SarahWurrey.com

While spending the last two days chained to my couch, being incredibly dramatic over my non-swine related head cold and rocking sweatpants and my gigantic WEEI long sleeved t-shirt, whose origins remain a mystery (this shirt is my favorite thing to lounge about in, and yet I have no idea how I came to own it), I’ve made several meaningful observations:

1) Despite the common notion that men whine like babies whenever they catch so much as the sniffles, the Chef has schooled my ass this week. He had the cold first, and basically acted like it was no big deal. I on the other hand, act as though I’m on my deathbed. Or, in this case, deathcouch. Also, I’m pretty sure it’s love when he still thinks you’re cute with a red nose, glassy eyes and couch hair.

2) That old “feed a cold, feed a fever” thing (yeah, I don’t do starving, have we met?) really just doesn’t work. The more cookies I eat, the more sick I end up feeling. It’s like, great, now I’ve got a head cold and a stomachache. Thanks, cookies.

3) When you have a friend in town for one night only who wants to go out, just go to the bar across the street. That way if you keel over, the couch is 50 yards away, and whiskey and NyQuil have very similar scientific makeup.

4) When delirious with cabin fever and dry mouth (caused by all the mouth breathing) (and all the cookies), don’t decide it’s a great idea to get “Ghosts of Girlfriends Past” On Demand. Just….don’t.

5) No matter how much you want them to taste good, those blue corn tortilla chips from Trader Joe’s will never taste good. Even with salt. Move on.

6) You know how when people who cannot sing do karaoke, they always make those lame excuses beforehand “Oh, you guys are in for it tonight!” or “Ohmigod, I can’t believe I let them talk me into this!”….well I do that with cooking. I made breakfast this morning, and it was a constant stream of excuses. It’s that way every time I cook, or really every time I allow anyone in my kitchen:

“Okay, this pancake might taste like bacon, becuase I only have one frying pan. It might also taste like burning, because that one frying pan kind of has scorched-on something or other on it. Also, the pancake itself is burnt, soooo. Yeah.”

“Okay, we can make dinner here, but first let me take all my dirty dishes out of the oven….What? I don’t have a dishwasher, and sometimes you need to get them out of the way!”

“Sorry about that container of ricotta cheese that’s six months old, every time I want to throw it away I have a fresh bag in the garbage, and if I threw it away it would reek!….What? The garbage chute is all the way down the hall!”

7) I can sew buttons! I have this fab red coat that, for reasons entirely unrelated to my corpulence since the coat is not too small AT ALL (no really!!!) lost almost all its buttons last fall. I decided to use two hours (yes, really) of my couch time today sewing them back on, and it totally came out well! I think! We’ll see!! I pricked three fingers, my leg twice, and my lips. But check me out, I am like, totally domestic.

8. No, I was really serious about “Ghosts of Girlfriends Past.”

9) My cat keeps trying to get in the fridge. I am tempted to let him to teach him a lesson, but with my luck I’d forget he was in there and then I’d have to give him mouth-to-mouth like that “Punky Brewster” episode where Cherry got stuck in the old fridge that scared the bejesus out of me when I was 8:

Stupid, useless, corpulent, cat. Why can’t you be famous like YouTube Cat in the Faucet?

I’m stuck with string barf, and whoever owns that cat gets hours of faucet-related hilarity and Internet celebrity. Stupid cat.

I am superior.

A week ago I adopted a new kitten, Jacoby, and he is basically the most defective kitten in all the land–and also the most disgusting. We’re apparently perfect for each other.

He went into the hospital 2 days after I brought him home, with an upper respiratory infection. His eyes were crusted over, he sneezed out large quantities of snot and/or blood, and he had to breathe through his mouth, which caused most excellent and near constant strings of gooey drool to form on the corners of his mouth. Sweet!

He got out of the hospital a new kitty, all cured up and fine. Then developed quite a beer gut. Being my cat, I took this in stride. Like owner like kitty, right?

Pass the nachos. (Belch!)

Turns out that a Buddha Belly on a kitten usually means one thing: worms. My father’s scientific name for this phenomenon in my childhood cat was “Worm Butt.” The vet was able to mostly confirm Jacoby’s worm-butt status today, and instructed me to collect a “fresh sample” for testing. He sent me home with a “sample collection kit” (read: shit bottle).

You know who has been in perfect health from the moment I brought her home? Chloe. I feel that I should never complain about her occasional barf piles ever again, even when I step in a nice gooey one with bare feet upon getting out of bed in the morning, becuase Jack has cost me more in vet bills in ONE WEEK than Chloe has in two years.

I assume I will be receiving noms for this accomplishment?

This weekend, I came to a very important realization. Ok, several. Here they are, in order:

1) Since moving to Virginia, my feeble claims that I am “just a social smoker!” are not even remotely plausible anymore. Back in the Shire, they might have been shaky. But now, they’re just plain bollocks. I mean, come on.

2) The problem definitely seems to start and end with the fact that SMOKING IS TOTALLY AWESOME.

This has, of course, led to the realization that I need to quit like, yesterday. Because:

1) That shiz is getting expensive.

2) They’re going to ban it anyway, starting this fall, I think.

3) I spend many Sundays having hacking contests with my cat. Except for the fact that she’s hacking up gobs of fur she’s meticulously collected from her butt area with her tongue, and I’m hacking up sputum tinged lung bits. And the fact that it is difficult to distinguish which of us is more disgusting is getting a little too disturbing. (Chloe: Hey, I’ll bet my butt fur is cleaner than your lungs, Smoky.)

4) No seriously, that shiz is getting expensive. What, is there a new tax on awesomeness that no one told me about?

Ok, so for the sake of sanity, I’m going to start the quitting process by eliminating all mid-week smoking. Friday and Saturday evenings are still on the table, but only if I am with people. I’ll see how this goes then see if I can’t try and cut them out altogether after a while. If I can get past, you know, my urge to be so impossibly cool.

Do Not Scratch Me!

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.

Hence…

Anti-Vomit and Scratching Shroud (patent pending)

RIP, buddy.

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 cat is using my bedroom rug as camouflage, no doubt in some sinister plot to trip me and cause grave injury. Must remember to be extra generous with the catnip tonight.

Find the kitty:

For anyone curious, a glimpse into my writing process:

1) Formulate idea, usually about one of only three possible subjects (cats, pathetic love life, possible connection between the two).

2) Jot that idea down on a Target receipt (possibly also a Stardust receipt), with a mental note to write when I get home.

3) Get home, open laptop. Make a “hmmm…” noise. Read blogs. Read TWoP. Read archived entries on my other blogs for inspiration. Look up random things like “bubonic plague” and “pierogies” on Wikipedia.

4) Conduct fruitless search for the receipt the idea is written on. Decide to organize handbag instead, which leads to organizing entire handbag collection. Google alternatives for cleaning suede, or local leather shops that offer such services. End up organizing entire closet.

5) Extend closet organization to complete cleaning of entire apartment. Which leads to much Vacuum Cleaner vs Cat hilarity, along with a fair bit of cursing at self regarding need to have so many *&%$# picture frames, considering the amount of dust they seem to attract.

6) Watch “Friday Night Lights” on DVR. Wonder briefly if I could get Coach Taylor to be my life coach. Also spent more time than was likely helpful being annoyed that Riggins and Lila and Tyra are all apparently now the same age as Saracen. What’s that about? (17 years–yikes–after “90210″ pulled this same business, and I’m still getting caught up in these thoughts.)

7) Use Macbook’s Photo Booth function to take ridiculous Andy Warhol style photos of self and cats:

This is really what I do when I am procrastinating writing. It's a real problem.

8. Try to finally master the hard level on Guitar Hero, give up after 5 minutes to switch back to medium and see how many times in a row I can play “Story of my Life” with a perfect score (after several failed attempts, this settled at “one”).

9) Pay bills. Contemplate writing post about how depressing the experience was. Discard idea.

10) Look again for receipt, remember that I threw it out while buying sub-par Virginia Dunks’ iced coffee (after spending (redacted) on a new cat tree at PetSmart). Stew for a few minutes trying to remember what the heck the idea was, give up.

11) Grapple with cats in an attempt to get them to use the new cat tree. No success, but a bit of blood.

12) Give up on writing about anything “good” and decide to go with standard-issue post about procrastination.

13) Look up “procrastination” on Wikipedia.

It’s been almost a week since I last published. So much has happened it’s tough to keep my head on straight. Between several movies, a phlegm-rocket of a cold, spending more time than should be allowed by the Geneva Convention in the DMV, and the rejuvenation of one Jack Bauer (to say nothing of Tony Alameida’s soul patch), I can hardly keep up.

I don’t know about you, but I like to break things down by the numbers:

3: Number of Oscar-bait movies I saw in the last week. On Saturday, despite perhaps feeling a bit under the weather with what I like to call a bit of a Bud Light Flu, I pulled myself off the couch and into a bin of Junior Mints and Diet Coke to take in both “Doubt” and “The Reader.” The first I had hardly any interest in, but figured whenever you’re pitting Streep vs Hoffman, that’s a bit of like a Bauer vs Bourne death-match. Something you don’t want to miss. (By the way, I’d take Bourne in about two seconds if I wasn’t convinced Bauer was monitoring my blog for disloyalty.)

This film basically blew me away, and I could have a four-hour debate over the ending, which set out to do exactly as the title suggests, leave you in doubt. It was remarkable.

“The Reader,” on the other hand, left me a bit perplexed. Compelling, and with a great performance from Kate Winslet (who managed to play her character so well that I didn’t even notice she spent half the film in the nude) (then again, I’m a straight female, so maybe not as easily distracted by such things). But in the end, I found myself checking my watch. The greatest test of a movie is whether you check your watch more than once–I checked mine three times. Regardless, might be worth seeing for Winslet’s performance alone, she should bring home an Oscar (a long overdue Oscar, and one she should have won for “Little Children”).

Sunday, after mimosas, bakery doughnuts and brunch at the Carlyle with the girls, we took in “Revolutionary Road.” Another great Winslet performance, another Oscar-bait film that left me checking my watch. I heard some critics referring to this one as “American Beauty, minus the laughs.” That assessment is quite unfortunately true. There are a few good laughs, but I cracked up mostly at how hard poor Leo was working to keep up with Winslet, who was so far out of his league acting-wise that he seemed borderline terrified for most of the movie. He’s a fine actor, but she is just about other-worldly.

This criticism is all irrelevant, naturally, because the crux of “Revolutionary Road” can best be written by my 18 year-old “Titanic”-era self, which pretty much spent the entire two hours going “OMG Kate and Leo, omg..so, it’s like, they survived the boat sinking, and totally escaped her witchy mother and her totally jerkface fiance–who was way cute, but dude, he HIT her and called her a tramp, that is just like, sooo not cool, even though his manservant was pretty badass. But anyway, it’s like they totally survived and then got married, and OMG, their kids are SO cute. But yeah then she like, wants to move to Paris and OMG, just like in Titanic when he talks about being in Paris and she’s like WE should go to Paris, and omgomgomgomgomg.”

In other words, I loved every minute.

Moving right along…

7: The number of times I rolled my eyes at the cringe-inducing banter at the Golden Globes. I love the Golden Globes. Everyone knows that injecting a few hundred gallons of booze into a roomful of celebrities who are probably already a bit high (either on various drugs or their own sense of self importance) (coughTomCruisecough) is a recipe for hilarity. But aside from Ricky Gervais chugging beer onstage and griping about his lack of nominations, I didn’t think there were many “Wow” moments. Darren Aronofsky flipping the bird at Mickey Rourke (on camera) was probably the most scandalous thing to happen all night, and even that was basically something of a “meh” moment. Worst presenters of the night: Emma Thompson and Dustin Hoffman, who engaged in nonsensical, chemistry-free banner that left me taking “Last Chance Harvey” right off my “to-see” list post haste.

0: Me. As in, Patient Zero. It appears that the minor cold I suffered at the start of the new year, has launnched itself through jsut about everyone I know. I’m not shouldering all of the blame, it is cold and flu season after all. But four co-workers and two friends have all been taken out by it. I’m thinking of blaming my father, when he drove me to the airport after Christmas he spent more time coughing than talking–a deadly combination.

3: Number of times I had to go back to the lovely Alexandria DMV before I was able to get my car registration and new driver’s license squared away.

(Redacted): Amount of money it cost to do this. Bye, new living room chair and dining set! It was nice thinking of you for the time I was standing in line at the DMV, but it appears we won’t be meeting any time soon.

75: The number of people in the queue while there were only 6 of 15 possible service windows open. Keeping in mind that this queue is the second of two queues, the first being the wait to actually get handed a deli-style number. The lady I dealt with was alerted to the 75 people waiting by her subbordinate, who suggested they open another window or two. The response? “They’ll live.” Ladies and gentleman, your tax dollars at work!

1: Jack’s official body count (according to the Bauer Kill Count tracker) on season seven of “24″ thus far. Granted, I cannot vouch for the accuracy of that count, because I have only seen the first episode and still have three others backed up on the DVR. And yes, I am duly ashamed. And terrified…if you see Jack, do not inform him of this transgression. I will watch them tonight, I swear!

13,084: Number of times the cats have scratched their brains out on my bedroom rug, despite all my best efforts and spray bottle aversion therapy. I’ve been meaning to get them a cat tree from PetSmart at some point this week, that is rapidly moving up to priority one. At least they’ve left the couch alone…for now. Something tells me Jack Bauer wouldn’t have these problems. His cats would be trained ninjas who didn’t need a litter box.

Sniper skillz. I has them.

That’s about it–I’ll be back tomorrow with thoughts on Social Media Club DC, which I’m attending tonight. And I should have a new column up on Media Bullseye soon, I’ll post the link when I have it!

Feeling guilty that this apartment lacks a patio, and knowing how much my cats loved laying in front of the patio doors gazing outside in my old place, I purchased for them some kitty window-chaises. Observe:

Butters relaxing.

I only got the one at first. They seemed to love it, and fought over who would get to lay on it. So, being a NICE CAT LADY, I went out and shelled out another $30 for another one. This was last night. For all of last night and tonight, both cats entirely ignored both chaises. The new one has yet to be used, even though I’ve tried forcing the issue with both of them. By placing them gently onto it for a test drive.

(Yes, I had to buy Neosporin today, why do you ask?)

So basically, I now have $60 worth of striped, silly looking cushions hanging off my window, which may never actually be used. Awesome.

Whats ur point???