Category Archives: conversations

I think I’m onto something but probably not.

Conversation with me and Victor:

me:  I just realized something: Spiders have eight legs and eight eyes, and humans have two legs and two eyes, and worms have no legs and no eyes.

Victor:  And?

me:  And cats have four legs…BUT ONLY TWO EYES.

Victor:  Um…yep.

me:  I mean, it doesn’t follow, does it?  Are they missing eyes?  Do they have too many legs?  Are they supposed to be bipedal but they’re just lazy?

Victor:  That’s not how biology works.


Victor:  Have you been drinking?

me:  No, I’ve been thinking.

Victor:  Just as dangerous with you, really.

me:  So here’s my theory…

Victor:  Oh, good.  There’s a theory.

me:  I think that cats intentionally don’t walk around on their hind legs because they know if they started standing upright we’d expect them to get day jobs because that’s the next step in evolution.

Victor:  What about dogs?  They have four legs and two eyes.

me:  Yes, but dogs can walk around on their hind legs if they want to.  They just look ridiculous doing it so we’re like, “Oh, stop that.   You’re embarrassing all of us.”  They’re always trying to stand up on their hind legs when you enter the room and their owners are all, “GET DOWN, MR. PUMPERNICKEL.  WE DO NOT JUMP UP ON OUR VISITORS.  STOP SMELLING CROTCHES.”

Victor:  Hmm.

me:  They clearly want to stand on their back legs.  I think dogs would have probably turned bipedal years ago if we weren’t so uptight about crotches.

Victor:  Wow.  You’re absolutely right.

me:  I’m…wait.  You’re agreeing with me?

Victor:  If it makes you stop talking, then yes.  I agree wholeheartedly.

me:  Oh.  How terribly disappointing.

I wanted to post a picture of Hunter S. Thomcat standing on his hind legs but he got all intentionally floppy on me so instead I’m posting a picture of him wearing an inflatable unicorn horn:

That's what you get Hunter.  Next time stop being so floppy.

And that’s what you get for being so aggressively floppy, Hunter.   Learn to pick your battles, dude.

I am tremendously easy to please and I’m not getting credit for it.

Conversation between me and my husband:

me:  My feet hurt

Victor: Your feet always hurt.

me:  Because of all the ass I’m kicking.

Victor: *raised eyebrow*

me:  And also because of my rheumatoid arthritis.

Victor: That sounds more accurate.

me: And I might need new shoes.

Victor: *sigh*

me: And a piggy-back ride.

Victor: Hmm.

me: And a step ladder so that I can get on your back, because I don’t think I can  jump that high anymore without both of us getting injured.

Victor: Mmm.

me: I’d settle for a wheelbarrow.

Victor: Huh.

me: Not the thing we did in elementary P.E. where you carry my legs and I walk on my hands.  I mean a real wheelbarrow.  One that you could push me in.

Victor: Hmm.

me:  It’d be like a wheelchair.  But whimsical.

Victor: No.

me:  But we’d need to fill it with pillows, or sedated cats.  And some ziploc bags filled with frozen margaritas.  And some maybe streamers  to make it festive.  And a flare gun for whenever you leave me in the middle of the grocery store and forget what aisle I’m on.

Victor: I wouldn’t call it “forgetting.”

me:  But I’m not sure you can bring a gun in a grocery store, so maybe some just roman candles and a lighter.  And some sort of bullhorn.

Victor: You know, they have these cool new things called “benches”.  You just sit your ass  down on them when your feet hurt.

me: Oh my God, you are so mainstream.

Victor:  You keep saying that like it’s a bad thing.

me: I’m just saying, keep the wheelbarrow idea in the back of your mind.  In case you want to surprise me by being awesome one day.

Victor: With a wheelbarrow?

me: Yeah.  With a wheelbarrow.  Most girls want diamonds and fancy summer houses.  I just want a goddam surprise wheelbarrow every now and then.  You are incredibly lucky to have me.

Victor:  That’s what I keep trying to tell myself.

Werewolves never get mosquito bites.

Victor: I am eaten up with mosquito bites.

me: You totally are.  You look like someone graffitied all over you with Braille.  Or like you’re made of cat nipples.

Victor:  Those fuckers even bit me through my shirt.  I have like 20 mosquito bites on my back.

me: Do you have them on your arms?

Victor:  I never get mosquito-bitten where I have hair.

me:  So hair is a dense forest they get lost in?  Like your arm hair is trees and the mosquitoes are Hansel and Gretel.

Victor:  They must hate hair.  You never get bitten on your scalp, right?

me:  True.  We should make mosquito-deterring spray that just sprays fake hair on you instead of pesticides.

Victor:  I’d look like a giant werewolf.

me:  The bugs would avoid you.

Victor:  EVERYONE would avoid you.

me: It’s perfect for mosquito-attracting people and also for introverts who don’t want to talk to people at parties.  We could call it were-hair.

Victor:  Yeah, but people would mispronounce it…like “were” hair.

me:  But that’s okay because it’s like you’re a werewolf and it’s like what you would look like if there WERE HAIR all over you.  Double meaning.

Victor:  People don’t want to be covered in were-hair.

me:  Better than being covered in itchy cat nipples.  We are going to be so rich.

STITTING: You can’t do it and your cats can’t stop bragging about it.

Conversation with Victor:

me: I think I have a problem.

Victor: Technically you have lots of them.  Which one specifically are you speaking of?

me: Look at Hunter S. Thomcat.

Victor: Yeah.  He’s being a cat.  What a bastard.

me: No.  I mean, he looks as if he’s standing on the stairs at full attention, but if you look behind him you’ll notice he’s actually just sitting.  He’s pretending to stand, but really his ass is totally asleep.  Also, I suspect that he’s not even awake and is just too lazy to close his eyes.

Victor: …And this is a problem because?

me: I think I’m jealous.  I’m jealous of the cat.

Victor: Ah.  Yes.  That is a problem.


 And in other news, it’s Sunday, which means its time for the weekly wrap-up:

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

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 brought to you by a fantastic zomnibus you should probably check out.  How would a typical husband handle a zombie outbreak? Answer: Not well. See how Chris, John and Erik cope with the living dead in Dumb White Husbands vs. Zombies by Benjamin Wallace, the first full length novel in the bestselling Dumb White Husband series.

In my defense, I’m just very lazy.

Victor: Maybe we should join a gym.

me:  Nah.  I’m already extremely successful at failing to work out right here at home.  No need to branch out, really.

Victor:  But we’d probably be more likely to work out if we had access to exercise machines.

me:  There are machines that exercise for you?  Bloody hell, man.  Why didn’t you say so?  BUY ONE IMMEDIATELY.

Victor:  It doesn’t quite work like that.

me:  Are there also robots that ignore deadlines for you, and cyborgs that fuck shit up more efficiently?  Because I’m fairly good at that, but honestly? I think there’s room for improvement.

Victor:  Oh, you’re being too hard on yourself.  You’re amazing at fucking shit up.

me:  I know.  It’s the only art I’ve almost perfected.  Frankly, it kind of blows my mind a little.

Victor:  Mine too, honey.  Mine too.

Just to answer your question in advance, I have a lot of small wigs because I thought they’d fit the dead weasels but then it turned out they were slightly too large and I hate returning things.

Victor:  Why did you put a wig on the cat?

me:  Better question:  Why do you always assume it’s me?  I’m not the only one who lives here, you know.

Victor:  Hailey?

Hailey:  Yeah?

Victor:  Did you put a wig on the cat?

Hailey:  Why would I put a wig on a cat?

me:  This proves nothing.

Victor:  You don’t have to get all defensive.  I just don’t understand why you do shit like this, crazy cat lady.

me:  I have a lot of very small wigs.  I have a lot of very small cats.  This math does itself.

The cat has a face for wigs. It's a gift that you can't just ignore, Victor.

And that's why I don't use the garbage disposal

me:  I just got an email about buying fake followers on twitter.  I didn’t even know that was a thing.  Why would anyone want that?

Victor: You’re asking me to explain why twitter doesn’t make sense?

me: It’s like paying for imaginary friends who don’t even like you.

Victor: We should totally start that business.

me: Selling twitter followers?

Victor: No.  Selling used imaginary friends for people who don’t have imaginations.

me: DUDE, THAT IS MY DREAM JOB.  Like Imaginary-Geraldo, who lost one leg playing “The Floor Is Made Of Lava” and who likes to dress up your cats like movie stars when you’re not home.

Victor:  Huh.

me:  Or Imaginary-Jezebel, who thinks you need to gain weight and who wants to eat cheesecake eggrolls with you.  She’s half off.

Victor:  She’s on sale?

me:  No, she lost both of her legs in the garbage disposal.  Apparently those things are really dangerous even though they seem like they’d make a great reverse snow cone. It was a really good lesson for all of us.

Victor: You’ve put…waaay too much thought into this.

me: It’s my secret talent.  Our house is filled with imaginary friends.  It’s like a fucking invisible mosh-pit in here.

Victor: And why are so many of them missing legs?

me:  It’s a dangerous job.

PS.  Don’t buy twitter followers.  It’s stupid. Instead, make up imaginary friends for people who lack imagination.  And make up imaginary shin pads for them too.  That way you’re helping others and you’re protecting imaginary people.  Everyone wins.


Robot tigers or Robobcats? I’m leaning toward the latter simply because they’d be easier to put in your carry-on luggage.

Victor:  One day I’m going to finish my robot tigers and we will rule the world.

me: It’d be easier if you just took over the world with real tigers.

Victor:  Robot tigers are scarier than real tigers.

me:  No.  Real tigers are scarier because they’re unpredictable.

Victor: My robot tigers have a random setting.

me: Like a shuffle function on an iPod?

Victor: Exactly.

me:  That is way scarier.

Victor: Plus they could beat you at chess.

me: Well, not me specifically.  I’m pretty damn good at chess.

Victor:  Not as good as a robot tiger.

me:  Live tigers are still scarier because they’re real and you know they hate you. With a robot tiger you understand they’re just doing their job when they kill you.

Victor: My robot tiger would be a cold, calculating killing machine – set on random – that also has an emotion chip and laughs at your pain.

me: That actually sounds scary as shit.

Victor:  I KNOW. I just gave myself a panic attack just thinking about it and I don’t even get panic attacks.

me:  Imagine the synthesized growl you could put on that thing.  And the synthesized laughter.

Victor:  “HA. HA. HA.”  That’s a robot tiger laughing at your chess skills.  And also, you really aren’t good at chess.

me:  I am.  I’m so not good at it that I move wildly and unpredictably.  It makes me dangerously erratic.

Victor: My robot tiger has a random chess move ability generator.

me:  Well now we’re all fucked.

Victor: The future is going to be scary.  Maybe I should make robot pumas.

me: No.

Victor: Robot cougars?

me:  Mmm…no.

Victor: Robot Bobcats.

me: Robobcats?

Victor:  Don’t be ridiculous.  Robo-bobcats sounds much scarier.

me: I think just you’re starting to come up with excuses as to why you won’t build robot tigers.

Victor:  You might be right.  I won engineering awards from NASA when I was a teenager, for God’s sake.  You’d think I would have invented robot bobcats by now.

me:  I’m sure NASA is very disappointed in you.  You probably haven’t invented robotic minions yet because you don’t apply yourself.  And that’s why the robobcats will never see the light of day.

Victor: A million unborn robo-bobcats suddenly cried out in in pain.

me:  Like Alderaan.  You can almost hear them screaming: “YOU’RE SO LAZY.

Victor:  Fuck this.  I’m building my robot tigers.  THE ROBOT TIGERS ARE COMING.  And their slogan will be “THEY’RE GRRRREAT!”

me:  We’re gonna get sued.

Victor: Yeah, but we’ll bring the robo-bobcats to the trial and they’ll growl angrily.

me:  And Tony the Tiger would be like “I FEEL VERY INTIMIDATED” and our lawyers would be like “THEY HAVE A RIGHT TO BE HERE, TONY.  THIS CONCERNS THEM TOO.”

Victor:  And they’d growl, but with big smiles.  Which would be even scarier.

me:  And also less likely to get thrown out of court because who gets removed from court for smiling at the plaintiff?  “This is their natural resting state, Tony the Tiger.  THEY’RE BEING ENCOURAGING.  IT’S THEIR HELPFUL GROWL.  YOU CAN TELL BECAUSE THEY’RE SMILING.”

Victor:  Holy shit.

me:  Yeah.

Victor:  There is no way we’re losing this case.

God and Jesus. It’s like when your parents get on Facebook.

On the way home from our vacation/hospital-stay, Victor and I ended up traveling with a very well-meaning man who wouldn’t stop talking about how God put me in the hospital on purpose because apparently He hates me.

Stranger: Well, God doesn’t close a door without opening a window.

Victor:  Well that explains why our electric bill was so high.  Because God doesn’t understand how expensive air-conditioning is.

Stranger:  That’s...not what that phrase means.

me:  I bet Jesus has to deal with this shit all the time.  God’s always leaving the windows open at home…accidentally letting Jesus’ cat out.  That sort of thing.

Victor:  Right?  And then Jesus would be like “Dad.  STOP LEAVING ALL THE WINDOWS OPEN. WERE YOU BORN IN A BARN?”

Religious stranger:  *stunned silence*

me:  And then God would point out that Jesus actually WAS born in a barn.  BURN, Jesus.

Victor: And then God would be like, “Look, I DON’T CLOSE A DOOR WITHOUT OPENING A WINDOW.  IT’S  WHAT I DO.  IT’S IN THE CHARTER.”

Religious person:  Wow.  You guys have…really thought this out.

me:  No, not really.


Actual conversation with my husband, as we were driving down a Texas back-road yesterday:


Victor:  What?

me:  You need to stop the car so I can get out, BECAUSE I JUST SAW A BEAR EATING GRASS ON THE SIDE OF THE ROAD.

Victor:  Okay, I don’t even know where to start with how many things are wrong with that sentence.

me:  It might have been a sasquatch.  It was enormous and hairy AND WE HAVE TO GO BACK.

Victor:  *sigh*  It was probably a tree.

me:  I think I can tell the difference between a tree and a sasquatch, thankyouverymuch.

Then Victor turned around, but he glared at me until we finally got back to the spot, and I was all “SEE.  THAT THING.  That’s a fucking sasquatch, dude.”

Victor:  That’s a…  Uh…fuck.  What the hell is that thing?

me:  Sasquatch.  You owe me a dollar.

Victor:  We weren’t betting.

me:  You owe me a dollar for your lack of faith.

Victor:  It looks like…Sigmund the Sea Monster.

And he was sort of right, except that sea monsters don’t exist.  Then I got out of the car to take a picture with my phone and Victor was yelling at me to get back in the car, but it was too late because I was quietly sneaking up on the sasquatch, and then I realized that it was on all fours and that Sasquatches don’t crawl unless they’re looking for a contact, so I whispered back to Victor: “I think it’s a Snuffleupagus.”  Then Victor rolled his eyes in disbelief, and a fairy died because of his lack of faith.

I snuck up closer and closer, and finally took a shot with my camera.

Be honest. You thought I was exaggerating until just now, didn't you? Ow, people. Just...ow.

Then I whispered (in a soothing -and somewhat terrified- voice), “Heeeeere snuffles.  I come in peace.”  But he totally ignored me, and then Victor laid on the horn, and I screamed, and the sasqualleupagus’ butt looked up at me.

And it was a donkey.

With dreadlocks, for some reason.

This donkey needs a french braid and a banana-clip

Which was both disappointing and confusing all at once.  Then Victor yelled at me to stop stomping through other people’s property before we both got arrested, and then I got caught on the barbed wire fence on the way back out and probably got tetanus.  Then I got back in the car while screaming “YOU GUYS NEED TO BRUSH YOUR DONKEY” at no one in particular .

PS.  This story would be more redeeming if the the donkey ended up being a sasquatch.  I apologize.  I can assure you, I’m a little sad for all of us.

(An aside to everyone telling me to call the police: The donkey is fine and is apparently supposed to look like that.)


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

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’s wrap-up sponsored by the awesome people at Goodsie, who make it incredibly easy to set up your own fully-branded online shop. Sell whatever you like.  Art, shirts, glass-eyes, used organs. Whatever!

* asked me to clarify: “We will not help you sell your used organs. Unless ‘organs’ = ‘pianos.’ That’s probably okay. We need to talk to our lawyers.”