Eat All The Things

Does anyone else get nauseated when they are hungry?  I swear that is the reason I’m so fat.  Well that and my habit of eating cake for breakfast.

But seriously, when I let my tank run to empty I fight the dry heaves.  It is a truly awful feeling.  So I avoid it by stuffing my face all day long so I am never hungry, ever!

That does the trick, but it has nasty side effects of its own like not fitting into my fat jeans.  Luckily way in the back of my closet I have my morbidly obese jeans, so I’m rescued from the embarrassment of a trip to the “Oops! You’re So Fat You Need A Special Store-Store”.

I suppose I should try to eat a bunch of leafy greens and water chestnuts to stave off hunger instead of the usual chips and chocolate.  But alas, I don’t want to be skinny THAT bad.

Time Is Up

In light of recent allegations brought to the forefront of our attention I feel I must admit I have a dusnfuctional relationship with my cats.  It could even be categorized as abusive.  I love those fur balls so much and they hate me.  I pet them; they scratch me.  I kiss them on top of their little fuzzy heads; they turn around and hiss showing me a mouth full of stabby teeth.  I pick them up to snuggle them, and I am lucky to survive the clawing squirms.

Yet the cats demand food twice daily on a prompt schedule as chosen by the cats themselves, water fresh from the tap of a dripping sink on demand, and pristine litter box related janitorial services from me.  Should I slack off in any of the above areas I receive repercussions such as but not limited to:

-Whining

-Crying

-Biting

-Crapping on the floor

-Pissing on my bed

-Pawing at my bedroom door incessantly during the night

-Pawing on me incessantly and meowing in my face with their stinky cat breath

Sadly, I know I am not the only person to experience this shit from their cats.  The cats’ time is up, let us all stand together in unity.  #MeowToo

 

Here you see the cats in their native habitat.  It is clearly a rough life.  Please note the cat in the foreground is on her own personal heating pad.

Neurosis

I have an obsession with using things up.  It gives me incredible joy to use all of something.  It may be the meiser in me, but I feel like I get my money’s worth and that makes me so fucking proud.  Screw you world; I got what I paid for!

I use the same item like a pen, a notebook, a lipstick, a bottle of lotion exclusively until it is all used up.  There is no pen hopping for me.  I am a one pen at a time kind of lady.  I stick with that pen until the bitter end.  Should I lose it or find someone else using it all hell breaks lose!

My habit is neurotic because even if I discover I fucking hate the lipstick shade after a couple of uses I refuse to quit it.  I will use that shitty lipstick color up wether it’s ugly or not.

I have gone through entire bottles of lotion scented with the most disgusting blend of juniper and ode de car exhaust because I am not a quitter!  Semi-orgasmic joy envelopes me when I hit bottom.  Then when an item has been fully consumed I have a ceremonial throwing away of the blessed container and an anointing of the next in line.  It’s my own freaky little “use-it up” cult.  And I love it!

Cat Tails

So I had to take my cat Lucy to the vet.  She had been feeling like absolute crap.  She was listless and had a terrible case of the skitters.  Now getting said cat to the vet is never fun.  She has an evil streak in her most of her waking hours.  I love her anyway despite her efforts of slit my writs with her claws.

Anyway I got the thrashing ball of fury loaded into her carrier and off we went to the vet as she wailed the song of her people to me from the backseat.  Once I got there they shuffled me to a back room and told me to wait.  I spoke soothing words and told Lucy how much I loved her.  She just cowered in the back of her carrier and glared at me with her ears flattened on her head.  I reached a hand in to try to ease her anxiety with a few strokes.  Somehow despite owning this cat for 14 years I still think she is a normal feline that enjoys affection.  I was wrong.  As soon as I opened the little barred door to give her some pets she hissed and spat at me then lurched out all serpentine-like to try and bite me.

While this was going on I heard the vet tech in the hall.  “We’ve got a red star cat in room 5.  Do we have anyone ready to help?”

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that Lucy has been labeled as a bad kid.  She’s a red star.  I am embarrassed.  But honestly as she tries to murder me while I am listening to this I kind of understand.  Yet still, I love my devil-cat anyway.

Eventually the vet entered and after a great deal of hissing and attempted bites, which the vet valiantly avoids, she gave Lucy a bunch of shots and special food to eat.  I warn the vet this cat is annoyed by change and goes on hunger strikes when we change her food.  She assures me this kind of food is magically irresistible to cats.  I have my doubts, but I smiled and said, “Ok, we’ll see.”

Then the vet announced that I should bring the cat back to the office once a month for the rest of her life to get a shot of vitamin. B.  I just laughed.  “You’ve got to be kidding, right?  Have you any idea the risk to life and limb it is for both me and the cat to get her here?” I said.

The vet offered some medicine I am supposed to sprinkle over her food before she needs to come in for a shot.  Evidently it will magically relax her into submission.  I completely believe in better living though chemistry, so anything that can help make these future vet visits easier is good with me.

The tech bravely helped me get Lucy loaded back up to head home.  I walk to reception carrying my flailing and spitting box of cat, smiling at the terrified looks from the other animal owners.  Then the vet handed me the pill bottle containing the promised exilr.  I looked down at the bottle, read the label, and then promptly announced, “Oh I’m on this medicine too.”  The vet just stared at me and gave an awkward smirk before leaving me to pay.

Meanwhile I realized I’ve just announced to the entire veteranary office that I am just as crazy as the sputtering angry ball of fur in the cat carrier I’m holding.   Awesome.  Sounds about right.

Happy 2018… I guess?

I still can’t believe that it is 2018.  It seems like yesterday I was drinking champagne and looking back on the death-filled shit show of 2016.  Then I spent the last week in a bout of depression-drinking reflecting on how 2017 turned out to be an even greater catastrophe.  I shouldn’t have been surprised given the world we live in, but apparently there is some seed of optimism in me after all.  I just keep it deeply hidden inside the unrelenting anxiety ball of my brain.

Around 1:00 AM on the first all I kept thinking was that I need to go encase Betty White in bubble wrap because nothing is ever allowed to happen to her…ever!  I need her around because she gives me hope.  Betty starred in the Golden Girls when she was 63!  That’s when it started.  She was 70 when in the last episode.  70!  And that was ages ago!  Since then she has made dozens of movies and television shows.  She has brought joy and laughter to everything she touches.  The woman just gets better with age.

At this point in my life I realize that I may need a few more years…or decades…to reach my full potential.  I need for Betty to be around to remind me it is possible.

So stay strong Betty White, and Happy New Year to all.  Here’s hoping 2018 is less of a train wreck!

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.