Hell Hath No Fury Like a Kitty Scorned...

            This morning I had to get up at 4 AM to take my grandmother-in-law to the airport. So - needless to say - I started getting ready for bed around 8pm. Took a shower, washed and dried my frizzy head, and climbed into bed.

             Shortly thereafter, Phoebe hopped in with me. She wanted attention - I wanted to just go to sleep. Phoebe was very adament about it - going so far as to put her cold wet nose on mine and snorting kitty juicies all over me. I jumped up, ran to the bathroom, tripping over a hanger on the way, and washed my face, again. When I had removed all traces of cat snot from my face (having animals is FUN!), I went back to bed, turning my back on my furry companion. She, not being one to let live and let die, took to sniffing the back of my head -and then - in a flurry of feline fury - she BIT THE HELL OUT OF MY NOGGIN'! I squealed, flipped a pillow at her and knocked over the glass of water that was resting on my bedtime table. I used a pile of mismatched socks that were waiting to be mated to mop up the water. Just as I was about to lay back down, I noticed something odd about my pillow. There was a cat on it. Hmmmph. Figuring out, not a moment to soon, that I was beaten, I found another pillow, squished it up and put it under my head. I was now on Harry's side of the bed - not in my territory.

          Phoebe let out a sniff of contentment and reached out one furry paw to poke me on the shoulder. Maybe it was a sympathy pat - or maybe she was kicking me while I was down - either way - we called a Truce.... for now.

Five-pound Bag of Karma, please...

Why do skinny people feel the need to complain to overweight ones about the size of their apparently vastly increasing middles? I swear, as soon as their scale tips even slightly, one tick mark up one pound, they gather their biggest box of tissues, a bag of rice cakes and pound on the door of their heaviest friend.

My bud, whom I love dearly (most of the time), just sent me a long sprawling email, detailing her last office visit and her new take on the Battle of the Bulge. She has, apparently, gained five pounds. Her concern, in my mind, equals out to... let's see... one of my mammoth boobies. "No more cakes, pies, ice cream or candy," she solemnly swears in her email mission statement. "I have always been skinny and plan on staying that way," I read - eyes wide in horror. She rattles on, paragraph after paragraph of misspelled and mishandled words and sentences that reiterate her extreme distaste in her overflowing middle. I picture her, sitting on the couch, bucket of frozen bon bons in hand, Dr. Phil on the tv and looking very much like a paler version of the 1950's Blob. And all of this imagery was born out of a multi-tiered complaint of being "too fat."

How do I respond to this?

"I feel your pain, however, you are now one of us, and you know what they say? Once you go fat, you never go back!" ; "I'm so sorry - but - at 98 lbs - I always thought you were a bit of a - well- a cow. Sorry, but someone had to say it."

Or I could be truthful: "I am sorry for your unloss - but - you brought it upon yourself by not eating healthy and by lying on the couch watching b-rated movies instead of exercising a la Olivia Newton-John." Hee hee (evil laughter).

 

Now, don't get me wrong - I am not poking fun at skinny people. I think it's great that they are able to resist the funnel cakes, and whipped cream sundaes and hot dogs that the world has to offer in abundance - and I can totally understand the plight of these same people to maintain their weight. I just don't get the rationale of complaining - in intricate detail - to the most inappropriate sources. I would not care at all if this was a paragraph among others in a lovely email correspondence that dealt with everyday things and then a small mention of improving her diet and lifestyle. More power to her skinny ass.

So am I just shunning the ways of the tiny folk?

Should I be more sensitive to them and their "ohmygawd I am sooooofat!" ways?

Or do I pour hot chocolate over them and eat them like a People Sundae?

With a cherry on top?

Dilemma, for sure.....

By the way, the bad karma mojo that I drummed up by writing this Piece of Fat de la Resistance of mine manifested itself into yet another wasp the size of a banana which promptly disappeared after my foaming it into a tiny Satan Claus and then running down the hallway again. My guess - it's sneaking up behind me, Igor-like - hell-bent on stinging me between my Payless Sandal encrusted toes - his mission fulfilled, he can then go to that giant wasp nest in the sky....

Karma's funny like that, you know. It can bite you in the ass when you least expect it or just make you jumpy and freaky , always preparing for that payback bite from hell.

For now, I will wait, looking like a woman who is inflicted with both Terrets and ADD and who is twitching and jumping at every noise.

Sigh.

I have GOT to get out of here...

Any ideas?

Anyone?

Hellooooooo!?

DON'T MAKE ME GET THE FRIGGIN' BUG SPRAY BACK OUT!!!!

WMD's in the Workplace

So - let's see.

This morning my curling iron turned on me and whapped me, through no fault of my own, of course, upside the head to leave a nice bumpy red mark on my freckled forehead. Harry blamed it on bad karma since I had just finished laughing my ass off at him for tripping over the space heater while simulaneously ripping the towel rack out of the wall - all the time wearing a bath sheet.

Then, I was attacked while sitting in my chair. This creepy crawly mult-legged thing rushed me, whizzing right past a co-worker and aiming for my naked feet (my cute Coach sandals were under my desk) like a bug on a mission. I squealed and then foamed it up with some ancient bug spray. Now, I was happy, bug-less and seeing spots. Small price to pay.

Last, but not least, a wasp the size of my left foot lands on my arm. I freak and swat at it and then run down the hallway waving my arms like an air traffic controller. My office mates didn't see the problem. They were unconcerned that there was a Wasp of Mass Destruction trying to eat me. I went back to my desk, sprayed around until my throat was raw and sat down, warily.

The WMD returned - he was scoping me out from the window behind my desk. I grabbed my spray and snuck up to him - he spotted me and flew right at me! Divebombing me - I rolled to the left and sprayed him as he flew past my ear. We were at war.

He stopped - perched on the glass of the double doors in front of my desk and flexed his three inch long wings. I raised my weapon - and fired!

He took this opportunity to mock my ancient bug spray and LAND ON MY FRIGGIN' LEG. I squeled, screamed and believe I may have even cursed in some ancient language before spraying him with a huge burst of poison WHILE HE WAS STILL ON MY PANTS. Hopping around, I scooped him off of my leg with the bottom of the can and while he struggled on the nasty carpet, I sprayed him again, and sat the can on top of him.

Exactly two people, out of an office of sixteen came to my rescue: the girl deathly allergic to bees and wasps, and the 80 year old "I've been practicing law since the time it was still carved into stone slabs" lawyer. He moved the can, stepped on my foe six times before we were sure it was dead.

I thanked him for coming to my rescue and for his bravery.

He said " I have to be brave - I've been married for 56 years."

 

Music of the Night Life

Last Sunday I attended my first concert since the Metallica one of July, two years ago.  The results were about the same - I was mildly uncomfortable, sweating like a woman of ill-repute in a house of God and wondering if/when I was going to die and whether or not my imminent demise would be due to a ruptured eardrum, heat exhaustion, or pure undiluted embarressment.  Me?  No - I wasn't embarressed - I was shuddering for those that graced us with their "dancing skills."

What is it about a concert venue that makes others decide that swaying back and forth, humping the air or pumping invisible iron above their heads in a macho rendition of the current song is a good idea?   While Three Doors Down sang their hearts out to "Kryptonite" a guy a few seats below us jumped up and started pantomining the words.  I could tell he was attempting to look tough.  He was, apparently, someone who had spent hours, alone in the dark, lip synching along with a heart-felt squinch to his face. 

About half way through Staind's performance - two girls and a guy (no pizza place) decided to hang over the balcony at the top of the stairs - conveniently blocking the view of my entire section.  One woman, about forty, hopped up on the rails and thrust her hips while waving her arms - her beau - or just some guy she happened to be with - helped her stay up on the rails by placing his fingers up her jean-clad ass.  He would smack her on the rear a few times, too - just to let her know he cared.   The other girl - a dead ringer for a younger Tabitha, the witch from NBC's "Passions" -  began doing her impression of a frizzy haired bunny.  She hopped this way and that and headbanged all the while.    Finally, after an unsuccessful attempt to get the forty year old and the bunny to "JUMP!" - we suffered through their soft-core antics until they were asked to leave by a Staff Member. 

I never know quite how to act at these concerts, either.  By no means am I ready to join the ranks of the lewd and gyrate until I'm dizzy and confused, nor am I one to don a lighter and sway delicately - so - I chose a differnet route as a concert attendee - I sit - upright in my assigned seat and sing the words I know, smile through the ones I don't and, when the spirit engulfs me, I may just tap my toes. 

Apples and Oranges...

Why is it that fruit is a generally accepted breakfast food, yet when one is seen chowing down on a scrumptuous veggie (let's say - a tomato the size of one's head) at 9 AM - it is generally frowned upon?

Who is out there deciding that some foods are only breakfast and some are only lunch?

Does that mean that I am forbidden to partake of the nectar of a peach if it is past 10AM?  Do I shun a blueberry if the sun is too high in the sky?

Nope - I am very unprejudiced against my choice of veggie or fruit for breakfast, lunch, or dinner - I beg all of you to follow suit and down the tyrrany that holds us, and our veggies, hostage!

(((Is it also wrong that the one time I saw the show "Veggie Tales" I was so hungry that I went to the fridge and chowed unabashedly on a piece of celery?  )))

Maybe I'm just a vegaholic.  :)

Some Like it Hot - and Some Just Can't Figure Out the Faucet

My day started off horrible.

One of those mornings where the best thing you could've done for yourself, and all those you may come in contact with, would be to stay home, under covers, and eat ice cream.

But I didn't. I ventured out of bed - that was my first mistake.

I got up to take a shower. Stumbling into the bathroom, I turned the knob and waited for it to heat up. And waited. And waited.

Huh.

So I turned on the sink faucet figuring I could "jump-start" the hot water tank or something. No such luck.

I tiptoed back into the bedroom and pleaded with my comatose hubby to go downstairs and check out the tank. Now, I know that he has about as much knowledge of home repair as Dahmer did about Vegetarian cuisine - but I was willing to try anything at this point to eventually equate even a lukewarm shower.

While he stumbled down the stairs, half asleep, I wondered if I could just go "skanky." Looking at my hair, sticking up in the back like a greasy alfalfa sprout and my pleasant "OFF with DEET" aroma from the Outdoor Theater I attended the previous evening - I knew that there was no way I was going to traipse into the office unnoticeably icky.

Harry reappeared in the doorway and went over to the shower. He twisted the knob and stuck in his hand.

"It's hot now." he said.

"What'd you do?"

"Nothing."

"Oh." Huh? Oh. Wait a sec.

I had it on cold.

Both times.

I didn't dare tell him.

I just smiled sweetly and gave him a hug. He will never have to know the doofusness that is me.

 

Then I go to work - wearing long-sleeves in 100 degree weather and melting into a puddle of me with every step across the parking lot. My lawyer friend goes with me to Subway for lunch where I seem to have trouble communicating my sandwich needs to the "artist" that is slapping two measly pieces of cheese on to my sub. I go to get my drink at the "do-it-yourself" soda fountain. Now, I hate Diet Coke - with a passion rivaled only by Red Sox fans - I hate it - but - trying to "be healthy" does not include a 12 oz Regular Coke with every meal - so I fill 'er up.

And proceed to shoot Diet Coke down my white shirt, down one pant leg and between the toes of my Payless Sandals.

Great.

I didn't like to drink the shit, much less have it nestled between my little piggies!

Since Harry has left me again for the open road and my sister, a HUGE source of material for this here blog, is also leaving me to go "home" (in quotes to anoint it as sarcasm - you get it, right?) I figure that the next week of blogs will be filled again with the challenges of an undomesticated goddess and her excessive luck with everyday chores!

Enjoy! (uh-oh - I'm starting to sound like a box of Lean Cuisine Microwavable Dinner. Know why they tell you to "enjoy"? Because, otherwise, you wouldn't! )

Okay. I'm done with this blog.

Seriously.

Go home.

Quit looking at me.

Check back tomorrow.

I'll have more.

Promise.

Maybe.

Okay, I'll try.

Just - go away.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

WHY ARE YOU STILL HERE????

hee hee - oh! I so crack myself UP!!!

Pointing Fingers

Summer  (girl in picture above - on the right - sans bunny ears) came to meet me for lunch today - and she brought her abnormally pale, long fingers along for the ride. Watching her eat shoestring fries was a little terrifying - I feared she would mistake her pinky for a deep fried potato piece.

Suddenly, with a bite of gooey cheese dribbling off the end of a fry - she looks at me - a deer in headlights. A tall blond passes our table.

"Iwenttoschoolwithher." She says in a soft one-breathed tone.

"Who - which one?" I asked while nochalantly biting into a burger the size of my head (and equally as appetizing - I might add - the burgers were sub-par, at best - not that my head is sub-par - but - um - oh - forget it - point is : the burger was too big and not very good!) and looking around the tiny burger joint decorated in faux fifties couture in search of "her."

"Youknowwhichonetheonethat'smissinghalfafinger."

"Oh. You're a sicko."

"Iknow." She went back to her burger after pausing to flip me off with one of those creepy fingers of hers.

Which was much more disturbing than someone with out a half a digit or two...

But not as disturbing as someone telling you, in graphic detail, about the size of a massive telephone pole-sized discount, bargain bin tampon and the trials and tribulations of aforementioned feminie product.

You know who you are...