Because I just can't help myself.

Here is my question:

How am I going to wrest the terms "curvaceous" and "voluptuous" out of the sausage like fingers of all the fat cows who have co-opted them as euphemisms?

I have a new dude...and he was much cheaper than shoes.

Monday was especially shitty. Lots of bad news. One frustration after another. I scrambled frantically to problem solve.

I failed. Repeatedly.

Exhausted and overwhelmed, I fled my office under the guise of running errands because I figured maybe the drive would do me good. Fail. I found myself inching along in traffic, trying to gather my thoughts as I ground my teeth and gripped the steering wheel for dear life. And then I saw it. The thing I didn't even know that I was looking for! The answer to all of my problems...a Petco! I knew right then that there was one purchase I could make that would cause all my worries to fade away.

FISH!!

Yes! Of course! A pet fish will solve everything. They're cheap, they come in pretty colors, and they can be purchased on a whim. In other words, the perfect retail therapy. In this economy, disposable aquatic pets are the new black.

Mere minutes later, I was the proud owner of a turquoise and purple Siamese fighting fish. My new fish is super awesome. He swishes around his sleek black tank with fluidity and grace, occasionally stopping to pick a fight with his own reflection. He builds massive nests of bubbles in the hopes that some female beta might stop by to drop off some eggs. You see, in the fish world, having a large gathering of air bubbles is like driving a BMW...chicks dig it. And judging by the size of his nest, my fish is a goddamn pimp.

Deal with it.

Such a fish deserves an awesome name. By the end of the day, I had it narrowed down to two choices: Shelley and Cat Fish. Naming a fish Cat is cool because, besides being obviously hilarious, it lends itself to all sorts of passive aggressive statements.

"Cat seems kinda mad at you." "Cat looks hungry for pancakes." "Cat says its your turn to be on top."

The idea for Shelley came from the poet. I already have a cat named Lord Byron and since Persy Shelley and George Byron were the best of friends, I hoped that such a nom de fish would bode well for the relationship between my pets. This was not the case.

The next morning, I awoke to hear a suspicious swishing sound. Oh no. I looked over and saw Byron, eyes big and round like saucers and claws extended, waving his arm about in the tank as the poor fish tried frantically to elude his grasp. Fahk! I can't think of anything that could be more depressing than watching your cat eat the fish that you bought to cheer yourself up less than twenty four hours earlier. I launched myself across poor Andy who, blissfully unaware of the battle between predator and prey that was taking place on the nightstand, had been sleeping peacefully. "No! No! Nooooo!". I waved my arms and clapped my hands together, trying desperately to distract him before he caught hold of the thing. It worked. He lifted up his wet, dripping paw and stared at me hatefully, pupils narrowed and one ear pinned back in annoyance. Then he sauntered away.

Lord Byron would never do that to Shelley. Cat Fish it is.

An Open Letter To My Car

My car died on me yesterday. First there was a sickening grinding noise when I accelerated, then smoke started coming from the tailpipe. And that was it. Barely any warning. Bitch just turned on me.

I feel like I've been dumped. We've been together 11 years. I love that car. Yesterday, when I got the fateful call from my mechanic, I couldn't believe it. I sat there with my head in my hands, hot tears running down my cheeks. Then I ran five miles while while listening to Carrie Underwood on my ipod. Then I cried some more. Then I rented a car so I could drive to the salon and get a bunch of my hair chopped off. And then of course I got shit-faced. Pretty typical break-up stuff.

As it turns out, none of that emoting and binge drinking did anything to mend my broken heart. Also, I'm reasonably sure that another such night would do irrepairable damage to both my wallet and my interpersonal relationships. So I'm going to try to avoid that by telling my car exactly how I feel:






Dear Katmobile,


I knew this day would come, but if I knew it were coming so soon I would have done something nice for you like wash your windows or take you for a drive down the PCH. Also, I probably would've held off on filling your gas tank. But hey, that's life. Anyways, I just wanted to thank you for running as long as you did. I think 14 years and 155,000 miles is damn respectable by anyone's standards. I'll never forget the first time we went for a drive without one of my parents in the passenger seat. Remember that day? You took me to work at Roche Bros. supermarket. Yeah you do!

Thanks for taking me across the country. The first time I ever saw the desert was through your windshield. Remember when we first moved here and we used to drive to the ocean every night just to look at it? Those were good times for us. Thank you for taking me so many places over the course of so many years. Thank you for keeping me safe that time I crashed you into that civic because I was looking at a cat instead of at the road. Thank you for letting me live in you after I moved out of my boyfriend's place. And thanks for carting around so many wigs and costumes and assorted props.

I have some regrets though. I should have changed your oil more often. And god knows I should have washed you more often. I'm really sorry about all the crumbs I mashed into your carpet. And I do feel kinda bad about the time I gave Brian McPhillips a hand job in your backseat after the winter formal. That was just disrespectful. I'm sorry about that time I got high and crashed you into Beau's fence...and Beau. I'm sorry about all the jokes you had to hear about the way you looked. Yeah, you were boxy and beat up and you smelled like cheese...but I loved you. I'm sorry that I never super-glued that interior light to your ceiling so that it didn't hang by a wire anymore. I always meant to do that. Mostly I'm sorry that all these years after you delivered me safely to California that I couldn't make enough money to repair you or replace you. I imagine you're a little disappointed in me. Hey, you couldn't wait around forever. It's not your fault. Thanks for taking me this far. I'll sure miss you.

File under: Stuff other people already knew

I got up five hours before I had to be at work today. Six in the motherfucking AM. Usually I get up about ten-fifteen. This is very unfortunate for my room-mate when you consider that my alarm is set to nine.

The thing is, last night there was nothing on TV and I was so bored by ten that I decided to just...fall asleep. Intentionally. Like, I mean that I purposefully took off my clothes and brushed my teeth and got under the covers at approximately the same time that eighth graders go to bed. Nerdy, loser type eighth graders whose parents aren't divorced. And did you guys know that if you fall asleep at 10, you wake up at like, six?! Amaaaaaaazing. Now I know this sounds like some sort of new age, hippy-dippy bullshit but I swear to Ra, I almost feel like my body has some sort of internal clock that wakes me up eight hours after I fall asleep even if the alarm hasn't gone off. Has this ever happened to you guys? Have you heard about this? Cuz it's pretty much the shiz-nit.

You guys, I am so doing this all the time. I don't know if you've ever considered it from this angle, but it turns out that if you get up early that you get a lot of shit done. It's almost as if you have more time. Bam! Laundry done, paperwork annihilated, floors mopped, registration renewed, cat cuddled, gym visited...twice. I know. I'm pretty much amazing. I can't wait to fall asleep again tonight. At eleven. I've got a spot all picked out too, right where a certain somebody's shoulder meets his chest. Can't. Wait.