Rescue an animal. Let an animal rescue you.

My friend Anne is heavily involved in helping rescue animals and each year she makes a calendar of people with their adopted pets to give as a “thank-you” to anyone who donates at least $40 to Team Wheaton to help fund the Pasadena Humane Society & SPCA.

This year I’m in the calendar.  And more importantly, Ferris Mewler, Hunter S. Thomcat, Beyonce and Copernicus are in it.  (Plus actual famous people and their adopted pets.  See the video.)

pets

Here’s what it looks like:

If you want one, just donate $40 here.  It’s 100% tax deductible.

Hunter was fairly relaxed and okay with being held during the shoot at my house.  Ferris, on the other hand, bit me.  Like, literally, he bit me on the other hand.  Go to the 1:08 mark for proof.  He also kept jumping out of the shot so Victor hid behind the chair and petted him to keep him from running.  It was a team effort that ended up with minor blood-shed.

But it made for a good shot.

So go make a donation if you can.  Or go to your local shelter and snuggle the cats, or volunteer to take the dogs for walks, or drop off all of your old towels and blankets for them.  And then fall in love with these little faces and let them rescue you like you’ve rescued them.

Don't they look happy?  Answer: Yes.  If "happy" means "bitey and a little confused."

Don’t they look happy? Answer: Yes. If “happy” means “bitey and a little confused.”

PS. Below are just a few pets up for adoption at one of my favorite no-kill shelters (Austin Pets Alive).  If you adopt any of the ones pictured below I’ll pay the adoption fee myself.

pets adoption

I am the suspicious activity on my account.

For the last couple of years our credit/debit card has been cancelled over and over because of “suspicious activity.”  I never know that my card been cancelled until my card is turned down by an uncomfortable cashier, and that’s always nice because it’s such a great self-esteem booster when your card gets declined at the drugstore when you’re buying toilet paper and milk.

The really crappy thing is that 90% of the time the suspicious activity on my account is me.  You’re protecting me from me.  Yes, strangely-judgmental-bank, I’m the one buying tiny cat wigs from Asia, and taxidermied pegasuses, and giant metal chickens.  And then I go to buy a two-head bob-cat and my card gets declined I have to get on the phone to explain to the bank that I’m the one who bought a box full of cobra and that I don’t appreciate their implied criticisms, and then they say that they’re very sorry but that they’ve already cancelled the card and I’ll have to wait until they mail me a new one.

This would be fine if I had another credit card to use, but I don’t because I don’t want to have to pay fees on a credit card when I should just be able to use my debit card for everything if it wasn’t constantly being cancelled.  At this point I’m considering calling my bank every day with notes like, “I am currently looking for infant-sized Wolverine gloves, so please don’t cancel that transaction that when it happens.  PLEASE STOP JUDGING ME, First-National-Bank-of-Canceling-My-Shit.”  (To clarify:  I need tiny gloves with sharp knives sticking out of them, which would make a baby look like she’s Wolverine from the X-Men.  Not gloves that would allow babies to handle wild wolverines.  That would be fucked up.)

Frankly, if I had a dollar for every time my credit card got canceled I wouldn’t even need a credit card because I could live off all those dollars.  Which I guess I would just stuff in my mattress because my bank would just hold all those dollars hostage as well.

I know they’re trying to protect me, and that’s awesome but it’s getting fucking ridiculous at this point and I’m wondering if it’s just me having to replace my card all the time, or if this is happening to other people too, or if maybe my husband has made a deal with the bank to automatically cancel anything I try to buy that looks awesome.

So, poll time:

 

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And now, time for the weekly wrap-up:

sid

 


Shit I made in my shop (Named “EIGHT POUNDS OF UNCUT COCAINE” so that your credit card bill will be more interesting.):

Shit that I’m vaguely involved with on the internets:

This week’s wrap-up is brought to you by Crumple + Toss, a bad-ass stationery shop that caters to paper lovers of all kinds.  They are awesome.  From them: “Sure, we got your typical “With deepest sympathy” cards, but we also have “This fucking sucks. I’m sorry” as well. We have wedding cards that say “shit.” We have flowers AND cats. And flamingos. And moose. The fun doesn’t stop with cards with profanity, cats and awkward compliments. C+T also has a shit ton of super awesome notebooks, list pads and stuff. Come see what we gots. You won’t be disappointed.  And if you are, well, that’s your problem.”

“CAT WATERBEDS FOR EVERYONE!” (would probably be my catchphrase.)

This week I was contacted about possibly being next year’s Ziploc spokesperson for upcoming new products.  They were very sweet and asked what my fees would be if I was selected and so I quickly responded in the most professional way possible by clarifying that if the “new products” they’re offering include home-made waterbeds for cat then I expect royalties, because I invented those years ago.

The rest of my response:

I’m almost certain this would be a bad idea so I’m in, but only if Ziploc meets these conditions:

1) My fee of $100,000, or $200,000 worth of Ziploc bags. The Ziploc bags should be filled with $100,000.

2) The cat waterbed must be put into production, or at least a prototype made.

3) I’m going to need a human-sized ziplock bag that I can get in, so I can swim but not get wet. Something with an oxygen tank, preferably.

4) I don’t have a four but I think people take you more seriously when you have a four so I’m just going to leave this here.

Surprisingly, they have not responded.

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Bonus: If you’re too tired to go back and read about cat waterbeds my talented friends made that post into a comic years ago.  They pretty much nailed it.

from taroch vol 2

“Simmer down now” ~ Back-up Buddy Bobcat

Conversation at the thrift store:

me: Dude.  I think I might need that stuffed bobcat.

Victor:  Just keep walking.

me:  Look at his paw.  It’s like he’s saying, “YOU GUYS?  TAKE IT DOWN A NOTCH, OK?  JUST SIMMER DOWN.”

Victor:  Hm.

me:  We could carry him around in the trunk and you could pull him out to use as your supportive buddy to help you convince me not to do something stupid.

Victor:  I’m fairly certain that buying that bobcat would send the wrong message.

Ignore the photobomber on the right.

Ignore the photobomber on the right.

Clerk:  I can give you a huge discount on it if you want him.  He’s falling apart.

me:  I just don’t know.  It sort of looks like he wants me to calm down, but it also sort of looks like he’s leaning on an invisible bar.  Like a really shitty mime.

Victor: Do whatever you want.  It’s not that bad.

me:  That’s sort of the problem.  It’s not bad enough.

Clerk:  I’m confused.

Victor:  Welcome to my world, sir.

Ps.  I did not buy the bobcat, but I took a picture of him and then later I thought, “OH MY GOD.  I could put a trucker’s hat on him and call him ‘Little Smokey’ and have him lean out of the car window like ‘Hey there, big mama.  What’s your 10-4?‘ and no one would ever bother me at red lights because who is going to fuck with a girl being defended by her pet bobcat?  No one, that’s who.  But when I went back to the store, the bobcat was sold and I was a little upset, but Victor was all, “Calm down.”  And I was like, “THAT’S EXACTLY WHAT LITTLE SMOKEY WOULD HAVE SAID IF HE WAS HERE.”

And that’s when I learned that the time to buy a used, almost free bobcat is when you see one.  Let that be a lesson to you.

 

Forgive me. I’m only human. Or possibly not even that.

I just tried to leave a comment on someone’s blog, but instead of posting my comment, the blog stopped me and was like, “Not so fast, you.  Are you even human?

areyouhuman

Is this really a problem?  Are there a lot of houseplants and robots trying to leave comments on blogs?  Also, what does this even mean?  Why ask if I’m a human and then give me a weird photo of a wall?  I assumed I was supposed to write the calligraphy on the wall, but when I wrote “B O” it said I wasn’t a human, which is ridiculous because if there’s one thing that humans are good at, it’s at recognizing B.O.

I complained to Victor that computers were judging me for not being human enough and he looked at me like I was insane and said that I need to type in “130”, not “B O”,  and that there must be something wrong with my eyes.  And he’s probably right, but I’m pretty sure that just proves that I’m human because I suspect robots almost never have to get stronger glasses.

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And now, time for the weekly wrap-up:

shit i did


Shit I made in my shop (Named “EIGHT POUNDS OF UNCUT COCAINE” so that your credit card bill will be more interesting.):

Shit that I’m vaguely involved with on the internets:

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

  • I’ve got nothin’ this week.  This funeral stuff took over my life.  Sorry.  If you have something awesome you’ve seen on the internet, please share.

Shit you should buy or steal because it’s awesome:

This week’s wrap-up is brought to you by JustGoGirlwhich is a product you need if you’ve ever laughed so hard you peed a little.  Apparently the same thing happens when you run marathons or work out, although I wouldn’t know about that so much.  Basically, it’s a pad designed for athletic leaks, which is a problem that affects 1/3 of all woman.  You totally need to check it out here because people swear by them.

Your essence is DELICIOUS.

Conversation at an estate sale filled with extremely questionable things:

Me:  I’m pretty sure I need this doll.

It's like "Eyes Without a Face," except just the opposite.

It’s like that song “Eyes Without a Face,” except just the opposite.

Victor:  Nope.  Nope.  Nope.  All of my nopes.

me:  Sir, how much is the doll with no eyeballs?

Estate sale guy: It’s $75.

me: Seems pricey.  But, hang on…does that include all the human souls trapped inside it? Because that might actually be a good value.

Estate sale guy:   It comes with an extra set of doll clothes.

Victor: Does it also come with an exorcism?

Guy:  It’s real old.  They don’t make ‘em like that anymore.

Victor: Well, thank God for that.

Victor said I couldn’t bring her home even though I tried to show him how lovely she was:

"Give us a cuddle.  And some blood."

“Give us a cuddle. And some blood.”

Then Victor made me put her down, but when I went in the next room I found another doll and I was like, “I felt sad for a doll with no eyes until I met a doll with no arms”.

This is where I would put a picture of the doll and her missing arms, but I think it cursed my phone because all I can find is a picture of her face:

"Aaahhhh."

“Come closer.  I can smell your marrow from here.”

Victor:  SERIOUSLY?  Did Satan’s grandma live here?

me:  They probably removed her arms to keep her from smothering people during the night.  Now she can only hug you with her teeth.

And then Victor made me leave.

But not before I bought an antique book for a dollar:

I would have thought the list would be longerHonestly, I would have expected it to be longer.

So fragile, but so enduring.

I’ve been missing for awhile, but I’ve been trying to find my words.

Meemaw died yesterday, at the age of 80.

If you’ve read here long enough then you already know meemaw.  She’s Victor’s grandmother and she (and her late husband) helped to raise Victor, offering him a loving home and a sense of compassion and generosity that has kept him from strangling me over the years.    We were lucky enough to be able to move Meemaw down to live by us last year, so we could spend more time with her, but a lot of that time was spent in hospital rooms as she battled cancer and heart and lung problems.

Meemaw had a penchant for telling her favorite stories over and over, but she told them with such joy that we always laughed like it was the first time.  Sometimes it was the story about Victor getting his head stuck in a fence at Disneyland.   Sometimes it was about breaking her back after falling out of a moving jeep while shooting at rabbits.  Sometimes it was about picking cotton, or rolling cigarettes, or digging up a corpse, or meeting the man of her dreams as a 17-year-old waitress and marrying him 10 days later, or traveling the world as the wife of a career soldier, or making dresses from feed sacks.

A few weeks ago, family gathered around her hospital bed and she started to tell one of her favorite stories that we’d all heard so many times we could each mouth the words.

“When we were little,” she said, “mama would sometimes give all us kids a fresh-laid egg.  And we’d walk for miles down the road toward town, each cradling our egg in our hands.  There were six of us kids…”  She trailed off as she lost her breath and we waited patiently.  She looked a bit lost and after a moment her sister gently laid her hand on her arm and smiled widely as she picked up the story exactly where meemaw had left off.

“There were six of us kids and we’d walk into town because we could trade in our egg at the main store for a cold Pepsi.  We always chose Pepsi because it came in a bigger bottle and we could make it last all the way home if we sipped it slowly.  On really special days mama might give us two eggs and then we felt like we were rich because we could buy peanuts to go with our Pepsi.”

Meemaw smiled gratefully and nodded as she picked up the end.  “And in all those years, none of us ever dropped a single egg.”

It was the last time I ever heard her tell that story.

It was also the best time though, and I don’t know if I can do justice in explaining why.  Partially it was seeing the caring sparkle in both of their eyes as they recalled the story, but it was more than that.  It was seeing that even in her last days, as meemaw struggled to carry her egg, someone she loved caught it and carried it safely home.  She never dropped her egg.

It struck me that sometimes an egg is not egg.  Sometimes an egg is a story.  Sometimes it’s a shared secret, or a sweet relief, or a treasured memory or learned lesson.  Meemaw carried so many fragile eggs with her throughout her life, keeping them safe until she could hand them over to people she loved.  Sometimes the eggs contained kindness, or generosity.  Sometimes they were lessons in patience.  Sometimes they were lessons on the importance of family.  Sometimes they were late-night milkshakes, or handmade quilts, or staying up through the night to rock you to sleep when you had a fever.  Meemaw gave me two things:  (1) She taught me that you don’t always have to get even.  Sometimes you just have to get quiet.  (Because when you get really quiet that’s when people start to feel anxious and regret being jerks and then you’ve gotten even with them without actually doing anything at all.)  And more importantly (2) she gave me Victor.  Or rather, she instilled in Victor a sense of joy and love and generosity that made him able to be a wonderful husband and dedicated father.    And Victor protects those values she taught him and we carry them to pass them on to our daughter, who may one day pass them on to those she loves.

Sometimes an egg is not an egg.  Sometimes an egg is a life.  Sometimes an egg is a lesson.  Sometimes an egg is a gift.

Even in death, meemaw never dropped her egg.  She simply passed it on to us so that we can continue to gently carry it with us as we each walk down our own paths using the lessons she gave us.

May we all be so lucky.

PS.  This is the song meemaw chose to be played at her funeral this weekend.  I can’t listen to it and not smile.

Godspeed, Doris Jean Cantrell.

small doris cantrell