cats

Addicted to Drama

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At the advent of reality TV, I thought myself better than everyone else because I refused to watch shows like The Bachelor, The Bachelorette or any of those other programs showcasing cheesy, forced romance and contrived drama.

I did not count my personal favorites—Survivor and The Amazing Race—in the ridiculously-fake-reality-TV category. I told myself (and everyone else) that I enjoyed those shows because they highlighted adventure in exotic, faraway lands.

Was I at all addicted to the “drama” that took place on beaches and jungles on the opposite side of the globe? Maybe. Because now there is a wee bit of evidence supporting the theory that I, just like everyone else, most likely was.

I have recently developed a slight addiction to a certain show that has made me question my self-proclaimed exemption from the desire for drama-on-display. The show is Hoarders. And I am actually rather obsessed with it. Like a horrific car crash by the side of the road or gruesome crime scene photos shown on Dateline, I cannot seem to look away. I find myself consistently drawn in by the ewwww-factor and the UGH-factor and the oh-this-is-so-absolutely-sad-and-disgusting-and-unbelievable factor.

I have long been fascinated by the inner workings of the human psyche. And based on ratings alone, I am not the only one. Let’s be honest… you’re Norman Rockwell neighbors, working 8 to 5 and grilling out on the weekends don’t exactly make for an interesting case study. But your crazy lady-next-door-with-a-million-cats-and-60-tons-of-trash-on-her-front-lawn kinda does.

Questions spring to mind such as: Why is he or she like that? What is wrong with them that they feel the need to cling to dead squirrels, pre-WWII cans of tuna or rotted jars of peanut butter? When are they going to tire of climbing over laundry, furniture and pizza boxes to get to their toothbrush? How are they OK with rats and roaches running rampant over heaps and piles of junk collecting in every nook and cranny of their living spaces?

I’m not sure if it is a form of escapism, or a way for us to affirm our own “normalness” as we watch others so tragically struggle just to keep both feet on the ground. Perhaps it is nothing more than our innate voyeuristic nature at work. But one thing is for sure… As long as there are humans on this planet and television cameras rolling, we will tune in and watch other people’s drama (be it real or fabricated) while it unfolds before us in our living rooms, with the curtains drawn and a bowl of popcorn in our lap.

10 Reasons Why Its Funner To Be a Kid at the Zoo

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For an animal lover and avid people-watcher, a visit to the zoo never gets old, no matter your age. However at times I find it far more entertaining to watch the children at the zoo, rather than the animals…

For example: I once witnessed a little girl throw an AMAZING tantrum (screaming, wailing, arms flailing… the whole bit) all the way from the Northern Trek down to the African Savanna… and no one even blinked. I have to say, I envied her a little. I mean, let’s be honest people… sometimes it WOULD be nice for it to be OK if you had a total and complete MELT-DOWN like that in front of everyone. No questions asked.

But this little red-faced, siren-sounding, tantrum-throwing child-coming-down-from-an-extreme-sugar-high not only entertained me, she inspired me. My envy of her led me to think of some other reasons why it is WAY better to be a kid at the zoo than it is to be an adult. So here goes…

1. You get to be chauffeured around everywhere in a plush, shaded stroller or fun little red wagon.

2. You can dress up like the animals and people think it’s cute. No one thinks it is “weird” or “just-trying-to-get-attention” or “wacky” or “deranged.”

3. Everyone moves out of YOUR way so that you can have the best view of the monkeys throwing poo at one another.

4. You will not be made fun of or teased for spilling ketchup and mustard down the front of your shirt and walking around all day sportin’ a stain on your chest.

5. When you talk to the animals no one thinks it is “strange” or “just-trying-to-get-attention” or “questionable” or “sad.”

6. It’s totally acceptable and not “dirty” to ask questions like: “What is that kangaroo doing to that OTHER kangaroo?”

7. No one yells: “Hey!” or “Get down from there!” or “You’re too heavy!” or “You’ll break it!” if you climb up and sit on the railing to get a better look at the tortoises.

8. If you make random animal noises while standing in line for the bathroom or concessions no one thinks it is “odd” or “just-trying-to-get-attention” or “curious” or “psycho.”

9. You can be covered in cotton-candy, having the bestest, stickiest, finger-lickingest time of your life and no one looks at you funny. You do NOT have to carry your cotton-candy home in a concealed plastic bag and secretly devour it at 10 p.m. on the couch in your living room, sitting next to your cat while watching re-runs of Seinfeld… with the blinds drawn.

10. And finally… as previously mentioned… You can throw an elephant-sized fit whenever, wherever and whyever you want to and no one thinks it is “scary” or “just-trying-to-get-attention” or “immature” or “narcissistic.”

Single White Female Seeks…

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Girlfriends. That’s right I said girlfriends. I am searching for a few good female friends… though I’d settle for just one. I have actually been considering taking out an ad and conducting interviews. I’m not searching for the virtual kind of friends with whom I can “chat” electronically across the miles about all sorts of random topics. Those are wonderful, please don’t get me wrong.

I realize that many of you reading this right now are those sorts of “friends” to me. But today I am specifically referring to the real-life-flesh-and-blood-in-your-physical-company kind of friends.

… Monica, Rachel, Phoebe, Chandler, Ross and Joey … Jerry, George, Kramer and Elaine … Carrie, Miranda, Charlotte and Samantha … And to be fair to the bros out there … Vince, “E”, Ari, Drama and Turtle …

There’s a simple reason why these famous “friends” from popular culture have worked their way into our living rooms and ultimately our hearts over the years. We all want what they appear to have. They have a bond and a closeness that cannot be denied. Someone is always there to bail you out, cheer you up, calm you down or stay in with you and share a bottle of wine.

Some people are fortunate enough to have friends like that in real life. But sadly, for me, I am not one of those people. Make no mistake. I have some amazing friends with whom I have stayed in touch over the years, but we no longer live in the same state, let alone the same city. And the ones who do live in close proximity… well, it seems we’re all too busy with our own little lives to make the time to nurture a friendship. And I am equally as guilty as anyone else when it comes to this.

But now, at 36, I am wishing for that close friend or friends with whom I can share anything. ANYTHING. The kind of friend…

  • who would tell me what a jerk he is (even if he isn’t) because it is what I need to hear in that moment.
  • I have a standing date with on Monday nights to watch The Big C, Nurse Jackie or The United States of Tara.
  • who would tell me the harsh truth no matter how hard it is to hear.
  • who would NOT post compromising, reputation-altering or career-threatening photos or videos of me on Facebook or YouTube (no matter how great their viral potential may actually be).
  • who lived nearby and would show up at 3 a.m. if I think my cat is dying (or just hacking up a giant hairball).
  • who would help me hide a body if necessary (just sayin’).

Any interested party, living within a 15-mile radius and fitting this description please feel free to submit an application to yours truly.

Willingness to share shoes, accessories and clothing a plus. Co-dependant, jealousy-prone, psychopathic, passive-aggressive narcissists need not apply.

Secret Single Behavior

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While not everyone is a Sex in the City fan, I would venture to guess that everyone has some secret practices or behaviors that they would just assume keep that way. I have been a fan of the show for years and have seen every episode at least 3 times. But one of my favorites is the one where Carrie is adjusting to a new life living with Aidan, her boyfriend who has just moved in…

“Carrie lamented to the girls about the loss of her “secret single behavior,” which for her includes eating a stack of saltines with grape jelly while standing up in the kitchen reading fashion magazines. Miranda admitted, “I like to put Vaseline on my hands and stick them in those Borghese conditioning gloves while watching infomercials.”

I have lived alone for 6 years now and am currently in a long-distance relationship. Therefore, much of my weekly interaction with “the man” is via phone or Skype. The other night while on the phone with him we began talking about the things we do all by ourselves when no one is around. In other words … our secret, single behavior (SSB).

I realize that by sharing this with all of you, it will no longer remain “secret,” but that’s OK. I’ll still keep the really odd or creepy ones to myself. I feel like sharing mainly because I am fascinated by human behavior and this inquiring mind wants to know what your SSB is. You know… the old I’ll-show-you-mine-if-you-show-me-yours kind of thing.

Here are a few of mine:

When no one is around, I like to…

  • mindlessly watch reruns of Seinfeld and Friends (that I have seen a thousand times already) while reciting the dialogue in tandem with the actors. Verbatim.
  • bake fresh cinnamon rolls and drink mugs of warm coffee while watching indy films and staying in my pajamas for as long as possible on Saturdays. Even if it is mid-June and 75 degrees and sunny.
  • eat microwave caramel corn for dinner.
  • literally lie on the floor playing cat and mouse with Stan, my cat. Obviously, I am the mouse.
  • curl up with a heating pad when I don’t have cramps. Even if it is mid-June and 75 degrees and sunny.
  • read 3-months worth of horoscopes from my Glamour magazines while studying the calendar.
Now that I’ve shown you mine, will you please show me yours? Add to this list in the Comments section and either make me feel like I’m more normal than I suspect or share with all of us just how weird you are.

Who Me? Territorial? Nah.

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Never let it be said that humans aren’t territorial. Otherwise, why would we have legal property lines and build fences? Why would we hang signs that label “our areas” as such? Why would we get irritated if our neighbor decides to park a GINORMOUS camper next to our driveway, obstructing our view of the street and making us feel like we live on a Hollywood set, or we’re in prison or we’ve been relocated to Big Arbs campground!?! Huh?

The following is a little internal narrative I wrote down about 2 years ago when a grumpy old fart just up and started randomly TAKING my parking spot… EVERY. DAMN. DAY. I’ve since left that place of employment for a different place … with better parking.

_______________________________________________________

My eyes narrowed when I saw him pulling into the spot.

THE parking spot. MY parking spot. I’ve never seen him park there before. Why did he decide to start now? Everyone should know by now that THAT is MY parking spot. I’ve been parking there for months ever since the layoffs started and a “prime” spot became available just outside my office window. My window. My spot.

And I heaved a heavy, aggravated sigh.

Alright. I guess I’ll just have to take the spot next to it today… and hope that this doesn’t become like a regular thing. I mean, I’d hate to have to start cutting my lunch hours short just to safeguard the spot. If I don’t… and HE starts parking there… before you know it, he’ll think it’s HIS spot. And then what will I do? I’ll have to find another spot. This really does annoy me.

So I glared at him the entire time while he squared up his car and shut off the engine and gathered his things and walked into the building.

That will show him. My iron stare. WHO does this guy think he is? I don’t even know this guy. Does he even WORK here full-time? I think maybe he’s an engineer. Oh! Look at me! I’m an engineer! I’m better than you! I make more money than you do! My job requires a lot more brains and skill and responsibility than Marketing does… I can park wherever I want to!

And I slide into the second-rate spot right beside him. Meanwhile… one of the retired guys enters the parking lot, returning from lunch, and he glares at ME!

What is YOUR problem?!? What the #@%* are YOU looking at? Why are you even here? You are retired and supposed to be coming here on a part-time, consultation-only basis. But instead, I think I see more of you NOW than I did BEFORE you retired! What is up with THAT?!? Do you have a problem with me? You don’t even KNOW me. We’ve never even spoken. Stop looking at me. Jerk.

And then it dawns on me… I just parked in HIS spot.

_______________________________________________________

Listen… when it comes to territory… the only difference between us and the animal kingdom is the fact that we don’t “mark” our territories with bodily fluids. Then again… maybe there are a few of us who do.

If there are… I really wouldn’t want to know.

A Tiny Taste of Fame (Just small enough to choke on)

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“So this area is called the ‘Dashboard’ and this is where you pull all of the strings to create the pages that people see.” I explained to my mother who knew very little about blogging and cared even less. Then I showed her around my blog and eventually over to the WordPress homepage and the Freshly Pressed section.

Pausing ever-so-reverently on the Freshly Pressed area. My eyes glazed over like Homer Simpson’s when he sees a beer or a donut and I dramatically drew a circle in the air around The Page with my index finger and with an equal amount of drama said to her: “Mother, THIS is where I can only hope to end up some day. THIS is the goal. THIS would be THE place to be.”

A day or two later, I did the same thing to my boyfriend.

I can be a bit of a drama queen.

My fledgling web log was just 10 days old. I had 13 subscribers and anywhere from 40 to 80 hits a day. And then last Friday something amazing happened. Going to my blog to check the stats (as I had begun doing religiously) hoping each day that the numbers would climb, I told myself not to expect much. I literally SAID to myself: “Don’t be disappointed if the numbers are low. You are NEW at this and it will take time for people to discover it.”

But the numbers weren’t low. They were skyrocketing! And I immediately thought there must be something wrong with WordPress and that this had to be a mistake of some kind. I knew enough to be able to check where the majority of hits were coming from and I saw that it was the WordPress homepage. So naturally I went there. And that’s when I saw it. My baby. My blog… right there in the middle of the page. The picture, the name…  I rubbed my eyes to make sure I was actually seeing what I thought I was seeing.

It was for real.

I called my boyfriend. I called my parents. I emailed my friends. I wanted to run yelling through the streets: I’ve been Freshly Pressed!! I’ve been Freshly Pressed!! I did refrain, however, for fear of looking like a lunatic since I’m pretty sure that a large slice of society probably would assume that “Freshly Pressed” is something akin to water-boarding. But on the inside I WAS running and yelling.

Since it was a Friday, I was fortunate that my blog stayed on FP for 3 whole days (plus one more if you count the day that it slides back to the “earlier” site). Four whole days of extra exposure to the world and readers and hits and comments and spiking stat charts and emails and “likes” and subscribers! I had never experienced anything remotely like the rush I got from it. By the end of the 4th day, I was exhausted. I looked like a junkie in desperate need of a fix. My eyes were red, I was cranky from very little sleep and I just generally looked like shit. It was then that I realized how HARD it is to stand under the white-hot light of overnight celebrity. No wonder so many people crack under the pressure.

It was going to be short-lived and I was aware of it every second of every day. And it was wearing me out. Staying up late to watch the numbers, answer comments and emails, read other people’s blogs and nurture new virtual friendships. I kept thinking: I’ve got to stay after this or it will all slip away! Soon the clock will strike midnight and my carriage will turn back into a pumpkin, my gown to rags and my fine white horses to rats… I will be the little-ol’-graphic-designer-from-Ohio-who-writes-for-a-hobby once again. I will be just another regular gal doing the 8 to 5, eating frozen Lean Cuisines and watching Hoarders with my cat.

What can I say? I did the best I could for 4 days. My family and boyfriend—God love ‘em—did their best too. My boyfriend asked me daily what my numbers were and whether or not I was getting enough sleep. He and my parents reiterated how proud they were of me. They graciously listened as I told them about some of my new online connections. My parents showed their friends my blog while at a dinner party instead of passing around pictures of grandkids.

On Tuesday morning I logged on to my computer and  much to my chagrin, the numbers were abysmal compared to the day before. Back to normal I guess. My moment in the spotlight had expired. Like the rollercoaster that is 60 seconds of sheer unpredictable terror and thrill and then comes screeching to a halt… The ride was over. I then glanced at the clock: 15 ‘til 8… I grabbed my purse, my keys, my coffee … and headed to the office.

As I pulled out of my driveway I heard the faintest voice as though over a muffled loudspeaker say: Please exit quickly to your left in order to make room for the next passenger.

Fending Off Crazy Cat Woman

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I could feel the stranger’s eyes boring into the back of my skull and the heat from his stare on my neck. “Don’t judge me.” I thought to myself as I set the groceries on the conveyor and glanced over my shoulder at the man standing behind me with his filled-to-the-brim shopping cart.

I put the plastic divider in place after pulling the remaining items from the cart and reviewed my impending purchases… A quart of skim milk, two containers of flavored coffee creamer, a bottle of OJ, one box of cereal, a loaf of bread, a brick of cheddar, three Lean Cuisines and 10 cans of cat food.

My tiny bundle of staples barely covered a third of the checkout counter. And it occurred to me that the aforementioned items probably screamed: “CRAZY, SINGLE, CAT WOMAN!!” to anyone who cared to investigate what it was I was buying. I wondered if he felt pity toward me… “Poor woman.” He probably thought. “Mid-thirties. Obviously purchasing dinner for one. Clearly companioned by one or more cats. Poor thing. She’ll probably go home, microwave her dinner and watch Lifetime all by herself.”

It’s what I would have thought. I judge people based on what they buy at the grocery store all the time.

Sensing his judgment and pity I smoothed my skirt and stood a little taller trying to act all nonchalant, confident and indifferent as to what anyone thought of me and my two-cans-shy-of-a-dozen cat food collection. I interacted with the checkout girl by enthusiastically chatting her up about the weather and the upcoming weekend to illustrate that I do, indeed, have social skills and some semblance of a life. She rang me up, we bagged it up and I strutted out of the store like I owned it.

“I am not a crazy, sad, sorry, single, cat woman. I do have a boyfriend. I am a perfectly happy, successful, well-adjusted, strong woman. ” I said with my body language. “You don’t know me.”

Perhaps my affinity for TV shows that delve into the intricacies of the human psyche is to blame for my hyperactive-grocery-store-paranoia. Consistently watching CSI, Criminal Minds and House might be the reason I ask such questions as: What do these purchases say about me? What would an FBI profiler glean from the ratio of human to feline food in my pantry? If someone murdered me in my home while I slept, would the cops feel sorry for me when they processed the crime scene?

Then again… maybe I just watch too much TV… with my cat.