Mother’s Day dinner at my parents house is always interesting. Being the only non-mom at the table never works to my benefit. I help my Dad cook, I do the dishes and when we play cards and my mother tells us that we need to “let a mom win”, I play along.

I’d like to think that being the mom to a bitchy kitty should count for something. Maybe not the same level as being allowed to win at playing cards, but you know, something. I have kept this creature alive for seven years after all. My Dad did try to make me feel like I was part of the lucky “mom group” but it backfired horribly.

Dad – “Happy Mother’s Day. Your cat is lucky to have you.”

Mom – “Yes she is. Nobody else could love that cat. If you died we would never find anyone to adopt her.”

Me – “If I died YOU guys would adopt her.”

Mom, Dad, and sister in unison -”Noooooooo.”

Mom – “She wouldn’t be happy here. She never warms up to anyone. Face it she is pure evil. You just better stay healthy and not die.”

Me – “Um, she would be happier living here than being put down.”

Mom – “Now how do you know that? I’m sure kitty heaven is quite nice. She actually might prefer that to living here.”

Yes, happy Mother’s Day to me indeed. I can’t imagine my parents ever saying that about one of their human grandchildren. Apparently being a cat-mother counts for exactly squat.  But on the bright side, if I die at least I know my cat will soon be coming to keep me company.

Blogfully yours,

Summer

Bitch kitty

Broken foot.

Check!

Sprained ankle.

Check!

Ruptured ligament that needs to be surgically repaired.

Double check!

What can I say? When I decide to injure myself, I don’t half-ass it.

But for me, being injured is not enough. Oh, no, no, no. Not only can I not put any weight on my left leg and therefore need crutches to stand… I decided to go ahead and move too.

This means I cannot pack myself.

Which means my family and friends have to pack and move everything for me.

EASIEST MOVE EVER!

Actually I totally wish I felt that way. Instead I feel like a total schmuck sitting on the bed with my leg elevated, directing people where to pack my underwear and toaster oven.

That’s a lie too. I don’t own a toaster oven.

My cat, on the other hand, has no problem relaxing while everyone else packs.

You can’t tell from this picture, but she is totally freaking out. She doesn’t like people in her house and she doesn’t like the fact that my foot is broken. Every time I sit down she lays on my lap in a protective manner and hisses at anyone who comes close.

She is super adorable like that.

That’s how I spent my weekend, watching other people pack my stuff. I must say, I chose the right people for the job too. They got all my shit – and I have more than any one woman should possess - boxed up in a day and a half.

I’m starting to think breaking a bone before I move might not be such a bad ideal…

My surgery is scheduled for Thursday this week. Since my current place is completely boxed up and I can’t officially move into my new place until next weekend, I’ve decided to crash at my parents for the week. Which is great because I really do need help to do most things outside of wiping my own ass – I’ve got that covered – but bad because even a piece of wheat toast comes slathered with half a cup of butter. I can actually feel my ass getting larger at every meal.

The doctor told me to plan on taking TWO WEEKS off from work. Under any other circumstances two weeks off would be great. Spending the majority of my PTO to stay home watching daytime TV and recover is not my idea of a good time. 

I have three days this week to get all my ducks in a row before I go under the knife.

Piece of cake. I’ll just tell all of my clients that their needs have to take some time off too.

To sum up, skinny jeans are the devil. If you wear them, you will likely be injured, become emotionally unstable, living with your parents (again) and well on your way to being checked into an institution where you can “get some rest.”

Blogfully yours,

Summer

PS – my sister Staci proof read this post and said it might be to my advantage to mention I am on pain pills.

Anklegate, Bag full of complaints, Bitch kitty, Finding Home, Moving Blows

I’ve decided to move closer to Salt Lake City. Right now I commute 30 minutes each way to work. While I love my place and living with my amazing friend Heidi, I want to be closer to the downtown action.

Recently, I found my dream house. I’m not kidding. It is beautiful and old; rich with history, creaky floors and a Secret Garden style yard — filled with flowers and make believe and love!

Now, I’ve never been a believer in love at first sight, but I fell in love with this house.

I seemyself in it. I see all of my furniture perfectly fitting and of course matching like it was meant to be. I see coming and going for years to come, and despite it’s quirkiness, I see myself happy because it has a personality that matches mine.

Honestly, I can not get this house out of my head.

Why?

Because it’s like the lover you are passionately, crazy about who is absolutely no good for you. And even though it KILLS you, and you know you will always wonder, you let him go.

In short, this no-good-dream-house of mine doesn’t. allow. cats!

A life without the one constant I’ve had through six moves and countless breakups over the past five years, is just not one I am prepared for.

Before you call me a sap, or tell me it’s just a cat, please allow me a moment to go crazy cat lady on you.

My cat is a Bitch with a capital B. She hates EVERYONE. She hisses at small children and makes them cry. In the year and a half that ED and I dated, she never warmed up to him. I have to sedate her to take her to the freaking vet because it’s the only way they will see her!

But…for some reason she knows I am her mom and she doesn’t hate me. She loves me and cuddles me and lobbies for my attention amidst homework and other distractions.

She is the kid that only a mother could love.

When I first fell in love with the no-good dream-house it actually crossed my mind to try to find a good home for Aurora. The thought lasted all of 10 seconds before it had me tears because no one would want her. No one would ever love her like me because she wouldn’t let them get close enough to even touch her! She is my loyal bitchy kitty and I’d freaking die without her!

So long beautiful, charming, magical, old house! Parting is sweet sorrow, but if you can’t accept me as I am, then obviously we are no good for each other.

Blogfully yours,

Summer

*This post was originally written a few weeks back and slightly modified due to recent occurrences. I have since found a place that I am ecstatic about. Not only is it adorable, but it accepts me and all of my baggage.

Meow

Bitch kitty, Finding Home

Remember back when people got cats because they had a problem with mice?

Yeah, my cat has never caught a mouse.

I’ve seen her stalk a few flies and the occasional Daddy Long Legs, but that’s about the extent of her hunting skills. Although I can’t say it’s entirely her fault, I did have her de-clawed when she was a kitten which hardly makes hard core gaming easy for her.

You can imagine my surprise when I saw my lazy cat, Aurora, came bolting through the crack in the screen door, running for her life from a momma bird that was chasing after her. I looked down and in Aurora’s mouth was a baby bird! She looked up at me and dropped the bird. It flew a foot and Aurora promptly knocked it down, holding it under her claw-less paws.

Of course I did what most sane pet owners do and FREAKED OUT! I ran up the stairs for back up, “Heidi! Heidi! Ohmygodohmygodohmygod! There is a bird in the house! Aurora caught a baby bird! What do I do????”

We came down stairs and Aurora was still playing catch and release with the poor little sparrow. Heidi informed me that I need to catch the bird and bring it outside the house. To which I replied, “The fuck? I can’t catch a bird!”

Heidi in her wisdom, peaking from behind the door, informed me, “It’s not like the bird can hurt you, you know?”

Right. I am a giant, totally capable of catching a bird the size of tangerine.

I grabbed an empty basket and a princess DVD (totally appropriate bird catching tools) and slowly tried to coerce the bird into my trap. After a few too many attempts, squeals and minor heart palpitations, I finally had the bird secured.

“Now what do I do? I mean, I don’t know where the nest is. Will the momma bird come and get it?”

Of course Heidi had no clue but told me to put it on the grass, which I did.

The bird was stunned and wouldn’t move. I don’t blame it really. I would be stunned too if I had just lived through being caught and tortured by a cat, a crazy screaming giant woman, entrapment and unforeseen freedom.

I was pretty sure the bird wasn’t hurt, just not quite old enough to fly very far (it still had a few down feathers). Still, I couldn’t bring myself to go back outside and check on it.

The next morning on my way to work I passed by the spot where I had left the bird on the grass the night before. It was no where to be seen.

I like to tell myself the bird is okay.

Because sometimes living in the world where upside down goldfish are “just sleeping” and the family dog went to live on a farm far away where he can run and run, is just so much better than the truth.

Blogfully yours,

Summer

Bitch kitty, Story Time

Bitch kitty

The hair, it was a flyin’ at my place last night!

I would like to go on the record with saying that I do NOT recommend anyone try this at home. Even with Jenn’s professional grade electric shaver and our year of cat shaving experience, I still managed to get a few battle wounds.
But look how cute she looks in her little hooker boots, with her evil glaring eyes.

What can I say? I, like a lot of people out there, like my cat to be shaved.

Blogfully yours,
Summer

Bitch kitty, Random