Friday

My friend, 'Jessie Green' (previously mentioned in my post about the dreaded possums) at And I Can't Help But Wonder has this great idea of jotting down what she loves on Wednesdays.  Well, it's Friday, so I can't have a What I Love Wednesday, but I can have a Fills My Heart Up Friday ... how's that?  Let's be honest, I won't remember to do this weekly, but it is a pretty good boost after a rather crappy week.

So, today, here's what fills my heart up:

• My friends have been super dooper amazingly supportive this past week and I really love them for it
• Cherry Zero Coke.  Haven't tried it yet?  Go to the store now
• Busiest weekend of the year at the bar is upon us yet again ... which means (fingers crossed) extra tip $$ in my pocket
• I'm getting a coconut snowball with marshmallow topping today at Snoasis.  Yummy!
• I'm about to sneak off and take a little 30 minute nappy between jobs
• And of course, I can't forget the reason why Cat Lady is a crazy cat lady ... my boyboys, Mustacho and Carlton.  No specific reason, I just really love them

Have a good weekend, kittens!  If you're in my neck of the woods and want to see a lot of drunk hotmess yuppies, come stop by the bar.

They're Called Mustachos, Not Mustaches

Sorry for not writing as of late, kittens.  I've had a pretty rough week and haven't been much in the mood for entertaining the masses.

That being said, in order to make up for lost time and to cheer my own self up, I've decided to write a post about my very favorite thing in the entire world: mustachos. 

Yes, mustachos.  Not mustaches, and not my kitty baby Mustacho (although he and his brother are indeed my very favorite beings in the entire world).  I have always been intrigued by mustaches, and have been calling them mustachos as long as I can remember.  Perhaps it's because I can't grow a mustacho myself (thank goodness), or perhaps it's because there are so very many types of mustachos to be grown.  Either way, mustachos (and Mustachos) are the shit.

My mustacho obsession started long ago, but I didn't really place a finger on the oddities of my obsession until I met the wonderful gem that is my kitty baby, Mustacho.  The mustacho on Mustacho is so beautiful and perfect.  Yes, it may look a little Hitler-esque, but I ignore that and just focus on the beauty.  And no, I do not like Hitler, I just love his mustacho.

Two side notes about Mustacho's mustacho: a) my roommate at the time, Lizzy G and I were told that no one wanted Mustacho because of his mustacho (which of course made me want him more ... and joke's on those suckers cuz Mustacho is the sweetest baby ever), and b) Lizzy G and I lived in a really lovely area last year that happened to have a synagogue across the street and was heavily populated with some neighbors who happened to be Jewish.  We had to give the leasing office a picture of the cats upon moving in, just in case something happened to them or whatever.  I searched long and wide to find a picture of Mustacho minus the 'stache, cuz I didn't want to offend my new neighbors.  Took awhile, but I think this is the one I finally shared with them:

Carlton and Mustacho's hidden mustacho

Just to clarify, I am exceptionally proud of Mustacho's mustacho and make a point to attempt to get a good image of this beauty feature in most pictures of him. 

After adopting my babies, my obsession for mustachoes grew exponentially.  Friends started sending me mustacho pictures, articles, stories, etc.  It's like the possum trend, but with something I actually like!  I purchased this really cool tshirt with a lot of different mustachos all over it, but stopped wearing it cuz ppl used to point to my boobies too much when looking at it.  No thanks.

My favorite mustacho-related present was from my customers and good friends, Pumpkin and Squash (previously referenced in several posts).  Apparently those little toy machines in the grocery store now have MUSTACHOS!!!  I have received several types of mustachos from Pumpkin and Squash, including a really gross blonde handlebar mustacho and a little black one that looks like Mustacho.  These adhesive mustachos are hilarious for my entertainment and really creepy for those who don't get why their bartender is wearing a mustacho. I wish I had a pic to share.  However, I do have this little gem ... yes, that is my hair forming a mustacho, and a straw forming a monocle (another obsesssion of mine).

Mrs. Lauren C and I decided to go to one of those paint your own pottery joints a few weeks ago.  I was in desperate need of a bigger coffee mug to hold more caffeine in the morning.  I decided that it would be a grand idea to paint mustachos all over my mug.  Excited at the prospects of a bigger mug covered in mustachos, I did some research as to how I wanted to paint my prized mug.  What a terrific way to wake up in the morning!  Extra caffeine AND mustachos?!  Sign me up.

As Miss Lauren C and I sat down and got to work, I realized one small issue that had not come to mind previously: I have absolutely no artistic ability.  None.  This is the girl who, during philanthropy craft nights for her sorority, was either banned from creating stuff, or told flat out that her crafts would have to be thrown out.  How the heck was I supposed to create a beautiful mustacho mug with a lack of artistic ability?!

I surged ahead, and after attempting my first mustacho, I realized that this ugly piece of "art" would have to be chalked up as yet another craft attempt failed.  However, it is still substantially larger than some of my mugs, so that's always a good thing.  Here are a few pics of the mustachos.  The red "handlebar" mustacho is probably my favorite, because it looks absolutely nothing like a mustacho.  The red smileyface looking blob is also entertaining.  Yet another reason why gingers suck. 

The last final touch to this hideous piece of crap had to be added ... why not add the cherry to the top of this beautiful little sundae?  What can I say?  I LOVE MUSTACHOS!!!

Presents will be accepted by any blog fans who would like to purchase (simply google "mustache shirt" and you'll be flooded with beautiful ideas).  My birthday happens to be in June.

Happy Easter, Ya'll

First, I'd like to start by saying BIG UPS TO JC!  Let's remember the reason for the season, after all. 

After spending the last 2 days preparing, shopping, cleaning, and cooking for the big Easter dinner, I have a few thoughts that I would like to share:

• Why do we call it Easter "dinner" when it's at like 2:00?  To me, that is a linner, not a dinner.  I'm attempting to start the trend of calling it that in my family. 
• To that note, having Easter linner at 2:00 puts me in quite the pickle, because I am starving by the time we actually sit down to eat (despite the occasional "snizzle" of tasty treats during the day ... I have to make sure everything is seasoned correctly ... suurrre) and then we're all stuffed by 2:15 and then hungry again at like 8 at night.  So basically, Easter/Thanksgiving/Christmas (and all the other 362 days of the year) contribute to my needing a larger dress size for my brother's upcoming wedding
• As today is Easter and Lent is no more, I finally get to eat iced cream (it's what I gave up this year and that was a huge mistake.  I'm worried that stock in Ben & Jerry's went down these past 40 days because of me.  Sorry, B&J)

Anyways, despite all of the work and then timeframe for eating, it was totally worth it.  Had a good Easter dinner with some of the people I love the most.  Happy Easter, ya'll!

"Today ... Ain't Yo Day"

Hello kittens!

Not everyday can be the best day of my life ... yesterday certainly wasn't the worst day of my life, but it wasn't all peaches and cream either.

The day started like any other ... cue to about 6:00 when I decided to do some laundry.  In my apartment, the laundry room is right next to my apartment so I can really quickly bop on over there and do my loads.  After moving the laundry over to the dryer, I walked back to my apartment ... and oh lookie here ... the door is locked!

I started to panic.  I was wearing sweats about 3 sizes too big, no makeup, greasy hair, and a big ol bag of quarters in my pocket.  Thank goodness I was wearing a bra and shoes.  What to do, what to do?  I concluded that I'd see if the leasing office was still open so that they could let me back in, so I hiked up my sweats, and went a walkin.  Just a note about my apartment complex: it stretches over quite a lot of land, on both sides of a really busy road.  So here I am, walking around in baggy sweats (weighed down with quarters) at 7 at night, trying to cross said busy road.  Quite the sight to see, I'm quite sure of it.  Thankfully, no one asked if I was "going their way" or any other such disgusting comments.  PS, I was wearing a sorority tshirt that happens to say "caution: contents hot" on the back.  Likely not the most appropriate shirt wear while trying to remain inconspicuous.

Leasing office was closed, so I had to walk the additional 1/4 a mile or so (sweats starting to hang lower and lower) to the closest location where a payphone might be.  (side note: I honestly didn't think many payphones still existed in our fair county, but I am very thankful that they do)  I tried to ignore the fact that hobos used that very payphone and the sheer amount of germs that lurked on said payphone and called up my mommy to come save me.

As I was walking home, trying to keep my head held high, I decided this would be appropriate blog material.  My pain is your gain, readers.

BAM!

I'm all about the good ol U S of A.  I'm also all about the classic show, Ru Paul's Drag Race ... if you haven't seen it, I demand that you do. 

How are the two related, you might ask?  Well, friends ... WATCH IT.

Lovelovelove!
-Cat Lady

#3

So, as I've said before, BDsOL (Best Days of Life) don't always have to be these remarkably amazing, crazy days.  BDOL #3 happened just a few weeks ago.  First of all, let me premise: this was probably my first day off from working at the bar in almost 6 months, so that was already pretty amazing and definitely a contender for BDOL right there.

I decided that it was time for some of my bar friends to mesh with my "real life" friends, so I invited a few of them to hang out at a local bar.  This local bar is not normally a place that I like to frequent because I know wayyy too many people who go there, and the whole "bar scene" isn't exactly my favorite thing in the world.  Regardless, it was close by, and thank GOD we decided to go there because ... it was the location of the BDOL.

I went out to dinner with Mr. and Mrs. C and had a lovely time.  After dinner, we met up at a bar with 4 of my customers from my bar: Pumpkin, his gf (let's call her 'Squash'), Boy (the young man previously mentioned in my "Dear Bargirl ..." post), and Boy's new fling.  This was already a pretty great combination, as I heard rumors (and witnessed a bit of it at my own establishment) that this new fling (we'll call her 'Girl') liked to get into a lot of bar fights.  We all knew about this in advance, so we just decided to pull up a chair and watch.

The night started off a bit slow, but I was just genuinely happy to spend time with Mr. and Mrs. C, Pumpkin, Squash, and Boy.  And to be off of work ... that was great.  As we found a place to plant ourselves and watch the drama unfold, we noticed quite the inneresting couple dancing.  I am dating a foreigner, so don't take this the wrong way, but these people just screamed FOREIGN!!  The outfits were gorgeous ... she was wearing a red pleather skirt and jacket combo, with a brighter red pleather stripper heels, and a Where's Waldo red/white stripped shirt.  Hot!  He was wearing some typical foreigner shirt with some pointy dress shoes.  Anyways, as they were dancing (thank goodness, right in front of us), we noticed that she had a veryyy revealing slit up the back of her skirt, which revealed that she was wearing a very noticable garterbelt.  Now, I'm all about naughties in the bedroom, but I don't really care to see yours when you and your boyfriend are getting freaky on the dancefloor.  Just a note.

These people could have entertained me for DAYS (no joke, they were amazing).  What with their synchronized dance moves and their ever more revealing outfits, I was hypnotized.  I started trying to dance closer to them so that I could show these foreigners what a REAL dancer looks like (I kid, I am possibly the worst dancer ever).  As she did some high kicks and spins, I did the same.  I was her dancing puppet and I was all about it.  Other people at the bar started to notice what a terrific source of entertainment these foreigners were, as well as my enthusiasm for their skillz, so many people approached me to watch together.

Additional characters on the dance floor included a girl who split her pants right down the crack of her jeans and continued dancing (to which I say good for her, because I would have been embarassed and ran away.  Not this gal, and I have a lot of praise for anyone like that.  Additionally, I'm very thankfully she was wearing full-butt panties and not otherwise because that would have been a scene); a SUPERGAY that I kept trying to dance with and steal as my own (but his hag wasn't about to give him up, ughhh); and a fella who takes dancing at this bar super seriously (he's a regular, comes every weekend to liven up the crowd apparently).  Of course there were other sights and sounds to distract me and really liven up my evening.

Boy's girlfriend, Girl, of course was also causing quite the scene in her own right.  Some classic quotes from Girl:

• To me: "I thought I was the most intimidating girl I've met until I met you!" (I wonder who introduced herself to herself)
• After I put on my coat and started to leave the bar "RED?!  I have never seen you in red.  I always see you in blue and purple and black!  Why do you have a red coat?!" (note: I had only seen her twice before this, so I'm not so sure why red was so shocking)
• To anyone she was talking to: "Look at me in my EYES!  I need EYE CONTACT!  In my EYES!!"

I'd estimate that she got herself into a confrontation every 20-30 minutes that evening.  I was fortunate enough to witness these confrontations from afar each time, and was very entertained.  My favorite confrontation was when my boyfriend met up with the group, shook hands with or hugged all my friends, and then Girl started getting up in his face for talking to people in our group.  And she thought I was intimidating before?  Snitch, please.  However, I did behave myself.

Boy and Girl both crave attention more than anyone I've ever met.  It's interesting to see them together because it's constantly the battle of attention.  He'd dance with the group or with one of us, she'd walk right up to be a big group of guys and start talking to them (looking at Boy the whole time).  Boy would talk to me or one of the other girls, she'd stomp away all pissed off.  Boy would start a dance-off (yes, with my foreigner couple and others), she'd start pouting in the corner.  Pathetic for them, entertaining for me.

Anyway, all in all, it was a pretty entertaining night.  You know it's a great time when your face literally aches from laughing so much. 

GOD I'm so happy to be done with BDOL stories ... it was a good idea at the time, but I honestly should have stopped at the Pirate Cruise.  You should probably re-read that post (see: This is the Best Day of My Life! Part 1) cuz it's way better.

XOXO

The Kindness of a Stranger

Ladies, have you ever had one of those "damnit, I need a man!" moments?  No, not the dirty kind.  The kind where you aren't strong, tall, smart, or able-enough to do a task?  I'm by no means a feminist (my About Me on thefacebook actually states that I hate feminists) but I have learned to do pretty much everything without the help of a fella ... living on your own kinda makes that necessary.  However, there are those moments that it would be convenient to have the assistance of a fella.

This past winter, we were hit with a pretty nasty snowstorm and I had to get to work at the bar that evening.  It was about noon when I decided to check out the car situation and see if I could dig myself out.  Unfortunately, the only tools I had were a tiny handheld windshield scraper (which happened to be inside the car that was buried in snow and ice) and a bowl from my kitchen.  I went to work in my sweatpants and favorite pair of Uggs (no, I also don't have snowboots).  Much to my dismay, the total of about 15 people who walked past me made no effort to help.  No words of encouragement (a simple "you can do it!" would have sufficed), no offer of a more useful snow-removal toolkit, nada.  After an hour of stainless steel bowl digging, falling 2-3 times, and generally getting fed up from the work, I begrudgingly went back inside (in just enough time to hop on a conference call).  Where are all the gentlemen in my apartment complex to help a gal in need?  Perhaps if I hadn't been in sweatpants and a hoodie (both 2+ sizes too big) and using a cooking bowl as a shovel, then someone may have been more willing to assist.  I NEEDED A MAN! 

About an hour later, the conference call ended, and I was even more determined to dig myself out.  I focused my bowl skills on digging my tires out.  After a little research, I discovered that I could die if snow piled up my by tailpipe, so that was my first target.  Death by snow digging wasn't my preferred method (what is Cat Lady's preferred method, you may ask?  Easy: explosion by eating too much food.  All of my favorite kinds.  When I'm like 100 or too old to care that I'd be the talk of the town). 

Snow digging attempt #2 was a big failure, as I fell a few too many times, and the melting snow started to seep into my precious Uggs.  I called up the bar and begged to have a drunk come dig me out.  As the customers were presently too intoxicated to drive to "the big city" (which, incidently is not a city, but rather the suburbs and about 15 minutes away from them), I had to figure out what I was going to do with myself. 

I did a little more Googling to learn more about the conundrum I was in, and went back out for attempt #3 (all the while praying and begging in my head for a fella to come rescue me).  Another 20 minutes of bowl digging, and a neighbor boy (alright, man) came rushing outside with a real live shovel and offered to help.  Two thoughts came to mind: a) THANK GOD!!!  Someone to come save me! and b) If he came outside with shovel in hand, that means that he was able to see me face-plant only moments ago out his window.  He must have thought "that sweatpant blob over there looks troubled" and came to my rescue.  My hero!

After about 5 minutes of real shovel digging, my hero finally dug me out and told me to drive out of the spot.  Being completely frustrated with the situation and not wanting this guy to see what a terrible snow driver I am, I asked him to help me out.  He pulled my car out after a few attempts and as he awkwardly handed me my bowl, he made a comment about my needing new windshield wipers (I broke one off during snow digging attempt #1, attempting to lift it in the air as the other neighbors had done.  Instead of making it easier to clear off my windshield, I broke the thing clear off.  Oops).

I decided that I needed to reward this kind man with a thank-you note (the appropriate thing for a lady to do in such a situation).  I spent awhile thinking of the appropriate verbage, as I knew he had roommates (there were three names on his mailbox), and I didn't know if one of these roommates was a girlfriend.  That would be really awkward if I started a fight because I gave out my number or offered services for his kindness.  So I composed a note to my future husband (as I was jokingly calling him to my friends) thanking him for his kindness. 

Cue to a few weeks later when fatty Cat Lady went to Chicken Filet for some waffle fries (also cue my favorite YouTube clip everrrr).  I was walking into the apartment all sly-like on the phone with my mom, and heard a voice from above, asking me what I had in the bag (the voice from above happened to be Neighbor Boy on his porch, commenting about my dinner).  I ignored him, and went inside.

I haven't seen Neighbor Boy again since that fatty day.  Terrible.  I guess my note didn't work in my favor.  Or he wanted to share my fries and he thought it UNFORGIVABLE that I didn't offer any.  Thusly, it's very appropriate to be a gentleman.  However, I shouldn't behave like a lady.

Scary Little Creatures

Everyone is afraid of something.  Some people are afraid of the dark.  Others are scared of spiders.  I, however, am petrified of possums.

Possums, my friends, are scary little creatures.  They have really sharp teeth, a thick spiny tail that wraps around things, and apparently they hiss.  Hiss!  Like a Carlton with a stolen candy bar. 

It all started when I was a kid and had a dream about a mama possum and her babies hanging from the tree outside my dad's house.  They were swinging on their creepy tails and they attacked me.  Absolutely petrifying.  Being that I'm from the country, possums are a very real reality.  I have seen many in the form of roadkill on the side of the road ... and yes, I feel like a dick admitting it, but I do cheer every time I see a dead possum.  One dead possum means one less possum to attack me.  I have also seen possums that are alive.  This causes a bit of a traffic danger, as I swerve, cry, and generally flip out.  Not so safe, possums.  They may be connected to the police so that I can get pulled over and get in trouble.  Just a thought.  Damn you, possums!

I received a message from a dear friend and sorority sister, whom I'll call 'Jessie Green' a few days ago regarding possums.  You see, my sorority sisters have not only made me laugh until I cried (about a million times over), comforted me during my times of need, and gave me an amazing cause to stand for ... they also realllllly like to remind me of my possum fear as often as they can.  The message from 'Jessie Green' is below:

All the buildings on campus are named after MD Valleys and when discussing what to name the two new buildings - I discovered there is a Possum Valley ... thought of you

First of all, who the EFF would live in effing Possum Valley?!?!  Seriously!!!

How kind, sister 'Jessie Green'!  I never look at a spider and think "who can I torture!" or sit alone in my bed in the dark and think "ah ha! let me remind XYZ about this!"  But really that's because I'm a saint and not everyone can be as lovely, caring, and charming as Cat Lady.

I went to school in Virginia and most of my sorority sisters/friends had to travel north to go home for breaks.  On average, there would be about 1-2 roadkill possums on the side of the road on the drive back home.  I would notice the dead carcass, scream bloody murder, and then cheer (remember: one less possum to attack me).  However, it wouldn't end there ... I would get at least 10 texts (and most of the time it would be a lot more) regarding said 1-2 dead possums.  Apparently a dead carcass reminds all of my best friends of my crippling fear. How kind!

Additional stories from my "best friends" who tortured me throughout the possum years:

• In high school, my friend 'Lauren R' kept egging me on about this amazing birthday present she was getting me ... for months.  I am terrible with surprises (note: I absolutely hate them and demand to know all secrets) so I kept begging to hear what this great prezzie was ... for months. The prezzie?  A stuffed possum.  I cried.  A lot.
• Additionally, my sorority sister 'LP' had a really terrific boyfriend (by any other standards other than possum-related) who happened to put a big ol mean possum picture on my desktop.  Not the best sight to come home to.  Thanks, 'Evie,' I really appreciate the gesture.

I've received emails, YouTube clips, texts, and phone calls regarding possums, and it never changes my unending fear for the wild beast. So, thank you friends for your support.  The therapy bill is in the mail.  Love love love!

Subject: I Love Fatties

Is there any greater feeling than waking up the next day after a hangover?  I honestly think not.  It's like there's a whole new world out there to be sober in.  What a rush!

I unfortunately was a little tipsy on Wednesday evening with about 20 of my coworkers.  We went to a basketball game (and at one point I literally shouted "seriously, folks!  Is there a basketball game going on, or is everyone just here to be entertained by my greatness?!"  WHAAAAT?!  Let's first remind readers that I work from home, and just go up to the corporate office once or twice a month.  Several coworkers have no clue who I am, even though there are only like 50-75 of us in CHG and I have been working there for 3+ years.  What would you do if some drunk freak you didn't know was shouting about her greatness?!

Yesterday morning, I received the following email from a coworker:

Subject: I Love Fatties

Hey Lauren!

I hope you had a good time yesterday.  It was fun hanging out and letting loose a little.  Have a safe trip back home and thanks for letting me have a little bit more than two drinks last night.  I thought you were gonna shut me off after my first one. 

I'll be looking forward to the next time your in town.

We'll get to the subject line in a moment, but I would first like to discuss how I apparently was attempting to cut people off (as I'm practically chugging 2 bottles of wine).  Makes sense, right?  I vaguely remember targeting the fella who sent the above email and picking on him all night, but I don't exactly remember "shutting him off."  Sorry, B.

Ok, so umm, what does I Love Fatties mean?  That definitely sounds like something I'd say, but why would I utter a phrase like this in an office party setting?  This thought plagued me until about 5 hours later when my boss ran up to me shouting "I LOVE FATTIES!"  Wow, apparently a lot of people heard me shout this.  That's embarrassing.  I just giggled, shrugged my shoulders, and said "I do what I do" ... umm what?!  I DO WHAT I DO?!  Great comeback to YOUR BOSS.  Note, I was exceptionally hungover and couldn't deal with the pressures of explaining myself.  Apparently during the half-time show (the only part of the game I watched), there was a fat kid dancing and I started screaming about how great he was.  Sorry, coworkers, I made a scene and I hope you enjoyed it.

As I battled the feelings of nausea and bad decisions that kept coming up all day (during lots of meetings, calls, and gossip sessions), I considered what my life has come to until this moment.  Throw out the need to be a responsible designated driver, give me some free wine, and I turn into a hot mess.  A funny one, but a hot mess nonetheless.  Oh well.

I boarded my plane back home last night, worried that motion sickness would get the best of me.  I was in a bit of a daze during the flight, but was fortunate enough to have brought a lovely book about drinking and inappropriate decisions/actions (Assholes Finish First, the sequel to I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell ... not nearly as good as the aforementioned, but still entertaining). 

As we were pulling into the terminal to get my hungover ass home, I note that a weird woman was performing an act that literally made my face conform into about 5 different faces in a 3 second timeframe. I went from confused to disturbed to disgusted to mortified to embarrassed that my face was doing all of this in public.  What was the lady doing, you may ask?  Let me first explain that I was walking onto the plane behind her and that I noticed something that I never want to see on anyone.  Note to everyone: your pants are too tight if I can see the crotch seams of your panties through said pants.  Ok, so on the plane, I noticed that she was pulling a lengthy neck giblet hair and trying to pluck said hair with her fingers.  Perhaps I wouldn't have been so obviously mortified if I weren't so hungover and already disgusted with life.  However, I was, and she was plucking this hair ... not even from her chinny chin chin.  FROM HER NECK GIBLET!!  Gross.

I often like to make notes to self regarding all kinds of things.  I have sticky notes and notepads all over my home office, but if I'm away from my desk I normally email or text myself these notes for later.  I was so flipped out about this lady that I texted myself the following note: "plucking neck giblet hair with fingers"  Others may note items such as where their car is parked or a grocery list.  I text myself about neck giblet hair.  What of it? 

Happy Birthday, Bubba



Siblings in Vegas

Today, readers, is a special day ... it's my big brother's bday.  When I was a little kid, I used to call him Bubba, because he was big like a football player.  That's kinda mean now that I think of it, but I figured that if football players can be called Bubba, then gosh darn it, my big brother can be a Bubba too!  Note, I was also a fatty as a kid, so I guess it wasn't as mean as it sounds now.  The name evolved into Bubs, because he used to have one of those really ugly early 90's football jackets and said he looked like a bubble.  Thus, Bubba is now Bubs or Bubby, and I still call him that to this day. 



My fav pic of my bro

I don't have many pictures from our childhood, but I do have a few around the house of my bro that I really really love.  This is my favorite picture of my brother and our granddaddy, Puppy.  Please note that oddities run in the family, as Puppy was wearing two watches and likely an extra pair of pants.  Yes, perhaps he had the excuse of having Alzheimer's and I have none, but still ...  

My bro and I didn't always get along really well when we were kids cuz he was a suckup smartie and I wasn't so into that.  However, now that we're big kids, I can acknowledge that he's the best brudder ever.  So, dear brother, even though you'll never see this blog (God willing), Happy Birthday from your favorite (and only) sister.

BDOL (Best Day of Life) Part 2

I should have discussed the pirate cruise last, because my other "best days of my life" are pretty tame in comparison.  And I don't have any cool pictures.  Sorry, those who only read via pics.

I was discussing my blog with two of my best buddies this weekend, and was trying to have them guess what Part 2 of the trilogy of best days ever would be.  Side note: they refuse to call it my blog, but rather my blob.  Hints that I gave them include:

• persons present included Mr. and Mrs. C, Lizzy G, and myself
• semi-stolen beer was involved
• a pizza was delivered
• Mrs. Lauren C kept shouting "this is the best day of my life!!" and Mr. C would say "the wedding was the best day of my life, this is #2!"
• this event occurred last summer

They still didn't remember it, so I had to tell them: Part 2 of the 3-part series of the best days of my life is ... a day at the pool.  Yes, a very simple day, but it was amazing.  I was upset that they hadn't remembered this event, but perhaps the stolen beer has something to do with it.

Have you ever decided on a whim (and I am not a "on a whim" kind of person) to get drunk at a stranger's pool?  Well, I have.  OK, so it wasn't just a stranger, it was Mrs. Lauren C's aunt's house (I met her twice, so really we are pretty good buds now), and they just so happened to be gone for the weekend and we just so happened to decide to take advantage of the situation.

Mrs. Lauren C and Mr. C showed up with a new drink I had never heard of: Orange Drank.  I asked Mrs. Lauren C to share the recipe with readers, so here is her response:
1 bottle of Verdi
A couple random wine cooler/Smirnoff Ice type dranks
Like 10 shots of Clementine flavored vodka
Some regular vodka
Some sprite
Some orange juice
I think?? Haha, it is very exact!!

If you patent Orange Drank and become famous, please at least include Mrs. Lauren C as your inspiration.

We all started drinking the Orange Drank pretty quickly as we were playing around in the pool, and realized that we'd need additional "dranks" quite soon.  Mrs. Lauren C happened to have a key to the house, so we snuck in and grabbed the small random stash of beer hidden in the basement.  This whole sneaking move made me feel like I was 16 trying to hide beer from my parents.  What a rush.  24 going on 16!

Anyway, the day progressed and we were all pretty wasted at some point.  Day drunk, at the time, is amazing.  I love day drunk ... at the time.  You'll all wide awake and drunk and swimming and having a great time.  But then 8:00 hits and you're hungover.  And realizing that you shouldn't have been swimming.

I can't really explain why this was the best day of my life, other than the sheer fact that it was just an easy day with my best friends, and we were acting like idiots together, which is always fun.  I think the simplicity of the day is why it was one of the best days of my life.  And the fact that wasted-faced me kept shouting "THIS IS THE BEST DAY OF MY LIFEEEEE!!!!!!"

At some point in the late afternoon, we started to get cold from lack of sun and way too drunk to be swimming without a lifeguard on duty, so we decided to go home.  My last memory of the evening involves attempting to climb onto the side of a huge dumpster (Mrs. Lauren C's aunt was moving and trashing some of her stuff) and falling flat on my back.  Not the most embarassing thing I've ever done, but a great way to bring me back to the reality that all best days of life must come to an end.

Perhaps this is a lesson to you, readers: not every best day of your life has to involve pirates and the Portuguese Navy.  Maybe you just need a little booze in the pool, some Papa John's pizza, and some awesome friends.

Another Carlton Incident

Today there was another incident with Carlton Banks.  Carlton, while a sweet baby boy most of the time, tends to be a little tricky once in awhile.  There have been a handful of times where the trickster comes out and in my household, they are known as his little "incidents."

The first example of a Carlton Incident was when I lived downtown with Lizzy G.  The boys were kittens, but were quickly showing us who really ruled the roost.  Lizzy G was home alone with them, opened the fridge to get something and Carlton grabbed some food (I forget what it was) and ran off in hiding.  Liz called me so I could hear the most monstrous growling noises ever known to man.  Carlton was all about his little treat and no one was going to stop him.  Until this moment, we had never heard him so much as hiss at anyone (his brother included); we never knew that such a mean man was inside such a little kitty baby.  He really IS his mother's child ... don't get between either of us and food.  Period.

The second incident involved a third (not so innocent) party, Jonathan.  Lizzy G and I went to this amazing Lebanese joint and came home with some leftover lamb.  The next day, Jonathan came over to do some laundry and fell asleep on my couch.  Lizzy G and I had some errands to run, so we left Jonathan and his laundry.  We returned to find that "the devil cat" attacked him over the delicious leftover lamb when he reached in the fridge for a beer (served him right for mooching!).  Carlton and Jonathan had a race around the apartment for awhile until he gave into his fears of a baby kitty and just allowed the bad boy to eat the food.

I had never witnessed the severity of these incidents until I hid half a chocolate bar in a drawer that I didn't think the boys could open (we had to tape most of the cabinets and drawers closed so the tricksters couldn't get to the human food, ie: attempting to avoid additional incidents).  Carlton grabbed that chocolate bar and went running into Lizzy G's room.  Meat is one thing, but chocolate isn't so terrific for boyboys to eat.  I chased him under Lizzy G's bed, heard that evil growl, and panicked.  What if I didn't get the chocolate before he ate it?  What if he died and "Carlton Banks: Born a trickster, died a trickster" was to be on his little kitty tombstone?  No, no, no, that just wasn't in the cards.

Mustacho helped me corner Carlton (after several attacks to my hands and arms, and some blood spattering on Lizzy G's wall--gross, I know).  Thankfully, Liz had a glass of water next to her bed, so I ended up throwing the contents on him to scare him into dropping the candy.  I still have a pretty cool scar because of this incident.  Mustacho remains a mama's boy to this day.  As does Carlton. 

There was another incident involving a turkey leg, but that story is pretty similar to the lamb.  Again, don't get between a fatty and his/her food.

Anyway, that brings us to today's incident.  We hadn't had one in over a year, so I was pretty shocked to hear that same old hiss and growl routine.  However, this incident didn't involve food ... it was a used Mr. Clean Magic Eraser (which, incidentally, is a really awesome tool to have.  It removes nicks and marks on the wall, soap scum, and all other kids of things.  I highly recommend it.  Just keep it away from my cat).  I have had these sponges in my home since the boys were kittens, so I don't know why Carlton decided that today was the day.  I heard a crash in the kitchen but didn't really give it much thought.  Then, I saw Carlton slowly walking into the living room with something white in his mouth.  I thought it was a sock or panties or something, so I was ready to laugh at him.  Nope, it was my Magic Eraser.  After realizing that the eraser must have some type of chemicals in it if it's removing all kinds of stains and whatnot, I decided it was time to steal the sponge back.  Again, lion growling and hissing commenced and Mustacho prepared to back me up.  I finally distracted Carlton with his favorite cat toy (which we call his baby) and stole the Magic Eraser before he noticed.  As I was hiding his new stolen object, Evil Carlton snapped back to reality and started meowing and purring.  What a weirdo.  This happened a few minutes ago, and he's now sitting on my lap purring like the sweetest baby around.  Should I get him tested for bipolarism?

This is the Best Day of My Life! Part 1

I believe that I've uttered the phrase "this is the best day of my life!" hundreds of times, and some of these times may not actually have been the best days of my life.  Sometimes I say it sarcastically, or if I'm just having a decent day, it's fun to say.  However, I really have to admit that three of the best days of my life have occurred in the past year.  What a lucky duck, you must be thinking.  And yes, a lucky duck I am.



These are my best pirate friends

The first of these days involved the briefly previously noted Pirate Cruise.  If you live in or around the Baltimore area (or really, anywhere ... this is worth a planetrip) you need to check this out.  I went with a few friends last summer, and we were prepared for a fun event: we wore these sweet pirate masks (also worn for Mrs. Lauren C's bachelorette party) that can be purchased at Party City if you want to be cool like us.  

Sweet tat

 

Picture this: the most beautiful city in the world (and I truely believe this, I'm not kidding.  Big ups to Bmore!!), best friends, a pirate ship, and lots of booze.  Additionally, they dress you up in what the pirate cruise people think looks like pirate clothing, but we thought it looked a lot more like Walmart/Kmart employees.  Nonetheless, they also gave you cool tats and scarves to either be placed around your head (like a normal pirate would do), or wrapped around your neck like a gay pirate.

Possibly the best part of the pirate cruise (other than being able to pretend to be a pirate) was the fact that this wasn't just your average pirate cruise ... it was a pirate BOOZE CRUISE.  What a wonderful combination: pirates AND booze?!  Perfect.  Pirate games (such as singalongs, limboing, and dance contests) were rewarded with shots of booze.  SHOTS OF BOOZE?!  If I did shots or weren't a bitch baby, I'd be all about that.  However, I still enjoyed the wine and beer we brought. 



Mrs. Lauren C shooting the Navy

The cruise takes you around the harbor for about 90 minutes.  You get to play games, bond with your fellow pirate lovers, and get pretty schwasted.  Towards the end of the cruise we were surprised with yet another amazing aspect of the tour ... we got to shoot water "cannons" at a poor fellow in a boat AND at fellow Baltimorons.  AMAZING!!  The Portuguese Navy happened to be resting in the Baltimore harbor and saw 50 drunk American "pirates," wasted out of their minds, spraying water from fake cannons.  All of a sudden, these navy folks started pointing and staring, taking pictures, and shouting.  I like to think that this was not only the best night of my life, but also the best night of theirs.  You're welcome, Portuguese Navy! 

End of pirate cruise

Needless to say, this was absolutely the best night of my life.  Judge me if you wish, but in my opinion an evening really can't get any better.  Anything that leaves me looking like this is worthy of the top three best nights of my life.


Dear Bargirl ...

Yo yo yo!  Not much to say today, but I do have something to share with you.  One of my customers at the bar where I work on the weekend (let's call it The WW) wrote me a note after perhaps a few too many Jim and Diet Cokes ... let's consider a few things.  a) Why did he feel the need to underline my name? And to that point, why did he need to underline his?  b) Can you tell that I'm the best? (Customers, I don't want to hear it.  No, of course I'm not the best, I'm actually a pretty terrible bartender. However, this note is proof that someone out there thinks I'm the best (best))  c) Why did he feel the need to underline 'girl' so many times?  Does he have a best (best) bar boy (underline underline underline underline) out there?  Should I be jealous?

This is just one note that I've received at the bar while working.  And yes, it hangs on my refrigerator like a little kid's A+ (or in my case, C+) on a math test.  Additional items that hang on my fridge: a dry erase calendar (to note when I'm out of town and need kitty sitters); a pirate mask that I wore during both my bff, Mrs. LC's bachelorette party and during a pirate cruise (which I'll definitely be describing later, as it was one of the top 3 best nights of my life); pictures of friends, family, and the cats (duh); and various magnets (my favorites being a crab with magnetic claws and a 2010 calendar with the photo of a real estate agent on it that I have never heard of.  Perhaps I should remove that one).

Another note that I received at the bar was when I used to work with my dad.  The letter writer (who was in the bar with his girlfriend) sent me a note that read "Don't breathe a word!  I think you're fucking hot!" ... umm first of all, let's discuss "don't breathe a word," as that is exceptionally creepy.  And sir, you are exceptionally lucky that I didn't "breathe a word," to my father.  Or your girlfriend.  Secondly, it's pretty obvious that I'm "fucking hot," I don't need a drunk 50-something year old man to tell me.  However, thanks for creeping me out.



Easiest bet I've ever made

I would love more notes from customers so that I may share them with my readers.  The best "note" is really a documented bet, made on 1/2/2011.  I not-so-craftily covered up the names of those involved, as I would like to protect their privacy (until I win, and then I'm announcing it to the world).  As you can see, we made a bet that 'Boy' (one of my customers) can have no more than 8 total sexual encounters (take that how you will, he understands the terms of the bet), which includes no more than 3 new encounters.  If 'Boy' wins, I'll buy him 2 cases of Budweiser.  If I win, 'Boy' will "take out to dinner and one bar, all expensise paid and stays sober" (note, the person writing the note may have had a few too many Budweiser's).  For all you city slickers who don't understand what I win, 'Boy' will take me out to dinner and one bar, all-expense paid, and he has to remain sober during the entire evening.  Sounds like a real treat, right?  We eventually came up with the additional clause that if 'Boy' lies about any of these "encounters," the person writing the note (whom I call 'Pumpkin') will get to attend this date as well.  Please also note that this was "NOTERIZED" and there appears to be a drawing of a daisy in the middle.  We have until 1/1/2012 for the conclusion of the bet and for the loser to pay up.  Unfortunately for my luck, 'Boy' found himself a little girlfriend, and I am in the midst of losing the bet (we are totaling 1 old encounter, 1 new).  Here's hoping he gets dumped soon.

(Less Than I)?!

Well friends, we got past blog #1!  Time to venture a bit deeper into the life of your beloved Cat Lady!

First of all, I gotta say the name of my blog plagued me a bit yesterday.  I'm attempting to stress upon my users the idea that I refuse to befriend anyone greater than or equal to my level of cat-crazy.  I am not, however, telling you to love cats less than you love me.  In fact, I'm all about people loving cats more than they love me.  Have at it, folks!  And no, I won't be changing my blog to Must Love Cats (Less Than I) because that's weird.

I've concluded that for those who don't know me, you really learned nothing about why I created a blog with the previously mentioned title.  Hold your horses, people, it's comin!

I am a cat mommy to two little gems, Carlton and Mustacho.  I adopted them from an awesome agency, Arden's Arc in Baltimore.  If you're looking for some furry babies, check them out. 

Who could say no to these faces?!?!  My boys are on the far right, Carlton is the rather retarded looking white kitty, and Mustacho is hiding next to his brother.  I originally was interested in the little product of their mother's whoredom (one kitty does not look like the others ...) or the kitty in the middle with the prominent bow tie mustache, but some bratty little boy made it clear that they were his.  Tough titties for him, I got the two best.

I think there are a lot of reasons why I'm so obsessed with my cats, but the two primary reasons involve my career and the personalities of these bad boys.  I work from home for a computer software company, which involves a lot of time sitting at my desk (a perfect opportunity for two fatties to attempt to sit on my lap), and occasionally sitting/laying on the couch (even better).  My coworkers all know when feeding time is, which bitch baby is crying for attention, and all the latest happenings in Kittyville.  Shout out to CHG for letting me dick off and spend time with my boys all day.

Personality-wise, my boy are not your average sleeping, pooping, eating, boring cats.  I'm not gonna lie, they do a lot of sleeping, pooping, and eating ... but they honestly have personalities (and awesome ones at that)!  For example, at the moment Mustacho is screaming at me like a lunatic to play with his latest obsession, a raccoon looking cat toy.  Carlton is rolling around frantically begging for me to rub his belly.  My old roommate, Lizzy G, says that cats adapt to the personalities of their owners and I completely agree.  My boys know I'm obsessed with them, they're just complying to my wishes.

Ok, snap back friends, I promise I'll try to bring up my random thoughts for the day now!

I was considering how I lied and said that I don't sing to my cats.  I must confess ... I sing to them all the time.  Before you start to pity me (and my neighbors), you have to know that I live alone, and I get bored.  I've always had a weird habit of inserting other people's names into songs (my poor roommates in college fell victim to this habit very frequently).  Yesterday I was listing to Pandora and the classic tune "Lolli Lolli (Pop That Body)" by Three 6 Mafia popped on.  Of course I started jammin out (how could I not?!) and started singing my revised lyrics to Carlton (his nickname--among others--is Cawey): Cawey cawey pop that body!

Frightened yet?  Don't worry, it gets worse.  I started thinking about my favorite song to sing to him: Cawey cawey piiiieeeee.  This came from one of my customers at the bar where I work on the weekend, who happens to have a lot of very exciting party tricks (like hand tricks and songs to sing to a group).  My favorite trick of hers is a song that she sings "rhubarb rhubarb pieeee," which I think is from some musical or commercial from 70s or something. I couldn't find a clip of it, but I did find this beautiful song (start at about 0:30).  The song that I sing also applies to Mustacho with his nickname (Moosey moosey piieeee).

So let's retrace this odd timeline:
Cat Lady is "working" and listening to Pandora--> Three 6 Mafia's "Lolli Lolli" comes on--> Cat Lady starts jammin out--> Cat Lady thinks of Carlton and sings "cawey cawey pop that body"--> Cat Lady thinks of her favorite song to sing to Carlton (cawey cawey piiieeee)--> Cat Lady attempts to find out where her customer discovered the rhubarb song--> Cat Lady finds the YouTube clip and cracks up.

Wow.  And thoughts like this cross my mind all the time! No wonder I draw impossible conclusions about everything.

I'm still trying to figure out the exact purpose for this blog.  Perhaps it's for a little creative energy to be released.  Perhaps it's to highlight the amazing lives of Carlton and Mustacho.  Regardless, I hope you enjoy.

Peace out, bitches.

Welcome, Kittens.

Yes, there is a show out there already titled "Must Love Cats," and the guy is a real freak. Of course I've seen the show. Of course I've seen clips of this kitty loving fella on The Soup. And no, I'm not on his level of obsession. Ok, maybe I'm obsessed with my own kitty children, but I don't sing about them ... often.

Irregadless! (side note: have you ever seen 'Boston Teens' sketches on SNL? I know that this is not a word, but that sketch is priceless) The title of my blog refers to the solid fact that I wouldn't befriend anyone as obsessed with cats as I am. What can I say? My life is one big, fat paradox. Deal with it. Honestly, I have a few endearing qualities about me, but my love for my four-legged friends is border-line creepy and likely not the #1 factor as to why I have a significant other. Perhaps the #2 reason is my less than endearing lack of care about the opinons of others. Oops.

That creepy little man on the show, however, has taught other crazy cat ladies such as myself (or really, let's be honest, other crazy cat fellas) that there is someone out there. Someone just as obsessed and annoying as we are; someone with a terrible talent for singing about kitties. He can swoon you with his love for your furry babies, he's well traveled (if only to find more exciting and amazing kitty places), and he can sing (not really, but let's be honest: we have no room to be picky. We cuddle with animals that poop in boxes). Screw online dating!  Just find a talented/ugly/unique kitty and hit up Animal Planet.  Then you're in!

Thanks, John Fulton, for giving me the hope that I can find a wonderful, kitty-obsssed gay out there. There really aren't enough for my liking. However, Must Love Cats man, you are way too obsessed for me (remember the title of my blog?) Maybe you have a buddy that isn't as obsessed that I can incorporate into my life? I'd prefer for him to be a tad more fabulous.

You may notice that I tend to go into mini-tangents. Sorry, total of 2 people likely reading this.

I've been considering creating a blog about my random life for quite awhile, but haven't put that plan into fruition until today. To make a short story long: Last Friday, one of my coworkers (we'll call him 'Johnny') and I were discussing some projects that we were working on. I confessed to him that one of our vendor relations (we'll call her 'Rebecca' Goley) has a name that reminds me of my favorite SNL clip of all time. Now, I know that Goley likely is pronounced like the person who blocks that cage thing in sports (and then when you score, people can shout "GOOOLLLL(ey)". Or maybe it's pronounced like a way to describe something sticky ("Daggon, I steped on some 'gooo(l)ey' gum!"). No? Ok, anyway, whenever I send this woman an email, I sing in my head 'Rebeccaaaa' GOOLEEEETTT like my friend Robert Goulet. This is possibly the reason why I will NEVER introduce this woman to a group. Additionally, this is the reason why I go out of my way to never introduce someone with a last name other than Smith or Jones.

Anyway, once I started sharing YouTube clips of Will Ferrell's Robert Gouley with 'Johnny,' I was on a roll. I started really pulling out the weird-guns and showing him a few other favorites. That day, I happened to be listening to The Kane Show (a fantastic DC-based radio show) and heard this lovely little tidbit. Of course I had to also share this with 'Johnny' and continued to creep him out. My poor neighbors are likely terrified of my cackle (reserved only for the funniest of kitty moments, YouTube clips, and GChat convos).  Crazy Cat Lady me also decided to explain to 'Johnny' (and about 10 others) how brilliant my cat Carlton Banks is ... Carlton was thirsty and pushed his empty water bowl across the kitchen with his nose to the sink and continued to hit it against the cabinet until I filled it. Now THAT, ladies and gents, is brilliant.

I confessed to 'Johnny' that this was just the tip of the weird-iceberg. He then suggested that I blog about these thoughts that pop in my head. Don't mind if I do!  I think that's my style. I like to get to know people a bit (and, in turn, let them get to know me) before really letting them know the thoughts that go through this here brain, but if you submit to my humor and give me a weird inch, I'm going to take a bazar mile.

So, kittens ... welcome to my world. If you're at my level or worse, I'll give you my favorite line: I'm not in the market for new friends.