Maybe this is a few days late, but I’ve been a little busy being cranky having to return to the real world.
That, and Taco has NOT SHUT UP since we’ve been home. I mean, really. The day we got back, Taco meowed incessantly. Even when he was half asleep, he was croaking out meows. I’m sure he missed us and all, but you can SHOW us. We don’t need to hear it. It’s died down a little since then but he’s still way too loud for my tastes.
Anyway. Honey. Happy anniversary. I’m writing this because I still haven’t given you the card I bought months and months ago and then forgot.
I knew you were a keeper when I still liked you after two weeks. I can’t believe how long ago that was. I appreciate that you do things like get me the fries I so desperately crave because Aunt Flo is in town even though it makes your pizza cold. And that you’re such a good daddy to the boys. Mostly when no one’s looking, but I know.
You’re my bestie. You know me better than anyone on this earth. It annoys the crap out of me sometimes because I can only bullshit you when you’re feeling generous and allow it. I’m amused that you vaguely accept me being PigPen when you love clean so much. I assume that you’ve finally understood that the mess is in my genes and no matter how hard I try, I WILL get crumbs all over. And I try to accommodate your “man cave” weekends with the curtains drawn (sometimes) even though I would live in a house built of windows if I could.
I would say I look forward to growing old with you, but it seems we’re already doing that. I’m not sure whether this is what aging is like normally or if we just prematurely age each other by being pains in each others’ asses. But I wouldn’t be happy with it any other way. You keep me on my toes and I love that. I’m up for 10 more if you are. I heart you.
Does that make me a bad person?
The boyfriend and I are on a mini-vacay/10th anniversary celebration (it really bothers me that 10 years of monogamy would be thrown out if we got married. I find that concept so unfair). We’re in the Keys. The Florida Keys. Are there any other Keys? I’m so snobbish about my Floridian-ness.
Anyway, it’s just 2 nights, and a lot of driving, but it IS beautiful down here, and although the room is small, it’s lovely and the bed is as comfy as our own ridiculously priced iComfort. Strangely, even though we own a king (specifically because I am NOT a sound sleeper and we’re definitely not cuddlers), this bed seems bigger.
Maybe it’s because it’s not ours, maybe it’s because (disturbingly) we don’t have our body pillows to throw our legs over, but I think it’s because there’s no cats. NO CATS.
I woke up at nine. NINE! Actually, I woke up initially at 7:43 but I was able to go back to sleep, and it was glorious. Why? NO CATS.
God, I love my little fluffballs, and granted, I SHOULD have been able to sleep in since we woke up at 4am to drive down here (technically we woke up at 4:40, this is because I set my alarm to 4pm by accident), but it was so nice to DECIDE when I wanted to wake up. This is seriously a luxury for me because I was the kid at slumber parties that woke up hours before everyone else and laid there wishing I could go back to sleep. I’m not a good sleeper.
This is not to say I don’t TOTALLY miss my kitties. We stopped by a famous marina (Bud N Mary’s, if you ever end up in Islamorada) to see the tarpon. These giant fish swarm the dock, it’s really quite amazing.
I’m sure you can guess that as a vegan, I’m not much of a fisherman, but I do enjoy the accoutrements that go along with fishing, like boats and open water. Anyway, we watched the fish for a bit and then… there was a kitten. It was the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen. So tiny. Lives at the marina, apparently. Has a collar and everything. To my dismay, lil kitten wanted nothing to do with me, and walked over to Momma, who was so passed out she wouldn’t even move. I don’t blame her. It’s hot as hell here in a tiny bathing suit, let alone a fur coat. Then…one of the employees came out to feed the baby. WITH THE FOOD FROM THE DOLLAR STORE THAT I MADE FUN OF A FEW POSTS AGO.
I almost vomited. I mean, dollar store food is, I’m sure, better than nothing, but really? UGH. Poor kitten. I wanted to steal him. Just can’t get away from my cat love, I ‘spose.
First of all, please let me reiterate how much I hate being woken up by a cat. Like I’ve said before, it’s not usually in my nature to sleep in, so when I DO, I know my body is saying “PLEASE GIVE ME AN EFFING REST!” Apparently my body is not in contact with Taco. I woke up at 9 because he wouldn’t shut up, and I was so tired it felt like I was getting up at my workday 5:30am for work. I was not pleased.
So we left them.
2nd beach trip of this mini vacay, and I insisted we leave “early,” i.e. 11:30. Because the weather is actually so perfectly perfect, the masses are all running out to the beaches for the holiday weekend. Well, this turned out to be not early enough, as there was nary a parking spot to be found. And of course, since I hate driving and I hate having plans ruined, I got overly frustrated and started crying. Yeah. I cry. I’m not afraid to punch a 200-pound dude in the face (I firmly believe that you can always fight someone bigger than you, but NEVER fight anyone crazier than you) but I will cry like a little girl when I don’t get my way. Perhaps this can be attributed to being an only child, maybe I’m just a baby. I don’t know. So I turned the controls over to the boyfriend )who is used to these episodes and should be up for sainthood for effortlessly dealing with them), telling him that I didn’t even care anymore, I just wanted to go home. He, of course, ignored me, and tried the parking lot again, where miraculously, a guy was pulling out at that exact moment. And no one else was waiting to take the spot. He’s my lucky charm. I really hate driving.
I know this is Florida. having lived here for the entirety of my life, I’m more familiar with the climate here than anywhere else in this entire world. So when I tell you it was scorching today, feel free to believe me completely.
I also know that I’m (mostly) Polish, and therefore prone to fairer skin than say, a Cuban, like my best friend, who never burns, instead turns a lovely shade of dark, as does the boyfriend (inexplicably, because his lineage is all European). So I have to wear sunscreen. I only wear 15SPF. I realize this is horrible for my future self, and in fact, my own mother had a spot of skin cancer from her nose years ago. In my defense, I DO wear 30 on my face, and not just at the beach, in my daily tinted moisturizer. Apparently I don’t care if the rest of my skin is leathery and wrinkled in my old age. I already hate what age is doing to my face, thanks to my birth control, which causes brown splotches called Melasma. You probably wouldn’t notice unless I pointed it out, but I have a dark spot resembling a mustache which I assure you is NOT actually a mustache. THANKS HORMONES.
But back to my story. Today, I felt like my skin was boiling. We spent two and a half hours there before we just couldn’t take it anymore. The water was lovely, but it can only help so much. And it’s only May. AND A COLD FRONT CAME THROUGH YESTERDAY! I can’t even imagine what it’s going to be when the real humidity kicks in. I despise laying on my stomach anyway (so hot and uncomfortable), but today it was just impossible. I couldn’t even READ. I GO to the beach to read. My body temperature was far too high to concentrate.
I’m not sure whether this is old age or global warming, but even the sand blistered my feet. It’s effing white! REFLECT HEAT LIKE YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO. WTF.
The kicker is that I didn’t even get burnt. At all. I can only barely see my tan lines.
And yes, I realize that I’m bitching about something that most people would DREAM to be able to bitch about, but I’m a Florida native girl, and the beach and reading on the beach and getting color is what makes me happy. Other people play bingo and shit. I bake myself and read. Scientifically, this is actually quite logical. Your body processing the sun’s rays produces Vitamin D, vital for one’s mood. And it’s better received this way than from supplements. And reading, well, who can say anything NOT beneficial about that?
That’s a hell of a case I just made there. I should have been a lawyer. Also, I think I should just move to Hawaii. The sand is better (it just FALLS OFF your feet AND it feels like a pumice scrub to walk over it) and I swear the Pacific salt water causes a more golden glow.
It’s day 1 of our mini vacay. I couldn’t REALLY sleep in because I had an eye appointment early-ish anyway, but Taco wasn’t having any of that. SIX THIRTY. A-hole.
This is Taco last night. He’s practically dead. Why can’t he be like this early in the morning?
Now the boyfriend and I are too lazy to go to the beach. Rather, I had everything kinda ready and the boyfriend said “Why don’t we be lazy today and go tomorrow.” I was TRYING to be un-lazy. It didn’t take much to twist my arm. I’m pining for the great weather I see outside, but…I have 4 more days, right? Why is it so much harder to force yourself to do things the older you get? I’m tempted to buy a kiddie pool so I can lay out back and dip my feet in. That’s pretty much the ultimate in laziness.
We did, at least, go to a beach bar yesterday. That’s something.
My caturday was spent, for the most part, without cats.
I know. This is shocking. Usually I spend my Caturdays lazing around the house, lamenting about how I’m too lazy to do anything. Recovering from my week. But this Caturday is special. For you see, I’m on vacation. Kind of. I am officially out of service where Big Brown in concerned all the way until after Memorial Day! WHEEEE! And to boot, I have an official WORK-FREE 5-day vacation starting at 3pm Wednesday!
It’s a lot easier to be unlazy when you know that you have more available lazy time in your future.
So today, I exerted myself. EXERTED! My friend and I rented bikes and rode around St. Pete. We oogled over old houses we can’t afford and took some beachy scenic routes. My friend loves history, so she didn’t seem to mind my stories (St. Pete is my hometown, so I spent a great deal of time saying “Well, THAT wasn’t there before”). Or the heat. I even sunscreened myself effectively, although possibly TOO effectively, because I don’t appear to have a tan. Which is probably good, because I don’t ride in my bathing suit (shocking, right?) and would have had some wretched tan lines, but I did want a LITTLE glow.
Despite the fact that neither of us had been on bikes in a rather long time, there were no injuries. Apparently “just like riding a bike” is quite the accurate metaphor. However, hills are another story, and so are bike seats. Now, I am not a skinny girl. I wouldn’t be skinny even if I starved myself. But I have a white girl butt. It’s fat and flat. Despite the flatness, there’s plenty of padding. It was useless.
And about the hills…there’s really no “hills” to speak of. Most of Pinellas county is under sea level. Perhaps “slight inclines” would be a better description. And these weren’t even too bad…until we stopped for lunch. With beer. It was noticeably more difficult to pedal after lunch. This could be attributed to the fact that we’d already been riding a few hours, or because we took a break from it. I liken it to getting a tattoo…you never want to take a break. Get it all done at once. If you stop, it hurts like a bitch upon restarting. But beer can’t possibly be detrimental, right?
Anyway, it was a lovely day. We were both so amazed that we made plans, kept them, AND the weather held out that we talked mostly about how amazed we were.
I didn’t see any cats. But I saw a lot of boats. Including catamarans. And after the 2nd catamaran we saw with a cat paw print in the name, it occurred to me that it was because they were CATamarans. So you see, I had a Caturday after all! IT ALL COMES AROUND TO CATS.
So here’s my day, in picture form.
This blog is supposed to be about fun. Fun and cats. But this is important.
The interwebz are fun. It’s been quite the journey for me to come from playing Oregon Trail on an Apple II to being able to carry around a 5lb. machine with the ability to share my words with the world, connect with people, learn about new things, have a virtually endless supply of information, etc. I remember when we first got AOL and suffered through the dial-up modem sounds. I had a pager when I was a teenager, as by that time they were “cool” and not just for drug dealers. I got a cell phone when I was 18. I remember when texting started. Now I can do anything on my cell phone that I can do on my computer. I watched this all transform and evolve. And this is all in the matter of my relatively short lifetime.
Despite the fact that we all (well, not all of us) willingly put out TONS of personal information for all to see, through blogs, Facebook, Twitter, etc., things that are private deserve to be kept private.
I introduce you to CISPA:
H.R. 3523, the Cyber Intelligence sharing and Protection Act of 2011, along with a handful of other bills currently circulating congress, all seek to give the government the power to force ISPs and other information aggregator companies to share ALL of your personal information, internet usage, and other data with ANY government agency or PRIVATE ENTITY [read: corporation] who requests it. The only requirement is that it be done in the name of “Cybersecurity,” which is never well-defined.
The important part of this bill is that it’s entirely vague. It gives the government power to pretty much to whatever they want. Keep in mind, too, that this bill is written by a group of (mostly) older people with less understanding of technology. I’m not saying that everyone over the age of 50 is a moron when it comes to keeping up. But how many IT guys are senators? These are career politicians.
Fear shouldn’t paralyze us so much that we allow our freedoms to be raped. I read 1984 when I was younger. I think I was probably too young to really understand the implications of it, but I do now. I am, for the most part, a law abiding citizen (I say most part because I think I break a few driving). I don’t have anything to hide. But that doesn’t mean that my email and my search history should be readily tapped into with a vague semblance of cause. That sounds DANGEROUSLY close to “thoughtcrime” to me.
Hold onto your freedoms. We’ve earned them.
WordPress has some lovely features regarding tracking the statistics of who’s reading your blog. Of course it’s rather egotistical of me to enjoy seeing how many people are reading my blog, but that’s ok with me. Although I do this because I enjoy it, I’m not the kind of writer who writes just to write. I want to be loved. Adored. Given accolades.
Part of the tracking includes what search terms users entered to arrive at one’s page. It’s highly interesting.
For instance, “super troopers” is the #1 search term used (I wrote a post about the “meow” game in the movie, it’s a cinematic masterpiece). Interesting mostly because this is a blog about cats, and I get the most hits from a (hilariously amazing) movie about blundering state troopers battling corrupt cops transporting pot with only one tiny scene involving the word “meow” which technically doesn’t even mention the word “cat.” This probably means my SEO skills need work (I’m working on it). Case in point, the second highest search term is “super troopers meow.” At least I know the people visiting my page have excellent taste in humor.
#3: meow puns. NOW we’re talking. In case you didn’t notice the name of my blog, it’s a pun. Punny!
Then there’s a bunch of variations of the above, plus a bunch of other cat-related things.
Now, I’m sure if someone looks into MY search term history, it would also be interesting. I like random things and I like looking them up. You never know what combination of words is going to get you to the destination you desire. But looking at the list of terms used by others, I feel fairly normal.
One person, obviously someone after my own heart, typed in “i dont wanna taco bout it im not kitten right now.” Love it. Don’t know what they expected to find with that. I should search that myself.
“which black panther like house cat hisses like a snake and meows like a child?” – God, I REALLY need to search these things myself. That’s gonna have to be my next in-depth blog.
“meow twitter fantasy football” – it’s entirely possible that I used that same search term trying to think of funny names for my fantasy football teams.
There’s a bazillion more interesting terms, but this is enough for today. If you’re reading this and you’re also a blogger who looks at their search term summary, please feel free to share YOUR oddest ones. I would love to hear them.
If you’ve read this blog before, you may know that I’m a vegan. I’m not one of those horrible militant ones who don’t speak to people who eat animal products. I was a vegetarian from ages 15-21, when suddenly I decided I wanted a chicken sandwich. Then I was a meat-eater until I think age 24 (I’ve totally forgotten how long it’s been) when I decided to cut out all animal products all together and follow a vegan lifestyle. This was due to a variety of reasons, the first being that I have a weak stomach and I never really liked meat all that much anyway – the whole idea of it grosses me out. I’ve also never really been a big fan of cheese, which I have found is unimaginable to a great deal of people. I hate eggs. I never drank milk. And I read Skinny Bitch, which I thought was just a book telling you in very mean ways that you have to stop eating crap and stop eating so much in general. I mean, it was, but the crap they tell you to stop eating is animal products. I’ve known a lot of uppity vegans so I was hesitant to go for it but I kept reading and decided screw it, it’s not like I eat that much animal anyway. I did not, however, realize how many animal products are hidden in regular ones, resulting in cutting myself off from an awful lot of food. You wouldn’t believe how many products sneak whey in.
But although I stay pretty close to totally vegan, my world won’t come to an end if I don’t. Depending on how hungry I am when we go to restaurants (you don’t want to see me hungry, I get HANGRY), I may or may not feign innocence as to asking what exactly is blah-blah made with. I try to only buy faux leather but sometimes I forget to look and you know, oops. I eat honey. Sounds weird to have to say that, but some vegans don’t. I mean, even white sugar isn’t vegan, it’s processed with animal bones. I use raw sugar myself, but I don’t not eat things with sugar in it.
The point. The boyfriend and the cats are solid meat eaters. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been asked if my cats are vegan. Is there no logic left in the world? I’ve also had plenty of shocked reactions when I tell people my significant other eats meat. What? How can this be? A MEAT EATER and a NON MEAT EATER living in the same house? Egads! More amazingly, sometimes I MAKE meat meals for him! I feed the cats meat! OH, THE HORRORS!
I have no real point to this story other than that earlier I was putting stuff in the crockpot to make chicken gumbo for the boyfriend. I’m not a huge fan of cutting raw chicken but I can manage. However…fresh andoille (sp?) sausage…that is apparently my grossout breaking point. I made the boyfriend cut that. I can’t even look at the crockpot right now. I’m still nauseous just thinking about it. As a polack, I grew up on kielbasa. I’m so glad that I didn’t comprehend what it was then. I could never ever ever eat that again. I suppose it’s better than the traditional Polish blood soup that my dad had to eat when he was a kid, though.
I like to read. I LOVE to read, in fact. I read a bunch of crap, like chick lit and sometimes accidentally romance novels when the cover of the book fools me into thinking it’s chick lit. I’ll read it anyway. It’s like candy. No nutritional value but it’s fun while you’re eating it. I try to balance out my crap reading with what I call “smart books,” a.k.a. non-fiction or classic novels. I don’t always make it through the non-fictions…they’re always really interesting to me at first, and then I get bored. But sometimes I don’t, which brings me to my point. Malcolm Gladwell totally keeps my interest on non-fiction subjects, so as a result I’ve read several of his books, the first being The Outliers. It’s about incredibly successful people and WHY they are successful. The basic consensus is this: successful people don’t have to have giant IQs, in fact, sometimes intelligence that high is detrimental. No social skills. IQ doesn’t measure street smarts. High-ish IQs seem to be best. But what really makes a successful person successful is luck. I prefer to call it “random advantageous circumstances” since I don’t believe in “luck” as it’s defined. And it’s not just luck, it’s being able to recognize these random advantageous circumstances and furthermore, taking advantage of them. Bill Gates is one of those people. He was in the right place at the right time with the right interests and knew to milk that shit.
Let me switch subjects for a sec. You’ll see where I’m going with this. Now, I by no means consider myself a writer. I probably should, I make my living proofreading and dabbling in copywriting. And it’s not as if I think I’m a BAD writer, really, I just realize that I’m not the best. I ramble, I can’t keep track of my tenses, I DESPISE re-reading my work to check for errors (stream of conscious writing, you know) and I don’t always have a solid point. BUT…I do adore the subjects I write about (kitties) and I have good stories.
(Here’s where I put the two together.) As a smart girl, I feel like I should have done something considerable with my life. But I’m grown up and I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up (cat whisperer is at the top of my list currently, but as you can read here, it seems kind of hard to break into). Since reading the Outliers, I keep that recipe for success in the back of my mind at all times. I’m always on the lookout for my million dollar idea. For the wave to ride to success. When I started this blog, it was because my cats are psycho and frankly, I don’t always believe the things they do. Writing about my crazy cat experiences is cathartic and highly rewarding (who doesn’t like favorable comments?) But I always hoped that I’d find a way to make it my million dollar idea. Well, no one’s offered me a sponsorship yet, but I decided to take it upon myself and look into getting paid via ads. Which is when I discovered that WordPress ain’t havin’ none of that. Unless you go through them and you buy your domain name. It seems rather sad to pick up my toys and leave for greener and more profitable pastures. And as of now I’m not planning to. I just needed to vent about my defunct dream. ONE MORE MILLION DOLLAR DREAM DOWN THE DRAIN!
I also failed on the “marrying for money” idea. What can I say? I’m a sucker for love.
So if anyone knows how I can make my crazy cat stories into stacks of benjamins, hit me up, yo. I’ll be on that like a cheap suit. Until then, I’m going to see if I can get the cats jobs.
Today is a sad day. It’s the last day of football season. My fantasy season was over long ago, having had a miserable showing. Technically right now I’m playing for 9th place. Out of 12. Having come in 3rd last year, this is a bit of a downer. Tis life, right?
Except my Buccaneers, my REAL football team, started off with the best of playoff hopes and will finish out the season on a 6-game losing streak because there’s pretty much no way in hell they’re going to beat the Falcons today (I AM, however, wearing my lucky shirt…the lucky part has no real foundation in fact, I just happen to notice that sometimes we win when I wear it. Not scientific at all). I don’t have a “secondary” favorite team, where’s the loyalty in that?
Bucs or bust. So I’m bustin’. Damn you, Josh Freeman, and all you adderall-taking cornerbacks…I mean, you’re football players. What do you need adderall for? Learning the play books? I doubt your self-diagnosed ADD affects your football-playing abilities. You know better than that. Or maybe you don’t, that’s why you play football. Whatever.
Football players can be real assholes. Yeah, they get paid too much. So do a lot of people, though. Like garbage men. But they probably deserve it more. Then again, getting slammed to the ground by 400-pound men repeatedly doesn’t sound like a blast, either. Maybe they all need some cats.
I bet they would be much better people. Just not Michael Vick. He should be put in the pound himself. I can’t believe that jackass has a dog now. I hope it bites his hand off. No, then they would euthanize the dog. Ok, I hope a random dog bites his hand off and runs off into the sunset.
Yes, I’m rambling. But in addition to my sad football day, it’s also “that time of the month” where perfectly normal women become whiny babies curled up in fetal positions contemplating hysterectomies. So that’s where I’m at. I think it’s time to start drinking.
FOLLOW-UP: The Bucs WON. And they actually looked GOOD. I’m pleased. Not like it got us into the playoffs or anything, but at the very least it gives me hope for next season. Maybe not quite hope, but a less bitter taste in my mouth to take with me into the offseason. Super Bowl XVIII, here we come!