So I bought this chair. My living room has been without a chair since I moved in, and to have just a couch puts quite a cramp in my life as a hostess for all those wild parties I’d like to throw if I only had a chair. If by “wild parties” you actually mean “never having guests, unless they have fur.”
Speaking of, may I present my cat Chloe. She’s definitely a party animal. The random piles of vomit occasionally littered throughout my home indicate to me that she has been dealing with her grief over the death of her sister Butters by busting into the liquor cabinet on more than one occasion.
Cannot Hold Her Raspberry Stoli
Chloe is quite good at aiming her explosive chunder directly at my rugs rather than the easy-to-clean hardwood floors. On the occasions that I lay flat my sweaters to dry, she’s also quite good at horking up a good one right onto those, rather than the rugs. If I happened to own any pure gold silks spun by Rumpelstiltskin or whomever, and laid those atop just some of the sweaters, the semi-digested kibble would likely wind up on those as well.
First of all, this looks delicious. I learned some years back, and was validated by reading my friend Heather’s most excellent bacon blog, that bacon is really good with anything. Peanut butter and bacon sandwich? Check. Bacon chocolate? Check. Bacon wrapped Twinkies? Hmmm. I’m going to go ahead and say check.
Current TV has some of the best content on the web already, in the form of Sarah Haskins‘ completely brilliant shakedown of the generally ludicrous state of marketing to American women in her “Target: Women” segments (I like the voice in the intro that yells out “large underpants!” for no reason).
So I’ll forgive them for skewering one of my favorite things–Twitter, of course!
I said on Twitter the other day (it’s funny how many conversations I begin with those words) that I’m starting to feel like one of those insufferable music snobs who gets upset when suddenly that obscure band they are obsessed with starts getting airtime on KISS108’s morning zoo show. EVERYONE is on Twitter! I joined in 2007! Come on!
My friends, my colleagues, the mailman…I think my cat has a Twitter account at this point. (”Anyone ever try mixing the wet Fancy Feast with a little catnip? It’s intense!!!”). When all my “mainstream” friends started turning up in my Twitter feed I was excited at first, but now I’m starting to get a little skittish about this whole thing.
And so, I can hardly be upset by this hilarious send-up of the Twittersphere…but if we all end up getting eaten by a Fail Whale, I might have to blame George Stephanopoulos. (A “Twitterview” George, really?)
I’m a big fan of Meg Fowler’s blog–she’s funny as hell and writes about interesting things, but she also does one of my favorite blog staples really well. List writing! I don’t know why, in the last couple weeks when I’ve been a bit tapped out for things to write about, I didn’t turn to list-making sooner.
Meg usually calls them “love lists,” so here’s a list, with full hat-tip to Ms. Fowler, of things I’m Loving This Lazy Saturday:
Corn Pops–I took some grief from a couple different people for mentioning eating Corn Pops in my Facebook status update. What’s wrong with Corn Pops? They’re delightful! Let me tell you something, I go on plenty of health kicks from time to time where I will only buy Kashi. If you have ever gathered up a bunch of twigs and pine needles to make a fire, except instead of making a fire, dumped them into a bowl and poured milk over them, then you know what Kashi tastes like. I reserve my right to corn pops!
Moving on with the rest of the list:
- Chipotle guacamole
- New bright green springy handbag from Target
- New living room chair! (Which is this one but with a totally different color pattern.)
- Convertible weather on the horizon
- Irish drinking songs
- Being Elaine
- Plans for summer
- Liz Lemon (yes, this is 9 minutes long, but WORTH it)
- Jack Donaghy
- The smell of fertilizer in my building’s courtyard (”stings the nostrils!” but means that soon there will be flowers)
- New Blackberry–still longing for an iPhone, but it’s an upgrade I am psyched about!
- Underdogs and Upsets - Candles that smell like clean clothes (how do they DO that?)
- Back cracks (James, why do I have to do this alone? When are you done chiropractor school again? I need adjusting!)
- Scandalous behavior
- Coach Taylor:
- My mom, who came to see me while here on business, and agreed to split the cost of the chair so my living room would stop looking so barren!
- Breakup songs, for no reason in particular, as I’ve not been through one in a year. But I can’t stop listening to “More Like Her” on my iPod, make of that what you will. (Oooh, and “You’ll Think of Me“)
- The fact that there is a huge treasure trove of “fake ‘Lost’ opening credits” on YouTube that I only recently discovered. My fave:
(They also have “Veronica Mars” set to “Buffy” music, and while thinking of that, maybe I also present this, as I remain ever-hopeful that the VM movie WILL one day happen…le sigh.)
This weekend, I took my cat Butters (diagnosed with incurable effusive FIP about a month ago) in to be put to sleep. I decided to go by myself despite requests from all my friends to come along for moral support. I’m not really good with the whole “public weeping” thing, no matter how much a situation calls for it. (You could cut off my arm, and if people I knew were present, I’d be sitting there trying to choke back the tears, because how embarrassing.)
It is written somewhere, mostly likely in the Official Sarah Wurrey Catalogue of Things That Are Crappy, that if you own more than one cat, the cooler one is most likely to meet its maker early. Or at least this has been my experience. Allow me to present, my Feline History of Death and Despair:
Example #1 – Rocky and Apollo.
Rocky and Apollo were my first childhood cats. While Rocky was a perfectly serviceable, if a bit persnickety, cat, Apollo was the absolute man. Dad called him as his “dog,” as he was prone to coming when called, playing fetch, and following my dad around like a puppy. (It is unclear if he also enjoyed wearing short-shorts and frolicking on the beach.) Like his namesake, he was cut down in his prime, albeit by kidney stones the size of cantaloupes rather than a taciturn Russian boxer (I like to think of the kidney stones as “Little Dragos”). All I remember about Apollo’s death is that my dad brought me and my sister candy after it was done, and it was the first time I ever saw him cry. I keep meaning to ask my dad if he dressed Apollo in a crazy Uncle Sam costume and listened to James Brown on the trip to the vet, which might have brought some much needed levity to the situation.
So while Apollo only made it to the age of 3 (a common trend, you’ll discover), Rocky lived a long and nice life, killing rodents and one day growing so fat she became unable to keep her backside clean, leaving little “Rocky Roads” all over the window sills and making my mom nuts. It is unclear why she chose to refrain from moving to Russia, growing some disturbing facial hair and single handedly ending the Cold War.
Example #2 – Roo and Tucker
After Rocky’s ultimate demise when I was about 13, we got two new kittens. I named mine Tucker for no reason whatsoever, and it quickly became clear that Tucker was basically the greatest cat since Apollo (once we got rid of his humping issues…Prior to being fixed he was really fond of violating blankets, there are some nice afghans my grandmother knitted that really, will just never be the same). Although even after the old “snip snip,” he would still curl up in a blanket and knead it with his paws as if he were making biscuits, and try to suck milk out of it–this compulsion was his only real downfall as a cat, because he ended up having hairball issues due to his love of the nonexistent afghan breast milk.
Regardless, he was a huge weirdo, and also totally awesome. He liked sleeping in the sink, stretching out on the floor with his back legs extended behind him, and following me around on my bike like a dog (another dog-like cat!). He would also wrap his paws around your neck like a little kid when you picked him up, which totally killed me. Roo, my sister’s cat, was also quite cute and loveable and all that, but she had about one tenth of Tucker’s personality. So naturally, he croaked a the age of 3 after getting hit by a car. Second time I ever saw my dad cry. Roo would live to be about 13. How is this fair?
Example #3 – Butters and Chloe
I decided to adopt a two shelter kitties a couple years ago, almost on a whim. I guess I just missed having cats around, and probably hated how clean and puke-free my carpets were and how un-ripped up my furniture. I wanted to name them Jack and Chloe after my favorite terrorism-fighting duo on “24,” but it became clear, no matter how much butt she may have kicked, Butters was no Jack Bauer. So I named her after another goofy-yet-loveable TV character. (Chloe, on the other hand, was a perfect fit for her namesake, snooty and full of herself, and lacking social skills.)
Butters had only half a tail, and some would argue half a brain. She would chase the laser pointer in a circle until she dropped, could never figure out the best way to drink water (her preferred method was to dunk her paw into the bowl and lick it one drop at a time, and wagging her little half a tail rapidly back and forth like a dog when she was pleased. When she and Chloe would play fight, her standard move was to drop immediately to her back and use her back feet as waving defensive thumpers (this never, ever worked, and Chloe was always, always victorious). She also was the apparent guard dog of the bed, keeping it safe from the evils of those “feet” things that would move around under the blankets (always a fun treat at 3 in the morning).
These clothes didn't seem to have any hairs on them. Just fixing that for you.
She was just a really fun, cute, ridiculous, awesome cat. So naturally, at age 3, she’s gone. Feline Infectious Peritonitis. 100% fatal, rapidly advancing, one second cat’s fine, next thing you know you’re signing the form to authorize the “procedure.”
RIP, Butters, you were cursed by your own coolness. Tell Apollo and Tucker I said what’s up.
My well-documented War on the Kindle continues this week, with my latest article on Media Bullseye. The comments so far are firmly on the Kindle’s side, but I did manage to recruit one person on my side to chime in. Pretty good back and forth, definitely check it out if you’re inclined to gadgetary discussions.
(Yes, I made up that word, what of it?)
(And speaking of gadgets, I had already indicated I wanted a Nintendo cake for my 30th birthday, which is looming on the horizon like a grim spectre of spinsterhood, wrinkle cream, and Ben-Gay. But now I think I want this Inspector Gadget cake. If this Ashley chick gets one for her 30th, why not me?–via Cake Wrecks.)
I’m not going to comment on the Skittle social media thing–hasn’t enough ink been spilled? If nothing else, but buzz is noteworthy. Speaking of buzzes…The best thing to come out of this is that when I went and checked out the Skittles Twitter feed while scoping out their experiment, it led me to the recipe for Skittles vodka.
Holy moly, this looks pretty sweet. If by sweet, you mean both totally toothache-inducing and also TOTALLY AWESOME.
Taste the rainbow, indeed. Who says social media doesn’t yield results? I may have to have a tasting party this weekend.
When they close the book on Wurrey, the 90s might go down as my favorite decade, if only because it probably will have marked the last time when it was acceptable to look basically sloppy and unwashed and still be totally fashionable and cool.
(To say nothing of Purple Passion–Remember that stuff? Basically alcoholic grape soda in a 2 liter bottle–If I ever see it in a store again I will absolutely buy it, if only for the nostalgia.)
Regardless, as a teen of the 90s, I loved the Smashing Pumpkins. I lined up in front of Macy’s or something at 5 in the morning to buy tickets to see them in Worcester (opening act: Garbage! Now that’s a 90s lineup) at the Centrum. I think I listened to “1979″ about 407 times in a row once. (Like, omg, I was born in 1979, so clearly it was like, a song about me, okaaaay?)
Therefore, my disdain and horror were thick at seeing this–we all need to pay the mortgage, but just allow me to say, “Oh, Billy…”
Maybe it’s just that he’s shilling for a credit card, of all things. Just truly, honestly disturbing. Excuse me, I’m off to find some Purple Passion and listen to 1979 on repeat some more, just as soon as I dig my Doc Martens and my neverending supply of flannel shirts out of storage. (My hair on the other hand, is grunge ready as we speak.)
“Yeah, but when was the last time you did your dry cleaning?
Oh. Okay, so check it. I don’t really iron. What?
I am always presentable, I actually do enjoy wearing nice things, and I personally don’t think I ever look gross or rumpled or unkempt. Well, at least not when it’s unacceptable, I make no excuses for the delightful “drunken hobo” outfits I tend to sport at, say, the gym, or the grocery store, or dinner at my parents’ house (see, you think that’s a joke, but the number of times my mother has said the words to me, “What are you wearing?” upon arriving at home, well…).
And let’s face it, the fact I look as good as I do as often as I do is nothing less than a five-star miracle. I used to think I’d like to be a full-time freelance writer and work from home, but I’m fairly certain if I did I’d end up owning nothing but Homer Simpson mumus and never leaving the house.
Not a good look for me.
But it occurs to me that my FAIL at domesticity is comprehensive, rather than ironing-specific.
My pots and pans are all from the early 80s, when my parents purchased them. They are my own personal antique collection, complete with the funny story accompanying the dent on one of the saucpans–acheived when it hit the wall after barely missing my dad’s melon. We Wurrey women are hot tamales, okay?
I love these pots and pans, but they are ancient–so it’s probably a good thing they don’t really get used for cooking. Example: We attempted to use the amazing “Batter Blaster” to make pancakes in my 25 year old frying pan when my friends were visiting a couple of weeks ago, with purely disastrous results. They blamed my pots and pans, I blame the Batter Blaster. Which is a shame, because it seems like such a brilliant concept.
Batter blaster aside, my attempts at cooking generally skew between “minor gastrointestinal distress” to “moderate kitchen fire,” and that’s just when I try to like, boil water for pasta.
The cooking gene, I no has it.
And honestly? I could give a crap–I work until 6ish, sometimes go out after, sometimes go to the gym after, my average arrival time back at the homestead is between 7 and 8, why would I take an hour to make dinner, then have to eat it at 9pm, which everyone says is bad to do, and then spend another freaking half an hour cleaning up after the dinner and then it’s 10 o’freaking-clock and I’ve missed “Lost.” I don’t think so.
I am not a slob. My apartment is very cute and always looks fine. I clean, but it’s like…something is always wrong. The vacuum clogs or breaks (I’ve gone through three vacuum cleaners in two years, no lie, and let me tell you what, those things don’t come cheap. I’ve spent enough of on vacuum cleaners to get at least one pair of Louboutins, and that ish is not fair–which would YOU rather have?). No matter how much I swiffer and sweep and scrub, there always manages to be stray dust or kitty hair somewhere. Me and a spic and span perfect apartment? Just doesn’t seem to want to be.
Maybe it’s all a part of having cats; kind of hard to keep a clean house when you have to put a box of poo in the corner.
I own a fairly neverending supply of underwear and a fairly large wardrobe for the sole purpose that I despise doing laundry. It’s just such a pain. Especially when the laundry room is in the basement, and is frequently either crowded or populated by weirdos (okay, that was more true in my old building than in my current one).
And yet, every time I let it pile up, then ultimately break down and do it, I say to myself, “This time will be the time that I keep on top of it! This time will be the time that it will not take one of those giant-sized Hefty lawn bags to transport everything down to the laundry room! This time, I swearz!”
Please, no one tell my mom about this post, she already thinks she’s failed as a mother somehow just because of my complete inability to make a bed properly or fold up a fitted sheet.