I’m not a crazy cat lady.
Now that we’re past that, it’s time for me to tell you about my cats. I think it’s important to tell you about them so that you understand a little bit about my home life, and that when I say my house feels crowded sometimes, you know all of the personalities in the house.
I have two cats.
Taylor and Lillith.
I’ve mentioned them before, but I never went into detail.
First off, I didn’t name them. They came with the name. Somewhere in San Francisco lives their former owner. His name is David. I’ve lost his e-mail address, so I cannot tell him that his kitties are doing just fine. But if he happens to read this…
Let’s start with Lillith…
Lillith: AKA Rose Petal, Spice Girl, Wiwl-wiff.
Age: 5 years.
Lillith is a grey cat. Often when people come into the house, they comment that my cat looks like the cat in Pet Sematary. That’s because she has these sharp green eyes, and she always looks like she’s slightly pissed at you. Lillith is a lap cat. She likes to be in your lap at all times. If she is not in your lap, she looks at you like you are being incredibly rude to her.
Sometimes when I wake up in the middle of the night, she’s sitting over my head, staring straight at me. That’s kinda spooky.
She’s the beta cat, and let’s Taylor pretty much rule the roost.
She likes men more than women. Specifically, she likes my boyfriend more than she likes me.
Lillith wants to be the next Spice Girl. She’s British. She is more elegant than anyone else in the house.
Lillith likes to rub the fur off her chin on anything hard. She has no fur on her chin.
Lillith does resemble in personality the Lillith of “Cheers” fame.
Lillith drinks out of the toilet bowl, which goes against all of her proper breeding and drives me insane.
She has a very skinny tail.
She has $100 worth of toys, but she prefers to chase the shadows on the floor.
When I exercise at home, she likes to bite me on the neck to get me to stop moving around.
Lillith is very good at looking innocent. I recently learned that it is her that goes into the trash can at night, but she puts the evidence over next to the sleeping Taylor, so in the morning he is framed. She’s a smartie.
She has herpes in her right eye. I’m not kidding. Her eye weeps whenever the house gets particularly smoky. My boyfriend will tell you that I gave the cat herpes. He thinks that’s really funny. Since I don’t have herpes (human or feline) this is impossible. She picked it up before she belonged to me. Do not listen to by boyfriend’s opinion on this subject. We have this oil that we can put in her eye when it gets particularly goopy, but it grosses me out to no end, since it’s like an ointment that you have to put straight onto her eye and then rub in. Eww…
AKA: Taylor Dejardan, Taylor-tot, Squishy, “The Cat
With the Fur on His Face”
Taylor is a big tabby cat. Big. People think he’s fat, but like Cartman, he’s just big boned. Taylor’s face is big and squished in. Taylor is a French Canadian Hockey Player. He cannot believe that the Pittsburgh Penguins did not do better this year. He really likes Doug Gilmour, but he is more like Felix Potvin (Felix the Cat).
Taylor is very strong. He can take a slice of pizza down from your hand into his mouth. When he swats you it makes a great “smack” noise. Taylor rarely scratches, but he can bite pretty hard.
Taylor is not a lap cat. He’s not even a “sit-near-you” cat. He likes to sit under the futon and watch our feet. He lays on his back with his legs spread.
Taylor likes catnip a lot. A whole lot.
He thinks that he can become invisible.
Taylor has an eating disorder. He binge eats. He waits until he thinks you’ve gone to bed and then eats everything in his bowl. You can’t stop him.
He’ll eat anything. The cat will sometimes eat chips, fruit, cheese, bread (he loves bread)— especially french rolls.
Taylor eats the carpet. I cannot get him to stop. He loves to sit and munch on the rug. I don’t know why.
Taylor likes to sit on folded clothes.
You can pet his head and neck, but that’s it.
He likes to sit on whatever you’re reading, or whatever he thinks you may read in the future.
Taylor often pretends that he’s my boyfriend. He sits where my boyfriend does on the couch and sits really tall like he wants me to bring him a slice of pizza and some beer.
Taylor will chase bugs and get lost. He hates wind. Wind freaks him out. He keeps looking around to see who just walked by, but he doesn’t see anyone.
Taylor rarely makes a sound, except to say hello, and “feed me.”
They are both good at saying my name. “Paaaam!”
They once packed me a lunch. I make pork chops, which is their absolute favorite, and one day when I got to work, I opened my bag and there was a chewed up pork chop inside. Somehow they got into my bag, dropped off the chop, and closed the bag. They care about my well-being.
Taylor chases Lillith, but Lillith never chases Taylor.
Taylor cannot stand Pearl Jam.
Lillith likes Radiohead.
Taylor doesn’t like me to sing to him.
Taylor will knock glasses over to drink out of them.
Lillith gets her head stuck in the glass.
They both jump into the empty bathtub and get lost.
They are afraid of cockroaches, but they like to eat crickets.
When the litter box gets full and I forget to change it, they leave little crumbs of kitty litter on the rim of the toilet.
Go on, tell me I’m crazy, but these cats are just as much roommates as anyone else. Except they won’t get a damn job.
I suddenly get this feeling like you’re going, “Oh, and I used to like her so much. She just did a cat page.” So I’ll tell you the truth. I’m still a little sad (see yesterday, and I’m a little drunk off Vodka. I wanted something to cheer me up, and I also wanted you to know where Squishy came from. I just need a damn hug. Damn. I’m gonna go smoke.
and other stories from my gynecologist
pamie is a little sad.
I took my boyfriend to the airport this morning. He’s visiting the fam for a week.
This afternoon I went to the gyno. I hate getting my annual. I end up feeling very violated. It’s all over so fast. Wam, bam, here’s your co-pay bill. No hugging, no snuggling, no lollipop.
I feel that after you spread your legs you should at least get a sucker.
For those of you who never go, and for those of you who will never need to go, here’s the experience in five easy steps:
1. Something metallic and wet pulls at you.
2. Something sharp and small pokes at you.
3. Something sharp pokes further in you.
4. Metallic wet thing gets smaller and goes away.
5. Fingers poke around while pushing down on your stomach
You have to understand that I started out by going to the University doctors. They don’t care how you feel. They don’t care what’s hurting you. They want you on the pill and they want you out of their office. Then they want you to come back every year.
My first gyno was pretty good. She explained what was happening to me, and aside from that awkward moment during the breast exam where she was flopping my titties around and asking me how my GPA was going, she was pretty good at making me feel comfortable. She was aware of my body to a degree that I didn’t feel uncomfortable telling her about my problems.
She said I had a beautiful cervix. That made me feel proud, since it’s a natural beauty.I’ve never spent money on creams or anything to improve its appearance. I can only assume it’s pretty, since I’ve never seen it myself, but I’m planning on putting that on my resume one day. If nothing else, I’ll get an internship at Annie Sprinkle’s office.
The next gyno left me in such a state that I still haven’t recovered. First of all she was cross-eyed, which makes me nervous to begin with, since she’s sticking sharp objects between my legs. Then she starts making fun of my family’s medical history, which I won’t go into right now. Just know that at one point she made a joke that it was a wonder my father wasn’t dead. So as you could imagine I was just anxious as hell to get naked in front of her.
Here’s the worst part… I’m on my back, legs in the air, feet in the stirrups, and she starts calling to my cervix like she’s playing Ollie Ollie Oxen Free. “Come on, Miss Cervix! Where are you? Oh! There she is! Hello!”
Did I mention I had the flu?
Christ, I was humiliated. I just wanted to go home, but we were only on step two (see above) and it was going to be a few more steps. She whistled “Heigh Ho” and sang a couple of tunes while she completed my pap smear and then told me I was free to go.
She left the room and I cried for five minutes. A crazy woman had just looked inside my body, and she didn’t even notice that I had a beautiful cervix. I had it all dolled up for her, too. With a little bow.
Today’s doctor didn’t mention my cervix as a beautiful thing. In fact, she was worried about it because I was so sensitive. I’m starting to worry that my cervix is losing it’s sex appeal at an unusually early age. I wonder if there’s some sort of exercise I could do.
Then I realize that I’m trying to impress my gynecologist, and I think that’s going a bit too far to be liked.
Besides, how can you impress someone in a paper vest and a sheet?
Don’t ever tell anyone you’re a comedian if they ask what you do at night. They just want to hear a joke. The place I was at today was called “A Woman’s Place” and when the doctor came in I asked her, “Do you guys ever jokingly refer to this place as ‘the kitchen?’” And she just looked at me. “You know,” I said, “A Woman’s Place? Do you call it ‘barefoot and pregnant?’”
She goes, “That’s not funny.” And I was like, “It’s just a joke, you know about how far we’ve come and all.” And she’s like, “My husband wouldn’t find that funny.” And I was like, “You’re a very lucky lady.” And then she started putting on her gloves and cleaning the speculum so I shutup. She asked for a joke, man.
Tip for future patients: if they have that seat where you sit down and then they tip you back to put your calves in the stirrups, be careful. Going back I felt like a cowboy slapping my legs up in the air… but she didn’t tell me when I was coming down, and I was talking to her and I slowly started sinking and my butt fell down from the chair with my legs over my head. Oh yeah, I looked real cool.
And I still didn’t get a lollipop.
wherein we discuss my shortcomings as a glamourpuss
There’s something very appealing about a girl that knows how to rock out.
I am not one of those girls, but I do have respect for those that do. The girls that can sing, the girls that can write, the girls that can make your spine do that tingly thing.
I’ve always wanted to do that.
I want to be the girl with the “too-cool” look that makes you want to know her better, that makes her instantly unattainable and unforgettable.
I want to stop the air in the room when I walk in.
I want to be asked to dance by a total stranger because he just “had to.” I want a drink bought for me by the “gentleman at the end of the bar.” I want a door opened for me and a jacket thrown over a puddle for me. I want to get pinned. I want a coming out ball for me.
I want to be the girl “with the most cake.”
Women with a presence. Man, that’s an amazing thing, isn’t it? When you sit back and want to absorb them. You wish they knew who you were, and inside…deep deep inside… you wish their knees would bend for your affection. That they craved you like you crave them. That they find you so intoxicating.
I’ve always wanted to be That Girl.
That Girl knows how to have a man love her. She makes him beg for love. She knows how to have a lover’s fight with style and class and oh-so-much-bitch-factor that even the pets are crying when she makes her perfect, perfect, perfect exit.
That Girl never needs a tissue.
That Girl has her cigarettes lit for her, unless she wants to light them all.
That Girl has a voice that digs at your knees.
That Girl has perfect skin, perfect hair, and a body that makes you blink. She has never thought twice about skinny-dipping, and has never apologized for you seeing her in a swimsuit.
Women hate That Girl, and she never notices. She never notices, because they never ever let on. To hate That Girl is admitting that you are not, and will never be That Girl.
She is strong, except when she wants someone to hold her. She is outspoken, except when she can get someone else to take the blame. She is accused, and she accepts the gossip. As long as they are talking about her somehow, she’s still important. She’s still That Girl.
Maybe you’ve never spoken to That Girl. You just want to look at her. You just want to listen to her. Smell her. Maybe she knows you’re there, maybe she doesn’t. It doesn’t really matter, because you are just watching a part of her world. She seems to almost see you, but then– she looks away.
I will never be That Girl.
And a good part of me doesn’t want to. She has a lot of responsibility. She has to keep making herself remarkable. Watchable. Desirable.
I just have to be funny and pay my rent.
That Girl has to spend lots of money on a night life. I’m broke.
I can eat Chocolate Fudge Brownie Frozen Yogurt in my boxer shorts and Pittsburgh Steelers shirt I swiped from my boyfriend.
That Girl wouldn’t be caught dead in her boyfriend’s shirt.
I could never slap someone. I could never tell a horrible lie. I could never use someone to attain perfection. I could never leave my friends behind. I can hardly leave my cats alone for the weekend.
That Girl has crying fits that are followed by nights of amazing passion. I have crying fits that are followed by hours of splashing cold water on my puffy face, while soaking the sleeve of my flannel pajama in snot with my boyfriend going, “Man, are you okay?”
That Girl never has bad breath. That Girl has never had to leave the room to change a tampon. That Girl has never called a man and hung up when he answered the phone. She has never punished herself after eating a Death By Chocolate.
Or she has never eaten chocolate.
That Girl knows nothing about the internet, except that there maybe a few pages out there about her. That Girl never reads the poems you leave for her.
That Girl is starting to get on my nerves.
I can’t imagine being aware of yourself all the time. I sing “Sesame Street” songs while I’m brushing my teeth. I break into a dance at the line at Taco Cabana if the song moves me. I trip and I fall all the time. That Girl couldn’t do that. But I can.
I’m That Other Girl. And I’m very happy about it. I’m a clumsy, dorky, funny, short girl. No glamour, 100% fun. And although I don’t stop a room when I walk in, chances are they may remember me after I’ve walked out.
“I hate my sister.
She’s such a bitch.
She acts as if she doesn’t even know that I exist…”
So it’s a little crowded around my place right now.
I’ve got a friend staying with me until her apartment becomes available in a couple of weeks and her soon-to-be-husband stays over on the weekends when he drives up to visit. He will be here on Thursday to stay until the apartment opens up.
so that’s two guests.
Then last night, about nine-thirty, I find out that my sister is en route to come visit with her boyfriend. They are staying “for a couple of days.”
fifty ways to name your lover
Naming your sweetheart is not something to be taken lightly. In the earliest part of the relationship you are on a very small wire in which something you may say could stick forever and you are given a love name that you neither wanted nor can stand.
You think I’m kidding? You’re lookin’ at a gal that has been labeled such terms of endearment as “pamie puss,” (thanks, Mom) “p,” “encyclopedia pam,” “little miss can’t be wrong,” and “chicken wing.” I don’t want you to suffer the same misfortune.
Never fear, pamie is here to help you through the early time of a relationship (picking a name and getting one picked for you) and what to do if it’s already too late.
I have been reading this.
It is an article on smoking and people sharing their smoking stories. How they started, how they quit, how they started again.
I couldn’t even finish reading the whole thing without going out for a cigarette.
I smoke and I like to smoke and I know that it’s terrible, I know it’s filthy, I know that I shouldn’t. I know that people die, I know they get sick. I know, I know, I know.
are you in love or just another stalker?
Before you decide if you love a girl, it’s very important to know if you are pursuing her, or merely stalking her. One is very charming, and makes your stomach flutter. The other is very frightening, and makes your stomach hang in that lower part of your spine reserved for your kidneys.
I’m hyper. Hyper. Sugar good. Very good.
Honestly, I don’t know how anyone works without it. I tried when I was in my Atkins phase. That sucked. And I’ve just committed myself to the fact that I kind of like that sugar high. I don’t do drugs or anything, so allow me the feeling of a nice sugar high combined with a caffeine head rush.