My Week In Hair Effort
OK kids, I'm not going to lie; it's been a long week. I'll write more about it later, but for now, I cannot begin to approach serious writing. I'm trying to tone down the crying outbursts for a bit. (I guess you know it's bad when people ask whether or not you have some Xanax on hand.) I'm very lucky in so many ways, and I know my problems are small in comparison to what a lot of people go through, but these have been some off days for me.
While the past seven days include such highlights as getting pulled over for the first time in a decade and an unexpected job change, by far the worst part has been that Cassidy is sick. Poor baby girl has been at the vet since Tuesday, and she'll probably have to stay through the weekend. She had surgery today, and I am not one who remains calm during these times.
Since I've already rearranged all the furniture in the house, begun a very misguided Pinterest project (I don't think t-shirts are meant to have a second act as rugs), organized the baby gifts I will be giving through January* and baked lots of bread (including some for the vet who seemed confused as to why I showed up on Wednesday with Cassidy's favorite foods, a toy and a loaf of Farl), I thought I'd work some more on my "visual storytelling."
And we all know how well that goes ...
* I decided most people would probably prefer to look at pictures of baby clothes than my so-far-from-completion t-shirt rug. The clothes are much cuter.
Current Signs Of My Internet Addiction*
1. I don't just visit People.com too frequently, I hit refresh when I'm on People.com because I feel that strong a need for the latest info on the Robert Pattinson/Kristen Stewart cheating scandal. Not only do I not know Robert Pattinson or Kristen Stewart, I don't even like the Twilight movies.
2. I begin most of my sentences with, "Well, on Pinterest ..." When I'm not on Pinterest, I'm doing fun things like pasting wallpaper to the side of an old dresser, making concoctions with shredded chicken from the crock pot and removing the den doors. (Yes, I physically took down the doors to the den.) Last night, I washed banana out of my hair after reading about homemade hair masks on, what else, Pinterest.
3. Perhaps of greatest concern, I'm newly obsessed with memes. (At present, my favorites are "drunk" Irish baby and "Just describe your lunch to me!") I Googled how to put text on images in Photoshop. A lot of my evenings involve finding photos of the dogs, putting phrases on them and emailing said photos to the SO who is all of two feet away on the couch. If he doesn't pick up his iPhone in the evening, it's most likely my fault because he's tired of getting a notifcation when I send him Carat and Cassidy memes. I should also mention that I'm not good at this.
I'd say that I should find a hobby, but I think that was my original intention with Pinterest ...
* "Current signs" because it's not like this is a new phenomenon.
When I Grow Up, I Want To Be Like My Dogs*
I absolutely believe that the dog is man’s best friend. (Or any pet for that matter. I know that not everyone is a dog person.) Pets offer unconditional love. They are cute. They can’t speak, so they can’t whine or complain. They can be loyal to a fault.
I love almost everything about my dogs. (I use the plural because I had a dog, and the SO had a dog when we met. By now, I think of myself as having two dogs.) I also know they can be much better to me than I am to them.
This might be a little too All I Really Need to Know, I Learned in Kindergarten, but if I could do it (and I’m trying), I would adopt these three traits from my dogs.
1. Every morning and evening, we feed the dogs. We don’t buy expensive or fancy dog food. (It’s Purina. You can find it at Wal-Mart.) Carat and Cassidy have never even had wet dog food. We buy the exact same dog food every time we go to the store. There is the same dry kibble waiting for the dogs every day, and still, whenever it’s time to eat, Carat is just as excited as she would be the first time she was ever given a meal.
All you have to do is say, “Carat, are you hungry? Do you want to eat?” and she literally runs circles around herself with joy.
Carat doesn’t get in ruts. She’s not dissatisfied with what she has. She doesn’t get bored or take things for granted. Every morning and evening is just as wonderful as any other for the sheer fact that she gets to eat.
2. Cassidy is kind of like my little bodyguard. She goes everywhere that I go. Every morning (or, every other morning, whatever), when I get in the shower, she sits on the end of the bed and waits for me to get out. Before she eats her breakfast, she checks to see where I am to make sure that I’m OK. If I’m particularly upset, she senses it and sleeps on the floor right below me. She gives up her bed to be near me.
I, on the other hand, go out when I want to. I take trips and leave her with friends. I forget to buy dog food on the way home from work or have to wait for my next paycheck to take her to the vet for her shots.
She would have me watch her every time she eats, but I don’t.
It doesn’t matter. No matter what I do, Cassidy is the same good-hearted, adorable companion she’s always been. She doesn’t hold grudges. (She peed on my foot once when we moved, and I was working a lot, but that was years ago.) She doesn’t operate on a score system or tit for tat. She doesn’t expect to get as much as she gets. She just gives and seems perfectly content to do so.
3. If dogs really are smiling when they wag their tails, my dogs spend most of their waking hours smiling. Sometimes it’s a huge grin over a treat (even their generic brand biscuits – again, they don’t’ care about labels). Other times it’s a big smile when you say one of their names. Mostly, it’s just a consistent wag/smile because we’re there. What do they need? Food, a warm place to rest and us.
They are so happy just to be, and they express it in the only way they know how – by wagging their tails.
I wish I remembered to smile as much.
Feel free to call this my cheesy post of the month. I’m sure I deserve it, but sometimes I can’t help myself. I really love me some animals.
* I'm also sure I opened myself up to a lot of jokes with this title, but can we avoid any comments with the word "bitch" in them? Thank you in advance.
In Which The Dogs Question That Whole "Pack Leader" Thing
Unfortunately, last night was another night for deadly storms in Alabama. My thoughts are with the families who lost loved ones and homes.
You might think that you would eventually get used to the sound of weather sirens in the night, but I think most people who live in tornado alleys would second that it's always an unnerving and unsettling phenomenon.
Since I live in a house with a concrete slab foundation, our "place of safety" (the real term if you don't live in inclement-weather-prone parts of the country) is the only room in the house without windows -- otherwise known as the guest bathroom. It is also the only bathroom with a tub, so it's where the dogs get their baths. Whether it's claustrophobia or bad memories, neither pooch was too crazy about the idea of getting in there with a bunch of fleece blankets, pillows and the Kindle fire at 3:30 in the morning.
When they realized that they we would be sleeping in there until the tornado warning ended around 4:30, or I knew from local meteorologists that the worst part of the storm was out of Jefferson County, they did not seem pleased.
I might be projecting too much, but I do think my authority is in question now. There's just something in their eyes that seems to say, "The lady has finally lost it."
* Of course, I don't mean to make light of what anyone suffered last night. For those affected by last night's storms, the Salvation Army has announced feeding stations, and I'm sure that the Red Cross will be coordinating donations.
Christmas Ornaments Of A Different Ilk
For all you dog and cat lovers out there, Shelter Partners, a great organization that helps dogs like Goofy the Great Dane find homes all over the country, is selling ornaments for Christmas to benefit their organization. I personally know a rescue dog who is hoping we can all spread the love.
Is There Any Chance This One Is Multiple Choice?
We all get asked a lot of hard questions in life:
“Was someone roller skating in the house?”
“Are there going to be parents there?”
“What do you want to major in?”
“What is 17 squared?”
Most of us figure out the answers -- or pretend we do. (Except for that 17 thing – that’s what calculators are for.) Even when we’re plagued with doubt, there’s usually an answer somewhere, or an answer we lean towards.
Last week, while I was visiting my doctor (aka therapist), she asked me a question that absolutely left me floundering: Where does your self-worth come from?
(I like to think of mental health professionals and animals as the animate team that keeps me sane. The inanimate team includes Diet Coke, red wine, Spanx and my newly-acquired Bissell Spot Bot – because there’s nothing like a vacuum that cleans pet stains itself to give a girl a break when she needs it.)
I feel like this question should have been easy – family, friends, education, job, relationship. Anything really, from my knitting prowess to my hair (which when I try, is pretty awesome) would have been an OK start. Instead, I just stared straight ahead for about 20-30 seconds.
(For those of you who haven’t been in therapy, that’s like eons in mental health time. After all, there’s just you and one other person in the office, and the other person is constantly evaluating whether or not you might be about to lose it.)
I don’t bring up this subject because I need lots of comments about what my self-worth should be or how nice/awful I am, I mention it because I don’t think it’s a question I’ve ever really considered, and I was shocked that when it was put to me point blank, I didn’t have anything to say. Eventually, I could provide some answers, but its still been rattling around up there.
“Where does your self-worth come from?”
If it came from a job, 2009 sure put a big dent there. Relationships? For me, that’s a constant learning process and it gives too much power over to others. Family, friends, home improvement projects – none of that is ever going to be perfect, and you can’t control anyone else. So, in theory, self-worth should always come from within, but how does anyone really do that? Maybe I’m not well-adjusted enough, but it’s hard for me to imagine a sense of self-worth that couldn’t be shaken by a bad hair day, a fight with my sister or screwing up a task at work.
I suppose the point is to not only trust yourself, but to like yourself, and when self-doubt creeps in, to cut yourself a break and do the best you can to bounce back. Maybe there is no such thing as rock-solid self-esteem. Maybe if I had it, I wouldn’t be a writer. Who knows? I think I’ll be working on the answer to this one for a bit longer.
Two hundred eighty-nine seems so much easier in comparison.
In The Event Of The End Of The World
I realize that some people think the world might end tomorrow. I’m not actually one of those people, and honestly, I don’t even know what the theory is based on, but I do pay attention to the four stories that pop up on my Yahoo! home page, and May 21 has been getting a lot of attention lately.
I mean, if the world is going to end, it’s not like there’s a lot I can do about it. (Not that this is an excuse to stop recycling or pursuing green initiatives in case there are still any conservatives left in my blog audience.) As I was discussing with a friend over the weekend, I think most generations would almost like to think that the end of the world would come within their lifetimes. It’s a good way to put off the unnerving truth/realization that, most likely, life will go on without us, for generations and generations, and possibly even eons. An ongoing world means we’re all a little more forgettable, and no one wants to be forgettable. (Sorry to get a little dark there.)
I also know some people are freaked out by the fact that the Mayan calendar ends in 2012. Anxiety disorder and all, I think this is one of the least upsetting signs of a possible impending apocalypse. Let’s be real. For a group of people that went out around 1450, I think it’s pretty impressive they even bothered taking the calendar to 2012. How far out front are you supposed to get with those? I doubt anyone is working on day planners with New Yorker cartoons in them for 2415 right now, and I hardly take it as a sign that the world will end whenever the people down at the warehouse decide to stop making kitten calendars.
However, since we never know what can happen, I might need to get a few things off my chest before tomorrow – just in case.
1. I cheated on my menu tests at both La Paz and Calypso Joe’s. I have never cheated on any other tests in my life, but those menus presented some problems. At La Paz, I was a hostess, so I didn’t really see a need to learn the menu. They were going to make me take the test until I passed, so I used the menu as the hard surface on which to take my paper test. (I did learn a little though. That job is the only reason that I know the difference between an enchilada and a burrito is that a burrito is made with a flour tortilla while an enchilada is made with a corn one.) As for Calypso Joe’s, well, that one was just pride. The manager liked to post scores at the end of the day, and I refused to come in behind a bunch of perfect scores because I couldn’t have cared less about what dipping sauce came with the conch fritters.
2. I didn't like Titanic -- or Sex and the City.
3. From the ages of 21-25, I gave out my fake phone number to boys far too many times. It wasn’t very nice, but that’s kind of what happens when you’re a slightly cowardly people pleaser. It’s probably a little late, but I’d like to say I’m sorry anyway.
4. I don’t like the symphony, ballet or opera. I find them boring, and they always remind me of being forced to do educational stuff when I was a kid. (And this is coming from a girl who likes learning new vocabulary words.) If I nod when these topics of conversation come up, I’m only pretending to be cultured (or listening).
5. In the third grade, I stole my classmate's square dancing partner. I had a crush on the tallest boy in class, and square dancing partners were assigned by height. As the shortest girl in class, I was screwed -- and stuck with the boy who got very, very angry every time we played dodge ball in gym. When my classmate was out for a couple of days with a stomach bug, I saw my chance to move up, and we she came back to school, I pretty much implied that our teacher thought the new dance partner relationship was better. (Although, I hardly think our teacher had an opinion about the dancing partners.) Oh, the things we do for love ... And again, sorry about that one.
6. I prefer my dog to a lot of people. I can’t help it. She’s adorable, snuggly and completely non-critical. I should probably have some more love and compassion for humanity, but in general, a lot of my affection goes towards the dog. And that whole thing about there not actually being dogs in heaven if you go by strict theology? (I told you Sunday school was quite upsetting for me.) I’m not pleased.
7. For a few years now, my chest has actually been known as “the rapture.” It was a name that a female friend came up with for my boobs while we were drinking one night. I kind of thought it was awesome (especially since my late-blooming meant I didn't have a chest until the age of 18), and the name stuck. I hope this will not be considered blasphemous during the actual rapture, but clearly I can’t be sure. Even in the end of days, we can all appreciate a good joke, right? Maybe?
Anyway, I look forward to our continued interactions next week when I will most likely be experiencing some shame for what I hope are a few very premature confessions.
Storm Damage And Sequin Shoes
We had quite the storm here in Birmingham on Sunday night. I, of course, was catching up on Friday's Medium while the SO was away, when I heard pounding against the side of the house that sounded like an invading army wanted in. In actuality, it was hail.
Hail rained down on the house like I haven't seen in years. (It looked like someone had taken garbage cans full of that rabbit pellet ice and dumped it all over the yard and driveway.) It was one of the loudest storms I can remember.
The dogs stuck pretty close to me, but other than that, they seemed to be handling the stress OK. However, when I went to the back room of the house to look for Kitty Cat Jones (he knows how to use the dog door), I realized he had not taken refuge from the storm, and I was going to have to go out there.
In my storm gear of fitflops and a hoodie, I stepped on to the front porch -- which is the same exact moment that Kitty Cat Jones shot past me. (I went out there to rescue him, and he responded by running to and past me because that's just the kind of cat that I have.) And, when he ran away from he, did he go to hide under the car or some other safe spot? Of course not. He went straight for the wooded area next to the house, and I spent some quality time in the bushes looking for him.
While I was outside, I was also able to observe the river of trash and leaves that the street had become. Water rushed down the street, carrying anything even remotely close to the curb with it.
Once I retrieved Kitty Cat Jones, I went back inside to dry him off and let him rest. Then, I waited for the rest of the storm to pass and went to bed. (I am paranoid about tornadoes and needed to make sure that I was not going to have to put all of the animals and myself in the bath tub with a mattress over us before tempting fate by going to sleep.)
On Monday, I learned why this storm was probably the loudest one I can remember. While hail was assaulting the house and I went in search of a cat, the house next door was collapsing. Collapsing.
The house next door was abandoned and pretty much stripped down to its frame. There were remnants of interior walls, but not too much else. However, it's still hard to believe that the storm itself was strong enough to blow the thing down.
References to The Three Little Pigs aside, when the SO and I went over to check out the damage on Monday night, I couldn't help but check for red sequin shoes or some other sign that the Wicked Witch of the East had been there.
What No One Tells You
I always thought that being able to work from home would be my perfect job. I think that's true for most Americans. After all, you can be in the comfort of your own home, work in jammies and avoid all of the office politics. There's no pretending to care about Peggy's photos from her trip to Phoenix, pressure to buy $10 gift wrap because Paul's kid has a school fund raiser or having to remember to swing by Winn Dixie at 7:30 a.m. because you're the one in charge of pimento cheese for the company pot luck.
Work from home, live the dream, right?
I once even accepted a piddly salary (that I later found out put me about $8,000 behind all of my male counterparts) because I was told there would be the possibility of working from home on some days. (Said possibility never materialized.) And every time I've been part of a large office and overheard someone talking about spreadsheets or how to shake the toner cartridge in the copier to get more life out of it, I've stared off into space and dreamed of doing my daily tasks from home.
Let's just say that after a year of working from home, yet another of my dreams is dead. Here's the stuff they don't tell you about that domestic office:
1. Weight Gain. I thought I had it bad when I spent eight hours in my ergonomically-designed chair a mere 15 feet from the nearest vending machine. (I don't even want to think about what the consultant made who convinced companies that all chairs should have curved backs for happier workers. Note to said consultant: raises, better benefits and even some modicum of respect from management would have made me far happier than that chair.) These days, I sit on my couch instead, and the Cheeto's-laden BP station is less than a mile away. I refuse to admit my number of visits.
2. House Cleaning. When I first started working from home, I thought I should have a spotless house. After all, I was home all day, so why not use some of my break time or those periods when I was waiting for an e-mail response to throw in a load of laundry or Swiffer the floor? In the first month I worked from home, all of my slip covers had been washed, and I'd scrubbed the kitchen floor on my hands and knees. Whereas I used to think, "Look how much I can do both professionally and domestically in a day," I now think, "The dirt and dust only come back. Maybe it's time to let them win."
3. Personal Hygiene. When you don't see anyone all day, it's pretty easy to forget about your appearance. If you avoid all of your mirrors, it gets even easier. For awhile, I changed clothes at night just so the SO wouldn't think I'd sat around in the same sweats for 24 hours straight. Lately, not even that seems to be a priority. I realize I could dress up just to do it, but rather than helping, I think I'd just feel even sillier -- like I'd turned into the delusional girl who talked about her high-powered job to anyone who would listen while pushing an empty shopping cart down the street or waiting for the guy to read the water meter.
4. Vices. Now, I'm not one looking to live in a 1984-esque world run by Big Brother, but there is something to be said for social norms. Others' eyes can do a little to keep us in check (and keep us from walking around in our underwear 18 hours a day.) When you work at home, there's no one watching. (I do realize that Judge Judy cannot see me through the TV screen even though I can see her. What a piercing glare that one has!) You can start drinking at 10 a.m. (Not that I do -- yet.) You can pop pills. You can spends hours looking at Internet pornography. For all you know, I could be drinking a dirty martini, smoking a pack of Capris and torturing one of the cats from my neighborhood at this very second. I'm not, but those boundaries can get looser and looser for us work-from-home folks.
5. Paranoia. The combination of A&E network, needing breaks from staring at the computer screen and being home all day on a cul-de-sac seems to have turned me into some sort of one-woman neighborhood watch. As someone who never wanted to be a nosy neighbor, I now know my mailman's route like the back of my hand and call tell you who recycles and who doesn't. I also have a loose theory that the people across the street take in homeless men in poor health, take out life insurance policies on them, and wait for "nature" to take it's course. I could very well be wrong, but if a news crew ever shows up in my life, I don't intend to be the interviewee saying, "They were the quietest people. I new saw this coming. I want to be the one to say, "I knew it all along. They were always weird, and I'm not a bit surprised."
(My goals used to involve publishing; now I want to be the smart-ass on the local news. Something is amiss.)
6. General Sanity. In case all of the previous points didn't lead you to this conclusion naturally, I do think mental health can suffer from working at home. Social interaction does more than keep our vices and hygiene in check. I really think it is good for the soul. No man is an island after all. There are days that the longest conversations I have are with my dog. And after the pets and talking aloud to myself, I end up in the worst of all possible places for interact with humanity ... message boards. LM6947* has a lot to say, and I'm not sure I like it one bit.
Of course, anyone working in an office right now probably has very little sympathy for this list, and I'm sure that if I went back to an office environment, I'd be nostalgic for my sofa and Cold Case Files within about two hours. I guess the grass is always greener on the other side -- whether that alluring other grass is a felted cubicle or desk shoved against the guest room wall.
* Not my real message board name. Although, sadly, I do have one.
The World's Weirdest Cat (or How I Learned to be an Optimist)
As we all know well, my cat, unlike 99% of all cats, will not go near his litter box. After purchasing four different litter boxes, three different kinds of litter and investing in enough Swiffer products to start my own maid service, I was pretty much at my wit's end.
I finally decided that since the cat seems to think he's a dog anyway, maybe a daily walk with Cassidy would help.
Have I always been the person who makes fun of anyone who puts a cat on a leash? Yes. Did I ever, at any point in my wildest dreams, see myself as the kind of person who would walk a cat? Certainly not. Was I more embarrassed to walk my cat in front of the neighbors than the time I climbed in the car half-dressed with a towel on my head to drive to a friend's house because my hot water went out just as it was time to rinse the Nice 'N' Easy gray coverage dye out of my hair? Yes.
But, as well all know, desperate times call for desperate measures, so I suited the animals up.
Toonces the cat spent 60% of the walk lying on his back in the middle of the sidewalk refusing to move and trying to squirm out of his collar. He spent the other 40% flattening himself against the ground and creeping along like a crab.
Cassidy, excited for a chance to run and play and sniff was not pleased to have such a sedentary companion.
The only aspect of the walk that seemed passable was when we passed some barking dogs and Toonces clung to me for dear life. I thought, "Maybe, at least now, he'll appreciate me. Maybe now, he'll realize how lucky he is to have a safe, warm and loving home."
No such luck.
Without peeing, pooping or seeming the list bit in need of some relief on our walk, Toonces went right back into the house and took a squat on the kitchen floor.
But, strangely enough, this is not what I find to be weirdest about my cat.
The other day, I was leaving the house in a hurry and didn't realize that I had accidentally closed Toonces in the bathroom. I returned home hours later to the pathetic cries of a trapped kitten. In addition to being concerned about the poor little guy, my head also filled with visions of a shredded shower curtain, tossed about toiletries and bath mats that could never be used again because of what I was sure were their new roles as kitty toilets.
I opened the door, picked up the cat and braced myself for a look around.
The bathroom was in perfect shape. Nothing had been touched. Not even a Q-tip or two had been batted around. I stared down at Toonces in wonder. Surely, he couldn't have held his bladder for that long.
Looking a little further, I found his spot. There, just behind the toilet, there was a little pile of toilet paper stained yellow.
Yes, you heard that right. My cat is baffled by kitty litter, but somehow seems to know what toilet paper is for. If I hadn't seen it for myself, I never would have believed it. And, in some ways, it only makes me think the little guy just really loves f*&%ing with me. Because, when it comes to who's going to break first here, we all know who it's going to be. Despite his incontinence, have you seen that face?
Wherever this feline came from, he's proving to be quite a formidable match.
As an epilogue to this story, in the last few days, for some strange reason and with no major changes, Toonces has taken to using his litter box about half the time. I can't determine the triggers, and I don't exactly know how to encourage the behavior, but for the first time in my life, I really think I understand how to see the glass as half full rather than half empty.
Poor Products
I love animals, I really do. My dog is one of the most spoiled creatures on the planet. (Only, though, if you count her wardrobe and chest of toys; she in no way has the demeanor of a spoiled dog because she is sweet, loving and perfect.)
I didn't even like cats until I got my own, but now I am enamored, and he regularly sleeps on my chest. Hell, the cat isn't even litter-box trained, and I still love him, and I think we all know there's no true test of one's devotion and affection like finding random puddles of pee -- or worse.
If you were to hurt one of my pets, you would most definitely know my wrath. But, despite how strongly I feel about animals, I'm not so sure where I fall on the spectrum of animal rights. If you abuse an animal, you should go to jail, and I think people who hurt animals deserve a special, fire-filled place in the great beyond, too. However, I also have no problem with the food chain. Mama loves her meat, after all. I own leather handbags (and once upon a time, I had a pair of leather pants).I never objected to a biology class dissection, and when it comes to life-saving, cancer-fighting kinds of drugs, I'm pretty OK with what it takes to make sure those are safe for humans.
I also like the zoo -- the sloping, expansive kinds of zoos where animals graze in arenas akin to their natural habitats and get three square meals a day. I know it's not as simple as this, but I have to tell you that if I was a giraffe or a gazelle, I'd be more than willing to give up the wild for prepared meals and a tidy, maintained home. Hunting for food? Defending myself from predators? Hyenas? I'd be the first animal you ever saw volunteer, and I'd take the zoo over the Serengeti just like I now take the Hampton over a nylon tent.
Regardless, I think it's important to respect the opinions and choices of others. So, that's all I'm going to say on the subject before I get to my real point: No matter how lackadaisical my own stand on animal rights might seem, I would never buy my non-existent child the toy pictured above.
A rolling cage for your pet monkey? Really? Clearly this is some sort of circus toy, but there has to be a better way to let your child "play circus" (another hot bed for those very invested in animal rights) than letting them paint their own rolling, wooden cage. Right? If nothing else, isn't this super, super dated? I haven't been to a State Fair in awhile, but there aren't caged animals rolling down the highway anymore, are there? Please, please say it ain't so.
What's almost worse is that I found this right next to the cute little doghouses with stuffed puppies sticking their heads out of the door. Large cage for exotic animals as the equivalent to dog houses? I think not.
I may be wrong, but I think this is where all that trouble with King Kong started ...
My Cat Thinks He's A Dog
I have a love/hate relationship with my blog's stats. On the one hand, the narcissistic part of me has to know how many people clicked on my website in a given day. On the other hand, the numbers themselves can be a bit of a downer. Thank you Mom and Dad for continuing to visit, but in comparison to even some friend's Twitter followers, I'm not causing much of a stir on the world wide web.
For those of you wondering what any of this has to do with my cat's identity issues, here goes: One trend I have noticed is that anytime I put "cat" or "dog" in a blog title, my number of visitors doubles. (Strangely enough, my mention of "Scott Bakula" has a similar effect. Whether or not these two are related, I can't say.) So, in an effort to give the people what they want -- and boost my Google search rating -- here are the top three indicators my cat thinks he's a dog:
3. He tries drink out of the toilet. I have no idea where this came from, but it happened. I'm just glad I was around, and he didn't drown. I don't think he knows he isn't the same size as the dog either.
2. While he clearly has no use for the litter box, he has shown some success in the house-training department with puppy pads. My next step: putting the puppy pad in the litter box. Please keep your fingers crossed.
1. He tries to nurse on Cassidy. I had no idea what was going on when this first happened (my first clue anything was amiss was a very perplexed look from the dog), but sure enough, there was the cat trying to get milk out of the dog that's been fixed for five years. I read on the Internet that this is very common for young cats, especially when they're small and looking for comfort. It's also supposedly a sign that the cat sees Cassidy as his mom. The only problem? I don't think Cassidy wants to be anyone's mom. She's much happier being my very pampered baby. I imagine that this one will work itself out. There's only so many times you can go back to the pantry looking for nourishment when you know it's empty, right? Otherwise, I try to make sure Cassidy has plenty of her own space -- even if that space comes with the caveat of snuggling with me.
And for my own purely selfish reasons, I will also add that both Cassidy and the cat completely adore Scott Bakula.
The Truth About Cats and Dogs
As we all know, I love my dog. (Hell, she even has her own blog.) She is my baby, my buddy and my near-constant companion. Since I love my dog so much, I never want her to feel neglected, dejected or put out. As crazy as it may sound, I don't want her to ever think she isn't absolutely adored.
So, clearly the decision to get another pet is not one that I take lightly. I already worry that Cassidy doesn't get enough attention because of how much time we spend with my Significant Other and his dog. But, then this stray little kitten showed up and needed a home, I found myself softening.
I was still really concerned about Cassidy, my time and my resources though, so I consulted a lot of other pet owners for help making a decision. Here's what all of my friends said when I was thinking about taking in a homeless cat:
"Oh my gosh, it's nothing like having a dog. Cats are so low maintenance."
"You don't need to worry about your furniture. That's what scratching posts are for."
"I don't know what it is, but cats just KNOW how to use a litter box. They don't have accidents, and you don't have to house train them."
Now, I love my friends dearly, so please forgive me when I say this (and remember that it's been a rather stressful week), but YOU ALL LIED.
My "low-maintenance" cat cries when he can't be in the same room with me. And do you know where he prefers to sleep? On my chest. Don't get me wrong -- he's cute -- but it's not exactly easy to get anything done when there's a cat glued to your collarbone. Plus, it's still September in Alabama, so I don't really require a semi-permanent neck warmer just yet.
The scratching post? A pointless expenditure at Wal-Mart that apparently can't hold a candle to my sofa, chairs and feet. I even drenched the sucker in cat nip. Effective? No. Smelly? Yes.
And when it comes to that litter box, don't even get me started. Either I have the one exception in the history of feline companionship or not all cats automatically know what to do when confronted with a pan full of odor-absorbing granules.
All of this adorable fluff really masks a needy, peeing destructor. Poor Cassidy -- who was supposed to end up with a part-time roommate who wanted little to nothing to do with us -- now has a sibling that camps on her mom's chest, marks her turf and thinks her tail is a fascinating toy to be chewed and batted.
Of course, the real problem is that it's all too late anyway. The cat isn't going anywhere. Neither is Cassidy, and neither am I. We're in it together now -- unused scratching post and all.
Name the Kitten
I have never considered myself a cat person.
When I was eight, I asked for a kitten for my birthday and was promptly informed that my mother was allergic. (A generation before that, my mother had been informed that her mother was allergic to cats when she asked for a kitten.) I didn't think about kittens much after that. When I was 12, my sisters and I got our very own puppy, and then I really forgot about cats.
But, about eight weeks ago, a lone, emaciated cat showed up on my porch. She was so small and so hungry that almost before I knew it, I had purchased cat food and was feeding her every day.
And my stray cat did not come alone. She showed up pregnant. (I figured that she might be pregnant, but I didn't think she could be more than a month or so along -- most of me still hoped she was just engorged from going from near-starvation to daily feedings. She proved me wrong by birthing a litter of five on the neighbors' porch two weeks ago.)
The neighbors are going to keep Mama, and I'm taking one of the kittens. (Two kittens still need homes if you know of anyone looking for a new pet ...)
As usual, I'm having lots of trouble with the naming process. It took me three weeks to name my first dog (in those three weeks, he was called every thing from Jake to Milton to JD before I settled on Milo). Cassidy would have a different name if it hadn't me take so long to come up with something new that I thought I would confuse her. God help me if I were ever part of a band.
Since I have this here blog though, I thought I would turn to y'all for help. I've compiled a list of names below. Vote for your favorite or send a new suggestion along. The only requirement is that the kitty have a "c" name so she'll fit in with the rest of the crew. (Yes, I did consider just "cat," but I'm scared the people at the vet's office would think I was flippant and judge me.) Here goes:
http://www.micropoll.com/akira/MicroPoll?id=192626
Thanks for you help! If I can figure out video uploads, I'll share more photos soon.
Rainy Days and Dog Blogs
I have often thought about giving my dog Cassidy her own blog. (Tentative title: I'm All Ears -- because Cassidy has both very large ears and tons of great advice to give.) I thought it could be a fun forum, and re-telling the events of the day from a dog's perspective might make the rather mundane tasks of waiting for the mailman and seeing who is on today's episode of WifeSwap slightly more interesting. Might.
Up until now, the main reason I haven't created a blog for Cassidy is that I didn't want to have to share this information with potential boyfriends. After all, one of my primary goals in life, after publishing a book and developing the self-control not to eat my weight in chips and salsa after every single Mexican restaurant I visit, is not dying alone. And, somehow I think that explaining to dates that one of my hobbies is writing an Internet journal in an affected canine third person wouldn't help me out with that last one.
But, ever since the BF didn't seem too frightened when I mentioned wanting a blog for Cassidy, I've gone back to the idea.
(Plus, Cassidy's blog is only the beginning of what I imagine to be our joint celebrity life as humorists and general gals-about-town.)
Unfortunately though, then there are days like yesterday when all Cassidy and I do are wait for the rain to pass, watch Lifetime movies and ponder the stray cat that seems to live on my porch now. Even with Cassidy's gleaming wit and keen observation, I'm pretty sure all I could get out of that one are:
"Cats suck. I didn't know Daphne Zuniga still got work." ~Cassidy Belle Mills
I don't think that one's going to get us any closer to Oprah or international renown.
*Photo represents the slightly terrifying extent of my fantasies about Cassidy's and my future celebrity.
My Next Big Idea
We're all familiar with the "Hang in There" cat:
I think it's time for a new trend, the latest in animal cuteness and trite sayings.
In light of that, I give you the "Go on -- I'm listening" dog.
Get it? She has big ears so she can hear more. She's always listening!
I can see my poster hanging above psychiatrist's couches all over the country already.
Walking the Dog
Every morning, my adorable dog Cassidy and I go for a walk. (Before I go any further, I'll admit that if I had a fenced-in yard, these morning walks would never happen. As anyone who has every worked with or lived with me can attest, I am not a morning person. At my last job, I tried to implement the rule that if you hadn't seen me get up for a coffee refill yet, you probably shouldn't speak to me. I'm not fully human before about 9:30 a.m. — as evidenced by my tendency to growl and grunt as communication before then.)
Being that mornings are not my peak time, these walks tend to vary greatly in duration and rigor. Sometimes we make it a couple of blocks. Other days, Cassidy is lucky if we get to the end of the neighbor's driveway.
I'm also not the most coordinated person (please see bio under "about" for further details), and the more tired I am, the more likely I am to hurt myself. I've come back from many a morning walk with a bruise from tripping over the curb or scratches from sideswiping a holly bush. I once even broke my toe walking smack dab into one of those metal stakes used to anchor trees. (Yes, I am a danger to myself, but rarely others.)
Cassidy puts up with a lot, and I do my best to reward her with peanut butter treats because of it.
So, the other morning, I'm stumbling down the sidewalk in my velour sweat suit, eyes half open, plastic bag in hand when I hear shouting behind me.
"Eva Diane! Eva Diane!!"
Now, I'm expecting to turn around a see a small child darting into the street based on the use of the first and middle names as well as the level of panic in the voice.
Imagine my surprise when I look back and see a Jack Russell Terrier instead.
In the middle of the walk, there's one of my neighbors frantically screaming at Eva Diane, the Jack Russell, to get back inside the house. And, while at first, I thought this was a completely absurd name for a dog — I feel like "Eva Diane" is an aging socialite and not a terrier — I also quickly realized that I wasn't one to judge. After all, Cassidy also has a middle name.
Please keep in mind that I never intended to give my dog a middle name. I never even intended to give her a three syllable first name. As a rescue dog, she came to live with me already bearing the name Cassidy. And, in addition to being more than rough-around-the-edges in the morning and clumsy, I can also be somewhat indecisive. I spent weeks trying to come up with another name for my new dog. (Since she's a redhead, I thought about Ginger because of the character from Gilligan's Island, but that seemed too girly. Gigi was also a contender, but seemed more suited to a Pomeranian than a mutt, and by the time I had considered all of the options, it had been a month and it seemed unreasonable to change the name then.)
Then, one day when I got mad at Cassidy for chasing after a cat, I found myself yelling "Cassidy Belle Mills get back here this instant."
I was as surprised to hear "Cassidy Belle" come out of my mouth as anyone, but it stuck. I guess I don't really don't have anything on old Eva Diane.