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| This morning, i got up late. I showered. I dashed around the apartment getting ready. I put on my parka (yes, my FUCKING PARKA because it's slush-snowing!). I grabbed my phone and ipod. I satcheled up.
And I opened my front door.
Suddenly, a flash of grey animal darted past my leg and into my living room. My heart shrieked, "Rat!"; my mind said, "Cat."; my mouth said, "Get out of my apartment right now!" Because, as everyone knows, scared cats speak English. The cat ran around my living room and dashed behind the sofa.
My pre-coffee self was trying to wrap my mind around the fact that my home had been invaded by a rogue cat. Was it rabid? Would it attack me? It was fast; it could scratch my face. I don't have TIME to deal with this when i'm already late!
I threw down my satchel and whipped off my parka, and then I did what any good prairie woman would do: I grabbed my broom. I shut all of the doors in my apt and opened the front door and went after Battlecat. "You'd better GET out of there!" I swished, as I pulled the sofa out and started swatting at it with my prairie broom.
MROWR!
"Giddout!" [Swat!]
Suddenly, Battlecat scrambled up onto the back of my sofa, glared at me and pushed his way between and behind my blinds. I have cheap-ass apartment blinds, and this fucking animal--who may or may not have been rabid--is suddenly climbing his way between them and the glass. The blinds are quickly becoming a mangled mess so I thump at the cat with the broom handle. "Goddamn it, get out of here!"
Battlecat drops out of the curtans and flashes past me, knocking over my potted Jade and breaking off the topmost new stem. "Get OUT!"
Battlecat runs into the foyer, glances at the open door and the Hallway of Freedom and decides that the best plan of action is to head back AT me into the living room. I slapped on my sassypants and chased after him. He slams on his brakes, whips around and LEAPS at me.
3 feet in the air.
Because I ALWAYS keep my cool, I instantly assume he's coming for the eyes, squeal and fling myself out of his way. Our Wiley Coyote/Roadrunner routine has suddenly become some fucking Diavolo pas-de-deux, with a side of 6 year old girl.
I chase him around the living room, over and behind the sofa and back into the hallway. Batllecat, faced with the exit, determines that the TRUE way out is into my kitchen. Up behind my KITCHEN blinds. I tromp back in there and swat at the cat until it knocks over my KITCHEN plants and rushes past me, into the hallway and then back into the kitchen.
At this point, I realize that I'm late for work. So I go into the living room, grab my phone and call the office to report my predicament, closing the living room door behind me.
I call.
I grab my broom.
And I head back into....my EMPTY KITCHEN.
I look around the kitchen, under and behind everything and then go out into the hallway to see if Battlecat has snuck out while I was reaching out to touch someone. No. Not a sign of him. I pulled the fridge out, the stove out, under the table, in the cabinets...BATTLECAT HAS DISAPPEARED!
I took two deep breaths, stood in the silence and listened for telling signs of an angry feline hiding in my domicile.
Nothing.
NOTHING.
I decided to leave for work and ran into the building manager in the hall. I explained the situation to him. He followed me up to my apartment and we both looked around for Battlecat. No sign.
So i went to work.
At about 1030, with visions of cat piss and shredded sofa in my head, I called the manager and asked him to check one more time, to see if the missing cat had surfaced.
About ten minutes later, he called back to say that the cat had been sitting in my kitchen, staring out the window.
What the fuck?
Why is this my life?
Why does it feel like a filler episode on a Wednesday night sitcom?
Yeah. I'm super fancy.
Like a rhinestone cat-burglar.... | | |
| Grade Card, Gradeschool Style:
Plays with others: E(xcellent)
Shares his toys: E
Self Motivated: E
Communication: E
Interacts in groups: E
Sleeps with others: U I cannot spend the night with people. Friends, lovers, family...GET OUT OF MY BED. Last night was an evening with the Columbian. Hot hot hot HOT Latin sex. Good conversation. With his accent, bumped up to GREAT conversation. Delicious cuddling afterwards. And then the doze-off. I wake up five minutes later gasping for air because I can't move; I've become entangled in cuddle arms, and legs that are NOT mine are entwined with legs that ARE mine. I can't move. I don't want to wake him. So I stealthily try to move my body to a more me-friendly position.
No. Not happening.
I have to be UTTERLY untouched by anyone else to sleep.
That doesn't mean I don't like to have some sort of contact with this other person, but it definitly cannot be initiated by THEM. Particularly in some stranglehold cuddle-pose I was enjoying only moments before. Spoons are for eating. And the eating I want to do in my bed does NOT involve spoons. So there will be NONE of that once it's snooze time.
What's not intimate about me streeeeeeetching my foot across the bed and just pressing the sole of it against your knee or shin? What if i just barely rest my back against your fingertips on your outstretched arm? Come on...sharing a duvet is LIKE me curling into a ball and having you turn your body into a constrictive net of affection!
AAAAAAAAARGH! Fortunately , the Columbian has a king sized bed.
And I was not afraid to exercise my roll-away rights. But not early enough for me to feel functional at ALL today. The worst part of it all is that I don't dislike the IDEA of spending all night cuddling and enmeshing our bodies. In fact, that sounds GREAT to me. Even moreso when the body has visible abs, a fuzzy chest and biceps that could crush my neck!
It's just the practice of this pretzel-fight that sends me into a claustrophobic, gay tizzy.
Keeping me from sleep. And we all KNOW how pretty--physically, emotionally and personality-wise--I get when deprived of my favorite activity in life. What's a girl to do? | | |
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| I am in Kansas. Lawrence. My sister's apartment, to be precise.
My mother, sister and I have spent the last 24 hours together in a joyful-cum-strained environment.
At this point, in honor of the holidays, we have all completely diregarded who we are in our everyday lives and reverted to the annoying roles we used to play. I keep having to remind myself that I return to Chicago in 3 days and will continue my life there. I keep having to remind my sister that mom is going home soon. I keep having to remind my mother that:
A. We don't talk through every conversational pause during movies
B. I don't know what's just about to happen in said movies
C. Plot points will be revealed. Or not. Sometimes you have to THINK about movies.
D. Every moment of every day we are spending together does not HAVE to be full-tilt engagement; me reading a magazine does not mean that i'm trying to ignore her, nor does it mean that she has to sit and watch me read.
E. When I say, 'I just need some time for me." it is NOT a personal attack, but
F. If you want a personal attack, one is juuuuust around the river bend.
I declared a cease-and-desist upon the conversational topic of my father, his shortcomings and the white-trash, trailer park party bus he calls his new family. I also called a cease-and-desist on my mother referring to my father, from whom she's been divorced for about 7 years now, "Daddy." You didn't call him that from 1985 through 2005, WHY are you doing it now you crazy woman?
I packed her off to mass. Second one of the day, because the gates of hell will swallow you up instantly if you don't catalogue both a Sunday mass AND a holiday mass. Even if it means two masses in one day. Oh, and could we top it off with a guilt-laden SIGH when there are no takers for the, "Did anyone want to join me?" survey. Have I joined you in the last 6 years? Have I not made it clear that I refuse to smile and fake my way through another hour of holiday, dogmatic Catho-schlock?
This is the season to surround yourself with friends and family and good tidings and love. And my urban family is celebrating without me, and the traditions I've created for myself have gone to the wayside. And what's left is a visit chockfull of holiday expectations and forced merriment.
This is why i don't do holidays with family.
Give me a Tuesday in April, the unexpected visit, time spent without a traditional, Hallmark card agenda.
Stop the Christmas madness.
Let me read my magazine, comforted in the knowledge that my loved ones are in the other room reading their books or checking email or peeling potatoes, with an "e."
Keep breathing. Do not make mom cry.
48 more hours.
I will not make her cry.
I will not scream and shout.
I will not make her cry.
I will not fake a smile.
I will not make her cry.
Oh, god.
48 more hours. | | |
| Me oh my.
I rarely get crushes. RARELY.
But the rarity of said crushes does not factor in the longevity of these crushes.
I get a crush and then cling psychologically to this person for, oh give or take, 1.4 years.
Yeah, whether or not anything happens, I my true affections are hung on my crush. I can date other people, have very satisfying sexual liaisons with other men, do whatever, but that crush burns quietly in the back, smoldering.
I've had a crush for a while now. Most people who are intimate know who this crush is (and we don't mention names, right?). But I have a new crush.
i know. Alert the press, my obsession has shifted! Holy crapola!
Remember the 7 hour coffee date?
Yeah. That's the one. Right. With the face-first dive into the pavement with a hot cup of coffee, followed by several hours of flamin' hot latino sex. Thta's the one.
Well, i've got a crush on this guy. i had a Round 2 engagement with him after my Costa Rican trip. And it was a lot of fun, but now i'm kinda, sorta, maybe, probably crushing on this guy. I have Date 3 with his hotness tomorrow. hmmm. Mmmmmm.
I ran into him at the bar tonight. Well, he ran into me, but details... He's so hot. Seriously, pecs and abs. And i spend a portion of every time i'm with him sucking in and evaluating everything I view as my minuses. But then i have a great time and i don't give a FUCK. He's hot, and he likes me. Who's to argue?
Until I saw him talking to another guy.
Yeah, then I got all uppity. Perhaps it was just the booze, but i kept getting fairly irate every time I turned and saw him talking to this guy. The fact that the guy was a 20something, glasses-wearing white guy certainly didn't bring out the competitive, jealous queen in me. After an indepth analysis of his body language with my friend, i decided that His Hotness was not as into this other guy as he was into me.
Or I am a total deludenoid.
But I hear "This Is What It Is" from The Wild Party right now, and I just want to drowse into his chest.
Or perhaps anyone's chest.
No, not anyone.
SOMEone.
Sigh. | | |
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