Happily Ever After, Cat Edition!

When I got to work yesterday, everyone was in a buzz.  A kitten was in the engine block of a company truck, and no one could get it out.  Someone had even stolen some tuna out of the fridge as enticement, but no dice.  Eventually everyone wandered back inside to do some actual work.

Except me, because I'm a sucker, and the poor thing was crying.  And a coworker's husband, who's a softy for cats.  He'd recommended we try unclipping the underside of the dash cover, and I recommended putting the plate of tuna on the battery, where we'd maybe have a chance to grab it.  We did both--the tuna lured the kitten to a place where we could just grab it from inside the cab.

I took him inside, gave him a bit of a bath in the bathroom with dishsoap with a friend's help (not ideal, but he was covered in oil, and it's what we had), let him eat a bit of the tuna, and grabbed a blanket out of my car for him.

Long story short:  he checked out fine with the vet, and he went home with my friend.  Her kids are ecstatic, and the kitten (who has been named the Slovenian word for "cat," which I can't spell, but which sounds like "Muchki") has made himself right at home.

Yeah, he's adorable.

I'll Be Playing Vince Vaughn

I've got two weddings and two funerals this weekend, which is the perfect set-up for a movie starring Vince Vaughn and a cardboard cut-out of Reece Witherspoon.  (Not that I have anything against Reece.  But her hair is way better than mine.)

This is a terrible time to be unable to think of any icebreaking jokes that don't reference Weekend at Bernie's.

I'm Getting a Bit Worried.

I've done nothing ridiculous in about a week now.

I haven't accidentally spoken out of turn or nearly killed myself with hilarious results.

I haven't experienced the absurd.

Is this blog doomed?  Am I done doing silly things and being egotistical enough that I think my happenings simply must be shared with the entire Internet?  Have I finally achieved adulthood?!





Oh, never mind.  There's the absurdity I was looking for.

Here's some more:

This kid has got it right.

And, here's a (sort of NSFW but absolutely hysterical) gif series of David Tennant and the Stress Ball.


(True:  Dear Internet,  I less than three you so hard right now.)

I'll Be Beating Them Off With a Stick For Sure

I'm thinking of signing up on one of those dating sites, and I'm hoping you guys can help me edit my profile.


Name:  Dana the Biped (Prada the Puff and Stink are freebies.  Or an entourage, if you think that's cooler.  Whatever.  We're a group package.  I really hope you don't have allergies.)

Date of Birth:  Old enough to buy beer, young enough to still get carded for buying beer.  Old enough for my great-aunts to think I'm a spinster, young enough to want to punch them for it.*

*I do not actually condone great-aunt-punching.

Occupation:  Full-time office drudge, part-time blogger/karaoke jockey.  I'm a "slash"--like the Midwest's version of Paris Hilton, except I know what Walmart is and my boobs are real.

About me:  Well, I've got a fair few skills that would help in a zombie apocalypse.  I know how to use a chainsaw and drive a manual transmission.  I'm great to have around in an emergency--I've set my kitchen on fire enough times to know that panicking helps nothing. 

I love to eat, so I'd be a great test subject for anyone who likes to cook.  And since I'm a total whiny wimp when I'm sick, you have the prime opportunity to play romantic hero by supplying me with tissues, cough drops, and books.  In my free time, I like watching Doctor Who and not wearing pants.

But seriously, how could you even edit such a work of genius and panache?


(True:  I'm limping through the whole day with just one can of Mt. Dew.  I'm impressed that I'm still conscious, frankly.)

I don't have any experience with revenge, but pizza is best served cold for breakfast.

Today, as I shoveled pizza into my gob, a friend turned to me and said something very profound:

"You know, you've got to take advantage of your time being single.  In five years, you could be married, have kids, and be less happy."

Makes sense.  My biggest complaint today is that my new tights are not, in fact, truly opaque.


(True:  I have yet to understand how we can send a craft to Mars but no one can figure out how to make a comfortable pair of tights.)

Shakespeare's Got Nothing On Me.

I know you missed my poetry.  I have such talent, after all...

Bad Day Poem

1.  Ten O'Clock in the Morning

I'm running on no sleep.
My eyes are dry and bleary.
All the caffeine in the vending machine
Can't help this day that's so dreary.

2.  Head Case

It's a bad hair day--
I know you can't tell.
As far as you know,
I always look like hell.

3.  Eye Know

These bags under my peepers
Hang down to my chin.
I could put on some makeup
If I knew where to begin.

4.  Free Lunch

At some point today,
I really need to work.
My pen's at the ready,
But it's easier to shirk.

5.  Or Eleven

Damn pen just exploded;
I'm dripping with ink.
I can't wait to get home
And settle in with a drink.

6.  Silver Lining

It's not my best day.
There are plenty of clues
That I don't want to be here--
But I've got fabulous shoes.

7.  Greetings

Pretty please just go away--
Not that I don't like your face.
But it's one of those days that's full of malaise,
And I do hate the whole human race.

8.  Epilogue

The weekend isn't quite the same
As happily ever after.
But those two days don't wreak
Tragedies quite as bleak
For this poor pipsqueak
(Wow, am I on a streak.)
'Cause I can stew in my B-movie laughter.

(True:  Bonus points if you find the Doctor Who reference.)




(Blah, blah legalese:  This is an original work, and I reserve all rights.  Steal it and I'll sic My Sister the Lawyer on you.)

Um, You've Gone Too Far

I have discovered something that is equally amazing and apalling:



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It's a tail.  That wags when you're happy.

Because I definitely need to give people an excuse to stare at my butt.

(True:  When I went to a bridal show with My then-bride-to-be Sister the Lawyer, one of the men with a "Groom" sticker--who was holding hands with a woman wearing a "Bride" sticker, mind you--"accidentally" copped a feel of my butt.  Dude, here's a hint:  If you want to make it seem like an accident, DON'T FOLLOW THE CURVE.)

A Handy Guide to Halloween Costumes and Life

(Humming...)  It's the most wonderful time of the year...

No, I don't mean Christmas, although presents are pretty damn wonderful.  I'm talking about Halloween, the one day of the year that responsible adults are still allowed to play dress-up.  By this point of the year, I usually have a detailed plan for what I'm going to dress up as and how to make that happen.  (I never buy pre-fab costumes.)  This fall, however, I'm running behind.  As I consider my options, there are several questions I keep in mind to keep myself on track.

And you should, too.

Question 1:  Could this costume be called "Naughty (Blank)" or "Sexy (Blank)?"
Because when it comes to costumes, both of these words are interchangeable with "whore."  One part of the costume can be of the come-hither variety without overdoing it.  (I flatter myself that I managed to pull off a Puss in Boots costume with red thigh-high boots.  But then, I paired them with a full cape and a modest top.  And, of course, pants.  Which leads me to Question 2...)

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There is a happy medium...

Question 2:  Are there pants?

A banded top does not count.  Nor does any skirt short enough that you might get herpes from sitting on a bar stool.  Leggings might be okay with a tunic-length top, as long as they are opaque.  If they aren't, they are tights.  And tights are not pants.  Basically, keep your butt out of sight, please.

Question 3:  Will there be visible belly button?

This is not the 90s.  Start over.

Question 4:  Is this costume seasonally appropriate?

Seriously.  If you're running around in a tube top/mini skirt/high heeled sandals and it's snowing, you're not doing it right.

Question 5:  Is it lazy?

 Look, if you want to grab a pair of cat ears to wear with your everyday clothes, more power to you.  But don't blame me if people think you're more boring than watching other people watch paint dry.

Question 6:  Is it recognizable?

Don't get me wrong, I totally do obscure characters from literature all the time.  (That didn't come out quite right, but whatever.)  Even semi-sort-of-not-obscure characters, like the March Hare from Alice in Wonderland is probably going to get some questions.  But if you're going to dress up as a Jessie Drummond from Super What?, don't go crying into your beer when nobody gets it.  This is especially important with gender-bending costumes.

Question 7:  Can you sit/move in the costume?

If your costume is a pimento olive made out of chicken wire, consider this:  you may not fit into a car.  And you definitely won't fit through a bus door.  Your ass is walking.

A summary:

• Be creative.
• Wear clothes.
• Use your noggin, just a little.

All points that will serve you well in life--I promise.

(True:  Less than six weeks to the big day, and I'm still undecided?!  Seriously starting to panic...  Also, I have to say I do actually really like the crazy cat lady costume above.)

Remember Me? That Blogger Who Isn't Dead? (Yet.)

You guys.  Did you know that tomorrow, September 13th, is Defy Superstition Day?  I think it's funny that the one superstition no one will be defying will be the whole Friday the 13th thing.

I was going to write about all the superstitions I was going to bash my way through tomorrow, but I'm beginning to realize there is a difference between being superstitious and being crazy.

Things I'm not afraid of (aka, things other people are apparently afraid of):

• Black cats
• Walking under a ladder
• Breaking a mirror
• Opening an umbrella indoors
• Crows, ravens, and albatross
• Sidewalk cracks
• Red sky in morning

Things I am afraid of (aka, why yes, I am neurotic):

• Putting mail in one of those big, blue, public mailboxes
• Not checking at least twice to see if my car doors are well and truly locked
• Making any noise whatsoever when my neighbor comes or goes
• Giving everything (even inanimate objects) less-than-equal treatment (All of my stuffed animals were shown no favoritism when I was a child.)
• The Gremlins under the bed
• Books that aren't alphabetized by author (though by genre, then by author is acceptable.)

So maybe I'll mail you letter and then be mean to a frying pan, or something.




(True:  A friend did throw spare change on the floor of my new car for good luck, and I am sort of afraid of picking it up...)

What is wrong with me?! (Seriously.)

Walking out of the bathroom just now, I saw two co-workers staring at me, which I thought was rather odd.  Then I realized I had toilet paper stuck to my face.

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Children hate Pinterest, Too

Proof positive:

They're lambs, if you didn't guess.  (I know I didn't.)  Don't they look happy?  No?  Well, that's because they wanted to be superheroes and/or princesses, and you are the terrible parent who make them look like a floppy-eared tampon.

The problem here isn't the stains.  The problem here is that you were hopped up on boxwine instead of supervising your child.

The tag for this is, "20 Questions to ask your children when you're putting them to bed to help develop your relationship."  NO.  NONONONONONONONONO.  I'm sorry to have to break it to you, but it is really never okay to make this kind of references when talking about children.

This kid lives in a bubble.  Not because he has any terrible allergies and will fall into a coma if he breathes air that hasn't been sucked dry by an industrial-grade air purifier, but because he's dressed too nicely to be allowed to play.  And he's only got a box, a purse, and an antique telephone, anyway. 

And just in case you were wondering?  Putting your child in shoes with no socks when it's cold enough to require a hat and scarf doesn't make you a cool parent.  It makes you an asshole with a be-blister-footed child.  Asshole.


(True:  These are all from one page of Pinterest.  Because it's lush with crap.)

Sources:
http://pinterest.com/pin/248260998179845088/
http://pinterest.com/pin/214343263486157465/
http://pinterest.com/pin/275282595944045743/
http://pinterest.com/pin/496803402613809388/

I'm like a superhero. Only without the alter-ego. Or the spandex. Or the powers. Or the thigh-high boots. Forget it. I'm just awesome, okay?

Things I accomplished yesterday:

• Plowed through a mountain of tasks at work while actually managing to look semi-professional.
• Blogged like a boss.
• Walked to the supermarket, thereby reducing my carbon footprint.
• Did laundry and cooked dinner (with extra for freezing) and washed dishes, like a motherfucking domestic goddess.
• Walked the dog, training for polite sitting at stops.
• Ate dinner--with a real plate and fork.
• Socialized:  Beer, dart league, cool people.  Like Carrie Bradshaw in Sex and the City.  But with beer, dart league, and cool people.
• Read fifty pages of a new book, edifying myself on manner subtleties of the 1860s.

Or, in other words I rocked the shit out of yesterday in all matters professional, domestic, social, and intellectual. Carpe that diem, Horace.

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BOOM.


(True:  Of course, the rest of the phrase, quam minimum credula postero, means "putting as little trust as possible in the future", so no promises that today has been anywhere near as efficient...)

Stinks of Desperation

I've mentioned before that I have a cat named Cinco.  Her name is Cinco because I got her on the fifth of May.  I never call her that.  Long, long ago, her name got shortened and bastardized to Stink, and Stink stuck.

Stink tries to pass as an elegant dame, but the truth is, she's a bit of a nutcase.  (Probably the reason we get on so well.)

Yesterday was Tuesday.  Tuesday is dog class day.  After spending an hour and a half focusing solely on Prada, I was trying to devote some one-on-one time to Stink.  I petted her for just a few minutes before she decided she didn't want my hands on her body.  She sniffed in disgust and flounced off the couch to the floor by my feet.

Most people have a footstool or coffee table in front of their couch to rest their feet on.  Not me:  I've got pedals.  Like for a bike.  I generally pedal when I'm watching TV or a movie, because that way I can talk myself into believing that eating an entire can of Pringles at the same time is okay--I probably break even, anyway.

Well, I was pedaling now, and Stink stared at my feet in that creepy way cats have that make you wonder if you're going to wake up with a limb half-eaten.  Then she very deliberately sat in such a way that every rotation of the pedals had my foot stroking her back.  I shifted the pedals, but she repositioned herself.  I shrugged, mocked her, and continued--and Stink stayed put for the next six chapters of the book I was reading.

Foot fetish?  Freaky.


(True:  I have no idea if the term "stubble kittens," referring to barn cat litters born in the fall--when the corn is just stubble--is used anywhere but our particular corner of rural Wisconsin.)