Getting Old Is Awesome!

Getting old is awesome!

Not really but when you're reminded of the fact that your meaty little bag of bones is aging you feel awesomely shitty about it. As the saying goes, 'Getting old is a bitch.' When I think about my Mom aging and her ailments it pains me even more. I know, great way to start a post on a blog that is supposed to be funny, right?

But seriously. WTF? I knew hitting 40 was going to be tough... but come on. Cracking and grinding of joints. Dark circles under the eyes even with 8-9 hours of sleep. Twice as much exercise for the same results as 1 year ago. Even if you want to be in the best shape of your life, which I was right before I put on the COVID-19 pounds, you can't because your body will deceive and betray you.

I've spent the last week in and out of the podiatrists office. Why? Because I hurt myself dancing.

DANCING.

Dancing and music are two of my lifelong passions. That and trying to keep up with this blog. That no one reads. When doing the thing that you love starts to impact your life in a negative way, do you stop doing it? Fuck no! You lean into it. Go bigger, don't go home. That's always been my way. Burn the candle of life at both ends. For the last 9 years dancing = sexy rockstar that stayed up until 4am and felt like a million bucks the next morning. This past year dancing = limping for the Advil bottle at 2am praying I don't feel like warmed over death when I wake up dehydrated 5 hours later inexplicably unable to go back to sleep.

Per the podiatrist I injured my left foot some time ago. Being outside for a little socially distanced music event two weekends ago, in sandals and a few cocktails in, only served to be the straw that broke the camels back. My fibula has a stress fracture. I completely tore away 2 of the 3 stabilizing tendons connecting to the fibula. And I have plantar fasciitis due to the tearing of the tendon below my foot from the instability. Good times, right? Just when I wanted to get back into the newly opened gyms and ramp up my workouts, I'm leveled and going in for surgery next week.

After discussing the $2,000+ I'm going to pay out of pocket to do the surgery, my doctor advised that I should "go work out and drink your ass off over the 4th of July holiday." I didn't tell him my fairy godmother gifted money tree dried up years ago. I also didn't tell him that I plan to tear the fucking wheels off this holiday weekend. But I think he already knew that. Though I'm down on myself about my age, my weight, and overall where I'm at in life I certainly plan to stay tits up and rage my fucking face off by doing all the things before our fateful Monday morning surgery together.

Because getting old is awesome.

Involuntary Embarrassment

You're embarrassing. I'm embarrassing. Everyone is fucking embarrassing.

We all say and do humiliating things throughout the course of our life. And if you haven't, send me a message and tell me your secret.

Being embarrassed sucks. You get all hot in the face, the air gets sucked out of the room, and inevitably it feels like everyone is staring at you. In my opinion the worst type of embarrassment is the INVOLUNTARY kind. Like bodily functions.

Embarrassment in a relationship is a tough one because if you stay with that person, you're both never going to live the memory down. My Special Man Friend ("MSMF") after 4 months has still not let his guard down when it comes to awkwardness. I just want to embrace it and get it over with. Whether voluntary or not, everyone farts. Everyone poops. I even reminded him that there's a kids book, Everyone Poops by Targo Gomi, to point out there's a certain level of understanding and acceptance every human has about this kind of stuff. Whether he likes it or not I fart and poop and I know he does too, he just doesn't want me to know he does and he certainly doesn't want me to hear him. What cracks me up is that MSMF has farted on me a couple times in the middle of the night. Without knowing. I just snickered to myself and found it funny but he was mortified when I told him the next morning.

What prompted this post is the other night MSMF suddenly jumped out of bed, saying "my stomach's upset. Play some music so you don't hear anything." As he hurried downstairs to the half bath, I could hear him pleading "Babe, MUSIC!" I'm not turning on any damn music, Jesus. I'm not exactly laying in bed straining to hear what's going on down there. I was more concerned with how MSMF was feeling. When he came back to bed a little while later, he didn't want to talk about it. At all. Which of course meant I wanted to talk about it. What's the big deal? The more I tried to decompress the embarrassment by joking about his stomach or exaggerating the experience he just had with squishy fart noises, the more quiet and annoyed he got with me.

What this man doesn't understand is that I've experienced THE ULTIMATE, most horrifically embarrassing thing a person can.

I shit my shorts in a hotel elevator.

I didn't just shit them. I DESTROYED them. In front of my ex.

I can't even think about the experience let alone read the above sentence on the screen without breaking into small uneasy giggles. I cry laughed for about a day after the incident. In fact I still cry laugh about it.

So how did I end up in the elevator shitting myself?

My ex and I were in San Diego with another couple to attend the Crssd Festival. I don't know what the culprit was but that morning after we all finished breakfast, getting ready to walk back to our separate hotels, my stomach was not happy. I thought I had resolved matters at the restaurant before the walk back but I was mistaken. About halfway into the mile long walk I started to pick up the pace, darting my eyes back and forth across the street to find an open coffee shop or place that would have a restroom. Sadly, our hotels were in a weird part of town with mostly industrial and office buildings. All of which were closed. As the other couple broke away toward their hotel, I realized in horror that I was maybe not going to make it back to our hotel room. At almost 6 feet I walk pretty damn fast but there's only so fast you can walk-sprint while puckering your asshole.

With my ex trailing behind me, I lunged for the lobby floor elevator, sweat beading on my forehead. As the physical pain, sweat and fear built I could hear my ex asking if I was going to make it. I could hear him but I was transitioning into an out of body experience. As the elevator doors opened and closed, I started whimpering and moaning "oh God... fuck fuck fuck..." As the elevator climbed, I started making unintelligible sounds and words the closer we got to our floor.

Just as the elevator dinged, signaling we had reached our floor, I could hold the flood back no longer. Having your bowels involuntarily void themselves is the worst! And now what am I going to do? The only thing I can do. Look at my ex in horror, as my shorts turn into makeshift diapers, knowing I'm going to have to walk the distance between the elevator and our room in shit shorts! As I started the awkward legged crab walk from the elevator to the hotel room all I could say was "oh my God... oh God... oh my God..." As I threw myself fully clothed into the shower, trying to rinse away the humiliation and terror of what just happened away, all I could keep yelling at the top of my lungs was "oh God... oh my God... oh God..." I don't know why it was God but that's who I was either damning or calling upon to save my sorry ass. I was in the shower for at least 20 minutes but no amount of water or washing could scrub the memory away.

Thankfully while I was in the shower of solace, my ex had taken care of the incriminating Hansel and Gretel trail from the elevator to our room and called the front desk. Knowing my stomach was not yet ready to drink and dance and rage at the festival, we both laid in bed as I cry laughed my way through an apology and thank yous while he recounted the elevator ride up from his perspective, saying I had a look of sheer terror on my face and was making sounds like Beaker from the Muppets; "Oh God... meep meep meep... fuck fuck fuck... meep meep."

To this day I still have post-traumatic shit disorder ("PTSD").

Every time I see those shorts I cringe and laugh a little, remembering the worst involuntary embarrassment of my life. I used to think that shitting yourself, as an adult, was not something most grown ups have experienced. Turns out I'm wrong. Almost every person I've told this story to, pale faced and in hushed nervous tones, has boldly said "I've done that before" or "that's not a big deal I've shit myself too." I don't know if I find it odd or am relieved that so many people share this similar experience.

What I do know is that MSMF has nothing to worry about with a little farting or unexpected but appropriately placed bowel movements. There are worse things. Trust me.

Sacred Cows

Do you have a sacred cow? Or a small herd of sacred cows?

I once fed a sacred cow in India but that's not the kind of cattle I'm talking about here.

My Special Man Friend ("MSMF") has a herd of sacred cows. He told me point blank yesterday that I don't have ANY sacred cows. I laughed, not knowing what the hell he was talking about, but I want a sacred cow! Turns out I have a few sacred cows, I just didn't know it.

So what is a sacred cow?

A sacred cow is basically something or someone that you hold dear. It's pretty much untouchable; they can do no wrong. You'll never go in on your sacred cow in a fit of anger or upset and you wouldn't let someone else either. Joking about your sacred cow also wouldn't happen.

I was new to the sacred cow concept, until last night.

Before we dive in, I need to provide a little context.

There's been a sexual predator around the neighborhood this past week. A man or possibly men have been preying on women and sexually assaulting them with walk/run by grabbings. The most recent incident occurred yesterday with the guy getting away on a bike. I have always felt safe in my neighborhood and walk around town almost every day. Yesterday was no different, though I was more cautious. I walked almost 2 miles to the Westside staple, Tito's Tacos, to meet MSMF for lunch. When MSMF got home from work, I told him about the biking assault incident and teased that though he wasn't concerned, I got back home safely from lunch without being molested by anyone. I then said, "I guess some of us can't even give it away."

Que MSMF's gasp and the following conversation (which I've shortened).

MSMF: "There are no sacred cows for you!"

Me: "What do you mean there are no sacred cows for me?"

MSMF: "I mean, like, it's all in play. It's all fair game to you. You'll take shots at anything."

Me: *apprehensively laughing*

MSMF: "Which is fine. It's take a little getting used to at first. I'm still acclimating myself to it."

Me: *laughing*

MSMF: "Like, you just took a shot at your own personal safety."

Me: "Yeah."

MSMF: "Yeah."

Me: "Having been attacked before. Yeah."

MSMF: *nervous laugh* "Yeah."

Me: *rolling laughter*

MSMF: "I mean, you would think that would be like taboo. You don't have taboo."

Me: *still laughing* "Because I said 'you can't even give it away?'"

MSMF: "Yeah. There's a difference between not having taboos and being somebody that likes to get a reaction. That goes for shock value. You're not doing that either. That's just kind of how you roll."

Me: "Yeah. Well. Because sometimes I will poke fun at myself. Or making that comment, I was totally aware of how like (gasp sound) or offending it can be."

MSMF: "Yeah."

Me: "But I mean, usually when I do that it's only because it's out of just sheer... like ludicrous. It's insane to think somebody keeps going around assaulting women around here..."

MSMF: "Biking away?"

Me: *laughing* "On a bicycle."

MSMF: *laughing* "On a bicycle."

Me: "Exactly."

MSMF: "A grope and ride."

Me: *laughing* "Yeah. The whole thing just seems so preposterous."

MSMF: "It is pretty absurd."

Me: "It's not ridiculous that it happens, it sadly happens every single day. Sometimes the way to release the horror or power of something is to own it in a different way. Whether you're indignant about it or violently 'AHHHH' (waving arms around) about it or you're just like, meh. Kind of like bringing a little laughter to it."

MSMF: "Yeah. And no, I respect that. I don't think I've ever met somebody that has done that as much as me. Or MORE than me."

Me: "Oh. So, hold on..."

MSMF: "But I have some sacred cows."

Me: *laughing* "Ohhhhhh. So what are your sacred cows?"

MSMF: "I don't know. Steven Spielberg? Michael Mann?"

Me: "Oh Christ."

MSMF: "Christ! Christ, that's a good one."

Me: *laughing* "Don't even get me started on the Christ shit."

Me: "So, I feel a little self conscious about the sacred cow. Is it a good thing? A bad thing? Are you horrified of me? I mean, you know I'm joking, right?"

MSMF: "I... I do."

Me: "But even in jest, a sacred cow can't be touched?"

MSMF: "I think the difference between the way you and I use that humor is that you're not necessarily throwing it out there to target it at my ears. Whereas I would."

Me: "So... You're saying I'm an equal opportunist when it comes to not having sacred cows."

MSMF: "Yeah."

Me: "Huh. I still can't get a read if this is a good thing or not."

MSMF: "Why do you have to frame it as good or bad? I don't think it's bad. Honestly, I dig it. I'm just still a little shocked by it sometimes."

Me: "I am too."

MSMF: "I mean, you went from like 'Hey, I gotta watch out there's a predator' to making a dig like 'I can't give it away'."

Me: *laughing* "Yeah, you know."

MSMF: "Whereas if I made that joke it would be insensitive."

Me: "It's not the actual truth of the situation. Women aren't giving it away, it's being forcefully taken from them."

MSMF: "Right."

Me "So are sacred cows not to be poked or eaten? Can you poke the sacred cow out of the road or... can you eat one if your family is starving?"

MSMF: *just looking at me*

Me: "Like, Steven Spielberg is a sacred cow! Who fucking cares?"

MSMF: "Martin Scorsese, yeah."

Me: "And like you said, Jesus. Should Jesus not be talked about?"
MSMF: "No, I can joke about Jesus."

Me: "Uh huh."

I say "Jesus Christ" and "God dammit" at least once or twice a day. I'm sure I've bruised or offended other sacred cows of MSMF's, like his adoration and admiration of Kobe. His love of football and basketball in general. One of my sacred cows, violence again women, isn't a topic that anyone would want to take shots at. I'm also the victim of sexual assault by a stranger, and not the groping kind on a bike, so you can understand MSMF's shock. Now, my love of Bjork, as crazy and eccentric as that bitch is, is fair game. I never mean to take someone's cow to slaughter. Unless I've unknowingly stumbled onto someone's sacred herd, drunk with a machete. 

Maybe my lack of sacred cows means I may be a sacred cow killer. Or maybe a sacred cow tipper?

Balding

Balding. It sucks. It's a delicate subject.

No one wants to go bald, except maybe in places where people don't want hair like the legs for women or the back for men.

Everyone in the apartment has an issue with balding.

I've lost about half my hair from Vestibular Migraines. It's a fun, nasty neurological disease that permanently altered my life as I knew it 2 years ago. I have it largely managed but one thing I have not regained is my hair. Some say it's my age but it's just too coincidental that I used to hair model occasionally before the disease and then BOOM, the disease hits and I can barely get my hair into a ponytail. That's not a god damn coincidence or age. It's called cause and effect. It's no longer thick and voluminous as it once was. I get upset about it from time to time but what the fuck can I do about it. I looked into Rogaine and for a time was going the natural route, putting black caster oil in my hair everyday. Made me look like a 1950's greaser without the rat rod. I gave it up after a month. It was gross and even more embarrassing than the hair loss.

My calico, Jaja, isn't so much balding as willfully removing all the hair from her stomach and arms. Makes it looks like she's walking around with little bobby socks. Maybe it's sympathy balding?

My Special Man Friend ("MSMF") is also thinning a little on top. I don't mention it often and neither does he because as I said it sucks and it's a delicate subject that no one can do much about.

Me: "What do you think about a chinchilla toupee?"
MSMF: *small embarrassed laugh* "Baby..."
Me: "I mean, come on. It would be pretty awesome. I loved chinchillas as a kid."
MSMF: "So we'd both score?"
Me: *laughing* "Yes."
MSMF: "Both our dreams come true, with one chinchilla?"
Me: *laughing* "Yes. It would be a pretty gangster, big pimpin' toupee."
MSMF: "Fuck that. I'm getting implants!"
Me: "Oh god. Plugs would be painful and it's too expensive."
MSMF: *staring thoughtfully silent at the ceiling*

Me: "Soooo... no chinchilla toupee then?"

No chinchilla toupee. That's ok.

What's funnier is that I love to include a picture with each post, so naturally I went to Google Images and typed "chinchilla toupee" into the search bar. While chinchilla toupees do not exist, which I thought, I was met with an entire page of chinchillas wearing hats!

Here's my favorite. There's even a website dedicated to bribed chinchillas wearing all sorts of hats - The Chinchilla Hatter.

https://chinchillahatter.tumblr.com/

The Hamster With 9 Lives

I always wanted a chinchilla when I was growing up.

What I ended up with was a hamster named Bart.

He was your average hamster that ended his days as most hamsters do - full of tumors, ready to roll around in that big plastic ball in the sky. He got out a couple times but one daring escape stands out in my mind.

My Grandmother hated rodents and because we had Bart in a small two-bedroom apartment my Grandmother would never come to stay with my Mom and I. We finally convinced her to stay over one weekend by promising to keep Bart locked in his caged castle. For added protection we put his cage in the bathtub and then closed the bathroom door. How it happened we'll never know but...

Bart got out.

He didn't just breakout of the bathroom fortress. He magnificently got out and proceeded to run across my Grandmother's face. In the middle of the night. Can you imagine large male hamster balls being dragged across your face in the dead of night? Awaking to her screams, we searched desperately around the apartment looking for him. He wasn't just going to stick around after making such a bold move. He ghosted. My Mom and I were nearing the point of giving up when we spotted him. He was at the top of the curtains in our bedroom, 12 feet up. Now understand that a hamster, while stretchy and agile, can die from being dropped just a foot above the ground. But not this fucking hamster.

Stretching out on the very last step of the stepladder my Mom did her best to grab Bart. But he was a fugitive on the run and was having none of it. He saw her right as her hand closed in and released his tiny little paws, plummeting the 12 feet to the ground. I've never seen anything move so fast. As soon as he hit the ground with a thud, he shot up, running for another hiding place. Pissed and tired we gave up.

We didn't find the little fucker for 2 days, during which time he had burrowed himself a nice hole into the carpet as a makeshift bed.

Alpha-gal: The 4 Legged Problem

Repeat after me - What the fuck is Alpha-gal?

Say it a few times fast, it's fun. Alpha-gal. Alpha-gal. Alpha-sal. Alpa-mal. It's get stupider the more times you say it.

My Mom has Alpha-gal.

When she first told me I couldn't understand what she was saying. I honestly started laughing. What the fuck is Alpha-gal? Alfalfa? Yeah, it's good on a salad. Oh...no, ok we're not talking about putting a small fro on your salad.

Alpha-gal simply put is an allergy to anything edible with four legs. To be more specific, you come down with alpha-gal when the following calamity of events befalls your ass: A tick bites a cow or other 4-legged livestock. Said little bitey bastard then bites you, vomits a sugar molecule or Alpha-gal into you, then your body responds by defending itself against the foreign substance and offender. Problem is, your body now sees the livestock sugar molecule as the enemy and not as a yummy In-N-Out burger. So now, any time you eat anything with four legs - beef, pork, etc. you'll get stomach will turn itself inside out. Think Montezuma's revenge of your GI track on steroids.

My Mom couldn't figure out why, every time she had a steak for dinner or a few strips of bacon with breakfast, her stomach would declare World War III. Simple blood work solved the mystery. Sadly Alpha-gal doesn't go away overnight and in some cases never. Imagine one day you're at the top of the food chain and the next you're only snacking on two-legged friends. I blame the whole thing on my Mom living in the back woods, backwards ass hick state of Virginia. She moved there with her husband just over two years ago and I've been bitter about it since. The biggest reason of course being that I wouldn't see her very often but also because the long flights to the east coast suck, are expensive, and...well... backwards ass hick shit like getting bit by a tick happens out there. There's also tons of confederate flags and bible thumping but I digress.

In preparation for Mom's visit to LA, My Special Man Friend ("MSMF") and I planned out a week's worth of our favorite recipes. Silly shit of course ensued when Alpha-gal came up.

Me: "We should pick a few of our favorite dishes from the past few months to cook when Mom is here."

MSMF: "That sounds good. What are you thinking?"

Me: "Well, everything needs to be either vegetarian, cannibal chicken, or turkey since Mom has Alpha-gal."

MSMF: "She what...?"

Me: "Yeah. Alpha-gal. It's a thing. Basically, she can only eat meat with 2 legs. Not 4."

MSMF: *staring*

Me: *laughing* "I know. It's fucking stupid."

MSMF: "So, no cow?
Me: "No."

MSMF: "No pig?"

Me: "No."

MSMF: "No lamb?"

Me: *laughing* "Babe, no."

MSMF: *pondering*

Me: "Nothing with 4 legs babe."

MSMF: "What if it has 1 leg?"

Me: "If you mean fish, then yes, she can eat that."

MSMF: "Hmm."

Me: "Babe, fish have 1 leg or are 1 leg...? Not quite sure how to say that."

MSMF: "So they have to stand on their legs to count?"

Me: *laughing* "I don't think it's a matter of standing or number."

MSMF: "What about 8 legs?"

Me: "8 legs? You mean an octopus?"

MSMF: "Yeah."

Me: *laughing* "Yeah, that's ok. 8 legs are ok I guess. 4 legs no, 8 legs yes."

MSMF: "And 2 legs."

Me: "And 2 legs."

And there you have it. Many legs yes, 4 legs no, 2 legs yes.

The real bitch about Alpha-gal isn't even the restrictive diet. It's the fact that if you try to eat, say a grilled chicken sandwich somewhere and the cook puts the chicken on the steak side of the grill or uses the same tongs to flip both meats, someone with Alpha-gal will still get sick.

Ain't that a 2 er 4 legged bitch?

https://www.cdc.gov/ticks/alpha-gal/index.html

Who is Chad Johnson?

Who the fuck is Chad Johnson?

I know this is what My Special Man Friend ("MSMF") wanted to ask me. Instead, MSMF took a tactful and cautious approach.

MSMF: "Ok. So, I don't want to come off as the creepy jealous stalker boyfriend but who is Chad Johnson?"

Me: "Who?"

MSMF: "This guy."

*MSMF shows me his phone with the Venmo app open*

Me: "Umm... I'm not sure."

*MSMF's eye narrow*

MSMF: "I know it was June of 2019 but I'm just curious."

Me: "Let me think." *the only thing I have to go on are three red wine glass emojis*

Me: "Oh, I know. I believe Chad Johnson is a friend of a friend of JZ and Beyonce (nicknames not the real JZ and Beyone). He bought a VIP wine ticket off of me."

*MSMF still silently glaring at me*

Me: "We had early entry wine tasting tickets to an event at Union Station. I had an attack a day or two beforehand, so going was no longer an option."

MSMF: "Mhmm."

Me: "What? I still felt terrible and the VIP tickets had sold out long before the event, so I reached out to friends to see who was going and if anyone needed an extra."

MSMF: "Oh okay." *looking relieved*

Me: "Now who feels like a jealous asshole?"

MSMF: "Whaaaat?" *said sheepishly*

Me: "I don't even know the fucking guy."

Later the same evening...

Me: "Chad. Chad's a terrible name."

MSMF: "Yeah it is."

Me: "Sounds so preppy."

MSMF: *In his best creepy Chad impersonation* "'Would you like another drink my dear?'"

Me: *laughing*

MSMF: "Fuckin' guy."

The next morning talking about some other random silly shit...

Me: "Who do you mean? Chad Johnson?"

MSMF: "That guy. I mean, three glasses of wine? Who is this guy buying you three glasses of wine?"

Me: "He knows what I like."

MSMF: "Trying to take advantage..."

Me: "Oh Chad... Though honey if you think about it $30 for 3 glasses of wine doesn't make sense. If they were decent it would be way more than $30..."

MSMF: "Fuck that guy."

Me: *laughing*

Poor Chad Johnson.

The Hypothetical Shark Attack

My Special Man Friend ("MSMF") and I did not sleep well last night. Oral surgery is never fun and sadly MSMF started the long implant process toward a new tooth yesterday.

After a night of pain and tossing and turning we both woke up early. Early morning cuddle sessions are when MSMF really shines. That orb of his must be buzzing and whirring with all kinds of thoughts and questions...

To set the scene: MSMF is on his back. I'm laying next to him on my left side, head tucked into his neck/chest, left arm pinned at a 45 degree angle between my chest and his, my right arm wrapped around him, with my right leg draped around his right leg.

MSMF: "If you could go back two years ago and be the victim of a shark attack so that you wouldn't have a janky arm, would you?"

Me: "No."

MSMF: "No? But isn't it uncomfortable having your arm pinned between us like that?"

Me: "No."

MSMF: "So you'd rather have some useless flapper arm where your hand is going to fall asleep?"

*MSMF grabs my limp hand peeking out from our bodies and wiggles it a few times to make his point*

Me: "No. I wouldn't want a nub arm that I wouldn't be able to do anything with on a daily basis."

MSMF: "But it's about the snuggling. You'd be able to snuggle all day if you got it bit off in a shark attack."
Me: "I don't mind it."
MSMF: "So you're choosing not to be an expert cuddle bug?"
Me: "I think we're doing a pretty good job of it now."
MSMF: "True. As good of a snuggler as I'd be you'd still be bustin' my balls on grilling, playing basketball, washing dishes, folding laundry..."
Me: See. That's what I'm saying."
MSMF: "But our cuddling has a finite existence due to that janky arm in there."
Me: *laughing* "Mine is doing just fine."
MSMF: "I'm just thinking about how we could improve a pretty good cuddle."
Me: *laughing* "With a shark attack and permanent disfigurement?"
MSMF: "Yeah."
Me: *a few minutes later* "Damn it! My hand is asleep!"

We take the quality and quantity of our snuggle time VERY seriously. Nuh nuh.

"C" is for Cat or Crackhead

I have a 19 year old crackhead living in my apartment.

Dharma or "Jaja" is a 5 lb Calico with the sweetest temperament and the gregariousness of a dog. When she isn't sleeping 20 hours of the day she spends the other 4 either screaming at me or aimlessly wandering around screaming at nothing. It doesn't help that she lost her hearing about a year ago, so now we just yell at one another like two bickering old ladies. I threaten to give her a beating but she doesn't listen (and no I would never do that, come on).

Jaja or Little D or Chicken or Chick-o-Stick or Chicken Legs has always been petite. The first few years after I adopted her I used to joke that she was anorexic or just counted her calories. She has always had a bit more character than most cats I've known but as the years have gone by her funny personality really shines. She loves to dance and wrestle but her favorite thing to do is hang out on my shoulder. She used to run and jump from the floor, scale the length of my body, and drape herself over my shoulder. Now I just pick her up. It's the funniest thing having her hang there. I realized after the first few times she did it that I should just go about my business, so I did. It's odd to say the least trying to brush your teeth and spit in the sink when you've got cat butt in your face. She got the name Chicken or Chicken Legs from the dangling effect her legs make. I just love to pinch her little cat butt or grab one of her dangling chicken legs and make nom nom noises at her.

Her legs and stomach have taken on a particularly chicken-y look because she eats all the hair off. I'm talking bald as a newborn baby. She's always been a bit neurotic with the mowing and I've done everything in my power to figure it out. She's not stressed out, she doesn't have fleas... she's just crazy. I'm ready to put a cone on her to get her to stop because the manic hair removal isn't good for either of us. She seems a bit too skinny and I'm sick of cleaning up the daily treasure hunt. So I figured I'd pick her up a bag of cat treats, Greenies to be exact, to fatten her up.

Bad idea.

My Special Man Friend ("MSMF") was with me to witness the addiction. Jaja couldn't hear the distinctive crackle of a treat bag, so she didn't get too excited when I plunked 4 treats down in front of her. She got a whiff of one and immediately started chomping them down. She was on her second to last one and I wanted to know if they were semi-moist on the inside, since her chompers are going bad. So I reached down to pick up the last Greenie and break it open. I wasn't even able to get near the treat before Jaja felt the imminent threat of the drugs disappearing. So rather than finish the one she already had in her mouth, she pushed my fingers aside and sucked up the last treat. I looked at MSMF in disbelief. She's never been so aggressive or crazy with food or much of anything. While chewing on two treats, her pushy attitude only got worse. She sniffed the air and nosed around the desk where I fed her the treats convinced there were more. Jaja then looked up at us, all wide-eyed, like - GIVE ME THE FUCKING TREATS!

She's doubled down mooching and general harassment any time there is food around or either of us get near the kitchen. I figured I'd give her little crack head a fix and gave her two treats this morning. Again with the meowing and sniffing and pacing. Here's a video and photo I caught of her in the kitchen, determined as ever that I feed her more paw lickin' good stuff. On the one hand I now feel like her dealer but how can I resist that face?

Garlic Bread or Garlic Naan?

I'm not a morning person, I think I've mentioned that before. I'm definitely not a morning person after spending the weekend getting little sleep with lots of good drinks and decadent food. It was a full weekend, so needless to say this morning was rough...

Luckily, My Special Man Friend ("MSMF") knows just how to get my eyes open with a little laughter and talking about silly shit.

MSMF: "Would you want to be garlic bread or garlic naan?"
Me: *laughing* "Hmm. What would you want to be?"
MSMF: "Garlic bread of course."
Me: "Yeah. I think I would go with garlic bread too. But would you want to be one of those pre-buttered and seasoned loaves?"
MSMF: "Eww. NO. That's so gross. I don't want to be covered in bucket butter."
Me: "I agree. So you just want to be a simple french loaf."
MSMF: "Yeah. It's easy to make your own garlic bread with, like, four ingredients."
Me: "I agree."
MSMF: "It's like people who buy already hard boiled eggs."
Me: *laughing* "What?"
MSMF: "It's so easy to do yourself. Why would you buy it that way?"
Me: "I've bought already cooked ones before for Burning Man. It's easy and convenient."
MSMF: "Trader Joe's?"
Me: "No, Costco."
MSMF: "And I wouldn't want to be covered in cilantro."
Me: *laughing again* "I wouldn't want to be either."

*MSMF is allergic to cilantro. I just hate it.*

So what would you want to be - garlic bread or garlic naan? And why?

Stanislav, the Murderous American Pipit

My Special Man Friend ("MSMF") and I have a murderous bird after us.

I was working from MSMF's apartment a few months ago and kept hearing this odd little flutter and thud sound. Stopping to look around, all I saw was this bird barreling into the window above the front door. The bird would land on the window ledge and proceed to peck at the window, while jumping and fluttering wildly up and down. At first it was amusing but then got rather annoying. I took a jacket and jumped up to swat the jacket at the window but the little bird just kept coming back.

I asked MSMF about the bird the first day I saw him. Apparently he as well as his two roommates had never seen it before. But day after day the bird kept coming back. So MSMF nicknamed him Stanislav or Stan for short. I loved it. Naturally, we gave him a full backstory of being Russian KGB out on a murderous rampage. He wanted us and was going to stop at nothing to get us.

This went on for a month or two. After spending a few weeks at my place in the Westside, we returned to Ventura eager to see Stanislav.

But he was gone.

Each day MSMF would come home and ask if I had seen Stan. After days of hearing me sadly say no, the questions stopped. Of course we both wondered what happened. Did Stan get a new mission? Or was something more sinister afoot? I thought I found the answer when I stepped out for a walk one afternoon. Rounding the terrace corner, I saw a single bird feather. And then another. And then a large clump of...feathers? It didn't look good whatever it was. I feared Stan was taken out by an Allied feline. I didn't have the heart to tell MSMF right away. It took a few days until I couldn't stand it any longer. We both lamented Stan not being around and his untimely demise.

Some people believe that miracles can happen. And as it turns out they're right.

MSMF and I were relaxing on the couch, ready to watch what I'm sure was some terrible 80's titty film or maybe a Bond movie, when I heard it - the faint sounds of tapping and fluttering. My head shot toward the front door window and sure enough it was Stan. I literally screamed out "Honey! It's Stanislav!" Just as murderous as ever. I was so excited I ran outside and threw some fresh sourdough bread onto the window ledge. He didn't come back for the rest of the evening, probably thinking we were onto his plot and trying to poison him. Thankfully the next day the bread offerings were gone.

And Stan was back.