Archive for the ‘Pets’ Category

I have no other explanation for this period of months since Meat Halo (where I left off) where I’ve run around like a mad woman in a demented dash to scare up a “mate”.  I haven’t written in so long that I kind of forgot who I talked to here in my word cave.  Lately, I feel like I’m coming off a bender until I realize strangers around me are also behaving more rabid.  On two separate occasions I’ve even witnessed random acts of public vomiting.

The first was outside our apartment a couple weeks ago while my roommate and I waited meekly for our ride to Nerd Nite[sic].  One of our dear neighbors, a lady if you can refer to her as such, spewed a perfect cherub fountain stream of puke while opening her car door.  Surprisingly, her passenger wasn’t alarmed in the slightest.  Together they climbed inside the vehicle shutting opposite doors in unison and drove away.

The second was on my birthday run around Lady Bird Lake last Saturday.

Sometimes I like to jog just behind someone who looks like they know what they’re doing.  I judge this based solely on their matching exercise attire and chiseled physique.  While I know this makes me sound like a shallow alien, for all you know that could be accurate.  This specimen in particular looked like a milk chocolate covered Bodyworlds Exhibit.  I could see literally every muscle on her frame and I was intrigued (read: hungry)!  We must have just hit the two-mile mark over the wooden bridge when she made quite a hasty departure to the right and blew chunks through her hand, in between her outstretched fingers, and directly into the forest.  I know it’s hard not to read this next part in a Forrest Gump voice, but I just kept on running.  Before you say I should have stopped, I’ll let you know she later lapped me and then some.  She’s fine, okay.  She does it all the time!

As I was saying about that series of relationships, they didn’t end with Meat Halo.  There have been a couple more worth sharing, but each sort of deserve their own time in the sun… like a dying grape becoming a newborn raisin.

Here are some things Meat Halo may or may not be privy to:

The evening before he departed on the train, his brother, mother, and I stood together shooting the poop in the parking lot outside my home.  The conversation ended with a round of hugs and when his mother got to me she whispered into my ear, “You should have dated my other son!” Only it was more of a gravelly voice at regular volume than something spoken softly with very little vocal cord vibration to prevent being overheard.  I don’t know why, but I expected something more discrete from someone who had just farted on me in public a few days before.  Neither brother gave me a visually disturbed clue that they noticed what was told , so I never said anything except to a few friends and now the entire Internet…nternet…ternet…net.

Yeah, it’s hard to type in echoes.

I’ve had some wine, so I just in poor taste typed and deleted the next sentence, “I’m a bit of a pussy lover…” remembering quickly that my dad reads this and for that reason I have a difficult time writing what I could never say out loud with him in the same room.  What I meant to say is that, “I love cats…” I have a cat named Mr. Bill.  Proof!

Meat Halo wasn’t able to bring his cat, a fluffy white snow demon named Gibby, with him to NYC initially, so I agreed to foster her until his brother (the one their mother thought I should have dated) was able to deliver her a couple months later.  This was all fine and dandy until we split up a couple weeks later.  Then the cat’s sixth Hellraiser sense kicked in, and she began puking (more puking!) and crapping (!) from one end of the apartment to the other.  I could not deal and neither could Mr. Bill, so I arranged to have Brother retrieve her.

Sounds easy enough, right?  Step one:  Pick up cat.  Step two:  Remove cat from premises.

So Brother arrived to do just that.  That evening, I opened my front door wide enough to see that their sister was in tow, too.  Awesome.  And before I thought there couldn’t possibly be a more awkward number of his family members crammed into my home I nearly close the door on their mother.  Gibby was agitated at the mere sight of them and KNOWINGLY bolted to the tippy-top of our Ikea bookcase.  The Swedish designed the thing to house flimsy, boiled down paperbacks, not to also serve as a protective beast fortress.  It teetered to-and-fro and gave life to the potted, fake plant on top.  Plant scooted closer and closer to the edge as their mother stood below telling the cat how simply rude she was being.  Good point.  Talk her down.  I also thought she was being rude, but I guess I’m just not that confrontational.

Naturally, this never worked.

Eventually, his brother and sister swatted her down and she ran directly into my bedroom and onto my  bed.  They tried covering her with my blankets while I stared on in horror, frozen in the doorway.  She then whizzed a steady stream of kitty tinkle all over the damn place and howled into the night like a hairy, possessed lawn sprinkler.

It was then that I heard his mother say, “Brother, take off your belt!”  “Mom, WHAT?!”  “TAKE OFF YOUR BELT!”  And then he actually began to take off his belt to I don’t know, wrangle it?!  I finally came to my senses and told everyone to get the FUDGE out of my apartment and that we could try a new tactic another time.  “EVERYONE KEEP YOUR BELTS AND YOUR PANTS ON, PLEASE!  I NEED TO GO TO SLEEP!”

I hope that was the first and last time I have to tell someone to literally keep their pants on.

I kept Gibby safe and sound for the next few days until just Brother came back.  I’m not kidding, he walked through my door this time with a GIANT NET and a GIANT CAGE I can only assume was meant for Sasquatch quarantine.  Harpoon nowhere to be found, hrmph.  Thankfully, by that time my roommate and I had already cornered her politely behind the toilet and tackled her (gently) into the cat carrier with the help of our magical, humane woman powers.

Up Next:  How I almost moved to Baltimore to live with a guy who wanted to marry me in the Peabody Library while I dressed as a banana and he wore a gorilla suit.


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Frosty pause.

I’m Bill Paxton and/or Helen Hunt unrealistically tied to plumbing by leather drive belts in that farm pump house.  The tornado is fabricated!

Other than nearly losing my semi-firm grip on reality here in Austin, things are sensational.

I acquired a job almost immediately which actually surprised the hell out of me.  I must’ve said “Oh, it can’t be that difficult to find a job!” one hundred times while sweating a machine gun magazine full of bullets in every direction while family and friends looked on in secret horror.  

I won’t say much about it other than I did find barefaced joy in naming a file “dog poop letter template” the other day.  I work right on the UT campus with a sunlight and squirrel friendly office overlooking several walks of shame per morning.  I’m only on the second story, so the clip clop of their burnished lady shoes stabbing the concrete mercilessly with every step stops me right in my tracks.  I really can’t help but study them a bit.

Last weekend I was proposed to by a heavyhearted, Bukowski type fella who literally peed in his pants a couple stools down from me.  I’m not used to being in a bar come witching hour and it’s damn near frightening.  From my perspective, women are not unlike the gasoline in Mad Max 2.

It’s been truly spectacular to reconnect with an old friend that doubles as my current roommate.  She gave me the room with the view of the Capitol Building, and that’s just one of those inane things I find myself repeating when someone asks how I like it here. 

“It’s great!  I can see the Capitol Building from my bed.  Seriously, I can lie all the way down and its nipple is still peeping at me.”

As it turns out, not many people are as dazzled by that fact.  It reminds me of the time I moved to an apartment I’d never seen before in Chicago all because it was right next door to a prosthetic leg factory.

I was finally able to bring my cat home, too, and will admit that I pulled a Britney riding a few hours with him in my lap.

I’m okay.

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Browntown girl.

I adore the couple I’m house sitting for as well as their positively dreamy Boxer, Daisy, and the homemade gumbo they left for me (labeled GUMBO YUMBO!) in the fridge. 

However, I’m afraid their mattress is a real sleep swindler.  It felt like there were file cabinets under the sheets.  I hope it’s actually just boxes upon boxes of collectible Boglins in their original packaging. 

I’m entirely stubborn about these things though which is why I’m to blame for the corpse face I’m gracing Uptown Charlotte with this morning.  I could have relocated to the guest bedroom, or even the couch.  Instead, it became an endurance challenge that I lost every hour when I woke up. 

“I can do thiiiiiiiiiiissssssss.”  Daisy would look up at me with these colossal, snuff colored “give up, you idiot” eyes.  In my half asleep stupor our exchange was much more elaborate. 

She would ask me if I’d ever read Goldilocks and the Three Bears and before I could answer she’d explain how the story couldn’t have ended with:

 “She lay down in the first bed and it was too hard, but she slept there anyway until her butt fell asleep.  She thought the rest of her body would follow suit, but that never happened.  Then the three bears came home and caught her with her bare ass in the cold porridge where a feeble attempt to bring it back to life was underway.  The bears called the cops and had her arrested for indecent exposure therefore banishing her from the forest for all eternity.  The end.”  

As it turns out this place is just the same with one eye open.  People are still shitting on the sidewalk outside our office building.  Let’s face it, one needn’t two eyes to identify that aromatic endowment.

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That song was playing overhead in the skin surgeon’s office while the doc excavated a couple areas on my birthmark.  It’s been the shape of Australia standing alone for quite some time, so when Papua New Guinea suddenly popped up they said, “Get your ass in here, Swartz” or something to that effect. 

I tried my best to just breathe and imagine Peter Cetera and Amy Grant in the same room, serenading me while I leaned back in the chair with my head to the side hovering delicately above a live orchestra, but good god the cauterizing really did a number on my psyche.

It smelled like pork rinds in a deep fat fryer and I went to that naked “I want my mommy!” place inside.  I wanted nothing more than to place my sweaty hand into someone else’s and hear them sing the “Brave-y Soldier” song my parents sang before they sprayed my clumsily scraped knees with Bactine.

My working girl clip clop business casual boots knocked together uncontrollably while the assistant tried her best to distract me by asking me questions about my pets. 

“Do you have a dog?  I love dogs.”

“Can you tell me how much longer, the b-b-burning?”

“Five minutes!”

Five minutes, my crack.  I didn’t have my wits about me whatsoever.  I wanted to reply:

“Yes, I do have a dog.  She’s actually at the vet right now having a turd manually pulled from her behind.”

(That’s true.  She’s going through heartworm treatment and the steroids are constipating her.) 

They followed the face melting with something called a biopsy punch and I’m pretty sure they call it that because afterwards you are quite overcome with an overwhelming urge to punch the person who has performed said biopsy. 

In all seriousness, I’m mighty thankful to have health insurance and coworkers who haven’t made too much fun of me for coming to work with a Barbie pillow sized bandage strapped to my face. 

(But I would have rather had a turd pulled.)

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Jiminy Spricket!

We’re headed to the Zombie Convention tomorrow in Greensboro, North Carolina, and already I’ve had not one but two frightening things happen to me in the past twenty four hours.  

Ben left the house last night for band practice, so I snuggled up with woman’s best friend on the couch and tuned into the scariest program I could find on television.  I’m not talking about Ghost Hunters or even Wife Swap

I’m talking about VH1’s I Know My Kid’s a Star. 

In the midst of a horrifying stage mom meltdown my dog, Nelly, popped her head up from my lap and whipped her head around toward the window.  She was transfixed by something on the other side and I did not want to turn around and see what it was. 

Out of the corner of my eye I could see the ceiling to floor vertical blinds parted in the shape of an upside down slide of pizza.  That’s because my fat cat, Tough Guy, was fast asleep at the bottom in his usual post Friskies binge coma. 

He makes for a pretty terrible watch cat.

It took every last nugget of courage left in my reserves, but I began to follow my dog’s gaze out the window.  I saw nothing but darkness until something closer to the ground began to move.

I did exactly what horror movies tell you not to do which was move in closer to inspect.  I was preparing myself for one of the mangy, mean neighborhood cats, or even a vagrant.  After all, I don’t live in the safest neighborhood in Charlotte.  

Surprisingly, it was neither of the two.   


I wanted to yell, “AHHHHHHHHHHH!!!” but instead I screamed, “HEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEY!!!”

He sat there staring at me for a minute while I stared back with my mouth still open paralyzed by fear.  And then I saw that he brought along an accomplice, a tiny, tan, Pit Bull puppy sans collar that I immediately recognized. 

Ben and I had chased him down the street with steak in our hands months prior because he looked lonely and we wanted to give him a home.

So just to give you a good visual, go ahead and imagine me in a hot pink Great White Shark t-shirt with pajama pants and no shoes on throwing steak up the street toward a dog that is clearly running away from me.

It is really no wonder that:

1.  Our neighbors don’t socialize.

2.  He brought his bodyguard along with him this time.

Nelly wasn’t growling at them, so I took the liberty of doing so and sure enough they headed for the hills.  Now I know that makes me sound a bit tough, but truthfully I spent the rest of the evening screaming, “HEEEEEEEY!” into the shadows every time I heard a creak.  Just call me Fat (Scared) Albert, all right.

Then this morning I was approached by a ferocious cricket spider with a brazen disregard for my solo shower ritual. 

Ben was still sleeping soundly when it took a flying leap onto my face, so he burst through the door to my rescue after I again yelled something other than the usual “AHHHHHHH!!!”  


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Cracker Jill

I was laughing out loud at Stuff White People Like until I came across #64 on the list.

“Deep down, they believe they should be like the Native Americans and use every part of the product or beast they have consumed.

Though for many white people, this simply means putting plastic bags into a special drawer where they will accumulate until they are eventually used to carry some gym clothes or bathing suit.

Ultimately this drawer will get full and only be emptied when the person moves to a new house. Advanced white recyclers will use these grocery bags as garbage bags.”

I am %100 percent guilty as charged on that last bit. 

Close up on the plastic bag holder I’ve created underneath our sink that explodes every time I go in for my eco-friendly kitchen surface spray.  What would the holy ghost have to say about this behavior?  I feel like such a hypocrite. 

I use them for cat poops, so I can’t even throw them in the recycle bin after that.  I throw them in the GARBAGE which means I’m hoarding bags and probably driving my boyfriend crazy for damn nothing

Now I’ll go ahead and tell you that I’ve recently started a second bag saving station in the closet where I keep my litter box.  I mean the cats’ litter box.  My litter box is somewhere else entirely. 

I can’t use them as fast as they build up, so I think it’s time I seek out the proper way to recycle them and possibly find an alternative form of cat poop disposal. 

Could I use old socks and underwear?  Should I look into flushable litter formulas?  Just bury it in the backyard? 

I mean the cat not the litter. 

No the litter. 

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Do you ever find yourself behaving eerily like one of your pets?  Luckily, you won’t find me ironically overeating weight control cat food like Tough Guy or eating cockroaches under my bed while Ben’s sleeping. 

Okay, you might find me eating bugs under the bed but that’s just because I’m protein deficient.  It’s a disease.  And I only bark at the mail woman because she delivers bills like it’s her job.  

That’s our lab/pit mix, Nelly, but her dog tag reads: “Neener Bean”.  When she’s being a good girl I refer to her as the “Nellbell Prize” and when she’s being bad I just kick her.  I’m just kidding, I punch her…twice…in both eyes.  Why else would she be wearing sunglasses?

Nelly is a very emotional dog and she sighs a lot.  Coincidentally, I’m also an emotional dog who sighs a lot.  I didn’t even realize I did it so much until I moved in with Ben.  He’d ask me what was wrong and I’d have no idea what he was talking about. 

“You just sighed.”  “No, I was just taking a deep breath.” 

We have that exchange regularly.  In all honestly, I’m only sighing half of the time and for no good reason.  I’m the opposite of a compulsive throat clearer.  I’m a compulsive deep breather.   

Occasionally, Nelly and I will both let out a deep breath at the same time and you’d really expect one of us to start singing “Alone at a Drive In” from Grease. 

I bring up that movie a lot for someone who has a real problem with the ending.  All right, see you later guys.  You’re just flying away now…in your car…into the atmosphere…    

Every evening when I arrive home from work my dog acts like it’s the first time I’ve come back.  If you turn the tables, I’m always acting like it’s the first time I’ve come back to see her.  She’s probably embarrassed when I come barreling down the driveway yelling her name out of my sun roof.  I do that just about every day and when I open the door she shrimps across the living room with her eyes half closed like she just doesn’t have room in even her 60lb dog body for the excitement.

I have a similar, yet extremely different scenario that plays out every day at work when I’m leaving the restroom as someone’s entering.  Each time it happens we shriek, recoil, and mumble what should be an “excuse me” in unison.  I’m always terribly surprised and so is the other person.   Who did we think would be on the other side?  Publisher’s Clearing House?   

I keep thinking I’ll get better at it.  Next time I’ll remain calm and all of the blood won’t rush to my head.   But you know what, it will happen every time.  I’ll turn red, she’ll turn red, I’ll scoot back, she’ll scoot back, and then we’ll both start walking in and out together at the same time again while nervously laughing.   

The day my dog stops being excited to see me is the day I trade her in for a new one.  Don’t worry.  We don’t have the internet at home so she’ll never read this.

ps- Excuse the bizarre formatting.

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