The cats are no longer illegitimate.

So that’s what’s new with me. The boyfriend is no longer the boyfriend, but the husband. Which is still, after a week, weird for me to say. After all, he’s been “the boyfriend” for 11 years. I suppose it will take a bit more than a week to get used to the idea.

No, it is not because I have a “bun in the oven.” It was mostly for insurance. But somewhere along the way, despite our idea that it was just a piece of paper, I’ve realized it’s more than that. Although I am not religious and extraordinarily averse to doing things for tradition’s sake, being legally bound to your significant other IS different. My main beef with marriage is that if it doesn’t work out, you just get a divorce anyway, so what’s the point? It’s just a more expensive breakup. But we took the plunge. At the courthouse. Without guests (so no one could get upset, and I didn’t think they’d allow the cats, and even if they did, the hubz would have nixed that idea quickly). The idea of a big fancy day all about me sounds absolutely splendid, and in fact, I did get caught up in planning something – but it is disgustingly expensive and I can think of a million different things that would be a better use of money. Also, I hate planning. Simply because I am bad at it. So we’ll have a party for the family and friends who were still a teeny bit sad that we didn’t do it all in front of them. In retrospect, very glad, because just in front of the clerk of the court I felt awkward and weird and I cried unexpectedly.

So we told the cats they weren’t bastards anymore. They don’t care. Apparently they are the least affected by this legal union. Someone still puts food in their dishes.

In other news, I got the new iPhone 6 (not the Plus, I do not want to hold an iPad to my head on the rare occasions I actually use my phone as a phone). And how have I utilized my BRAND NEW technology that is so highly in demand? Taking slo-mo videos of the cats. Fingerprint ID is neat and all, but I could watch Moosh shake his head in slo-mo for HOURS.

Yup. Nothing has really changed at all here.

It DOES take some mighty good pics!

It DOES take some mighty good pics!


What makes indoor cats go rogue?

The other day, a friends of mine, through a course of unfortunate events that unbeknownst to them, left their door able to be pushed open if the bolt wasn’t locked. This led to the door, either through wind or through cat, opening at some point during the night, so when they woke up, one of their two strictly-indoor cats was missing. The other one apparently had no desire to explore. There was no prior indication that the cat ever wanted to see what else was out there. The cat, as far as I know, is sadly, still missing, although she does have a microchip so if she is picked up for any reason, they’ll be notified. And they’ve alerted the neighbors, canvassed, put up signs, etc.

So what’s different between cats?

My cat at my mom’s, Fatty, LOVED to run out the damn door when he was younger. I would get up at 5am, open the front door to get the paper, and WHOOSH! Cat bolted. At the time, I didn’t have glasses and had never put in my contacts yet so I blindly and barefootedly had to run out in the dark yard to chase after him. He usually only made it to halfway around the house, where he would then turn and haul ass back inside. Sometimes it went on a bit longer than this, maybe under a car, maybe all the way to the backyard, but he usually didn’t venture much further even though a large, blind human was chasing him. I think it was just him screwing with me. Nothing is funny at 5am, especially not chasing a cat while stepping on slugs.

Long ago, when we were just a one-cat household, I didn’t quite latch the door when I left for work and the boyfriend woke up to a wide open door. He ran out to find Moosh sitting on the porch chair. The porch is not enclosed, and he could have gone anywhere. It seems the porch was enough for him.

There was one other time we woke up to a wide open front door. Neither Taco nor Moosh had any interest and in fact, seemed to be as far away as possible from the door. My assumption is that they associate fresh air with the vet, because they only start howling in the cat carrier when we step out the door. Neither of my cats are chipped. This is probably very bad on my part, but since we only have two doors, and they are TERRIFIED of the sliding glass door and run away whenever it’s opened, and they don’t have any desire to go out the other one, I figure they’re not going anywhere.

But what governs cats’ desires? Why did Fatty rush to get out while Taco has never set foot? Taco’s mom was, as far as I know, feral. If anything, he should have more internal desire to roam. And all the cats I speak of are fixed. So it’s not a desire to mate (that would speak for itself).

You cat people reading this…what are your experiences with indoor cats and the outdoor world?

Clearly, he would not last long in the harsh reality of outdoor life.

Clearly, he would not last long in the harsh reality of outdoor life.

Latest obsession. Bad movies.

So you’re totally going to think that this is brought on by Shark Week (which is this week, in case you haven’t seen the commercial with Rob Lowe that plays every 5 seconds on every channel that WILL make you want to feed Rob Lowe to a shark after about the oh, say, 59th time). Or because Sharknado 2 just came out last week. But it’s not.

When Sharknado came out last year, I thought it was just some goofy D-list movie. I was amused, but thought nothing of it.


This obsession didn’t even start with shark movies. I think the first day I got sucked into a full day of bad movie marathoning, there was a movie about underground methane veins that threatened to destroy the world, and then another about the poles reversing and the world being overtaken by magnetic storms, so on and so forth.

I can’t stop once I start. These movies have completely unbelievable plot lines, horrible writing and even worse acting…but they’re like train wrecks. I can’t look away. There ARE a ton of shark ones. Some more out there than Sharknado, even. Sand Shark, anyone? Who fancies a Ghost Shark? SHARKTOPUS???

But you know what there is NONE of?


This is more like it.

This is more like it.


I have had exactly two cat sightings. One was a zombie movie, and it was a zombie tiger. Now THAT was an interesting point. If there ever WAS a zombie apocalypse, it would not be the pansy-ass human zombies I would worry about. Zombie tigers? Now THOSE you don’t want to eff with.

Still, it was just a cameo. And there was an alien movie yesterday where a cat made a cameo as the pet of a brilliant Russian electrician who barricaded himself from the aliens in some sort of electric cage.

That’s it. Apparently only sharks, alligators and dinosaurs are fearsome enough to be considered as bad science fiction fodder. Where’s Ocean Lion? I hear producers everywhere smacking themselves in the face, wondering why they haven’t come up with that. You’re welcome. That one’s free.

It’s entirely possible that because this new obsession is still in its infancy that I am just not aware of such compelling titles. If so, I humbly apologize. But SyFy better run a marathon of those soon, because as much as I think sharks are pretty darn neat, I’m getting just a TEEEEEENY bit sick of them.

There are no cats in hospitals.

Which is where I currently am. Nothing horrible, the boyfriend just had to get a tiny bit of spinal surgery done. Amazing what they can do these days. Just clip out the bad ol’ disc and pop in an artificial one! No worries.

There is, however, a lot of waiting. While this hospital seems to have everything operating like a well-oiled machine, there is still, nonetheless, a lot of waiting. Arrive 3 hours before surgery. 1 hour with anesthesiologist. 1.5 hours of actual surgery. 1.5 hours of recovery from anesthesia. This is where I’m at now. Waiting for him to be brought up to his room. So much better than the surgery waiting room, which is pretty small and REALLY full of people. Especially when there is an entire Italian family waiting for one particular patient.

I prefer to wait alone. I’m not good at waiting. I’m impatient. I was never actually worried, because I do have a rather large amount of faith in modern medicine, plus I did an awful lot of research so I knew exactly what the risks were and the benefits and the procedure, all that junk. Granted, it’s easy for me to say since no one was cutting ME up, but the person being cut happens to be someone I love very much and would prefer to keep in one piece.

No, I’m just antsy. Give me a couch and a book and I’ll sit there all day, but give me the same book with an uncomfortable chair and tell me to read while I wait for something and it’s an entirely different story. So while everyone and their mother (literally) offered to keep me company, I declined. Antsy and impatient are much better alone.

But since this blog is about cats, I should probably tie that in somehow. Maybe if I could bring the kitties to entertain me while I wait. A cat-petting waiting room. Probably not very sanitary. I feel sanitary is really at the top of the list at a hospital. And as far as hospitals go, this one is pretty decent. Even got a black bean burger for lunch. But I’m probably going to have blood clots in my legs from sitting all day, because although they put some of those compression socks on the boyfriend to avoid blood clots, they do NOT pass those out to the waiters.

Who doesn't love a good pair of compression socks and snuggle socks?

Who doesn’t love a good pair of compression socks and snuggle socks?

Pro tip of the day: bring your own. If there is ever a next time, I will know to do that. But I’ll still leave the furry sons at home. No smuggling.

You learn something new every day.

I have 3 litterboxes. You’re supposed to have as many as you have cats, plus one, and there should be one on every floor (I live in a townhouse). However, since we added one downstairs in an effort to stop Taco from peeing on the couch, both cats have, for the most part, abandoned using the two upstairs, mostly likely because the downstairs one is next to the kitchen and they can cause the most destruction with their foul smells. It’s great, really. I love knowing my olfactory senses are working to full capacity.

That being said, since they hardly use the upstairs ones, I only check them once a week or so. Perhaps that’s slightly neglectful. But honestly, the smell is usually a dead giveaway if there’s waste requiring removal.

So imagine my surprise when last night, I opened the covered box to find it was completely and utterly infested with tiny brown bugs. I mean, hundreds. And after closer inspection, I realized that the tiny brown bugs were not just confined to the box, but all over the surrounding carpet.

Now, I freely admit I’m not the best housekeeper. I’m more like a PigPen. This does not mean I live in filth. The boyfriend makes up for what I lack, and I do try to keep things tidy. I’m messy, but not dirty. But still, I would like to think that I would have noticed a bazillion of these freakin’ bugs all over. So I’m reasonably sure that the infestation grew fairly quickly.

We took the box outside (where it still resides, I don’t feel like cleaning it just yet) and vacuumed up the offenders. The boyfriend immediately blamed cat poop.

So I did what every good American would do.

I googled.

You know those bugs that end up in your pantry, usually in your flour?

Yeah. Turns out they dig corn, too. Which is conveniently what my cat litter is made of. It seems there’s a certain trade-off in being environmentally friendly and therefore shunning clay litter.

The danger is always lurking.

The danger is always lurking.

So hey, at least I’m not the only one this happened to. And maybe it’s because they don’t use that box. Because the high traffic box doesn’t have a single bug (at least that I can see).

World’s Best Cat Litter, I am hereby calling you out. I do like your product, but give a girl a warning, seriously.

Birthdays and vets and kittens and fat.

Took Taco to the vet yesterday. Just the yearly checkup, which I think was 2 months late. Anyway, both the boys just had birthday, Moosh is now six and Taco four…and apparently 4 is the year to get FAT. Because according to the vet, that’s what Taco is. Tell me how I’m supposed to reduce his food when he eats all of the food? I can’t starve Moosh to cut back on Taco. I got a grazer and a gorger. Guess who wins?

Layin' out

Layin’ out

And seriously, 13 lbs for a cat is NOT that bad. Sure, he was 11 lbs for the majority of his adult life but 2 lbs in a year isn’t THAT bad. As much as he runs around I cannot believe he’s getting fatter. Plus, I discovered that we’ve actually been buying “moderate calorie” food, which explains why we’ve been running through it so fast — and why the cats have been begging for food 3 hours after morning feedings.

It also is a two-man job to even get Taco into the carrier, despite careful planning. I had attempted to carry out the kidnapping without waking the boyfriend up but alas, it got too loud, which was fortunate because he heard enough to shut the bedroom door just in time to avoid Taco running in and hiding under the bed. Then came down to help, since I got Taco in but couldn’t close with one hand.

They have kittens for adoption at my vet. These kittens were adorable. I threatened Taco if he didn’t shape up, I was trading him in for a new model. His performance didn’t improve, but the vet rejected my trade offer. Go figure.

As all cat owners know (I assume all, every cat I’ve ever had is MISERABLE in the car) I endured bone-chilling howls all the way there. Slightly muted on the way back. And, upon arriving home, feeling horribly guilty for all my evil doings, proceeded to give Taco all of the treats in the world. Including turkey, which he meowed incessantly for, but didn’t know what to do with upon receiving. Shrugh.

Still a crazy cat lady. Emphasis on CRAZY.

Yes, it has been forever, and I’m sure you’re asking “Why now?” I say, “Why not?”

Maybe because I ran out of cat things to talk about. Or because I’m busy. Whatever it is, here I am again!

So. Yes. I am crazy. Not in a “needs to be locked up” sense, but close.

The fact that Moosh likes to sleep above my head is well-documented in other posts, so I won’t get into it. So the other night, whilst in the middle of what was apparently a very deep sleep, Moosh bit my hand (regardless of position, I almost always have to have one arm positioned somehow above my head). Now, being that I was, in fact, in the middle of a very deep sleep, I’m really foggy on what exactly happened, other than that my hand hurt quite a bit. I woke up enough to see that it was bleeding, but just barely, and I was so tired that I decided any bacteria would just have to wait for the morning and I went back to sleep, as did Moosh. In the morning, I saw there was another mark on the other side of my hand, in keeping with my bite theory. It wasn’t very deep, so I just peroxided it, antibiotic-ed it, and slapped a few bandaids on (by the way, these are impossible to keep stuck on your palm).

I pondered the reasoning for the bite for the rest of the morning, and while I assumed that I may have jerked in my sleep (I sleep punch the boyfriend a lot so this is a valid assumption) which freaked Moosh out who then bit, the thought suddenly occurred to me that I only had 48 hours to get a rabies shot before it was too late and I began the spiral down into what I hear is a horrible death by insanity.

The chance of rabies being an issue is pretty much .000000%. Both of my boys are strictly indoors and get their shots yearly.

However. I am what I like to call a “disaster planner,” meaning I can only relax and tackle an issue once I have determined the worst case scenario and planned for it. I blame the girl scouts. It’s not pessimism, I just feel better identifying it. Then I can plan for the most realistic outcome.

So I emailed my vet to please verify that Moosh was up to date on his rabies shots. I’m sure I gave them a laugh for the day, but yes, they assured me, he had it in January.

So that just leaves infection. Cat bites are pretty much the worst for bacteria. If you ever have a choice, get bit by a dog instead.

When I took off the bandaids at the end of the day I realized the marks were kind of parallel and more in line with claw marks rather than a bite. All that for a damn scratch. But hey, I was asleep.

I also do not feel as crazy as the person who put a t-shirt on a perfectly nice outdoor cat. This cat accosted me on my porch the other night, meowing and rubbing on my legs, and tried to run in my house. It ignored the food I put out for him so it seems he’s someone’s cat…but what MORON puts a shirt on their cat (also, what moron lets their cat outside, but that’s a different story)? I debated taking the shirt off the cat because it seems so very dangerous but I wondered if they maybe had a really good reason for putting the shirt on the cat. I may put a notice on the neighborhood board calling out the idiot owner.

GWAR hear this.

I’ve been awfully spotty with my blogging as of late, but tonight I find myself bedridden with a thrown-out back (this is a first for me, and it is not fun, and I don’t like it) so I figure I may as well.

And despite my spotty blogging record, I’m choosing to write a post not about cats, but about my favorite band. I have lots of whacked out theories about life, and while some of them are wishful thinking and pure speculation, there’s one that’s held true. Never trust a person who doesn’t have a favorite band. I have no actual evidence to back this up. I have, however, found that the people I know who have favorite bands (or artists, whatever) end up being people I like and remain friends with. Perhaps this is a loyalty thing. Whatever it is, it is a theory that works for me. And while my 2nd favorite cycles around a large mix of eclectic types of music (namely 2 Chainz, Lady Gaga, Bloodhound Gang and Blood for Blood… imagine THAT concert), my #1 has been around since the ripe old age of 14, when my 8th grade boyfriend (I think we “went out” for a whole week) lent me a cassette tape. That band has been and forever will be the illustrious Gwar. Yes, those dudes in the costumes. Back then I was finding myself still, I started 8th grade into alternative and ended as a punk rocker, which at heart I suppose I’ll always be. But I’ve never strayed from Gwar. Through everything, they’ve been my go-to. When I got my first car, I plastered it with Gwar stickers. And I’ll always remember how ecstatic I was to see them the first time. And while I’ve seen them countless times since, I skipped quite a few, too. Why? Because I’ll catch the next one. Because I had to work. Because I was tired.

I regret those missed ones now, because I can’t catch the next one. The lead singer, Dave Brockie (better known as Oderus Urungus), died. There’s no Gwar without him. You can’t find a karaoke singer to replace his madness like the Asian Steve Perry in Journey. And I’ve found myself devastated. My logic side feels silly for being so upset. But I am. I lost part of my teenage self. The one I found every time I saw them live, even now as an old lady (the last two times I ended up giving myself whiplash from the headbanging, this didn’t happen when I was younger). That constant in my life is gone.

The 3rd time I saw them, none of my friends wanted to go so I went myself. I was sitting outside when I saw Dave Brockie walking around, and no one else recognized him out of costume. I remember going up to him and talking to him, and he was just cool as shit. He didn’t get creepy and hit on me like a lot of douchebags in bands do when they talk to girls, or talk down to me like some stupid starstruck kid,  he just talked to me like I was a fan and friend. I will never in my life forget that. It’s not like I could like the band any more than I already did, but it meant a lot to me. Yeah, he’s not uber famous. I didn’t have some amazing, rare encounter. But I think the affirmation that I liked the people behind the band I was such a fan of meant more.

So I’m not apologizing for being a grown adult and crying over the death of someone I barely knew. I’m crying over the loss of what really is a legend. There’s nothing in the world like Gwar and there never will be again. Dave Brockie was a fucking genius. He was hilarious. He was offensive. He never failed me, except for two really really bad albums (but I still know them note for note). Gwar was more than just a band, they were ART. Beautiful, offensive, bloody art. So Oderus, I will miss you horribly. And in your memory, I will remember to offend the living shit out of everyone I possibly can, because above all, you truly taught me the meaning of “fuck em if they can’t take a joke.” So fuck ’em.


Happy birthday to me

Apparently I’ve either gotten way busier or way less interesting in blogging in the past year. Could be a healthy combination of both.

I would also like to note that my hangovers are continuing on their decline as I age. Is that wisdom or just your body reminding you that you can’t party like you used to?


Either way, I had a lovely birthday weekend, except for the hours of Saturday that I slept off the vile poisoning of the night before. The cats were mercifully silent and napped along with me. For this, I give them my heart.