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The Alley Cat Theme Song
Alley, the alley cat loves to catch.
He'll get you a mouse or he'll get you a rat!
He'll catch you a squirrel if you give him a chance.
Watch Alley, the alley cat, dance!
( Alley. )
Mister Alaister "Alley" Hall regrets to inform you that he was given a pink dose of euthanasia on Thursday, January 18th, 2007. He's sorry to cut out so soon, after less than three years of life (well, estimated by the vet) and less than six months in the loving arms of Holly, but he had an abscess on his cheek pad that was only made obvious after the doctor snipped off the puss and matted hair that had covered it previously. Holly thought he'd been attacked by a raccoon (he never even complained with one fucking meow!) but all she saw was the top of the abscess (that just looked like a deep, puss filled cut) and didn't even realize her kitten had a two inch hole in the side of his face! Silly girl! Did I mention he tested positive for FIV (FELINE immunodeficiency virus) and had already suffered two eye infections (both eyes, both times) and a severely nasty upper respitory infection that took two medications and four months to clear up? After having to put down her dog in October and them take her to the crematorium by herself (not an easy thing, if you ask her), she had to hold Alley while he died, because no one else could stand to be in the room! The Family Rock would like you to know that she loved that cat more than any other cat ever (she has three others, two of which she has had for 16+ years!) and that her heart is broken in a zillion fucking pieces.
This has officially become the journal of life and death.
The hat Sila knitted for me!
Originally uploaded by Hollis Maria Orlando.
22 years and I still don't own a gun. Peep the pup in my lap, Angus McBeef, the original gangster and the first male to be welcomed into our family in 9+ years.
Life is good.
He thrusts his fist against the post and still insists he sees the ghost.
The first sentence I had ever read that ellicted a shiver along my spine in the first book that ever caused me to sleep with all the lights by my favorite author. It'll be the first present I've ever given myself.
- Location:Grandma's House, Oak Park, MI, USA
- Mood:
okay
1. You have at least one relative who wore a black dress every day for a entire year after a funeral.
2 You spent your entire childhood thinking that what you ate for lunch was pronounced 'sangwich.'
3. Your family dog understood Italian.
4. Every Sunday afternoon of your childhood was spent visiting your grandparents and extended family.
5. You've experienced the phenomena of 150 people fitting into 50 square feet of yard during a family cookout.
6. You were suprised to discover the FDA recommends you eat three meals a day, not seven.
7. You ate pasta for dinner at least three times a week and every Sunday.
8. You grew up thinking no fruit or vegetable had a fixed price and that the price of everything was negotiable through haggling.
9. You watched Lawerence Welk and Ed Sullivan every Sunday night.
10. You were as tall as your grandmother by the age of seven.
11. You thought everyone's last name ended in a vowel.
12. You thought nylons were supposed to be rolled down to the ankles.
13. You were suprised to find out that wine was actually sold in stores.
14, You never ate meat on Christmas Eve or any Friday for that matter.
15. You ate your salad after the main course.
16. You thought Catholic was the only religion in the world.
17. You were beaten at least once a with a wooden spoon.
18. You thought every meal had to be eaten with a hunk of bread in your left hand.
19. You learned to play bocce before you went to school.
20. You can understand Italian but you can't speak it.
21. You have at least one relative who came over on the boat.
22. You grew up calling the bathroom the baccausa. And you had only one.
23. You were suprised to learn most kitchen utensils had another name which didn't end in a vowel.
24. All your uncles fought in a World War.
25. You have at least six relatives named Tony, Jack or Dominic.
26. You have relatives who aren't really your relatives.
27. You have relatives you don't speak to.
28. You drank wine before you were a teenager.
29, You relate on some level, admit it, to the Godfather and the Sopranos.
30. You grew up in a house with a yard that didn't have one patch of dirt that didn't have a flower or vegetable growing out of it.
31. Your grandmother's furniture was as comforatable as sitting on plastic. Wait. You were sitting on plastic.
32. You thought that talking loud was normal.
33. You thought that cookie cakes and the Tatantella were common at all weddings.
34. You thought everyone got pinched on the cheeks and money stuffed in their pockets by relatives.
35. Your mother is overly protective of males in the family, no matter what their age.
36. Every lunch meat you ate ended in a vowel.
37. There was a crucifix in every room of the house, including the cellar.
38. There was a saint in a bathtub in the yard.
39. Boys didn't do house work because it was women's work.
40. You couldn't date a boy without getting approval from your father.
41. You know what lemon ice is.
42. You called macaroni "pasta."
43. You have one irrational fear or phobia which can be attributed to your mother.
44. You know what a "goomba" is.
45. You have ever lamented your inability to find good cannoli.
46. Your mechanic, plumber, electrician, accountant and travel agent are all blood relatives.
47. Your 2 best friends are your cousin and your brother-in-law's brother-in-law.
48. At least 5 of your cousins live on your street.
49. All 5 of those cousins are named after your grandfather.
50. You call your grandmother Nona
51. Plastic on the furniture is normal
52. You get irrationally upset when someone pronounces it "Eye-talian."
53. There were more than 28 people in your bridal party.
54. You have ever been in a fight defending Sly Stallone's thespian greatness.
55. You have more than three relatives named Tony, Rocco, Carmine, or Sal.
56. You know how to pronounce "manicotti" and "mozzarella."
57. Somewhere on your parents' property, there is a bathtub Madonna.
58. You have a St. Christopher medallion in your car.
59. Your mother/aunt/grandmother prays to her patron saint to help her find her keys
60. You build your house with 3 materials.... brick, brick and wrought iron.
61. Youve been hit with a spoon and/or you've been hit by a nun
62. When you were growing up, you thought that all wine was red and that it only came in gallon jugs
63. You only get one good shave from a disposable razor.
64. You have at least one sister or cousin that went to Beauty School.
65. It is impossible for you to talk with your hands in your pockets.
66. You could never go on the Atkin's diet, because it would require giving up pasta.
Those that are bold are things I have experienced on a regular basis.
We hand in the keys today and he goes to live with his sister in Royal Oak and I go back to living with my Mom.
Regression is a bitch.
Holly Orlando
English 1210
Nicole Castle
October 16th, 2006
The thing about it is, I will never pet her again. That thought kept running through my head while I stared at her lean body, muscles taut. They had given her morphine and she had stopped her shrieks of pain, instead looking at us while she walked around the small room. Yes, her crying had stopped, but all of us were well on the way to making ourselves hysterical. We had just found out our black labrador, Ludo, had cancer in her leg and in her chest cavity. I wondered, in that moment, if it were possible to cry for the rest of your life. I know the Guiness World Record shows a woman who hiccuped for 40 years. Why couldn't I cry that long?
I was sitting on the floor and so was my pre-teen sister, Andrea. My mother was squatting on her feet, arms wrapped around my sisters shoulders and they both had hair matted in their faces from crying. Cheeks red, eyes red, skin paled. We were all looking at Ludo and she looked like she didn't understand why she deserved so much attention. The veterinarian had brought in a syringe full of neon pink liquid and I will forever regret not asking him how long it would take for her to die, once he started injecting it. I thought, surely, we will have a few minutes with her once he pulled the needle out, to give her our love and to feel her heart beating for the last few times.
The vet tech climbed between me and my family, holding Ludo so that the tech's head rested upon Lulu's. She spoke to us, telling us we needed to be strong for our dog, and then she spoke to Ludo. "It's okay, baby, you won't be in pain anymore. Your family loves you so much," she said softly in Ludo's ear. Ludo's coat was gleaming in the room, so fucking healthy that you had to wonder how a dog could have such a beautiful coat and be infested with cancer. Her brown eyes looked at the floor and her neck started to relax, sliding down the woman's arm until she was completely relaxed, until her body laid upon the floor and the vet tech let go of her, gently.
I looked at my dead dog, but directed my voice at the doctor. "Is she dead?", I asked, not believing that so much life, so much beautiful, wonderful, not-enough-time-spent-on-Earth life could be gone. He told me that she was dead and that sometimes the body has little twitches. As he was telling me that, my mother screamed that Lu was still alive because she had breathed. I was sitting on the floor and I looked at my mother then, knowing that our baby was gone, and she looked so ragged. Sometimes there is a moment where you can see a person for who they are under their skin, where you can see such raw emotions that you feel you have to look away, and this was one of those moments. I saw my mom as the confused mess that she was, right then, throbbing with pain and hurt. Betrayal towards Ludo for leaving her all alone, to sit in her house all day by herself and watch television.
My sister was screaming at this point, because we are not WASP'y people who hide behind clean, cold personas. We are Sicilian and when we grieve, we know no boundaries to our pain, there is nothing that we can do to embarrass ourselves when our loved one has died. My sister screamed and everything became a blur. The doctor was telling me that he would appreciate it if I quieted Andrea, because there were people in the waiting room fifteen feet away. I think that is what he said, because the blur only led me to see his hand gestures and his apologetic smile. I heard flashes of what my sister was saying, "We'll never see her again, oh my God, she is dead!", but nothing else registered in my brain. I just stood there and smiled at the doctor, nodding, tears running down my face. I nodded and pretended that I could understand english, like everything he was saying got through to me, even though it hit my ears and disappeared somewhere inside the cavern of my brain, echoing off walls unintelligibly and never relaying its intended message.
My parents and Andrea left the room at some point. They went out to the parking lot and I stayed because Ludo was dead on the floor and leaving her in such a vulnerable state affected me deep down, in some primal, cave woman place. You don't leave your wounded behind, I thought, even if you know they will never come out of it. Everyone left the room while I stayed with the woman who had held my dog while she died. They had pulled out a "body bag" for Ludo, a big black trash bag, and I sat on the doctors stool while the woman put my dog into that bag. She cleaned up the urine that had escaped Ludo as her body had relaxed and I sat on a leather stool. I talked to the woman, who was really a girl and not much older than myself. I asked her how she could do this every day, and she said she had to be strong for us, the client, and I respected that answer greatly.
She had Ludo in the bag and it was my job to go out to the cars and figure out who would be taking her to my Grandma's house. We put Ludo in the back of my dad's SUV and placed her head, what I thought was her head, on a pillow that happened to be there. It was my job to go back home and pick up our bichon frise, Romeo. Everyone left before I did, because it was my job to pay the bill. I laughed at the receptionist, saying, "$50 to kill her? Shit, I could've thrown her in front of a car for free!". I guess it isn't that funny, but I thought it was hysterical at the time. I had stitches in my side when I climbed into my truck.
On the 20 minute drive back to my mom's house, I screamed and banged on the steering wheel, driving like a maniac. When I arrived at her house, I sat down on the couch and held Romeo, crying in his fluffy white fur. He was still in my arms and let me hold him as if he were a baby, moaning out words that formed no sentences. My grandma called then, asking where I was. I put Romeo down and knew that if we were going to bury Lu in Grandma's backyard, she needed her toys and a few biscuits. I don't believe in an after life, but I do believe in comforting the living and I knew my mom would feel better if Ludo had those things with her.
I found her football and her biscuits easily, but I searched high and low for her squeaky ball. I started to get pissed at Ludo, for always hiding it in such creative places so that none of us would disturb and misplace her most beloved belonging. I found it, finally, and picked it up. It squeaked in my hand, under the pressure of me grabbing it, relieved that I wouldn't have to leave it here for my mom to find someday. It squeaked and that noise made me nauseous, the knowledge that this ball would never be planted deep within Ludo's mouth, saliva dripping off the side of it, covered in dirt from playing outside. I had held it together up until that moment, being strong when my family needed me the most, taking care of the things no one else had the heart to do.
But that squeak, it killed me. It turned me into a small child and all I could do was collapse to the floor, crying for my poor Ludog, while Romeo licked my face. I cried and I held onto Romeo for dear life, hating my family for always turning me into The Family Rock, a position for which I had never interviewed and I hated Ludo for making us kill her. I choked on all the bitter thoughts I had, swirling in my mind. I lay on the floor and struggled to breathe, forgetting about everything. All the crying was killing me; Snot poured down my throat and my heart pounded. I knew, lying there and coughing up green mucus and darker things, that I would live. Although the pain felt so real, stabbing throughout my insides, it would not kill me unless I wanted it to, unless I let all the good and happy memories of Lulu be washed away by the horrific events of the day. I owed it to Lu to pick myself up off the floor, I owed it to her more than anyone.
And so I did get up and go to my Grandma's house. I decided to have her cremated and I took her to the crematorium by myself, as The Family Rock, and I picked out an oak urn. I said goodbye to my Lu and I thanked her for her life, her courageous personality, and I told her I would never forget her. I rubbed her ear and her chest, my favorite places to pet her, and I stepped away from the table. I promised her that while I didn't believe she was going to A Better Place, I believed that she had made us, my family, better people, more loving, and for that we would be forever grateful.
- Location:DMKs pad
- Mood:
just a lil' bit sad
She had cancer, on top of everything else.
4 years old.
I sat on the floor next to her and cried my fucking eyes out. We found out she had cancer at 11am and she was dead before noon. They said it was the best thing to do, but I'll regret it for the rest of my life --- not keeping her for another few days. She was in pain, she was, she was.
Her eyes had started to rot by the times I took her (by my fucking self) to the crematorium. The hardest thing I have ever experienced in my life is my baby dog laying on a table, dead, while I sit in a room with her, saying my goodbyes, because she is about to be burned to ashes.
Somebody needs to explain how it is that last night I took her out to pee and I petted her and she slept with my two nights ago and now she isn't here and I will never pet her again, I will never feel her fur against my skin, or accidentally hit her with the door when I come in the house. I will never hear her bark again and tell her to shut her fuckin' yap. I will never ask her to show me where the squirrels, birds, rabbits, or cats are. I will never shake her paw and give her a biscuit. I will never be licked by her or rub her chest, where her white patch of fur lives, or rub her nose, against the fur. She will never smile at me or go outside with my Mom, me joining them so I can smoke. She will never catch her frisbee again or squeak her ball.
The fucking ball killed me. I held it together until I had to come to my Mom's house and I picked up her ball and it squeaked and I fucking fell over.
This dog, she was fine three days ago, sure, her hip hurt but she got around. She was a fucking baby, not much more than a puppy, and now she is dead and I don't understand.
I do not understand how it is possible that I will never pet her again or look into her eyes.
I do not understand.
I cannot possibly explain to you how much I do not understand.
- Mood:
blank
Dad: At Saint Angela's. Emily [my niece] had her Johnny Appleseed recital today.
Holly: Yeah?
Dad: Yeah, did you know Johnny Appleseed was a real guy and not just a story?!
Sometimes I luff my Dad.
- Location:Detroit, MI, USA
- Mood:
amused - Music:traffic on the free way
Missed my English class because I couldn't find my wallet and looked for it for an hour, only to be a complete numb fuck and find it in my BACKPACK!!! An essay was due today, and we only get ONE later paper and I probably wasted mine!!!
Started my period on my cutest pair of blue / green cheeky panties, there were NO pads (they didn't even HAVE tampons) in the bathroom machine, so I had toilet paper shoved up my slit until I got to my Grandma's, three hours later!!!
I ask my Math teacher two questions, one being "I don't get this!" and the other being, "I don't get this!" and her responses are as followed: "You need to take Math 50!" (Me: No, I don't. I know that 5 is 5% of 100% and I got the first chapter we did in this class.) and "You weren't here last week!" (Me: I've missed one class and that was at least three weeks ago!). She doesn't answer my questions and treats me like a dumb ass!!!
I was ganged up on in my psychology class because I was THE ONLY person, out of 30, who thinks animal testing is wrong! I said, "Go to downtown and pick up some bums and expirement on them!" and this girl was GLARING at me, so bad, so I said to her, "Sorry, are you like, friends with bums? Do they come over your house for dinner?"
WAY TO MAKE FRIENDS !!!!!!
Psych 003.
Originally uploaded by Hollis Maria Orlando.
This is me in psych class. I am trying not to fall asleep and am staring at the professors large ears, that protrude from his head greatly, and do nothing to add to his appearance, when you see him close up.
PS. My PSYCH teacher totally sounds and kinda looks like DAVE FOLEY, from the back of the class, where I sit. The first class I had, I was like, "HMM, NOT TOO BAD" cos he looked hot. And then I left the class, went to the front of it, and he looked fucked up and freckled. So I sit in the back of the class so I can fantasize about sitting on his face.
PPS. My shirt, in the picture, says "RESPECT MY PEEPS" and has little yellow Peeps (my favorite candy) with huge golden chains and backwards hats. My Grandma asked me if "peeps" meant boobs. =x
Conversation between me and some random black girl in math class-
Me: I can't believe that kid in our class is named Mike Meyers.
BG: I got this kid in my class named Osama. I'm like, nigga fucked up buildings and blew up shit, and now you got his name!
- Location:Detroit, MI, USA
- Mood:
like a loser
Fat girl at McDonald's. Anyone surprised?
Also, if you don't want to watch me being awesome, take me off your fucking friends list and go eat dog shit.
- Location:Utica, MI, USA
- Mood: amused
Actually, I made it to the first sentence that was something like, "My Mom went into the mental institution three months after my first suicide attempt" and couldn't even make it to the second line.
I suck and cry in classes where I already feel hella self concious.
ps. My icon is a Holly interpretation of the Three 6 Mafia song, "Poppin` My Colla".
pss. Holly has instated a new college rule -- if you are wearing a lot cologne and/or perfume and you sit within three feet of me, I have every right to cough loudly, bend over wheezing, and tell the other people around us, "Anyone smell that shit? It's kinda like animals ... and bear shit? Get a whiff of it?".
THIS IS THE FUCKING LIBRARY, WHY ARE YOU SITTING BEHIND ME HAVING A HUGE, WHOLE CONVERSATION?!?!?! WHY IS THE LIBRARIAN NOT SMACKING YOU ASS WITH A FUCKING RULERRR!!!!!! DIE, YOU SELF-INVOLVED UGLY FUCKS!
- Mood:
uncomfortable
Japanese fan girl.
Originally uploaded by thecolourweareborntomourn.
No. 232 of the reasons I rock.
Big shoulders?
Originally uploaded by thecolourweareborntomourn.
New flickr update!
Mmm.
Originally uploaded by Hollis Maria Orlando.
Diet Pepsi and chocolate.
WTF, Macomb? WTF.
Also, I wrote an 1100 word essay on how to make Nissan instant ramen noodles. I rule at life.
- Mood:
shocked
I think that might be my new home, since we all know LiveJournal is so 2003.
English 1210
Nicole Castle
September 18th, 2006
How to Survive Dinner with My Dad
The thing to remember with my Father is more is always better. He likes more pasta, more soda, and more steak, more everything. When receiving a dinner invitation from anyone in my family, specifically my Father, you never say “maybe”. “Maybe”, in my family, means that you are lazing about, doing nothing, and think that doing nothing is more important that eating a meal with your famiglia.
Once you have agreed to go to dinner with him, you must decide on an outfit. Cut-off jeans are very far from appropriate, as my Father will call you a povero hippie and laugh. Exposed bra straps or any shirt cut beneath the clavicles will get you a “put those away”. You are best sticking to khaki pants or nice jeans, with a belt because if they pants go any lower than your belly button, he will tell you that they are going to fall off, and a nice blouse or a stain-free t-shirt (stay away from the one that says, “I Survived a Sicilian Father” – he does not find it amusing).
The discussion about which restaurant to patronize will last at least 20 minutes and involve calls to numerous family members. My Dad will tell you to call my Mother, because she recently went to a new place in the vicinity of your home. She will tell you that there was a hair in her food and if you plan on going there, bring the Pepto ahead of time. You will then be told to call at least one other relative, who hopefully will have a good suggestion, because if no one has anything helpful to say, you will end up at Denny’s with chicken fried steak and gravy, instead of the rare delmonico steak you are hoping for. Occasionally my Dad will have a place he wants to go to and if you are lucky, it will have “BBQ” in the name and not “DINER”.
Getting to the restaurant will always be an ordeal, so get used to it. My Dad will first call and tell you he will pick you up, and then you will get a call saying that you will meet at the designated eatery. Eventually, he will drive to your apartment, expect you to be waiting outside, and move to the passengers’ seat, for you to drive.
There is something very important to remember here, do not forget to wear nice shoes. Anything with
dirt and/or stains will end up in a 20 minute rant on how you should’ve kept your previous job, which paid slightly better than your current because you could buy new shoes like your cousin Deena wears. Do not expect the rant to end until you either arrive at the restaurant (in which case it may continue once you are seated) or tell him you were very stupid to quit that job and you think about how stupid you were every day (do not mention that they made you work seventeen hour days without a break – he picked tomatoes when he was six years old and doesn’t want to hear it).
Once the car pulls up to the restaurant, immediately turn the ignition and hand my Dad the keys. You don’t want to have an experience like the one I did at National Coney Island last year, the incident where I left the car started during the entire meal, because it purrs so quietly I didn’t realize it was running, and had to ask him if he had a spare set of keys, because I locked the other ones in the car, and told him he had to hurry because I was going to shit my brains out from the hanni, and he went on a rant about how sooner or later I need to use public restrooms. I escaped that one, but my Father is not a stupid man and might, next time, realize your grave mistake.
At present, my Dad will be hobbling up the walkway to the front doors. You are expected to walk next to him, not quicker, because he got the gout in his knee whilst earning money to send you to college and you should have enough respect to not rush a man of his age. If you walk faster than his slow pace, it is expected you are doing so as to hold the door for him. Regardless of your stride, even to his or more impatient, you hold the door. If you don’t, you can expect to walk the mile home with his foot up your ass.
Inside the restaurant, you will tell the host or hostess you would like a table for two, non-smoking, because when it comes to speaking to people in public, he always acts like he doesn’t speak the language and you always end up playing the translator. The bright side of this is, he has a tendency to tell random strangers embarrassing things about you so by avoiding him speaking at all, there is the added benefit of knowing you will never turn bright red when my Father alludes to the fact, at your 19th birthday party, that the waiter would like you to stand up outside of the booth because it’s your birthday and he would like to tell everyone, not because he wants to nail you in the bathroom.
Even when my Mother leaves a $100 tip, you still can’t look directly at the waiter.
________________________________________
Posting my essay here in case the rtf/word documents don't properly transfer.
- Location:mcc library
I waited in the drive-thru at Little Ceasars for 15 minutes. Finally the car behind me and myself parked and went into the establishment in hopes of getting pizza quicker. The gentleman in the car behind me, with a wad of cash in his hand, leaned on the counter and said,
"Damn, I'ma waitin' in line so long, I need to smoke another fuckin' blunt to get the munchies, I ain't that fuckin' hungry now. Fuck yeah, put more pineapple sauce on that motherfuckin' shit!"
________________________________________
Sitting in English class, listening to my neighbors,
"What did you do on Labor Day?"
"Gave my parents best friends daughter an anal contusion."
