Total Lack of Cat Bias

OK, so, you're right. My cats do deserve some of the limelight. They are hilarious as well and insanely smart. Although, by smart, I mean diabolical and plotting my death. This is the alpha cat, Chicken. He is six years old. In this picture, he is chewing on a vase full of fake flowers as I am sitting not two feet away yelling at him to not chew on the flowers. He is an asshole. He knows perfectly well what I am saying. He is pristine, constantly cleaning. He will also do whatever possible to annoy the crap out of me. He likes to escape into the garage and hide under my car. My garage is like a sauna right now, but I still go crawling around after him getting all dirty and sweaty until I give up and go inside. The second I shut the door, he begins squawking. He then comes back in all dusty brown (somehow), looking pissed at me that due to my negligence, he now has to go clean himself again. He is going to be famous someday.

Gross Dirty, The Final Frontier

When my brother was a baby, he had this yellow blanket that had been bequeathed to him by... well, me, I guess. My brother was born when I was six, so by the time he inherited this blanket, it was well-worn and more than a little tattered. He took it with him everywhere, dragging it on the floor, into the yard, to the grocery store. It earned the nickname Gross Dirty as I am sure, scant readers, you can imagine. Instead of the butter-yellow color it was when it was mine, when my brother carried it, it was the color of dishwater. Now, I PROMISE (sort of) that this will be my last post on this matter, but to the left, you will see cow carcass, which has become Sophie's Gross Dirty.

It has been a week, and Gross Dirty no longer resembles any animaloid creature. It has three stumps remaining, which could, I suppose, be considered as legs. There are no feet. No innards. No tail. She ripped the face off this past weekend. I think I found a snoutish thing the other day, but who can tell at this point? However, instead of abandoning this toy as soon as all of the squeaks were gone, as I had previously thought, she carries it with her. EVERYWHERE. She takes it outside to go potty. She lays on top of it when relaxing on the couch. She brings it to bed with her. It stays in her crate when I am at work. It is filthy and it stinks. Maybe I will try to get it away from her so I can wash it, but I am scared because I am pretty sure she likes cow rind better than me, and I don't know what will happen if I take it away. I don't want stumps for limbs.

Sophie cracks me up every day. I have always been a cat person. We never had dogs growing up, so I was unsure of what to expect. I will say this. Dogs love you in a way that cats never could. I love my cats, but I never worry about them like I worry about Sophie. I mean, cats don't spend inordinate amounts of time chewing into poisonous cleaning supplies. I think I was also unprepared for how gross dogs are. I'm sorry, but GROSS. Exhibit A being that disgusting, stink cowhide that Sophie has been carrying around in her mouth for the last week. Plus, Sophie needs a bath this weekend. She smells like Fritos when she needs a bath. Mmm. Fritos, right? NO. No living, breathing thing should smell like corn chips. Plus, it's corn chips x 20. Finally, she will eat ANYTHING. Besides poison. Gross things, like dirty Kleenex, cat litter, anything she finds on the ground (I used to just get annoyed with litterers, now they make me furious, as I have to dig around in my dog's mouth for whatever some lazy ass couldn't throw in a garbage can), and oh yeah, she likes to dig around in garbage cans too... She has recently been taking little mouthfuls of dirt from my house plants, which she then smacks around in her mouth until these little mud boluses are created for her to sprinkle on my rug. This picture here is of all of the detritus she has placed on my deck. This actually does help when I am mowing, but still. The thing on the left is a soccer ball. I have 6' fences surrounding my backyard. I also don't play soccer. Where in the hell did she get this? I don't know, but I doubt she could have found a more disgusting soccer ball. I am actually frightened of it.

I Was Wrong

Annoying cow toy has yet to be retired. Notice the bit of green fuzz that is sticking out of Sophie's mouth? There is still much more carnage to be had. Sophie keeps coming over to the couch and sort of flipping this grungy, soggy cow carcass onto my lap. She may be trying to be sweet by giving me a gift, but look at her face. Look how bitchy she is! She flips it on my lap because she KNOWS how much I hate having this disgusting, slimy thing near me and that I will throw it as far away as possible. Which means she gets to bumble off after it and then act all proud when she returns it to me. She has not yet learned the command "Drop It." I think she pretends that she THINKS "Drop It" means "Tug and Growl" and that "Get that disgusting thing away from me!" means "Drop It."

Sophie's New Toy

I went over to my aunt's last night to see my baby cousin. I brought Sophie with me, maybe not the best idea since most of my time was spent trying to keep her from giving the baby slobber kisses. After dinner, we all went for a lovely evening stroll in the shade of the bountiful elms lining my aunt's street. Um. Not. Our walk lasted maybe five minutes before I gave up and ran back to the house for safe cover in the air conditioning. It took me twenty minutes to stop sweating. Stupid lousy weather. I hate it. Grumble. Ahem. Anyway, I am not only sick of the weather, I am sick of bitching about it. The point is, my aunt gave Sophie a new toy for her to take home. Pictured below is Sophie happily chewing on said toy.

As you can see, scant readers, this toy is MOST exciting. First of all it is soft and cute, which means it should last her all of ten minutes before it is ravaged and strewn about my floor in little cow bits. Second of all, and I can not make this readily apparent in the picture, but this toy is literally gorged with various obnoxious squeak items. Each one of those checks has a squeak. The legs squeak AND the head squeaks. This does not make for good sleep preparation. I was reading, trying to get to sleep last night and she was playing some horrendous squeak-cow-jazz-sonnet at the foot of my bed. Finally, I took the toy away from her. She sat at the base of my dresser staring at it and looking all pathetic and miserable, until she noticed that I wasn't paying much attention and gave up. I finally fell asleep, and had wonderful dreams in which Sophie did not own such a beast of a toy. I woke up this morning to the sound of her huffing puke noise. HORK! HORK! HORK! She puked up fluffy cow bits right in the doorway to my bedroom. Although she did have two infections recently, not to mention a horrible case of fleas from being outside at a bonfire in Bloomington, I had not had to clean up puke in awhile, so I let this one slide.

Now, I am sitting on my couch, catching up on news after having had dinner. I had given Sophie her toy when I got home from work, and she has been chewing and squeaking and rendering asunder all night. Finally, the squeaking just stopped. When I go to look to see what had happened, I find this. Here is a picture of the carcass. You can't really tell, but the cow is missing one of it's feet and it's tail, as well as four or five of the plastic squeaky innards. Oh, and if you look carefully, you can see bits of green fuzz strewn about, which I believe she ripped from the cow's head. Such carnage. Where is Sophie? Well, after striking down with great vengeance and furious anger upon this hapless (albeit annoying) cow toy, she apparently got bored and is now sitting on a rug in another room chewing on a peanut butter flavored bone. Now, I have to go pick up these fluffy green bits and deflated plastic squeaks. I will keep the empty cow hide in case she becomes interested later, but I have a feeling that this pitiful thing has served its purpose.

Chicken Pasta Primavera

I'm making an effort to cook at home more. It's healthier and less expensive and food just tastes better when there is labor involved. Luckily, I didn't cut myself tonight making dinner. I'm getting more skilled with the knives, or as my brother would say, "blades." :)

Chicken Pasta Primavera

1 rotisserie chicken

8oz whole wheat spaghetti

3c broccoli florets

2c sliced mushrooms

1 tomato, chopped

1 heaping tbsp minced garlic (I like garlic)

3.5oz jar pesto

3/4c fat-free evaporated milk

olive oil

salt

pepper

Boil a pot of water for the pasta. Pull the meat from the chicken and shred into bite-size pieces. I leave the skin on because it adds great flavor while cooking. Set aside. Add the pasta to the water, reduce heat to M and in about 10min you should have the desired texture. Drain the pasta and set aside. While the pasta is cooking, heat some olive oil in a large skillet at M/H and add the minced garlic. Once I hear the garlic start to sizzle, I add my chopped vegetables, first the broccoli, then the mushrooms, and finally the tomatoes. Watch the broccoli. Once it becomes bright and tender, but still crisp, the vegetables should be done. Add the chicken to the vegetables and stir until the chicken is heated through. Add salt and pepper to taste. Reduce heat to L and stir in the cooked spaghetti. Spoon the pesto on top of the mixture and stir until the pesto is combined. Remove the skillet from heat and add the milk. Again, stir to combine.

I use rotisserie chicken for most recipes calling for chicken. The flavor is great and it is simple to combine it into many dishes.

Also, you need a pretty large skillet to be able to fit everything in this recipe. I don't mess around with any measly 10" skillets.

This recipe is great. The pesto really highlights the chicken and vegetables well and the sweetness of the milk pulls everything together. I mean, who doesn't love pesto anyway? Plus, I get to eat dinner for like a week on this recipe... which is awesome because I am pathetic and can't afford to go to the grocery store until next Friday.

Goose Island Sofie & Trivia Night

Even though I've moved a state over, I am going to make an effort to get to the Flying Saucer at least once a week. They just put Goose Island Sofie on tap. In recognition in what I believe (with some bias) is the best mass-market brew company in the U.S., interested parties, you should make an effort to get a hold of this beer. Brew master's note is as follows: "Fermented with wild yeasts and aged in wine barrels with orange peel, Sofie is a tart, dry, sparkling ale. A subtle, spicy white pepper note, a hint of citrus from the orange peel and a creamy vanilla finish make Sofie an intriguing choice for Champagne drinkers and beer drinkers who are fond of Belgian Saisons." WHAT? OK. My palate is not sophisticated. All you had to say was Belgian and citrus, and I get it. Delicious.

On a sadder note, my love of citrusy beverage deliciousness did not help our trivia team tonight, named "Ban Comic Sans (Except in Cleveland)." I love trivia night. Our team usually does really well among the 20 or so teams there. When we do lose, we lose on the last question, which today involved Lyndon Johnson's love for Fresca. No go. I thought Fresca was invented in the 1990s. This was a harsh reality check as to my worldview. Just because I hadn't heard of or noticed Fresca until my freshman year of college apparently did not mean that it did not exist before then. One helpful trivia cohort suggested that this might be because that my freshman year of college was the time I should have discovered Fresca as I was experimenting on what would be best mixed with vodka. Fair.

Groundskeeper Christa

It's like soup outside. I HATE humidity, and I hate the constant battle I have to wage versus my fluffy lion hair every day living here. I was supposed to mow my lawn tonight, and I when I walked outside after work it was that sort of bastard gray color. Dark. CRAP! I drove home as fast as I could, screeched into my garage, changed, let Sophie outside and then rushed to my (rented) lawn mower with Gogol Bordello on my iPod. I basically ran laps around my backyard while Sophie ran laps around me and the lawn mower until it started raining. There is now this annoying furry landing strip along the South edge of my back yard that I couldn't get to in time. Being OCD, I almost think it's better to have not mowed at all. I have to make an effort to not look out my back windows until it is dry enough to mow again or that furry landing strip might be the death of me. How can anyone take care of their lawn in this state? I made a 95-degree rule earlier in June. If at any point in time during the day, it gets hotter than 95, my lawn isn't getting mowed and my neighbors can suck it. With the rain, this means that since I've moved here (April 1), I've mowed my lawn probably six times. My one next door neighbor made the helpful suggestion that I get up early to mow my lawn when it is less hot. He apparently doesn't understand my night-owlishness and my propensity to stay up to stupid hours of the night entranced by reruns of Law & Order that I've probably seen 10 times anyway. I am NOT a morning person. Anyway, I thought I would enjoy working in my yard, considering I like green stuff and being outside and junk. I also like the smell of grass when it is not masked by puppy land mine death stench. I HATE humidity, however. My thermostat is set at 70, and I am staying inside. I did what I could, little lawn. You can keep your landing strip until next week.

Infinite Jest

I have a Barnes and Noble problem. I have all of these books shoved haphazardly into this bookcase that is taller than me, books that I haven't read. My input rate is faster than my consumption rate. There is no mass balance here. I should be reading the books I haven't read yet, but instead I decided to read Infinite Jest again. (I like this copy - forward by Dave Eggers is good). I miss David Foster Wallace. I remember I was taking the Metra to Chicago for work when I found out he died. I felt so sick. In your life, you choose to put certain people on pedestals, and the result is nearly always painful in some way. Anyway, I had dog-eared this passage, which I am posting excerpts from here.

"Gompert, Katherine A., 21, Newton, MA. Data-clerical in a Wellesley Hills real estate office. Fourth hospitalization in three years, all clinical depression, unipolar. One series of electro-convulsive treatments out at Newton-Wellesley Hospital two years back. On Prozac for a short time, then Zoloft, most recently Parnate with a lithium kicker. Two previous suicide attempts, the second just this past summer. Bi-Valium discontinued two years, Xanax discontinued one year - ad admitted history of abusing prescribed meds. Depressions unipolar, fairly classic, characterized by acute dysphoria, anxiety w/panic, diurnal listlessness/agitation patterns, Ideation w/w/o Intent. First attempt, a CO-episode, garage's automobile had stalled before lethal hemotoxicity achieved. Then last year's attempt - no scarring now visible, her wrists' vascular nodes obscured by the insides of the knees she held. She continued to stare at the doorway where he first appeared. This latest attempt, a straightforward meds O.D. Admitted via the E.R. three nights past. Two days on ventilation after a Pump & Purge. Hypertensive crisis on the second day from a metabolic retox - she must have taken a hell of a lot of meds - the I.C.U. charge nurse had beeped the chaplain, so retox must have been bad. Almost died twice this time, Katherine Ann Gompert. Third day spent on 2-West for observation, Librium reluctantly administered for a B.P. that was all over the map. Now here on 5, his present arena. B.P. stable as of the last four readings. Next vitals at 1300h.

___

"The doctor chose his second-finest pen from the array in his white coat's breast pocket and made some sort of note on Kate Gompert's new chart for this particular psych ward. Crowded in among his pocket's pens was the rubber head of a diagnostic plexor. He asked Kate if she could tell him why she had wanted to hurt herself. Had she been angry at herself. At someone else. Had she ceased to feel as though her life had meaning to it. Had she heard anything like voices suggesting that she hurt herself.

___

"Kate Gompert stared at a point over the man's left shoulder. 'I wasn't trying to hurt myself. I was trying to kill myself. There's a difference.'

The doctor asked whether she could try to explain what she felt the difference was between those two things.

The delay that preceded her reply was only marginally longer than the pause in a regular civilian conversation. The doctor had no ideas about what this observation might indicate.

'Do you guys see different kinds of suicides?'

The resident made no attempt to ask Kate Gompert what she meant. She used one finger to remove some material from the corner of her mouth.

'I think there must probably be different types of suicides. I'm not one of the self-hating ones. The type like "I'm shit and the world'd be better off without poor me" type that says that but also imagines what everybody'll say at their funeral. I've met types like that on wards. Poor-me-I-hate-me-punish-me-come-to-my-funeral. Then they show you a 20 x 25 glossy of their dead cat. It's all self-pity bullshit. It's bullshit. I didn't have any special grudges. I didn't fail an exam or get dumped by anybody. All these types Hurt themselves.' Still that intriguing, unsettling combination of blank facial masking and conventionally animated vocal tone. The doctor's small nods were designed to appear not as responses but as invitations to continue, what Dretske called Momentumizers.

'I didn't want to especially hurt myself. Or like punish. I don't hate myself. I just wanted out. I didn't want to play anymore is all.'

'Play,' nodding in confirmation, making small, quick notes.

'I just wanted to stop being conscious. I'm a whole different type. I wanted to stop feeling this way. If I could have just put myself in a really long coma I would have done that. Or given myself shock. I would have done that. Instead.'

The doctor was writing with great industry.

'The last thing more I'd want is hurt. I just didn't want to feel this way anymore, I don't . . . I didn't believe this feeling would ever go away. I don't. I still don't. I'd rather feel nothing than this.'

___

"The doctor wrote down something much too brief to correspond directly to what she'd said. He was nodding both while he wrote and when he looked up. 'And yet this nauseated feeling has come and gone for you in the past, it's passed eventually during prior depressions, Katherine, has it not?'

'But when you're in the feeling you forget. The feeling feels like it's always been there and will always be there, and you forget. It's like this whole filter drops down over the whole way you think about everything, a couple weeks after --'

___

"Kate Gompert finally took a real breath. 'And then but no matter what I do it gets worse and worse, it's there more and more, this filter drops down, and the feeling makes the fear of the feeling way worse, and after a couple weeks it's there all the time, the feeling, and I'm totally inside it, I'm in it and everything has to pass through it to get in, and I don't want to smoke any Bob (Hope), and I don't want to work, or go out, or read, or watch TP, or go out, or stay in, or either do anything or not do anything, I don't want ANYTHING except for the feeling to go AWAY. But it doesn't. Part of the feeling is being like willing to do anything to make it go away. Understand that. ANYTHING. Do you understand? It's not wanting to hurt myself it's wanting to NOT HURT.'"

Wallace, David Foster. Infinite Jest. 1996. Back Bay Books / Little Brown and Company. New York, NY 10017. pp. 68-78.

I thought this was supremely interesting and hilarious. Depression is so horribly simple, but so very difficult for people who don't have it to understand. All of the characters in this book are fantastic. It is funny and human and raw. It isn't easy to get through. I am about a tenth of the way, but I already know it's worth it...

Now, if I just got the guts to attempt Ulysses again... Ugh.

In the beginning...

I’ve been meaning to create a website for a long time. Who knows why I haven’t gotten around to it. I guess Netflix really sucks up your time. I mean. Not in a bad way. I mean. I fully support Netflix and believe it is one of the greatest ideas ever. Anyway, I used to be a journal person or notebook person (I'm not journal-fancy) way back before I knew anything about the interwebs. I haven’t been writing as much, as in at all, as in the last two years. I don’t know why, but I suspect it has something to do with the Prozac. I used to only write when I was crabby or annoyed or sad or stressed. I spent most of my time in some heightened emotional state. Therefore, I was writing a lot. I miss the sort of connection I had to myself then. I am hoping this bloggo-space will help me write more and find that groundedness. I think that’s a word.

I needed to post this “first blog” as I am designing my new website. I am hoping that future posts will be more interesting. I am too busy in creation-mode to find anything interesting to say right now.

The first picture here is of my dog, Sophie. She just turned 1 this week! That’s pretty much how she looks all of the time. Sleepy and giving some sort of stink-eye. When she DOES busy herself, she busies herself getting infections and chewing into 409 bottles (TWICE) requiring activated carbon treatments (yes, TWICE).

I love her more than anything. There's just something about her stupid, stinky face.

So, here it is. The beginning. More to come.