This evil spawn looks so convincingly innocent, but she’s not. She jumped up on the desk and started chewing on my bamboo knitting needles, so I said, “Hey you, knock it off!” and threw a sock at her. So she looked me dead in the eyes – seriously! – and then batted my glasses off the desk, sending them sailing across the room. It was the most intentionally spiteful thing I’ve ever witnessed from an animal.
She’s not the only one being a terrorist, though. Sebastian found himself locked in a closet by an annoyed B. at 5am because he wouldn’t shut up. He was carrying on like a banshee with his meowing. He’s such a talker, and usually it’s endearing, but not nonstop at 5am.
Almost can’t believe there’s only two weeks until Christmas. Where is the snow? When I moved here, it was with some seriously romantic notions of white winters, but so far I haven’t seen much snow at all. Is it too much to ask for enough snow to build a snowman or go sledding at the park?
Life is boring lately – not much else to report. Hope everyone is enjoying the holidays.
In all my years as a camera enthusiast, I’ve never taken a self-portrait. I’m not even sure I really know how to take self-portraits. My tripod is in California, and I lost my cable-release years ago, so I had to go with the classic mirror shot. I felt so, so vain.
Some famous artists’ self-portraits revealed neuroses or mental diseases. My self-portrait revealed that I’m a Velma Dinkley doppelgänger. It’s fitting, I suppose, since we’re both brainy and myopic. I think I also inadvertently solved my Halloween costume crisis.
However, this post isn’t just to tell everyone I look like a cartoon (although that is a pretty cool bonus story). Today I got a job! I start on Wednesday. Plus, after the interview I went to Macy’s and bought new shoes because Sebastian vomited all over mine. He really needs to get his barfing under control.
Imagine with me for a moment: It’s the middle of the night and you’re sleeping peacefully until you hear your bedmate whisper-shouting, “Hey! Hey! Stop it! Pssst!” You sit up, eyes still closed, and then you hear it: the unmistakable retching of a cat about to upchuck. “No, no, no,” you think frantically, “Don’t you do it!” Then you hear the worst thing you can possibly hear in this situation: splat! You throw on the light and you see it: your darling cat has just puked all down your bed and all over the floor.
You’ve just imagined 4am in the M-O household. Stripping the bed and wiping cat puke off the floor while desperately trying to avoid breathing through your nose.
But then something wonderful happens: you check your text messages and there’s one from your dad that says that your favorite baseball player is pitching a no-hitter. The game is long over by now, but you check to see if your darling pitcher came through with a no-no, and instead you see something 100 times more amazing: he pitched a perfect game!
If you’re not a baseball fan, you won’t understand this, but when you’re favorite player is a pitcher, this is the dream. It’s the rarest and most prestigious thing a pitcher can accomplish. As you’re watching the video of the last inning of his perfect game, right as he’s about to throw the last pitch to seal the game, vomit cat jumps up on your computer and blocks the view. Of course. Full circle.
One trip to the ER vet at 4:30am, one trip to the cat vet at 4:30pm, $675 later:
We now know Mr. Sebastian broke his hip.
We don’t know how it happened. Hopefully, the bones will heal quickly and on their own. We’ve got to keep him confined to the closet for six weeks.
The poor guy can’t even poop.
Not so good:
I’m still unemployed. Apparently I’m not even “qualified” to be a dog handler. So insulting.
Noe’s breath smells like an untreated syphilis infection, and Sebastian somehow pooped all over himself.
No more refills on my birth control prescription and no health insurance. Eugh.
I really want to relive my childhood with a Super Nintendo and Donkey Kong Country and I can’t.
Diploma frames are $160.
Not so bad:
TheCanaryReview loved my post and asked me to be a regular contributor.
Every season of Grey’s Anatomy on Netflix
Hershey’s Cookies ‘n’ Creme Eggs
Shooting B.’s Nerf gun at the cats when they’re misbehaving (or when I want a good laugh).
B. whistling the Super Mario tune while he plays Portal.
My diploma finally arrived! Three and a third months I waited, very impatiently, for this glorious piece of paper.
It’s even more beautiful in real life.
This morning when I woke up, Bobby heard me stirring (by which I mean groaning, “B? Beeeee?”), so he came over to the bed and we’re sitting there being all couple-y, rubbing noses and such. This lasts approximately 30 seconds, until I look down and spot something brown on our white duvet cover that totally ruins the mood.
“B, what is that? What is that?!”
“SHIT. It’s shit. Take it off! Take it off! Take it off now!”
I mean, damn, as if tracking litter from their filthy little paws into our bed isn’t enough, now they are bringing their actual poop? WTF. It’s got to be Sebastian with all his dingleberries that he won’t let me remove. Cleaning dingleberries is one of the many things you don’t think about when you’re picking which little ball of fur to adopt. Let this be a lesson in cat adoption: think about the poop, because dealing with it is 85% of cat ownership.
Don’t be fooled by his sweet face because his other end is covered in crap.
But poop in the bed isn’t even the worst thing they do. The worst is when Noe, who thinks she doesn’t need to cover her shit, just backs her ass up over the lower part of the litter box, drops her crap, and then bolts. What kind of etiquette is that? The whole room starts to smell like shit, and if you have a cat (or a baby or a gross roommate), then you know what that smell is like. It’s rancid. And it lingers. And if you’re not home to catch it immediately, your whole room will reek like poo for days, long after the turd is buried.
Which, by the way, you’ll have to do yourself, because your precious little princess isn’t going to help with that.
I’m shaming Noe with this picture of when I had to shave her because she wouldn’t let me brush her.