Two Wrongs Don’t Make A Right

Don’t get me wrong…I appreciate the shot–a “wet pussy” I believe was the name–that you bought me. It was a sweet gesture, but I don’t drink. And as charming as it was, you buying said drink isn’t enough to tempt me to start. Although I’m no expert, I’ve been in enough bars to know that if a woman doesn’t partake of the spirits that you just sent her way, it is poor bar etiquette…one might even say tacky…to ask for the shot back and have the bartender give it to another girl. Wearing a t-shirt that says “Free Alcohol If You Put Out” might be cheaper, save you some embarrassment, and will certainly clear up any misconceptions about your intentions. Why waste your time on ladies in which you have little (no) hope of converting.

Oh yes, and one last thing. Not even when you purchased your black, red, and white leather jacket in 1992 was it cool. Nothing with red leather piping that goes from sleeve to sleeve is going to win the heart of any woman (unless, of course, she was born in Texas or watches NASCAR). Go with a simple black or brown jacket. Not only does it look great, but it will hide the traces of vomit from the druken bar whore that you just took to your car.

More than just a dog

In May of 1995, while shopping for used CDs at a strip mall in Salt Lake City, I met Shela. She was an 8 week old Lab/Beagle puppy, and probably the CUTEST dog I had ever seen. Not just the way she looked, but her personality as well. The shop owner said she’d been running around the area all morning. She had no tags or collar. I left my name and phone number with a few of the stores in the area, and took this black ball of unearthly adorableness home. The adoption of my first child was complete.

She was 2 years old when her ‘father’ and I got married. Some people thought we were a little freakish about Shela. If freaks let their dog sleep under the covers with them, call the doggy-sitter daily while on their honeymoon to check on their most beloved pooch, or actually have their ‘family’ picture taken with Santa Clause, well then yes, we were freaks. But in our defense, Shela really was the best dog known to man-kind. She never chewed or destroyed things. She NEVER bit anyone. She had this amazing personality…everyone loved her.

Once the ‘real’ babies came, my relationship with Shela changed some. She went from the first in line to the red headed stepchild…still loved, but no longer in the forefront of our minds. That is, in all reality, how it should probably be. But I can’t help feel some regret now that she is gone. She was wonderful with the kids…ever tolerant and always patient, even when being sat on, poked, pulled and harassed. She was a huge part of our family. She was with us before we even became a family. I can’t imagine my life without her, and I can’t help thinking that I should have done more, especially these last years. I should have played with her more, taken her on more walks, scratched her head instead of searching for a new myspace song. But I cannot change the past. I can only look back on the 12+ years of memories with the coolest dog ever, and feel blessed and grateful that she was a part of my life for so long.

If the last year has taught me anything, it’s that things don’t always happen the way I thought they would. My best friend and spouse (now ex) has become a stranger to me, friends have come and gone, and I’ve been faced with choices and situations that I thought I’d never have to confront again. Such is life. Shela did not go the way that I had expected, or rather, hoped. She did not die in her sleep. She did not have a wonderful day to then drift off into darkness peacefully. She struggled, fought, and despite my efforts, may have suffered. But I was with her until the end. She died in my arms. And THAT, my friends, I wouldn’t change for anything. It was a honor to be with her when she took her last breath. Yes…she was just a dog. But she was a dog that I gave my heart and love to, and in return, she gave me her everything.

To fart or not to fart…that is the question.

While in the comfort of my own home, when the need to expel noxious fumes from my ass would hit me, I just went with it. I didn’t fight it, worry about it, or really even think much about it. I pulled a NIKE and just did it. Not that I was a chronic gas passer, but every once in a while, me being human and all, it happened. Alas, my semi-new found singleness has forced me to think twice about what used to happen so naturally.

I am a smart enough girl to know that unless a man is bound to you by law, has impregnated you, or had to actually wipe your butt when you hurt your back and couldn’t lift your arms, he probably won’t think you ‘tooting’ is cute. And unless you’re my friend Carlie and we’re in Lake Powell, or you are directly related to me, the likelihood that you will experience me passing gas is little to none. It’s the way I like it…it’s the way I roll.

And it hasn’t been a problem. Until recently. My latest and greatest BFF, who I’ll lovingly refer to as Poopsie, is a man who not only DOES NOT think farts are cute, he hates them. I’m not clear on the details, but based on the bits and piece I’ve been able to gather through his tears and grunts of disgust, it seems that he was permanently mentally scarred when his former wife, of almost 11 years, ONCE broke wind in his vicinity. An occurrence that he has not forgotten nor forgiven her for.

Poopsie has stated on a number of occasions that he doesn’t like to fart, doesn’t like other people to fart, doesn’t like talking about farts, can’t stand the word “FART”, and in general despises anything to do with letting ‘er rip. Yes, he might over-react a little when it comes to cutting the cheese, but to each his/her own, right? The irony is that the closer we’ve grown, and the more time we spend together, despite his farting phobias, he’s become more able and willing to unabashedly rip ass in my presence. And I’m not talking about little ‘pops’ of gas, or a slip here and there. I’m talking about farts expelled with a force that could ignite an atomic bomb. I won’t even mention the smell. Needless to say, I’m confident that I know where they hid Al Capone and decomposition is well underway.

I, being a person who isn’t a lover of the gas, but realizes that it’s a component of human condition, am OK with HIS gas. On a number of occasions it has sent us into giggle fits (he sometimes giggles like a little girl, and I LOVE IT!), which undoubtedly causes him to fart even more, which throws us into another attack of merriment, and the cycle continues until everything airborne in his ass has been evacuated. When it comes to Poopsie and farts, what is good for the goose is NOT good for the gander. It is a double standard like no other. Now I have become terrified to let one slip in his presence. And it’s becoming increasingly difficult, despite my tightly clinched cheeks, to keep hidden what sometimes so desperately wants to come out.

One night during a BFF sleepover (yeah….sleepovers! NO, we didn’t have sex last night, OR the night before! BFF’s can have sleepovers and it can be all on the up and up), I think I actually farted. I can’t be sure it was even me, but I have a pretty good idea. I believe it was the ‘clap’ and my fear that caused me to jolt awake. I awoke as if I heard a baby scream as it was being devoured by wolves. I looked at Poopsie for any signs that he might be awake. He stirred a little, then his loud, rhythmic breathing continued. For the next 15 minutes I laid awake wondering and worrying if he had heard it. ‘He hates me now’ is a thought that actually entered my brain. He rolled over and touched my back, and I realized that had he heard anything resembling a fart, he wouldn’t think of laying a hand on me. I escaped that time, but it was a close call. Closer than I was comfortable with.

What’s the worst thing that can happen, you ask. I’m pretty sure that if Poopsie were to EVER hear anything escape my anus that he would run, albeit very slowly, with purpose and determination, and I would never hear from him again. BFF’s are hard to come by these days, and I will not give up mine without a fight. I wake every morning and draw from the strength my forefathers gave me. But I don’t know that it is enough.

All I can do now is hope…and wait. While my anxiety about ripping it in front of Poopsie increases, so does the internal pressure of my bowels. It might not be today, tomorrow, or even next week. But I can only sneak away so many times before something ‘slips’…it’s only a matter of time.

A tale of two pussies

When one (one being me, the omnipotent ruler of Megatropolis, whose opinion in this forum is really the only one that counts) thinks about a cat, the words lithe, graceful, nimble, and stealthy come to mind. I’ve had my share of cats. I’ve owned cats. I’ve worked with cats. I’m not ready to judge the Cat Fancier’s Association’s 2007 Show and pour myself into the required lace and polyester pantsuit, accessorized by gold and cubic zirconium jewelry and Easy Step 1 inch healed pleather shoes, but damn it, I know cats. My current feline collection consists of Phoebe and Peter. Phoebe is an adorable mix of this, and dash of that (which is my way of saying that I have no idea what breed she is). She has beautiful big green eyes, and a sweet disposition. Peter is a one year old fairly large (and definitely fat) black cat who is both fun and a royal pain in the ass. The favorite lounging area for Peter and Phoebe is the window above my desk. Not only is this the prime piece of real estate when it comes to cat napping or bird-watching, but it’s also the ‘catch-all’ for every note, bill, nail file, and other knick knack that I neglect to file or put away.

When Phoebe wants to lay in this most coveted spot, she quietly and gracefully jumps up on the desk, and maneuvers around the obstacle course that I’ve created (which is often made up by my purse, a glass of water, or an empty–or nearly empty–cereal bowl). Nothing is disturbed. Each paper, pen, and dust-ball remain untouched. She delicately moves into position, and the bird-watching and sleeping begins.

Peter, on the other hand, has all of the elegance of a lumberjack hitting on the local transvestite after 3 pitchers of beer at happy hour. His routine of getting to the ‘spot’ consists of him meowing at me loudly, and then jumping up directly onto the keyboard of my computer. After leaving no less than 1/2 pound of fur between the keys, he waddles…yes, waddles…directly THROUGH whatever happens to be in his path. If there is a cup or water bottle out, he will undoubtedly knock it over. The bowl of cereal? While I was eating said cereal, it’s a guarantee that he was sitting at my feet crying and begging. Did I mention that he is fat? Yeah, he’s got a gut that rivals Elvis’s in his final years. Anywho, once I release the cereal bowl from my grip, Peter moves with impressive speed, despite his girth, and is on any remaining milk like Rosie O’Donnell on pie. Peter doesn’t just lap the milk. He eats with intensity and purpose, and there is a messiness to this feast. I have known milk to travel 2 to 3 feet when under Peter’s rule.

Once he’s ravaged anything edible, he moves with resolve to the ‘it’ place. Peter manages to tromp over every piece of paper that is on my desk. He then moves past the stapler, which of course is overturned after his fat ass pushes it off of the window ledge. He finally comes to rest, which is signaled by him placing his enlarged derriere directly on my hole punch, and his front half on Phoebe, who has been sitting there for 4 minutes, seeing as she was actually able to jump up on the desk on her first try, and being the sensible cat she is, bypassed the cereal bowl.

I’ve recently been accused of favoring Phoebe over Peter. I don’t think that it’s a matter of me loving her more than Peter. I think it’s more about Phoebe needing me more. She lives for attention from me. And she is amazingly sweet…with me. For all of her positive attributes, she does have her faults. She isn’t a big fan of the kids. That’s a nice way of me saying that she down right HATES them. I can’t imagine why the presence of 3 young children, who pursue her with nothing short of the dedication comparable to that of a hound hunting a fox, would cause her malice towards them. When they walk into a room, she either bolts or flattens her ears, revealing what I can only assume are her plans to smother them in their sleep. She never bites, but is not above a growl or a hiss. Peter, on the other hand, is so very sweet with the kids. Even when being picked up by his legs or neck, he is calm and complacent…as willing as a sorority girl high on Ruffies. He may be obese, and he may harass and wake my 4 year old in the middle of the night, and he may have a creepy obsession with my daughter’s Polly Pocket dresses, and he may attack my nipple when I bathe (don’t ask), but he’s a great cat, and a member of the family. I’ll take him over crying over spilled milk any day.