Weekend Adventures with Big Cat

I have always been a dog person. I will probably always be a dog person. I say this with a cat curled against my tailbone area, being adorable, knowing I don't like it as much as my dog and plotting my ultimate demise. That is the thing about cats. One second they are adorable, the next they are getting in the way of everything you try to do and the next they are trying to suffocate you by standing on your windpipe. Add to this the fact that I have, literally, the most incredible dog in the world, and you can understand why my love for dogs outstripes my love for cats.

I defy you to not love this face.

As life would have it, I currently live with two cats. This weekend my apartment-mate is out of town and has taken Little Cat with her, so Big Cat and I are just hanging out. (They have real names, I am just lazy). Anyway, last night I had an experience that reminded me why I will probably never own a cat myself.

Note: as I write this, Big Cat is using me as a jungle gym and standing directly in front of my face whenever possible. I can't stop sneezing.

To begin, I made a lasagna. This story has nothing to do with that lasagna other than I ate entirely too much of it. I originally intended to have four people for dinner but at the end of the day, one couldn't make it and one doesn't like lasagna. So it was just me and Steph, a GIGANTIC party size lasagna and an equally gigantic bottle of white wine. Two pieces of lasagna, three glasses of wine and five episodes of 30 Rock went by. Overfull and slightly intoxicated, I decided it would be cruel to shut Big Cat out of my room.

During the course of the night, I am pretty sure Big Cat tried to kill me three seperate times. First, I woke up with her standing on my neck, glaring down at me as if she was about to bite into my jugular. This inspired me to get up and put on pants. For some reason, sleepingzzzzzzzzz (Big Cat did that - I'm leaving it because I think it's hilarious) in a t-shirt and boxers felt weird with Big Cat in the bed. "What if she tries to eat my legs?" must have been my half-asleep train of thought. So I got up and changed and crawled right back into bed.

Next, I woke up rather suddenly and saw furry cat ass backing into my face. I'm not sure how related the two are, but I also needed something to drink sooner than immediately. I pushed the poised ready to smother fuzz butt out of my face, got up again, and got some water. Big Cat followed me down stairs and tried to climb into the refridgerator. At this point I was so tired I forgot how to make the Brita stop pouring for a second and almost spilled water everywhere, so getting a cat out of the fridge was an insurrmountable task. We headed back upstairs and I promptly fell back asleep.

Somewhere around 3:10, I awoke again to a sharp pain in my foot. I looked down and saw Big Cat trying to consume my left foot. I KNEW IT! I should have put on socks too! I got up for the final time, picked her up, plopped her outside the door, shut it and went back to sleep.

Now, my dog, he would never try to sit on my face or eat my feet. He is just a 70 pound bundle of unrequited love and snuggles and fear smell - he's terrified of absolutely everything and allergic to protein. He's extremely sensitive. My mom thinks it is pathetic. I think it is adorable (or at least I will until somebody breaks into the house and he does nothing but pee himself and hide under a bed). Sleeping with Charlie is like sleeping with a furry body pillow that takes up more space than you do and literally digs you out of bed at an ungodly hour. Sleeping with Big Cat is like taking your very life into your hands.

I'll take my bed hog, blankets digging, scared of plastic bags dog any day.

Habitual Patterning, or, Things I Really Have to Stop Doing

As a creature of habit, I find myself continually falling into patterns. Some end up being great. Some would be great if I didn't suck at keeping up stuff that is good for me, like exercising regularly and not drinking beer and keeping my room clean. Many times though, these patterns tend toward self detriment. Now that I am in a no-longer-brand-new-but-still-newer-than-I-care-to-admit environment, patterns are popping up all over the place. The most horrible habit that has emerged thus far, aside from an affinity for crunchy-chocolate-breakfast cereals is this putting off of work until the last second.

This is not really a new pattern. Then again, I may have always liked crunchy-chocolate-breakfast cereals and never known it because I never purchased them (in related news: not a fan of fruity pebbles). But really, I have always been a procrastinator of biblical proportions and I know that will probably never change. Currently, however, I am, at 9 p.m. on Monday night, sitting on the precipice of a 5 page paper, two play readings, and at least 4 articles. All for tomorrow. I had four days to do this. And I did NOTHING except read Hamlet for the umpillionth time.

That is not true. I did stuff. I went to some parties and had a three night sleepover marathon and I went to D.C. for the day today. All of these things were fun. Really, really fun. But all of these things also made me so tired that the prospect of doing anything right now aside from schlepping laundry from my room to the washing machine directly outside my door is literally painful.

As has become the routine, I will continue to fuck around (kinda like right now?) for a little bit. Then I will bang out an amount of work I find satisfactory and will then wake up tomorrow to finish it. This would be okay. Perhaps. However, I have class until 9 tomorrow night and I KNOW that I will be so cranky by that point I will want to punch a baby seal in the face.

The goal of this next week is to not let this happen again. FOR REAL.


On a serious note, I have been feeling a little unsettled as of late and it is very... unsettling. Minor monetary irritants (thanks supremely competent bank employee for entering both my name AND my SSN into your system incorrectly), tensions here and there, exhaustion and this sneaky twinge of frustration (over what I honestly wish I knew) are all just gnawing away. But I'm okay. I think a good night of sleep will help volumes.

Onward to the sprint.

Facing Your Fears

This post is a bit belated as I have been HELLA busy becoming a genuis and all of that. However, I think it is very important to trumpet from the interweb-rooftops that I have faced up to one of my biggest irrational fears: The Chicken.

As my loyal readers (all seven of you) know, chickens and I have a rocky past. And while I cannot say the bridge has been fully gapped, progress toward redemption has been made. That is right ladies and gentlemen. On Saturday last at a mighty Oktoberfest celebration, I, Elizabeth Anne, PET. A. CHICKEN.

Here is some photographic evidence for ye of little faith. That's right. Look at that brave face.

A woman, in lovely period attire, was HOLDING a chicken (actually she had three chickens in her arms) like is was no big deal (jobs I'll never be applying for - check that one off the list) and I mustered all of my courage and actually touched it. Look at it. I looks pretty demonic, doesn't it? I swear it was glaring at me AND went to peck my hand every time I got near its stupid chicken feathers (though, I guess if I were a chicken I wouldn't want cotton-candy-fingered people touching my downy softness either).

After being super proud of myself and demanding a handi-wipe and later a chocolate covered banana as my reward (I actually did neither of those things, but in retrospect I should have) I went on to pet a HORSE! Now, I have not yet revealed my trepidatious relationship with horses but, to recount, when I was 10 years old, my friend had a horse back riding birthday party, like ya do, and my horse, Taco, tripped over a rock and almost catapulted me into a ravine. No exaggeration. And then, to add insult to injury, the instructor yelled at me for falling off the horse, rather than clinging to the saddle so it could roll over onto my wee legs, and swung his greasy man-ponytail at me. So, horses and I don't have a good track (heh) record either. I passed on the pony rides (due partially to fear, but mostly to embarrassment) but I did pet the horse and felt even prouder of myself.

That's right. I'm laughing in the face of danger. HA-HA-HA-HAAAA!

I have faced my fears. And I am most pleased. UP NEXT, conquering my irrational childhood fears of leprosy and execution by the guillotine! I wasn't a weird kid at all.

P.S. I talk about chickens in this blog way more than I ever anticipated I would. I wonder what that says about me. Have I been supressing this my entire life? Mental note: worth looking into.