and meow to their hearts' delight. The Farm might be called something like "Caitlin's Cat Cash Crop", but I won't settle on anything before I draw up the business plans:

http://www.ehow.com/how_2082719_start-animal-sanctuary.html

The cats will be bred first and foremost for loyalty, intergrity, honesty, and high cheekbones. Synonymous traits, you may argue, but each is unique in connotation.

Stay tuned. I'm thinking cat farm with a bed and breakfast on a large area of land, somewhere nice (it's environmental cat-tourism). We will have an acupuncturist on staff to help remedy guests' allergic reactions caused by excessive cat dander, as well as small Burmese children whose tiny, sanitized hands will pick out any hair that may have landed in the soup du jour. Upon departure, the guests may pick one of our highly socialized cats to take home with them for a substantial fee, after they have passed extensive credit and background checks. Our on-staff psychoanalyst will have to determine that adequate bonding has occurred between cat and prospective owner as to ensure the cats' quality of life. We will have a mandatory open adoption policy, so that I can routinely visit the kitties I helped bring into this world. A private jet will provide my transportation in visiting my cats in all corners of the world, and I will take the cats on field trips and try to get a sense of whether they are happy in their current living situation. If not, "mama bear", as I will call myself, will pack the cats onto the jet and fly back home to the ranch, where they can continue to contribute by fertilizing the organic sustainable community garden. It's really that simple.

-dillycait

COMPLIMENTARY COLORS THAT DON'T COMPLIMENT

I'd like to preface this blog by saying I love school. I finally get it. Once you get through all the bullshit general education classes and you finally get to study what you want, that's a really rewarding experience. That being said, I really hate having deadlines on creativity. I'm speaking specifically of my photo class. I don't like being forced to create and be creative. Maybe its that I'm incredibly uninspired by my surroundings. It makes it difficult to get motivated and go out and take roll after roll of film of people, places, and spaces that I feel no connection to. I like to bitch about this because I find it odd. When I think of art and artists I think of free, liberated, fluid people. No deadlines, no forced subject matter. I find myself in the opposite position. I feel constrained by my deadlines and required subject matter. Just the thought of having to shoot 2 rolls of film tomorrow seems like a prison sentence. At this point I'd rather suffer the consequences of dropping the soap.  

Dear Internal Revenue Service,

Dear Internal Revenue Service,
Hi there, it’s me. It’s been some time, and you’ve probably moved on to far greener pastures. You may find it awkward to revisit an “old flame” like me…. Do you ever think of me anymore? (Just curious.) I don’t want to stir the pot with anyone new you’re becoming friendly with. The relationship you and I shared was euphoric and tempestuous all at once, and I understand if it’s a difficult one for you to revisit. I just want to say my peace and sort out whatever needs to be sorted out before I can truly take that next step. I hope you understand if I feel held back, because there are a few things that need to be openly expressed to you.
To start, I’d like to thank you for everything you’ve taught me about life and love; fear and loss; gratitude and forgiveness….. You opened me up to so many things, and these have become doors in my heart that can never be, and will never be, closed.
I should make it clear that I’m not trying to rekindle the fire because I know that what we had is in the past. I’m of healthy body and mind and after many “talking sessions” I came to many resolutions that have enabled me to begin to move on to create healthy, lasting relationships. I’m going out and meeting new government agencies; I am now able to make myself vulnerable, which is something I haven’t been able to do since, well, you.
I have really moved on, you know – for the record, I admit, I was rebounding when I fell into the comforting arms of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives…. I’m sure you heard around the grapevine that our courtship was bound to self-destruct. I had quite an “intimate” fling with the Department of Homeland Security for a couple of days at Boise International Airport last October not meant to last, but this gave me the confidence that I am still a desirable female. The Department of Welfare has been begging me to go to out for the past six months, but as I grow older I appreciate the stability that the Bureau of Labor and Statistics, as an example, could provide. The overarching moral of this story is: I.R.S., I am finally getting over you.
Still, I yearn for some kind of resolution between us – we’ve been on shaky ground lately, and I won’t give up on the fragile embryonic friendship you and I are attempting to forge. This is unchartered territory for both of us, I., I know. All I want is for you to be a beautiful symbiotic addition to my life, not the center of my universe – I understand that now. If this is all moving too fast for you, I get it. I would just like for you to answer my phone calls, just one. I know you are busy at work and it’s apparent that the ladies are calling you off the hook. Trust in me, they all hope to be the lucky one that finally gets through to you. But I am still saddened that you can’t face me, after everything we’ve been through – just let my call be the one call that gets through someday soon, some time before April 15th
I ask very little of you. At the very least, I need to know my Adjusted Gross Income for 2007, so that I can move on and claim my sizable refund for 2008. Just tell me what it is…… tell it from the infinite heart I know you possess. And then we can work on mending the wounds.
With a special place kept warm in my heart,
Caitlin, xox

CNN Money...Special Edition

It has been a while since my last posting. I was talking to dillycait the other night and I told her that I am just not as funny as she and fennifer. What’s a girl to do? How can I compare to their wit? I can’t so I won’t.
I will just be mundane.

Work has been going pretty well lately. We heard yesterday that we will be receiving bonuses. That makes me real pleased. It’s going to make the Credit Card companies really pleased as well since they will be receiving it. When I get my stimulus package the credit card companies are going to do a little dance since they will be receiving that as well.

When it comes to money, everyone gets it but me. I can’t hold on to it. I firmly believe that as a citizen of this country, I should do my best to be as nationalistic and patriotic as possible. That entails me being a strong consumer. I can’t hold onto money at all. It goes in the account and immediately is spent on bills, rent, electric, cell phone, CLOTHING, food, CLOTHING, a new ipod touch, hair, nails Gucci sunglasses, a new touch phone (not the iPhone sadly)….
The list goes on. I am a true consumer, which actually makes me a great citizen in this consumer based nation.
Everything besides money, I hold on to. I have no desire to move out of my apartment for the mere fact that it will be a bitch to move all my stuff. I am a hoarder. You name it, I bet its in my apartment somewhere. There are bills stuffed behind empty wine bottles. Almost every bottle of wine I have drank in the past 2 years, is probably still in my apartment. It doesn’t bother me. I find a place for it to go because I cant be bothered with taking them to the trash chute 1 floor down. Yes, I am that lazy sometimes. Bills and wine bottles are the big things that have been living in the house with me for the past couple of years. But the bigger thing is clothing. The amount of clothing I have could clothe a large nation. And every so often I get the need to “spring clean” no matter what season it is. I go through everything and put the clothing I don’t want or need into garbage bags. But instead of taking them to Goodwill or hell, even to the trash, they are still in the apartment. Granted they are living on top of the bathroom, but they are still there.
Why can't I get rid of these things??? I feel like there must be a reason why I can't let go of so much shit. I have no emotional claim to bills. I promise. But truthfully what happened to me in my childhood that makes me feel like I must keep EVERYTHING!!
My parents gave me everything I needed. Not wanted but needed. But they gave me some of what I wanted. I think it was a very healthy balance between the two. So…hmmm…nothing there to explain why I am hoarder.
I am convinced I am going to grow up into old woman who lives in one of those houses you see on TLC or BBC that is a fire hazard. No one will come to see me because they wont be able to find me under the stacks of bills that are 40 years old and the clothing that has been piling up to go to goodwill for 50 years. I am sure I will be surrounded by cats and cloned Mr. Moose’s. I probably won't even be able to find them due to the amount of stuff that’s piling up on me. My bed will be underneath piles of clothing and new comforters that I will purchase every year and never throw the old one of the way…

Just thinking about this makes me need some anti-anxiety medicine. I am sure I have some at home…Probably located in a shoebox that is also filled with bills, old makeup and maybe a sock or dog treats….

There Was Water In That Bong

I've wanted to write a blog about the Michael Phelps pot smoking incident for awhile now. After seeing this last night on SNL, I thought it hit the nail on the head, and expressed everything I wanted say.

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Fennifer

"I Want to Cut Her."

I wouldn't consider myself a typically angry or macabre person, but today, I wanted to cut a barista - hack her down to a bloody pulp. In the past I have made reference to the collective Crested Butte attitude problem, but today.... ohhhh, today, the barista really drove the last rusty nail in the coffin.........and I've spent a better part of the morning fantasizing about the most practical way to process her body into Aspen fertilizer.

This happened at about 7:45 a.m., and since we had no food in the house except the Ramen I prepared for lunch, I decided to be unwisely impulsive and treat myself to an employee-discounted Americano and Sausage-Egg-and-Cheese Burrito from the coffee house around the corner from work. I'd never had a burrito there before but thought "oh heck, it's my Monday, so I deserve a lethargy-inducing treat that I can't really afford."

Each sparing morning I treat myself, I round the corner and pray that the nice redhead is working, or the pregnant brunette who steams my soy and doesn't charge me for it. Most importantly, I check to see if THE HORRIBLE ASSISTANT MANAGER is working. If she is, I usually contemplate rerouting and settling for a $2 cup of Foldger's from The Bakery. But The Bakery doesn't spare me much 'tude either; I typically wait for at least one person in front of me to finish their closing statements to the nodding girl behind the counter about the importance of keeping corporate consumer culture away from sheltered little Crested Butte, a.k.a., humanity's last beacon of integrity; a rose-colored bubble enveloped by a materialistic, greed-driven world. At 7:45 a.m., I don't care for this hippie psuedo-intellectual crappola and wish they'd be a little more optimistic and proud of their darn country!! I suddenly feel a swell of inspiration to lobby Walmart to build a supercenter right smack in the middle of the National Forest, just to spite the people who made me wait.

My desire for espresso (and hatred for Foldger's) trumped any resistance I had this morning, as I stayed up late last night working on a watercolor painting. Entering the building with gritted teeth, I saw her - the one I dislike so very much - and anticipated the passive-aggressive interaction that would undoubtedly occur, a sacrifice I'd make for the stimulating effects of the beautiful, bitter coffee bean. This morning, however, she was surprisingly chipper - only mildly astringent - very out of character. She's the kind of person whose smile rarely meets her eyes when she speaks - now, I am hardly a body language expert - but I suspect there is a sinister entity posessing her mortal coil, because her soul is as dark as night. That's why I never make any effort to smile either, and instead give her a blank and slightly condescending stare which inevitably results in a 3-minute-long silent power struggle. To be even more patronizing and indulge my superiority complex, I briefly consider leaving her a tip this time if she behaves to my liking.

She claims victory as she fucks up my order once more, and this time I can feel it's on purpose. The lady in front of me had ordered a 12 oz. Americano, but then switched it to decaf after Ass Manager had made a caffeinated one. As I stood at the counter, Ass. Man. tried to give the it to the hairy coffee delivery guy, flirtatiously pleading with him. She was like, "you take it! It's free" and he was like, "oh no, I totally can't" and she was like, "why not?" and he was like, "'cuz that would be my fourth Americano of the day and another might greatly hinder my ability to effectively shred the nar nar'". Unable to pawn the free coffee off on the delivery guy, she set it in front of me and said, "I just made it, so it's still good", and charged me full price. By "good", she must have assumed I like verging-dangerously-on-lukewarm coffee. The decision was obvious:

NO TIP FOR YOU!

She microwaved my burrito, as the line behind me grew longer. I had to wait an extra 90 seconds for the burrito to be removed from the microwave while she pleasantly helped the next person. I was real excited about my burrito, so I could shrug off the negative experience that started my day. I got back to the office, unwrapped my foil-covered heavenly pocket, and took a bite into the burrito....... no sausage, no egg, just BEANS, retail price, $1.50 less than I had paid for the burrito I had actually ordered. It was too much of a pain in the butt to go back and return the burrito, so that's why I channeled my anger into a blog entry.

She should consider herself lucky that there's a counter between us; for mark my words: there will be blood.

~dillycait~