A dame that knows the ropes isn't likely to get tied up. -Mae West

Even before I got Benny I was pleading the case with Mr. Onion for a second kitten. Once we had Benny and it was confirmed that he was a deamon fucker, hell cat I redoubled my efforts. I consulted the vet who confirmed that a second kitten would perhaps help to calm Benny down, or at least give him someone who could fight back with more than a squirt gun. I presented articles from cat fancy and the like, to no avail.   

Months passed and Benny grew, and grew and I resigned myself to having a fussy little fucker of a cat. Then one day Mr. Onion came home and mentioned oh so casually that there was a cat at the critter barn who needed a home. He said that she was a young female, about Benny's age (8 months) who was found abandoned in a trailer  with her litter of kittens. Since she had been taken in she had fostered an additional litter that someone had tried to drown in the river, and had managed to tame a feral kitten she was given to foster. I peppered him with questions: what was she like? Was she feline lukemia tested? what color was she? Mr. Onion in his infuriating way had no information, and seemed to think I was mad for suggesting we act on this information.  

Lucky for me I immediately knew his game. Expressing a desire to save a cat and offer it a home would put some serious strikes on the man card. By casually mentioning it to me he knew that I would attack like a Doberman on the mailman and relentlessly badger him until he agreed that I could get the cat. Then it would be my cat, my idea, my responsibility, and he and his man card would still be clear of any litter box obligations. Thus, began operation kitty kitty.  I meowed under my breath when he walked by and suggested it was his conscience. Cat toys on his pillow and ventriloquist pleas from Benny for a sister. Finally, it was my appeal to his cheaper nature that won him over ("She can be one of my christmas presents"). 

Saturday morning arrived and Mr. Onion appeared with a giant spaceship of a pet carrier, a tiny, modge-podge, speckled kitty blinking inside. I presented the crate to Benny and let him sniff and inspect. After several hiss free minutes I opened the door and Minnie Mae West sashayed forth. She sniffed Benny in the face and dismissed him instead surveying her dominion. Benny followed her, trying for all he was worth to get a sniff of her behind. In minutes Mae had made Benny her bitch and he hasn't been the same since. Like Romeo and his Juliet, Baby and Johnny, Buttercup and Westley, there is Benny and Mae. 

jaw muscles

This past weekend a birthday extravaganza was held in my honor. First stop: Zaftig's, which means plump woman in yiddish. I've come to understand that Zaftig's is the Carnegie Deli of Boston. Hour wait and completely worth it. I ordered a $20 sandwich, the New Yorker, 1/2 pound corned beef, 1/2 pound pastrami, hot, with swiss and russian dressing.... we're talking 5 inches of sandwich delight.   

When the plate was first set in front of me  I turned it this way and that planning my angle of attack. Any way I turned it, it was huge, so with cameras blazing I unhinged my jaw and took a five inch bite. Fabulous. 

Fast forward through a day spent at the Arnold Arboratum and an evening spent, eating drinking, and singing to the morning after. 

I had been awake throughout the night, never quite making it into deep, restful sleep. Just as the first grey rays of morning light happened through the window, the what that was keeping me awake occurred to me; My jaw hurt. A lot. I lay there clutching my jaw and wondering if I had blacked out at some point in the evening and missed my bout with a heavy weight fighter. Ibuprofen, a gallon of ice tea, and 1 individual pizza later and my jaw still ached and my friends had assured me that I hadn't taken to calling Mr. Goldengloves a sissy. Then it occurred to me. In my line of work I am constantly councelling children on the consequences of their actions and how all it take is one minute where you are showing off or trying to fit in to do something STUPId. What I had done, was eat a five inch sandwich. The consequences were these: bruised jaw muscles and lasting proof of my stupidity on ALL of my friend's cameras. The ache in my jaw would be my reminder that showing off comes with a price. Amen.  

Toasty Again

This past weekend I was in "the weeds" and this old man kept bugging me for warm bread. I was annoyed and in a hurry, so I stuffed the bread basket into the microwave and set it for 20 seconds and began to make a salad. Then a funny sight caught my eye, orange shadows were dancing on the floor. I yanked open the stupid microwave and the basket had two big melted holes in it and the napkin was engulfed in flames. All I could think was, "I don't have time for this crap!" I  impatiently blew out the flame, dumped the bread into an unmarred basket, and stormed into the diningroom thinking, "damn q-tip, I'll give him WARM bread."

LaDeDah + Fire = BAD STUFF

As the afternoon sun faded on this glorious day I puttered around the dining room at my latest future former place of employment lighting candles on the table tops and making conversation with the guests. As I neared one particular table the woman at it caught my eye and touched the candle holder in a gesture fraught with "please sir may I have some light". I rushed forward to oblige. (have I mentioned that I am terrified of fire and use a foot long grill lighter for this?)

Suddenly she was waving at me and saying, "NO, No! The oxygen!"

It turns out that her elderly husband was attached to a traveling oxygen tank and in my fervor I almost blew him up. Woops.

Who's the Pet Here?

My cat falls into the "special" category. He is 3 pounds of satanic arms and legs with teeth. Today I went to target and bought kitten repellent (so he stops eating the couch) and fresh toys (a package of furry mice and one of fuzzy mice). When I came home I dropped the bag and ladedah'd off to organize the kitchen cabinets (no I'm not lying I really did). The next thing I know I look up and he is dragging the full shopping bag across the floor.  

"WHAT are you doing?" I schreeked at him.

On closer inspection I say that he had one of the furry mice in his mouth, but couldn't disengage it from the wrapper so was taking the whole kit n' caboodle. I showed him the new toys and he sniffed each mouse in turn before biting a camo fuzzy mouse to let me know he had made up his mind. 

He took off with the mouse and for the rest of the night has been growling and hissing at me when I get too close. He lost the thing under the fridge and yowled and screamed until I fished it out for him, then hissed at me because I was messing with his toy. 

It occurred to me then, as it does from time to time, that I am the pet and Benny Whiskers (aka Benny the Brat, Benny the Bat, Benny Big Balls, Kittenzilla, and Fucker) is the master. 

In Bloom

In a moment of girly weakness I found myself seated at a jewelry counter with my mother and sister. We gazed hungrily down at the rows of engagement rings shining like the crown of jesus himself. I asked the woman to pull first one then another diamond from the case. I slid a 1.5 karat marquis cut diamond onto my finger and held it up to show my mother.

"It's on the wrong hand!" She shreiked. 

I looked down and thought, "Who cares."

"The left hand rocks the cradle while the right hand rules the world," I said.  

The market sells roses for 50 cents a piece and I buy myself fresh flowers every few weeks. At first I thought, "I'll show mr. Onion, I'll buy MYSELF flowers." but what was originally a ploy to shame my boyfriend became a practice in self indulgence. The fact is, I like having fresh flowers in the house, so why not treat myself to them? Why do I have to wait around for Mr. Onion to be in the doghouse before I can get some blooms?

Likewise, if a woman likes diamonds, why does she have to wait for a man to buy it for her? It seems to me that if women wait for men to indulge them they may never be fullfilled. Its like the woman who believes the man is in charge of giving her an orgasm. Most of the time she ends up pulling a when Harry met Sally so she can catch her beauty sleep. 

I wanted to tell my mother right then and there, wether it's flowers, rings, or orgasms I'm alright giving them to myself and in the end I can't help but feel like that little fact makes me a better candidate for gifting ( lest someone think I would be an unwilling recipient of any of the above).   

Jobless Island

Greetings from Jobless Island, where entire days can pass in a cheesecake induced haze. 

I finally had enough of the bartending gig... It sucked and I am just so not good at hiding my displeasure. I walked up to the annoying pretty boy owner and said, "I'm sorry, this isn't working out." and he said, "No." Those of you that know me know this one important thing about me, I dont take no well. Mr.Onion encouraged me to quit by carrying the 15 cases of wine that I was required to carry up into the attic weekly and instead carry it to the middle of the parking lot, tell them to fuck themselves and then leave. In that instant I was wondering why I insisted on doing the honorable thing. I was thinking, "NO?! NO! you stupid limp dick prick. I am quitting. The whole point is that YOU dont get to tell me what to do, so I can finish my shift and go on with our lives, or I can stab you with a fork and leave now." What I did was smile sweetly and say, "No, I'm not happy here and I need to be done." I think he must have seen that crazed look in my eye, because mr. I'm gonna bully you into staying backed down awfully quick. And I got on with the sleeping late and cheesecake consumption. Life's fine, thanks for asking.