A Crazy Cat Lady

I am sure you didn't already know this about me, however I am {surprisingly} an only child. My cousins are the closet people I have to siblings, and we all treat each other accordingly. We blame each other for things we are responsible for, we mooch off each other and we don't call each other back with any promptness whatsoever. And with this, I can say that we would all go to bat for each other any day of the week, and twice if vodka has been involved. Of the five of us, one is married to his high school sweetheart, E, who has become like a sister.

Since we are 20-somethings, trying to figure out love, careers and whatnot, it's only natural that a few bad apples pass through our lives. What is not natural is my eldest cousin C's ability to attract girls that are full blown crazies. At first the family (we aren't a mafia, but we are just as tightly knit) thought it was because he went for girls a few years younger than him, or at least that is how I rationalized it. No matter what it was, E and I are always hoping he'll meet a fun girl that we can hang out with - read: drink mimosas with. And once the Seahawks found themselves in the playoffs, we thought C had found a somewhat rough but nice enough girl to make us forget about all the crazy ones.

You can probably see where this is going, since this post is titled A Crazy Cat Lady.

Her true occupation was as a hairstylist, well, actually almost hairstylist since she was finishing up beauty school, she had many extra-curricular activities including singing in a cover band and being able to pick out a "good" rescue cat.

Wait..what?

The conversation went something like this:

Me: I work with a lot of rescues and have been thinking about adopting an older cat.
Her: Omigod you totally should!!!! And I know this sounds crazy but...

Time out. Whenever you premise a statement with "I know this sounds crazy but.." you are crazy. There are no words that will make a person think, "since you premised that statement, you're right I think you're totally onto something." In fact, you have actually increased the odds you will be deemed a whack-job since you essentially planted the seed into your listeners heads.

Her: ...if you ever need help picking out a shelter cat I have a great sense for them. I can totally help you pick a good one.

And obviously now that I think about it I might still give her a buzz and take her up on that offer, since my cat-picking strategy was to go with the loud, screeching one that tries to scratch me. What do I know?

At that point, I should have thought 'whack job' but rather thought 'ok. but she is LESS crazy than the others. Of course you can cut my hair!' As you know, I have been pretty desperate since I moved away from my stylist in Spokane. Desperate enough to agree to having the Cat Whisperer cut my hair.

Since we all live in our iPhones these days, I exchanged phone numbers with Madam Meows A Lot AND my cousin C. You see, C and I are so good at being related that we had never traded numbers prior to, again, the Seahawks making the playoffs. After dodging drunken offers to go bowling, I said my goodbyes and headed back to my apartment for a night of laundry, napping and Transformers on FX. Dibs on Shia LeBeouf. My phone rang around 7pm, at which time I was groggily struggling to lift my arm.

It was C. Should I answer it? He probably wants me to meet him at a bar. I don't feel like drinking. Or putting on normal pants. Debate. Debate. Debate. He's only had my number for a few hours, and he's already calling?

Me: Hey C, what's going on?
C: Hey! What're you doing?
Me: Watching Transformers and napping.
C: Are you at home?
Me: Yah.
C: Wanna do me a huge favor.
::pause.evaluate.consider::
Me: Ummm...
C: Can you come get me? I just really, really don't want to hang out with these people anymore and my car is in Bellevue. I will totally owe you. Please?! Please!

Remember earlier when I said that we keep each other's backs? I mean, he would come get me if I had that much panic in my voice...

Me: Sure. Where are you?
C: I don't know.

At this point, I probably should have hung up the phone. Lost cause. Said my goodbyes, and checked Craigslist for people looking to adopt into a family. But of course, I didn't.

C: I can see the Space Needle. And I-5.

After a few rounds of questions, I deduced his general location, which he followed up with cross streets. Then it hit me.

Me: Did you go to whatsherfaces house?
::pause::
C: Yeah...
Me: Oh no. Is she...crazy?
C: She's bat-shit crazy.
Me: I'll be there in 15 minutes.

After a few missed exits, a wrong turn or five, I picked C up on the corner. He seemed relieved to not only be in a warm car, but also to see the apartment building fading behind us. And like I would really let him ride for free - I needed the scoop! You want it too, eh?

C: I couldn't drive but I wanted to hang out, so I went back to her place with her. She seemed cool until she went crazy.
Me: How'd she go crazy?
C: I mean, we have been hanging out all day, give me some space!
Me: But..you went back to her house with her..
C: So, I saw an out and I took it. I told her I was going to buy beer so I left. And I have been avoiding her calls and texts since then.
Me: Beer was your out?
C: Yes! I saw an out and I took it.

That's right, he left and just never went back - entirely. Rather, he waited on the corner for me, which was apparently in sight of her apartment...because it sounds like Crazy Cat Lady and her cats were looking our the window for C. In the 20-minutes we were in the car, she texted him a minimum of twice a minute. They went something like this:

Hey, where'd you go?
C..where are you?
C?
Helllooooo...C?
Where the [french fry] are you?
What the [fidora]?!
Seriously, C, what the [flipper]?
You're a jackass. What the [foil]?
Where the [french toast]! You are such a [filling] asshat!
Seriously, C are you coming back?
Omigosh you are so [fridging] retarded.

I am currently out of words that can replace my beloved, yet less family friendly, eff-bomb but if you're not stupid you get the point. And with that, I told C, "I'm sure she is a great hairdresser but I don't think I'll be letting her cut my hair, being that I am related to you and everything."

Black & Yellow Nightmares

I am a fantastic shopper. Not only do I take quality into account, I also look for value. Paying full price is a rarity, yet sometimes it must be done.

I can spend hours (literally) trolling travel sites, putting together the best possible outcome for whatever adventure is up next. I have mastered shopping at TJ Maxx by scanning the tops of hangers rather than flipping through each item. I can identify designer jeans by the waist band. I don't mess around. I've even taken to reading the Tuesday mailers from my local grocers -- because if I save 50¢ enough times I can buy that new [insert anything but groceries]!

So, you might think when my boss said "research new printers" I'd jump at the opportunity to shop [with permission] during work hours. Wrong. While I graduated with a degree that does place an emphasis on research, I choose to research things like Prague rather than Hewlitt-Packard. You might be thinking, "great! apply those same skills!" While I would, and that sounds like a great, albeit obvious, solution, I seem to have directed myself to blog instead. Mostly because if I don't stimulate my brain somehow I am going to fall asleep switching between the seven open printer-related browsers.

Here's the thing about printers. They suck. Sure their benefit is there -- they allow us to print documents we can almost never need a physical copy of, encourage us to kill more trees and are generally a pain in the butt when it comes to cartridges. Don't get me wrong, I'm a printer-a-holic, but that's only because someone else set up the printer at my office and the only maintenance previously required by me was reloading the paper tray, which I rock at btw. Somehow, while sneakily adding 'Office Manager' duties into my job description, I also became responsible for replacing/ordering printer cartridges. Ok, nbd, I can handle that too.

Then the trouble started. A thin yellow line began forming on the long-end, some call it the hot-dog end if you will, of the page when printing in large volumes. Then a black line joined forces with the yellow. Needless to say Wiz Khalifa's recent hit "Black and Yellow" (click here to listen) causes nightmares up that rival Freddy Krueger and that scene from the movie "Office Space." Considering that I was printing pages off by the 10's - I'm very important, don't confuse me with people that print single pages - this was an extremely miserable, environmentally unfriendly process.

Boss: "Hey L, can you clean the printer?"
What I thought: "No."
What I said: "Of course!" [with cheer!]

So I tried the only way I technically knew how to clean a printer: a napkin. As it happens, this is not an effective means to printer cleaning and in the end I decided to save everyone a "that-time-of-the-month-you-can-kiss-my-printer-cartridge" freak out and send the files off to Kinko's. Consider it my own personal gift to everyone else's sanity.

Crisis averted, yes? No.

Boss: "Hey L, I'd like you to research three new printer options for us because these suck."
What I thought: "Dammit."
What I said: "Of course!" [with cheer!]

Let's see, for the past four-ish hours, give or take depending on if you count Priceline Negotiating for work travel work, I have effectively been avoiding researching this. Why? Because I did not study printers at college and if I were shopping for a personal printer, which I never would because helloooooooo I can print for free at work, I would buy the one the sales guy told me too. Just like I change my oil when the oil change guy tells me too.

For the record, I am all about equality. If the person that changed my oil was a woman, I'd listen to her too. Unless she was showing cleavage. In which case I'd assume she had just boinked the guy that really changes my oil and thought giving advice to unsuspecting motorists was a funny trick. I digress.

When chosing between two options, I tend to pick the more visually pleasing one -- which apparently isn't the most recommended way to shop for electronics. This is likely the reason I am obsessed with all things Apple. They are simple, streamlined and pretty. Sure they have a fantastic track record for...working...but that's not the point. My first virtual stop on this shopping escapade from h-e-double hockey sticks (HELL!!) was Apple.com because if Apple says "buy," I say "here's my credit card. you keep it." They had one recommendation and one recommendation only, which means that I am forced to get out of "the box" to get this done.

That being said, I think I will continue to procrastinate. There is probably an Excel spreadsheet that needs updating or something. Or a printer to yell profanities at.



(PS: YOU'RE welcome, people I work with that don't read my blog because I write about you and your annoying tendencies.)

Smart Hookers

With a poor and passive effort, I try to pretend like the center of attention is not where I like to be -- while in all reality we know this is where I am usually most comfortable. Whether you attribute it to my only child upbringing or being a people-pleaser, being the life of the party are tall shoes, and someone has to wear them. (I love a few extra inches of height..)

Last weekend, I piled into a car with three of my good guy friends, quickly gained control of the iPod (hello, JT!) and nuzzled comfortably in to the back seat as we road-tripped across the border and up to Whistler. Whistler is not only known for it's world class skiing, the most recent set of winter Olympics and a beautiful 'village' -- it's also a great place to party.

And party we did. It was like college all over again. Hot tubs. Cheap beer. Spaghetti for dinner. Not enough beds for bodies. Ah, the good old days when my liver was fresh and my back could handle the floor.

Some despicable combination of Bud Light/hot tub/lack of sleep/lack of heat caused my sinuses to dry out, an invariable sign that I was getting sick. Though I was able to fight it off for an AMAZING day of fresh powder (read about it here: The Chrinicles of Gnarnia), my immune system gave way and I was all sorts of snot, hindering my full ability to party like a freshman. This only provided me with hours of entertainment watching my inebriated friends giggle, frolic and bicker.

As my immune system had knocked me down to chaperon status, grandma-style (cold, tired, feeding people ice cream..), I had dressed in layers. Also, I forgot all but one pair of pants which meant it was black jeggings every night. Clad in my jeggings, UGGS, sweater, puffy vest - WITH FUR HOOD, hat and North Face coat I was ready to take on a Village of snow.

My crew was a mess. There were passive aggressive comments ("When T goes to the bathroom where he will find he's no longer a man, let's run out and leave him!"), drunken escapes on the snowy playground and multiple games of "King of the Mountain," in which one claims the title of a snow pile until he can be knocked off.

Meanwhile, I was cold. It was snowing non-stop, and the Village was lit with gorgeous blue lights. Really, Whistler Village is one of the most romantically whimsical places I have ever been.

In my attempts to not fall on my butt, the team forged forward - on to the club! Untz, untz, untz. Bumbling past the night club Garfinkels, G drew the attention of two young ladies wearing black mini-skirts/Saran wrap, Fuck-Me boots with spiked heels and an entire counter's worth of MAC make-up. It seems they migrated north rather than south to Las Vegas. Let's just say it must have been very nipply out.

Enthralled with the attention, the girls swooned over G - and as a girl familiar with the concept of not paying for her own drinks this tactic hit close to home. It wasn't until they made their way down the line of girls in our group that things got weird. Overly-friendly sluts? Odd. Slut #1 hugged T, telling her she was, "fucking hot" and where was her boyfriend? Chivalrous and confused, JK claimed her and Slut #1 moved on. I must have been frozen in shock and amusement by the time she got to me, because as she flung her arm around me and pulled herself in close to my face my immediate reaction was to strain my neck back - a move perfected from years of dodging drunken kisses.

With my personal bubble invaded, my eyes begin to shift awkwardly and then she said it, "you're fucking hot. where's your boyfriend?"

Time out. Hold up. Wait. Hot? A glance in her direction confirmed she was, in fact, talking to me. I was wearing so many layers I could melt Antarctica, and be the Michelin Man's counterpart. My nose was red and dry, reminiscent of Rudolf and my lips were so bare my mother would have been smearing lip gloss on me for days. In no world was I hot.

And this would be where a Canadian prostitute almost kissed me. I'm not sure the exact shade, but I can with certainty that she was wearing a matte shade of lipstick that wasn't moving any time soon. I was so taken aback that when she asked my name I couldn't even get my bar name out, rather muttering my actual name for fear if I opened my mouth too much she might swoop in for the kill.

She immediately ditched me to heckle the boy closest to me, then move back to G who lost interest in both of them when they admitted they didn't ski. Like I said, I think they got lost on their way to Vegas.

The next morning, it was brought to light that prostitution is legal in Canada, though the negotiation of terms is not. It was like the puzzle pieces all came together. Their strategy is to figure out which males are 'taken' by inquiring with the girls of the group who they are dating, then preying on the single males who are more likely to pick up the tab, if you will.

They aren't dumb hookers, I will give them that.