Friday, January 17, 2014

Why I Can't Wear Shorts Anymore

Okay, okay, I suppose I CAN wear shorts, but my advanced age aside, I really shouldn't. And, no, it's not because it's winter here and I'd look positively ridiculous. (Incidentally, you know you're ancient when you see young whippersnappers wearing shorts in the winter, or standing at the bus stop in the rain resolutely NOT holding an umbrella, and think how silly they look.)

But I've gotten off track. Back to why I shouldn't wear shorts. I can best illustrate this via a wee story. I was baking a couple of loaves of bread the other day...
Mmmm, just half an hour at 350 degrees...
HOLY SHIT, THOSE AREN'T TWO LOAVES OF RAW DOUGH! THOSE ARE MY THIGHS!!!!!

Have you reared back from your computer, shouting in disgust and rubbing furiously at your eyes? Let me know when you're back and ready to resume reading. I'll wait...

...................

..................

Geez, it wasn't that bad, was it? Yes? Okay, okay, take your time.

..................

How are you feeling now? Oh, still a little ill? Try a little Pepto Bismol or, if you're inclined, 3 - 4 shots of tequila. Go on. I'll wait...

There, there. It's going to be okay. I won't do that again, I promise.
Oops, I forgot! My bad!
Hahaha - yes, of COURSE I was going to do it again. But that's the last one, really.

Ladies and gents, these horrifying images reveal the "But wait! There's MORE!" bonus you get when on an MS disease-modifying drug like Copaxone. I've been on it for a couple of years now, and so far these revolting bruises are the worst side effect. Don't get me wrong, giving the injections can be painful, and the site afterward is often sore and itchy. (NO, sore and itchy is not how my skin is normally. Stop being rude.) But unattractive and unsuitable for shorts? Yes indeedy. This is, in part, why I love the winter: Long pants. Maybe even long-johns for good measure. And tights. Plus snow pants.

But, come summertime, when I might enjoy need to work in the garden or take a walk, it's hard to not want to wear shorts. Rest assured, though, I'll be keeping my bruised-fruit-like gams covered up. Thank God for those mid-calf length pants that I think went out of style in 2010. I have a closet full of them. You know, because:
Sorry!! 



Monday, January 13, 2014

I Have a Farting Cat

First, I must give credit where credit is due: thank you, gentlemen, from A Beer for the Shower (ABftS), for bringing to my attention the need to address cat farting. In their most recent blog post, ABftS mentioned this off-putting (and HILARIOUS) behavior. Anyone who spends a nanosecond reading my frequently off-putting blog can well imagine that I find the idea of cat farting amusing. And amusing it is...until it's your cat doing the farting.

The fellows from ABftS didn't realize cat farting exists. (They thought it was a myth, like women farting...which IS a myth, by the way.) But I'm here to tell you that one of the following felines is a farter:

Captain Nap? He looks a bit embarrassed, doesn't he? 
Or could it be the oft-maligned Squeaky?
"Haha! I'm farting on your laptop!"
Now hold on. Before you go and blame poor Squeaky, let's not forget the newest member of the family:
Not darling Pepper Anne!?!  
This picture is a CLUE. 
Yes, friends, the adorable Pepper Anne is not only missing an eye, she's also missing her manners. Maybe it's the stress and excitement of a new home, or maybe it's the super-expensive special diet all three cats are on (she routinely horns in on the adult cats' food, which is a $$$ hypoallergenic variety that Capt. Nap needs). Whatever the reason, the cats and I will be having a pleasant conversation, such as the following:

Me: "Squeaky, did you gnaw on that plant?"
Squeaky: "NO!"
Me: "Capt. Nap, is Squeaky telling Mommy the truth?"
Capt. Nap: "No! She's totally lying!"
Me: "Squeaky, is there something you want to tell Mommy?"

And then Pepper Anne will stroll past and leave a horrific odor in her wake. I know it's her because:

  1. It wasn't me (remember: women don't fart)
  2. Squeaky is now in the Punishment Box* (a Plexiglass container where she stays until she admits she was naughty)
  3. Capt. Nap is lying on a sofa halfway across the room
*NO, I don't put my cats in a Punishment Box. 

If I were guilty of ever passing gas, I can see where this cat-farting business might come in handy.
["AAAAAH, Pepper Anne JUST FARTED AGAIN!!! GOD, IT'S DISGUSTING!!!!"]

But since I do not, there's no reason for me to not get to the bottom of this problem and nip it in the bud. So, I've taken her to the vet and duly dropped off a stool sample. Please wish us luck. Cat farting is amusing only when it's happening to someone else. 



Tuesday, December 31, 2013

Why I May Be Suing Somebody

I woke up Sunday with a horrific neckache.

"What's the hell?" I wondered crankily, as I staggered to the bathroom to attend to bidness and brush my teeth. Four possibilities came to mind immediately:

  1. Meningitis
  2. Neck cancer
  3. MS flareup
  4. Slept funny

I was pretty sure it was one of the first two, but I wasn't going to rule out #3 or #4 immediately. I'd mull it over while having some coffee.

First there was cat bidness to deal with. LOTS of it. Who the hell decided three cats was a good idea? So, yeah, feeding, scooping litter, medicating...crap. By the time I was done, I was ready for a good sit-down.

Coffee in hand, I settled down on the couch. Ahhhhh. Better. Wait! What's this? Why, it's my laptop, positioned just how I left it (on top of a box containing a puzzle that I thought my husband and I could do as a wholesome alternative to watching TV). I looked around guiltily. Oh, that's right! Husband is out of town!!

"Well, what's the harm, really?" I said to myself reassuringly. "I mean, one or two more episodes isn't such a big deal."

Capt. Nap was sprawled out in the middle of the floor, vigorously cleaning his butt.

"STOP JUDGING ME!" I shouted. "I CAN QUIT ANYTIME I WANT!"

He paused for a second, glanced at me, and resumed cleaning.

"Whatever," I mumbled, and lurched forward to turn on my laptop and continue my "Breaking Bad" marathon on Netflix.

Mid-lurch I stopped in agony. Was the meningitis getting worse? What WAS this horrible pain?? Did I need to go to Urgent Care? I gritted my teeth and turned on my laptop. Once the show began, I sank back into the couch. My neck throbbed. I could not get into a comfortable position. It was totally interfering with my enjoyment of the show. I thought back to yesterday; what had I done?

  1. Woke up
  2. Cat bidness
  3. "Breaking Bad" (begin Season 1)
  4. Showered
  5. More "Breaking Bad"
  6. Lunch
  7. "Breaking Bad" (begin Season 2)
  8. Cat bidness
  9. Dinner
  10. "Breaking Bad" (finish Season 2)
  11. Well-earned sleep

See! Nothing strenuous -- unless it was taking care of those damn cats. Maybe I twisted my neck trying to scoop one of the four (4), YES, FOUR, litterboxes? Hmmmm. This was a mystery. I slumped into a slightly different position on the couch, cursing and trying to keep my head in a position where I could see the show on my laptop. A very small lightbulb (like, nightlight-size) sputtered on.

"Now wait just a darn minute," I mused. "Could it be...?"

Could it be that the HOURS I'd spent the previous day hunched on the couch watching "Breaking Bad" had caused my horrific neck pain? Only one way to find out! I sprang off the couch to do some stretching exercises and then go outside for invigorating fresh air.

HAHAHAHAHA!

No, I didn't. I peeled myself off the couch, shuffled upstairs without moving my neck for a mega-dose of Aleve, and continued my disgusting "Breaking Bad" marathon. This time, though. I added another wholesome and unopened puzzle to my "laptop stand." Within an hour, I was feeling better -- and making an impressive dent in Season 3!

If any among you are lawyers (or if you've watched a lot of legal shows on TV), can you please advise me? I believe I *may* have a case against "Breaking Bad" and/or Netflix for mental anguish and...physical torment (?). I easily could wear one of those neck-brace thingys, if that would bolster my case.


Thursday, December 12, 2013

Cheer, Goodwill, and Embarrassments: Ms. CrankyPants' Holiday Letter!

Happy holidays, everyone! It's been quite a year! There have been some highlights, and many, MANY embarrassing lowlights, most of which I've shared with you. If you need a refresher, just click here or here. Oh, hell, click on any post in my blog; it's nearly all embarrassing.

Everyone knows that the very BEST holiday letters are all about bragging highlights, so let's get started!
  • I'll just get the biggie out of the way first: I now have 10 followers! It's taken close to a year, but 10 new people actually like me! Or at least, the Ms. CrankyPants version of me. For all you know, I could be a colossal ASS whom you'd hate in real life. (After all, I just used the word "whom.")
Thanks, 10 followers!
  • I haven't had an MS relapse in...ages. Is it the Copaxone? The Swank Diet? Is it because I don't really have MS at all but some other horrible disease? Or, could it be that strange "agreement" I made with the mysterious silver-tongued chap with the red tail and horns who showed up that one night with a contract? Dunno. Whatever. I've been feeling good. (Note: I've just officially jinxed myself.)

He LOOKED friendly enough...

  • Our fantastically wonderful family is growing! The cat-adoption stork brought us a little bundle of joy (LBOJ) named Pepper Anne! 

Pepper Anne, in one of her 4,872,810 adorable poses.
  • Our existing cats hate aren't especially fond of are slowly getting used to our LBOJ!
Capt. Nap: "I can't even look at her. She's HIDEOUS!"
  • In other exciting feline news, Squeaky the Cat just graduated Magna Cat Laude from Big Jerk Cat University and has received her Ph.D. in Cat-Assery. She is so skilled! She can now hiss/growl at Pepper Anne and Capt. Nap WHILE guarding her toys, food, and the communal water bowl. Oh, and also all four litter boxes. She's so talented! We are so, so proud. That tuition money was well spent indeed. 
"Who the hell are you calling a jerk? Cover my head at once, minion!"
  • Capt. Nap is also doing really well! He hasn't had an explosive vomiting session since September. Plus, remember his adorable POO PAWS that so delighted me back in January? He's taught l'il sis Pepper Anne how to actually walk in her poo before burying it. What a good big brother! Now we have two cats with the occasional poo paw. We couldn't be happier! (By the way, who wants to come over and lie on our carpet? First come, first served, friends. There's only so much carpet to go around!)
I call this section of carpet. (Sorry, homeowners get first pick.)
  • Husband is continuing to support me in my efforts to stave off disability via the Swank Diet! He's a wonderful cook! But, really, how can you go wrong with products like TOFURKEY sausage?
OOPS! Wrong picture.
You can see why I got confused.
  • I may have big boobs! Yes, friends, according to a highly trained expert at a local bra shop, I have spent most of my adult life wearing a way-too-tiny bra size. This was some of the best news in all of 2013 for the fabulous CrankyPants family!  
  • Back to our kitty cats! They have really impressed us this year by scorning every single product we've introduced in an attempt to toilet train them. Stubborn little kitties! I do love a cat with his or her own personality! Oh, and not to worry: they've promised to pay us back the $3,176 we spent on ridiculous devices designed to make scooping their litter boxes a task of the past. 
"Kwit the litter? NEVER!"
  • It sure was a great Halloween this year! We managed to significantly reduce the number of trick-or-treaters harassing us! No, it wasn't the unwrapped hard candies or the miniature boxes of ancient raisins we'd been passing out. We suspect it was because our neighbors saw my husband mowing the yard in the snow! "Why, those cat-loving, kid-less people are NUTS!" we think they might have said on the neighborhood shared social media platform that we imagine exists and to which we've not been invited. "I wouldn't send MY kids there this Halloween." Mission accomplished! 
This isn't my husband. I've been forbidden to use that picture. This is the mayor of someplace in Iowa. But you get the idea. And in his defense, my husband was not wearing shorts. 
  • Thanksgiving 2013 was a tremendous success! No four-legged attendees vomited or did a poo anywhere! Pepper Anne jumped on the dining room table and lurched toward the turkey only once! (Maybe twice.) (Okay, fine, thrice.) (And, yes, I just said "thrice.")
We look forward to the new year, new embarrassments, and, ideally, new carpet. May you and yours have a very happy holiday season! 



Friday, December 6, 2013

Getting a Third Cat Is a Sign You Are Crazy

Some of you* have been wondering where I've been. I have a darn fine excuse, and her name is Pepper Anne. (*I'm going to go ahead and just pretend that's the case, without any actual proof to support that claim.)
"Hi! I'm Pepper Anne! Won't you be my friend?"
So I saw this picture on Homer the Blind WonderCat's Facebook page. I wrote about my quite-possibly-disturbing-to-non-cat-people "friendship" with the blind cat Homer (stop judging me) not too long ago. It seemed that darling Pepper Anne needed a home, and she was nearby. I began a Super-Stealthy Campaign to win over my husband.

"Just LOOK at this adorable kitten!" I'd chirp, thrusting my phone into his field of vision several times a day.

"Yeah, she's cute," he'd mumble, and continue trying to rake leaves or shower or drive off to work.

"Poor Squeaky," I'd muse, whenever Squeaky the Cat was looking slightly bored. "She needs a playmate."

"Poor Capt. Nap," I'd say, nudging my husband. "See how he's sleeping there on the couch? He totally is wishing he had someone to curl up with."

My husband would look at me blankly and I'd whip out the picture of Pepper Anne again.

"Just LOOK at this adorable kitten!" I'd chirp...and so forth.

After several days of my Super-Stealthy Campaign, I "discovered" that Pepper Anne would be at a local pet store during an adoption event. By making 1,275 perfectly reasonable promises, I managed to talk my husband into going to the pet store "just to LOOK."

Let's fast-forward. We have Pepper Anne. We're several weeks into the trial period, during which we make sure she meshes well with our resident cats. That bit has been rather...TAXING. Let's check in with everyone.

"This is MY toy!"
Squeaky the Cat spends a lot of time guarding this particular toy. When she's not guarding the toy (okay, even when she is guarding the toy), she's hissing, growling, and lunging. Mostly at Pepper Anne, but sometimes at Capt. Nap and/or my husband and me. Good times. She's by far the least won over by Pepper Anne's considerable charms.

"It's totally obvious that you don't love me AT ALL."
Capt. Nap spends a lot of his time skulking near windows and doors, hoping someone will open them and liberate him from the madness that is our home. He also gives us this LOOK, which is designed for (and quite effective at) maximum guilt.

I keep Grouchy-Ass Squeaky and Beleaguered Capt. Nap separate from My New Very Favorite Pepper Anne (just kidding; I love them all equally, except for Squeaky, who is being a real pain) when I'm not around. I've read tons of stuff on how to introduce cats, and pestered the people at the adoption center with 4,857,973 questions. In addition, I've spent around $78,974 on cat-calming items. Below are just a few:

Jackson Galaxy SPIRIT ESSENCES drops and Feliway COMFORT ZONE spray.
Feliway diffusers for the areas in the house where conflicts are most likely to occur. (AKA, the ENTIRE house.)
As I indicated above, the pictures reveal only a tiny portion of the sprays that litter nearly every surface in the house, plus the diffusers plugged in at potential conflict zones. (Did I mention that conflict zones are, like, everywhere?)

I hope you can at least on some pitying level understand why I've been busy for three weeks. YES, I'm aware that my blog is ancient and hasn't been updated since October. LATE October, though, please note. Keep your fingers crossed for us as we enter the fourth and final week of the trial period. Oh, and Squeaky is up for adoption if anyone's interested. (Just kidding.) (Mostly.)
I'm keeping Wee Squeaky, though. She's MUCH better behaved. 


Monday, October 28, 2013

Hubris Will Bite You in the Ass

First, let me address the title of this piece. I was trying to show off and use a Big Word, but I confess that I had to look it up first. You know, to be sure I was using it correctly. So that's a little embarrassing. But here's what Wikipedia says:

Hubris /ˈhjuːbrɪs/, also hybris, from ancient Greek ὕβρις, means extreme pride or arrogance. Hubris often indicates a loss of contact with reality and an overestimation of one's own competence, accomplishments or capabilities, especially when the person exhibiting it is in a position of power. Hubris is usually associated with the "simple-minded". 

I'd like to call your attention to this section of the definition: Hubris often indicates a loss of contact with reality

Ummm, so, yes, I WAS using it correctly. If anyone's in doubt, there's also THIS:

Hubris is usually associated with the "simple-minded". 

Now that we've got that straight, on with my post! I secured my pants with a giant paper clip today. You know, one of these:

I know it's not a paper clip, but I'm too lazy to look up the proper word.
Why did I use this not-a-paperclip to fasten my pants, you ask? It wasn't because my zipper broke or the button fell off my pants. It's because the pants were so damn tight that I couldn't stand it anymore. So I hunched in my cubicle at work, unbuttoned the top button (OKAY, FINE, AND LOOSENED THE ZIPPER A BIT TOO), and used the clip to adjust them to a more, errrr, accommodating size. Fortunately, I was wearing one of my old wardrobe staples -- a baggy, forgiving shirt -- so I was fairly sure the freakish-looking shape that was now jutting out of my abdomen like the darling baby alien from "Alien" wasn't obvious.

It's a boy!
I didn't feel spectacular about wearing these particular pants today but I was in a rush, so I figured they would do. The pants are made of some bizarre linenish-but-not-remotely-natural material. They're gray and crinkley (bonus! No ironing required; they're SUPPOSED to look like that!). They're also kind of a "slim" fit. I'd jettisoned them from my wardrobe around the same time as my muffin top reared its grotesque head.

In case you needed a refresher...
Without doing anything resembling exercise, I've shed a few pounds. Maybe it's the Swank Diet? A raging case of terminal cancer, more likely. Whatever the reason, I vividly recall the moment I triumphantly welcomed the gray pants back into my wardrobe. I was tired of the same three pairs I'd been wearing. So, just last weekend, I eased open the closet door and gingerly took out the gray ones. I slipped them on, trotted over to the mirror, and -- no ghastly bulges. I turned around. No giant wedge!

"Welcome back to the rotation!" I said out loud, addressing my pants. No, really, I did. I said that to my pants in the mirror.

Clearly, I was feeling mighty pleased with myself. Clearly, I'd forgotten every single horror movie I'd ever seen (except for "Alien.") You know -- there's always a scene when a stupid character bellows: "Things couldn't POSSIBLY get any worse!"  or sighs, "Thank God...it's over!" after tossing the gun/knife/hammer aside, and you just shake your head because the person saying it is so stupid. Of course things will get worse (duh), and no way are they over.

So, yeah. That was me. Tempting fate and displaying a helluva lot of hubris with my smug little comment. It didn't matter that no one except Squeaky and Capt. Nap (and the pants) heard me; Fate heard me. And my comment came back to bite me in the ass.

I know what you're hoping. You're hoping I have a picture of myself crammed into these pants with the unsightly alien-like protrusion that you will secretly enjoy noting is TOTALLY obvious, baggy shirt or no baggy shirt. Nope! Sorry, friends. I do have a shred of dignity left. You'll have to be content with this:

In case you forgot, the pants are supposed to look that wrinkled.
I've left the clip right there on the hanger as a reminder for the next time I start feeling a bit too pleased with myself. It's also there for the next time I want to wear the pants!

Sunday, October 6, 2013

Top 4 Most Annoying People at the Movies (and How to Avoid Them)

As my name suggests, I am easily irritated. I'd like to share my thoughts on an entertainment venue that has enormous potential to be irritating: the movie theater.

Okay, to be fair, it's not the venue that's annoying, it's the people IN that venue: my fellow moviegoers. Presumably, we're all there to sit quietly and enjoy the film. That's why *I'm* there, anyway. Not so certain others in the audience. In a movie theater, I gain special powers. I become an Annoying Person Magnet (APM). I would much prefer to become an Annoying Person Repellent, but we must play the cards we've been dealt.

What does an APM do, you ask? Well, quite simply, regardless of the movie or what time it's showing, irritating people are drawn to the seats next to, in front of, or behind me. You're probably thinking, "Gee, Ms. CrankyPants, sounds as if you are quite a curmudgeon. Surely it's not that bad." Here's what I say to YOU: No, I'm not* and yes, it is.

I've come up with a list of the types of annoying people I regularly encounter at theaters and have thoughtfully provided the few ways I've managed to outwit them.

1. The Rude Teenagers Putting Their Feet on the Seat in Front of Them: You know who I'm talking about. The ones who, while the lights are still up and people are shambling around with their buckets of popcorn and gallons of soda looking for seats, sit there in full view, legs draped over the seats in front of them, staring balefully at the grownups. I'm not ashamed to admit it: teenagers frighten me. A lot. I don't want to sit in front of them and turn around to give them a Pointed Stare (which they'll ignore, naturally) or, worse, a stern talking-to. That's because the instant I were to turn back around to face the screen, they'd be throwing popcorn and jujubees in my hair and chortling gleefully. The only way to avoid these rude teenagers is to get to the theater good and early and stake out the back row. I've forced many a friend ("I don't CARE if you forgot your glasses, we're sitting in the back!") to hike up to the very back row and squint for 2.5 hours, just so I don't have to confront a teenager. (Note: in the aftermath of an especially bad relapse, when walking was hugely challenging, I clenched my teeth and made the Mt. Everest-like climb to the back, clutching the railing and gasping, ignoring the people staring at me. I realize not everyone with MS can do this. There was a mercifully brief time when I could not walk at all, so I try never to take it for granted, and I certainly do not mean to offend anyone with this post.)

2. The Kicker: Typically, these are young children (although they might be rude teenagers too) who are accompanied by an oblivious adult. Solution: same as above -- secure a seat in the back row. It's your only defense. Ha HA, would-be seat kicker! Can't kick my seat now! In your FACE!

3. The Bag Crinkler/Soda Slurper: Okay, sure, part of the movie experience is shoveling in treats. I get it; I do it too. But I try to get all of my noisy bag rustling done during loud parts of the movie. And, if my movie treats are crunchy, I try to not chomp loudly during quiet, heart-tugging parts of the show. Few things are more distracting than trying to listen to someone's dying words over the CRACKLE, ROOT, RUSTLE, CRUNCH CRUNCH CRUNCH of a nearby person groping around in his bag of popcorn. Or, and this actually happened to me very recently, someone trying to suck out the last molecule from their cup of soda. This activity involved lots of ice-shaking, slurping, more ice-shaking, violent sucking, and, FINALLY, the dad grabbing the huge cup of soda out of his kid's hands. Bless that man. I was about to do it myself. (HAHA! Not really: children frighten me only slightly less than teenagers.) Unfortunately, apart from moving seats, there is no remedy for this one. Back row doesn't prevent the Bag Crinkler/Soda Slurper from parking him- or herself directly in front of or next to you.

4. The Chatters: These usually fall into two groups: children and old people. I can sort of understand children. I mean, they don't know what's going on, so they ask questions. Often, and loudly. Okay, fine. I can deal. Old people, though, come on! They've been around long enough to know how movies work. You pipe down and enjoy the show. Unfortunately, the problem usually results when the old person can't hear well and missed some dialogue or a plot development. "Mildred, who is that man? What did he just say?" "Harvey, that's the main character. He just said he's going to drive to the grocery store." "Mildred, what did he say now? I missed it." "Harvey, that's because you were talking." It's an exhausting process. Here's the only solution I've found: switch seats. A tip that may allow you to avoid moving seats: when you arrive (early, remember!), scan the crowd. Avoid all areas that have clusters of kids, teens, and old people. These are Trouble Zones. If people are talking loudly during the previews, there's an excellent chance they'll keep up the chattering during the movie too.

So, there you have it -- my list of annoying people in movies and ways to avoid them. As we wrap up here, you may be wondering: Why do I subject myself to movies when I often find them exasperating? A fine question. Yes, indeed. When I figure out the answer, I'll get back to you.

*Maybe it's slightly me being a curmudgeon.