Category Archives: stuff better left unpublished

My cat is alive and makes me feel like an asshole

Conversation with the exterminator about my 16+ year old cat:

Exterminator: Ma’am? I’m afraid you have a dead cat in your living room.

me: Oh, he’s not dead. He’s just really old.

Exterminator: I’m sorry, ma’am, but this cat is dead.

me: He’s just fucking with you. He sleeps with his eyes open.

Posey: MEOW.

Exterminator: JESUS CHRIST!

me: Exactly.

…That was several months ago.  Since then, Posey has gotten thinner and wheezier and I felt selfish, so yesterday I took him to the vet to have him put to sleep.  But then the vet was like, “This cats thyroid’s fucked up.  I could probably save him.  I mean, unless you just WANT to kill him.”  Which is awesome.  So now I feel happy and like an asshole.

Also, the vet told me to take a picture of Posey today and then another one in 3 months so that I can see the difference in his appearance.  I assume he means if Posey responds to the meds, and not if he dies of a stroke in the next week.  Hard to tell.

My cat looks like Gollum.

I have no fucking idea what I’m doing (UPDATED: I still have no fucking idea what I’m doing, but I feel much better about it.)

I have no fucking idea what I’m doing.

Like, ever.

Last week I met with my shrink, and she told me I need to figure out who I am and what I want out of life.  I think this is excellent advice for people who are grown-ups, and who have 401ks, and clean, matching socks, and 5-year-plans.

I’m not one of those people.  I just do shit and then other shit happens.  Sometimes it’s good shit and sometimes it’s shitty shit, but none of it is planned.  And I sort of suspect that if I stopped to actually consider who I am, I’d stop being “me”.  “Me” never knows who I am.  And now I sound like an existential Tarzan.  Awesome.

It’s been eating at me for the last week, but I think I’ve finally figured it out.   My five-year-plan is to never be the kind of person who’s stable enough to have a five-year-plan.  It’s technically the same plan I had five years ago, and guess what?  I’m totally on track.

PS.  I just realized that always accomplishing the same five year plan of continued instability actually makes me pretty damn stable.  And now I’m just confused, and need more xanax.  I can only assume my psychiatrist did this on purpose to ensure her job security.  In fact, this whole scenario was probably all on her five year plan.  Nice one, Dr. Q.

Slow. Fucking. Clap.

UPDATED:  First off, thank you.  It’s nice (and somewhat terrifying) to know how many of us are just pretending to be grown-ups.  Also, my shrink is quite awesome, and when I tell her that I’ve decided to be perpetually and happily immature forever she’ll probably give me a high-five.  Or a look of confusion.  Maybe both.  But what’s nice is that instead of feeling like a failure for falling backward into life, I woke up this morning feeling better…for choosing to dive in – albeit backward, eyes closed, chaotically, and possibly into broken glass or hyenas.  I think that’s called “growth”.  Or denial.  Hard to tell.

Also, so many of you reminded me that I needed to listen to this song again.  And you were right.  Thank you:

I think I need some vampire blood for my cat.

Conversation I had with Victor about our ancient cat, who I’ve had for almost my entire adult life, and who I suspect might be immortal:

me:  There’s something on Posey’s leg.

Victor:  Hmm.  Is it Posey’s foot?

me:  It’s not a trick question.  It sort of looks like he’s trying to grow an extra toe.

Victor:  Why would the cat try to grow an extra toe?

me:  Well, probably because he just now noticed that the kitten was born with all those extra toes, and now he thinks he needs to keep up.

Victor:  That’s not a toe.

me:  I’m pretty sure it is.  And now he’s wasting all of his old man energy trying to grow extra toes BECAUSE FERRIS MEWLER IS A DAMN OVERACHIEVER.

Victor:  You know it’s a tumor.  The vet said we should start expecting this.  Posey’s 16.  He’s like the Keith Richards of cats.

me:  In that he’s a bad-ass.

Victor: In that he’s almost entirely sinew, and no one knows how he’s still alive.  In fact, I think he may already be dead.

me:  Keith Richards died?

Victor:  No.  Posey.  He’s not moving and his eyes are rolled back in his head.

me:  Yeah, he sleeps with his eyes open now.  It’s kind of creepy, but I think he does it to conserve the energy it takes to blink.

Victor:  I love you, but you and I both know he’s sleeping with his eyes open because he’s looking for the grim reaper.

me:  Posey will outlive us all.

Posey:  MMMMRREOWWWWCHHSNURF.

me:  See.  EXACTLY.

Victor:  What, “exactly”?  He can’t even meow properly anymore.

me:  He says he’s sick and tired of your doubt.

Victor:  No, he says he’s just about ready to take a one-way ride to the vets office.

me:  You don’t know what cats say.

Victor:  NEITHER DO YOU.

Then Posey jumped into Victor’s lap and purred so loudly that bits of cat juice flew out of his nose, and Victor rolled his eyes and sighed, grudgingly petting Posey.

Victor:  Alright, old man.  Prove me wrong.

Posey:  MERRRRRCH.

Victor:  What did he say that time?

me:  I think he wants to sell merchandise.  I don’t know.  It’s hard to tell with cats.

PS.  Posey is fine.  He’s not in any pain, and his tumor is adorable.  In fact, I’m tempted to draw a smiley face on it and give it a name and a tv show.  I suspect he’s probably sprouting a younger clone from his leg.  I might be in denial.

PPS.  I can’t tell if this post is funny or just really, really depressing.  Let’s change the subject.

It’s Sunday!  Which means it’s time for the weekly wrap-up.  Let’s get started, shall we?

What you missed on Ill-Advised:

What you missed on my sex column (which is satirical and vaguely safe for work if your boss isn’t a complete douche-canoe):

What you missed on Good Mom/Bad Mom on the Houston Chronicle:

What you missed in my shop (tentatively called “Eight pounds of uncut cocaine” so that your credit card bill will be more interesting.):

What you missed on the internets:

This week on Shit-I-didn’t-come-up-with-but-wish-I-did-because-it’s-kind-of-awesome:

This week’s wrap-up sponsored by Oh Crap Potty Training, a business devoted to getting your kid potty trained in a single week. I’m not sure how that’s possible, but my guess is that witch doctors are involved.   I couldn’t even potty train my cats in one week.  You should probably check it out.

 

 

An open letter to lots of people I’ve accidentally offended

You know when you’re on twitter and someone sends you a DM about zombie gnomes, and then the next day you DM them back, saying: “That’s fucking hysterical. You made my whole morning!”

And then you go to their actual public twitter stream and it’s all: “Thank you so much for all of your kind words and DM’s”, and you realize that ten minutes ago they posted that their beloved grandma just died unexpectedly?

Yeah. I am so sorry about that.

I’d like to think that God would laugh at these.

I decided not to post this yesterday because I thought it would be too offensive, and so instead I posted about sugar, which was apparently a terrible idea.  So instead I’m going to post the original post to distract people from my scandalous and heretical use of sugar limericks.

Email conversation between myself and my sister:

me:  Someone just sent me a spam message that says “Just because God doesn’t answer your prayers it doesn’t mean he’s not listening. He’s just got something better in store for you.” I sent it back as “Just because God doesn’t answer your prayers it doesn’t mean he’s not listening. It just means he doesn’t care.”

Lisa: Yeah. You’re probably going to hell.

me:  It also had kittens all over it and it said that if I didn’t pass it on I was “a bad Christian”.  I’m not falling for religious kitten blackmail.  How about “Just because God doesn’t answer your prayers it doesn’t mean he’s not listening. It probably just means you’re boring. Maybe try incorporating car chases into your prayers. Or something with vampires. Vampires are really hot right now.”

Lisa: Just because God doesn’t answer your prayers, it doesn’t mean he doesn’t care. It just means you aren’t as popular with him as the rich and pretty people he’s helping. Try to be richer or prettier, then maybe you can catch his eye.

me:  Just because God doesn’t answer your prayers it doesn’t mean he’s not listening. He’s just really focused on helping wealthy athletes win sports. Also? Fuck cancer.  Apparently.

Lisa:  Just because God doesn’t answer your prayers it doesn’t mean he’s not listening. He’s probably out watching the new Harry Potter movie. That shit’s entertaining.

me:  Just because God doesn’t answer your prayers it doesn’t mean he’s not listening. He’s probably just preoccupied with figuring out how to send a plague of rabid locusts to our homes because we’re not taking these God quotes seriously enough.

Lisa:  Touche.

This is why I shouldn’t be allowed to work with people

Not long ago I got an email from Jane Pratt (creator of Sassy, Jane Magazine, and personal hero of mine since I was 12) who asked if I’d be a writer for her new website.  After I stopped screaming I finally responded.  This is the actual email I sent.  It’s also proof that I need someone to keep me off the computer after I’ve had pain pills.

Dear Jane:

True story: I wrote an essay for my 8th grade English class about how I would one day be a highly-paid intern for Sassy and that I would use all of my earnings to create a race of half rabbits/half kittens, which I would call “Rabittens“.

It’s fairly obvious that not only was I woefully misinformed on what interns are paid, but that I also was terrible at naming things, since “Rabittens” sounds like something rabid that’s just bitten you.

Clearly, “Kabunnies” is the obvious choice, and if I had a time-machine I’d go back and shake my head in disappointment at my 8th grade me.  I’d also tell me to enjoy rocking the side-ponytail while I still could, because its days were numbered.  I would never have believed me.

In short, I am totally flattered that you even know who I am and I would *love* to write for you, if for no other reason than to be able to tell my 8th grade English teacher that she was wrong about my “unrealistic expectations”, and I would totally call her right now to tell her that except that she’s dead.  I can only imagine that tomorrow science will come out with the technology to invent Kabunnies and suddenly the side  pony-tail will be popular again.  Also, I might be in a coma, dreaming all of this.

Unfortunately my book is due at my publishers so I’m swamped with writing deadlines, so the only way I could do this would be to write for you a few times a year when I have spare time/insomnia, or to quit one of my paid columns, which would suck because my daughter has grown accustomed to the little luxuries of hot lunches and vaccinations. I would love to hear more about it though, and either way this email will go in my file labeled “THAT JUST HAPPENED”, sandwiched between the time Neil Gaiman agreed to speak at my funeral, and the time when I accidentally started a feud between myself and William Shatner which was covered by several news outlets.  (It was a very slow news week).

Best coma ever,

~Jenny

PS.  To her credit, Jane was not shaken and still offered me a spot.  I countered that I was open to offers “unless it’s an offer to pay me in used syringes, because I have quite enough of those already, thankyouverymuch“.  Then I started negotiations at $182,500 because “Frankly, I’d feel bad charging you anything over $181,000″.  She has not replied.  Probably because she’s too busy stealing my kabunnies idea.

PPS.  You can have “kabunnies”, Jane.  For free.  That’s how negotiations work.

Stop being an asshole, Target

Dear Target:

I realize that you’re probably trying to be helpful by printing item descriptions on my reciept but I’m pretty sure the logical keyword for “BigSexyHairspray” should be “hairspray“.  Not “sexy“.

Otherwise when you’re fumbling for your keys and drop your receipt in the parking lot a well-meaning stranger will pick it up and say “Excuse me, ma’am?  Did you need your receipt for…um…your sexy cat litter?”

No one should ever have to explain this.

You aren’t helping, Target.

~me