Category Archives: rotten cats
Don’t worry, this isn’t going to be some weird amateur expose on prostitution or how sex sells. Mostly because even if I wanted to, I don’t have the money to buy it nor the body to sell it, so it wouldn’t be all that interesting or factual. Also because the last time I had a conversation about that subject, it devolved into an extremely stupid argument about whether Hooters girls are being exploited and sexualized or simply using the good looks they were born with to increase their earning potential while having to work as a waitress. I’ve waited tables, and I can say with complete authority if I’d had the body for it, I promise I would have happily donned the fluorescent short shorts and a push up bra faster than you could say, “Excuse me, miss?” with nary a qualm. For all of you shouting, “Oh, but it’s so degrading for those poor girls,” you know what else is degrading? Wearing a vest and bow tie while trying to fish a lobster out of a tank in front of a cheering crowd for a four dollar tip. Trust.
Anyhow, the other day, I got some random email from a site I must have registered for during my desperate days of unemployment. It was advertising some degree and certification programs when one of them caught my eye and I thought, “Wait – the fuck? There’s a certification program for organizing your house? What is happening here?” And thus came up with a list of jobs that are apparently born from the realization that we are so lazy and stupid that we are willing to pay someone to do almost anything so we don’t have to deal with it. Here we go.
Sure, it sounds good in theory. Pay someone to help realize your untapped potential, uncover your hidden talents, discover what you were really meant to do in life. Are you really SUCCEEDING as an accountant? Should you follow your dream to become a world-famous sculptor instead? Your life coach will help you find your inner happiness, your true calling in life. Here’s the thing. There’s a good chance that this life coach that you’re paying to help you realize your true calling in life? Doesn’t have any fucking idea what theirs is. Instead, they have some drive and ambition, a decent head for marketing, and a thousand bucks to pay for the course. Do you know what that means? That means I could be a life coach, folks. I am fucking fabulous at taking tests – I promise you I could ace this class. Sure, my husband decided to have popsicles for dinner and my cats are sitting on the kitchen table, but hey, your life? I can totally fix that. I got this certificate to prove it.
Nope. Just fucking no. Of course you want your pet happy. I want my pets happy. You know how I make that happen? I feed them, clean up their poop, and give them a warm place to live. I give them love and attention, I let them sleep on my head, scratch my furniture, and buy them toys and treats that are good for their well-being. And if they’re not happy after that? Fuck em. I’ll still love them, I’ll still take care of them, but yeah, I’m going to resent them a little bit. In much of my research as to why my small cat finds it necessary to occasionally relieve himself in places other than the litterbox, I found several articles from these professionals explaining that my pet is stressed, and is “voicing his displeasure,” by acting out. You know what, doctor? I’m stressed too. You know what adds to my stress? Waking up in the middle of the night and having to change my sheets. You don’t see me taking a shit in the cat bed, do you? No. That cat is clean, well fed, and safe. If he feels “threatened,” by the different noises in the new apartment, too fucking bad. Adjust. If I don’t get Prozac, he certainly doesn’t. You know why? He’s a CAT. He’ll be fine. Promise.
At work, I’m pretty organized. My job often requires keeping a lot of plates spinning at the same time, and for the most part, I’m relatively good at keeping them all in the air. At home, however, I kind of fall off the wagon. In the past couple of years, the list of things I have lost (and found again) is simply ridiculous for a grown adult to misplace. They include: my crockpot, winter boots, an entire set of tools, my good knife, a garbage can, winter coat, my Kindle, my husband’s wallet, two phones, a set of cutlery, the remote control, my neighbor’s favorite sweatshirt, a significant amount of Halloween decorations, and the glass shelves to my china cabinet. Things I have never lost sight of include a random collection of forty dice, a solid brass monkey that holds a hackey sack, a singing stuffed chicken, four candles that I’ve had since 2005 and never lit despite having zero personal significance, and a box of collected rocks that neither of us can recall ever gathering. One might argue that I could benefit from a professional organizer. If you can believe it, there is a entire association of professional organizers, and you have to have been practicing in the industry for 1,500 hours before you can even become ELIGIBLE to take the test required to become certified. So maybe they could help me. Or, instead of giving them money, maybe I could use a combination of common sense – stop being so lazy and throw out the goddamn box of rocks, dummy – and my mother’s advice, “Get a goddamn calendar and put shit back where it goes,” and voila! I’ve saved a couple hundred bucks and I can find my silverware.
Then again, all of these people are managing to make money completing basic, everyday tasks, while I go to work every day, so who the hell am I to judge?
I’m not even sure how I came across this article; one minute I was reading about Tori Spelling’s money problems (that post almost writes itself, but I have to take a step back before writing it so as not to be a hate-filled obscenity spewing rant about how she should be ASHAMED of herself even saying such a thing as how she lost a million dollars in her efforts to scale down,) (Seriously?! Many other notes aside, you had to make some money of your own playing that unbearable Donna character, lording your virginity over poor David Silver for so long,) and the next thing I knew I saw this article by one Abigail Geer entitled, “10 Signs Your Kitty Actually Loves You.” Well, I thought to myself, I could use that! Perhaps there’s some signs here I was unaware of that will help me understand why I keep feeding and cleaning out boxes of shit for two animals who – at least on the surface – would eat me if I stayed still long enough.
Ms. Geer’s article gives, as advertised, ten cat behaviors that supposedly prove their love. For her reasoning, please feel free to read the article linked above. Here’s what I thought.
1. Head butting. Right. Because very few things say “I love you,” more than face-to-face combat, especially if one opponent is wide awake while the other is in a blissful slumber.
2. Powerful purrs. My stupid small cat sounds like a motorboat when he purrs. It’s actually cute – he only weighs like six pounds and it’s unbelievable what a loud sound he makes when he’s purring. Unfortunately, he purrs the loudest and most frequently while he is licking the (surely lead-based painted) walls. Try to pick him up or pet him and he recoils as though you’re trying to throw him in a vat of boiling acid. The other one? See sign number three below.
3. Love bites. Apparently there is a difference between a “love bite,” and a “cat bite.” Hmm. Tell me, Ms. Geer, when the cat is chomping about your ankles while you’re making dinner, is that a love bite? When the cat curls up all sweet right next to you while you rest and then sinks her teeth into the tender flesh on the underside of your arm when you pet her, is that a love bite? How about when she tries to take a chunk out of your knuckles while you attempt to eat a popsicle? Which type of bite is that? Cause I’m pretty sure it’s the “my cat is simply a complete asshole,” bite. Does yours have one for that designation?
4. Tail twitching. You know what my cat is getting ready to do when his tail twitches? Pee in my shoe.
5. Tummy up. Ms. Geer says it shows trust. I say it shows a grim determination to trip me to my death while trying to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night, as that’s the only time either of these jerks ever flops down in front of me.
6. Licking your hair or ears. Hmm. Have you ever woken up to a cat trying to pull your hair out of your head via her teeth in the middle of the night? Do you know what that sounds like when it wakes you out of a sound sleep? It sounds like the murderer you’ve known has been coming TRYING TO SAW THROUGH YOUR HEAD, that’s what. To your other point about the ears, I refer you to my husband who suffered an (undiagnosed) punctured ear drum when the cat resting on his melon got scared and clawed his way to the ceiling via his head.
7. Kneading. Nope. This does not make me feel good. This reminds me I really, really need to go to the gym and stop eating so much damn macaroni and cheese.
8. Slow blinking. You call it “kiss with their eyes,” all you want, you weirdo. I call it the creepiest staring contest ever because my cats? Don’t fucking blink.
9. Nap time. Apparently cats crave a safe place when they sleep, so if they pick you to be their naptime spot, you should feel honored. Sure. Recently, Potato fell asleep with his head and front paws hanging off of the top of the refrigerator. Ramon once got trapped INSIDE the refrigerator (not a good day,) and when I opened it she blinked repeatedly, jumped out, and took a swing at me; apparently I’d ruined her nap.
10. Gifting. This was geared towards a cat leaving a mouse they’ve killed at your doorstep, showing their prowess and bounty to you. If that’s true, when that baby possum got on the porch and I was chasing it down the stairs with a broom – CRYING, mind you – where the fuck were these cats then? Cowering under the blanket, that’s where.
I’m starting to think maybe I should have a dog. Or a pet rock.
I’ve been hearing quite a bit lately about this show, “My Cat from Hell.” Well-meaning friends and family trying to tell me about this man who is an expert on cats and will come into your home to diagnose whatever emotional problems your cat apparently picked up somewhere between the litter box and the water dish. Sure, they act like they’re just mentioning it in passing, but the intention is clear: Your cats are assholes and all of you obviously need professional help and possibly some strong narcotics. While I appreciate the thought, I’ve seen this guy, and there is no way on God’s green earth or Satan’s hell that I am letting someone named Jackson Galaxy in my home. I don’t care WHAT he promises.
However, part of me wants to challenge him. Because I firmly believe that while dogs are trainable, cats are not. A dog, no matter how stupid, will eventually learn that sit = treat. A dog will learn that “NO!” is often followed by something undesirable, whether it be a lack of treat or a swat on the rear. A dog will hear his leash jangle and immediately associate it with “Walk.” A dog will almost always accept her fate when it’s time to go in a cage for the night, or in the tub for a bath, or in the car for a vet trip. This is why dogs are man’s best friend. Even the ones that are dumb as fuck will eventually learn basic commands.
Cats will do none of these things. Cats think that they are smarter than you, and will spend every minute of their ten-pound existence trying to prove it to you. I’m pretty sure if my cats could talk, their stream of consciousness would go something like this.
- “Hurry, she looks comfortable. Start barfing or something.”
- “OH MY GOD THERE’S A SHADOW ON THE CEILING AND MY ENTIRE EXISTENCE DEPENDS ON CATCHING IT!!!”
- “What do you mean, what am I doing on the counter? I’m clearly licking the plates you left out. Are you blind? Do you need a doctor?”
- “Oooh, oooh, ooh!!! Clean laundry! Ima curl up on it and molt like a snake!”
- “It’s three in the morning? Shit, where did I hide that golf ball? I need to start pouncing it across the wood floors. It’s funny to watch the blonde one wake up in a panic.”
- “Stop bringing people in the house, I’ll stop biting them. Problem solved.”
- “Go ahead and keep buying discount food. I can throw up like literally anywhere. It’s a lot harder for you to get underneath the dresser than me.”
- “Excuse me. EXCUSE ME. I was sleeping on this pillow and there’s no room for your giant head. If you insist on trying, I’ll have to keep pawing you in the face. And since I won’t sit still long enough for anyone to clip my nails, it’s probably going to be more uncomfortable for you than me.”
- “You think you were worried when that stupid small cat took off? Watch me streak out onto the porch and nearly fall out the third story window. You don’t even know panic, lady.”
- “You need to go to the bathroom? We’ll come hang out!”
- “Are you seriously telling me to stop meowing? I’m a cat, dumbass. You’d be just as successful reasoning with your toothbrush.”
- “Hey, asshole. I’m stuck to the window screen. Would you prefer I yowl like someone’s pulling my teeth out or tear a giant hole in it?”
- “What? I can only throw up properly when I’m walking around the bed while you’re sleeping in it. Stop acting all crazy.”
- “I wasn’t trying to trip you. I just like to hang out under your feet.”
- “Good morning! I’m going to stand on your head now.”
- “Please. Stop threatening to ‘Set me free.’ You don’t have the balls and you know it. You’re really just embarrassing us all here.”
Your move, Cat Whisperer. I’m sure as hell out of them.
Not long ago, I was standing in my kitchen, cutting some plastic rings from an empty six-pack in half, when a friend asked me, “Um, what in the fuck are you doing?” Surprised at his surprise, I answered, “Well, I’m cutting these so the baby ducks don’t get strangled by them! Don’t you do that?” In response to his blank stare, I continued, “Seriously? Didn’t you ever see that horrible commercial where those poor ducks had these wrapped around their necks because they get in lakes and stuff from the garbage? They get stuck and DIE! It’s horrible! I always cut them.” After a longer, blanker, but markedly more concerned stare, I was all, “What? Why would you want baby ducks to die? It’s not hard. It only takes a minute and hey, I’ve saved a duck.”
After the above exchange – in which I learned everyone I know apparently doesn’t give a SHIT about baby ducks – I started thinking about other common courtesies I engage in that others apparently don’t. My conclusion? Either I’m too nice or everyone else is an asshole.
Holding a Door for the Person Behind Me.
As long as I can remember, this has pretty much been de riguer for any situation. If you open a door and someone is following, unless it’s a mugger, you hold the door. You don’t have to roll out a red carpet and bugle, but giving that person the option to not have a door slammed in their surprised face really is the polite thing to do.
Apologizing After Accidentally Injuring Someone.
I’m one of those idiots that will apologize to a door if I accidentally bump into it. If you body check me into a post trying to get on the train, the words “I’m sorry!” will jump out of my mouth faster than my brain can reconcile that I was not the one at fault. I do realize not everyone is like this. However, if the situation ever arises in which you accidentally (I hope) knock a can of Spaghettios onto someone’s head at the grocery store, I have to believe it should be the norm to apologize. (Yes, that happened to me. Yes, it really fucking hurt. And yes, I called the lady that did and then sauntered off a whole lot of bad, bad names. In my head.)
Be Responsible for Your Pets’ Behavior.
Yes, my cats are assholes. Yes, they’ve sent a few folks to the hospital. However, I warn people that they are assholes. “Oh, cute kitties! Hi Kitty!” by newcomers receives the response of, “Yeah, she’s cute. But she bites. Hard. And scratches. Until she draws blood. Please don’t touch her.” If your dog gallumphs up to me, delightfully sniffing at my crotch, I’m going to assume he’s friendly. A simple, “He’s not really a people person!” or the like would be a fabulous warning that the cuteness my brain thinks is a nice doggy actually wants to eat my head should I try to pet him.
Letting Someone Cross the Street in a Torrential Downpour While You Are Cozy in your Vehicle.
I am perhaps a bit biased on this one, as Mother Nature is having some sort of bitchfit that she’s taking out on Chicago. There is simply no dressing appropriately for this bipolar attack of weather. Yesterday, I wore my big heavy rainboots and rain jacket and by the time I got home I was sweating like a whore in church and cursing everything I could think of. Today, I refused to be tricked and 45 seconds after I got off the bus, my toes were frozen and I was slip-sliding my way on a sheet of ice across the intersection. An intersection at which I had the right of way, I might add. So the multiple cars – at a stop sign – who honked at me as I skidded across the street were just being mean. You’re in a car, you jackhole. You think I wouldn’t rather be in a car than ice skating across Chicago Avenue? I bet it’s warm in there. I bet you wore socks. I bet snow didn’t just get in your contact and blind you midstep. (Bad, bad moment. I’ve feared for my life only a few times. This was one of them.) Long story short – your moment right now is MUCH BETTER than mine. No need to add insult to near-certain injury.
Thoughts? Am I naive to expect such things? It seems basic to me, but sometimes I wonder if there’s people out there all, “Look at this idiot who keeps smiling at everyone! Hey, Corky! Not everyone’s your friend!”
I guess it doesn’t matter. I’m probably not changing this late in the game. And to those that do think that – start being nicer. STOP KILLING BABY DUCKS.
I love the Facebook. Love. It. It’s where I get a disproportionate amount of my news, catch up with old friends, find out what my peeps are having for lunch, and find the best videos of cats. I am, without question, guilty of checking in most places I go as though no one can get through their day without knowing I’m at the Fifty/50 Club, overstating my cats’ importance in the universe, and occasionally posting pictures of my dinner. (Which I will defend. I challenge you to not see a picture of my fabulous pot roast without wanting some for yourself.)
That being said, waking up this morning to 57 updates about how cold it was kind of made me want to punch things. I know it’s cold. I live here too. So do 97% of your friends. They all woke up to the same weather outlook on their phones – hardly any need to post a picture reminding everyone how everything on your body is going to freeze immediately upon stepping outdoors. Yes, it’s zero degrees. If it were July, or perhaps we lived in Texas, this would be news. Being that we live in Chicago and it’s January, I feel as though telling everyone it’s cold is akin to posting, “Hey, it’s morning! The sun came up again.”
Those aren’t the posts that make me crazy though. (Mostly because it’s entirely possible I’ve done it in the past. But no more!) These are the ones that make me want to turn off the internet forever.
:( So Sad Right Now.
- Said status is usually followed by multiple inquiries as to the poster’s mental health and wellness, which is then followed by the original poster responding with something super cryptic that gives zero information. What?? What’s wrong? First of all, you’ve piqued my interest, which I have to believe was your intent. Now I want to know how to proceed. Do you need consolation? A hug? Thoughts and prayers? A swift kick in the ass? Do I need to send flowers? And most of all – WHAT HAPPENED, DAMMIT???
Great news!!! Can’t Tell Anyone Yet but Yay!!!
- You dick. Everyone thinks you’re pregnant, FYI. And when you aren’t, and you follow up with something like, “We’re moving!” we are disappointed. If you can’t tell your good news, it isn’t good news yet.
And Then I’m Going Here, and Then Here, and Then Here, and Finishing Up Here.
- My life is boring enough, thanks. I don’t need to follow along with your mundane-ass errands, each of which you will check in from. You made it to Whole Foods? Awesome! And here I was sitting on pins and needles wondering if the traffic was going to put a dent in your timeframe.
If This Page Gets 10,000 Likes, This Child Will Get to Ride a Unicorn. TO THE MOON.
- There is plenty of good that can come from Facebook viral campaigns and I do not mean to detract from that; I have surely been known to post something on the long shot it will make a difference. But snopes.com exists for a reason, folks. That girl Penny has been missing for like four years. It’s not an Amber Alert anymore. “Post this if you want to erase cancer! ABC Company will donate $1 for every like!” No, they won’t. But they now have 200,000 people following their page. Is there a word for slimy marketing? Because that’s what this is. Stop feeding the bear. Please.
Have I ever been guilty of irritating, irrelevant posts? Absolutely. I’m not excluding myself from the above criterion. But I’m relatively sure we can all agree that if you don’t care that I am on my way to grocery shop, chances are I don’t give a fuck that you are either. Let’s make a conscious effort, shall we? Saw someone tightrope walking an electrical wire across the street at 8AM? Pictures, please. On your way to the gym? Not interested.
What status updates make you want to quit the internet?
There’s some people on the planet who shouldn’t be left alone for long periods of time. Apparently, I am one of them. I went from my parents’ house to college, (and sure, one semester I technically lived alone. But living alone in a dorm room is basically just like having your own room growing up, if you substitute “having your own room,” with, “not having to share ten square feet of space with another individual,” and add a lot of booze and bad decisions.) After college, I moved back in with the parents and then to my first apartment with Tony, and since then I have spent approximate three nights by myself. As someone who has more than once considered peeing the bed rather than getting up to face the night monsters that haunt my apartment, this is probably a good thing. (No. I haven’t done it. But I have considered it much longer than most rational people would.)
So the announcement that my husband would be sporadically working a late shift, leaving me to fend for myself IN THE DARK was not met enthusiastically. However, he’s got a good job and it far outweighs my desperate fear of, well, everything, so I’m told, and apparently I need to put on my big girl pants and be some sort of adult that isn’t terrified of shadows.
Today I gave myself a good talking to; I was going to come home like a normal person, clean up, make dinner, and relax for a few hours before going to bed at a reasonable hour. There is nothing to be afraid of. I’m behind approximately four locked doors and am five flights of stairs up. No one wants to come here. We have to bribe friends to come here because they hate the stairs so much. Plus – we don’t even have windows on the back porch. If criminals are looking up to this and thinking that there’s anything of value behind the plastic covered frames, they are sadly, sadly mistaken and probably stupid enough that even I could outsmart them.
That being said – here’s how tonight went so far.
- Arrive home to completely dark apartment. Vow to be sitting on the porch in the dark with a weapon if husband ever forgets to turn on kitchen light before he leaves again.
- Turn on every single light in apartment, including scary extra bedrooms that no one goes in as well as bathroom light. (Scary monsters can’t sneak up on you when it’s light inside. They’re like gremlins.)
- Turn on music with well-adjusted person’s intentions to cook dinner like a normal human.
- Begin arduous attempts at lighting stove, Laura Ingalls Wilder-style, because THAT’S WHEN THIS STOVE WAS MADE.
- Alternate between swearing at stove and surreptiously looking out the window for scary monsters that are surely levitating to the third floor for the sole purpose of terrifying me.
- Successfully get first stove ever invented started. Begin chopping vegetables.
- Whirl around with knife every 32 seconds to surprise the murderer I know is lurking on my porch.
- Attempt to interest the cats in conversation and/or a dance party to distract me from scary monsters.
- Pout a bit when realize cats would much prefer scary monsters come get me to this ridiculous attempt at normalcy.
- Have a small heart attack after closing the door to pee and realize I now have to reopen the door with no weapon.
- Successfully exit bathroom, making myself feel better by shouting, “Ah-HAH!” whilst opening door. (Scary monsters are also frightened by loud noises.)
- Decide to check the internets for a distraction.
- Spend approximately 15 minutes finding the least horrifying angle – must either face the back door and see intruder coming, giving me 15 extra seconds of terror before being murdered or sit with my back to it, which anyone who’s ever seen a gangster movie knows is a terrible idea. (So I’m told. I can’t watch them due to the nightmares.)
- Decide against calling my sister, who, upon coming home alone to a broken sliding glass door, stalked around her condo with a knife instead of keeling over dead from a heart attack. I don’t need another “Stop being such a pansy,” lecture. Well, I probably do, but until they start working I don’t want one.
I’ve been told I’ll get used to it. Being that it’s 10PM and this place is brighter than the Empire State Building, in addition to the fact that the idea of turning off one of the lights fills me with dread, I’m assuming that’s not going to be anytime soon.
So. Anyone want to come over?? I made dinner….. I’m just too afraid to go back in the kitchen to get it.
In doing some research as to how to make my cats suck less and smell better, I came across this encouraging article, written by the managing editor of The Daily Cat, one Jennifer Viegas. In it, she describes how pets, and cats in particular, can have a positive impact on a person’s health and well-being. After snorting with laughter throughout most of it, trying to compare the sweet housepets she describes with the two rotten animals I live with and finding nothing in common, I decided to counterpoint her hypotheses with my own experience.
**Disclaimer – I love these stupid cats more than I like most people I know. They are treated extremely well and I would never actually do anything to harm them, no matter what I say.***
Cats as Pets Have Direct Health Benefits, such as Lower Blood Pressure.
Apparently Ms. Viega’s cats are well trained and have never used her clean laundry as a litterbox. My small cat, Potato, despite all working parts and no health issues other than being a complete and utter asshole, has a real affection for us. So much is his affection that he feels it necessary to mark his territory on our clothes, shoes, purses, coats, and occasionally bed. If you don’t have high blood pressure yet, I challenge you to get up for work in the morning, step out of a clean shower, and put on a shirt, happily going about your morning routine until you realize that the smell you’re noticing is actually you, and you now need another shower immediately. And now? You’re late. Imagine spending hours setting up a Christmas tree, lovingly putting up each ornament, only to wake up to a cat-sized hole in the middle of it, the tree on the ground, and your ornament from Disney World busted into gazillions of very sharp pieces. Or imagine exhaustedly climbing into bed late one night, sleepily pulling your blanket riiiiight up to your face only to shriek and throw it at the other cat – Ramon, who is helpfully standing on your head – in horror. Take said blanket down five flights of stairs and sleep with a nothing but a sheet in the dead of winter and then talk to me about lowered blood pressure. The above scenarios, no matter how calm you are, WILL make you want to set your cat free and get the blood pumping right to your head, I promise.
Cats Improve Psychological Health.
Bullshit. Have you ever wandered up and down a dark street, in the dead of night, shaking cat treats and yelling, “Potato!! POTATO!!!” while your neighbors look on with a mix of interest, pity, terror, and curiosity as to why a fat blond girl would need more carbohydrates? Have you ever had to apologize to two separate family members, trying to explain that their hospital-requiring bite marks are because Ramon “really doesn’t like to be touched?” Have you ever woken up to the sound of a cat joyfully rolling a golf ball around your house while you lie, terror-stricken, convinced that not only are you being robbed, but it’s by a completely crazy person who is trying to make as much noise as possible? Have you ever tried to reason with an eight-pound ball of fur, to the point of tears, when said ball of fur scratches your hands and hisses at you while you’re trying to work? Because nothing makes you question your own mental health more than when you actually say to an animal, WHILE CRYING, “Please, please, just leave me alone! I’ll do anything!”
Cats are Forever Friends.
My ass, Ms. Viega. MY ASS. Maybe your cats are forever friends. Mine? Are forever trying to escape and murder me. I bet your cat doesn’t curl up against you, purring, right before sinking her teeth into your arm. I bet your cats don’t knock open the bathroom door in the middle of the night just in time to trip you in the dark. I bet your cats never hid in a basement for four days, eating the food you hauled down five flights of stairs but staying hidden from view, forcing you to crawl around said creepy basement with a flashlight, looking inside old refrigerators and trying not to get tetanus from the rusty nails and lumber stored down there. I bet your cats haven’t hidden inside your boxspring so many times that it’s now ruined from all the time you’ve taken a knife to the fabric, trying to set it free. I bet your cat never hauled ass into the basement late one Friday night after you’d had too many beers, causing you to fall down the stairs and bruise your tailbone.
Cats Help When No One Else Can.
I’m starting to hate you, Ms. Viega. Where are these animals? Where are these happy cats that do things other than make you spew made-up profanity? Are they helping you have less houseguests? Because that’s what mine do. One time, Ramon helpfully ruined Valentine’s Day when she tried to eat some roses and then got her leg caught in the chair when I pushed her off the table. Another time, Potato ruined my entire day when I realized he’d peed in my purse far, far too late. Oh, and another time, Ramon ruined my tremulous hold at being a good pet owner when the vet said, “Oh, yes. She’s a difficult one, isn’t she?” after looking at her chart while she was trying to climb inside my shirt, claws first.
Then again, they’re not on Prozac like my sister’s cat, so maybe we’re doing okay? Probably not? All right. I give. The cats suck, Ms. Viega. There’s no getting around it. I’ll send you the medical bills to prove it.
Does anyone actually put their head down on the pillow in the evening and wake, rested and ready to face the day, the next morning at an appropriate time? Because I’m pretty sure this hasn’t happened to me – save the occasional anomaly and the slightly more frequent “whiskey makes everything better!” nights – in approximately 20 years. I have a nice bed, I have a nice pillow. I’m lucky that I live comfortably enough to have heat in winter, and while central air would be far preferable to my (free) wheezy window units, a cold shower and a fan will keep me cool enough in the summer.
So why can’t I sleep through the night, you ask? After the past several nights found me lying wide awake staring at the moon and pondering such important topics as “I wonder if I have all of the ingredients to make mashed potatoes tomorrow?” and “Tomorrow if elevator 12 is the only one open, I’m totally not getting on. It’s way too slow and makes a funny noise. I’m just waiting for the next one,” I put together a few things that may be interrupting my REM cycle.
If you want to sleep through the night – don’t have pets. Or, more specifically, don’t have my cats. No one likes my cats. One of them bites, one of them pees, both of them are kind of horrible but for some reason I love them anyway. Well, I love them most of the time. Excluded times would be pulling a sweatshirt off the shelf only to discover it’s been used as a litterbox, apologizing to family members whilst offering to pay their hospital bills for penicillin, and trying to sleep. The first night we brought our older cat, Ramon, home, she was an adorable little kitten bouncing all over the down comforter through the night. Ten years later, she’s not happy unless she’s sitting on your face with her extended claws resting on that sensitive skin under your arm. Try and move her and she squeaks and hisses and meows like you’re trying to pull her teeth out. Try to push her off the bed and she becomes a stubborn, horrible being much like one of those inflatable punching bags that just keeps popping back at your face despite your strongest pleas and efforts. (Side note. When you find yourself trying to bargain with the cat to get off the bed, you’ve already lost.) As for Potato? My sweet, terrified insane cat? Let’s put it this way. A few nights ago, he found a golf ball which we had (because we’re assholes) stolen from mini-golf at Navy Pier. Somehow, he managed to transport it from a table in the kitchen to a chair in the dining room and was having a cat PARTY playing with it. If you’ve never heard the sound of a joyful cat playing with a golf ball, let me just say that the only thing you’re missing is a “What the FUCK is that?” in the middle of the night.
Crippling, Childish Fear of Monsters and Murderers in the Dark.
Okay, I’ll put it out there. I am a big, giant, ridiculous baby when it comes to getting up in the middle of the night. I am the first to admit that I cannot watch a scary movie – to the point that the mere thought of seeing Paranormal Activity last year gave me palpitations every time I went in my basement – and have been known to walk out of a room when Criminal Minds is on because I know it WILL keep me up. During the day, I am a (mostly) fully functioning adult, with a job and a college degree and a full set of pots and pans. In the wee hours of the night? I turn into a toddler who has, on more than one occasion, considered waking up my husband just to sit up and make sure there were no scary men with hatchets waiting for me in the bathroom. (I haven’t done it because the chances of him cracking me with the baseball bat under the bed is far more likely than hatchet man lurking behind the door.)
I’ll never forget, when my sister first started working and was a floor nurse, talking to her one evening when she mentioned, “You know, I don’t think I’ve gone to the bathroom since I left the house this morning!” It was six o’clock in the evening. I had peed twice since we’d been on the phone. I cannot make it through a movie, a car drive further than 30 miles, or a long commercial without having to pee. Incidentally, everyone HATES going places with me and any time we go anywhere, I am asked no less than three times by no less than two people, “Did you go to the bathroom?” I’ve been tested and there’s nothing wrong with me, I just simply cannot retain liquid for more than four minutes. So unfortunately, I rarely make it through a night without having to get up at least twice to use the bathroom. Combine that with my paralyzing terror of leaving my bed in the middle of the night, and I spend a lot of time with a racing heart clumsily running from the bedroom to the bathroom, turning on all of the lights in my path. Which, incidentally, wakes up the cats on the off chance they were asleep.
The culmination of the above three things, plus the addition of a husband who apparently enjoys making my heart stop, is what makes up the situation in my apartment at 3:45AM yesterday morning. I woke up and had my usual immediate thoughts, which generally consist of, “What in the actual fuck was that dream about?” “I wonder which cat this is that is currently paralyzing my foot?” and “DAMMIT I have to pee.” I tried to hold myself off a little longer, which did nothing other than to feed my fear that the vague shadow in the kitchen was a vicious intruder, and then finally gave in to my stupid bladder to get up. As quick as I could, I tiptoed through the hallway to the bathroom, did my business, then took a deep breath for the scary, shadowy journey back across the hall. Upon entering my bedroom, I saw that my husband was sitting straight up in bed. (Which. Is. Fucking. Creepy. I don’t care who you are.) My heart in my throat, I croaked, “What are you doing???” No answer. Making the miraculously brave move of walking toward the bed, I ask, a little louder, (and likely MUCH more panicky,) “Why are you sitting up?” Because he hates me, (or according to him, “Didn’t hear you, you f*ing psycho,”) he didn’t answer again. So, again being brave, I decided to crawl into bed, because even though in my terrified little heart I knew he was obviously murdered, I couldn’t just leave him there.
And then I landed on the cat and completely lost my shit.
The cat yowled and tried to escape, but was momentarily stunned and halted as I fell face first onto the bed, letting out a bloodcurdling scream that would rival that of any horror movie actress. Which set about a chain of events that went something like, “What in the FUCK is wrong with you???” “WHY ARE YOU SITTING STRAIGHT UP??” Followed by some relative nonsense (because really, after that, there’s no intelligent conversation to be had,) and then some more hissing and repositioning of the cats, who were extremely distressed about the whole thing, which was then followed by another half hour of no sleep because I was laughing so hard I couldn’t breathe.
And that’s why I don’t sleep. Whiskey, anyone??
Can someone please explain to me why my cats have all of a sudden gone batshit insane?
Seriously. I mean, they’ve never been what one would call “normal.” I attribute this to our poor naming/parenting skills. Ramon is female and decidedly not Spanish, and is named after a squirrel that used to terrorize our place in Palos Hills. The picture of her on this site of her in the beer box? We started posing her in those after one Friday night when I went to get a beer and found her, comfortably nestled in a half full 18 pack of Lite, INSIDE the refrigerator. Luckily, we drink fast, so she didn’t freeze her little kitty rear end off, but still. Who lets that happen?
Potato is named that because Tony, inexplicably, one night when we were first dating created an elaborate crown that I believe was originally supposed to be for Pocahontas, but somehow morphed into “Squanto of the High Plains.” So that was his original name, but that seemed irrationally long for a six pound terrified kitten, so we shortened it to Squanto, which got switched to Squan-tater, which got shortened to Tater, which logically led to Potato. Logically. Yeah, we’re normal.
So it makes sense that the animals aren’t normal, sleep 23 hours a day cats. They never have been. They both bite and hiss and scratch and mostly only like people that either don’t like or are violently allergic to them. Ramon bites you as she’s purring on your lap or next to me in bed. She bit my mom so hard once she had to seek medical attention, simply because she picked her up. Potato, skittish to begin with, (you’d think we beat the poor thing the way he flies out of a room when he hears a noise or sees a dust mote) has pretty much been terrified of everything, including his shadow and excluding Ramon, since his journey into the wilds of Chicago Ridge last fall; also known as the great Potato hunt of 2009, or “Hey, want to see Courtney cry for a week?” I still wonder what my crazy neighbors thought, watching this poor girl with a beer and shaking cat treats, crying, “Potato???!!!! POTATO!!!” up and down the streets at all hours of the night. A friend of mine at work commented, “They were probably like, Jesus, someone give that girl some french fries so she’ll shut up, already.”
Since the day we moved in and found Potato curled up underneath the lone towel in the closet of the room we’d locked them in, we’ve seen him for approximately two hours. He hides under the dresser, in the closet of our bedroom, where he prefers to “make potty,” as it were, and recently, the closet in the extra bedroom. He was a big fan of sleeping inside the boxspring until the bed collapsed and I nearly had a grabber thinking we’d killed him for sure. He comes out occasionally to beg for treats with his little meow that sounds like he’s trying to scream at you, but other than that, we mostly only see him after he’s relieved himself on our laundry.
Ramon, however, has always been more social, more, “I want to sit RIGHT BY YOU RIGHT BY YOU ON YOUR FACE IF POSSIBLE.” In our last place, even if we were outside, she was right at the screen door, yowling to get out. Here, however, where we’ve spent nearly every waking moment outside, she’s separated by an enclosed porch and two doors. So I get she’s kind of lonely, but hello? Aren’t you a cat? That’s the main reason we have cats and not dogs ~ because they do not require the amount of lavish attention and responsibility a dog does. Oh, well, and because Tony hates dogs. But still. Cats are, by definition, self sufficient, are they not?
Anyhow, in the past few weeks, they seem to have gone even more crazy than usual. While it’s no big surprise that one of them would find the dice we were playing three man with (worst. idea. ever.) the night before, to find them both batting them around the wood floors at 3AM was disconcerting. They’ve also begun to sleep with us all the time. Which sounds cute in theory, but A) I believe I mentioned Ramon bites, and she is especially fond of the sensitive skin on the underside of your forearm and B) Potato, for such a small thing, has the determination of a pit bull and the consistency of a wet blanket when he has decided to sleep in between your scissored legs. Which means I woke up the other night literally with a cat on my chest, teeth in my arm, and another cat on my legs. One would think the sum total of 14 pounds wouldn’t render me helpless, but one would be wrong. Add to that the creepy shadows and extreme QUIETNESS of our neighborhood (No 18 wheelers and bright lights here!) and the fact that I’m apparently four years old and afraid of the dark, and it was a very scary moment, indeed.
In addition, the other day, I was sitting at the computer desk, trying to write something, and Ramon decided this was unacceptable and sat directly in front of me. Not unusual. I pushed her off the desk (also not unusual) but this time, instead of either jumping right back up or biting me or both, her eyes got wide and she ran out of the room. I followed her to investigate and found her literally trying to climb up the doorjamb of the extra bedroom, wild eyed, tail puffed up to extraordinary size, and yowling a tune I’ve never heard before. Now, she’s not in heat (took care of that little problem nice and early) but she’s been doing this every few days or so since then. Sometimes Potato does a flying leap from his hiding spot in the closet, which sends her trying to scramble even higher and makes it slightly funnier.
So, who do you think is haunting our house?? I’m not a huge believer in ghosts and such, but this house was built in 1880 something, so the idea of it being haunted is intriguing to me. Who would want to haunt US?? I could see maybe wanting to watch us, as we fall down and slam into things with alarming propensity, but to scare my cats? I’d welcome any thoughts as to who/what you think may be haunting the Drobicks. Until then, I’ll be closely monitoring the cats for any changes in behavior (and hoping that one of them is NOT peeing in my purses, for a change,) and trying to hide from them when they’re being crazy.
Luckily, they’re cute. (And GOD am I glad we don’t live there anymore. Is that a glowstick on the table? WTF?)