The Odd Broad

She's a naughty girl, with a bad habit

Our apartment in Queens had a constant drip in the bathtub.  Sadly, it was something that couldn't be fixed unless Smeagol chose to have the pipes replaced entirely.  (And we all know that wasn't happening.)  Kittie seemed to be the only one who didn't mind.  Day after day I'd find her in that tub, eyes closed, her little head directly under the faucet, fur drenched from the drip, drip, drip...

A seemingly harmless pastime, and yet as a mother I disapproved.  The tub was perpetually moldy, and I didn't want her getting sick again.  Furthermore, is there anything more unpleasant than having a wet cat jump onto your lap? 

We had a real problem on our hands.  Kittie was spending far too much time alone in the bathroom, getting golden showers from the faucet.  It was almost...yucky.

I tried to get her to stop, but the problem was more serious than I'd initially suspected.  You see, she was addicted to this drip.  She was jonesing for this drip.  My little baby was a user, a fiend, a junkie.  She needed to stand underneath that drip, to hell with the consequences! 

Of course, she's up to the same antics in our new apartment as well.  Granted, there's no drip, but after Hubby or I take a shower, Kittie always makes a mad dash for the bathtub so she can saturate herself.  And she's only getting worse.  She demands to be with me at all times, especially when I enter the bathroom.  A few days ago I was rinsing out my conditioner when I opened my eyes to see Kittie beneath me, in the shower!   

It's no use trying to lock her out.  The few times I've had the willpower to actually experiment with this, Kittie only meowed and scratched persistently at the door, which I found to be more than a little frightening.

What can I say?  The girl needs treatment.

Kittie (with an "ie")

My cat turns napping into an art form.  This was her today, curled up on the couch, snoozing on a newspaper, using an empty Aquafina bottle as her makeshift pillow.  The only thing this picture can't convey is her snoring.  This girl can snore.

 

Meow

Today, Kittie The Wonder Cat turns 10.  She still remains my most cherished Christmas present ever.  It seems hard to believe that only five Decembers have passed since she moved in, since it's getting harder and harder to remember what life was like before her.  But alas, my little friend is ten on the tenth, and as sassy as ever.  Her latest antic has been taking place in the bathroom.  Ordinarily she lounges in the sink while I shower, but lately it seems she's been attempting to take our relationship to the "next level" by actually trying to enter into the shower with me.  Even I find this a little creepy.

Oh Kittie, Happy Birthday, you little furball, you!  Someone's getting Science Diet Light WET FOOD this evening!!  xoxo

PS: Kittie is staring at me intently as I type this.  We are so BFF's.

A very worrisome finding

Reader, I woke up two nights ago from a most peculiar dream.  I was singing a creepy la-la melody with a pretty Chinese woman.  In the dream, I remember thinking she had a husky tone, while my la-las would only come out in a breathy, sickly sweet tone.  I awoke with those la-la's filling my brain, Rosemary's Baby style.

La, la, la-la-la...

Why is it that dreams which can simply be categorized as "weird" the next morning always seem so terrifying in the middle of the night? 

In the light of day, there was nothing particularly scary about the dream I'd just experienced, but for some reason that night I was definitely spooked.  I was almost too chicken to get up for a pee, such was my fright.  Feeling jumpy, I paid a visit to the loo and found a darling little surprise in the living room.

WHAT THE?  "Hubby...Hubby!!  HUBBY!!!!!"  Now I was really alarmed.

There, on the very same floor that my beloved nephew crawls around on just about every weekend, were four perfectly uniform little cat poops all lined up in a perfectly uniform little row.  It was as if a human hand had plucked them from the littler box in the bathroom and had made a twisted attempt at arts n' crafts. 

Hubby emerged to groggily analyze my findings:  "That's disgusting." 

Without going into too much detail, these were not fresh poops; and two of them were sprinkled ever so slightly with cat litter, like mini munchkins with icing.  Only, these were no munchkins.  These were poopies.

   

"Kittie," I asked my cat daughter, "Why would you do this?  Are you acting out?  Is there something you'd like to talk to me about?"  She totally didn't want to discuss it.

Of course, if you know me you won't be surprised that this whole poo affair freaked me out big time.  I went back to bed (Hubby, hold me!!), convinced that one of three occurrences had just taken place:

1.) An intruder had entered our apartment and had had his or her way with our cat's feces.

2.) A supernatural intruder had entered our apartment and had had his or her way with our cat's feces.  (This was the more probable theory, I figured.)

OR...

3.) Kittie was acting weird.  And, as I have explained to you above, weird in the middle of the night equals...creepy.  Scary.  Terrifying!

Has this cat poo business ever happened to anyone else?  Am I alone in this?

Fierce cat

Kittie is making the adjustment to becoming a Boston cat quite nicely.  Granted, the sink is a bit small for her liking, but she's been a real trooper.

 

It's a tight squeeze.  But the cat is TOTALLY workin' it.

 

Kittie hearts boxes

Kittie continues to be delirious with enthusiasm concerning the upcoming move.  (She packed up all her catnip weeks ago.)
 

Her name is Kittie (with an "I E")

Recently we switched Kittie over to dry food for "senior" cats.  We haven't informed her it's senior yet, since she's very sensitive about her age.  She's not your typical 9 year old feline, you see.  (Her birth certificate may read 1998 but her level of sassiness begs to differ.)

She's full of shenanigans, my Kittie is.  Do you live with a cat, Dear Reader?  If so, does she lounge about in your bathroom sink, refusing to budge and blinking languidly as you plead with her in vain?  Not only will Kittie flat out refuse to move, she will meow indignantly when you ask her to do so.  If it is in any way possible for a meow to convey insult, Kittie's does.  I hadn't even realized cats could talk back until she moved in.

I usually just work around her, which no doubt makes me a card carrying member of the Crazy Cat Mother's Club.  (Yes, I have brushed my teeth in the kitchen sink to accommodate my cat friend.  Judge me if you wish, I'm too smitten to care.)

This morning while attempting to wash my hands, I accidentally squirted Kittie with antibacterial hand soap.  For rinsing purposes, it was convenient that she was already lying in the sink and thus accessible to running water.  She sat there benignly as I toweled her dry, and enjoyed herself so thoroughly during the subsequent coat brushing that she knocked herself right off of the couch.  She looked up at me and meowed immediately after her fall, as if to assure everyone present that she meant to do that.

Senior cat my ass.

Kittie turns nine, and the odd week in review

Note: The Odd Broad is on sinus meds.  (Hence the rambling nature of this post.)

On Monday Kittie turned nine.  Coincidentally, on the nineteenth I will turn twenty-nine.  I'm not sure how old that makes us in cat years, but Kittie doesn't seem to be all that concerned so I'm not either.

We gave her some wet food to celebrate.  She was very enthusiastic.  Wet Science Diet Light is to Kittie what Carvel ice cream cake is to me.

Even though she's technically a "senior cat," she's still as cute as a kitten, really she is.  Although recently she lost a tooth.  We have no idea how or when or even where the tooth went, I only know I looked at her one morning and realized it wasn't there.  It was all very mysterious.  Now when Kittie meows she resembles a toothless old man.

It's extremely endearing, of course, but I'm not sure if she'd cut it in the feline fashion world after all.

Do you recall this foolishness I speak of, by the way?  Not too long ago, when my husband wanted to introduce our Kittie into the world of feline modeling?  It all started because this lady he works with pimps out her cats for all sorts of lucrative modeling gigs.  I still don't know if Hubby was joking, but a part of me fears he wasn't. 

Anyways, the woman came into work recently and was very distraught.  You see, her cat had been shooting a print ad for baby phat and had suffered a fatal heart attack.  The poor little kitty didn't make it.  Apparently the photographer still got some good shots of her, though.

I find the whole situation to be more than a little disturbing.  Even more upsetting is the fact that this woman just placed her new kitty in "cat school."  Ah well.  To each her own.

How is the weather where you are, Dear Reader?  It was supposed to snow here today, though it didn't quite snow in my neck of the woods.  Instead, how shall I describe the watery, icy mess that rained down from the heavens?  Freezing rain?  Watery hail?  Angry ice pellets from hell?

All I know is, as I shuffled home through the slippery beige slush, I witnessed a sight that sent shivers up and down my frozen spine.  A girl walking next to me was actually wearing opened toed black patent leather sandals!  It was horrifying!  I can still see the red nail polish on her icy, wet toes.  Just looking at her made me feel colder.  Otherwise she was bundled up pretty snugly, so I wondered what had provoked her impractical choice of footwear?  Perhaps she'd lost a bet? 

I was dying to ask, but it was way too cold to talk to strangers. 

In other random news...recently I received my annual work review, where an anonymous fellow coworker noted that I "sport a ridiculously positive attitude."  I liked the sound of that.  Hubby did, too.  Ya, he had himself a real chuckle over that one.  (Apparently I sport an attitude of a different sort at home, though I can't imagine what that would be.  Ridiculously lovable, perhaps?  I think that must be it.)

And with that, I bid you good night.  Stay warm, Dear Reader.  Please don't wear any open toed shoes in the snow.  xoxo

PS- I came out of the shower this morning and happened upon this nativity scene.  Thankfully my camera was handy.  Were there any cats in the manger, I wonder?

I hope this never happens to you

I've come to terms with the fact that I'm accident prone.  There was the time I got dragged by a car in high school, the time a friend accidentally hit me in the head with a golf club at the driving range, and just the other day I turned to look at a fender bender and very nearly almost walked into a telephone pole. 

But sometimes it's just silly.

Two nights ago I did something I've never done before and in hindsight should probably not do again. 

The time was 2 am and my husband's incessant, chronic snoring was in the process of spiraling out of control.  I ransacked the nightstand in vain, but nary a nose strip was to be found.  I tried earplugs, I tried sleeping with a pillow on top of my head.  Then I tried both.  Mustering up an attitude of both tolerance and calm, I lovingly nudged my noisy soul mate and informed him he was terrorizing his wife.  "You hear that?  Hmmm?  YOU ARE TERRORIZING ME!" 

Hubby seemed somewhat repentant, but the cacophony commenced the second he closed his eyes.  I would almost admire this ability, if it wasn't barring my entrance to dreamland.

I lie awake on our comfy pillowtop mattress, wearily observing my brain as it ping ponged its thoughts back and forth.  I wondered if the universe wasn't trying to send me a message.  My inner Shirley MacLaine might ask if the snoring was the universe's way of telling me I needed to hear something, otherwise why else would it keep on happening?  Hmmm.  Do I need to be a better listener to my husband?  Do I literally need to hear him right now?

At the moment it seemed I was hearing him just fine.

Philosophical thoughts aside, in the end the only way to escape the ever increasing crescendo of snore was to place my pillow at the foot of our bed and sleep with my feet by my husband's face.  I hoped this wouldn't startle him, but I decided to take my chances.

Somehow it just hadn't occurred to me to remember that the foot of our bed is strictly Kittie's domain.  (That is, when she's not spooning me or trying to lay on top of me or taking up most of my side of the bed.)  She wasn't around that night, though, so she must've been snoozing on the couch.

Undisturbed, I drifted into a deep sleep.  This improvised arrangement worked nicely for a few hours, as it removed my ears from being directly in the line of fire. 

It was some time later when I awoke to a reality I will only describe as horrific: namely, my cat leaping up onto her usual spot on the bed, (where my head was, of course), her tiny paws landing directly on my face, gouging the inside of my bottom lip.  My reaction was as follows: AHHHHHH!!!!!!!!  SON OF A!!!!!!

Ouchie.  Oh Dear God, ouchie.  I stumbled to the bathroom.  There was blood.  I rinsed with expired hydrogen peroxide solution and went back to bed.  Two minutes later I realized the Fresh Direct van was waiting outside, which was what Kittie had been trying to alert us to.  I decided to let Hubby answer the door to receive the groceries.  After all, I was wounded.

Kittie remained blissfully unaware of the terrible pain she'd unknowingly inflicted.  She curled her furry little self up next to me for a cuddle, which did make me feel better.

Now, I'm a germophobe at the absolute best of times, but I'm really trying not to think of where that paw was hanging out prior to being inside my mouth.  But of course we all know the ugly answer to that question. 

Hey, wait a minute, is the universe trying to tell me I have a shitty mouth? 

I think I'll go have another rinse.

XOXO

Cats on Leashes

In New York, I often find myself standing before a veritable smorgasbord of all things strange.  Like the other day when I saw one of those horse and buggy drivers yapping on his cell phone while driving around a family of tourists.  Bizarre. 

Yesterday in Central Park, I spied something that made me look twice.  Then thrice.  (Is thrice a real word, by the way?)  A middle aged man was walking his black cat, at dusk, on a leash.  They were keeping quite a pace, actually. 

Don't go getting any ideas, Hubby's eyes seemed to tell me.  Although come to think of it, he said that out loud, immediately.

I did have several ideas, but surprisingly none of them seemed to involve putting Kittie on a leash and parading her down the streets of New York.  Go figure.

A nearby toddler was also having difficulty averting her eyes from this troubling scene.  "Come here, Sweetie, that's not a doggie," her Mother told her.  A couple stopped to speak to the man soon after, as well.  I couldn't hear what they were discussing, but something told me the conversation was feline on leash related.

It's funny, usually people can do just about anything here without attracting the slightest bit of attention.  Though I suppose walking a cat on a leash just fits into a creepy little category all its own.  And rightly so, I say, rightly so.

xoxo