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Showing posts with label i need a drink. Show all posts
Showing posts with label i need a drink. Show all posts
Monday, March 9, 2009
Hate
Here were the highlights of today's meeting:
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Warm Today.
We're sitting on squashy sofas in a cafe, and I am directly in a sunbeam, so it is nearly impossible to stay awake. I persevere because I am a dedicated blogger, and I have come to rely on your approval. I've been working on the following post for a while now, trying to make it funny, but I've finally come to terms with the fact that it's just not funny. It's f*cking horrifying. Anyway.
A while ago, I accompanied one of my dear friends to the humane society. She was looking for a kitty - something calm and low-key, like a furry, purring throw pillow with a litter box. Her godfather, a former cat owner, met us at the shelter to offer his professional opinion on her selection.
Though there were cats aplenty to choose from - some practically tap dancing with cuteness and enthusiasm - we all fell for an enormous black cat called Snoopy. He was the kitty equivalent of a joint, made to be held and passed around, mellow as you please. We were smitten, and my friend decided to take Snoopy home.
Before she signed the papers, one of the helpful volunteers suggested that we spend some time in the "bonding room," which turned out to be a broom closet full of hay, litter, and really acrid smells. As soon as we entered, Snoopy began to behave oddly. He hunkered low to the ground, prowling and sniffing like he knew that some bad sh*t had gone down in the bonding room.
We let him adjust, and then my friend tried pet him. Snoopy hissed. We gave him more time. His behavior didn't change, so we decided that we'd all had enough of the bonding room. The Godfather approached Snoopy slowly, let the cat sniff him, then carefully picked him up. All seemed well until, without so much as a meow, Snoopy went f*cking apeshit on The Godfather's hand, mauling it and PUNCTURING AN ARTERY in the process. Shocking amounts of blood spurted from The Godfather's hand in great scarlet arcs, spattering the floor and the trashcans and the cheap laminate cabinets. By the time I dragged the helpful volunteer into room, the f*cking cat was quietly lapping blood in a corner, and The Godfather's hand was the size of a football.
The now-terrified volunteer shepherded the cat from the room with a mop, and we decided that a trip to the ER was necessary in case the torn artery required surgery. Now, at best, my friend and I are lackluster in emergency situations. At worst, we're fragile, useless, whimpering ninnies. So once we arrived at the ER, we called her mother (who is also The Godfather's best friend), and implored her to hurry to the hospital and bring some scotch. Trust me, the only way to endure a traumatic event and an afternoon in the ER is with scotch, cheese bagels, and potato chips. A little tip from me to you.
Thankfully, The Heroic Godfather To Whom My Friend Is Eternally Indebted did not require surgery, but the cat did manage to spray his shoes during the debacle, so he was not merely in the ER on a Saturday afternoon; he was in the ER on a Saturday afternoon smelling of cat piss. Also, we discovered that the cat had neither been properly quarantined nor given a rabies shot, so The Heroic Godfather To Whom My Friend Is Eternally Indebted was required to endure a full round of rabies immunoglobulin, which, as everyone knows, is terribly unf*ckingfun.
So, that's that. The moral of the story? Be wary of strange cats, avoid bonding rooms and always - always - travel with scotch.
A while ago, I accompanied one of my dear friends to the humane society. She was looking for a kitty - something calm and low-key, like a furry, purring throw pillow with a litter box. Her godfather, a former cat owner, met us at the shelter to offer his professional opinion on her selection.
Though there were cats aplenty to choose from - some practically tap dancing with cuteness and enthusiasm - we all fell for an enormous black cat called Snoopy. He was the kitty equivalent of a joint, made to be held and passed around, mellow as you please. We were smitten, and my friend decided to take Snoopy home.
Before she signed the papers, one of the helpful volunteers suggested that we spend some time in the "bonding room," which turned out to be a broom closet full of hay, litter, and really acrid smells. As soon as we entered, Snoopy began to behave oddly. He hunkered low to the ground, prowling and sniffing like he knew that some bad sh*t had gone down in the bonding room.
We let him adjust, and then my friend tried pet him. Snoopy hissed. We gave him more time. His behavior didn't change, so we decided that we'd all had enough of the bonding room. The Godfather approached Snoopy slowly, let the cat sniff him, then carefully picked him up. All seemed well until, without so much as a meow, Snoopy went f*cking apeshit on The Godfather's hand, mauling it and PUNCTURING AN ARTERY in the process. Shocking amounts of blood spurted from The Godfather's hand in great scarlet arcs, spattering the floor and the trashcans and the cheap laminate cabinets. By the time I dragged the helpful volunteer into room, the f*cking cat was quietly lapping blood in a corner, and The Godfather's hand was the size of a football.
The now-terrified volunteer shepherded the cat from the room with a mop, and we decided that a trip to the ER was necessary in case the torn artery required surgery. Now, at best, my friend and I are lackluster in emergency situations. At worst, we're fragile, useless, whimpering ninnies. So once we arrived at the ER, we called her mother (who is also The Godfather's best friend), and implored her to hurry to the hospital and bring some scotch. Trust me, the only way to endure a traumatic event and an afternoon in the ER is with scotch, cheese bagels, and potato chips. A little tip from me to you.
Thankfully, The Heroic Godfather To Whom My Friend Is Eternally Indebted did not require surgery, but the cat did manage to spray his shoes during the debacle, so he was not merely in the ER on a Saturday afternoon; he was in the ER on a Saturday afternoon smelling of cat piss. Also, we discovered that the cat had neither been properly quarantined nor given a rabies shot, so The Heroic Godfather To Whom My Friend Is Eternally Indebted was required to endure a full round of rabies immunoglobulin, which, as everyone knows, is terribly unf*ckingfun.
So, that's that. The moral of the story? Be wary of strange cats, avoid bonding rooms and always - always - travel with scotch.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
shameful
Today I almost took holy communion just so I could have a mid-morning sip of spit-riddled wine.
Monday, February 16, 2009
The Great Reducing and One Last Hurrah
n.o.c. and I have been reducing. We've reduced our carbon footprints, our consumerism, our time on the internets, and, most recently, we've decided to reduce our waistlines. We're a small people, but we've noticed a gentle and insidious thickening that is most upsetting when accompanied by the general doughiness of February. Heretofore, n.o.c. has ridiculed all slimming activities, scoffing at actual portion sizes and holding fast to bizarre, fatty theories about food and health. He has actually claimed that the consumption of Chipotle burritos has salubrious effects on the lungs, and he has touted the digestive properties of sausage. However, after a few disconcerting incidents with pant size, I received the following email:
And collections of heads:
Dinner was slap-your-mother good. Beer-braised brisket, Deborah Madison's leek and goat cheese galette (Make this. Immediately.), and beet salad with tarragon, followed by wine-poached pears in cardamom cream:
After dinner, we bid adieu to the joys of life with a Satie's Gymnopédie No.1. Lovely.
I promise not to bore you with tales of deprivation. Just know that if I seem to have a bit less happy, it's probably because I'm hungry and in need of drink.
On another track entirely, I forgot to mention the best part of my recent Professional Development Bof*ckingnanza. Toward the end of the day, things got touchy-feely, which, as you probably know, makes me want to gouge out my eyes with a dull spoon. The indisputable highlight came when we were asked to reflect on a teacher who "touched our lives," AND THEN THEY PLAYED "UNFORGETTABLE" WHILE WE "REFLECTED." There really are no words.
According to a calorie counter I found online, I had 839 calories worth of drinks last night. Add that to the 459 calorie piece of pie I had yesterday a.m., and you're talking about a completely superfluous 1300 calories on a random thursday, for no good reason. A chipotle burrito has 1170 calories. How am I not 350 lbs?
He's a changed man. Two weeks ago, he wanted to eat a deep-fried, cheese-stuffed, bacon-topped hamburger; this week, I had to pull him away from the diet drugs at CVS. "It's just caffeine," he mumbled sadly.
Our strategy is simple, if sad and boring. We will only drink three nights a week. (It pains me to write that.) We will eat less cheese and bacon. (Pains me even more to write that.) We will continue our gym regimen, and, with luck, we will be more attractive than Our Favorite New Englanders by the time we go to the beach with them in April. The goal is not simply to look good; the goal is to look better than our friends. (That would be the gauntlet.)
BUT, before we began in earnest, we decided to have one last hurrah with Our Favorite Baltimorians. Their house (a whole house!) is fabulous, with a much-coveted amount of square footage.
The dining room:
They have the coolest shit. Like urns full of wind instruments:
One of the more colorful instruments:
He's a changed man. Two weeks ago, he wanted to eat a deep-fried, cheese-stuffed, bacon-topped hamburger; this week, I had to pull him away from the diet drugs at CVS. "It's just caffeine," he mumbled sadly.
Our strategy is simple, if sad and boring. We will only drink three nights a week. (It pains me to write that.) We will eat less cheese and bacon. (Pains me even more to write that.) We will continue our gym regimen, and, with luck, we will be more attractive than Our Favorite New Englanders by the time we go to the beach with them in April. The goal is not simply to look good; the goal is to look better than our friends. (That would be the gauntlet.)
BUT, before we began in earnest, we decided to have one last hurrah with Our Favorite Baltimorians. Their house (a whole house!) is fabulous, with a much-coveted amount of square footage.
The dining room:
They have the coolest shit. Like urns full of wind instruments:
One of the more colorful instruments:
And collections of heads:
Dinner was slap-your-mother good. Beer-braised brisket, Deborah Madison's leek and goat cheese galette (Make this. Immediately.), and beet salad with tarragon, followed by wine-poached pears in cardamom cream:
After dinner, we bid adieu to the joys of life with a Satie's Gymnopédie No.1. Lovely.
I promise not to bore you with tales of deprivation. Just know that if I seem to have a bit less happy, it's probably because I'm hungry and in need of drink.
On another track entirely, I forgot to mention the best part of my recent Professional Development Bof*ckingnanza. Toward the end of the day, things got touchy-feely, which, as you probably know, makes me want to gouge out my eyes with a dull spoon. The indisputable highlight came when we were asked to reflect on a teacher who "touched our lives," AND THEN THEY PLAYED "UNFORGETTABLE" WHILE WE "REFLECTED." There really are no words.
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