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Elementary, My Dear Watson

February 2, 2009 by thelitterbox

I’m a fan of Sherlock Holmes: The mystery… The intrigue… The unusually large mustache. But what’s really impressive is the fact that he had to rely on his knowledge to solve his cases. Unlike more contemporary police work that uses a bunch of scientific gadgets, Holmes was armed with little more than his brainpower, a pistol, and a long pipe. He was one smart guy (or as my grandma might say “he had his wits about him”).

I need some of those wits right now because I have a case for Mr. Holmes.

I spent the entire weekend at my parents house, in their laundry room, doing one load of laundry after another. Why would I drag three very heavy bags of dirty clothes ALL the way to Holland, you ask? I’m not SO cheap as to go through all that hassle just to save a few bucks in quarters at a laundromat.

Well, OK, maybe I am… but I was really there because the laundry room in my association seems to be… unavailable. It’s located directly across the road from my townhouse, has eight washers and eight dryers, and as such is convenient and rarely busy. Just one problem.

I’m locked out.

See, my association refuses to give me the key code for the new lock that was installed a few months ago. Yes, months… It was one day last October that I sat a basket of clothes on my hip and last approached the infamous laundry only to find that I couldn’t get in. Naturally, the first step I SHOULD have taken to secure the new code was to visit the association office. But I thought I could avoid all that by visiting one of the other two laundromats in the neighborhood. Guess what? The locks had been changed all around.

Now don’t you think this is something the association should have notified us about?

My devious attempt to avoid the association office didn’t work. So a trip to said office seemed inevitable. These visits never go well–I swear they see me coming and put on a sour attitude just so they can enjoy giving me a hard time. So off I went, both to ask the reason for the lock change and to inquire about the new access code.

Some of the locks had worn out, they said.

We needed to keep our equipment safe, they said.

It was the perfect opportunity to update all the locks to a newer, safer model, they said.

All fine reasons; just nothing that explains why this wasn’t communicated to the neighborhood.

Oh, it was, they said. Just not to you and a few others who don’t use the laundromat that often. We didn’t think you’d notice.

I wouldn’t notice?? That’s logic that would bury Mr. Holmes.

“So I can’t have the code because I don’t use the laundromat often enough?” I asked.

Something like that.

“I’m confused; is it that? Or not?”

Well, it’s also partially due to what you did in the laundromat.

“What did I do?”

And then came the sarcastic eye roll that was meant to communicate exasperation and possibly also make me feel stupid. You know what you did! You KNOW what you did.

It sounded as accusatory as LC does when approaching Heidi on the MTV hit show The Hills.

Trouble is, I DON’T know what I did. They made my accused actions sound atrocious–like I had used someone else’s laundry to teepee the room, had stripped naked to wash the clothes I was wearing, or had dumped a gallon of bleach in one of the machines mid-wash. I can see it now… the headline of the association newsletter declaring…

It was Cat. In the Laundry Room. With the BLEACH!!

Whatever their reason, I’m wondering how it is they came to the conclusion that whatever happened was MY fault. What evidence did they have? What motive? These are questions Mr. Holmes would surely ask.

Needless to say, the rest of the conversation didn’t go well, especially the part where I demanded a refund in my association dues that went towards maintenance of the laundry rooms–I mean, if I wasn’t using them, I wasn’t going to pay for them! That’s my true dutchness coming out.

In the end, I was put on what they called “a laundromat probation of indeterminate length” (Yes, I’m serious). So friends, that is why I spent the entire weekend at my parents house using their laundry room. Because THEY won’t lock me out.

Mr. Holmes, I welcome your advice.

Posted in This Only Ever Happens to Me | Tagged , , , | 2 Comments »

All I Want for Christmas is a Semi-Automatic Shotgun

December 2, 2008 by thelitterbox

I don’t really want a shot gun for Christmas. But I wonder what my mother would say if I asked for one. I’m usually the daughter who lists very predictable things on her Christmas list. And my mom is thrilled–I’m really very easy to shop for. My dad and brothers, however… not so much. 

This is the time of year when everyone is looking for the perfect gift… or at least thinking about what that gift might be. If you have a man in your life, you’re probably thinking a lot because if your man is like most men, buying a gift for him isn’t exactly easy. Clothes and ties are so impersonal, movies can be hit or miss, books are boring (sorry publishing friends), and electronics are so expensive. So what are you to do? 

Never fear, the catalogs are here. Skinny catalogs, thick catalogs, specialty catalogs, big box catalogs, sales catalogs–about this time of year, your mailbox is stuffed with them all. At any other time you might get annoyed, wonder how the heck they got your address, or simply ignore the mass of mail. But now, right now, you need a gift. And not just any gift. The perfect gift. And every one of those catalogs is claiming that they can provide it. 

So you think, oh, I’ll just take a quick look. You casually flip through the pages but discard every idea because they are all so… so… so not right. You see binoculars, thermometers, wallets, and money clips. You’ll pass on phone gadgets, computer gadgets, grill gadgets, and grooming kits. Just say no to the chess sets and tool sets and please don’t be amused by the sports mugs or sports rugs. And don’t forget the razors and radios, army knives and ugly ties. Why, oh why, can’t you find something original? Something unique? Something he totally wouldn’t expect but will totally love? So even though you toss more catalogs than keep, you still look hoping that something magical will appear. 

I got a catalog the other day and flipped it open, hoping to find that magic. Sure, there were the usual gifts–all boring, of course. Until… until… yep, there it was… a large picture of it on page 16. It wasn’t my idea of a perfect gift, but it was different. Finally! Something unique! 

Unfortunately, it wasn’t unique in a good way. As I sat there looking at it and marveling, I suddenly questioned… was this unique or was this absurd? 

I bet you’re wondering what I was looking at. 

Care to venture a guess? 

It wasn’t a semi-automatic shotgun. But you’d be close. 

Give up? 

I was looking at a bullet-proof vest. 

Cost-effective LIFE INSURANCE

Cost-effective LIFE INSURANCE

 

A bullet-proof vest. For sale. For just under $550 to be exact. Fascinating. Who knew you could put a price on your life… and price it for just a few hundred bucks? 

It’s also fascinating to consider who might buy this. A hunter, maybe? But then again, the purpose of hunting is to hit the animal, not the man. If you’re not skilled enough to notice the difference between a four-legged, antlered buck and an orange-clad, bullet-proof vest-wearing adult, then you have no business yielding a gun. 

Maybe it’s for law-enforcement personnel. But somehow I question whether or not government employees really buy equipment and supplies from a consumer catalog. Seems odd, no? 

Perhaps this is for the paintball enthusiast. Is paintball still as popular as it was in high school? I’ve heard those paint balls can whip out pretty hard and leave you with bruises and bumps the size of walnuts. But if that’s the case, why is the product called a bullet-proof vest? And why does the product description talk about bullets not paintballs? 

Oh yeah, the description… that was pretty fascinating, too. 

This inconspicuous vest blends in with the clothes in your closet. Light weight material but durable build. Will protect you from any standard-issue bullet. Perfect for every guy on your list. 

Now, for argument sake, let’s stop thinking about WHO would buy such a thing and WHY they would buy it. Instead, let’s actually appreciate the important qualities that were described in the product notes. I’m so incredibly glad, for example, that the vest is inconspicuous because there’s nothing worse than a bullet-proof vest that clashes with your shirt! I’m also incredibly glad that it’s durable, because if it wasn’t… well then, it kinda sucks to be you. 

I’m still a little befuddled. While I’m comforted by the idea that something unique still exists, I’m a little disturbed by all this. Is it for real? I can only assume so because the product was actually printed, priced, and promoted. Who knows, maybe there is someone out there who, on Christmas morning, will be tickled pink to unwrap and try on their very own, very durable, inconspicuous bullet-proof vest. But for my peace of mind–and for there’s–I hope they’ll never have to use their perfect Christmas gift.

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged , , | 4 Comments »

Twang It, Dang It

October 27, 2008 by thelitterbox

I’ve spent quite a bit of time in Texas this past month on two back-to-back business trips–first to Austin for a week and then to Dallas for another 4 days. I encountered many adventures on these two trips, my excursions with my GPS for starters. I’m still a little confused by the Texas roadways, especially why they are all so similar. Why, for example, are there 6 Oak Groves, 6 River Oaks, and 6 Royal Oaks?  Why do they need 2 Mountain Springs and 3 Mountain Views? Don’t they confuse their 7 Pleasant Groves with their 4 Pleasant Hills or 4 Pleasant Valleys? I can’t understand why there are 5 Four Corners (that makes 20… and is just ridiculous). And then there is a Timber Lake and a Timberlake, a Timberlake Acres, a Timberlake Estate, and–the best one–Justin Timberlake. Plus there’s a Cold Spring, Coldsprings, and Cold Water. Who was the genius that thought of all this?

Two trips to the Texas heartland was not enough time to figure this out, but I did accomplish something else. I’m proud to report that I’m now proficient in speaking the Texas twang. On all of my other visits to that area, I was never there long enough to really get a handle on the local speak. This past month, however, there was no avoiding it.

The minute I stepped off the plane, I hear “guhHALLleeee, that’s sum hayur thayur.” After pausing for a minute to make sure no banshee was after me, I realized the flight attendant was looking at me as if he was expecting a response. Was he talking to me? What did he say? When in doubt, just smile and nod.

Then, waiting in line at the baggage check, the man next to me started talking about the “daggon gummit”. “Daggone” I’ve heard, but what in the blazes was “gummit?” The man sounded like my grandpa when he forgets to put his teeth in. Be polite, Cat. Just smile and nod.

Before I even made it to my hotel, I had one person tell me he was “fixin to bobwar” something, heard someone else talk about the “Cowlboys weeyunnin”, and head my cabbie discuss his latest run-in with the “dagnabit shurf whoda arREYust ya faster than a rattlesnake will kill ya.” Smile and nod. Smile and nod. Smile and nod.

(And P.S. I’m never riding with THAT cabbie again).

Then, the next day, when I was stranded on the side of the road with a flat tire, the Hertz Rental Car driver who came to my rescue asked if I needed a “plug”. NO SIR! I’ll show you what to plug!

The smile-and-nod method maybe wasn’t the most effective, but it at least allowed me to listen without havingthe pressure of figuring out a response. By my second trip to Texas, I had listened enough to implement a few handy deciphering techniques. For example, I had figured out that AY always sounds like EH, that a Y sound can usually be taken out of any word it has been inserted into, that words ending in “ing” are pronounced without the “g”, and that Texans were skilled at shortening words by at least one syllable. I had also figured out that a twang and a draw were two different things (many thanks to my colleague who warned me to never get my twang caught in my draws… that’s dangerous, I’m sure).

With all of this information under my belt (which by the way, was about half the size of the belts worn by most Texans), I decided I was well equipped to carry on a conversation. Maybe a little practice would help, though. As luck would have it, the person checking me into my hotel had a thick twang. No better time than the present, right? I whipped out everything I had learned and threw out the best twang-filled sentence I knew how to create, then waited for a response.

But none came.

Well, not spoken anyway.

I looked at the hotel clerk waiting for a reply and you know what I saw?

The smile and nod.

Posted in This Only Ever Happens to Me | Tagged , , | 2 Comments »

Murphy’s Law of the Road

October 14, 2008 by thelitterbox

So if you haven’t heard by now, I was in a car accident last Friday on my way to work. I had taken a little detour so I could hit the Starbucks drive-thru (my usual Friday route) and had noticed how unusual the traffic was. It would probably make me late for work. Go figure.

About a block before the scene of the crime, I slowed to let a car turn into a parking lot. I heard tires squeal and looked into my rear-view mirror to see a large truck rocking to a stop just a few feet behind me. The driver was talking on his cell phone. I breathed a sigh of relief, thankful he hadn’t hit me, and gave the driver my most evil of all evil eyes, which I’m sure he couldn’t see. Go figure.

A block later, I was not so lucky. I crossed through an intersection and slowed to let a car turn into the gas station on the corner. I was at a complete stand still when I heard the squeals…

And then the crash.

Or maybe it was more of a crunch.

Okay, a crash and a crunch.

After the natural delayed reaction of “Oh crap, he hit me! The loser hit me!”, I managed to assess the damage. I’ll spare you the gory details (Choo would appreciate the privacy), but it was bad. Very VERY bad. Go figure.

And my neck was already throbbing. So this is what whiplash feels like… I thought. Not recommended.

An hour later, I was sitting in the back of an ambulance with an EMT buckling me into a big white neck brace. It was definitely not something I had planned on wearing–and, needless to say, it completely clashed with my outfit. Go figure.

I sat there thinking about it all and somehow managed to see the irony in the situation. Murphy must have been working over time. Think about it:

-Six weeks to the day that I took ownership of my shiny new car (aka Choo), it sat on the curb crunched on both ends.

-The car that hit me was huge. A big Dodge Ram. A manly man’s car. And yet it was painted sparkly purple. And the driver quite obviously uses more hair gel than I do. He was no manly man. Heck, I’m not sure he was a man at all.

-The third party (the woman driving the car in front of me that Mr. Purple Truck pushed me into) was swearing left and right in one sentence and praying out loud to Jesus in the next.

-That same woman was still complaining about all the terrible damage to her car. Yep, that busted tail light was pretty bad. Better pray some more.

-I had taken this route so I could get my Friday Chai Latte fix. That same Chai Latte was now splashed all over my dashboard and dripping on my floor mats. Some fix.

-I knew I would be visiting the ER at least once over the next couple of days, I knew I would need to show proof of health insurance, and I knew that I wouldn’t be able to (I’m a new employee and while I do have insurance, the card confirming this fact had not yet arrived in the mail).

I should have been mad. Really mad. My new Choo had been pummeled. I was injured. I had no idea how to go about the whole insurance game because I have never been in an accident before. The man who hit me was on the phone with his significant other (which gender, I do not know), ignoring everything and everyone involved as if he were an innocent bystander, not the guilty party. And the woman was still swearing (Side note: I’ve never heard someone swear while praying before. It’s quite interesting). Any or all of this would have made most people very very angry.

I have no idea why I wasn’t. Delayed reaction, maybe.

Anywho, the ER experience wasn’t all that bad–although it took me much longer on account of my missing insurance card. The following day was equally as long. I was instructed to come back to get the neck brace removed and had to go through the whole insurance debacle again because there was a diffrent nurse on duty. But I made it. In pain and very tired, but I made it.

When I got home, my mail had arrived. And guess what was there.

My insurance card. Go figure.

Posted in This Only Ever Happens to Me | Tagged , , , | 1 Comment »

For the Love of Shoes

October 5, 2008 by thelitterbox

I could be Carrie Bradshaw. Well, minus the recreational sexual escapades part. But I am a single gal in a city (albeit a smaller one). I’ve got the curly hair. I’ve got the cute midtown condo. I’ve got the writing thing down. I’ve got the small group of girlfriends who know me so well it’s scary.

And oh yeah, I’ve got the shoes. The shoooooes.

Granted, they aren’t designed by Jimmy Choo or Manolo Blahnik, but the are just as cute. See for your yourself.

Cute.

Cute.

Cuter.

Cuter.

Cutest.

Cutest.

Tied for Cutest.

Tied for Cutest.

See what I mean? Exactly like Carrie. I get excited just looking at these. It’s no surprise, then, that I got really (and I mean REALLY) excited last weekend. I was out for ice cram with one of my best friends when we saw the sign. THE sign. 4 letters. 1 word. It’s quite possibly the best 4-letter word that exists in the English language. You know what I’m talking about don’t you?

BOGO.

If you don’t know what BOGO is, shame on you. Go look it up. Now. Go quickly.

It’s hard for me to resist a BOGO weekend. I don’t necessarily need to buy; I can simply peruse the merchandise and be just as happy. Because when I’m just perusing, there’s no pressure. No decisions. Just happiness. Lots and lots of happiness. So that’s what I was going to do this weekend. I would help my friend pick out a pair or two, gush on how cute everything looked on her, and maybe salivate at a couple pair myself. But there would be no purchase. Not this weekend.

Do you believe any of this? Because I don’t.

Let’s face it. Decisions are hard, but “just perusing” is pretty darn tough, too. And besides, I had some birthday money left over for a rainy day. Granted, it was bright sunny, but I figured I could stretch the rules, right? I tried on no less than a dozen pair of shoes… and loved every single one. How is that possible? To narrow it down, I decided I had to take them for a test walk. So, with a green shoe on one foot and a grey boot on the other, I took off across the store. Going to the purse aisle, of course.

As luck would have it, the cutest (and I mean CUTEST) purses were on sale. Within minutes I had three of them hanging on my arms. But I couldn’t buy all three. Could I? No, I had to choose. Again! I quickly decided I needed to test these as well. So, with a green shoe on one foot, a grey boot on the other, a red purse on my right arm, a purple bag on my left, and an olive satchel in my hand, I set off for the corner of the store. Going to the jewelry racks, of course.

At this point, I began to think the BOGO people were conspiring against me. The jewelry was on sale too! I mean, c’mon. Give me a flippin’ chance, would ya? I don’t think I need to tell you what happened next. With a green shoe on one foot, a grey boot on the other, a red purse on my right arm, a purple bag on my left, an olive satchel in my hand, a green necklace loosely draped around my neck, and a set of dangles on my wrist, I took off for the other side of the store. Back to the shoe aisle.

It was decision time. And thank goodness I had a shopping companion. After a few giggle-filled minutes of consultation, I had come to a conclusion. The green shoes and the grey boots were just too attached to me at this point–they had been with me the longest and it wouldn’t be fair to separate us now. And the green shoes deserved the green satchel. And the green necklace completed the ensemble. And ooookay, the red purse was icing on the cake.

And all this for less than what I had available to spend (birthday money, remember). Did I mention that I love BOGO?

Considering this list was once three handbags, a necklace, a set of bracelets, and… count them… twelve pairs of shoes, I’d say I did a pretty good job.

Carrie Bradshaw would think so. And what’s good enough for Carrie is good enough for me.

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Home, James

September 25, 2008 by thelitterbox

Sometimes I wish I had a chauffeur. Someone to cart me around wherever I need to go, whenever I need to go there. Someone who is always waiting for me with the car door open. I imagine his name is James (because aren’t all chauffeurs named James?) And I imagine that James would know about my Starbucks addiction and would always have a nonfat chai latte waiting in the car.

Unfortunately, my meager salary does not allow for such extravagances. It can, however, afford a little directional help when needed. Like this week, for example.

I’m in Austin on a business trip. If you know me and my driving habits (or if you know of Austin’s curvy back roads that could make any normal adult seriously motion sick), then you know why I paid the extra money to get a GPS unit in my rental car. I needed help getting around a city that boasts roads called Slaughter Drive and Convict Hill. I had no intention of getting lost in or around such a… um… hospitable area. Trouble is, I’m not sure the GPS was such a good idea.

Most GPS units advertise point-by-point directions, but I’ll spare you the details of a point-by-point story because no one really cares if I turned left instead of right. What I will share, however, are a few things I’ve learned about GPS units:

1. There is always more than one way to get someplace. Don’t mix a GPS with printed directions from, say, MapQuest. While one will direct you East, the other will inevitably direct you West. They both may eventually get you to your destination, but not necessarily the same way. Know, too, that splitting the difference and going North is NOT a good idea.

2. Hearing that automated voice say “recalculating” is NOT a good thing. Nine times. I heard this nine times. Is that too much?

3. GPS units don’t promise a hassle-free trip. I mean, really, what is it with me and flat tires? Isn’t there some limit to how many flat tires you can have in your lifetime–because I’m surely there by now. Apparently not, because on the first day of the conference (the ONE time I CANNOT be late) I found myself sitting on the side of the road, in the muggy Austin heat, waiting for a tow truck to come rescue me. An hour later, I was sneaking into the back of the conference room trying desperately to go unnoticed, only to realize that the ONE available set was in the front row. And not only was it in the front row, it was conveniently located directly next to the president of the ECPA. Great. Not only was I ashamedly late, but now EVERYONE–including Mr. President–would notice. Darn those tires, and darn that GPS unit for making me assume my trip would be hassle free.

4. Befriending your GPS doesn’t mean it will be friendly to you. I named my GPS unit. I’ll give you one guess as to what it is.

Got it yet?

It’s James. (You didn’t actually think I’d name it something else, did you?) I named him because I knew I’d be talking to him, and quite frankly, I was not comfortable talking to–or putting all my trust in–an inanimate object. I figured that if I could put my trust in it (or him), then I’d be able to get to my destination stress-free and faster. Guess what? It didn’t work. A GPS unit may make your trip easier, but not faster. In fact, it may get you there slower, especially if other drivers see you talking to… well… nobody. They’ll only slow down… and stare… trust me, I know.

5. GPS units won’t identify the difference between two streets with the same name or the same street with two names. Next time you find yourself navigating the streets of Austin, know that Pine Tr and Pine Trail are not the same road. Apparently, Tr now stands for Terrace, although no one told me this. However, you should also know that South Route 1 is the same as South Mo Pac Expressway and Frontage Road is the same as Gaines Ranch Loop. It’s all freaking confusing if you ask me.

6. GPS units were made for men, not women. I don’t want to hear “turn East” or “continue West”. I want to hear turn left; go straight. Or better yet, give me a reference point and a little encouragement. Turn left at the nail parlor, Cat. Go straight passed the gas station, Cat. You’re almost there, Cat. Keep going, Cat. Congratulations, you’ve made it, Cat. Now THAT would be worth every penny.

Unfortunately, no one has invented the women’s edition of this manly machine…yet. And needless to say, I’m a little undecided on whether or not the manly version is worth the money. Even if it is named James. I think I’ll save my money and wait for a real James–and oh yeah, that nonfat chai latte, too.

Posted in This Only Ever Happens to Me, Uncategorized | Tagged , , | 3 Comments »

They May Be Spiritual, But They Still Creep Me Out

September 15, 2008 by thelitterbox

Wikipedia has too much information for its own good. Really. Sometimes less is more. My most recent search for “praying mantis” yielded, within seconds, way more information than I ever cared to know about this creepy crawly insect that has been inhabiting my stoop as of late.

Last Monday, I noticed a very large spidery thing attached to the outside of my living room window. Upon closer inspection, I discovered just what it was. For about one nanosecond, I was impressed–I haven’t seen a praying mantis since I was a kid collecting insects for my 5th grade science project. But my liking of the insect was short lived, especially when I noticed, just about 8 inches away, another mantis. And then, in the corner… ewwwww, there’s another. What just seconds ago was a spectacle of nature, now filled my head with thoughts of swarms and infestations and worries for the corn crop (not that I grow any corn in or around my midtown condo, but I can still be worried for those who do!)

One of the invaders on my windowsill

One of the invaders on my windowsill

So, I did the only responsible thing I could think of. I tried to scare the little suckers far far away. First I tapped the pane politely. And they politely ignored me. How rude. If they are taking up residence on my residence, the least they can do is pay a little mind. Then I pounded. Lightly at first, then with more vigor. Still no luck. In fact, the little buggers didn’t move a muscle. Not even a twitch. Finally, I decided to let them alone. So I gave them a little warning not to do anything “I wouldn’t do” and walked away. But guess what? They didn’t listen to that either. I walked into my living room just a few minutes later to see two of these things doing it on my window. I promptly closed the blinds. No one should be subjected to such shame. And I’m not talking about them having a human peer at them mid act. No, I’m talking about me being forced to watch. Yuck.

Lover Boy

Somehow, I managed to pull my mind away from the breeding taking pace just outside… albeit not for long. I kept an eye on the libido twins as often as I could for the next couple of days. And still they didn’t move (not that I blame them–my window probably has some significance for them now). It was a good thing, actually. I didn’t want them mysteriously disappearing. Just think of the mind games that would incite! I figured they’d have their fill–I mean everything does eventually… right?–and then move on their way.

Wrong again. Just three days later, I came home from work to find not one, two, or three little mantis’ on my window… but six. SIX! SIX!! What takes nine months in human time apparently only takes a matter of days in mantis time. Either that, or the reputation of my love nest window has quickly made it through the entire West Michigan mantis population. NOT COOL. What was I to do??

It was then that I consulted Wikipedia… quite possible the WORST thing I could do at the time. Within minutes, I had discovered that…

-Mantises are exclusively predatory beings. Pred-a-what?

-Mantises are ambush eaters. Just what I need. Creepy things ambushing me as I walk out my door in the morning. And even before I have my coffee!!

-Mantises are in the cockroach family. Oh yeah, that’s comforting. What else do I have breeding on my house?

-Mantises have been known to take part in sexual cannibalism. Yep, there is eveidence that the female can decapitate the male during sex, apparently to achieve…um…more…um…faster.

But here’s the kicker…

-A female mantis can lay between 10 and 400 eggs at one time. 400!!! That means that there could potentially be another 394 of these things lurking around my front door, waiting to strike. Oh me. Oh my.

If I don’t update my blog next week, please send someone to come look for me.

Posted in This Only Ever Happens to Me | Tagged , , | 5 Comments »

Clumsy Is As Clumsy Does

September 8, 2008 by thelitterbox

I used to think that being organized would negate being clumsy. I believed that as long as I kept things in their place, I wouldn’t misplace keys, stumble over masses of shoes, or bang, bump, and bruise myself on corners of furniture. But I was wrong. Organization does not stop clumsiness. The two are completely different qualities that are not necessarily tantamount, except for their shared coexistence… in me. You know how people sometimes refer to their clumsy moments? Well, my most recent “moment” lasted for 48 hours straight. And during those two very long days, I learned a few things about clumsiness that you might find interesting…

Clumsiness Makes You Late

It all started on Friday night. I got home from work with just enough time to give myself a quick manicure before heading out for a night on the town with my closest gal pals. But forty minutes later, there was more Cha Cha Cherry Revlon nail polish in the sink than on my nails. And you know what? Bright red nail polish stains porcelain just as much as it stains your hands. Barely satisfied with the clean up job and a little embarrassed by the red hue of my palms, I had to leave–now running almost an hour late.

Clumsiness Makes Normally Easy Tasks Incredibly Difficult

The next day I woke up much too early for a Saturday morning and decided to make use of the extra time by squeezing in an extra workout. The elliptical was calling so I jumped on, took two spins, and promptly fell off. I have no idea how. If you know how to walk, you know how to work an elliptical machine. But there I was splayed on the floor, a bit dazed, and nursing an already swelling ankle. I sat there for a minute or two, wondering if the puffiness or deepening black and blue warranted a trip to the Med Center. Naa, I thought, I’d just ice it, put an ACE bandage on it, and take it easy for a day or two. Yeah, I’d have to lay off the high heels for a while (oh, the horrors), but I figured it was worth it to nurse what I’m sure is just a sprain.

Clumsiness is Embarrassing

After a few hours of nursing my ankle, I decided it was time to start the fixins for the smallish, impromptu dinner party that I had decided to host that evening for a group of friends from church. So I started chopping away at the veggies that I was going to grill. Little did I know how difficult it was to balance on one foot and wield a sharp knife all at the same time. In one particularly rocky moment, the knife slipped. Into me. Or rather, into my finger. This time a trip to the Med Center was unavoidable. Once there, the concerned nurse wanted to run x-rays. She called in another nurse for a second opinion. And just when I started panicking over the thought of a severed finger and a forever mangled hand, I remembered something. What’s bright red, liquidy, and the less-serious result of a prolonged state of clumsiness? Remember the Cha Cha Cherry from the night before? Yep, you guessed it. My face was about the same color when I realized that the nurse was mistaking the nail polish stains for blood stains. A little further inspection and we discovered the injury was really a very small cut that just needed some antibiotics and a band aid. A fairly simple treatment for a two hour stay in the Med Center. (No comment, here, about the IQ of two aforementioned nurses that could actually mistake nail polish for blood).

Now, this is the point where you’d think the story is probably over. But you’d be wrong, my friends.

Clumsiness Blinds You

If you thought that balancing on one foot and cutting vegetables is difficult, try balancing on one foot and cutting vegetables with one hand. Now there’s a feat. Somehow I managed. In fact, I felt quite proud of myself as I hobbled out to the grill to start cooking. I don’t remember it, but I apparently closed the screen door behind me. This normally wouldn’t have been a problem, but on this night, the closed door quickly became my only obstacle between me and a friendly (or maybe not-so-friendly) neighborhood skunk. I think I saw him before he saw me, but that’s all I needed before I started running for the door (as fast as my… foot… could carry me). Unfortunately, I didn’t see the door. Until I slammed into it. Up went the veggies. Up went the grill tongs. And down went Cat. The scene would have won the grand prize on America’s Funniest Home Videos, that’s for sure.

I don’t remember how I managed to get up and get in, but I do remember the skunk finding–and partaking in–the tasty treats I had left behind. He feasted on veggies that night. My friends and I? We ordered pizza.

Clumsiness Almost Always Strikes Again

It’s Monday now, and the knives are safely stored, my finger is still attached, the skunk is probably hibernating with a full tummy, and my ankle is throbbing only a little. Somehow I made it through the 48 hours in one piece, albeit barely. And while I hope that my little clumsy streak has come to an end, I’m also almost certain that there will be more stories to entertain you with in the future. Stay tuned. 

Posted in This Only Ever Happens to Me | Tagged , | 3 Comments »

A Rebel of a Cat

August 27, 2008 by thelitterbox

I’m a wild woman.

No really, stop laughing, It’s true.

I definitely have a rebellious side. I appear gracious, conventional, and even quiet. But inside, I secretly want to pull your hair.

Surprised? Apparently, you’re in good company. At my former job, I was known as “the good girl.” When I first heard this, I started wondering what it was that made people think this about me… or rather, what it was that I could change to get them to see the other side of me. I hemmed and hawed over a number of different options, until I came up with one that suddenly seemed so clear.

I should go blonde.

We’ve all heard the banality that “blondes have more fun.” I’ve often wondered if that was really true. And now seemed like the perfect opportunity to find out. So that’s exactly what I did.

On a somewhat rainy afternoon, I popped Hairspray into the DVD player (for inspiration, of course) and sat down to pull, bleach, and slather my hair with some horrendous smelling chemical paste. Sounds enticing, no? I pushed the odor out of my mind and instead focused on picturing the end result–something similar to the golden locks of Pamela Anderson (although I’d need a couple other assets that I don’t have to really compete with her). An hour and a shower or two later, I was ready to see the new me. Full of anticipation, I whipped the towel off my head to see…

Winnie the Pooh.

This was no Pamela Anderson.

Yes, I knew the chemical combinations of bleaches and dyes could be tricky. But I had read the instructions!! And I had followed the instructions! So what went wrong? I suddenly knew exactly what the song Beauty School Dropout was all about. Poor Frenchy. And poor me.

After a few minutes of shocked silence, I saved face (as much for me as for my then-roommate who aided me in my beauty school transformation) and decided that it was not so bad. After all, I did this to prove I could be wild–and what could be more wild than this? If blondes are wild just because they are blondes, I could be wild just because I was… orange.

So I set out to have some fun. A few days and a few awkward compliments came and went and I was sure I had made a statement… not entirely sure what that statement was, but I had definitely made one. But then I thought that maybe the hair wasn’t enough. So I made a list of other wild necessities: a motorcycle, a HUGE man following me around… and an alibi. But one by one, I crossed these things off my list. They were either too expensive, too… well… ugly, or just plain stupid (even a girl named Cat isn’t creative enough to come up with an alibi that is both possible and plausible).

You see officer, I was attacked by a beautician at the mall who wanted revenge on her little sister who looks a lot like me.

But officer, you don’t understand. I’m a victim of a practical joke set in place by none other than the CEO of Loreal Cosmetics. She always was jealous of me.

No sir, I’m not reporting a crime because my hair is curly. I’m reporting a crime because my hair is orange.

OK. It’s pretty obvious that I suck at this–even after watching countless hours of initial-based crime TV shows like CSI, NCIS, SVU, CI… PU… LOL. It’s obvious that I’m no blonde–but what does this mean for my quest to show my wild side? Have I been wrong all this time?

I’m still not convinced. The blonde will soon be gone… but a tattoo, however…

Posted in About the Cat | 6 Comments »

Flying High

June 13, 2008 by thelitterbox

Traveling is fun. For most people… most people who aren’t me. No matter what airport I’m in or where I’m going, I always seem to be inundated with those little annoyances all travelers experience. You know what I’m talking about: those delayed flights, the ear-plugging climb, that ear-popping descent, the person in the seat next to you who won’t stop talking, the bad coffee airlines serve (I mean c’mon–I don’t want the peanuts, just a little Irish Creme). And don’t forget about the undiscussed fact that you are miles above the ground, moving at gut-wrenching speeds, and have absolutely NO control over the situation.

I don’t like to fly.

But I do. Quite often, in fact. Unfortunately, that doesn’t make it any easier. So, on a recent business trip, I decided I was going to cure my flying phobia. Out came my notebook and pen and I began to write a pro/con list (if you know me, you know this is not unusual). Much to my dismay, just a few minutes into the exercise, the cons far outweighed the pros, and I began to get discouraged. Perhaps curing my fear of flying is too great a task. Instead, maybe I should resolve the little annoyances, first. Baby steps, Cat.

First on my list: those motorized carts used to help the elderly and handicapped move around the terminal. Great idea, right? I’m all for helping people. I’m a nice person. I like other nice people. I like nice things. But this little invention is not nice. Why, you ask?

The beeping. The BEEPING!

Imagine the most annoying, high-pitched, continuous, mind-numbing ring, eminating first from the cart and then echoing off the bare walls (as if hearing it once is not enough to get you to move out of the way). And all this followed by the nauseating, overwhelming scent of Bengay.

I know I’m not the only one who finds this annoying. As I was sitting by my gate listening to this inscessant noise, I actually saw an occupant of one of these carts reach up and turn down (or turn off) her hearing aid. Proof! You agree don’t you? The beeping overshadows all redeeming qualities of these motorized carts. The only remaining hint of hope is… perhaps… going for a ride in one.

Hey, there’s an idea.

But how? I’m not handicapped and I don’t qualify for the AARP, so my eligibility is severely hampered. Or so I thought. It turns out you don’t need to meet these requirements yourself. You just need to know someone who does. And, as luck would have it, I was about to meet one such couple.

After paying for my Venti Nonfat Cinnemon Chai at the Starbucks kiosk across from my gate, I took a seat near a delightful looking couple eating cream cheese pastries and chocolate candies. How cute, I thought. They promptly introduced themselves. His name was Hans. Hers was Gretchen (I about choked on my Chai before I realized she didn’t say Gretel). They were really nice. And remember, I like nice people. So I immediately liked them. After a short conversation about the weather and our travels, Hans and Gretchen got up and, according to them, “began the long trek to their gate”. Enter a brilliant idea into my head–one that would not only help cure one of my annoyances, but also assist my dear, sweet, elderly friends as well. With timing that couldn’t have been scripted any better in a blockbuster movie, a little beeping cart came cruising around the corner.

Now, I don’t think I need to detail every word of the conversation that secured me a seat on that beeping cart. I entrust that element of this story to your imaginations. Just know that a couple of quick talking minutes later, I was whizzing through the Buffalo/Niagara airport terminal on the back of the cart, watching all those travelers look up annoyingly at the incessant beeping.

After my little joyride (and the furrowing glare I received from the driver after he realized that it was nothing more than a joyride), I considered myself cured. I headed back to my gate and boarded the plane a happy (and nice) person. And though I didn’t need to suffer through a bad cup of airline coffee (I still had my chai in hand), I did talk to the person next to me…

Until he started to annoy me.

Posted in This Only Ever Happens to Me | 1 Comment »

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