Tagged: cats
Hurricane a comin’ – batten down the kitties.
As a lifelong Florida resident, I’m fairly used to hurricanes. I personally have only been in one, and technically it didn’t come on shore, just squeezed by really close. That was 1985, and I was 3. It’s actually the earliest memory I have. Evacuating to what would one day be my high school.
The number of POTENTIAL hurricanes I’ve been through, that’s a different story. Weatherpeople positively salivate over the slightest inkling of a storm brewing. You can see the excitement in their eyes. Personally, I find them fascinating. I always wanted to be a hurricane hunter, which would conveniently combine my love of hurricanes and my love of flying, but unfortunately it also involves something I would dislike, which is joining the Navy. I think it’s the navy. Either way, my aversion to authority makes that a not-so-awesome option.
This is Tommy, my dad’s old plane. The urge to pilot is genetic. Do not attempt to hurricane hunt in this.
Fortunately, it looks like Isaac is moving away from my little peninsula-on-a-peninsula. Which means I’ll have to work tomorrow, but it also means I don’t have to sandbag my sliding glass doors. Or put up shutters, or worry about roofs flying off. Thanks to the kitties drinking only distilled water, I am able to justify my large bottled water purchase, and it will not go to waste, like the last time I bought a bunch of water for an almost-hurricane, and let it sit in the linen closet for years (I don’t know why I stored them there, I suppose it must have seemed like a good place at the time) before realizing they’d expired. Did you know water has an expiration date? I don’t know why, maybe it’s the plastic leaching into the water or something. Either way, I’m an avid follower of the expiration dates (except with peanut butter, I’m reasonably sure that never goes bad) so I poured out the water and dutifully recycled the bottles.
I’m slightly annoyed that I didn’t buy more food for the week, as I didn’t want things to go to waste if the power went out. And I completely forgot to buy more Rescue Remedy (a natural de-stresser) for Taco. Hurricanes pose more of a threat to Taco than just blowing over his home. The Feline Idiopathic Cystitis, my vet says, seems to flare up in cats when there are hurricanes around. Sensitive little things they are. And he doesn’t even have to worry about boarding up windows!
I’m not sure why Taco looks terrified here.
It’s also good that we don’t have to evacuate, because I only have one cat carrier…I keep meaning to buy another one but the prices are outrageous for what is essentially a glorified gym bag.
40 bucks for this thing, and it’s a piece of crap.
Now I’m off to go do laundry until it’s time to pick up the boyfriend from his 2nd fantasy football draft. Draft #2 for me is online, so at least I don’t have to drive anywhere else in the crappy weather that the outer bands of Isaac are supposed to bring. Traditionally, a hurricane party could still commence (as long as you did some sort of preparation because the chance of getting hit was there, that’s the only prerequisite), but that would make for an even worse Monday.
Kids? Yeah, I have furry ones.
I’m 30, and I’m pretty sure if my biological clock was going to start ticking, it would have by now. Granted, my mom was 38 when she had me so I probably have time to change my mind if I so desire.
But I’m pretty sure I won’t.
I don’t get all goo-goo-ga-ga over kids. Sure, they’re cute, but I’ll take my cats any day. They depend on my for food and attention but for the most part, they’re pretty self sufficient. I don’t have to take them to school or make them do their homework. I don’t have to worry that they’re hanging out with a bad crowd. I don’t have to let them borrow my car. Not that kids are BAD, by any means, but I think they’re not for me. I’ve heard the whole “Oh, when you actually have one, you’ll understand.” Ok, but what if I DON’T? There’s no 30-day trial period where I can decide “Eh, this just isn’t a good fit” and stuff it back in there. There’s no going back. And on top of that, there’s 9 months of morning sickness, swollen feet, kicking baby to get through first. And if that wasn’t enough, let’s throw in labor pains and the actual process of shoving a watermelon through…well…you get the idea. I’m crossing my legs just thinking about it.
How cute is my lil baby? I mean, come ON.
Cats? I’ll goo-goo-ga-ga over them every time. There’s something so innocent and loving about them that doesn’t turn into teenage angst someday. I love being a cat mom. But in some respects, I think it’s a hard choice because unlike kids, you’re almost guaranteed to outlive them. So theoretically I’m setting myself up for repeated heartbreak. I’ve been there. We put our beloved 1 1/2-year-old baby Jager to sleep after a month or so of tests, medicine x-rays and a surgery ruled out everything except Feline Infectious Perionitis. There’s no test for it, because cats can carry the virus that causes it without it ever turning into FIP, so a positive result doesn’t necessarily mean that’s what it is. There’s also no cure. It’s fatal. It was an extended heartbreak because every test carried a little bit of hope that just got smashed, and the dread slowly built until it was settled. There’s another thing you don’t have to do with human kids. Decide if euthanasia is the humane choice. Yeah, there’s the decision to take off life support but you’re not actually giving the orders to essentially cause the death. And worse, you have to decide WHEN. Too soon? Too late?
Even when he was really sick, my lil boy loved sleeping in the newspaper bin. I miss you, kittania.
I know there are people who don’t feel the way I do about the furry babies. People who wouldn’t think twice about putting a cat to sleep. But this is me, and the older I get, the more I think I was meant to be a cat mom. I know the parents want grandkids, but frankly, I think I’m too selfish for that kind of commitment. There are days when even scooping out a litterbox is too much of a bother. How the hell would I deal with diaper changes and 3am feedings? And GODDAMN how do people afford children? The boyfriend and I both work two jobs, and while we don’t make crazy money, I’m pretty sure our incomes are above average. I couldn’t possibly see how we could add that expense in. Hell, I don’t know how my mom did it.
There are plenty of kids in this world. Ones that go hungry. Ones that are abused. Ones that are homeless. In some ways I feel that it would be pretty selfish of me to bring another one into this world just so I could pass on my (admittedly amazing) genes.
For now, I’m good with things the way they are. I haven’t even come to terms with the fact that I, myself, am an adult now. I just bought a pair of ballet shoes on a whim. Am I taking dance lessons? No. I just want to play dress-up, apparently. I’m obviously unfit for motherhood.
It’s hard to write a blog with a cat on your lap.
Yet here I am, writing a blog with a purring Taco curled up like my lap is the only place in the world that’s remotely comfortable. And even that’s a stretch, because he keeps getting up and readjusting and flopping down like his legs are broken. Taco’s a funny cat. He doesn’t do anything halfway. I give him mad props for that. When he loves you, he REALLY REALLY REALLY loves you. When he’s playing with a giant moth, he’s going to play with that hideous thing until…well…until I pick it up and throw it outside. I couldn’t find it half the time, and the few occasions that I did, it was in Taco’s mouth and that just plain grossed me out. I’m really not sure how that thing was even alive, but it was flap-flap-flapping away. Wasn’t really going anywhere. But it sure was fun for Taco. Moosh just kind of tagged along when he felt like it. I guess it was too much work for him to have any real part in it. Besides, Moosh’s specialty is attacking moving lights. He’d starve in the real world. I think he’s a little “special.”
Moosh LOOOOOVES his pillow time.
Cat is off my lap. That’s good, because he made a horrible armrest. Too furry.
Taco on my lap, one day when it was sunny. Fun fact: he will only sit on my lap while I’m sitting at the desk.
It’s a rainy, crappy day today and I don’t feel inspired by anything. So this is just some random musings. I didn’t even get to do my weekly retail therapy at Le Boutique Target today. There was thunder and lightning. Lots of it. Sure, I’ve got galoshes for the rain part, but I’m not willing to test out my lightning strikeability anytime soon.
So. Lazy boyfriend, lazy cats, lazy me. Anyone doing anything fun and sunshiny? Don’t tell me, I don’t wanna hear about it. Sigh.
Taco is a FOUL beast. Ugh.
Cat-related injuries. It’s an epidemic.
I am a klutz. I’ve always been a klutz. I trip over things it should be impossible to trip over, I run into things that weren’t even remotely in my way and I’m covered in bruises.
There was the time that I got off a machine at the gym, bent down to pick up my bag and smashed my forehead into the arm that holds the plates on the leg press that was next to me. That left a dent. I was shocked it didn’t split my head open.
I put a knife through my hand emptying the dishwasher. That was two stitches.
I know. It’s kinda gross.
I sliced my shin open moving a broken mirror while trying on outfits for my 7th grade picture day. Stitches…haute couture accessory!
I fell off a docked sailboat while getting off onto the dock, straddling the rope that moored it — resulting in the only broken bone I’ve ever had — tailbone. At least I think I broke it, I couldn’t sit for weeks. It still aches a little while doing lunges.
Last night I caught my thumb in the door hinge while closing it. Not sure how I did that, really.
These are just a few examples of why I own the title “Princess Grace.”
So. WHY do I have cats that add to the injury tally? Today, I closed my foot in the door because I thought I stepped on one of them and put my weight back on the foot that I was in the process of moving out of the way of the closing door. This wasn’t REALLY the cats’ fault, the rug had bunched up and that’s what I stepped on…but if the cats didn’t exist, I wouldn’t have thought I stepped on one.
He is TRYING to kill me.
So many times I’ve had to attempt extreme body contortion to grab the railing of the stairs while going down or up when a cat ran underfoot. Countless pulled muscles there.
I’ve had more than one lovely black and blue mark from the cats chasing each other at full speed and I had the AUDACITY to have my leg in the way. Those little buggers have really hard heads. This also causes a rise in my anxiety levels as I watch for signs of concussion. I don’t even know if cats get concussed, yet this is a valid concern for me.
And the scratches. Dear lord. I have more scar tissue than…I don’t know, someone with a lot of scar tissue. Moosh is usually pretty good with the perching on the shoulders but every once in awhile he loses his footing and my chest gets the bloody end of the stick. My most unfavorite is when I’m holding one or the other and something spooks them, resulting in an unwelcome claw stuck in the skin, while I frantically try to stop the spooked cat from flailing and attempting to remove said claw with the least amount of damage possible. And it’s always somewhere fleshy and painful, like a boob or armpit.
See that evil look?
My conclusion is this: my cats will outlive me.
Bad kitty mommy again.
This picture of Moosh in a kitty bed on the human bed does not relate to my story at all. Just felt like throwing it in here.
I have been a bad kitty mommy this week. I’ve been so busy and cranky and having to deal with a bazillion things that I didn’t notice the litter box was at capacity. The other night, Taco loudly made his displeasure known. When I realized the cause of his discontent, I went over to deal with it. But the Litter Genie was full, so that took some extra time to re-set.
I noticed Taco had stopped meowing. Why? Because he was peeing on the couch. Yes, we have puppy pads there for this very reason, but he TRIED to hold it. From the sheer volume of pee there, I assume he’d been holding it for quite awhile. Those puppy pads kinda suck, too, his paws were wet — so I panicked and did what everyone (I think everyone, anyway) would do…I marched him to the bathroom to attempt a paw washing in the sink. This did not go over well. I got a couple of vague rinses in and gave up, tried to dry them off with toilet paper and promptly locked him in the bathroom for what I thought would be an appropriate amount of time for him to clean himself up and not get cat pee smell everywhere. As I did that, he meowed weirdly, in a way that sent me into yet another panic that I had hurt in somehow in the sink struggle.
I think he was just traumatized, because he seems to be fine now.
It’s been awhile since he peed on the couch, but it’s just as frustrating and even more so because I could have prevented it. I mean, living your life with a shower curtain and puppy pads on your couch is hardly a way to live…and I didn’t need to make matters worse. Of course, it pissed off the boyfriend too (who yes, could have cleaned the litter box as well) which I do understand…after all, he did buy the couches and all. But he’s a cat (Taco, not the boyfriend), and it’s mostly my fault anyway.
This week has just been unpleasant overall. But this always raises my spirits:
Furry bed.
So we’d had the same duvet cover for like 4 years, and I was getting bored with it. It’s nice enough, brown and tan in a damask pattern, but I was bored and ready to change things up a bit.
Moosh hoggin’ up the old duvet cover
I wanted some sort of gray comforter, but it would seem that those are rather hard to find, and as the story of my life goes, every one that I found and liked was astronomically priced. I swear, it really is a curse to be blessed with such amazing taste and no riches to back it up. Thanks a lot, parents. Geez. If you were relying on ME to make the millions, you would have been better off trading off some of the smarts for a little more drive. Not to toot my own horn or anything, but I’m just talented enough at things that I feel I don’t really need to work on them as well as not driven enough to exploit said talents.
I digress. This is about our comforter. So anyway, I ended up settling on a nice black duvet cover. I was KIND of disappointed with it because the fabric was so thin, but that’s besides the point. It’s also rather disgusting what they charge for duvet covers. It’s basically buying a oversized pillowcase, yet they rape your wallet. Honestly, I could have made one with two sheets, but I gave up that idea based on the margin for error involved. And the aforementioned laziness.
The black comforter. It seemed like a good idea. Moosh is black and Taco is mostly dark.
NOT DARK ENOUGH. It wasn’t really that noticeable with the brown duvet, but HOLY CRAP my bed is a freaking fur coat. I don’t know if the fabric catches the fur better or I can just see it more, but there is more cat hair residing on my bed than 2 weeks of vacuuming the entire house yields. Again, HOW ARE THEY NOT BALD?
Moosh furrin’ up the new duvet cover
I guess it’s just one of those things where you live and you learn. Or, it’s the perfect time to start shaving the brats. I could even spin that idea by saying it will cut down on hairballs and therefore improve their quality of life! I really should have been in PR. My gift for justification knows no bounds.
But first, I’ll probably have to either figure out how to put mittens on them or encase myself in full body armor.
MEOWlympics.
As most of the world is, I’m currently fascinated with the olympics. At the tender age of 30, I realize my athletic prime has passed and it’s unlikely that I’ll find my niche to win gold. But I think about the sports and activities that passed me by…like gymnastics. I’m 5’8″ now, and I’m broad. If I stopped eating, I’d still be a large skeleton. So that wasn’t a sport made for me. Rhythmic gymnastics? I remember having some cassette tape when I was a kid…it came with the stick with the ribbon and you were supposed to do twirlies with it but that’s about all I remember of it. Obviously rhythmic gymnastics didn’t make that much of an impression on me either. I did swimming for awhile, I wasn’t bad but I wasn’t Natalie Coughlin or anything. I took diving classes, I was terrified. Not of the height, but the flippy flips. I think I saw the Greg Louganis faceplant too early in life. Never been much of a runner, so that’s out. It’s just flat out amusing to watch me play tennis. I manage to hit the ball over the fence repeatedly. Fencing sounds fun but I never had the opportunity. Weightlifting, in theory, sounds like something I would be good at. I build muscle easily. But I’m also prone to injury and “clean and jerk” sounds like waaaaay too much opportunity to pop something out of place.
Now SHOTPUT. That is something I could have excelled at. Except I don’t recall them offering that in high school. Where does one go to start shotputting? I’m excellent at throwing things. Aiming, that is a different story. The safest place to be is where I am trying to throw something.
Which brings me, in a VERY roundabout way, to the subject of my post. Throwing mousies. I am SUPER KICK ASS at throwing mousies.
Unfortunately for the boyfriend, as per the above-mentioned aiming abilities, I usually hit him with the mousies. Face, crotch, the exact place on the floor where he will immediately step on it and curse me…this is not on purpose. The cats, bless their hearts, will come to a screeching halt when mousie lands on Daddy. They know better. It would probably be worse if he got hit with cat, too. I’m also one of those people who laugh at inappropriate times…which makes him even madder. My own ineptness at aiming and the hilarity that ensues brings on a giggle that can’t be controlled. The inappropriateness of it makes me giggle more, and well, you can see where that goes.
I’ve always thought that the cats lose the mousies under things and in closets and such…but after writing this I’m questioning that conclusion.
To be fair, there ARE cat toys everywhere, and it’s just the mousies that seem to go missing.
Seriously, though, if being a crazy cat lady was an olympic sport I would win gold every four years. I realize I have stiff competition, but I’m pretty crazy. I exercise my crazy cat ladyness EVERY FREAKIN’ DAY.
UPDATE: I just found the thing that I did with the cassette tape (and by that I mean I searched the interwebz) — GET IN SHAPE, GIRL! OMG I totally remember this! I wish I still had this. I sense a youtube 80s fest.
Nature is all up in my bidness.
I was under the impression Nature and I had an understanding. I would recycle and do other things to reduce my carbon footprint and in return, Nature would leave me alone to view it quietly from inside, or on the beach. Nature is not holding up its end of the bargain.
Examples:
- The boyfriend saved a baby lizard from the ravenous cats.
- I made the boyfriend save a baby dragonfly that was in the house instead of killing it.
- At Big Brown, where I work at night loading packages into an igloo-like pod that will later be moved onto an airplane for transport, that container was filled with crickets. People ship those. And I keep forgetting to google to see what animal one feeds them to. One of my co-workers suggested fish, which I’m pretty sure is ridiculous. Lizards?
I don’t mind crickets, really, but I didn’t want to be jumped on and I didn’t really want to kill them by loading boxes on them. They didn’t understand the concept of escaping.
- While loading said cricket container, I was hassled by wasps. I really hate wasps. In fact, I dislike most flying insects as they are rather unpredictable and can end up in your hair. Strike 2 is those that sting or bite. Bees get a reprieve because they do useful things, like pollenate and make honey. Wasps and hornets, eff you. I will Raid you till the cows come home. Anyway, we discovered that the reason for wasp hassling was that there were 2 GIANT MFing NESTS above my head. Gah.
- At home doing work on the computer, picked up my phone off the desk to discover there were ants on it. Looked at desk to discover there were ants ALL OVER IT. When it rains a lot here, sugar ants find some place of entry and come inside my house. They have hit both upstairs bathrooms and the pantry downstairs but why they were all over my desk is a mystery to me. Ant bait. Sorry.
- After discovering the ant colony, I looked down next to my desk to discover a pincher bug.
- Silverfish in my bathroom. Those things are DISGUSTING. Sprayed it with hairspray, assumed that sufficed, turned around to see that it was gone. Fast forward to yesterday, when I pulled my clothes out of the hamper only to have what I think was the same silverfish squiggle out of the dirty clothes over my foot. BARF BARF BARF.
- Then there have been the not-annoying-but-amusing nature incidents, like the random turtle the other week and yesterday I saw a squirrel run by with most of a donut in its month. We have CRAZY squirrels.
Yes, I am vegan, and yes, I am all for animal rights, but I reserve MY right to my personal, nature-free space. LET ME BE!
I really should just start hiding like Moosh Moosh. But there would probably be a silverfish in there.
Florida loses one crazy cat lady. TREAT HER WELL, SEATTLE!
I’m having a sad week. One of my most very dear friends is moving. Really far away. Pretty much as far away as you can get and still be in the contiguous United States. We are bonded forever through our love for Bloodhound Gang, Leslie Hall, crafting, spending money and above all, kitties. Yes, she is just as crazy cat lady as me. She has spent an equal amount of time at the vet (OK, maybe not EQUAL, mine are lemons, after all…but close) and equal time on google searching cat things. We have spent a great deal of time relating kitty stories. I can’t even remotely begin to count the number of lolcats we have sent each other over the years. And she’s leaving.
Sigh.
So this, my Polish sister, is for you. A tribute to you through your furry kid, Aleister. The cutest ginger I know!
May you and the hubby fare well in the long, long, long, long meowing car ride. And past that, I hope all three of you adjust quickly and love your new adventures in Seattle. Just like Milo and Otis. Oh, and I hope you finagle adding a kitten to the fam too =)
I stole these from her facebook because I suck at remembering things, like sending myself the kitten pics of Aleister I have on my work computer. Enjoy anyway.
She likes to dress up her cat too.
Aleister is very chic.
Artsy pic of kitty? Check.
I miss you already!
Pussycat polka. Meow, meow, meow.
I’m a dancing machine. Watch me get down.
I really love “So You Think You Can Dance.” A long, long time ago, I was a child. A child who took dance classes. Ballet, Jazz and Tap. I took gymnastics for a while too, but the gymnastics people told my parents I was going to be too tall for gymnastics so maybe I should focus my efforts elsewhere. I sucked at back walkovers anyway, and my balance beam balancing was vague at best. Being that it was a long, long time ago, I don’t remember an awful lot about my dancing skills ( I DID just buy a discounted deal to transfer VHS to DVD, and I’m super stoked about digitizing my old recitals) but I do know that I wasn’t up to par with the kids on Dance Moms (yeah, I watch that too, I’m sorry, I really like to watch dancing).
Anyway, my parents divorced and I think dance lessons were not feasible financially anymore (neither was catholic school, YAY) and that’s why I stopped. I suppose I should ask my mom, she has a much better memory than I do. However, there IS a dancer in me that is yearning to get out. I’m more flexible than most people and I have rhythm.
The reason I’m writing about all this is because I had a lightbulb moment. One of the first dances on SYTYCD was to the tune of The Lovecats by The Cure. Awesome song. I love it. And I thought the dance was adorable as well, even though the two dancers dancing it are not two of my favorites. So I put it on last night while the boyfriend and I were playing mini golf on the Wii and having a few frosty adult beverages. As I was dancing around, I started thinking about how much of dance is cat movements. The slinkiness, the speed, the agility. Because I love connecting the dots, I continued this thought process. My first recital was to the song “Pussycat Polka” and we all had kitty faces on costumes and big kitty paw gloves. (I just googled this song, holy crap. It’s a super old Mousketeers song.) That led me to look at my iTunes.
Adorable, right?
Stray Cat Strut. That song always makes me feel dance-y. Cat Daddy. Which is both a song AND a dance (and I can totally do the dance). It’s not really about cats, I don’t think…in fact, I’m not really sure what it’s about. “Call me Sponge Bob, stackin’ crabby patties, bitch I go to work, doin’ my Cat Daddy.” …what? Whatever it all means, it’s a fun dance. Then I also have “Cat Dancer” by Leslie Hall, which perfectly fits my point but I’m not sure if it counts because I’m reasonably sure she’s a crazy cat lady too. In fact, all of her songs are about things I like, like crafts and shiny outfits. If you like crafts, shiny outfits and overall awesomeness, PLEASE check out Leslie Hall here.
Leslie Hall is A-MAYZ-ING.
I have no real conclusion to this, except that I like cats and dancing, and cats make good song subjects, I guess. Anyone have a better correlation?
Dance, Mooshie, dance!
Now I have to go ice my hip flexor because I pulled it trying to do a split last night (I should have warmed up more first, but injuring myself stupidly is MY THING).
MEOW hear this! 