Apparently Santa is a smoker. . .

Merry Christmas.

Why Owning a Cat is a Really Scary Thing*

Owning a cat can sometimes be a terrifying experience. You never know when they're going to suddenly flip, turning from aloof creatures that keep to themselves, to violently affectionate territorial little monsters, seemingly willing to annihilate any other animal vying for your affection.

My cat Hobbie has lately taken it upon himself to scare the living daylights out of me at least once a month. Ignoring the fact that he is disabled, is fixed and therefore should have little no testosterone production going on in his little emasculated kitty body, he has for quite a while now insisted on fighting bigger males on a semi-regular basis. However, that is no longer enough. Oh no. Now he has to get all schizo on me too.

Hobbie doesn't like other people. He hates men. For instance, although our neighbors have fed Hobbie for years, he still conducts himself exactly like a feral cat if they attempt to get near him. He only likes me. He also tolerates my family, but that's only because we all live together. Babies and children disgust him. So do visitors. Whenever he has to be near any of the aforementioned sort of people he'll fix me with this irate stare like, I do this for you, you unworthy creature. Just remember that.

But recently, that all changed.

It started with one bizarre night when Hobbie started dancing around the room, staring crookedly up at the ceiling with this unparalleled look of contentment on his face. It was like his kitty monologue was going: Ooh, look! I see stars! Lots of pretty stars! And I'm a cat! And I'm in a house! Wheeeee! I have three legs! (Or something equally discombobulated and disturbing).

He then proceeded to insinuate himself into my presence in every possible way, lavishing me with physical affectation.

Now, I was up insanely late reading about serial killers, and thinking about how bizarre it would be to work a serial killing animal - think Beast of Gevaudan - into fiction. Do you think maybe I was a little creeped out? It was like having Dr. Jekyll insisting on sitting on your lap while showering you with compliments. I just had to wonder if at any moment he was going to turn into a rabid, claw-wielding Mr. Hyde, diving for my jugular vein with gusto.

Because he also kept grinning at me in this insanely frightening way. It was like being locked in a room with the Cheshire Cat. I kept thinking, what are you going to do with those teeth, Hobbie?

I could only assume he was in an unmatched drug haze. Yes, my cat is a total addict. He keeps hanging with the cats next door, and their parents let them do catnip. I'm tired of trying to make him stop. Don't judge me. (And it makes him act mellow and happy and sometimes he'll let me pet him and tell him how wonderful he is while he's on it).

But anywho, as you can tell, catnip doesn't usually make him act like a cheerful, affection-craving maniac.

I fed him in an attempt to satiate whatever primal urge was making him act so bizarre, and then went to bed because Hobbie never gets on my bed. He can't stand to sleep with me. I wiggle too much. It was the one place I could be safe from him.

I awoke the next morning from one of my epic claustrophobia dreams feeling like I was:

a) having a life-threatening asthma attack

b) being suffocated by a Muppet

No, of course it couldn't be one of those things. That would be too normal. Of course it would be my cat, sitting on my chest and looking cunningly into my face. It was kind of the emotional equivalent of waking up to find someone standing next to your bed with an axe: it's disturbing. And it makes you want to get out of bed and find your mommy really fast.

The next chapter in my saga was Thanksgiving. We had LOTS of family for Thanksgiving. (Which was wonderful). We did a similar thing five years ago. During that holiday, we had family members staying at our house for a week. They actually questioned Hobbie's existence. They just didn't see him. Which is normal. He hates guests. Oh, his food disappeared like clockwork, but otherwise there was no real proof of a feline presence in our house. Because Hobbie hates people.

So what does Hobbie do this Thanksgiving? He saunters into the kitchen, in the thick of the dinner-making action, and begins rubbing himself all over the legs of my aunt who just really dislikes cats.

He then proceeded to make friends with my male cousin. Now, this is slightly more understandable. My cats always loved my grandfather, and my uncle, and this makes perfect sense because they were bona fide cat worshipers, and cats know these things. Naturally my cousin has this gene. So there you go.

But Hobbie seemed to have, for the day, lost his ability to discern who likes cats and who doesn't. He also seemed to never tire of attention from others. Usually he has a short attention span for adoration. He just finds it exasperating after five minutes or so. But for some sick reason, he was suddenly acting like a house cat. I'll admit, I was getting a little jealous.

I would say that the turkey had drawn out his inner Ms. Congeniality, but Hobbie doesn't love turkey, and his personality was completely altered. Rather than allowing willing humans to come into his presence and dote on him, he had actually been making friendly advances, shamelessly currying the favor of every heretofore despised human in the house.

And also, he was acting so giddy I was terrified he might have some degenerative brain disease and might spontaneously start running through our home and mauling house-guests.

I swept him away at the first opportunity and locked him in my parent's room with some food. He seemed to have the munchies anyway. I also thought it best to put him away before he embarrassed himself too much. (A gesture I was sure he would appreciate when he came to his senses).

Since then, Hobbie seems to have recovered some of his cold demeanor and natural feline dignity. However, at this very moment he is hovering over me as I write, pupils dilated, tail twitching. If I make eye contact with him, he places a paw on my arm or even tries to crawl into my lap, purring, claws perpetually extended. Normal? I think not.

I'm going to go feed him and retreat under my covers, but not before I say this: whoever has been giving my cat crack, please stop. You don't know what it's like to live with someone on a perpetual trip. It's getting scarier every day.




*Note: Okay, But I'm not really scared of my house pets (On a regular basis. For that long. Or that much). But most importantly, I am so not a cat lady. Just in case you may have been wondering about that.

Making Up for the General Lack of Sarcasm and Hyperbole On This Blog

So, it's that time of year again. Peace on earth, goodwill towards men, blah blah blah blah blah.

Don't get me wrong, I love Christmas and the winter holidays. But inside of all of us there is an irate Grinch just dying to come out and ruin it for everybody.
Therefore, I am taking it upon myself to make a series of whiny, griping, unnecessary posts, mostly to bring my sarcasm level up to a healthy number.
And I will start with the Woman at Aldi.

I've never understood why people choose to believe that Christmas is a time of year when people do or should treat each other with more goodwill and respect. If anything, Christmas seems to turn me into more of a greedy, avarice-filled consumer, ready to fight in grocery stores and crush any human who gets in between me and my desired purchase.

Running a few errands for my mom with my girlfriend was no exception. Shopping is serious stuff. The object is to get in and out of the store as quickly as possible, while spending the least amount of money and getting the most amount of food. Speed is a priority.

I had carefully stacked our shopping destinations, first going to the supermarket, where we needed the of groceries, and finally ending up at Aldi.
The aisles at Aldi are very low. Across the top of one I eyed a predatory, hawk-like shopper who seemed to be breezing through her shopping, unhappy children in tow, with the intensity of a headhunter close on the heels of a prize suspect. She regarded my friendly we're-both-shopping-and-we-just-made-eye-contact smile with disgust and dark suspicion.
Noting her unpleasant demeanor and pasting a winning smile on my face so that I could at least feel like a nicer person (I think not having a child to jerk around by the arm probably put me in the lead for the Nice Award anyway), I recommenced my shopping.

But the Headhunter Demon Shopper wasn't through with me yet.

I finished shopping about five minutes before her, but of course having more than one check-out line open would have been just extravagant, so I had to hang out sideways in line, since it was too long for my cart to sit in straight. But I was clearly in line, and had been so for five freaking minutes when who should finish her grocery hunting but Demon Shopper.
I saw her regarding the long, single line through narrowed eyes. Just then, the first shopper was checked out and the line moved up dramatically.
The next moment went down in slow motion. The racket of Johnny Mathis music died away, and there was only silence, the Demon Shopper, and I.
She looked at the line. She looked at me. She stood at the bottom of one aisle, which fed directly into the end of the line. My cart was still hanging out in an awkward diagonal position.
Suddenly, she flew into action. In order to straighten my cart out, I had to withdraw and do some fancy steering work. As I commenced this, the woman ran down the aisle, denim skirt flapping around her legs and rucking up over her tennis shoes, enough for male customers to possibly even see her ankles in her rabid rush towards the check-out line.
I gasped, throwing myself against the cart in that epic moment, shoving my girlfriend out of the way and running over her foot in my haste to reposition my buggy in a more obviously territorial fashion. (Actually, I may not have run over her foot...maybe I almost ran over her foot. Anyways, I would have, if it had been in my way).
And then she came, twitching with victory, and shoved my cart out of the way, nosing her much fuller cart in front of mine.
My friend bit her lip in agony. The woman who had proceeded me in line, but was now in front of the check-out line equivalent to Alexander the Great, looked at me and my usurper with surprise and vague discomfort, blinking several times. The wench that took my spot looked out towards the exit and refused to make eye contact.
I stood, seething for a moment. The appropriate thing to do would have been to say,
"Excuse me, you took my spot."
However, so great was my rage, augmented by the irritating voice of Mathis bellowing something historically undocumented about St. Nicholas, that I knew if I opened my mouth only one word could possibly come out. And this word is insulting and is sometimes used to refer to female dogs. And it would inevitably be loud and infinitely audible to the other shoppers.

So the moral is:

1) There are nastier people than me in the store.

2) What I should have done from the beginning was ask the docile older lady originally in front of me to move her fanny up a little, and then made everyone in line very uncomfortable by wedging myself behind them in the clearly limited space, ultimately forcing everyone to slowly cram together into more intense physical closeness to make room for ME.

And,

3) Dressing like a less-stylish Michelle Duggar does not make you a better person. If you're a petty self-absorbed woman with a tendency to emotionally abuse children, you will still be a petty self-absorbed woman with a tendency to emotionally abuse children after you put on the turtle-neck and denim skirt. In fact, even forcing your children to follow you in your sartorial downfall and willfully neglecting your hair for an extended period of time will not make you a nicer person. But it does make it easier for irrationally bitter bloggers to make fun of you.

Anywho, I stood there frothing at the mouth and trying to remember all the things my beautiful parents taught me about acting like Jesus until suddenly another line opened.

Final result? I got to stand in line behind a chatty, potentially creepy old man buying beer and hear about the evil of folks on food stamps. Merry Christmas.

Pearl Harbor Day

It's Pearl Harbor Day again, people. The surprise attack that hauled the U.S.A. into World War II, which would ultimately cost us thousands of American lives.

In honor of Pearl Harbor day, I wanted to share a less grim story my great-grandmother told me recently.
It was December of 1941. My grandmother was a young teenager, and after taking driver's ed, had to take a driving test, as all unfortunate teens must at some point in their already angst-ridden lives. She doesn't remember the exact date of the test, but lets just say it was some time prior to December 7th.
And it was the North. And, because doing your driving test without natural impediment just isn't nerve-wracking enough, of course it was snowy too.
She said there was a rough spot with some ice, and she just wasn't sure she could make it through the test without wrecking something/someone/herself.
However, my grandmother triumphed in the end, completely dominating the weather and her cunning driving test, and therefore winning her license and the right to share the highway with all capable American adults! Hooray!
Until this little thing called Pearl Harbor happened. A few days later. After that, it was gas rations and driving as little as possible, so although she got her license my grandmother didn't sit behind a steering wheel until the end of the war.
Now how's that for irony?

In Which I Explain My Absurd List:

I've been feeling rather aimless these past few days. Simon and Garfunkel died, I haven't been doing much school or keeping up with my current projects because of caring for my mice, and the weather has been a bit off and we've only gone to the track once this week. I've misplaced many things, including my brain; or so one would think given my erratic behavior of late.

My lovely mommy made the wonderful suggestion that I make a list of what I want to accomplish for this year, since I like having lists and everything worked out and organized. It's a wonderful idea, one I still intend to use, but at the time I was in a ridiculous state of self-pity and apathy. So I sat down, cloaking myself in a histrionic defeatism, and made the header while trying to think of things I could come up with. The following nonsense is my list.

When I was done I was giggling spasmodically and have been in a much better mood ever since. I advise such an undertaking to anybody in a chronic foul mood; it works wonders.

Touching Pen to Paper, I Make Words...

...And not much else.

GOALS FOR THIS YEAR:

1) Work on my English accent.
2) Learn to speak Esperanto.
3) Find the Loch Ness Monster
4) Change name to "Houdini Louise II"
5) Memorize Pliny's Address to the Venetian Gynecology Board.
6) Become a spokesperson for Serta Mattresses.
7) Tour 20 obscure asylums.
8) FIND ELVIS
9) Become an ordained minister and get a job as London Zoo's resident clergyman.
10) Tie myself to a tree in a logging forest.
11) Tame a Great White Shark.
12) Become a black person.
13) Petition to have Ansel Adams canonized by the Catholic Church.

This Is Inman.

This is Inman. I meant to write about Inman when I had him, but I didn't. Inman used to live at the fair grounds, but apparently he hitched a ride in my grandparent's truck. When he tried to make a smooth exit at our house, my dad's dog Sadie decided to kill him. So Inman decided I looked like a friendly place to climb up, and to hang onto my back and sit on my shoulder for protection.
Our neighbors have lots of cats, Sadie is rabidly anti-rodent, and there is at least one known snake in the general area. Naturally I couldn't just let Inman out into this fierce unknown world. The way I saw it, he was on an odyssey, and it was my job to help him home. We were planning on going to a pottery exhibit at the fairgrounds the next weekend, and I planned to smuggle Inman, my little wood mouse, back to his home then.
Inman was not at all aggressive. He escaped immediately when I brought him in the house, but I caught him again. He was so tiny and good-natured. Terrified of me, but I put him in our huge aquarium, where he adopted the coconut shell hideout as his abode of choice. I gave him acorns and things and he would retreat there and eat them.
My dog Cami seemed to think I was playing with fire, and thought she should save me from myself by killing Inman. Naturally I had to keep a close eye on him. Then one night, although the lid was in place, Inman was nowhere to be found.
Then I saw a tiny little tail hanging out of the leaves of my potted anita.
I could have scooped Inman up right then, but I was afraid if I might miss, and he might jump down into the joyful jaws of Cami. So instead I grabbed her and locked her out of the room.
The next half hour was very interesting. I tried everything, but Inman successfully evaded capture. I tore my room apart, and finally Inman adopted the trunk my (very heavy) chinchilla cage sits on as his Alamo. He sat under there and wouldn't budge.
I rested a second, eying the trunk darkly and vacillating between threats and encouragement. (He was probably laughing at me, sitting there panting and talking to myself).
Then I pulled myself together and moved the trunk. And moved it and moved it, and swept all the timothy hay and fuller's earth sandbath out from under it - but Inman was nowhere to be found. And I have never seen him since.
I left food out lavishly, set several different kind of traps, involving food bait and buckets, that sort of thing. What you do for a lost pet mouse or hamster. But I never found a trace of him - no droppings, no sounds, nothing.
I read that while wood mice, like any others, can adapt to human habitation, they really do like the outdoors. They aren't often found in homes. So I assumed Inman had headed for the hills, and only hoped he had gotten there.
This was before Thanksgiving. Now, over the holidays there was food left out constantly, we were gone overnight and longer with dishes in the sink, etc. So you'd think if there was any little budding mousy community we would have known it. I had all sorts of food left out in my room, as usual, and it would certainly have been a nice place for a mouse to make itself at home; I was almost never up there. We were very busy.
Yet recently, within the past month, we have become aware that we have a mouse problem. My cat Hobbie has killed three of them. One was definitely a house mouse, not at all like Inman. But Hobbie only has three legs. He's missing his hind leg so he's not the best springer.
So you see, it would be easy to blame the particular quandary on me. Which is exactly what some people seem bent on doing...
Anywho, the other day we were cleaning out a crammed closet. That is, everybody else was, and I was holding Max who was sleeping. Just minding my own business, surfing the net and checking my email. Suddenly I heard garbled screaming and yells coming from upstairs, so sudden and unaccountable that I nearly fell out of my chair.
The words I caught were, "Oh no - Kaley - mice - somebody get Kaley - Kaley! - any more??..."
Needless to say I leapt upstairs, shedding Max somewhere along the way, out to rescue the animal life that had apparently announced its presence in a very unexpected way.
Apparently they were vacuuming, and vacuumed up a nice little mouse nest. And then they saw a baby.
I got the baby, and we all discussed the matter in the typical family way, everyone talking loudly over each other and half of us only listening to ourselves, and arguing about the fate of the little baby.
I cupped it in my hand and started systematically searching through all the shoes and things. I had cleaned them almost all up when I found my mousy friend's sibling, who was a little less alert.
I had just announced my new find when my mother shrieked and took off down the hall with the energy and agility of a whirling dervish.
"The mother, the mother!" She screamed wildly. It was quite comic. (Sorry, mom).
(Later, while was laughing at her, she explained that she is afraid of mice. I had no idea, I've always thought she wasn't afraid of anything).
Then I saw a very brave thing. The little mother mouse, her eyes looking ready to pop out of her head, was steadily making her terrified way towards me over the mound of blankets and other odds and ends we had tossed out. She was so scared, but she was coming, right to my brother and I, because we had her babies and she was trying to get to them, her children. I just stared at her, trying to think. I had entertained some plan of trying to capture them all and release them together.
But I didn't think quick enough. Everyone was talking loudly and moving around, and she scampered under my computer desk. I cleared everyone out and moved it, and she had pulled and Inman, and was gone. We haven't seen her since. But it makes me sad, to remember her looking and coming right towards us, so courageously. It's amazing how animals will sacrifice themselves for their young. Some people aren't even that brave.
So my sister and I secreted the two away. I quickly looked some things up on the computer, having no idea what to do with them. I thought they would die, but I mixed up some sugar water and fed them from a spoon. Later I added a little coconut oil while trying to figure out what would be the best formula. After dispelling certain family members' unfortunate misconceptions about the black plague and things like that, (which was spread by fleas, on rats, not mice - don't hate on the rodents), we tentatively decided that the babies would live with me, since we couldn't do anything else.
I found an article about raising wild mice. The author said she had raised baby mice on coconut milk, but almond will do just as good. So I soaked some almonds and made my own. (I'll tell more about that later).
I was thinking of naming them Poppy and Miles, but then the perfect name came to me: Simon and Garfunkel. They are two little bookends, after all. (If there had been three I could have named them Frank, Sammy, and Dean and had the Rat Pack, but they aren't rats, so that would have been cute but incorrect).
However, I was in fear of our lives yet: dad wasn't home. Mom talked to him on the phone and explained the presence of two new family members, so it wasn't any surprise when he got home. He probably wasn't surprised at all, he knows me so well, although he did ask my mother, initially, if we had flushed them down the toilet, which I find absolutely appalling. I reassure myself that he couldn't have been serious.

So this is the little tartan box they live in. I got a necklace in it several years ago. They're so tiny, so it's quite snug. I punched some air holes in it with a pin.
Here they are in comparison to my finger. They don't look so fuzzy any more, we all together make a soggy mess while they're feeding and they look rather grungy. Their mother would be horrified, I'm sure. But this was from the day I found them. They're unfortunately a little thinner now, too. Especially Garfunkel. He hates the syringe, he wants to suck on a nipple, and of course they don't make mouse-sized nipples. But I think someone should.Here they are, looking so nice and healthy. I estimate them to have been about a week old when I found them. Here their eyes were closed, as were their ears.
So, these are my little darlings. It's a lot of work, they have to be fed every two hours. I bet they'd eat once an hour, but it takes me altogether about a half hour to do their feeding, and all the sterilizing and warming up of formula. I really can't see feeding any oftener.
So, here's a close-up. Hopefully they'll live to adulthood and we can see what a resemblance they bear to their possible ancestor, my old friend Inman.

Cowboy Small

There was one a little boy who put on a bandanna and became a cowboy. . . . . . He had found a horse, and was deciding to run away the minute he got the chance. . .

. . .When he was amused to discover he was being followed by a crazed fan with a camera! He promptly aimed with his trusty gun, aka dad's jewellers screw-driver. . .

. . .But as that didn't seem to be deterring the obsessed photographer, he mounted his trusty steed. . .

. . .And, finding he was being relentlessly pursued, fired in earnest this time.

The little cowboy was just thinking what an excellent escape he had had, and looking around for more crazies with Nikons. . .

When the enemy appeared again! The cowboy was shocked, of course.

Things became a bit sketchy here. The little cowboy suddenly became convinced, much to the mortification of his chronicler, that she was not a stalker with a camera, but rather a "buffalo." Despite urgings to the contrary, the little cowboy chose to remain convinced that this person was nothing but a harmless buffalo, and after inspecting her with appalling mirth, he mounted his horse again, going to look for fellow cowboys once more.

And suddenly--it happened! He was shot at from the bushes by an unseen foe. He fell, much to the horror of the buffalo, who expressed her deep consternation and grief by not stirring a muscle and instead photographing the body.

However, much to our great happiness, the cowboy rose again--not exactly sure how, but I'm sure he would explain all if he had a better grasp of the English language. Here he is, older and wiser, but victorious.

And here he is one last time, very pleased with himself, preparing to mount his steed and ride into the sunset.

Buffalo, er, Editor's Note: All right, yes, so I'm a total sap when it comes to my little brother. But he's so adorable, I naturally assume the rest of the world wants to be bombarded by endless photographs of him. And don't tell me you didn't enjoy every minute of the bandanna-clad cuteness!

This Is One Clean Knife

Ah yes. In the quest for sanitation, I lost it all. Beware, this could happen to you too.

If, per se, your knife is used to make cream cheese bagels during a Northern vacation, and if, let's say, you let it sit for two months before deciding to sanitize it properly.

But then it will seem incredibly disgusting to you, and you will have to go to unusually extreme measures to get it suitably clean.

This happened to me, you see, unfortunate girl that I am.

And I had the perfect idea--my entire demeanor changed at the thought of it! Yes, the ultimate in sanitation! I would boil my beloved knife!

It seemed a nice way to deep-clean it. Not peroxide, not alcohol, not iodine--believe me, I've done all that before. No, boiling was the thing.

But wait, it gets worse. . .

And worse. . .

As you can see, the plastic has completely separated from the rest of the knife. I came in and it was fluttering like some medieval banner in the water. Only stiffer.

I immediately tried to smash it back down, but it just wasn't melted enough. It seemed to be molded in its present shape, and didn't want to budge. I decided to let well enough alone, and removed it from the water.

As you can see, the toothpick that once slid so nicely into the top of my knife is now completely exposed, which doesn't offer proper cleanliness at all. Especially considering that I never use it as a toothpick--I use it to spread open wounds or, more often, dig things out of them. (It's very handy for larger objects--larger than a splinter or something, I mean). Thankfully I carry wet wipes and Germ-X. I guess that in the future I'll just have to sanitize every time before I use it to pry something out of someone.

Also, to my intense disgust, I discovered that the cream cheese shmutz I was sure I had boiled into oblivion were still there, largely untouched in the most impossible recesses of my knife. I think God was laughing at me.

So basically nothing has changed--I still need to clean my knife. Only now it's shape is amazingly different. I'm trying to think of it as a little Swiss Army knife cosmetic surgery.

Next time, I won't boil it so long.

For Us 5-Percenters

95% Percent of teens would have a breakdown if The Jonas Brothers were standing on the edge of a tower ready to jump. Copy and paste if your a part of the 5% who would bring a lawn chair and popcorn!!