Monday, April 25, 2011

Stray Cat Slut

What do you do when a cat (who used to wear a tag that said "Charlie," but has, for several weeks, been going commando) adopts you?

And makes of your welcome mat a hairy, messy cat's nest?

And cries at your door both day and night?

And rubs up against the legs of you, your husband, and all of your visitors, leaving behind a trail of sneezy, yellow fur?

And murders the innocent birds in your lemon tree?

And looks stupidly adorable when he stretches out in the sun after he's lapped up Rob's leftover cereal milk?

And then, let's say, that both you and your husband are allergic to this cute, slutty cat; that your husband is a cruel dictator who will not, under any circumstances, allow even the most homeless of cats refuge in your teeny apartment; and that your neighborhood is riddled with blood-thirsty, carnivorous raccoons and coyotes.

Then what?

Happy yEASTERday. Sorry I'm late.

Monday, April 11, 2011

The Mighty Pacific: She Giveth and She Taketh Away

But mostly she taketh. Like a sneaky little street urchin.

I've lost two precious lives to the depths of Poseidon's realm. Nearly three. The nearly one was Rob. Next time you see him, ask him about the time he almost drowned in Morro Bay. It makes him seem like such a bad ass. Except that it was all for vanity! Learned that lesson the hard way, didn't you honey? (J/K HAGS, Robby! Don't ever change!!!!!)

The first real casualty wasn't actually the Pacific. But who cares? Aren't oceans really all the same ginormous body of water? I mean, if you pee off the coast of Southern California, doesn't it just stand to reason that some unassuming Australian is going to have to wade in your urine at some point? You should think about that next time you have to wee to the beach.

Anyway...casualties. It was my pugga. That was how I tried to say "plug", which is what my parents called the pacifier, which I'm assuming was inserted into my face to shut me the hell up. Apparently, I was a very loquacious toddler. (Surprised?) But I was nearing the age of three and it was time to move on to other silencing techniques (read: duct tape). When I lost that pugga to the greedy Gulf of Mexico, it would be my last. I don't remember this really at all. I just have the vague recollection of standing and on the shore, screaming, panic-stricken, and feeling an acute sense of loss. Years later, I was filled in on the details. (Note to parents: tragic loss of a pacifier leads to thumb-sucking, which leads to nail-biting, which somehow leads to perfect teeth. I don't get it either).

Last weekend, I lost another of my dearest treasures: iPhone the Second. We were standing on the sands of Laguna Beach, gingerly dipping our toes in the surf, when a huge rogue wave attacked without warning. Rob and Sarah saw it in time and, being the nimble creatures that they are, jumped back with only a few droplets on their pant legs. George was not so lucky. He freaked, spun, and fell, spraining his wrist and soaking his trousers. But I, being the only one with my back to the sun, and consequently the silent-but-deadly-ninja wave also, was soaked from head to toe. Where was my phone? My back pants pocket. What about the contents of my purse? Bone dry. Yep. Had the phone been inside the purse, it would have survived. But fate had other plans for iPhone II. Plans of death and dismemberment.

You'd think my pale skin and jiggly butt would keep me far from the coast. I'm definitely an inland creature by nature. But don't worry, Pacific. I've learned my lesson. You're clever, I'll give you that. But you'll eat no more treasures on account of my mistakes. Because now, you're my nemesis.

This. means. war.

Monday, April 4, 2011

Bloglovin': What is it?

I don't know, but in an effort to try new things (oysters, mopping, etc.) I'm giving it a shot.

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