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.

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.

Christmas At the Mac House

As you’ve undoubtedly come to realize, I am not a traditional kind of chick.  But with Christmas upon us, it dawned on me today that though I myself am not a person of customs, there are still things in my life which remain reassuringly the same, year after year.

One of these is the holiday visit to the ‘rents. 

Though this year I will be attending solo (due to my failure to produce grandchildren, I have been informed that my parents have no interest in meeting any of my future spousal equivalents until there is an actual ring on both of our fingers.  This,  they consider punishment.)  But I know that the basic foundation of the day will be predictable nonetheless. 

Allow me to give you a peek in the window.

I will arrive, burdened with unworthy, useless gifts that will be moved immediately upon my departure to the nether regions of the attic and/or garage and/or sock drawer, never to be seen or heard from again. 

The table for eight in the six-bedroom home will be set for four (Mom, Dad, me and the dog.  Yes, I said ’dog.’)   With candelabra, crystal, gold-trimmed dishes and silverware, ornate centrepieces, innumerable side plates and spoons whose use only Martha Stewart and my mom really understand,  and extravagant imported Christmas crackers at each setting, which my mom will insist we all crack right away so she can force us to wear the silly hats throughout dinner.    

I will drink wine, and possibly get tipsy.  My mother will sniff mine and get a good buzz on.

Zorro (the dog) will get his dinner first (on the gold-trimmed plate), so that he is free to beg during the actual meal.  This year he will snub us once dessert is served, because he was diagnosed with diabetes earlier this year and so will not be able to partake in the sweet courses.

My dad will eat turkey and keep a very close eye so that none of the ‘toad food’ (tofurkey) that my mother and I will be eating gets on his plate.  In fact, he won’t eat any meat from unwrapped packaging in the fridge for a couple of weeks, just in case he accidentally chooses a soy hot dog that I may have somehow left behind during my visit.

There will be 800 types of pies, squares, cakes, cheesecakes, and other assorted sugar-based foods to choose from, of which I’ll eat a bite or two and my mother will look sad.  My dad, however, usually helps pick up the slack.

Then we will gather around the 10-foot tall, 6-feet-in-diameter Christmas tree (because my mother goes big or not at all) to watch Zorro open his presents.  My father will grin like a proud father in the delivery room as he takes 6000 photos that will look exactly like the ‘Zorro opening his gifts’ photos from the past 11 years. 

Then, even though my parents decided to give me my car insurance this year for Christmas because they couldn’t think of what to get me and they promised not to buy any gifts for me, there will be a huge pile of presents for me to tackle because I am a spoiled rotten little brat.  Clothes from Mom, power tools from Dad.

It is then nap time.  Because even though I don’t eat turkey, I am fundamentally profoundly lazy and napping just seems right at times like these.

And there you have it, folks – that’s about the gist of it. 

It’s nice to know that some things never change, though, isn’t it?

The Suckiest Day Ever – A Comedy in One Act

There comes a point with sucky days where things cross the line and go from being ‘frustrating, annoying and horrible’ to being ‘twistedly and almost-enjoyably funny.’  Which is what my day yesterday did.  I even found myself hoping for more disasters just for the cheap laughs.  (It was a full moon, too, for what it’s worth.)

Now, I had worked a full graveyard shift already, but there was no time to sleep, as I had company coming over in the evening and many, many errands to run since it was my day off. 

Things started off with a bang, with me stepping directly into a pile of cat puke in bare feet right after I arrived home from work.  Things don’t get much suckier than that, my friends.  No, they don’t.  Or at least that’s what I thought at the time.  Read on.

It was raining.  A massive thunderstorm with a heavy rainfall warning in effect.  After washing off the cat puke, I went out to pay bills and discovered that although knee-high black rubber boots with 3-inch heels are very Catwoman-esque and definitely fit the criterion for ‘cute-boots’, they are not, in fact, waterproof.

Back home to clean.  The vacuum cleaner broke about 5 seconds into the clean-fest after sucking up a cat toy.  (Ironic, since without the stupid cats, the vacuuming would have been unnecessary.)  Then the store was out of replacement belts for my model.  Cat fur would remain on carpet.   

Now, you would think that from the way my day was progressing, I would have the sense not to choose this particular day for a makeover.  But…some people learn by watching, some learn by reading, and some just have to piss on the electric fence themselves. 

I didn’t discover that my shower’s water pressure had been mysteriously reduced to a trickle until I was standing in it with a head full of chocolate-brown hair dye.

And then, also mysteriously, the tension rod holding up my shower curtain suddenly decided it was going on strike.  No matter what I did (remember the hair dye slowly running down my back, threatening to leave my skin striped), I could not get the damn thing to go back up.  Not that it mattered – it wasn’t like the spray was a big problem, what with the water pressure issues.

After about 800 years, the hair dye was finally rinsed out and my hair conditioned.  My now-pitch-black-instead-of-chocolate-brown hair.

Shortly after this, my friend showed up, happily bearing copious amounts of alcohol and cigarettes (I don’t smoke except on occasions such as these).  Of course, I only like menthols and those she had brought were not.  Of course.

Throw in a texting drama-fest with an old boyfriend and running out of mix and my day was complete. 

But if you know anything about me, you know I am a survivor. 

Sometime around 2 am, I discovered that regular cigarettes taste just like menthols if you suck a piece of candy cane while smoking.  And Tia Maria is delicious mixed with mushed-up mocha soymilk popsicles and crushed ice.  Black hair?  How very striking, á la Betty Boop/Elizabeth Taylor/Morticia Addams.  Add Killers videos and conversation with good friends?  

All better.  And really, you just gotta laugh.

(Incidentally, both the shower curtain rod and the water pressure were back to normal today.  Go figure.)

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?

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.

 

“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