Guilty Pleasures

Guilty pleasures.

We all have ‘em.  But it alarmed me recently to realize how very, very many I have.  Boy, do I.  (Of course, I probably don’t feel quite as much guilt as I probably should…but whatever.)  And let’s face it – don’t we all feel so much better about our own kinks when we learn what other people are up to behind closed doors?

So I’m laying it on the line.  It is my hope that by clearing the air, shaking the skeletons out of the closet, I will find freedom and maybe, just maybe, some other poor soul out there will read my words and find comfort in knowing they are not alone.

So here we go:

This one is a bit embarrassing.  I sort of pride myself on not being a typical ‘girl’.  But if you’ve been following along, you’ll recall the post about my current smitten situation causing me to purchase a pink computer.  Well, it’s a pervasive kind of disease, this being-smitten thing.  And now I find that I can’t stop buying shoes.

[But seriously...aren't they preeeetttty???]

KinderEggs.  The chocolate tastes like crap, the toys are weird and always end up in the junk drawer or the recycling bin and they are probably responsible for at least 3% of the world’s pollution problem…but I can’t resist buying them!  I think they [you know - THEY] know this and that’s why they stick ‘em right next to the cash registers.  I don’t know – it’s that element of ’surprise!’ or something.  Followed by the mild, low-brain-power challenge of putting together the plastic house shaped like a pumpkin or whatever that just sucks me in every time.

Cat yawns.  I’m going to confess this, knowing full well that it may throw my animal-lover status into question, but since I’m committed to full disclosure, it must be told.  My cat Sassy has the most enthusiastic yawns you’ve ever seen in cat-dom.  When I first got her, over 13 years ago, for some reason or another, I thought it would be funny – while her eyes were closed during the yawn – to stick my finger in her mouth so that she would be surprised by it when she closed her mouth.  It was pretty funny.  C’mon – it was!  And so it became something of a habit.  I will actually skip across a room to make it to her in time if I see a yawn beginning, just to stick my finger in her mouth.  I honestly think she does it on purpose.  She likes it, I know she does.  But I think you can probably understand the ‘guilt’ part of this sick little pleasure.

The Carpenters.  Singing along with them in the car.  Really loudly.  I know all the lyrics.  Some of them make me all thoughtful and melancholy.  Of course, after the tape was discovered by a date, I did toy with the idea of sticking a Sex Pistols label over the original text, but instead I’m coming out about it.  It’s very liberating.

Cheating at The Sims 2.  Don’t get me wrong, EA did a great job – it’s a wicked game.  But it’s a little…well….PG 13 for my tastes.  I have every downloadable hack and mod there is.  My Sims can have casual makeout sessions in public places, closet woohoo with random strangers and they can get knocked up as teenagers.  They can get free clothes whenever they want them without ever leaving the house.  I have killed all the fugly game-generated townies and other non-playables and replaced them with hot, beautiful replacement default facial templates so that they can all have gorgeous babies.  I am a boolprop ADDICT (if you are, too, you will know what this means).   My fingers can hit CTRL + C to access the cheat console faster than you can say ’shooflee’.  And this one is such a multi-layer guilt.  There is the guilt, firstly, from wasting time playing computer games in general.  Then there is the guilt from hacking up a game that the developers put so much work into.  Then there is the less tangible but no less disturbing guilt from all the time I force my Sims to spend lying on the grass waiting for a satellite to fall on them or how much stargazing with the fancy telescope that I make my male Sims do, hoping for them to be abducted.  I also really like watching them have nervous breakdowns.  I would make such a horrible god.

Free tv on the Internet.  Yes, that’s right.  I’m admitting it – come and get me.  The way I see it, until some website comes up with a way to prevent free tv from getting out there or they clue in and just start selling advertising to cover costs the way old-fashioned television does (duh), or else offer me every single show I want to rival the variety I can get elsewhere for free…I’m just gonna keep doing it.  I like to think of myself as a partisan for the free tv movement.  It’s not that I can’t afford cable.  I used to have cable, actually, but had to disconnect it when I realized I knew the names of all the Carter siblings.  Some pleasures just come with too much guilt to be worth it.

Well, this is by no means a complete list.  I have a shitload of vices, peeps.  So stay tuned for more embarrassing crap and possibly incrimating evidence in the future.

How To Suck At Animal Rescue

It was a bitter, cold winter day.  I sat in my office typing transcripts, when I heard my co-worker say, “There’s a duck in the road.”

I leaned back in my chair and removed one earpiece.   “A duck?”

“A duck.”

“A duck???“

“A duck.”

What can I say?  I like to look at wildlife.  I threw down my headset and ran over to the window.

Sure enough.  There was a duck in the road.  A kinda dead-ish-lookin’ duck.

A man got out of a nearby truck, placed the mallard drake on a snowbank on the curb and got back in his vehicle.  I could only assume he was the murderer.

But wait – what if the duck still had life?  It must be saved!  Leaping into action like the superhero that I am, I raced to the coat closet and grabbed my shawl.

I raced down the stairs and out the door, barefoot in the snow (I work in a very casual office – don’t judge), darting through traffic as I made my way across the busy street (well, okay, sort of busy…ish).

The duck was clearly in shock, though without too much visible injury.  It lay on the snow, looking up at me with sad, pleading eyes.  Wrapping it tenderly in the shawl, I carried it quickly to the heater inside, barking out phone numbers of vets for my co-worker to call as I ran.  After a few hasty phone calls, a doctor was found who would treat the wild bird and a driver for my car was found to transport us both to the clinic.

The car wove in and out of traffic, making every second count as we rushed the injured bird to the doctor.  It refused to stay in the box designed to be used as an emergency stretcher, preferring instead to stay in my arms, twining its long neck around my own.  This bird would not die!  This bird must be saved!  It was DESTINY!

Leaving the animal in the trusted care of the doctor, I returned to my office, triumphant.  Confidant that I had made a difference.  Grateful that I had found the bird and been able to play a part in its survival.

Glowing and relieved, I bounded up the steps to the office two at a time.  Several regular clients were at the top.  I greeted them cheerily and waved, smiling my big I-just-saved-something smile.

They looked at me weird.

I went to the washroom to wash my hands before returning to my desk.  That’s when I noticed my face was smeared with mallard blood and my sweater covered in feathers.

And, um…yeah.  The duck died.

She Was Nice to Mice* (and Possibly a Little Mental)

*(title stolen from a favourite childhood book by Ally Sheedy – yes, that Ally Sheedy)

It’s good to love animals, right?  Good people, kind people, Disney princess-type people…that’s who loves animals, right?

How do you know if you are taking the animal-lover thing a bit too far?

Last year I found a dead mouse in my kitchen cupboard.  It really sucked.  More for the mouse than me, I admit, but still an awful lot of sucking.  And it was all my fault for storing an Evil Oil Lamp in my cupboard, just begging for a cute, wee little house mouse with an acrobatic personality to dive into the glass chimney and become trapped, doomed to what was likely a long, slow, torturous death of starvation and terror.  (And this story also illustrates how much action my kitchen cupboards get, in terms of domestic activity.)

How did this mouse get into the cupboard, you ask?  How did this wily mouse make it past the Cat Guards of Death?  (Um, yeah – this story also illustrates how completely useless be my cats.)  Well, this cupboard (now haunted) has a hole in it, a pre-existing hole from an old stove pipe, which was never covered over.

Of course, the logical solution would be to now cover it up.  But this mouse had a family!  It must have!  How would they now make it through the long cold winter without their breadwinner??  I was now all they had.

Turns out they like trail mix.  In little tiny mouse-sized bowls left in now-empty, now-haunted kitchen cupboards, while the provider of such provisions frantically seeks information on the Internet on how to live-trap and release wee cute little house mice.

Days pass.  Bowl after bowl of trail mix are emptied surreptitiously by Bruce the Mouse (a mouse never seen, but imagined as the deeply bereaved spouse of the deceased, named for a dear friend of the Mousie-Lover who is prone to boasting of his manliness) every time the former owner of the Evil Lamp is not looking.  Live-trapping was not being carried out as planned.

One day, Mousie-Lover arrived home, greeted at the door as usual by the Useless Cats, the eldest of which was supposedly slowing down in her old age and was, in fact, in recovery from a very recent surgery to remove bladder stones as well as most of her teeth.   Mousie-Lover reached down to pat Elderly Cat, who gazed up innocently and sweetly with her aged eyes.

Mousie-Lover looked away, then looked back only to see Elderly Cat in precisely the same relaxed position as previously, only now holding a cotton ball in her mouth.

Mousie-Lover said, “Oooo, cotton ball not good for kitty!” and upon reaching down to remove the cotton ball, discovered that the cotton ball had wee little pink feet.

BUT do not despair just yet!  Bruce had life in him yet!  The little feet wiggled.  One little dark eye peeped open, checking to see if the coast was clear.  It clearly wasn’t, so he quickly closed it again, but the Mousie-Lover was not fooled!

An inspection of Bruce revealed no visible wounds, and a quick call to the vet (yes, the vet – shut up) resulted in the advice that the mouse may be in shock and the best thing to do would be to place him outside in a warm quiet place to allow him to recover.  Which would have worked, had the neighbor’s cat not been so very very interested in what was happening inside that granola bar box.  Back in the house we went.  (After a brief encounter with a neighbor, who recoiled with a grimace from the box, saying, “You really love animals, don’t you?”  as if she was saying, “You really love turds, don’t you?”)

I wish I could say that The Story of Bruce the Mouse had a happy ending.  Despite being placed on a soft bed back in the temporary safety of the cupboard, little Bruce lost the battle and perished a few hours later.

The cupboard that was now haunted by TWO mouse ghosts was now forever doomed to remain empty and unused.

Except one day I was in a hurry and must have chucked a few things in there, not thinking.

Because I came home the other day to discover nothing in the cupboard but several empty wrappers.

This Bruce apparently really likes ground cinnamon and extra-strength black cherry cough drops.

One day the mother ship will come back for me, I just know it.

Good-Bye Lizard

When I was little, I had a habit of bringing home critters. 

Most little girls probably bring home puppies, kittens, lost baby birds.  I brought home reptiles. 

I had seen a show on television about snake wranglers, and listened carefully as they explained how to properly catch a snake (behind the jaw, so it can’t twist around to bite you.)  You have to be quick.  I was.  And happily, the field behind our house was swarming with my little slithery friends.  Unhappily, my mother had a severe snake phobia and was not thrilled about my newfound hobby, especially because  even at that young age, I had a seriously sadistic sense of humour and found it unendingly hilarious to sneak snakes into the house to freak my mother out.  (Holding the head in your hand and twining its body around your arm, then pulling your sleeve down to hide it was a pretty effective Trojan horse tactic.  Which led to my mother locking me out of the house on several occasions while demanding I strip on the doorstep as she watched through the window before allowing me admittance.  *not sure who needs therapy more right now*)

Well, I got sick of this game eventually and one day while digging around under the house (don’t ask me why I was doing this – kids are weird), I found something that even my mother didn’t mind too much.  A lizard – a salamander, I suppose, since they are native to Nova Scotia.  I don’t really remember too much about his appearance…just that it was love at first sight.

“Lizard” (c’mon, I was five) was my new best friend.  I kept him in my room, I carried him with me wherever I went.  We were soul mates.  For about 3 days. 

Someone should have told me that lizards can grow back their tails.

You see, lizards like Lizard can lose segments of their tails when stressed (not that I see anything at all stressful about being mauled by a five-year-old all day and night).  But they can regenerate their tails.  Not always, but most of the time.  And it most certainly doesn’t mean they are dead. 

Someone should have told me this.

A sleeping, tailless lizard looks a lot like a dead lizard.

Well, drama queen that I am, the funeral was a rather involved affair.  The entire neighbourhood was summoned.  A grave was dug.  Words were said.  Lizard was interred – dust to dust, etc.  A ’headstone’ was erected (a piece of pink construction paper stuck on a twig that read, “Goodbye Lizard”). 

Imagine my dismay as a grown-up when I discovered Lizard may have just been snoozin’.  But considering my concept of ’six-feet-under’ back then (about 2 or 3 centimeters), I have hope that Lizard was just faking his death in order to dig out and make his getaway.  He is probably, to this day, lounging on a beach in Florida somewhere.

And, well, sometimes the Universe gives you a second chance, man. 

A couple of months ago, my boss announced that her parents had discovered a lizard crawling up their drapes, likely imported in a potted plant from some faraway tropical region (don’t get too excited – it wasn’t Lizard – this isn’t that kind of story).  But still…pretty cool. 

Now, I work in a small office with only six staff members, and it can get lonely here at times.  We had been tossing around the idea of an office pet for several years, actually.  This was Fate.

So my boss set ‘Lizzie’ (yeah, I know…and this comes not long after busting a gut making fun of an aquaintance for having a pet dove named ‘Dovey’…whatever) up with a lovely little terrarium.  Lizzie was determined to be a brown anole.  Efforts were made to make Lizzie as comfy and well-fed as an Office Lizard could be.

However, knowing the heartbreak that can come of such things, I said what I said whenever anyone I co-habitate with (I work a lot – my co-workers are like roommates) brings home an animal.  I said, “Fine, but I’m not looking after it.  I’m not getting attached to it.  I want nothing to do with it.”  Yeah, ’cause that’s always worked so well for me.  *said while mentally counting the number of times I’ve been stuck with animals my boyfriends have gotten tired of – too embarassingly high a number to confess until I know you a little better*

This attitude lasted all of about two seconds.  By the second night, I was greeting the little fucker as I walked by to refill my water bottle.  By the third night, I was googling ‘lizard care’ during my downtime.  By the fourth, I was changing her water and tidying her tank.  By the fifth, I was marveling over Lizzie’s adorable dragon-like appearance as she stood at attention when I spoke.  After that it was a downward spiral into baby talk and tension-fraught confirmations of breathing.  I would uncover Lizzie’s cage, and my good-mornings would be met with a single cracked eye, Lizzie’s way of saying, “Morning.  I love you.”  (The sky is beautiful colours in my world.) 

Until today.  I logged into Facebook and saw my boss’ status.  “Hopes Lizzie is found safe and sound.”

My little friend has pulled a Houdini.  She is nowhere to be found. 

But I refuse to be distraught.  In my mind, she is halfway to Mexico with her boyfriend, who traveled all the way here on a banana just to free her.  She may already be basking in the sun, making new little baby anoles and enjoying exotic bugs that help erase the taste of the nasty Canadian crickets she was briefly forced to subsist on.

And you know what?  At least she wasn’t buried.

Good-bye lizard.

 

Yoga For Losers

Stressed out? Need to relax? Try YOGA!

 

 

YOGA FOR LOSERS – AN INTRODUCTION

 

Begin in mountain pose, feet together, arms at your sides.  Feel the breath drop in.

(Shuffle continuously sideways until Cat is discouraged from entwining your feet with feline love.)

Exhale and drop into standing forward bend.

(Ignore Cat now batting at your hair.)

Inhale, then exhale, right foot back and come to all-fours.

(Experience much enthusiastic head-bopping from Cat, who is happy you have finally figured out the proper use of your front legs.)

Breathe.  Extend the spine and roll up into mountain pose.

(Sigh of relief for being momentarily away from Cat.)

Swoop down into standing forward bend, right foot back into downward-facing dog.

(Squinch eyes and mouth shut and try not to think about the nostrils while enduring a thorough face-bath from Cat, who seems less than pleased about the name of current position.)

Lower yourself to plank position.

(Briefly break position to remove soft purring form from mat directly beneath you.)

Raise up into cobra pose.

(Briefly break position to remove recently-displaced Cat from its relocation to the small of your back.)

Press back into downward-facing dog.

(Remain focused as you pry open Cat’s jaws to remove your hair from the death-grip.  Rub scalp as you wonder if you will have a bald spot.)

Jump into standing forward bend.  Raise the arms to mountain position.

(Enjoy once again the freedom of being out of reach of Cat.)

Place right leg against the left in tree pose.

(Scream obscenities and jump around ridiculously after Cat launches itself to land spread-eagled — Garfield-in-a-car-window-style — onto your back in a failed attempt to perch on your shoulder…a cute trick when you taught it to the 2-pound kitten that 20-pound Cat once was.)

Return to tree pose. 

(Find your Happy Place and pray the neighbors cannot hear what goes on inside your flat.)

Namasté.

 

The Cat Formerly Known As 'Pyewackett the Magnificent' *(now referred to as 'Pyewackett the Obnoxious'), looking rather smug after his yoga 'workout'. Asshole.

Stupid Stuff That I Do – Part I

____________________________________________________________________________________________

 1.  Spend money on things that are unneccessary.

Cat toys, in my opinion

 

Cat toy, in Pyewackett's opinion

“411…” “The Universe, Customer Service Department, please.”

I’ve been AWOL for a while and I’ve been getting a lot of inquiries as to where I’ve been. You wanna know where I’ve been? You wanna know where I’ve been???? I’M GONNA TELL YA WHERE I’VE BEEN!!!

I’ve been at the VET!!!! More specifically, I’ve been chauffeuring my CAT to the vet.

And for those of you who are thinking, “Aw, isn’t that cute *and a little crazy* how much she loves her animals…” , please heed this caveat: IF YOU AREN’T ALREADY BURDENED WITH 800 FOUR-LEGGED ‘FRIENDS’, DON’T – REPEAT DON’T – DO IT!!!

Someone has kittens, free to a good home? LOOK THE OTHER WAY!! STAT!!

You’re walking by the pet store and you see wagging bums and gooey eyes peering out at you?? RUN!!!!

The local animal shelter is overrun with lonely, sad, abandoned pets with much love to give?? SCREW ‘EM!! Your quality of life is too important.

“Wait”, you ask. “If you feel this way, why do you HAVE 800 cats?”

What can I say? Some girls get diamonds… I get cats.

If you still aren’t convinced, let me give you a breakdown of my recent existence:

• My 14-year-old cat, Sassy (thanks go out to Jackson, Fiancee #2) has lost a couple of pounds. In light of the loss of Icky (thanks go out to Damon, Fiancee #3) 6 months ago, I panic. (What about Fiancee #1? We shared a hamster and a chinchilla – no cats, thank god. Oh, and yes, I have issues against marriage…that’s another post for another day. Well, no – anyone who knows me well *or has dated me ;D* knows this.)
• Vet runs a full blood panel and determines she is suffering from none of the following: FIV, diabetes, thyroid disorder, leukemia or other cancers.
She does, however, have a touch of gingivitis. I am flooded with relief and schedule a teeth-cleaning.
• While under anesthetic for her teeth-cleaning, it is discovered that the damn cat is FULL of bladder stones (as well as needing 4 teeth extracted), requiring my permission to slice. It is given.
• Now, instead of returning home with Happy Cat with Clean Teeth, I am home with Half-Dead Toothless Cat with a four-inch abdominal incision, who requires immediate and complete re-vamping of her diet regimen and a certain degree of hand-feeding in a desperate attempt to assist her in regaining the lost weight. Oh yeah, and did I mention the ANTIBIOTIC pill 100 yard dash/wrestling match which recaps every 12 hours?
• Half-Dead Toothless Cat, after a few days of the above treatment, turns into Kinda Spunky Half-Alive Cat. Which would be exhilarating news. Except that when it is time to return to the vet to have stitches removed, Kinda Spunky Half-Alive Cat transforms magically into Really Effin’ Pissed Off-Gonna Rip Off Your Face Cat.
• REPO-GROYF Cat is finally successfully stuffed in carrier and returned to vet, who performs her own 100 yard dash/wrestling match and successfully manages to remove said stitches. REPO-GROYF Cat is stuffed back in cage for return trip home.
• Once home, REPO-GROYF Cat, now subdued into Perfectly Lovely Fluffy Love Snug, looks up at me lovingly – with an eyeball that is slowly filling with blood. That’s right. Blood. On the INSIDE of the eyeball. Blech!
• Back into the carrier we go. Welcome back REPO-GROYF Cat.
• As suspected, Cat has given herself a minor aneurysm in the eyeball from all the wrestling/sprinting, etc.
• Home again, this time with more pills (steroids) and ATROPINE eyedrops. For those of you who don’t know this: ATROPINE EYEDROPS CAUSE CATS TO FROTH AT THE MOUTH !!!! Profusely. Like a faucet. Alllllll over the room. And you. And your bed. Foamy, frothy, cat drool. Everywhere. (In case I haven’t made the point clear – CAT DROOL. EVERYWHERE.) Which, given recent changes to wet cat food – not so fragrant, either. Nope.
• Human is transforming into Oh-My-Fuck-Where-Is-The-Backdoor- To-My-Life Person.
• Human makes plans to get reallyreallyreallyshitfaceddrunk when this is all over. I sometimes actually think this is a punishment for all the partying I did in a past life. (By which I mean my 20s. And my teens. Oh, okay – and the majority of my 30s. Whatever.)

But – all said and done -

It’s all still easier than dirty diapers and teenagers! Ha HAH!!

( P.S. For those who do not ‘get’ my sometimes-cryptic humour, I was only kidding about ignoring the animal shelters. ADOPT A PET! Just make sure you get the little bastard neutered. And don’t call me if you need to find another home for it.)

REPO-GROYF Cat