My point is, I've had a rough day, I'm in a crappy mood, and I don't feel like being funny at the moment.
Please enjoy this picture of a duck being an asshole to another duck in lieu of me entertaining you.
Showing posts with label cats. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cats. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 11, 2014
Obligatory NaBloPoMo Post
Today my former roommate passive-aggressively blamed me for my cat's illness for which she will need surgery and went on to complain the the vet is deliberately running up costs (they're not) and he "can't afford this shit" (it's being paid for by my cat's health insurance). At work, I got out of a meeting over an hour early, which sounds good, but the reason was that the presenter fainted and slammed his head into the podium so hard it will be a miracle if he walks away without a concussion, which was scary as all fuck. And then it took me two hours to get home because I spent the entire first hour stuck in a traffic jam in the car park, whilst watching my fuel consumption in a panic because I was so close to being out of petrol I wasn't sure how long I could actually afford to sit there idling.
My point is, I've had a rough day, I'm in a crappy mood, and I don't feel like being funny at the moment.
Please enjoy this picture of a duck being an asshole to another duck in lieu of me entertaining you.
My point is, I've had a rough day, I'm in a crappy mood, and I don't feel like being funny at the moment.
Please enjoy this picture of a duck being an asshole to another duck in lieu of me entertaining you.
Friday, March 21, 2014
They're Baaa-aack
I've been feeding the next door neighbors' cat all week because they are out of town. I say "neighbors' cat", but it's really a stray cat called Hissing Syd, who won't come within 10 feet of people, but who will sit exactly that distance from his food bowls and look around in judgement if they are empty when he gets there much in the way of a normal house cat. I grabbed the cat food and was about to walk through my back door when crumpled in the door jam I saw the biggest spider I have ever seen in England. So big in fact, that I looked it over for some moments actually thinking "maybe it's not a spider. Maybe it's a scraggly piece of something that fell off of a bush." But nothing else in the world has leg joints in exactly those places. Nothing. I seriously didn't know they had spiders as big as this here. I think it must have followed me here from the U.S...from Texas probably (I'm made to understand everything is bigger there). It wasn't moving and looked as if it had been smushed by the door, so I made the assumption it was dead and closed the door on it. Then I grabbed the cat food, went out the front door (after very carefully checking the entire doorway for spiders, because if I missed something and then came back and there was one outside THAT door I wouldn't be able to get back in the house), walked halfway across the island to the common entrance to the marina, and then all the way back to their garden while muttering "ohgodohgodohgod" with my heart trying to escape from my chest the entire time to feed the goddamn cat. I am now back in my own house, have texted StereoNinja to inform him that I am NEVER GOING IN THE GARDEN EVER AGAIN. I am checking everything in the house for spiders before I touch it (I looked inside the Dorito bag) and experiencing a mild to moderate level of general panic that I know will subside gradually over the next few days UNLESS another spider appears.
What I hate about this phobia is not so much that it controls where I can go and what I can do - there are work arounds for that, obviously, as I've just walked clear across an island to feet a cat sitting 30 feet from my backyard - but the (I assume, I'm not a psychiatrist) post traumatic stress that I end up living with for days, sometimes weeks at a time. And the effect is cumulative: seeing another spider in that state doesn't just extend how long it lasts but heightens that feeling. I was already in that state before the incident today from a small spider I saw on the outside of my car a few days ago. I've walked the two miles into town twice since then rather have to face getting in my car. I tell myself I'm getting exercise, but I'm really just paralyzed by the thought that if it has gotten in the car I'll be trapped with it and no one can help me.
It's the worst time of year for me. Spring is when all the spiders come back, and just to reiterate, I live IN a river. In the past few weeks, I've seen StereoNinja lunge across a room to step on a spider I hadn't seen yet and go into the toilet and immediately come back out again to get the bug spray before going back in there calling over his shoulder "I didn't just see three spiders in there." I've seen two in my bedroom when he wasn't home that I had to spray myself before texting completely insane yet wholly serious messages to him: that I needed him to remove their dead bodies when he got home and then burn our duvet, or that I was moving to France. And now it's effecting him too. He used to see a spider and not have any sort of reaction at all but now when he sees one he has almost a fear response - not of the spider itself but more like "Oh god holy shit there's a spider in the house kill it immediately before Amber finds out AAAAGGHHHH".
Ugh. You guys. IT WAS SO FUCKING BIG and it was ALMOST INSIDE MY HOUSE. I don't know how to stop thinking about it. Even the "research" I'm doing on "extreme" pornography for my next paper isn't helping me. SINCE WHEN CAN I NOT CONCENTRATE ON PORN?
What I hate about this phobia is not so much that it controls where I can go and what I can do - there are work arounds for that, obviously, as I've just walked clear across an island to feet a cat sitting 30 feet from my backyard - but the (I assume, I'm not a psychiatrist) post traumatic stress that I end up living with for days, sometimes weeks at a time. And the effect is cumulative: seeing another spider in that state doesn't just extend how long it lasts but heightens that feeling. I was already in that state before the incident today from a small spider I saw on the outside of my car a few days ago. I've walked the two miles into town twice since then rather have to face getting in my car. I tell myself I'm getting exercise, but I'm really just paralyzed by the thought that if it has gotten in the car I'll be trapped with it and no one can help me.
It's the worst time of year for me. Spring is when all the spiders come back, and just to reiterate, I live IN a river. In the past few weeks, I've seen StereoNinja lunge across a room to step on a spider I hadn't seen yet and go into the toilet and immediately come back out again to get the bug spray before going back in there calling over his shoulder "I didn't just see three spiders in there." I've seen two in my bedroom when he wasn't home that I had to spray myself before texting completely insane yet wholly serious messages to him: that I needed him to remove their dead bodies when he got home and then burn our duvet, or that I was moving to France. And now it's effecting him too. He used to see a spider and not have any sort of reaction at all but now when he sees one he has almost a fear response - not of the spider itself but more like "Oh god holy shit there's a spider in the house kill it immediately before Amber finds out AAAAGGHHHH".
Ugh. You guys. IT WAS SO FUCKING BIG and it was ALMOST INSIDE MY HOUSE. I don't know how to stop thinking about it. Even the "research" I'm doing on "extreme" pornography for my next paper isn't helping me. SINCE WHEN CAN I NOT CONCENTRATE ON PORN?
Sunday, August 26, 2012
They Are Mobilizing
Current status - Wide awake at 3 in the morning in my bed with all the lights on and writing a blog post on my iPad. My laptop would be easier, but it's in the living room and I can't get it. Why? Because the spider was or is still in there.
My newest readers probably don't know this yet, but spiders have been trying to kill me for years, and recently they seem to have stepped up their game considerably.
They started with psychological warfare. This is partly my fault for letting Mrs. Sizemore talk me into a midnight showing of The Amazing Spider-Man, but seriously, I'd already seen the Toby Maguire version and was expecting a similar origin scene - a single cartoonishly blue and red spider gets out and bites him. It's not the best thing for me to watch, but I can handle it. What I was not expecting was an origin scene where Peter Parker winds up covered in HUNDREDS of realistic spiders, and that the one that bit him would keep popping up in AT LEAST three more scenes. I did my best to look at the floor, but the damage was already done, and that, THAT is all the opening they need. What followed was a good three weeks of nearly daily nightmares about spiders, no doubt beamed there through the crack in my psyche from some secret laboratory on the other side of my bedroom wall.
Once they had me on the ropes, the invasion started. First they sent a scout, one of their allies, a centipede. It showed up in my bathroom one day, running full speed up the shower curtain I had JUST HAD MY HAND ON like a giant asshole moustache. The bartender found it later that day and put it outside instead of killing it like a sane person. THAT WAS EXACTLY WHAT THEY WANTED. He obviously reported back to them because next came the vanguard. While the bartender was away, I decided to make some cookie dough for dinner one night, but on opening the cabinet, a smallish black spider came running out and I screamed and ran away and vowed not to go back in the kitchen until the bartender came home. I decided to take a bath instead, since I was broken from stretching class. But as soon as I put the bathmat on the floor, the kitchen spider's identical buddy came crawling up the side of the tub. This was FIVE MINUTES after the kitchen thing happened. I managed to wash him down the drain (and then ran scalding hot water down it until there was no more hot water), but there was nothing I could do about kitchen spider except retreat to my room and lay in bed obsessing about all the ways it could have gotten ON ME.
This evening, after the bartender had left for work, because they know that I am UNDEFENDED, a spider came running across the living room floor I had JUST BEEN SITTING ON. Angela saw it and pounced, but unlike Kristen the angel kitty who would have eaten it immediately, Angela is Furry Satan and prefers to torture the bugs she finds to the point of madness without ever killing them. I texted the situation to the bartender at work, suddenly remembering that I'd heard the bartender kill one the prior morning when I was in bed and still half asleep. He helpfully texted back that in addition to that one, he'd killed two other spiders in the last two days, a fact I absolutely could have done without knowing THANK YOU VERY MUCH.
So that's where things stand right now - six spiders and a centipede in my house in the last two weeks, all trying to get ON ME, the latest of which was being tortured into a murderous rage by my asshole cat who SUCKS at protecting me, and my roommate not due home for at least three more hours. I'll almost certainly be dead by the time he gets here. He'll come in my room to tell me about his night only to find my half-eaten corpse laying on the bed next to a note that reads "I TOLD YOU SO" and an army of evil arachnids standing on top of me in an arrangement that spells out "VICTORY!" It has always been just a matter of time before they finally got me.
It was a pleasure writing for you all.
UPDATE: Angela threw up this morning. The bartender theorized that perhaps she had eaten the spider. But I know her and she doesn't eat things, so I wasn't having it. "No she didn't," I told him. "I bet it spit poison on her! They were trying to neutralized the threat so they could get ON ME." Knowing I was already beyond hope, he immediately gave up and went to bed.
SECOND UPDATE: Now he's trying to tell me that all the spiders and centipedes lately are probably from when our neighbors cut down three huge trees in their yard, and all the critters that lived there are looking for someplace else to go. Yeah, sure. THAT IS EXACTLY WHAT THEY WANT ME TO THINK.
THIRD UPDATE (8/29): I came home from class about an hour ago, and had just settled in on the couch with some delicious cheese and pretzels to watch Futurama when something on the ceiling caught my eye. GUESS WHAT IT WAS. The worst part was I had to sit in the room with it for 45 minutes waiting for the bartender to wake up and rescue me. It was an epic staring contest. He was thinking: "Go on, blink. Close your eyes for a split second, it's all I need." I was talking out loud to it: "You'd better not move. Do not start moving, you dick." He evaded the bartender's first two attempts to kill him, and wound up falling on the floor, causing me to jump up and run to the other end of the room. He was finally squished just before the cat got to him and she is NOT PLEASED that we broke her toy, so now I have two murderous animals to worry about. SEVEN. SEVEN IN JUST OVER A WEEK.
My newest readers probably don't know this yet, but spiders have been trying to kill me for years, and recently they seem to have stepped up their game considerably.
They started with psychological warfare. This is partly my fault for letting Mrs. Sizemore talk me into a midnight showing of The Amazing Spider-Man, but seriously, I'd already seen the Toby Maguire version and was expecting a similar origin scene - a single cartoonishly blue and red spider gets out and bites him. It's not the best thing for me to watch, but I can handle it. What I was not expecting was an origin scene where Peter Parker winds up covered in HUNDREDS of realistic spiders, and that the one that bit him would keep popping up in AT LEAST three more scenes. I did my best to look at the floor, but the damage was already done, and that, THAT is all the opening they need. What followed was a good three weeks of nearly daily nightmares about spiders, no doubt beamed there through the crack in my psyche from some secret laboratory on the other side of my bedroom wall.
Once they had me on the ropes, the invasion started. First they sent a scout, one of their allies, a centipede. It showed up in my bathroom one day, running full speed up the shower curtain I had JUST HAD MY HAND ON like a giant asshole moustache. The bartender found it later that day and put it outside instead of killing it like a sane person. THAT WAS EXACTLY WHAT THEY WANTED. He obviously reported back to them because next came the vanguard. While the bartender was away, I decided to make some cookie dough for dinner one night, but on opening the cabinet, a smallish black spider came running out and I screamed and ran away and vowed not to go back in the kitchen until the bartender came home. I decided to take a bath instead, since I was broken from stretching class. But as soon as I put the bathmat on the floor, the kitchen spider's identical buddy came crawling up the side of the tub. This was FIVE MINUTES after the kitchen thing happened. I managed to wash him down the drain (and then ran scalding hot water down it until there was no more hot water), but there was nothing I could do about kitchen spider except retreat to my room and lay in bed obsessing about all the ways it could have gotten ON ME.
This evening, after the bartender had left for work, because they know that I am UNDEFENDED, a spider came running across the living room floor I had JUST BEEN SITTING ON. Angela saw it and pounced, but unlike Kristen the angel kitty who would have eaten it immediately, Angela is Furry Satan and prefers to torture the bugs she finds to the point of madness without ever killing them. I texted the situation to the bartender at work, suddenly remembering that I'd heard the bartender kill one the prior morning when I was in bed and still half asleep. He helpfully texted back that in addition to that one, he'd killed two other spiders in the last two days, a fact I absolutely could have done without knowing THANK YOU VERY MUCH.
So that's where things stand right now - six spiders and a centipede in my house in the last two weeks, all trying to get ON ME, the latest of which was being tortured into a murderous rage by my asshole cat who SUCKS at protecting me, and my roommate not due home for at least three more hours. I'll almost certainly be dead by the time he gets here. He'll come in my room to tell me about his night only to find my half-eaten corpse laying on the bed next to a note that reads "I TOLD YOU SO" and an army of evil arachnids standing on top of me in an arrangement that spells out "VICTORY!" It has always been just a matter of time before they finally got me.
It was a pleasure writing for you all.
UPDATE: Angela threw up this morning. The bartender theorized that perhaps she had eaten the spider. But I know her and she doesn't eat things, so I wasn't having it. "No she didn't," I told him. "I bet it spit poison on her! They were trying to neutralized the threat so they could get ON ME." Knowing I was already beyond hope, he immediately gave up and went to bed.
SECOND UPDATE: Now he's trying to tell me that all the spiders and centipedes lately are probably from when our neighbors cut down three huge trees in their yard, and all the critters that lived there are looking for someplace else to go. Yeah, sure. THAT IS EXACTLY WHAT THEY WANT ME TO THINK.
THIRD UPDATE (8/29): I came home from class about an hour ago, and had just settled in on the couch with some delicious cheese and pretzels to watch Futurama when something on the ceiling caught my eye. GUESS WHAT IT WAS. The worst part was I had to sit in the room with it for 45 minutes waiting for the bartender to wake up and rescue me. It was an epic staring contest. He was thinking: "Go on, blink. Close your eyes for a split second, it's all I need." I was talking out loud to it: "You'd better not move. Do not start moving, you dick." He evaded the bartender's first two attempts to kill him, and wound up falling on the floor, causing me to jump up and run to the other end of the room. He was finally squished just before the cat got to him and she is NOT PLEASED that we broke her toy, so now I have two murderous animals to worry about. SEVEN. SEVEN IN JUST OVER A WEEK.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
I've Got Your Dime Right Here
This is not a post about my cat. Having said that, my evil cat is a tortoiseshell, which if you know anything about torties goes a long way toward explaining why she is so evil. When she sits back on her haunches, her particular brindle pattern makes it look like she's wearing a pair of light brown trousers. This is what I was looking at during dinner this evening that triggered me to start singing to her "I love furry pants, so come on and sit back and lick your paws" to the tune of "I Love Rock and Roll". And that in turn caused me to realize why that song has always bothered me.
I turned to the bartender, who is somewhat older than I am, and asked "Hey, was there a time you can remember when songs played on the jukebox cost a dime? Because I only ever remember them being a quarter. So, like, did she say 'dime' in that song because they used to cost a dime or because 'quarter' had too many syllables?"
The bartender is pretty used to my bizarre conversational tangents by now and has learned it's better to just play along. "They've always been a quarter in my lifetime," he replied kindly while thinking in his head Oh Jesus, not again.
"That's what I thought. We need someone older that can be like 'Hey, back in the 50's a song on the jukebox cost a nickel!' or whatever, but I mean, if it's a right-number-of-syllables issue then 'nickel' doesn't work either. But that still wouldn't make sense because that song is from the 80's and you just said in the 80's songs were a quarter. She wouldn't remember songs costing a dime. So what the hell? That's false advertising! It costs TWO AND A HALF TIMES as much to love rock and roll as what she's telling people!"
The bartender chewed his steak thoughtfully for a moment to give me time to stew and then sagely changed the subject back to the cat in an effort to stop my brain from derailing entirely. It worked for about 10 minutes and then we had this exchange: "She was doing that thing today where she just keeps coming in the room to wake me up and then when she knows I'm awake she walks out of the room again."
"She's so shitty when she's mad."
"And then she went and got one of her bottle caps to bring it in my room and bat it around so I couldn't go back to sleep."
"See, the way it should work is, songs should cost different amounts based on their quality. Like, if you want to play a disco song on the jukebox that should cost a dollar and REAL songs should be a quarter. Or a dime! There should be a premium applied for subjecting the people around you to shitty music is my point."
There was a long pause while I waited for him to agree with my obviously brilliant plan, but all he said was "Wow, you're still on that. Oh well, I tried."
I turned to the bartender, who is somewhat older than I am, and asked "Hey, was there a time you can remember when songs played on the jukebox cost a dime? Because I only ever remember them being a quarter. So, like, did she say 'dime' in that song because they used to cost a dime or because 'quarter' had too many syllables?"
The bartender is pretty used to my bizarre conversational tangents by now and has learned it's better to just play along. "They've always been a quarter in my lifetime," he replied kindly while thinking in his head Oh Jesus, not again.
"That's what I thought. We need someone older that can be like 'Hey, back in the 50's a song on the jukebox cost a nickel!' or whatever, but I mean, if it's a right-number-of-syllables issue then 'nickel' doesn't work either. But that still wouldn't make sense because that song is from the 80's and you just said in the 80's songs were a quarter. She wouldn't remember songs costing a dime. So what the hell? That's false advertising! It costs TWO AND A HALF TIMES as much to love rock and roll as what she's telling people!"
The bartender chewed his steak thoughtfully for a moment to give me time to stew and then sagely changed the subject back to the cat in an effort to stop my brain from derailing entirely. It worked for about 10 minutes and then we had this exchange: "She was doing that thing today where she just keeps coming in the room to wake me up and then when she knows I'm awake she walks out of the room again."
"She's so shitty when she's mad."
"And then she went and got one of her bottle caps to bring it in my room and bat it around so I couldn't go back to sleep."
"See, the way it should work is, songs should cost different amounts based on their quality. Like, if you want to play a disco song on the jukebox that should cost a dollar and REAL songs should be a quarter. Or a dime! There should be a premium applied for subjecting the people around you to shitty music is my point."
There was a long pause while I waited for him to agree with my obviously brilliant plan, but all he said was "Wow, you're still on that. Oh well, I tried."
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Stitchus Interruptus
Back before my angel kitty Kristen died, we used to spend the cold winter nights cuddled up on the couch together. There was usually some football on or something. I would be cross-stitching some dorky Christmas thing and Kristen would lay in my lap on top of a blanket and calmly watch either me or the television (depending on which way she was facing) and purr contentedly. These are some of my favorite memories of her.
Now I know, I KNOW that it's a bad idea to compare my new cat to my old one because they are two completely different cats, and I love Angela just as much as I loved Kristen. But I was really really hoping that, like Kristen, Angie would enjoy laying in mommy's nice warm lap at night while she was sewing. What I did not take into account is that my new cat is a minion of the devil. I can't sew at home anymore unless I wait for her to fall asleep. This is because if she sees me with thread, her reaction is to glare at me as if to say "WTF? All string in the house is MINE!" before launching herself at me and ferociously attacking my stitching. EVERY DAMN TIME. She's lucky it's the 40 Days of Christmas, otherwise the next thing I'd be sewing is a tiny kitty straight jacket.
Now I know, I KNOW that it's a bad idea to compare my new cat to my old one because they are two completely different cats, and I love Angela just as much as I loved Kristen. But I was really really hoping that, like Kristen, Angie would enjoy laying in mommy's nice warm lap at night while she was sewing. What I did not take into account is that my new cat is a minion of the devil. I can't sew at home anymore unless I wait for her to fall asleep. This is because if she sees me with thread, her reaction is to glare at me as if to say "WTF? All string in the house is MINE!" before launching herself at me and ferociously attacking my stitching. EVERY DAMN TIME. She's lucky it's the 40 Days of Christmas, otherwise the next thing I'd be sewing is a tiny kitty straight jacket.
Wednesday, July 08, 2009
Amberance: Victorious
H-town: be jealous, i get to work with a tortie all day today
me: be jealous, i polished a miniature toilet last night
H-town: wtf
hahahah
ok, you win
me: be jealous, i polished a miniature toilet last night
H-town: wtf
hahahah
ok, you win
Wednesday, April 01, 2009
Ready For Prime Time
Last night after several hours of wrestling with my kitten in an attempt to get her to stop sucking on my neck and kneading my trachea so I could sleep (and breathe), I finally fell asleep only to be reawakened 30 minutes later at 2 a.m. The bartender was home 2 hours early and was talking under his breath, at first appearances to himself. Moments later I realized he was actually talking to a second, as yet unidentified person. I would have been touched that they were keeping their voices down to keep from waking me, were it not for the fact that they were simultaneously ripping packaging tape off of what sounded like an enormous cardboard box three feet from my bedroom door. A most hilarious fail.
Anyway, long story even longer, the mystery voice turned out to be the owner, and the mysterious box contained a 42 inch 1080p flat panel television. Inexplicably, this television turned out to be a completely random gift for me from the bartender.* He had apparently decided that I "needed" this to be able to watch football correctly. I am overwhelmed and completely bewildered. I am also certain that my roommate is awesome and possibly quite a bit more crazy than I thought.
*The huge cardboard box and giant Styrofoam blocks became a gift for Angela, who immediately commandeered them and built herself an enormous kitty fort taking up half the usable floor space in my living room.
Anyway, long story even longer, the mystery voice turned out to be the owner, and the mysterious box contained a 42 inch 1080p flat panel television. Inexplicably, this television turned out to be a completely random gift for me from the bartender.* He had apparently decided that I "needed" this to be able to watch football correctly. I am overwhelmed and completely bewildered. I am also certain that my roommate is awesome and possibly quite a bit more crazy than I thought.
*The huge cardboard box and giant Styrofoam blocks became a gift for Angela, who immediately commandeered them and built herself an enormous kitty fort taking up half the usable floor space in my living room.
Thursday, March 05, 2009
Kitty At My Foot And I Want To Touch It
It's been a hectic week, and here is the reason:
The animal you don't see is a tortoiseshell kitten named Angela, who recently moved into the Chateau de Chubs (colloquially known as Amber's apartment). The reason you can't see her is that she is 12 weeks old and therefore not inclined to sit stillfor photography purposes at any time. I assure you she is cute in the my-eyeballs-are-melting-and-i'm going-to-vomit-pink-flowers-while-having-a-heart-attack sense of the word "cute".
Angie enjoys chasing anything that moves or looks like it could move, any basin meant to contain water (until she gets wet), attempting to suckle from my neck, standing on my face when I'm trying to sleep, trying to jump on the stove, walking on my laptop keyboard and combing my hair with her tiny paws.
The agent and the bartender are completely smitten with her. I have to be vigilant or one of them will certainly catnap her. And as for the rest of you, I'm not telling you where I live.
The animal you don't see is a tortoiseshell kitten named Angela, who recently moved into the Chateau de Chubs (colloquially known as Amber's apartment). The reason you can't see her is that she is 12 weeks old and therefore not inclined to sit still
Angie enjoys chasing anything that moves or looks like it could move, any basin meant to contain water (until she gets wet), attempting to suckle from my neck, standing on my face when I'm trying to sleep, trying to jump on the stove, walking on my laptop keyboard and combing my hair with her tiny paws.
The agent and the bartender are completely smitten with her. I have to be vigilant or one of them will certainly catnap her. And as for the rest of you, I'm not telling you where I live.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Kitty Report
There were no cats I just HAD to have this morning, which is good because it's not time yet to have a cat (which I discovered by trying to picture the tortie kitten walking through my kitchen and promptly bursting into tears because it's Kristen's kitchen). There was another tortoise shell kitten who had convinced herself that my neck and head were her personal jungle gym, but the cat of the day was a black ca in the adult room. As soon as he saw me sit down, he came running over and aggressively claimed my lap. Which is to say, he slapped the crap out of any other cat who tried to get near me. I tried to pet his head, but as soon as I touched him he turned around and bit me. After that he growled at me every time my hand got near him. Apparently he's not affectionate - he just wants the lap.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Cat Shelter Volunteering
You know you're bound to be the crazy cat lady someday when you walk into a room with 20 cats who surround you, meowing for food like something out of The Twilight Zone and you think to yourself, "This. Is. Awesome."
I am in love with a kitten (who has already been adopted) who tried to climb me like a tree, and an orange tabby with a gigantic head.
I am in love with a kitten (who has already been adopted) who tried to climb me like a tree, and an orange tabby with a gigantic head.
Friday, September 26, 2008
Conversations
I know what I like.
Mrs. Sizemore: how do you feel about pugs?
Me: The dogs?
I'm not into dogs, in general.
They are too not a cat.
It was fun while it lasted Browns Fans.
H-town: so, have you approached my brother's feelings on football?
per him: "I hate the Browns."
Me: that it is a heartbreaking exercise in futility designed to sap my will to live and leave me a
soulless husk? yes
*****
H-town: so you think romeo's going to get the boot soon?
me: I think he's made poor decisions all year so far. And I think starting Quinn is not the answer
so something else has to be
H-town: how about starting you?
you could do well
me: sure, aside from that can't throw a football to save my life thing
H-town: i'm sure you could take a hit from a 300lb lineman.
you're pretty tough
me: there's a sex joke in there somewhere, but i can't quite grasp it
Oversharing.
The bartender (watching football, needs one more score for the over): If they run this kickoff
back for a touchdown, I will whack off.
Me: Yeah. Wait, what?
Mrs. Sizemore: how do you feel about pugs?
Me: The dogs?
I'm not into dogs, in general.
They are too not a cat.
It was fun while it lasted Browns Fans.
H-town: so, have you approached my brother's feelings on football?
per him: "I hate the Browns."
Me: that it is a heartbreaking exercise in futility designed to sap my will to live and leave me a
soulless husk? yes
*****
H-town: so you think romeo's going to get the boot soon?
me: I think he's made poor decisions all year so far. And I think starting Quinn is not the answer
so something else has to be
H-town: how about starting you?
you could do well
me: sure, aside from that can't throw a football to save my life thing
H-town: i'm sure you could take a hit from a 300lb lineman.
you're pretty tough
me: there's a sex joke in there somewhere, but i can't quite grasp it
Oversharing.
The bartender (watching football, needs one more score for the over): If they run this kickoff
back for a touchdown, I will whack off.
Me: Yeah. Wait, what?
Monday, August 11, 2008
R.I.P. Kristen Ann
Sorry about the lack of posting. I spent the last two months or so focusing on Kristen the angel cat. Caring for a kitty in end stage renal failure takes a great deal of time and effort. It is the hardest thing I've ever done in my life. Posting was not a priority. In the end we couldn't stop her decline, and so my pretty princess died on July 30. I'll get back to regular posting as soon as I can.
Tuesday, July 08, 2008
Levity
Not funny: Learning that your beloved kitty is in kidney failure. Also: stabbing her with a needle every day to administer vital fluids that are keeping her alive.
Funny: The process of explaining this to your boyfriend.
Me: I have to give her subcutaneous injections every day.
The agent: What?
Me: Subcutaneous. It means under the skin.
The agent. Under the what?
Me: Skin.
The agent: Oh! I thought you said "ceiling".
Me: No. Cats don't have ceilings.
Funny: The process of explaining this to your boyfriend.
Me: I have to give her subcutaneous injections every day.
The agent: What?
Me: Subcutaneous. It means under the skin.
The agent. Under the what?
Me: Skin.
The agent: Oh! I thought you said "ceiling".
Me: No. Cats don't have ceilings.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Friday, March 28, 2008
Thursday, January 25, 2007
Kitty Woes, Hangovers and the Miracle of Ceramic Tile
I keep not posting my birthday party highlights. The reason is that I'm not in the mood.
I took Kristen the kitty angel of joy to the vet on Friday for her routine annual exam only to find out that she has a tumor in her mouth and needs a $700 dollar surgery to get it out. And then we have to send it to a lab to find out if there's cancer in that thar tumor or not. As if this wasn't frightening enough, they were concerned that she might not survive surgery with her heart condition, so I had to take her for another echocardiogram before they would clear her for surgery. So now my cat has a cardiologist. (Maybe I'm overthinking this, but how does a person decide they want to be a kitty cardiologist? I can see how people decide to become a veterinarian: "I love animals! I should work with them!", but how do you go from that to, "I love animals! I should work with them! But just their hearts."? Or maybe they just find out in vet school that they're good at it? I just don't know.) The cardiologist said her heart was doing very well on her medication and in fact should continue to do well for years before she starts showing signs of heart failure. So she has that going for her. Of course, she charmed everybody in the place with her sweet disposition and tiny frightened meows, because that is what she does. So she is cleared for surgery, which will occur on Tuesday.
So, not really in a party recap mood you understand.
This is not to say there haven't been some smiling times. When I got home from the vet on Friday with my awful news, I sobbed for an hour on the bartender. He did his best to be comforting, but he had to go to work. That was ok, because I had a plan for the evening: get obnoxiously drunk and pass out.
People that know me well know that despite most of my social life occurring inside of a bar, I actually drink very little. Two to three ciders once a week spread over 5 hours is my typical limit. In hindsight, I should have taken that into consideration before deciding to drink an entire bottle of wine by myself. In an hour and a half. Melle informed me later "you have to work your way up to being a wino." Oops.
Halfway through the bottle I remembered to call MrSteve, who knew I was at the vet and was waiting for the story. I also explained my excessive drinking plan, thinking he would try to talk me out of my self destruction. Instead he said "I have a bottle of Captain just sitting here that I've never opened. I should bring it to you!" I seriously have the best friends in the universe.
MrSteve ended up staying, I think as much to prevent me from seriously injuring myself as anything, and we had a grand old time looking up Monty Python sketches, eulogies, and Bob the Enzyte guy on the internet, as well as MST3K-ing an episode of Numbers. I also spoke to Melle on the phone while MrSteve made pirate noises in the background. Apparently I spilled things a lot. (I do that sober though, just not on other people as much. Sorry Steve.) We took in a little William Shatner music.
I woke up on the bathroom floor. I have been known to do this before. It's a tradition that started at the Christmas Eve Eve Drinking Extravaganza of 1999 (I believe. Kelly? Doug? Simmy?) and continued at the 25th Anniversary of the Birth of TupperDoug party a few years later. Since then I've found that sleeping on the bathroom floor is good because 1) if you have to ralph you are right next to the toilet and 2) the floor is nice and cool which paradoxally helps to keep you from vomiting. Also "and then I woke up on the bathroom floor" is a great way to end a story. I've got the bartender doing it now too which is hilarious.
Thanks to my bathroom tile sleeping ways I did not vomit. This proved to be a mistake the next day when I woke up certain that I was dying. My head, stomach, liver, esophagus and inner ear fluid mutinied. Several other organs tried to escape. I did not even need to swallow any water. I could just pour it on my skin and my body absorbed it instantly. I looked on the bright side - I was obviously not cut out to be an alcoholic. In the future I plan to drown my sorrow by eating an entire block of cheese instead.
I promise I will get to the birthday thing, what with the appearance of the brothers whose last name rhymes with "shmongola" and the forcing people to sing and the light saber appearing as drug paraphernalia. Eventually.
I took Kristen the kitty angel of joy to the vet on Friday for her routine annual exam only to find out that she has a tumor in her mouth and needs a $700 dollar surgery to get it out. And then we have to send it to a lab to find out if there's cancer in that thar tumor or not. As if this wasn't frightening enough, they were concerned that she might not survive surgery with her heart condition, so I had to take her for another echocardiogram before they would clear her for surgery. So now my cat has a cardiologist. (Maybe I'm overthinking this, but how does a person decide they want to be a kitty cardiologist? I can see how people decide to become a veterinarian: "I love animals! I should work with them!", but how do you go from that to, "I love animals! I should work with them! But just their hearts."? Or maybe they just find out in vet school that they're good at it? I just don't know.) The cardiologist said her heart was doing very well on her medication and in fact should continue to do well for years before she starts showing signs of heart failure. So she has that going for her. Of course, she charmed everybody in the place with her sweet disposition and tiny frightened meows, because that is what she does. So she is cleared for surgery, which will occur on Tuesday.
So, not really in a party recap mood you understand.
This is not to say there haven't been some smiling times. When I got home from the vet on Friday with my awful news, I sobbed for an hour on the bartender. He did his best to be comforting, but he had to go to work. That was ok, because I had a plan for the evening: get obnoxiously drunk and pass out.
People that know me well know that despite most of my social life occurring inside of a bar, I actually drink very little. Two to three ciders once a week spread over 5 hours is my typical limit. In hindsight, I should have taken that into consideration before deciding to drink an entire bottle of wine by myself. In an hour and a half. Melle informed me later "you have to work your way up to being a wino." Oops.
Halfway through the bottle I remembered to call MrSteve, who knew I was at the vet and was waiting for the story. I also explained my excessive drinking plan, thinking he would try to talk me out of my self destruction. Instead he said "I have a bottle of Captain just sitting here that I've never opened. I should bring it to you!" I seriously have the best friends in the universe.
MrSteve ended up staying, I think as much to prevent me from seriously injuring myself as anything, and we had a grand old time looking up Monty Python sketches, eulogies, and Bob the Enzyte guy on the internet, as well as MST3K-ing an episode of Numbers. I also spoke to Melle on the phone while MrSteve made pirate noises in the background. Apparently I spilled things a lot. (I do that sober though, just not on other people as much. Sorry Steve.) We took in a little William Shatner music.
I woke up on the bathroom floor. I have been known to do this before. It's a tradition that started at the Christmas Eve Eve Drinking Extravaganza of 1999 (I believe. Kelly? Doug? Simmy?) and continued at the 25th Anniversary of the Birth of TupperDoug party a few years later. Since then I've found that sleeping on the bathroom floor is good because 1) if you have to ralph you are right next to the toilet and 2) the floor is nice and cool which paradoxally helps to keep you from vomiting. Also "and then I woke up on the bathroom floor" is a great way to end a story. I've got the bartender doing it now too which is hilarious.
Thanks to my bathroom tile sleeping ways I did not vomit. This proved to be a mistake the next day when I woke up certain that I was dying. My head, stomach, liver, esophagus and inner ear fluid mutinied. Several other organs tried to escape. I did not even need to swallow any water. I could just pour it on my skin and my body absorbed it instantly. I looked on the bright side - I was obviously not cut out to be an alcoholic. In the future I plan to drown my sorrow by eating an entire block of cheese instead.
I promise I will get to the birthday thing, what with the appearance of the brothers whose last name rhymes with "shmongola" and the forcing people to sing and the light saber appearing as drug paraphernalia. Eventually.
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
Dude, Where's My Tail?
Krissy woke me up the other morning for food and petting as she always does. I lay there petting her for a while, and then she decided it was time for breakfast and gracefully leapt off my bed and onto the floor. This got me thinking about an old episode of Star Trek: Next Generation in which Data writes a poem for his cat, Spot. Specifically this line:
"A tail is quite essential for your acrobatic talents; you would not be so agile if you lacked its counterbalance."
File this one under Amber's More Bizarre Thoughts if you must. But I suddenly became very concerned about the whereabouts of my tail. What happened to it? Where did it go? And when? I started listing the other mammals I could think of that had tails: monkeys of course, and cats, dogs, cows, giraffes, pigs, even whales. But I am a mammal and I have no tail. What gives?
The obvious answer, of course, is that humans don't need tails. Which is fair enough, but it doesn't explain the cows. What is a cows tail for? It doesn't help with balance or propel it through water or anything. All they do is use it to swat at flies. I mean, that's barely even useful. But I could use it for that too, if I had one. It would be nice to have something to smack at mosquitoes with when I have a beer in one hand and a beanbag in the other, no?
The bartender did not want to have this conversation with me (shocking, I know). "We never had tails," he announced. "We came from apes. Apes don't have tails."
"But they DID," I argued. "Once upon a time humans apes, monkeys - we were all they same. Now some of us have tails and some of us don't. It's totally unfair."
I want my tail back. I have a tailbone, what is the point of that if I'm not going to also have a corresponding tail? Seriously, I think we got gyped.
"A tail is quite essential for your acrobatic talents; you would not be so agile if you lacked its counterbalance."
File this one under Amber's More Bizarre Thoughts if you must. But I suddenly became very concerned about the whereabouts of my tail. What happened to it? Where did it go? And when? I started listing the other mammals I could think of that had tails: monkeys of course, and cats, dogs, cows, giraffes, pigs, even whales. But I am a mammal and I have no tail. What gives?
The obvious answer, of course, is that humans don't need tails. Which is fair enough, but it doesn't explain the cows. What is a cows tail for? It doesn't help with balance or propel it through water or anything. All they do is use it to swat at flies. I mean, that's barely even useful. But I could use it for that too, if I had one. It would be nice to have something to smack at mosquitoes with when I have a beer in one hand and a beanbag in the other, no?
The bartender did not want to have this conversation with me (shocking, I know). "We never had tails," he announced. "We came from apes. Apes don't have tails."
"But they DID," I argued. "Once upon a time humans apes, monkeys - we were all they same. Now some of us have tails and some of us don't. It's totally unfair."
I want my tail back. I have a tailbone, what is the point of that if I'm not going to also have a corresponding tail? Seriously, I think we got gyped.
Friday, May 05, 2006
Amberance Reviews the Internet
You may have noticed that my blog has no permanent links in the sidebar. There are several reasons for this. For one thing, I don't understand the etiquette of the linking thing. Do you link to all your friends or just the ones you actually think are funny? What about people who link to your blog that you don't read? Do you have to link them back? If you don't will they get mad and unlink you? The whole thing makes me nervous. Mostly though, I'm just too lazy to go into the template and change the code.
There are, however, a whole bunch of really neato things out on the internet that I'd really like to share. So rather than do the work of adding them all in a sidebar, I'm just going to write a normal, run of the mill post and review them for you here. Aren't you excited? Right. Anyway, in no particular order:
Are you like me and 73%* of the other Americans who are completely addicted to Sudoku? Then for God's sake man, DO NOT CLICK THIS LINK! Billions of free Sudoku puzzles to be solved, all online, all the time. Not only that, but it will keep track of how many games you've played and your average solving time. AND it gives you stats as to how well you stack up in time against the other Sudoku addicts (provided you don't mess up, dummy). For crying out loud, do not do this to yourself.
Having a bad day? Life got you down? Then may I suggest The Daily Kitten. Every day at 10:07 a.m. Eastern, you will find a brand new photograph of someone's sickeningly adorable kitten doing something sickening adorable. It is impossible to not be happy after checking out these kittens. Beware of this site if you feel you are in danger of becoming the crazy cat lady, because this is the site that will push you over the edge. You've been warned.
Speaking of cats, did you know they have their own MySpace thingy? They do. It's called Catster and there are dozens of cute kitties there with pictures and ratings and even their own blogs if they want (and can type). I bring this to your attention because of my addiction to The Travails by Tuesday the Cat. You may know Tuesday from her cameos on Heather's blog, but I bet you didn't know she was a writer herself. Aside from her astute observations about birds and humans, her sage advice can be solicited every Friday in her inspiring advice column. I recommend her latest advice on what a cat would do with a million dollars where she brilliantly equates wisdom with the ability to fit into small spaces.
While we're at it with Heather, you can thank her (profusely) for introducing me to this completely insane story called John Dies at the End by David Wong. Filled with meat monsters, exploding people, talking dogs, Fred Durst, and people gleefully ripping off their own limbs, you will never be so frightened and confused while laughing this hard in your life. If you like it, I recommend buying the paperback as well. We should be supporting David Wong so that he can afford to buy the drugs that will make an equally brilliant sequel possible.
I believe I may have mentioned before my favorite web comic Cyanide and Happiness. But did you know they are now doing Cyanide and Happiness animated shorts? You can laugh your balls off here and here. I think there are other things to do on this website, but I haven't actually checked them out. Sorry about that.
If you enjoy any of the following:
punk rock
supporting new music
swearing
creative insults
British accents and/or people
making fun of emo kids
purple burglar alarms**
alone or in combination, I strongly suggest you check out the world's most hilarious podcast, Punky Radio. It is hosted by Paul B Edwards and Tony Hearn, who also do a show called "Punk and Disorderly" on Mansfield 103.2 FM. That's in England. I've never heard it, because I don't live in England, but I'm sure it's great, though probably has much less swearing and general douchebagotry. You can subscribe to the podcast via Podcast Alley or iTunes or probably however you want really. If you visit Podcast Alley please vote for them, as there are some goofy crybaby emo kids who desperately need to get bitch-slapped. Also leave a comment, because if it doesn't suck they'll read it on the show. The Punky! website has links to everything, including websites for most of the bands they play and their MySpace page. Rock on, smacktards.
A perfect blend of wackiness and sarcasm is a rare thing to find, which is why I was so freakin pleased when I discovered The Sneeze. Steve is a comedy-nerd genius, from his experiments with chocolate breast milk in Steve, Don't Eat It! to his recent assertion that cookies are "the tits of food". I would especially recommend any post involving his son.
So there you have it: everything worth checking out on the Internet (besides porn).
*Statistics courtesy of www.madethefuckup.com.***
**It would make more sense if you downloaded the show. Think of it as added incentive.
***Not a real website.
There are, however, a whole bunch of really neato things out on the internet that I'd really like to share. So rather than do the work of adding them all in a sidebar, I'm just going to write a normal, run of the mill post and review them for you here. Aren't you excited? Right. Anyway, in no particular order:
Are you like me and 73%* of the other Americans who are completely addicted to Sudoku? Then for God's sake man, DO NOT CLICK THIS LINK! Billions of free Sudoku puzzles to be solved, all online, all the time. Not only that, but it will keep track of how many games you've played and your average solving time. AND it gives you stats as to how well you stack up in time against the other Sudoku addicts (provided you don't mess up, dummy). For crying out loud, do not do this to yourself.
Having a bad day? Life got you down? Then may I suggest The Daily Kitten. Every day at 10:07 a.m. Eastern, you will find a brand new photograph of someone's sickeningly adorable kitten doing something sickening adorable. It is impossible to not be happy after checking out these kittens. Beware of this site if you feel you are in danger of becoming the crazy cat lady, because this is the site that will push you over the edge. You've been warned.
Speaking of cats, did you know they have their own MySpace thingy? They do. It's called Catster and there are dozens of cute kitties there with pictures and ratings and even their own blogs if they want (and can type). I bring this to your attention because of my addiction to The Travails by Tuesday the Cat. You may know Tuesday from her cameos on Heather's blog, but I bet you didn't know she was a writer herself. Aside from her astute observations about birds and humans, her sage advice can be solicited every Friday in her inspiring advice column. I recommend her latest advice on what a cat would do with a million dollars where she brilliantly equates wisdom with the ability to fit into small spaces.
While we're at it with Heather, you can thank her (profusely) for introducing me to this completely insane story called John Dies at the End by David Wong. Filled with meat monsters, exploding people, talking dogs, Fred Durst, and people gleefully ripping off their own limbs, you will never be so frightened and confused while laughing this hard in your life. If you like it, I recommend buying the paperback as well. We should be supporting David Wong so that he can afford to buy the drugs that will make an equally brilliant sequel possible.
I believe I may have mentioned before my favorite web comic Cyanide and Happiness. But did you know they are now doing Cyanide and Happiness animated shorts? You can laugh your balls off here and here. I think there are other things to do on this website, but I haven't actually checked them out. Sorry about that.
If you enjoy any of the following:
punk rock
supporting new music
swearing
creative insults
British accents and/or people
making fun of emo kids
purple burglar alarms**
alone or in combination, I strongly suggest you check out the world's most hilarious podcast, Punky Radio. It is hosted by Paul B Edwards and Tony Hearn, who also do a show called "Punk and Disorderly" on Mansfield 103.2 FM. That's in England. I've never heard it, because I don't live in England, but I'm sure it's great, though probably has much less swearing and general douchebagotry. You can subscribe to the podcast via Podcast Alley or iTunes or probably however you want really. If you visit Podcast Alley please vote for them, as there are some goofy crybaby emo kids who desperately need to get bitch-slapped. Also leave a comment, because if it doesn't suck they'll read it on the show. The Punky! website has links to everything, including websites for most of the bands they play and their MySpace page. Rock on, smacktards.
A perfect blend of wackiness and sarcasm is a rare thing to find, which is why I was so freakin pleased when I discovered The Sneeze. Steve is a comedy-nerd genius, from his experiments with chocolate breast milk in Steve, Don't Eat It! to his recent assertion that cookies are "the tits of food". I would especially recommend any post involving his son.
So there you have it: everything worth checking out on the Internet (besides porn).
*Statistics courtesy of www.madethefuckup.com.***
**It would make more sense if you downloaded the show. Think of it as added incentive.
***Not a real website.
Friday, March 24, 2006
Amber and Heather Beat a Path to Fame and Fortune
VelociHeather: you should just move here and be our fun quirky neighbor who walks in whenever they want
PGS DenMILF: that would rule. I'll walk in and start looking through your fridge
PGS DenMILF: sometimes you'll come home and find me there, cooking on your stove
PGS DenMILF: I'll be like "Hey guys! I'm making gezpacho!"
VelociHeather: hahahaha
PGS DenMILF: Maybe sometimes you'll be sitting there eating breakfast and suddenly I'll come up from out of the basement with a basket of laundry and go "Hey," and then just keep walking back to my house
PGS DenMILF: and you and Amy will look at each other for a moment and then go back to your cereal
VelociHeather: exactly
VelociHeather: then i'll write a sitcom
VelociHeather: and make millions
VelociHeather: you're now my co-writer
PGS DenMILF: Tuesday should talk in your sitcom. Or better yet just roll her eyes at strategic points
VelociHeather: with a loud "WHA WHAAAAAA" at that point
PGS DenMILF: or if she talks kristen could talk too. that would be our gimmick. at the end of every show the cats get together to break it down and make fun of us
PGS DenMILF: they are both very pithy
VelociHeather: they are
VelociHeather: it'd be like cat MST3K
PGS DenMILF: there it is.
VelociHeather: why aren't we in hollywood making millions right now?
PGS DenMILF: i know. clearly we've missed our calling.
PGS DenMILF: that would rule. I'll walk in and start looking through your fridge
PGS DenMILF: sometimes you'll come home and find me there, cooking on your stove
PGS DenMILF: I'll be like "Hey guys! I'm making gezpacho!"
VelociHeather: hahahaha
PGS DenMILF: Maybe sometimes you'll be sitting there eating breakfast and suddenly I'll come up from out of the basement with a basket of laundry and go "Hey," and then just keep walking back to my house
PGS DenMILF: and you and Amy will look at each other for a moment and then go back to your cereal
VelociHeather: exactly
VelociHeather: then i'll write a sitcom
VelociHeather: and make millions
VelociHeather: you're now my co-writer
PGS DenMILF: Tuesday should talk in your sitcom. Or better yet just roll her eyes at strategic points
VelociHeather: with a loud "WHA WHAAAAAA" at that point
PGS DenMILF: or if she talks kristen could talk too. that would be our gimmick. at the end of every show the cats get together to break it down and make fun of us
PGS DenMILF: they are both very pithy
VelociHeather: they are
VelociHeather: it'd be like cat MST3K
PGS DenMILF: there it is.
VelociHeather: why aren't we in hollywood making millions right now?
PGS DenMILF: i know. clearly we've missed our calling.
Thursday, March 23, 2006
Kristen cat could eat no fat, Her mom could eat no lean, And so between the two of them, They licked the soup bowl clean.
This awful bastardization of a beloved children’s nursery rhyme is brought to you by Kristen Ann, hands down the cutest cat who has ever lived. It popped into my head last night as Kristen and I were enjoying our evening meal.
Remember that stupid joke from when you were a kid, “What’s grosser than gross?” It always ended in something that would never actually happen, like “sliding down a giant razor blade into a pool of alcohol,” which doesn’t seem gross so much as painful, but kids are dumb. Well, for me the thing that is grosser than gross is soggy bread. I don’t want to look at it, I refuse to touch it, and I’d rather be ass raped by a wild orangutan than have to eat it.
In general this is not really a problem because I don’t eat a whole lot of bread. The only time it comes into play is when I’m having French Onion soup. French Onion soup is my favorite soup in all the land. This may or may not* have to do with the fact that the whole thing is covered in a thick layer of melted cheese. For the uninitiated, it works like this: you poor some soup into a bowl or crock. Then you float a piece or bread on top. You cover the bread with a whole bunch of cheese and stick it under a broiler until the cheese is all melty and toasted. You then collapse in paroxysms of joy. Mmm, cheese…
The problem is once you have broiled your awesome cheese, you are left with a layer of soggy bread separating your cheese from your soup. As anyone who’s ever seen me eating French Onion soup can attest, I will spend the better part of 20 minutes carefully peeling back my cheese and fishing the bread out of my soup with my spoon. Many people have asked me, “Amberance, why don’t you just get the soup with no bread in it?” No friends, this is not an option. The bread is an integral part of the cooking process. Cheese does not float on its own, so without the bread my lovely cheese is going to sink to the bottom of my soup. If it’s under my soup instead of on top of it, it’s not going to get all toasted and bubbly when I stick it under the broiler. I have no choice but to use the bread and then carefully remove it (I’ve already tried wax paper. It doesn’t work.).
The result of this is that I end up with a pile of wet bread hanging out on my plate whilst I enjoy the bread-free fruit of my labor. Generally I turn it so the bowl is in between me and the bread so that I won’t have to look at it.
Kristen Ann is the most well behaved animal on the face of the planet – unless you’re eating something that she wants. When that happens she becomes quite the furry little behavior case. This was the situation earlier this week when I decided to make myself a delicious batch of soup. I sat down at the dining room table with my soup and a fat glass of chocolate milk and set about by pre-soup eating bread extraction. In the meantime, Miss Kris had realized I was eating something that smelled very much like beef. Curiosity led her to jump up on the dining room table. She’s not allowed on the dining room table and she knows it, but she also doesn’t care. I yelled at her and tried to swish her off the table, but she sidestepped my swipe and stayed on the table just out of my reach. I’m a pushover, so I ignored this and continued to work on the bread. Bread removed, I started in on my soup, slurping up onions and cheese with glee.
My little Kristen happens to be a goddamn kitty genius. Her grasp of science is unparalleled amongst cats. Noticing that I was engrossed in my cheese, Kristen took advantage and crept up to my plate. She sniffed at the bread, decided it was worth it and pawed a piece off of my plate on onto the table. She’s picky like her mom, and wanted nothing to do with wet bread either, but she did want to get at the beef flavor she knew it contained. Here is where her scientific genius kicked in, for she realized that applying pressure the bread would cause it to contract, releasing the beef broth it was currently holding. Armed with this knowledge, she pressed her little mitten paw down on the bread. Sure enough, the beef broth was released, wetting her little paw, which she then raised to her mouth to lick. It was so damn cute I didn’t bother trying to stop her. Instead I wrote a really stupid poem about the two of us sharing a bowl of soup.
Remember that stupid joke from when you were a kid, “What’s grosser than gross?” It always ended in something that would never actually happen, like “sliding down a giant razor blade into a pool of alcohol,” which doesn’t seem gross so much as painful, but kids are dumb. Well, for me the thing that is grosser than gross is soggy bread. I don’t want to look at it, I refuse to touch it, and I’d rather be ass raped by a wild orangutan than have to eat it.
In general this is not really a problem because I don’t eat a whole lot of bread. The only time it comes into play is when I’m having French Onion soup. French Onion soup is my favorite soup in all the land. This may or may not* have to do with the fact that the whole thing is covered in a thick layer of melted cheese. For the uninitiated, it works like this: you poor some soup into a bowl or crock. Then you float a piece or bread on top. You cover the bread with a whole bunch of cheese and stick it under a broiler until the cheese is all melty and toasted. You then collapse in paroxysms of joy. Mmm, cheese…
The problem is once you have broiled your awesome cheese, you are left with a layer of soggy bread separating your cheese from your soup. As anyone who’s ever seen me eating French Onion soup can attest, I will spend the better part of 20 minutes carefully peeling back my cheese and fishing the bread out of my soup with my spoon. Many people have asked me, “Amberance, why don’t you just get the soup with no bread in it?” No friends, this is not an option. The bread is an integral part of the cooking process. Cheese does not float on its own, so without the bread my lovely cheese is going to sink to the bottom of my soup. If it’s under my soup instead of on top of it, it’s not going to get all toasted and bubbly when I stick it under the broiler. I have no choice but to use the bread and then carefully remove it (I’ve already tried wax paper. It doesn’t work.).
The result of this is that I end up with a pile of wet bread hanging out on my plate whilst I enjoy the bread-free fruit of my labor. Generally I turn it so the bowl is in between me and the bread so that I won’t have to look at it.
Kristen Ann is the most well behaved animal on the face of the planet – unless you’re eating something that she wants. When that happens she becomes quite the furry little behavior case. This was the situation earlier this week when I decided to make myself a delicious batch of soup. I sat down at the dining room table with my soup and a fat glass of chocolate milk and set about by pre-soup eating bread extraction. In the meantime, Miss Kris had realized I was eating something that smelled very much like beef. Curiosity led her to jump up on the dining room table. She’s not allowed on the dining room table and she knows it, but she also doesn’t care. I yelled at her and tried to swish her off the table, but she sidestepped my swipe and stayed on the table just out of my reach. I’m a pushover, so I ignored this and continued to work on the bread. Bread removed, I started in on my soup, slurping up onions and cheese with glee.
My little Kristen happens to be a goddamn kitty genius. Her grasp of science is unparalleled amongst cats. Noticing that I was engrossed in my cheese, Kristen took advantage and crept up to my plate. She sniffed at the bread, decided it was worth it and pawed a piece off of my plate on onto the table. She’s picky like her mom, and wanted nothing to do with wet bread either, but she did want to get at the beef flavor she knew it contained. Here is where her scientific genius kicked in, for she realized that applying pressure the bread would cause it to contract, releasing the beef broth it was currently holding. Armed with this knowledge, she pressed her little mitten paw down on the bread. Sure enough, the beef broth was released, wetting her little paw, which she then raised to her mouth to lick. It was so damn cute I didn’t bother trying to stop her. Instead I wrote a really stupid poem about the two of us sharing a bowl of soup.
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