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Welcome to the BOMB.

The Blog Of the "Mother" of Bandit.
Bandit is my Hairless Chinese Crested--he's the "normal" one. I, on the other hand, am unrepentantly "pet-crazy." You know the type--the spinster who lives in the haunted house three blocks over with 72 cats...okay, so I don't have 72 cats, and my house isn't haunted--but my dogs wardrobe is better than mine! Need I say more? :~)
I've never been consistant at journaling, so the timing of my blogs will be sporadic at best. I just hope they are as entertaining to you as they are to me; however, be forewarned: Most of my blogs will be about The BaldOne. In spite of his Don King "do," I think he's just as cute as any of the Brothers B!
Now, if I can just remember not to get him wet--or feed him after midnight...

About Me

My photo
My bags are packed and I'm always ready to seek out an adventure with Bandit and Moggy in tow. Bandit is my thirteen year old Chinese Crested, who I frequently call The Bald One or The BaldOne Boy (like he was one of the Baldwin Brothers). Moggy’s full name is Pip-Moggy. He’s my two year old gansta-resuce kitty. I couldn’t decide between Pip (which are the spots on die and domino tiles) and Moggy (or Moggie when I mistakenly thought he was a she), so I combined the two. Moggy refers to the British term for "cat of unknown parentage .” So in essence, I have an almost bald dog, and I’ve named my cat “Spot.”

Fun Stuff (I'm doing now or have done)

  • Artistic Attempts weekly (alternating between Painting With A Twist, That Art Place, and Peniot's Palette).
  • Bunko with the Belton Bunko Babes monthly.
  • Participating in the A to Z Blogging Challenge.
  • Spades and Liverpool Rummy with the Spadetts weekly.
  • The Mighty Texas Dog Walk, Austin (fund raiser for Service Dogs, Inc--they train shelter dogs to be Service Dogs, then give them free of charge to people with disabilities.)

Wednesday, April 15, 2015

M Is for Money and Moggy (A to Z Blogging Challenge 2015)

M is for Money because today is Tax Day. Back in President Clinton's reign there was a change to the tax system. The government put out calculators or tables to help people estimate what their taxes would be—to ensure their deductions were on track.  Mine were not. I asked Human Resources to take out an additional $25 per pay period to get me on track.

Until then I had always received a small refund. Which is good because I never have money to pay in. The refund usually went toward a new tire or other car repair.
HR never enacted my request.  I made a second request.
So of course,  brilliant scholars that they were, they enacted both requests.  I ended up getting a nice little sum back on my refund. I decided to keep that deduction on my pay-check even when I changed jobs. 

People always chide me and remind me that I could place that money in my bank and draw interest rather than letting Uncle Sam use it all year. But I know me. I'd spend it, not have money to pay my taxes, and end up in Debtors Prison.  Besides,  even if by some  miracle I actually managed to  keep it my bank all year,  it's not going to make me rich off the interest.  My piece of mind and not having to pay extra taxes is worth the pennies in lost interest to me.
Since I know I’m getting a refund each year, albeit a small one, I'm somewhat haphazard in my deduction record keeping.  I generally file EZ. But this past year I had emergency surgery and a few other deductible expenses, so I sort-of kept a few receipts.  I generally know the approximate location of the paperwork; however, this year I waited way too late to start looking. I've averaged two hours and change each night in sleep. The rest of the time I've been going through boxes and drawers, and boxes and closets, and boxes and even more boxes.  I finally found what I sought in the second to last box. I'm happy to report I'm through with my taxes. And I still have the entire day to get them mailed off. And I even have a stamp… I think.

M is also for Moggy.  This past October I left Choir Rehearsal on the coldest night of the year here in Central Texas—it was in the teens. As I left I heard a pitiful meow. I searched until I found it's source—a tiny white kitten with black tipped ears, tail, and three spots on her head. She was wild and uncatchable by me with my bad back and gimpy knee. I snagged a  jogger as he passed by and enlisted his assistance. Unfortunately,  we were unsuccessful.
I went to the store and bought canned kitten food. She would have nothing to do with either of us, so I placed  it in a more sheltered location and left to go do laundry. At the laundromat I found a torn and stained t-shirt. I took it to the kitten.  She still would have nothing to do with me; however, she had eaten about half of the canned food, so I fashioned the t-shirt into a bed and once again left.

By this tube it was shift change and the graveyard police were coming on duty. I went to the police department and told them if they could catch her, I would find her a home. They said they would catch her. But even they were unsuccessful.
The next day I called our Facilities Manager at Church and told him about the kitten and where I had last seen her. He sent the Interns on a kitten catching assignment, and she was finally caught.

I brought her home and she finally calmed down when I held her on my chest. Even though I had already found a home for her, I started calling her "Pip" because the spots on her head reminded me of the pips (spots) on die or domino tiles.
She was, and still is, a little pip, but when I was researching cat markings I wondered if she had a little Siamese.  She doesn't. Her eyes are green. I wished she was, because I would have named her "Meezer" (a nickname for Siamese).

However, I found a site that talked about Moggies  and liked that even better—especially when I learned about the meaning of the name.
Moggie is British slang for Margaret or Maggie. It's also the British term for a "cat of unknown parentage"—the feline equivalent of the canine mongrel. 

Since I liked both names her formal name for the Veterinarian records became the very ostentatious Pip de la Moggie.  
Until, my oh-so-pleased-with-himself Veterinarian informed me she, is a he. He's now named Pip-Moggy  as if he were a gangsta rapper. He is gangsta. So gangsta I have given Bandit, my soon-to be ten year old Chinese Crested permission to put Moggy in his place when he attacks Bandit's paws.

When Bandit looks at me with soulful eyes that ask Wasn't I enough? I lavish love and treats on him, take him to the dog park or PetCo (where he is the center of the known universe), and I remind him he will always be Top Dog.
Their sibling rivalry is as bad as that of fur-less  kids.

Tomorrow is L—I think it’s just about Limerick-time!

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