Cats: Ancient Beings

Today in an effort to procrastinate from all things productive, I looked up the conversion chart that shows cat ages in human age equivalents.  It explains a lot:

Past age five cats are basically old.  It’s that simple.  Apparently cats spend the majority of their lives elderly.For anyone who has ever owned a cat that certainly would explain their constant sleeping, general grumpiness, attention seeking behaviors, and demanding nature.  Chances are your cat is way older than you, and you damn well better get off your lazy butt and bring me some food, you little whipper-snapper!

My cats Lucy and Ethel are apparently 72 and 60 respectively.  That certainly explains these sort of looks I get from Lucy:

But I assure you despite being a septuagenarian, Lucy still tries to be alluring from time to time:

Good for her!  Now I have to go and get them both some food before they get pissy with me.

Dick’s Out

I feel like maybe I need to get out of the house more because I’m becoming a hypochondriac.  I’ve always had hypochondriatic tendencies, but now without a real job to be annoyed with I have too much time to marinate of wether or not the twinge I felt in my finger means I will have imminent joint collapse in my old age.

I did get out of the house one evening in July to see one of my favorite authors, Neil Gaiman, speak at the opera house downtown.  He didn’t sing operatic arias, which was a bit of false advertising given the venue, but he was English as fuck and told the most spectacular stories.  It made me jealous of his children.  How I would have loved to listen to the bedtime stories they must have grown up being told.

Neil was great, but the best part was getting to the show.  On the way downtown my mom and I stopped at a jewish deli, which is hard to find in Texas, and gorged on cured meats and strudel.  Then we got stuck in traffic and the most wondrous thing happened.  Mom points out the car window and starts laughing the snorty kind of laugh she does when something really tickles her.  I look over and see:


I mean really, that’s just ancillary signage.  You have to respect the land lord that allowed his building to be turned into a giant phallus.    I also adore my mother for being the first person in the car to point and laugh at it.  She’s my hero.

So yeah, I should probably get out more.  I would worry less and perhaps find more X-rated architecture, if I’m lucky.

My Yard Wants To Kill Me

Yesterday as I pulled up to the house I realized if I let the grass in the yard grow any higher, I was likely to receive more hate mail from the homeowners association.  They are not fans of our yard, generally speaking.  I seem to have inadequate weed control skills as well as a poor edging ability in their eyes.

I waited until eight o’clock to mow.  That seems to be the sweet spot between avoiding heat stoke and not waking the neighbor’s children.  So braless, as bra’s generally suck, and suck even more when causing unnecessary additional boob sweat during vigorous yard based activities, I began to mow.  And poison myself.

I knew my husband had thrown poison granules over the ant hills.  I could see it.  But I was on a mission to be done and ain’t nobody got time for careful navigation around every anthill in the yard.  So I mowed right over one that was bigger than I had realized.  It poofed up a massive cloud of dirt, ants, and poison.  I am fairly certain I inhaled all three foreign bodies.  Shit.  It didn’t stop me from finishing the job.  But I spent the rest of the time contemplating wether or not to call poison control, as well as meticulously circumnavigating the other hills.  I guess there was time for that after all.

This morning I woke up with a headache and an ant bite on my elbow.  At least the poison hasn’t managed to kill me.  My brain feels slightly maimed, but I’m sure that’s just temporary.

You Never Know

The Great De-Clutter of 2017 has made its way to my office.  I avoided this room for some time because it is my neatness nemesis, a “catch all” room.

I’ve got my own personal sweat shop in here complete with multiple sewing machines and all the notions needed to sew anything you could dream of as a Halloween costume.  There is enough loose fabric to clothe a small village.  And beware office intruders as a few straight pins are always lying in wait in the carpet.

Then there is my fiber problem, sheep run from me in fear of shearing.  I have yarn ferreted away in my drawers and closet in copious quantities.  So much so that should I perish and someone find my stash, they would think me a hoarder.  But the special kind of hoarder who covets wool not the kind that lets trash and cat shit pile up.

The office also accumulates a bunch of other miscellaneous stuff.  Stuff that had no where else to go.  While organizing my desk I uncolored the following pile:


Yes, those are indeed a packet of wisdom teeth pulled from my head.  (I would have fought back but they drugged me.  At least they had the decency to let me keep the teeth.)  Then a there are a few badges from old jobs, an old passport, a calculator for the hard of math-ing, and a receipt from my book buying habit.

It is pretty much a pile of trash.  These things should probably be shredded and/or unceremoniously tossed in the garbage.  But I just can’t.  I may need them someday if I become a spy posing as a teacher (clearly not a math teacher) hopping from one county to the next to thwart evil.  Or I might have to convince someone I am a member of an undercover, jaw shattering fight club by displaying the teeth of my enemies.  You never know.

Sorry, So Sorry

I have a sorry problem.  Recently a friend pointed out to me that I say sorry entirely too much.  It’s bad.   Really bad.  I know because I even hear myself saying sorry constantly, and I realize it sounds crazy, but I can’t help myself.  It’s a tic.  I am compelled to spout out the word sorry.  I feel like I can’t breathe again until is say it.  I am to the word sorry as Sheldon on The Big Bang Theory is to knocking on the door three times.

The worst part is how inappropriately I use sorry.  Someone will point out how they screwed up and I say sorry.  As if it is my fault they fucked up.  I apologize to them despite having nothing to do with the situation.  People find this offensive, but I can’t help it.  I genuinely feel sorry they screwed up, so of course I say sorry.

It gets worse too.  If someone physically runs into me with their cart at the grocery store, I say sorry.  Yup.  That’s right.  They run into me and I apologize for it.  As if I am sorry for my mere existence, for if I didn’t exist they wouldn’t have had the misfortune to run into me.

I even apologize when I do something commendable.  Sorry, but I went ahead and finished that paperwork for you.  Dear god it makes no sense. I am obliged to always say sorry.

I’m sure some psychologist somewhere would tell me it is because I don’t value myself as a human, and I do not feel worthy to walk the earth so I must constantly apologize for being alive.  This is true occasionally for sure.  Who doesn’t struggle with self esteem?  However I believe the real reason, or at least the slightly less depressing one, is that I must clearly be secretly Canadian.  Ohh gee, sorry to break it to ya, but it’s the truth.  I bet I was actually adopted from a nice Canadian family, and all those stories about the day I was born are actually fabricated for my protection…sorry.

Ahh Summer

Welp, it is almost Memorial Day, which officially ushers in the summer here in the south.  This morning I opened my e-mail to receive this message from the neighborhood property manager:

(If you can’t read micro-sized writing it says, “We will be closing the pool due to fecal contamination. It will be closed for the next 24 hours. Thank you for your cooperation!”

Summer is all fun an games until someone poops in your pool.  And do they really need to ask for my cooperation?  I mean seriously, who the hell would be like, “This is bull shit, you can’t keep my from my communal pool rights.  I’m getting all up in that cesspool.  Try an stop me!”  I just can’t even imagine.

Here’s hoping the pool incident is the last shitty thing that happens this season!


They say you should never meet your heroes because you will inevitably be disappointed.  I suppose that’s true in some cases.  If your hero was Superman I don’t know how you could possibly meet him without being dumbfounded by his bulging man-panties.  You might not be disappointed, but it would definitely be weird.

I’m lucky though, I got to meet my hero once and it was everything I ever wanted it to be.  In fact I have seen him every year now for four years.  He doesn’t know I’m there, but I sit back in that audience and I listen to him read and inside I sparkle.

My hero is David Sedaris.  I had a brief, yet perfectly awkward, conversation with him once.  I had taken my mother to see him read at a theater down town.  We stood in line to have our books signed.  I barely remember any of it because several thousand butterflies seemed to be participating in a fight club inside my stomach.  I was so nervous I shook.  Literally shook.  I remember feeling sweat drip down my back as we waited, overdressed in the April heat of Texas.

When we reached the front I could hardly form a sentence.  I remember telling him I wanted to be him when I grew up, prompting him to inscribe my book with simply, “Dream Bigger.”  He asked me if I had any tattoos, which from reading all his previous essays, I knew to be a common query at his book signings.  I was disappointed to tell him no, I was uninked.  He said that was refreshing.  I can’t remember what I babbled back to him, but I do remember thinking I could never possibly be more star struck.

It took a long time afterwards for me to come down from the interaction.  I had actually spoken to my hero, not well, not clearly, and certainly not meaningfully, but I had done it.  I can hold those few moments in my pocket and know heroes are real.

David’s writing changed me.  When I first read his work a whole new world opened up around me.  What he wrote, and how he writes it is what I had always wanted to do, but never before known was possible.  He was really doing it.  Making people laugh, experience joy and grief right along with him as his told the stories of mundane, yet somehow miraculous every day events from his past.

His stories made all of the fish and pencil sharpener obituaries I had written make sense.   David’s writing made me realize the story about the marshmallow spit I managed get stuck to my ass and unknowingly wander about the house with could be real art someday.

So even today I sit behind my computer.  Clicking away at the keys trying to dance my way around the page with nouns and verbs to paint a picture worth reading.  Maybe someday with enough work David Sedaris may even read something I wrote.  Maybe.  I’ll keep trying.

As the lights go down…

Recently my husband and I have turned our house into a construction site.  It has been well worth it.  I have a new kick-ass library, but that is not really what this post is about.  This post is about boobs.

When taking apart light fixtures I realized that our home is full of boobs.  I guess I just hadn’t been looking up frequently enough to realize that our ceilings were so well endowed.  But as soon as we took down that first light fixture and I had to screw back on its nipple I figured it out.

We started with just a nice pair.

But then we went full on Total Recall.

Yeah!  So as we renovate we are also performing ceiling mastectomies one boob light at a time.


My dad is accident prone.  That is sort of an understatement.   The doctors at the local ER sort of know him by name.  Which is why my mother and I regularly have text exchanges like this:

Yeah, she’s even reached that point when taking him to the doctor herself seems unnecessary.  He’ll be fine.  Unless some appendage is actually separated from his body as a whole she no longer really considers it an emergency.

That’s because my dad loves to work with wood.  Really he is working with saws, a lathe, axes, knives, drills and other various sharp and/or pointy objects.  The wood part is really secondary.  Anyway over the years his hands, fingers, arms, face, chest, and even once a part more precious to men than any other have gotten in the way of something sharp.

All in all he has really come out ok.  He is missing one finger and parts of a few others.  He’s got a bunch of scars.  There is no feeling left in several other fingers, but that is actually a good thing, less pain next time he cuts them.

So yeah, texts like this are pretty common.  And dad is lucky that chicks like mom dig scars.

10 Ideas

I recently read an article that suggested you come up with ten crappy ideas a day.  The premise was that if you do this every day you will begin to be better at coming up with ideas by working out and enhancing your “idea muscles”.  Apparently then when you really need a good idea you will be more apt to come up with one.

It sounded like decent advice to me so today I tried flexing my idea muscles.  It turns out my muscles have apparently atrophied as the task was much harder than I ever could have imagined.  At first I tried to come up with ten ideas for titles of movies I would want to watch. 

Apparently I can’t get my mind off the gutter because most of them involved seeing Chris Pratt scantily clad.

Then I thought I might try instead to come up with a list of names for future cats.  That just seemed pitiful.  It hits too close to “turning into the crazy cat lady” home, but I made the list anyway.

So I definitely have the “crappy” part of this ideation exercise down.  I’m not sure if it will actually help me in the future, but it sure as hell is fun.