Guest Post From Husband!

I received an email with the subject: "What happens to Kane on a triage call", with a body of "FML" and this picture. We (Stephani and I) deemed it blog-worthy. [I have no idea what the purple thing growing on his face is]

"Define 'interesting'." "Oh God, oh God, we're all gonna die?"

I have a lot of anxieties, most of which are completely pathetic and present themselves in awkward and embarrassing ways. (Gentle reader, I know what you're thinking..."Oh, here's just another anxiety-ridden chick blogging about how she's so wacky". Well, you're right. I'm pretty much your standard wackadoodle. The difference, my friends, is that I'm writing about my wacky anxiety on a blog named after a nice old lady's dinosaur. How many others can say that? I don't see 'Granny's Stegosaurus' or 'Auntie May's Velociraptor' or 'Nana's Ankylosaurus' speaking about their crazies. I am filling the "nice old lady + dinosaur named blog + crazy" niche. It's a tough job, but I'll do it for you.) And with that disclaimer, on to the anxieties!

I have the standard concerns everyone else does: What if I don't get that job, what if my house catches on fire, what if my cat runs away (ok...this isn't a concern. This is a wish. A fervent wish. Anyone looking to acquire a cat should talk to me. I'll hook you up), and what if that muffin I just ate was secretly filled with super soldier serum and now I'm going to turn into Captain America (except I can't be Captain America because that's taken, so I think I'll turn into Lady Muffinpants and then I'll have to fight crime but try to keep my secret identity a secret so I'll have to find a costume but I don't wear glasses so I can't use those. Wait! Lady Muffinpants can wear glasses. Then I take them *off* to be me. Hopefully one of my powers will be the ability to keep glasses affixed to my face when I'm kicking ass. Excellent, got that figured out.), you know, worries anyone else has. I feel fine being concerned about those things. However, for every completely legit worry I have, there are 3.47 more that are just ridiculous. For example:

I worry that someone will catch me listening to "Single Ladies" on the train and be all "Hey you. You're married. That song is not for you." and make me delete it from my iPod after calling me out in front of everyone.

I stress about whether my T-Shirts are getting equal attention. I think that maybe I wear my Lego Star Wars shirt too often and that my Stargate shirt is crying inside my dresser because it doesn't feel good enough about itself. It's cool Stargate shirt, you're just a little tight around the boobs because you were made for boys. (I feel like I shouldn't have said that bit about my boobs. But hey, I has them. Deal.) But I still like you, all my shirts. I just have a big people job now and have to wear boring shirts (which brings up it's own set of problems), so it's hard to give each shirt love.



I get little mini-panic attacks that I forgot to turn off something in my apartment. I'll be elbow deep in work and then completely have to stop what I'm doing because I think "HOLY SHIT I LEFT MY TOASTER PUSHED DOWN" and then I can't get a hold of my husband on the phone (which of course means he's dead in a ditch from a vicious wild turkey attack. Yes, there are wild turkeys that sometimes roam the parking lot of his office building. We're classy down in Georgia.) to see if he remembers the toaster being down so it bothers me ALL day until I get home and remember that I haven't even USED the toaster for like a week.

I could go on, but then this post would reach epic lengths and I have to be anxious about that and I'd make this rambling recursive post about anxieties.

All of these little problems mix together to create my ultimate-anxiety: driving. I've mentioned before how evil I find driving. I recently got new car insurance and found out I qualified for the little old lady mileage rate because I avoid driving at all costs. I am 78.5% sure that I am going to die every time I get behind the wheel...even if all I'm doing is moving my car 3 parking spots closer to the stairs. I get all nervous and twitchy and spend like 20 minutes adjusting the seats and the mirrors so people think I'm all cautious and safe but really I'm just buying time until Kane gets home so can I turn on the puppy face and make him do it. That's one of his main husband functions - driving me places. (And using the phone. I hate the phone. I think it might eat me.) He earns a lot of husband points by being the driver, and even more for having to put up with a spastic navigator who regularly argues with/at (like, out loud) the GPS because even though I never go anywhere I totally know exactly how to get places and Richard (my GPS) is just being a dick.

My lack of driving kind of makes me this terrible social recluse, which is actually really pathetic and then I feel bad about it and am like "damnit, I'm going to drive the grocery store like a champ!". But then my initial anxiety is reaffirmed because every time I do drive, something ridiculous happens. In the last year of my attempts at driving I have:

- Had some drunk yokel almost drive me off the road because of my choice of college did not pass his surely rigorous standards.

- Watched same drunk yokel try to race an ambulance.

- Seen several people go from the emergency lane (after using it to pass people) to the far left lane in heavy traffic because they had some place to be so they dart around like a spastic monkey.

- Had someone tailgating me by a foot going 80mph because they never learned basic physics and are probably a twat.

- Had a friend who regularly texted/checked email/put on make-up/changed clothes (like, all the same time) while driving 15 over the speed limit, but it was "totally cool" because she "was totally focused on the road and could handle it unlike all those other morons." Yes sweetie, you're special, everyone else is just stupid.

- Been stuck next to a HOUSE. A straight-up house, which took up 2.5 lanes in 4pm-on-a-Friday-Fuck-You traffic and knocked off 3 people's side view mirrors.

I honestly don't know why anyone drives. I think all you drivers are nuts. I want to move to one of those awesome towns like kids in old school Nickelodeon (not this new crap...bleck) shows lived where you could ride your bike to anywhere. Like where Arthur (wait, I think that is PBS. Whatever. Also, he doesn't look like a freaking aardvark AT ALL in the cartoon. PBS is lying to your children) lives. That town was sweet. Though, then I'd need to get a bike which would probably create a new set of anxieties like if the blue helmet is going to make my head a funny shape if I wear it the wrong way.

PS: This is what Lady Muffinpants looks like. DC Comics, I'm open to a deal.

~Melody

Face Paint Makes Everything Intense

I recently saw a commercial for ESPN Gameplan, which lets you watch all sorts of out-of-market college football games, so you can follow your favorite team no matter where you are! In the ad, the various fans were watching games in their "living rooms" which look conspicuously like all-white studio sets with a couch, TV, and a smattering of some multi-ethnic yet approachable friends thrown in. But the one thing about this ad that struck me was the lead fans for each group - they were completely decked out in team colors, face paint and all (and a little corn hat for the Nebraska fan). I realized then that the addition of face paint makes everything intense. I still wasn't going to buy ESPN Gameplan, but I was certainly more exited about not buying it.

So, do you have a boring situation that you desperately want to spice up before you succumb to a mind-numbingly boring eternity of mundane tedium and woe? If so, just throw on some face paint, preferrably the team colors of your favorite football/hockey/basketball/chess/professional wheelbarrow racing team and GET EXCITED. I promise that you will not able to resist the urge to start yelling, hollering, insulting someone's mother, and crying how you could have totally washed the heck out of those dishes if only you hadn't gotten that knee injury in college.

Whether you're doing some household chores..



Walking the dog...



Or getting through a work day...



You will find the hours fly by once the face paint comes on. Every little moment is a victory, an excuse to high five your neighbors (bonus points if they aren't playing the face paint game) and do an endzone dance in your driveway. Life will become an exciting adventure once you've got face paint as part of your game plan.

SAFETY NOTE: Always be aware of your surroundings. Be wary of wearing face paint to a funeral, unless the deceased shared your enthusiasm for life. Also, a celebration dance must be situation appropriate or you'll risk the involvement of management and/or local law enforcement.

And finally, if you choose to liven-up the babysitting experience by including face paint,



remember that the baby is NOT a football and should NOT be spiked after it successfully finishes a bottle. This will also invoke the involvement of local law enforcement, and face paint is not appropriate in prison either.

~Melody

Pig Or Cow

I cannot make decisions, like at all. The big ones, the small ones, the trivial ones...it's all more than I can handle. I'll often have people tell me "well, it's a simple choice, right" and then I punch them in the face (or rather, I would except I can't decide if I want to punch them or kick them in the shins, so I just sit quietly and think about dinosaurs. Or Batman.) I don't know what it is; probably some mild mental illness that makes me dwell on every possible outcome any choice could have. And I mean every outcome - decisions about which shirt to wear to work spiral into philosophical discussions inside my head. I have to pick a shirt at random each morning or I'd never get out the door, but then I sit on the train absolutely sure that everyone is staring at me because I chose the wrong shirt and I am now broadcasting my decision-based failures in 100% cotton, or a perhaps nice poly-cotton blend. This is also why 80% of my shirts are blue.



I have trouble with the small decisions, the trivial ones. I have to bring the same thing for lunch every day because I cannot decide on something else to eat. I used to have a friend who was equally bad at making decisions. We actually had a jar in her car of places to go/things to do when we hung out so we could just pick from that instead of having to decide something, which actually worked out really well. But it never stopped nagging me that surely I should be capable of deciding on where to eat dinner.

I also have trouble with the big decisions. I recently turned down an amazing job offer because I needed to make a decision immediately and the guy on the phone was talking really fast and pressuring me and I went back to thinking about dinosaurs again and before I knew it I had failed to accept the offer.









EVERY TIME. All attempts I make to make a decision end with me mumbling incoherently. It's embarrassing. I was engaged for one and a half years because I had to be really super sure I was making the right decision, and even after that my maid of honor (same lack of decisions friend mentioned above) wouldn't let me drive myself to the church on the wedding day because she knew I would end up just driving all day thinking over all my decisions. Then I'd run out of gas in like, Ohio or something, and my life would be entirely different.

So, that's why I've decided I need an official decision-maker. Someone who will just say "you're doing this". It's a plus for that person because you get to have power and feel all important, and it's a plus for me because I don't have to decide anything, and if your choices suck (like you pick a blue shirt on what is obviously red shirt day) I can blame you. But I probably won't. Also, you get this sweet badge:



Applications are currently being accepted in the comments section below. Applicants must be awesome, authoritative, and like dinosaurs and Batman. Applicants who are also Batman are preferred.


*Sigh* Maybe some day...

~Melody

Advice to Men: The "We Don't Want Your Advice" Edition

Both of the contributors to this blog consider ourselves to be pretty unusual girls.  “Unusual” in that we are pretty drama-free, like football as much/more than the average male, and don’t get all “SQUEEEEE!” over shopping (ok, except for shoes.  I like shoes.  Me, Stephani.  Melody does not).  We don’t like playing mind games with members of the male gender.  What we say is usually what we mean, no hidden subtext involved.  So, all of you out there with the penises, listen up.  Here’s some straightforward advice from a girl who skips out on all major life events from September to February in favor of football-viewing.  You and I, we speak the same language (unless you're a man who doesn't like football.  In which case I do not understand you, nor do I care to try).

Advice: Just LISTEN to us vent.

We need to bitch to you about our problems so that they don’t become big scary drama-monsters that eat away at our souls.  We need to tell you about how our girl friend is super upset with us because we said “Haha” to her joke instead of “lol” and we only know she’s mad because she didn’t put a smiley face at the end of her text message and that means she’s probably doing Voodoo magic against us or posting a passive-aggressive snarky status about us on Facebook, but we can’t actually SAY something to fix the perceived “problem” because she’s being the Queen of Passive-Aggressiva (note: The girl friend in question is playing girlish mind games.  Cool blog-contributor girls would like to have a mature, adult conversation to sort out issues, but immature girl friend is incapable of this and would rather be secretly, yet openly, snarky.).  So while we (women) feel the need to vent, you (men) feel the need to do one of the two following things: 1) trivialize our problem, or 2) offer your advice. 

First, the trivializing.  We appreciate that you are trying to be helpful, because your man brain honestly thinks that the situation will play out like this:

Woman: So then that bitch said “Ok girl see you later,” but there was NO FUCKING SMILEY FACE and you know that when she doesn’t put a smiley face what she actually means is, “Fuck off whore,” and I didn’t even DO anything to her, but I can’t say anything about it because all she actually said out loud was “Ok girl see you later,” and now she’s going to post about it on Facebook and—

Man: I mean, it’s whatever, babe.  Who really cares?  Just forget about it.

Woman: Oh, my, god.  You are so right.  What was I even worried about?  Wow.  You are such a tower of wisdom, masculinity, and raw sex appeal.  Can I get you a beer?

However, what we actually hear in your response is:

Man: I mean, it’s whatever babe [you’re being stupid and silly].  Who really cares?  [I know I don’t.]  Just forget about it [because I already did.  And if you forget about it too maybe you’ll just shut up and get me a beer.].

You can see how this response might not work out in your favor.  There’s a chance that whatever has upset us really is trivial, but as women we’ve been cursed with these things called emotions (not to mention PMS, periods, pregnancy, and all the various womany-evils starting with the letter “p”) and as you do not have to deal with any of these things, the least you could do is just listen to our emotion-explosion (which, I might point out, is at least not directed at you).

Next, the advice-giving.  This is certainly a step up from the trivializing, because we recognize that you are trying to actively listen and help us.  However, there is one very important thing that you should know about women: we usually already know how to handle situations.  Before we started venting to you, we intrinsically knew how to handle the bitchy, smiley-omitting friend.  We’re going to do whatever we were always going to do.  So when your response to our bitchfest goes like this:

Man: You need to talk to her about it.  Sitting here and talking to me about it isn’t going to do you any good.

what we hear is:

Man: You need to talk to her about it [isn’t this obvious?  Why didn’t you already think of this yourself?  Wow, I’m so much better at handling woman problems than you are.  Maybe I should be awarded my own set of boobs now so I don’t have to ask permission to play with yours.]  Sitting here and talking to me about it isn’t going to do you any good [because for some reason you actually thought that it would solve the problem.  Wow, again, you suck at handling these things.  I’m superior in every way.  Now stop talking to me about it and get me a beer.].

Again, this situation is not good for you (and probably does not result in desired beer delivery).  We like to feel like we can handle our own problems, because we actually can.  We just need a sounding board to talk out our problems and arrive at our own conclusion.  (Note: This is true 99% of the time.  Sometimes, we actually don’t know what to do with big life decisions or situations and will ask your advice.  But notice: we’ll ask for it.  It’s really that simple.)

So, a quick recap of what we have learned here.  Two don’ts:

1.       Don’t trivialize.

2.       Don’t offer advice unless asked.

A couple of dos:

1.       Listen.

2.       Be on our side.  Get pissed at whatever we’re pissed at.  Act protective and offer to kick something’s ass in our honor.

Following these simple rules is an easy way to ensure happy girlfriends/wives (which makes for happy boyfriends/husbands).  Heed my advice.

Tales of Public Transit

Like thousands of other worky-type people, my workday begins with a daily adventure on public transit. It is wonderfully convenient in that one station connects to my apartment complex and another is ridiculously close to my office, so I never have to drive. (This is wonderful because driving fills me with anxiety somewhere around "this activity will induce instant death" levels and the mere act of sitting in the driver's seat of a car raises my blood pressure probably into the 300s. I had to drive husband home Saturday night and I think I had 3 separate heart attacks during the 7 minutes it takes to get from Taco Mac to our apartment. I'm pretty sure he drinks just to force me to drive every so often. Jerk.) Anyway, public transit. In Atlanta, we have MARTA. Aside from the convenience in terms of no driving, MARTA is an excellent place to people watch, provided you are open to all types of people.

As with any public transit system, you get your fair share of bums and panhandlers, an at times dizzying array of new and interesting smells, the occasional nice man fully intent on making sure you find Jesus (he probably heard about how my cat almost ate Jesus and was making sure I was still covered on getting into Heaven. I think the guy on MARTA had my back), and a collection of very friendly and very jerky people. (Side note: I have a total pet peeve when someone (not of the following types) is sitting in the "the seats are for old people, ladies who are preggers, and those with canes who are not also old people" seats and then one of the aforementioned types of people get on the train and the person in the seat DOESN'T MOVE. Like, grr on you. I once saw an old man with a cane fall over because no one near the door gave him a seat and the train hit a bump. The person in "his" seat was some twat yammering away on her cell phone. Sorry for the aside, but it makes me teh angries.) So this particular morning, I encountered what I will call the MARTA Troll. Her shriek preceded her entrance to the traincar - a lighting-fasting diatribe the content of which I can't quite make out. The smell hits me next, a pungent mix of McDonald's hash browns (which she was munching on) and fail sweat. Then, she enters, a visage not unlike a troll; bulbous and seeming to think that having a neck wasn't in fashion anymore. She held back her wild mane with a sweat band, though she was neither dressed for the gym nor in the 1980s. Her blouse, threatening to burst from trying to contain her form, was adorned with sweat stains and streaks from what I assumed was the earlier part of her breakfast. It was a sight, but I had a book and an iPod.

She, however, had great determination to share her morning problems with the entire train car, not just her poor conversation partner. Her volume rose as the train gained speed. For you see, gentle reader, the troll feasted on chili last night. I can only image the scene, this troll gobbling up cauldrons of chili, frothing at the mouth over the sauciness. But the chili must have overwhelmed the troll, for this morning she was having...let's say "digestive problems". Once which must be shared with the passengers in her train car. Perhaps a troll gains +5 healing for every person they share their plight with.



So that was my morning ride...I tried my best to drown out the troll's wail, but nothing could quite block out the scatological incantations of something so determined. But then, something changed. A perfectly normal looking girl entered the train car and chose the seat across the aisle from the troll. Well, perfectly normal to me, but surely she must have been a witch sent to attack the troll when it was weak from poisoned chili, for the troll would not tolerate this intruder. The troll silenced herself, and gave the new occupant a protracted and vicious side eye...







The girl, confused and scared, said nothing. What would you say? Comment on the irony of wanting a little privacy when you've been talking shit (literally) for the last 15 minutes? Ask the troll to calm down? Take off your jacket to reveal your witch's cloak and damn the troll back to the bridge it came from with a chili-based spell? The choice was yours. The girl, however, just remained stunned. The troll, with a smug glare, just commented "that's right" in a "oh, I just told you" tone and went back to discussing the mass of chili's current location in her intestines. Thankfully for the girl and myself, we got off at the next stop. She was still stunned. I smiled, trying to offer support, but it does little once you've been yelled at by a troll.

~Melody

A Tribute to Igor...And His Digestive System

I would like to take this opportunity to pay official blog tribute to Igor for a true display of masculinity, endurance, and all-around digestive magnificence.

For my birthday on Tuesday, we took a trip to The Vortex to celebrate.  The Vortex serves a behemoth menu item known as the “Super Stack Heart Attack.”  This $26 burger includes “two half-pound sirloin patties stacked inside three grilled cheese sandwiches, topped with two fried eggs, eight slices of  American cheese, ten slices of bacon, with plenty of mayo on the side. With this burger we choose your side for you, and it’s a big bowl of fries and tots covered in our cheesy-cheese goo.”

The challenge.

With a little encouragement and the promise that half the cost would be covered (thanks, Nathan), Igor decided to take on the challenge.  What followed was truly unbelievable.  To say it was similar to “Man vs. Food” would be unfair, because the food never stood a chance.  The Super Stack Heart Attack was conquered in about 15 minutes, fries and tots covered in cheesy-cheese goo included.  And Igor never broke a sweat.

Thank you, Igor, for impressing me on my birthday.  I would like to present you with this certificate as a reward.



Not even a trace of fear in those eyes.



How the hell do we find these people?

Because he's Dirty Uncle Sal! The one who embarrasses everyone at holidays and family reunions and who can't be left alone with the teenage girls, but you invite him anyway. - Meredith Grey

Every family has one. That one grandpa that likes to bring up controversial topics like politics and religion or the great-aunt that everyone avoids because she likes to pucker up and kiss you right on the mouth, leaving you feeling violated and smelling like old lady perfume, mothballs, or a pungent mixture of the two.

For my “family,” and by that I mean my close group of college friends, our Dirty Uncle Sal is named Chicago.* Most people choose their friends because they like their personalities. This situation was different – we started a student group based on a common interest, and got a group of friends as a result...personality clashes or not. Chicago is active in our cause and always down to party, so he became a key member of the group, despite his many...quirks.

Despite not being a current member of a fraternity, it would be hard to distinguish Chicago from most of the frat guys on campus at first glance. He's good-looking, well-dressed, shallow when dealing with women, and usually drunk. He's always hitting on the prettiest (or easiest) girl at the party, or he's loudly regaling us with stories of his latest sexual encounter (“Dude, tonight I'm gonna do a black chick and a white chick at the same time. That knocks TWO things off my to do list!”, or “I was just doing that girl in an alley off Bourbon Street, but I saw y'all walk by so I thought I'd come say hey.”).

It is commonly known that Chicago will always enter a party (or a room, or anywhere really) the same way: already buzzed, a 12 pack tucked under one arm, loudly yelling “HEEEEEEEYYYYYYY!!” I've seen him walk into parties of 40 people this way; I've seen him walk into my living room while I was home alone this way. I've seen him do this at midnight; I've seen him do it at 9 am. It's always the same entrance, and you always know that the night (or morning, as the case may be) is about to get interesting.

A couple of years ago, we took a trip to Houston, TX. Saturday night we headed out into the city to try to go out. The problem was that we had a few people with us who were under 21, so we had to find a bar that would allow people who were 18 and up (we follow the law, after all). All of our searching and discussing and arguing made Chicago impatient; we looked up to see him walking away from the group, without saying a word. We didn't worry about it too much; there's no use in arguing with him. The rest of our night was kind of crappy – we ended up being tricked into entering an all Latino club where several of our male friends were uncomfortably approached by other males and there was blood on the bathroom wall. We headed back to the hotel, disappointed and tired. I later found out that Chicago had managed to find an awesome bar that was handing out free beer, and had been hanging out with the Coors Light girls all night. This is how Chicago's life works.

A couple of weeks ago, I returned for the weekend to my alma mater to enjoy some football and the greatest college town in existence. I stayed at one of the houses where 3 members of the group live; it's kind of the hub of group activity. At 4:30 am, I once again woke up to Chicago, standing at the end of the bed. Much to the chagrin and annoyance of my 2 dogs, disturbed from their slumber (yet not at all trying to attack this intruder), Chicago began yelling at a volume that is not at all appropriate for a sleeping person at 4:30 am.

Chicago: STEPHANI! STEPHANI, OH. MY. GOD!

Me: ...what, Chicago?

Chicago: DO YOU HAVE ANY EXTRA PANTS?!

Me: …....the fuck? Do I have any extra what?

Chicago: I JUST LOOKED DOWN EARLIER AND I WAS LIKE, OH MY GOD, WHERE ARE MY FUCKING PANTS?!

Now, let me clarify. Chicago had JUST walked into the house before he woke me up. So I can only assume that he had been wandering pantsless around the small town of Oxford, MS, WITHOUT REALIZING IT until that moment of revelation when he “looked down.” This situation should have surprised me. It did not.

I just texted a mutual friend asking if she had any good Chicago stories for this post. Her response, which made me laugh until I cried, was simply, “Peeing on the couch.” Peeing. On. The couch. That's really all I have to say about that. (My response: “How the hell do we FIND these people?”)

The same friend also reminded me of a late night phone call she once received. Someone was drunkenly yelling her name, begging to be bailed out of jail (ok, maybe we don't all totally follow the law. But it was just public drunkenness, a pretty common charge in Oxford where a panty bandit is the most threatening criminal in town). She refused to get out of bed and go bail him out, because sometimes, we've all had enough. Later we found out that he had annoyed the jailer and bail bondsman so much that the bail bondsman literally drove him home. In his own car. Chicago : too annoying for jail.

Though he's drunk 90% of the time, shallow in his choice and treatment of women, and can be a little crass, he has his redeeming qualities. He's totally honest about everything he's thinking, he's extremely smart, he stands up for what he thinks and isn't afraid to piss people off, and he's THE most fun person to have at a party. You never know what's going to happen next or where the night will take him, but you can be certain that a crazy story will unfold. Just like you love those crazy, embarrassing members of your family, we love Chicago like he's a part of ours.

In closing, I'd like to leave you with a few of Chicago's most famous quotes, collected over the years.

While trying to find a place to eat in Dallas:

“McDonald's? Do they sell beer at McDonald's?"

When asked a question about an event that occurred earlier in the day:

“I got high. How do you expect me to remember shit?”

When being reminded by a friend that he had taken 6 of her beers with the promise to pay her back:

“I owe you nothing! NOTHING!!! I'm just kidding, I owe you a whole bunch of beer.”

I guess someone was biting him?:

“You can bite me all you want, I'm drunk, I'm not going to feel it.”

When being reprimanded for not staying quiet during the national anthem:

“He was talking shit about me because of the spar stangled pannuh!”

This blog does NOT condone illegal drug use:

“They're walking too slow! I just want to get there!....Man, I wish everyone else had done cocaine too.”

*Names have been changed to protect the innocent friend who might run for political office. And if he does, you should totally vote for him. That country/state/district would become one ridiculous party.

Chicago's dog (which was taken away because his landlord didn't allow pets).  He named it Jesus.

Kitty Porn

There is evil lurking in my apartment. Its name is Schrödinger. [10 Internet points if you get the reference. Internet points may be redeemed for fabulous prizes.]

Look at him, waiting to strike. [Note: my husband is totally reading over my shoulder as I type this. I imagine that many side comments will follow as he tries to mess with me. I've decided my husband is going to be the recurring villain in my posts.] Anyway, the cat. Some time ago a friend of ours found this cat wandering around his apartment complex. However, he must have soon discovered that this cat is actually 2/3rd devil (1/3rd dog), and convinced my husband he should take the cat. I was against this plan, but my husband and the friend ganged up on me, claiming that if we didn't take the cat it would go to a shelter were no one would adopt it (most likely due its evilness) and then it would be lonely and sad and at some point a bus full of nuns would collide with a bus full of orphans and it would be all my fault. And then God would kill a kitten. So basically, I'd have 2 bus loads and a kitten's worth of deaths on my hands if I wouldn't let the cat live with us, and I can't handle that kind of pressure. I can barely handle calling to make doctor's appointments.

So..we got a cat. Now, I never had a pet as a child. My parents knew I had an incredibly short attention span and were worried I'd forget to take care of whatever pet I had, so to even be allowed to have a fish I had to write a research paper on how to not kill one. (Many things in my childhood involved me needing to write research papers. I was definitely the weird kid. It should also be noted that my sister totally got to have whatever pet she wanted and only had to read a book. So when I was in college my sister got her adorable, stupid dog. But I'm not jealous. Not at all.) So here I am, an awkward clean freak, face to face with a cat. (And then a 20 minute break follows because my husband decided that we had to post out Dragon*Con pictures RIGHT EFFING NOW or...I don't know, Facebook would implode. But it was extremely urgent.)

The first few weeks were as expected - the cat was loud (seriously...his meow can be heard clearly through 4 sets of doors/walls), messy, learned how to open doors which made my attempts at feline containment meaningless, and tried to kill me no less than 37 times. It's a miracle I'm still alive. Then it was Christmas time, my favorite time of year. (My husband (you know what, his name is Kane. I'm going to type that because "my husband" is getting wordy), anyway, Kane just said that he was going to eat "some of Stephani's delicious meat". This is what I have to live with.) Among my decorations was a family heirloom paper nativity set, complete with 4 paper sheep (this fact will be important later). Once day I came home from classes to discover that a furry natural distaster had stuck Bethlehem. The manger was turned over, Jesus was missing, wise men were askew, and Mary was wedged under my TV table. I charged into action, the FEMA of my living room, and began to clean up the damage. Mary was successfully extracted. I found Jesus (in one of my shoes). As I had finished resetting the scene, the cat stalks out from under the couch, happily chewing away on something. The cat had to been known to eat sticky notes so at first I thought nothing of it (well, actually I was thinking that I really hoped sticky note glue was toxic), until I counted my sheep. One...Two...Three. This post is full of lies. (Woah, what was that? Kane apparently added that when I walked away for a second. My posts are not safe. Anyway...) I tried to rescue my errant sheep (I had named him Steve) from the mouth of the hellcat, but there was nothing I could do. Steve was headless and armless. I disposed of Steve's remains. (I was actually a little glad the cat ate Steve...not because he ate Steve specifically, but because it was way better than the cat eating Jesus. I'm pretty if your cat eats Jesus you at least go to Purgatory, cursed to an eternity of arts and crafts to make replacement paper Jesuses (Jesusi? I guess that's not something you need to pluralize very often)). I also vowed to never tell my mother what happened. (Oh crap, I hope my mom never reads my blog. Actually, I kind of want my mom to read my blog to increase readership. So...I'm sorry mom. Blame your son-in-law. Or the cat. I know you dislike the cat too.)

It has continued to this day - I have something cool/important/priceless and the cat destroys it. Or attacks me. Either way, he still gets hugs from my husband

(Me: I'm telling my nonexistent readers how you love the cat more than me.
Kane: Okay.
Mee: Wait, so is that true?
Kane: Guess so. [Okay, he didn't say that. He said I was going to put whatever I wanted here. Then I did and he hit me in the face with a pillow. Totally unfair. He's now amended his statement to say that he loves me more than the cat, but just barely.)

and continues to try to own my house. However, there is one bright spot in this cat tale (hehe, almost a pun) - a wonderful advancement in the field of cat torture knows as the cat leash.

You see, Kane lives in a world where his cat is not fat and stupid and wants to go for long walks on the beach with him. (As I type, Kane is lying on the couch using the cat as a pillow and snuggling with it. This is awkward.) So, he will force him into this little bondage harness and drag him out for a walk. Yes, I said drag. The cat, once harnessed, will use the toddler tactic of going completely limp and refusing to move. Kane has worked around this problem by picking up the cat and carrying him to where the walk should start, which I think defeats the purpose of a "walk", but apparently I just don't know anything about the inner workings of cat leash processes. So Kane carries the cat to somewhere, plops this angsty, meowing pile of fat fur on the ground, and waits. Slowly, the cat starts to move. Then, the truly delicious part (for me) occurs. I am already jazzed because the cat hates this so much, but once he's outside, it gets so much better. For outside, there are dogs. I don't have pictures of what happens next, because Kane doesn't think to capture photographic evidence of the cat having a "major fucking shit-spazz", but I did draw my own artist's rendering.

The dog could be doing nothing, and the cat just loses it. It's beautiful, and is slowly making up for all the times he has attacked my face. (Interesting fact: I had to ask Stephani how dogs walk so I could draw a dog that didn't look retarded with legs all akimbo)

Update: Remember how I said Kane and the cat were snuggling? Well, apparently, the cat got tired of it and kicked him off the couch. And Kane let him do it. I can't even get Kane to not drag me around town when I am dying of a headache (true story), but the cat gets a couch to himself. I think something is afoul here.

Also, since this post is called “Kitty Porn”, the cat wanted to pose for you.

~Melody

First!

Hello! We are being like all the cool kids and making a blog. I am foreseeing this being just a collection of all the random things we think of during the course of a day which we find hilarious. I imagine that this will actually turn out terribly because we’re probably way less funny than we think, and then everyone will boo and come to our houses with pitchforks and torches (because this blog is so terrible the Internet sent us back to the dark ages where we can’t put our awful posts on it) and kick us off the Internet, even though the Internet took care of that already. Yes, we will probably get kicked off the Internet by the Internet itself. In that case, then this was just for us, for posterity’s sake.

I’d like to just say right now that yes, I was inspired by many different sources and will probably somewhat emulate them. I’m not trying to copy anyone…I have limited means to express myself because I dance exactly like you would expect an awkward white nerd to dance, I sing in almost passable tenor despite being female, and even MS Paint poses an artistic challenge to me. My parents totally dicked me over when it came to passing on the fine art genes. So yeah…I just said “dicked over”. I would love to promise that my posts are going to be free of bad words and “that’s what she said” jokes and general innuendo. But then I would be lying and you couldn’t trust me and then you’d kick me off the Internet. So the above-mentioned things will definitely come up fairly often.

Case in point:
Stephani (who went to Ole Miss, or the University of Mississippi for the non-football inclined reader) was discussing how when her team was awesome and did that whole “dump sportsDrinkAde all over the coach” thing they kind of missed and hit him in the head with the keg (Ok, it’s probably a cooler in this case but it acts just like a keg) thing. Oh, I totally forgot a key part of this joke; the coach of Ole Miss is named Houston Nutt. Man, this joke would have sucked had I forgotten that. Anyway, so she told me that story and I replied: “So they totally busted a nut!” because I am about 12.

Actually, maybe that joked still sucked. Whatever, that’s how this blog is going to roll. (Whereas a log just rolls as any round object would) We’ll see.

~Melody