Almost two years ago, I was sitting on the patio of a restaurant in Mexico eating my 100th carne asada taco in the matter of one week, watching a group of chickens play with a group of chihuahuas on the beach (yeah I know Mexico gets weird), when I had an epiphany: Meat is gross. Cows are super cute and kind and I genuinely want to join those chickens on the beach for a good time. So just like that I gave up meat. No one really believed this, however, since slammin’ lamb had been my thing since forever But alas, after multiple attempts at shoving piggy plates and beefy burgers in my face, people were left to roll their eyes and give-the-fuck-up. I thought this would be a decision that’d affect only me; that no one else could possibly be offended, or even give two shits about what the hell I chose to eat. What I discovered quickly, and what I have continued to deal with, however, is the hard realization that people want to be ALL UP IN YO’ BIZZ-NESS by means of putting you in your place.
The first question I was asked (as per California protocol) was not WHY I was a vegetarian, but what level of vegetarianism I practiced. Flexitarian? Lacto-ovo-vegetarian? Pescetarian? Vegan? Raw vegan? Macrobiotic? And I’m like… is this fucking yoga?
I honestly didn’t understand what any of these terms truly entailed. I’m not exactly label savvy, or for that matter, a label loving person. I just knew what my body was telling me to do, and so I did it. But this was NOT ok with people, so, I educated myself, and discovered that if I absolutely had to put a label on it, I was, and am, a Pescetarian. This simply means that I strictly abstain from eating all meat and animal flesh with the exception of fish. Damn was I proud when I’d spit those words out… finally being able to make sense of the type of diet I was “practicing.” But eventually those rolly-eyed giver-uppers concocted more questions for me to stumble over:
Do you wear leather? Try not to.
Do you have leather car seats? Not my car not my problem.
Is your purse made of suede? I accidentally washed it so many times I’m not sure it’s suede anymore.
Will you eat your vegetables if they’re cooked in chicken or beef broth? No asshole.
Do you eat eggs? Yeah, except today I realized the carton I got says, “Nest Fresh!” And I cried and walked away from the kitchen because things in nests are cute.
Do you realize how ridiculous it is that you eat fish but not beef or poultry? I’m half-cat, I NEED FISH, aight?
To all this I was stunned. I had been quietly enjoying my new diet, when da-haters decided to spew their word-vomit all over me.
And then the question of all questions was finally asked: WHY are you a pescetarian-vegetarian? And I had some great responses, like: Have you driven on the 5 North from Los Angeles to San Francisco? Have you seen the cows piled on top of each other? It’s the COWshwitz of Auschwitz. Or maybe you’ve taken a gander at the Food Inc. documentary and wanted to die a little over the inhumane treatment of animals so we can eat some swilly meat via the corporate controlled food industry? And da-haters are like: What about fish farms? And dairy products from the COWshwitz? And I’m like: 1. Wildcaught 2. Organic 3. BOOM IN YO FACE and they’re so cleverly like: What about when you go out to eat? How can you be sure it’s organic/wildcaught/blahblah? And I’m like: Fuck, fine. In that case, sometimes I suck. But I’m usually hungover at that point, in which case, absolutely nothing matters but my sanity. And they’re like: Are you doing it to try and lose weight?
And I’m like:
But obviously it’s other things too. Buying organic meat is expensive and obviously I need that money for wine, which I only buy like once a month and only drink a glass of.
And when all else fails, I tell them the hen story:
It all started on a summer night in my homeland of Maine, when, while getting bud light drunk at a friend’s, I noticed a hen peacefully perching on the arm of a chair. And I was like:
So, I asked my friend why she had a hen, so seemingly domesticated in its demeanor, in her home, to which she explained that it was a pet and it was friendly and that I should touch it. So I did touch it, and to my surprise, the hen was indeed, friendly. Then I bravely stroked its feathery soft back with my shaky hand and it fucking purred. I then realized it was not an it at all but a her and a hen and then the epiphanies of all epiphanies came: Hens are just cats with feathers so I cannot eat them. Also, I literally slept under a blanket that night with hen in arms and I am not ashamed.
And the saddest cow story ever:
I have this aunt who likes animals just as much as I do. So much that she lived on a farm of furry cute creatures, including her BFF, Augusta the Cow, who was like super sweet and happy and cool.
The only super shitty thing was that my aunt would impregnate Augusta and then a few months after cowception, butcher her calf. Fucked up. But I loved Augusta and was just happy she was able to live and be loved unlike the rest of them. Unfortunately karma kicked the shit out of my aunt because, on a day she couldn’t be at the farm to supervise the butcher taking away the calf, the idiots mistakenly took her BFF, Augusta and made her into hamburger meat.
I was totally devastated for both my aunt and my five year old tender soul when I found out and took to my room for weeks (don’t question that, just embrace the dramatic build-up).
I didn’t know Augusta had been ground down into small squiggles of bright red. I thought she had been given an elaborate funeral with grass offerings and laid to rest in a field of flowers forever.
I didn’t know until I knew…..
It goes like this: I’m sitting at the dinner table eating a giant, medium-rare hamburger. I’m stuffing it in my mouth like it’s the last meal I’ll ever have because it was the best burger I’d ever had. Bloody juices are seeping from the sides of my mouth as I chomp down, over and over again until almost all of the burger is gone, when I look up to see my mother solemnly staring at me. She tells me that the burger happens to be the fucking cow of all cows, AUGUSTA.
And I’m like:
And my mom’s like… “It’s okay sweetie, it’s natural, and it’s better that we eat her if anyone.”
And I’m like: I CAN’T EAT MY MOO-FRIEND! THE INHUMANITY!
And if those two stories don’t help people who really can’t leave me the fuck alone to understand my decision to not eat my friends, then there is just no hope for them. Those people will never know the joys of cuddling cat-hens, or the perils of hate-liking your moo-friend.
But honestly, let me eat what I want, how I want in peace, and in return I will give you dirty looks every time you order the filet or chicken-fucking-nuggests (which no one over the age of five should ever order anyway).
Something happened to me the other day and I didn’t like it. Not one bit. But before I tell you, you need to understand something about me.
I have this thing with going to the doctors. It’s annoying and invasive. There’s always this insanely long check-in line with the strangest most unhealthy looking people in it whom I just want to send to the Urgent Care line myself. And why are the receptionists so mean to me? Always. I know they have an exuberant amount of hypochondriacs to check-in with all of these, “can I use this alternative payment method?” bullshit questions, but they make me feel lonely and unspecial, and this whole thing is supposed to be about ME.
And the waiting room. I just can’t even. The magazines which cover the surfaces of each table look like mounds of germs waiting for me to inhale them and develop a fatale flesh eating disease. Then there’s the family that always sits right on top of me; a toddler with guts spilling out of their nose while their parents talk loudly and incessantly about something I cannot even understand because they’re never speaking English and I’m looking around at the row of empty seats on the other side of the room wondering why the hell this clan had to post up in my bubble.
It’s in these moments, I find myself sitting in the chair like…..
breathe and you die bitch
When the nurses finally call for me, it’s like I couldn’t run any faster into their arms; as if behind the door they’re holding open resides the lair of residual clean air.
It’s here where my story truly begins. See, the other day, I’m sitting in the sterile digs of Doctor Mai’s discussing a change in migraine medication when he’s like, “You should get the flu shot.”
And I’m like, “No, I’m good. No needles for me today.”
And he’s like, “No you should get it. There’s already been a case of H1N1 here in California this year.”
And I’m like “SWINE FLU?!”
So I get the damn shot and it hurts and I hate it but I deal with it. Then, I think, okay time to blow this joint, when suddenly Dr. Mai says, “Oh and it looks like you’re due for some blood work.” And the sensible side of me thinks, well, I could either make a new appointment and get charged for a separate copay, or do all of this now. So, I agree to another needle session and trot my way down to the lab to get it done.
Unfortunately, things don’t just wrap up here. Instead they unravel like when my cat gets her greedy little claws into the roll of toilet paper and creates a huge, annoying, unnecessary mess.
The whole drawing blood thing is terrifying to me. Why can’t you just breathe on a needle and have it tell you if you’re healthy?
So I put my right arm on the table. The lady slaps a rubber band around my forearm and searches for a vain to attack. She thinks she finds one and stabs me once, but it doesn’t take. She tries another spot with the same lifeless response. All the energy I used to get into that room, sit down, and allow for that initial poke seems useless now. I want to melt into liquid form like Alex Mack (if you never saw that television show you’re straight whack), slide under the crack of the door and escape into a bountiful world of kittens and rainbows.
Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Sweet serenity:
But instead the lady is like, “Give me your other arm.” So I take a deep, “you’ll-be-fine-breath” and give her my limb and close my eyes and go back to Kitten Land and just hope that when I open my eyes the massacre has concluded.
When I open my eyes, however, there’s like 5 nurses holding onto me, and blood dripping down my arm and leg and lots of gasping noises. And I just can’t seem to understand what the fuss is about, so I ask, “Are you guys all worried about me right now?” To which everyone sort of frantically answers:
YES! ARE YOU DIABETIC? DID YOU EAT TODAY? CAN YOU HEAR US?
And then I realize what’s happened, and I freak-the-fuck-out. I start profusely sweating, incessantly crying, intensely shaking.
So, I guess I passed out. I’ve never done that before. Never understood it. Yet here I am in the arms of nurses getting apple juice tossed down my throat and told my eyes rolled around and it was “stranger than usual.” Then they tell me I have to go to Urgent Care and get checked out, and to get into a wheelchair, which I refused to do until realizing that, indeed, I couldn’t walk. During this whole ordeal though, no one thought of cleaning the trails of blood off of my bare skin, so they’re hastily wheeling me through the hallways and I’m wiping blood around in circles trying to clean it up with my bare hands. Disaster-zone.
I’m wheeled past the whole waiting room of patients eagerly awaiting their 1 hour 75 minutes to be seen in Urgent Care and dropped off in a room with Doctor Something-or-Other. And he’s basically like, you need to take off your shirt and bra because I need to give you an EKG to check your heart out. So, I’m uncomfortably exposing my breasts with a privacy curtain to my room that reaches halfway across, leaving my bosom exposed to a bunch of people getting weighed.
Then I’m alone, shirt back on, with oxygen up my nose for 30 minutes, until some super bitchy man nurse tells me that guess what, they have to draw more god damn blood and throw an IV in me as well. And I’m like…
But bitchy male nurse is like, “We have to.”
And I’m like, “But that’s why I just fainted.”
So he gets this pretty nurse with soothing eyes to come in and she asks me questions about cats and yoga to try and distract me, which was totally working, until, surprise surprise they can’t locate a vain and start poking me all over the place and so I get super cry-kitty again. Though, at this point, I’m basically refusing to pass out for a second time, so I man up and wait for them to get the damn things in.
The blood gets drawn (still not sure for what), and I’m left with an IV pouring cold fluids into my body and told to just lay there and relax. But how am I supposed to relax when I have this small tube of blood taped to my arm with a needle buried in my skin that feels so… tight? I spend the next two hours beneath florescent lighting, surrounded by white walls as I listen to patients come in, get weighed and beg for an endless list of medications, of which most respond with “No I do not exercise,” and “No I do not work.”
And I’m just judging everything and everyone for 2 hours, watching the IV bag drip, drip, drip, until it’s empty, and there’s no reason for the needle to be in my arm anymore and I’m furiously waiting for bitch-ass-male-nurse to come in and take it out but no one does for another 40 minutes. Of course when he finally comes in he’s all, “Oh, the IV is done? Ok cool,” and takes out the IV but keeps the damn needle in my arm.
Then he’s like, now we have to do another EKG. At this point, I’m so over it that I’m just like:
Take me. Take all of me!
After another round of bullshit, I’m told I have to SPEND THE NIGHT IN THE HOSPITAL, because my heart rate hasn’t risen. I just can’t even believe it. I start gasping and stomping and wondering why-the-fuck I still feel like I have a knife in my hand.
So I say, “I can’t. I just can’t. I’m saying no. Can I say no?”
Doc’s like, “Yeah you can say no. I’m sure you’re fine… just trying to be cautious. Let me get the paperwork. One minute.”
But if you haven’t figured this out already, one minute is most definitely NOT one minute in this place.
The curtain is pulled, so I’m watching everybody move around (for 30 minutes), viciously making eye contact with my nurses and doc, as I literally wave my hand with the needle still sticking into it at them, like “UM HELLO!! Take this deadly weapon out RIGHT MEOW!”
And eventually they did, as if it was the very last thing in the world they could think of to do.
As I leave Urgent Care and stagger slowly through the waiting room, past the mean check-in ladies and head towards the doors of freedom, I glance over at the pharmacy, where, upon completion of my short stint in the blood work room, I was to pick up my new migraine medication. But I can’t even fathom standing in the check-in line, sitting in another waiting room, breathing one more molecule of medical air. With release papers in hand, I walk through the doors and out into the California sunshine. Is it too dramatic to say I wanted to drop to my knees? Yes, yes it is, but I felt like I was breaking out of confinement and it felt so damn good.
So this whole thing with going to the doctors has now become a THING filled fear relatable to a cat falling in a bathtub:
So ya know, don’t be surprised if my next doctor visit is met with sheer reluctance.
When you think of the word humiliation a plethora of disturbing and unwanted flashbacks most likely race through your mind. Like….
That time you were sleeping over a friend’s at the tender age of ten and used their toilet to poop, only to have clogged it, not know where the plunger is or, perhaps, how to use it, and decide to go back to sleep and blame it on your friend’s older brother in the morning.
That time you tipped over a kayak at summer camp and got caught beneath it and couldn’t figure out how to escape and had to scream that you were drowning for help, then got awarded “Most Likely to Drown” at the closing ceremonies (UGH, did that really only happen to me?!!!)
That time you fell down an entire flight of stairs…in front of everyone, and it hurt really bad and you wanted to cry and you could feel the blood rushing to the deep scratches lining your ass and back, but you got up and laughed instead to draw less attention.
Every time you drink tequila.
But all of these examples are totally self-inflicted, and therefore, make what I’m about to tell you a What the fuck?! kind of story.
At the beginning of my seventh grade year, a dress code was implemented that would destroy and humiliate every female student. Prior to the new code, there really wasn’t any old code. Middle school students were primarily allowed to dress themselves however they pleased… most likely because they weren’t trying to whore-it-out. I’m not sure any of us even really thought about what was appropriate or not, we just dressed as a fresh teeny bopper would. But the new dress code made us think about every inch of fabric covering our natural bodies.
1. If wearing a sleeveless shirt, students must have straps that measure to the width of a dollar bill.
2. If wearing a skirt, or shorts, the length of said item must fall to at least the middle finger of the students hand when hands are placed at sides of body.
3. Students may not wear see-through clothing, deep plunging necklines, or t-shirts with inappropriate text or image display.
4. Students must NOT, any under circumstances, show any mid drift
I get it… sort of. For high school, this makes more sense. For middle school? I don’t know, it just seems extreme. Were 12,13,14 year old girls really trying to wear items so short their vaginas would fall out? Did “spaghetti straps” on our tanks show too much shoulder? I don’t know… it’s a FUCKING SHOULDER.
So the dress code happened and was strictly enforced by our principal, Mr Asbel, and the guidance counselor (thought those bitches were supposed to be on our side), Ms. Cole.
So I’m sitting in Spanish class when in walks er… interrupts Ms. Cole. She tells “Señora” to carry on teaching, and that she is simply going to peruse the room
in hopes of catching some slut. I’m leaning forward in my seat, resting my forearms on the table, when she comes up behind me and puts her hand on the small of my back, then whispers something like “This is exposed skin. This is inappropriate. This is against the rules. Go to the office.”
So I have to get up in the middle of the class and go to the office because of this dumb bitch who doesn’t understand that my shirt rose to show a small portion of my back because I was leaning forward, and that, I am not a whore!!! So I had to sit in Mr Asbel’s office and answer to him about how I need to be more respectful of the dress code.
Meanwhile, in the same week, it’s picture day, and my friend is told she cannot take her picture after waiting forever in line because Ms. Cole believes she is showing too much cleavage.
But here’s the banger. Here’s the true, What the fuck?! of it all:
I’m sitting in English class, when My teacher (who we called the Stogy-Master because she was most definitely a walking cigar), tells me I’ve been called to Principal Asbel’s office.
As concerned as I am, I’m also like, maybe I did something right.. because I am 100% certain I am wearing all dress code appropriate attire, I have done nothing but get good grades, and I hadn’t done anything inappropriate on a school bus in like, months!
So I get into his office and he has a look of total fury on his face. His mostly bald head is steaming, and he’s staring at me like he might try to burn me to the ground with his eyes. Then, after a really long and awkward silence, he says, “You know exactly why you’re here don’t you, Alexa?”
And I’m like, “Um, no. I actually have no idea.”
“Yes you do!!!”
“No. No I really don’t.”
Then he’s like, “I’m not playing this game with you anymore. I was told, by a faculty member (it was totally Ms. Cole) that you were wearing a very inappropriate shirt, but now that I see it myself, I can truly call it skanky.”
And I’m thinking Can he really say skanky?
And then I say, “I really, really don’t understand what is wrong with my shirt Mr. Asbel.”
He goes on to tell me that my tank top (which is more than dollar width thick and far surpasses my mid drift, is “unfathomably see-through.”
It was my sisters. She never let me wear anything of hers, and she did that day. It was a tight pink tank top that, I thought that passed all dress code requirements. You could see the lining of my bra… that was it. But he is furious and decides that the only thing to do is call my mother in.
So we wait in his office for about a half an hour until in walks my mother… looking like this:
And Mr. Asbel is like:
And I’m like:
So then my mother goes all Tyra-Banks-Freak-Out on his ass and says something like, “Are you out of your fucking mind? My daughter is thirteen years old. She is wearing a completely appropriate shirt and you are spending all your time and energy worrying about students’ clothing choices and publicly humiliating them for it, when there are much bigger things you should be focusing on. You are NOT a respectable principal and you SUCK at your job.” It was pretty much the most epic mother-daughter moment of my life.
From then on, my mother only referred to Mr. Asbel as Mr. Ass-Balls. Oh, and no one ever measured the width of my clothing, stopped me in the hallway and asked me to put my hands by my side to see if my skirt or shorts were long enough, or sent me to the principal’s office.
And, of course, by the time I was in high school and away from Ass-Balls, he’d gotten a new job at a new school and taken Ms. Cole with him because SURPRISE SURPRISE, they were secretly banging the whole time.
I’m not exactly the best at picking up a dude. I’m a sober-shy (yes, I just made myself a new noun) , which is someone who cannot approach an attractive person without absorbent amounts of alcoholic beverages in their system.
When I have reached that point, I tend to stumble up to said hottie and blurt out something along the lines of “Hey, you’re cute, where’d you get your mustache?”
And they typically just stare at me.
And then I ask, “Can I touch it?”
And then they walk away.
I thought this was bad. I really thought I took the cake for worst pick-up lines, worst encounters….. the chick who just couldn’t get it together. But lately, I’ve been paying more attention to what the hell is actually happening in my life, and so, my sweet Gypsea Catters, (or just readers if you really detest the idea of being referred to as such), here are the top three most bizzare pick-up lines and/or encounters I’ve been subject to:
1. The Australian Sass-Attack
So this one time, I’m at a bar, and what looked like a stick figure with a long-sleeved flannel shirt and board shorts, was in reality an actual person. Despite his frightening frame, he had long blonde hair, a mustache and an Australian accent, so naturally, I was game. AT FIRST. Eventually I was over it, and found a reason to walk away to the other end of the bar. After an extended amount of time sans Australian, I look up to find him slamming down a couple of napkins in front my spot at the bar and storming off never to be seen again.
THIS is what I received:
Can you read that? If not, don’t worry, it’s hard to decipher a crazy-fuck’s drunken scribble. Basically, it’s like, “Oi! You suck. I thought we could have a good night together. Bitch ass.”
Uh-huh. You REALLY win a chick over by assuming you’re going to take her home, then writing it on napkins at a bar and calling her a bitch ass. Well done sir.
2. The Indian Giver
Last weekend my girlfriend and I walk into the diviest of dive bars for a brew, when this mediocre mid-40’s dude tells us he’d like to win our hearts over with a couple shots of Fireball (if you don’t know what that is, find it, drink it, and then thank me later). So we’re like, “Ugh okay, fine” (because being an independent woman and getting your own drinks is way too modern an ideal to comprehend). So we get the shots, which are actually double shots, and we take half and set the rest down to chill for a minute.
But the mediocre mid- 40’s dude starts getting all snappy with us, saying shit like “You guys need to finish your shots. It’s disrespectful not to.”
And we’re like “We will. But we’re ladies (no we’re not) and we like to take our time (we were just too drunk).”
And he’s like, “I’m not okay with that,” and takes both of our shots, pours them into one glass and swallows the cinnamon whiskey down
like he bought them or something.
So we’re like, “See ya later dick,” and he has the nerve to ask us for our phone numbers.
3. The Eyebrow Observer
Now this guy I never met. But one night, I’m working and on Facebook (because naturally thats the most productive way to spend my time) and find a very strange message from a very strange man. It reads:
“So, a buddy and I were about to go out, but we decided to goof around online a bit first, and came across your page. Don’t ask how the topic came up, but we got into the strangest argument as to whether or not your eyebrows are plucked or waxed (they are nice by the way). Now we have a bet going on. He thinks you only wax them and he has to pay $20 if he loses. I think (though you may wax/thread) you pluck for upkeep, and I have to wash his car if I lose.”
And I’m reading this message thinking:
Because I mean honestly, what would motivate you to find a complete stranger on Facebook and make a bet with your buddy regarding the grooming process of my eyebrows? Is that supposed to turn me on? Do you think I’m going to respond with something like, “Ohhhh, why don’t you guys come over and see for yourselves.”
No. Just no.
What about me sends these excruciatingly foolish men my way? Is it that I seem like a cheap date with my unbrushed mane and excessive amounts of fringe? Maybe. Was I staring at their mustache too long? Perhaps. Is it my extremely well-shaped eyebrows? Absolutely.
Whatever it really is, it makes me tired and nauseated and further pushes me to long for a solitary life with just Me-My-Cat-and I.
I like yoga, a lot. In fact, I spend over $100 a month to like it at a studio (which makes me want to begin a rant on the exorbitant expense of yoga, but I won’t, because I need to stay on track).
I first started going to this one instructor’s Tuesday/Thursday evening classes because he’s a total babe, but then it became about the actual class because it’s totally amazing; an hour and a half of heated vinyasa flow in a packed room full of motivated souls.
So, a few months ago, I get to the Tuesday class, find a spot in the crowded room and settle into child’s pose. While trying to quiet my mind amongst the high energized chatter of post nine-to-fivers, I sense a yoga mat being laid down ever too close to mine. I look up to see whom this bubble-invader is, and, instead of a middle-aged, hairy-backed, chubby-gutted-father-of-five, I find a bronzed god in my presence. At least 6 foot 4 inches of shirtless, chiseled beauty. I just wanted to rub some dirt on his chest and abs and wait for him to hold me captive and make me his concubine. Obviously I’m speaking of Brad Pitt as Achilles in the movie Troy, when he so heartlessly shows the world his insanely perfect naked body and “lays” with his imprisoned princess, Briseis.
I clearly can’t relax now, since I partially believe Brad Pitt is next to me in yoga. Instead, I wait for the class to start by doing a bunch of poses that will position my head over my right shoulder, which just so happens to land my eyes in the direction of
God himself. When the class does finally begin, I’m all concerned that I’m going to sweat too much, fall out of poses and just generally suck at being perfect. But instead, I’m pretty much killing it; getting into the deepest position of each pose, sexily-sweating (maybe that’s not outwardly accurate, but believe me, I felt it) and feeling enough strength and energy to go on forever.
Usually when a yoga class is over, I roll up my yoga mat as quickly as possible and exit out the side door to escape the stampede of dripping men and women touching shoulders as they slowly file out the narrow doorway of the studio. This time, I don’t think I could have rolled up my yoga mat any slower. I didn’t even lift my gaze to get another look at “Achilles,” but I just needed to simply be next to him a little longer. Then (oh my god get ready for it)……………. I hear a slightly raspy, super deep voice say “It was nice practicing with you.”
Now go back up and look at the picture of Mr. Pitt and just imagine that’s what’s speaking to you.
So I’m like:
And he’s like, “My name’s Doug,” and holds out his hand to shake mine.
And I’m shaking his giant-sized man-hand and thinking ugh that’s my dad’s name, but you’re so hot, I don’t care.
And then I’m like should I tell him that’s my dad’s name to make conversation?
And then I’m like don’t fucking tell him that.
Finally I tell him my name and we start discussing how great the class is, and then he tells me he looks forward to seeing me next time and I die a little on the inside.
All I can think about for the next two days is Doug and getting back to that yoga class so we can fall in love and have god and goddess babies and all be yogis together… and have cats too.
When the day finally arrives, I get to yoga like a half an hour early (which I found out, by doing so, does not help you in the least because they don’t even open the studio until 5 minutes before). So eventually I get in there and set my mat down and pretend to act all relaxed and cool, but every time I hear a man’s voice entering, I almost break my neck trying to see if it’s my main squeeze. But suddenly everyone’s all settled in and the class is starting and I don’t see him anymore.
I am pretty much looking at the clock for the next hour and a half wanting it to be over since I’m all depressed that Brad Pitt didn’t show up. I’m struggling to balance, sweating profusely, and totally not in a yogic state of mind.
“Namaste,” we collectively say as the class comes to a close. I’m rolling up my mat as quickly as possible, preparing for my ninja like exit when suddenly I hear…
“It was nice practicing with you.”
No, it was NOT to me.
Yes, it WAS Doug.
He’s in the back of the studio, standing with his giant-man-hands on his hips, sweat rolling down his 8-pack, as he talks to a middle-aged, hairy-backed, chubby-gutted-father-of-five.
And I’m like:
And so my friends, the very important moral of the story is:
NEVER TRUST A MAN WITH THE SAME NAME AS YOUR DAD!!!!!!!!
The best, and well, most appropriate interlude to my blog is a post on cats. If you know me, you know I am uber-feline-friendly. But not in the sense of Hello Kitty (don’t bother trying to argue that she is the
queen-of-cats, because she’s not; she’s overrated, and that’s all the exposure I will give her on here).
Cats seem to be really in right meow. I mean right now. For example: cat hangers, cat t-shirts, Grumpy Cat and even skanky cat costumes.
But I liked cats before they invaded Urban Outfitters, college campuses, and internet memes. Not to say I don’t own cat shirts from Urban, have Halloween cat ears and tail, or enjoy a good cat joke, but real cats are the real deal and they’ve stolen my heart since I can remember. Well actually, I think there was a period of time, roughly around the age of 4, when I didn’t totally love cats because I threw my sweet feline down a flight of stairs onto a concrete garage floor, simply to see if cats really could land on their feet despite a large fall. He did land on his feet, but I got in big trouble (definitely got spanked). So despite that minor hiccup, it’s safe to say I’ve always been a cat lover.
But why? Many non-believers might say that cats are assholes. They’d argue that they’re totally self entitled; knocking shit off your dresser, walking on the keyboard as you type, hiding in places that the normal sized adult body cannot get to. They might argue that cats are boring; they won’t play fetch with you, meow on command, or bite the water coming out of the hose for your entertainment.
What these naive people do not understand, is that cats are fascinatingly bad ass. Take for example their utter independence. Set aside when they meow incessantly for their wet food at 6 in the morning, completely pissing you off, and look at the bigger picture. You let them out of the house, they explore the great outdoors, kill a bunch of shit, and bring you home a family of bunnies (I am a vegetarian, so in no way would I ever eat the bunnies, but it’s pretty bad ass that they can hunt like that). Also, they can climb trees, roof-jump and make a hammock out of the inside lining of the couch. They are insanely clean as well. No need taking them to the groomer each month for an expensive bath, because they spend every 5 minutes licking themselves spotless, and therefore make for the best bedtime cuddle buddies ever. Oh, and they purr. There is really nothing more fantastic than a good purr.
Did I mention they can beat the living hell out of a dog?
I suppose I could go on for a really long time as to why cats rule, but I won’t because I need to go hang out with my own cat, who is currently laying outside underneath a palm tree because she is super naturey and awesome.
Instead, I will leave you with a cat quote, because I know you wanted one.
But I don’t want to go among mad people,” Alice remarked. “Oh, you can’t help that,” said the Cat: “we’re all mad here. I’m mad. You’re mad.” “How do you know I’m mad?” said Alice. “You must be,” said the Cat, “or you wouldn’t have come here.” Alice didn’t think that proved it at all; however, she went on “And how do you know that you’re mad?” “To begin with,’ said the Cat, “a dog’s not mad. You grant that?” “I suppose so,” said Alice. “Well, then,” the Cat went on, “you see, a dog growls when it’s angry, and wags its tail when it’s pleased. Now I growl when I’m pleased, and wag my tail when I’m angry. Therefore I’m mad.