The only downside is that now I cry when we feed the snake

Meet Monty. He's naked. Except he's not *really* naked, he's just hairless. So it's kind of like he's that brown M&M lady from the commercials, and we're like the red M&M guy who strips down and starts dancing when we see him.

Completely normal.

If you don't think this is the cutest thing in the world, well...then y ou're probably made out of Lysol.

Selfish-less-ness: The Sequel

I've had the best morning ever, and I'm not even drunk.

Remember waaaaay back when I wrote about selfish-less-ness? Of course you don't, you drunken whores. For those few who do, I think about my grandparent's story every once in a while and I was startled today when I searched for it and realized I wrote that post nearly three years ago. It was one of my first posts, actually, because this shit-for-brains blog has only been around for three years (this Sunday).

I try to be kind to strangers as much as possible, when I'm not flipping them off and blowing smoke in their children's faces, but it's been a while since I've done the whole Pay It Forward routine. I've bought drinks or dinner here and there, and that has been done for me as well, but nothing involving complete strangers and without the guarantee of a sincere thank you in return. I simply haven't been out buying designer coffee lately because, well, I CAN'T TASTE IT, so seriously you could shit in a blender and add some milk and pour it into a cup and I wouldn't know the difference. Starbucks seems a bit of a waste in the face of that.

One thing I have done recently is commend several parents on the exceptional behavior and politeness of their children because it's rare that you find a young girl who is eager to hold open the restroom door for you for no reason whatsoever other than because she knows it's a kind thing to do.

I've done a few generous things for others lately, but since this is more of a family-friendly post, I'll neglect to mention those things now.

This morning, I was in a drive thu grabbing an ill-advised breakfast and chiding myself for eating such crap, when I overheard a woman in the Jeep ahead of me say, "And there's a white car behind me. I'll get hers." I recognized the gesture immediately and realized it's the first time a stranger has paid for my order.

A smile stormed my face, and I decided I should pay it forward to the car behind me as well. I double-checked my wallet and decided that even if the woman behind me was ordering quite a bit, I could swing it. Good deeds! They are happening! Woo hoo!

So as I sat in line waiting to pay, grinning like a mad man, I investigated a lump in the tiny zipper on the outside of my wallet and found...wait for it...ONE HUNDRED FUCKING DOLLARS I FORGOT I HAD. There is no telling how long the cash had been there - seriously, I've been paying for gas with quarters all week long - and I honestly have no memory of putting the money in there.

I don't believe in karma, like, AT ALL, but jesus christ. That was a happy fucking surprise. And the stranger behind me...her order was only $1.07.

The moral of the story is that you, too, should prevent forest fires. Or maybe just buy a coffee for the guy behind you, even when you're low on cash.

You never know...the secret wallet compartment fairy may find you, too.

All right, all right. I get it. I'm weird.

People keep giving me random, awesome shit.

For example, I keep a bowl of candy in my office to lure unsuspecting flies into my personal paperwork hell. I sometimes take requests for specific types of candy, or if I overhear someone talking about some they like, I'll look for it. One guy loves Warheads, those little sour hard candies, but I couldn't find them, like, ANYWHERE. I was beginning to think they weren't being made anymore.

Someone heard my Warhead dilemma, and said, "Don't worry, I gotcha." I assumed that meant he knew where to buy a bag of them, but a couple days later, a giant package was delivered to the office with my name on it. I had a moment of panicking, thinking maybe I'd drunken ordered a sex swing and mistakenly shipped it to work instead of home. Then I panicked again, wondering how the hell to assemble a sex swing.

Turns out, it was a giant case of Warheads, shipped from New Jersey.

Another friend of mine, who happened to give us the best wedding gift of all (a framed, autographed Lamb of God album) knows I love spicy food. He does too. Every so often, he just shows up with habanero kettle chips or spicy sardines or hot chili flavored Ramen. Once, he even gave me a jar of pickled eggs, but that is decaying in my kitchen cabinet. I AM AFRAID OF PICKLE-CHICKEN HYBRIDS.

Last week, a friend walked into my office and said, "Oh, I was just at Target and I saw these and I just HAD to get them for you because...it's just too perfect. You had to have them."

These really are the most appropriate note cards I've ever gotten. People see the word "crazy" and they think "CAT!"

Another co-worker was at the dollar store and saw this Wooly Willy. He thought it was something I needed to have, which is true, because I REALLY needed a wooly willy that day.

This thing turns out to be a bigger draw than the candy bowl. People are sitting down to draw metallic mustaches ALL DAY LONG, and now I just realized why Klout says I'm influential about "mustaches." It makes perfect sense.

Aaaaand then there's the giant rubber band. Totally not that exciting, right? WRONG. People love this fucking thing, and let me tell you, it gets some serious air around the office. It can go halfway down the hallway, no problem. Again, this was something a friend saw and said, "Catherine. She can haz giant rubber bandzzzz."

Nobody seems to realize that what I REALLY need is a motherfucking unicorn.

Earpanties. Wet ones.

Another thing about my freakshow cousin is that he's always handing me new music. Every other sentence out of his mouth is, "Ya heard the band ---fill in the blank---?"

How he hears this shit in the first place is beyond me - apparently I need to get out more - but holy christ. Everytime he sends me something (like Job For a Cowboy [LUHV, though a bit heavier than my tastes usually run] and Horse the Band) my heart gets all...flustery.

The flustery feeling is part eargasm, part guilt for not knowing about the awesomeness already.

Because seriously, how could I not have heard of Skrillex before? He was just fucking here in Minneapolis last month. And I missed that shit.

I had no idea how to describe this genre of music when I heard it the first time. My cousin was all...oh, it's...shit, I forgot what he said. He explained it with a lot of words that I've never heard used together before.

Then a guy I met at the San Diego airport bar tried to explain it to me (probably in sympathy of my mangled hand) by waxing poetic about the mix of genres that comprise music like Skrillex, and I was all: "DUDE. Blood. I'm blood-ing all over. I cannot remember this shit."

So he wrote down some stuff on a receipt like "dub step" and "house music" and gave me some other bands to check out, like Widespread Panic and Rick Preston.

And I was like: "Great, so now there are a MILLION bands/people in a genre I don't understand or remember. Awesome."

Although I will say neither of those others sound quite like Skrillex. I want to use this guy's hair as a toothbrush.








Then there's this other band I'd never heard of before, and my cousin was all, "YOUR EAR PANTIES! THEY WILL BE WET!"

Which, frankly, is one of the most interesting things that anyone has ever said to me, and then he started playing this song (below) and it was super jazzy and intricate and I almost said, "Doode, my dad would love this shit!" because my dad plays some mad guitar, but then around the 50 second mark, I was super glad I hadn't said that out loud because FUCK.

No, no he wouldn't like it at all. But I fucking DO.



PSYOPHUS!!! WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN ALL MY LIFE!??!?!

Apparently they're "mathcore" style, which...mathcore...dub step...does anyone else think they're just making shit up now? Ima start calling Coldplay's style "suicide core step."

Lastly, I met a dude who swears he-a-be mad famous someday, and since I don't like hiphop music but he convinced me to buy not one, but two of his CDs...I'd say there's a good chance. Say olah to A.P.P.L.E. M.A.R.T.I.N.I. (an acronym which stands for something super enlightening about power to the people and death to ignorance or something, but I can't remember what the fuck it was).

If you end up famous man, I better get an actual apple martini. Just sayin.

Clearly, music is better in California.



BlogHer '11 or bust. Or bust in general.

So.

My hotel bed sheets are all...leaky. Black and ishy.

Probably should back up and explain that.

I um...well, I don't know what I was expecting from the conference this year, but it wasn't even close to what I was expecting, whatever that was. I got here on Thursday afternoon and I spent about two hours at the conference. Then Friday I went to twenty minutes of one workshop.

And I was done.

I left the convention center and walked around downtown, got some lunch and drank some beers, then went back to my hotel and waited for my cousin to show up. When he did, we drove around through Balboa Park and then went to somewhere (La Mesa?).

And then these happened:

I only cried a *little* around hour forty-million of the needles.

Then we crashed at my cousin's house, played with his crazy fucking kitten, and then came back to the hotel where I got hit on by a bum, met Jessie James, learned how to open beer with a lighter, and fell asleep for houuuuuurs.

I never returned to the conference, not even for the parties. I only used one of the ten drink tickets they gave me. Hell, if I were expecting something from this trip, it's probably that I would have been hung over AT LEAST half of the time, but no. Not even once.

And now I'm packing all my shit up for the return trip to Minnesota, where I've never been so happy to live at the moment.

Did you know that chicks here in San Diego are, like, BLINDINGLY gorgeous? It's kinda painful to look at. And then it makes looking in mirrors just that much more awful.

Airplanes are my best friend now, apparently. If they kill me, I'm so going to unfriend them on facebook.

Totally boned. And not in the *good* way.

Hi.

I have so much drama happening and I can't talk about any of it. SUCKY. This is the first time in Zippy's history that I've been unable to use you freaks as free therapy.

Wait, is there a confidentiality clause on the internet?

Hmm. Didn't think so.

Instead of telling you anything AT ALL about what's going down in Zippy town, I'll have to be content to show you these.

Why has it never occurred to me to glue shit to MY car?

Someone left this hat at my house. I don't know who. I also don't know what I'm doing with my hand.

Someone else left THIS hat at my house. It may have been my dead grandfather.

This is me at the hospital with my broken toe. Did I mention they didn't give me enough pain pills? The worst part about this injury is that I just purchased a bunch of shoes on Ebay. And I can't wear any of them for four to six weeks.  Baaad savings karma, clearly.

I miss this.

My new motto. Except...it's also retroactive.

What happens when you hand me a paintbrush.

Inside joke. Most of you have probably heard it. Guess that makes it an outside joke.

Good god. HOW BIG IS THE 500+ lbs TOILET? I'm afraid to know.



Updated** Nopers

So I'm not even a little bit pregnant.

Except that I still don't know for sure, I'm just guessing based on the utter lack of symptoms, the negative pee test, and the fact that I had cramps so badly on Saturday that I wished for a swift death.

Ladies, you know what I'm talking about - the cramps which feel as if a sewer rat has climbed inside your abdomen via your belly button, which it ripped open with its bare feet, and has taken to leisurely gnawing the lining of your VERY SOUL one shred at a time, while using it's hind claws to scrape your cervix into bloody shreds of flesh and tears?

Those kind of cramps.

Except...wait for it...NO PERIOD YET.

Usually, my personal brand of rat gnawing cramps come at the same time as the hideous rush of dead uterus, but not this time.

Because of course not this time.

If I've learned anything during Operation: Baby, it's that my body is NOT to be trusted under any circumstances.

So I'm not pregnant. I think. Probably. Status pending.

So here: have some pictures while you wait.

Lily, secure in her guilt. That's a diaper she shredded. A BLOODY diaper.
And it was stuck in her teeth. And we found a piece in Scary's shit.

Scary, post-hair cut. She is so itty bitty now!

A visual demonstration of why I love metal shows. I'd go for the t-shirts alone.
But more to come on this...I've got some heart-to-sick, twisted heart coming with my favorite scary band, Fetus Heist.

***So Dr. Crazy Socks and I squared off this morning for the first time in, oh, a year-and-a-half. He remembered me, but not in the good way. He was - fittingly - wearing crazy socks, either some kind of pink trout or salmon, I couldn't bring myself to ask, and he confirmed that indeed, I am still crazy. More appointments pending, including one with a psychiatrist. Apparently Dr. Crazy Socks feels he is in over his head re: fixing me. Because of course he does.

The not-even-kind-of-a-post Post

::Just a warning, ya'll. Don't attempt this at home unless you're ready for your skin to crawl for the rest of the day::

I was in the mood for something cute and furry, and not even to eat this time, so I googled "cute animals" and some sick motherfuckers thought it would be funny to mess with my already perilously teetery sanity and include lots and lots of photos of spiders.  And now I know that my theory is correct, that the internet is the devil, because not only is there no way that any sane human being would consider a tarantula "cute" but also...they aren't even fucking animals, people! THEY ARE ARACHNIDS. Or the devil himself, depending on how paranoid you are, personally.  

Also, I stole all of these photos and I would have stolen all of the animals, except my bathtub is already full of the baby robins I've collected. Because I thought you should know.



"Oh, hai. I can haz eyeballs. Keep Angel Butt far, far away from me."



I'm sure Maury would have to disagree, Sir.



Until this photo, I didn't know it was possible for a human mammal to spontaneously ovulate via artiodactyl mammal stimulation. Consider me learned. I want one to carry around in my pocket.



Ah, the ole "smell my feet" bit...I used to do this to my sister: convince her they smelled either like strawberries, or - if I was feeling very fruity - cherries. She fell for it every time, consecutive sniff or otherwise. WTG, monkey mama. I applaud you.

You know that evil kitten is thinking, "What is it and how fast could I eat it?"

At least SOMEONE will eat oatmeal cookies.

Think I could rent one of these for my necklaces?

This one is mine...Lily is sheepishly avoiding her reckoning after shredding yet another $50,000 diaper. "What, mama? It was touching my private parts!"



Only I

So I hazarded my first attempt at a top secret "friend of the family" recipe called Hot Chicken. I really wish I'd learned to make this BEFORE I lost the ability to know if something is seasoned correctly or, instead, tastes like an old shoe. Because seriously, I cannot tell the difference.

Unfortunately, I became privy to this recipe a few months ago which, in Cat's Terms of Memory, may as well have been fourteen thousand years and a few dozen liters of vodka ago. Because all I remembered were most of the ingredients and that the end result is yummy. So I faked it the best I could and reasoned that if nothing else, this would be spicy, and spicy is just about all I have left in this world.

12 jalapenos and 2 habaneras later 1 habanera later, I decided, after I tasted one with the tip of my tongue and it was blissfully painful, ought to have been enough to make this truly "HOT" chicken.

But it wasn't. It was more...mildly intolerable chicken.

To me, it was "meh."

But on Saturday, I prepped everything and shoved it into the crock pot and then headed out on foot (thanks to a flat bike tire) to find a quiet spot to get some writing done. We're a few blocks away from the Minnesota River, which happens to be one of my favorite places for walking, crying and brooding, so I figured it might work for writing, too. That I've never tested the theory goes to show you just how long I've been out of commission.

I was armed with a notebook full of helpful man thoughts from a crew of (apparently) drunken comrades, and I was curious to give these ideas a shot. I'm still working on that, but as it turns out, I am TERRIBLE at being a man.

A bug flew directly into my eyeball, and though I saw it coming and reacted by slamming shut my eyelid, it was too late. It was unfortunate for me that I stuck my jalapeno and habenera fingers in after the bug to fish it out. Let's just say I was blind for several minutes and considered turning around and heading home.

Once at the river, I started along the path (because who would ever do such a thing as walk in the grass?) and I stumbled upon a scruffy middle-aged man who, from a distance, appeared to be sporting a shirt pocket of cigarettes and a fist full of some hideous, silver-canned beer. Turns out it was only a travel mug of what I presume was coffee, but this guy was a character, I could tell just by glancing.

He had with him a dog who was off leash and well behaved, and he paid no attention to me as I approached. The dog was busy tramping through the water and weeds, looking for anything that moved.

As I am wont to do, I asked the man what kind of dog he had, and he answered that it was "hard to say," or something the like. Again, with my memory. I noted that the dog looked like he had tiger markings, and the man commented that was his brindle. Happily ready to prove that I am a Dog Person, I noted that Gray once had a boxer named Tyson who shared the same tiger-looking brindle as this dog, and the man exclaimed, "Yes, exactly!"

We started walking together, dog talking, of course, and he asked if I was just out hiking.

Ha, exercise. Not likely.

I told him I was trying to find a quiet spot to write, that our neighbors were installing a fence and there was a jack hammer involved, that there are kids all over the park by the river, so that I was following the trail looking for a better spot.

"Come with me."

Normally, I don't go around following strange men who say "come with me," but this guy wasn't setting off any alarms and plus, he had a dog.

I am powerless against the charms of the canine species.

Turns out to be a lucky thing I followed the guy because he led me to a marina and then out onto a secluded peninsula so near the river, and so level with its surface, that I felt I was sliding right along with it. He pulled up a chair for me and one for him, we smoked a bit, and then he left me to my writing, but not before we became friends.

I told him I considered this an open invitation to return and he didn't disapprove, so now I have a new place that is perfectly peaceful and serene where I can retreat in just a few short minutes whenever I need to write, which (apparently) should be all the damn time.

Next time, remind me to take the bug spray. I'm half-mosquito today.

I just...you guys...there are no words

Apparently she isn't spayed.

Apparently she has a giant vulva full of blood.

Apparently she hates wearing diapers.

Yin and yang and ooh, pretty, shiny!

So I kind of forgot that we're trying to get pregnant because I'm all distracted by shiny things, like a raccoon.

Except "shiny things" are bi-sexual black boys and Craigslist and giant, inflatable elephants. And stuff.

This is a perfect example of my self-diagnosed ADD, really, because one minute I'm obsessed - OBFUCKINGSESSED - with cervical mucus and ovulation windows and birthing plans...but then I get my period and so I have a cocktail and that reminds me I need to groom Scary's fur which reminds me I'm growing a mullet which reminds me I need to transplant my vegetable seedlings so they can grow which reminds me I need to call the hot weed guy to kill our dandelions which reminds me of a house cat I saw that looks like a cross between a lion and a bush baby which reminds me to trim my cooter hair which reminds me I haven't masturbated in a week which reminds me my vibrator needs batteries which reminds me I need to fix the power to the air conditioner which reminds me we have company coming tomorrow which results in a frantic, last-minute search for beds which actually FIT into our tiny, vintage home, which reminds me we need to get quotes for replacement windows, which reminds me I need a second job because WE ARE BUYING THIRTY REPLACEMENT WINDOWS which reminds me I forgot to google my next baby window.

Oh yeah, we're trying to get pregnant.

Gray is ADD in an entirely different way. Like rent-a-jack-hammer-and-bust-up-the-concrete-in-one-of-the-two-former-clothes-line-post-holes-then-return-the-jack-hammer-because-he-forgot-the-second-clothes-line-post-hole-full-of-concrete. That kind of way.

He also didn't notice the giant purple and yellow dinosaur sand box in our yard (despite several trips from the garage to the house and back) until I pointed it out to him.

It's like I'm a meth head and he's a burnout. Which might lead to some very incompatible sex. Which reminds me, we're trying to get pregnant.

I wonder if he noticed?


PS - It really does look like a tiger/bush baby hybrid!

Took the hillbilly out of the girl

My mom was born without two of her adult teeth, so they just pushed her entire bite forward to close the gap. Then because most of her worst genes passed right on along to me (skin, nose, TEETH, giant ribs, probably moles if I counted mine up...), I was born with the same problem.

But since I lived in Arkansas when my baby teeth fell out, I was doomed to the hillbilly version of Mom's Missing Teeth, which means only one side was missing, which means they couldn't fix my smile by moving things around, which means OF COURSE THEY COULDN'T.

So my parents installed braces on my (mostly there) teeth to be sure I could have a dental implant and a chance at a normal mouth.

I just realized I failed the "normal mouth" test in more ways than one, but you can't correct obscene language with dental hardware, so again - not my fault.

My orthodontist was either an idiot or a fraud (based #12 on this list, and the fact that I NEVER BROKE MY NOSE and therefore began making up different stories about skiing accidents and pony kicks to appease him, I'm guessing he was an idiot) and allowed my canine tooth to move so that it blocked all access to my jaw, which meant NO TOOTH IMPLANT FOR ME.

Look at me...I'm crying on the inside *of my mouth*

At some point, Dr. Genius decided to attach a little fake tooth to my braces so I could pretend I wore shoes and had indoor plumbing. It would spin around on the wire sometimes, and that was kind of hard to explain to Joe, whom I wanted to feel my boobehs.

They went un-felt for years.

When my braces came off (after 3 years) but after we went to get my implant and the oral surgeon laughed us out of his office, we returned to Dr. Genius and had him PUT THE BRACES BACK ON in order to straighten up the canine tooth and make room for an implant in my jaw. He put the braces back on for another year.

The canine didn't move.

We gave up because, you know, I was kind of graduating high school and moving away from home and it's hard to make those regular orthodontic visits when you're in a different part of the country and stuff.

So I got a retainer with a fake tooth on it. It was my mini-denture, but it stayed put really well thanks to the retaining wires running all over the place.

Once the retainer grew old (you know, when my grand kids started asking why I wore antique dental hardware, don't I know retainers haven't been around for more than 1,000 years, like, I should totally sell that on Ebay and buy them candy), I paid (out-of-pocket) for what is far-too-happily-referred to as a "flipper".

No, it's not the good kind of flipper.

It's the gross kind. the kind you learn to pop out with your tongue, just to fuck with your friends' heads. Because it's both disgusting and it's horrifying in some completely inexplicable way. People shudder, like, literally when I do it. And I shudder myself because - somehow - my hijacked #7 tooth is the thing I am most mortified of in the entire world, including Hitler.

That bastard had all his teeth.

Maybe it's KINDA like a dolphin...

And this poor girl knows exactly how I feel:

But I FEEL THAT WAY NO MORE.

Last year, my hot dentist told me about a new kind of partial that won't damage the surrounding teeth *much* and won't have to be removed for cleaning or, you know, for giving blow jobs. (Seriously, have you ever choked on a big piece of plastic and then had it rammed FURTHER DOWN YOUR THROAT by a distracted recipient? It's not cool.)

This year, my insurance agreed to pay for part of the work, which is kind of a miracle because my hillbilly tooth hole has always been considered a preexisting condition by insurance companies and potential suitors.

Yesterday, I banished my flipper forever.

This machine carved my tiny new tooth.

This computer program made my teeth look like a very yellow mountain range.

And now I can smile without having to think, "SHIT. Did I remember to put in my tooth?" or "Fuck, I didn't expect to see my neighbor so early in the morning, TALK WITH MOUTH CLOSED" or *upon waking up with a killer hangover* "HOLY GOD which toilet is my flipper swimming in and how many times did I pee on it in the night?!"

Which means that now...I'm no so ashamed anymore. 


                                  

Here's me "before' with my flipper (third tooth from left)
It's darker than my other teeth because we went ahead and did some bleaching up in this bitch.

Here's the ::vomit:: shot.

My after shot, bitches!

My directly-after shot when I tried to smile but half my face was still numb. Damn. I coulda been Elvis.

All kinds of disturbing

When tearing out the hideous landscaping rock, I dug up giant clumps of roots that were halting our shovels' progress. I may have screamed at them, "I don't know what you think you are, plant, but I didn't give you permission to grow here so you've GOT TO GO."

We left a big bunch of them growing by the deck because they weren't hurting anything there and I was curious what they were. Turns out I killed a bunch of bleeding hearts. Threw them away. In the garbage. With a smile on my face.

We bought a new TV (OUR VERY FIRST FLAT SCREEN!) from a friend who is moving and didn't need this one in his bedroom anymore. I just realized I should have dunked it in Purell. Don't tell Gray.

Did I mention it's a 46" flat screen? And that we have it? In our house? Cause we do!

Things are just starting to grow here.

If you're lucky enough to live in a state in which spring began prior to May 7th, then I fucking hate you.

Kylie and I garage-saled our asses off on Saturday. She made me stop buying when there was no longer room in my car for another item. She wouldn't let me tie her to the hood. I love Kylie, but she can be really selfish sometimes. You should have seen how crowded my trunk hostages were.

I don't know what this thing is, but I want one for my very own self.

I haven't had a pedicure in a long time, but I wanted to wear open-toed shoes this morning, so I'm such a genius that my solution what to paint a non-matching color over the existing, comically-grown out polish. The result was a horrible mash up that part melted crayon, part gangrene. It didn't occur to me that I could, oh, you know, REMOVE THE GODDAMN POLISH FROM THE TIP OF MY BIG TOE.

And then I realized you can see my non-painted third toes, anyway.

Here's a word of advice to all you ass hats on Facebook whose only photos are of themselves posing shirtless in front of a builder-grade bathroom mirror with their camera phones: Not only do we not wish to see fourteen *slightly* varied poses of your jaw line, but next time you might want to include a friend in your photo. So we think you have friends. Hell, even a stuffed abominable snowman is better that what you've got.

And oh yeah: I have shingles.

Don't the graphics make them look like more fun? Because in reality, they feel like a semi ran over my shoulder, then it backed up over the other side of my shoulder, and also the semi's eighteen wheels were made from rubberized spider poison and the hounds of hell.

And because I've only read of youngish people getting shingles, and because I don't have the time/inclination to make my very own Shingle Tribute video, may I present to you Heather's:

SHINGLES! from dooce on Vimeo.