Tuesday, November 29, 2005

You cancelled yourself, man

To the guy in the business suit at lunch today: I was really gonna give you your props for taking that loud-ass cell phone call immediately out of the dining area.


The fact that you didn't think TWICE about blowing the most vile fart in the 4'x4' heated vestibule negated that desire.

Tearfully yours,

Tuesday, November 22, 2005

Cat Assholes and Other Nonsense

My cat, Boots, has the biggest asshole EVER. Really. It isn’t usually the first thing that you’d typically notice in a cat, but Boots’ asshole is an exception. I would say that it’s THE exception, but that might be presumptuous of me & would put a LOT of unnecessary pressure on Boots. I mean, being “THE” anything would be a bit daunting, don’t you think?

A key part of this little story is that Boots is so fat, she looks as if she’s swallowed a soccer ball. Black & white, she has a HUGE rotund belly and stubby little legs that resemble pegs more than a means of support for the vastness that is HER.

Being the last cat to join the household, and the hardscrabble runt from a farm, she must feel the need to scarf down every last morsel from the feeder as if it were her last chance. On the rare occasions when they get a treat of canned food, she is the one who licks ALL of their bowls clean. Kitchen scraps? The sound of my footsteps in the kitchen takes care of that. She just HEARS the sound of the pantry door opening and she is IN it. Unwrapping anything? Boots knows what it is before YOU do.

She is a chewer. Memory Foam pillows? Not anymore; she eats the fucking memory right out of them. Dust bunnies? No problem with Boots around; they are inhaled like magic. She saves me lots of vacuuming. Plastic grocery sacks? No match for her sharp little teeth. Paper of any kind? Packing tape hanging off of a box? History.

Bawling in fear that my “baby” had puked up what looked like the lining of her stomach (it really resembled tripe), I took her to the emergency vet one weekend. A mere $200 later, I discovered what paper toweling looked like after having been chewed up, swallowed and vomited by a cat. I mean, WTF? I'd never noticed all those ridges on a wet paper towel before.

I have learned to turn the kitchen trashcans so that the access area is NOT facing outward. I learned this after hearing a HUGE commotion in my kitchen at 2am. Apparently, Boots had been beckoned by something in the domed trashcan. I am guessing the exchange went down something like this:

TrashCan: “Hey, cat!”
Boots: “Whuh? Hoozat?”asked sleepily, looking around from her perch on the sofa.
TrashCan: “Over HERE, lardass! I gots some of those foam meat trays in heeeeeeeeeeere for ya!”
Boots: “Ohboyohboyohboyohboyohboy! I LOVES me some meat flavored foam!”

She managed to nudge the lid up as she stood on her hindlegs, bracing her front paws on the trashcan. Her weight was enough to topple the trashcan toward her as her head nudged that domed lid up. Then she was trapped inside the overturned trashcan. I can testify that NOTHING moves 4 other sleeping cats faster than hearing one of their roommates in an embarrassing situation. They all rolled around, pointing and laughing at her as I stumbled down the stairs to rescue her dumb ass from the trash.

She also shows signs of being at least mildly mentally retarded. Bring a box home, and I can predict to the very SECOND when she will commence to tapping the box flaps. Set the box down, see her come into the room & head straight for it. Three-two-one: right front paw up annnnnnnd taptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptap. Switch paws. Taptaptaptaptaptap. Repeat ad infinitum.

I wouldn’t tolerate most of this from my “real” kids, so why put up with it from THIS furrball? Simple: she is abso-fucking-lutely adorable due to her personality, which is at least as huge as she.

This is the little sweetie who greets me by two-stepping in place and getting all dreamy-eyed when she sees me. She crawls up onto my lap or arms or stomach or laptop to snooze, after flipping herself onto her back. She is the one who grooms everyone and everything in sight. They don't usually reciprocate as she picks a fight with them at some point during the process.

This is the little terrorist who gives all the other cats hell in her own special way. She is loving & playful, but definitely rules the roost. A nip to the others in their ass cheeks, and they know she’s the boss.

This is the little shit-ass who makes me crazy. Her obesity has brought new problems to light. I never gave any thought to the fact that a fat cat simply can’t lick her own ass, even with the best intentions. So, even if she pinches that loaf like a professional, she is bound to have an itchy asshole once in awhile. And since I have never seen a cat use a paw to scratch its ass, what better way to relieve that itch than to drag her ass for about a foot on the carpeting in the family room? I think I'll start calling her "Scooter."

I’ve never seen a streak, but I can tell she’s been there when, as the others pass, they stop and intently sniff the invisible trail that says “Boots’ itchy, stinky fat cat-ass has been here. And here. And HERE, too.” They give their little heads a shake and perhaps a tiny sneeze too.

So now, I have a NEW daily job. Everyday, I grab a baby wipe and proceed to clean the hell outta that humungous asshole. Clean cat, no itchies, no streaks on the carpet, invisible or otherwise.

Jesus H. Christ. What have I become?

Thursday, November 17, 2005


Haven't any of you ever been abandoned before? Jesus H. Christ. You whiny-ass baby (you know who you are, Floyd) hehehe

I will come up with something witty SOON. I just had a lonnnnng stretch of work, taking classes and teaching classes. Lemme see what kind of word vomit I can come up with later, mmmkay?

And I'll leave you with a final thought to tide you over: Did you know that those smooth-as-a-baby's-ass shaved cooters that you covet can resemble the shiny, near-transparent, over-collagened, lemon-sized lips of most Hollywood celebrities? S'true. They don't even fit inside regular panties.

I can see the ads at birthing centers all over America: "Now you, too, can have lips like a Hollywood starlet!" Too bad they won't be on your face.

Monday, November 07, 2005

Schmancer, Part I

This is the story of Schmancer, my schmeckel dancer. A nice, fine blog name to be sure. He is so named for that cute little dance thingy he used to do with his, well... THINGY when he was a little kid. Assuredly mortified to be blogged about (he’s now 12), I decided to not use his real name. Oh, and he reads my blog. Hi, Son-Z!

When he was handed to me in the delivery room, his eyes were wide open, as if to say “Holy shit, what just happened here?” For the next 45 minutes, he alternately studied my face and scanned the room. He held his head still, but those big eyes were slowly taking in everything and everyone, pondering all. He seemed most fascinated with the patterned border near the ceiling. He’d scan it from left to right and back again. That should have been a signal of things to come. He was intense.

He rarely slept. In fact, he didn’t sleep through the night until well after the age of 2. I was so sleep deprived that I thought I was going to die. Really. He was hyper-alert and absorbed the most minute information like a sponge. My husband had a tendency to react to minor annoyances by saying, “Oh, God-dammit!”

Let me just share a formula with you: Swearing + a child-sized human sponge = hilarity.

At 15 months, Schmancer had gotten into something in the family room. My husband reacted with his favorite phrase and quickly scooped him up and into the playpen. Schmancer, holding onto the siderail, began jumping up and down and saying “O guh-dammit o guh-dammit o guh-dammit!” Surely he thought this was the way to get out of the playpen. It wasn’t.

I told my husband that he’d have to watch his language around Schmancer. Hubby says to me, “What makes you think he learned that from ME?” To which I replied, “Well, if he’d learned it from ME, he’d have said ‘oh, FUCK!’” Case closed. One point for Mommy.

By 18 months, Schmancer was speaking in full adult sentences (no baby talk at all) and figuring out the proper way to use every single piece of electrical equipment in our home. I always said, “He’s either gonna be an electrician, or electrocuted!” He was always working on things, but never inappropriately. He always knew how to plug stuff in, and never tried to put anything other than tapes into the VCR. He was kicked out of his first daycare at 18 months for finding the lady’s well-hidden gas line under a counter. He was like an idiot savant, without the idiot. He was just a busy, busy little boy and I had no Xanax, for me OR him. Dimetapp was a blessing (and you moms out there KNOW what I'm talking about) ;)

At that time, Barney was his big thing; that, and all videos. And Barney VIDEOS were like Baby Crack to him. He watched them until they wore out. You know, to the point where all you see is a jumping screen and static? It was hilarious to see him stand in front of the VCR with his dad and hear him say, “Dad, time-a clean da heads.”

We put child locks on the stereo cabinets. He’d hold all of his stuff in one arm, and reach his foot up to hold the cabinet door open enough to push the latch down & open with his other hand. As parents, we realized we were way out of our league. But, alas, he was too large to return to the womb.

He has always loved music and would carry his Sony boom box wherever he went. It weighed nearly as much as HE did! He’d lug it in front of him, his arms straight down, having to walk sideways to do it. I always knew where he was because I’d see that bright yellow boom box.

The summer he turned 2, we’d moved into a brand new subdivision and had a block party to meet everyone. He was playing contentedly on our lawn as I BBQ’d in the driveway. I looked up not 2 minutes later & he was GONE. My eyes frantically darted down the street where I saw his boom box sitting on a neighbor’s porch, 2 houses down.

I quickly found the neighbor & embarrassingly asked if I could look for my son in her house. She led me through the front door, which Schmancer had opened. We found him sitting on the floor in her family room. Apparently in the space of less than 5 minutes he’d gone into her house, found a Barney tape, stuck it into the VCR and was quietly watching it. Thank GOD she and I became fast friends, with a true Schmancer Bond. She continues to be delighted with him to this day.

Next installment: "Shit, honey, we're gonna have to find a different Emergency Room before they call CPS on us!"

Friday, November 04, 2005

I've been to Baby Hell

I am recovering from a 3 day stretch of 12 hour night shifts at a local hospital. Out of 36 moms on the unit with 40 total babies, 30 of the babies spent those nights in the nursery. There was much wailing (them) and gnashing of teeth (ours). Not really, we wailed more than we gnashed teeth. They just erupted from both ends, making sounds that would make Daddy proud.

I haven't seen that much baby poop and vomit in one place in a long time. But their "Popeye squints" and elongated heads looked quite cute for Halloween. The volunteers had dropped off a batch of pumpkin hats for all of them which looked adorable, except on those bright yellow jaundiced chirrens.

It was truly Baby Hell. Now I'm off to bed for a bit.

That is all.