The Batty Old Lady I Shall Become

“When I am an old woman I shall wear purple, With a red hat which doesn’t go and doesn’t suit me, And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves, And satin sandals, and say we’ve no money for butter”  – Jenny Joseph

I’ve known for some time that I would likely have to deal with getting old.  (You know, once I realized I was a superhero and thus unable to be killed.  *pause to listen for ominous horror movie music indicating imminent flamboyant death scene…*)  Most of the time I am able to achieve complete denial about it, though, through an elaborate combination of avoiding mirrors, heavy drinking and dating men younger than myself.

But the other day, I got sick of looking at my profile picture on Facebook and changed it to the most recent one I had of myself, one that was taken just a month or so ago.  It was a test for myself, a part of an attempt to include my own face in my appreciation of ‘good’ wrinkles on other people.

Don’t get me wrong.  I know I have wrinkles.  I mean, thanks to Olay beauty products (yes, I will plug them, because I just love them that much), I’m better off than many who have spent as much time in the sun.  But they are there.  But most of them are small and easily ignored by one as easily deluded as myself.

But check it out:

Do you see it?  Right there between my eyes?  The ginormous furrow??

So, I am getting older.   Which is a bit of a surprise, because in my teens I always assumed I would die young – probably of something sordid like a drug overdose.  In my twenties, I  figured I would be murdered by a jealous boyfriend or something.  For most of my thirties, I’ve maintained this line of thinking, but figured it would something adrenaline-related, like speeding in a car or a parachute malfunction.

Well, I’ve begun laying down Plan B.

I am not going to age gracefully, I’m telling you right now.  No way.

But it’s a fairly safe bet that if I don’t start thinking about this, I run a high risk of dying alone and having my face eaten by cats.  So my best friend and I came up with a plan.  I have to admit, I was somewhat snotty to my friend about this at first, because she has kids, which I presumed would leave one immune to the cat-face-eating fate.  However, she is pretty sure her particular kids would be more than happy to leave her to this fate as well, so we have come up with a solution that makes us both happy.

However we have to make it happen, we are going to end up in the same nursing home/retirement village/mental institute.  (We can’t really figure out why some old people cause such a stink about this.  We can’t think of anything much better than having someone else cook and clean for us.)  We will proceed to hang out on the patio in the sun all day, every day, drinking what people will assume is coffee (it’s not – it’s Kahlua).  She will knit (what look like afghans and mittens but are actually beer bottle cosies and fingerless gloves).  I will work on ‘crafts’ (custom shadowboxes filled with slightly macabre displays created from items left over from various medical procedures).  We will commandeer the community rooms for weekend mosh parties.  We will feign early dementia in order to get away with telling people exactly what we think of them.

It’s gonna be awesome.

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.

The Over-Achiever’s Hangover Handbook

While I frequently boast flamboyantly about my laziness and slackdom (not untruthfully), it is also true that I have a strong history of being productive.  I am living proof that it is possible for a Girl Gone Wild and Brainy Smurf to reside in the exact same psyche.  

Since it is my intent to pack as much experience into my life as possible and to learn everything there is to know, I need to accept that these things cannot be accomplished without some serious time management. 

So I don’t like to waste time completely.  Even when I’m slacking off, I often use manipulative psychological tactics to convince myself that I am ‘multi-tasking’ or investing in some kind of ‘research’ for my writing or whatever nonsense I can conjure to avoid feeling bad about slacking.   

So what this means is that after a night of doing Sourpuss shooters around my kitchen table with my girlfriends, I find myself not quite hungover enough to give up on the day, but not quite lucid enough to embark on any major projects.

Yet, I’m finding myself once again gazing blankly out the window at the water, not even thinking deep thoughts.  Just kinda sittin’.  And my weary little mind can’t even come up with a decent justification today.  Yet I’m feeling restless – like there must be some activity I could undertake, something I’ve been putting off doing that would fit perfectly into my current level of motivation. 

It occurs to me that it would have been handy to have jotted a few such things down on post-its for just such a moment. 

But since late is better than never, I am going to make a few notes for myself (and you, because I know you are desperate to know my every thought and whim).

Bad Things to Do When Kinda/Sorta/Not Really Hungover

• redo the walls in your bathroom (I had planned on stripping wallpaper today.  Not gonna happen.)
• choose a new haircut and/or hair colour 
• clean out your email inbox (decision-making skills not functioning.  Too much temptation to click ’select all’ and then ‘delete.’)
• book an overseas flight (who knows where you might end up?)
• give the cat her wet prescription cat food (Trust me on this one.  Give her the dry for now.  This is not a time to be experiencing that particular scent.)

Good Things to Do When Kinda/Sorta/Not Really Hungover

• watch the stupid Literal Video for ‘Take On Me’ by A-Ha again.  (Laughter has been proven to be good for the cardiovascular system.  This is your cardio for today.)
• take the cat for a walk (Fresh air is good for you.  This cannot be counted as exercise, however, because the fat retarded cat mostly just sits there on his leash – yes, I said ‘leash’, fuck off – and watches butterflies.  Which you can also do.  *multi-tasking*)
• go shopping with your friend who is the same height as you and has the same taste in clothing and likes to shop (I don’t.  At all.  Like to shop.); let her search for clothes and shoes for you while you hang out in the book department.  (Normally I would say any expenditure made while in a hungover state – mild or otherwise – would be bad, but one can never have too many books.)
• speaking of books - now is the perfect time to cut your losses and decide not to continue trying to make yourself get into that crummy chick lit piece of crap you started reading in an effort to lighten up after a particularly long binge on books about politics, civil rights and animal abuse.  (Just get rid of it already.  It’s okay not to finish a book if it sucks horribly.  It’s empowering to make that call.) 
• and of course, the time-honoured classic – take a nap.  (Beauty sleep.  ‘Nuff said.)

So there it is – next time I am in this state, I will have this reference material handy and minutes of my life will be spared.

Guess what I’m going to do now?

Oddities – A Random Selection of My Favourite Possessions

 

My last couple of posts have been kind of wordy, so I think we all deserve a little break. 

The following visual feast is an assortment of crap that kicks around my flat making me *sigh*smile*laughobnoxiously*

Enjoy.

 

 My Oscar – a gift from my high school boyfriend. I suspect it was his subtle way of telling me I was a drama queen. Whatever.

 

Your eyes do not deceive you.  This little gem was discovered while rummaging around a junk store – it may in fact be the only one of its kind.  It was a find of a lifetime, celebrated with much hooting and hollering.  It may even possess magical properties.

Yes, it’s the Book On Tape of the brilliant bestselling book on astrophysics written by The One and Only Stephen W. Hawking (my personal hero) as read aloud by…Michael Jackson.  Yes, indeedy.  Michael Jackson.  (Because Dr. Hawking is so awesome, I’m going to give him the benefit of the doubt and assume that this was approved by him at a time when MJ was still cool.  And, you know…black.  And, you know, …possessed a nose.)

To tell the truth, I haven’t actually had the nerve to listen to it yet.  I’m not sure there is enough alcohol on the planet to make that possible.  Well, and I’m sort of afraid the gates of hell may open if I ever do.  So I may just put it in a nice shadowbox.

 

My leopard-skin pillbox hat.  (Chill out, it’s faux leopard-skin.  I’m vegan, for cripes’ sake.)

But, yeah.  Bob Dylan actually wrote the song about me, you know, not Edie Sedgewick.  Always stealing my thunder, that stupid wench.

(Oh, and the mask and Satanic-looking tiara in the background are not just props left over from a debaucherous night on the town.  I actually wear them both on a very regular basis.  I like to look pretty.)

 

BIG.  ASS.  SHELLS.  Found here on the bee-yoo-tee-full South Shore.

 

 Lava lamp night light.  Every home should have one.

 

Understand Your Mother breath spray.  Priceless.  A gift from (who else) my mother. 

It doesn’t work for shit, by the way.

 

Gum, a gift from my, well, I was gonna say ‘BFF’ but Paris Hilton has ruined that term for me.  But you get the idea. 

“Don’t Have Ugly Children Beauty Gum” and “Be Gone Evil Twin Gum.” 

My friend was really hoping that second one would work.  It, like the “Understand Your Mother” breath spray, was disappointingly ineffective.

 

My books.  This is only a very small portion of my current library.  A very, very small portion.  I’m not posting pics of the rest because I don’t want to overwhelm you.  Or scare you.

I’m seeking a support group.  (But I don’t expect it will work, either.)

 

My flavoured toothpaste collection.  Because you just never know if it’s gonna be a ‘watermelon’ kind of day or a ‘citrus blast’ kind of day…or maybe a snuggle-into-bed-tasting-like-’vanilla’ kind of night.

Go ahead and laugh.  You’re just jealous.

 

And finally, something that is one of my favourite things (today it is, anyway – sometimes it is future cat stew) :

 

The Glorious, the Dignified, the Incomparable…*

PYEWACKETT THE MAGNIFICENT  (Or…’RETARDED.’  I get those words mixed up sometimes.)

*This is supposed to be a cat play tunnel, by the way.  Wacky is such a fat-ass (it’s hard to tell from the pic, but the tunnel is HUGE) that it’s sort of more like his very own leopard-skin pillbox hat.  Kinda stylin’, really.

 

Have a nice day.

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.

Last Will and Testament

No, no, no, I’m not dying (not that I know of, anyway, not right away…of course, we’re all dying, technically, slowly, if you really think about it…..but I ramble.) 

I’m not planning to kick it anytime soon, but I do participate in rather…extreme…adventures, so I figured it would be best to announce my wishes, just in case. 

In the event of my demise, I, Andrea Lauren Hepburn-MacMillan, being of (*mmffft*) sound mind, do hereby announce, request and bequeath the following:

A)  The creation of any posthumous Facebook/Internet sites that contain any of the following shall result in immediate and torturous haunting by me, the deceased, along with any demons I befriend in the Afterlife:   

• Photoshopped photos of me superimposed with angels, crosses, hazy images of Jesus, puppies, teddy bears, clouds, rainbows, hearts, doves, praying hands, sunsets, candles, religious scripture or other cheesy sayings/poems, or just random pictures of random flowers or other things that have nothing to do with me;
• Comment boards where multitudes of freaks who have never met me can post things like ads for penile implants, nasty/weird remarks or start fights with other people posting nasty/weird remarks.

B)  Immediately upon my passing – and I mean IMMEDIATELY - all journals and computer hard drives (and all associated digital storage media, including floppy disks, CD-ROMs and flash drives) should be confiscated and placed in the possession of one of the following persons:  Keri T., Tami T. or Nicole S.  They will know what to do.  Under NO circumstances is the mother of the deceased to be permitted access to the premises until this has been done.

C)  Cats should be distributed equally among the first arrivals at the funeral service, who should be advised that upkeep expenses will likely be somewhat diminished initially by lowered appetites due to feeding on the face of the deceased.

D)  Though I have donated my cadaver to science, there will likely be remains to be dealt with, as there is probably not much worth harvesting (unless for curiosity’s sake) – eyes are nearly blind, lungs blackened from 20 years of smoking, liver is likely fucked, too…  So whatever is left after they chop it up should be incinerated and offered to the sky in a memorial skydive by whoever is up to it.  (And no chemically treated, tacky satin-lined, overpriced casket, please.)

E)  Bequeathed to the following:

• Keri T. – all incriminating photographic evidence involving flashing of illicit body parts, sexual experimentation, vandalism, or drunken-disorderliness; all disco-themed Christmas ornaments; 1 faux-suede overnight bag; any alcohol/chocolate contained in my estate.
• Tami T. – any Jane Austen volumes found in my library, along with all Nabokov volumes (to balance out the effects of the Jane Austen); all cute shoes and ’skinny’ clothes that fit.
• Nicole S. – the nearly-finished original illustrations for the children’s books written by her, along with permission for her 6 year old son to complete them; and nothing else because it would all be covered in cat hair and send her into anaphylactic shock.
• To the Ex(es) - any nude photos secretly saved for potential blackmail purposes and then forgotten about.  (*Just kidding!* …I sold those on eBay long ago…*No, seriously, I’m kidding.  Really.*)

The remainder should be sold at a big yard sale (likely held by my mother) and the proceeds used for a huge drunk in honour of the deceased. 

P.S.  I’m really serious about the Facebook page.  It will mean a world of pain.  A world.  Of pain.

Now, although I am dubious of the legality of this post, I believe it is customary for witnesses to attest to my sanity, so if you believe (*mmmfffftttt*) me to be of sound mind and all that jazz, please make your mark below.  (What, no takers?  None?  Nobody?  Anybody…???)

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

Why I Rock.

I have currently been awake for 28 hours.  Since 7 am yesterday morning, I have: 

• Read and edited the entire first draft of a novel I’m working on (don’t get excited – it sucks.  But it’s like when you make pancakes.  The first couple are always lousy.  I’ll write something someday that will make it out of the Desk Drawer of Shame.) 
• Gone for a two-hour hike along the ocean.
• Gone for an extended swim in same ocean.
• Stepped on a jelly-fish (not actually on my to-do list, just thought I’d take another stab at the sympathy vote.  I mean, it was dead, so it didn’t sting me or anything…it was just really yucky.)
• Worked an eight-hour graveyard shift at the ol’ emerg dispatch, where I helped save 14,985 lives and wrote 688,324 reports.
• Enjoyed a 40-minute thrill-ride through the jungles of Bridgewater on Spike the Mountain Bike. 
• Updated my blog.  Twice.
• Finished the sketch for a portrait commission (it’s coming, Tanya – it’s coming soon) and transferred it to art paper.
• Scooped more cat litter than any human should ever be required to scoop. 
• Taken a leisurely stroll through the gardens surrounding my loverly home.

AND NOW:

I am curling up with Pyewackett the Magnificent and my new book, of which I hope to read no more than three pages before being swept away in the arms of my darling Morpheus.

 

The Hypnotic Gaze of Pyewackett the Magnificent

“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