Saturday, February 17, 2007
Feeling a soft "plop" on your chest, opening your eyes to see a dead mouse which has been carefully placed on you by your industrious cat, frantically scrambling to brush the rodent off while jumping out of bed, getting your foot caught in the sheet, tumbling out of the bed and landing face-first on the floor is a helluva way to start the day.
Damn.
Friday, February 09, 2007
Last weekend The Mister and I embarked on our annual pilgrimage to the Smoky Mountains. We holed up with about a dozen other degenerates and spent our time discussing how we could still totally throw down on some MadDog 20/20 and Boone's Farm like we did 10 years ago, and if you didn't believe us just wait until we finished our bottled water and then we'd show you how badass we still are.
At one point during the weekend I was the designated driver, so I had the unique privilege of driving a bunch of drunk assholes around who decided to discuss why their 80's high school hairstyles were superior to others. "You can call a mullet whatever you want. You can say it's lame or stupid or tacky. But I will forever call it this: Fucking AWESOME!"
I listened to these drunken testaments to feathered bangs and home perms and chuckled, secure in the knowledge that I had masterfully navigated the minefield of 80's hairstyles. Oh sure, I had some fluffy bangs and all, and I had been known to employ a can of Super Ultra Hold AquaNet from time to time, but that was a requirement of the time. If your hair didn't crackle when touched then you didn't mean business. Those bitches who just used the Super Hold AquaNet were pikers. Regular Super Hold. Ha! Losers.
This morning I received an email from an old boyfriend. He's been scanning old photos and sent me one that he took of me sometime in 1989. I almost choked on my breakfast (peanut M&M, because I'm all about the health, people!) when I saw it. Apparently my hair acumen wasn't what I thought it was. I give you Exhibit A:
Oh, the humanity! First of all, why in the hell does my nose look so big? Sweet Christ, it looks like a flesh-colored banana but it is actually stupidly small. But back to the point, it looks like I have a cinnamon breakfast pastry glued to my head. Those bangs wouldn't budge in a tornado. That's some serious AquaNet there, people. And somewhere in the atmosphere there is a hole in the ozone with my goddamn name all over it.
Sorry, people of Earth.
Thursday, February 01, 2007
We've decided that Davey the Raccoon must go, and go now. The Mister said I should just call Animal Control, but I was adamant that another option be found because I was afraid they'd euthanize Davey. This statement convinced my husband that I was a lunatic, which is quite funny because after almost ten years together it's hard to believe he'd require further proof. He assured me that they wouldn't kill Davey, that they'd find a nice happy place for him to frolic and roam. I don't know if he honestly believed that or if he was just trying to placate his insane wife, but I said that I'd find another way anyway, thank you very much. I was certain that the folks in charge of relocating wildlife didn't have the time or resources to drive around in search of Happy Raccoon Land where there's nothing but overflowing trashcans and horny girl raccoons.
I decided to check with a guy from work who wears camo into the office, because obviously anyone who does that would know what I should do. Per his advice, we wrapped a thin metal sheet around the pole that Davey uses to get onto our roof and into his penthouse apartment where he sips Courvoisier and watches wildlife porn. With this metal wrapped around the wooden post he wouldn't be able to get a grip to climb up, and after a little while he'd go find somewhere else to live. It sounded like the perfect solution.
Last night as I headed out of the house for a night of boozing with a bunch of other degenerates I heard the telltale rattle of the trashcan. Gloria the cat was on her way out of the house as well, because apparently she's got better things to do that sit at home on a Wednesday night too. Somehow I managed to get her back into the house by blocking her path outside with my leg, which is surprising because every other time I've tried to do that she's given me a look like "Come on, lady. I can just jump over your foot, you fool. God." Sure enough, right then I saw Davey scramble onto the deck and up the pole. The pole with the metal sheeting around it. The pole that was supposed to be unclimbable. I don't know how, but he managed to hoist that big fat body up to the roof despite the slippery metal band. He's like the fucking Lance Armstrong of raccoons.
Unable to admit defeat, I sat today and thought long and hard about how to make this whole thing work. What would Jack Hanna do? If Marlin Perkins were here, what would he say? Actually, I know what Marlin would say. He'd be sitting in front of the fireplace drinking a whiskey while telling Jim Fowler to go stick his head in that rhino's mouth already, and quit whining about it little nancyboy.
After much consideration I knew what I should do. In the tradition of brilliant naturalists everywhere, I went outside and sprayed that whole freaking metal sheet with Pam. Let that little bitch try to climb it now.
On a related note, if anyone from Mutual of Omaha is reading and would like me to host a new show, my number is listed.
