Cat Scratch Fever

I have always liked cats…my own cats. And, considering I haven’t had a cat since high school I think I might be romanticizing my love for them.

I’ve been counting down the days until I get settled into my own place near where I work so I can either legally or illegally smuggle my own fat furry couch-ornament in to cuddle with. However, somehow I think I confused cats as just an easier version of a dog. This is not so.

For instance:
I am housesitting for my aunt right now and she has two cats. My aunt joked before she left, “You’ll be lucky if you even see the little darlings!” and I laughed thinking that no animal–let alone two–could live in a house like they are ninjas of the night. Well, these two do. I should have figured as much when I was never told their names and I am staying here for two weeks. I was just shown the five litter boxes they have (literally) set up in the basement and told I won’t have to change them, feed them ,water them, etc. So, basically I watch free cable and blog while they lurk creepily around every corner.

I literally only saw the tip of one’s tail as I sat in the recliner and it was either under it or scared by it and it vanished through the kitty door (sick) in the basement faster than my retinas could focus.

However, I could live with this. Big deal, they don’t bound to the door when I come home. That sometimes gets annoying. They don’t slober on my legs and leave strings of saliva that make me gag just to describe.

But this was the cincher…

I fell asleep last night in a blaze of glory…literally unconscious. Now, I don’t know if this happens to anyone else but do you ever get where you’re asleep and you know you’re asleep and you want to move so badly but you are, literally, paralyzed? I heard that this happens to everyone but I might be the only one enlightened enough to have had a self-discovery.

Anyway…

So, as I was sleeping like I was in the tub scene of What Lies Beneath, this bobcat sized animal leaps on my chest and slinks toward my face. Instantly, panic seized my body but there was the paralysis. So, I could sit and force myself to remember that, yes, there was food in the basement and no he wasn’t licking his lips while he looked at my jugular.

He sensed my vulnerability but let me live.
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If You’re Going To Hate Something, Do It Right

I have a friend who once dated a guy with a Confederate Flag tattoo on his neck. Now, that she is engaged to someone else I display my hatred for him on the World Wide Web.

First of all, people who have Confederate Flag tattoos and live in the North should maybe crack open a textbook sometime before their thirty and their teeth are missing and they’ve blown themselves up in methlabs in their trailer park.

The fact of the matter is these hillbillies (in an earlier post I mentioned that I am a tickle on the redneck side but I am by no means making my big-screen debut in Deliverance) don’t really even understand what a Confederate Flag represents. Well, I take that back, it does represent ignorance and hatred and I’m not normally one to dish out the “I Have a Dream” speech but, come on, why don’t you just get a tattoo that says “I Hate Black People.” If you’re going to do it do it right. Don’t sit there getting the decal stuck to the hood of your pinto just because everyone just as stupid as you is doing it.

If you ask any person that has anything remotely similar to the Confederate Flag on their person that’s the first thing they’ll say…and they’ll emphasize it with something really scholarly like the N-Word or perhaps they’ll show you their matching swastika/menorah set just to prove how serious they are about hating…anything.

And just for the record, I’m white. I’m not big into the whole race-battle more like I’m into hating people for being dumber than I am (sounds like a rant for someone else’s blog).

You Can’t Choose Your Family.


Well, tomorrow is my family reunion…

This isn’t a typical family reunion in which there’s perhaps a caterer or even a meal in a park with an awning. Perhaps, a quick game of volleyball if you’re that crazy of a family. But at the end of the afternoon everyone normally bids each other adieu and waits again until next year.

Nope.

This is a camping reunion. A two day long camping reunion. I, however, am exempt from the first day since I have to work but that’s only valid for one day, then I had to ask off.

But it gets worse.

There will not only be t-shirt painting (because printing would be, like, easy?) but there will be campers, tents, dogs of every shape size and breed oh, and did I mention some of my family are bringing their ice shacks to sleep in??? Yep, that’s a little nugget for your nervous system.

But, I mean, all in all it makes me smile. I don’t get embarrassed that we will more than likely look like an episode of the reunion episode of Married With Children because it’s just my way of life.

I’ll just pack my Styrofoam Budweiser cooler with my booze and ice, whip out my folding lawn chair with half the support straps broken (not those fancy bag ones), plop myself into the water with my jean shorts on and make a scene for the city-folk that plan on playing volleyball and bidding each other adieu.

To be continued…

Death by Snapple.


I already know how I’m going to die: a road-rage influenced accident/injury.

I have a serious problem with following the Golden Rule once behind the wheel…I’ve been in screaming matches with middle-aged men all look like they were runners up for America’s Most Wanted, I’ve flipped off many an old person, and I honk my horn like Morse Code on the Titanic…but my absolute favorite road-rage antic is to slam on my brakes when I’m being tailgated.

Well, today was a perfect instance. This guy behind me was like, enema-close. He looked like Steve-O from Jackass so I was immediately repulsed and was on the freeway near semis in which I have a overbearing anxiety when I’m driving near them.

(Sidenote here: I am not a good driver. I mean, like, not even in the least bit. At this given point I was riding the fast lane just for the hell of it and eating my lunch. But, remember, you’re on my side.)

So, I quickly slam on my brakes to give this gentleman a little heads up.

He got the message.

He quickly veered into the right lane and punched the gas. I pretended that I didn’t give two shits about him and his childish driving-patterns so I just took a slug of my Snapple. But, once curiosity overwhelmed me, I glanced over just as he was passing me on the right-hand side.

He was furious…veins were exploding from his forehead as he made obscene eating gestures with his hands…and I could see the word “bitch” movie across his hideous lips in slow motion.

My reaction was a mixed bag at first. My face said nothing…as if he was merely driving along listening to “The Secret” on audio tape. My brain instantly told me to swerve to the right and send us both over a bridge in a fiery angry mass both cussing each out as we burned/drowned. I could have screamed and flipped him off and screamed some more but that would have satisfied this piss ant.

So, I pulled out the big guns…

I burst out laughing.

His fury was insurmountable to any human beings ever. I’m pretty sure Michael Myers spent his life tickled a little more pink than this guy.

He quickly exited. More than likely to kick a dent in his 1994 Grand Am or play Russian Roulette with an innocent bystander…BUT, nonetheless, one of these days a victim of my no mercy road rage will have a gun or excellent life insurance and will kill me in a very, very violent way.

But, I have to admit, seeing that idiot’s face twisted in fury might have made my painful death worth it.

Obviously Insane.



I need to ask America something…well, just women or gay men. When you meet a guy, as in any guy, he could be selling you a hot dog (preferably!), small talking to you on an elevator, or maybe even a guy you know closely…anyway, when you meet or speak to or see this person from the sidewalk while you peek through their blinds…do you immediately think if you could marry that man?

I do.

I mean, like, not just once in a while when I drink tequila. I mean, every time I meet a guy that is in my age category and doesn’t suffer from a mental illness (that is immediately noticeable). I always think to myself…could this be someone I could marry? Not even if he’s my soul mate, but, could I just marry this guy? Would those green eyes go with my wedding ensemble?

But, since we’re being honest, it doesn’t just end there for me. Other things I think about are future fights we could have. Where we would live together. What kind of children we would make…you get the slightly morbid picture.

I say this because a friend of mine is desperate to set me up with someone. I did the initial himming and hawwing (is that saying even supposed to be on paper?) and pretended like I could find a man on my own while secretly hoping that she wouldn’t give up and I could be married by the weekend.

Well, this friend of mine has brought up different subjects to me and I waived them away with my palm frond stating they just weren’t right for me. However, this last one is stuck in my brain. I know this guy, as I did the others, yet I never, ever, ever had a sober conversation with him to my recollection. Upon her saying that I should “hook-up” with this guy (“because face it Ash, you need some”) I almost vomited. “Him!?” I asked thinking about his raging alcohol issues, age difference, and slightly yellow teeth…

But then the life planner in me kicked in. I already have: things for us to fight about, places for us to live, commuting issues worked out, ideas on how to make him over, and the first line of how I’m going to meet his mother (“Don’t you remember me? You stripped me in my underwear on Bourbon Street on our band trip!”…another day, another day).

The only problem is…I have yet to talk to him. Nor does he even have he slightest clue that I am INTERESTED.

So, the moral of the story is…don’t anyone ever tell me someone likes me, thinks I’m cute, mentioned my name in a conversation or they think we would be cute together. Otherwise, I might start pulling strands of hair out of my head one pluck at a time.