Tag Archives: life

Facebook: A New Frontier in Social Awkwardness

10 Aug

Facebook is getting so awkward, isn’t it?

Personally, I can’t take the pressure.   It was bad enough when our parents, aunts, and uncles began to join.  I don’t know about you, but sometimes I still manage to forget they’re in my contacts and I say something wildly inappropriate only to be scolded seconds later.  Then all these apps and games and silly questionnaires came through and all the sudden I’m forced to virtually break up with my friend because she won’t stop telling me to water her virtual crops.  Sure, I could just weed through my privacy settings and try to block app invites, but if my friend is the kind of person that constantly bugs me to water her fake crops, do I really want to be her friend anymore?

These are the sorts of hard-hitting questions I’m faced with every time Facebook ‘upgrades’.

Things got even more intense when Facebook leveled-up to real-time updates so that when you stare at your mini-feed you can actually see someone’s comment post at the very moment they do it.   And now, the ultimate mega stresser: Facebook chat.

It could be the super awkward hermit in me, but the chat is where I draw the line.  The beauty of Facebook used to be that it was casual and cool.   People could post on each other’s walls at their leisure.   In a world where the weight of a cell phone text or an email is so heavy that people expect a response immediately, Facebook was the one place I could still go if I wanted to socialize at a relaxed pace.

Facebook relaxation is now dead to me.

When I log on, I have updates that need tended to.  I have people commenting on pictures or saying hello or writing on my wall to ask me to hang out that same day.  I have messages from friends who haven’t caught up in a while and think email is too impersonal.  And sometimes while I’m tending to those things, someone is online at the very same moment and responds immediately.  Immediately! Then there’s all this pressure.  Do I have to follow up? Can I go log off?  They’re on.  They see me.  They know I updated only 5 seconds ago; it’s stamped right there in cold, gray text. I can’t possibly just leave – I have to finish the conversation.

I also have to manage my status updates.  Because if I tell a friend I’m too busy to hang out one night but I update my status at 8:35pm saying how much I love Arrested Development, it’s voluntary incrimination.   It doesn’t matter if it’s on in the background while I’m working.  It doesn’t matter if I thought of a funny episode and it wasn’t even on television.  That friendship is doomed.  

Doomed.

Don’t even get me started on birthdays and engagements.  Talk about stress! Seriously?! Every year on my birthday I have to be wished a happy birthday by hundreds of people I haven’t talked to in ages.  On one hand, it’s nice to feel loved.  On the other, you know that if any of those people really cared about your birthday they’d have called.  Or written.  Or emailed.  And now I feel inclined to follow up with them to see how they are, but I don’t know if they were really reaching out or if they just wanted to hop on the birthday bandwagon.

I don’t even recognize some of their names.

I’m not the only one who feels this pressure.  I know it.  Because not long ago, some dear friends of mine got engaged.  And while I was relishing in the happy moment with them, they admitted that they were quite exhausted because they had to be sure to call every single person that was even remotely close to them to let them know they were engaged before those people saw it on Facebook and got offended that they found out online and not from them.

You see? What are we doing to ourselves?!

So no, Facebook, I will not be utilizing your ‘Facebook Chat’.  The last thing I need in this too-accessible age is to log on and be immediately available to a thousand people, try to figure out how to end conversations with everyone because I don’t want to deal with them, and then worry about what to update my status to that will be amusing but also not indicate that I was having too much ‘not-too-busy-to-chat’ fun.

Lord help us; Facebook will be the end of us all. ♣

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A Taste for Crime

9 Aug

This week’s Lollipop Tuesday was a learning experience.  And a taste of how simple and sweet crime can really be.

Happy Lollipop Tuesday, folks.

After reenacting the Battle of Bull Run in Manassas, Virginia not long ago and then laying down some mad beats by rapping at a crowded open mic last week, I thought I’d switch things up a little this week and go graffiti.   Well, not graffiti so much as tag. I’d pick out a logo or icon, cut out a stencil, and go spray it in conspicuous places all over town.   After seeing it so long and so often, people would be inspired to search for the meaning of it on Google, which would inevitably lead them to my blog and shoot me into super blogger stardom.

Except not really.

In order for a Google search to be effective, you kind of have to be the most clicked-on result to show in, I don’t know, even the first hundred pages.  So that idea was a big, thoughtless bust.   But that’s all right, I thought – I’ll just write out “thejackieblog”.  Because when you search that on google, it’s one of the top results.  I’ll just tag that all over the place.  Which will then lead to people to my blog, and shoot me into super blogger stardom.

Except not really.

Because as it turns out, graffiti’s pretty illegal.  So I couldn’t just go make a stencil and grab a can of spray paint.  Though I would have loved to dress like a midnight ninja and market my blog in the wee hours of the morning, it was obviously a one-way street to arrest given that my blog has my name in it.   So I thought of something super genius: spray chalk.  Spray chalk! I’d spray it on stencils all around town and it would wash away with the first rain! It’s the ultimate balance between criminal genius and socially acceptable marketing tactics.

Except not really.

Because I didn’t actually buy spray chalk.  Instead, I decided to doom myself by not ordering it ahead of time online and instead resorting to a last-minute run to Dick’s Sporting Goods, which Yahoo Answers promised would have it.

Stupid Yahoo Answers.  You’re never right.

And since Dick’s didn’t have it (or Michael’s, or Lowe’s, or anyone within a 40 mile radius of my city) I decided to invest in powdered chalk, a spray bottle, and a dream.  A hopeless, wilting dream.

Surprisingly enough, I thought ahead enough to send a stencil cut-out to a print shop and get it put on some super heavy cardstock.  Then, I carefully cut out each any every little curve and tittle to “thejackieblog” with a little club over the “i” just for pizzazz.   After a few grueling moments with the Xacto knife, I started to doubt my entire plan.

What was I thinking? I can’t just throw powdered chalk in water and expect it to work.

And I was right: I couldn’t.  Because powdered chalk and water clogs even the mightiest spray bottle.  And unless I was headed back to Lowe’s to get myself a super awesome, super long, super-powered sprayer that people use to paint house siding, it was  unlikely I was going come out victorious.

I decided to resort to Google to find some homemade, trustworthy recipes for spray chalk and found that corn starch, hot water, and food coloring seems to do the trick.  But I was fresh out of food coloring and I’d just spent a large fraction of my paycheck on stencils, a spray bottle, and powdered chalk.  I know better than to ever attempt anything without consulting Google first.  Silly rabbit.

So I hardheadedly charged forward into the pit of despair with my 8 1/2 x 11 pathetic attempt at a tag.

Have you ever really looked at how big one single slab of a sidewalk is? Like, really looked? Because they’re big.  Really big.  Too big for an itty bitty 8 1/2 x 11 piece of cardstock to make a difference.  Even in landscape orientation.

Dave managed to dab powdered chalk on the stencil and get it to leave a light impression on the cement.  A small, barely-noticeable impression.  I, however, forged ahead with a sponge and a bowl of powdered chalk and water, intent on plastering my blog name at every major bus stop in the area.  But as I dabbed my sopping wet, maroon sponge onto the paper, it soaked through it entirely.  And when I picked my pathetic excuse for a stencil up off the sidewalk, it left one enormous blob of disgustingness in its place.  Which I then tried to turn into an enormous club (♣) so as to not leave, well, a hideous blob of disgustingness.  But I kept trying to round each of the little circles perfectly and you know when you cut a heart out of construction paper and you keep making it tinier and tinier because you’re trying to make it perfect?

It was like that but the opposite. I was left with an enormous maroon puddle that looked as if something had died there not long ago.  Like all my hopes and dreams, for example.

So this Lollipop Tuesday was a bust.  But I made pretty much every mistake I possibly could, so I can try it again and actually get spray chalk and a stencil on a piece of plastic that’s big enough to be seen after spraying.  I’ll be a tagging wiz in no time.  I’m determined to do this the crime-free way.

Though in the midst of my frustrations, I must admit a life of crime looked quite appealing. ♣

Proof of failure.

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The Death of Molly Pleasantville

8 Aug

Yesterday marked the hundredth time someone in an establishment has asked me if I work there when, in fact, I don’t.

I haven’t been keeping hash marks or anything but one hundred seems right.

I’m not sure what it is about me that makes people assume I’m working for the place they’re patronizing.  I’d like to think it’s a pleasant disposition coupled with a comfort in unfamiliar surroundings.  Maybe I look like I know things.  You know.  Like, maybe I look smart and stuff.  Maybe when the guy at Starbucks last week saw me standing in line with all the other people who were waiting for their beverages, he asked me where the bathroom key was because he really thought I looked like I knew.    

Maybe I appear to be all-knowing.

I could just be wearing the wrong thing.  Like when the elderly lady pulled me aside in the paper towel section of the grocery store yesterday, maybe she was blinded by my bright orange cardigan.   Or maybe she was a little hunched over and could only see my feet.  I’ll bet it was the sensible flats.  She’d have never stopped me if I were wearing slut shoes.

What I’m really afraid of is that it’s none of these things.  I’m afraid that there is no pleasant disposition or appearance of comfort.   Rather, I look like a pushover.  Like a do-gooder.  A doormat.

What if this is evidence of my day job affecting my life in ways other than monumental stress and sudden, spastic bouts of depression?  What if in addition to biting off all my fingernails, feeling ill the Sunday night before a work week, and possessing dull, vacant eyes, I’ve also acquired an aura of ‘what-can-I-do-for-you”?

Oh dear.

It’s like people can feel it.  It hangs in the air around me.  They know I reheat lunches and answer phones.  They know I edit PowerPoints and get drinks for visitors.  They can smell bitch work on me from a mile away.

So they take advantage of me.  They ask me where the paper towels are when they’re staring right at them.  They ask me for the bathroom key when they know I’m not wearing a barista apron.  They mock me with their inquisitiveness. 

The other night at the supermarket, the cashier didn’t bag a single one of my groceries.  I kid you not – not one single item did that man place in an Earth-killing plastic carrier for me.  I did them all.  

What’s sad is I didn’t even realize it until now.

Maybe I’ll start dressing goth when I go out in public.  I imagine goth dressers don’t get asked a lot of customer service questions.   Maybe I could carry the persona over to the workplace and avoid the robotic good-mornings and how-was-your-weekends and the-temperature-is/will be/was-such-and-such-today. 

This is obviously the answer to all my problems.  I don’t know why I didn’t think about this earlier.  I could have avoided human contact my entire life if I would have just dressed up as someone people don’t want to have human contact with.   But no – I’ve been wearing cardigans in the summer time and pairing them with sensible shoes like Molly Pleasantville.  That’s it.  No more Molly Pleasantville – she’s dead to me.

I’m going to need to get some more eyeliner.

And spiky bracelets.  Definitely spikey bracelets. ♣

"Excuse me, do you work here?"

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The Great Poop Machine

7 Aug

I’m so in love with my new nephew.

I say that like I have an old one too.  I don’t have any but him. In fact, he’s the first baby I’ve ever had contact with under 6 months and oh my is it lovely.  Everything he does is just so darn cute.

So cute it’s made me late posting two days in a row.

It appears that when I have the choice between posting at my regular time and feeding, burping, and changing a baby, I choose the latter.  And it’s not because I don’t enjoy posting.  It’s because as it turns out, I really like babies.  At least ones that are related to me.  And absolutely everything my nephew does is cute.  When he cries, when he poops, when he eats: cute, cute, cute.

This is astounding news.  Back in the day, my blog featured posts about a variety of horrifying thoughts regarding babies.  I would include a link to an example of one such post here, but I’d really rather not lead you to it.  I was a much more… crass… writer then.  I didn’t want to go near babies.  I had no interest in them and even thought it would be funny to have a serial killer name called “Shake n Bake”. 

For the record, I no longer find that even remotely funny.

I must say that nothing could prepare me for how poopy they are.  I’ve often heard stories, but I thought they were just embellishments.  And as a master embellisher myself, I tend to keep an eye out for exaggeration.  But this baby is a great pooping machine.  At one point when his diaper was full, my mother and I went to change it only to find that he was still in the process – and would be for another 5 minutes while we sat there with him.  There were not enough rags, wipes, and washcloths in the house to handle that grand explosion.

The kid’s like a pasta maker: what goes in comes instantly back out.

I find it hilarious.  I really am tickled by all of it, which is why I was more than happy to be with him 10 hours yesterday, wake up unshowered, and hold him again until his parents came to pick him up.  …at which time I went to the store to buy adorable baby things. I thought I had trouble buying baby stuff before, but it was nothing compared to how bad it is now that we’ve been properly introduced.

It’s a good thing I’m headed back to my place in a few hours.  Because if I hung out long enough and laid around with the little bugger, I might never get a post done on time again.

Thank goodness I only rent him. ♣

I thought you might enjoy a visual.

 

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The Secret to Financial Success

6 Aug

Mint.com is making me sad.

In an attempt to finally organize my finances and accept responsibility for my habits, I’ve gone on mint.com solely in order to identify my biggest money drainers and cut them out of my life.   The biggest depression-inducer of them all? Weekly open mics at a bar downtown where Dave plays every Wednesday.  Out of sheer curiosity (and a looming feeling that I’m throwing all my money down a large toilet of alcohol and acoustic music), I ventured over to Mint to see what the grand total of my hard earned American dollars was for the months of January to now.

The answer catapulted me into self-loathing.

I keep running the number over and over in my brain, thinking all the things I could have bought in its place.   Like a better cell phone.  Or an air conditioner.  Or an iPad.

The possibilities abound.  And it makes me wonder what would happen if I just didn’t spend any money at all.

Of course, I’d pay my bills and all that responsible jazz, but I just wouldn’t be allowed to spend money on anything.  I wonder if I could do it.   No coffee in the afternoon at work when I’m falling asleep at my keyboard, no stopping for ice cream, no browsing shops and picking up random gifts for people – nothing.  No gas, no groceries, no toiletries.

It’d be like college all over again.

I’d obviously only last so long since I’d eventually run out of something necessary – like, oh, I don’t know – food.   But it’d be interesting to see how long I can go.  Plus, I’d probably lose weight just by getting rid of the little here-and-there food items I gather in my daily life.

Food seems to gravitate toward me.  Or my mouth, rather.

Maybe I could really rock it old school and live off Ramen Noodles and cheese quesadillas.  After a few months my blood pressure would be through the roof from the high sodium content but I’d be super skinny and have a big savings account. Fool-proof.  Absolutely fool-proof.

Looks like I need a trip to Costco’s. ♣

Mmm financial responsibility.

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The Resurrection of an Orchid: Ode to a Questionably Colored Thumb

5 Aug

I am the giver of life. 

Nearly two weeks ago, I stood over my kitchen trash can, ready to finally toss away the once beautiful, bright purple, smile-inducing orchid that David gave me early spring last year.  Now withered, dry, and depressing, it was a constant reminder of my inability to keep anything whatsoever alive.

I’m sometimes startled to find my cats alert each day.

I’ve never been sure about the color of my thumb.  My mother kills anything green she looks at, while my father is currently nursing a bonsai seed in their fridge.  My grandmother on my mother’s side is a gardening beast.  She turns rotted tree stumps into nests of flowering glory.  She cans, jams, and exhibits other stereotypical grandmother qualities wherein she toils in the earth and then harvests the fruits of her labor.

The fruits of her labor are delicious.

show offs.

I tried to blame a terribly dry winter for the downfall of my orchid.  Though I read in a multitude of articles that they’re one of the hardest plants to kill, I couldn’t help noticing the flowers fall to the dirt below.  Apparently that’s pretty normal too, as they have a regular blooming season just like any other flower.  I tried to tell myself it was okay until I started noticing people’s orchids blooming brightly around the office.  

Yes, my office has people who keep office orchids.  Spider plants just don’t cut it for this highbrow corporate society.

But soon the stems began to turn brown and the leaves began to wilt.  No amount of watering, sunlight, or plant whispering could restore its former glory.   So there I stood in my kitchen, ready to call the whole thing a bust and never invest in plants again.  Until I noticed what I thought could be a tiny, little, shiny green leaf at the base of the other wilting lost hopes.  

It was a pioneer in a desolate land: a sole carrier of dreams.

I got a bag of fresh soil and transplanted it to a more spacious planter, my hope renewed enough to fuel a second attempt at checking the color of my thumb.  I put it right by the window and have shown it love and adoration as absolutely often as possible.

One might say we’re intimate.

And in the time that I’ve given it all-my-lovin, all-my-hugs-and-kisses-too, that tiny little leaf has grown an entire inch, upwards and outwards into the great wide open.   My days are spent with moments of great hope and joy juxtaposed against absolute fear of failure.  What if it’s a fluke? What if it just grows a little leaf and nothing more?  What if I start to grow the plant back and my terribly dry, terribly enraging apartment chokes the poor little life out of it?

I suppose I can always take it to my Mr. Miyagi’s for advice. ♣

 

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Final Fantasy: My Gateway Drug

4 Aug


I want to quit my job and play Final Fantasy all day.

It’s been a growing concern ever since Dave started playing the most recent installment of the game series.  Not so much because I’m an avid Final Fantasy fan (I’ve played several, but not all and thus wouldn’t dare starting a geek war with anyone), but because I actually want to play World of Warcraft.

It’s been a long time since I’ve found something to fill the void of that gloriously epic massive multiplayer online game that zapped the life out of me, added 15 pounds, took all my money, and catapulted me into a world of eternal bliss not many years ago.   Of course, I wasn’t achieving anything “real”.  My only achievements were chronicled in the quests I completed while roaming the world of Azeroth.  My real life achievements were nill.

It probably had something to do with my schedule at the time.  It went something like wake up, sit at computer and play, get hungry, order pizza, eat, get sleepy, go to bed.  Somehow I managed to make those small tasks last me an entire day – and sometimes all night.  

It’s surprising how long one can live off leftover pizza if rationed appropriately.

And though it wasn’t a particularly proud existence, I could have happily carried on in my nerd cave until the end of time without caring much for the consequences.  Unfortunately, World of Warcraft costs money and sitting in my bedroom unshowered for days on end didn’t pay well.  Sooner or later I needed money and realized that listing “raid leader” and “super epic elf hunter” on my resume wasn’t exactly setting myself up for success.  So I swore off the game and vowed never to return.

Until less than a year later.

But the second time I quit, I quit hardcore.  I uninstalled the program from my computer hoping that the ridiculously long installation process would be a deterrent for future relapses.  And in a startling blow to my inner desires, Responsible Jackie got a laptop that isn’t capable of supporting the game’s graphics.  So if I ever want to start up again, I have to buy a whole new computer.

Enter Final Fantasy.

Though FF could never fill the void that WoW has left in my soul, it does offer a decent and safe alternative.  Though it will also propel me into months of slavery to a machine and stats, it is far healthier than WoW because it 1) has an ending and 2) isn’t online.  It also doesn’t punish the player for not achieving things in a certain amount of time or reward them frequently with enormously epic gear.  But the gameplay is pretty much the same.  I get to use magic and I get to kill things.

I also have Dave to hold me accountable, who is fully aware of my sordid past and is prepared to leave me should it resurface.

I have yet to pick up a controller and try my hand at Final Fantasy 13, but I have been seriously letting the idea brew.  I keep getting glimpses of release from reality and true relaxation juxtaposed against images of my fat, greasy, college shut-in self.   Will picking up the controller catapult me into a life without a job, without Dave, and without sunlight?  If I stop posting, you’ll know why.

Tell the rescue team to check under the pile of pizza boxes for a pale, smelly non-contributor. ♣

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Appealing to the Mom Demographic

3 Aug

Charming photo by Keith Parker. Less than charming edits by me.

Why do moms love my blog so much?

This is an increasing area of concern.  Not because I have anything against it – I love moms.  Particularly my own.  But I’m a little confused as to how the things I write about appeal to the average mom.  I don’t talk about what I would consider ‘mom things’.  

I can’t tell you how many times people tell me that their mom loves my blog.  It’s very strange to me to be given a passed down compliment from a surprising hit demographic.   The feedback has been building over time, but I think it hit an all-time high when I was forwarded an email at work today from my coworker’s mom that simply stated “Tell Jackie I put my underwear on backwards today.  I just noticed it in the bathroom”. 

It was followed by her professional business signature line.

My coworker’s mother is, of course, referring to my frequent posts about underwear malfunctions.  In fact, if you type ‘underwear’ into that little search box on the top right hand side of my page, you’ll almost turn up as many post results as you will with ‘cats’ or ‘food’. 

Underpants are a big part of my life.

I don’t know most of these people’s mothers.  And the people that have the mothers who love my blog don’t say anything in particular about the blog themselves; they’re just the messengers of someone else who likes it.

I have somehow roped a demographic I have no idea how to maintain.  

I’ve thought about what will happen to my blog after 2011 and whether or not I’ll keep posting. And of course if I do, eventually one day I’ll be a mother and I’ll have to try to do a Mom Blog.  I thought I’d be able to rope in a whole new cross section of bright-eyed, bushy-tailed moms.    But as it turns out, they’re already reading.  They don’t want to read about babies and barf and cute kid quotations.  They want to read about people who struggle to put their underwear on correctly and consistently.

This is surprising news.  Perhaps I can conduct studies on my blog and sell it to marketing researchers.  I’ll tell them to cut down on their references to baby products and support groups and fire up discussions on cats, hot apartments, stressed working relationships, and food.  I suppose it’s time to change my tagline.

TheJackieBlog.com: Life is Funny Your Mom Will Love It. ♣

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Sloop Jackie B

2 Aug

Once upon a time I attempted a Lollipop Tuesday where I sang at an open mic.  Unfortunately, there was a terrible turnout at the venue that evening and it didn’t feel quite worthy of a Lollipop Tuesday adventure.  So shortly thereafter I posted and asked my readers to vote on whether I should have to redo the event. 

And because 52.17% of you are heartless bastards, I had to do it again. So this past week I headed back out to the venue.  It felt kind of silly to just sing all over again but with more people present, so I decided to up the ante.

Exhibit A: The Poll

By rapping.

Happy Lollipop Tuesday folks.

Let me tell ya – if there’s anything that could get me more nervous than singing, it is certainly rapping.  Spitting.  Laying down some mad beats.  Because I’m super white.  Like, super duper white.  Not white like Eminem with the rhythm and the baggage and the anger and whatnot.  White like I looked up articles on line for how to rap better before I went out that night.

And then recorded myself on my webcam an played it back to write notes for myself.  Things like “drop voice more” and “don’t look so awkward” and “you’re doomed, cracker.”

You see, Dave has a song that has an alternate version.  He use to hang with a guy that called himself Moses McFly (I kid you not, he’s the raddest dude around) who loved one of his songs so much that he decided to pen a rap verse to it.   And truth be told, it’s pretty cool.  

You know, when he does it.

So with his blessing, I pulled out the piece of paper he Sharpied the lyrics on so long ago and began to try to lay down his mad rhymes.  It was a terrible, pathetic mess.  I tried so hard to fit all the words in the phrase but I just have no sense of rhythm or beat or anything pertinent to rap skills.  I had to break it down elementary music class style with tee’s and ta’s and whatnot.  

Finally I had to kick Dave out and tell him to take a walk because I was simply too mortified to do it in front of him with any sense of abandon.  While he was gone I decided I would have to make up a character for myself and just go for it.  So I put a hat on sideways and called myself Sloop Jackie B.

It was a Fossil hat.  It was white and fuzzy.  Almost crocheted, really, but it was the closest thing I had to a baseball cap with the sticker still on it.  

But it worked.  It really did.  I just decided to try to be the best rapper I possibly could instead of wallowing in how obviously terrible I was.   And it’s a darn good thing I put on my big girl pants and gave it a go because when I showed up at the bar that night there were three times as many people as usual.  The place was absolutely packed.  I walked in and my jaw dropped to the floor with the realization that I would have to follow through with my plans.  

Dave decided to do it quick like a Band-Aid and sign up 2nd on the list.  So before I could even think of relying on any liquid courage, I was up in front of the bar, explaining that I had a blog where I tried one new thing every week that I’m terrible at or have never done before and I share it with the world.  

Dave played, I rapped.  

I like, actually rapped.   I dropped my voice, put my hat on, put my lips right up against the mic like I was it’s middle school lover and I laid down the mad beats of one Mister Moses McFly.   It was by far one of the ballsiest things I’ve done in my Lollipop Tuesday saga.

The audience received it well.  You know, for the fact that I obviously was no good at it.  In fact, I got a lot of support from people I’d never met.  Dave was so excited about the whole thing he’s tried to get me to do it again. But let’s be clear: I have no plans to rap again. Sloop Jackie B isn’t cut out for the gangster life.

I mean, let’s get real: my gangster name was based on a song by the Beach Boys.♣

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The Quest for Air Conditioning: Cat 1, Dave 0

1 Aug

My cat is becoming a challenge.

Absolutely irate with the hot, AC-less apartment, he has begun to make us aware of his anger.

By inserting himself into the refrigerator every time it opens, for example.

In the little amount of time it takes me to open the door, grab ketchup, and splat it on something, I return to the fridge to find my cat inside it.   Even if he wasn’t in the kitchen to start with.  It’s like he’s telling me that if I don’t get an AC, he will continue to live his life in my fridge.   It was cute the first four times, but the first time I found cat hair on my water pitcher it lost all sense of adorableness.

Adorableness is a word.  It shouldn’t be; it seems strange.

Aside from trying to keep the Hobbesinator out of the refrigerator, I also have to put up with his recent pleas for escape.  You see, not too long ago, the Hobbeser ran away into the wild to give me quite a fright and himself a few wild nights to tell of in his later years.   My posts centered around the event for quite some time until I eventually found him mewing for us to save him from the cruel, cruel world outside Dave’s bedroom window. And ever since, he’s sat at the front door loudly yearning to return to the wild.

Dave’s been taking him on frequent walks to help him cope but they’re no good.  Mostly because cats are no good for walking.  It’s silly. But moreso because Hobbes is a little girly man and can’t deal with his emotions.  

Dave has also been holding the freezer door open and allowing Hobbes mini vacations in front of the cool freezer air.  I don’t know what’s better: finding cat hair on an ice cube or listening to him whine for hours on end.  You’d think he’d tucker himself out after a while and, like a baby, fall asleep when he’s had his share of crying.  But he’s more like a child who’s been left in the car while his mother goes grocery shopping – altering the sounds of his mew just to experiment with the range of his voice and keep himself entertained.

It’s intolerable.

I priced ACs the other day not for my charming Dave, but for my annoying cat.  Isn’t that sad?  Dave’s been ready for me to cave for weeks now and I haven’t budged.   Turns out all he had to do was sit in the same spot and badger me with annoying whinnies. 

Let’s hope he doesn’t take that as a cue for future endeavors. ♣

Cat + Fridge

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