Archive for the ‘Feline Pact With The Devil’ Category

The Big Girl Bed

January 22, 2011

There are certain consumer-ish milestones people hit on the way to Adulthood. My list included buying a car, owning measuring cups, and coveting a Dyson. By the time I was out of law school, I had reached 99% of the benchmarks. But even after I got the Dyson and managed to have a closet dedicated solely to shoes, there was one seminal Adulthood Marker that eluded me: The Big Girl Bed.

I have this theory that as soon as a person:

  1. Supports themselves;
  2. Quasi-regularly makes whoopee (or at least aspires to); and
  3. Has any self-respect;

then they will acquire a mattress set, any mattress set, bigger than a Twin. It doesn’t matter if it’s purchased from a mattress mega mart, a parental cast-off or from IKEA. As long as it is sized-out of the Transformers sheet set option, it will do.

And for many years, I was the exception to my own rule. Sure I was self-respecting, financially solvent and getting some; I just got it in a Twin bed. Until I was 26. So scratch that self-respecting claim. Anyway, for various reasons I never acquired a larger bed. Things like my shoe collection and vodka took precedent. When I finally did upgrade from the Twin, it wasn’t because I was motivated enough to go purchase a mattress set for myself. Instead, I inherited my brother’s girlfriend’s old bed.

The new-to-me mattress was a Full and I suspect that several generations had previously slept on it. Aside from the sagging and smoke-smell, it came with a rip in the mattress where the stuffing was popping out, forming a bump that never seemed to go away no matter how I flipped it. There were also the broken box springs to contend with. Each night, I had to delicately lie down and avoid shifting around too frequently in my sleep. Because if I didn’t position myself just right, I’d be jolted awake as the bed collapsed into a V-formation centered on where the box springs no longer held together. It got to the point where sex in became a race against the inevitable bed collapse. And with my active sleepover schedule, I was highly motivated to fix the problem. I tired everything from two-by-fours to plywood, but despite my best efforts, in the middle of an intimate moment, the bed would go down. After about five months, some combination of hormones, alcohol and desperation lead to a moment of genius because I finally thought to stack a few law school books under the weak spot. And no matter how much I tried thereafter, the bed never collapsed again.

In retrospect, that bed was craptacular and I might have been better off keeping the Twin. But I didn’t. After all, it still achieved that vital step up the Adulthood Ladder and ultimately, that’s all that matter to my vodka-loving bank account. Until recently. Because something happens after a person turns 30. It’s like a switch flips and all the vitality of youth is sapped from the body. It’s one of those strange things that everybody knows about but science has yet to explain. And at 31, my ability to withstand hangovers, wear four-inch heels and sleep on a horrible, saggy mattress are all things of the past. I’m still willing to give up my entire Sunday to the misery of a hangover. And who in their right mind would give up cute shoes? But the mattress had to go.

This morning, my new, $2500, memory-foam-core and fancy, individually wrapped coil dream bed arrived. When the deliverymen saw my old mattress, one of them started laughing. And as they lifted the infamous box springs, a thud was followed by a yowl and some sort of growl-panting combination. Apparently Number Two was hiding admits the coils. When I finally ripped open the box spring covering to where she was, Number Two flew out, hissing and twice her size. I also found a repository of cat toys, pens and used Kleenex. It seems Number Two is a hoarder.

This new mattress set is everything a Big Girl Bed should be: firm, level, and Queen-sized. Laying on it is akin to orgasmic bliss. Plus, I suspect it can go a few rounds of nighttime fun without the possibility of imminent collapse. I guess that finally, at age 31 and a half, I have reached the last Adulthood milestone. Well, maybe aside from having a robust 401k.

Happiness can be bought.

And one day there will throw pillows, a headboard and even a matching lamp!

The Consequences of Drinking

August 2, 2010

I’ve been able to legally consume vodka for over a decade. In that time, I’ve learned exactly how many drinks I can have before I want to share the glory of my bosoms with total strangers, and how many more it takes for the urge to be acted on. That particular lesson came one fabled law school night, when I decided to forget experience, ignore the bra-less warning signs and kept on drinking. I eventually reenacted the striptease from Gypsy (complete with boob shake and leg kicks) for an entire bar. Ten years of drinking experience has also taught me when to put the trash can next to the bed and that on very rare occasions, like the Gypsy Night, it is advisable to sleep on the bathroom floor. But between a Typical Weekend Night where I behave myself and hold my naked impulses in check, and the other extreme where Public Nudity Seemed Like A Good Idea At The Time, there’s an in-between phase. Its a place where I’m drunk enough to be stupid but not to the point my friends are taking me home, demanding I keep my clothes on at least during the cab ride. Its these in-between nights where Droids get broken (like Friday), shoes get lost (also on Friday) and nail polish disasters occur (clearly Friday was eventful).

I know exactly how the Droid thing happened. It was about 8 o’clock, several hours into a prolonged work happy hour but still early enough that all the details are clear. For some reason, I had my phone on the corner of the table and it fell from the extended-height tabletop to the concrete patio. My phones generally take a beating and in the three months I’d had it, the Droid was no different. It survived multiple falls, a kitchen sink immersion and 20 pounds of Bionic Kitty sitting on it at every opportunity. But apparently a five foot drop onto pressed concrete was too much. Initially I thought the phone was only cracked, but as the weekend progressed, the hairline screen fracture grew and turned into a flickering screen with limited touch capabilities. Essentially, it is a big brink in my purse that occasionally rings but I can’t answer. This morning, I coughed up $300 and am on the waiting list for an X.

I’m also pretty sure how the shoe casualty went down. On Saturday, when I was trying to establish my Consumption Timeline, I determined the loss was after I left happy hour (I opted to leave six hours after it began, and it was still going strong, by the way) and had met Stella for more drinking. There are parts that get a little fuzzy but I believe at some point, I demanded she put me in a cab. All I know for sure is that I suddenly started to experience the early-onset symptoms of a nudity urge, so logically, I took off my shoes and tried to put my feet out the window of a moving vehicle. Understandably, the cabbie was not happy about this and expressed his displeasure. I have vague recollections of phrases like “stupid white girls and their freaky behaviors” and “get your (deleted), (deleted) feet out of the (deleted) window or I’ll kick your scrawny, white (deleted).” He got me home safely and I tipped him well, in part for putting up with me but also for calling me “scrawny.” I took that as a complement. In addition to the extra cash, it seems the cab driver also acquired one of my shoes. I know I got into the cab with two but by the time I reached my apartment building door, there was only one. If it had gone out the window, I’m confident I would have remembered that; I suspect I just left it behind. Randomly around DC, I’ll come across a single dress shoe or flip-flop. Occasionally there’ll be a nearby sock as well. I’ve never understood where these things came from, but I’m beginning to suspect that I am not the only person with alcohol-induced nudity urges, and these lone shoes are the byproducts.

But I discovered  the biggest calamity of my Drink-A-Thon about 6:40 a.m. on Saturday, when I woke up craving water. After a night of quasi-debauchery, I always get up in the wee hours thanks to an overwhelming need to hydrate. I’ve learned to optimize this time, since it’s the witching hour between drunkenness and the onset of hangover. Usually, all I have to do it get water, take aspirin and choose trash can or toilet. But on Saturday morning, as I swung my feet over the side of the bed and stepped towards the kitchen for my date with the Brita, my foot landed directly in a puddle of something wet and tacky. My initial impulse was I had thrown up and missed the trash can, but when I looked down, I discovered a puddle of nail polish.

My forensic analysis of the scene suggests that at some point after I got home, I decided to be proactive and help mitigate my hangover by drinking a some water and eating. Scattered along the floor, on the side of my bed, was a bottle of water, assorted granola bars, a bag of shredded cheddar and nail polish. The order in which everything occurred is unclear, but the evidence suggests I ate half of at least three granola bars. The bag of cheese was open and strewn over the comforter; I’m not sure where that comes into play. The nail polish is also unexplainable since my mani and pedi were completely intact. But the bottle was clearly open and sitting on the edge of a puddle of OPI’s Atomic Orange. From the epicenter of the spill, which my foot landed directly in when I was getting out of bed, were paw prints radiating out in a systematic pattern, like a cat knowingly went through the polish and then walked until the wet gloss wore off. From the repeated one-way tracks, it looked like the cat did this over and over again, turning around and re-walking through the polish every time it began to dissipate.

Obviously the first thing I did after washing my foot and cleaning the majority of the polish spill was to investigate the cats. Number Two’s paws came up clean but, as expected, there were orange chunks matted in the base of Bionic Kitty’s leg fur. By that point, my hangover had kicked in and I knew I was about to be horizontal for the day. Scraping up the orange prints took almost five hours on Sunday and the entire time, I wished that Friday night had ended with public nudity instead.

Emerging From The Ether

April 22, 2009

At the beginning of the month I left the Place of Lawyerly Things for a spiffy new job. I was lured to this Utopia Of The Legal World by an teensy weensy pay bump, an office with an actual window and the prospect of increased management experience. The trade off was relinquishing all vodka consumption personal time and returning to 70 hour work weeks where my only form of communication with the Outside World consists of handing cash to the Chinese delivery man and flirting with the police officer conducting a wellness check that my mother requested after I didn’t return her 23 “are you live?” voicemails. It’s been three weeks of nonstop work and I’d hoped to be semi-work settled by now. The reality is I’m nowhere near and my continuous neglect of the day-to-day aspects of life is catching up with me.

The minutia of daily existence has fallen so far off my radar that this morning I realized I had no clean underwear. Except I still have the remnants of my college “I don’t like to do laundry” panty stash. In a pinch, I can go 37 days without having to wash knickers, and that’s not including the Sexy Occasion undies I hold in reserve. So today, Webbernets, I am wearing black lace butt floss with pink bows strategically placed in locations that aren’t very conducive to long bouts of sitting. If any of my employees suddenly want to reenact the Inappropriate Office Sex Scene from Disclosure, I’m ready. In the meantime, I’m learning how to subtly pick a wedgie.

The laundry isn’t the only thing that needs some attention. On my way to retrieve the first of my 12 daily, life-sustaining Diet Cokes, I walked by the litter box. At first, I thought Bionic Kitty had finally succeeded in her quest to make her poop a weapon of mass destruction. Then I realized it’s been an unacceptable amount of time since I’ve changed the litter. So long, in fact, that it might qualify as pet abuse. The Litter Situation explains Bionic Kitty’s recent bad behavior spree. Last night, she pushed my cell phone into the toilet; on Monday, I caught her nuzzling my prized Kate Spade clutch in a manner suggesting it was her next meal; and anytime I leave my laptop exposed on a table top, she begins to attack it with the fervor of Napoleon pulling out all the stops at Waterloo. Anyway, when I discovered my Cat Neglect, I immediately opened new Fresh Step and put out an entire bag of cat treats to assuage Bionic’s malice my guilt. Hopefully I’ve bought my possessions a Temporary Bionic Harassment reprieve.

But the worst thing I’ve neglected has been the blog. Because really, it’s cheaper than therapy. Plus, the number of emails and comments I’ve gotten, checking up on me, has been entirely unexpected. Apparently, my Seven Loyal Readers worry if I fall too far off the grid. At first I though it was cyber love. Then Stella told me it actually is because people like to laugh at me and that pretty much returned my ego to normal proportions. Regardless, I’ll do my best to keep the blog quasi-updated despite overwhelming amonts of Lawyerly Work. I vow to be better about work/life balance. And I’m actually going out this weekend. Really, I miss vodka.

TMI Thursday: The Toilet, The Tub And Bionic Kitty

March 26, 2009

Several weeks ago, I noticed my loo wouldn’t stop running. The thing was installed around the time Madonna danced in non-ironic jelly shoes and a tutu, so in toilet years, it’s older than Methuselah. As with all geriatric plumbing, there are sometimes problems. Most of my toilet’s can be remedied by jiggling the handle a few times. Occasionally, I have to play operation in the toilet tank or be liberal in the use of Drano. But it’s always something my non-handy self can conquer. So on that particular Sunday night, when the toilet kept running, I went through my usual diagnostic: wiggle handle, check toilet tank, kick base, call Dad.

Placing an SOS call to my father is my version of a do-it-yourself white flag. The frequency with which I call is the entire reason I plan to rent until I move into the Happy Trails Extended Care Home. But not everybody agrees with my pro-renting stance. Despite the bajillions of homeownership pitfalls I outlined and every “and then the entire place flooded” horror story I could think of, Little Sister recently bought a condo. Predictably, she too has become a believer in calling for Fatherly Reinforcements. A few weeks ago, when she was putting up a towel bar, Little Sister apparently logged six Dad Dials. Her particular situation was complicated by a lack of appropriate tools. Men magically acquire things like soldering irons and wrenches. Women, on the other hand, get shoes. If it can’t be fixed with a wedge heel and a butter knife, chances are, it’s not being repaired in an estrogen-heavy environment. True to form, Little Sister tried to knock a bolt loose with everything from a cutting board to sheer willpower but nothing worked. Eventually, after my father suggested she heat the darn thing up, Little Sister got her fireplace lighter and stood around warming the bolt ala MacGyver. It worked and I give her snaps for dedication, but that’s more effort than I ever want to put into anything home repair. If I can’t remedy a household problem via extensive googling, some cursing and/or ignoring the situation for a reasonable period of time, then I call Dad. If he can’t walk me through a fix in five minutes or less, I speed dial my landlord.

So, when I called Dad about my toilet mystery and he suggested the break was at the Toilet Tank Flap Thingie (you know, the jobbie that keeps the water in the tank and pulls up on that thin chain doohickey when you flush), I double checked. As it had when I poked around earlier, everything appeared fine with the Thingie. By this time, the toilet had been running for at least half an hour. It was close to overflowing and not wanting a Great Flood Of 2008 repeat, I decided to turn off the water and forgo my pre-bed pee. Instead, I composed a gem-of-an-email titled, “PLEASE FIX THE TOILET NOW, OR SO HELP ME GOD…” sent it off to Landlord, and went to sleep. In the morning, there was a response. Landlord had arranged for the Official Building Plumber to visit sometime between 8:15 a.m. and 3:30 p.m. I would have to be around to supervise the work but he promised I would have a functioning toilet by sunset.

I was thrilled to have an excuse for a Personal Day. It was gonna be me, my comfy PJs, and the torrid happenings of Season Three of The O.C. In preparation for some quality couch time, I grabbed the first of my four morning Diet Cokes. And that’s when I realized I hadn’t engaged in any bladder relieving activities since approximately 3:00 the day before. In that 17 hour period, I’d downed a margarita, at least four glasses of water, and assorted Diet beverages. I was amply hydrated. And now I had to use The Ladies’.


As I saw it, my options were:

  1. Tackling my bed head, switching out my bunny slippers for Hot Pink Crocs, going down four floors to the Chez Apartment Lobby and using the public restroom.
  2. Peeing off my balcony.
  3. Delaying as long as humanly possible in order to maximize the amount of excess fluid expelled from my bladder, and then going with Option A.
  4. Repurposing the kitty litter.
  5. Squatting over the edge of the bathtub.

After rejecting Options One through Four on grounds of “that would involve a bra, which is the antithesis of Lazy Couch Day,” or “Eww, gross,” I went with Option Five.

There are certain aerodynamical pee principles which the vaginaed set deal with. First, aim isn’t always guaranteed; if you hover, stray spray generally lands on the seat. Second, utilizing a cup in cases of dire emergency does not end well. And then there’s the Three Drinks Rule: always sit after three, or on your leg you will pee. Knowing these things, I’m not sure why I went with Option Five. It broke the First Law Of Girly Peeing and due to my beverage intake the day before, I needed to follow the Three Drinks Rule. But I managed to justify my decision on the grounds that Option Five was straightforward, simple, and the least time consuming choice. So, I made my way to the bathroom, dropped trow, and squatted over the edge of the tub.

I quickly realized my plan was logistically flawed. If I kept my feet on the bathroom floor and attempted to squat over the tub edge, it appeared I was too short to project my flow into the tub itself. Not wanting to inadvertently miss and spray my Ikea bathmat, I revamped the plan. For Attempt Take Two, I climbed into the bathtub itself, squatted facing the faucet, and intended to let loose with the bladder. But, just before bladder release, I realized there was a high probability of runoff touching my feet. So, I turned around. This way, I figured things would flow away from me, toward the drain. Hygiene would be maintained, my feet would remain pee-free, and all would be right in my germaphobe world. Except then I remembered my bathtub has a slow drain and water tends to collect where I was standing. In essence, if I squatted in the tub, I would be wadding in a pool of my own urine. That was a bit too Ick for my A-type Sensibilities, so I reevaluated.

For awhile, I contemplated going back to Option One. It was a solid alternative and putting on a bra was an eensy weensy sacrifice to make for a hygienic, accident-free peeing experience. But that part of me that’s stubborn to the Nth degree? That will bite my nose to spite my face? That’s essentially a sucker? Well, it prevailed.

So, I climbed onto the edge and assumed the Horny Baboon Stance: knees bent, butt thrust as far over the tub as it would go. My left hand was planted on the wall, counteracting my horrendous balance. In the other was a wad of toilet paper. Should my aerodynamic calculations be off and stray sprays occur, I was armed and ready to wipe them up. Being as prepared as I could possibly be, I let loose. Two blessed minutes later, Operation Makeshift Toilet was a success. My bladder was empty and I was about to climb off the tub edge. I let go of the wall, took one foot off the tub ledge and at that exact second, Bionic Kitty charged in. She is fascinated by all bathroom functions, especially the tub-centric variety. This was a previously unseen activity and she was determined to investigate.

There is only so much width on a tub ledge and my teetering Midwestern Sexy bum was taking up most of it. When 21 pounds of Bionicness jumped into the mix, something had to give. Predictably, it was me. Bionic Kitty landed on the tub edge and with a yelp, I plunged backwards, ankles over head, until I landed spread eagle in the slow-draining pee puddle. Because God is merciful, I managed not to break my neck or hurt myself badly enough that I had to lay in my own pee until the plumber arrived. But still, my tailbone was in agony. And then, because it wasn’t bad enough, Bionic Kitty joined me in the tub.

At first, she just sniffed and splashed at the urine. But something must have clicked in the Bionic Brain: the pee puddle was something to be consumed. Just like the poinsettia or the bouncy glitter ball or my fish or the millions of other things she’s ingested. Nothing is ever safe from the Jaws Of Death. I was disgusted but I let her slurp away. At least this culinary adventure wasn’t going to cost me elevenity kajillion dollars in vet bills. Worst case, if Bionic got sick, I figured I would lock her in the bathroom and deal with the oceans of kitty puke before the plumber arrived. In the meantime, my priorities were figuring out if my throbbing tailbone was broken, extracting myself from the wedged-into-the-tub-spread-eagle position and showering. So, it took me a moment to realize the vigorous slurping sounds had stopped. I tried to look around the Bionic Mass sitting on my stomach, but I couldn’t see from my crammed-in angle. I assumed there was no more urine for the cat to drink but really, her focus had simply shifted. Instead of drinking the pee pool, she began licking my exposed private parts.

And Sweet Mother Mary, I was in such shell shock, I just laid there for a minute. Suddenly it registered that my cat was molesting me; that I was the inadvertent victim of Bionic Bestiality. Horror filled me. Tailbone be damned. With newfound purpose, I un-stuck myself from the tub, and chased Bionic Kitty from the bathroom. My pajama pants were still around one ankle, my pee-drenched backside was still exposed and I had bed head. But whatever. My cat had violated me and I was going to make clear that my vajayjay was a No Fly Zone for cat tongue.

Twenty minutes later, I was still hunting Bionic Kitty. She’d retreated into the abyss under the bed and I was crouched down with my naked ass facing the door, my head shoved under the mattress screaming, “Bad Kitty! Bad bad bad Kitty.” That’s how the Official Building Plumber found me. Apparently, I was so engrossed in obtaining vengeance that I hadn’t heard the knocking and he’d let himself in. With as much dignity as I could muster, I stood up, covered my exposed bits and asked the plumber if he could come back in half an hour, when I was decent. Stammering, he agreed. As he turned around, I shouted that I had one more request: Could I please borrow his biggest, heftiest wrench, so I could bludgeon my cat to death? He didn’t come back to fix my toilet for two days.

Returning To The Regularly Scheduled Program

February 9, 2009

This interviewy thing has been on the webbernets for awhile. In fact, I’ve had these questions, thoughtfully provided by Restaurant Refugee and Sexy, Single and Celibate, for several weeks. But I’m only now getting to them. *sigh*

If you’d like to play along, just follow these instructions:
1. Leave me a comment saying, “Interview me.”
2. I will respond by emailing you five questions. I get to pick the questions. And I will probably take my sweet time constructing them.
3. You will update your blog with the answers to the questions. Be sure you link back to the original post.
4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the same post.
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.

It may be too soon for you to conduct a “lessons learned” exercise from The eCrush Chronicles, but what are your immediate take aways from the experience? And did the blog attention (your most comments ever) help or hurt?

You mean take aways aside from all the interesting things I found when I googled “I now sympathize with Lorena Bobbit?” Or the list of Top Ten Signs Your Boyfriend Is Gay, which I plan to distribute amongst my nearest and dearest?

The recent blog silence was the result of two things: 5.25 days spent on the couch, recovering from a Hell-spawned version of influenza, and because I have been reeling from the emotional fall out of The eCrush Chronicles. My time with eCrush was the most profound, impacting relationship of my life and the manner in which it ended was something I was in no way prepared for. During the last few weeks, I’ve been vacillating between Bitter, Party Of One and Acute Emotional Denial. But things exploded Saturday; we had a Confrontation with a Gigantor Big C. Epic turned short, I am walking away from The eCrush Chronicles with a renewed sense of self-worth. The last few days have shown me that I trust myself enough to leave a relationship that is fundamentally unhealthy; I will not stay simply because I am “loved.” I’m worth more than that. It’s all very Girl Power.

As for the comment love, it’s strangely empowering to realize that should I ever need it, there is a lynch mob at my disposal. Bonus is they bring their own shovels.

You describe yourself as certifiably Midwestern sexy. List all of the things that make you feel Washingtonian sexy.


If we were to take Bionic Kitty out for too many vodka and catnips, what would she tell us about you?

Despite her taxing schedule of Power Naps and Guerilla Bird Watching, Bionic Kitty decided to answer this.

Dear People:

I would like to take this opportunity to clarify: my alleged suicide attempts are not an indication of a stupid or otherwise fool-hardy personality. Instead, they are calculated acts of vengeance. You see, years ago, Big Lady posted pictures of me hanging out in her pants. She thought it was simply documentation of my amusing and playful personality. However, I feel she breached the trustful nature of the pet/owner relationship. Plus, I resented her implications that I am portly. Of course I engaged in immediate retribution and retaliation at the time; I brought a hairball up on her favorite carpet. Yet Big Lady didn’t take the hint and continued to over-share about my antics. If anything, she’s become more prolific. In turn, I reacted with more hairballs and assorted acts of destruction. It’s been several years, and Big Lady continues to publicly humiliate me, I continue to seek vengeance, and we’ve become trapped in a Circle of Hate. Still, I will not be the one to capitulate. As long as Big Lady documents my behavior on her blog, especially if she does so in an unflattering and/or humiliating manner, I will remain engaged in a stealth War Of Terror. Also, I will continue until she apologizes for the damage to my sensibilities. Treats will be accepted in lieu of a verbal apology.

Recently, I’ve found my Campaign of Evil has been particularly successful as demonstrated by Big Lady’s verbal reaction. Experience has taught me that she has a hierarchy of annoyance. If she mumbles nonsense about returning me to the Pet Rescue, claiming that she still has the receipt, then I’ve not registered on her aggrevation meter. I consider my endeavors more successful if she breaks out a four letter word. If there’s volume involved, or maybe some carpet cleaner, I also deem that a victory. But the real jackpot is when Big Lady combination cusses. At times of severe displeasure, usually involving the destruction of property or extensive clean up, she creates variations on existing expletives. For example, the time I drank toilet bowl cleaner and she had to make me projectile vomit? During that episode, she called me a Fuckity Ass Bitchoid and repeatedly stated that poison control should no longer help with pets. Or this morning, when I jumped on her from atop the fridge and she dropped the jug of orange juice all over her favorite shoes, she chased me while screaming that I was a Satanic Whoralicious Assfaced Monkey Spawn and if I gave her a heart attack, nobody would known for days and how would I like a prolonged period of starvation? Yep, I know I’ve done quality work when she combines bad language in new and interesting ways. Snarky comments and eye-rolling are a bonus.

Also, as Big Lady has mortified me continuously since the inception of her blog, I have chosen to engage in a little tit-for-tat and share the following:

  • She farts in her sleep. Copiously and at near toxic levels.
  • She sings in the shower. Her current repertoire is heavy on Ashlee Simpson, Seal, Debbie Gibson and pre-crack Whitney Huston.
  • She has not done laundry in at least three weeks. I suspect she’s wearing dirty granny panties today.
  • She recenlty fished a piece of cake out of the garbage can and ate it. She claimed it was a PMS related chocolate emergency but there’s no excuse. Behavior like that’s just nasty.

Finally I think you should know that I do not support the latest Household Diet Initiative. Just because Big Lady is depriving herself of carbs does not mean we all must suffer. And she needs to give the litter box more attention.

Yours respectfully, etc.

Bionic Kitty

Your commute is full of horror stories and people. What prejudgments do you think your fellow commuters make about you? Please answer for both the tourists and the locals if there is a difference.

I’d like to think I am a well-mannered, seemingly innocuous member of the Commutership who doesn’t warrant any form of prejudgment aside from the occasional speculation about what’s in my Mary Poppins sized bag.

2009 hands you an unexpected, wrapped gift with a large bow. What is inside? You then have to gift this box anonymously to someone else. To whom do you give it and what is inside?
The contents include:

  • An endless supply of Diet Coke (it’s the box that just keeps on giving).
  • Lifetime OSU Football Tickets with accompanying airfare, approved time off, and reserved tailgating spot.
  • A case of some itchy, reoccurring, penis-shrinking VD that I can magically infect eCrush with.
  • Ten minutes to do a Supermarket Sweep type thingie in the Nordstroms shoe department at Tysons.
  • The ability to cut the Chop’t lunch line.
  • A regenerating pile of cash, in large denominations.
  • A nifty new apartment in the District, tricked out in Yuppie-meets-Hipster type furnishings and flat screen TVs.
  • An all-expense-paid trip to someplace tropical where straight men in banana-hammocks will serve me fruity drinks, decorate my hair with exotic orchids and spritz me with Evian.
  • Joss Whedon and/or Michael Rosenbaum, mine for one hour, to with whatever I please.

For her unflagging gChatting and general emotional propping up, Are You Really A Lawyer would get the Box ‘o’ Love. The contents would be remarkably similar. Except she’d probably want different fantasy men and she might skip the VD.
Bonus: This has been a hot threesome between you, Restaurant Refugee, and SingleGirl. If RR and SG weren’t available, who would you pick to complete your threesome?

Can I plead the Fifth? Gah! FINE.

Veronica Mars and Chuck Bass. But only if there was Reddiwip.


A List Of My New Year’s Resolutions And What Will Realistically Result From Said Resolutions

December 31, 2008

New Year’s Resolution: Lose 15 pounds.

Predicted Outcome: Over the course of the year, my secret love of cheese will be too strong for me to repress and consequently, I will consume vast wheels of Gouda. Ounce by ounce, I will in fact gain 15 pounds until my thighs are the diameter of the Trans-Alaska Pipeline.

New Year’s Resolution: Develop a taste for cheap vodka. Or learn to filter it. Thus, saving money because crap vodka is tons more bank account friendly than Grey Goose.

Predicted Outcome: A liver transplant will become an immediate necessity instead of a theoretical possibility. I will be stuck with hefty co-pays and outrageous health insurance deductibles, thereby eradicating any savings I might otherwise have achieved.

New Year’s Resolution: No longer surf the interwebs while at the Place of Lawyerly Things and devote time saved to becoming a model employee.

Predicted Outcome: I will continue with the current No Working On Friday schedule. And maybe expand this demanding schedule, because everybody knows Thursday is the new Friday.

New Year’s Resolution: Learn Chinese.

Predicted Outcome: I will order lots of Chinese food.

New Year’s Resolution: Meet Chuck Norris.

Predicted Outcome: Get all episodes of Walker, Texas Ranger from Netflicks and watch incessantly. Maybe practice my roundhouse kick. Hi-ya!

New Year’s Resolution: Think of a password other than “password.”

Predicted Outcome: Start using “password2.”

New Year’s Resolution: Stop making fun of people on the Metro.

Predicted Outcome: Such wishful thinking.

New Year’s Resolution: Perform a Service to Humanity and burn eCrush’s madras pants.

Predicted Outcome: He will most likely replace the pants with a wardrobe item equally as offensive and emasculating, which I will likewise have to publicly make fun of and covertly steal. This in turn will begin a vicious cycle of wardrobe confiscation that will only end when all madras fabrics are banned from the earth.

New Year’s Resolution: Remove all Miley Cyrus songs from my iPod.

Predicted Outcome: I will download Jonas Brothers, Selma Gomez or similar up and coming D-Rock in an effort to fill the teenbop void. I will continue to put this music on my “Music of Shame” playlist, which is actually what I renamed my Top 25 Most Played.

New Year’s Resolution: Put Bionic Kitty on a diet.

Predicted Outcome: She will eat my couch in protest. It will sorta be like Ghandi’s hunger strike, but in reverse.

New Year’s Resolution: Engage in random acts of kindness. Like no more drunk dialing, drunk texting, or drunk yelling.

Predicted Outcome: I will substitute drunk mooning, drunk boob flashing or drunk Insulting A Metro Employee and eventually be arrested for my rowdy behavior. It’ll make great blog fodder. And because I engage in “post now, think later” blog posting, my mother will read it. I’ll then receive a phone call in which she will repeatedly threatened to enroll me in Betty Ford, AA, or Promises.

New Year’s Resolution: Move from NoVA to the District.

Predicted Outcome: This will actually happen. In fact, it’ll usher in the Golden Age of My Social Life, which I will fondly refer to as the Ascendancy of Glory when I reminisce about it during my kid-rearing years.

New Year’s Resolution: Travel more.

Predicted Outcome: Hello, Maryland.

The Mexican Standoff With My Cats, or The Blog Post That Crowns Me Crazy Cat Lady

December 22, 2008

It seems I have brand loyal cats that refuse to poop in anything besides Fresh Step litter. And since I just bought five bags of Tidy Cat, this is a problem.

It never occurred to me that switching brands would be a big deal. I mean, litter is just little clay bits chemically enhanced to achieve magical clumping action. What could be so different from one type to another? As long as it was changed regularly, I assumed the cats wouldn’t care. So when I noticed Tidy Cat was on sale for half the price of Fresh Step, I stocked up. These are tough economic times and I figured cheap litter would be the feline contribution to the Household Booze Fund Fiscal Responsibility Savings Plan.

But apparently, my pets have delicate poop sensibilities. They will not go in the damn Tidy Cat. And by not go, I mean the two of them stand in front of the closet where the litter box is stashed, all, “Holy Moses, you expect us to go in that? It’s one step above generic. It’s like the Payless of the litter world. This is not a knockoff household!” Hours pass and they stand vigilantly. The darn things have got the tenacity of Norma Rae, but even more righteous because their poo facilities are at stake. And just to prove their dedication to The Cause, when the cats can’t hold it any more, they tinkle and turd DIRECTLY OUTSIDE THE CLOSET. ON THE WHITE CARPET. It’s the feline version of giving me The Bird.

So this is where the Mexican Standoff part comes in. Because I insist on using that Tidy Cat. I totally understand why, during my formative years, my mom adopted the mantra, “Your (fill in the blank) is perfectly fine. I paid good money for that and you’re going to use it. So? Deal.” Yup. I’ve become the economic version of my mother. Except over cat litter and not hot pink stirrup pants. As far as I know, the Tidy Cat gets the job done and is perfectly acceptable for feline bums to utilize. There’s nothing wrong with it per se. My particular pair are just brand snobs. Well, life’s tough kittens, and we don’t always get the hot pink stirrup pants designer litter we want.

As a result of this shit storm, I’ve spent the last week cleaning up cat poop and drowning my hallway in Febreeze, Lysol Anti-Bac and various smelly Glade products. Because no matter what, even if that Tidy Cat remains virginal and pee-free ‘til kingdom come, I WILL NOT BE DEFEATED BY MY CATS.

That is all.

Today’s Metro Lesson: If The Escalator Doesn’t Kill Ya, The Germs Will

December 12, 2008

Yesterday. Somewhere between Foggy Bottom and Farragut West: Gash the hell out of my thumb on mysteriously sharp ad holder thing by the Metro train door. Bleed profusely. Briefly consider sucking on cut as form of self-triage. Reject idea based on potential oral acquisition of Metro Death Germs.

Escalator at Farragut West: Hold rail as stand on right. Notice hand is consequently black and grimy. Realize attainment of Metro Dirt near wound does not portend good things. As walk to office, forswear lady like behavior and spit numerous times on thumb injury. Hope this will delay onset of gangrene.

At Place of Lawyerly Things: Wash hand and employ liberal amounts of anti-bacterial gel. Definition of liberal: the approximately 1.8 ounces remaining in bottle.

At Place of Lawyerly Things, ten minutes later: Question Metro Germ conquering abilities of generic anti-bacterial gel. Seek out Lawyerly First Aid Kit.

At Place of Lawyerly Things, having located First Aid Kit: No Neosporin or alcohol (for rubbing or for courage). Ditto, no band-aids. Apparently, the office administrator thinks lawyers really don’t bleed. Determine life saving trip to CVS is required. Now.

At CVS: Spend $8.91 on germinator supplies.

At Place of Lawyerly Things bathroom: Call on all nuggets of medical wisdom garnered from ten seasons of ER fandom. Also recall some bits from Scrubs and Grey’s Anatomy. Reject Grey’s knowledge because bathroom is not sufficiently hygienic operating theater when Phone Sex Operation shares the facilities. Begin medical intervention.

At Place of Lawyerly Things, later that afternoon: Thumb status check. No visible signs of improvement. This does not look good.

At Place of Lawyerly Things, even later: Nope. Not good at all. Re-administer remedies.

After work: Determine that vodka kills everything. Mass consumption is only sure way to ensure survival and still possibly keep all my digits. Proceed accordingly.

Chez Apartment, in the wee hours: Remove bandage for evaluation of injury. Must squint to see clearly due to Vodka Eyes. Notice red streak from epicenter of gash to where thumb joins hand. Decide this must be monitored. Drunkenly decide it’s a swell idea to mark where infection is located. This will allow proper a.m. evaluation of aggressiveness of infection. Draw big lines around thumb with red marker. Apply more Neosporin.

Ches Apartment, in the even wee-er horus: Awake to Bionic Kitty licking Neosporin. Gross. Try to make her go away but too drunk to fight 20 pounds of determined cat.

Next morning: Thumb angry red color. Decide I will send Metro a helpful suggestion type email, advising they install Purell misters on all train cars and in high-traffic areas.

Next morning, a few minutes later, contemplating options after realizing redness of thumb indicates situation is grave: Amputate? Call 911? Protracted soak in vat of penicillin?

Still the next morning, but now two minutes later: Decide drastic measures can wait until after shower. Hopefully this will also encourage the return of sobriety.

While engaging in cleanliness: Red mysteriously disappearing. In fact, realize there is no cause for alarm over state of thumb. Hmmm. Water cure? Or has an inexplicable image of the Virgin Mary appeared in the soap scum?

Upon further reflection: From depths of vodka haze, vaguely recall liberal application of a red marker to entire general thumb area. That must account for red color.

And also: Remember Bionic Kitty licked thumb in dead of night. Perhaps her saliva holds Bionic disease fighting properties? Does this mean Bionic Kitty has triumphed over Metro Ebola? Yes! It’s a miracle! All hail!

Finally: Return to bed. Too drunk lucid thought.

Bionic Cereal Consumption

December 9, 2008
Frosted flakes one

Nothing is sacred. Not even my breakfast.

Bionic Kitty will eat anything. In the past, her dietary adventrues have encompassed various power cords, four raw eggs, Iams bags, several used tampons (yeah, I know, right?), my pet fish, cupcakes, an entire package of lavender post-its including the cellophane, one poinsettia and on multiple occasions, her own poop. If it’s in the house, she considers it nutritional fair game. Yet, she’s not deprived. The vet’s had repeated talks with me about diets, limiting treats and the diminished life expectancy of overweight felines. When the vet mentioned that last one, I know she meant it to be serious and dire, like a personalized PSA meant to scare me into watching Bionic’s caloric intake. I could almost hear the ominous James Earl Jones voiceover proclaiming, “Your Cat, Kibble… And YOU!” But it had the opposite effect. It was more like when I saw a STD commercial around age ten. I was all, “Herpes! That sounds fun! I bet Madonna has that. How do I get one?” So, when the vet mentioned life expectancy, I secretly resolved to up Bionic Kitty’s daily allotment of Friskies Crunchy Hairball Remedy Cat Treats. I love her and all, but if I can end this Pet Ownership Hell a few years early, who would really judge me? Especially after I recently caught Bionic Kitty ravaging a brand spankin’ new box of Frosted Flakes, which I consequently had to throw it out. It was totally contaminated by cat slobber.

BK head in box

Bionic Kitty determines the best method of attack. Sun Tzu ain't got nothing on her.

really in the box

Bionic Kitty's Ostrich Mentality: If I can't see you, you can't see me. And therefore, you don't know I am being a pain in the ass.

playing iwth food

Ha! Got one!

nom nom nom

Nom nom nom.


Yes, Virgina, Frosted Flakes are good.

lick lips

Must. Get. All. Remnants.

share damn it

Number Two: Share, damn it!

Bionic Bouncy Glitter Ball

November 10, 2008

The Second Job That Keeps Me Sane is currently selling bouncy balls laced with crack. Well, I’m pretty sure they’re not actually drug infested, but the darn things are bizarrely addictive. In fact, they’ve joined pizza wheels, pink highlighters and Go-gurt in the Pantheon of Stuff I Unexplainably Love and Am Compelled to Buy at Every Possible Opportunity. Now, Seven Loyal Readers, before you get all judgey about a near-30-year-old with a bouncy ball fetish, keep in mind these bouncy balls are filled with… wait for it…GLITTER! Swirly, whirly globs of green and pink and iridescent sparkle! Pretty! Like a snow globe, but with oomph and no pesky NYC skylines to ruin the snow-fun.

And did I mention the things have the perfect amount of bounce? I know because I’ve spent several shifts ignoring avoiding being highly attentive to customers while bouncing a ball up and down the aisles. I am secretly convinced these are NASA-developed bouncy balls. Because they seem to have some insidious microchip that rebounds the ball specifically to arm level and straight into your hand, thus making you believe that after 30 years, you really do have eye/hand coordination and all those years suffering through gym class dodge ball were just leading up to these moments of bouncing ability glory.

Being totally infatuated with the darn balls, I bought one two five and I finally got around to letting them loose in Chez Apartment yesterday afternoon. In case you were wondering, there is nothing as entertaining on a blahish Sunday afternoon as watching cats and bouncy balls. Bionic Kitty and Number Two chased those things for HOURS.

Seven Loyal Readers, how about we fast forward to the part where my cats rain down havoc and general horribleness into my life via glitter bouncy ball? Because you know it’s coming and that’s the entire point of this post. Ready? OK!

So, I leave the kitchen in the middle of making dinner, step in something wet and look down to see my foot swimming in a glob of green sparkle. Glitter is Ev. Re. Where. It looked like Liberace exploded magic fairy glitter over the entire place. Paw print glitter tracks speckled the carpet. Streaks of green were on the couch, chair and windows. A glitter sheen covered the coffee table and remote control. It was on the walls, the bookshelves, the plant leaves, even the TV screen. I now know glitter is one of those things that has the amazing ability to reproduce itself quickly and spontaneously. Like rabbits, but to the zillionth degree. There is no other explanation for the amount of glitter that covered my apartment. Not all that glitter could come from one bouncy ball without rapid regeneration and cats spreading it around like Taiwanese whores. And the cats…Oh, the cats…

As I stood surveying my new Kingdom of Sparkle, Bionic Kitty rolled in the glitter epicenter. She looked at me like, “Where have you been hiding this stuff all these years? This is SO MUCH BETTER than catnip! I’m all twinkly! I’m dazzling! Hell, I’m EFFERVESCENT! ” And of course, that was the exact moment Number Two burst another bouncy ball. As the mushroom cloud of pink glitter began to settle, I mentally crossed bouncy balls from my Obsessions List and headed for the cleaning supplies. Hoo freaking Ray.