life of a cat lady

I may have mentioned once or twenty times before that I have cats. Not one cat, like a normal person, but two. Cats. Plural. Cat plus an "s." I am a cat owner. I am one more cat away from complete crazy cat lady.

I should say that I've always been an animal lover, but not necessarily a cat person per se. We had cats growing up, but they were always aloof or bitchy or bordering on feral or all of the above. I never had a cat that was really "mine," except for Muffin who was hit by a car on Christmas day when I was 11. You could say that my experiences with cats weren't great.

But, when I was 23, I found myself wanting a pet. I had been through some incredible physical and mental stress and felt that I had been pet-less long enough. I needed pet therapy. I was living in Hollywood at the time and couldn't have a dog in my apartment. Looking back, I probably could have. I'm pretty sure my neighbor had a pet squirrel, but I was a somewhat rules-abiding kind of gal. So I went to a shelter and brought me home a cute little raggamuffin kitten. Her tail was scraggly and she had a terrible cold, but she turned out to be perfect for me. Jete (named after the ballet leap) was freaking cute as a kitten.

And it turned out that all she needed was a little lurve because she has the softest fur of any cat I've even encountered. She's always been quite the ham, entertaining my friends with her antics, always needing to be the center of attention.

Now, this cat is totally and completely neurotic. You could say that's how you know she's mine. Because she's got issues. She's attached to my hip, is always crawling up on me for cuddles and attention, and she has abandonment issues. Yes, I abandoned my cat. I lived in Europe in 2006 and left her with my parents. And she has a blankie. I kid you not. When I came home from Europe, she drug a piece of cloth out of a box and claimed it as her own. She drags that thing all over my house. I find that damn filthy thing everywhere. And sometimes she cries while dragging it, mournfully, like the world has ended. Sometimes she even cries in the middle of the night until I wake up and remind her that I'm there. Damn crazy cat. Totally high maintenance.

Aaaaand then there's Hobbes. Hobbes was a rescue kitten. Someone dumped the tiny (back then) little guy in my dad's VW bus. My dad was barbecuing and when he lifted the lid on the grill, this little orange head popped up in the window. Poor little guy couldn't get out and when my dad caught him, he purred like a muscle car. I couldn't let them take him to the shelter.

So the next thing I knew, I had two cats.

Hobbes is a total character. As a kitten, he was fearless, picking fights with Jete and barreling around my apartment. Today? Today Hobbes is scared of ev.er.y.thing. Everything and everyone. It takes people months of hanging out with me to even glimpse Hobbes. And every day that he gets more brave, I get so proud of him. He's such a sweet cat. Would never bite or scratch. He just wants to hide under the blanket until everyone is gone, thankyouverymuch. But he's cuddly. Cat is like an effing dog. Loves a good belly scratch. And when he purrs, I swear the neighbors think it's an earthquake. And did I mention that he's huge? Hobbes is a big ass cat. Not just fat, but BIG.

I want to tell this sweet boy that he's big. That he could take whatever is scaring him. But alas, he's just a sweet doormat of a cat. And I had intended to gripe about the life of being a cat owner, but I find myself gushing over these sweet ones. Right now, Hobbes is squeaking at me in his mousy version of a meow and it's freaking cute.

And these two are double trouble. One minute, they're cuddling and cleaning each other. And the next, one has bitten the other's ear and it's all out war. And when that happens, just cover your head and hope you survive.

These two are totally high maintenance, but I wouldn't ever give them up. And I realize they're cats. It bothers me intensely that my dad refers to them as his grandchildren (they're CATS, Dad!). But they are family.

the land of port

Well hello, Internet. It's been a while, hasn't it? I'm sorry. Don't hate me. There are just other things in my life exponentially more important than you. You understand, right?

Right.

You're wondering how my weekend was weren't you? Well I'm not gonna tell. Okay, you're right, that's a lie. I'll probably tell too much and leave young people scarred for life. That's what I'm good at. Uh huh. Yup. I think we should all recognize our own talents. And mine is a blurry view of limits. And why do we have lines if not to cross them, hrm? HRM? You can tell how good I was at coloring in kindergarten. While my teachers certainly weren't fans, I'd say I was a young Picasso. In other words, brilliant.

Where was I? Right! This weekend. Sorry. I may be slightly sleep deprived which is causing my humor nerve to fire spasmodically. I can't control it. And I bet you didn't know I knew words that awesome didja? Yup, like I said, brilliant. Brill. Yant.

Getting on track may be a lost cause at this point. And between the airport pretzels I had for dinner last night, my delayed flight, and the fact that I didn't want to leave Portland at all has made me a teensy bit punchy. Not cranky. I had too good of a weekend for cranky. No, I've crossed into some land where I have no filter and can't stay focused on one topic for more than...ooh what's that?

See? Okay, I'll attempt some semblance of focus. My weekend was pretty rockin'. Sometimes literally. I'd tell you the highlights, but I think some people read my blog at work and I don't want them to get fired. Oh hell, we all know my writing is an exercise in blushing so if some choose to read it in eyeshot of their employers, not my fault.

Some tame events of the past three days included an excursion to a Vietnamese (I think?) fish market (plenty of disturbing fun there), lunch with the bestie, and plenty of talky talky time with Love Interest. It was fantastical and I mean it that if I didn't have a job and two cats to support, I may have considered missing my flight and living on the rainy streets of Portland. There are no jobs, but I hear there's always a demand for strippers. I realize I'm ballet-trained, but I'm sure I could have translated that to a career on the pole. Don't judge. You'd do it too.

And I did come home with a little souvenir. I now need to wear a scarf around my neck for the next couple of days, except it's like 80 degrees in the south of California right now and that's incredibly uncomfortable. My neck is sweating like a cold beer bottle in Bermuda. But dudes, I try to avoid the whore-look at work. It's just professional, I feel.

And see? I gave you like three paragraphs of focus. I should win a prize. And that prize should be cash. Lots and lots of cash so that I can pay off my debt, move to Portland, take my friends traveling, and still have some left over to roll around naked in. Hey, don't roll your eyes. I just said I only avoid the whore thing at work. At work. What I do in my personal time is my business. And anyone who reads my blog apparently.

Yeesh.

Love Song Sunday: L'amour a deux

Apologies to non-francophones, but today's first song is au fracais. I've been a Carla Bruni fan for years, long before she married Sarkozy and became the French First Lady. And this song isn't exactly about love, but it's sexy as hell. I want to get naked and make lots of babies to this song. If you don't speak any French, just forget about the words and get lost in the breathy goodness of her voice. And that fact that she's not wearing any pants.



And just because I am in a good mood or because I am sitting next to a sexy man who suggested an alternate song which relates in some way I'm sure to the first one or maybe because I feel I should deliver a song in English, here's another. If you don't love Sarah McLachlan, you're stupid and I hate you.

Only Happiness

Well, Internet, I am one busy bee. I wasn't even going to post tonight but I don't imagine that I'll have another moment for a while.

How about the Super Bowl huh? I was worried for a little bit, but the Saints took over and there will be partyin' in the Quarter for weeks. It was pretty much awesome! I, however, spent the last 6 minutes or so of the game itching like a madwoman as I accidentally ingested soy, which is my allergy nemesis. I am very careful, but I didn't think to grill the nice guy who made beef jerky as to what was in his marinade (honestly didn't even know you could make jerky with soy sauce) so itch city was calling my name.

And after getting home, I dosed up on my favorite drug of choice, benadryl, and conked out. I'm surprised I even made it to work this morning. But drag my ass out of bed I did and I made it on time and even had time to do my hair. That's what I call tenacity. Still, I've had a fuzzy head all day. I'm sure my coworkers all thought I was on something. Well, I was. Benadryl. That shit will leave a hangover, I tell ya. And it left me just this side of cranky most of the day.

Anywayyyy. I'm finally home and snuggled in my bed and it's not even 9. But whatevs. That doesn't make me an old lady. Nope. I'm such sensible. And I need my beauty sleep. 'Cuz it takes a lot of sleep to make THIS look good. *points to face* Uh huh.

Nevertheless, I'm full of excitement. Is there a word for more than excitement? Please, if you know one, pass it on. I'm in need of it right about now. Because I leave in a little over 3 days for Portland to see Love Interest and I'm super duper stoked.

I know you're jealous, Internet, but try to keep it to a minimum. Only happiness for me will be accepted at this time. I don't take Visa, Mastercard, or Amex. Or checks. But I will take happiness. And cash. You can give me cash. That, I guess, would be okay.

Love Song Sunday: Make You Feel My Love

This Sunday's song is so sweet you may just want to eat something salty to balance things out. I cannot help but fall in love with this song whenever I hear it. May it bring a little heart to your world today.

Photo of the Day: From Snowy River

We've had an unusually stormy start to the year here in Small Town, Southern California and that has resulted in some very pretty views. Do you see how low the snow line is? Doya? Doya? Huh? Huh? Yeah. That's not typical. Usually around this time of year, the snow starts about halfway up. Most of that had melted though by this week because of the trademark blue skies of SoCal (see: photo above). But we've got a decent storm partyin' its heart out this weekend, so next week should be gawgeous.

can I have your number?

Superbowl fevah! Right, Internet? Isn't that what's on the collective minds of the nation a la moment? Well I will not go on and on about a football game, mostly because I won't know what the hell I'm taking about and sports savvy people will be insanely disappointed in my lack of acumen in the ball of the foot area.

I will just say this. I really hope the Saints win. I know, I know. Underdogs. But I have such a big place in my heart for New Orleans and after everything that city has gone through, they deserve a big win. Something to hope for. They deserve that. And so I'll be rooting for the Saints on Sunday.

Brilliant segue.

I got my first spam commenter on my blog the other day. And you know what I did? DENIED! That's right. Ohyeah. Watchout! Spammers, I will knock. you. down.

Which brings me to...being bitchy (see what I did there? I am fucking brilliant.) After a recent karaoke excursion with Morgan and her subsequent blog about seeming bitchy, she and I were discussing appearing bitchy to others. Her concern is the girls always think she's a bitch before they meet her (when, of course, they're always suprised). I can guess why this is. She makes a face when she's people watching which could possibly seem bitchy to the female set.

But I didn't have this experience with her. It's a long story, but Morgan and I arranged our first meeting via email and so I had never actually seen her in person before. And then we met and hugged and were instant best friends for evah. So I never thought she seemed bitchy. I thought she was awesome rolled in awesome and served with a side of awesome. She still is.

And I was discussing this with Love Interest the other night (don't worry, Internet, he has a real name), but when Morgan and I go out to karaoke or bars (very rarely), she gets hit on more than I do. And yes, her boobs are roughly 12.5 times the size of mine, but I don't think that's why. I think that she puts off a bit of a bitchy vibe without even knowing it and guys kind of dig that, I think. At least guys in bars. Real guys are much different. But they don't want a total bitch. But just a little bitchy poses a challenge. They like the feist. And Morgan puts off plenty of the feist. Problem is, she's not a bitch at all.

As for myself though, when I go out, I'm actually a bitch. And blame it on my years in Hollywood or 12 some odd years of dodging men's hands on my ass, but I don't want to be hit on. So I plaster a fuckoff look on my face whenever a dude tries to catch my eye and that usually does the trick. It's been a long time since I've had to resort to actually speaking to a dude in Bitch. But it's a language I can slip into easily if forced. And that, Internet, is way too much bitch for bar guys. They just want a little tail and that's way too much work. There's a fine line between the thrill of the chase and knowing full well they'll never get anywhere near that. Which is just how I like it.

Now, before the dudes start attacking, let me say that this is just out and about and only applies to that specific form of being "hit on" or "picked up." Nice guys who can actually carry on decent conversations and don't feel the need to troll bars for some tail were always okay in my book. I'm not a eunuch. I just like my ass hands-free thankyouverymuch.

Which brings me to....one of the best comedy sketches of all time. It's a classic, but still rings true. I know this type of dude (p.s. played by a woman) and there is no amount of bitchy that can shoot him down. I know.

Can I have your number?