It’s Me or the … Kitten???

August 31, 2010 at 1:56 am · Filed under Gripes & Grumpings, Rescue Ramblings and Misc. Furry Foolishness, iHurt

In the time it took me to recognize the frantic blob circling the sidewalk ahead of me as a tiny little animal, a pleasant Saturday evening turned into a melodramatic butting of heads, and tonight I have a half-empty bottle of wine and a bag of chocolates to show for it. It was my gay boyfriend’s prescription for the night, and I for one was not about to argue.

Leave it to me to find a newly-abandoned kitten at the local park just before a storm and wind up in a standoff with the new dude over it. It is as I texted the Psych Spectacular: “Abandoned kitten in rain vs my boyfriend. No one won, really … but I can tell you which one came home with me that night.”

Because I will not compromise my morals for someone else. And I shouldn’t have to. I stand behind my decision 200%. And, as I told him tonight while I spelled out exactly what I will and will not stand for, it WILL happen again. Hell, I scooped up a turtle out of the road yesterday morning on my way to work, and dropped its hissing, ungrateful self in the woods where it belonged so it wouldn’t be hit by the morning traffic. You want to complain about and feel threatened by that, too?

This is who I am. Get over it or get gone. In the meantime, someone needs a name.

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The Merits of Meltdowns

August 26, 2010 at 11:35 pm · Filed under Happy-Type Stuff, Life As I Know It, iHurt

(And how the Psych Spectacular maintains her right to the title.)

Dude.

Duuuuuuuuuuude.

I keep wanting to recap London, but life keeps effing getting in my way.

Dating is a complex monster, and currently uncovering every ugly, irrational little insecurity I never knew I had. And the poor gent, he just goes with the flow.

Like last night. While texting, we got on the topic of the three letter S word. While it’s a topic we’ve visited time and time again (with our crude senses of humor, how could we not?), this time there was nothing funny. It was balls-out honesty.

He had put the moves on me once before. I stopped him at the zipper of my jeans. I said no.

And he … listened? What the hell kind of insanity is this? I can say no and be respected? It was confusing and terrifying and, in a way I can’t explain, painful. This is what it felt like to be honored? What?

So when I turned down his invitation to intimacy Wednesday night (honestly, blame Aunt Flow), it was amidst tears. Tears that a text message wouldn’t show. Noting my distress (because some things even a text message can’t disguise), he asked if I wanted to talk about it. I gave him the most honest, humiliating truth I could offer … and if someone could hug you through a text, he hugged me. He spent the next thirty minutes reassuring me, and I spent the thirty minutes following that curled in fetal position sobbing uncontrollably on the floor, with Napoleon as a stand-in Kleenex. I asked him why it hurt to be cared for, why respect had to be so novel and painful, why I couldn’t distinguish between positive attention and negative attention, and instead reverted back to the feral dog in me who was terrified of any attention at all. Why I wanted to sabotage the only thing I had ever wanted. Napoleon offered no answers outside of a wagging tail and a troubled face that licked the tears off of my own. He laid down beside me and let me cling to him until the kindness of the Gent didn’t hurt quite as much.

Still.

How dare he care about me? How dare he respect me? How dare he want to be with me, and listen to me when I say no? How dare he promise never to force THAT ONE THING on me?

I asked the questions out loud, to the dogs, because the echo of asking them in my own head had gotten too much to bear.

I stopped saying “no” a long time ago. Because it was never heeded, so why bother? I tried to convince myself that I didn’t care if I was just a sex object, someone to screw after a milkshake at the local Steak & Shake. Except that failing to voice my objection brought with it its own set of troubles—namely, a feeling of complicity. After all, it’s not rape if you don’t say no, right?

And curled up in fetal position on the PS’ couch this morning, still sleepy from the sedative I took the night before, I didn’t want to tell her the humiliating truths I had confessed to the Gent the night before. She, as she is so skilled at doing, wheedled it out of me in the safety of a soft voice and frighteningly accurate guess as to why I was hiding, turning the tables on me and lightening the moment with a bit of humor as I so often tend to do.

She echoed everything the Gent had told me – this is normal, you are not a freak, you deserve to be honored for your boundaries … and, she added, you are making incredibly healthy choices in the way you deal with what you’re feeling. Granted, that’s not verbatim, but I think it does catch the general feeling behind her words. “Why do you even see me?” she kidded. “You don’t need me. Look at you working through this on your own.”

Curled in a ball on the couch (still wearing heels, despite my personal “no shoes on the furniture” rule), giggling at her teasing, the truth came out and I was met with nothing but assurance that I was doing this right, that my tangled mess of emotion was normal for someone with my past and that this room, the room I had only just returned to this very morning due to scheduling conflicts, was always going to be a safe place for me to unleash the emotions that I couldn’t unleash with the Gent. That it was okay. That yes, the fact that my body was being respected was novel and the fact that it was novel was sad … but it was still okay. She approved of what the Gent had said to me the night before, and reinforced that yes, he should be willing to wait, he should be respecting my comfort level—and not to give him too much credit just for doing the right thing. Ha. As if I, the queen of all things skittish and sarcastic, could give anyone too much credit.

She closed the session with a gigantically warm, safe hug and a kiss to the neck. And I walked out of there, tottering down the stairs in heels that hadn’t seen the light of day since last fall (and ankles that weren’t entirely so sure of said heels, given the drugs then in my system), but feeling wide awake and giggly and generally able to conquer the world. And my day only got better from there.

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Two Dollar Cuteness

August 17, 2010 at 12:40 pm · Filed under Happy-Type Stuff, Rescue Ramblings and Misc. Furry Foolishness, The Brindle Brothers & Co.

“I wish you could have seen the look on your face when you saw them,” my coworker laughed as we wrapped up a clinic on Sunday. “There was no way you were walking out of here without one of them. Your whole face lit up.”

It’s been a while since my last pair of rats passed away, and the space on the dresser has been a little too empty lately. I donated the cage to the shelter months ago, but recently found myself checking Petfinder again in search of another needy pair. And then I happened upon these two—at just four weeks old and friendly as could be, they were marked as snake food and going for the grand total of a dollar each. And that was that.

Such patience

He likes them so much more when they're not perched on his head.

Louis makes a fun playground, too.

Getting down on their level.

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Napoleon and his cat

August 13, 2010 at 7:33 pm · Filed under Happy-Type Stuff, Rescue Ramblings and Misc. Furry Foolishness, The Brindle Brothers & Co.

Just a quick bit of cuteness to share. Earlier this week, Kate (aka Mama Cat) slipped out the back door with the dogs and disappeared. And I do mean disappeared. As in, vanished. No one had seen her—not my family, not my neighbors, not animal control. I was pulling my hair out looking for her—signs were up, ads were posted online, food was out, the woods had been scoured, and I had even (reluctantly) checked the side of the road behind our house in case she’d been hit by a car. Nothing.

Last night, I was about at my wit’s end. Midnight came and went, but despite having taken several happy pills, I was still too keyed up to sleep. I went outside a few times every hour to call for Kate to no avail. It was pointless and I knew it, but it felt better than doing nothing. Even Napoleon, usually the epitome of calm and not one given to anxiety, was pacing relentlessly and refused to settle down. I finally couldn’t stand it anymore and selfishly put him outside just so I wouldn’t have to look at him—I knew why he was upset and there wasn’t anything I could do about it. I already felt bad enough about losing the cat, and it wasn’t helping to see my super-chill, nerves-of-steel dog wearing holes in the floor because of it (while Nemo is decidedly Louis’ cat, Kate has always been Napoleon’s buddy).

Around 1:30am, I finally decided to turn out the lights in an effort to tempt the sandman with darkness, and called Napoleon back inside. He took his sweet time coming to the door … and I had to do a double-take when he finally got there, because trailing behind him was a very dirty, very hungry little Katie-bug.

The little goober went out and got his cat. With his mission accomplished and his kitty safe and sound where she belonged (that is, next to him), he hopped up on the bed, curled up and went right to sleep. Someone is getting extra treats tonight, that’s for sure…

Back where she belongs

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Well, look who grew up

August 11, 2010 at 5:22 pm · Filed under Rescue Ramblings and Misc. Furry Foolishness

And yet, they’re STILL here … le sigh.

I am somewhere between a dying laptop, a botched root canal sans pain meds, a gimpy Presa who needs x-rays (hi, Louis), a new potential adopter for Ivan, and a former foster dog getting returned in the next few weeks. I am beat, and short on both time and temper at the moment (see aforementioned lack of pain meds).

But, I finally picked up the foster kittens over the weekend from their babysitter—and they’re huge! And Nemo is no longer the black and white moo-cow kitten he was when I left—the boy is a stripey little booger now.

Bagheera

Bernard

And the Nemo-meister himself

So, who wants a kitten?

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Wisdom from the dorms—the ex-boyfriend edition, pts 2 and 3

July 20, 2010 at 11:49 am · Filed under Uncategorized

And it continues!

Part Two

“How late were y’all out last night?” I ask, when at 11:30am, she answers the door barely awake.

“Well, SnottyBlondeWithABadAttitude was really upset last night about her breakup and we stayed up until, like, 4 sitting on the stairs.”

“Oh. So basically, she was drunk?”

She looks puzzled as to how I know, and I don’t bother explaining the equation as we go back into my room so I can pour a bowl of cereal. Teenage girl + late-night boozing + recent breakup = end-of-the-world hysterics in the pre-dawn hours. I’m sure it’s been scientifically proven, somewhere.

“Well, she and her boyfriend just broke up and it’s actually like, pretty much the same thing that happened to me, you know? Like, they were together for the same length of time and he was really similar to my boyfriend, and I dunno, dude. It actually felt good to help someone else, ya know, who had like, been through something that I had experience with. And you know, just to listen to someone who’s going through basically what I went through and to help her and even get some perspective on my own stuff. And even though she’s really upset about it, I’m glad she finally like, cried about it.” She nods slowly as if she’s sharing the wisdom of the world with me—as though her approval of the drunk girl’s tears shows a certain level of enlightenment. Oh.My.God. I totally get it now!

I just blink and go back to eating my cereal.

Part Three

An hour later, she calls my name from her room, which is odd because she usually jumps at the chance to come hang out in my room. I don’t really mind so much anymore; it’s not so bad as long as she doesn’t open her mouth.

I poke my head around the corner. “So I blocked him on Facebook and he sends me this in my emails.”

I momentarily contemplate popping a bag of popcorn before the show starts (that way, when I start laughing, I can pretend to choke instead), but decide I’m too comfortable on her bed and don’t want to delay the drama.

She reads me the first two paragraphs of an emo-novel from her ex, and then stops to discuss what he’s written, which could have just as easily been summed up in a single sentence like, “You only talk to me because you have guilt about ruining my life and now you feel like shit about it, nanny-nanny-boo-boo. *Giant, emo raspberry.*”

She is indignant. “I mean, I’m just trying to sit back and heal from all of this drama or whatever, you know, that’s been introduced into my life. Because honestly, I’m not ready to date. And every time I think I am, he comes along like this and it takes me two months to get over what he said again. And is there guilt? Heck yeah there’s guilt! Because you keep creating a situation to where I feel like I have to have guilt!” She’s talking to the computer screen at this point, and then turns back to me. “I mean, at the end of the day, he’s the one making me feel guilty! And all this like, drama, is getting quite stressful and it’s starting to seriously piss me off.”

He references that London was going to be a special place for them. “Where does he get off? I mean, like, I just got suddenly repulsed by where I am because of what he said. That’s not right!”

I grunt noncommittally from the bed. He makes some trash-novel-inspired comment about how well he “knows” her.

“What? No one gets to say that to me. No one gets to talk to me like that, especially if we’re not even in, you know, like a relationship!”

“So block him, dude,” I suggest finally. Looking back, I don’t know why I bothered.

“Well, this isn’t like, my main email. I just have to check it for financial aid stuff.”

“Right, but my point is he can still get to you this way, and look how riled up you are from that one email. You really think he’s going to stop at that one?”

“Well, this is just my financial aid email address.”

“Right—but you still have to check it.”

“No I don’t. Only for financial aid stuff.”

… Which last time I checked, was something pretty important and worth checking your email for, but hey, what do I know? I resist the urge to bang my head against the wall.

“I don’t have to check it. But I’m going to block him anyway.”

Hey, whatever makes you feel like it was your idea, sweets. Whatever makes you happy.

At 11:30am, she answers the door fresh out of bed.

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Of personal space and pajama pants

July 11, 2010 at 1:17 pm · Filed under Gripes & Grumpings, Travels & Other Adventures

Or, more odd thoughts, but without the f-bombs.

This whole “people walking into my room and touching my things while they talk to me” deal is turning me into a territorial little monster. Get.The Hell.Away.From my things. Don’t wash your paws off in my sink—that’s my bath towel you’re drying your hands with. Don’t help yourself to my bed—I actually SLEEP there. Don’t come over here and try to read over my shoulder while I type—there’s a good chance I’ll flip to a new page and start typing THIS IS NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS in 72pt font repeatedly. And can you please at least TRY not to stare so openly at my underwear on the shelf? Yes, I know it’s colorful and that the shelves are conveniently placed at eye-level when you’re sitting down (again, on my bed), but dude, that’s just not necessary. And for the love of God, can you NOT snoop through my open browser when my back is turned for thirty seconds?? See, it’s this funny little thing called “personal space.” I get that you’re living next door to the creeper or the party animal or the teacher. I get that you’re bored. I get that my door is always open, seeing as how we would all melt into the carpet if we kept the doors closed. And I’m sorry. But that’s not an excuse, nor is it an invitation to plunk down with your BUTT ON MY PILLOW and start yammering. I also get that you don’t like eating alone—but can you please try to wrap your head around the idea that I actually quite enjoy it? Because I do. I HATE having people watch me when I eat. It creeps me out.

So, what have we learned today, cats and kitties? That Inky is far more antisocial than we thought! Biiiig shrug. How sad. But holy crap, it’s like being surrounded by bored little children! I was just thinking, “Gee, it’s a shame they don’t make child-locks for teenagers” but then I realized that actually, they do. And they’re called padlocks. *Claps excitedly.*

Moving on, my poor purple pajama pants with their happy little Mutts characters have officially been dissed, so I am thinking that maybe, next time the fire alarm sounds (because there will always be a next time), I should just go out in my undies and break it down to the Heavy as I go. Oh yes, I can totally see myself flinging open my door and belting out, “How you like me NOW?” before shimmying down the hallway in only my under-things and all their glory. Hmm … *Raises eyebrows deviously.*

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Wisdom from the dorms—the ex-boyfriend edition

July 10, 2010 at 10:19 am · Filed under Travels & Other Adventures

“And my mom is like, I worry about you and your emotional—and mostly mental—sanity, and please just delete the guy from Facebook, because, you know, he’s not good for you. But I have seriously ruined this guy’s life,” she laments, sprawled on my bed while I get ready to leave for the afternoon. “Like, he’s telling me how he’s going to feel when I start dating again and eventually marry and have kids, and he just like, totally sucked all the happiness out of any future I have for myself. I mean, his life is completely ruined and I feel bad because it’s my fault.”

“Psh,” I snort. “If not with you, he would have found a way to ruin his life with someone else, I’m sure.”

“He just knows how to make me feel bad, which is I’m sure why he does it. I think he does it subconsciously, though, like he doesn’t even know he’s doing it.”

“What, guilt tripping you? Yeah, I’m sure he has absolutely no idea he’s doing that.” I cross my eyes in the mirror and continue brushing my teeth.

“I don’t know. I just … I try to be friends with him and then he pushes it further than I’m ready for in a friendship [side note: what the eff does that mean?]. I mean, he just drains me. He’s so miserable, and he says he doesn’t want to be and I’m the only one that can help him and—”

“So he’s such a pansy that his happiness is entirely dependent on someone else. Cool.” I nod approvingly from the sink.

“I’m almost wondering if I should like, you know, talk to someone. Like, my doctor wanted me to see a therapist, but I don’t know. I mean, all they do is poke and prod and I don’t want to feel even worse. And the minute they start trying to medicate …” she holds her hands up and shakes her head emphatically. “I just don’t think I need to go. I mean, I’m not crazy.”

“Oh. Yeah, that’s why I go … it’s that whole ‘crazy’ bit.” I make a face and add,  “It’s such a hassle, being crazy.”

She is too concerned with a sudden, distressing thought to have heard me. “And what if I see someone there at school and then start dating, what are the guys going to think? Like, ‘Oh my God, she’s in therapy.’”

“Well, yes, that is unfortunately a pretty common reaction. It’s kind of sad, but a lot of people still think you must be crazy, or that you’ll get poked and prodded—or even medicated—if you go into therapy,” I answer mildly. We’ve already touched on her understanding of people in distress, and the stubbornly narrow-minded view is beginning to bore me.

She once again misses the point, which is truthfully half the fun of the conversation, and instead nods seriously. “I’m just not ready for that kind of label.”

That’s okay, dear. “Dumbass” fits you much better, anyway.

In other news, I am a terrible person. Story at eleven.

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Odd thoughts, and lots of f-bombs

July 9, 2010 at 1:38 pm · Filed under Gripes & Grumpings, Travels & Other Adventures

First of all, I’m not dead (just floating … bonus points to anyone who gets the lyric).

I have been dealing with the fallout of the self-injury episode (yay!), plus the dog drama, plus finding out that my brother somehow got a hold of the blog address and has been having a field day with it while I’m over here. On the one hand, I don’t care because I don’t go to any particular lengths to hide who I am. On the other, I do because once cornered, he said he’d stay the fuck away and yet our IP still showed up on my IP tracker yesterday, the IP tracker which I installed just for the occasion. Motherfucking fuckity motherfucker … have I mentioned lately how much I detest my family? Yeeah. CAN I NOT HAVE FIVE WEEKS WITHOUT YOUR FUCKING BULLSHIT FOLLOWING ME ACROSS THE FUCKING POND? Please, and (obligatory f-bomb) thank you.

And now Louis is limping and oh, what do you want us to do about it? Um, three guesses, dumbfuck. God. At this point, I just want to go home and verify that my dogs are, in fact, still alive.

So, that bit of fun aside, I have a crap-ton of photos to show in the next few days. I do have a paper and a speech to knock out first, though … then I’ll resurrect the Puddle from it’s neglected state of near-death and go back to our regular programming. The dorms are continuing to provide endless entertainment in the form of the resident teenage girls, and I might actually miss the petty, air-headed drama when it’s all said and done. Might. No guarantees. They’re kind of like real-life soap opera stars, though. Or train wrecks, one.

Anywho, I’ll return soon enough – and in the meantime, can someone please explain why I am always naked when the fire alarm goes off? This makes Event #3 during which I was insufficiently clothed when the sirens started blaring. I am beginning to feel like a closet nudist, and not just a sweltering college student in a dorm without air conditioning, who is caught between wardrobe changes at extraordinarily bad times.

And on that wonderfully awkward note, I am off to research a paper.

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More wisdom from the dorms, of another nature

July 2, 2010 at 2:41 pm · Filed under Gripes & Grumpings, Rescue Ramblings and Misc. Furry Foolishness

Oh.My.God.

Someone just tried to tell me that her rat terrier with a luxating patella actually only holds her leg up when she runs because that’s the leg that the family’s last dog was missing (the last dog having been hit by a car, just like the two before him), and that her current dog just misses the old one so much she tries to be like him by running on three legs.

Um, okay then.

She then went onto show me pictures of her 25 cats and every single one of the 50+ litters that have ever been born in her yard, not counting the three she just found out about today. She added that it is the neighbor’s male cat that gets all of her cats pregnant and that they have tried to shoot him and all, so it’s not their fault that their cats keep getting pregnant.

And then my friend rescued me from her clutches before my head exploded from the ignorance.

Because? Oh.My.God. TWENTY-FIVE CATS. SPAWNING IN HER YARD. ALL YEAR ROUND. AND IT’S “NOT HER FAULT.”

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