Why did I get a cat?

Once upon a time, I owned a cat. He was rather nice and cute when he wasn't rampaging, but he sometimes would drive me crazy. This morning he curled his body around my head and was purring -- although it woke me up how can you be mad at purring? Anyway, I moved and he hooked his claw into my ear. I was not happy. Not at all.

Why did I get a cat? I hadn't had one in almost 5 years and then I went into a pet store. And there he was, all 2 1/2 lbs. of fuzzy white happy goodness, complete with pink ears and an orange-striped tail. Did you know the devil could have a "familiar" that small? Well, I do. I know it well. Since bringing Jackson home, he has puked on my pillow, punctured tiny holes in my leather sandals with his bat-like teeth, shredded every inch of flesh from my bones, knocked the lamp to the floor at least 7 times, refused to stay off the computer desk, whined incessantly for people food, and used various pieces of my furniture for his own personal scratching posts.

Why did I get a cat?

He is growing exponentially and I expect that he will weigh 700 lbs. by the time he is through. He eats like I never feed him. I've figured out when he whines for people food that cottage cheese will appease him. Cottage cheese? Preposterous.

He has approximately 4,000 toys, of which he plays with about 2. He likes the cardboard box that I put the toys in much better. He has a cat tower that he drapes himself over langorously, like Nero waiting for slave boys to bring him grapes. He runs through the house sometimes a million miles an hour and growls while poufing out his tail, slowly coming to a stop doing that sideways horsey gallop.

Why did I get a cat?

Ok, so the devil inside behavior is balanced out by the completely, amazingly, achingly cute things he does. Like having to be held like a baby in the morning before I go to work. Like rolling on his back and falling asleep. Like getting those huge eyes right before pouncing on bugs in the grass. Like wrapping himself around my head in the morning and purring. And then hooking his claw into my ear and drawing blood. Yes, that's why I got a cat.

An Expensive Wedding, a Bad Hat, and an Effing Broken Toe

Well, once again I have been directed to either blog or die. And I have been away for a bit, so sit back and snuggle in, whilst I regail in tales of my adventures during my absence. So, since the last time I blogged, I:
a) Attended a wedding in Bend, also euphemistically known as BFE;
b) Was stalked by my across the street neighbor; and lastly,
c) I broke my effing toe.

Isn't it amazing what can happen in the span of a few days? Let's start with the wedding. First let me say that it really sheeged my axot* that I had to shell out so much money for this wedding. Yeah, ok, she's my best friend, but for the love of Christ, it's not like I am made out of money. No, I am made out of skin, and last time I checked, bartering with skin was highly frowned upon.

My friend Jody got married to her long-time boyfriend (and I mean long time) Troy at a golf club. Why? I have no idea other than Troy is a golf fiend. It was a pretty outdoors ceremony, but the planet Mercury-like temperatures were toasting my kibbles. There were no eligible/cute men there, and no matter how much beer I drank, I couldn't get drunk. And then there was the epic freak out session of the bride's sister's son. Dear Jesus Lord in heaven above, the poor kid put his mouth on a curling iron. Yes, that's what I said. He put his mouth on a curling iron. Just one more reason to ponder giving birth.

So let's add all this up shall we?
Cost of gifts including giant ass gift bags: $95. Did I mention the wedding was in BFE? So, $30 for gas, $70 for a hotel room, and $25 for the cab ride to the Widgi Golf Course and Country Club where they got married so I wouldn't have to drive drunk. How much is that? $210 my friends. When I get married, I am getting married in Antarctica, and you will all have to mush your asses up there in snow shoes and fur seal coats. And if you don't come and bring me expensive frost-free gifts, I shall send Pong Pong the Irritable Polar Bear to your igloo archway to chew upon your uncaring heart.

La-di-da, what's next? Oh yes, the stalker across the street. His nickname is Bad Hat among my friends, for his penchant for this ridiculous polar fleece floppy hat that he would wear all the time; even in the dead heat of summer, this ass would be wearing the hat. Come to think of it some of my friends call him Ass Hat as well. Well, a long time ago, I dated Bad Hat for about 6 weeks. What the hell was I thinking? I have no idea. I really don't. Bad Hat is smallish, and he is usually drunk and always smoking a ciggy butt. Tres chic. Anyhoo, Bad Hat broke it off with me because the girl of his dreams from high school was suddenly available. Fine. I was sad for a bit, but then I came to see Bad Hat for what he really is: an idiot. Sometime later the girl of his dreams dumped his scrawny ass and I chuckled heartily. For a long time we did not talk, which was fine with me. But then, for whatever reason, he decided that he needed to be my friend, or something. He now has to cat call at me when I walk home from the bus stop, or when I come out of the house to get into my car. The day I got home from the aforementioned wedding, I was dragging my stuff out of the car and I hear this "HI" from behind me. No no no no no... Then he launches into some diatribe about having his wisdom teeth pulled and whether his insurance will cover it all. Do I care? Here I am, tired from the drive and all I want to do is get into the house and see my cat and L'il Abner won't shut up. Finally I just said look, I'm tired and I'm going in the house. End. Fin. Bad Hat continued to talk until I shut my door. Then not too long after that, I had to get something out of my trunk and once again from behind I hear "HI." I wish he would spontaneously combust. I wish he would get a fucking girlfriend. I wish he would be caught by mutant spiders and rolled up in a silken cocoon of doom. If Bad Hat is not careful, my Honda just may have some sort of malfunction that involves his death.

Moving on. The toe, ah yes, the toe. Here's the scenario: I get home late Friday night and guess who's in his garage boozing it up and blasting music? That's right boys and girls, Bad Hat. I get out of the car and in an attempt to get into the house quickly so as not to alert Bad Hat to my presence, I cut the corner of my apartment complex lawn and kicked my foot into an automatic lawn sprinkler pipe. After the baby Jesus stops talking to me and I catch my breath, I look down and see that the little toe on my left foot is, oh how shall we say, askew? It was jutting off to the left, away from its brethren. I snapped it back into place and then ate a chalupa. Small comfort for such a violent event. Right now my toe is "buddy-taped" to the next toe over, and is a lovely shade of blackberry. The top of my foot is a cadaverous blue. My friends have suggested that I sue my land lord, but I still vote for the Honda malfunction and Bad Hat.

In conclusion, these last few days have been eventful. Would I do it all over again had I the chance? Are you fucking crazy?

*sheeged my axot -- pissed me off

Friday Night Folly

I normally go to my neighborhood bar on Friday nights and have a few snorts of Jack Daniels, but tonight, I'm just not feeling it. The place is a drunken soap opera, a house of dipsomaniacs, a place where everyone knows my name.

It's just not right.

I used to be afraid to go to this little sauce shack by myself, but lately it seems that my weekends are spent there, watching the drama unfold like the legs on a Black Widow. Hello red violin, what song will you play for me tonight? The other people who go there are a mix of old hard-core drunkards -- hold overs from an epoch of when the place served only beer and wine -- and 25-year-old jerks who think it is appropriate to ask me to make out with them in the back room or slap my backside as I walk by. Tres romantique. The problem is a) this crap is getting boring, b) I'm really not into losing half of my Saturday to the inevitable hangover, and c) I'm tired of my apartment being used as a Motel 6 by the flotsam and jetsam that get too drunk to drive home. You see I live within stumbling distance from the bar. I ought to start charging for rental space on my floor. "And how many in your party sir? Just one? Right this way, you'll be sleeping next to the armoir. I trust it will be to your satisfaction? Of course sir, we have a kitten wake-up service that will pounce your eyes open in the morning."

So what else am I going to do? I really don't want to just sit home and stare at the cat. He's entertaining, but he can get very bitey when he's wound up. I can't sit home and drink because that means I am an alcoholic, and therefore will need an intervention. I suck at knitting, have no desire to clean my house, and eating is absolutely out of the question (please note the previous post). Frick. If I was smart I'd sit down and write. At home. Instead of work.

Mayhap I'll write about my adventures in this bar. Eh, maybe I'll just order up a Jack and Diet Coke and call it even.

Fatty Fatty 2 x 4

So I've decided to go on a diet. Again. In a last ditch effort not to balloon up to 1,600 lbs., I will be eating 1,400 calories a day. Ha. You might as well tape up my mouth and throw me in the shed out back, because me sticking to 1,400 calories a day is ludicrous.

Why do humans have to struggle with their weight anyway? Don't I have enough to worry about, really? Like my cat Jackson knocking the lamp off my computer desk, over and over and over. Like me having $51.02 in the bank until tomorrow. Like me having flat feet and long monkey-like toes. It's all too much to deal with. But I know the diet has to be done. My jeans are starting to look, well, gross. I have this new roll that I've never had before; it plumps over my belt in a gentle rolling mass, and it gets all scrunched up when I sit down. To top it all off I have a navel ring, so it's like a small harpoon hook through the blubber of a whale. Appetizing? You bet!

Now others will tell you that I am not fat at all, others have actually said to me, "You look small, eat something." Hmm, I wish I lived in their Fairytale Land where kittens do not scratch the living shit out of you and rent is free and raw carrots taste good, but I do not. Therefore, I must diet.

Preposterous. Now let me out of this shed and get me some chocolate cake.

Scapegoat

Have you ever been used as a scapegoat? When things go wrong, do they blame you? Well apparently Scapegoat is my new title, although it doesn't come with a raise or any kind of benefits. Unless you count anger and unmitigated rage as benefits.

What the hell? Some of my co-workers like to say things like this, "Well it looks like this is finished, bot NOBODY sent it off." Or, "Well Jen must have been saving stuff so my stuff didn't get put in..."

I am so very very tired of this. What kills me is that 87% of the time the stuff that's blamed on me is the blamer's fault. But yet I never get a, "Hey, that was my fault! Sorry!"

Sometimes work sucks. And then other times it just bites.

Spam anyone?

So I've continued my spate of nonsensical ramblings to my co-worker Dan, whom I'm sure is absolutely delighted with all the fabulous things I write to him. They really are special. We discuss work, movies, and as of late, levels of mental disability and other people's food choices. How perfect. What follows is an actual IM conversation; Some of the names have been changed to protect the innocent.

[ jen]: before I die, I will make Bob stop eating his onion-ass-burning-tire pie. If it's the last thing I do.
[Dan] : You managed to resist saying something for 4.5 seconds longer than I thought you would.
[ jen]: hate it. Must make it stop
[Dan] : It's good to know that your life has a purpose now
[jen] : yes, one goal. All consuming. That and writing a book.
[ jen]: 1) defeat ass-tire-onion pie, and 2) write book
[Dan] : That's secondary to halting Bob's onion-ass-tire-pie consumption though
[jen] : right
[Dan] : oh, i guess you just answered that
[Dan] : twice now
[jen] : yes
[Dan] : stop it
[jen] : I am quick
[jen] : only mildly retarded
[ jen]: not like you, Mr. Moderate
[Dan] : i'm not rtraddededd
[jen]: you r challunjd
[Dan] : be nice
[ jen]: pish tosh
[Dan] : i'm glad i was able to swallow that coffee before it came out my nose
[jen] : wait, take another swig
[Dan] : you ain't that funny
[ jen]: oh yes, yes I am

From this conversation you can discern that Dan thinks I am funny to a point, and that I am going to get Bob to stop bringing in his onion-ass-burning-tire pie and eating it at his desk. If it's the last thing I do. Then I'll write a book.

More Bus Etiquette

Last night on the bus ride home I had the pleasure of sitting across from a small hairy hippie girl with a one-note guitar. I was so very pleased. After a long hard day of spamming people, I really find the plinking of one note over and over quite soothing. Such a dulcet sound. What the hell was she thinking? Why was it okay for her to bust out her tiny guitar and strum her way to my damnation?

First of all, the outfit had to go. Some sort of mish mosh that started with an old straw cowboy hat and ended with lace (LACE!) leggings and well-aged Chucks. Now I really have nothing against people dressing poorly, it's what makes my life worth living. But this, this was a travesty. Beneath the lace leggings lay a thick carpet of dark hippie girl leg hair, which also brambled its way out from under the elastic bands of said leggings. Second, there was not but two seconds from the time she sat down to the time she pulled out the instrument of doom and started plucking out madness in the key of C.

Everyone was having a difficult time with hippie girl playing, but no one would say anything, unless it was out the side of their mouths or under their breath. Now I, while horrified by the ensemble of lace and follicular mayhem, and crazed by the incessant one-string picking, was stalwartly trying to read my Mormon-Fundamentalists-murdered-an-innocent-woman-and-her-baby book. I had no interest in being the one to tell hippie girl to cram it. But then someone else did. And it was a joyous occasion, but the discourse between hippie and girl and the savior was not without some rough spots. Hippie girl demanded that the savior say please before she would stop; the savior bristled at this but complied in the end. And all was quiet.

Until the drunk guy started hacking up a lung. Perfect.