fearlesstemp: (summer of george!)
.i. friday night lights!

Tomorrow at 10PM, NBC will be airing Friday Night Lights instead of a repeat of Studio 60. I love Friday Night Lights the way I love popcorn, chocolate, and Diet Pepsi: even though I know that I could theoretically live without them, I would hate a reality in which I was forced to do so. To make a FNL-less reality less likely, more people need to watch!

It's an awesome show. All the critics are blabbering about it, which is great, but also makes me a little nervous because I think sometimes people think critical darling = medicinal TV (good for you, but boring/blah/bossy). FNL is SO NOT THAT. It is just plain awesome. It is both high-quality and tremendously satisfying. I mean, people have dramatic arguments and make out in the rain! And there are rousing fourth-quarter comebacks! And Kyle Chandler looking ridiculously good! And there are several attractive male football players whose portrayers are totally in their twenties so it's not that skeevy!

Check it out!

.ii. public speaking phobia

I recently reconnected with a woman I met through Literacy Volunteers, who had a recurance of cancer in the time since I last saw her, and understandably hasn't been feeling well. When we went out to lunch a couple of weeks ago, I told her to let me know if there was anything, anything I could do.

LiteracyBuddy: Well, actually . . .

FearlessTemp: Name it. Whatever you need - company, someone to pick up groceries, fun novels. Just let me know.

LB: Okay. I was supposed to speak at the Literacy Volunteers event in November, and I'm really not feeling up to it. Would you be willing to fill in?

Outer FT: Of course! No problem!

Inner FT: Dammit.

Which brings us to this weekend, three days before the event, and how is the speech coming? I loathe it! Has my paralyzing fear of public speaking gone away, even after a year of teaching? Not at all! Can I stop thinking about poor LB and how paltry my concerns are in comparison to hers? Of course not! Does this lead to increased self-loathing? Naturally! Will I stop this Q&A pattern? Immediately!

All I want to do is watch TV and eat fudgesicles! Why can't doing that produce a heartfelt, witty speech?

And even if the speech is witty and heartfelt, will anyone notice if I look like I took a can of shoe polish and combed it through my hair? I dyed my hair on Thursday for the first time ever, and had the hair stylist color match it, and I don't doubt that she did, but. It's dark. It's probably no darker than it was last week, and just looks different to me because the gray is gone, but I have this worry, now, that it looks obviously dyed, and I've always heard that dyeing your hair darker is a bad choice (I always think of Elizabeth Taylor in her perfume commercials before she went white), but maybe that's just for the over-sixty set? I don't think I look over sixty. In fact, the person in the next chair at the salon thought I was 18 or 19. That's what happens when you never leave the house! No sun damage.

(In all honesty, it's more that I've worn SPF 15 moisturizer or makeup on my face for the last five years, and also that my face is chubby - chubby faces show fewer wrinkles. It's one of the few benefits we get.)

.iii. pollage

[Poll #856164]

.iv. it

Over the weekend, I gave up three hours of my life I'll never get back to an ABC Family re-airing of the mini-series It, based on the Stephen King novel,which totally scarred me when it first came out. I mean, there was a killer clown with razor-sharp teeth! And a kid getting sucked into a pipe! And Richard Thomas a.k.a. John Boy from the Waltons wearing a ponytail! It was extremely scarring. And I totally screamed a few times when watching it this past Saturday (I'm a pretty big scaredy cat).

Watching it now, I was blown away by how much TV has improved in the last sixteen years. The special effects, sure, but everything else - the dialogue, the pacing, the characterization was just so cheesy and badly done, in my opinion. John Ritter was solid, as was Annette O'Toole - I was totally invested in spoiler for the ending! )

I bet the book is good, but am too much of a scaredy cat to try it.

.v. boots!

Boots, my Nana's missing cat, has returned! Unfortunately, he's in bad shape and his chances of recovery from his time in the wild are iffy (he was severely dehydrated and had gone into kidney failure by the time he was found). If anyone can spare some good thoughts for Mr. Boots, they would be v. much appreciated.
fearlesstemp: (summer of george!)
My father's legal secretary quit, which means that I get to go in and start working for my Dad after having one (1) blissful day of freedom post-year of teaching. Damn you, fate! Damn you, Tina, who left for greener pastures without giving appropriate notice!

Anyway. The icon I use for this entry gives a pretty good impression of how I spent my one (1) blissful day of freedom, and how I wish I could spend tomorrow, but cannot. Instead, I will be listening to tapes on dictaphone, and fielding calls from irate clients. Oh, joy.

Enough complaining!

Today I watched the second season of Deadwood some more, and while I continue to find it awesome, the dialogue kind of, well, befuddles me sometimes. The bad language I don't mind, though it can be troublesome since immediately after watching the show I find myself saying things like, "Pass me the fucking potato salad," and once last year, when I was indulging myself in the first season, I think I actually called someone a cocksucker.* No, what gets me is how the dialogue, which has been called Shakespearean, is often so convoluted and complicated that it's incomprehensible, even if one has a DVD with subtitle capabilities and a functional rewind button.

You know what they should have? Ooh! This is such a good idea, I seriously should e-mail HBO upon completing this entry. They should have subtitles in Standard English, just like they have subtitles in French, Spanish, etc. Then idiots like myself could actually understand what's going on.

(Also, I think one of the reasons the language gets called Shakespearean is because of the way the writers often swich up the structure of sentences, which is interesting and confusing, but actually reminds me more of Yoda than Shakespeare.)

What else is there to report? Very little! My younger cat jumped into the sliding glass door today - he usually lets us know he wants to come in my by leaping up and hanging from the screen, but someone had forgotten to pull the screen part of the door closed. So he jumped up and THUNKed against the door instead. He was totally fine (cats always land on their feet), and after coming in, we rewarded him with treats, and lots of cuddling, but MAN, was it funny. I'm laughing about it right now.

*Not to their face, of course; I was either retelling an irrtating incident or, more likely, yelling at another driver while on the highway. Still, it shocked me!
fearlesstemp: (cary kate net)
.i. desire

I can't express to you how much I want - no, need - Breyer's Mint Chocolate Chip Light Ice Cream right now. I kind of want to get in my car and drive to the store and buy it.

Things stopping me from this course of action:

1. It's that time of night cool cats like myself call the wee hours of the morning.

2. My car is covered in snow.

3. I haven't showered since yesterday, and it shows.

4. It would involve sneaking out and sneaking back in the house, which opens up the possibility of getting caught, and having to explain to parental units (who routinely say things like, "Ice cream? No thanks. Not in the mood.") why, exactly, it was so imperative that I get to the store.

5. Also, I would have to get out of my desk chair.

Tomorrow is another day.

.ii. cat wranglin' woman

I was able to snag the random black cat not once, but twice, after I wrote Thursday's entry. And this done without a scratch or bite! There were other casualties, however: a flowerpot, my dignity.

On the loss of my dignity: At first, I couldn't figure out a way to grab the guy while he was hiding under the stairs, so I constructed an elaborate plan that involved me scaring him out of the spot and up the stairs toward the first floor of the house - where he would meet a closed door and I would be able to trap and grab him. The plan worked perfectly, except for the part where after he met the closed door, the cat turned around, got all puffed up, hissed, and I responded by throwing my hands up and screaming in terror. Screaming! Like a little girl! Which made my mother, standing behind me, scream too, and then the cat ran away and hid, pretty successfully, in one of the basement windows (which was, like, ten feet off the ground - how he got up there, a mystery).

On the loss of the flowerpot: I reached up for him on the window ledge, which led to him leaping onto a shelf and knocking a flowerpot over, and then jumping to the ground. He ran back to his original hiding place, under the stairs.

The ultimate tool of success was a broom, which I used to push him towards me until I could reach in and grab the scruff of his neck. After I snagged him, and carried him upstairs, I had a nice screaming fight with my parents.

Their opinion: He looked like our neighbor's cat, so we should let him go outside and let him find his way. He's scared! He doesn't want to be here! Just look at him!

My opinion: We should lock him in the bathroom and call our neighbor, and have him come over and get the cat. It's cold!

Our arguments were much less eloquent and far more CAPSLOCKY, and finally ended in me caving, yelling, "FINE!" and, for some reason I still don't understand, putting the cat down a few feet from the back door instead of outside, which, naturally, led to the cat taking off in the wrong direction and hiding under a recliner. We had another fun conversation that went like this:

Parental Units: WHY DID YOU DO THAT?




And so we called our neighbors.

Dad: Hi, Bob? It's Jim MyLastName. Just calling because we think we might have your cat here.

Neighbor: Our cat's dead.

Dad: Oh.

So it wasn't that cat. The non-dead black cat did have a collar, though, and has been spotted often in our yard, and so, finally, I gave in to my parents and snagged him and put him in the yard - at which point he immediately made a beeline down the street, which gives me hope that he does have a house to go to. At the very least, he was very healthy when I found him - nice coat, well-fed. Then again, we don't know how long we've been subsidizing him.

More news if the story develops!

.iii. sacramental stories

I've started screening my calls because, I don't know. I think I'm a very important person or something. Really it's because my life is extremely boring and I don't feel like talking to people, because I never feel like I have anything new to say.

So that's why even though I was home all morning, there was a message on the machine when I was leaving for the day on Friday. I decided to listen to it even though I was just barely on time and wouldn't be able to return a phone call anyway.

Answering Machine: Hello, this is Debbie from Shady Pines. This is NOT an emergency. I was just calling to let you know that Father G. stopped by this morning and administered the last rites to your grandfather.

Self: WHAT?!

I picked up the phone and dialed my mother and played the message for her.

Mom: WHAT?!

Self: I have to go! I'm late!

And so I left. This may seem like a very callous reaction - all I can say is that it's a family trait. We don't respond well in crises (Exhibit A: The time Lifeline called to tell us that they'd gotten an emergency message from my grandfather's Lifeline necklace, and that the fire department was on its way - could we meet them there? Sure! we said, and then my mother stopped at the gas station for a Pepsi en route).

In the car, I illegally called my father on my cell because this was, after all, his father we were talking about.

Self: So, uh, Dad, Shady Pines called, and they said it wasn't an emergency, but that Father G. stopped by and administered the last rites?

Dad: Yeah, I got that message too.

Self: Is Grandpa okay?

Dad: He's fine. Father G. just happened to be there.

Self: And so he administered the last rites?

Dad: I guess.

Self: Because he was in the neighborhood.

Dad: Yup.

Self: So I could stop by St. Patrick's right now and get the last rites if I wanted to.

Dad: Probably.

I guess nowadays that's how the sacrament works - it's called Anointing the Sick, and can be done at any time of mental or physical illness, not just on your deathbed. But if that's what you're going for, don't call the family and use the old school sacramental designation! Last rites makes you think, you know, it's the Last Rites, time for deathbed confessions, the whole shebang!

So that was stressful.

.v. film flam

On Saturday I went to see Something New, which was exactly what I hoped it would be. I recommend!


Feb. 9th, 2006 07:10 pm
fearlesstemp: (cary and baby)
Date: February 9, 2006

Time: 6:00 PM

Event: Unidentified Cat Sighting

So, I was sitting there in the recliner, eating frozen yogurt out of the cardboard pint container, as I have been known to do, thoroughly enjoying the last five minutes of a particularly excellent episode of Seinfeld ("A George divided against itself CANNOT stand!"), when what do I see mosey across the kitchen, not twenty feet away from my spot in the recliner?


Now, you may be asking yourself, why is this significant? After all, my LJ formula would probably be something like:

40% Complaints About School/Work
25% Cat Talk
20% Random Family Stories
14% Jibbering About TV/Movies
1% Actual Insight

I talk about my cats a lot. But! THIS WAS NOT ONE OF OUR CATS! This was (is!) a totally random, additional, heretofore UNKNOWN member of our household!

He ran into the basement before I could catch him, and I found myself standing at the top of the stairs, staring into the darkness of the basement, wondering: Did this really just happen? Did it? WTF?

Within about ninety seconds, I had completely convinced myself that I was hallucinating (I so would not stand up under any of those psychological tests where they show a group of people a square, and everyone says it's a circle, and they measure how long it takes the lone non-experiment-participant to cave in and say it's a circle too. I am nothing like Jean Luc "THERE ARE FOUR LIGHTS!" Picard, in other words). I called my father on his private line just in case, and had the following conversation:

Dad Unit: HELLO.

Self: Uh, hi, Dad. Can you talk?


Self: Did you, say, let any cats in the house today? Any additional cats? Say, a black cat?

DU: A black cat?

Self: I could swear I just saw him in the kitchen, but I thought maybe I was just imagining -

DU: A black cat.

Self: Yes, a black cat.

DU: ...You know, I think I might have seen him too.

Self: Really? Today?

DU: Not today, a couple of days ago. In the morning. I thought I was seeing things. Also, it was dark.

Self: Oh my God, how long has he BEEN here?

DU: I don't know!

Self: They have been eating a lot of food lately.

A random black cat! Hiding out in our house! Right now, in our basement! I should go catch him, I guess, but I don't know! What if he has rabies? I know I am obsessed with rabies. Also, I don't know what to do with him! I don't want to kick him out. It's cold out there! Obviously he needs someplace warm to be!

RANDOM BLACK CAT! How long have you been here? Where are you going? Are you rabid? How the hell will I find you again? Is there an unknown point of entry to our house for cats? Is there an unknown cat army in the basement? Do they have demands? Will I be able to meet them? So many questions. So few answers.

More news as it develops. Right now: HOMEWORK!
fearlesstemp: (cary kate net)
First of all: Of course attacks on embassies are never funny. Still, I feel the need to pass along my confusion upon first seeing the headline at the top of my Gmail window – "Embassies torched in cartoon fury" – because even though common sense dictated that the author of the article could not possibly mean that some kind of Renegade Cartoon Faction had bombed an embassy, I still had to wonder: Were the hand-drawn feeling threatened by computer animation? Angry at Pixar? Mistakenly aiming their ire at a nation instead of a corporation (as so many disgruntled people have in the past)?

The fury was, of course, over a cartoon, not led by cartoon characters. (link here)

In other news: There is major stress at Casa Jess because Scout, the elder cat, has developed a limp. Within seconds of seeing it, I had diagnosed her with bone cancer and begun making preparations for her passing – a bit premature, as it turns out she just twisted it or got some kind of bite-that-didn't-break-the-skin. I know this because I spent four hours of my Saturday sitting in emergency vet clinics, where I met two (2) very nice vets, and one (1) slightly-horrifying vision of my future self.

We were at our second vet of the evening (the first vet's X-Ray machine having gone on the fritz), and ended up seated about fifteen feet away from a woman, her cat, and her mother. I was there with a cat and my mother, so I felt something of a kinship to her, which she detected since, about thirty seconds after we got in, she started confiding in me about her cat, whom she'd accidentally given her own medication.

Crazy Lady: An Ativan! So she should be calm! Ha! Haha!

Self: Ha ha, yes.

CL: I didn't even know I'd given it to her, only my mother noticed I'd dropped the first pill I tried to give the cat, and she said to me, 'What's that pill there-'

Crazy Lady's Mom: It was after she stood up, because she was sitting on the pill.

CL: Haha, yeah, I was sitting on it! Sitting on the pill!

CLM: And it was the wrong pill.

CL: That's right! The wrong pill! I gave the cat the wrong pill! So she should be calm! Ha! Haha!

[Reaches in to pet cat, who hisses and yowls.]

CL: Not calm yet! At least she's not constipated.

Self: . . .

CL: I'm always worried about her being constipated. One time I thought she was, but it was just that she wasn't eating. I noticed something was wrong because there wasn't any poop, but then the vet felt around and said that there just wasn't anything in her belly – isn't it amazing that they can do that? But they can! So they gave her a barium GI and it cured the problem itself. They didn't see anything wrong on the GI but after the barium, she was fine! They said the barium cured it! Haha!

Self: Wow!

CL: I still can't figure how they got the barium in the cat, though. Just can't see the cat lapping up the barium, you know?

Self: Me either!

CL: Did I tell you that she weighs six pounds?

Anyway, it was an experience! Really, a very nice lady, and honestly, there but for the grace of God go I, because I do think that most of us (or maybe just me) are just barely on the sane side of the crazy divide, and one too many bad breaks, or a mixup in the chemical cocktail that is our brain, and over we go to the other side. Maybe I'm already there and don't know it! My mother has been trying to get me to take some of her leftover tranquilizers lately, as I've been so stressed out – something to watch.

P.S. How awesome is General Hospital lately? I'm totally into the sweeps story, and also, I think Robin and Patrick are adorable, which is really all I need - one couple to root for. Add in cool characters from the past, and high drama from a deadly virus - does it get any better? I think not!

two items

Feb. 18th, 2005 12:33 am
fearlesstemp: (dusty sleeping)
There are actually a bunch of things I want to torture you with, including (but not limited to) recent tutoring, my most recent parking ticket, the latest annoying job, how I forgot my wallet today, the generalized self-loathing that accompanies any personal essay, how late my Proactiv is, and my cat's worrying ability to chew on his own collar - but there is not sufficient time for me to ramble on about these things at the moment. I have to go to bed.

I have time for two things!

First, because I am a sucker for memes - Lurkers! Are there lurkers out there? If there are, hi! It would be cool to hear from you, possibly via a comment to this post. Posting anonymously is okay. I swear I'm not scary. I use my cute cat icon to demonstrate my lack of scariness.

[SPEAKING of the cute cat - he totally just crawled into my work bag and sat there for a few minutes, quite content, until it started to tip over veeeeery sloooowly, at which point he did not get out of the bag, but just sat there looking kind of desperate and terrified. I rescued him! Oh, if only I had a digital camera. The cuteness was off the charts. Moving on!]

Second, am I the only person who really disliked Sideways? It has, like, a 95% fresh rating on Rotten Tomatoes and I feel like I must have been shown a different cut of the movie than other people. Or maybe I just have pedestrian taste. I am, for example, kind of looking forward to that ABC Family TV movie starring Ryan Reynolds, who starred in one of my favorite mediocre sitcoms of the recent past, Two Guys and a Girl.

And that is all.
fearlesstemp: (dusty sleeping)
If there were a spectrum of lame LiveJournal posts - and maybe there is one somewhere, I just haven't come across it - I think a GIP to showcase one's new cat would be defined as Ultimate Lameness. But I don't CARE because I am the poster child for ultimate lameness, and also, my new cat is just so cute that it's unfair not to share his cuteness with the world.

His name is Dusty. We brought him home around Thanksgiving after a brutal, harrowing battle with the cat adopting community. We adopted Scout, our older cat, ten years ago, and sometime in the last decade I guess everyone got together and decided that letting one's cat wander outside was akin to regularly setting its tail on fire or something. We were turned away from shelters several times! They wouldn't even let us hold the cats!

I was shocked. Shocked! I thought I was a good cat owner! I listen to Bob Barker and get my felines spayed or neutered. They always have shots, we give them flea/tick control stuff – hey, for the last few months of Molly's life she had trouble controlling certain bodily functions and I cleaned it up! Regularly! The basement floor and I are on quite familiar terms! I actually have horrible fears of discovering in twenty years that I have some bizarre lung disorder caused by inhaling so much of that heady combination of cat poo and powerful cleaning solvents.

Anyway, all that led me to believe I was a Quality Pet Owner, but when shelter personnel saw that I checked the box next to the "Indoor/Outdoor" option, they acted like I ate cats when they misbehaved or something. It was horrifying. Horrifying! It's been like six weeks and I am still not over this. STILL. I mean - okay, I know it's one of those things, like the existence of God and the Designated Hitter rule, where there is really no way to fully convince someone who thinks otherwise of the validity of your position. But. We're lucky enough to live in an area where there's lots of space to run around and not too much traffic and quite a few small rodents and birds to chase down. We let our cats go outside.

(It occurs to me that the frequent references to 'cats' may make it sound like we have an army of them, but we've never had more than two at a time.)

Dusty came from an animal shelter so small that it didn't even have a central facility - it was run out of people's homes. Somehow we slipped through the applicaton process and were able to bring the little guy home. We seriously lucked out because he is great. I could go on at length (well, greater length), but I won't because I've been freaking myself out lately with my extreme cat affection (I'm not quite at the point where I would buy one of those pet purses people use to carry their animals around, but I'm scarily close to understanding how someone could buy one), and so I'm going to move right along.

Move right along to what? To bed, it seems. I meant to write about more - literacy volunteers, my trip, my escalating awfulness w/r/t keeping in touch with people - but now am too tired. Am off to dream crazy cat lady dreams.
fearlesstemp: (bucky)
I burned my right pinky finger on the grilled cheese maker today. That's the big news of the day from here. And it is big news, because it hurts. A lot. Will it keep me from making more grilled cheese sandwiches on the grilled cheese maker in the future? Doubtful, because I have recently discovered that these sandwiches are the best food EVER in the history of the WORLD. You may think I'm exaggerating, but that's just because you've never had one. Oh, sure, you've had a grilled cheese before, but you haven't had one on this specific grilled cheese maker of mysterious origin, which my brother picked up secondhand at a flea market a few years ago.

It is awesome.

Now, this burn may not curb my grilled cheese appetite, but it may make me a bit more careful about checking that the machine is off. The whole leaving-it-on-for-an-hour-post-sandwich thing is, hopefully, a thing of the past. A painful thing of the past.

Other events of the day: The Mets lost. To the Braves. Brother, mother, and self made up different words to the "Meet the Mets" song to communicate our displeasure with the team. We talked about it a lot at dinner, too, before having the following fascinating conversations.

Dinner Conversation Part 1:

Jimmy: Look at that cat, just look at her.

(Entire table turns to look at the cat in question, one Molly Comet MyLastName, who sits with her back pointedly turned to the table, angry after having been unceremoniously tossed by my brother off of the counter, which she'd jumped onto in her ongoing quest to eat us out of house and home.)

Jimmy: She's, like, my arch-nemesis.

Me: What does it say about you that your arch-nemesis is a four-pound cat?

Jimmy: It says that I don't get out much.

Dinner Conversation Part 2:

Mother Unit: Jimmy, are you going to remember to take out the garbage?

Jimmy: (Long-suffering sigh)

MU: Jimmy?

Me: I don't know, Mom, I think he's a little worn out from emptying the dishwasher six hours ago.

Jimmy: Was she talking to you? Why are you still here, anyway?

Me: Because I'm a loser. That's why.

Dinner Conversation Part 3, featuring Jimmy's best friend since elementary school, Pat:

Jimmy: These cookies are far less dunkable than the Oreos.

Pat: What, did you do some kind of study?

Jimmy: Yeah. I had three of these cookies and the last three Oreos yesterday, and these got destroyed by the milk really quickly.

Me: But what about the M&Ms? I like the M&Ms. They kind of make up for the lack of dunkability.

Jimmy: Yeah, true, it is kind of a draw overall.

Me: Yeah.

Jimmy: Hmm.

[long pause]

We talk about the important things here at Casa Jess.
fearlesstemp: (bucky)
I have one of the teeniest cats imaginable. She is, at her normal size, a little over seven pounds and lately, due to a recently discovered overactive thyroid, only six and a half pounds. Teeny! Teeny tiny!

The thyroid thing was discovered when we brought her in for a problem with her eye, which my father, the person who theoretically never wanted either one of the cats, spotted first.

"The cat's got some weird...thing in her eye," he said.

"Phsaw," I and my mother said. "Silly Daddy/Jimmy. She's always had brown spots in her green eyes, since she was a kitten. It's part of her charm."

And then we went on about our business for a day or so, until one of us (I can't remember who) picked her up and realized that yes, there was some weird...thing in her eye, and set up an appointment at the vet.

I hate the vet almost as much as my cat does, and that's a lot. I get all nervous! Like they're judging my kitty, and my kitty-care skills! I have the same feelings of intimidation at the makeup counter at Macy's, where I feel like they can sense that I can't put eyeliner on even today, at the age of twenty-three (one of these days I'm going to get up the nerve to ask one of them). Anyway, I brought her (to the vet, not the makeup counter at Macy's), and everyone exclaimed about how cute she was, and cuddled her, until they had to take her in for bloodwork, after which she came out being carried by the scruff of her neck with her paws sticking out, claws bared, and a scary expression on her little cute face. The vet's assistant looked rather disturbed, and I felt like consoling her by telling her the story of how they had to put a muzzle on her when we took her to her first vet's appointment at eight weeks.

Anyway, the vet came in, and intimidated me, and diagnosed the cat with some weird eye condition and decided to run some bloodwork. We called for the results on Friday and if the vet's office didn't have concerns about us then, they probably do now, since my father's idea of funny is standing a few feet away from the person on the phone getting the diagnosis saying, as loudly as he can, "If it's more than twenty dollars, just snuff her!"

It is more than twenty dollars, and we are, of course, emphatically not snuffing her, but instead have been saddled with eyedrops (which have to be put in four times a day), and pills (which have to be given twice a day). The vet neglected to give us the tranquilizer darts which are, I believe, necessary for any person who expects to get through this daily regimen unscathed.

I just emerged from Pill Battle No. 2 of the day victorious, but it was a long, difficult battle, with losses on both sides (Molly: her pride Me: Some skin on my right hand). I feel ridiculous because it's not like I'm wrestling a puma into submission – she's SIX AND A HALF POUNDS! She's, like, I don't know. A little more than a bag of sugar! That's how tiny she is!

Actually, the tininess is part of the problem because you feel like if you do anything too much or too harshly while wrestling her into submission, you could seriously hurt her. And we don't want that! We heart our Molly!

My preferred method of pill delivery involves using a towel. This worked well the first time, but since then not so much, because there's not really a subtle way to get a towel wrapped around a small cat. Basically you just have to sneak up behind them (really, a challenge) and drop the big towel on them (somehow without them noticing) and then swaddle them in it so that they can't get their claws out. Usually this devolves into me chasing her around with the towel flying out beside me, like some bizarre catfighting ritual. Which is, actually, an extremely apt description.

But really. Poor little Molly! It's got to be so scary! And we feel especially bad because during the last month or so she's been doing bad stuff she never did before, like hopping up on the counters and jumping into the dishwasher while we were loading it to lick food off of the silverware (very nice), and shoving Scout (who is twice her size) out of the way at the food dish when we gave them Fancy Feast. We were totally berating her for being selfish! And piggish! And all the while she had a condition that gave her insatiable hunger! I just had to chase her off the kitchen counter and the kitchen table while writing this.

We are the Worst Cat Subsidizers Evah! (For one can never really "own" a cat.) Though I fear that you guys think we're abusively bad instead of just rather unobservant. For your benefit (and for mine, because I don't want PETA beating down my door), I just undertook a very scientific cat-measuring expedition so that you can realize that Molly's tiny weight is not grossly disproportionate. Molly is, from head to the end of her trunk (meaning, no tail), slightly more than 1 Two-Liter Diet Coke (with lemon) bottle long. Scout, on the other hand, is approximately 1.75 Diet Coke (with lemon) bottles long, and weighs a robust 12-13 pounds.

We feed them! They always have food and water, and we buy them tartar-controlling cat treats and milk cats can digest (which is so nasty looking, it's really beyond belief), and little plastic balls with bells in them that they always toss under the furniture after playing with them for ten seconds, at which point I end up bellyflopped on the floor reaching into the scary depths to fetch said ball. We love them! And we're all so upset about Molly that she's the number one topic of discussion here, to the point that my parents and I find ourselves standing together in the front hall, staring at Molly sleeping there in her favorite position (flat on her back with paws straight up in the air), whispering about how peaceful she is when she's sleeping.

It's kind of pathetic.

Sudden random topic change with no attempt at segue: I had a very nice Valentine's Day, even though I continue to be a singleton. I feel like I should have been more depressed yesterday, or something, but I wasn't. I was actually driving around worrying about it, all, "Maybe I'm repressing! Maybe at some random date in the future that is not a Hallmark-created holiday, like March 7, I will have some massive breakdown while sitting in traffic listening to Delilah on the Easy Listening station!" So, you know. Watch out for me on March 7. It could happen.

I actually went out last night with some friends in honor of Anna's birthday. It was very fun, and involved Mexican food and listening to live music, and battling city parking on a Saturday night. The two singers were very talented, and again made me lament the fact that I could not sing. I talked about this with Anna between songs, and decided that my career must therefore be in rap, and said that I could be the female Eminem.

"I could be, like, Reeses Pieces," I said.

"No, no, you should be Snickers," she said. "But with a z at the end. Like, 'Snickaz!'"

Which amuses me to this hour.

Today I did nothing of worth outside of making a beer run for my father and driving my brother to the train station. Oh, and I watched the finale of Dawson's Creek again )

God, I can't believe I'm single! How are guys not lining up at the door of this girl who talks at length about medicating her cat, her wannabe rap career, and Dawson's Creek? The only explanation is that the infighting among the hordes is keeping any one of them from getting to the doorbell.

And now, I watch my tape of Masterpiece Theater and pour myself a glass of Paul Neman's Orange Mango Tango, a.k.a. the best juice ever.
fearlesstemp: (bucky)
Nothing says "Good morning! Welcome to a new day!" like stepping out your front door and being greeted by the image of your cute seven-and-a-half-pound kitty gnawing at the open chest cavity of a tiny bunny.


Molly: [Looks up curiously, nose covered with blood, then goes back to her feast]

Me: Stop it! Stop gnawing! Stop -- no, not the head! (opens front door) DAD!

Scout: [Strides up to the scene, looking cluelessly curious]

Me: Aw, Scout. Too dumb to be much of a predator. We love you. Molly, why the bunny? Why, always, is it the bunny? Can't you kill some ugly mammal?

Dad: What's -- oh, Jesus Christ.

Me: I have to leave! Have fun!

Dad: Another bunny rabbit?! (To Molly, while shooing her away) Murderer! You vicious murderer!

Molly: [Stands her ground]

Scout: [Sits next to Dad on the front stoop to observe]

Me: [Hops into little blue car to race away, casting one final glance over her shoulder to see her father standing in his mis-matched pajamas in front of the front door, hollering "Killer!" while resorting to kicking at the air a few feet from Molly's head in an attempt to scare her off.]

And we wonder why we're not more popular with the neighbors.


Feb. 10th, 2003 11:00 am
fearlesstemp: (bucky)
It's Bucky! I swear, Bucky IS my cat Molly, just the same way Satchel is my cat Scout. Scout has always acted more like a dog than a cat. Anyhoo, I love the Get Fuzzy comic strip -- a warning to anyone out there who may go searching for pictures: Putting "fuzzy" and "pictures" in the same search line is certainly going to garner you some interesting results.

And nope, no actual content in this post here. Ok, here's a quick cat story to make the entry less pointless: Saturday afternoon I was sitting upstairs on the computer when I heard a MASSIVE crash and the unmistakable guttural YOWL of one Molly the Surly Cat. Ran downstairs and found her sitting all queenly in front of the sliding glass door, staring at the retreating back of Blackie, a neighborhood cat who likes to prance up to our back door and cavort about and drive the cats insane by having the nerve to, like, sit on their picnic table! The horrors! Anyway, I was wondering where the crash and the yowl came from, since the situation looks all calm, when my mother revealed that Molly had tried to attack Blackie through the sliding glass door and that the huge crash I'd heard had been Molly hitting the door at full-kitty speed. And then the yowl of pain.

Aw! I heart my stupid surly kitty!

And that's all for now, back to being a semi-productive employee.
fearlesstemp: (Default)
I had a dream about MIchael Vartan wearing a tuxedo last night, which would have been fabulous had it not ended with him telling me that I smelled. !!! It was so upsetting that I think the horror of my massive BO offending Mr. Vartan caused me to wake myself up. I have had dreams where I fell off cliffs and kept the dream going, but Michael Vartan thinking I smell? That's where I draw the line.

I worry that the massive BO is not just a dream thing, as today when I was on the phone with a friend, my father walked over to me and started rubbing a perfume insert all over my shoulder and hair. Now whenever I turn my head I get a massive whiff of some Calvin Klein scent. It's kind of disconcerting.

I swear I don't smell. Or I hope I don't. I bathe regularly and am a faithful user of both deodorant AND cheap body spray/perfume.

Today there was an unexpected boon of girlie movies on TV, and I indulged myself by watching Clueless, Ten Things I Hate About You, and Never Been Kissed, starring the no less adorable because he found my dream self offensive Michael Vartan himself. I remember going to see that movie a few years ago in the theater and swooning in my seat. I think the whole reason I started watching Alias was for him. I am a pathetic Michael Vartan fangirl. And my dream projection of him found my dream self smelly!

It is oh so very tragic.

On the topic of things that do smell: Scout. My cat. Scout is quite possibly the most adorable cat to ever grace the planet, but she is also on occasion so smelly that I think Phoebe's "Smelly Cat" was written expressly for her. When she was a kitten, Molly used to bat her around and her only means of defense was to stick her butt in the air and back into Molly's face. I swear, I watched her do it, and Molly, who was an adult cat at the time and at least five times Scout's size, would RUN in fear. Such was the wretchedness of Scout's flatulence. We had to put her on special kitten food.

She's still got a bit of the Smelly Kitten in her, and will sit adorably in your lap, gaze up lovingly at you, and then yawn in your face and release such heinous halitosis breath that oxygen supply to the brain is severely compromised. But she's so adorable while she does it that you can't really hate her.

On the topic of things that do not smell: Me. Seriously. I swear. Dream projection of Michael Vartan be damned!
fearlesstemp: (Default)
In one corner, the mother-daughter team of Peg and Jess, stepping in with a combined height of approximately eleven feet; in the other corner, Molly the cat, weighing in at seven and a half pounds. The bone of contention? One millileter of antibiotic: Peg and Jess want it in Molly's stomach, Molly wants it elsewhere -- and she doesn't care if that elsewhere happens to be all over either of her human competitors.

Tonight's match was a draw, with half of the icky white liquid going down Molly's throat while the other half was spit up onto my arm and shirt. She's getting really good at fighting the stuff off by somehow spitting it back up so that it foams up around her mouth, making her look not unlike a rabid animal. The poor kitty. We've still got a week left of this crap and my right hand's all clawed up already. I think we're going to have to enlist another family member to help us from now on -- two adults versus one kitty just isn't fair. :)

And on a completely unrelated note: I was just listening to Nina Gordon's "Tonight and the Rest of My Life" and was reminded of a typical Jess moment I experienced last winter. I was sitting here, minding my own business, bumming around online, when I thought of that song and decided to sing it. After all, I had the house to myself -- brother's at school, parents at work, etc. So I start BELTING it out. Nina Gordon is one of those artists, like Sarah McLachlan, who makes me think that, when I sing along with them, I sound Really Damn Good when I actually sound like some animal in extreme pain -- like a hyena in a woodchipper or something. Anyway, after I finish my performance and checking my e-mail, I step into the hallway and discover -- lo and behold! -- Pat, my brother's best friend, who I'd forgotten that had spent the night. He was in my brother's room, two rooms away, subject to my entire performance. He was much nicer about it than my little brother would have been, and never said anything about it. Anyway, it was quite embarrassing, and the song reminded me of it. I thought I'd type the experience up here and preserve it for posterity.


fearlesstemp: (Default)

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