Archive for the ‘Number Two’ 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 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.

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.

Why Didn’t I Get A Dog Instead?

October 28, 2008

Late Sunday night, as I was doing laundry, I heard yowling, crashing and off-key screeching. I assumed Bionic Kitty finally got electrocuted after months of chewing on power cords. Even so, I didn’t rush to the next room to check on her. That cat has made a Feline Pact With the Devil and I knew she would be fine, despite a little frying. The ruckus continued, but I just rolled my eyes and continued folding. Just as I was about to go investigate, Bionic Kitty sauntered in the room. She looked at me, tossed her head and meowed. It was all very, “See, it wasn’t me this time.” Uh oh. I rushed to the living room. There was Number Two, oddly attached to a Whole Foods bag, flying by at Warp Speed.

Best I can figure, at some point in the evening, Number Two jumped onto the kitchen counter where I had left the empty paper bag. In some strange act of cat physics, she apparently got her neck caught in the handle and could not get unstuck. I think this is about where fight or flight kicked in. When I found her, Number Two was at full tilt, handle firmly around her neck, the Whole Foods bag open across her back. The panicked-cat sprinting made the bag catch air, pull on her neck, and further scaring the living bejesus out of her.

At this point, I figured I had two options: chase Number Two around the kitchen/living room/entrance way loop or stay where I was and catch her on the return. I opted to wait. About two seconds later, Number Two and the bag whizzed by. I reached down to grab her, but missed. OK, try again. I crouched down, arms spread. She tore past and I got nothin’ but air. After the third fail, I knew it was time to fall back on the chasing option. Number Two hurtled around the bend and I took off behind her. But by now, she was at unprecedented levels of cat hysteria and was moving too erratically me to catch. A few laps later, I realized my best bet was to try and herd her to the bedroom. If I could trap her in a confined space, I reasoned I could catch her and get the bag off her neck.

Despite my efforts, Number Two would not stop running the kitchen/living room/entrance way loop. In desperation I decided to block the doorway to the kitchen. Effectively, it would break the circle she was running and I hopped she would head to the bedroom. The key was to find something long enough to close the extended opening and high enough so Number Two wouldn’t try to jump it. I looked around. Hello, coffee table. In a flash, I had it cleared, flipped and in position. It worked like a dream. Number Two approached, spotted the obstruction and rerouted straight under the bed.

For half an hour, I tried and tried to get Number out. But little cat, queen sized bed, no can reachie. Plus, with limited storage space in my apartment, under the bed is fully utilized. It’s a warren of plastic containers, Space Bags, and junk. You know those cheap games they sell at Cracker Barrel? The ones where you move the squares around the little plastic frame to make a picture and one piece is missing so you can shove all the other parts around? Well, those are my car ride nemesis. And this was just like those games, but worse. I’d move something, trying to force Number Two into arm’s reach, but she’d scramble somewhere else into the hodge podge. So, I’d shift something else. And on and on. As time passed and I still didn’t have Number Two, I became convinced the bastard child of Einstein and Stretch Armstrong couldn’t get her out this way. It was time for a Masterly Plan.

Eventually my Inner Thinker decided to rearrange my under-bed-junk to enclose Number Two and then remove the mattress. If she tried to escape, I hoped it would be up and straight into my arms. Even if she bypassed me, with the bedroom and closet doors closed, Number Two’s hiding spaces would be limited. Still, I was a bit nervous about the mauling I knew was coming my way. Cat Anger means spitting, teeth, and claws. Not a problem with Bionic Kitty. She’s declawed. But Number Two is a Hemmingway Cat. With her funky paw bone structure, the vet couldn’t declaw her. So, not only was I dealing with lethal cat claws, but Number Two’s got extra ones. Pleasant.

Well, the plan worked. Pretty much. Step one: I got Number Two was boxed in. Sure, this lead to yet more Cat Anger but what could I do? Step two: I wrestled the mattress off. Step three: box springs. But the Number Two’s not stupid. She knew what was coming. The minute an opening appeared above her, Number Two sprang. And I was ready. Thick sweatshirt and four shirts to prevent chest mauling? Yup. Oven mitts for hand protection? On. I grabbed Number Two and attempted to remove the Whole Foods bag from around her neck, but she was squirming, spitting and scratching everything in sight. While the oven mitts were necessary, they hampered my dexterity. I couldn’t get the handle untangled from her neck with them on. Wrestling Number Two was increasingly difficult, so I decided to take one for the team. I removed an oven mitt, braving the claws. I was yanking the handle off her neck when Number Two reached her breaking point. Cat urine. Ev. Re. Where.

Two days of keeping the bedroom balcony door open and four bottles of carpet cleaner, my room still stinks of cat urine. I’ve done eight loads of laundry trying to remove the smell from everything that got wet. And I think I’m going to have to replace my mattress. Initially, I thought it wasn’t hit, but now I’m not so sure. The best part of the entire story is last night, when I got home, I found some devious cat had gotten another Whole Foods Bag from my stash between the fridge and the wall. And of course, Number Two was sniffing around the handle.

Drunken E-mailing

October 10, 2008

Written in the wee hours to Stella. Regarding her comment on a previous post

I spilled a huge glass of wine when I read “Jeff Jeffrey.” There was a strange laugh-spasm thing and oops, there it went. Now I have drunk cats (couldn’t get it sopped up quickly enough because I am pretty inebriated myself — I am concentrating really hard on my typing and keep yelling at eCrush to come read this — he says one of my talents is that I am surprisingly coherent while drunk as a skunk — personally, I think it’s all in the conditioning — I’m like an athlete! I’m the Michael Phelps of Wine Consumption!). And FYI, drunk cats are maybe the most hilarious thing I’ve ever seen. Bionic Kitty just keeps walking around in circles, stopping and looking like she’s totally lost. Number Two keeps trying to jump on my desk and missing. I’m currently trying to download a video that I need to keep onto my computer so I can capture the hilarity of drunk cats with my camera. Oh God, do cats get hangovers? If I have puking cats in a few hours, I will no longer know you. Just sayin’.

How’ve you been? How’s Jeff’s post-jumping recovery progressing? Tell me all the interesting Stella news! I’ve been in Couples Land all week and I need an antidote. I like exclamation points right now! See: ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! Ha!

Not much going on over here, on my side of the river. eCrush is going out of town this weekend and I plan to reclaim my apartment while he’s slapping butts and giving out high fives with his political buds. He’s currently packing and sorting through his stuff. Watching this process has been hilarious. I’m A-type but my God, I’ve got nothing on him. Everything must be folded and packed just so. I think he just attempted hospital corners on his shirts. Oh, and apparently, he intends to upgrade all the toiletries he has stashed here from travel size to real size upon his return. Seems he’s quietly but thoroughly infiltrating my apartment and my life. If this keeps up, I’m going to have to relinquish drawer and closet space soon. Where will my shoes live?!?!?! I refuse to displace my shoes. They’re like little pieces of my soul. My soul (sole! oh good pun for a drunk girl. Go me!!) is more important than storing his button downs. And he’s got two pink button downs. I stand by my “My Boyfriend is Secretly Gay” theory. I mean, pink shirts? Those pants? What more do I need? (eCrush says he is not gay and I should realize this by now. I’m wondering if he intends to prove he’s not gay tonight. And yes, I am leaving that line in my email so shut up eCrush) So, I’ve been keeping a list of all the things that he does which drive me crazy. I intended to turn it into a blog entry tonight, but when I started to, I got all emotional (hence the wine — drink ‘til it feels better). Realistically, the teariness was only because of PMS but he wants to think it’s because I’m going to miss him. Who am I to crush his crazy hope that a girl with feelings lurks deep down inside me?

Can I just say I hate Fox News? It’s like the Sarah Palin Variety Hour right now and her voice. Holy Christ on a stick, that voice. HATE IT. Do all Alaskans sound that way? Because if they do, we need to kick them out of the union and let Russia have them. I wonder if she sounds like an Eskimo?

I’ve got to go shopping for a cocktail-ish dress this weekend. ECrush is dragging me to a fraternity brother’s wedding in a few weeks and I have nothing to wear. Since I’m not yet emotionally equipped to do the whole “take the boy shopping” thing (it just reeks of trauma and possible fight), I figured boyfriend absence was prime shopping for dress time. It’s also going to be my first venture around town in a Zip Car. Zip! OK, Bionic Kitty is now meowing pitifully. I hope she’s not hurt. I kind of like her. Also, I need more Oreos. eCrush says I’ve begun the downward drunk spiral and I have to go now before I make an ass of myself. I’ve learned to always listen to the sober one.

So, byesies!

Which one is it?

November 14, 2007

One of my cats snores. I realized it last night when the horrifically loud sound woke me up. And as I just typed in that last blog entry, they are curled up together on the floor by my feet and one of them is doing it again. I can’t figure out which one it is since they are so intertwined, but my goodness it is loud. It must only happen when she is in a really deep sleep in the wee hours. It’s so loud, I don’t know how the other one can sleep through the noise, but with the Great Escape this morning, I guess Bionic Kitty and Number Two are a little beat and innocent party can ignore the other.

Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Dumber

August 26, 2006

My two cats are fascinated with bodily functions. When I burp or fart, the instantly look around with mystified expressions on their faces. “What was that? Where did it come from?” After the immediate suprise wears off, they glance at each other, as if to say, “Wasn’t me. Was it you? No? Oh my holy God, it was the Big Lady!” Before I know it, I am engulfed in a cat love frenzy. “Do it again, oh please, do it again!” They must be the only creatures on Earth that like fart-ridden air.

A couple of nights ago, I was recovering from a mini-bout of sensitive stomach. I was in bed, sprawled out on my back. Anytime I lay in this position, Bionic Kitty takes it as an invitation to either kneed my bladder or sleep on my neck. Neither is exactly comfortable since she weighs just shy of 20 pounds. This particular afternoon, Bionic started with the bladder and after growing tired from her strenuious attemps to make me pee, decided to go take a nap. As she walked over my stomach, I farted. She moved again, and oops, I let another loose. It slowly dawned on her that she was instrumental in making noxious gas come from my body. Bionic Kitty had a field day dancing a perfect Samba on my stomach, while Number Two got high from sniffing around my hiney.

Lately, they have become even more fascinated with standard bathroom functions. It’s disturbing. If I head to the bathroom, Number Two races in and jumps onto the toilet ring. She peers into the throne to make sure the water is pristine and not swirling. She won’t get off the toilet unless I physically remove her. I’ve tried several times to simply shoo her away, tell her to get down, and I’ve even tried to start sitting on her to make her get off. But my glaringly white butt up close and personal is apparently not enough to make her leave her post. After all, she is a cat that likes smelly air.

Bionic Kitty has her own fixation. Right now, she loves to get into my pants. Literally. Whenever I utilize the facilities, even for the shortest intervals, she immediately tries to jump into whatever is resting down by my ankles. Bionic is no little cat, so this procedure often doesn’t work well. Her jumping abilities are hindered by her belly, her ability to fit totally down a pant leg is non-existent (unless it is a stretchy pair of work out pants), and she can’t grasp the concept of getting stuck, even after multiple uncomfortable encounters. Every time I pee, I have to deal with a cat flailing half in/half out of my pants. And with her partner in crime simultaneously trying to smash her head under my butt to look at the toilet water.

And if I close the door when I use the bathroom, they throw themselves at it. Hard. Until they blast it open with Bionic Kitty’s body weight. So, I just have to surrender to the cats invading my bodily function private time.

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Bionic Kitty Makes Her Photographic Debut

July 15, 2006

Bionic Kitty

Originally uploaded by kjohnsonesq.

Originally uploaded by kjohnsonesq.

There was nothing but love that first day…

Bionic Lazy A$$

Originally uploaded by kjohnsonesq.

Watching the computer monitor is fun. One of these days I’ll catch that stupid moving thing.

Originally uploaded by kjohnsonesq.

Number Two and her Big Ball

Originally uploaded by kjohnsonesq.

The Sidekick

June 27, 2006

I think that Batman was the ultimate, best, coolio-est superhero of all superheros. And frankly, it wasn’t just because he had the Batmobile. It had a lot to do with how hunky Robin was. Thus, in the great tradition of great superheros having cute sidekicks, I decided that Bionic Kitty needed an adorable buddy. Needless to say, she was not too keen on this idea.

A little over a week ago, I brought home Number Two. I was no more than two inches in the door with the cat carrier than Bionic Kitty knew something was up. She came barreling to the door, took one look at the poor, innocent kitten and started to throw a fit. In that moment, I learned what a hissy fit really is. There was spitting, hissing, and extraordinary hair-standing-on-end behavior. I eventually got past Bionic Kitty, but not before she tried to take off my arm with her teeth. I dashed for the stairs, trying to protect myself and the kitten by locking Number Two in the office. Miraciously, we made it, but Bionic Kitty is wiley. She quickly realized that she could scare Number Two sh!tless if she threw herself at the door repeatedly and hissed.

This continued for two days. It was cat fight hell, with Bionic Kitty trying to establish dominance and Number Two running for dear life. Then, suddenly, they declared a truce. I’m still not sure what happened, but I think peace returned when Bionic Kitty realized that despite her attemps to crush Number Two with her massive weight, she would not win. Number Two, while tiny in comparison, has a secret weapon: claws. Bionic Kitty lost hers several months ago, and Number Two once again brought this to her attention. Number Two also has a few extra claws since she is “mitten pawed.” Bionic is still the alpha in the relationship, but Number Two keeps her on her toes. It’s the best of superhero relationships; Bionic Kitty is still the (questionable) brains, but Number Two is the cute one.